The Love Beach (7 page)

Government House came into view suddenly, wide windows, minor colonnade, spectacularly white in the repentant sun; its lawns the most startling green, the Union Jack hanging thick and limp from the summit of the flag mast set in the garden.

Cooper glanced at the flagging standard. He sniffed and surprised Conway by saying conversationally: 'This rainy season is such a damned nuisance, you know. It really is. Soaks the flag through half a dozen times a day. It's so wet it won't
flutter.
And then the damned sun comes out and dries it and then it gets soaked again.' He sounded like a housewife complaining about the Monday wash. Conway glanced at him.

'Rotten,' asserted Cooper. 'Completely
rotten.
We've used four Union Jacks up since the season started.'

'Problems. problems,' blinked Conway. He could think of nothing else. They walked almost to the door. Conway thought of something. He said: 'How do the French manage about the Tricolour? That gets wet too, doesn't it?

'That's the damned trouble,' retorted Cooper.
'They
have as many flags as they need. They could wear a different one every day if they wished. We get six for the whole year. Typical, of course. Simply typical. The Governor's in his study. This way.'

Conway followed him to the door. 'Mr Conway, Your Excellency,' he heard Cooper say, and a voice reply 'Good, good,' from within.

The Australian was surprised at the huge emptiness of the room. Sir William, slightly stooping and sharp‑faced, walked a great brown carpet at its centre looking like a cage bird pacing its captivity. The Governor glanced up abruptly and muttered, 'Come on in,' then continued his walk. Conway ventured to the fringe of the carpet. He felt like a man standing at the edge of a field. Cooper sniffed and bowed his way out. Conway hid his plastic briefcase behind his back.

'We're busy, Mr Conway,' said Sir William, suddenly advancing on him and thrusting out his hand like a threatening sword. 'We've got a special visitor coming to the Apostles. A very special visitor.'

The Governor waited for Conway to ask who the visitor was, but he didn't. 'Sit down. Have something, will you?' said Sir William.

'Thank you.'

Sir William pulled an old‑fashioned bell‑rope. There was a profound silence. Conway strained his ears and saw that the Governor was doing the same, his hawkish head turned on its side. They caught each other's eye.

'Never know whether the blamed thing rings the other end,' confessed Sir William. 'Sometimes it does. Sometimes not. It depends a lot on the humidity.'

Nothing happened. They
sat uncomfortably. 'Damn it, I'll get them myself. Otherwise I go blaring about the place, and it doesn't do to lose your temper in front of these people, you know. What is it?'

'A beer, 'replied Conway.

'Good God.'

'Do you have beer?'

'Yes, yes, my dear chap. Beer, of course. I give it to the dogs sometimes because every now and again the water gets contaminated. Beer! Oh yes, we have beer.'

He found the bottle and attempted to open it, making such a panic of the operation and making several darts towards the bell‑pull, that eventually Conway stood up, took the bottle, and opened it himself.

Sir William laughed. 'Easy!' he exclaimed. 'Just shows you there's an art in everything.' He had delivered undiluted whisky into his own glass. They sat down again, Sir William behind his desk. 'Heard a man at a reception some time ago asking for a whisky and
coke.
Civilization's going to pieces.'

They raised their glasses, Sir William gazing apprehensively at the pale column held by Conway. He shrugged resignedly and they drank. 'Now,' said the Governor. 'What the hell have you come here about?'

'St Paul's,' said Conway.

'What about it? It's still there. Out to sea. First island on the left.'

'The Australian Government, or more accurately, the Australian War Department. want to try something out on St Paul's.'

Sir William looked over the top of his glass like a sniper. 'Australian War Department,' he said slowly and suspiciously. 'I don't like the sound of that.'

‘An experiment,' said Conway uncomfortably. He was surprised to find his self‑confidence, his exterior, evaporating before the old man. 'They want ‑ well, to be honest, we want, because I'm in this as well ‑ to get the natives over there to help in a sort of public relations exercise.'

'Public relations?' whispered Sir William as though madness were near. 'Public relations? Good Christ, what will they think of next, my dear boy, those tribesmen on St Paul's only know one sort of relations and they've only just finished the habit of eating them. Sometimes I suspect they still do it.'

