Beat Not the Bones (11 page)

‘Leave that house and go into a mess where there are other white men around you.'

A man living in a mess was to Philip the lowest of all creatures. To go to a mess was to lose utterly all distinction and claim to respect. That Sylvia should even think of him in a mess filled him with rage. He swung the car into the gutter, leaned across her and snapped open the door. At first he did not speak, but there was a pulse jumping in his cheek. When he did speak, it was with all the icy contempt of which he was capable. ‘Go to a mess! Live in a ten by ten with a bunch of drunken morons. I'll thank you not to think up such notions for my well-being. If you can't mind your own bloody business, you can get out and walk home.'

Sylvia got out on to the road. Tears had started into her eyes, but she spoke calmly. ‘You shouldn't have said that, Philip. I've taken a lot from you, but I've had enough. I don't want to see you again.'

Enraged with himself for having lost his only friend, but incapable of contrition, he threw back at her, ‘Do you imagine that breaks my heart?'

The jeep swung round and spurted off down the street. Sylvia stood and watched it go with tears on her cheeks.

Five minutes later when Stella walked up from the beach on her way home, she remained standing there. Stella recognised her from some way off, and waved her hand, but Sylvia did not see her. She stood in a peculiarly ungainly attitude, as if she had forgotten her body. Her hands hung limply at her sides and her hair, half an hour ago so immaculately smoothed and piled on her head, hung in wisps about her shoulders. Stella, approaching nearer, saw her face. ‘Sylvia, what's the matter?'

It shocked her profoundly to see Sylvia crying. She was so collected and debonair and moved with so much assurance, and it did not seem possible to Stella that a woman like her could cry. She divided her world into the vulnerable and the invulnerable, and Sylvia had obviously belonged to those who were strong and safe.

Sylvia turned slowly and faced her, blinking long lashes that were gummed together with tears and mascara. ‘I hardly know,' she said. ‘I don't know why I'm crying; he's not worth it, damn him.' She spoke with a touch of bravado, but Stella was not deceived.

‘Philip?'

Sylvia could only nod.

‘Come home and we'll have a drink,' said Stella. ‘You'll feel better.' They turned and walked slowly up the hill.

‘If he's unkind to you,' said Stella, ‘why do you have anything to do with him?' Sylvia's emotional life puzzled her. Her own view of it was beautifully simple. People who were kind like David, her father and Trevor Nyall, you loved. People who were cruel, who went out of their way to wound, like Anthony Nyall and apparently like Philip Washington, you disliked or avoided. She had no notion of what it was like to love someone who was cruel or even unkind.

Sylvia, who had never loved anyone who had been kind to her, and had treated such people with the contempt that Washington now meted out to her, stared at Stella in astonishment. ‘Good heavens! You don't love people for their characters.'

‘I couldn't love someone I didn't respect,' said Stella.

The suggestion that Philip might not be worthy of love caused Sylvia to forget her tears. She rushed to his defence. ‘But I
do
respect him. He's brilliant. That's the trouble with him, he's too brilliant for this place. It's no place' – she quoted Philip himself – ‘for men of imagination. He knows more about the Territory than anyone else in Marapai and just because he lives unconventionally people won't have anything to do with him. The only thing that they have against him is that he treats the Papuans like human beings.'

‘But why is he so mean to you?' said Stella.

‘He doesn't mean to be,' said Sylvia. ‘He doesn't know he's mean. He's so much more intelligent than I am. And he's nervy. He needs leave. He's as jumpy as a cat on hot bricks. He hasn't been the same since he came back from the Bava valley.'

‘The Bava valley …' Stella slowly turned her head and fixed on Sylvia her wide, empty eyes.

Sylvia was never quite sure why she told Stella this. She had promised Washington she would never speak of it, to anyone, particularly not to David Warwick's wife. ‘I don't want weeping widows falling all over me,' he had said. Certainly she had not been careless, she had not forgotten her promise. But Washington had hurt her, and this was one of those small acts of spite by which people seek retaliation against those they love. She did not aim to injure him, merely to display her own hurt. But looking now at Stella's face she began to wonder if she might have gone further than she had intended. ‘What's the matter?' she said sharply.

A strong emotion in Stella's face gathered. ‘I didn't know he went to the Bava valley,' she said with stiff lips.

