Authors: Jenny Pattrick
Inheritance (3 page)
Off she ran. A quick smile and a wave back through the window. What joy I felt to see her! Surely only good could come of this.
But why, why, why had Jeanie not confided in me? Stuart Roper might be the answer. Did that despicable husband of hers still have some hold over her? Hamish Lander might know.
‘Hamish,’ I said, ‘you old legal beagle, how are you?’ I could hear him clearing his throat at the other end of the line, while he tried to place the voice. He will not admit his hearing is failing.
‘It’s Elena. Elena Levamanaia. Listen, I’ve just seen Jeanie Roper down here in Invercargill.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t pretend with me, Hamish. You heard.’
He mumbled and tutted, trying to make small talk, attempting to divert the conversation towards the controversy about my latest paper, but I wasn’t having any of that.
‘You remember very well. Jeanie Roper. You and Simone were very good to her before she disappeared. I think she’s going by a different name and living in the South Island somewhere. And listen to this Hamish – I
believe she has a daughter of Samoan descent.’
Suddenly the old man was clear and forceful. ‘Elena,’ he said, ‘you are too prone to meddle. If Jeanie Roper has changed her name it will be for good reason. And, if you please, do not even hint at any of your wild guesses in Simone’s presence. You know how she is.’
Hamish is so dry and cautious. ‘We are talking about my good friend, Hamish. And Simone’s. What’s more, if I am right, Jeanie is bringing up her daughter to believe she’s Italian! That’s not right, you must see that.’
Hamish started speaking, then, in Samoan, using words that were quite hurtful – even discourteous to one of my ancestry. Usually we get on well in a sparring kind of way. He knew something; that was obvious. He’s a pedantic old fellow – very knowledgeable about Samoa, but not given to emotion. All those years ago, he had professed to know nothing about Jeanie’s disappearance. I had suspected his weasely legal words even then. Now I began to doubt seriously. The gist of what he was saying – in no uncertain terms – was that I must (
must
!) let sleeping dogs lie. That I must curb my famous curiosity (actually the Samoan word he used would translate better as mischievous, which I resented. The girl might be related to me; I had a right to know – and so did she).
In the end I rang off without a further word, which was discourteous of
me
. But the way he lectured me in my own tongue was completely uncalled for. I thought he and Simone would be delighted to hear about Jeanie, after the interest they had both taken in her back in the islands.
E
lena’s phone call rattled me. It was the shock; I am too old to deal with sudden emergencies. Hearing news of Jeanie Roper after all these years. In the event I spoke too harshly, reacted too strongly. My stupid behaviour will have spurred Elena on, when the correct strategy would have been to remain calm; to bring her gently towards doubt of her own conclusions. An old barrister’s trick.
So I must think carefully and calmly what line to take. Elena is formidable at the best of times; at the worst, a dangerous adversary. She will try to hunt out the truth, now she has been given a clue. Her emotions rule the considerable portion of good sense she possesses; she will want to clasp both Jeanie and the daughter to her warm and voluminous bosom. It could all end in disaster, and I myself might become implicated. It has always been imperative that neither the Samoan community nor the
appalling husband learned the truth.
Damn Elena. She is a fine and clever lady and a credit to her family. I enjoy her company on the odd occasions when we meet. But such a steamroller! How on earth might she be diverted?
For some time I sat looking out at the cold grey of the winter harbour. I shivered; a premonition, or simply the room cooling? To the south a curtain of rain moved up between the headlands. Simone, down the back pruning roses, would soon come stamping in, her gumboots muddy, hair bedraggled. I fall asleep over my crossword while she still manages steps and steep places like a young woman. Simone’s mind has not lost its edge; she would notice my agitation. I felt thoroughly cornered. My hands were shaking as I pulled out the old journals and began to read.
Gertrude’s plantation; the disputed will. That’s where it all began. One of my last Samoan cases before I retired and we left the islands, Simone and I.
There is something comforting about dry legal cases. The words are so precise; the judgments so well reasoned and clear. I had soon forgotten the present problem, and was remembering the smells, the heat, the view from our verandah that day back in the sixties, when John O’Dowd arrived in Samoa with his daughter Jeanie and that dreadful husband of hers.
F
rom the verandah I watched the banana boat anchor off the reef and knew Gertrude Schroder’s mysterious ‘family’ would be on their way here soon. A fascinating prospect. Simone, down in the garden, straightened up and shaded her eyes against the blinding sea. My wife would not wear a hat, had never worn one, even to church, which was an outrage to the Samoan congregation. But that was Simone. She would shrug her shoulders –
very Gallic, even after thirty-five years in the islands –
and say ‘My hair is my hat. God will understand.’ She had a point there.
