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A Step Too Far

By

Peter Thomas

Jasmine’s Story What turns a young woman into a people

smuggler?

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events

are imaginary. Any similarity with people living or dead is coincidental.

Copyright 2015

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-0-9941188-0-6

Published by Good Hope Publishing House

PO Box 596 Picton New Zealand E-mail goodhope@clear.net.nz

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Thank you.

I am grateful to my friends

Bronwyn Elsmore

Suvi van Smit

and

my wife Irene

for their support and valuable assistance.

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A STEP TOO FAR

By

Peter Thomas

Jasmine’s Story

Chapter 1

I reckon experience is overrated. It hasn’t stopped me

making mistakes; it has only helped me find better ways to

cover them up. By the way my name’s Jasmine, but at the

time this story started everyone called me Jazzy. Right now

I’m in my mid-twenties, but at the time of the first incident

I was seventeen and almost eighteen and my sister Coral

was just sixteen. Even after all this time I still can’t see a

police officer without wanting to drop out of sight and

make myself invisible. Common sense tells me if I act like

that people and the police will notice. And noticing will

lead to... God knows where! As things stand I don’t think

anyone other than Coral had any idea I was involved. I use

the word involved because I don’t like to be thought of as

an instigator. It sounds conniving perhaps even sinister, and

it was. At the time I didn’t know it would end as it did, but

I still deliberate with myself over the question, “If I had

known the outcome in advance would I still have done

what I did?” That’s iffy, because it questions what my

hormones were telling me at the time. Seventeen-year-old

girls don’t think in the same way as women in their mid to

late twenties. But in the counterfeit hours before dawn

while my husband sleeps and I grapple with phantoms, I

repeatedly ask myself that same question and every time I

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give myself more or less the same answer. “Yes, thinking

as I did then and despite everything, I probably would have

gone through with it.” I guess that makes me out to be

more callous than I’d like to admit.

Of course that particular set of conditions is hardly

likely to occur again. I’m older but I’m not sure if I’m any

wiser. I guess those extra years should make a difference.

Also I live in a different world. I’m married to Basil, who’s

a steady guy with a good job, and I have a five-year-old

daughter. Neither of them have any idea about what I did at

that particular time when I was seventeen going on

eighteen. At least I hope that’s the case. Coral would never

tell them. In any case right now she’s living with her

partner in Denmark and has a toddler and a three-year-old.

She helped me keep it from our parents. In fact I don’t

think our parents ever suspect either of us of being

involved or implicated. Like the coroner, they just assumed

it was an accident. If they thought anything about it they

probably assumed, as did everyone else, that he had it

coming to him.

Since then I’ve moved on. I’m not part of the beach

set any more. Now I like to imagine I think like an adult –

most of the time. I don’t think my lapses are any more

frequent or intense than those other women indulge in to

introduce some sparkle into what would otherwise become

a lifestyle centred on preparing meals, wiping down

surfaces, doing the washing and performing wifely duties

for the same man month after month.

My seriously-laid-back-beach-bum existence now

feels as if it belonged to someone else, not me. Of course if

anyone inquired we told them we were a surf life-saving

team and dedicated to keeping the beach safe for bathers.

There is a National Surf Life Saving Organisation and its

members are genuinely dedicated to training and keeping

the beaches safe for swimmers, but we weren’t part of that.

Our activities were limited to getting a great suntan,

wearing as little as possible and partying most of the night.

A guy called Ralph founded our life saving club.

We never knew how or where he acquired his money

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which, to us beach-bums, seemed limitless. He certainly

didn’t make it by going to work. He told us he had

financial dealings which I guess could be a euphemism for

virtually any dubious activity. Some people reckoned he’d

been an army officer and had a dishonourable discharge for

dealing in drugs, but I don’t know if that’s true or they

made it up. Anyway he started the club in the same way as

he did everything else – with money and style. He

purchased a pretty flash seafront restaurant and converted it

to our clubrooms for us to use any time we wanted, day or

night, and it came complete with a paid live-in manager

and a caretaker. Also the building came with two upstairs

apartments. None of us ever saw the inside of those

apartments. The manager and the caretaker made sure of

that. The doors were always locked and had an additional

electronic security gadget on the wall outside that blew

away your ear drums if you went anywhere near it. We

never knew what went on upstairs. It was private and only

Ralph, his manager and the caretaker had access. At the

time we were quite naive and it’s only latterly I’ve come to

the conclusion the life saving club was probably a cover for

whatever it was that went on inside those two apartments.

But the club had a good image in town. The beach

was normally a relatively safe one without any offshore

rips or heavy surf; but on the odd occasion when a

distressed person was pulled out of the water Ralph made

sure the story hit the local newspaper and the local radio

station emphasised the contribution our life-saving club

was making to the community. Ralph installed exercise

machines in the club rooms which could be seen from the

street. These were available free-of-charge and they had

quite a following with the local keep-fit community. Seeing

them in use created a healthy impression. Ralph’s manager

superficially enforced a smoke-free, drug-free and alcohol-

free policy within the club. In practice he chose to look the

other way most of the time. Soft music was OK but loud

music was banned. Ralph’s final image enhancement

scheme was the provision of suntan cream and it was made

free for the general public. He purchased his supplies of

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suntan cream in bulk from the local pharmacist rather than

buying more cheaply from an impersonal supermarket

elsewhere. That wasn’t accidental. Because of the image he

created, parents were relatively happy for their teenagers to

join the beach-club, especially as there appeared to be full-

time on-site manager supervising the whole venture. The

place was always busy and no one seemed to notice visitors

frequenting the back stairs for access to Ralph’s private

apartments. Local bars and cafes benefited from increased

patronage and he never asked the community for any

financial contribution. He always said he could afford it

and he was honoured to be able to provide a safe and

healthy environment for the beach community.

I never knew Ralph’s age, someone reckoned he

was over thirty but I don’t think that could be right. I’d

guess, at the time, he was probably somewhere in his mid-

twenties and any woman would tell you he was also

extremely attractive. College girls expressed it differently

but their meaning was clear. Just to be seen in his yellow

sports car was a status symbol that could only be surpassed

by claims to have mislaid their virginity while in it. I was

never invited to ride in the passenger seat and neither did I

personally discover the expectations and implications of a

date with Ralph. My kid sister Coral went several times

and was very coy when I asked her what happened. That

didn’t add to the harmony of our relationship.

Ralph’s other interest was dinghy racing and he

must have been good at it because he regularly won many

of the races. In retrospect I guess he would have had all the

best gear and he had the killer instinct to push and

intimidate anyone in his way. But it didn’t seem like that to

me at the time. I just thought “Wow”. Although I wasn’t

particularly interested in sailing I cycled up to the yacht

club on Sunday mornings to help him rig his boat ready for

the racing. That involved putting up the mast and fixing the

rigging, ropes and a number of things I wasn’t quite sure

what they were supposed to do. Then, when the race had

started, I’d hang about in the yacht club to watch him

racing and congratulate him when he came ashore. That

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involved me giving him a hug and a big kiss. Then I always

offered to help him take the mast down, fold up the sails

and put them back in the sail bag. As I said he was a real

sexy guy and when he had his boat back on the trailer he

always bought me a chocolate ice cream and a ginger beer

from the bar in the yacht club and he would sign me in as

his visitor. That felt good being his visitor. Then we’d sit in

the easy chairs and talk.

Two unrelated things happened within the course

of a couple of weeks that would permanently curtail this

beach-club culture. First my mother’s washing machine

broke down. As Mum had to go out, I was instructed to

stay home and let in the repair man who was coming to fix

it. He found the fault quite quickly. One of the aluminium

bolts in the water pump had snapped, he showed me and

told me the bolts were OK for normal operation but

snapped easily if the pump was jammed with something

like a button or a coin, as had happened in this case.

Apparently stainless steel would be much stronger except

for the fact that the body of the pump was alloy and if steel

bolts were used the detergent and the dissimilar metals

caused the pump body to corrode. He reckoned the new

models all have plastic pumps with stainless screws. I

suppose he wanted us to buy a new washing machine! But

he had a kit of parts to repair the pump which included

rubber bits and pieces and a packet of four bolts. He only

needed one of the aluminium bolts and gave me the rest of

the packet as he said we had to pay for the whole kit

anyway. So I put the opened packed on the shelf next to the

washing powder. The guy tested the washing machine. It

worked fine, so he handed me the bill to give to Mum and

left.

The second thing that happened that week involved

Coral. She was invited by Ralph to go for a ride in his

sports car to have a meal at a restaurant up the coast and he

suggested she should take her bikini and a towel so they

could go for a swim afterwards. Although I kept cycling to

the yacht club every Sunday to help him with his boat he’d

never invited me to even go for a ride in his sports car let

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alone have a proper meal in a restaurant. All I ever got

from him was an ice cream and a ginger beer. Coral was

my kid sister and I was getting the kid’s stuff and she was

being treated to a proper restaurant meal and going on a

real date. I watched Coral getting ready and when Ralph

drove up to our house to pick her up I didn’t even wish her

a happy time. I was seething for the whole time she was out

and after she got back I was even more angry, but for a

very different reason.

Coral arrived home in tears and in a taxi. She had

been raped by Ralph.

The next few days were explosive. We talked about

almost every reaction except one. I kept that one to myself.

Dad oscillated between beating the shit out of Ralph or

laying a complaint with the police and getting him charged

with rape. Mum was totally opposed to both of those

options. As she said, if Dad attacked Ralph it would be Dad

who would end up in court and Ralph would be the victim.

If Coral laid a complaint with the police and Ralph was

charged he would employ the best legal team money could

buy and Coral would be subjected to a vicious attack in the

witness box and have to endure having every relevant and

irrelevant detail splashed across the newspapers. Then

she’d end up having to live with that for the rest of her life.

According to Mum where ever she went people would

point to her and say, “That’s the woman who claimed she

was raped,” and she’d have to put up with comments like,

“The only girls who get raped are the ones who ask for it.”

Or “She probably only claimed she was raped because she

knew Ralph was loaded. It probably never happened.

You’ve got to watch out for those gold diggers.”

Then Dad would say, “If we let him get away with

it, how many more girls will he rape? How many has he

done already?”

Then Mum would say, “I don’t care about other

girls; I just care about Coral and her having to live through

the humiliation of having lawyers accuse her of making a

false accusation and tell the whole court she had consented

to sex. Then the court would hear how Ralph is making

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such a contribution to society and making facilities

available for young people. Coral knows she was raped, but

how could she prove it in court?”

Mum and Dad spent all their time arguing to the

extent that Coral was shut out of the conversation. But in

the meantime my brain was working overtime on my plan.

The next Sunday I cycled down to the yacht club as

if nothing had happened. There was only one difference.

This time I had in my shorts pocket the three aluminium

bolts the washing machine service man had given us. When

the service man handed them to me I noticed they were

more or less the same size as the bolts I put through the

bottle screws in Ralph’s rigging. As usual I helped Ralph to

rig his dinghy. While he was taking the sails out of the bag

I swapped his stainless steel bolts used in the standing

rigging for my aluminium ones. By this time I knew

enough about rigging his boat to know it’s the standing

rigging that holds up the mast. If one of those bolts were to

break out there on the water...

There was a strong wind that day. According to the

guy in the yacht club the wind was doing about twenty

knots gusting to about thirty when they fired the starting

gun. Small white caps scudded across the bay. As usual

Ralph had signed me in as a guest. I was able to sit in the

box and have the race explained to me. Apparently they

started, as they always did, on a windward leg and Ralph

rounded the first mark in the lead. Then they had a broad

reach and Ralph broke out his spinnaker. Even the guy in

the box told me he had crammed on far too much sail for a

single handed race and a spinnaker was crazy under those

conditions. They must have been about a mile offshore

when the mast came down. The guy in the box saw it

happen and thought the boat must have capsized because

Ralph was over canvassed for the conditions. I knew better

and said nothing. After a minute or so the rescue boat

headed towards him. It must have taken about ten minutes

before it arrived. By that time four of the other race boats

had taken down their sails and were attempting to assist.

Several of the club’s flag officers arrived in the box with

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binoculars. There wasn’t much room, so I had to go into

the ward room to wait. It was about fifteen minutes later

that I first heard the ambulance siren and it was a further

twenty minutes before Ralph arrived back in the rescue

boat. One of the safety officers was performing CPR on

him. He was carried into the ambulance on a stretcher.

There was blood on his head. I never saw him again. I

didn’t know what injuries he sustained and none of our

family went to his funeral.

Then the rescue boat went out again and towed in

his dinghy. It was full of water and only just floating

because of the built in buoyancy. Once it was pulled onto

the slip someone unscrewed the bung to let the water out

then, as the water level in the boat dropped, four guys

dragged it further and further up the slip trailing sails and a

broken mast. Eventually they got it onto the hard. The race

had been abandoned and while the other boats were coming

in I made a start on dismantling the rig. One of the

aluminium bolts must have snapped and the two halves

fallen into the sea. I replaced the two remaining aluminium

bolts with the original stainless steel ones and put the two

broken halves of the mast onto the boat. Then I folded up

the sails, put them back into their sail bags tidied up the

ropes as best I could and cycled home still not knowing

that Ralph was declared dead shortly after his arrival at

hospital. I found out later when the mast broke and the sails

went into the sea Ralph was thrown forward and he fell

onto the jagged stump of the broken mast. Apparently by

the time the rescue boat had got to him his lungs were full

of water and he’d stopped breathing. I guess I’d gone a step

too far.

Naturally I couldn’t have anticipated that outcome,

but neither Coral nor I shed any tears over it. Mum and

Dad never even knew I’d been to the yacht club that day,

let alone had a hand in changing the bolts. Mum said once

she thought God must have had a hand in it. Coral and I let

her think that.

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Chapter 2 After that my life changed. As I told you my name is

Jasmine but absolutely everyone, including Mum and Dad,

always called me Jazzy. I was Jazzy James: beach bum,

party girl, known by everyone (except my parents) for

wagging school, wearing a micro bikini, being on the pill

and spreading my legs at parties and on the beach after

dark. There were a few other things as well that I won’t go

into right now. But of course when Ralph died our

clubrooms were closed-down and boarded-up. Eventually

the new owners turned it into a shop selling sports gear and

fishing tackle. Then a strange thing happened that I still

can’t rationalise. Within a few weeks, and in some cases

within a few days, people spontaneously started calling me

Jasmine instead of Jazzy. I didn’t instigate it. I liked being

Jazzy. I can explain when it happened, but I’m still not sure

why it happened.

Ralph’s death and the break up of the beach-club

more or less coincided with me becoming a school-leaver

and drifting into a paying job working for the town council.

Apart from formerly spending my summer days as a beach-

bum, I’d also joined the local swimming team and for some

years I’d been swimming competitively in national

competitions. I’d also been maintaining my first-aid

certificate, although I never told anyone in the beach-set;

seriously laid-back beach-bums don’t do things like that.

By coincidence, and just as I was leaving school, a job

came up for a pool attendant and swimming instructor at

the town’s indoor swimming pool. One day Helen, who

was the pool manager, mentioned to me that Marama,

who’d been doing the job, was leaving to have a baby and

she asked me if I’d like to give-it-a-go. So without really

trying I left school and found myself in paid employment.

Then I became known for wearing a sensible one-piece

swim suit, much like the one I wore in the swimming

championships. But now it was paid for by the town

council with my name Ms Jasmine James, embroidered on

it. My swimming class students all called me Miss Jasmine.

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An incident happened within a few weeks of me

starting my new job. Coral’s rape by someone who was

rumoured to have been an army officer was still fresh in

my mind when a soldier called Kent started to come to the

pool just about every day. But he didn’t come to swim; he

just came to follow me round the pool and talk incessantly

about himself and the army. He was creepy; wherever I

went he was standing behind me. Even when I was in the

water attempting to conduct the kids’ swimming lessons he

stood on the side and kept telling me about his training and

what it took to be a soldier. I decided if I heard one more

time how courageous he was I’d explode. He drivelled on

and on; I couldn’t take any more. I said to the kids, ‘Wait

here a moment, hold on to the hand rail and I’ll be back

soon.’

I climbed out of the water and walked straight

towards him so that I entered his personal space forcing

him to back away and keep backing away towards the

men’s changing room.

‘I’m trying to conduct a swimming lesson and

you’re disrupting it. I’m not interested in the army and

even less in you. Stop following me, get dressed, put on

your pathetic uniform and bugger off. You talked about

courage! Wankers like you don’t know the meaning of the

word. Those kids in the water are showing real courage

learning to swim. Piss off back to your barracks, learn how

to do something positive and leave me to get on with

teaching these kids to swim.’

The whole pool heard me and, as I finished, quite a

few of the people in the pool clapped. I recognised one of

them. It was Isabel Graham who was my old primary

school headmistress.

Kent, who by this time had backed away as far as

the changing room, disappeared inside without saying a

word. I returned to the water and got on with my swimming

lesson. When I’d finished the pool manager called me into

her office.

‘You went a step too far today Jasmine...’

‘He was disrupting my classes and...’

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‘But he’s still a paying customer...’

‘He pays to use the pool, not harass me and disrupt

my classes.’

She smiled. ‘But you still shouldn’t have called

him a wanker. Other than that I couldn’t fault a word you

said.’

‘Really!’

‘You were spot on Jasmine. I should have done

what you did weeks ago. The guy’s a bloody menace. But

please don’t make a habit of it.’

We never saw Kent again.

One of the problems with teaching children to

swim is that some of them find the water scary. Once they

can relax in the water I’m halfway to getting them to swim.

After that it’s just technique. So one of the suggestions I

made was putting music through the loudspeakers in the

changing rooms when my students were getting ready for

their class. I reckoned if they had some relaxing music

while they were getting changed it might help them

approach the pool feeling a little calmer. I asked Helen

about my idea and she was all for it, so I ended up with the

job of selecting the music for my kids. This resulted in me

spending quite a bit of time at home sorting through

recordings and getting music off the net. The children were

placed in classes where they were all more or less the same

age. So I ended up with some classes for little kids and a

progression of ages up to and including teenagers, so

different classes needed different music. I found I was

having to spend longer and longer at home selecting the

music for the following week’s classes. I guess I mainly

put on music I liked. The music was a popular innovation

and before long Helen was getting requests from the adults

to put music on even when there were no swimming classes

involved. I didn’t realise it at the time but putting that

music on would result in my life changing direction in a

most unexpected way.

A couple of weeks later in the pool I again met

Isabel Graham, my old primary school headmistress. Like a

number of retired people she came to the early morning

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session that started at eight o’clock, which gave them an

hour before any of the school parties arrived. The oldies all

knew what they were doing without any input from me.

Some of them just came, swam something like twenty

lengths then and went home to get on with the rest of their

day. Others exercised in the shallow end, often holding on

to the hand rail. Isabel was one of them and, as I wasn’t

busy, I was able to have a bit of a chat with her in the water

with me squatting on my heels on the edge of the pool. She

brought up the subject of the music with something which,

if I hadn’t forgotten, I had at least put out of my mind. One

of the tunes I’d put on that morning was John Lennon’s

song “Imagine” largely because I’ve always liked the

lyrics. She asked me if I’d chosen the music. When I told

her yes she said, “I thought so”, and went on to remind me

that years ago in my final year at primary school when they

were planning the school concert she asked us kids for

suggestions and I’d suggested that same song. Apparently

she felt it was so appropriate for the school that she insisted

the staff should include it every year in the school concerts.

So the pupils all learned to sing it and one of the teachers

worked out a dance routine to go with it. Isabel went on to

explain that the lyrics also gave the teachers an opportunity

to open up a class discussion. Apparently the children were

very imaginative when they were asked questions about

things imagined in the song like, “Would it be better if

there were no religions rather than a lot of conflicting

ones.” or “What would the world be like if there were no

national borders and everybody shared what was

available?” Then the class discussion often moved on to

whether John Lennon was murdered because he imagined a

world where resources were shared and encouraged other

people to imagine the same. Then they talked about people

like Martin Luther King who was murdered for having a

dream about everyone being equal, and Abraham Lincoln

who was murdered because he wanted to abolish slavery,

or Jesus who was executed after he had advocated a lot of

things like the meek inheriting the Earth instead of the rich

and powerful. Apparently my suggestion of including

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“Imagine” in the school concert had been a useful and

lasting suggestion for the school.

Sometimes there are turning points in people’s

lives when our lives seem to spin away in a different and

often unplanned direction. Things that seem totally

insignificant at the time can be the trigger. Of course when

I was at primary school I had no idea that suggesting that

particular song would, years later, alter the course of my

life.

Neither did I have any idea that squatting on the

pool edge chatting to my old headmistress would be an

instigator of change. Our conversation moved on and Isabel

explained she had retired from her old job but went

overseas for many months at a time teaching English as a

second language in a third world country. But despite that

she insisted she still enjoyed following the progress of her

ex pupils. Then she asked me how I liked my job. I told her

the job was fine and I got a lot of satisfaction from teaching

the children to swim but it was an indoor pool, with a roof,

and I reckoned I was born to worship the sun and these

horrible one-piece swim suits felt like body armour.

Then she surprised me by saying now she was

retired sometimes she went to a naturist club to get a good

all-over suntan. I found it difficult to imagine my old

headmistress stripping off in a naturist club. But she

described the club and said people didn’t have to take all

their clothes off if they didn’t want to. They could wear as

much or as little as they wanted. Apparently the club was

situated in a beautiful old Victorian style country house set

in about five hectares of gardens. It had a high hedge all

round it and couldn’t be overlooked. Apparently she felt

quite secure there and had made a number of friends of all

ages who she’d never have met had it not been for the club.

We weren’t very busy just then as the school

parties still hadn’t arrived so I asked her what the place was

like and what people did there. She told me there was a

small lake in the garden complete with a diving board

where some members went swimming. I pricked up my

ears and she went on to tell me about the tennis courts and

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the conservatory with a big gas-fired pizza oven where

members could sit and gossip inside if the weather turned

nasty. She went on to explain that the club was a naturist

park not a nudist camp. Apparently at a nudist camp people

go for a short period take off their clothes and at the end of

the period they get dressed again and depart. But here

members considered themselves part of the natural

environment with an ongoing commitment to the place.

Apparently they have an aviary that covers about a quarter

of an acre and in it they are conducting a kakapo breeding

programme to try bringing the bird back from the edge of

extinction. She reckons they had bred about seventy of the

birds. Her special interest and commitment was in another

small enclosure where they were breeding green geckos.

I asked her what it cost. She couldn’t remember the

exact figure but assured me it was very reasonable because

they had a large membership and the subscription was just

to cover costs like rates and electricity because the

maintenance of the house and gardens was done by

members donating their time. Apparently the previous

owner started the club using his home and gardens, but

before he died the rest of the estate which consisted of

several hundred hectares was sold and the house and

gardens were left to the naturist club, “For as long as the

club remains in existence”. Should the club be wound-up,

ownership will be transferred to the local council for use as

a recreational park. So, as Isabel told me, it’s a case of,

“Use it or lose it.”

I told her I thought it sounded too good to miss. So

she offered to pick me up after work and sign me in to the

club as a guest to see if it appealed to me. When we were in

her car she explained that people could only become

members if they were proposed by another member and if I

was interested, after I’d had a look around, she would be

prepared to propose me as a member. After that my name

would go to the house committee, they would want to see

me and then I may or may not be accepted as a member.

There was a long tree-lined drive up to the house.

The building was neatly painted with fancy pillars, carved

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archways and sash windows. Highlights of the building had

been picked out in a purple shade. The rooms all had those

ornate ceilings that belonged to an age of solid brass

fittings, where polished woodwork reflected pools of

coloured light coming through stained glass windows. Oil

paintings in heavy gold picture frames adorned the walls

and in the entrance hall a marble statue of a partially

clothed Greek goddess stood on a granite pillar holding out

an arm to greet a naked Greek warrior holding a shield and

a short sword. Walking into that house I felt I was stepping

back to a more elegant age. The place was immaculate.

Isabel explained that in the era of the homestead the house

would have supported numerous paid servants to maintain

the place in pristine condition. But now there were no paid

servants so all of us had the privilege of becoming unpaid

servants to maintain the heritage site in its former state.

But, she added, ‘We don’t want the place to be somewhere

where people come, look and say “How nice” before

walking away. We want the house used. We like hearing

children running in the corridors instead of imagining the

ghostly footsteps of long dead ladies and gentleman. It’s

for members to use when they want. They can have their

weddings and birthday parties here providing they treat the

homestead with respect because times have changed, and

there will never be another place like this. We can maintain

it, but we’ll never get a building permit to add to it or do

anything structural as it’s officially listed as a heritage site

and regarded as a national treasure and that’s how we want

to keep it.’

As soon as I stepped into the gardens I met

Susanne who was an old school friend of mine. She was

with her boyfriend Max. That sort of clinched the deal as

far as I was concerned.

A lot of summer still remained. Isabel proposed

me, the house committee accepted me and within a couple

of weeks of first seeing the place I had become a paid-up

member of the local naturist club. Then I became known

for walking, “as nature intended” in the club grounds,

swimming in their lake and talking to my new naturist

18

friends about the natural environment and sanctuaries for

wildlife. I also did my share of the work by helping in the

gardens.

Within a few weeks I became aware that I’d moved

on. Now I had a more-or-less respectable job and was

making new friends. In our beach-club we were all near

enough the same age, give or take a year or two. But at the

naturist club I was one of the younger adults. There was a

diverse range of people. Quite a few of the members were

couples and a number of them brought their small children.

I liked it when the kids were playing outside. I even taught

some of them to swim in the lake. I showed them how to

fold up paper boats to sail on the lake then, when the boats

were out in the middle, we’d have a race to see who could

get to them first. I made sure the kids always beat me.

There was a grand piano in one of the rooms and

sometimes members used it for a musical evening. But I

preferred the evenings in the conservatory when a few of us

brought our guitars and we had a bit of a jam session.

Amongst the adults there was a wide variety of

ages and occupations. One of the surprises was a Roman

Catholic priest, Father O’ Flannigan, who didn’t talk much

to anyone else but spent his time exclusively with Lunetta.

They always arrived within a few minutes of each other in

separate cars on Tuesday evenings. People reckon she was

separated from her husband or partner and apparently she

was one of the Father’s flock. As soon as they arrived they

went into the cloakroom got undressed and walked out

naked into the garden. They were always together and

invariably spent their time holding hands before walking to

the lake and kneeling on the ground where they presumably

talked to God! After an hour or so they went back into the

cloakroom, got dressed and drove away in their respective

cars.

Quite apart from seeing my new friends at the

naturist club I was also invited to join them in parties and

visit them at their homes. It may be just coincidence but I

discovered a number of the club members were

vegetarians. Quite often I had my evening meal at the club

19

and I sort of drifted into becoming a vegetarian without

really thinking about it.

Providing a guy has a good athletic figure, when a

woman first meets him she usually starts working through a

mental checklist. I guess guys do something similar when

they first meet girls. I call it ticking boxes. Is he about my

own age or close enough to be OK? Would I be safe to be

alone with him? Might I be just a tiny bit unsafe with him?

Does he have a regular partner? What is he interested in? Is

he well off? How could I engineer a few minutes alone?

What would he be like in bed... You’ll know what I’m

talking about because I can virtually guarantee you’ve done

something similar heaps of times. It’s what people do.

It was at one of the vegetarian dinners that I first

met Basil. But quite honestly he didn’t tick many of my

boxes. He was obviously considerably older than me. As I

later found out he was seventeen years older than me and at

the time I was only just nineteen. I can’t say he was either

good looking, or had an athletic figure. He was just a little

shorter than me and skinny. He had a receding hair line and

wore frameless glasses over a beak of a nose. It turned out

he was only in New Zealand half the year because he was a

Kiwi working in Australia a month on and a month off. So

every second month he flew home for a month. As a result

I only saw him intermittently at the naturist club.

But I did make a point of seeing him when he was

around. He was rather shy with women but seemed quite a

nice guy when you got to know him. He reckoned he

hadn’t had any serious girl friends which made me a bit

suspicious at first but, as I know now, he’s not gay. He

made up for his lack of physical attributes with enthusiasm

for whatever was going on. He’d be cautious at first and

deliberate on the options before making a decision but once

he’d made that decision he would throw everything he had

into it. He was astute, and apparently had a responsible,

well paid job as an inspector of mines in Western Australia.

He was also very generous and the first winter I knew him

he suggested that following his next month in Australia,

instead of flying back home, he would pay for me to go to

20

Fiji. He would meet me there so we could spend a month

together, go and visit some of the islands and do a bit of

diving on some of the reefs.

Wow! I’d never been out of New Zealand before.

So I had to get a passport and travel insurance and I didn’t

have a clue how to do any of that. I’d talked to my boss and

managed to get the time off from work by using all my

annual leave and sneaking three extra “sick days”. Basil

had said he’d pay for everything but Mum didn’t like the

idea of me not having any money, so they helped me buy

some Fiji dollars to put in my handbag. That was a bit of a

concession because she didn’t want me to go and one

evening she was in tears about it. Despite everything I said

she was convinced Basil was too old for me and I heard all

the clichés about getting “out of my depth” and “going a

step too far”. I got Dad to drive me to Wellington airport

and I was so keyed up and spooked by Mum that I needed

to sit down in the cafe and have a cup of coffee with Dad.

Then he gave me a lecture about not getting pregnant. I

don’t think he knew I’d been on the pill for years! He

waited with me until it was time for me to go through the

big doors to emigration then he gave me a big hug and a

kiss and I had to promise to ring home as soon as I got to

our hotel.

In Nadi, after I’d picked up my bag and gone

through immigration, Basil was waiting for me with a

rental car. For the first couple of nights we stayed at a

beach resort in New Town which was so close to the

airport I could hear the big jets going overhead. Two days

later we went to Port Denerau and boarded a high speed

catamaran to the Yasawas where we spent day after day on

the beach, visiting other islands, swimming, snorkelling on

the reef, kayaking, sailing, eating beautiful island banquets,

going to Fijian fire dances in the evening before retiring

and spending the nights together. In bed Basil was, and still

is, a restrained and gentle man. He always makes sure I’m

ready for it; never once has he been wild, savage and

unrestrained. I don’t think he’s capable of comprehending

21

that hurting me a little and leaving me feeling just a little

battered inside can also be a beautiful act.

Towards the end of the holiday Basil booked return

flights to Suva because he said he’d like to see the city as

he’d never been there before. I hadn’t a clue about his real

objective. It came as a total surprise when we stopped

outside a jeweller’s shop and he asked me if I’d like to go

inside and choose an engagement ring. That was the closest

I came to having a proposal of marriage.

When I got back home I walked into the kitchen

and before I’d even put my suitcase on the ground I held up

my left hand. ‘See what I’ve got Mum!’ Mum took one

look, shouted ‘Oh no!’, burst into tears and ran out of the

room.

Dad just looked at it. ‘It’s certainly a lovely ring

Jasmine but I hope you’ve considered all the implications

of wearing it.’

‘Yes Dad I have, and it’s what I want.’

‘OK but I hope you won’t rush into anything.

You’re not pregnant are you?’

‘No Dad I’m definitely not pregnant.’

At work the next day the girls in my swimming

class all wanted to see my beautiful new ring.

‘Can I touch it please miss?’ I must have heard that

a dozen times.

Basil had flown straight back to Australia from Fiji

and we stayed in contact by email. He was quite adamant

we should go away on holiday like that every second

month. He suggested we could go to a different place each

time. I must admit it sounded excitingly attractive. I

thought about my answer and didn’t reply till the next day.

Sorry Basil it would be lovely but I can’t. I’ve used

up all of my annual leave from work.

He replied.

Then leave work, I can afford to keep us both and

holiday for half the year.

I answered.

But I like my work. What would I do in the

intervening months? Sit around, look at my engagement

22

ring and wait for my next holiday! After a few months I’d

tire of being on holiday; it wouldn’t sparkle any more. I

want a real life. I want to stay going to work, teaching the

children to swim and use my annual leave once a year to

go away with you on holiday.

I let Mum and Dad see my emails. Mum didn’t say

anything. She just nodded and Dad said, ‘I think that’s the

most mature thing I’ve ever seen you do. I’m proud of you

Jasmine. Not many girls your age would have responded

like that.’

The next year we went to France. But that holiday

ended in a disaster in more ways than one. Our intention

was to visit the French Rivera. We flew to Paris but our

luggage, as we discovered a couple of weeks later, had

gone to Heathrow in London. We intended to spend a few

days in Paris and then get a rental car and drive south

through rural France to the Med. That was the theory but

Basil wasn’t familiar with driving on the wrong side of the

road and on the first day he wrote off both the rental car

and a family’s Renault. I broke my left wrist in the

accident. Fortunately no one else had any significant

injuries. Neither Basil nor I spoke any French and if the

French people we encountered spoke any English they

weren’t letting on. The doctor at the hospital indicated that

I should wear my ring on my right hand because the fingers

of my left hand were swelling and there was a potential

danger he’d have to cut my ring off. I won’t go into details

except to say that in addition to our other problems, and

with my left arm in plaster, we had to replace our lost

luggage. So we went clothes shopping in Paris. I guess we

were still jet-lagged and over-tired after missing out on a

night’s sleep because of the long flight. I’m sure you know

what a stagnant relationship is so I won’t go into details

except to say that Basil had the idea that because he was

using his credit card he had the right to dictate what clothes

I should and shouldn’t have. I could understand it if I

wanted extravagant French clothes but that wasn’t the case.

The crux came when he told me I couldn’t have a bikini

and had to have a one-piece bathing costume because he

23

didn’t want me flaunting my body on a French beach. So I

spat the dummy and told him he didn’t own me and

eventually it would be my insurance claim that would pay

for the lost clothes. I was going to go topless on the beach

whether he liked it or not and pointed out that I regularly

walked round the gardens naked at the naturist club and I

was going to continue doing that for as long as I wanted.

Then he told me if I wanted to be engaged to him I’d have

to change my attitude.

We finally got to the Rivera by train and bus and

headed for the beach. Both of us were in a foul mood. In

Fiji we could have had a whole beach of coral sand all to

ourselves if we wanted and it came complete with coconut

trees for shade. Here all I could see for hundreds of metres

both ways were slabs of oiled fat stretched out and turning

pink in the sun. The beach was so crowded we had a job to

find anywhere to sit down where we wouldn’t be intruding

into someone else’s space. There was nowhere where we

could escape from the smell of suntan oil or the sound of

other people’s music superimposed on background chatter.

Back in the islands every stranger you met made eye

contact and greeted you as a friend. Here they attempted to

steal your purse if you were distracted for a moment.

I wore a bikini and Basil sulked so I decided not

only to walk topless on the beach but I spent a fair bit of

time chatting up an Australian guy called Lenny who

happened to be staying at the same hotel as us. He was my

age, big, blond and suntanned. Because of my plaster I

couldn’t do any more than paddle in the sea with him. But I

went up to the bar arm-in-arm with him a few times in the

evenings just to piss-off Basil...

OK you’re right. It wasn’t just to piss-off Basil; I

enjoy flirting as much as every other woman. You show me

a woman who says she doesn’t enjoy flirting and I’ll show

you a woman who tells porkies. As it happens I still

haven’t thrown away Lenny’s name and email address.

I reckoned if Basil thought he was going to tell me

how to dress and how to behave he needed to know I could

pick up another guy anytime I wanted and he could sit on

24

the beach by himself and watch. Basil and I were hardly on

speaking terms in the flight back to Auckland. In fact about

the only thing he said to me was to tell me this time I’d

gone a step too far. And I’d heard that before too. We

parted at Auckland airport when I got a flight to Wellington

and Basil flew back to Perth. He didn’t even want to kiss

me when we parted.

My wrist remained in plaster for six weeks, so even

when I got home I couldn’t go to work, or take my

swimming classes for the best part of a month.

After my wrist was better, the swelling had gone

down and I was back at work I still felt reluctant to put my

ring back on my left hand again. And that had nothing to

do with swollen fingers. People noticed. I know Mum and

Dad noticed because I saw them looking at my ring, but

they didn’t mention it. I desperately hoped they would but

they never said a word about it. No one brought it up apart

from the girls in my swimming classes and I couldn’t

discuss it with them.

25

Chapter 3 Basil must have been thinking about us when he got back

to Perth because after a couple of weeks I got an email

from him. In it he apologised for being domineering. He

said he was quite out of order and of course I could wear

exactly what I wanted. He explained he loved me so much

that he felt jealous when he saw other men looking at me

because he felt inadequate to compete with them. He now

realised his own jealousy was driving me away from him

and he hoped I’d forgive him and give him another chance

if he promised never to be judgemental again.

I didn’t answer; and the next day I got another

email saying more or less the same thing in different

words. In both of them he emphasised how much he loved

me and wanted to be with me. I couldn’t show them to

Mum and Dad because I knew whatever they said would

make me want to do the opposite and the trouble was I

didn’t know what I wanted. Eventually I showed the emails

to Coral. She’s more astute than you’d expect, especially as

she’s only my kid sister. Her reply surprised me. I think she

must have already been working through my problems

because she came straight out with the answer without

having to stop and think about it. She’s been a lot more

thoughtful since she was raped. This is what she said and I

think I’ve remembered it word for word.

‘I reckon the trouble is men all round the world are

brought up to believe their wives or partners should be

subservient to them and women have been brought up to

accept it. Why don’t you tell him if he’s prepared to accept

the two of you coming together in a partnership-of-equals

you’ll be prepared to start wearing your engagement ring

back on your left hand, otherwise it’ll stay where it is as an

ornament, because without that commitment from him your

relationship would be just that, an ornament.’

I did just that. I sent the email back to Basil more-

or-less as Coral suggested. I wish I could have thought of it

myself instead of having to get it from her. Perhaps I was

26

too close to it. I guess it’s hard to see the picture when

you’re inside the frame.

I printed off Basil’s reply and I still have a copy in

the drawer of our writing desk. This is what he said. And

his reply was headed, “A PARTNERSHIP-OF-EQUALS.”

“I agree Jasmine. Our relationship should never

ever be anything except a partnership-of-equals and if in

the future you ever think I’ve deviated from that please

remind me of this email. I love you Jasmine and there is

nothing I want more than to be with you for the rest of my

life.”

I didn’t reply in words to his email. Instead I took a

photo of my left hand wearing his ring on my third finger. I

sent it to him as an attachment.

That was the last he heard from me for the next

couple of weeks as I didn’t reply to any more of his emails.

On the day he flew back to New Zealand I didn’t go to the

airport to meet him. His flight normally got in at about

seven-thirty in the evening which, in winter, was after dark.

He always had dinner on the plane. Having been away for a

month, at this time of the year, his apartment would be cold

and he’d have no perishables in the fridge for breakfast. So

on the day of his arrival, after work I usually went round to

the supermarket and bought something quick for my own

evening meal. I also got some milk, bread, butter and eggs

and anything else I could think of, put them in the panniers

on my bike, took them round to his place and left them in

the fridge. Then I turned on the heating to make it nice for

him when he got home. This left me enough time to catch a

bus to the airport to meet him off the plane. Once he’d

picked up his bags we got a taxi back to his place. That’s

what I always did... but not this time.

I still went to the supermarket after work and

bought the usual things then I cycled to his apartment,

parked my bike in the yard round the back and let myself in

with my key. This time I left the shopping in my panniers

instead of taking them indoors and putting them in the

fridge. Then, without turning on the heating, I re-locked the

doors, left all the curtains drawn, turned off the ring-tone

27

on my cellphone and leaving the house in darkness I

slipped naked between the sheets of his bed to wait for him

to find me. I reckoned it wouldn’t do him any harm to

realise he couldn’t take it for granted that I’d always be

waiting at the airport to meet him.

About a quarter-to-eight my cellphone buzzed, but

I didn’t answer it. He left a message. Then a couple of

minutes later his house phone rang and I didn’t answer that

either. It was about quarter-to-nine when I heard him arrive

in his taxi. I listened to him opening the front door,

switching on the lights and walking into the kitchen. He

must have gone straight to the fridge as I heard him open

the door and close it again. I guess he was wondering

whether I’d left the perishables for him. Then my cellphone

did its non-ringing buzz but I didn’t answer it. He left

another message.

He walked round the apartment a few times and I

couldn’t work out what he was doing, then I heard him go

into the bathroom, use the toilet and brush his teeth before

coming into the bedroom and turning on the light.

We made love twice, once right away and again in

the morning. It was long past time for me to be at work

when we got out of bed. I skipped breakfast and my

morning shower. Basil drove me into work. I had missed

being there for the early morning swimmers and the first of

my swimming class was already in the water waiting for

me. The pool manager was with them. She didn’t say a

word in front of my class but looked at me, looked down at

her watch, up at me and back at her watch. She tutted,

shook her head in dismay and walked away. I was an hour-

and-a-half late for work and twenty minutes late for a one

hour class.

I made the excuse that my bicycle had a puncture

so I had to walk my bike back home and get a friend to

drive me in. I don’t know how convincing I was because

the manager told me afterwards that, “Being that late for

my class was going a step too far”. And it mustn’t happen

again. Going a step too far was becoming the story of my

life. Although I didn’t know it at the time being late for

28

work would fade into insignificance compared with what

was waiting for me in the future.

As usual I left work at four o’clock. Basil was

waiting in his car to pick me up. He gave me a kiss as I

buckled my seat belt.

‘I’ve booked a meal for the two of us in town for

six o’clock so I thought you might like to go home and get

changed out of your work clothes.’

‘Thanks Basil, but you didn’t need to do that for

me.’

‘I’m just being selfish. It’s what I want to do.’

‘Well it’s a lovely thought, thank you.’

It wasn’t until we had almost finished the meal that

Basil broke it to me that as well as the dinner he had two

tickets to the Russian Bolshoi Ballet who happened to be

on tour and at the Michael Fowler Centre that evening. The

show started at eight.

‘How did you get two tickets at such short notice

Basil?’

‘It wasn’t at short notice. I booked them on the

internet a couple of weeks ago in Perth when you sent me

that attachment with a picture of your left-hand wearing

your engagement ring.’

I was totally blown away by the Bolshoi ballet and

I told Basil so, as we got back into his car.

‘It was a once in a lifetime experience Basil. But

please leave it at that – just a once in a lifetime experience.

I don’t want to seem ungrateful because I’ve had a

beautiful evening but please don’t do anything like that

again...’

‘But I...’

‘Let me finish Basil. I know why you did it and it

was a lovely thought. But my love is given freely or not at

all. It is slightly insulting that you should think you could

buy me back with a meal and tickets to the Bolshoi...’

‘It wasn’t a bit like that Jasmine...’

‘Wasn’t it? Not just a little bit? I’ve had the

evening of a lifetime and I’m very grateful but I wouldn’t

think any more or less of you if we’d had baked beans on

29

toast for dinner and gone for a walk in the dark and the rain

along the beach. I don’t want to see you as a Sugar Daddy

standing in the shadows showering me with expensive gifts

that I couldn’t possibly afford to buy for myself. That isn’t

a partnership-of-equals. I’d sooner walk hand-in-hand with

you in the rain.’

When I said that tears appeared in Basil’s eyes and,

while still in the car park, we gave each other a hug and

kiss before we drove back to his apartment with my hand

resting on his knee.

I was on the morning shift at work so I had a

hurried breakfast. Basil offered to drive me to work again

but I said I’d prefer to go on my bike and I think he knew

better than to try insisting or persuading me to do anything

when I’d made up my mind what I wanted. I arrived on

time for the early morning swimmers.

As quite often happened Isabel Graham was one of

them. We had a rather longer chat than usual and in the

course of the conversation she asked me when Basil was

going back to Australia. I explained he had only just come

home so he’d be here for the next three-and-a-half weeks.

Then she said she had a number of photos that she had

taken when she’d been overseas with Heather Marshal who

was also a retired teacher from my old primary school. She

mentioned the photos several times and I gained the

impression that she particularly wanted me to see them

with a degree of urgency that implied rather more than

simply showing off her holiday pictures.

More out of politeness than anything else I told her

I’d love to see them and we agreed to meet in the

conservatory of the naturist club at seven o’clock that

evening. She made it clear that she hoped Basil would

come with me. I explained the situation to Basil while I

was preparing dinner. In his present mood I think he would

have agreed to anything I suggested, so the two of us drove

to the club that evening. Isabel was already there with

several books of mounted photos. I did an inward groan

when I saw how much material she had, but I put on my

enthusiastic face when we sat down at the table to look at

30

them. My initial assessment of holiday photos was totally

misleading. They weren’t holiday photos at all. They told a

story backed up with Isabel’s explanation of horrific

brutality. I was glad to have Basil with me as the story

unfolded.

Isabel had told me she’d been overseas teaching

English as a second language. I guess that was true but it

was a hell of a long way from the drama that unfolded as

we moved through the photographic evidence.

Isabel, together with Heather Marshal and two

other women, had started a school in Mozambique for girls

who had been orphaned by fighting, floods, religious

conflict, poverty and disease.

Basil and I had difficulty even beginning to

comprehend the enormity of the problems. Nothing we had

experienced had prepared us for the tragedy that was

unfolding as Isabel explained the stories behind the photos.

She spoke quietly without any embellishment while we

embarked on a journey where her words transformed the

photos into real-life people. Personalities emerged until we

felt we knew the girls as individuals.

The sun set and darkness closed in on the

conservatory. Isabel’s face was illuminated by a small table

light as she shut the book and began to explain the world

which was waiting for these girls. Our minds began to put

flesh on bare facts. A million people had died in the civil

war between the north and the south. Some died by

genocide and many more from the resulting famine. Then

the floods during the summer of the year 2000 swept away

whole communities. Mozambique is a country that doesn’t

feed itself but has a rapidly rising population and a falling

agricultural base. The nation’s GDP is about 80 US dollars

per person per year. By 1989 it was the World’s poorest

nation. The average life expectancy is only 45 years and the

infant mortality rate is about 120 per thousand. Over 60%

of the population are illiterate. HIV leading to AIDS is

cutting swathes through the country that cannot afford the

drugs to contain it. But it is rapidly becoming a distribution

centre for illegal drugs like heroin, hashish and mandrax

31

imported by sea from countries like Pakistan and India.

