One Blood (21 page)

‘The rest-house does indeed tend to be an obligatory focal point for visitors to the Roviana area,’ agreed the politician.

‘Something like Purgatory,’ said Conchita.

Before she could say anything else, Mrs Pargetter left her group and fluttered over to them. ‘Sister,’ she said. ‘Come to see us off? That’s might gracious of you.’ She turned her attention to the Advisory Council member. ‘Mr Buna, how nice to see you again! This is almost like having an official delegation to bid us goodbye.’

Buna looked politely puzzled. Mrs Pargetter shrieked with affected laughter. ‘Why, you naughty man,’ she chided. ‘I do believe you’ve forgotten me already. We met at the open day at Sister Conchita’s mission. We were in the church and I asked you a question about the carved crucifix on the wall. You were very gracious and told me all about it.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Buna. ‘How could I forget?’

‘I didn’t know you were at the open day,’ said Conchita. She seemed to be learning something new every minute this morning.

‘It was very crowded,’ said the politician dismissively. ‘I didn’t stay long. Now, if you will forgive me, ladies, I must be on my way. I have a number of villages to visit on foot on the island today in my perennial search for votes. Glad-handing, I believe you Americans call it. Then I have arranged to meet the estimable Sergeant Kella and the District Commissioner in Gizo tomorrow afternoon to discuss the annoying raids on the logging camp. No peace for the wicked!’

He nodded and walked towards the fringe of trees at the far end of the airstrip. He stopped when he reached Imison and the two other American men, and sat down cross-legged in their circle, talking earnestly for some minutes. Then he stood up, nodded and continued on his way.

Joe Dontate saw him and left the pile of luggage he was guarding, in order to greet the politician. They spoke urgently in undertones for a few minutes. Buna seemed to be pleading with Dontate, while the ex-boxer was shaking his head obdurately. Buna put a placating hand on the other man’s shoulder. Dontate shook it off angrily. Buna shrugged and continued on his way. Soon he was out of sight among the trees.

‘Mr Buna is such a nice man,’ said Mrs Pargetter, oblivious to what had been going on by the trees.

‘That’s right,’ agreed Conchita absently. ‘Tell me, when you were in the church with him, was Mr Blamire there as well?’

‘I believe he was,’ said the tourist, screwing up her face in concentration. ‘I think he was sitting on one of the benches by the altar rail. I guessed he was probably praying, so I didn’t disturb him. That was odd really. I’d never taken Ed Blamire to be a religious man. Perhaps he had problems. My husband used to say that there were no atheists in the trenches, though how
he knew that I don’t know, because to my certain knowledge Wendell never went near a trench in his whole service life. A few bars, certainly, but trenches, never. It could be, I suppose, that if we’re in trouble, the most unlikely of us turn to God as a last resort. No offence, Sister. Oh, there’s our plane. I must be off. It was nice meeting you. If you’re ever in Baltimore, look me up.’ Mrs Pargetter indicated Imison and his companions with disfavour. ‘And keep away from those three. They’re bad medicine, I can tell. Snake-oil salesmen with attitudes, that’s all they are! So long, honey.’

The lumbering twin-piston-engined de Havilland lumbered over the lagoon, steadily losing height. It taxied to the end of the runway and stopped. The only passenger to descend was Andy Russell, the VSO. He was carrying a box with a hospital green cross on the lid. A young pilot who did not look as if he could possibly be much more than twelve years old began to supervise the waiting passengers on to the aircraft. Dontate and the two islanders came back from piling the luggage on the beach. Andy reached Sister Conchita in a coltish jumble of long legs and handed her the container with a shy grin. He was as lathe-thin as ever, but he was looking much better than he had done the last time the nun had tended him at the mission clinic.

‘Good morning, Sister,’ he said. ‘They asked me at Number Nine if I’d bring these medical supplies back for you.’

‘Thank you, Andy,’ said Conchita, accepting the package. ‘Have you been ill?’

‘No, I’m fine. The DC sent me over to Honiara for a checkup after I got back to Gizo from Marakosi, but you’d already fixed me up great. I hitched a flight back here on the charter.’