‘He went with your husband,' said Sylvia. It was the first time that it had been admitted between them that David Warwick was Stella's husband. ‘I wish he hadn't gone. I don't think he's strong enough to do these jungle treks. They must be exhausting. And then of course your husband's death … it upset him terribly. He's far too sensitive, he's not like other men.'

CHAPTER 11

Stella strode up the road to the top of the hill. She had forgotten Sylvia now, dejectedly sitting alone in her room. She burned with indignation.

They had lied to her: not only Anthony Nyall, who was jealous of her husband and from whom lies were to be expected, but Trevor, her friend and protector. She saw now that he had never helped her, that he had refused help also and had deliberately tried to impede her search for justice and truth. She was not only angry, but bewildered and dismayed, for she had never before distrusted a friend. That he was a friend there was no doubt, because David had loved and admired him. She felt the anguish of a child who hears it said for the first time that there is no God.

Half way up the hill she heard a jeep behind her and moved over on to the side of the road to let it pass. The jeep drew alongside and slowed down. The driver was Hitolo. He leaned out and smiled. ‘Would you like a lift, Mrs Warwick?'

‘Are you going to Mr Nyall's house?'

He nodded, and she got in beside him. ‘I am going to pick up Mr Nyall's luggage and take him down to the airways,' he said. ‘He is going to Rabaul tomorrow. Usually I go with him, but not this time. But I make all the arrangements for him. I help him get away.'

Stella was not listening. ‘Hitolo, did Mr Washington go with you to the Bava valley?'

‘Yes, Mrs Warwick,' he said. ‘He is a good man, Mr Washington. He is a friend of mine. He came to my wedding and made a speech.'

‘Why didn't you tell me?' cried Stella, wringing her hands. She had a sensation of fighting against time. For nearly a fortnight she had known nothing about Washington.

‘You didn't ask me,' he said, taking his eyes from the road to glance at her. ‘I think you know.'

‘Did he go into Eola with Mr Warwick and Sereva?'

‘Yes, Mrs Warwick.'

He fell silent then and she felt that he would not say anything more. She had, once again, an extraordinarily acute sense of his grief, though he turned to her as before only an expressionless copper cheek. Then his slim, shadowy hands twisted the wheel a half circle. They drove through the gate and pulled up under the mango tree at the back of the Nyall's house.

Stella did not hesitate. She did not ask herself what David would have done, by which door she should enter, or whether she should knock or ring. She walked deliberately up the front verandah steps and in the open door. Trevor, Janet and Anthony were sitting together with a tray and glasses on a table between them. Janet half rose and then fluttered back into her chair. Anthony and Trevor both stood up, and Trevor stepped forward and held out his hands.

‘Well,' rang out his warm, hearty voice, ‘how very nice!'

The wonder and excitement of the new discovery meant little at this moment. Stella burned with rage, and she turned savagely on Trevor.

‘You lied to me!' She spoke softly but the words, let out in gusts of fury, had the quality of spark and smoke. ‘You lied! I can see it all now. You don't want to know the truth. You don't want justice for David. You know something happened at Eola, but you'd rather not know what it is, and you're doing everything in your power to stop me from finding out.'

‘Hey! Steady, steady now!' Trevor Nyall smiled at her. He spoke with the soothing indulgence with which you might address a spirited pony.

‘It's no good,' she said. ‘You've never tried to help me. I can see that now. You just want me out of the way. And I nearly went. By next week I would have gone. Somebody murdered your greatest friend, but it doesn't matter to you. The truth is too much trouble for you. It might upset the administration. It might upset the Papuans. You sit back and let this discredit hang over David's head.' She was crying now, but she did not turn away or blink her eyes. They blazed with unabated anger behind the her tears.

Somebody repeated the word ‘discredit'. It was Anthony. His eyes behind the magnifying circles of glass were staring at her, extraordinarily brilliant. She saw his lips move.

Janet was fluttering her hands. They waved about, vague and purposeless. ‘Trevor wouldn't lie,' she said. ‘Trevor's so kind. Listen to her, Trevor. I would never say that you lied. I wouldn't say that.'

