The Love Beach (14 page)

'Have they got anyone to play it?' asked Davies.

'Details!' waved Abe. 'They're tone deaf, anyway. They wouldn't know whether it's Handel or Footel. It's down there under that tarpaulin on the deck, lying flat, which is the best place for it, because you ain't never heard anything so flat before.' He chortled at his joke. 'Picked it up in Honoraria, in the Solomons. Demolishing the Missionary Chapel to build a bowling lane, or something. Got it for a song.'

'I bet you're not selling it for a song,' said Davies.

'An oratorio,' admitted Abe. 'Supply and demand, my

friend.'

The boat baulked nervously at the scuffling sea running through the reef gap, like a horse refusing at a fence. Abe talking a little in Yiddish and twirling his crucifix, coaxed her round with one hand on the wheel, turned her, and pointed her in the right direction. She seemed to take courage from his firm encouragement and went in on a long wave to meet the opening, taking it in style, and flopping rather heavily into the lower water of the lagoon. A short discord of notes came from under the tarpaulin. Abe laughed. 'First complaint she's made,' he said.

They ran quickly in towards the beach. It was spread out before them now like a brilliantly lit stage, populated by a hundred or more natives, some in robes, some in loin cloths, some handsomely naked, and at their centre a tall man naked to the waist but wearing plum‑coloured Bermuda shorts and long woollen stockings. 'Joseph of Arimathea,' said Abe, guiding the fat boat into the shallows. 'Don't forget to ask about his garden.'

There were women and children on the beach, standing with the tall man. It was a silent black crowd,
not at all threatening, but merely standing and waiting. Joseph of Arimathea pulled up his woollen socks..He made a sweeping motion witlh both hands pushed forward and a dozen of the men moved out in formation, walked into the green water and handled the boat to a mooring. Davies and Conway waited, both looking at the assembly with some doubt and misgiving. But Abe knew what to do. He stood on the bulwark and suddenly, like an obese child, launched himself into the powerful arms of the nearest tribesman. The man grunted a little on receiving the weight, but straightened immediately and proudly bore Abe through the shallows, carrying him like an infant and setting him gently on his feet just in front of Joseph, the chief.

'Oh no,' muttered Davies when he saw what was expected. 'Not us, as well.'

,jump,' said Conway callously. 'He won't drop you.'

'And you think I'm going to sell butter and fats to this mob?'

'If he can sell a clapped‑out harmonium, you can sell butter and fats,' grunted Conway. The native who was to carry Davies was waiting in the water and glancing up impatiently. Davies sighed and jumped the sort of jump a boy makes into a sand‑pit. The hard arms caught him easily, giving slightly under his weight, but springing back smoothly. The tribesman smiled horribly at him with red-stained teeth and bitter breath and Davies nodded a small, nervous acknowledgement. He looked backwards and saw Conway leap, feet up over the bow, and heard the carrier grunt spectacularly and give at the knees as he took the Australian burden. He heard Conway giggle and shout 'Thank God for the lifeboatmen!' He then began to sing raucously:

'Eternal Father, strong to save

Whose arm doth bind, the restless wave...'

The native who was carrying Davies suddenly joined in, singing lustily and dreadfully out of tune. Conway's bearer was also singing, and then the rest of the natives in the water, and finally the entire array of the tribe on the beach. starting with miraculous spontaneity as though they had been holding themselves for the cue. The chief swept out his arms joyfully, conducting them:

'Who bids the mighty ocean deep, It's own appointed limits keep..

It was such a terrible assault, such a huge discordant mixture, that no true words could be heard, just a rush and bellow of sound blaring along the beach. Davies, his starkly white face only inches from that of his carrying native, could hardly pick a remembered syllable from the gabble. The words were run into each other, howled and bent and twisted into a terrible gibberish. It was not as though the whole congregation stretched along the strand sang the same distortion. There were fifty different distortions, all flung out with the same religious venom, like some fantastic, drunken, mad Eisteddfod.

Yet no matter how high or low they screeched or bellowed, or whooped, everybody finished the verse at the same moment. Some were stamping on the sand in their verve, some holding their hands out to the sea or to the sky; some had closed their eyes with the excitement and ecstasy of it, several were on their knees, hands clasped. Children howled as loud as the rest.