These drugs are then taken by mules to South Africa,

Europe and the USA. Young boys are forcibly recruited to

become child soldiers, while girls and young women

supply sexual satisfaction for the roaming guerrilla forces.

She summed it up with the comment that the world can be

ruthless with people born in the wrong place at the wrong

time.

I have never paid much attention to world news

and as a result I had no idea people were living like that

anymore. I guess if a minute fraction of that had happened

in the USA the whole world would have known about it,

but in Africa... I was shaken by the statistics and asked

Isabel what could be done. She took a deep breath and

paused before answering.

‘It is easy to think the problem is so vast that

nothing can be done and end up doing nothing. I choose not

to look at it like that. In our little school we have only ten

girls ranging from toddlers to seventeen-year-olds. We

can’t do anything for the whole population while

international borders remain in place to ensure the rich and

poor are never required to share their wealth. But if we can

find a way to protect just ten girls from the horrors

awaiting them we can say with pride we have at least done

something.’

Basil asked, ‘OK you can educate them but what’s

going to happen to them when they leave your school?’

Isabel’s face lit up in a broad smile. ‘I was hoping

you were going to ask that question. So, if I’m not

mistaken, you want to know what you can do to help.

That’s right isn’t it?’

‘I was just wondering...’

‘That’s great Basil. From the first moment I met

you I knew I could rely on the two of you.’

Basil glanced at me before he answered. ‘I can’t

say we’ll help unless you tell us what help you have in

mind. Jasmine and I both have full time jobs...’

Isabel smiled again. ‘Don’t worry Basil I’m not

going to ask you to go rushing off to Mozambique or

32

anything like that. What I’d like you and Jasmine to do is

much closer to home.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘The first thing is to promise me that you won’t

disclose to anyone what I’m about to tell you. If you can’t

do that you can’t help these girls and I’ll have to look

elsewhere.’

Basil glanced at me and waited for a nod from me

before he answered. ‘This all sounds very melodramatic

Isabel, but you can rely on us to keep a secret.’

‘Great, but before I explain let me ask you a

question. Do you know Mosi?’

I answered. ‘You mean Mosi who does the

gardening?’

‘Yes that’s her.’

‘Of course I know her. She’s from a little place up

north isn’t she?’

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘Yes!’

‘Well I suppose what she said is true. Mozambique

is north of here and of course a hell of a lot further west.

She is one of my orphaned ex students.’

‘How did she get here?’

‘That requires quite a complex explanation and I

don’t want to go into that unless I can first have your

assurance that this is totally confidential.’

Both Basil and I agreed and Isabel continued.

‘National borders ensure some people live in

poverty while others suffer from over consumption. Of all

forms of poverty, despair is probably the most devastating.

What sort of reaction do you think we’d get from New

Zealand immigration, or any other wealthy country, if we

asked them to admit a handful of orphaned girls into the

country? Do you think any of the beautiful mechanisms we

have for evading responsibility would listen if we

attempted to describe the life of an orphan in a country that

has lost faith in the past and can see no hope for the future?

Since the days of Norman Kirk, political courage in New

Zealand has become almost extinct. I saw a brief spark of it

33

when David Lange kicked the American nuclear warships

out of our harbours but since then have you seen anything

other than simpering angels preening themselves for re-

election? You know the answer to that question. So if we

can’t bring the girls here legally what is the alternative?

Should we just put it into the too hard basket, walk away

from our girls and leave them to their fate?’ Isabel hesitated

for a few moments before continuing.

‘The same feature that makes Mozambique an ideal

drug distribution centre also provides us with the

alternative we need.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Porous borders, in fact most of Africa has porous

borders. Mozambique also has a long coastline. It’s not

uncommon to see fishing dhows leaving a desolate beach

and going out to a ship standing offshore. I can assure you

it’s not always to sell fish.’

I asked, ‘Is it the drug trade?’

‘Yes it is mostly drugs nowadays. When the

Portuguese first came here it was slaves, but don’t let

anyone tell you the slave trade is dead. Africa’s young girls

are still seen as a resource to be exploited. That abuse isn’t

limited to Africa. You’d be hard pressed to find anywhere

in the world that’s free from abuse of the most vulnerable.

And I’m including New Zealand in my black list. Can you

imagine the irony of rescuing our girls from the problems

in Mozambique and allowing them to be abused here?

From the moment they set foot ashore they will be in far

more danger than your average Kiwi. Our way of life is

alien to them. At our school we have tried to prepare them,

but living in our culture can’t be taught, you have to absorb

it through your pores. These girls won’t even know how to

go shopping. How can we teach that in an African village?

They will have little more than their instincts to guide

them.’

I cut in. ‘I think I know now what you want me to

do. How many girls come at a time?’

‘Two. That way they have mutual support and we

try to ensure they are both girls that get on well together.’

34

Basil asked, ‘If they can’t come into the country

legally how do you get them here?’

‘I have a friend with a sixty-foot schooner. He and

his crew go to a pre-arranged point off the coast of

Mozambique. One of the teachers escorts the girls to the

beach where we engage a trusted fisherman to take them

out to the schooner. From there they sail to New Zealand

via the Southern Ocean.’

‘How do they get through immigration?’

‘They don’t. New Zealand has one thing in

common with Mozambique and that’s a long coastline. The

girls are brought ashore by dinghy and I make sure I, or

someone else they know, is there to meet them. The trouble

is I’m seventy and the two girls I have in mind are sixteen

and seventeen. How old are you Jasmine?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘That’s what I guessed. It makes you about the

right age to be a big sister to two teenage girls.’

‘Where will we go with them when they come

ashore?’

‘We’ll bring them here. And they can share one of

the empty rooms; there are still some. In total we have

seventeen bedrooms and only fourteen are currently

occupied.’

‘What will they do when they arrive?’

‘Initially they’ll probably give Mosi a hand in the

gardens. They both know her. After a bit they may want to

branch out and do something different. That’ll be their

decision.’

Basil asked. ‘Is Mosi the first girl you’ve brought

here?’

‘No she’s the sixth.’

‘The sixth! Where are the others?’

‘They are all working. And I’ll say this for them,

they are all good workers and grateful for the chance to

work. You only have to show them the sliver of an

opportunity and they’re on to it. Lymbah is on an inshore

fishing boat operating out of Nelson. She’s married to the

skipper. They form a husband and wife team. Tapanga is a

35

drummer in a band that tours New Zealand. I believe she’s

sort of engaged to one of the singers. When they’re in the

area they always come here and provide us with an

evening’s entertainment and always make a point of

singing John Lennon’s Imagine. I guess that’s for my

benefit because I taught that to the girls in our school in

Africa. See what an influence you had Jasmine when you

suggested that song at primary school all those years ago.

Chinira works at the local poultry farm. It’s about six

kilometres along the road. She still lives here and every day

regardless of the weather she runs barefoot to work and

back. Heaps of people have offered to give her a lift but she

always refuses and says she prefers running. Reta is

married to a potter and she paints African designs onto his

pots, in between looking after their toddler. Batini has a job

working at a salmon hatchery in South Island. We don’t see

her very often but she keeps in touch by email. She has a

boyfriend she’s been seeing for about a year. Apparently

he’s a diesel mechanic and works at the local garage.’

Basil asked, ‘How do the girls find all these jobs?’

‘It’s a spin off from this place. The naturist club

has over five hundred paid up members. Of course they

don’t all come here at once but we only have to put the

word around that someone is looking for a job and

invariably someone knows someone who has a friend...

You know the story. Mosi is the exception; she’s never

wanted a job, she only wants to work in the gardens and

sell the fruit, vegetables and flowers to members or from a

stall at the local farmers’ market. It’s quite a bonus for us,

as her organic vegetables are very popular with members

and a lot cheaper than getting them from the supermarket. I

buy just about all mine from her.’

Basil and I drove home and spent the rest of the

evening and half of the night talking about Isabel’s

proposal as we’d promised we’d get back to her in the next

few days. Apparently the two new arrivals were already at

sea. I thought it sounded worthwhile and fun, but the whole

venture seemed too risky for Basil who worried that

assisting illegal immigrants was going a step to far. It was

36

past midnight before I got him to agree by deploying the

well proven feminine method of persuasion.

37

Chapter 4 Isabel arrived at the pool for the early morning session

before the children’s classes started. As soon as I saw her I

walked over to her. She looked up expectantly and smiled.

‘Hi Isabel, I think I’ve persuaded Basil to go ahead

with that suggestion of yours, but he’d like to know a lot

more about what’s involved and so would I.’

‘Of course you would. I hope persuading him

wasn’t difficult.’

I winked back. ‘We women have our ways!’

She smiled back and nodded. ‘Would the two of

you be available to come round to my house for dinner this

evening? Then we could go into what’s involved in more

detail.’ Serious lines spread across her face as she added,

‘You will treat this in total confidence won’t you? This

isn’t a game.’

‘Yes we’d love to come, thank you. And we both

understand the implications of what you told us last night.

We’ll definitely keep it confidential. What time would you

like us to come?’

‘Does six o’clock sound OK for you?’

‘That should be fine. How do we find your place?’

‘I’ve brought a card in my cardigan pocket, so I’ll

just slip out to the changing room and get it for you. Then

you’ll have my phone number as well, in case there are any

last minute snags.’

I walked over to the women’s changing room and

waited at the entrance. She was back in a moment. I

thanked her for the card and put it in my handbag back in

the staff changing room. Then I rang Basil and told him

about our invite to dinner that evening at Isabel’s place. I

think he was more or less expecting something like that.

From the tone of his voice I could tell he still had doubts.

There were a few more swimmers coming into the

pool. I walked a couple of times round the edge so they

could see there was an attendant available and passed

morning pleasantries with a couple of the regulars. But all

the time I had Isabel’s proposal running through my mind

38

and I had to admit I was feeling a lot more nervous about it

than I’d admitted to Basil.

The day passed and my mind became preoccupied

with my swimming classes but Isabel’s plan was hovering,

waiting for a moment’s lapse of concentration to steal me

away into a shadowy world of doubts. The subversive

nature of the proposal became most vivid when I realised

I’d promised to keep it secret and I shouldn’t even tell

Coral about it.

When I cycled home I found Basil already changed

into what is best described as smart-casual clothes. I had a

shower to wash the chlorine off my skin and out of my

hair. I changed into a sweat shirt and jeans and that was all.

I have a fundamental aversion to make up and make a point

of never wearing it.

We found Isabel’s street on the map as I’d already

forgotten the directions she’d given me. Basil drove us to

her house. The front gate sagged so that the bottom corner

dragged on the ground and we had to lift to open it. Self-

seeded marigolds grew between the cracks in the concrete

path leading to the front door. It was a single story

weatherboard dwelling on a small section. Even when it

was new it would have been considered a modest dwelling.

But now it was almost hidden behind a hedge which years

ago must have got away on her and now supervised the

sunlight. Lichens grew on the window ledge and on the

cracked and flaked putty holding the slumped window

glass in place. Part of the metal guttering had rusted

through and the corner of the house was stained black

where water must have run down the weather boards.

Isabel led us into her sitting room. Floral wallpaper

was peeling and the carpet was worn to the backing by the

door. The room was shabby but clean. In a prominent place

above the fireplace she’d hung a photograph of an

attractive young woman probably in her late twenties or

early thirties. She had blond shoulder length hair touching a

light summer dress and was holding a rolled up newspaper

in her right hand. Isabel saw us looking at the picture.

39

‘That’s my daughter Tanya. She was twenty-nine,

almost thirty when that was taken.’

Basil smiled. ‘She’s a very attractive woman. You

must be proud of her.’

‘Yes I am. I’m very proud of her.’

I asked, ‘What’s the significance of the

newspaper?’

‘If you look carefully you can just see the

newspaper is a copy of the Guardian. It’s a prestigious

British newspaper. At the time that picture was taken she

was working for them.’

We all sat in the easy chairs and I commented,

‘You said she was working for them. Has she moved on

since then?’

‘No, she hasn’t moved on. She’s dead.’

‘Oh no! I’m so sorry; she looks such a picture of

health. Was it an accident?’

‘No it wasn’t an accident. Tanya was murdered.’

‘Murdered!’

‘Yes, Tanya was murdered. I’ve never married.

When she was born being a single mother was less

acceptable than it is now. If she’d lived she would have

been almost fifty and probably would have had children of

her own. But now I’m alone. I have lost my daughter and I

have no grandchildren.’

Basil asked, ‘What about her father was he...’

Isabel shook her head. ‘He was married with a

family of his own. I can’t grumble, I knew that when Tanya

was conceived. As far as I know his wife never knew about

me or Tanya. But I’ll say this for him, in the early days I

did get some financial and emotional support from him but

he’s never been part of my life and, looking back, I think I

prefer it that way.’

‘Do you know what happened to Tanya and why

she was murdered?’

‘Yes I believe I do. But I’ve never known where

the story started.’ Isabel paused as if wondering how to

begin. ‘When she was a schoolgirl all she ever wanted was

to be a news reporter. She was fascinated with current

40

affairs. Even as a kid she’d come in from playing just to

listen to the news. She grew up well informed with a lively

social conscience and she loved writing, so guess what she

studied at university. It was a natural progression for her.

She did well. But as she saw it overseas was where all the

news was being generated. So she went to Britain to get

experience. She also got herself a boyfriend called David.

He was a photographer. They worked together and lived

together. He took the pictures and she wrote the stories. I

believe they were very much in love and I was imagining

the sound of wedding bells. But about that time the civil

war in Mozambique was claiming lives in the hundreds of

thousands and the world didn’t seem to care, but Tanya and

David did. They went to Mozambique and managed to send

out stories backed up with pictures. They were horrific...’

I cut in, ‘I’ve never heard about a civil war in

Mozambique.’

‘You would have done if Tanya and David had

lived longer.’

‘What was the war all about?’

‘I don’t know how much you know about the

country but...’

‘I know next to nothing.’

‘Neither did I until Tanya went there. As you know

it’s on the African east coast facing the island of

Madagascar. It was colonised by Portugal in search of gold

and slaves. Portuguese is still the official language but

there are also many indigenous languages. It became

independent in 1975 following a long and bloody war of

independence. But it’s divided in two by the Zambezi

River. It’s not just the river that divides the country. North

of the Zambezi it is wet while the south is much drier. The

north support the South African backed Renamo party

while the south support the Frelimo party which, despite its

origins, is no longer Marxist and is the current ruling party

but it has had to fight a protracted guerrilla war with the

north. War wasn’t the only problem. Outside Mozambique

no one seemed to know or care, but Tanya and David saw

it as their job to awaken the world. They were reporting to

41

the Guardian newspaper every day, but one day I got a call

from the paper to say they were concerned because the

daily reports had ceased.’

‘Did they give you any indication what had

happened to them?’

‘They told me they didn’t know. All they knew for

certain was that Tanya and David weren’t reporting back.

They said there could be many reasons, but they were

becoming increasingly concerned as the days went by. I

later found out they knew quite a lot more than they were

telling me. The following day they offered to fly me out

there.’

‘Did you go?’

‘Oh yes, I went alright. I was met at the airport in

Cape Town by a woman from the Guardian who took me to

an hotel and introduced me to John Hardcastle who was

David’s father. He’d already been there for a couple of

days. We stayed at the same hotel and met during the day.

Of course the newspaper ran a human interest story

complete with pictures of two distraught parents waiting in

Cape Town for more news about their children. They

included speculation about what could have happened. As I

discovered by talking to John, David had been an only

child and his mother had died of cancer a few years

earlier.’

‘The waiting must have been terrible.’

‘It was, but it was alleviated by having someone

else to share it with.’

‘On the third day we got a South African Express

flight to Lourenco Marques Airport.’

‘Where?’

‘It is also called Maputo International Airport.’

‘No. I mean where is the airport? Where’s

Maputo?’

‘It’s the capital of Mozambique and is about ninety

kilometres from the South African border. It’s on the

mouth of the Santo River. Probably that doesn’t mean

much either. The city is about the same size as Auckland

42

and, like Auckland, is also an important harbour. But the

similarities end there.’

‘Did they have any more news about Tanya?’

‘Yes and they’d been sitting on the news for

several days possibly even for a week and hadn’t told us.’

‘Was it bad news?’

Isabel nodded. ‘By chance a charity-funded

medical team from Germany who were operating in

Mozambique had discovered Tanya and David’s rental

Land Rover in a mountainous region about seventy

kilometres inland from Beira.’

‘How did they know it was theirs?’

‘I said they came across it by chance but that’s not

entirely true, well it is true but it’s not the full picture.

Tanya and David had been in contact with them previously.

The medical team were visiting areas that needed urgent

medical attention and Tanya and David were reporting on

the circumstances that had caused the problem and the

extent of the problem. While working independently they

were tending to visit the same areas at more or less the

same time and had been exchanging notes intermittently.

First they found the Land Rover; it had been shot up. Then

they discovered two bodies about a hundred metres away.

They too had been the victims of gunfire.’

‘And it was them?’

‘You can have no idea what it is like trying to

identify a body after it has been lying in the tropics

exposed to insects and carnivores. That is something you

never forget. Yes, the German medical team had found

Tanya and David’s bodies. They called the Guardian

newspaper in Britain who contacted John and me as the

next of kin. I believe the Guardian gave a donation to the

medical team. They zipped Tanya and David’s remains into

body bags, put them on the back of a truck and delivered

them to the morgue in Maputo.’

I could see tears forming in Isabel’s eyes as I made

the pointless comment, ‘It must have been terrible for you.’

‘Yes it was. But somehow there was a disconnect

between the remains in the body bag and the Tanya I knew.

43

It is hard to describe. The life force had vanished and what

I was looking at was a body, not my Tanya. I felt I was

looking at something she had owned that wasn’t her. I

know John experienced the same thing when he saw

David’s remains.

I could have had Tanya’s remains flown back to

New Zealand and John could have had David’s remains

sent to England. It would have been paid for. It wouldn’t

have cost either of us anything. I’m talking here about costs

in terms of money. There are other emotional costs that are

much harder to quantify. I won’t bore you with historical

emotions. You can work them out for yourself. What I said

to John at the time is relevant and I believe he’d been

thinking the same thing and was wondering how to say it to

me. I can still remember my exact words. “They wanted to

be together. They would have married. Doesn’t it seem a

shame to split them up now and have half-a-world

separating them?” John didn’t answer but he nodded and I

continued. “They both died because of a commitment to the

people here in Mozambique.” John looked me straight in

the eyes and nodded again. He replied, “I agree.” Then he

turned away to discontinue the conversation. We didn’t

speak about it again until the following day and then it was

when Rhonda – the woman from the Guardian – was with

us. She came to us holding several sheets of paper. I still

have them.

Rhonda explained she’d been in contact with

Britain and had received a copy of a report from Tanya

which had probably been transmitted not long before she

was killed. She asked me if I’d like to know what it said.

Of course I said yes and I’d like to tell you what it was

about because I think it’s relevant to what I’m asking you

to do.’

I said, ‘I hope this isn’t going to be too distressing

for you.’

Isabel shook her head, ‘It’s OK I’ve lived with this

for a long time.’ Then she continued in an almost

impersonal tone as if it was something she had explained

many times and knew by heart and didn’t need to think

44

about what she was saying. ‘One massive problem in the

area was, and still is, HIV and AIDS. The people are

mostly uneducated and continue with the sexual practices

that have existed there for hundreds of years. AIDS has

reached epidemic proportions and sexually active people

are dying in large numbers and that means parents. Large

numbers of orphan children are the result. That alone is a

massive problem but it’s exasperated by ignorance. Many

men honestly believe that if they have sexual intercourse

with a virgin they will be cured of their affliction. You

don’t need any imagination to discover the fate of any

young girl even if she’s as young as four-years-old and no

longer has parents to protect her. These young girls have

become no more than a consumable commodity and are

regularly being kidnapped and sold. Don’t let anyone tell

you the slave trade only existed in the past. I can assure

you its tentacles reach into virtually every dark corner of

the world. Tanya and David were attempting to make the

world aware of the problem. I am convinced they were

murdered to silence them and traffickers were responsible.’

Basil asked if the police had any idea who did it.

Isabel shook her head. ‘It’s not that sort of country

and it’s not that sort of police force. For example carrying a

passport and a visa is a legal requirement for visitors. Even

when there is absolutely nothing wrong with either your

passport or your visa the police may still tell you they are

defective, arrest you and require a payment in cash before

they let you go. They could demand a totally different sort

of payment from a pretty girl; and that could occur inside

the police station with numerous police officers. In the

streets you don’t carry anything valuable. Even if you were

talking on a cellphone it would likely be snatched out of

your hand. The police there aren’t likely to go to any

trouble investigating just two more dead bodies in the

bush? They are dead, there’s nothing in it for them.’

‘And you voluntarily go back again and again to

run a school for about ten girls?’

‘Yes I do. I have no other children and no grand-

children. That has been taken away from me. What should I

45

do? Sit at home in an arm chair looking at the wallpaper

and talk nonsense to a cat? That’s not my way because I

have ten daughters in Mozambique. They are alive. Their

life is my life. And when they have finished their studies

they come here. I follow their progress and can still be their

mother when they need me. Those girls are much more

than a memorial to Tanya and David, they are my

daughters. And I consider they’re a far more fitting

memorial than even the most expensive marble monument

in some churchyard. Nowadays most of my pension goes

on air fares to Africa, but I can live simply and I have few

needs. Most of my food including tonight’s meal comes

from the gardens at the naturist club. Six months of the

year I teach my little daughters in Africa and the other half

of the time I keep in touch with my grown up New Zealand

daughters.’

‘How did you start the school?’

‘It was John Hardcastle – David’s father, who first

suggested it when we were talking to Rhonda from the

Guardian. She was expressing sympathy for our loss when

John pointed out they would be making money from

newspaper sales out of the story and suggested they could

invest a small amount to build a secure school for these

girls as a memorial. Her first reaction was to say there are

thousands of girls and it wouldn’t be possible to help them

all. John pointed out they could build a facility for say ten

girls. Again Rhonda was negative saying it wasn’t just a

case of putting up a building to house ten girls there would

also be the ongoing costs and problems running the school.

John came back instantly pointing out that the name of the

newspaper was “The Guardian” and asked whether the

paper wanted the opportunity to live up to its name and be

entitled to run an ongoing story about these girls in a

school built as a memorial to two of their employees who

died in an attempt to tell world someone cared. Then he

asked whether the newspaper really did care or just wanted

to make money. Rhonda replied that it wouldn’t be her

decision and anything like that would have to go to the top

management, adding that she would suggest it when she

46

got back to Britain, but didn’t hold out much hope for a

positive answer. John came back instantly and said if she

didn’t think she could persuade them he’d like to go to the

meeting with her and put the case his way. Reluctantly she

agreed.

John went to the meeting about two months later

with a management plan and a trust fund for funding the

ongoing running costs for the school, an architectural plan

for the school building with an estimate of construction

costs, pledge funds to cover it and a letter from the

Mozambique minister of education saying he gave his

approval for the memorial school providing it had external

funding. Ministers worldwide will agree to most things

providing it doesn’t cost them anything and it makes it look

as if they’re doing something positive. John can be very

persuasive and this proved to be the case on this occasion.’

‘How did he achieve all that in two months?’ Basil

asked.

Isabel got up and started to prepare the dinner

while she answered.

‘John is an architect. In fact he’s rather more than

that, he owns a firm of architects. As he put it, “His family

isn’t short of a bit of brass”. He invited me to visit him in

Liverpool so we could talk about the proposed plans for the

school. I had to fly back to New Zealand and surprisingly it

cost no more to fly via London than to fly from Cape

Town. So once in Britain I caught a train to Liverpool and

met him in his office. Apparently he’d already got one of

his staff to make a tentative start on the plans and wanted to

show them to me to see what I thought. He ushered me into

his conference room. It was like something out of Dickens.

It was awe inspiring and not what a Kiwi like me would

expect. The walls were oak panelled and a massive

polished mahogany table dominated the room. The table

would be big enough to seat thirty people. I’d expected to

see the plans on a computer screen in some back room but

what he spread out in front of me were large scale paper

plans.

47

John explained that the guy who drew them had

recently graduated from university. John had taken a lot of

photos while we were in the area and he’d emailed these

back to his staff with instructions to make a start on the

drawings before he returned. As I looked at plans I’m sure

John must have seen my face drop. I guess the designs

would have been great if the building was intended for

Liverpool. I’m no expert and I must admit I’d only had

passing glimpses of rural African villages, but I’d seen

enough to realise what I was being shown was not designed

with Africa in mind. I wondered if this was the first time

John had seen the drawings. The graduate who drew the

plans couldn’t seem to see past brick walls, double glazed

windows and central heating. I guess he’d just been told to

sketch a design of a school for ten girls. No thought had

been given to the fact it was intended for rural Africa. I

suppose that’s the story of the European colonisation of

Africa. Anyway I told John that I thought we needed to do

a bit more work on this design. John looked surprised and

asked me what I thought was wrong with it. I pointed to the

inside flush toilets and said I didn’t think the village would

have a sewerage system and there was no provision for

waste treatment on the drawing. He agreed. Then I pointed

to the electric cooker, washing machine and drier and said I

didn’t think the village would have any electricity. John

nodded again. I asked where the water was coming from as

I couldn’t see any water storage facilities. John added,

“That’s a good point”. I said I thought it would be a

massive undertaking to carry all the materials necessary to

build the whole structure in brick including the perimeter

wall. He smiled when I pointed out there was no provision

for gardens and I presumed there was no supermarket just

round the corner.

Standing up he pulled a tassled ceiling cord. A few

moments later a young woman with long legs wearing a

very short skirt topped with a tiny French pinafore brought

in a silver tray with wine and finger food. I saw his eyes

penetrating her cleavage as she poured the wine. He

thanked Honey, if that really was her name, and she left

48

while we sat back in the velvet covered chairs and he

explained that the guy who did the drawings was a new

graduate and this was his first project. Then he asked me

what I considered were major problems and what practical

solutions I could envisage.

I told him one major problem Tanya had identified

was the open aspect of the villages. It provided virtually no

security for girls. Traffickers with trucks and guns could

raid the villages almost at will. So our proposed school

needed security, but the brick wall in the drawing seemed

out of place and impractical in an African village. Then

John asked me what I thought we could do for a

compromise. My mind drifted back to room three in my

school back home. On the wall we had a picture of a Maori

pa. It provided security and the palisade was constructed

using wooden stakes of various lengths sharpened at both

ends and driven into the ground. Access was always via a

narrow entrance and was guarded by dogs with warrior

back up. When I explained it to John he nodded.’

‘Good! That’s a solution we hadn’t considered. I

like it. We can use local materials. Now I’ll let you into a

secret. My graduate isn’t as unimaginative as you might

think. My instruction was to sketch the plans for a school

for ten boarders that might be appropriate here in Liverpool

putting in all the facilities he thinks we’d find necessary

here. This is the sketch he produced. I’m concerned that

Africa is overburdened with examples of Europeans

attempting to impose European infrastructure that doesn’t

work. But then a lot of the African solutions don’t work

either, which I suppose is why David and Tanya are dead

and sixty percent of Mozambique is illiterate. Mozambique

has its independence; they can’t blame Portugal for

everything any more. I got Vince to draw this so we can

use it as a basis for a brain storming session. Also it’s a

project where he will have the opportunity to learn about

the things they don’t teach at university. He can’t go to the

library and get out a book on designing a boarding school

for ten girls in Mozambique. We have to think this through

ourselves. I’ve spoken to the German medical team and

49

they’ve agreed to look over our plans and offer any

assistance they can, but they’re quite clear, they aren’t

architects. The building will be our responsibility, so we’ve

got to think it through and get it right. I’ve always found a

blank computer screen or a clean sheet of paper too

intimidating for a new graduate, something which is

obviously wrong is far better; then people can see the

problems and get on with the solutions. That way the final

structure will evolve.’

‘John pointed his finger at me.’

‘Now you’re a teacher. We can use those skills to

provide some guidance for us. Vince has drawn a

classroom big enough for ten students by English

standards. So let’s ask the questions, because I don’t know

the answers. To start with do we need a class room? This is

tropical Africa. Would the girls be just as happy with a roof

to provide both shade and protection from the rain? Do we

need walls? Perhaps we do, if only to provide a space for

them to display their work; but are there alternatives? Do

the girls need chairs? Most of the people in the villages I

saw seated were sitting on the ground. Might they want

mats to sit on? Would it be practical to teach ten girls of

mixed ages say from five to seventeen all together? Would

the older ones help the younger ones or would it all get too

confusing? I want us to tear this English solution to pieces

and create something out of it that will work in Africa. See

the value in this approach? I’m sure if I’d showed you a

wire fence round the school you probably wouldn’t have

come up with the idea of a palisade. But because you saw

the impracticality of a brick wall you started thinking of

alternatives. And your idea seems better than a wire fence.

Because when we clear the land for the school we will

already have on site the materials we need to build a

palisade. We don’t need to buy and transport rolls of

hurricane wire. Also a trafficker could cut the wire and

might avoid detection but I’d challenge anyone to chop a

hole in a palisade without waking half the camp and all the

dogs. I’ll get Vince to incorporate that; good thinking

Isabel. I can see this is going to be a valuable exercise.’

50

All the time Isabel was preparing the dinner and

putting it on the table she continued talking about the

design for the school and explained in more detail than I

can remember about the solar panels on the roof, pumping

water, waste disposal, the gardens the girls tended as well

as numerous other things that went in one ear and out the

other. About the one thing I deduced from what she didn’t

tell us was her obvious interest in John – David’s father.

Without Isabel spelling it out in detail we pieced

together the fact that John had been born into a large

wealthy family in Cheshire which, I discovered is in the

North of England not far from the border with Wales. She

explained John had four brothers and three sisters who

were all in business. I gained the impression those

businesses have been set up with considerable amounts of

old family money. But she didn’t mention how that family

wealth had been acquired. Each of John’s siblings seemed

to own the business in which they worked. John of course

had the architectural firm, but my mind went into overload

when Isabel explained which one had which business and

how these businesses were all interrelated. The wine we

had with our meal didn’t help and by the time Basil and I

left I couldn’t even remember the names of all the brothers

and sisters let alone recall which one owned which

business. I remember one of them was into finance, a sister

called Mersa owned a law firm, real estate came into the

mix somewhere, one brother was into import and export

and owned warehouses on the Mersey and I’m not sure if it

was the same guy or another brother who was in a freight

forwarding business. There was a brother called Andrew

and I think he was the one with a computer and information

technology business. By the time Isabel moved on to tell us

what their individual children were doing my mind was

elsewhere. But later I had cause to be reminded of John’s

sister Mersa. She was the one with the law firm. She had

three sons. The two eldest were law graduates and had

joined their mother’s legal business. But the youngest

brother was more interesting; he was the rebel. He was

named Flint and had a defacto Welsh wife Dee. They had

51

no children, which I guess wouldn’t have fitted into their

lifestyle which involved owning a sixty-foot schooner.

They lived aboard and sailed in the Mediterranean going

from port to port and apparently getting into whatever

mischief they could get away with, which apparently

included things people without family money and a law

firm behind them wouldn’t have got away with.

I remember asking Isabel how a young guy setting

out would be able to afford a big schooner and an

adventurous lifestyle. She explained the boat originally

belonged to his grandfather, but Flint was the only one of

his grandchildren who showed any interest in boats and the

sea. As the grandfather aged, he and his wife were

becoming less able to handle the vessel and if it hadn’t

been for Flint, and latterly Flint’s girl friend Dee, they

would have had to give up. The three of them, that is the

grandfather Flint and Dee got on well and the grandfather

recognised some of his own rebellious spirit in his

grandson and encouraged Flint and Dee to attempt things

business and age had prevented him from achieving.

Eventually the grandfather died and left the boat to Flint,

who by this time was living with Dee. As soon as the boat

became his, Flint discarded any thought of working for a

living and took off with Dee for the Mediterranean.

Sometimes Isabel’s line of thought can be

sidetracked when the conversation brushes against a

susceptible subject. Basil and I discovered regaling stories

about Flint and Dee was one of those topics which

distracted her. She reckoned Flint and Dee are evenly

matched and, as I’ve subsequently met them, I tend to

agree. Flint is charismatic, flamboyant and reckless.

Women are attracted to him in much the same way as

moths are attracted to a flame. But he is one of those

fortunate few who seem to have the ability to defy crazy

odds and come out on top. Isabel described Dee as a Welsh

speaking imp of mischief with flashing black eyes.

Apparently she is also quite a linguist and can speak

several European languages as if they were her native

tongue. She practises frustrating officialdom by speaking

52

Welsh. As it is so different from other European languages

most people haven’t a clue what language she’s speaking

let alone what she’s saying and discussions usually end

with her mimicking and then laughing at their hand

gestures.

We finished the meal and I helped Isabel clear

away the crockery. When all the dishes were sitting on the

counter top waiting to be washed we left them there and sat

down at the dining table again. Then she brought out

another photo album and got on with talking about the real

reason why she’d invited us to dinner.

53

Chapter 5 The photos were in order and she flicked through the pages

only pausing at a few she found particularly interesting. I

had the impression it wasn’t photos she was flicking

through, it was her life. So I forced myself to stay

interested. We saw the school and she pointed out the

palisade and made a particular mention of the narrow

entrance which was all her idea. If the gate to the

compound was left open the only entrance was along a

palisaded corridor about four metres long. The corridor

then turned through a right angle before it opened up into

the school grounds. A cattle stop had been cut into the

ground below the corridor and continued round the right-

angled bend for another few metres. Apparently this was

also one of Isabel’s suggestions. She explained the reason.

If a leopard attempted to jump the cattle stop it wouldn’t be

able to turn through ninety degrees in mid-flight and would

be forced to land on the bars of the cattle stop.

Without realising I was getting into dangerous

territory I asked whether leopards were much of a problem.

I sensed a wince, and her eyes gave an almost involuntary

glance towards Tanya’s picture. It was that glance that gave

me the clue and jolted my mind into remembering her

telling us Tanya’s body had lain in the forest for days and

had been attacked my carnivores. She paused and took a

deep breath before adding in a voice that was almost a

whisper that sometimes rural children were carried off by

them, but qualified it by adding that people and mosquitoes

remain the most deadly creatures in Africa. This seemed a

good time to drop the topic of leopards and she seemed to

reinforce this by turning the pages of her album and

showed us pictures of Flint, Dee and their schooner. I asked

the boat’s name and she told me Flintstone. Isabel went on

to relate that whenever Flint had a bit of a mishap he

always explained it by saying that it was the boat that was

stoned not him! As I later found out, Dee had used her

artistic talents to paint two Flintstone characters on the

bow. The couple depicted represented Flint and Dee.

54

Isabel went on to explain that the boat was

currently at sea and had two of Isabel’s girls aboard. She

showed us photos. One was called Olisa and was the

shorter and younger of the two girls. The other was Eshah

who was more heavily built and appeared quite a powerful

young woman. They had full African features, were

barefoot and wearing light cotton dresses. It would be

several weeks before we met them.

I asked, ‘Where are they now?’ and Isabel

explained she didn’t know exactly, but from what had

happened in previous voyages they were probably south of

the Great Australian Bite in the Roaring Forties in heavy

seas and making rapid progress under reefed sail.

Basil asked whether they kept in regular contact

while at sea. Isabel shook her head. ‘No, the two girls will

officially be illegal immigrants when they arrive. Any use

of a satellite phone will be traceable and give away the

boat’s position. Flint wouldn’t make a mistake like that. If

the phone was used I’d know they were in trouble.’

I asked how we’d know when to expect them.

Isabel explained when they got into New Zealand waters

they would use either their radio or, when close inshore,

their cellphone but the messages they sent would be in a

prearranged code. She went on to say that they had to be

meticulously careful as communications like email and

telephone conversations in New Zealand were recorded and

used internationally for security purposes. She gave an

example and said if she received a call like, “John has a bad

cold and has been sneezing all morning” from the key

words: John, bad, cold, sneezing, and morning, she

reckoned she would know exactly where they were. Later

on the call might say, “John still has a runny nose and a

headache, so has spent the afternoon in bed.” Picking out

different key words she’d be able to plot Flintstone’s

progress. She explained, apart from her only Flint and Dee

knew what the code words meant and they changed them

for each trip. Then she added the example I gave you isn’t

one of the codes we use. It’s just an example.

55

I was beginning to think there was a lot more to the

little old grey-haired lady who had been my primary school

headmistress than I’d ever realised.

Basil asked whether the girls had Mozambique

passports and what would happen when they arrived and

went through immigration.

Isabel smiled and informed us that they both had

Mozambique passports but they weren’t going to go

through immigration before adding, ‘That’s where you

come in.’

Basil looked startled and asked for an explanation

pointing out that we hadn’t agreed to do anything except

keeping this conversation secret. Basil can be quite blunt at

times and I felt the brisk way he spoke to Isabel was

unnecessary, especially as we were in her house and she

had just given us a meal. So I chipped in, gave Basil one of

my dirty looks and said I thought it sounded fun and asked

what she had in mind.

Isabel explained that if the girls were to go through

New Zealand immigration there would be records stating

their date of arrival. They would only be permitted to stay

for a finite time and then they would have to leave again.

But if there’s no record of them ever having arrived as long

as they don’t draw attention to themselves they can

probably get away with staying indefinitely.

Basil asked if Isabel had thought of legally

adopting the girls, in which case they would legally be her

daughters and should be able to stay here. Apparently she’d

already got the Hardcastle legal team to look at the problem

and they reckoned international adoptions were both messy

and difficult at the best of times. They might be able to get

it to work once or even twice but if the adoptions were

ongoing year after year they’d hit a brick wall. Then Isabel

had talked to Flint who didn’t see any problem. He told her

that if she could deliver the girls to his boat in Mozambique

he’d guarantee to land them ashore in New Zealand. He’d

never been here but was convinced there must be secluded

beaches where they could be landed.

56

I asked if that was what she’d been doing. She

nodded but qualified her answer with, ‘Well sort of.’ Then

she went on to explain that she didn’t like the lonely beach

idea. She reckoned whatever beach she chose someone

would see something that looked suspicious either on, or

exiting from, the beach and report it. Then she asked us if

we’d ever walked the Queen Charlotte Track in the

Marlborough Sounds. We both answered no and she said it

would be a good idea if we did and went on to explain that

the track is very popular and thousands of people walk it

every year and probably half of them are foreign tourists.

Then she added there was something very special about the

track. It only has land access at one end. Access to the

seaward end in Ships’ Cove is only by boat and that is

where most people start. So boats arrive and drop off the

trampers either on the jetty or by anchoring out in the bay

and sending them ashore by dinghy. Isabel emphasised this

happens tens of thousands of times a year. No one would

see anything suspicious in a couple of young women

coming ashore to meet friends and walk the track.

In response to my question, Isabel told us it took at

least five days to tramp the length of the walkway but it

could be longer if people got sidetracked in the numerous

little bays along the route, explored some of the side tracks

or stopped frequently to go swimming. She explained the

route was dotted with cabin type accommodation as well as

a few slightly more up-market places to stay. Also there

were numerous camping sites.

I said, ‘I think I know what you want us to do. You

want us to be on the beach to meet the girls when they

come ashore don’t you?’

Her face lit up in a smile as she agreed and added,

‘But as you’ve never walked the track I’d like the two of

you to do it first by yourselves so that you’ve experienced

it and interacted with the people along the way before you

guide my girls. In the past I’ve done it myself, but now I’m

in my seventies and I’m starting to feel my age. I’m

beginning to get breathless even at the thought of the steep

path out of Ships’ Cove on the way to Resolution Bay. It

57

wouldn’t be a case of me leading my girls, they’d be

leading me. But you two are young and strong.’

I asked what would happen at the end of the track

and Isabel explained she’d be at Anakiwa to meet us in her

car and we’d drive to Picton where we’d have a meal, stay

the night and catch the ferry to Wellington the following

morning. She added, ‘I’m sure you’d enjoy the whole

experience. Also Eshah and Olisa have never been outside

Mozambique and have never been in a city. Apart from a

few of us teachers at the school and of course Flint and Dee

they’ve hardly met any people of European extraction.

Everything will be new for them. Walking the track and

meeting people along the way will introduce them gently to

the culture shock that I couldn’t prepare them for in an

African village. But they’re smart girls, they’ll learn fast

and I know they’ll adapt to our way of life much quicker

than I could adapt to theirs. They’ll be nervous of strangers

and will need your reassurance that people they meet along

the track aren’t likely to attack them.’

I asked if they’d be frightened of us when they first

met us. Isabel explained that she’d be there and introduce

them to us, but she’d need to get the water taxi back to

Picton as realistically she wouldn’t be able to walk the

track again. Apparently the last time she’d escorted her

girls along the track they’d had to help her and she

reckoned she’d not have made it without their help.

Isabel looked straight at me when she asked if I’d

be prepared to give it a go. I answered that I thought it

sounded fun and I was pretty sure I could change my

rosters at work to get the time off. We both looked at Basil

to see his reaction. He was clearly hesitant and I chipped in

and said I was going anyway, even if Basil wouldn’t.

I was certain Isabel was being devious rather than

naive when she pointed out that there would be heaps of

other trampers along the way who’d be staying at the

accommodation places and most of the people would be in

our age bracket. Then she emphasised how people got

together in the evenings at camp sites and in cabins. She

was sure I’d enjoy the trip and find new friends along the

58

way. Isabel knew fine that Basil still hadn’t forgotten

seeing me walking arm-in-arm with Lenny when we were

in France. When she added that the track was very popular

with Australians I think she clinched the deal. Reluctantly

Basil agreed to at least give the track a trial run with me,

before the girls arrived, but didn’t say he’d be prepared to

escort the two girls. I guess we were halfway there. Isabel

confirmed my suspicion that she was being devious by

giving me a conspiratorial wink when Basil agreed to the

first half of the idea.

I asked what the girls would be wearing and Isabel

seemed pleased that I’d asked. She had it all taken care of,

and I thought it displayed quite a bit of forward planning.

Apparently two years ago when Flint and Dee were last in

New Zealand, Isabel went shopping and bought two sets of

tramping clothes, one for Eshah and the other for Olisa. All

of the clothes were clearly sourced in New Zealand. The

socks, boots, packs, hats, jackets and shorts were all from

Kathmandu, so too were the incidentals like drinking

bottles, and it even extended to a Kathmandu torch each.

Their underwear was from Farmers and jerseys and tee

shirts were from The Warehouse. These clothes would

have circumnavigated the world aboard Flintstone to be

ready for the girls to put on before they stepped ashore.

Despite their obvious African features Isabel wanted them

to dress like Kiwis and not like people who had just

stepped off a boat from Africa. Isabel explained that if the

girls got changed in a cabin other women could well notice

if any of their clothing wasn’t from here and make a

comment about it. Also it would give the girls confidence

in their first few days if they were dressed like most other

people.

While Isabel was explaining this to me I could see

Basil getting agitated. As we drove home that evening

Basil told me he thought I was going a step too far by

assisting immigrants to enter the country illegally. I made

the comment that walking the Queen Charlotte Track with

two women we met at Ships’ Cove wasn’t illegal. And then

added, ‘Which is more than can be said for you because

59

right now you’re driving at sixty kilometres per hour in a

fifty kilometre area and you’ve been drinking wine.’ Then I

asked him if he enjoyed his dinner that evening. When he

said yes I told him Mosi had grown the vegetables in the

club gardens and asked him if he thought bringing her here

was preferable to leaving her in Africa where, without

either of her parents, if she was still alive she would

probably have been kidnapped, raped and infected with

AIDS. Then I suggested that if he wanted to know how it

felt to be raped he should ask Coral and she’d fill in as

much detail as he could stand. Basil ignored what I said

and gave me a lecture about immigration laws having been

made for very good reasons and then went on to explain

what those good reasons were. The more he explained them

to me the louder he got. Then I told him that the laws were

made by blind donkeys and if he wanted to put donkey

laws ahead of common humanity he could have his ring

back because I didn’t want to marry anyone like that. That

hit home and calmed him down. Then he told me he hadn’t

said he wouldn’t co-operate and his only concern was for

me in case I was charged with assisting to bring illegal

immigrants into the country. But he went on to say that if I

was prepared to take the risk he’d support me. I guess I

won that one! But I was playing dirty because I didn’t

mean what I said about giving him his ring back – at least I

don’t think I did.

We got back to his place and while we were having

our goodnight drink of hot chocolate I put on my CD of

John Lennon’s “Imagine”. In bed we talked well into the

night about the tramp along the Queen Charlotte Track.

Once he’d got used to the idea that it was going to happen

he seemed just as enthusiastic as me. And I didn’t say any

more about returning his ring.

60

Chapter 6 When I saw Isabel at the pool the following morning I told

her it was all on and Basil had agreed to help. Then she

offered to pay for any extra tramping gear we needed to

buy for ourselves to use on the trip. I absolutely refused to

accept a cent from her. I pointed out I got wages and Basil

was extremely well paid and we didn’t need her to pay for

our holidays. Isabel on the other hand seemed to be

struggling to stretch her pension beyond its elastic limit

without buying extras that we could afford to pay for

ourselves. I think it must have come as a bit of relief for

her, but it wasn’t till much later that I found out just how

broke she was. Everything she had and every last scrap of

her energy was going into supporting her girls in

Mozambique.

The following day was my day off. Basil drove us

into town and we spent the whole day selecting clothes and

tramping gear for the trip which included a four person tent

and sleeping bags for Basil and me. Basil paid for all of my

stuff and he gave it to me as a present. The bill came to

about a week’s wages for me. So, although he’d been

reluctant to get involved, once he’d made the decision he

was prepared to make the financial commitment to run with

it and support something I wanted to do. It’s hard to fault a

guy like that.

After we got back from the shops I cooked dinner.