‘I can't believe anything you've said to me,' cried Stella. ‘I'm going to this man Washington by myself. I'm going to find out what happened. And I'm going to Eola. I'll find some way. I'll go to the police. I'll go to the administration, and I don't care if it causes trouble. You haven't considered me; why should I consider you?'

‘Stella!' Trevor put his two hands on her shoulders. She tried to shake him off but could not. He pulled her around to face him. It was hard to suspect a man who looked straight into your eyes. She was reminded of her father, of the nuns, of her husband, of the procession of adults who had all directed and guided her, who had put their hands on her shoulders and said, ‘Now, listen to me, Stella, now tell me, Stella, now, Stella, it's not like that …' and had died and left her alone. Her will slowly bent before his.

‘I see now that you've found out about Philip Washington,' he said. ‘You can't blame me for keeping it from you. It was because I have some sense of responsibility towards you that I did keep it from you. Of course I want to stop you in this mad enterprise. Because I
know
you're only doing yourself harm. And even if you are right, which you're not, I'd still try and stop you and do the investigations myself. I wouldn't let you put yourself in danger.'

‘Don't you see that I don't
care
!' Stella said. She had whipped herself up into a fresh frenzy of faith. The light of fanaticism in her eyes burned brighter than ever.

Anthony Nyall turned abruptly away from them, strode across to the door, and then came back.

‘And
you
,' she said, facing him. ‘Why didn't
you
tell me?'

Trevor looked at his brother and said, ‘Yes. Tony, why didn't you tell her?'

There was a faint, derisive smile on Anthony's face. He answered his brother, not Stella. ‘Oddly enough,' he said, ‘for exactly the reason you've just stated. It's strange isn't it, that we should have the same motives? We may end up by doing the same things, but no one would imagine us to have the same motives.'

Trevor laughed. ‘Now, now, no jibes, little brother.'

‘Don't be rude to Trevor, Tony,' said Janet. ‘He's very good to you; he lets you stay in his house.'

‘You have no cause to protect me,' said Stella stiffly. She had forgiven Trevor, but she did not believe Anthony would ever try to save her from pain. You didn't know him … you didn't love him … he had said. ‘Why should you? she said. ‘You didn't like David. You don't like anything connected with him.'

‘It apparently pleases you to think so,' he said quietly. ‘But you're wrong. We disagreed over matters of policy, that's all. We represented two opposed anthropological points of view. There was no bitterness on my part.'

Trevor turned petulantly to a boy who had been hovering in the doorway, trying to catch his eye. ‘What
is
it?'

‘Please, taubada, boy come long taubada's sometings.'

‘Tell him to wait.'

The blood was draining out of Stella's face. Her moment had passed. She felt tired and numb. ‘I'm going to see Washington,' she said mechanically. ‘I'm going to Eola.'

‘Well, yes,' said Trevor. ‘You must certainly see Washington. You must hear from him what happened.
I
can only give you the briefest details. But if you really want to see him you shall, though I think you'd better wait a few days. He's been ill.'

The suggestion of a delay reignited her enthusiasm. ‘I can't wait,' she cried. ‘I've waited for days – for weeks! I can't wait any longer! Jobe may be at Eola now! He may be gone before we can find him.'

Trevor answered with a touch of sternness. ‘The man's had a fever, he's not at all well. He hasn't been to work for a fortnight. And Jobe is in Rabaul.'

But doubt, once admitted, fingers every word and thought. ‘How do I know he's been ill?' she said. ‘How do I know you didn't send him away until I had left the country or until you had convinced me, as you nearly did.'

Trevor's brows drew together and Anthony smiled.

‘I'm going to see him tonight … now,' she said.

‘I'll take you,' Anthony said.

She looked at him in surprise. ‘I think you'd better let me take you,' said Trevor and smiled charmingly. ‘Let me redeem myself in your eyes. I obviously need to.'

‘I'll take her,' said Anthony, in a flat, decided voice. He took Stella's hand and drew it through his arm.

She found herself moving off with him towards the door. She did not know how it happened that she left with this bitter, wounding man, leaving behind his brother who was kind, her husband's friend, who had in his misguided way tried to look after her, and who would never have said, ‘You did not love him.' She looked back over her shoulder and said, ‘I'm sorry I was rude. I know you were trying to help me, but I don't want that sort of help.'