Simone was just as curious as I was about the New Zealanders, but for different reasons. She pitied them and feared for their safety. Gertrude Schroder was arrogant and cruel when crossed. To my knowledge no one had survived more than an hour in her presence without invoking her disapproval in one way or another. Simone
was already preparing to mother-hen the newcomers. All week she had been muttering. She predicted a dire outcome.
Up she strode from the garden, her loosely tied lavalava displaying slim brown legs and arms, talking to herself as she came. ‘The poor souls, they will have no idea. That dragon will eat them!’ Inside, she gathered a welcoming basket of fruit and nuts – bananas, pineapple, pawpaw, coconut and our own precious cashew nuts.
Perhaps I felt pity too; certainly curiosity. What would they be like –
the father and daughter who carried her blood? Would they be cast in the same iron-clad mould as their relative? But to be honest, I was more absorbed in the prospect of the legal battle. Only Gertrude Schroder would take on one of the most powerful families in Samoa over a land ownership matter. Already I had begun to document the case.
At least she sent a car for them. A jeep, actually, battered and dusty. She could have sent the Mercedes. She could have come herself to welcome them, for heaven’s sake, but there was a weather warning out and she wouldn’t leave the plantation.
The old dragon had decreed that they were to stay meantime in her town house, next door to us. A big airy bungalow, same vintage as ours, built in the German era. They knew, back then, how to build for this climate: high off the ground, so that air could circulate underneath; deep, shaded verandahs that kept the sun from the generous rooms; bare wooden floors. Gertrude preferred to spend most of her time in a stuffy and ostentatious concrete bunker on the plantation where she could keep an eye on her ‘lazy and dishonest’ workers.
I watched the first lighters already bringing passengers ashore. Dozens more nosed into the ship, like piglets suckling a great sow, waiting for the crane to load them. All day the strings of battered, flat-bottom boats would bring goods in to the wharf. My new typewriter, I fervently hoped, would be aboard this time. You could never be sure. Tomorrow the lighters would reverse their journey, taking barge loads of bananas, copra and cacao beans out. Meantime, Gertrude’s family would be taking their first steps on the island.
Simone and I watched together as the three newcomers climbed out of the jeep and walked up to the steps of the house next door. Our verandah overlooked their drive and verandah. You couldn’t help but see. I suppose in other climates people would call it nosey, but in Samoa most people live more or less out in the open. You get used to being watched. The father walked in front. That would be the John O’Dowd Gertrude had mentioned; the problematic nephew. A man in his fifties I guessed (and was right), slight, an old-fashioned grey felt hat square on his head, neat dark suit and gabardine overcoat. He must have been sweltering. His step, though a little hesitant, was oddly proud. He walked straight to the steps in front of the other two, as if taking possession on their behalf. Perhaps that’s what he felt. He climbed the steps, straight-backed, quick on his feet; went in without looking back.
‘See him step so firmly,’ said Simone, who fancies she can judge a person by their carriage. ‘A nice man.
Honourable.’ She laid her freckled, sun-burned hand on mine and moaned. ‘But Hamish,’ she said, ‘look at him! Far too gentle. Whatever can we do? This will not go well.’
Simone is apt to over-dramatise. I’m well aware of her reputation in the community. How could she summarise John’s character after one glance? But who could deny her accuracy this time?
The other two paused before they entered the house. The thick-set man would be the son-in-law. He stood there as if waiting for someone to pay attention, then called to his wife, who perhaps didn’t hear. She (Jeanie we learned later) could have been a young girl – so delicately boned and tiny. She stood in the driveway looking around her with a natural ease. She was simply dressed in a loose, creamy shift, her long dark hair tied back neatly, a bright bag swinging easily from her shoulder as she turned to examine the big trees in the garden, stretching up to smell a frangipani flower. She noticed us on our verandah and raised a hand slightly then lowered it again, looking back quickly at her husband.
‘Oh the darling!’ cried Simone. ‘I will love her. We will get on like the house on fire. Come let us take the welcome basket now.’
‘Give them a moment, for pity’s sake Simone. They are just off the boat. Let them clean up.’
Simone smiled at my caution, but agreed to wait. ‘She’s afraid of that other man, did you notice? Is he her husband do you think?’
I had noticed. The other man, Stuart Roper we discovered later, looked thoroughly out of sorts, his face
red and sweating. He dragged his bulky body up the steps as if he were climbing an insurmountable barrier, then turned to shout abusively at the driver. Not a good start. Samoans are not a servile people. Samasoni, who occasionally drove for Gertrude and who helped manage one of her plantations, was a respected family man and a candidate for his family’s matai title. I didn’t hear what Stuart said, but clearly it gave offence. Samasoni simply unloaded the cases, left them in the drive and drove off down to the wharf.
It was the father, not Stuart Roper, who brought them in.
For a while we watched the bustling activity down at the wharf. I pointed out this and that, hoping to keep Simone’s traditionally effervescent welcome at bay for a decent interval.