It was only twenty yards from the boat to the place where the first native had set Abe upon his feet, but the men carrying Davies and Conway declined to let them go. They remained in the shallows, clutching their burdens like sacrifices, and singing greatly with deep fretting tones, great mouth openings and vigorous colliding of gums and teeth. Conway looked far away out to sea, as though he expected a vision at any second. Davies, paralysed with fear and embarrassment, hung in the tribesman's arms and felt the full furnace of the singer's overpowering breath on his face. The tribesman, without stopping his bellow, nodded at Davies in a demanding way, and Davies meekly began to sing too, picking up a phrase here and a sentence there and squeaking them in a boy soprano voice which he found was all he could attain.

Eventually the hymn's five verses ended. It was like a door closing or a choir falling down a cliff to instant and massive death. The sea's washing became deafening in the utter silence and the movement of the palm trees fringing the beach was like a beating of heavy carpets, Davies could hear his own tremendous breathing. His bearer paused, walked the remaining paces up the sand, and set him down beside Abe, with the smile of a man returning a dancing partner to her seat at the conclusion of a waltz. Conway followed and all three stood before the chief, Joseph of Arimathea.

'Happy Crucifixion,' said the chief, shaking hands with them.

Dayies thought afterwards: I used to read books like that and I used to toss them away and laugh and say how farfetched and ridiculous they were. Nobody ever existed like that. The adventurers, the explorers, just made it up, faked it, so they could raise enough money to go on more adventures and further explorations.

He said to Bird: 'I couldn't believe it was happening. We forgot it was Easter ‑ well, Good Friday ‑ see, until this chief, Joseph of Arimathea, said, "Happy Crucifixion." It was bad enough them carrying us ashore like little kids, and everybody singing like mad, except they all yelled out different words. Well, I suppose they were words. And no one quite got the tune straightened out.'

It was ten o'clock in the evening in Bird's salon. Davies was connecting the wires of a new light‑fitting to three tails of flex projecting from the ceiling. At home, from necessity, he had always done the small jobs, or tried to do them. But he had never had the logical, practical approach of the good handyman. He sometimes made up for it with some measure of adaptability or even inventiveness, but, when he ever made some attempt at a home repair, it usually fell apart or blew a fuse within a couple of days. He would laugh at it and Kate would go quickly into the kitchen or
out to
talk to the woman next door. He was never much

good at mending. Anything.

He was arched on a doubtful step‑ladder among the chairs and hair-driers. Bird was gripping the vertical pieces with both hands and turning her face up to see him. Once he looked down at her and involuntarily stopped what he was doing. Her clean, solemn face was looking up the ladder, her eyes full of doubt about how he was proceeding with the task, her back arched inwardly so that her bottom stuck out neat and round and her legs were divided by the step‑ladder. She saw the way he looked and smiled uncertainly. He went back to finding the right wires.

'I used to pick up a magazine in the barber's at home,' he said, 'or in the canteen at work. And there would be these yarns about people in jungles, or lost in mountains, or living some funny life on islands, and I used to think they were made up. They were just like comics for kids.'

'I would never go over there to that place,' admitted Bird. 'Not many people from this island will go. Even the missionary, Mr Collins, he won't. Mrs Flagg has been, naturally, but even she and Mr Flagg like best the pagans on St Mark's. They think they are safer.'

'They're right,' agreed Davies. The backs of his legs and his fingers were aching. He said: ‘I’ l l have a breather. I'll get them all connected to the right bits next time. Honest.' He backed down the ladder bringing the heavy light‑fitting with him. It was stainless steel and had arrived with him on
The Baffin Bay.
Bird said it was to add distinction to the salon.

Davies set it carefully on the floor, like an archbishop placing down a crown. He brushed his hands together. It was a thick, hot evening, the last downpour now rising again in quiet steam from the muddy area outside the window. He could feel the sweat scampering down the front of his shirt. Bird playfully wiped his forehead with a towel and gave it to him. He unceremoniously wiped down inside his shirt and around his neck and face. She walked away from him towards the back of the shop. 'Beer?' she asked. 'Or shall I make some tea?'

'Let's have a beer,' suggested Davies. 'It's quicker. I can't wait for the kettle. That's a hell of a job getting that thing up there. It's so damned heavy.'

She hesitated. 'I'll get someone from the builder's to do it, if you like,' she said genuinely. They will do it tomorrow or the next day, I expect.'

'Oh no,' he protested. 'I didn't mean it like that. I can do it, Bird, but I'd like to get the right wires fixed to the right wires.'