Then Basil and I went to the naturalist club. Going out onto

the lawn we took the tent out of its bag and between us

erected it. As it turned out I had snapped the poles together

and had dragged the cloth over the bent poles before Basil

had finished reading the instruction sheet. We pegged the

sides down together and we crawled inside spreading our

sleeping bags on the groundsheet. We’d decided it was a

lot better to try putting it up here than finding we had

difficulties once we were on the track. The shop had

claimed it was a four-man tent but I guess the four people

would need to be small Chinese men and not heavily built

Pacific Islanders. Nevertheless Basil and I came to the

61

conclusion we’d probably fit in, providing we left our

packs outside. We had almost finished taking the tent down

again when Isabel arrived. We showed her the tent and all

our shopping and checked with her that we hadn’t forgotten

anything. She was delighted, not I suspect because of what

we’d bought, but because it showed we were committed to

going ahead with the project. We carried all the gear back

to Basil’s car and went for a walk in the gardens where we

couldn’t be overheard. Then she ran through the anticipated

timing. If Isabel’s estimate was correct, it seemed we had

somewhere in the region of eighteen to twenty-two days

before we would need to meet Flintstone, but she

emphasised it could vary depending on the weather they

encountered in the Southern Ocean. Basil pointed out that

if it was much more than twenty-two days we’d be running

a bit close to the time he’d have to fly back to Perth. As far

as Basil was concerned there was no question of him

missing his flight to Australia regardless of whether we’d

finished escorting the girls to Wellington. I said even if

Basil had to get a water taxi early from somewhere along

the track to catch the ferry I’d still be able to escort the girls

the rest of the way. Isabel went on to explain how

important this introduction to New Zealand would be for

her two girls. She’d taught them to speak English, and

they’d even acquired a slight Kiwi accent from her, but she

emphasised they wouldn’t know all the things most Kiwis

absorb without realising it. This could give them away as

being brand new arrivals in the country.

I asked what sort of things she had in mind and she

pointed out I hadn’t known where Maputo is, or that it is

the capital of Mozambique, despite the fact it is about the

same size as Auckland. Then she asked why Eshah and

Olisa should, for example, be expected to know

Christchurch is in South Island but went on to say both she

and Heather had taught them some New Zealand

geography, so hopefully they wouldn’t make mistakes like

that. But she went on to explain they won’t have seen a

single New Zealand television programme, or be able to

name the latest music groups, or have any idea of the

62

political issues, but instead have been brought up to be

wary of snakes and leopards and to hide if they suspect

roving bands of guerrillas or kidnappers were operating in

the area. She reckoned they wouldn’t know the names of

even the most common plants. Apparently neither of them

had seen the ocean until they boarded Flintstone and since

then they’d seen nothing else. It wasn’t until Isabel

explained all this that I began to realise the full extent of

what Basil and I had to do. Isabel went on to explain that

about half the people walking the Queen Charlotte track

would be foreign tourists so no one would be suspicious

about seeing two more tourists. She reckoned it would be

best when we met people casually on the track if the girls

spoke to each other in Portuguese which would provide

either me or Basil an excuse to answer for them.

Isabel went on to explain the cover story she had

worked out for the girls if avoiding close contact was

unavoidable. The girls were going to say they were sisters.

They had a Kiwi mother called Helen Beaumont and their

father was Barasa Montsho from Mozambique. They had

been living in Mozambique since they were respectively

four and five years old. But their mother died four years

ago and their father died of AIDS last year and they have

only recently returned to New Zealand.

Basil asked, ‘What will happen if someone starts

looking through records to see if there really was a Kiwi

named Helen Beaumont living in Mozambique?’

Isabel replied, ‘That’s easy, that’s what they’ll

find. There genuinely was a Kiwi born by the name of

Helen Beaumont who died four years ago in Mozambique.

That’s the advantage of having a close relationship with the

Hardcastle computer company. I get them to search records

and come up with likely names for me to use. And guess

what, she was married to a man called Barasa Montsho

from Mozambique who died of AIDS last year. I can even

quote to you Helen Beaumont’s genuine New Zealand

ancestry, who are all rather distant and could be forgiven

for not knowing about Helen’s African daughters.

Unfortunately as Helen and Barasa are both dead no one

63

can talk to them and record keeping in Mozambique can be

considered creative. But anyone will find the girls’ story

hangs together. The girls both tell it beautifully. They

learned to speak English through their mother, hence their

slight Kiwi accent, and they learned Portuguese as their

first language. Their lack of knowledge of all things New

Zealand is because they have spent most of their lives in

Mozambique. Of course they have inherited their black

skin and African appearance from their father as well as

their family name Montsho which appears on their

Mozambique passports. Those passports and their birth

certificates proving they had a Kiwi mother cost the

Hardcastle family “A lot a brass”. And as you’ll have

guessed the Hardcastle family’s unwritten motto is, “If we

cain’t git it by frunt door we’ll git by back”.’

Basil grinned, ‘I don’t reckon beaurocracy stands a

chance against you.’

‘My story wouldn’t stand up to a DNA

examination but hopefully that can be avoided.’

Basil asked, ‘If they have Mozambique passports

and birth certificates do you need to go to the lengths of

getting them brought here as illegal immigrants? Couldn’t

they just come on a flight and go through immigration in

the normal way?’

‘Yes we’d probably get them through immigration,

but it’s not as simple as that.’

‘Why what’s difficult?’

‘As soon as they go through immigration they are

on record and this is the era of Big Data. I’ve talked to the

Hardcastle information technology people about this.

Computers talk to each other and do cross checking.

What’s not on computer can’t be cross-checked. The

passports and birth certificates hopefully will never be

needed. They are just there for back up purposes. I always

like to bring the girls here in pairs.’

‘Why in pairs?’

‘The girls are usually brought to the school as

toddlers. I’d love it if we could care for every needy child

in Africa, but I can’t. Ten daughters is the absolute

64

maximum I can cope with. To take on more would be to

fail them all. When two young women leave it creates a

space for another two toddlers. The girls in our school have

all grown up together as sisters. They have no other family.

The only world they have known is a tiny school in an

African village. If we hadn’t taken them in they would

probably be dead by now. Famine, disease, war and

traffickers would have taken their toll. As in many

countries, girls are considered inferior to boys. Often they

are no more than disposable sex objects... Oh sorry, I’m

getting carried away; it’s something I feel passionate about.

As I was saying the girls have known nothing but

their tiny school. Suddenly they are taken away on a boat

by people they’ve never met to go to an alien culture. The

girls are only in their late teens, they are like sisters; they

need each other. Two girls at a time seems to work. They

arrive at our school as toddlers and leave as young women

in their late teens. They are with us for about fifteen years.

But we are as much a family as a school. The older girls

have to help the younger ones and every two or three years

the two oldest leave. When they arrive we bring them here

to the naturalist club. It is a house with many rooms, in

more senses than one, but it’s a sheltered environment.

Usually they can meet some of their older sisters who are

still here. In this case they will be able to meet Mosi. Even

those that have moved on seem to find the need to keep

returning. None of us can imagine what that contact means

to these girls. After a few years when they get into their

twenties some guy will start paying regular visits, a job will

materialise... You can imagine the rest.

My greatest worry is that one day one of them will

be discovered as being here illegally. And my nightmare is

that a link will be found between all the girls and they

might all be sent back.’

Basil smiled, ‘It seems you have taken, and are

taking, every precaution possible. You said some of your

young women are married to New Zealanders and that fact

alone would entitle them to stay here.’

65

‘I know but I still worry. Every day data is being

shared; everything is being cross-checked and analysed.

Every phone call we make is being recorded. But nobody

seems to care. Without our permission our right to be

forgotten is being eroded and our lives are being filed in

computer banks. Why? It’s certainly not for our advantage.

And what’s more no one can guarantee the Hitlers and

McCarthys of this world will never again be in ascendency.

But I can almost guarantee it will happen somewhere and at

some time. I advise my girls to avoid filling out any forms

because if they do, two more will instantly take their

place.’

Isabel looked at me and asked, ‘Do you remember

at primary school when we talked about Greek mythology

and the Greek heroes?’

Basil cut in, ‘I’ve always thought they were a bit

like the American Super Heroes.’

Isabel smiled, ‘Do you? I think it’s the other way

round. The American Super Heroes are brash, trashy

versions of the Greek heroes. The point I was trying to

make concerns the story of Hercules fighting the many-

headed hydra. As fast as he cut off a head, two more grew

in its place. I feel filling in forms is a bit like that. It’s as if

the Ancient Greeks were forewarning us.’

Isabel looked back to me. ‘Do you remember

drawing a picture of that at school? I do, and I remember

your picture was pinned to the wall in the corridor for the

rest of the term. Out of all the kids in your class you were

the only one who drew Hercules as a woman. You must

have been about ten at the time.’

‘Yes, all the kids told me I’d got it wrong.’

‘Well I don’t think you had it wrong at all. We

can’t rely on Greek mythology; it’s up to all of us, men and

women. And that’s exactly what you’re doing.’ She paused

before continuing. ‘Strange isn’t it of all the kids that went

through our primary school you’re one of the few I

remember clearly.’

Basil cut in. ‘I don’t think it’s strange at all.’

I gave Basil a playful kick.

66

In response Basil turned to Isabel, ‘See what I

mean!’

I poked my tongue at him.

We sat on the bench seat overlooking the lake and I

asked what we should do about food for the tramp to the

Sounds.

Isabel grinned and shook her head before she

answered. ‘Going on past experience the girls won’t want

much to eat on the first day and after that they’ll eat

whatever you give them. They’ll have spent several months

sailing across the most aggressive ocean on the planet.

They’ll have lost weight and swapped their land-legs for

sea-legs. Don’t expect too much from them for the first

couple of days. They were both fit and strong young

women when they left Africa. We are so lucky. The

Hardcastle Family Trust makes significant annual

donations to the German medical team who visit our girls.

This ensures they get all their inoculations and the sort of

medical checks that they would get if they were living in

rural Germany. But on the schooner they’ll have been using

different muscles and eating mainly preserved foods they

wouldn’t have experienced before. Usually the girls spend

most of the first week at sea retching on unfamiliar foods.

But after that they begin to get accustomed to the motion of

the boat and a different diet. I do my best to warn them

before they leave but it still seems to come as a surprise to

them.’

‘It must be hard to explain sea sickness to girls that

have never seen the ocean before.’

‘Yes, and once they have experienced it to believe

they will get over it. The change in diet is difficult as well.’

‘What do they normally eat?’

‘They have a lot of maize, but about one year in six

the rains fail and people starve. But my girls are so lucky.

Do you remember I told you the school was built as a

memorial to Tanya and David?’

‘Of course.’

‘I believe I told you they were both working for the

Guardian newspaper when they were murdered. John

67

Hardcastle contacted the paper and they ran a feature about

the difficulty the school faced when the rains failed. The

Hardcastle family said they’d match pound-for-pound any

money the readership could raise to provide a bore for the

school. With the Hardcastle donation we got close to fifty

thousand pounds which provided a bore, pumps, solar

panels to drive the pumps and a water reticulation system.

We can pump enough water for the school gardens and

supply some to the village. We have always called the bore

our “Guardian” bore. But in the village they have always

known the school was built as a memorial to Tanya and

David and, because of the water supply, Tanya and David

have now acquired the status of “Spirit Guardians”.’

I noticed tears in Isabel’s eyes and a catch in her

throat as she related the story. So I added, ‘I think the

villagers are right.’

Isabel gave me a hug and added, ‘I think so too.

And right now their spirits are guiding Eshah and Olisa

across the most savage ocean on Earth.’

I added, ‘And you can trust Basil and me to look

after them when they arrive. We won’t let you down.’

What’s more I wasn’t just trying to please an old lady; I

meant what I said.

I think Basil must have known I meant it because

he added, ‘I know Jasmine well enough to verify that when

she says she’s going to do something she’s unstoppable and

God help anyone, including me, who tries to divert her by

as much as a millimetre.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you two enough. This

is as much and more than I had hoped for.’

‘So what’s the next step?’

‘I think the highest priority is for the two of you to

walk the track by yourselves. I can give you a map of the

track with everything marked on it except all the things you

need to know.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘There are numerous back-packer resorts. Some are

close to the track and others a kilometre or more along

side-tracks. There are camping sites and also many places

68

where you can’t camp. You will want to know what food

you can purchase on the way and where you can get it,

where you can go if the weather turns sour, what

emergency facilities are available, where you can get

cellphone coverage, when it might pay you to get one of

the fleet of boats that services the track to take your bags

on to the next bay.’

‘Yes, what’s this about getting the boats to carry

our bags?’

‘It’s a service on offer. It means that during the day you

only need to carry day-packs containing your lunch and

emergency gear. But it does require you to commit to

arriving at the destination where your pack has been

delivered. Usually they’re simply left at the end of the jetty

for you to pick up. Anyone could steal one, but I’ve never

heard of it happening, although at times there can be a bit

of a mix up about which jetty they have been left on. I

wouldn’t leave the crown jewels there. In your case there

could be a bit of a problem. The two of you should be OK

to get your bags transported because you will have been

taken to Ship’s Cove by one of the boats. But Eshah and

Olisa won’t have been on a Sounds boat. It is unlikely, but

possible someone could note the fact and start wondering

how they got to Ship’s Cove. I doubt if anyone would

suspect they got there via Mozambique but we don’t want

to create any opportunity for difficult questions to be asked.

I suppose they could say a friend dropped them off but the

skippers that work the Sounds tend to know who is doing

what. To avoid any questions like that I’d recommend that

you carry your packs all the way. But it’s easy for me to

say that when I’m not going to have them on my back. The

track from Camp Bay to Torea Saddle is by far the toughest

day it’s about twenty-five kilometres but it feels like fifty.

It might pay you to consider breaking your journey at The

Bay of Many Coves campsite. If you’re careful about what

you pack and buy food along the way it shouldn’t be too

arduous for fit young people like you. That’s the beauty of

doing a trial-trip first; you can find out what you can

manage.’

69

Chapter 7 While driving home we made the decision to try carrying

the packs ourselves. We reckoned if between us we could

carry all our food and the camping gear then, when the time

came, the girls should be able to carry their own sleeping

bags, clothes and food. Isabel reckoned we’d be able to get

plenty of water from streams along the track, although she

indicated we’d need to use some common sense where we

got it and preferably we should boil it first.

That night I lay awake trying to construct a five-

day menu in my head. As soon as I’d sorted out the third

day I’d forgotten what I’d decided to take for the first day.

Basil was asleep and eventually I got up and went into the

lounge and started to write it down. I wanted to try doing it

without relying on getting anything from the resorts along

the track. If we bought any meals or food I figured that

would be a bonus. Conscious of the weight we’d have to

carry I made my shopping list and most of it was

dehydrated stuff. I also decided I’d need to buy plastic

containers or we’d end up in a mess with stuff like milk

powder and oats spilling out of opened packets and ending

up in the bottom of our packs. It was almost two o’clock

before I went back to bed. Basil was still asleep.

I decided to go to the supermarket by myself on my

bike after work as I didn’t want Basil interfering and trying

to change my menu. I was the one who stayed up half the

night figuring it out and that was what we were going to

have, and if he didn’t like it he could go hungry. Also I

reckoned if it wouldn’t fit in the panniers on my bike then

we wouldn’t be able to get it in our packs.

As you might have guessed in the morning he

wanted to pick me up from work and drive me to the

supermarket. But I insisted that I was going by myself on

my bike and he could stay home and book the ferry tickets,

backpacker accommodation in Picton and work out how we

were going to get to the ferry terminal after I left work the

following day.

70

As soon as I suggested staying at a backpackers

Basil asked me, ‘Wouldn’t it be more comfortable to stay

at a motel?’

‘Yes, if you like sterile places and associating with

people with stunted emotions. At backpackers we’re likely

to meet people who are still alive, and there might be some

who have walked the track. We’ll probably end up getting

a few tips.’

Basil booked us a room in The Villa Backpackers.

The following day I cycled home from work as

usual and left my bike in Basil’s backyard. We picked up

our packs, walked to the station and got the train into

Wellington Central. After that we only had to cross the

road to get to the Bluebridge Ferry Terminal. Half-an-hour

later we were aboard the ferry and heading for Picton.

Have you ever been in a queue and been convinced

you recognise the person standing next to you, but you

can’t put a name to the face or remember where you have

seen them before? That’s how it was for me while Basil

and I were queuing in the ship’s cafe waiting to order our

non-vegetarian fish and chips. I knew I’d seen the woman

somewhere. While I was wondering whether it was at the

baths or the naturalist club, she was looking at me and

seemed to be trying to place me.

A frown flicked across her forehead until she

pointed her finger at me.

‘Jazzy! It’s Jazzy James isn’t it?’

As she said it I remembered where I’d seen her.

‘Camille Cochrane!’

‘Well almost, I’m Camille Rogers now. This is my

husband Rees.’ Turning to Rees she explained, ‘This is

Jazzy. We were both at primary school together.’

I answered, ‘Hi Rees.’ And turning to Camille I

added, ‘You were a year older than me weren’t you?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

I put my hand on Basil’s shoulder. ‘This is my

partner Basil. We’re just heading to Picton. We’re going to

walk the Queen Charlotte Track.’

‘Are you? So are we!’

71

‘We’re staying at The Villa Backpackers tonight.

I’ve no idea what it’s like...’

‘They’re real good, we’ve stayed there before. It’s

a good choice, you should be fine. We’re staying at the

Tombstone backpackers. We don’t know what that’s like

either; neither of us has stayed there before. It’s right next

to the cemetery. I’ve heard the door is shaped like a coffin!

We have this thing about wanting to stay at a different

place whenever we get the opportunity. It’s almost next

door to the Bluebridge terminal and it should only take a

couple of minutes to walk there, but it’ll be a bit longer

walk in the morning to get to the shops and the Town

Wharf.’

‘We’ve got to go there as well. We’re on the

Beachcomber’s eleven o’clock sailing in the morning to get

to Ship’s Cove.’

‘So are we. We’re planning on doing a bit of

supermarket shopping first thing.’

The queue moved up. Basil and I placed our orders,

we were given a number and we sat at an empty table for

four. A couple of minutes later Camille and Rees joined us.

I spent most of the mealtime talking to Camille while Basil

and Rees seemed to be talking about work.

Camille had been married for a year and this trip

was to celebrate their first wedding anniversary.

Apparently they had quite a bit of tramping experience and

had met originally while doing the Routeburn track. Now

they were renting a place in Upper Hutt. Camille was a

paediatric nurse working in Lower Hutt hospital and Rees

taught English and Maths at the Correspondence school in

Wellington.

We chatted on and I explained I was a swimming

instructor and Basil was a mine inspector working a month

on and a month off in Western Australia. Before long I was

telling Camille how I met our old headmistress Isabel

Graham at the pool and she’d introduced me to the naturist

club where I met Basil. Camille said she couldn’t imagine

Isabel going to a naturist club. But when I explained what

the place was like and how we were maintaining the old

72

homestead and establishing the gardens she seemed to be

quite interested and said she’d like to pay a visit sometime,

if I could arrange it. The four of us spent the rest of the trip

together and we agreed to meet up at the Beachcomber

Cruises office in the morning. At the time I had no idea that

this chance meeting was destined to weave another thread

into the tapestry of this strange story. But that explanation

comes later.

We met again the following day outside

Beachcomber Cruises by the wharf on the Picton foreshore;

and once we’d boarded the boat the four of us sat together.

It was an interesting boat trip. We had a commentary about

the Sounds and Basil and I found Camille and Rees a fund

of knowledge about the Queen Charlotte Track and

tramping in general. At some point I asked her how safe

she had found the water in the side creeks and whether it

was necessary to boil it, because when I talked to Isabel she

had seemed a little uncertain. But according to Camille

people used to be able to drink from all the side streams

but, since giardia had arrived, notices had started to spring

up about needing to boil all water for three minutes. She

reckoned most people took no notice and didn’t seem to

suffer any ill effects.

But then she asked Rees to show me their

sterilising pen which he kept in his shirt pocket. I had no

idea such things existed. The best way to describe it is to

say it was a torch which produced UV light. If you shone it

into a container of water apparently it only takes ninety-

seconds to kill all the bacteria including giardia in a litre of

water. Then she showed me that it only takes four AA

batteries. She reckoned they took theirs on all their

tramping trips. I thought it seemed a heck of a lot easier

than having to boil water for three minutes and then have to

wait for it to cool before we could drink it. Basil was, as

you might expect, reluctant to chance drinking untreated

creek water. Rees told us where the UV torches could be

purchased and Basil decided on the spot he’d buy one as

soon as we got back to Wellington.

73

Beachcomber Cruises dropped us off together with

our packs on the jetty in Ship’s Cove. Rees was keen to

show Basil the James Cook memorial so we all went and

read about all of Cook’s visits there. As we looked at it I

couldn’t help thinking when the time came for us to meet

Eshah and Olisa it might be a nice introduction to the

country for them to know they were stepping ashore in the

same place that James Cook frequented when he first

mapped New Zealand which resulted in European

occupation. Camille reckoned Ship’s Cove had hardly

changed since Cook’s visits and many of the trees growing

here now would be the same trees that were here when

Cook first arrived.

Then we started up the track walking in single file.

Initially it was a steep climb with a number of horseshoe

bends and I wasn’t surprised Isabel had found it daunting.

Long before we’d reached Resolution Bay I had started

wondering how the girls would feel when they first set foot

in their new country. Would everything seem like an

exciting adventure? Would they just be grateful for having

set foot on firm soil after that seemingly never ending sea

voyage? Might they be emotionally clinging together for

reassurance? Would they be frightened and wondering

what they were getting into? They’d have heard stories and

known just about everything there was to know about slave

trading in Africa. Would they be nervous about trusting

Basil and me? Might their eyes be peering into the bush on

either side of the track to look for escape routes or for

danger emerging out of the forest?

I tried to put myself in their position and came to

the conclusion they’d probably be bewildered and

desperate to find anything they could consider a good

omen. Probably friendly smiles, a big hug and being given

something nice to eat would be far better than attempting to

show them some concrete monument to someone they had

probably never heard of. I couldn’t imagine what made me

think of anything that daft in the first place. But with

Camille and Rees with us I couldn’t discuss anything like

that with Basil or hear what he thought. So I decided when

74

we got back home about the first thing I’d do was have a

talk to Mosi and ask how she felt when she first arrived.

It was great having Camille and Rees as guides.

They’d done this trip several times before and were much

more at home in the bush than either of us. Camille pointed

out so many things that I’d never have noticed. We all saw

the fantails, everyone sees them. But she was able to point

out which insects they were feeding on as our feet

disturbed the litter on the forest floor. She could name not

only the trees but also the ferns and lichens as well and

explain their uses.

Despite the fact we were walking mostly in the

forest shade we were still sweating as the path dropped

away into Resolution Bay. The campsite was a clearing

which overlooked a tree lined beach. We could hear, but

not see, a stream concealed by the undergrowth and

running over stones somewhere close at hand. A launch

was anchored about fifty metres out from the shore.

I looked at Camille. ‘I’m going for a swim; do you

want to join me?’

‘I haven’t got any swimming togs with me.’

‘Neither have I.’ I pointed to the launch. ‘Feel like

giving the guys out there a treat?’

‘Yeah, why not.’

As we scrambled down the bank onto the beach

Camille called back to Basil and Rees ‘Are you two

coming to join us?’

Camille and I had left our clothes and boots on our

packs beside a fallen tree at the top of the beach and were

walking into the water while Basil and Rees were getting

undressed. The two guys on the launch sitting on the fly

bridge spotted us as we walked into the water. They too

took off their clothes and jumped in throwing a plastic

beach ball between them in an obvious invitation to us to

go and take it off them – which we did. At least Camille

and I did and shortly afterwards Rees arrived. Then it was

the two guys off the boat against me, Camille and Rees.

Basil can swim OK, but generally he doesn’t like

getting out of his depth and that was the case on this

75

occasion. He stayed in the shallows and at some point he

must have got out of the water, got dressed and gone back

to the camp where he could look down on us.

OK there was quite a bit of what Basil would later

call bodily contact, but it was all light hearted and lots of

laughing, ducking and splashing. It took me back to my

beach-bum days especially with Camille and now Rees

calling me Jazzy and only Basil calling me Jasmine. We

were probably only fighting over the ball for about half-an-

hour until Rees decided he was getting cold and swam back

to get dressed. That was when the two guys invited Camille

and me to go and have a warm shower aboard their boat.

We both refused – it was obvious what they wanted and it

wasn’t to provide us with a warm shower! Neither Camille

nor I took it seriously. It was a stupid suggestion anyway

because afterwards we’d have had to swim back ashore as

they didn’t have a dinghy aboard. So we swam back and

washed the salt off our bodies in the stream just above the

beach. Fortunately Basil couldn’t have heard the invitation

for us to go aboard and I didn’t enlighten him.

I hadn’t had so much fun for ages. That’s all it was

– a light hearted ball game in the sea. We didn’t even know

the names of the two guys. I think Basil must have been

storing up his anger because all the evening while I was

getting dinner he hardly spoke a word and when we finally

got into our sleeping bags he let fly at me and told me that

once more I’d gone a step too far. He wouldn’t even listen

to me when I told him it was just a bit of fun that meant

nothing. He told me my selfishness was jeopardising

Camille and Rees’s first wedding anniversary and I should

apologise to them. Then I told him he was a stuffy prig and

ought to bugger off back to Australia. He called me a

selfish slut. And I told him if he wanted to know what a

real slut was like I’d demonstrate it to him. Then he said he

already knew and brought up that thing with Lenny when

we were in France. I don’t know how much of this Camille

and Rees heard because their tent wasn’t far from ours.

In the morning Camille came over and said she

couldn’t help hearing a little of what we were saying during

76

night, which wasn’t surprising because Basil and I had

been shouting at each other. Anyway Camille apologised to

Basil and me for encouraging me to swim out to the boat

and said she had no idea her suggestion would cause a

problem between us. I thought that was diplomatic of her

because I’d been the one who suggested it. Camille went

up a couple of notches in my estimation. So I left her to

wave her magic calming wand over Basil while I got a mug

full of water out of the stream. Then I slipped over to see if

I could borrow Rees’s ultra violet sterilising pen. Zapping

the water was a hell of a lot easier than having to boil it.

Camille and Basil were still chatting quite amiably when I

got back. While I was rummaging through my pack to find

the milk powder and breakfast cereals I heard her telling

Basil how she and Rees wanted to go on a big overseas trip

when they had saved up enough money. By the time I’d put

our milk and cereals in bowls and found a couple of spoons

Basil seemed almost human again.

He talked to me quite normally while we packed up

or tent. Camille and Rees waited a few minutes for us to

finish our packing and we all set off together on the next

leg of our tramp. Basil spent quite a bit of the day talking to

Camille and seemed to have forgotten what he told me last

night about leaving them alone to get on with their first

wedding anniversary without interruption. At least it gave

me an opportunity to have a chat with Rees. That evening

after we had completed the next leg of the tramp and eaten

our dinner, Basil even apologised to me for over-reacting.

The next few days were hard work and a lot of it

was over steep terrain. I considered myself quite fit; but I

was feeling bushed by the end of the day and Basil wasn’t

coping any better. I came to the conclusion Isabel had to be

a pretty fit old lady to have managed it in the past.

The evening of the fourth day stands out in my

memory. We were running low on food supplies and in the

late afternoon we left the track by the Te Mahia Saddle and

dropped down to the DOC camp in Mistletoe Bay.

Fortunately we caught the camp shop open although it had

hardly any stock on the shelves. We bought a tin of baked

77

beans, a tin of spaghetti, and a can of corned beef which I

told Basil was vegetarian beef! Come to think of it the cow

it came from must have been a vegetarian so I was only

stretching the truth a little bit. We already had some two

minute noodles, a couple of eggs and a bit of cheese so we

put the lot in a pan in the camp kitchen stirred it up and

ladled it out into our bowls. It wasn’t exactly haute cuisine,

but we were hungry and it tasted better than it sounds. As

Rees and I did the cooking Basil and Camille did the

washing up and cleaned the surfaces. As showers were

available I had a shower and washed my hair and was still

battling with my unruly tussock when I spotted Rees alone

on the beach taking photos. Still attempting to dry my hair I

walked over to him. A boat under spinnaker was sailing out

of the bay in a light northerly breeze as the sun slipped

behind the hill. Rees captured the last of the sun’s rays

filling the sail with gold. He showed me the picture on the

screen. It was a spectacular picture, but as I looked at it he

took hold of my hand and drew me close to him. The

camera pressed into my back as he kissed me on the lips.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating your first

wedding anniversary Rees?’

‘Yes I am. Did you enjoy your dinner tonight?’

‘It was a bit of a messy concoction but I was

hungry and it tasted fine.’

He smiled into my eyes as he answered, ‘That’s

how life should be – messy but tasty.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you know exactly what I mean.’ He ran his

fingers through the curly mop I call my hair as he added

‘Don’t you think living by the rules would result in a lack-

lustre life?’

‘Possibly but I think you should ask Camille and

Basil about that. I can see them heading down this way.’

As they approached, Rees walked towards them

holding up his camera. ‘You’re just in time I’ve been

showing Jazzy this picture I’ve just taken. What do you

think of that?’

78

As they looked at it Rees added, ‘I just got it in

time. Right now the sun has just gone out of the sails and it

became just another sailing boat.’

The four of us stood on the grass at the point where

grass and sand merge and watched the shadows lengthen

and the boat sail out of the bay. We all talked in hushed

tones, but I can’t remember a word we said; my mind had

too much company. The night air was cool and my hair was

still wet as we walked back up the track and finally zipped

ourselves into our respective tents.

When Basil and I made love that night it was Rees

I could feel inside me. Then I spent the next hour listening

to Basil sleeping and thinking back over the last few days

and speculating on what I’d done or said to encourage

Rees. Then I took another hour to decide to position myself

between Basil and Camille on the final leg to Anakiwa and

our pick up. I guess I must have finally dropped off to

sleep.

Compared with the previous day this last day was

relatively easy and we did the whole trip in about four

hours, which meant we had an hour and a half to wait for

our pickup to take us back to Picton. The coffee cart was

open and we all bought coffee and ice creams while

Camille and Rees had hot pies as well. We sat in the shelter

as it provided some welcome shade. At one point Rees

rummaged through his pack and found his mouth organ.

Camille had a good singing voice. Basil and I joined in and

probably detracted from what would otherwise have been a

good solo performance by Camille.

At one point Rees asked, ‘Do you know this one

it’s one of Camille’s favourites?’ He then proceeded to

play the opening notes to John Lennon’s Imagine.’

Camille turned to me and asked if I remembered

learning it at school. I nodded and we all sang it.

After we’d finished Camille commented she

particularly liked the lyrics to that one. That left me turning

over an idea that had been silently squatting in the back of

my mind for several days. I resolved to bring it up later

when the time was right.

79

Shortly after that Camille decided to go and find

the toilet and Basil went to buy another coffee. It left Rees

and me together.

Rees spoke first. ‘I notice you’ve been avoiding me

all day. Did I offend you last night?’

‘Offend! No, I wasn’t offended at all. It was rather

flattering but, and it’s quite a big BUT, Basil gets jealous

quite easily and you and Camille are having a wedding...’

‘It was only a kiss.’

‘Yes I know, but one single stolen kiss is never

enough is it. For someone like me a kiss can be a prelude to

a full orchestral symphony which would probably be very

beautiful but might have a tragic ending. I like you and I

like Camille but I don’t want to be the other woman in your

marriage. Neither do I want to say cheerio to you at the end

of this trip and never see you again.’

‘You wouldn’t have to. I spend a lot of evenings on

my own. Camille often works the evening shift and

apparently Basil is away in Australia for one month in two

so...’

‘I don’t think either Basil or Camille saw us

kissing, so let’s pretend it never happened. I’ve got an idea.

Why don’t you and Camille come round to our place for

dinner one evening on one of Camille’s nights off? I’d like

to invite Isabel at the same time. I think I told you about

her; she’s our old primary school headmistress with a

particular interest in her ex pupils. I think she could have

something up her sleeve that would interest the two of you;

but I’d like to talk to her first before I say any more.’

‘This sounds very mysterious.’

‘I’m a mysterious woman.’ I pointed my all my

fingers at him as if I was a witch casting a spell. ‘Now I

have you in my power!’

At that moment Camille returned.

‘Camille, Jasmine has just invited the two of us to

go round to their place for dinner on your next evening off

and before Basil goes back to Australia.’

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‘Thanks that would be lovely. I should be free on

Thursday, but after that I’ll be at work for the following six

nights.’

‘Thursday should be fine for us. I thought I might

ask our old headmistress Isabel Graham as well. I know

she’d be delighted to see you as she tries to keep contact

with as many of her old students as possible. She’s had an

unusual interesting life since she retired. I’m sure you’d

find her interesting.’

Basil returned at that moment carrying his coffee. I

told him Camille and Rees were coming to dinner on

Thursday evening. Shortly after that our pick-up arrived.

That evening we caught the late ferry back to

Wellington. We kissed goodbye at the Bluebridge terminal

and made our way back to our homes.

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Chapter 8 Isabel was at the pool early the following morning and

anxious to hear how we’d got on. I told her the middle days

had been strenuous and felt we should spread the trip over

at least six days instead of five, particularly as the girls will

have been at sea using different muscles. She agreed and

said that was exactly what she’d been doing but she

reckoned in her case it was necessitated by the limitations

of her own ability, and was interested to hear how we’d

found it. The other thing she found interesting was that we

had met Camille and her husband Rees.

She remembered Camille, which I guess is one

advantage of small schools. Her face lit up when I related

how, at the end of the tramp, Camille had sung John

Lennon’s “Imagine” while Rees played the tune on his

mouth organ. She started asking more questions, but it was

almost time for me to start my swimming lessons, so I gave

her a brief outline of what they were doing and told her she

could ask Camille herself if she felt like joining the four of

us for dinner on Thursday evening. She instantly accepted

and I got on with teaching my class. I was pretty sure she’d

want to come, but later I came to the conclusion more than

casual interest and politeness had motivated Isabel to

accept the invitation so enthusiastically.

It wasn’t until Thursday evening that my

suspicions were verified.

They all arrived at about the same time. I switched

on the CD and played some of the old Beatle’s songs as

background music. I made sure it included “Imagine”.

Camille was wearing a pale-green and yellow

summer dress with matching belt and leather sandals. Her

hair, which had been tucked up under her cap for most of

the trip, was now combed and hanging shoulder length. I

thought she looked really attractive and told her so. Rees

was reasonably smartly dressed wearing black jeans with a

white open-neck shirt together with black shoes and socks.

I greeted them both with a kiss.

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Isabel arrived just as Camille and Rees were sitting

on the sofa. She was wearing a floral skirt and a blouse

with flecks of silver in it but it wasn’t her clothes that

attracted Camille’s attention. As soon as the introductions

were completed and while Isabel was in the process of

sitting in the lazy-boy Camille commented, ‘I love your

earrings Isabel.’ I don’t think she could have said anything

more flattering. The earrings in question were so unusual

they could be virtually guaranteed to produce a comment.

Isabel smiled. ‘Thank you, I’m very fond of them.

They were given to me by a friend in Liverpool on one of

my trips to England. He got them specially made for me by

a very talented local silversmith. I only wear them on

special occasions.’ She grinned as she added, ‘And meeting

my old students is one of those occasions.’

The earrings were silver seabirds suspended from

her ears by one wing and appeared to be captured in flight

pursuing each other while flying around her head.

Isabel continued. ‘The birds are albatrosses.’ She

grinned as she added, ‘If I want to try convincing myself

I’m a “grand old lady” I give them their English name of

royal albatross which I pronounce as if I have an English

plum in my mouth.’

I glanced at Basil and our eyes met. Without

speaking we both knew Isabel was up to something devious

but we couldn’t think what.

She continued, ‘Seriously I always feel there’s

something very special about the albatross and I don’t think

it’s just because John gave these earrings to me. To be

honest I think he gave them to me because he saw me as a

bit of a wandering albatross.’

As she said the words, “wandering albatross” she

moved her hands as if all her fingers were wandering over

an imaginary keyboard. Then she continued. ‘I must admit

getting a present like that from John motivated me to find

out more about the albatross family. It was fascinating. Do

you know they can lock their wings and without moving a

muscle they can fly thousands of nautical miles over the

ocean?’

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I still couldn’t see where this conversation was

going but I knew Isabel well enough to know she was

leading up to something. So I played along and asked,

‘How do they do that?’

She looked at me when she answered. ‘They can

do it because they have light bones and fly close to the

surface of the sea. They use the fact that the wind

immediately above the water moves slower than the wind a

little higher up. So there’s a difference in the speed of the

wind above and below their wings and that, combined with

their wing shape, gives them lift and enables them to soar

and go wherever they want over the ocean without

expending much energy. They regularly encircle the globe

riding the trade winds in the Great Southern Ocean. If that

wasn’t enough I found out they can smell food from

beyond the horizon. Then by gliding across the wind, they

unerringly ride the air zig-zaging towards their target.’

Fixing her eyes on Camille, she moved her hands

as if they were a pair of birds tacking into the wind. Then

she leaned back in her chair and the enthusiasm in her

voice died as if she was relating a tragedy. ‘But look at us,

we’re pathetic in comparison. We can hardly go anywhere

without passports, money, fuel and machines. I don’t think

that’s how we ought to live do you?’ Then she passed and

slowly leaned forward in her chair and although we could

all hear she seemed to be speaking directly to Camille with

slow deliberation in her voice. ‘You only have to go to

Africa to discover people dying from conflict, disease and

famine for no other reason than their inability to cross

borders. I don’t think we’re the smartest creatures on the

planet.’

I was beginning to understand where the albatross

talk was leading and it wasn’t happening accidentally.

Isabel can be a cunning old woman and was now delivering

a theatrical performance directed at Camille which went

beyond the measured tones most people would expect from

a primary school headmistress.

While Basil and I had been on the track we heard

quite a bit about Camille and Rees’s work but with Isabel

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leading the conversation we heard a bit more about

Camille’s work in the paediatric department at the hospital

and a hell of a lot more about her shift work which she

seemed to hate with a passion. Judging by what Isabel

managed to draw out, apparently Camille liked working

with children, but when she was on night shift she felt she

was more of a night-watchwoman than a nurse. She was

not only finding it boring, but on those night shifts she was

leaving to go to work at just about the same time that Rees

was getting home and they couldn’t even have dinner

together. Rees had very little to say about teaching at the

correspondence school apart from the fact he hated

marking. Apparently he went into teaching because he

wanted to work with children as opposed to working with

names attached to mailed scripts. It wasn’t long before

Isabel had Camille and Rees talking about their long term

plan to save up and go on a big OE before they started a

family.

By the time we’d finished dinner, Isabel had taken

photos out of her handbag and shown them photos of

Tanya and David and given them an enthusiastic

description of her African school. Of course she hadn’t said

a word about the imminent arrival of Eshah and Olisa or

about the girls being brought here as illegal immigrants but

she certainly had Rees and Camille thinking seriously

about the possibility of doing their big OE by teaching in

her school in Mozambique and getting their fares and

wages paid by the trust the Hardcastles had set up. By the

time they left, Isabel had arranged to meet them the

following week, which was the earliest time Camille would

have a free evening and, as you’ve probably guessed, the

meeting was to be at the naturist club. After dinner, even as

they walked back to their cars, she promised to show them

pictures of Mozambique, the school and the village.

It was only later I appreciated the full extent to

which Isabel had directed and manipulated the evening’s

conversation into a recruitment drive. It was quite a few

weeks before I saw Camille again and heard her side of

how events were panning out.

85

Isabel turned up at the pool a week later with the

news that Flintstone would be entering the Sounds within

three days and she’d try to give me a precise estimated time

of arrival the day after tomorrow. In the meantime we

should get our shopping done, our packs ready and check

on ferry times, so we’d be ready to leave at short notice.

There was no attempt to persuade us; these were

instructions delivered by a headmistress to her pupils. I

decided I’d better tone it down a lot before I gave Basil the

news because I guessed what his reaction would be if I

related her instructions word for word.

But I was wrong. As it turned out Basil was OK

about receiving instructions from Isabel. As he saw it, we’d

already made the decision to go ahead and Isabel’s advance

notification was what he was expecting. We worked

through the planning more or less as we’d done it before. I

did the food shopping and this time it took two trips on my

bike as I had to cater for four people for six nights whereas

before it had only been two people for five nights. Basil

booked and paid for the ferry crossings for all of us. That

included a two-way trip for Isabel’s car, which she would

need to pick us up by road from Anakiwa when we’d

completed walking the track. Then he booked the

accommodation for all of us at The Villa Backpackers,

which was the same place we stayed at on our trial run.

Also he went into town and bought a UV pen and a spare

set of batteries so we could sterilize the creek water. The

pen was quite expensive, so this showed a degree of

commitment from Basil that surprised me, especially after

his initial reluctance to becoming involved.

As it turned out Isabel’s prediction about

Flintstone’s arrival was spot on. Possibly she knew more

than she was telling us as she was still secretive about how

she communicated with Flint and Dee while they were at

sea. Isabel, Basil and I caught the Beachcomber to Ships’

Cove and while we were sitting on the grass at the top of

the beach eating a pre-lunch snack, Flintstone came round

the headland and sailed into the bay flying a New Zealand

flag. Through Basil’s binoculars I watched them drop their

86

sails and anchor. Out of nothing more than snippets I’d

heard from Isabel, and my own conjectures, I started

creating personalities to fit the images of the four people I

could see working on deck. Obviously the two girls weren’t

just passengers they were working as crew as well.

Through the binoculars I succeeded in reconciling the

stories I’d heard about Flint with the bearded bare chested

guy I could see working on deck beneath blond curls tied

back into a pigtail. That beard with the blond curls

confirmed my suspicion that in reality he was, as I had

suspected all along, a Viking warrior masquerading as a

twenty-first century yachtsman. Almost of their own

volition, my eyes kept drifting back to him. An hour must

have passed before Flint dropped their inflatable into the

water and started loading people and packs into it.

During that hour Isabel and I spread a tablecloth on

the grass and put out a welcoming lunch for all seven of us.

Although I’d bought the food for the trip this special lunch

had been prepared and supplied by Isabel with

foreknowledge of what they would all like. It was obvious

she had gone to considerable trouble to put that lunch

together.

As soon as Flint had the inflatable dinghy loaded

and he’d picked up the oars Isabel, who was kneeling to

position the food on the tablecloth, stood up. But standing

up necessitated her receiving a helping hand from Basil. I

hadn’t realised before she had difficulty getting up off the

ground. Either she’d been covering up her difficulties or I

hadn’t been very observant, but just seeing her trying to get

from a kneeling to a standing position made it very obvious

to me that there would be no possibility of her even

considering walking the track again. Which I suppose is

why we were there and she was about to return as soon as

she’d seen her girls. She thanked Basil for the hand up and

made the comment that in recent years her limbs had got a

lot stiffer. Then she asked if we’d mind if she went over to

the jetty alone to meet her girls and then she’d like to bring

them over to meet us. So Basil and I sat on the grass next to

the lunch and watched as Isabel walked towards the jetty.

87

A couple of trampers, who were probably about my age

and had been paddling in the sea earlier, passed us on their

way to the start of the track. We exchanged greetings and

told them we were waiting for a couple of friends to arrive

from Picton then we’d be on the track as soon as we’d had

lunch. I’m certain they saw nothing suspicious in this and,

having said they’d look out for us, they continued on their

way.

As soon as Flintstone’s inflatable touched the jetty

Dee caught hold of the steps and, scrambling onto the

wharf, secured the dinghy fore-and-aft. She was a small

slim woman and seeing the way she scrambled out of the

inflatable and up the steps left me with the impression I

was about to meet an agile and energetic one. She was

wearing a faded red tee shirt beneath an inflatable yellow

lifejacket and ragged denim shorts. She had straight black

hair secured in a single plait and, like the other three, she

was barefoot. She held out her hand to steady the two girls

up the wooden steps, which I’d already discovered were

slippery with seaweed. As soon as the girls were standing

on the boards they gave Isabel big welcoming hugs.

Remaining in the dinghy Flint passed the two packs up to

Dee who waited until the hugging had finished before she

took the lifejackets from Eshah and Olisa and tossed them

back down to Flint. I guess there should have been

something symbolic in that, but it passed casually. Within a

couple of minutes Isabel, who had an arm around each of

the two girls, was directing the party along the jetty

towards our picnic area. Flint and Dee followed.

Basil and I were sitting on the ground and we both

stood up as they approached and greeted them with the

warmest smiles we could muster when Isabel introduced

us.

The girls were both wearing All Blacks caps with

short sleeved blouses and denim shorts. Eshah was more

heavily built and the taller of the two girls by half a head.

Naturally they both had full African features with close-cut

tight curly black hair and dark skins, but the most notable

88

thing about them was their charming smiles as they

pronounced our names for the first time.

I noticed Basil gave Isabel a hand to steady her as

she sat on the grass for the picnic. I sat next to Dee but

everyone was eating and talking at once and no one could

hear much of the other conversations. I did hear Isabel

explaining to the girls about the change of plan since

Mozambique, now Basil and I were going to escort them

along the track until we reached Anakiwa then she’d meet

us in her car. I think she must have continued to tell them

about her legs playing up, but by then I was talking to Dee

or I suppose I should say Dee was talking to me and telling

me about their trip. They’d had heavy weather most of the

way and it had been more severe than on any of their

previous trips. I couldn’t follow everything she said but I

still remembered some of the terms from the times I went

to the sailing club with Ralph, but everything she told me

seemed to be on a different scale. She reckoned they had

been running with only a heavy-duty high-cut yankee

headsail most of the way and the schooner had been surfing

down the face of ten to fifteen metre seas and in the troughs

they were losing the wind before they climbed the next

crest. As she described it I could almost hear the crack and

boom of the sail as it snatched the wind but what I

remember, more than the details about their trip, was Dee’s

voice and her Welsh accent. It had an almost musical

quality and was accompanied with a wicked sense of

humour. It was when she was telling me about keeping

watch for icebergs in the Southern Ocean during the day

and how icebergs didn’t come out at night that I found I

could imagine her captivating a theatre audience or keeping

a group of children laughing at her animations.

