Chapter 8
“Miss Caswell. Miss Caswell please! Wake
up!”
It was the boy rousing her up. She sat up
from the couch with a start. She must have been so tired the previous evening she
went to sleep in the living room with the lights still on. The clock on the
wall read 4.30am.
“You was dreaming, Miss Caswell,” the boy
said, cautiously taking a step back.
“No, child,” she corrected the boy. “I was
having a nightmare.”
“I – I sorry to wake you up,” stammered the
boy. “But you was screaming and screaming…”
“I know…”
“I wake you two times already but you was
screaming so I was afraid…’
“Really?”
“Yes, one time at one o’clock. Another time
at three o’clock. And still you screaming and say go away so I go back to my
room…”
“Oh, my goodness.”
The boy walked over to her. He took off
the over-sized dressing gown he was wearing and wrapped it around her. She felt
warm and comfortable.
“And you hit me again,” he said in a slight
whisper.
Caswell was shocked.
“I hit you?” she said. “Again?”
The boy nodded.
She was fully awake now.
“Oh my God, oh my God, I hit you again?”
“Yes, but not hard like before, like near
the school…”
“My God! Where, child? Show me.”
“Here, on the shoulder. But never mind.”
He sat down beside her on the couch. Then
gently, “What you was nightmaring about, Neina?”
At this she laughed.
“Neina?” she then said, looking puzzled.
“It
means ‘mother’ in my language,” said the boy. “Remember? My mother tell you
about it yesterday.”
Then it all came back to her: the previous
day’s happenings – when the district court gave her custody of the boy and Sergeant
Mata Hanai herding them into his police van to drive them to the boy’s parents’
home.
The mother, the large woman and informal
trader, looked cheerful then as they drove to Hohola, Tokarara and thence to the
settlement. Caswell was wondering why the large woman was in good spirits instead
of hating her because the magistrate looked serious when issuing the order that
she should be the boy’s temporary guardian or alternative parent. Though she
herself felt reasonably prepared in the way of the courts this particular
hearing went so fast that she had barely time nor sense to respond to the
ruling that she, at twenty-four, having barely worked her way comfortably to
the Bar, would become, formally speaking, a mother or parent to an eleven
year-old boy. Only the plodding from Kedu Sarah made her nod in agreement
before the magistrate. Now she was not sure and Kedu Sarah was not there with
them for her to ask questions about her role as a mother. When she leaned over to
the large woman for some guidance they’d already arrived at the tin shack where
they met the boy’s father. The father looked dusty, skinny and somewhat
menacing and that, thought Caswell, explained why the large woman might have
wanted her son to be given away to someone else’s care. He now confronted them
as they disembarked. He looked quite agitated. The crowd of men who had
accompanied him earlier that very morning to storm the gate of the Writer’s
Villa was not there with him. They must have realized that their leader’s cause
was a lost one and had subsequently abandoned him to visit their gardens upon
the ridges that surrounded the settlement, or simply stole away to the heart of
the city to beg, borrow, gamble excessively and get drunk. He was now fuming
and eyeing Caswell from head to toe. Sergeant Mata Hanai gave him the lareva
greeting and that calmed him down.
A crowd of mothers and scruffy looking
children gathered at the tin shack. They began chanting “Big Mama Dee!” as the
large woman took the boy and Miss Caswell by the hand and led them to the front
of the shack. A couple of boys brought empty four gallon kerosene drums for
Caswell and Sergeant Mata Hanai to use as seats. The boy’s father stood
momentarily undecided then began gathering wood to place them over a smoldering
fire. He ordered those standing around to fill up a kettle and bring it over. Caswell
noticing the poor man’s troubles brought out a ten kina note and gave it to the
large woman who in turn gave it to a tubercular looking boy and ordered him to
run down to the settlement shops for sugar, tea and biscuits. The boy shot off
running, followed by several cackling little boys and girls.
Two girls began clearing a patapata full of
pots and dishes until they found a kettle and this they took over to the taps
to fill in. The patapata was constructed right next to the doorway of the tin
shack, perhaps conveniently placed there so food could be served from there to
those in the hut during rainy seasons. There were no other patapata around the
tin shack which made Caswell and Sergeant Mata Hanai conclude that this family was
very poor. The girls returned with the kettle and placed it over the fire which
the man built. He stood back, looked at the kettle and smiled with
satisfaction. At least he made himself look useful that day. He walked over now
and shook hands with Sergeant Mata Hanai. He extended the same hand to Caswell,
hesitated, then said, “What the heck,” and shook her hand vigorously.
“You love my boy, don’t you?” he said in
Motu, not letting her hand go, swinging it from side to side all the while.
“Enhh? Girl, you know my son’s handsome, you didn’t want to lose him to another…”
This brought laughter from the crowd around
them. Parts of Caswell’s face turned visibly red but she managed a smile
nevertheless. She felt comfortable, however, when the man turned to Sergeant
Mata Hanai and told the old policeman to stop eyeing his poor wife as she was
too old to court any more. The sergeant smiled, began fanning himself with the
court papers and that made the crowd know that they had to leave, make room for
the family to reach some kind of resolution with the young woman they had heard
so much about on EMTV news as Miss Caswell. The large woman looked reprovingly
at her skinny husband and he sat down on a coconut scraper beside them. Their son
sat next to Caswell, his head bowed. Sergeant Mata Hanai then explained to the parents
the nature of the court proceedings and where their son would be placed, adding
that if the young girl, Caswell, was at fault then this would be a fairer way for
her to make peace with the family. The boy’s parents nodded and said they had
nothing to say against Magistrate Dickson’s rulings, adding that they knew the
“judge” very well and that his words were always wise.