The pace of life in Apia always cranked up a gear when the banana boat arrived. Women from the outlying villages arrived with their handcrafts for sale to the few tourists. The usually empty pavement outside the two big stores – Retzlaffs and Nelsons – was quickly lined with women sitting cross-legged behind their wares: woven fans, mats and hats, carved bowls made from coconut shells, beautiful shell necklaces, tapa cloth squares, a few mangos. We saw several locals already heading rather optimistically for the stores. In the week before the boat arrived, the shop shelves slowly emptied and the store itself became a sad, silent tomb of out-of-date, unwanted goods. On the day after the banana boat, even Simone, who believes in self-sufficiency to a ridiculous extent – always experimenting with dried banana, pickled pawpaw, preserved beans, for heavens sake – even
Simone would be found in the crowded stores.
I couldn’t keep her interest in the distant scene for long. Next door needed her attention. And of course I was curious myself. How much did the family know? Gertrude, who had never shown any sign of possessing family, had suddenly unearthed these three relatives. In all possibility they had no inkling of the disputes and incriminations which would follow their arrival. Nor, I imagine, had anyone briefed them on their relative’s fearsome reputation.
I reminded Simone to cover herself decently. She smiled as if I were the idiot, patted my cheek, and threw a brightly patterned mumu over her head. It is just as well that our property is surrounded by a high hedge of orchid and hibiscus. She can be difficult at times, Simone, but she looked splendid that day, marching across the lawn in her flowing gown and magnificent pile of pure white hair, the brilliant basket of fruit held aloft like a trophy, goodwill in every movement of her tall, bony body. She has always lighted up my dry legal life. I have been so lucky.
Gertrude Schroder had always fascinated me. She was already an institution in Samoa when I arrived in 1928, during the Mau. A fierce, rather reclusive woman, wife of a plantation owner. Gertrude McPhee was her maiden name; I looked it up in the records at the High Commission. An upright woman, very pale-skinned, she always wore her straw-blonde hair pulled back in a bun. She looked Teutonic; later I learned she came from New Zealand.
In the early days she was rather admired, I believe, for her energy and ability to organise. She had married old PJ Schroder back in the German times and turned his ailing plantation around. They say she arrived unmarried but with a goodly sum of money to invest. She never talked about her New Zealand past, and so naturally people made one up for her: she was escaping a bad marriage; she had absconded with funds which didn’t belong to her; she had inherited a gambling fortune. When anyone asked, in a polite, disinterested way – at a cocktail party or some other social function – she would set her mouth in a thin line and walk away.
Soon after her arrival, before the First World War, she set her sights on Petrus, son of a German planter and a Samoan woman, and married him. Who knows what PJ saw in her? He was a huge man – large, bristling moustache and bushy eyebrows, German in his way of life, but inheriting, I suppose, the charm and easy confidence of his high-born Samoan mother. You would expect PJ to choose a more pliant woman, with more laughter and light in her than Gertrude. Perhaps he guessed that his plantation needed someone like her. He would have been right on that count. I liked old PJ. He gave me good advice when I first arrived; sat under the fan in my new office, overflowing the little chair, knees spread wide to accommodate his belly, dark eyes watching me shrewdly.
‘You are too young for this task, my friend,’ he said, his words thickly accented. ‘They should have sent one more senior.’ He laughed and added, patting his stomach. ‘And a more big man. You will need to talk loud, loud!’
His advice was always accurate. Even to a novice’s
eyes, the administration, in those early days of New Zealand rule, was failing. The Beach– the European and ‘afakasi community who lived mostly in Apia, many of them with businesses on Beach Road – was up in arms over prohibition; Samoan leaders were in revolt over arbitrary removal of titles. The villages were refusing to pay taxes as a non-violent protest. I thoroughly supported their movement – the Mau. ‘Afakasi planters were either openly belligerent or deliberately obtuse. Naturally enough. They resented the fact that their German friends’ plantations had been seized by the occupying forces in 1914. Spoils of war. PJ was safe enough. He was ‘afakasi – half European – which exempted his land from seizure. Also, his wife Gertrude was a New Zealander. Doubly safe. But the big plantations owned by the DH & PG were German-run outfits, whose managers were German with German families. All were seized.
‘My friend,’ Schroder would rumble, wiping beer froth from his impressive moustache (we all brewed our own beer during the prohibition), ‘of course we prefer the Germans. Their blood is here!’ He would thump his massive chest. ‘My cousin was deported and his land taken because he had the misfortune to marry a good German wife. And also,’ he leaned forward to pat my hand sadly, ‘it must be said that the German bosses were more fair. Sorry my friend but your colonels are not wise men. No. Their eyes look in all directions except in front of their noses.’ Here he laughed and imitated – very well – a puffed-up military man with head in the air. ‘These New Zealand bosses do not recognise our pule. They do not know who we are.’