Despite what Isabel had told us about the girls not

wanting to eat much on their first day, the picnic

disappeared quite rapidly and I noticed the fresh fruit and

salads were the first to go. I guess such things would have

been missing from their diet for most of the voyage. We’d

more or less finished lunch and Dee was entertaining us all

by describing the voyage from Africa when Isabel’s water

89

taxi arrived. The girls kissed her goodbye and she departed

for Picton. Before Flint and Dee returned to their boat Flint

explained they were going to sail to Wellington harbour

and go through the immigration procedures before

hopefully finding a visitors berth in Seaview marina where

they wanted to carry out repairs and maintenance.

Apparently they wanted to replace some of the running

rigging and find a sailmaker to get a blown out sail

replaced and repairs done to the stitching on several of the

other sails. After that they reckoned it would be party time

and they were heading north for Musket Cove. I knew

exactly where Musket Cove was, because Basil and I had

stayed on Plantation Island when we went to Fiji for our

first holiday together.

I packed up the lunch leftovers and put them in a

bag, for Flint and Dee to take with them as our packs were

full and our meals were planned around what we could and

couldn’t carry. Presumably they’d be able to finish it up by

the time they’d crossed Cook Strait and got into Wellington

harbour.

Eshah and Olisa, who were still barefoot, sat on the

grass to pull on their socks and tramping boots. They knew

what to do and helped each other but if anyone had been

watching it would have been obvious they weren’t familiar

with the procedure of lacing up boots. I knelt down to help

them and made a mental note that something as simple as

that could arouse suspicions. Once they had their boots on

and their socks turned down I helped Basil take some of the

food out of our packs and give it to them so they’d carry

their share of the load. Then the four of us shouldered our

packs and walked towards the jetty to say goodbye to Flint

and Dee before they got into their inflatable. This took

quite a time. Olisa was clinging to Flint and wouldn’t let

him go back down the steps to the inflatable and Eshah was

in tears. This display of emotions would irritate Basil so I

kicked his ankle and pointed with my eyes to get him to

move a short way back along the jetty.

‘Basil what’s the hurry? The girls are orphans

they’ve left their friends, their school and the only country

90

they’ve known. They’ve spent months at sea with no one

except Flint and Dee, who are about to sail out of their

lives for ever. In their place two strangers are taking them

into yet another unknown future. Tears are not just a

meaningless noise; they are the bookmarks of our lives.

Show a bit of empathy. I’ve seen you cry for much more

trivial reasons. They’re teenage girls and only want a few

minutes to say goodbye and cry. Even if you don’t know

how to handle other people’s emotions at least be patient

enough to give them a few minutes to shed a few tears.’

‘Be patient! I don’t know what you’re talking

about. I haven’t said a word.’

‘Well you would have done if I hadn’t kicked your

ankle. I know you. You’d upset the girls and cause a

problem right from the start.’

Then I walked off and left Basil looking confused.

When I reached Eshah I put my arm round her. ‘I’ve had an

idea. Flint and Dee are only going a far as Seaview marina

and they could be there for weeks while they get the

maintenance done on their boat. You probably don’t know,

but it’s not far from the homestead where you’ll be staying.

Once we’re back in North Island we could get Isabel to

drive us there. You remember Mosi don’t you? I know

she’d like to see Flint and Dee as well. So what would you

say if we invite her to go with us?’

‘Does Mosi know we’re coming?’

‘I guess she knows it would be happening

sometime, but she won’t know when until she sees you.

The two of you turning up is going to be a surprise.’

I must admit there was a degree of self interest in

my suggestion to visit Flintstone in Wellington. You’ve

probably realised by now Flint is a great slab of a guy with

a personality as big as a rainbow; whereas the only big

things about Basil are his bald patch, his beak nose and his

rimless glasses. I think if I was in the girls’ position and

had just had Flint looking after my needs for months I’d be

in tears as well at the thought of him being replaced by

Basil. Maybe I’m being a bit unkind because Basil does

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have some good points but physical attributes and a ready

smile don’t appear on my assessment of him.

Flint and Dee enthusiastically supported my

suggestion of visiting them in Wellington Harbour within

the next week or two. It is an underestimate to say it went

down well with the girls, the suggestion made the horizon

shift. And of course I’d already worked out that by that

time Basil would have returned to Australia.

The apparent intensity of the emotional attachment

between Flint and the girls suggested to me that the bonds

between them could have had a sexual dimension. I

suppose it could be my imagination doing a night shift but I

reckon any healthy woman would go weak in the knees in

close proximity to Flint.

It must have taken a full half-hour before Flint and

Dee got into their inflatable and start to row back to

Flintstone and the four of us started walking back down the

jetty to get onto the track. As we zig-zagged up the path out

of Ships’ Cove we could hear the chain clanking over the

rollers as Flint weighed anchor. From the top of the steep

slope we had to stop to get a sighting of the boat through

the trees as the sails were hoisted and the boat healed with

the wind as it sailed out of the bay, passed Motuara Island

and headed towards Cook Strait.

An hour later we were pitching our tent in roughly

the same spot where we camped with Camille and Rees. So

far all we’d received from people we’d passed were

cheerful greetings. I was getting confident that everything

would go as planned.

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Chapter 9 As an initiation to New Zealand it’s hard to see how Isabel

could have prepared Eshah and Olisa any better or worked

out anything more appropriate for them. So far they’d

entered the country without arousing any form of

suspicion. As we walked the track Basil and I had a chance

to talk to them. Perhaps I should rephrase that. The

difficulty was stopping Olisa from talking. Isabel had done

a flawless job of teaching them to speak New Zealand

English. I especially say New Zealand English instead of

English because they incorporated some of the Maori

words that have wriggled sideways into our language

without anyone noticing, words like: kiaora, mana, iwi and

whanau. I noticed they were also familiar with some of the

inconsistencies in English. For example she spoke about

getting her “hair cut” instead of more logically getting her

“hairs cut”, and she even knew what I meant when, without

thinking, I said something was “pretty ugly”.

It seems Isabel had told them about what to expect

in the New Zealand bush and Flint and Dee had told them

much the same. But as Eshah pointed out Flint and Dee

were from Britain and they were probably only repeating

what Isabel had told them, so Eshah asked us for

confirmation that there were no malaria mosquitoes, or

leopards, lions, hyenas, crocodiles, snakes, hippos, the list

just went on and on and I’d never heard of some of the

animals she mentioned. But when they got to guerrillas,

bandits and child traffickers I didn’t know quite what to

say. I told them there weren’t any, but had to add that not

everyone they’d meet would necessarily be totally

trustworthy. Then I went on to explain about drunks and

drug addicts, so I may have ended up confusing them. I

remember emphasising that if they met any men on the

track with rifles they would be hunters looking for deer,

pigs and goats not people. It would have been handy to

know what Isabel had told them as I didn’t want to alarm

them and neither did I want to make them over-trusting.

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Seeing the girls walking dispelled all my fears that,

after spending months at sea, they would experience

difficulty with the track. I know from recent experience it

can be very steep in places. But both girls walked with the

effortless grace of women used to carrying heavy loads on

their heads.

Olisa continued talking while we pitched the tent,

cooked and ate the evening meal and was still talking when

we pegged the tarpaulin over our packs, crawled into the

tent and wriggled into our sleeping bags. I’d guess she was

probably still talking after all the rest of us had dropped off

to sleep. I can’t remember much of what she said except

that the two of them were seasick for the first few days

after they left Mozambique and the Great Southern Ocean

was cold, wet and uncomfortable. But one consistent

feature swirled like a dust storm through everything she

said. It wouldn’t be possible to misunderstand her hero

worship for Flint and Dee. Apparently Olisa hadn’t seen

the ocean before and now she couldn’t resist explaining

again and again how Flint could persuade the wind to drive

the boat wherever he wanted to go. I heard how, not long

after they left Mozambique, with the boat rolling in heavy

weather Flint had winched Dee up to the top of the mast so

she could replace a broken block and renew a staysail

halyard. Apparently Olisa had put her arms round the mast,

screwed her eyes shut, clenched her fists and chanted Dee’s

name over and over all the time she was up the mast

presumably to bring good luck and prevent Dee from

falling. I guess it must have worked because Eshah told us

as soon as Dee had the job done Flint lowered the boson’s

chair to the deck with Dee still sitting in it and none the

worse for her ordeal. I heard much later from Dee that

while Olisa had been hugging the mast and chanting, Eshah

had been making herself useful by tailing the winch for

Flint.

Eshah and Olisa are both pretty girls with dark skin

and white teeth. In addition both of them have well

proportioned figures, and the laws of nature dictate that

girls with good figures attract guys. I guess the world

94

would be a sad place if that wasn’t the case. In the course

of a day we passed dozens of people on the track.

Invariably a cheerful smile was exchanged together with a

greeting and some comment about the weather or the

steepness of the terrain, then they were gone around the

next bend in the track. But when we stopped to camp for

the night it was a different matter. There was time, and

expectation that there would be time, to stop and chat. As I

said, girls with good figures attract guys. At first I was

concerned the girls, or to be more specific, Olisa in

particular might start chatting about their months at sea

with any young guy who showed an interest. But I soon

realised my doubts were unfounded. Perhaps I

subconsciously believed girls from a remote African

village would be naive when it came to interacting with

supposedly sophisticated Westerners. I now believe the

reverse could be true. Their body language skills were no

less sophisticated than ours.

The girls wisely stayed together. Watching them

with a guy was like attending a well rehearsed theatrical

performance. I’m not sure where they learned their

technique because I don’t believe it’s the sort of thing that

can be taught. I decided if it’s a package that comes with

being female. It was impressive enough for me to go to

sleep thinking about it.

I woke early the following morning and it was one

of those times when snatches of thoughts spiral out of

control and drift where they will, like a water spout in a

storm. I started by thinking back to my beach-bum days

when I was their age. If I wanted to avoid a guy I’d

probably have told him to: piss off, get fucked, drop dead,

or some similar choice phrase that seems to have drifted

into our Pacific along with the rest of the garbage from the

spiritual home of Coco Cola and hamburger wrappers. But

a couple of times I watched Eshah and Olisa brush off guys

in what I presume could be African village style, if so it’s

all the more surprising coming from a land where

abductions and trafficking are common practice. Perhaps

I’m wrong and it’s nothing to do with their African origins.

95

Perhaps it’s just the way Olisa and Eshah react and it’s

unique to them. I suppose it could have been the result of

being taught by Isabel in a school for girls. I have no means

of knowing, but it was certainly effective and didn’t leave

the guy feeling as if he’d been metaphorically kicked in the

balls for simply approaching them. It left me wondering

whether I could acquire their ability which, for them,

seemed to rise as naturally as dawn mist over the beds of

reeds here at the head of Endeavour Inlet.

Thinking about it brought to mind something

Isabel had said to me in one of our chats. It was so typical

of Isabel. We had been sitting by the lake at the naturist

club and I must have said something not very

complimentary about one of the other members. Then she

smiled in a wistful sort of way and said she reckoned if she

ever met someone who was so stupid that she couldn’t

learn something from them she would know that she had

become that person.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I guess

it’s just the crazy way thoughts flit through my mind. What

I wanted to tell you was the way the girls were handling

guys they met along the way. I’d like to tell you, but

language does not allow me to describe what a guy sees, or

imagines he sees, in the flash of young girls’ eyes. The

interaction I witnessed went something like this. Initially

no word was interchanged but I saw two pairs of eyes

radiate a welcome. A smile, as brief as the flash of sunlight

on a bird’s wing, flickered between them. Then the girls

turned their heads towards each other and their grin showed

rows of perfect white teeth. Taking hold of each other’s

hands they spoke together in Portuguese and I’m certain

five minutes later after the girls had waved goodbye and

walked on, the guy would still be wondering what was said

and whether he would ever meet them again. Oh hell, now

I feel stupid for attempting to tell you about it. I’ve

probably got it all wrong. Just put it down to the weird way

my brain wakes up in the morning.

After six days we approached the end of our trek

and by that time Olisa was managing to pause long enough

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to take a breath between sentences. Maybe that’s a bit

harsh, because in reality she’s a nice kid and shows

consideration for everybody, but unfortunately not for their

ears. At Anakiwa Isabel, complete with her camera, was

standing next to her car waiting to meet us. She took

numerous photos of various combinations of Basil, me and

the girls. Then I had to take a couple of shots of her with

her arms round Eshah and Olisa. Once the photos were

done she bought us an ice cream each from the caravan and

half-an-hour later she drove us towards Picton leaving the

Queen Charlotte Track a quieter place than when Olisa was

on it.

Everything was new, presumably exciting and

possibly a little scary for the girls. Eshah sat in the front

passenger seat and Olisa crammed into the back with Basil

and me and continued talking. I haven’t a clue what she

was talking about as I was rapidly developing a defence

mechanism that turned everything she said into grey fog.

But at one point as we were passing a kayak rental place

Eshah wanted Isabel to stop the car so she could have a

closer look at a giant painting at the side of the road. The

figures in the picture were caricatures and the artist had

made exaggerated use of colour, light and shade which

gave the scene a vibrancy that raised its status from

painting to art work. Eshah persuaded Isabel to take a

photo of it.

People are strange aren’t they? Eshah had just

travelled half the way round the world, tramped the track

and for the first time was about to connect with the

culmination of years of preparation and planning but the

thing she wanted most was a photograph of a local artist’s

painting. Thinking about it, I speculated that although the

painting was a cheerful caricature of reality her future was

still a mysterious and possibly scary unknown.

Several more times, as we drove along the Grove

arm, when we had a clear view of the other side of the

Sounds Eshah wanted Isabel to stop the car to enable me to

point out bays we had passed on foot, so she’d know which

bay was which. I guess she was indulging in some form of

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reality check that hopefully made sense to her. I still find it

difficult to understand what motivates Eshah. She doesn’t

tell us what she’s thinking and I have to guess from the

things she doesn’t say.

Isabel had booked us into The Fat Cod

backpackers. She chose a different place this time just in

case someone asked why there were now two extra people

in out party. It wouldn’t have been difficult to find a

convincing explanation, but she felt it would be better if the

question was never raised. We had a bunk room for six and

Isabel offered to pay for the remaining bunk to ensure we

had the room to ourselves. But we were assured by the

woman in reception that paying for the extra bunk was

unnecessary as there was no question of anyone else being

booked into our room. That was what we wanted to hear

because Olisa’s line of thought took so many turns we had

doubts about her ability to refrain from chattering away

about topics we’d prefer to avoid. As soon as we’d

registered and dumped our packs on our bunks we almost

raced for showers. None of us had managed to get a shower

since we left Mistletoe Bay camp site. Now we had

limitless hot water, soap and hair shampoo.

We bought our evening meal at the Toot and

Whistle which was virtually next door to our backpacker

accommodation. The tastes and sounds of a pub meal

proved so different from their African school and village

that when we eventually got back to our room we

discovered another topic Olisa couldn’t stop talking about.

She related to us what the other people in the bar were

wearing, who they were with and what they ordered. Then

we had a round of speculating on the relationships between

the people sitting together. If she could stop talking long

enough to write something down she could run a gossip

column in a womans’ magazine without even trying.

The next day we drove aboard the ferry and shortly

afterwards set sail for Wellington and the North Island.

While we’d been walking the track we’d frequently caught

glimpses of the ferries and Basil and I made a point of

explaining we’d be going on one of them in the hope that

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would be one less surprise for them to handle. Now we

were on one and Eshah wanted Basil and me to show her

around the ship and we had to stop underneath the lifeboats

and try and work out what would happen if they needed to

be launched. I suppose I should correct that. Basil worked

out what would happen and explained it to Eshah, but my

brain got entangled in the wire ropes and lost its way.

Eshah was interested in all the boats we saw from

the ship and seemed to want more of an explanation than

we could provide about what they were doing and why. I

think she must have learned a lot from Flint and Dee. The

other important thing we had to do was to point out from

the seaward side the route we had taken while on the track.

When the ferry turned into Tory channel and away from

Queen Charlotte Sound we explained how, not very long

ago, the bush had all been burned off and the land cleared

for farming but now the native bush was starting to reclaim

the hills as its own. Eshah was fascinated and seemed to

remember everything we could tell her and it wasn’t until

we had passed the old whaling station and got well out into

Cook Strait that she was willing to go inside to find Olisa

who, as you might have guessed, was sitting on the edge of

her seat talking to Isabel.

Once the ship had docked in Wellington we drove

off and went directly to Isabel’s house. Before she left

home the day before yesterday she must have bought

pizzas ready for us when we got back to her place. While

she was busy in the kitchen putting them in the oven and

fixing a salad she switched the television on so we could

see the news. At least I presume that was why she put it on.

The other possible reason that bubbled to the surface of my

brain was the knowledge that the girls hadn’t seen any TV

while they were at school in Mozambique and they

probably wouldn’t have received any while they were at

sea on Flintstone. So it was a relatively new experience for

the girls and produced a weird reaction from Olisa. The

news programme had already started and showed

overturned cars burning, guns being fired, smashed streets

and women crying. I realised too late the scenes were

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probably not far enough removed from daily occurrences in

Africa. I didn’t catch were it was happening but I gathered

it was something to do with fighting between religious

factions. I guess tomorrow the news will be much the same

except the people, places and religions will have changed.

It was only a news item and most of us have no difficulty

handling other people’s anguish. We had a few minutes of

relative silence, if you can count artillery shells exploding

as silence. Isabel and I moved the dining table to where she

wanted it in the middle of the room and we pulled out the

extension. I’m certain the position of the table wasn’t

accidental as it was directly underneath the photograph of

Isabel’s daughter Tanya who appeared to be looking down

on us with a smile on her face. Because Isabel and I were

busy with the table we didn’t notice Olisa. She had her eyes

shut and her hands over her ears and was emitting a low

moan. Basil must have seen what was happening to Olisa

and stood up and turned off the TV by which time it was

only showing rugby, which he said wasn’t interesting

enough to even qualify as a distraction. Isabel brought in

the pizzas and we all sat round the table. She had been

thoughtful enough to provide vegetarian pizzas for Basil

and me. We shared a celebratory bottle of wine with the

meal. When we moved into easy chairs for after dinner

coffee Isabel put on a CD containing John Lennon’s

Imagine.

Basil and I offered to wash the dishes while Isabel

and the girls sat together on the sofa and for once Olisa

didn’t do all the talking.

Basil picked up the tea towel and held it up for me

to read. I remember grinning as I read it because it was so

typical of Isabel. I haven’t seen one like it since. At the top

there was a picture of baby’s dummy with syrup dripping

from the teat. At the bottom, the picture displayed a village

in ruins. It seemed to reflect, not just what we had just seen

on TV, but the ghosts which I believe the girls may not be

able to bury deep enough. It said:

Religion isn’t only a dummy dipped in honey

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For people who can’t face the realities of life or death.

Religion is an addictive toxin that paralyses rational

thought.

And leaves a trail of destruction behind it.

At the bottom of the tea towel underneath the

picture of a burnt out village there was a placard, burnt in

one corner and laying on its side. It said:

“By their fruits shall you know them.”

Signed Jesus.

It was several days later at the naturist club when I

saw Isabel alone and made a comment about Olisa’s

inability to stop talking. In reply she nodded and smiled

and suggested we should go for a walk round to the lake.

As we walked she explained, ‘Things are not

always what they seem, Jasmine. Most of the girls that

come to our school come when they are toddlers. Most of

them are under two. But when Olisa came to us she was

five – almost six. She was one of the very few girls who

knew her name when she arrived. I’ve had to name most of

the girls and naturally I’ve given them African names. I

won’t tell you what happened to Olisa before the medical

team brought her in. That wouldn’t be fair. Her past is her

secret. If she wants you to know she’ll tell you herself. But

to help you understand it’s enough to say she came to us at

an age when she could remember in detail a lot of what had

happened to her and the rest of her family. The scar tissue

of those early years is imbedded in her mind. When some

girls are frightened or confused they clam up, but Olisa

talks. She’ll talk about anything, except what’s worrying

her. It’s her defence mechanism. The medical profession

will tell you we have evolved to respond to danger with an

adrenalin rush to prepare us for flight or fight. In a lot of

modern situations neither is a very appropriate response. I

think it’s fair to say our little school has been the only

period of stability in Olisa’s life. That period of stability

ended a few months ago. She was put on a boat with Eshah

and two strangers to sail half-way round the world to find –

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God know what. She’d never seen the sea until she

embarked on a voyage that even hardened sailors would

find daunting. Can you remember what happened when

Dee had to be winched to the top of the mast in a storm?

Olisa must have been terrified for Dee’s safety and

probably for her own safety as well. This would have been

a totally alien experience for her. All her old fears would

have returned. Panic took over. So she just shut her eyes,

clung to the mast and chanted Dee’s name. When she

arrived here Flint and Dee sailed out of her life. Then two

strangers, you and Basil took her into an unknown forest

with unknown dangers to head towards a future she

couldn’t comprehend. You and I have a good idea what she

could expect, but she hadn’t a clue. She’s getting to know

you now and when her confidence returns she’ll calm down

and this incessant chattering will stop. Then she’ll be able

to carry on a normal two-way conversation. In the

meantime I hope you’ll know what to do, and what not to

do.’

I smiled. ‘Thanks for explaining it. I’ll do my best

but I’m not sure...’

‘Just listen to her and whatever you do don’t tell

her to shut up. That would be counter productive as it’s a

form of rejection. Trust me; it’ll all come right naturally

when she’s ready. Listen to the way she talks to Eshah.

There is no continual jabbering there because Eshah is a

trusted companion. Today I’ve had both Eshah and Olisa

helping Mosi in the garden. Gardening is something

tangible and non-threatening. Back in Africa both of them

have got on well with Mosi and I’m pretty sure, as time

goes on, you’ll find Olisa changes from a frightened

jabbering girl to a quietly spoken young woman. She just

needs time and compassion and I don’t think she needs any

more television yet. That was my mistake.’

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Chapter 10 The trouble with doing the Queen Charlotte Track twice so

close together meant I’d had a total of fifteen days off

work. Well four of them would have been my normal days

off and I took a total of six days out of my annual leave and

for the remaining five days I’d swapped rosters. So now I

had to pay them back, which meant I wouldn’t get any days

off for the best part of the next three weeks. These were

valuable weeks to me because only two days after we got

back from the Sounds Basil flew back to Australia. So I

should have had a month of freedom but because of paying

back the rosters for three of those weeks I didn’t get a

single day off. To make things worse the days were getting

shorter, the weather was turning colder and we were about

to lose the extra daylight saving hour. Not a good prospect

for a girl who is still a seriously laid back beach-bum at

heart.

The evening after I saw Basil off on the plane I was

in the process of getting myself some dinner when I had a

phone call from Isabel asking me if she could drive round

to my place as there was something she wanted to discuss

with me. Other than getting my dinner I didn’t have

anything else to do that evening. About forty minutes later

she turned up and I finished eating my omelette and baked

beans while she explained what had happened in the last

week or so. She’d obviously been busy while we were

away. While Basil and I were taking Eshah and Olisa along

the track, she’d been talking to Camille and Rees and since

then they’d both become paid-up members of the naturist

club. But that was only the introduction; there was more

news pending. Isabel had told them about her school in

Mozambique and why and how it was formed. Presumably

she had told them more or less the same story she told us.

She also explained that her own health was failing and she

didn’t think she’d be able to carry on much longer and was

looking for someone – preferably a young committed

couple with the right skills and disposition to take over the

running of the school with funding supplied by the

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Hardcastle trust. I believe they talked about it well into the

night with the result Rees and Camille were now

committed to leave work in two months time and to go

away with Isabel and get first hand experience in running

of the school with a view to eventually taking it over full-

time. Presumably that would be with the assistance of the

two African women from the village and I imagine Heather

Marshal would still be in the picture somewhere. I know

from experience Isabel can be a very persuasive woman

and from the things we learned about Rees and Camille

while we walked the track with them, I don’t think they’d

need much in the way of persuasion to change their

lifestyle.

That was the news Isabel brought with her but it

wasn’t the reason for her visit. Running the school in

Africa was only half the story. The other half was bringing

the girls here and assisting with their integration into New

Zealand and simply keeping an eye on them. Again she

spoke about her age and her failing health and the way her

age was a barrier to understanding the way young people

thought and acted. This of course was the lead up to asking

if Basil and I would take a bigger part in the work, with the

objective of eventually taking over the whole New Zealand

chapter of the project. I said I’d have to ask Basil first. At

that Isabel grinned and added, ‘It isn’t accidental that I’ve

come to see you while Basil is in Australia. I know enough

about the two of you to know if you say “Yes”, Basil will

raise doubts but end up doing what you want. I’ve gone

directly to the real source of the power.’

With that sort of flattery it’s hard to say no. So I

said I couldn’t commit Basil until I’d spoken to him. But in

the meantime I’d discovered none of the girls could swim

because their school in Mozambique was inland and there

were no lakes or rivers nearby where they could learn. I’d

gathered from talking to the girls that even if there had

been any water nearby they probably wouldn’t have been

allowed to go in it because of crocs and hypos and the like.

Apparently swimming wasn’t something they did in their

village. So Isabel immediately offered to enrol Mosi, Eshah

104

and Olisa in my adult swimming classes for two sessions a

week. She paid for them herself and I still have no idea

whether she would have got the money back from the

Hardcastle trust account. Of course if it was left to me I’d

have taught them for free but all formal swimming lessons

had to be booked through the office. And, with the weather

getting colder, they wouldn’t want to learn in the naturist

lake. So, twice a week, Isabel drove them to the pool and

sat on the seats at the side as a spectator. I went into the

water with the girls and I think I continued to gain their

confidence. Eshah was the first to swim a width by herself.

Starting about two weeks into the period that Basil

was in Australia Camille was working nights at the

hospital, so she was sleeping till about mid-day, and in the

afternoon, which was the only spare time she got, she drove

to the naturist club to talk to Isabel and the three girls.

Isabel told me that most afternoons Camille spent an hour

or two in the garden helping the girls and trying to get a

better understanding of their school environment and their

health problems. I didn’t manage to catch up with Camille

during this time as she had to leave to get ready for her

night-shift before I left work. According to Isabel she was

trying to glean as much information as possible about the

village and the school. Of course during this time Rees

would have been at the Correspondence School marking

scripts and waiting for the clock to reach five to five so he

could go join the traffic jam trying to get out of the city.

Isabel had told me frequently that Camille and

Rees wanted to catch up with me to gain my first

impressions of the girls following our six days with them

on the track. I told Isabel I’d enjoyed being with Camille

and Rees and would like to see them again as soon as

possible. But I couldn’t see how it was going to work while

Camille was doing the graveyard shift at the hospital and

couldn’t go out in the evenings. Meanwhile I was working

during the day and only had evenings free. In any case they

lived in Upper Hutt which isn’t the easiest place to get to

from Porirua.

105

In the meantime I was working all day without

getting a day off, which ain’t good for a woman who’s a

barely reformed beach-bum. It was that time of the year

when, in the animal kingdom, the great migrations take

place. It was also the time when motor-homes go into

hibernation and seriously laid back beach-bums cease

glistening in suntan oil and by a weird metamorphis change

into nocturnal party-girls who breakfast at lunchtime and

do their hair and makeup in the afternoons. I was working

every day and bored. I cycled to the naturist club for a

couple of evenings, but with the darker evenings there

wasn’t much going on. The TV was about as interesting as

hanging out washing. I tried ringing round some of my old

mates from the beach club but I couldn’t get hold of

anyone.

Like a persistently dripping tap a single memory

kept me awake for hours that night. Eventually I must have

dropped off to sleep but I was still analysing the idea when

I woke up. I thought about it all day on Monday, on

Tuesday afternoon I plucked up the courage to do

something about it. I think the thought originated during

the first time we did the Queen Charlotte Track. It could

have had its initial rite of passage as far back as that first

evening when we swam out and played ball with the guys

on the boat. There was certainly quite a bit of bodily

contact which I guess was what upset Basil. Other things

too happened along the track. I felt I got on better with

Rees than I should have done with a recently married man.

Don’t misunderstand me, nothing happened except for the

fact that I felt we established a rapport, perhaps even an

affinity for each other. I hadn’t a clue what reaction I’d get

when late on Tuesday evening I picked up the phone and

rang his work number.

I explained that Basil was away in Australia for the

next couple of weeks and as Camille would be on night-

shift at the hospital I wondered whether he’d like to drive

round to my place to keep me company for the evening so

we could get to know each other better before they went to

106

Mozambique. Men normally respond well to such

invitations. Rees was no exception.

He didn’t seem to be in any doubt about where the

expression, “keeping me company” could lead because, as I

discovered later that evening, on his way to my place he’d

taken the precaution of dropping by at the supermarket to

purchase a bottle of wine, a couple of decadent Danish

pastries and a discrete small package. He didn’t tell me but

I’d put ten bucks on the fact that he’d have made a point of

paying with cash instead of using his credit card. Once out

of the supermarket my ten bucks says he’d have deposited

the till docket in a rubbish bin rather than putting it into his

wallet along with the change. I do know at some point he

must have taken the small package out of the supermarket

plastic bag and slipped it into the top pocket in his shirt.

OK this didn’t come as a great surprise to me. Lots of men

like to be prepared just in case. And women don’t invite

married men round to their place without thinking through

the implications. And obviously he’d thought through both

the implications and the possibilities. It was thinking

through those same implications that made me hesitate for

twenty-four hours prior to phoning him. But I look at it this

way; women are entitled to a full sex life. With Basil away

for half the time I was down to fifty-percent but in reality it

was a hell of a lot worse than fifty-percent. Even when he

was here, Basil was normally about as stimulating as a

vibrator with a flat battery.

During the course of the evening we ate the Danish

pastries and drank the wine, but the small package stayed

in his shirt pocket for the simple reason I’m on the pill so it

wasn’t needed. In any case I hate those things; using them

is like having a warm, soapy bath in a raincoat. After he’d

left I wondered what he’d do with it. He didn’t leave it here

and I bet he didn’t take it home with him and neither did he

bring it back with him again the next night. Come to think

of it he didn’t bring any more wine or Danish pastries

either. Nevertheless it was a hell of a lot more satisfying

experience than with Basil. I don’t think it was only

107

because Rees was someone new, although of course that

always helps.

Having had him a couple of times I was quite keen

to see Camille again. I know this sounds weird, it’s

probably something to do with ... Oh forget it. I know it

works because I’ve done it several times. When I’ve just

had someone’s partner or husband I get a hell of a kick out

of just chatting to his wife about ordinary everyday things

in the knowledge that she hasn’t a clue about what we’ve

been doing or how good it was. It’s a sort of repressed

adrenalin rush which is exactly what you need when you’re

feeling as bored as a gravestone.

Well, as it happened, I did see her. But it was a lot

sooner than I expected and very different from how I’d

imagined that meeting would be.

It happened like this. At about three o’clock the

following afternoon I didn’t have any swimming classes so

I reverted to being a pool attendant. That involved

wandering round the pool in my swim suit, checking no

one was drowning and chatting to anyone who wanted

someone to talk to. When I returned from my coffee break,

sitting on the edge of the pool with her feet in the water I

saw Camille. She stood up as I approached.

‘Hi Jazzy. It’s good to see you. I thought for a

change I’d have a swim before I start my night-shift.’

As soon as she said it I knew she was lying because

she’d have driven past three other swimming pools to get

here.

Then she added, ‘Well that’s not strictly true. I

needed to see you. Rees said I’d probably be able to catch

up with you here.’

‘It’s great to see you again. Isabel tells me you and

Rees are going to help run her school in Mozambique.’

‘Yes that’s right. I’ve already told them at work.

I’m really looking forward to being able to spend more

time with Rees. These night-shifts are not what any married

couple needs.’ She hesitated and smiled. ‘But I guess you

already know all about that with Basil being away for

months at a time.’

108

Camille was obviously driving the conversation

into a narrowing gorge. I didn’t know how to reverse the

direction of the conversation or find another route between

the hills because I’d no idea how much she knew and how

much was speculation. I couldn’t see any reason why she

should suspect anything unless Rees had been careless.

This wasn’t how I’d imagined my first discussion with her.

She was in control. As a result, and being unable to think

quickly enough I just replied with a lame, ‘Yes, I suppose

so.’

Camille touched my hand and lightly squeezed my

wrist. ‘Don’t worry Jazzy.’ I guess she called me Jazzy

because that’s how she remembered me from primary

school. ‘I’m not going to push you into the pool or stamp

on your toes. Rees and I had a long conversation in the

early hours of the morning as soon as I got back from my

graveyard-shift. I guess you’ve got a pretty good idea what

we talked about.’

I didn’t have a clue what to say. Did she really

know, or was she fishing to see what she could find out,

and if I admitted anything would I drop Rees in the shit? So

I decided to give a non-committal answer. ‘I hate those

early morning discussions when I’m just waking up and

imagination becomes real and reality is about as elusive as

marsh mist.’

‘Oh, there was nothing unreal in what Rees told

me. It all sounded very plausible to me.’ She looked around

the pool and continued. ‘I don’t see anyone in here

drowning so can you spare a few minutes to sit on the edge

of the pool so we can dangle our feet in the water and have

a chat? It’s important to me, and I think you owe me a few

minutes because it’s my marriage you’ve been playing

around with.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘And your’s as

well.’

‘Of course.’ There was nothing else I could say and

we both sat on the pool edge.

Camille spoke softly and there was no trace of

anger in her voice when she asked. ‘Did Rees make up the

story that you rang him at work and invited him round to

109

your place so the two of you could get to know each other

better while I was at work and Basil was away in

Australia?’

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Yes, and he told me quite a lot more as well.’

Obviously she knew, so there was no point in

keeping up the pretence. ‘No, Rees didn’t make that up.

That’s exactly what happened.’

‘Thank you for being honest Jazzy. I’d much

sooner know the truth than have my imagination create

monsters where none existed. I take it he was also telling

the truth when he said, getting to know you better involved

getting to know you intimately and I believe that happened

on two consecutive nights.’

What else could I say? ‘Yes we made love each

night.’

‘Made love? I wonder. Love and sex are not the

same thing Jazzy. It’s possible to love someone and not

have sex with them and it’s equally possible to have sex

with someone you don’t love. Rees has told me what it

meant for him. Which was it for you?’

‘It was recreational sex and nothing more. Well

perhaps it was more, for me it was a hell of a lot more

satisfying than with Basil.’

‘I suppose that’s an unsolicited recommendation I

ought to pass on to Rees, but I expect you’ve already told

him yourself haven’t you?’

‘We were filling in an otherwise empty evening.

There never was any question of a lasting affiliation as far

as I was concerned and I’m certain Rees felt and feels the

same.’

‘That’s what Rees said. Not in the same words but

the meaning was clear.’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you Camille. And I mean

that.’

‘But you still went ahead and did it. It’s a scratch

and nothing more. It will heal. Untreatable festering

suspicions would be a lot worse. They can become so

infected that amputation is the only and final solution. But

110

now I’ve spoken to you I’m convinced I’ve been told what

happened and why. I’d be a sorry sort of person if I

couldn’t face reality and a very stupid one if I let

something like this destroy what for me is a beautiful

relationship with my husband.’

Camille looked me directly in the eye when she

asked, ‘Will you tell Basil when he comes back?’

I shook my head. ‘I tend to adopt the policy that

what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

‘Well what you tell him or don’t tell him is your

business. Rees and I won’t say anything. I hope it works

out OK for you. I guess it’s important that it does, because

the days are coming when we’ll all have to work together

with Rees and me in Mozambique and you two here

rehabilitating the girls when they arrive. We can’t let

antagonism and distrust get in the way.’

‘I’m glad you came to see me Camille. I genuinely

hope I’ve not done any lasting damage to you and Rees.

The whole thing was my fault.’

‘It was a combination of things and just to show

there are no hard feelings I’d like to invite you to dinner at

our place and I promise not to put poison in your soup!’

‘Thank you, I’d love to come. When do you

suggest?’

‘I’m doing the graveyard-shift up till Friday so I’ll

need to sleep till mid-day on Saturday. Rees has all the

weekends off. Would Saturday or Sunday evening be OK

for you?’

‘Yes either. I’ll be working during the day but

evenings would be fine.’

‘Shall we say Sunday then?’

‘OK, how do I get to your place? I don’t drive.’

‘I know, I’ve been thinking about that. How would

it be if I got Rees to pick you up and run you home

afterwards? He seems to know where you live.’

I hesitated before replying as I thought my way

through the implications and couldn’t make any sense of

them. I had to make some response and I ended up

rambling on as phrases tumbled over themselves.

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‘That wasn’t a casual suggestion was it Camille?

Most women in your position would be watching and

analysing every move I make. But you’re not, and I don’t

think you’re naive.’

I got stuck then and didn’t know how to proceed.

So I swished my feet in the pool while she looked at me

expectantly waiting for me to continue.

I rambled on. ‘You know full well you’ve just set

up the ideal opportunity for us to misbehave again behind

your back.’

That didn’t sound right so I tried a diversion. ‘I

suppose you’ve created the opportunity for us to decide

that what happened recently is now burnt out and no hot

coals remain. If you’re giving us time together to scatter

the ashes I appreciate the gesture.’

This was gibberish. That wasn’t what I wanted to

say and I seemed to be getting lost again so I added,

‘You’re a remarkable woman and you’re demonstrating

your faith, based on very little, that I won’t betray your

trust. I’ve already gone a step to far, I know that now, and I

knew it at the time, but now I’ll guarantee I won’t misplace

your confidence because I know you’ll be trusting me and

trusting Rees.’

I guessed that might be what she wanted to hear so

I thought it best to quit while I had the chance. The old

proverb ran through my mind. “If you’re digging yourself

into a hole it’s advisable to stop digging.”

She seemed to confirm that decision with a smile.

‘I hoped that would be your reaction when I made the

suggestion. You see trust is the only tool I have to defend

what I want to be a beautiful marriage. Perhaps I’m too

naive for this world. Trust by its very nature doesn’t have a

keen edge. I’m not asking you to refrain from any

interaction with my husband. For one thing it’s a bit late for

that and for another if the two of you are sufficiently fired

up you’ll do what you want in some trysting place. I’d

prefer you to leave my husband alone. But what I’m

requesting is that you don’t carry on in secret. I need to

know. My marriage won’t survive attempting to monitor

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every move Rees makes. For one thing it wouldn’t work. It

would be like trying to plug all the holes in a colander. I

don’t want a marriage under siege. I can live with facts, but

not my own imagination. If everything goes to plan, in a

few months we’ll be on the other side of the world. Perhaps

that’s another good reason for going, but it’s not the

solution; if it’s not you sooner or later it’ll be someone else.

At least I know who you are and I can talk to you. Can you

appreciate what I’m saying? Am I making sense, or am I

talking emotional nonsense?’

‘No you’re not talking nonsense. I understand

exactly what you’re saying and I can see it from your

perspective. I’m sorry for hurting you...’

‘But are you sorry for what you did?’

‘Do you want me to be honest or say what I think

you’d like to hear?’

‘I want you to be honest.’

‘I got a lot of satisfaction from it and I didn’t think

much about the possibility of hurting you because I

assumed you wouldn’t know about it. I don’t know what I

can do to put it right.’

‘What’s happened can’t be reversed. I can choose

to get over it or let it fester inside me. I’m going to get over

it. My concern is what’s going to happen. Do you know the

answer to that?’

‘I think I’ve hurt you too much already to do it

again.’

‘That’s easy to say, but I’d like to hear the same

story from both of you after you’ve discussed it and made a

proper decision. So I’m giving you the opportunity to be

alone with Rees both in his car and at your house. I’m

hoping I’m not making a mistake. I’d like you to talk to

him and explain what I’ve just said to you about how

damaging secret liaisons can be.’

‘I won’t let you down Camille.’

‘We’ll see. Would a pick up at five-thirty be OK

for you?’

‘Great.’

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As she stood up she added, ‘Thanks for talking to

me Jazzy. I feel a lot better now. I must be getting back and

try missing the going-home traffic, also I’ve got a lot to do

before my night-shift this evening. See you on Sunday.

Bye.’

With that she disappeared back into the women’s

changing room. She was gone so I continued my patrol

round the pool but my mind was busy creating brilliant

responses that I never thought of at the time, and in reality

would have been just as jumbled as the rubbish I’d just

been talking. I suspect if someone in the pool had been

drowning I might not have noticed.

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Chapter 11 After work on Saturday I slipped round to the supermarket

on my bike. I bought a bottle of white wine that was on

special and a box of after dinner mints. I wasn’t too

impressed with the supermarket flowers but I managed to

catch the florists before they shut. I got a bunch of flowers

that I reckoned would fit in the panniers on my bike

without getting squished. The florist showed me the

selection of cards they had and offered to lend me a gold

pen if I wanted to write an accompanying message. I wrote,

“Sorry, I won’t do it again.” And signed it “Jasmine”

because I figured it was Jazzy who had been sort of

naughty, but Jasmine who was apologising. The florist

must have read what I wrote and when I handed the pen

back to her she smiled and made the comment that I’d be

surprised how many people sent that same message with

flowers.

I didn’t have any contact with either Camille or

Rees until he came to pick me up on the Sunday evening.

I’d decided I wouldn’t ring him again even to confirm

everything was still OK for the pick up. I reckoned if he

didn’t turn up that was how it had to be and I wasn’t going

to intervene. Also I made sure I wasn’t wearing anything

that could be considered even slightly provocative. I just

wore my maroon jeans and a white blouse with a cardigan

on top and flat shoes. I washed my hair and put on a hair-

band which is about as neat as my rebellious mop ever gets.

Also I made sure I was totally ready for him, if and when

he arrived.

Despite my doubts that he would turn up, his

timing was spot on; he arrived at exactly five-thirty as I’d

agreed with Camille. Without me initiating anything he put

his arms round me, gave me a bear-hug and kissed my

cheek. I responded in the usual way. Then I picked up my

handbag, the flowers and the bag with the wine and mints.

As we walked out to his car, he told me he’d been thinking

a lot about me in the last few days and he’d been looking

forward to seeing me again. I’d had no problem with

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getting into bed with him but now I wasn’t sure how to

respond. It was one of those times when my instincts were

giving me mixed messages.

As we drove off I asked how Camille found out

about us.

‘She didn’t find out. I told her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m married to her, I love her and she has

a right to know.’

‘If you love her why tell her something that would

upset her?’

‘Because I want our marriage to be based on

respect. If I start telling her lies or half-truths, or lies of

omission my credibility will evaporate faster than a puddle

in the mid-summer sun. Would you trust someone who lied

to you or wrapped up the truth in such a fancy package that

it became a lie?

‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.’

‘But what she suspects and can’t verify, could hurt

her far more. Also that sort of pain can linger for decades.’

‘Did I cause a row between you and Camille?’

‘No, she always stays calm and doesn’t get angry.’

I commented as non-judgementally as I could, ‘So

you told Camille about us, as opposed to her finding out

about it?’

‘Yes. I thought about it and telling her seemed the

right thing to do. Secrets breed suspicion and suspicion

consumes everything in its path. For us honesty is an

essential ingredient in our marriage and honesty in this case

included admitting I’d been with you. I hope when you saw

Camille at the pool she didn’t come across as being too

judgemental towards you.’

‘No she didn’t. I think she was looking for

verification that you had told her everything. As she

seemed to know exactly what had happened I told her the

complete story in my words, which included confessing

that I rang you in the first place; that I was bored and

seduced you, or words to that effect.’

‘What did she say?’

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‘She invited me to a meal at your place and

promised not to put poison in my soup. Then she did

something else that surprised me even more. She offered to

get you to pick me up this evening. That was after I’d told

her I was the one who initiated it.’

‘You find that surprising?’

‘Yes of course I do. She’s provided us with an

opportunity. We could have done it at my place or we

could pull off the road and do it in your car right now. It

wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it in a car. She has no

means of verifying whether we’ve done it or not.’

‘Except for the belief that if we did something like

that I’d tell her. Despite everything, she’s trusting us. But I

guess what she really wants us to do with the time together

is to voluntarily decide to permanently put this behind us.

It’s what I want as well, not because I didn’t enjoy what we

did. You were great, but I’d like to keep it as a beautiful

incident rather than have the memory of it stained by

causing distress to Camille.’

I guess that was quite a nice way of dumping me.

When we got to Rees’s place he drove onto the

drive, pressed a remote on the windscreen, the garage door

opened automatically and the garage lights turned on. I

picked up my packages from the back seat and walking

through an internal door we went into the kitchen.

When I gave Camille the flowers she gave me a

hug and thanked me. Then she read the card, smiled and

put the card in the rubbish bin together with the comment,

‘We don’t need that any more, do we. That’s history.’ I

gave her a grin and replied, ‘Thanks.’ She arranged the

flowers in a vase, topped it up with water and thanked me. I

wasn’t sure whether she was thanking me for the flowers or

for the message that came with them.

Looking round the spacious kitchen with plenty of

working surfaces I said what a lovely home they had. She

replied, ‘Yes the landlord has a nice house. We should

know, we’re buying it for him. If I miss this house in

Mozambique we won’t miss paying his exorbitant rent. It’s

going to give me a lot of pleasure to give him three weeks

117

notice. As things stand at present we both need to work

full-time, do crazy shifts and we have just about enough

money left to pay for travelling to work and back.

‘What will you do about all your furniture and...’

‘Trade Me and garage sales should account for

most of it. We’re not taking much of it to Mozambique.’

While Camille was busy in the kitchen Rees

opened the bottle of wine I’d brought. He sat on the sofa

and I made a point of sitting in the easy chair opposite him

rather than sitting next to him which would have been the

more obvious place to sit. Camille had her glass of wine

between jobs in the kitchen.