She brought the beer to him. It was in a patriotic mug, with a crown and a faded portrait on its side. Davies laughed quietly. 'Jeeze,' he said. 'These have travelled round a bit. Coronation mug,
1937. I
remember getting mine at school. I ran home with it, clutched to me, scared stiff I'd drop it, and some other kids chased me and I thought they were going to try and smash it. I've never run so fast. I got in and slammed the door and stood there on the mat, panting and sweating and clutching the mug. You'd have thought it was the Holy Grail.'

'That makes you very old,' she said, examining the side of the mug as though for the first time.

He mimicked an ancient's voice. 'Aaah ever so, young woman,' he said. 'Very, very old, I remember ... I remember ... No, I don't. I've forgotten now.'

She laughed and he grinned, suddenly realizing the release she gave him, the way she lifted his spirit and his energy. He looked down at the yellow disc of beer in the mug. She had been drinking from another cup and she turned abruptly and took it to the small kitchen at the back of the shop. There was silence in the place. A native went up the darkened street, painfully pedalling a bicycle through the sticking mud. A dog was singing somewhere across the town.

'Listen to that,' said Davies. 'He ought to go over with that mob on St Paul's. He could be lead tenor.' He heard her giggle from the other room. She came in quickly. 'Davies,' she said, almost whispering in her enthusiasm, 'tell me again about the harmonium. That Abe! What next will he do!'

Davies grinned, still looking down. He was sitting uncomfortably on the second rung of the step‑ladder. She swung herself easily into one of the swivel hairdressing chairs. She whirled it gently, her legs trailing like a child sitting on a river bank.

'The harmonium,' said Davies. 'The‑big‑box‑fellah, him have black‑white‑teeth, you‑hit‑them‑he‑cry.'

She smiled at the attempt. 'Nearly right,' she said. 'One day I teach you Pidgin.'

'It's marvellous,' said Davies. 'A laugh in every line. Have you heard Abe? I don't know how I didn't choke when he started talking to old Joseph. It wasn't PidginEnglish, it was Pidgin‑Yiddish! He kept saying "YUK!", you know that expression ‑ "Yuk! ", it's a great word for disgust. It sounds so disgusting. And then he'd come out with a stream of Pidgin and stick "already" or "my life" on the end!'

Bird said: 'Abe has a degree in Pidgin from the University of Australia.'

Davies glanced up to see if she were joking, but she was not. He said: 'The best bit was where Abe got them to unload the harmonium from the boat and they dropped it!'

Bird hooted: 'That was funny, darling. Tell me again. Please.'

He was laughing himself. 'Abbott and Costello,' he said. 'The kids at home used to queue up in the air raids during the war to see that on the pictures. I mean, they'd carried us off the boat ‑ even Abe and Conway who are heavy ‑ singing at the tops of their voices, and it was all right. But they got so excited getting the harmonium ofF, and they were all crowding each other and trying to help
and everyone was gathered around giving advice. So they dropped it. Crunch! Right into the water, which did it no good at all and just to help a bit, it must have struck a lump of coral because it went all squew‑whiff, all the joints bent over...'

Bird was laughing behind her hands. 'And it made a noise,' she reminded him. 'It made a sad noise. Tell me that again.'

'A very sad noise,' he said. 'A sort of wet groan. It was like an old lady falling into the sea. And what a panic. They all rushed and lugged the thing out, all shouting and blaming each other for it. Then they got it on the beach and it looked in a bad way there. Oh, I forgot to tell you before. When they put it on the beach, they stood it upside down!'

'Oh, Davies, no!' Bird was all delight. He thought how much like a child she was. The next time she called him 'darling' even accidentally he wouldn't take any notice.

'It was leaning like a drunk to one side where the bash on the coral had knocked it out of shape,' he continued. 'And they all stood around it and poked their fingers at it, and tried to figure it out. It looked very sad. Abe was making all sorts of noises about cargo not being insured once it had left the ship and Conway was trying not to laugh too much. Anyway I used to play the piano, once years ago, and I thought this thing couldn't be that difficult. So I went up to them and got them to turn it the right way up. It was in a terrible state. What with the sand and the sea‑water, and the keys all knocked out of joint by dropping it. One of them dropped out as soon as I touched it. Anyway, I started to pick out a tune on it ‑ a hymn tune because that's what I used to play back home in Wales when I was a kid.'