The tubercular looking boy sent to the
shops returned with the sugar, tea and biscuits and the girls minding the
kettle at the fireplace quickly prepared the tea in tin cups and passed them
around. The large woman took a packet of biscuits and gave it to Caswell and
the old policeman to share. She gave one to the boy and his father. She
distributed the rest among the two girls at the fireplace and the scruffy looking
ones sitting nearby. She herself settled for just the tea and then began
speaking to her son so softly that Caswell and the old sergeant remained still
for quite some time. She is young, they heard her tell her son; yes, the
Samarai woman is young but she will be your Neina from now on. You hear what
I’m saying? The boy nodded. And so had they all, those sitting around her, in a
circle, sitting around a large woman; they heard her speak softly to her son; those
sitting around her, they heard her, the large woman, the woman they called Mama
Dee, but whose real name they knew was Divasire. And they heard Mama Divasire speak
softly to her son, her eleven year-old son called Vani Garuga; and they heard
her speak also of her husband, the funny and skinny looking old man called
Gere. Her voice was like the pulse of the earth, the heartbeat of the earth, on
which they sat, on which they all sat around in a circle and listened, and
listened, but heard a voice so soft they could barely hear. You hear what I’m
saying? The boy nodded. She is your Neina from now on, for her house is a gift,
her house is full of wisdom, full of all those good things that we seek but
find hard to reach and have. She herself will tell you the secrets of her
house. She will tell you who you are for her house is full of knowledge. She
will tell you of your mother and your father, of your bubus and those before them;
she will tell you your own secrets, deep as the ocean itself that hits the
land, gentle as the sea sighs along the coastline. She is your Neina, she will
hold you by the hand and lead you to many places; you will meet many people;
many tribes and clans and say they are your own, like the Rearea, like the Isu,
like the Idumava, like the Mavara Vamaga, like the Mavara Laurina, like the
Botai, like the Korina; and she will show you all those that are your people;
and she will tell you about them in so gentle a voice that you will find it
hard to hear; a gentle voice; a soft song; a very, very quiet Efona…
“That’s it!” she said suddenly, flicking a
finger, rising from the couch, letting the dressing gown fall in a way a
mythical cassowary sloughs her skin. “Efona. The quiet voice. The very, very
soft song of the voice. The gentle voice.”
“It’s a old, old song that old people in
the village they sing it,” said the boy quietly, looking at her and smiling.
“It’s a sad song. Sometimes when you hear it you will cry. They sing it for
very long time. They start at sunset and they sing and sing it until the sun
come up again.”
“Efona,” said Caswell, testing the word in
her mouth, clicking her tongue and smiling.
“Efona,” said the boy.
The clock on the wall read 4.53am.
“Goodness me,” exclaimed Caswell, “aren’t
we late!”
They both rushed over to the louvers and
opened the curtains to check if Kedu Sarah was awake. She was indeed. Her
lights were on. Lady Gaesasara would be out on the porch, jogging and checking
her timer while waiting for Caswell.
“Come on then, Vani Garuga,” she told the
boy, quickly getting into a track suit. “Into the bathroom. Now. Make sure you
are helping Kedu Sarah with the breakfast when we get back.”
She was out of the bungalow, running up
the cement blocks serving as stairs to the Writer’s Villa where she noticed
Lady Gaesasara waiting for her. Jogging in the early mornings would now become
a routine for Caswell. Both women ran down to the gates. The security opened one
side of the gates and they were off, Lady Gaesasara reminding Caswell that they
had less than twenty minutes of running to do.
“I heard you screaming last night,” she
said to the younger woman. “Mightn’t we talk about it?”
“I can’t see why not.”
“Go on, then.”
“The boy was grown into a man. I can’t
remember where we were. But the swimming part was the cause of the screams you
heard.”
“Oh dear. Were you drowning?”
“Drowning, no. But I really was struggling
as if I didn’t know how to swim.”
“And the boy?”
“The man.”
“The man. Where was he?”
“Somewhere on what looked like a jetty or
wharf. He was standing there, looking down at me struggling.”
“Did you call up to him for help?”
“That I am not sure.”
Lady Gaesasara slowed down to a jog.
“The boy needs you,” she said.
“I think that’s what his mother was trying
to tell me yesterday.”
Both women stopped jogging. They
started now walking back to the Writer’s Villa.
"It is an island, is it not?" asked Lady Gaesasara.
Caswell stopped walking. She looked at the other curiously.
"An island?" she then asked. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
Lady Gaesasara, too, stopped walking.
"Where the boy comes from, I mean," she then said.
"I should think so," said Caswell. "I shall have to ask Mama Divasire that."
"It is an island," said Lady Gaesasara finally. "Come on, then. I'll race you back to the villa."