Camille had taken into account my preference for

vegetarian food and I think she must have gone to some

trouble to get something she thought I’d like. That says a

lot about her. We started with dhal soup. I guess,

remembering her quip about not putting poison in my soup,

she served it in a crock-pot and we all helped ourselves

using a ladle. For the main course she served vegetable

korma and rice. Again I noticed we helped ourselves out of

a serving dish and similarly with the dessert which was

fresh fruit salad and yogurt. It was a most enjoyable meal

and I noticed Camille had done everything she could to

make me feel welcome in her house. It was a lot more than

I deserved.

During the meal I talked about the girls arriving

aboard Flintstone. Of course Rees and Camille had never

met Flint or Dee and the conversation drifted on to be more

about them than the girls. Most of what I knew was what

Isabel had told me. The hour or so I’d spent with them in

Ship’s Cove was mainly taken up with dealing with the

girls. I said I was pretty sure Flintstone would still be in

Seaview Marina as they had a lot of work to do on the boat

which included a haul out and getting their sails repaired. I

added that I didn’t think they’d depart without letting us

know about their plans and saying goodbye. It soon became

clear to me Rees wanted to find out more about their boat

while Camille wanted to meet Flint and Dee. I had a pretty

good idea what they were planning so I made the point that

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Eshah, Olisa and Mosi were also anxious to catch up with

Flint and Dee and I was sure Isabel would want to be at the

forefront of anything we did. It was starting to look like a

crowd.

Camille mentioned she was on day shifts this week

and suggested they could both take their cars to work and

between them pick me up together with the three girls and

Isabel and drive us to Seaview Marina to find Flint and

Dee. She added that they might as well make use of the

cars before they sold them. At that point I saw Rees and

Camille glance at each other and I guessed a non spoken

message passed between them. Camille then told me that

apart from their cars she also had a Suzuki GN 250 motor

bike which she had originally bought second-hand to

commute to work. She found it good in summer but she

wanted a bit more protection round her on cold days and

especially after her night shift. So they had bought a second

car on Trade Me and the bike had stayed in the garage ever

since and they were going to try selling it soon. The

obvious implication was that I might be interested in it. She

added that she also had a helmet, gloves, boots and a

powder-blue Kevlar motor cycle jacket and trousers to go

with it. She said all the gear had cost her more than the

bike, and as I’m about her build, she wondered whether I

might be interested, but went on to say if it wasn’t my thing

she’d be able to sell it on the net.

The thought of a motor bike restarted wheels

turning inside my head. Up until now it had just been an

aimless thought drifting somewhere in my subconscious.

I’d never done anything about it. I seem to remember

mentioning it to Rees while we were walking the track. But

I suppose at the time they had no idea they were going to

sell up and head for Africa, while for me it was still a misty

maybe. I didn’t have a driving licence and I’d only ever

ridden on the back of guys’ bikes.

I looked at Camille. ‘I’m tempted.’

Rees grinned. ‘Temptation is always a good place

to start.’ Then he added, ‘We’ll have to get a warrant of

fitness and register it before we can sell it or take it on the

119

road. I guess we could do that this coming week then, if

you’re half interested, Camille or I could take you for a

spin. You would need to do your own insurance and that

could be quite expensive for a learner.’

Camille cut in, ‘You could try on my suit if you

think you might be interested. I bought it new. It’s only in

the wardrobe.’

‘OK. I’ve never worn a motor bike suit before. It

would be fun to try.’

‘I’ll lend you one of Rees’s thick jerseys as well,

because you’ll usually need to wear more than a light

cardigan under it.’

While Camille went to get the suit Rees explained,

‘Round Wellington we have a lot of steep hills and we get

strong winds. You’ll need a bike that’s at least 250 cc to be

able to keep up with the traffic and I think 250 cc is the

maximum size you can legally learn on. It’s not too heavy

for a woman to handle. That’s why Camille got it. The GN

250s have been around for quite a time and are pretty

reliable and cheap to run. Camille has had it regularly

maintained and I think it’s all in good order. If you want a

bike it could be suitable for you. But don’t let me push you

into something you don’t want to do.’

‘Do you know what Camille wants for it?’

‘You’ll have to ask her, but I believe she’s thinking

in terms of fourteen hundred dollars for the suit and the

bike. I think she’d prefer to sell the two together.’

At that point Camille returned with the suit and a

jersey. She explained, ‘You need to wear a protective suit

every time you go out on a bike. If you come off, and lots

of people do at some time, then your protective gear is all

you’ll have between you and the road; and hitting the road

can be like sliding down a cheese grater. I wouldn’t sell

you the bike without all the safety gear to go with it.’

I tried the suit and it could have been made for me.

Camille let me use her full length mirror in her bedroom. I

took off my hair band, shook out my troublemaking curls

and for once, and just for once, my blond mop looked great

against the powder blue of the bike suit. I became Jazzy the

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beach-bum turned bikey in powder blue. Then I tried on the

boots, helmet and gauntlets. They were all black and the

helmet visor was tinted smoky grey. Everything fitted

perfectly but even if it hadn’t fitted I’d have convinced

myself it did. I took off my helmet and as I put it under my

arm I shook out my curls and tried to imagine myself

walking into a roadside cafe, doing just that and seeing the

guys look up from their tables. Even before Camille said it

suited me I knew I had to have it. She even called Rees in

to see me. His comment was, “Wow, it fits you fine”.

Rees led me out into the garage and, pushing the

bike off its stand, he moved it away from the wall so I

could sit astride. Suddenly I felt one hundred percent

image. Camille said if I wanted to buy it she could give me

a run down and a few tips about riding.

I asked her what she wanted for it; and she

confirmed what Rees had said – fourteen hundred dollars. I

asked if I’d be able to let her know finally tomorrow but I

was pretty sure it would be yes.

It had to be yes, yes, yes. But I didn’t mention that

I didn’t have fourteen hundred dollars because I was pretty

sure it would only be a phone call away in Australia.

As soon as Rees had dropped me off at home I rang

Basil and explained I wanted to buy a motor bike from

Camille but I didn’t have enough money for the safety gear

to go with it. Before I’d even finished the sentence he was

telling me the safety gear was essential and asked how

much it cost. As I had a bit above five hundred in the bank

I told him nine hundred dollars and he immediately said

he’d put the money in my bank tomorrow as he couldn’t

contemplate me riding a motor bike without all the

necessary gear. We chatted on for quite a time after that,

and I explained that Camille and Rees were selling up and

moving to Mozambique permanently with the intention of

eventually taking over from Isabel.

I know I’m always negative about his performance

in bed and he’s not exactly a pin-up guy but Basil really is

very generous and considerate. Also I’m sure he’s

121

genuinely concerned about my safety. It’s hard to fault a

guy like that and I suppose I’m lucky to have him.

122

Chapter 12 With being at work every day it was ten days before I had

my first ride on my new motor bike. Every time I filled out

one form two more seemed to drop out of the sky. I had to

get a copy of the road code. Sign the change of ownership

form then I needed a provisional driving licence, and fix up

the insurance. At every step some bureaucrat held out his

begging bowl. Camille and Rees got the warrant of fitness

for me. You wouldn’t believe it, after all that I wasn’t

supposed to take anyone on the back unless they had a

motor bike licence, neither could I ride at night. Isn’t it

typical, I get fired up to let life in and instead I’m supposed

to wear my good-girl face and pad out my life until, like

their damn forms, I go yellow with age and enthusiasm

traverses a darker road of stripped nerves and tilted minds.

I suppose in her sedate moments Jasmine might succumb to

patience and eventually die of listlessness and

dissatisfaction from lack of excitement, but Jazzy ain’t that

sort of girl. And at that moment it was Jazzy not Jasmine

who was wearing her powder-blue bike suit and looking

through her visor at the start button on her bike.

Flintstone was still in harbour. Flint would

welcome a hand with boat maintenance. Jazzy can hold a

paint brush as well as anyone else. And Jazzy wanted to

show off her new bike and gear. Of course Jasmine was

well aware Camille and Rees were planning to drive her

down with the others to see the boat before too long but

that’s not what Jazzy had in mind.

Camille had provided a bit of a driving lesson

when she delivered the bike. Well, at least she’d showed

me where all the controls were and what they did. Jasmine

tends to be uneasy and wary of unleashing so much

horsepower, but from the beginning Jazzy knew instantly

how to ride. Her face lit up with the thought and sound of

the horsepower, as, at the touch of the button, the engine

burst into life. She revved the throttle several time to

sample the masculine roar of the engine that was under her

control.

123

.

Sitting astride the bike I pulled in the clutch,

engaged first gear and let out the clutch. It was as simple as

that and didn’t require a single sheet of paper let alone a

waste-paper basket full. I went through the gears and

watched the speedo climb as I turned onto the main road

and headed towards the marina.

It wasn’t hard to find Flintstone. She was one of

the biggest boats in the compound, the only schooner and

also the only boat that was square rigged on the foremast.

As I have since found out a schooner, square rigged on the

foremast with the mainmast rigged fore-and-aft is also a

brigantine. But I didn’t know that at the time and up till

then I hadn’t had the opportunity to learn much about

boats. That would come later.

I didn’t have to ask anyone where Flintstone was. I

found her sitting in a cradle and, being out of the water,

looked twice as big as I remembered her. Flint was

squatting underneath. He was wearing a black T shirt and

denim shorts. I stopped the bike alongside the boat, killed

the engine and pulled the bike onto its stand in what I

figured was a nonchalant easy movement. As I walked

towards Flint I pulled off my gauntlets then my helmet and

as soon as he glanced towards me I flicked my head to

shake out my blond curls.

As soon as he recognised me he stood up and

walking towards me gave me a hug. Then holding me at

arms his eyes travelled the length of my body.

‘Heh! You’re far to smart to be seen round a

smelly old boat-yard like this.’

I put my gauntlets and helmet onto a baulk of

timber and as I unzipped my suit I grinned, ‘I’m just a

slightly-shop-soiled Jazzy and keen to get a bit of grime

beneath my fingernails. What’s the next job skipper?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of riding all

this way if I wasn’t serious.’

‘Well never let it be said I turned down a

proposition from a beautiful young woman especially one

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with such a charming smile. Tell me, are you really Miss

New Zealand or do you just look like her?’

I hung my head on one side. ‘I’m really hurt that

you had to ask. It should have been obvious from the

moment that you first saw me. I instantly recognised you as

Mr Universe as soon as I saw your beautiful blond curls.’

He looked at the hull as if it was a mirror and

preening his hair like a woman and speaking with a

woman’s voice asked, ‘Oh! Do you really think so

darling?’

‘Of course I don’t, you’ve got the same lousy mop

that I’ve got. But by praising attributes which you know

you haven’t got I can insult you with impunity.’

He grinned and ruffled my hair and it felt

pleasantly intimate.

‘So where’s all this work you need doing?’

‘Well if you really want to help and haven’t just

come to admire my beautiful golden curls you could make

a start by polishing the prop.’

‘OK, how do I start?’

‘I just use sand paper. Some people use angle

grinders but that makes it too easy to grind grooves into the

metal ’specially if, like me, you’re a bit heavy handed. We

have to clean the prop right back to the bare metal then we

can put a coat or two of Prop Speed on it. It doesn’t prevent

weed and shellfish from growing on it, but it provides a

slippery surface so that as soon as the prop starts turning all

the growth flies off. It’s about the only thing that really

works on propellers. I find it needs doing every second

year.’

‘And it seems like this is the year.’

‘Yes, if you can spare the time to help it would be

greatly appreciated.’

‘Yes sure. It’s why I came.’ But I didn’t add it was

also to see you again.

‘Thanks, then I’ll get you some sandpaper. I’ll get

you a sanding block as well but, because the prop is all

curves, you’ll probably find it of limited use. I find just

125

folding the paper in two and using my hand is about as

good as anything.’

A couple of minutes later Dee came down the

ladder and saw me. ‘Hi Jasmine, I thought I heard Flint

talking to someone.’

Flint answered, ‘She’s just come over on her

motorbike to give us a hand. She’s polishing the prop for

us.’

‘Well that’s kind of you Jasmine. I’m just about to

start preparing dinner. Would you be able to join us? I’m

afraid it won’t be anything very flash because the boat’s in

a real mess with all the maintenance we’re doing.’

‘That would be great, because I came straight from

work. Thanks’

‘Is there anything special that you don’t eat?’

I decided to ignore my preference for vegetarian

food.

‘No I eat pretty well anything.’

‘That makes it easy then. I was about to do

something with some beef mince.’

‘That sounds perfect for me. Thanks Dee.’

Dee disappeared back into the cabin and I resumed

work on the prop.’

As Flint and I worked we continued talking. I

wanted to learn from him. He explained what he was doing

which was polishing the terminals on a copper strip and

replacing the anodes. Apparently he has to do this every

year to prevent electrolytic corrosion caused by having

dissimilar metals in the hull. I didn’t quite follow what he

was saying but he seemed to know what he was doing, so I

guess it works.

We worked in silence for a bit then he asked, ‘How

are Eshah and Olisa getting on?’

‘I haven’t seen a lot of them since we got back

from the Sounds because I’ve been at work every day

without a break, but they seem to be getting over their long

voyage.’

‘You’re not supposed to get over a voyage. Every

external voyage should be balanced by an equal internal

126

voyage. If that doesn’t happen the voyage was a waste of

time.’

I had to ponder that for a moment.

‘I guess you’re right Flint. I hadn’t thought of it

like that before. Do you think it makes a difference whether

the experience was good or bad?’

‘No I don’t. Good and bad are just words. They

have no absolute meaning. What’s good and what’s bad

means whatever we want it to mean. When the Americans

dropped a nuclear bomb on Hiroshima, they thought it was

so good they dropped another one on Nagasaki a few days

later. Doubtless the Japanese had a different opinion. On

the other hand I usually consider adultery a delightful

experience yet some religious groups still think it’s good to

stone women to death for doing it. I’ve never known

whether it was intended as punishment or to prevent them

from doing it again.’

‘I’ve always thought things that cause pain and

death are bad.’

Flint turned away from his work to look at me

before he answered. ‘If that was true the whole of the

natural world must be bad. Apart from a handful of top

predators the fate of most creatures is to be torn apart and

eaten alive. But the remaining top predators, including us,

usually die slowly of disease and in pain. The natural world

doesn’t give a damn about pain. Life takes whatever it

needs to stay alive and pass on its genes. Whether

something is good or bad is irrelevant to nature and to most

people. But timid people with an ethereal conscience like to

justify things. I guess it’s a sign of insecurity. Eventually

they redefine what’s good and what they consider bad. But

people with a good robust conscience get on with what they

want to do. For them it’s full speed ahead and to hell with

the torpedoes. I’m convinced if you scratch any act of

benevolence you’ll discover a darker hidden motive below

the surface. People pretend to be altruistic when it’s

convenient, but put the pressure on and they’ll behave like

a pack of wolves.’

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‘Is that why you go to the trouble of bringing

young girls like Eshah and Olisa half-way round the

world?’

‘No, I do that because Dee and I get a great deal of

satisfaction from the wild reckless ride.’ Then almost as an

afterthought he added, ‘And giving a two fingered salute to

the repellent oafs who enjoy the insolence of office.’

I grinned as I realised Jazzy had found a kindred

spirit. I also remembered when I went to the yacht club

with Ralph the commodore told me just about all boat

owners like talking about their boats.

With that in mind I asked, ‘What’s your boat made

of Flint?’

He smiled at the question, so I guessed the

commodore was right.

‘She was built on the Mersey by craftsmen hand

picked by my grandfather prior to the First World War.

That was in the days when they built boats properly. She’s

planked in English oak and the deadwoods are all English

elm. The knees and frames are all cut from grown oak and

she has laid teak decks. All the fastenings are silicon

bronze...’

I didn’t really want to know all this but obviously

Flint wanted to tell me. So I showed interest and even

asked a few questions when it came to talking about how

ash, which I assumed must be an English timber, was bent

into shape for the stringers using a steam box. I probably

shouldn’t have asked him because he continued with the

description of the boat’s construction starting with the

laying up of the keel and eventually he finished with a

confession. I had the impression he thought I might be

shocked by what to him constituted a form of sacrilege.

Apparently about twenty-years ago when they decided to

take the boat from the Northern waters around Britain into

the tropics he had the boat sheathed in fibre glass. This was

to prevent tropical worms boring into the timber. Fibre

glass on a real boat that should be caulked with oakum and

tar! He made it sound as if he was an artist who, having just

won a painting competition, admitted that he’d bought the

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painting in a garage sale and all he did was to sign his

name in the corner.

The glass fibre seemed sensible to me and not

knowing what else to say I made the comment, ‘I’m sure it

was worth it, if it saved your boat from being destroyed.’

‘Yes, reluctantly I suppose I’d have to agree. But it

seems a shame to have done something like that to a vessel

built by English boat builders using traditional techniques

handed down from father to son for hundreds of years. It’s

worse than putting a new Toyota engine into a vintage car.’

‘Do you think you and Dee will ever go back to

Britain to live?’

‘Not if we can avoid it?’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Britain is pockmarked with identical round holes.

It’s the English disease. People either fit into the holes or

miss out or get out. Dee and I have made our choice. In the

Pacific Islands, which is where we’re heading next, anyone

can have whatever size and shape of hole they want.’

The more I thought about Flint the more the

enigma fascinated me. If he was to be believed he was a

traditionalist embedded in English oakum and tar while

only being able to get satisfaction from a wild reckless ride

and giving two fingered salutes to conformity.

Daylight was leaking away and it was starting to

rain. Flint looked at me. ‘Time to pack up I guess.’

Flint and I had been working under the boat and

staying more or less dry. As Flint picked up his tools I was

retrieving my helmet and gauntlets at the same time as Dee

poked her head over the side to tell us dinner was ready.

Flint suggested taking my gear up the ladder and into the

cabin. Once inside the cabin I realised how cold I’d been

outside. Dee had a coal fire burning in a cast iron stove and

the warmth seemed to hit me in the face. I commented on

the welcoming warmth.

Flint nodded. ‘Yes we also have a diesel space

heater which is considerably more convenient. We already

have plenty of diesel but coal is dirty, dusty and needs to be

carried. In addition we need kindling, fire lighters and we

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have to dispose of the ashes. But despite that most people

receive a warm psychological glow from a glimpse of the

flames, even if they are the other side of a glass door.’

Dee cut in. ‘The Southern Ocean is rough and cold.

The damp seems to penetrate into your bones, especially if

you’re used to tropical Africa. There’s no let up. On the

way over here we kept the coal fire burning for a lot of the

trip because Eshah and Olisa liked to curl up together in

front of the fire with their limbs intertwined and their

fingers locked together while they talked in whispers to

each other in Portuguese. It was about the only thing that

would stop Olisa talking to us.’

‘Flint commented, ‘Initially we gave each of them

a single cabin but they wanted to share a double cabin

instead. It made no difference to us.’

While Flint and I washed our hands Dee started to

put the dinner out. Even as we sat at the table we could

hear the halyards starting to flog in the wind. As the meal

progressed the rain became more violent and we could hear

it bouncing off the deck and drumming on the cabin sides.

While Flint opened a bottle of wine and started pouring

Dee commented, ‘It’s a hell of a night to be riding home on

a motor bike. Do you have to go back tonight, or would

you like to stay here and see if it’s better in the morning?

We’ve got empty cabins available if you want.’

I didn’t need to go home; Basil was in Australia

and I could just as easily ride to work from here as from

home. Spending the rest of the evening with Flint and Dee

sounded much more attractive than going out in that

weather and spending the evening talking to myself and

looking at the wallpaper. By the time Flint had put the

second empty wine bottle in the rubbish any intention I had

of returning home that night seemed to have either been

washed away by the rain or left inside the empty wine

bottles.

Dee moved the dinner dishes to the galley and

made the executive decision to worry about clearing up and

washing up in the morning. We sank into the couches as

Flint and Dee explained they weren’t going to see the

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Southern Ocean again for a long time because the tropical

cyclone season was coming to an end, the annual

maintenance work on Flintstone was nearly done and it

was coming up to party time in Fiji.

In the course of the discussions about Fiji the coal

fire turned into a bed of glowing coals and we succeeded in

emptying a third bottle of wine. I can’t quite remember the

order of events, but sometime that evening Dee offered to

give me a massage.

I clearly remember taking all my clothes off and

lying on a towel on the couch while Dee rubbed coconut oil

into my skin. While her hands moved over my body, her

fingers or the wine or a combination of the two reached

into my subconscious. I saw dragon flies hovering above

beds of bull rushes. When her tongue caressed my eyelids

tiny electric blue fish darted through coral reefs. When her

teeth teased my ear lobes a tropical breeze rippled through

fields of sugar cane. I tasted freshly cut papaya when her

tongue touched mine. She spoke in soft musical whispers in

a language I didn’t know but could only be her native

Welsh. If I believed in such things I’d be convinced Dee,

with her witch-black hair, was casting a spell on me. I

don’t know when it happened but at some point in the

evening a subconscious thought seemed to emerge

spontaneously out of the dark like a distant glow from

somewhere beyond my mental horizon. But as Dee’s

tongue and fingers worked their magic my dark horizon

became streaked with colours and the colours became the

fireball that finally transported me into Flint and Dee’s

cabin and into Flint and Dee’s bed.

Of course it happened. It was the first threesome

I’d experienced; and all possible combinations were more

than just sexually satisfying. That night aboard Flintstone

everything changed. I now reckon all of my life I’ve been

an emotional submarine. I’ve cruised through life and

mainly kept my sexual emotions hidden beneath the

surface. OK I might have pushed up my periscope from

time to time to experience what’s available, everyone does

that, and convention says even that’s going a step too far.

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So I guess mostly we conform, retract our periscope, hide

our emotions and continue cruising. But last night I felt as

if a set of depth charges had exploded inside me and blown

apart the myths I had about myself. The wrecked debris of

my former submerged emotions floated to the surface. It

seemed as if every sexual desire I’d had was now exposed

to the world and of course available to me. It took Dee with

a series of emotional depth charges to awaken my

sexuality.

Riding into work the following morning I resolved

never again to hide out of sight in the deep trenches of

frustration. But that story and its unanticipated

consequences remains embedded in my future.

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Chapter 13 I continued riding down to the marina every evening as

soon as I left work and not returning until the following

morning. On Monday, ten minutes after we opened the

pool I saw Isabel. She came straight up to me.

‘Hi Jasmine I’ve been trying to contact you for

several evenings so I thought I’d come to the pool early in

the hope of catching you before you start your classes.’

‘Oh sorry! I visited Flint and Dee after work

yesterday to give them a hand with a bit of the

maintenance. Then it was getting late so they persuaded me

to stay the night. I came here straight after breakfast.’

‘Well I’m glad I’ve caught you. John Hardcastle

has just flown in from Britain and he wants to have a

meeting with all of us. There seems to be only a short

period when we’re all here. Flint and Dee will be sailing to

Fiji as soon as they’ve finished their maintenance. Camille

and Rees are taking off for Mozambique before long and I

believe Basil is due back from Australia shortly, so we’re

trying to arrange a meeting that we can all attend. He has

some important news and wants our opinion on future

plans.’

‘Where does he want us all to meet?’

‘I’ve suggested at the naturalist club. I know John

wants to involve Mosi, Olisa and Eshah and any of the

other girls we can round up. That would make too many

people for my little house. Basil should be back by

Thursday won’t he? ’

‘Yes, as long as his flights work out OK he should

be back on Wednesday.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought you said the other day,

but I seem to be getting more forgetful as the days go by.

I’ll need to check with the others and hopefully we can all

get together on Thursday evening after work.’

I must admit at that stage I was more concerned

with how many more nights I’d be able to spend on

Flintstone before Basil returned from Australia than

attending a meeting with John Hardcastle. I figured I

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needed to stay home on Tuesday evening to do my washing

and make it look as if the place had been lived in before

Basil arrived on Wednesday. That meant I’d have to clean

the entire flat. If he can see two weeks worth of dust on

everything he’ll know I’ve not been home. Also I’ll have to

get some food in the fridge and prepare something nice for

his dinner when he arrives. He always says he’s had a meal

on the plane but still wants whatever I’ve prepared and

wants me to sit down and eat dinner with him. It’s worse

than that, he invariably wants to hold my hand while we’re

eating, which ain’t easy when you’re trying to use a knife

and fork.

Spending all my time with Flint and Dee had meant

I’ve had to rethink every thing I do. Getting showers and

washing my hair hasn’t been a problem because I can do

that at work and I’ve been answering my emails from Basil

on Dee’s computer. Getting enough sleep has been another

matter. We’ve been otherwise occupied half the night.

That’s another reason I needed to stay home on Tuesday

night. In the meantime I’ve had to run on adrenalin,

hormones and red wine. I must admit it’s more than

crossed my mind to stay aboard Flintstone when she sails

for Fiji and forget about Basil. I guess you’re thinking that

makes me out to be a real bitch because Basil has always

been more than generous to me and he has just given me

most of the money to buy my bike. Without that I wouldn’t

have been able to see Flint and Dee every evening; that’s

assuming I still kept going to work.

As Thursday afternoon drifted away we were left

with one of those delightful calm autumn evenings for our

meeting with John Hardcastle. Spontaneously we decided

to move out of the conservatory where we originally

planned to get together and have it sitting on the grass by

the lake. I think that set the tone for the evening discussion.

John Hardcastle opened the meeting.

I’d never met him. He was a big man, probably

about seventy-years-old, with silver-grey hair, white

eyebrows and a particularly large nose. He was casually

dressed with a tan sweatshirt and olive-green slacks. He

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spoke with what I presumed was a North of England accent

but because he spoke slowly I didn’t have much difficulty

understanding what he said.

After welcoming everyone he proceeded to give us

some background about the school in Mozambique.

‘As most of you know about twenty year ago my

son David and Isabel’s daughter Tanya were murdered in

Mozambique. Tanya was a reporter working for the

Guardian newspaper and David was the photographer.

They were planning to git married; and were in the country

reporting on the civil war which, together with disease,

natural disasters, poverty and guerrilla activity was creating

a humanitarian disaster. And I guess you all know about

AIDS. I’m afraid it’s a familiar story; if there’s no oil or

readily exploitable natural resources the rest of the world

ain’t interested. Sometimes that can be a good thing, but in

this case huge swathes were being cut through the

population and no one in the outside world seemed to know

or care. Tanya and David were trying to mobilise public

concern when they were permanently silenced. At least that

was the intention of the assassins. But things turned out

differently. A German medical team operating in the area

discovered their bodies. The Guardian newspaper became

involved, the murder and the reasons for it, resonated round

the world. For a brief moment a reluctant world became

aware.

A David and Tanya Memorial Trust Fund were sit

up. This were administered jointly by the Hardcastle

Financial Services and the Hardcastle Legal Team. Initially

the fund consisted of about two hundred and fifty thousand

pound. A proportion of this was spent on setting up a

school for orphaned girls in a village environment close to

where Tanya and David were killed. Isabel has tirelessly

dedicated her life to the success of this school and the

subsequent rehabilitation of our girls. Anyone will tell you

it’s bin a resounding success and all our girls are now

living full and useful lives when abduction, the sex trade

and an early death would have been the probable prognosis

for each of ’em. But Isabel intervened. You can see some

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of the results sitting here with us today. I’m sure you know

it, but I can assure everyone here, Mosi, Eshah and Olisa

owe their lives to Isabel’s dedicated service. And no story

about the school would be complete without mention of

Heather. She has never married and has a physical

disability. Those of you who know her will know what that

disability is and if you don’t know it’s irrelevant. When

Isabel first sit up the school Heather left her teaching job to

take on half of the work. She has done this tirelessly for

twenty years keeping the school running with help from

African women from the village during the periods when

Isabel has been over here. I think it’s fair to say the girls

have teased Heather mercilessly, made fun of her disability

and treated her with the utmost affection and respect. God

help anyone outside the school who had a harsh word to

say about Heather. The cumulative effects of age and the

ravages of a tropical climate are now forcing her into semi-

retirement. Sadly the years are also overtaking Isabel but,

inspired by her example, Camille and Rees are heading out

to Mozambique to begin the process of taking over what

age is attempting to steal from us.

In the meantime the Hardcastle Financial Services

has been busy. It’s only recently I realised the extent of

their work. They invested part of the initial two hundred

and fifty thousand pound. And I can tell you the Hardcastle

family have learned a thing or two about financial

investments. Twenty years on, the trust fund has a capital

value of close to twelve million pound and is showing an

annual return of about a million pound. The fund is

accumulating. In accordance with our founding documents

now we can afford to do more for the children in

Mozambique and for their subsequent rehabilitation. The

rehabilitation is equally as important as the school. It would

be a cruel thing to save youngsters and, as soon as they’ve

finished their schooling, toss them back into the system that

failed ’em and would continue to do so. These ain’t jist

kids we’re talking about; they’re Isabel’s daughters, every

one of ’em. And she’s been doing her girls proud. And I

know that because over the last few days I’ve been driving

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all over the country and talking to ’em. That’s why we’re

all at this meeting. And while I’m still in New Zealand I

want to hear from you and git your ideas. It don’t have to

be today, or this week, or even this year, but we do want to

hear from you. Don’t be small minded, we can spread the

net wider and think bigger. Jasmine and Basil are throwing

their weight in behind. It’s a big world out there. In the

proud tradition of English pirates Flint and Dee don’t have

a problem wi’ national borders. We can think outside the

box and we’ve got the brass to back it. We don’t need to

wait for opportunity to cum to us. We can make it happen.

Now you’ve heard a bucket full o’ talk from me so

now I want to hear from you. And while you’re thinking

about it Isabel and Mosi have fixed a bite to eat for us. This

talking makes hungry work.’

We sat in a rough circle and everyone seemed to be

asking questions and talking at once. I heard Camille ask

John why the school only had girls and no boys.

John answered, ‘That’s a good question. Girls in

Mozambique have a rougher ride than boys. There’s no

equality there, boys git preferential treatment. Not many

girls get an education and a lot get sold and even at toddler

age git used in sex trade especially if they have no

protecting family. Our girls became Isabel’s daughters to

replace Tanya. We can’t help everyone. For every one we

take there’s a hundred we don’t. But you’re right. Boys

also need help. Now we’ve got more brass we’ll be taking

on more children and some of them could be boys. The

German medical team always has more referrals than we

can cope with. It’ll be up to you to do what you can, once

you git there.’

Just then Rees asked the same question that I’d

have asked if he hadn’t beaten me to it.

‘With all that money available why hasn’t more

been spent to make things easier for Isabel and to provide

more facilities for the school? Why is it only now we’re

hearing about it?’

‘That’s a complicated question to answer. First it

assumes that money held in an investment portfolio is

137

readily available to be spent. And the other assumption is

that Isabel wanted more money either for herself or for the

school. Let me deal with that first. Apart from teaching the

girls academic subjects Isabel has also been teaching the

girls self-reliance and co-operation. The older girls have

had to help and feed the younger ones. Each of the girls

was an orphan when they was brought to school. In a

family girls, and boys for that matter, learn domestic skills

from their mum and dad, grandparents and siblings. The

school was the only family these girls have ever had. They

grew their own food in the gardens. Most of these girls

can’t remember when they first learnt gardening; but they

did. And look at the results, right there you can see the

vegetable garden that Mosi has created. She’s feeding a lot

of people is Mosi and earning an income to boot. I know

they ain’t bin here fur long, but what was the first thing

Eshah and Olisa did when they cum here? If you don’t

know, I’ll tell you. They went straight into the garden to

help Mosi. Now what does that tell you about the school

that Isabel has been running?

Now there’s the other matter about the money in

the portfolio not being used for the school. That’s a

question our financial services would be better qualified to

answer than me. But I can give you the bare bones of the

matter.

There’s two ways of investing. One way is to make

money by making capital gains and the other way is to git

return on capital invested. If you ain’t got a lot of capital

you don’t git much return. Stands to reason don’t it? Now

our financial sector started off with only part of the initial

two hundred and fifty thousand pound because half of it

were spent on setting up school.

Now to make capital gain you have to buy

something that, after a period of time, will be worth more

than you paid for it. Then you sell it. It doesn’t matter what

you buy as long as it’s going to be worth more than

inflation. You might buy a painting, or crops that haven’t

even been grow yet. It might be foreign currency or shares.

You take an educated gamble and avoid capital gains tax. If

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you’ve got your brass tied up, you can’t spend it. But Isabel

was quite sure she didn’t need more money. But now she

reckons her health is forcing her into a well earned semi-

retirement. So now we need income to take over what

Isabel has done for luv. So our financial sector has invested

the fund in commercial property that shows a rental rate of

return at close to a million pound a year. That income is to

be split between enhancing the school, enlarging the school

and rehabilitating the girls, and in the future boys as well.

If you want to know more, all the financial records are

available, but to be honest it makes damn dull reading.’

As the last of the daylight leaked away we moved

into the conservatory and a few bottles of wine and wine

glasses seemed to materialise. It was almost midnight

before the group split up and, in full view of Basil, I kissed

Dee and Flint goodnight. As we went home that evening I

had no appreciation of the significance that meeting would

have on the rest of my life.

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Chapter 14 It was about one o’clock when we got home. I suppose

Basil does have some good points but they aren’t apparent

in bed. I’m coming to the conclusion that if I don’t take

control and pretend it’s Flint inside me, Basil ain’t going to

make me orgasmic. He’s a nice enough guy to live with

and he’s normally quite considerate, which is a lot more

than can be said about most of the guys I’ve known; but it

stops there and not even a couple of bottles of wine will

produce any significant results. I guess that’s how it’s

going to be.

After work the next day I rode to the naturist club

on my pushbike to meet Basil. I had to go on my bike

because he’s adamant I mustn’t ride my motor bike until

I’ve got a provisional driving licence. Of course he’s no

idea I’ve been riding down to the marina every evening

recently. I suppose, as he paid for most of the bike, I should

consider what he wants.

He’d been to the supermarket in the morning to get

something to put on the barbie and spent the afternoon

helping the girls in the garden. By the time I got there after

work he had dinner prepared for me and for the three girls.

That’s what I mean about Basil; he’s a considerate guy.

After dinner he cleared everything away and did the

washing up. We still had a couple of hours of daylight so I

managed to weed the carrots and plant out a couple of rows

of cabbage seedlings before the light beat me. One good

thing about helping with the gardening is the girls, and

Mosi in particular, seem to know what needs doing and I

suppose I’m learning from them. There are worse jobs I

could be doing in the evening – like housework! But all the

time I’m conscious that Flint and Dee will shortly have

their maintenance and provisioning work done and I

probably won’t see them again for a long time, if ever. At

last I’m getting a day off work and I’ve no intention of

letting it go to waste. If you want something to happen I’ve

always found it best to give fortuitous encounters a bit of a

nudge.

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So in the course of weeding the carrots I started

chatting with Olisa. ‘I guess Flint and Dee will soon be

heading deeper into the Pacific. I don’t suppose the three of

you would like to see them again before they leave? It will

probably be your last chance.’

Of course I got the obvious response; and Olisa

doesn’t let a subject drop. I gave her five minutes to wind

herself up before I called Basil who was working with

Mosi.

‘Basil I’ve just been talking to Olisa and she’s very

keen to visit Flint and Dee before they sail away. Do you

think you could be real kind and drive us all down to the

marina to see them on Flintstone before they leave?’

Basil didn’t hesitate; like I said, he’s a considerate

guy. ‘Of course, that would be no trouble. When would you

all like to go?’

‘Tomorrow is Saturday. Couldn’t we all go

tomorrow morning and see if there’s something we can do

to help Flint and Dee get ready?’

I left Olisa to thank him, which took her about ten

minutes. Sometimes making things happen is just a

question of discovering the keys to open the right doors.

The following morning I got Basil to drop me off

at the pool so that I wouldn’t have to take my bike and he’d

be able to pick me up as soon as I was finished for the day.

It worked fine. I left early as arranged and he was waiting

in the car park with Mosi, Eshah and Olisa already in the

back seat. So within about a minute of stepping out of work

we were driving down to the marina.

Flintstone was no longer on the hard. She was back

in the water and tied to a floating pontoon. The van from

the provedor was parked as close as it could get to the end

of the finger and when we arrived Flint, Dee and the driver

from the provedoring company were carrying boxes and

cartons along the wharf. It was only coincidence, but we

seemed to have arrived at a most opportune moment to lend

a hand. The driver was keen to get away as this was his last

job for the day. There must have been about sixty cartons

to wheel along the jetty and lift aboard. We arranged it so

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that Flint stayed on the end of the wharf to do the big lift

onto the deck as each carton arrived. The driver unloaded

the van and placed each box onto a trolley. We then pushed

or pulled them along the finger to Flint.

Once all the boxes were on deck and the driver had

departed, Flint and I started opening the boxes. Dee

checked the contents of each box against her inventory and

the girls, with the occasional direction from Dee, seemed to

know where everything was supposed to be stowed. They

carried everything below, put it away and fastened it down.

I suggested to Basil that, as we were likely to be busy most

of the evening, he could go and buy some hot pizzas for all

of us for our evening meal. He came back with a vegetarian

one for the two of us to share and a selection for the others.

He also produced a couple of bottles of red wine. Basil is

most considerate about things like that and he wouldn’t

accept any money from Dee; he just said it was his

contribution. So Dee gave him a kiss on his lips to thank

him, which he seemed embarrassed to receive, probably

because it was in front of me. Later that evening at home he

apologised to me. I was magnanimous and said I

understood and would forgive him because I knew he

didn’t initiate it. Then I gave him a kiss myself to show

there was no hard feeling.

Three days later we were again at the wharf. This

time Camille, Rees and Isabel were also with us. Olisa was

in tears because she believed this was going to be the last

time she would see Flint and Dee, who were anxious to

catch the evening ebb tide out of Wellington heads. I knew

how she felt because I too had unfinished business with

both Flint and Dee. But because Basil was there I had to try

to hide my emotions. In the end I decided ‘What the hell,

why shouldn’t I have emotions.’ So when I kissed Flint

goodbye I pressed my body hard against his and when our

tongues caressed, lower down his body communicated to

me in the language women understand that he also had

unfinished business with me. As I stepped off the deck and

back onto the jetty he held my hand and gave it a squeeze.

The mooring lines were cast off and, with the engine

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running astern, the gap between Flintstone and the wharf

widened. I stood on the very end of the jetty facing out to

sea and watched them go. This wasn’t just to watch the

boat move away from the jetty. A more urgent reason was

to prevent anyone especially Basil from seeing my eyes

filling with tears. When we returned to the car I tried to

brush them away. I think Isabel noticed and she probably

guessed the reason but was tactful enough not to comment.

Fortunately daylight was fading and when the wharf lights

switched on they created weird inexplicable shadows.

Hopefully other people’s minds were too full to be

interested in looking at me.

Unless Flint and Dee had an urgent need to call

into any of the east coast ports it would be blue water

sailing all the way to Vuda Point Marina in Fiji where they

would go through Fiji customs before heading for party

time in Musket Cove. I knew Musket Cove because I’d

been on Plantation Island with Basil on our first holiday

together. Being able to visualize it meant I could also

imagine Flint and Dee in the middle of the party scene.

Imagination is a restless companion.

Basil and I had flown to Fiji in about three and a

half hours from Wellington, but Dee reckoned it would

take Flintstone something like two weeks to sail there. Two

weeks! That means they’d be arriving in Fiji at about the

same time that Basil would be returning to Australia.

I wasn’t very good company for the next few days,

which was a shame for Basil because I got quite shitty with

him and he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. I decided I

needed to keep busy in the evenings. So after work on

Monday I cycled to the naturist club and give Mosi and the

girls a hand with their market garden. Basil joined us and

when the light faded we had our evening meal together in

the conservatory.

On Tuesday we did the same thing. When I was at

work, and all I had to do was wander round the pool and

talk to the odd swimmer who wanted to chat, I found

myself looking forward to my evenings in the garden.

Quite apart from the gardening I was also getting to enjoy

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the company of the girls and hearing about their lives in

Mozambique. But I realised I’d have to make the most of it

before we lost the daylight-saving hour. Already the

evenings were getting short and I wouldn’t have been able

to go to the garden at all if it wasn’t for Basil taking over

the job of preparing the evening meal for the girls and me.

He didn’t have to do that for me, but he’s very supportive

guy. I was beginning to think I ought to do something

special for him to show I appreciated what he did for me.

I worked out I could get the whole of next weekend

off and that would probably be the last opportunity to get

any free time during the day, before he went back to

Australia. The weather forecast looked great for the whole

weekend.

Basil and I usually have sex when we go to bed. I

decided that, on Thursday evening, I’d say I was too tired

and wanted to go to sleep. So we’d have it in the morning

and that would make me late getting ready for work. Then

I’d suddenly remember I had a class first thing and ask him

to drop me off in the car. That meant he’d have to pick me

up after work as I wouldn’t be on my bike. So on

Wednesday and Thursday mornings I sneaked some of our

spare clothes, together with anything else I could think of,

into the panniers on by bike. I took them into work and left

them in my locker.

A few weeks ago one of the guys at the naturist

club had mentioned a bed and breakfast place virtually on

the beach at Otaki that he reckoned gave him good value.

So at work I looked up the phone number and made

bookings for Friday and Saturday evening.

When Basil came to pick me up on Friday evening

he had no idea about the surprise I’d planned. He didn’t

even question the two plastic supermarket bags I dropped

onto the back seat of his car. I just told him, instead of

going home, to drive north. He did and we drove up the

coast as far as Paraparaumu where we stopped and, to his

surprise, discovered we had a table for two already booked.

We ordered a vegetarian evening meal. I let him think the

dinner was my surprise and it wasn’t until we came out of

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the restaurant that I told him to continue driving north. I

still wouldn’t tell him where we were going until we got to

Otaki and we had to turn off to Otaki Beach. Then I told

him. I don’t think Basil could have been any happier

because I’d thought of doing this surprise weekend for him.

Our clothes were in supermarket plastic bags when we

checked in. I had to do that because I couldn’t have

sneaked a suitcase out of our house without him seeing me

and even if I could, it wouldn’t have been easy to carry it to

work on my pushbike.

We dumped our plastic bags on the floor of our

room and in the evening calm we walked hand-in-hand

along the beach. The glowing remnants of the day sunk

into the horizon until only starlight remained. After a bit he

put his arm round me as we discovered the intimacy of

silence. Talking is only for people who are getting to know

each other. For us this was a time for listening to the

tongue of the tide lapping the sand, scuffing our feet, and

watching the phosphorescence spill out of the ripples as

they broke on the beach. Lingering we watched the moon

rise over the Tararuas and gleam on wet sand. The

evocative scent of seaweed followed us on a chill night air

as we returned to our room.

When making love that night I used what I learned

from Dee and Flint. But, for the first time in weeks, I didn’t

fantasise I was doing it with anyone other than Basil.

Something made a difference. Whatever the cause I found

it a hell of a lot more satisfying than usual. Most of the

things we did that weekend have became imbedded in my

memory, for reasons I will explain later.

The next day started well and got progressively

better. When I booked I told the woman we were both

vegetarians and she’d obviously remembered. Breakfast

started with muesli, yoghurt and fruit juice and then she

brought us cheese omelettes with tomatoes and mushrooms

and finished up with toast and marmalade. This was about

three times what we normally have. During the course of

serving the breakfast we had a bit of a chat and she asked

us if we’d come up for the races. I’d no idea there was any

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racing, but apparently a lot of people travel long distances

at the weekend just to attend the local race meetings. She

reckoned virtually every weekend there was a race meeting

somewhere in the North Island and this particular weekend

it was just up the road. Her enthusiasm for the racing was

so infectious we decided to go and sample it for ourselves.

As things turned out we met her again about two hours

later at the meeting. She proceeded to tell us about the

racing history of particular horses, their owners and the

riders. At one stage she introduced us to one of her friends

called Pat who was also a horse enthusiast. Between the

two women we heard, sometimes conflicting advice, about

which horses were in good form and not knowing any

better we followed the advice of one or the other of them.

We didn’t win every time and we only placed small bets,

but to our surprise the advice was generally well founded

and at the end of the afternoon we came away with a

hundred and seventy dollars more than we started with.

Although it was Basil who placed the bets he insisted I

should keep the winnings as the weekend had been my idea

and I’d paid for the accommodation.

I guess a nice sunny day always makes me feel

good but there was more involved than that; and it wasn’t

just because we won some money, although that helps. I

think what made the day special was the ambience. The

horses, the excitement, the bits of turf thrown up by the

horses’ hooves, the crazy things people were shouting,

possibly even the smell of the hay bales and oiled leather

had an effect on me. You must be thinking I’ve gone crazy

as well by imagining the smell of such things had the

ability to contribute towards a beautiful day. It’s difficult to

describe but I am convinced all these things contributed in

some way and, more to the point, ensured Basil and I

would go to the races again. I still believe I edged a little

closer to Basil. Something else happened that day.

Although I didn’t appreciate it at the time, as things turned

out, later on it would have a profound effect on my life.

Basil and I were standing by the rail next to Pat.

Basil had taken her advice and put ten dollars on a

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skewbald mare called Saturn. As the horses came past us I

was yelling encouragement at the same time, and for the

same horse as Pat who was standing next to me. After the

race we both went to collect our winnings and while we

were waiting in the queue we got talking. It turned out she

was a local and owned stables and eight horses. Her main

interest was in dressage not racing, but she still enjoyed

days out at the races. Apparently the horse Saturn, who had

just won me seventy dollars, belonged to a friend of hers.

While waiting for the next race to start she started telling

me about her place. Stopping her telling us about it would

have been a major problem. Apparently her land consisted

of about a thousand acres in the foothills of the Tararua

ranges. Most of it was still in native bush and they had a

lake covering one hectare behind the house and a big

paddock in front of the house where she kept her horses.

She seemed to be at the race meeting on her own and

stayed with us most of the afternoon and continued to give

us hot tips about which horses to back. It was worth

listening to her as several of her tips paid off. As a gesture

to thank her for her advice Basil and I invited her join us at

an Indian restaurant in town for our evening meal. We

mentioned we were staying at the beach for the weekend

and, just before driving home, she handed us her business

card and said if we were interest in seeing her horses we’d

be welcome to visit her place in the morning and have a

bite of lunch before driving home.