Trevor said nothing. He had swung his tall body around to watch them go. Beside him sat his wife, her yellow hair burning like a candle, her white hands dabbing about after a mosquito that had long since decided against her emaciated arms and had settled on the bronze dome of Trevor's forehead. The light was behind him and his features were only a dark blur, but there was no doubt of his friendliness for her, for he lifted his hand and waved.

She was glad. She could not have borne to quarrel with David's friend.

Still with his arm linked to hers, Anthony led her around to the back of the house. The Nyall's cook boy was sitting on the back steps talking to Hitolo. Anthony paused. ‘My luggage isn't ready, Hitolo, but you can drive us to Mr Washington's house.' He helped Stella into the front seat and climbed into the back. Nobody spoke. Stella tried to think of Washington and the meeting ahead. She tried to assemble the questions she wanted to ask him, but her thoughts kept sliding away and she found herself wondering instead about the man sitting next to her. She turned to speak to him. He had been leaning forward in his seat and her head almost knocked against his. She felt his breath on her cheek and caught the faint scent of his body. For an instant his eyes blazed into her own.

You rarely look for long into the very heart of another's eyes. And Stella felt she had done more than look, had seemed to plunge, to drown. She had no idea what she had encountered, but her nerves sprang from contact with the unknown, and she turned away. ‘Why are you taking me?' she said.

He drew away from her. ‘You'd go anyway.'

‘That's not consistent. I would have met your brother anyway, but you wouldn't help me then.' She had wanted to quarrel with him, but found herself speaking quietly.

‘I've changed my mind,' he said, ‘about you, since …'

‘Since the night I came to dinner,' she supplied, though she had no idea what she had done then or why he should change his mind. Her words rose from a conviction that after that night many things had changed.

He did not confirm her statement but only said, ‘You will go on.' He spoke without emotion, as if he recognised her course as inexorable.

The road they drove on turned in towards the hills past low buildings that hummed with cheap music and a tangled pile of army scrap that rusted beneath tendrils of encroaching creepers. It was darker here and rather cheerless. Even the Papuans looked different. Along the sea-shore they walked with long, swinging steps, talking, laughing, sometimes singing. The yellow skirts of the girls swished gaily around their shining calves. But in this valley that the sun had left some of them had already lit their fires and sat huddled around them. They did not laugh, but beat their drums, and here and there broke out a monotonous, quavering chant, ‘Ba ba ba aa a aa ba aa.'

The road came to an end by some empty tin sheds and a clump of coconut palms. Hitolo swung the wheel around and pointed the jeep back the way they had come. The government offices were on the left. There were no houses anywhere. The palm leaves rustled overhead and every now and again creaking, scratching sounds came from the derelict sheds. Anthony Nyall pointed without speaking up the hill and began to climb. Stella and Hitolo followed.

Then she saw the little thatched hut perched above them in a bright garden of frangipani and variegated shrubs. A light was burning in the window. A flight of wooden steps led up between the trees to the overhanging verandah. It was almost overgrown with tall, red shrubs, and Anthony, half way up the steps, paused and held back the branches for Stella to follow. The verandah was covered by a creeper with shiny leaves, and there were speckled orchids in hanging pots, their small twisted flowers dipping in the light breeze. ‘Are you there, Washington? May we come in?' called Anthony.

There was a murmur of voices within, a grunting sound and a subdued scuffling. Then came a man's voice, clearly but softly speaking words that Stella could not understand.

They waited. Through the open doorway they could see a dim yellow shape and the outlines of a table and chairs. Stella, so not to appear to pry, turned and looked back the way they had come. The red shrubs, their leaves against the sun, were now pale transparent pink. A mosquito whined towards her.

‘Just a moment,' called the voice. ‘Who is it?'

‘Nyall,' said Anthony.

‘Oh, you, Trevor …'

‘Anthony.'

‘Oh!' The voice fell away.

Stella looked back at the doorway. The shining green laurel leaves drooped around the open frame. Her eye was caught by a small object fixed to the outside of the door by a piece of string tied round a nail. It was oval in shape, but pointed at both ends. It was black, highly polished and carved in a design of fine, feathered lines slanting in from the sides and joining at the centre around two eyes and a mouth. It suggested both a human face and the head of a fish. She had seen it before, or one like it, on the desk of Anthony's office. Anthony was looking at it too.