So her representations to the District Commissioner had had some result, Conchita thought. At least the official had been concerned enough to make sure that Andy was all right. Number Nine was the sobriquet of the Central Hospital just outside the capital, so-called because it had been established
on the site of the ninth field hospital in the Solomons during the war.

‘I don’t know if they’ve sent a boat to take me back to Gizo,’ said Andy, looking hopefully in the direction of the wharf. ‘What the heck, I’ve been stranded in worse places than this.’ He caught Conchita’s eye. ‘Sorry! Constant flippancy can be annoying, can’t it? It’s just a defence mechanism.’

The de Havilland wasted no time. It began to taxi along the airstrip and then took off economically with its crew of two and load of tourists. Soon it was just a dot across the lagoon. At the last moment Mary Gui came out of the rest-house and perfunctorily waved the passengers off. Dontate walked back from the wharf, dismissing the two islanders who had been helping him, slipping some notes into their hands. As he passed Mary Gui, he put an arm around her waist. She shook it off expressionlessly. Dontate looked aggrieved and sat down with Imison and the two remaining Americans.

Conchita wondered how many other people she knew had been present at the mission open day besides Welchman Buna. And how many of them had encountered Ed Blamire as he sought sanctuary in her church? She turned back to Andy Russell. She decided that she needed to swallow her pride and ask for help. It was something she should have done earlier.

‘I’ll take you back to Gizo in my canoe,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to wait for half an hour while I write a letter, and then we can go. There’s a favour I’d like you to do me as well. Is there anywhere around here where I can get some writing paper and an envelope?’

Andy opened his holdall and took out some creased paper and an envelope. He rummaged in the holdall again and produced a stump of a pencil and gave it to the nun.

Then nodding without any visible signs of curiosity, he headed for the shade of the rest-house. Mary Gui grinned at the VSO and went back inside with him. Conchita saw Joe
Dontate glaring across at the building. It looked as if Miss Gui was capable of playing the field, thought the nun. However, she would probably be ill advised to trifle with the volatile ex-boxer’s affections. She looked at the writing paper Andy had given her. It was unused, and bore the printed heading SIIP.

As she started to compose her letter, the nun wished that she could turn to Father Pierre for help, but he was back at Ruvabi mission on Malaita. Conchita knew that there was only one other person with the experience to help her, and that was Ben Kella. She would have to hope that he had forgotten how coldly she had treated him on his last visit to Marakosi because he had seemed so much at home in the company of the other nuns. Her pencil travelled quickly over the paper as she described the events of the last ten days, ever since the open day at the mission. She described Ed Blamire’s terror as he waited in the church for death to arrive, and the stories of the quarrels he had had with Imison and the other Americans. She wrote of Imison’s interest in the dead scout Kakaihe and of the rumours of the latter’s connections with the young Lieutenant John F. Kennedy. She depicted Sister Brigid’s traumatized state and her refusal to discuss the last fateful journey in the Roviana Lagoon that had resulted in the scout’s death. She went into some detail about the shell
knap knap
with the picture of the frigate bird that she had found among the dead magic man’s possessions. She mentioned the discovery of the war club with the tissues of blood and hair embedded in it. She tried to leave nothing out, including the refusal of the authorities to take any interest in the affair. Discarding all reticence, she begged the police sergeant to advise her on what she should do to bring the killers of Ed Blamire to justice.

Conchita sealed the letter in the envelope, said a little prayer and sat patiently waiting for Andy Russell to emerge from the rest-house.

‘
WE WON’T STOP
here long,’ said Sister Conchita reassuringly, noticing the VSO’s growing unease. ‘I’d just like to see the island properly. I’ve heard so much about it.’

Andy nodded but did not turn round. He was hunched in the prow of the canoe, staring across the water of the lagoon at Kasolo island. Not a happy bunny, decided Conchita.

Perhaps she should not have asked the boy to come with her, thought the nun contritely. Obviously he had bad memories of his enforced sojourn on the island, forgotten by the authorities. However, he would know the place thoroughly, and should be able to guide her across it. It would do him no harm to spend another hour on Kasolo.

‘I’d just like you to show me the island,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing like having a personal guide.’

‘All right, but this place gives me the creeps,’ said Andy. ‘What’s so special about it?’