We thanked her and asked what would be a good

time to arrive. She suggested ten o’clock and gave us the

directions to her place.

Opulent with the intention of being impressive, is

the only way I can describe her place. The front paddock

was enclosed with white post-and-rail fencing and there

were numerous jumps set up for the horses. She must have

heard or seen us on her drive because, as we were getting

out of the car, she came to the door to meet us with a

cigarette in her mouth and invited us into her conservatory

for morning coffee. It stank of cigarette smoke. She had a

husky voice – perhaps even gravelly – which I guess some

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men might consider seductive but to me it sounded as if her

vocal cords had for too long been marinated in cigarette

smoke. She was no longer wearing her horsey tweeds and

had obviously poured herself into scarlet skin-tight jeans

and was wearing a cleavage-revealing white blouse with

wrist length sleeves. She had a wide black belt with a silver

horse buckle which was probably intended to emphasise

her skinny waist and the curve of her hips. Her hair was

bottle black, with freshly painted black eye-liner over an

olive skin. I didn’t bother to attempt to count the number of

rings she had on her fingers but had I done so I’d have run

out of fingers. She wasn’t dressed exactly like a prostitute

because those skin-tight jeans would take too long to peal

off especially if they got stuck on her heels. I presumed this

super-tart get up was for Basil’s benefit as her husband was

not in evidence. Her house was more of a modern mansion

than a home for two people. She curled up on her sofa and

kicked off her shoes and, from the way she talked, I was

left with the impression she was married to her horses and

male friends while her husband was only useful as a

walking credit card.

Life is strange isn’t it? Some people sacrifice living

to achieve tidy well ordered lives. They obey all the rules

and each measured step takes them a little further along

their planned route, which ends in a beautiful funeral.

Others appear to start with everything and are so discontent

they dissipate their lives and mismanage their acquisitions.

To me life is like attempting to climb a rock face without

any anchor points or safety ropes. I take any handhold or

foothold I can grasp in the hope that I’ll find a ledge, a

crevice or even a toe hole within my reach. I’ve never

known what’s at the top of the cliff; only ignorance and

confidence keeps me going. Life for me is always a

surprise. For example if you’d told me on that day at Pat’s

place that one day I’d own it, I’d never have believed you.

Mind you I had to grab at quite a few dubious handholds

before that became a reality. And the first of those

handholds occurred the following morning when I went

into work.

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Chapter 15 When I arrived at work the following morning there was a

notice on the door.

POOL CLOSED FOR URGENT MAINTENANCE. THE

MANAGEMENT REGRETS ANY

INCONVENIENCE TO

PATRONS.

I chained my bike to the railings as usual and went

into the manager’s office. Helen was on the phone as I

entered. She looked up, ‘Give me a couple of minutes

Jasmine and I’ll be with you.’

I walked to the pool which was only half-full of

water. Obviously it was in the process of being drained so

there would be no work for me today. Five minutes later

Helen came out into the pool area to find me.

‘Hi Jasmine, I tried phoning your landline at the

weekend but I couldn’t get hold of you.’

‘Basil and I went away for the weekend we only

got back last night.’

‘That would account for it. When you came in I

was on the phone to the city engineers. As you can see

we’re draining the pool, it looks as if we may have a

problem with the quality of the water. Once the pool is

empty the engineers will be doing an inspection and they

should be able to say what work needs to be done. Until

then we’ll be closed. So you might as well go home and

have a break. You’ll still be getting your wages as usual.’

‘How long is the pool likely to be closed?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. I won’t know

anything until we get the engineer’s report, then hopefully

we should have some idea when we can reopen. In the

meantime you might as well enjoy your time off and I’ll

stay in touch. I’d say you can be reasonably certain we

won’t be reopening this week, just because of the time it’ll

take to refill and reheat the pool, even if nothing else needs

to be done.’

There’s not much fun to be had from watching a

swimming pool slowly emptying so I got back on my bike

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and rode home. Basil was still in the kitchen. We had a cup

of herbal tea together while I explained that I’d be getting

the week off on full pay and we talked about what we’d do

for the rest of the day. We decided we might as well go to

the naturist club and see if we could give the girls a hand

with what was now starting to look more like a market

garden than a vegetable garden.

Basil wanted to get a shower before we left and

while I was sorting out some gardening clothes the phone

rang. It was Horsey Pat who seemed surprised to hear me

answer the phone. Presumably she thought I’d be at work.

It was about nine-thirty in the morning and she already

sounded drunk. She asked if she could speak to Basil but I

told her he was in the shower so she proceeded to explain

to me what a bastard her husband was before getting to the

point of her phone call which was primarily to tell Basil

that there would be a race meeting in the Wairarapa in

about six weeks. Apparently she had some hot tips about

the horses and if she could meet Basil in the bar...

I didn’t take much imagination to guess why she

wanted to meet him in the bar, so I told her I’d pass the

message on to Basil and then WE’d decide whether WE

would go. She left her phone number, which she’d already

given us, and promised to be in contact again when Basil

got back from Australia.

Both Basil and I had found the last race meeting a

great day out and on the drive home we’d already decided

we’d try to get to another race day. So when Basil came out

of the shower I told him about the phone call. Then we

went to the club and spent the day in the garden. I must

admit I was quite enjoying my time in the garden working

and chatting to the girls. I had the impression that the girls

were anxious that the relationship we had formed on our

initial days walking the track should be ongoing. I was

even finding I could talk quite normally to Olisa. Isabel had

been right; she did calm down long enough to hear what

someone else had to say. These next few days in the garden

made a welcome change from giving swimming lessons or

150

wandering round the pool looking for someone who wanted

to talk.

These days in the garden could have continued for

the whole week except for the fact that on Thursday three

things happened.

The day started with me going to the airport to see

Basil off on the first leg of his flight to Australia. When I

got back home there was an email for me from Flint and

Dee saying they had arrived in Fiji. They had been through

immigration at Vuda Marina and were now anchored off

Musket Cove. It was party time and they wished I was

there. I had only just finished reading their email when I

got a call from Diane at the pool. Apparently the engineers

had said there was some major work needing to be done at

the pool which involved replacing the pumps, parts of the

filtration plant and excavating the side of the pool where it

went into the toilets and changing rooms. The pool would

definitely be closed for the next five weeks and it could be

longer if they had difficulty getting replacement parts from

Germany. In the meantime I’d be getting my wages paid

into my bank account as normal. The email finished up

with the note, “Have a nice holiday.”

The words “Holiday!” and “Musket Cove”

suddenly formed a seductive liaison inside my head. Basil

wouldn’t be back for a month and...

I rang Air New Zealand. A seat was available on a

flight out of Wellington to Nadi tomorrow afternoon. I took

a deep breath and booked it, together with a return flight

three and a half weeks later. As long as I was back in time

to meet Basil off his plane, he wouldn’t need to know

anything about me going to see Flint and Dee. I’d take my

lap top with me to answer his emails and, on the off chance

that he rang me at home, I’d say I’d been at the club

helping in the gardens and some nights I’d stayed there

because I was feeling lonely with him being away. He’d

like that. But the most likely thing would be that he’d just

email me.

I packed my bag in an adrenalin rush. There are so

many things to try to remember it’s easy to forget one of

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them. I remembered my passport, ticket, toilet bag, clothes,

bikini, I bought my Fiji dollars at the airport... The trouble

is there’s one thing I always leave on my bedside table so I

won’t forget it, and it wasn’t until I was at the departure

gate waiting to board that I remembered my packet of

contraceptive pills.

At Nadi airport I went through immigration and as

I entered the foyer I saw my name written on a piece of

card. Obviously my booking had worked. The guy with the

shuttle carried my bag for me and took me to my hotel at

New Town on Wailoaloa Beach. To my amazement the

woman in reception remembered me from years ago! As

soon as I walked into her office she asked how Basil was

and what he was doing. Then she said she’d put me in the

same room I stayed in last time overlooking the beach.

That’s something you wouldn’t get back home. In New

Zealand I’m pretty sure I could walk into the same place

the following day and get blank looks and asked for my

name.

The following morning straight after breakfast I got

a taxi to take me to Port Denerau where I bought a coffee

while waiting for about an hour before boarding the Malola

Cat to take me out to the Island. Most of the passengers,

which included all of children, got off at Plantation. But I

stayed on for the next few minutes to be dropped off in

Musket Cove. As the ferry entered the bay I spotted

Flintstone at anchor about a couple of hundred metres off

shore. And what’s more I could see Dee on deck! Ever

since I left home a tap, dripping in the back of my mind,

kept telling me that Flint and Dee could easily have sailed

for some other island where I’d never catch up with them.

But party-time had prevailed and they were still here.

I walked past a stall on the water’s edge that was

selling coffee and was accosted by a barefoot elderly man

wearing shorts and sitting in the shade with a buttoned up

woollen jacket. The temperature would have been about

thirty degrees. He must have been sweltering. He spoke

with a broad Irish accent.

‘God bless you my child.’

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I expected him to hold out his hand for a donation

but that wasn’t the case. So I wished him a nice day and

was about to walk on when he asked me to partake in a wee

drop of Holy Communion wine. I wouldn’t have been

surprised if one of the Fijians invited me to accept a kava

ceremony and I had my refusal already worked out. I don’t

like offending these people because it’s meant kindly but I

remember from last time that I hated the stuff; it tastes like

dirty dishwater. But this guy wasn’t Fijian and his “Holy

Communion wine” appeared to be a half-empty bottle of

Jameson’s whiskey. He pushed it under my nose.

‘That’s not Holy Communion wine.’

‘No but it’s all right to use Irish whiskey instead. I

checked it out with Father O’Flanigan.’

He pushed the grubby bottle into my face. ‘That’s

not even whiskey; it smells like rum to me.’

‘Aye, but if I can’t get Irish whiskey I reckon God

would be happy with Bounty rum as long as it’s in a

whiskey bottle.’

I thanked him and explained that Holy

Communion only works on Sundays and suggested he

saved his rum till then when God would be listening,

because today he’d probably be involved with the Irish

Sweepstake. As I walked away I saw him take another swig

out of his bottle.

A dozen or so boats were tied to the wharf stern

first. I walked towards them and saw a guy on the second

boat washing off his fish-filleting board. He looked up as I

approached and, despite the fact he looked European, he

gave me the traditional Fijian greeting, ‘Bula’.

I responded with, ‘Bula!’

‘I see you managed to extricate yourself from

Shamus. Don’t worry about him; he’s like that with every

unaccompanied young woman who steps ashore. He’s a

harmless drunk. I suppose we shouldn’t encourage him but

from time to time we top up his whiskey bottle with

whatever we have left over.’

I explained I was going to swim out to one of the

boats and wondered if I could leave my bag on his boat. He

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immediately offered to run me out in his inflatable, but I

said I’d rather swim as I wanted to surprise the people on

board. He immediately asked which boat I was going to

and as soon as I mentioned Flintstone he replied, ‘That’s

Flint and Dee’s boat. I was talking to them last night. They

didn’t mention anything about more crew members. Are

they expecting you?’

‘No this is a surprise visit.’

‘They’re a great couple, real wild party animals.

Would you like me to give them a call on the VHF?’

‘Oh no, this is a surprise visit. I’ve just flown in

from New Zealand.’

‘They’re the sort of couple who like surprises; I’m

sure they’ll be pleased to see you. Have you known them

long?’

‘I met them in New Zealand and gave them a hand

with their boat maintenance. When they arrived here I got

an email from them saying, “Wish you were here.” And

here I am!’

‘I’m sure they’ll be pleased to see you. I know I

would be. Any time you want, you can come and help me

with my boat maintenance. They’re a real seafaring couple

and a heap of fun. I expect you know they’ve made several

circumnavigations in Flintstone.’

‘Yes and when they’re partied out here they’re

planning to return to Europe via Cape Horn.’

‘Rather them than me! Cape Horn has a hell of a

reputation. Are you going with them?’

‘Oh no, I’ve got to go back to work in three and a

half weeks.’

‘Well I mustn’t hold you up. But their boat is quite

a way out; it must be several hundred metres. It would be

no trouble to take you; then you’ll have your bag with you

instead of having to pick it up later.’

Again I thanked him and refused because I really

wanted to swim out to their boat and surprise them. Flint

had been teasing me and telling me I wasn’t a real woman,

I was a mermaid. So I wanted him to see me climb out of

the sea onto his boat and there’d be plenty of time later on

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to re-establish my womanhood – unless he preferred

making love to a mermaid. I know getting a ride out there

would be sensible. It’s what Basil would do. But as I tell

myself several times a day, I’m not Basil. In fact today I’m

not even Jasmine; today I’m Mermaid Jazzy. And Mermaid

Jazzy is going to swim out there regardless.

We continued talking for several minutes while I

took my bikini out of my bag, wrapped myself in my beach

towel and put only my bikini bottom on. I reckon mermaids

don’t wear bikini tops! Then putting my clothes and towel

back into my bag I zipped it up with my money, credit card

and my passport inside and handed it to him and promised

to pick it up later. It was fun imagining what Basil’s

reaction would be if he knew what I’d just done with all

those “essential items” which had to be kept safe at all

times. He would have called it irresponsible. I imagined

him saying the word slowly and deliberately and pausing

over every syllable in an attempt to get extra emphasis.

Perhaps the guy on this boat was a Basil type

because he only accepted my bag reluctantly and assured

me it would be safe with him. Putting it down in the

cockpit he offered to row his inflatable alongside me while

I swam, in case I got into difficulties. Again I refused and

while he was still talking I dived in. He must have been

able to see I could swim OK; but I heard later he put his

inflatable in the water just in case, and watched me all the

time through his binoculars.

Flint and Dee must have been swimming off their

boat because their boarding ladder was already over the

side and their dinghy was in the water. I climbed the ladder

and peeped over the gunwale.

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Chapter 16 Flint and Dee were both in the cockpit. ‘Hi guys.’

‘Flint was facing me and saw me first. ‘Hell! It’s

my favourite mermaid.’

He offered me a hand to help me into the boat. As I

stepped aboard I gave him a hug and kissed his lips. ‘I’ve

finally reached you. I almost caught up with you about a

hundred miles west of the Kermadec Islands but the wind

picked up and you got away on me.’

Dee gave me a hug and a kiss. ‘It’s great to see

you. Where’s Basil? Have you dumped him?’

‘Oh no! He’s much too considerate a guy to dump.

He’s at work in Australia for a month.’ I winked when I

added, ‘But he doesn’t know I’m here.’

At that point Flint handed me a towel so I could

dry my face and hair. It was my eyes I really wanted to dry

because being in the tropics the water is much more saline

than at home and my eyes were stinging with the salt. As I

dried my face and hair I explained about the pool being

closed for urgent maintenance and, because I had five

weeks off work on full pay, I’d made the snap decision to

jump on a plane to Nadi.

Flint grinned with a wry smile and spoke with

feigned disbelief. ‘A plane! And here was me believing my

special little mermaid had swum all the way!’

Dee asked, ‘You’d have created a lot of interest on

the plane and at the airport wearing only half a bikini. But

what puzzles me is where you managed to keep your

passport?’

‘I left my bag aboard one of the boats on the

wharf.’

‘Which boat?’

‘It was called Parce que. I had a bit of a chat to the

guy and he said I could pick my bag up later. I didn’t catch

his name.’

‘That would be Mikhail. Did he speak with a

French accent? Dark curly hair, aged mid forties?’

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‘Yes that’s him. But Mikhail doesn’t sound a very

French name.’

Dee explained. ‘He has a Greek father and a

French mother. Possibly his father chose a Greek name for

him. We make a point of catching up with him when we’re

in Fiji.’

‘Does he live here all the time?’

‘More or less, he takes his boat to New Caledonia a

couple of times a year. He has a wife and thirteen year old

daughter in Noumea, as well as a de-facto Fijian wife who

works at the Plantation Resort.’

‘That sounds very French.’

‘He is very French despite being half Greek. His

family owns vineyards in Bordeaux and I believe he also

has family interests in a Greek vineyard via his father’s

side of the family. But instead of staying in wine he entered

into politics and became a controversial French politician.

The public loved him and the administration hated him.

The French press gave him the nickname of Monsieur

Pourquoi.’

‘That means Mr Why doesn’t it? That’s a strange

nickname.’

‘Yes, but it’s very appropriate; and he doesn’t seem

to disapprove. The French cartoonists drew his face

looking like a question mark.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s a good question, Jazzy. It’s what he kept

asking. Why, why, why? It’s the one question that probes

too deeply into politicians motives, which are usually not

what they tell the public.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well take that twin towers thing in America as an

example. The American administration missed the

opportunity to ask, “WHY did it happen?” Or WHAT had

America been doing to evoke such hatred? Or HOW the

problem could be solved? Anyone who might have been

inclined to ask such questions became overwhelmed by a

storm-force genocidal wind blasting out of the States and

heading for the Middle East. America conducted a revenge

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attack on Iraqis who were not in any way involved. The

death and destruction that resulted has made the twin

towers fade into insignificance and destroyed America’s

image. George Bush reckoned God told him to do it! It’s a

pity God forgot to tell him Iraq didn’t have any weapons of

mass destruction which was the excuse he gave to a

gullible public! We all know the motivation for ongoing

Middle Eastern wars is a combination of religion and oil. In

the face of that wind of violence a few Islamic extremists

launched a kite called jihad. And every school kid knows

kites fly highest against the wind. Now America is in the

process of transforming its military into a worldwide oil-

protection force, while further inflaming religious zealots. I

cannot believe America could get its foreign policy so

wrong, or that numbskull nations would follow them. But

one brave Frenchman was prepared to stand up in the storm

and publically ask the hard questions. They nicknamed him

Monsieur Pourquoi. They couldn’t shut him up, but the

stress and the insidious attacks on his integrity destroyed

his health and damaged his family. Eventually he took his

wife and daughter to New Caledonia where he sort of

retired with a boat and a damaged marriage. I don’t think

he’ll ever leave the islands. The bastards beat a good man

down. If you’re talking to him it’s a good idea not to bring

up politics. The embers of the fire that almost consumed

him are still smouldering.’

‘I suppose some of that accounts for the name of

his boat Parce que. I think that means Because. Doesn’t it?

“Because” instead of “Why”! Does that spell a sea

change?’

‘I guess so. We were having a drink with him last

night. He’s a hell of a nice guy. I’m surprised he didn’t

offer to bring you out here in his inflatable.’

‘He did. He almost insisted; but I told him I wanted

to swim out to surprise you.’

Flint ruffled my hair as he said, ‘Surprise us! You

sure did. It’s not everyday we have mermaids climbing

aboard in broad daylight. Apparitions might materialise out

of empty wine bottles from time to time but...’

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Dee interjected. ‘I think your bag is about to catch

up with you. That looks like Mikhail heading this way in

his inflatable.’

A minute later he was alongside. As soon as he

killed the outboard he hung onto the boarding ladder with

one hand and handed my bag to me with the other. As I

leaned over the gunwale to thank him and take it from him

I watched his eyes circumnavigating my boobs. Dee invited

him aboard for a drink to celebrate the safe arrival of their

special mermaid.

By the time he had secured his inflatable, climbed

the ladder and stepped into the cockpit Dee was coming

back up the companionway carrying a full crate of red

wine. When she put it down next to the sheet winch,

Mikhail asked, ‘Did you manage to get all that through

customs?’

Dee grinned. ‘Yes, and it only cost us a bar of

soap.’

‘A bar of soap!’

Flint cut in. ‘Yes that was Dee’s contribution. We

timed our arrival at Vuda Point to coincide with going

home time for the customs guy. When he came aboard he

asked us what we had to declare. Dee turned on a mixture

of broken English and Welsh. Then carrying a bar of soap

carefully and holding it in both hands, as if it was fragile,

she told him it was made of “matter” and if it came into

contact with a lump of “anti-matter” it would explode. The

guy was puzzled and turned the packet over several times,

opened it, smelled it and said to him it looked like ordinary

soap and was about to hand it back to us when Dee

intervened.’

‘What happened?’

‘She recited the Lord’s Prayer rapidly in Welsh.

The guy predictably couldn’t understand a word, looked

confused, decided to confiscate the bar of soap, stamped

our passports and let us through without questioning our

twenty cases of red wine we had below the floor. I’m still

wondering what he did with the bar of soap. After a few

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glasses of wine we had visions of him cutting it in half to

see what was inside.’

We sat round in the cockpit under a canvas shade

cover, while a light breeze came in off the sea which felt

almost erotic on my skin relieving me of any desire to

cover up. Besides I was enjoying the attention my boobs

were getting. Dee handed round wine glasses and while she

was pouring wine I thanked Mikhail for going to the

trouble of bringing my bag out for me.

He smiled as he replied. ‘For me it was a pleasure.

I love an intrigue and you are a most intriguing young

woman.’

‘Am I?’

‘Naturally! I see a beautiful woman change into her

bikini, but instead of wearing her bikini top she puts it back

into her bag and swims out to Flintstone to visit Flint and

Dee. Women find Flint an attractive man. I tell myself, a

woman goes topless to meet a lover, but not an

acquaintance. Yet I see that same woman is wearing an

expensive engagement ring. Most strange! I wonder who

gave her that ring and if he suspects his fiancé may be

indulging in some small intrigue. In France when a woman

goes to meet a lover she first goes to the hairdresser to

make herself beautiful then she does her nails and puts on

makeup, but not you. Horror of horrors, you dive into the

sea when you could have had a ride. I find this very

strange.’

Flint replied, ‘It’s not strange at all; because this is

Jazzy the Mermaid.’

Mikhail looked thoughtful and winked at me. ‘She

certainly swims like a mermaid.’

Dee added. ‘She’s a swimming instructor and

swims competitively in national competitions.’

Mikail shook his head. ‘No! No, no, no. I need to

think this through. I remember cleaning my boat and when

I looked up I saw this apparition before me. Her beauty

stunned my senses and it wasn’t until she had vanished

beneath the sea that my brain was able to function again.

Then it only had one thought and that was to follow this

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alluring water sprite wherever she went. And guided by an

entrancing mirage I arrived here. Now I believe I have

discovered her true identity; she isn’t Jazzy the Mermaid,

she is Jasmine James the Siren who lures poor

unsuspecting sailors like me towards an unknown fate.’

I knew Mikhail was only kidding. He couldn’t have

any idea about my involvement in Ralph’s accident but a

wave of uneasiness washed over me when he mentioned

me luring sailors to an unknown fate. It’s always there in

the back of my mind and it only needs a nudge for it to start

constricting my throat and redden my face. Fearful that I

might betray myself I changed the subject. ‘How did you

know that’s my name?’

‘I think it must have been a telepathic

communication which became entranced by your ethereal

beauty.’ He grinned at me as he added, ‘Also I read it on

the Air New Zealand label on your bag.’

It was probably that lingering sense of insecurity

that made me poke my tongue out at him and give him a

playful punch on the shoulder.

He winked. ‘See what I mean Flint, she’s lured me

here with her wiles and now she’s attacking me.’

Dee was topping up his wine when she answered,

‘It’s about time someone did. If it was left to me I’d have

you arrested and charged with flattery...’

Flint interjected, ‘...and flatulence.’

Dee agreed. ‘Yes and flatulence. How do you

plead, guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty on both charges.’

‘Then as the presiding judge I sentence you to

twenty minutes hard labour following which you will be

forced to eat a dinner that I have cooked.’

‘Have mercy on me. I was brought up on French

haute cuisine.’

‘No mercy. First your hard labour. You will go by

inflatable to the Plantation wharf and pick up Kiki when

she comes out of work. Then you will proceed to the store

and purchase two kilograms of cassava, three medium-

sized papaya, two onions, and bring them to me. Following

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that, you and Kiki will both be required to drink more New

Zealand wine while I prepare the second part of your

punishment. Now off you go and don’t return until all your

tasks are complete.’ Dee looked at her watch. ‘You only

have ten minutes before Kiki gets out of work, so don’t

malinger on the way.’

As Mikhail moved towards the ladder to get into

his inflatable Dee gave him a hug and a kiss. ‘See you soon

love.’ In this context I pondered the significance of the

word “love”. Did it have sexual implications?

The sinking sun peeped beneath the shade cover

and I needed to move or get my sunglasses out of my bag. I

did both, took my bag into the cabin, put on my bra and

changed into a light summer dress. It’s strange isn’t it? I

quite enjoyed sitting topless in the cockpit and getting the

resulting attention but, for a reason I can’t explain, I felt

reluctant to get dressed in front of Flint and Dee. I even

tried unsuccessfully to brush my hair. My mum always

reckoned combing my unruly mop required the use of a

garden rake and at that moment my hair was still sticky

with salt.

I felt I was halfway towards becoming respectable,

which is all I can usually manage. The previous day Flint

had caught a big mahi mahi. While I’d been getting

changed Dee had taken it out of the fridge and skinned and

filleted it on the bait board in the cockpit. A pleasing

thought welled up inside me. Basil was welcome to his

vegetarian meals, I might even participate in them myself

when I go home, but right now I was in Fiji and I was

going to enjoy being a carnivore. Dee was on her way back

into the galley when I asked her if there was anything I

could do to help get dinner. She gave me a couple of tins of

coconut cream to open and a pineapple to cut up while she

chopped the fish into cubes.

When I heard Mikhail and Kiki come alongside I

left the pineapple half done and went on deck to meet them.

Mikhail simply introduced me to Kiki as Jasmine,

fortunately without any further mention of mermaids,

sirens or sea sprites. I don’t think I could have taken much

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more of that. OK it was my fault; I’d started all that

mermaid stuff, but that expression of Mikhail’s about

luring sailors to an unknown fate was still toxic on my

mind.

Kiki was about average height and I made a guess

that she was about thirty which would make her

considerably younger than Mikhail. She had dark skin,

black eyes and a beautiful smile which displayed a perfect

row of white teeth. Her hair was neatly cropped crinkly

black curls which I normally associate with Melanesians. A

ballpoint pen was still tucked into her curls as well as the

traditional flower above her left ear. Her short-sleeved

dress, which could have been a work uniform, displayed a

slim waist. Any guy would find her both attractive and

sexy.

She spoke English, with a Fijian accent that carried

with it a smile that was on the point of bubbling over into

an infectious laughter. I explained I had just been cutting

up the pineapple for dinner. She followed me into the cabin

but Dee had already finished cutting the pineapple.

Kiki handed over the bag containing the onions,

cassava and papaya. ‘Is there anything else we can do to

help?

‘Not really the galley is a bit small for more than

one cook. I’ll need someone to cook the bananas in a little

while. You could do them on the BBQ in the cockpit.’

Kiki asked, ‘Do you want them cooked in their

skins?’

‘Only if you do them on the grid, if you do them on

the plate you could peel them first and cook them in rice

bran oil. But not yet, or they’ll be ready before the fish and

the cassava. In the meantime why don’t you pour

yourselves a glass of wine in the cockpit and catch the last

of the sun?’

Kiki and I went back into the cockpit. Flint and

Mikhail were on deck discussing the merits of a brigantine

with a square rig on the foremast as opposed to a fore and

aft schooner rig. I must be an expert on this because every

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time Flint and Mikhail got together they had the same

conversation.

To open the conversation, while I poured a couple

of glasses of wine, I asked Kiki what she did at work.

‘I work mainly as a waitress, but when we have

Island Nites I dance and sing.’

‘Have you been doing that long?’

‘Only for about a year. Before that I worked on the

small ship cruises as dive master. That was fun.’

‘Why did you change?’

‘On the cruise ships I was away for weeks at a time

and I hardly saw Mikhail. So I got a job waitressing at

Plantation.’

‘What does a dive master do?’

‘On the small ship cruises we only have a

maximum of a hundred passengers and often there are a lot

less than that. We visit various islands and my main job is

to take parties either snorkelling or scuba diving over the

reefs. Also I teach scuba and run marine classes on the

reefs’ ecological systems. But on a small ship most of us

have other tasks as well like singing and dancing in the

evenings and any other odd jobs as they crop up.’

‘It sounds fun.’

‘It is, and it’s better paid than working on

Plantation. I still give private diving lessons from time to

time. But being ashore means I can spend more time with

Mikhail. He’s a lovely guy. A bit like a clown really – a

mixture of sadness and fun and I go scuba diving with him.

I taught him to dive. That’s how I met him; he was one of

my students. Do you dive?’

‘No, I’ve only ever done snorkelling but I do a lot

of swimming. At home I’m a swimming instructor at the

local pool. I mainly teach children to swim; I guess you

teach adults don’t you?’

‘Yes, I only teach adults. I won’t take kids.’

‘Scuba is something I’ve always thought I’d like to

do, but I must admit I find the thought a bit scary.’

‘That’s a good sign. The people I worry about are

the ones who reckon there’s nothing to worry about,

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because there is. In my experience they’re the ones who get

into trouble and then panic.’

‘Do many people get into trouble?’

‘There’s no reason why anyone should. But some

do, and it’s invariably because they think dive rules don’t

apply to them. I tell my students, death is an ever open door

waiting for divers who are careless about obeying the

rules.’

‘What are the rules?’

‘To know them you have to go on a proper dive

course. There are no short cuts. If you really want to learn

to dive, I’ll teach you; but I won’t give you half-a-lesson

over half-a-bottle of wine.’

‘I genuinely want to learn. I came to Fiji a few

years ago and did some snorkelling over the reef. I’d love

to learn to use scuba.’

‘How long have you got before you go home?’

‘A bit over three weeks.’

‘OK. That’s plenty of time to get you started.

Tomorrow evening at work we’re having an Island Nite

and I’m performing, so I won’t need to go into work till

three in the afternoon. I’ll be free in the morning. I could

give you your first lesson then.’

‘How many lessons would I need?’

‘As far as I’m concerned three two-hour sessions

are an absolute minimum to enable you to make a tentative

start; then you can go out with an experienced diver

alongside you all the time. There are a few operators who

think a ten minute session is enough for tourists to rent out

scuba gear and go and do their own thing. I won’t have

anything to do with them, and neither should anyone else;

and that’s not just my opinion. But we still want more

people to dive on the reefs providing they take nothing but

pictures and memories away with them. Underwater photos

are important and they shouldn’t just be of the reefs that are

thriving. Nobody wants to do it, but I’d like people to also

photograph the graveyards of grey dead coral.’

‘Why’s that?’

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‘So that as many people as possible can see what’s

happening to reefs all round the world.’

‘What is happening?’

‘There’s nothing but bad news. And people are the

cause. Greenhouse gasses are causing the oceans to become

more acidic and warmer. That combination is fatal to coral.

The increase in acidity is dissolving the shells, and

increasing sea temperature is killing corals, so too is

agricultural run-off. Overfishing is distorting the natural

balance and as a result predators like the crown of thorns

are increasing in numbers and eating their way through the

coral. If nothing is done to correct this in a few decades the

reefs will be gone, together with the biodiversity they

support, and that includes island communities like ours that

have lasted for many thousands of years.’

‘You said IF nothing is done. What should be

done? What can be done?’

‘Mikhail says anything can be done if the people

speak with a loud enough voice. When people lead, the

leaders will follow.’

‘Firing up a population isn’t a small task.’

‘Mikhail hasn’t retired. He still has powerful

friends in France and from time to time he does contract

work for the United Nations. He has been battered but not

broken. I’ll make him strong again and we’ll go to France,

show them the evidence and everyone will listen to him.’

I didn’t have a clue what to say in the face of such

blind faith. Disillusioning her would be cruel and in any

case who am I to say that he couldn’t do it. I don’t know

anything about the subject. Fortunately at that moment Dee

poked her head through the companionway and asked us to

start cooking the bananas.

We lit the BBQ and our conversation drifted on

with Kiki telling me anecdotes mainly about things she and

Mikhail had done together and the places they had been

diving. She made particular mention of diving off the

island of Naviti during the winter months when the manta

rays can be seen. She was still talking about these ocean

166

giants when Dee started serving the rest of the evening

meal.

No one could say the dinner didn’t look

spectacular. Dee passed round the plates. Back in New

Zealand we have restaurants dedicated to providing meals

from just about every nation you can think of, but for some

reason, I haven’t noticed any places near us specialising in

island food, which is a pity because the island dinner we

had that night was one of the most memorable I’ve

experienced. I suppose some of it could have been the

excitement of a new environment. There was something

more than special about sitting in the cockpit as the tropical

night drained the last of the glow out of the sky until all

that remained were the stars and the reflection of the stars

on black water, as the sounds from the shore drifted over to

us interspersed with the occasional flurry of fish and

phosphorescence in the lagoon. The wine helped, but quite

apart from that, the knowledge that this was a secret

holiday that Basil didn’t know about, and wasn’t going to

know about, added a magic ingredient. I suppose it’s

something to do with that old cliché about stolen fruits

tasting best. But the dinner was superb and the company

captivating. Even Mikhail who appears blind about

anything other than French cuisine admitted it was one of

the best meals he’d had.

After Dee carried the plates into the cabin she

returned with her own and Flint’s guitars. They

accompanied Kiki who sang us a beautiful mixture of

English and Fijian love songs. In those songs, when he

knew the words, Mikhail joined in so that he and Kiki

together formed a duet. Their eye contact and body

language left me with the impression they weren’t singing

with each other, but to each other.

I also discovered Dee has an excellent voice.

Starting with, “We’ll keep a welcome in the hillside”, she

went on to sing a number of songs in English and Welsh

with some of them in a beautiful combination of the two

languages.

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In the face of all that musical talent my rendition of

John Lennon’s “Imagine” would have seemed very

inferior, except for the fact that between us we’d consumed

four bottles of wine and Flint and Dee both joined in to

help me out. Considering the mellow mood we were all in I

guess anything would have sounded good.

When Mikhail and Kiki left in their inflatable to

return to Parce que we retired to the cabin and Dee put a

third pillow on their bed. The only comment I’ll make

concerning our nocturnal activities is to say that by

morning all three of us had our heads on different pillows

to the ones we started with. I suppose I should mention the

fact that my packet of contraceptive pills was still on my

bedside table back home. But after all that wine and such a

magic evening I simply didn’t care. You can draw your

own conclusions. Also you will probably have an inkling

why all three of us got up having had very little sleep and a

glowing sense of satisfaction.

168

Chapter 17 After breakfast, which consisted of bananas and toast, Dee

offered to take me in the inflatable to Mikhail’s boat for my

first diving lesson. Kiki had already told me the first couple

of lessons would be on their boat as I’d have to be one

hundred percent familiar with the equipment and the effects

pressure would have on my body before she’d let me go

into the water. I wasn’t sure what I should wear, but Dee

suggested my tee shirt and shorts would be the most

appropriate as this was the tropics and she presumed at this

stage Dee would be leaving instructing me about wet suits

and weight belts until later.

When we climbed aboard Parce que Kiki had the

scuba gear laid out in the cockpit ready for me. Dee

disappeared into the cabin to have a coffee and chat with

Mikhail, while Kiki started my first lesson. I was

immediately impressed with Kiki as an instructor. First she

asked me a lot of questions about my medical history and

when we’d completed the check list and she was satisfied

there was no medical reason why I shouldn’t learn to dive

she let me start the course. To begin with she assumed

correctly that I knew nothing about scuba diving, so she

started by showing me and naming each piece of

equipment. Then she explained why they were needed and

assisted when I put them on and took them off. This was

followed with a detailed explanation of how to use them. It

all seemed logical and straight forward, but a few days later

she made me take all the gear off and put it all back on

underwater. Then I understood the importance of what

she’d told me.

Over the next few days I learnt so much, and Kiki

explained it so clearly that years later I still know how to

calculate bottom time and understand the dangers of getting

it wrong, especially in places like Musket Cove where there

is be no decompression chamber to save me. I think of

myself as a competent swimmer and I’d assumed learning

to dive would be easy. But I rapidly realised that piece of

arrogance was something I needed to discard. For example

169

before Kiki gave me the explanation it wouldn’t have

occurred to me that coming up from a depth of ten metres

to the surface was so much more demanding and I’d have

to breath out more air than coming up from thirty metres to

twenty metres. There were so many things that were

counter intuitive. I know I’d have got them wrong if it

hadn’t been for Kiki.

When we finished my lesson, as Kiki put the gear

away, Mikhail and Dee joined us in the cockpit. While we

were having coffee and biscuits I made a surprise

discovery. Flint and Dee hadn’t first met Mikhail in Fiji as

I’d assumed. They’d met years earlier in the South of

France when Flintstone had been cruising in the

Mediterranean. At that time Mikhail was living in France

and owned a different boat which he sailed out of

Marseille. Not only did he know Flint and Dee, but he’d

also met John Hardcastle aboard Flintstone. As a result of

that acquaintance, right from the beginning he’d been

familiar with the background story about Isabel’s school in

Mozambique. So much for Isabel’s attempts at secrecy!

Since then Flint and Dee had been keeping Mikhail up to

date with developments. Hopefully Mikhail and Kiki could

be trusted not to pass on any of this. Even I knew enough

about the “coconut telegraph” to know that word of mouth

spreads through the Pacific with the speed of a tsunami.

Nevertheless it did come as a surprise to him that I’d been

involved with getting the girls established in New Zealand.

I learned something from him that was both news

to me and alarming. I presumed it was based on fact and

not something they’d invented just to wind me up. If what

Mikhail said was true John Hardcastle was planning to

gradually increase the size of the school five times. Five

times! That would mean an increase in student numbers

from ten to fifty. I tried to remember what he’d said at the

meeting. He’d certainly told us they had more investment

money available and they might start introducing boys into

the school, but he certainly hadn’t said he was planning a

five times increase in numbers. At least I don’t think he

did. When I stopped to think about it I realised he’d just

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employed both Camille and Rees on a full-time basis.

Might he also be looking for more staff? As things stood at

present every two or three years Flint and Dee smuggled

two more girls into New Zealand and we’d been able to

make them fade into the background at the naturist club.

But supposing instead of bringing two girls at a time we

were suddenly presented with ten! That wouldn’t work.

Flint and Dee couldn’t accommodate that many people on

Flintstone could they?

I asked Mikhail, ‘Is it right that John Hardcastle is

really intending to increase the size of the school five

times? Or are you just trying to wind me up?’

‘No I’m not. As far as I know that’s exactly what

he’s planning.’

‘Does Isabel know?’

‘I presume so. They work together don’t they?’

‘Isabel isn’t in the best of health and she can barely

cope with things as they are.’

‘Then perhaps they have alternative plans. In any

case, as the school seems to admit mainly orphaned

toddlers, it’ll be many years before those kids reach their

late teens and we need to worry about how to resettle them.

Who knows, by that time it may be possible to rehabilitate

the kids legally.’

‘Do you think that’s likely?’

‘Likely! No I don’t. It would take a seismic shift on

the part of governments. Not many are that imaginative.’

‘Why not? Every one of the girls is working and

making a contribution to New Zealand.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. It’s the same with most

immigrants. If someone has enough determination and guts

to leave everything they’ve ever known, take their family

and a bag of tools to build a new life in a distant land they

aren’t normally the sort of people to sit on their hands

when they get there and expect someone else to supply

their breakfast. The trouble isn’t normally with immigrants;

it’s with stagnant minds terrified new arrivals might disrupt

their dormant lives or, horror of horrors, wake them up. So

the doors are kept tight shut, or perhaps only opened a

171

crack to admit the wealthy class. But human progress from

the earliest times has relied on migration. I guess it goes

right back to the time when our ancestors in Africa decided

not to wait for evolution to provide them with the ability to

live in cold climates and instead dressed themselves in

animal skins, took off and started populating the planet.

Nowadays the most dynamic nations are those that accept

immigration. I reckon you’ll have a few years lead time,

but if I was in your position I’d be making a start by

looking for alternative ways to rehabilitate the girls.

Knowing Flint and Dee, I reckon they won’t be short of

ways to outwit the lunkheads in office.’

‘I don’t reckon we should have to do this. Isabel’s

girls are real nice kids. Why shouldn’t they be allowed to

come here legally? If the people in immigration could meet

them surely they’d just let them in.’

‘I don’t think so, Jasmine. Their minds don’t work

like that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I think about people, I imagine they have

three brains.’

‘Three brains?’

‘Not literally, but I see people responding as if they

had three brains. Let me explain. Our first brain is the

residue of the one we had when we emerged from the

primeval swamps into a world where tooth and claw rule.

It’s a reptilian brain. If I had to sum up that brain it would

be, “Do unto others before they do unto you”. It shows no

mercy and no compassion. But that brain is the engine that

drives politics, financial manipulations, drug dealing, and is

the watchword for the military.

Our second brain probably evolved when we

discovered the advantages of hunting in packs and sharing

our kill. Early on co-operation became a survival

mechanism. Now we see it in groups of mothers minding

each other’s children. Education is an example of co-

operation and sharing knowledge. With co-operation comes

empathy and respect.

172

And then there’s our third brain. It’s the edifice we

have constructed by building on the knowledge of others.

It’s the brain of the arts, it composes music, paints pictures

and enables us to unravel the mysteries contained in the

vastness of the universe and delve into the minute building

blocks of life.

I said we have three brains but of course in reality

we have only one, but as I see it aspects of all three are

imbedded in each of us. Our personality is determined by

the mixture of those elements. But intolerable pressures can

be exerted. A caring family man can be conscripted into the

army where he is indoctrinated into the realms of the first

brain and be expected to plunge his bayonet into another

man’s chest or scatter the ground with land mines for no

purpose other than to cripple and kill. That same man

might then return to his family, but often the scar tissue of

the terrible things he has done haunts him all his life to the

extent that he dare not even speak of it again. And he

abstains from speaking because, for a time, he knew the

focus of his life shifted from his second brain of co-

operation and empathy to the primeval brain of a ruthless

killer. But some people can swap the focus of their brains

on a daily basis. At home they can be co-operative with

their family and as soon as they get to work become oafs in

office and simply apply first brain rules without

considering the consequences. Then at five o’clock they go

back home and switch brains. They have a work brain and

a home brain. Sometimes I find it pays, before a meeting,

to decide which brain the other people are likely to have

engaged at the time.

I fear this is how it would be if you tried to get

permission for all Isabel’s girls to be brought legally into

the country. If you met the officials outside work and

introduced them to the girls it’s quite possible they’d

respond with empathy and understanding but in an office

you’d be wasting your time. Once they’ve got their

backside settled in their padded office chair trying to get

them to listen to reason is like trying to explain human

rights to a cannibal. I’ve come to the conclusion people are

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capable of performing unimaginably callous acts because

they are obeying rules and have their compassionate brains

disengaged.

I suppose it’s why I’m here now and not still

engaged in French politics.’

‘Do you think you’ll ever go back to France?’

‘To France! No, I want to live in the real world.

That’s a place a little like this, where people do what they

can to help each other. The phoney world is a place where

financial predators feed on their fellow humans. That world

is doomed. What I’ve discovered here makes me happy.

It’s only now that I’m realising what an unhappy place

France can be.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I think it came home to me when I first met Kiki. I

made a tactless remark about Fijians being poor.’

‘Her immediate response was Fijians aren’t poor.

And of course she was right. She pointed out they aren’t

poor; they just don’t have much money. But in the villages

Fijians have crops in the garden, fish in the sea and they

wear a smile. But the rich city folk she met from the cruise

ships were never satisfied with what they had. Instead of a

smile they wore a worried frown. She reckoned they’re the

ones who are poor.’

‘Is that why you said you’ll probably never return

to France?’

‘Yes, in France too many things get in the way of

happiness. Years ago, when I was in France, I wrote a

novel. It sold well and I made a few Euros out of it because

I was a known political figure rather than because of any

intrinsic literary merit. But it was controversial at the time

and ended up getting me into a spot of trouble.’

‘What was it about?’

‘I suppose you’d say it was a love story. But it was

also about the turmoil in a young man’s mind. It concerned

Saville, a young French airman. While on holiday in North

Africa he met and fell in love with a young widow who had

three small children – two girls and a son. The Islamic

world has a lot to say about Muslims marrying Christians

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and none of it is good news. As I said, too many things get

in the way of happiness. Narisa could have moved to

France to live with Saville, but that was not without

difficulties. Time passed, and instead of marrying Narisa he

married Rachelle from Paris. Together Saville and Rachelle

had a daughter and although devoted to his French family,

North African Narisa was never far from his thoughts. Over

the years frequent clandestine meetings happened.

Within the Arab world political things occur which

make no sense to outsiders. Neither does the reaction of the

non-Arab world make sense to Arabs. That happened in

this case, fighting broke out and Saville’s squadron was

sent on air raids into North Africa. Two days later he heard

from Narisa’s fifteen year old son Hamza. His mother and

two sisters died either in, or shortly after one of the raids.

Saville said nothing; he expressed no visible grief. No one

knows what goes on inside a troubled mind. Two days after

Saville got the news his squadron was sent again. He took

off as normal with a full load of fuel and weapons. But five

minutes after take off his Mirage was seen by observers to

bank and turn. On full power he headed straight towards

the administration building. Alerted by the tower the

Commanding officer stepped out of his office to see what

was happening and for a brief moment appeared in

Saville’s gun sights as Saville pressed the firing button.

The plane with its full compliment of fuel and weaponry

continued without wavering straight into the admin

building.

In my novel the official report concluded the

resulting destruction was an accident because Saville’s

plane had developed a fault that couldn’t be traced because

the plane had been extensively damaged in the explosion

and the resulting fire.’

‘That sounds more of a tragedy than a love story.’

‘Yes, perhaps that’s right. The line between love

and tragedy is often blurred, particularly in French

literature. Can anyone say where one starts and the other

finishes? I see it as a story about a tormented mind pushed

beyond its limit. But I got dammed for daring to suggest,

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even in fiction, that such a thing would be plausible within

the French air force. It occurred to me, although I said

nothing about it, the criticism was because their

subconscious told them it was possible. I see no limit to

what a distressed mind can conceive.’

Mikhail shrugged and added, ‘But when it comes

to book sales being dammed has its financial rewards.’