Conway grinned with discomfort. 'I know there will be difficulties, sir. Our Trusteeship people...'

'Trusteeship!' suddenly bellowed Sir William. 'Don't let the Australian Government send anyone here to the Apostles talking about their Trusteeship. They've done damn all for St Paul's Island since they've had it. Sent some bloody fool to look at the natives' teeth or their testicles or something about a year ago, and that's been the sum of it. So don't come here preaching...'

'We want the natives for Vietnam,'
said Conway with quick bravery.

He thought Sir William was going to tip over the back of his big chair. The old man's eyes sagged, then his face, then his entire head. He rallied himself and leaned forward shakily on the desk.

'Where?'

'Vietnam,' said Conway. Then lamely: 'You know ...

the war...'

Sir William's voice became flat. Only his face showed his tremblings. 'What will they do there? Fire napalm arrows?'

'Jungle trackers,' announced Conway. 'Auxiliaries for the Australian forces.'

A mad laugh flew from the old man. 'Jungle trackers! 54

Tarzan of the Apes. Mlooooooooooo ... ooooooo ...

ooooo.' He jumped up and began to beat his breast. Just as abruptly he sat down and thrust a stony face on Conway. 'Out of your heads, all of you,'he muttered.

Conway said: 'The British used Dyaks in Malaya.' The old man's face seemed to expand, then contract. 'Hannibal used elephants in the Alps,' he retorted. 'But that doesn't make the poor devils on St Paul's ripe for Vietnam. Mad, you're positively mad. Have you been over there? Have you seen them?'

'Not yet,' said Conway. He felt better when Sir William shouted. 'I'm going over in a day or so.'

Sir William leaned forward. 'They've never heard of China, let alone Vietnam. Take them away and they die. They're infants, savages.'

Conway said: 'The Trusteeship people said that they are a Christian Community. They were the first tribe to be converted in these islands. . .'

'They're probably more Christian than your Trusteeship idiots. I'll grant you that...' He waited, got up, and looked out of the window. The lagoon was luxurious with evening colours, purple, reds, deep blues. The palms on the shoreline were silhouettes, black feathers against the dulled sky, small lights were showing in the town and Mr Livesley's neon sign seared out the word' Bread' in three alternating colours.

Sir William, his back still to Conway, shrugged to himself. 'Christians!' he laughed quietly. 'And so that qualifies them to fight a war.' Wearily he turned to the Australian. 'Mr Conway, these people believe that their island is the world, you know, the whole world. They believe that nothing of importance ever happens outside it, or has ever happened. They hardly acknowledge that we exist. Christians? If you like, but very odd Christians, I can tell you.'

'Odd?' asked Conway.

'Very. You see, you don't know. These people believe that the whole Bible story happened right there on their island. They will show you Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and Calvary, and Noah's Ark jammed on Mount Ararat. It's all there now. They won't be shaken from that. And, on top of it all, they're awaiting the arrival of a special sort of Messiah, a prophet called Dodson‑Smith who will bring to them all the luxuries of life which they do not enjoy now. Mr Conway, listen to this please.
They believe that he is going to arrive by motor cycle...'

He thrust his glare towards Conway, pleading for comprehension. 'How could you attempt to throw such children into a battle they could never understand. It's difficult enough for the rest of us.'

Conway looked carefully at the seam along his briefcase. 'They have a cargo cult, have they? Well, the Trusteeship people didn't say anything about that.' He was feeling better, more assured again. He looked firmly at Sir William. 'Cargo cults are common enough, of course, in Borneo and New Guinea.' He grinned. 'One lot are saving their money for the arrival of a reincarnated President Kennedy.'

Sir William said sadly: 'Well if you know about them, you obviously know how completely impractical, not to mention inhuman, any sort of upheaval would be to them. How would you expect...'

'The Dyaks were very good in Malaya,' interrupted Conway. 'The British used to let them take the heads of the Communists, you know.'

'A lie,' said Sir William angrily. Then, dropping his tone: 'It's almost certain to be a lie. Anyway, damn it, the Dyaks are jungle people, marvellous trackers. St Paul's is an island...'