‘This was where John F. Kennedy took refuge during the war.’

‘Who’s John F. Kennedy?’

‘Some people think he’s going to be the next president of the USA.’

‘Sounds like he’s got better job prospects than I have,’ said Andy gloomily. I don’t think the DC is going to give me much of a reference when my time’s up here.’

‘Believe me,’ said Sister Conchita confidently, ‘Mr Maclehose will give you an absolutely glowing testimonial. I guarantee it. What are you going to do when you get back home?’

‘I’ve got a place at Cambridge,’ said Andy.

‘So you couldn’t manage Harvard? No, really, I’m impressed. What made you want to come to the Solomons for a year?’

‘It sounded exotic.’

‘The islands are that all right, if you don’t die of sunstroke or snakebite or fever first.’

Andy laughed. Sister Conchita cut out the engine. The VSO picked up a paddle and steered the canoe through the sharp rocks of the lagoon. He stepped out into the shallow water and dragged the canoe up on to the beach, then stood looking about him without enchantment as Sister Conchita got out of the canoe.

‘I never thought I’d come back here,’ he said with a shudder.

‘I’m sorry; it must have real bad memories for you. I promise you we won’t stay a minute longer than we have to. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.’

‘I didn’t make a fuss,’ said Andy indignantly.

‘Of course you didn’t. I was referring to Kennedy and the other ten men from the PT-109.’

‘What’s the PT-109?’

‘Stop it; you’re making me feel old! I’ll explain it to you later. Do you want to give me the full tour of the island?’

‘Sure, it should take all of twenty minutes,’ said Andy.

In the event, it took just over half an hour. Conchita retraced her steps over the route she had taken when she had first gone ashore to Andy’s aid. Even after such a brief time, most of the signs that either of them had been there had vanished, a sign of how fragile human incursions into the island were. The trampled grass had sprung back into place. The fire upon which the VSO had cooked his fish was now only a heap of cold ash. Only his tent remained in the clearing.

Andy led the way through the trees and took the nun from one side of the island to the other. Conchita could see no indication that Kennedy and his crew had ever landed on Kasolo. If most signs of the VSO’s habitation had disappeared in a few days, what chance would there be of finding any references to the crew of the PT-109 seventeen years earlier? After all this time, it would have been foolish to expect to discover anything. The whole visit was turning into an anticlimax. She had been looking forward to visiting Kasolo, but it was just one island among hundreds like it.

Conchita was about to apologize to the VSO and suggest that she take him back to Gizo when she heard the sound of an approaching engine out in the lagoon. With Andy at her shoulder, she made her way through the trees until she could see the water. The tourist launch was a few hundred yards away, getting closer. It was being steered by Joe Dontate, with Imison and the two other American tourists behind him, staring ahead at the atoll.

‘What are they doing here?’ asked Andy.

‘Hush!’ said Sister Conchita. ‘Let’s wait and see.’

The launch could not get as close as Conchita had been able to with her canoe. Dontate was forced to approach from another direction and stop the vessel some way out. He lowered a small anchor and jumped over the side. The calm water came up to his chest. Imison and the other Americans joined him and started wading ashore, taking care to avoid the jagged edges of the coral reef. One of them was carrying a small box wrapped in greaseproof paper. He held the container high over his head to avoid contact with the water.

Sister Conchita watched intently as the four men reached the beach. The three Americans stopped on the shore, but Dontate continued to walk inland until he reached the trees and was then lost to sight. Imison issued orders to the other two men, and they opened the box. There seemed to be a
number of small objects inside. Imison pushed the others to one side and selected one of the objects, putting it in his pocket. Then he spoke curtly to his companions, and the three men started walking towards the trees. One of them picked up the box carefully and took it with him.

‘Sister Conchita,’ said a voice from the trees. ‘The praying mary spying on others? For shame! What will the Bishop say?’

Conchita and Andy turned to see Joe Dontate surveying them with caustic enjoyment. ‘I saw your canoe from the trees,’ he said. ‘You were so busy, you didn’t hear me coming up behind you.’

Dontate called out. After a few minutes, Imison and the other two men blundered into sight through the undergrowth. None of the Americans looked pleased to see the nun and the VSO.