‘Is your book written in French or English?’

‘In French, it has never been translated and I doubt

if it would receive any interest outside France.’

‘That’s a pity because I’d love to read it, but I can’t

understand French.’

As Mikhail finished telling me about his novel Dee

decided to slip back to Flintstone in the inflatable to pick

up Flint and bring a contribution towards lunch, as we were

all going to eat together aboard Parse que before Kiki went

to work.

Over lunch we got talking about the manta rays off

Naviti Island and decided, once I’d completed my course

with Kiki, and as soon as she could get a few days off

work, we’d sail up there and go for a dive. This was

something I really wanted to do and they assured me the

mantas normally swim in the top ten metres, so there

wouldn’t be any deep dives for me while I was still

learning scuba.

That evening, while Kiki was at work, Mikhail

cooked a superb French dinner for us. Later, when the

moon etched a silver path across the cove, Flint and Dee

took me in the inflatable back to Flintstone and to the three

pillows on their bed.

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Chapter 18 I don’t like saying this, because it might result in people

making derogatory comments about me and telling me, yet

again, that I’ve gone a step too far. People can be spiteful.

But I suppose I should be honest and admit, if only to

myself, that my main motivation for coming to Fiji was to

have sex with Flint and, dare I say it, also with Dee. Before

I met Dee I’d never explored another woman’s body, or

had her do the same to me.

I was worried about Dee. I didn’t know how she’d

react to me “doing it” with Flint. I went half-way to

convincing myself she’d be sharpening her claws. To be

fair, Flint is her permanent partner and I suppose I’m an

intruder. Also I’m a lot younger. She could easily consider

me as... well you know as well as I do what she could

consider me as. I know hearing her say it would be hurtful,

justified, but still hurtful. Up till then the threesome was

working as a threesome and she seemed OK about it. But I

suspected the situation could flip in less time than it takes a

guy to take his trousers off.

I’m trying to say I didn’t know where this was

going, I didn’t want to be given advice, I was flying blind; I

wanted the flight to continue further than anywhere I’d

been before, but I didn’t know what to expect when the

landing wheels hit the tarmac. Oh hell! I hope that makes

sense to you, because it doesn’t make any sort of sense to

me.

I arrived on board Flintstone out of the blue. I

reckon it must have been blue, because I’d felt as if I’d

been flying on a little white cloud through blue skies ever

since I arrived. Dee had cooked dinner for me, and last

night Mikhail provided dinner aboard Parce que. If I didn’t

want to be seen as a free loader I reckoned it was my turn

to get dinner.

So while Dee was getting breakfast I asked, ‘Could

I get dinner for all of us tonight? I reckon it must be my

turn.’

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‘Sure I never turn down on offer to do the cooking.

Thanks Jasmine.’

‘I’ll need to go to the shop later. Would you be

able to take me to the wharf or let me borrow the

inflatable?’

‘Take the dinghy if you want. I guess you’ll only

be an hour or so. Shopping there is easy. You buy what

they’ve got, not what you want.’

When I got to the wharf Mikhail was on deck

reading a novel and Kiki had already gone to work. I

explained I was getting the evening meal and asked if the

two of them would like to join us for dinner on Flintstone.

He accepted instantly and invited me aboard to have a

drink with him but, much as I’d like to, I explained I was

using Flint and Dee’s inflatable and had to get their dinghy

back to them. It was a reluctant refusal because I’d enjoyed

talking to him. He combined fresh ideas with an easy smile

unlike a lot of people who only know how to talk in clichés

and regurgitate second-hand ideas. But to be honest, the

real reason I liked him was because he had the knack of

making me feel good about myself. That’s a rare quality.

Walking from the wharf to the shop I planned

several dinner menus; but on arrival at the shop my plans

crashed. Dee had been right, you buy what they’ve got not

what you want. While doing a few laps of the shelves

looking for things that weren’t there a memory stumbled

out of my brain. While extolling the virtues of vegetarian

meals, Basil had embedded in my grey matter the statistic

that the production of a kilogram of beef required three

thousand litres of water. You never know when a

fascinating fact like that will crop up in casual

conversation! I believe Jazzy winked back at my

subconscious and gave my hand a nudge when, at the

bottom of the freezer, I discovered a couple of kilogram

packets of rump steak. Guys like big steaks. That’s

assuming you don’t count men like Basil. A packet of

Walley’s beef sausages followed the steaks into the basket.

In the next freezer I found two packets of wedges. Things

were starting to look up. There was no problem with frozen

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mixed veggies and there were plenty of onions, tomatoes

and tomato sauce. For dessert I bought a pineapple,

bananas, and papaya and a kilo pot of Rewa yoghurt to go

with a fresh fruit salad. Basil would approve of that! I

know I shouldn’t do things to bait him. He’s a kindly sort

of guy and always means well, which is a hell of a lot more

than can be said about me.

The addition of two six packs of Fiji Gold

completed my purchases and also gave me quite a weight

to carry back to the wharf. The shortest route was along the

beach which was devoid of shade. Before I was half-way I

felt like a snail trying to make tracks across hot dry sand

while the sun followed me like a garden roller threatening

to crush me by its weight. Ironically the first thing I noticed

by the tap in the wharf was a sign saying, “Sorry no more

water until it rains.” I guess that would make things

difficult for boats without reverse osmosis to desalinate sea

water.

At the wharf Mikhail’s dingy was missing. But as I

rowed Flint’s inflatable towards Flintstone I could see

Mikhail with Dee in the cockpit and his inflatable tied up

alongside. I tied up my dinghy just astern of his as I figured

he’d need to get out later to pick up Kiki. I sorted my

shopping into fridge and freezer items put it away and after

picking up and filling a wine glass, I joined the others

under the shade in the cockpit and tried to catch a breath of

the breeze spilling off the sea.

I was so dry after my walk back along the beach

that I drained my glass of wine in one swig and Flint

topped it up for me. Skulling wine isn’t the brightest thing

to do when your tongue is dry and sticking to the roof of

your mouth. A couple of glasses later I was beginning to

feel quite bleary. It was past time to stop. As a result I

missed bits of the conversation which is a pity because, as

things later turned out, it was relevant for me. But I think I

picked up most of it.

They were discussing Isabel and the trust fund.

According to Flint it wasn’t true the investment money

intended for the school and the rehabilitation of the girls

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had only just become available. Flint reckoned it had been

accumulating for years and could and should have been

accessed long before this. He admitted Isabel had done a

good job, but he reckoned she’d also become jealously

possessive and she’d acted as if she owned both the school

and the girls. He reckoned that was why all the girls were

being brought to New Zealand when they could equally

well and more easily have gone to other countries or

possibly stayed in Mozambique. But Isabel saw them as her

daughters who had to “come home” and it was only now,

when her health was failing, that she was being forced to

relinquish a little of her hold on the project and involve

more people. I guess that included me.

Listening to Flint talking it seemed John Hardcastle

was keen to use the money which had been accumulating in

the trust fund. But apparently he’d been a little scared to

intrude into Isabel’s domain. But health was forcing her to

relinquish her grip on the project and he intended to use

this as an opportunity to expand the school and put it on a

more commercial footing, instead of an emotional one.

At that point, feeling fuzzy-headed and sitting in

the cockpit, I was beginning to wonder how this apparent

change in direction would end up affecting me.

Dee cut into the conversation. ‘I reckon you’re

being too tough on Isabel. You’re making it sound as

though the school and everything to do with it is no more

than indulgence on her part. She’s done a damn good job.

She’s built a school and a future for those girls where there

would have been only wasteland, but for her. It’s working.

And what’s more it’s one of the few things in Mozambique

that is working. It’s easy for us to sit here drinking wine

and assuming throwing money at it will solve everything.

Isabel has been throwing love and compassion at it and I’m

far from convinced money would achieve as much. Every

girl in the school is an orphan. The older girls have been

looking after the younger ones and the younger ones have

been teaching the older girls what it takes to look after a

young child. The school has been a family. By the time the

girls leave each one of them has learnt how to be a mother.

180

They also leave with an education in a country where

literacy is rare. Every girl is bilingual and their academic

ability is no worse than their western contemporaries and

better than a lot. But they are also leaving with practical

skills. They have been able to walk into the gardens at the

naturist club and turn it into a profitable market garden.

Probably their most valuable skills are being able to adapt,

get on with other people and develop inside another

culture. Isabel has instigated all that and achieved it with

limited help from other people. In Britain it would take a

team of experts to achieve half as much; you know that.

Isabel admits her health is fading and if the school isn’t

going to fade with her we’ll have to find people to attempt

to take her place. We won’t find another Isabel. I don’t

believe such a person exists. It will take a dedicated team to

achieve what she’s done and I guess, to achieve that, we’ll

need to use the income from the trust fund. That’s what it’s

for.’

Flint topped up his wine glass as he commented,

‘You must admit that bringing the girls to New Zealand

when they’ve finished school is a sign that Isabel doesn’t

know when to let go.’

Dee shook her head. ‘No I don’t agree. New

Zealand, despite its British heritage isn’t a bad choice. The

problems in Mozambique and much of the African

continent are the reason why the school became necessary.

In any case the girls stand a better chance of progressing in

a richer country than a poorer one. The girls have black

skins and come from a tropical climate. Where can they

go? Australia is awash with colour prejudice. Refugees are

interned in intolerable conditions. Australians don’t even

know how to live with their own indigenous people. Policy

seems to fluctuate between ignoring them and throwing

money at them. As neither technique achieves the desired

result of making them go away, they get beaten up

mentally and physically. Britain has a large black

population, but it’s a cold and passionless land. Tentacles

of its class system reach into every dark corner. I wouldn’t

want to live there any more. France has its insiders and

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outsiders. You know about that don’t you Mikhail? Also

the girls only speak English and Portuguese. Portugal could

be a possibility although Isabel would never agree. In some

ways it’s similar to New Zealand because its main

industries are agriculture, fishing and tourism. But it is

poorer and has high unemployment. I see it as a seagoing

nation that has lost its pole star and can no longer read the

clouds to see what weather is brewing over the horizon.

That great pregnant bulge in South America we call Brazil

speaks Portuguese, but it doesn’t know the meaning of the

word egalitarian. Like most Portuguese speaking countries

corruption is endemic, girls are being snatched off the

streets and the drug scene is big enough to blot out the

stars. The girls wouldn’t be any better off there than in

Mozambique. You only have to look at the statistics of

American prison populations to know what many white

America thinks of dark skins.

Quite apart from that the girls grew up together.

They think of themselves as sisters. The school is the only

family they’ve ever known. Why shouldn’t they all stay in

the same country and keep in touch with each other like

ordinary sisters? I reckon Isabel is right, and despite all its

faults we should continue taking them to New Zealand. But

if the student numbers increase, facilities other than the

naturist club will be needed to rehabilitate the girls, and

later on we may need to cater for boys as well. Setting up a

new facility should be a priority if we intend increasing the

school size.’

I asked, ‘What sort of facilities should we be

looking for?’

Dee answered, ‘I don’t know; you tell me. As I see

it the girls have been brought up in a rural environment.

Country folk don’t settle well into city life. Moving from a

rural environment into a city could be worse than moving

from Africa to New Zealand. I’d say the facility we end up

with should be rural where the girls can use their

horticultural skills. The naturist club is good because

people are coming and going all the time and a few extra

faces can move beneath the radar. Most naturists don’t talk

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about it to outsiders. So, even if they notice something

unusual, they don’t gossip about it in case they get the

spoken or implied response, “Well what would you expect

at a naturist club? They’re all a bit weird aren’t they?”

I’d say we could do worse than looking for a rural

property where we can set up a naturist club. It should

preferably be reasonably close to a centre of population and

have some other attraction that will draw in a variety of

younger people.’

Mikhail commented, ‘And it should be set up soon,

possibly in the next couple of years not in ten years time. It

needs to be established before we take any of our girls

there.’

I noticed Mikhail called them, “Our Girls”. That

implied to me that he already considered himself part of the

operation.

Dee looked at me. ‘You’ve done a great job finding

Camille and Rees. You escorted Olisa and Eshah through

the Sounds without any problems. Then you got them

established at the naturist club, helped them in the gardens

and you’ve even provided them with swimming lessons.

Flint and I aren’t going to find any suitable properties while

we’re sitting out here drinking wine. Why don’t you and

Basil keep your eyes and ears open when you get back to

New Zealand and see if you can find any rural properties

that could be suitable? You must have a few clues about it.’

‘Looking’s cheap.’

Flint cut in. ‘If you find somewhere and everyone,

including Isabel, all agree I’ll guarantee the Hardcastle

Trust Fund will back you to the last Kiwi dollar. He

mimicked John’s North of England accent. We ain’t short

of a bit of brass.’

‘I call myself a city girl, largely because it sounds

better than saying I’m a seriously-laid-back-beach-bum. I

haven’t had anything to do with farms or rural properties.’

Dee grinned. ‘But you do have a damn good idea

about what could suit Isabel’s girls. I’ve got a lot of

confidence in you. If you’re a beach-bum, Flint and I are

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just boat-bums and they don’t come any more seriously

laid back than the two of us.’

I was just thinking about Horsey Pat’s place when

Mikhail announced he’d need to go ashore to pick up Kiki

from work. From then on the discussion drifted on about

dinner. Isn’t it typical of men? I’d bought steak and

sausages for dinner and Flint assumed, being a woman, I’d

have no idea how to cook them on the barbie. Men are only

too pleased to let us do all the cooking but when it comes

to their steak they suddenly assume we don’t know what

we’re doing. It’s a bit insulting really, but at least if he

cremates it I won’t be blamed, and I suppose it saves me

the work. I reckon men just like standing over the barbie

with a can in their hand and talking while the steak goes up

in flames. Still why should I care? I’m supposed to be a

vegetarian – well sometimes I am. Perhaps I’m just a

lapsed vegetarian.

When Kiki arrived back on board she looked at me

with a wine glass in my hand and shook her head, ‘No

diving lessons for you today, Jasmine.’ She added, ‘Sorry!

Scuba and alcohol don’t mix.’

I suppose I was getting past my best. While

Mikhail had been away I’d topped up my glass a couple of

times and apparently I was talking rather louder than usual.

Kiki added, ‘I’ll tell you something else that

doesn’t mix with scuba and that’s flying. You can’t go in a

pressurised plane for at least twenty-four hours after you’ve

been diving and it’s preferable to leave it longer. If

someone has a medical emergency, which could be because

they’ve been diving drunk and forgotten their dive rules,

we have to organise a special flight at not much above sea

level to get them medical services. It’s not cheap and

someone has to pay for it.’

I suppose dinner went off OK except for the fact

that I cut my finger while attempting to cut the pineapple.

Kiki put a plaster on it while Dee took over the food

preparation. Flint and Mikhail did the BBQ. I was sick in

the sea straight after dinner and it was nothing to do with

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sea sickness. At least I learned a lesson about how much

wine is too much.

185

Chapter 19 The following morning I had such a bad head that I didn’t

have another alcoholic drink in the remaining weeks of my

holiday. As it turned out, that was a good decision. I don’t

know when I got pregnant, but a few days before I was due

to fly back to New Zealand I knew I had missed my period.

I didn’t touch alcohol. Instead I became drunk on

sun, sex and coral reefs. The song they sang inside me

became progressively more powerful until I didn’t know

where one started and another finished. I completed my

scuba course and we took Flintstone and Parce que to

Naviti so that I could go swimming with the manta rays. I

couldn’t believe the size of them. They were like flying

carpets but even more magical. I know people call them

devil rays but that’s only because of their horn-like pectoral

fin extensions. What I saw were gentle giants indulging in

synchronised swimming that would make Olympians feel

inadequate. I went diving on the reef with Kiki. We took

underwater photos of both the living reef full of life and

colour and also some of the dead grey coral. I know the

pictures of both are important to her. I guess they should be

important to all of us. Kiki and I practiced buddy breathing

and by sharing each other’s air I discovered I was also

beginning to share emotions that went beyond buddy

breathing. Even if I never go scuba diving again I’ll never

forget the sensation of gliding weightlessly over ridges,

diving with Kiki into gullies and holding her hand as we

looked up at the sun performing an intimate ever changing

dance with the surface of the sea. An emotion that I didn’t

know existed was fumbling its way through my impulses.

But Kiki had to go to work. Some days I didn’t see

her at all. Flint and Dee taught me to sail and, at times

when it was safe to do so, they left me in charge of

Flintstone. I learned to change tack, hoist sails, put in and

take out reefs and a thousand and one little things that had

become part of their life at sea but were new to me. If I’d

never come here I believe I might have spent the rest of my

days without ever being aware of what was possible.

186

The day before I was due to fly back to New

Zealand I said a tearful goodbye to Kiki and Mikhail. Dee

and Flint took me on final trip aboard Flintstone to Nadi

Bay to enable me to catch my flight back home. Something

told me I was going home just to pad out the rest of my

life. But at that stage morning sickness and the rest of my

life was something I had yet to discover. As we dropped

anchor just off Wailoaloa beach my brain seemed to be

overflowing with memories and anxiety about the souvenir

I was certain I was carrying in my womb. I guess I’m not

the first woman to return from a holiday and purchase a

pregnancy tester to verify what she already knew. We spent

my last night anchored in the bay and after breakfast I

climbed down the ladder. Dee handed my bag to me. Then

she and Flint joined me in the dinghy and Flint rowed us

ashore. We kissed on damp sand.

The last I saw of Flint and Dee was when they

were rowing back to Flintstone and I stood on the beach

waving with my bag beside me. Dee turned and waved and

Flint continued rowing. I felt I was watching my life

disappearing down the wrong end of a telescope as they

climbed aboard Flintstone. The tears in my eyes told me I

might never see them again. But of course neither eyes nor

tears can read the future.

I caught a taxi to Nadi airport but my mind, like

my hair, was in a state of anarchy. I couldn’t even talk

coherently to the taxi driver. Words, when they came, were

like gusts in a squall rattling the windows of a madhouse.

I checked in mechanically at the airport and passed

through emigration. Then I had nothing to do except wait

and spend the last of my Fiji dollars on a coffee and a

scone. I wandered round the duty free shops and bought

nothing because what I wanted wasn’t for sale. It was

already sailing back to Musket Cove. One guy, who looked

like a rugby forward, must have assumed I was alone and

made an attempt to chat me up, but I wasn’t in the mood

and after a few mono syllable replies he gave up. The last I

saw of him he was eating a pie in the cafe. He’d probably

187

get more satisfaction out of that than he would out of me in

my present mood.

The descent to Wellington airport was bumpy. We

came in over Cook Strait into a nor-westerly gale. As we

taxied in, from the plane window, I could see the airport

buildings reflected in the surface water on the tarmac. After

I’d been through immigration and got my bag I went into

the toilet. I changed into jeans, put on a jersey and an

anorak before I ventured outside. I caught the airport bus

into the railway station and had to wait for half-an-hour

getting colder by the minute before I could board the train.

As soon as I got home I switched on the heating,

made myself a black coffee because there was no milk and

switched on the TV. I flipped through the channels and

having decided there was nothing I wanted to see, turned it

off again, locked the doors and got into a cold bed.

Unpacking and opening the letters in the mail box could

wait till morning.

Breakfast consisted of a tin of creamed rice and a

whole packet of chocolate biscuits because there was

nothing edible in the fridge. Quite apart from dusting and

cleaning the house there was shopping to do and an urgent

trip to the bank. Having decided the bank was my highest

priority I cycled into town and went into Kiwi Bank. I

explained I wanted to open a savings account and we went

into the office to fill out the form. She asked if she could

see my driving licence. I explained I didn’t have one but

offered my passport as proof of ID. She looked at it, noted

the number on the form and I slipped it back into my open

handbag. My account was duly opened and my next job

was to go to the local supermarket. I placed my handbag in

the shopping trolley and proceeded to walk round the shop

getting the things I needed. I paid for it at the checkout

using my credit card and talked to the girl about her tattoo

and asked where she’d got it done and said I was thinking

of getting one as well. Once I was certain she’d remember

me, I put the shopping into the panniers on my bike, cycled

home and put the food away. Most of it went into the

fridge. My next job was to cycle to the naturist club. There

188

is always a pile of garden waste waiting to be burned in the

incinerator. I lit it, and when the forty-four gallon drum

was glowing red on the outside I dropped my passport into

the flames. I didn’t leave until I was quite sure it had been

totally burned.

The trouble was my passport had a dated Fiji stamp

in it. I’d toyed with the idea of just tearing the page out but

decided burning it was the only reliable solution. Basil

could have seen it at any time. That possibility had now

gone up in flames. Next I cycled back to Kiwi Bank and

asked the woman if I’d left my passport in her office. She

looked on the desk and told me she was quite sure I’d put it

back in my handbag. I then went to the supermarket to ask

the supervisor if anyone had seen my passport as I’d had it

in my handbag when I did my shopping earlier. She took

me to the office and went through the security camera

recordings. She found pictures of me shopping but

naturally there were gaps and places where I was masked

by other people. We concluded my passport must have

been lifted out of my handbag while I was getting things

off the shelf. She even came to the conclusion it might have

been at the deli when several people were crowding round

me.

Next I cycled to the police station and reported that

my passport had been stolen out of my handbag while I

was in the supermarket. I explained I only noticed it was

missing when I got home and tried to put it away. He asked

me for my passport number and I said I couldn’t remember

it but I referred him to the bank who had just recorded it

when I used it as ID to open a new account. I got a lecture

about passports being an important document that

shouldn’t be left in the top of a handbag where they could

be stolen. I expected that. Eventually I got away from there

with instructions how to get it replaced.

I went straight back home for the biggest clean up

since Noah’s flood. The grass was almost long enough to

have tigers hiding in it. On every surface there was more

dust than nits in a primary school. All my Fiji clothes,

together with my memories needed washing and putting

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away in the bottom of my drawer. Also I needed to be seen

at the naturist club so I could say I’d been there.

I rang work to check on the state of the pool and

heard it was going to remain closed for the next four days.

At least that gave me a bit of time to make things look

normal for when Basil arrived. I also managed to get an

appointment at the health centre and the doctor told me

what I already knew. I was pregnant. My next job was to

tell Basil he was going to be a father.

I got the train and the bus into the domestic

terminal to meet him. The first thing he said to me after

giving me a hug and a kiss was that I looked well. I guess

he’d noticed my suntan. I explained that with the pool

being closed I been able to get out in the sun and I’d been

to the club and in the gardens instead of spending all day in

an indoor pool. I suppose that was true. I just didn’t

mention the sun I’d been in was the Fiji sun. He made the

comment that it was a pity the pool wasn’t closed more

often. I agreed without hesitating for a moment.

While he was waiting for his bag to appear on the

carousel I asked him if he remembered our surprise

weekend up the coast just before he left for Australia. Of

course he said yes and hoped we could do something like

that again. I held his hand when I told him that as I’d

forgotten to take my pills with me last time, there wouldn’t

be any point in taking them any more. When I said that I

was taking a gamble that he wouldn’t remember whether I

had them or not. It turned out as I suspected he didn’t have

a clue about my pills.

At that point he spotted his bag on the carousel and

I think the significance of what I’d just said took a few

moments to enter his conscious thought.

When it happened he looked away from the

carousel and directly at me, ‘Do you mean...’

I didn’t let him finish. ‘Yes the doctor has

confirmed it. You’re going to be a dad.’

In those moments his bag went past. He had to let

go of my hand and push his way between a couple to

retrieve it.

190

I hope you’re not going to be judgemental because

I reckon in my position you’d have done the same or at

least something similar. I’m definitely not the first, and I’m

sure I’ll not be the last, woman to allow a guy to believe

he’s the biological father as well as the kid’s Dad. If he

believes it, what’s the harm? I know some people talk

about truth and honour and all that stuff as if it should be

placed on a pedestal. But I know exactly what Mikhail

meant when he said French society is founded on layer

upon layer of fabrication so that no one knows, or wants to

know, what’s true and what isn’t. He reckons fornication

and fabrication are the only permanent features of French

society.

In this case my fornication and fabrication had a

stimulating effect on Basil. All the way home in the taxi he

was making plans about what we’d do ready for when

“our” baby arrived. Those plans included marrying me. If

you can imagine a little kid yelling with excitement while

tumbling down a water shoot at an amusement park you’ll

have some idea about my ride home with Basil.

Of course the concept of marrying Basil wasn’t

new. I’d been wearing his engagement ring, on and off,

since our first holiday together to Fiji. You don’t need to be

Nobel prize winner to work out that continuing a full-time

career as a swimming instructor while looking after a brand

new baby wouldn’t be the brightest plan in the box. In a

way we were already married, or at least living together in

a more or less permanent relationship which I suppose is

the reality of marriage. The piece of paper is just that – a

piece of paper. With him working a month on and a month

off, life needn’t be over restrictive – as I’d just discovered.

I suppose the irony of the situation is discovering that is the

reason for me contemplating getting formally married.

When all is said and done, Basil isn’t the worst guy in the

packet of possibilities. He’s considerate and means well,

which I guess would qualify for a C+ pass mark in most

women’s estimation. Some school girls probably imagine

they will be entering a life-long passionate affair that starts

with cutting the wedding cake. But I guess time is all it

191

takes to extinguish a girl’s dreams. The disillusionment

eventually sets in with the discovery that her marriage is a

shoe that pinches her toes and the only remedy is to dabble

her toes in forbidden waters to find the sexual relief her

body needs. It’s a dull witted woman, or a very ugly one,

who can’t resolve that problem. I remember meeting a girl

who had been in my class at school. She’d been religiously

indoctrinated with all that forbidden carnal knowledge

nonsense since before she knew what it meant. Years later

when I met her, she was as screwed up as a lolly wrapper in

a rubbish bin. When she eventually got herself a boyfriend

she told him she’d saved herself for him. His response was,

“Why do you think I’d want you if no other bugger does?”

A few days later I rang up Mum and told her I was

pregnant. She just about crawled down the telephone wire

to sympathise with me and said she’d always suspected

something dreadful like that would happen to me after I

started going out with a man so much older than me. She

was convinced I had been tricked by the shenanigans of an

older man who had taken advantage of my innocence. I

guess I’ll just smile sweetly and leave her believing that if

it makes her happy.

That evening just before we went to bed Basil

made a confession to me. While he’d been in Australia

he’d had two telephone calls and an email from Horsey Pat

telling him about more race meetings, inviting both of us to

go with her and meet at her place. But apparently the

majority of the telephone calls consisted of her telling him

in detail what a bastard her husband was. Basil was quite

adamant that he hadn’t done anything to encourage her

attention and hoped I wouldn’t hold it against him.

I felt in the circumstances I could afford to be

magnanimous and understanding. So I assured him I didn’t

feel threatened by her as I knew I could trust him. Just to

prove it I suggested we should take up her offer and go to

another race meeting and possibly get some more hot tips

from her. Remembering what Mikhail and Flint had said

about looking for a rural property to rehabilitate Isabel’s

192

girls this seemed a good opportunity to see a few more

places. Also I must admit I found race days a lot of fun.

So we went to bed that night with Basil planning

our wedding and me thinking about race days.

193

Chapter 20 Basil and I were awake but still in bed at seven the

following morning when Mum rang me.

‘Jasmine, Dad and I have been up half the night

thinking about you. We thought it would be so nice if you

got married in the same church that we did.’

‘Mum, I told you I’m pregnant; I haven’t said

anything about getting married yet.’

‘But you’re still engaged aren’t you?’

‘Yes Mum, Basil and I are still engaged.’

‘So that means you’ll be getting married doesn’t

it?’

‘Yes Mum.’

‘Well Dad and I thought...’

‘Mum, I’m not getting married in your church or

any other church.’

‘Why not? It’s the proper...’

‘We’re not getting married in a church. Basil and I

are not religious. Neither of us believe that supernatural

stuff.’

‘That’s very obvious.’

‘If that was supposed to be a quip about me being

pregnant and single it was in bad taste Mum.’

‘I suppose you intend to go through life as you’ve

started. Have you thought what it would be like to be a solo

mother without...’

‘Basil and I are planning to get married, but not in

a church. We’re not religious. We don’t believe in God. It

would be phony to go through a church wedding and I

don’t want a phony start to my married life. Marriage to me

is a public announcement that we are a couple. The church

has no part in it. So sorry Mum, we won’t be getting

married in your church or any other church.’

‘So where are you intending this so called marriage

to take place?’

‘We haven’t decided yet, but we’re both thinking

of the naturist club.’

194

‘Oh my God! I don’t believe what I’m hearing.

You don’t expect me to believe you’re getting married in a

nudist camp are you? Is this what Basil has reduced you to?

I can tell you now if that’s what you’re planning your Dad

and I won’t be attending.’

‘I’d be very sad if you didn’t come to my wedding.

You and Dad gave me my life. It was a beautiful gift and

I’ll always be grateful for it. But it was a gift. You don’t

own me. If you don’t want to take any more interest in me

or in your future grandchild that’s your decision. It’s not

what I’d want, but you must make your own decisions just

as I make mine. But before you do, I think you should at

least know what you’re deciding about. You don’t know

Basil. You’ve only seen him once or twice. Also you don’t

have a clue what the naturist club is like. I’d like to invite

you, Dad and Coral to lunch here in Basil’s flat tomorrow

so you can meet your future son in law properly, and in the

afternoon we’ll take you along to the naturist club so you

can see it for yourself.’

‘I’m not taking all my clothes off.’

‘You won’t have to; I won’t be either. You can

wear exactly what you want. The club is based in an

historic homestead set in large well tended gardens. It’s a

beautiful private park with a lake where people can go and

relax with their friends in a natural environment and escape

from the pressures of city life. Do you remember Isabel

Graham my old headmistress at primary school?’

‘Vaguely’

‘Well she introduced me to it and proposed me as a

member. Please Mum don’t be judgemental about things

before you’ve seen them. That’s not fair. Will you all come

here and have lunch with me tomorrow? Or are you going

to disown me because I’m pregnant?’

‘Disown you! Of course we’re not going to disown

you. We love you; and because we love you we don’t want

to see you make any mistakes. I know you’re old enough to

make your own decisions, but we aren’t old enough to stop

worrying about you.’

195

Mum went on for another couple of minutes during

which time I pointed out that I was born about six months

after she married Dad and asked whether I was a mistake.

That was supposed to be Mum’s secret. I don’t think she

knew Coral and I had worked that out years ago. Possibly it

wasn’t the most tactful thing to say in the circumstances,

but I was getting a bit irritated with her patronising attitude.

Perhaps that’s not entirely true. I was also practising being

a bitch because of twinges of guilt about the paternity of

my baby. Things seemed different now I was home and

realising the extent to which I was taking advantage of

Basil’s trusting nature. I guess that was the real reason why

I picked on Mum and ended up saying things that would

have been best left unsaid. Suggesting I was a “mistake”

seemed to hurt Mum; possibly because it was true. As a

result she spent the next few minutes telling me how much

she wanted me and loved me. Apparently Coral and I were

the most wanted babies in the whole world! And that was

why she wanted the very best for both of us. Anyway she

decided to come to lunch at our place and see things for

herself and agreed to go to the naturist club in the

afternoon. Although she did want me to verify again that it

was my old headmistress who had introduced me to the

club.

Fortunately I’d done that massive clean up before

Basil came home, so I only needed to rush round the house

a couple of times and put the dirty washing in the washing

machine before they came. As a result the house looked

almost presentable; which is about as good as it gets. I had

an extra job to do before they arrived. I suppose some

people would say I was being devious, but I didn’t see it

like that. I just saw it as conditioning Mum to accept what I

was going to do with or without her approval. I called

Isabel and asked her if she’d do me a favour and go to the

club in the afternoon when Mum and Dad would be there. I

wanted her to reassure them that the club would be a

suitable place to hold a wedding and Basil would be a good

husband, because they seemed to have doubts about both

proposals.

196

Lunch went without a hitch. I made macaroni

cheese because I knew they all liked it and it was a

vegetarian dish. Dad and Basil had a chat about Western

Australia. I noticed Basil spent quite a time discussing

social problems in the Aboriginal community that were

caused by the mining infrastructure. At one point he even

went into the study and got out his map to point out the

areas that were in contention. Coral spent most of the time

telling me about her latest boyfriend, while Mum told me

about the problems she was having trying to lose weight

and how difficult it was to find a hair dresser that didn’t

make her look like a rat’s nest sitting on top of a barrel. I

reckon Mum must have primed Coral and Dad about not

saying anything that could be construed as being

judgemental about Basil or me. If they had, my artillery

was primed and ready. But throughout the meal everyone

kept their safety catches firmly in place. Mum and Carol

helped me clear the dishes and do the washing up.

Everything was so normal it was unreal.

After lunch we all got into Basil’s car and drove to

the club. I signed them in as my guests and then proceeded

to show off the homestead. It would be difficult for anyone

not to be impressed with the old house. First I took them

through the dining room and then we went into the

adjoining ballroom. By this time Mum had to admit that the

homestead would make a lovely wedding venue. Dad was

particularly impressed when I told him, as Basil and I were

members, there would be no charge for using it.

We met Isabel in the conservatory. I did the

introductions and she joined us while I made everyone a

coffee. From across the room I could hear Isabel telling

Mum what an asset Basil and I were to the club which

relied on the goodwill of members to keep the homestead

clean and maintained. She made a particular mention of the

work I did in the gardens and how in the summer I’d been

giving free swimming lessons in the lake.

While we were drinking our coffee Dad asked

Isabel about the history behind the homestead.

197

Isabel explained, ‘The history is partially recorded

in the Turnbull library and we keep copies of the

documents in the homestead library.’ She paused for a

moment before continuing. ‘The story started in Bristol in

England early in the eighteen hundreds. Sir George

Summerfield was a shipping magnet who specialised in

providing new career opportunities for West Africans in the

American cotton fields. With the proceeds of those sales he

purchased cotton which eventually fed the cotton mills in

Manchester. Prohibiting slave trading didn’t have any

immediate effect. It continued for a number of years

virtually unabated. About the time the slave trade went into

decline, Britain was starting to colonise New Zealand.

Eventually our errant knight decided to take his wealth to

New Zealand where he set up a trading post selling

muskets to Maori in exchange for flax. The Royal Navy

needed all the flax they could get to make rope. And the

New Zealand flax was of prime quality. At that time the

Hutt Valley was a swamp and provided almost limitless

quantities of flax to feed the Summerfield flax mills. The

land we are standing on was purchased from Maori in

exchange for musket and shot. But it was left to George’s

son Archibald to build this homestead. He used the

adjoining land for sheep farming, while the homestead

became a centre for entertaining anyone with influence in

the country. Eventually Archibald died and the estate was

passed on to his only legitimate son Edward.

Edward was never diagnosed as being insane using

the definitions of sanity available at the time which would

have been coloured by his inherited wealth and his friends

who were anxious to relieve him of his financial burdens.

It’s rumoured he was an insomniac and went on nocturnal

walks round the gardens talking to the plants. He was

known to climb trees in the garden and imitate bird calls.

We know for a fact he threw lavish garden parties to which

he invited a wide selection of Wellington society. Some of

his hand written poems and musings are still available in

the library but they make strange reading.’

Mum asked, ‘What were they about?’

198

‘His musings are the most informative. They are

mainly written in English but for no apparent reason he

intersperses his writing with a few sentences in Latin and

then reverts to English again. Some of his work is

surprisingly modern in outlook and I’ve noticed some

things he wrote have been quoted by the New Zealand

Labour party. From the dates involved I think it would

have been that way round and not him quoting the Labour

party. But the central theme of his work concerns the

enormous debt he reckons the wealthy owe to the poor.’

Dad cut in. ‘That seems an unlikely opinion from

someone whose family fortune originated in the slave trade

and by selling weapons and ammunition to Maori.’

Isabel continued, ‘You’re right, but he seems to

have been a strange man. Doubtless a psychologist would

have some theory which would only make sense to another

psychologist. But to ordinary people like us, it seems

weird. Nevertheless he’s long dead, but strangely we are

the beneficiaries of those tortured and not unobservant

ramblings.’

Dad asked, ‘You said he believed the rich owed a

debt to the poor. Why does he say that?’

‘His theories, which he based on his own research,

still have a ring of truth. They go back to the time when

nomadic hunter-gatherers began farming and instead of

being nomadic started living in static communities. He

reckons wherever in the world static communities evolved,

chiefs emerged who forced the poor to give them a portion

of their crop enabling the chiefs to enjoy an extravagant

lifestyle of leisure compared with the surfs and slaves who

were overburdened attempting to achieve subsistence for

their families. Gullible and born and bred in ignorance serfs

were fed nonsense about rewards in paradise once they

died. Meanwhile the chiefs spent their wealth and leisure

plotting how they could further enhance their own lifestyle

which included making war on neighbouring chiefs. They

invented mythical beings which, if they weren’t in their

own image, were in their illusion of their own image. Not

199

surprisingly these Gods approved of everything the chiefs

did.

He reckons all the chiefs, except for perhaps one in

a thousand, and I believe he counted himself within that

small select group, lived a life of leisure. But a few spent

their leisure time pondering on the laws of nature and over

thousands of years managed to construct a sufficient body

of knowledge to create the mechanical age. Machinery

replaced drudgery for many people, lifestyles changed, new

chiefs replaced the old ones and knowledge expanded in all

directions.’

Dad nodded. ‘That sounds about right to me.’

‘In his later years he became obsessed with his

theory that the human race would destroy itself and the

planet by fouling its own nest and only gardeners and

people understanding and living close to nature could

prevent that from happening. He wrote this at a time when

whale hunting was at a peak and European settlers were

burning off whole swathes of country and leaving

blackened stumps and burnt logs where native forest once

flourished. He opened up his gardens to nature lovers and

upon his death his homestead and the grounds were left to

the naturist club for the members to use. And we’re still

enjoying the benefits of that legacy.’

Mum smiled and I guessed she was coming round

to the idea of me using the club for our wedding. ‘He

seems to have been a strange man.’

‘He may or may not have been sane. I don’t know

how to define sanity. But there is no doubt he was unusual.

At present the club has about five hundred members who

pay an annual membership fee and with that they have the

privilege of being able to use the house and gardens. With

that comes the responsibility of maintaining the estate in

pristine condition. Should we fail, under the terms of the

will, ownership will be transferred to the council and the

estate is to be used as a public park. The homestead is

classified as a national heritage and planning permission

wouldn’t be granted for any extensions or modifications.

200

As both Jasmine and Basil are club members they

are entitled to use all the facilities for their wedding, as

many other members have done. In my opinion anyone

would be hard pressed to find a better venue and it’s free.’

Coral asked, ‘Can anyone join the club?’

‘No, people have to be proposed by a club member

and their application goes to the committee who meet new

applicants and explain the privileges and responsibilities of

becoming a club member. There are no other requirements,

so anyone who is prepared to make the commitment can

join.’

‘Could I join?’

‘If Jasmine proposed you, I’m sure the committee

would welcome you providing you’re willing to assist with

the smooth running of the estate. Jasmine for example

spends a lot of time helping in the gardens. We are

particularly keen to have more young people amongst our

members. The pursuit of happiness amongst many young

people these days has reached fever pitch; so many are

under the sad illusion they will find it in a bottle of beer or

it will jump out at them through their latest electronic

gismo. Some seem convinced illegal drugs will make sense

of their life. Although this sounds like heresy in New

Zealand I believe “Winning at all costs” in sports is

unhealthy. Few seem willing to discover the pleasure that

can be obtained by doing something constructive for

someone else. I feel that is the strength of our naturist club.

Everyone is a member because they are anxious to preserve

and improve our legacy. I believe the old ways and the old

things we’ve had handed down to us shouldn’t all be cast

aside as valueless in a crazy scramble for an uncertain

future. The thing I have noticed about the young people

who have joined our club is they all seem to find

contentment here and make new friends along the way.’

I cut in. ‘That’s how I met Basil. I met him here.’

When Mum asked, ‘Do they have family

membership?’ I realised what a great job Isabel was doing

by telling Mum and Dad exactly what they wanted to hear.

201

Isabel smiled when she replied to Mum. ‘No we

don’t have family membership. Each member has to make

their own commitment, but members can sign in their

family as guests. But it’s interesting that you asked that.

Lots of families live in flats and apartments without a

garden. Those families are finding our club an attractive

place to spend time with friends. A couple of generations

ago I guess many of them might have owned a bach and all

the maintenance work involved with maintaining it, but

now with planning permission, resource consent and

council regulations it is out of reach for most people.’ Then

she added. ‘I know there’s a bit of a cold wind blowing

today, but why don’t we have a stroll round the gardens

and you can see some of the things Jasmine and her friends

have been doing? I’m sure you’ll be impressed and see why

our club is so attractive to families.’

As we walked towards the lake Mum asked, ‘Is it

true that sometimes people take all their clothes off?’

Isabel nodded, ‘Nudity isn’t illegal in New

Zealand. You are allowed to be nude but not lewd. In

summer people go for skinny-dips and get all over suntans

on public beaches, in lakes, in rivers and backyards all over

New Zealand. This is a private club and we aren’t going to

stop them unless they are behaving inappropriately or

offensively. We see exposing our skin to the sun and wind

as being part of the natural environment. But it’s not likely

to happen in cold weather like this.’

As we approached the vegetable gardens Olisa,

who was planting out cabbages, ran towards me to give me

a welcoming hug while Isabel explained to Mum and Dad

that I helped the three girls in the gardens and we were all

learning gardening skills from each other. Before we left

Mosi dug up a couple of leeks and gave them to Mum as a

free sample. I explained that the three girls were running a

profitable business selling fresh garden produce at the local

farmers’ market and to club members.

It was the following morning that Mum rang me up

at home and asked if she could order vegetables from the

club. That was the proof I needed that Mum was coming

202

round to the idea of the club as a suitable venue for our

wedding. It also meant Basil and I had to turn the calendar

on by a couple of months to look at suitable dates when

Basil would be back from Australia. I noticed Basil had

already marked on the calendar the places and times of race

meetings that I presumed were the result of phone calls and

emails from Horsey Pat.

203

Chapter 21 Coral and I went into town to look for a pattern and

material for my wedding dress. I was quite adamant,

despite protests from Mum, that I wanted a casual wedding

and not a traditional white wedding. We found the material

Coral and I both liked. It was yellow cotton with orange

and red flowers printed on it. We got the shop to put it on

hold while we went on the hunt for two patterns. My dress

pattern was reasonably straight forward. I wanted a knee

length dress with short sleeves, a Vee neck and buttons

down the front. This last requirement was important for a

plan I’d had in the back of my mind for some weeks. The

second pattern I wanted took quite a bit longer. We spent

several hours looking through the pattern books in

numerous shops and I was beginning to think we’d need to

cut out our own pattern when Coral suggested the Salvation

Army. I explained what I wanted to the woman behind the

counter and she rummaged through a box of patterns and

found it.

Coral offered to make my dress for me and a

matching waistcoat for Basil out of the same material. Basil

doesn’t know about that yet; it’s going to be a surprise.

Coral was planning to have a similar dress to mine but

made with a different material. The design we chose had

fabric covered buttons down the front and she reckoned she

could use the same pattern as me. We take more or less the

same size. In the past we’ve frequently swapped clothes

although I’m not sure how long that will continue as I

reckon my hips and waist line will be getting more

generous.

Mum offered to make me a wedding cake. She

wanted to put two figures on top showing me in a long

white dress and Basil wearing a top hat and tails. It took

quite a bit of persuading with Coral backing me up to get

Mum to change that to sculpting me in a swim suit and

Basil in a miner’s hard hat. I know Dad thought I was

being ungrateful, but I found that formal stuff was

204

pretentious and alien. I suppose I was being a bit precious

about my wedding and I could have been a bit more

accommodating to what Mum and the relatives expected;

but I wanted my wedding to represent me and not some

fake image that was being projected onto me. It made sense

to Coral, even if no one else could understand what I was

fumbling to explain. Basil wasn’t involved in the argument

because he always goes along with what I want. Or, as

Coral put it, he knows better than attempting to make me

change my mind.

Basil and I decided to write our own wedding vows

and we spent a whole evening working on them before we

reached a compromise. I wouldn’t agree to lasting fidelity

as I reckoned when opportunities presented themselves I’d

react as I’ve always reacted and I don’t believe I’m very

different to other women. Of course, with Flint’s baby

inside me and Basil looking forward to the birth of “his”

baby, vows about lasting fidelity seemed a trifle insincere.

We talked and eventually Basil agreed. We promised to

respect and support each other; which I reckon is about all

people can hope for from marriage.

Although he’d mentioned it before, Basil was now

getting agitated about me not having a driving licence for a

car. He kept telling me what I already knew, that I

wouldn’t be able to take a new-born baby on my bike and

I’d need a pushchair, baby blankets, clothes, fresh nappies

and somewhere to put soiled ones, as well as having the

means to clean up baby, who’d need to sleep while we

were out. I’d have to get to the clinic and the supermarket.

If I didn’t have a driving licence, how would I manage

when he was away in Australia? OK, I knew he was right

and virtually all my contemporaries had been driving for

years. So reluctantly I agreed to sell my motorbike and my

beautiful powder blue motorbike suit, which I’d hardly

used, and try to get a car licence. But Basil wouldn’t leave

it there, he kept on and on. I still haven’t a clue what he

said. I guess we don’t hear the things we don’t want to

hear.

205

I was beginning to feel a tropical cyclone was

sweeping away swathes of my life and pilling them up as

debris in a grubby corner of the backyard where I didn’t

want to go. I guess tropical cyclones start as insignificant

changes in pressure somewhere offshore in warm tropical

seas. At first you don’t notice it; possibly there’s one or

two fluffy white clouds lingering out on the horizon that

promises an evening glow in the sky that seems certain to

leak gold. A light breeze caresses your skin and every

sense our bodies possess tells us the world is a beautiful

place. It’s during the night that things happen and the seeds

of a cyclone are sown. A crazy dawn follows as winds start

to circulate until you’ve no idea where they’re coming

from. The guys move on and we women find we’re in the

middle of a storm with the debris of our former lives flying

around our heads while we’re chucking up down the toilet

every morning, and if that’s not enough we have well

meaning people offering advice we don’t want to hear. All

we can do is look for shelter from the storm, which I guess

is why Coral is making me a wedding dress and Mum is

busy baking.