Conway had done his homework. 'It's a big island,' he said. 'Thirty miles long. Thick primary jungle over a large area, eighty per cent swamp and steep hill country.'

'Vietnam,' argued Sir William, 'isn't thirty miles long. What the hell is the sense?' He paused and became quickly upright and formal. 'I want to hear all this
officially
before I listen to you for another instant,' he said.

Conway shrugged. 'Sir William, I bear full authority from the Australian Government. My credentials, my letters, are all intact, and here for you to inspect. You will be get-

ting further correspondence, more information. But I'm here to get this thing rolling, and that's what I'm going to do.'

He handed a fold of letters across to the Governor, taking them from his plastic briefcase, about which he no longer felt ashamed. Sir William unwillingly took the papers and went towards the window where he stood stooped against the final light of the day. Conway could see the 'Bread' neon sign regularly hitting the water of the lagoon. There seemed to be a small wind loping through the garden. Sir William was several minutes. He returned to Conway and handed the letters to him.

Sir William said: 'The games we play in this life. I don't know who thinks up such twaddle.' His voice was quiet, without his previous anger. He looked at Conway. 'They'll die,' he said. 'They'll most surely die. Then where will your precious stunt be?' Putting the papers back untidily into the briefcase Conway looked at the Governor. 'Stunt, I admit, sir, is the word,' he said. 'But because it's a stunt, a public relations campaign if you like, there is a good chance ‑ more than that, a very good chance ‑ that the St Paul's boys will never get any further than dear old Aussie. It will be a free trip for them, just a chance to look around...'

'Australia,' said Sir William gloomily, 'would probably frighten them a good deal more than Vietnam.'

Conway swallowed. 'Well, anyway, we're going to do it. Some way or another. If we can get about a dozen or so of them to Sydney, doll them up in uniforms, and say they are going to join the Australian forces in Vietnam, that's probably as far as we'll want to go. I'm not certain, but it's my guess.'

'What,' asked Sir William, 'is the object of the whole business? If they are not going to the war, why take them at all?'

'Promotion, public relations, the image, all that sort of dazzle,' said Conway. Then he added: 'But this is between you and me, Sir William. Outside this room the St Paul's natives are being recruited as trackers for Vietnam.' He got up and walked a few paces on the brown carpet. 'People these days,
need
something new, something to stimulate them.'

'Not the St Paul's people,' said Sir William.

Conway stopped and looked up sharply. 'Not them,' he said. 'The Australians I'm thinking about. Even sending soldiers to war has to be dressed up in a package these days. People don't like it. We like to let people know ‑
everybody,
all the people in the world ‑ the contribution we, the Australians, are making in Vietnam. Too often we get overshadowed, forgotten, because we only have a small force out there. This will give us some good exposure.'

'Package! Exposure! Your picture in the papers! Just for this you would injure or destroy a primitive people?' Sir William walked towards the door, dejectedly, slowly.

'No one is going to be injured or destroyed,' said Conway.

'Have you been to Vietnam, Mr Conway?'

'Yes. I was invalided home. They gave me a job in Military Public Relations.'

'Thinking up nightmares.'

Conway did not answer. Sir William was waiting for him to go. He walked from the big room. A servant went like a shadow through the entrance hall, but no one else was about. Sir William said: 'I shall be in touch with your government and attempt to stop this nonsense.'

Conway said: 'In the meantime I ought to make some sort of reconnoitre trip over to St Paul's. Goodnight, Sir William.'

'Goodnight,' said Sir William. 'I hope they eat you.'

Five

The Assembly Building of the Apostle Islands, the official meeting place of both the Anglo‑French Condominium and the local government council, was Chungking Chinese in style, with elegant oriental curls to its many roofs, overlaid upon each other like multiple skirts. It was exquisitely festooned with golden dragons and fiery red dogs. Its exterior walls were whorled and worked with coloured patterns, its windows willow tree screens, and its front door powerful with immense posts and lintels like the entrance to a modest temple. Above the door were deeply engraved Mandarin characters.

'This is the Dream House of Foo' translated Pollet for Davies and Conway. The Belgian had been in the outer island villages for two days selling medicines and collecting antiques, and, on returning to the South Seas Hilton, he had suggested they should go to the special assembly called by the British Governor.