I’d just discovered I could adapt exceedingly well

to having over five weeks off work on full pay when I got a

call from Helen, the pool manager. She wanted all the staff

at the pool by two o’clock on Friday afternoon for photos

and a press release of the mayor officially reopening the

pool following the completion of the repairs and

maintenance. She wanted the pool attendants and the

swimming instructors to be in their swimsuits for the press.

The contractors must have been busy during the

break. Apart from the repairs to the filtration plant that we

couldn’t see, all floor surfaces around the pool had been

changed to non-slip tiles. The diving boards had all been

replaced. The showers, changing rooms and toilets were

redecorated and there was a new secure lock-up for

patrons’ clothes with electronic card access. Even the car

park had newly painted lines to designate parking spaces.

About the only thing that hadn’t been upgraded was the

staff tea room and we still had the same chipped tea mugs.

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After the mayor opened the facility Helen wanted

me to dive off the end of the pool and swim a couple of

lengths for the sake of the photographers. My picture

appeared in the evening paper and a caption stating that the

nationally acclaimed swimming champion and instructor

Miss Jasmine James was showing the mayor how it was

done. I felt super embarrassed by this as I’m not a

nationally acclaimed swimming champion and I never will

be. I’ve been persuaded to swim in national competitions in

the past but I’ve never won any of them. I’ve only achieved

coming last in the finals, twice. I’m not a swimming

champion. The real winners are winners because they

deserve to be. They have a rigid daily training programme

and winning has to become the focus of their lives to the

exclusion of everything else. If I went through an intensive

training programme, had a swimming coach, and ate a

proper diet I could probably knock fractions of a second off

the time it takes me to swim a length. Big deal! Do you

know I feel sorry for people who can’t think past winning

at all costs. I swim because I enjoy it, but I’m not in the

same class as the winners. I don’t have that killer instinct.

Oh hell! That was a bad choice of words after what I did to

Ralph’s boat and what happened to him as a result. Forget I

said that. What I’m trying to say is I’m Jazzy the seriously-

laid-back-pregnant-beach-bum. But despite that Mum cut

my picture out of the paper and showed it to everyone she

knew, together with the caption. When I explained that I’m

not really a swimming champion Mum just smiled and told

them I was very modest about my achievements. So I

agreed with her and said I found it easy to be modest about

my achievements when I hadn’t achieved anything. I know

that’s letting Mum down and she wanted to be proud of me

but I don’t want people thinking I’m something that I’m

not. Besides if they were interested they could easily find

out the names of the real winners and I wouldn’t be among

them.

Basil and I sent out wedding invitations by email

together with an RSVP to most of the people on our

computer address book. I also added a note that we were

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expecting a baby. I thought it best to be upfront about that

rather than have my friends getting out calendars and

whispering and sniggering behind my back. In any case

everyone knew Basil and I had been living together. I

assumed most of the people we invited would find an

excuse for not turning up which suited me fine. I’ve never

wanted a flash wedding. But I did get a lot of surprises

when I discovered who made the effort to come. I’ll tell

you about them later.

I know for some girls their wedding is the big day

in their life, to the extent that the plans dominate their lives

for months. I’m sure that can only result in disillusionment

when they discover their day only had twenty-four hours

the same as every other day. Basil and I were far more

interested in our honeymoon for rather different reasons.

Although I couldn’t say this to Basil, I’ve effectively just

had a honeymoon with Flint and I know whatever I did

with Basil would be a disappointment in comparison. I felt

that would be pity and wouldn’t be fair because Basil has

always been a nice guy and my honeymoon with him

shouldn’t have to compete with the time I spent with Flint

and Dee. In ways I can’t explain Dee also came into the

emotional pyramid. So when Basil suggested we could go

back to Fiji again because that was where we first got

engaged I felt I had to dissuade him for more than one

reason. The obvious one would be that someone could

recognise me and make some comment to Basil about my

recent visit. But apart from that Basil was rescuing me

from being a struggling solo mother. He’s not responsible

for making me pregnant. I don’t think living with him will

ever contain the urgency of lust that tore me apart when I

was with Flint and Dee. I guess marriage isn’t like that;

continual sex with the same person goes stale, it had been

heading in that direction already. It wouldn’t be fair to

Basil if we started our life together with that comparison

being dangled in front of me. I needed to do something

totally different with him so I can’t make the direct

comparison. You’ll know the cliché about not being able to

compare apples and oranges.

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‘Basil love, when baby is here we’ll be able to take

him or her to sit on warm beaches possibly in the tropics

and play in the sea. In the early years there isn’t a lot else

we’ll be able to do, especially if baby has brothers or

sisters. Six months from now I’ll be wallowing like a hippo

in a mud pool. Now is the last chance I’ll have for years to

do something special with you that I’ve always wanted to

do.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’d only want to do it if you want it as well.’

‘I want what will make you happy. Sometimes I

feel I’m not very good at that.’

‘If I thought like that, I wouldn’t want to spend the

rest of my life with you or have your baby would I. Of

course you make me happy. I just thought I’d like our

honeymoon to be something different that we might not be

able to revisit for quite a few years.’

‘You’ve got me intrigued. What is it?’

‘I’ve never seen Fiordland, or walked the high

country tracks. I’ve never been white-water rafting or jet-

boated on the wild southern rivers. I’d love the chance to

sit and hold hands with you while drinking coffee on the

Earnslaw. Basil I’d like to have a honeymoon down south.

Then when you’re in Australia and I’m changing nappies

or doing the washing up I’ll be able to remember it as

something special you and I did together. But I’d only want

to do it if you wanted it as well.’

‘Of course we could do it. This is exciting. I never

knew you wanted anything like that. It would make a

beautiful honeymoon. Money is no object. Let’s do it shall

we.’

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Chapter 22 A few days later Basil got another long email from Horsey

Pat telling him about a race meeting up north that she was

attending. I call her Horsey Pat because I think of her is an

equestrian version of a cowpat. Apparently one of the

horses in the race was a four year old gelding she had bred;

although she’d sold it as a yearling and someone else had

trained it she was convinced he was going to win. She

invited the two of us to stay at her place on the Friday

night, then we could have an early start and she’d drive us

to the meeting the following morning. This time the email

contained no further complaints about her husband.

Presumably they’d come later! As it happened I wasn’t on

duty that weekend and it was almost two weeks before

Basil returned to Australia. So we discussed it and decided

it would be fun to go, based on the fact we’d enjoyed the

last race weekend. I was starting to get a suspicion I was

only invited out of politeness and Horsey Pat would have

much preferred it if Basil stayed at her place by himself.

When I said this to Basil his immediate reaction was that

he didn’t think she was like that and she was only

interested in horses. I think I know women and can read

between the lines of an email better than him. But I also

believe I can trust Basil.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, the result of

that race meeting would have a significant effect not only

on my future but on the future, for good or ill, of numerous

other people. I’ll explain how that came about, but first I

must tell you about our weekend.

Basil met me out of work and we drove up the

coast to Horsey Pat’s place. She welcomed us with a half

smoked cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth

and invited us into the conservatory that again stank of

cigarette smoke. I guess I’m a bit sensitive about things

like that since I heard second-hand smoke is harmful to

unborn babies. But it’s her house and we are her guests so I

didn’t feel I could say anything about it. We sat down and

she offered us a drink. Basil said he’d like a coffee and I

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asked for a hot chocolate. I don’t think they were the sort

of drinks she had in mind when she made the offer, but we

got them all the same.

While she busied herself in the kitchen her husband

introduced himself as Duncan and, taking us out of the

cigarette smoke, showed us round the grounds. He was

slightly built and of average height, clean shaven and

probably in his forties. His face was deeply lined which

indicated to me he’d spent time in the sun. He wore a

business suit and under the jacket he had a roll neck

sweatshirt. He pointed out their land which rose up into the

foothills hills of the Tararua ranges. It appeared to be

mostly covered in native bush. We took a walk up the back

and from the top of a hillock we got glimpses of a sizeable

lake partially hidden by the trees. A stream which seemed

to run out of the lake passed close to the house. To the side

of the house and across the yard there was a row of stables

and above the stables they had a five bedroom flat with

living accommodation for riders who came for Pat’s

dressage events. Only the flat land round the house was

fenced. The soil appeared black, and I’d been so involved

with Isabel’s girls I couldn’t help wondering what they

would make of it. The large paddock in front of the house

was used for grazing horses and was enclosed by white

post and rail fences. That fencing alone must have cost a

fortune. I seemed to be looking at an extensive property,

most of which was unused.

Despite the fact Basil had told Pat we were

vegetarians she cooked pork chops for dinner, which we

both ate without another word about our dietary

preferences. But that wasn’t the thing that left both Basil

and me feeling so embarrassed neither of us knew what to

do or say. We ended up by both looking down at our plates

and saying nothing. She’d cooked three dinners and put out

three place settings on the dining table. I thought this was

strange as Duncan was hovering in the background. When

she started to serve the meal he came in, presumably

expecting to eat with us.

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She looked directly at him. ‘I’m cooking for my

friends; you can get your own.’

Without replying he turned round and walked out

of the room. I guess he went into the kitchen and got

something for himself; I hope so.

Pat opened a bottle of wine. It was obviously not

the first bottle she’d opened that day. She was about to

pour some for me when I put my hand over the glass. ‘No

thanks, I’m not drinking now because I’m expecting.’

‘Rubbish my dear! If you’ve got to put up with

pregnancy, that’s all the more reason to have a drink. It’ll

be good for your baby.’

Basil came to my aid. He’s normally quietly

spoken and easy going but when he wants to make a point

he doesn’t bluster like a bully, his eyes become pin points

of blackness; he speaks more quietly and chooses his words

with all the care of a surgeon using his scalpel. People

instinctively know better that to disregard the cutting edge

of the steel in his voice. This was one of those occasions.

His eyes focused on a point midway between Pat’s eyes.

‘Far from being good for baby, drinking alcohol

during pregnancy can cause foetal alcohol syndrome. If

Jasmine says she doesn’t want any alcoholic drinks she

means it. But I expect she would appreciate a glass of

water.’

‘Oh yes of course. I’ll get one for her.’

As she went into the kitchen I gave Basil a grin.

‘Thanks love.’

I drank the water, we finished the meal, Pat

finished the bottle of wine by herself and proceeded to bore

us with stories about horses and probably slanderous tales

about her husbands that got louder and more improbable

with each fill of her wine glass. Apparently to date she was

on husband number three. Eventually, when it became

obvious my eyelids wouldn’t say open any more, she

showed us our rooms. Basil and I were offered separate

rooms each with a single bed. This seemed strange as we’re

obviously a couple, this was a huge modern house and I’d

already seen they had at least two spare double rooms.

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You’ve probably realised by now that I don’t like sleeping

alone. We decided we’d share Basil’s bed. When Basil

went to the bathroom she must have contrived to waylay

him in the corridor to point out which was her bedroom.

Then she explained she slept naked and alone in a double

bed, and her bedroom door wasn’t locked! Basil smiled and

nodded to indicate he understood the implications of what

she had told him. Then he winked and explained that he

didn’t like sleeping alone either. When he said that she

rested her hand on his shoulder so that her fingers curled

round the back of his neck as if to pull him closer, until he

added, ‘So Jasmine and I will be sharing my bed for the

night.’

With that revelation she pulled her hand away, and

without wishing him goodnight disappeared into her

bedroom and shut the door.

I’m not sure if she’d have heard Basil telling me

about his encounter, or the two of us talking and laughing

about it. Later our talk became more serious.

‘Basil, I know Horsey Pat offered to drive us to the

race meeting but I don’t want to go anywhere in her car. I

don’t want to keep breathing her cigarette smoke and I’m

damn sure she’ll spend half the day drinking and I don’t

want to be driven home by a drunk driver. We’ve also got

baby to think about. Can’t you and I go in your car and

leave her to drive there by herself?’

‘I’ve already said we’ll go with her. What excuse

can I give?’

‘Blame me, tell her I’m suffering from morning

sickness and I also get travel sick, especially when I’m in

the back seat of a car. I bet she’ll want you to sit in the

front seat next to her. Could you say you’re worried I might

chuck up in her car? She’s more likely to take it from you

than from me. I definitely don’t want to go anywhere with

her. Also I don’t want to come back here tomorrow

evening after the racing for coffee or anything else.

They’ve got a nice place and, as far as I can tell, her

husband seems OK but she freaks me out. Tell her we

213

might have to leave early before the racing is finished as

we need to go home early.’

‘OK but I don’t want to hurt her feelings after she

invited us here.’

‘Whose feelings are you more worried about hers

or mine? If you don’t want to tell her I will; and while I’m

doing it I’ll spell out the real reasons.’

I could have added that I’m devoid of kind

thoughts towards a woman who invites my future husband

into her bed. I guess you’re thinking that means I’m a

double standard sort of girl and if so, I reckon I’m probably

in good company. Horse racing isn’t the only sport in

which kings and wicked women indulge.

After breakfast Basil and I followed Horsey Pat for

a couple of kilometres up the state highway. But she drove

as if overtaking everything on the road was her birthright.

We let her go, and I felt persuading Basil to travel in our

car was justified.

Despite what Horsey Pat had told us about her

“priority parking” we found the parking paddock was only

half-full. We found her where I expected to find her by the

bar with a wine glass in her hand and a cigarette in her

mouth. At least it was only a cigarette, the guy she was

talking to was blowing cigar smoke downwind as Basil and

I approached them. They were indulging about form and

the fact the ground would be heavy. Basil and I sat in the

cafe, bought a hot chocolate and a scone while we watched

and waited. There are a lot of worse places to absorb the

atmosphere than at a race meeting. It was the ambience of

the place that I look back on and remember, rather than the

details of the horses and riders or the people. Horsey Pat

came and gave us advice about which horses to back. We’d

done well taking her advice at the previous race meeting

and even went away with a small profit. So we decided to

follow her advice again and Basil said he’d place a ten

dollar bet on Blue Lightening.

Ten Dollars! Pat seemed to consider Basil’s

proposed ten dollar bet a personal insult that drove her into

incantations about form, blood lines and trainers. Neither

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Basil nor I had a clue what she was talking about. She

could have been making it all up for all we knew. Despite

that Basil reiterated that he was still going to place a ten

dollar bet. He made an attempt to explain we were there for

a fun day out and had come for the ambience of the race

meeting which would still be the same if he increased his

bet to twenty dollars. She then proceeded to tell us we were

missing the financial opportunity of a lifetime as Blue

Lightening was a certain winner. She even went as far as

telling us Blue Lightening could finance our honeymoon or

buy us a faster car if we only gave him the chance.

Apparently she was placing five thousand dollars on him.

Basil replied he wouldn’t place a bet that big even if he was

the only horse in the race. To which Horsey Pat replied,

‘He is the only horse in the race, because you can disregard

all the others.’

All three of us placed our bets together. Pat went

first. She paid her five thousand dollar bet with cash from

her handbag. Much of it was in small denomination notes

and she still had a considerable amount left. Despite what

she’d told us, she obviously wasn’t confident enough to

place it all on Blue Lightening, which, as it turned out, was

just as well because he was the fourth horse to cross the

finishing line. At least Basil and I only lost ten dollars.

Pat gave a grin like someone who’d just been

discovered eating a child’s Christmas chocolates, ‘It’s only

money. I’ll get it back on the next race.’ Basil looked at me

and shook his head in disbelief.

About then the guy she’d been talking to earlier

turned up and we used that as an excuse to slip away. Once

out of earshot I asked Basil why he reckoned she could be

so casual about losing that much money.

Basil looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve been wondering that

myself. In my experience if people have worked hard to

earn their money they treat it with respect. They’re

spending part of their life and getting value for their

earnings is important. But if people don’t respect the way

they obtained their money usually they have little respect

for the way they spend it. So I’d guess she didn’t earn it

215

herself. Perhaps her husband did. She doesn’t appear to

respect him. But there’s something else that smells a bit

rancid. I don’t think women usually carry that much cash

with them in their handbags, do they? Her bag was full of

money. Did you notice most of it was in small

denominations. People don’t get thousands of dollars from

the bank in fives and tens. I’d guess that money was

probably obtained illegally.’

My mind jumped the tracks back to my surf club

days when Ralph seemed to have limitless money and was

always evasive when people asked him what he did for a

living. His apartment upstairs that none of us were allowed

to visit seemed to gain a more sinister nature the more I

thought about it. I could imagine parallels, ‘It could be drug

money and she’s attempting to launder it at the races.’

‘That thought’s bumped its way around my brain

as well. It’s lucky we can’t be prosecuted for what we’re

thinking. I reckon it’s best if we don’t have too much to do

with her in the future.’

‘So do I.’ I didn’t add that offering her bed to Basil

was an even better reason as far as I was concerned.

We didn’t bet on the next few races. As we walked

towards the starting gate we got chatting to a couple.

They’d driven from Hamilton that morning to support a

friend who was racing a two year old mare for the first

time. It was getting towards lunchtime and we started

walking to the pavilion with them to see what takeaways

they had. When we were halfway there we caught up with

Pat. She was seriously drunk and slurring her words to the

extent that we had difficulty understanding what she was

saying. We sat her down on a bench seat and the other

couple continued on to get their lunch.

Apparently she’d placed more heavy bets and lost

and seemed to be under the delusion that one more drink

would make sense of her losing streak. Hoping she couldn’t

hear I whispered to Basil, ‘We can’t let her drive home like

this; she’ll kill herself or someone else.’

‘How can we stop her?’

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‘Keep her talking right there, while I get some

takeaways.’

‘What are you going to get?’

I hit him with a naughty-girl smile. ‘Wait and see

and don’t you dare complain. Have you got any money? I

haven’t got my purse with me?’

He took a twenty dollar note out of his wallet and

handed it to me. ‘Is that enough?’

‘Thanks that’s fine. You might even get some

change.’

A few minutes later I returned holding three pottles

of chips and Basil’s change. Basil and Pat took a pottle

each and I asked Basil to hold mine while I went to the

toilet. As both Basil’s hands were full I slipped his change

onto his jacket pocket and left. It must have been about

fifteen minutes before I returned.

Basil was still talking to Pat. He looked up. ‘That

took you a long time.’

‘There was a long queue.’

Basil just nodded. They’d almost finished their

chips when I started mine. I ate slowly and talked. When

I’d finished and we stood up to leave, Pat put her hand

down to pick up her handbag.

At first she looked puzzled. ‘Where’s my

handbag?’

I shook my head and kicked Basil’s foot, ‘I don’t

think you had it when we met you. I didn’t see one, did you

Basil?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Might you have left it behind when you placed

your bets, or perhaps it’s in the bar? You’d have paid for

your drinks with it wouldn’t you?’

Pat looked confused. ‘I’m sure I had it with me.’

‘Well, it’s not here now is it? Can you remember

all the places you’ve been?’

‘I’m certain I was carrying it.’

‘I didn’t see it. Are you sure?’

‘My car keys are in it.’

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‘We can give you a ride home, so don’t worry

about that. Do you think you ought to report that your

handbag has been lost? There must be somewhere where

lost property is handed in. Did you have any identification

in it like your driving licence or perhaps a bill or a letter

with your name, address or phone number on it?’

Basil asked, ‘Do you have any credit cards in it? If

so you should contact the bank and get them stopped.’

We walked back to the bar where she had

purchased her last drinks and we sent her in to ask if it had

been found. While she was in the bar Basil asked me ‘Do

you know where her bag is?’

‘Yes it’s locked in the boot of our car.’

‘How did it get there?’

‘I put it there. She was holding her handbag, so I

had to think of some way of getting her to put it down. We

were sitting on a bench with no table. That’s why I bought

pottles of chips. You need one hand to hold the pottle and

the other to pick up the chips. She put her bag down and

while she was talking to you. I picked it up and instead of

going to the toilet I took her bag back to our car and locked

it in the boot.’

‘I knew you were up to something when you

bought chips. That’s not like you, but I didn’t have a clue

why you were doing it. How did you put her bag into the

boot of our car? It was locked and I’ve got the car keys in

my pocket?’

‘Are these your keys?’ As I said that I took them

out of the pocket in my jeans and handed them back to him.

‘How did you get them? They were in my coat

pocket, I always keep them there.’

‘They were there. Do you remember you had both

hands full holding your chips and mine? I put the change

from the twenty dollar note back in your coat pocket. It’s

lucky I know you normally keep your keys in your right

pocket isn’t it?’

‘You crafty thing! I shall have to watch you! I’d no

idea you’d taken them or they were missing. What are you

going to do with her handbag?’

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‘I’ve rung her husband on my cellphone, told him

what we’d done and explained she’s as drunk as a rat in a

vat, and shouldn’t be driving so we’re taking her home.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He thanked me and said he’d get a vegetarian

evening meal for us when we arrive and he hoped we’d

stay the night rather than driving home in the dark.’

‘Did he pass any comment about Pat being too

drunk to drive?’

‘Yes and he correctly assumed she had been

betting on losers because he reckons drinking to the point

of unconsciousness is her therapy after losing.’

‘You did a lot in your trip to the toilet didn’t you?’

‘Yes, did you think I’d got lost?’

‘I guessed you were up to something; but I didn’t

know what.’

Pat came out of the bar. ‘They wouldn’t give me

another drink. They said I’d had too much already and they

might lose their licence if they served me.’

‘Perhaps it was also something to do with you not

having your purse or handbag with you to pay for it.’ I

suggested.

‘Tight fisted bastards!’

Basil and I each held one of her arms as we

escorted her towards our car. Just before we got there she

chucked up on the grass and on her shoes. We moved her

away from the vomit and I slipped her shoes off, wiped

them on fresh grass and stuck the stinking things in the

boot of our car. I mentioned to Basil that I was tempted to

leave them in the paddock. Basil reckoned that would be a

great idea, especially if she was still wearing them.

We got her into the back seat and managed to get

the seat belt fastened. Once we were on the road I plugged

in a music cassette and turned up the volume. That way we

didn’t have to listen to the tirade coming from the back

seat. After half-an-hour I was able to turn down the

volume. She was not only asleep but stayed asleep for the

rest of the trip back to her place.

219

Duncan must have heard us drive up to the house

because he was standing at the front door to meet us. I

undid her seat belt from one side of the car while Basil and

Duncan got her out of the car and into the house. Together

they took her to her bedroom and Basil left Duncan to put

her to bed. Basil sat beside me in the conservatory.

It was about fifteen minutes later that Duncan

joined us apologising for Pat’s behaviour. He reckoned she

hadn’t always been like that and it was only in the last year

that her interest in horses had joined forces with an

evolving gambling addiction which had led to other

problems between them. He didn’t say what they were and

naturally we didn’t ask, but my imagination filled in some

of the gaps.

He asked, ‘Did you say you had retrieved her

handbag?’

‘Yes it’s in the boot of our car along with her

shoes. I’ll get them.’

‘Thanks, that would be great. It’s quite important

right now.’

With that I stood up. Basil handed me the keys and

I slipped out and brought it straight back. I handed him the

bag and said I’d left her shoes on the front porch as they

were a bit smelly. As soon as I handed him the handbag he

opened it and immediately started counting the money. I

felt uneasy because of the possible implication that we had

taken some of it. I can’t remember the exact amount left in

her bag but it came to somewhere in the region of six

hundred dollars.

His explanation began with a sigh as if it was all

too much for him. ‘I’ve started up a small business and

about thirty percent of my income is in small denomination

bank notes. It doesn’t say a lot for our relationship but I’ve

had to start keeping the cash in a safe in my bedroom. I

thought it was secure but unfortunately Pat seems to have

discovered how to open it. Before she left, the safe

contained fourteen thousand two hundred and twenty

dollars. I need that money to pay my suppliers and the

bank. I’ve had to borrow to the limit to start my business.

220

With that much cash missing I’m in trouble. I suppose it’s

my own fault; I should bank it more regularly.’

Both Basil and I independently arrived at the same

conclusion. The real reason he didn’t bank it was because

cash in hand would become tax free income. But neither of

us made a comment. He hesitated for a moment as if

wondering whether to continue.

I asked. ‘What does your business involve?’

‘I sell vacuum packed lunches from slot machines.

My target clients are female workers between about the

ages of about eighteen and thirty five. This is reflected in

my advertising, the portion sizes and the packaging. Of

course I get other customers but over seventy percent of my

business is from my target area.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Each machine has a security camera and I use that

for my market surveys.’

‘That’s innovative. What made you think of

starting a business like that?’

‘The idea came when I heard on the radio that most

office lunch rooms have a microwave for staff use. I also

realised women in that age group are quite specific about

their diets. I carried out a survey and worked out a range of

lunch options.’

‘What are the most popular meals?’

‘Indian, Chinese and Thai foods are my best

sellers. Greek salads sell well and I sell a range of hotpots

but they tend to be seasonal and only do well in the winter

months.’

‘Where do you have your dispensing machines?’

‘At transport hubs, commuter rail terminals are

good and I have one or two in large inner city car parks.

The idea is that busy working women can pick up lunch at

a reasonable price on the way to work and heat it at

lunchtime. The food is vacuum packed, with plastic cutlery

and in a plastic disposable dish. The lunches are hygienic,

self-contained, tidy and affordable.’

‘How much do they cost?’

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‘Ten dollars, everything is ten dollars and

customers can pay with either a credit card or bank notes

and the machines give change.’

‘Do you get much wastage?’

‘Virtually nothing. The food is chilled and vacuum

packed. After the third day it becomes a “special” and sells

for five dollars. Specials sell fast and most customers look

out for them. I don’t make money out of my specials but

five dollars covers my costs.’

‘Where do you get the food?’

‘I buy it from licensed kitchens, and everything is

packaged and chilled to my specifications. The dispensing

machines have a data output so I know what has been sold.

My sales are mainly before lunch so fresh orders go out to

my suppliers during the afternoon. Contractors replenish

the machines during the night and put the specials into a

separate compartment in the machine.’

‘It all sounds well organised.’

‘There’s one problem I had to borrow heavily to

finance the venture. I’ve taken out a second mortgage to

cover the set up costs. Of course I have to pay interest

charges on the loan. The machines are expensive to lease

and I have to rent a place for them. Suppliers and delivery

contractors have to be paid. Initially I’ve been sailing close

hauled but we have been making some progress to

windward and I was hopeful we’d make a success of it. But

this isn’t the first time Pat has helped herself to the

finances.’ He paused and held his head in his hands before

continuing. ‘She is entitled to half of our assets. If we were

to split up I’d have to sell up to pay her out. The business

cannot stand these continual losses. As things stand at

present I may have to call in the receivers.’

‘I hope not. You have a magnificent place here and

your business sounds most innovative.’

‘It’s nice of you to say so. But I shouldn’t bore you

with my problems. I’m very grateful you had the

compassion to bring Pat home. That’s a lot more than most

people would have done.’

‘I’m sorry we couldn’t do more to help.’

222

‘You’ve helped me already by letting me talk about

it. I’d like to get you an evening meal to thank you, if that’s

OK with you. I believe you’re both vegetarians.’

I glanced at Basil for confirmation. ‘Thanks that

would be great. Can I do anything to help?’

‘No, you’ve done more than enough to help Pat

and me already. If you’re OK sitting there for a while I’ll

put an apron on and pretend I’m a cook.’

He put some music on the stereo and disappeared

into the kitchen. I looked at Basil and we spoke in whispers

so we couldn’t be overheard.

‘I feel quite guilty now assuming it was drug

money. Do you think he may have to sell up?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I think it could be likely.

Business men don’t usually talk about receivers unless it’s

immanent. Neither do couples talk about splitting up unless

the cracks in their relationship are already visible. I suspect

his business has more problems than he’s telling us. Putting

money on a horse could have been Pat’s solution to fixing

an endemic financial problem. People who can’t see any

way out of a problem will sometimes gamble everything on

a single bet. Even a remote chance of success is preferable

to the certain failure they are facing. It could have worked;

she might have rescued a hopeless situation. That could

account for the size of her bet, but the horse she bred didn’t

come up to expectations. Wiping out one more failure in an

alcoholic haze might be all she felt she had left. I guess the

money in the safe was being squirreled away out of the

sight of a receiver so they’d have something to fall back on

if the receiver left them with little more than the clothes

they’re wearing.’

‘That’s sad isn’t it?’

‘Yes it’s the dark side of capitalism. Some people

attempt to lift themselves out of poverty but end up falling

back into the swamp. Then the finance houses combine

with the Inland Revenue to rip the flesh off what remains

of the little guy. Meanwhile the big guys who are the top

predators look down from their lofty heights and wonder

223

why the poor put up with being poor and don’t do

something about it.’

‘Do you reckon Duncan and Pat will split up as a

result?’

‘I don’t know. They don’t seem very happy and I

guess under some circumstances it could be financially

advantageous to split.’

‘They’ve got a beautiful place here. The lake and

gardens remind me of the lake and gardens at the naturist

club.’

About then Duncan came back in with a Greek

salad for our evening meal and the conversation drifted off

into other directions which included our wedding

arrangements.

After the meal Duncan suggested if we didn’t have

any pressing reason to drive home that night we might like

to stay the night and drive home in the daylight. He also

added that there was a double room with an en suite we

could use.

Without consulting Basil I agreed. Now I had an

ulterior motive for wanting to be there in the morning.

224

Chapter 23 That night I was hungry for sex and instead of going to

sleep afterwards we curled up together and talked in

whispers. It was one of those conversations when every

sentence starts with “If”.

If Pat and Duncan split up...

If the receivers were called in...

If their place came up for sale...

If John Hardcastle meant what he said about

looking for a likely property to rehabilitate Isabel’s girls...

If the trust fund really did have enough money to

purchase a place like this...

If whoever was in charge of the finance agreed it

was suitable...

If they agreed Basil and I would be capable of

running it...

If we could provide accommodation and

employment for the girls on site...

If we could find a way to integrate them into the

scene without arousing suspicion...

If I could run this place with a new baby and Basil

away half the time...

And if we could persuade Duncan to show us more

of the place in the morning we might have a better idea

what we were talking about if any of these ifs ever became

more than pillow talk..

Finally we must have dropped off to sleep with a

whirlpool of possibilities that was still in motion when

lemon light in the sky turned the bedroom curtains opaque

and the dawn chorus outside the window acquired a degree

of urgency.

After breakfast Duncan was not only willing but

anxious to show us more of their place. He took us for a

walk past the gardens, to the lake and along some of the

tracks through the bush which Pat used as bridal paths. Of

course we didn’t see all of it. Duncan reckoned they had

about a thousand acres which stretched up into the Tararua

ranges and at the back of their place there was a Greek

225

village or commune tucked into a fold in the hills but their

access was mainly via the Wairarapa side of the ranges.

It was getting on for lunchtime before we left. Pat

was still in bed and Duncan offered to get lunch for us, but

we declined. Before we left Basil mentioned to Duncan that

if their place ever came on the market we might be

interested in buying and we’d appreciate being kept in

touch with the situation. It’s interesting that Duncan copied

down our home phone number and Basil’s Australian

number together with our email address. It occurred to me

he probably wouldn’t have gone to that much trouble if

selling wasn’t a probability.

With the wedding coming up we still had

invitations to send out and a hundred and one other things

to do before Basil returned to Australia. We only wanted a

“no frills” wedding but it seemed everyone else had

different ideas. Isabel said she’d try to contact Tapanga

who was one of “her” girls and also a drummer in a band.

Isabel wanted to bring the band to the wedding and didn’t

even ask if that was what we wanted. As it turned out it

was what we wanted and we were quite happy for her to

make the arrangements. It seems weddings have more to do

with what friends and relatives expect and the bride and

groom are simply accessories to the occasion.

I emailed most of the invitations together with an

RSVP request. That met Mum’s disapproval. She’d

envisaged posting invitations written with silver words on

cards with hearts, bells and ribbons embossed into it. That

idea was based on the assumption people would keep their

invitation as a souvenir. I pointed out invitations and their

replies sent by email would probably be permanently stored

electronically in some computer whether we wanted it

saved or not. That wasn’t what Mum wanted to hear.

Amongst the invitations I included Flint and Dee together

with Mikhail and Kiki. When I sent it I didn’t expect them

to come. I guess you’re wondering why I invited them. It

was foolhardy. I knew that at the time; Basil had no

suspicions about my baby’s paternity and as far I knew

Flint didn’t even know I was expecting. I invited them

226

because I wanted to invite them. The reason must be buried

too deep for me to rationalise. I’m told felons often return

to the scene of their crime. An old jungle cat will risk

stalking the edges of a town. Is it just to see if it can be

done? I don’t know the answer, but in my case an inner

compulsion drove me despite the fact a careless word could

explode like a hand grenade inside the wedding party. But

if I’m going to be married to Basil I know something inside

me would snap if I missed this opportunity.

I also sent invitations to Camille and Rees, but as

they were in Mozambique I knew they wouldn’t come,

although they did send a thoughtful wedding present. It was

a painting Camille had done of the school. To be precise

she took a digital photo of her original painting and sent it

as an email attachment to a photo printer in Lower Hutt

who printed the picture onto canvas and couriered it to us

to arrive the day before our wedding. I thought that was

kind of Camille, especially as I’d been rather naughty with

Rees. She mentioned in her email that she was busy as the

school was being expanded to cater for more children.

With that in mind I emailed an invitation to John

Hardcastle in Northern England simply out of politeness

and to inform him Basil and I would be getting married at

the naturist club. Well! That’s not entirely true. I didn’t

send the invite just out of politeness. If there was a

possibility Duncan and Pat’s place might come up for sale

I’d figured Basil and I might be able to access some of the

funding available. Last time John Hardcastle was here he’d

asked us to keep a weather eye open for any likely

properties. Of course everything was still at the “if” stage

but I reckoned it wouldn’t do any harm to send him a

wedding invite, even if he was on the other side of the

world, and it might do a bit of good. If you’re thinking I’m

being devious all I can say is I don’t think I’m the first

woman to have ulterior motives when it comes to sending

out wedding invitations.

To my surprise John accepted the invitation. In fact

he was one of the first people to reply and said he’d already

booked his flights. When most of the replies came back

227

Basil was in Australia, so I kept him up to date with daily

emails and he kept me up to date with the emails he was

receiving from both Whore-see Pat and Duncan. You will

notice my opinion of Pat has changed recently, so now I

feel Whore-see Pat would better represent the way I see

her. Basil reckoned neither of them appeared to know the

other one was also sending emails which contained

conflicting stories.

I was at work when I received a phone call from

Dee to tell me Flintstone had just berthed in Seaview

Marina and Mikhail and Kiki were aboard with them.

They’d sailed south from Fiji and come early for the

wedding. I explained Basil was in Australia and I’d be on

my way to the marina as soon as I could get out of work. I

didn’t go home that night, or any other night until the day

before Basil was due back in New Zealand.

I hope dear reader you’re not sitting on the bench

being judgemental. If so, for a moment, I’d like you to join

me in the dock. Perhaps you’ll understand when I say the

song of sunburnt days was so seductive it filled my brain

and a compulsion stronger than me took control. But even

as I took that route my subconscious told me the song

would fade and too soon the days would shorten and in the

cool evening air I’d evolve into a loyal wife.

Without me telling them, Dee had figured I was

pregnant. I didn’t ask how she knew. Possibly she guessed

when I asked for water instead of the offered wine. I’d

convinced myself my figure hadn’t started to tell tales, but

perhaps I’m not the best judge. She asked when baby was

due. Naturally I gave a politician’s answer; I had to tell her

the same story that I told Basil. I could almost hear the

pocket calculator inside her head figuring when baby

would have been conceived. I’m not sure if she believed

me because she smiled, gave me a wink and added, ‘I don’t

think we need to tell Flint about your baby do we?’

Without directly answering I replied, ‘Basil is

looking forward to becoming a dad.’

As Dee speaks with a broad Welsh accent her voice

lifts at the end of each sentence which makes a statement

228

sound like a question. That’s how it was when she smiled

and said, ‘Father and Dad.’

I’d no idea if it was a statement or a question. So I

just nodded and replied, ‘Of course.’ And moved away as I

contemplated the treacherous waters I was attempting to

navigate.

I guess my memories are a bit like river water.

They started as random drips on some misty mountain-side.

In my early days it gathered into rivulets and streams that

chuckled unconcerned between lichen covered rocks. Then

within the deep sided gorges of my teenage years I rode the

rapids and explored forbidden tributaries and as a result

I’ve had to build beaver dams in an attempt to hold back a

possible deluge from those treacherous side creeks. Perhaps

in married middle age there will be no more wild water and

my mind will be content to meander across the valley floor

in peaceful meadow land between well defined and

rounded hills. Then I guess comes the inevitable estuary.

Within partially exposed muddy banks my murky waters

are destined to be trapped in the ebb and flow of tides when

all sense of direction is lost. I may not even notice when all

memories vanish for ever into an ocean of oblivion and it

will be as if I never existed.

But in those few precious days before my wedding

I seemed to be caught in the slipstream of numerous emails

as they winged their way past me. Duncan and Whore-see

Pat finally crashed and their place came up for grabs. John

Hardcastle arrived from Britain for our wedding. He’s been

in contact with Isabel, Flint, Mikhail and of course Basil

and me. Basil told them about Duncan and Pat’s place

being on the market and we found ourselves being towed

along in the slipstream behind John Hardcastle, who

seemed airborne in his enthusiasm to visit their place. He’d

already flown over it on Google and reckoned we’d never

find anywhere better.

First thing in the morning we all drove to the

Kapiti Coast. We met Duncan and he showed us round the

house, outbuildings and land. John was particularly

interested in going with Mikhail to see a scrub covered

229

valley folded into a range of hills behind the homestead.

They’d seen it on Google maps and they needed to see

more. It wasn’t until we were driving back to Wellington

that evening that I discovered why.

The valley in question faced north and had a small

stream flowing through it. The interesting part of the valley

floor was about forty hectares. While they’d been there

Mikhail had taken soil samples and seemed pleased with

what he’d found. I’d almost forgotten he came from a wine

growing family in France. I think it was the potential for

growing grapes that sealed the deal. After that the only

discussion John was interested in was how soon the place

could be purchased and at what price. There would be a

huge amount of permanent work available for Isabel’s girls

if a vineyard was established. Also, and probably of more

interest to me, was the possibility of opening up a small

market garden at the back of the house. The obvious thing

would be to utilise the horses and stables that came with

the deal and start a riding school. The only trouble with that

suggestion was neither Basil nor I knew a thing about

horses. If everything went ahead, and that seemed to be

getting more likely with ever kilometre we drove, in the

future I suppose we might be able to employ a riding

instructor. A riding school would mean there would be so

many people coming and going that Isabel’s girls would

simply merge with the others without net curtains in town

being pulled back to see who was passing. Flint reckons

I’m fifty per cent mermaid perhaps that’s why I was

interested in the lake. I said I could imagine putting a

predator proof fence round some of the bush and the lake to

make a wildlife sanctuary where we could entertain friends

and go for a skinny dip. I talked about this in the car.

Mikhail was enthusiastic about that suggestion. I think it

was the environmental politician in him resurfacing. I

remember him saying how important it was for people to

not only understand, but to feel there was no division

between people and nature. We existed only because we

evolved out of and into that environment and every action

we took relied on the rest of the natural world being able to

230

support it. He reckoned that was a lesson he’d like to teach

to those CEOs who act like dictators, crush the

environment and wield more power than many elected

governments.

After that John Hardcastle started explaining how

he’d arrange to transfer funds into New Zealand to buy the

property. I must admit I got a bit lost in the financial

shenanigans he was planning. I pointed out if the property

was for sale someone else might buy it.

John tapped his nose with his forefinger. ‘Our

family motto is, “If we cain’t do it by frunt door we’ll do it

by back.” Don’t you worry ’bout that. We’ve got the

brass.’

Apparently the end result would be Basil and I

could live there, manage it and prepare to accept some of

Isabel’s girls in the decade to come when toddlers, now

entering the school, would be leaving to start their adult

life. Basil and I were supposed to tell everyone we owned

the place.

Basil pointed out there was no way we could

possibly have afforded to buy it, or to spend the sort of

money necessary to develop the land. Saying we owned it

would raise suspicions.

John shook his head. ‘No one ’ere knows what you

earn or what legacies you may or may not have received.

You work in Australia don’t you? If anyone is inquisitive

enough to pry, tell ’em you earn more than the New

Zealand Prime Minister. They’ll believe you because most

of ’em have a pretty good idea what your Prime Minister’s

worth.’

John’s promise that, “If he cain’t do it by frunt

door he’d do it by back.” seemed to work. Within a month

we’d have been able to move in; except for the fact we

were on honeymoon in Fiordland.

Before I go I must tell you about our wedding.

Despite what people tell you, one wedding is much like any

other, but I think ours did have an unusual twist. As I told

you we had it by the lake at the naturist club. We

assembled on the lake front for photos like every else does

231

at weddings. Now do you remember I told you Coral made

dresses for the two of us that buttoned up at the front? Well

that’s what we wore. When I say that’s what we wore I

mean that’s absolutely all we wore. When the cameras

were all lined up we both undid our buttons left our dresses

on the bank and dragged Basil fully clothed into the lake. It

only took a moment for at least half the wedding party to

join us in the water. Even Mum paddled knee deep into the

lake. At least the laughter and grins on the photo were real

and not pictures of people saying “cheese”. I believe our

wedding pictures circulated well on the net.

232

Epilogue

I suppose I should tell you Basil chose Katherine’s name

and he’s devoted to “his” daughter. Several years after we

moved into the rural property a guy who was calling

himself Wayne knocked at our front door. Katherine and I

answered it. Basil was in Australia at the time and this guy

Wayne, who I now know was on the run from some

woman, wanted to know if we’d let him go hunting at the

back of our place. I checked by email with Basil and the

next day I gave him the go ahead. I didn’t know at the time

a new chapter of my life was about to unfold.

Wayne will tell you the story himself. He has

written it in a book called, “The Dancing Gypsy.” You

might like to read it.

233

Other books by the same author

THE STORY CONTINUES IN THE

SECOND BOOK THIS SERIES

THE DANCING GYPSY

ISBN 978-0-9864689-6-4

Published by Good Hope Publishing House

PO Box 596 Picton New Zealand

Also available as an e-book on Amazon Kindle

The “pub culture” a twenty-eight year old dairy farmer

takes with him while he’s on the run from cows and a

pregnant school-leaver equips him poorly when he

becomes entangled with the children and the sexual needs

of three distinctly different women. Two of them are

married and problems ricochet between them. Apart from

the daunting tasks of understanding himself and working to

carve a business out of native bush not the least of his

additional problems is comprehending the emotional

significance of a dancing gypsy tattooed on the arm of one

of the women.

DRIFTWOOD

ISBN 978-0-9864689-2-6

Published by Good Hope Publishing House

PO Box 596 Picton New Zealand

Also available as an e-book on Amazon Kindle

A wounded family returns to the sanctuary of their

ancestral whare. As family secrets become revealed,

seemingly unrelated events conspire to become a gathering

storm. Dark secrets within the bush and estuary expose the

scar tissue of human frailty. Like driftwood, emotions are

swept in directions neither planned nor imagined. But

234

those that conspire have no concept of the tenacity of the

new liaisons, nor of the influence of a tiny bronze mermaid

on the minds of the social castaways. On the river and in

the lagoon counter plans form and gather momentum. As

time runs out, the final conflict uses the whole of the

Pacific for its resolution.

TRADEWINDS

ISBN 978-0-9864689-0-2

Published by Good Hope Publishing House

PO Box 596 Picton New Zealand

Also available as an e-book on Amazon Kindle

Having refitted a one-hundred-year-old trading scow, a

group of three men and four women operate the vessel as a

sea-going hospital to supply simple medical services to

remote Pacific Islands. While responding to an urgent call,

by chance, they discover a ketch aground inside a coral

reef. By offering assistance they begin to unravel the

circumstances leading to the grounding and the

disappearance of a female crew-member. They become

involved and a series of events are unleashed which

threaten to overwhelm the scow. Meanwhile cracks are

forming within the relationships of the crew. Against this

background they struggle to understand their own

changing emotions and interpret the motives of those

ashore, while trying to find a solution that will release the

whole archipelago from a man-made danger evolving

inside one of the lagoons.

235

TURN OF THE TIDE

ISBN978-0-9864689-1-9

Published by Good Hope Publishing House

PO Box 596 Picton New Zealand

Also available as an e-book on Amazon Kindle

Starting thousands of miles apart, two vessels converge in

mid ocean. Aboard one vessel three fugitives are

attempting to escape from the Indonesian police. The other

boat crewed by two couples and a baby, carries medical

supplies for a remote island hospital where hopeful

refugees gather. But the Indonesian news is grim.

Seamanship and intuitive cunning are the only tools

available to turn the tide and restore hope to a new breed

of Islanders.

FOREWARNED

ISBN 978-0-9864689-9-5

Published by Good Hope Publishing House

PO Box 596 Picton New Zealand

Also available as an e-book on Amazon Kindle

In the year 2063 chaotic world events are viewed from an

undisturbed Pacific Island as tentacles of change probe the

shoreline searching for a beach head. To counter the

intrusion of sophisticated technology, sex is the primary

weapon available in the island to uncover the abduction of

children and the passage through the islands of shipments

of cargo for ruthless racketeers.

But sex used as a weapon frequently backfires.

236

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Peter Thomas is a retired principal lecturer, electronics

design engineer and past President of the New Zealand

Playwrights Association. Previous work includes fourteen

stage plays and twelve text books. A Step Too Far is his

sixth novel.

Originally born in the UK he has spent half his life living

with his wife and family on a small farm in the foothills of

the Rimutaka ranges. When they retired they lived aboard

their cruising yacht based in the Marlborough Sounds for

six years but have subsequently moved ashore and are now

living in Waikawa Bay.