Inheritance (29 page)

‘I have advised Jeanie to get a DNA test,’ I said. ‘That would make the matter clear. There’s no way Stuart could be the father.’

Teo groaned. He actually groaned – the deep anguished sound a stag makes on a still night. ‘Elena, Elena!’

I felt bad, pressing him so hard, when he had the trouble with Ma‘atoe, but this was urgent I felt. Urgent for his daughter. And for Jeanie. ‘Just write to her,’ I urged. ‘Write to Jeanie accepting parentage. And enclose
a letter for Francesca that Jeanie can show her at the right time.’

‘I can’t do it,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask me. Not with Ma‘atoe so ill. It would distress her too much.’ His head hung down. He wouldn’t look at me. All the pompous gravity had gone.

I tried to tell him that Ma‘atoe didn’t need to know. Not now at least. Francesca and Jeanie were capable of keeping quiet for a while, until his wife recovered – I didn’t like to mention the alternative. I promised to explain the situation to them.

He smiled at me sadly. ‘You’ve always been the one to find solutions, sister. I’m not sure this one will work.’

I had a thought then. I think I knew what was bothering him. ‘That night of the palolo. You and Stuart had a fight, didn’t you? His injuries weren’t an accident?’

Teo looked at me, his mouth twisted.

I pressed on. ‘You’re afraid of this coming out? Of Stuart accusing you?’

At first he wouldn’t speak. Several times he went to begin but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he faced away from me and began to speak. The words were low and I had to crane to hear. It seemed somehow all the more horrifying to hear the story, here in the grounds of the hospital, so far away for home.

Teo told me that Stuart had discovered him and Jeanie ‘together’ as he put it on palolo night. In retaliation Stuart had sought out Ma‘atoe and tried to rape her.
The
wretch
! Teo had found them in time and the two fought. Stuart had picked up a bush knife from one of the paopao but in the end it was Stuart who was wounded. Teo had threatened Stuart over the attempted rape. If the village
found out, Stuart would likely be lynched.

‘Indeed,’ I agreed. ‘But why was Ma‘atoe alone? Where were the aualuma? They were to blame, surely!’

I began, then, to see the picture. To understand the pattern of guilt and shame that had kept the fight quiet. Also to understand why it would upset Ma‘atoe to discover Teo had fathered a child that night which must have been so frightening and shaming for her.

I laid my good hand on Teo’s shoulder. ‘Write to her at least. That might persuade her to talk to Francesca. The situation has become very messy.’

He gave a strangled little laugh. ‘You could say that!’

‘Teo! This is no laughing matter. I fear for both of them. Jeanie doesn’t seem able to escape her own inventions. And Stuart is a very real danger. You must help her.’

He sighed. ‘Give me her address. I’ll see what can be done.’ He looked at me with great seriousness – all the gravity of a matai back in his manner and voice. ‘But Ma‘atoe must not hear any word of this. Not a whisper, understand?’

I understood.

‘And you will take the job?’

Oho! I punched him, laughing, outraged that he should make that a condition. But he laughed and punched me back and we were brother and sister again. I said that I had told Jeanie he was a good man. That he would accept his responsibility.

He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Elena, you are impossible! Impossible, do you know that? Come back and learn to take life a little more slowly or you’ll wear us all out!’

It’s all very well for people to accuse me of being bossy (or mischievous, Hamish Lander would say) but
some situations need to be managed and pushed along. I make no apology for interfering. None at all. It was time for the truth to come out.

Inside the clinic, I learned that Ma‘atoe could not survive long; that the chemo would probably prolong her life a little, but that it was quite possible for her to return to Samoa with palliative care only, if that was her choice. My poor sister-in-law looked so pale and sick. Her skin, once so glowing was now grey, hanging loose where her good comfortable bulk had shrunk. But when I told her what the doctor had said, her face lit up.

‘Let’s go home then, Elena,’ she whispered, holding my hand. ‘Will you come with me?’

I told her I would.

Ann / Jeanie

A
nn sits at her desk in the little study off her bedroom. It’s her favourite place. She’s been sitting here for half an hour, she realises, without writing a word. Her best writing paper is laid out; the ink pen she favours for special notes. She can hear Fran singing along with the radio, busy in the kitchen downstairs. Carl has not come with her.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ Fran had said, waving her hands about in the Italian manner she has adopted since her trip overseas, ‘I can’t seem to settle with a boy. Is it me? Or them? I thought Carl was the one and then … tutto finito.’

Ann had hugged her too thin daughter, there at the bus stop and assured her she had plenty of time before she need worry about settling down.

‘Yes, but …’ Fran had shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

Ann looks, now, west over the fields to where the first
evening star has just appeared; the sky luminous above it. Sunlight still illuminates the tops, but the shadows are creeping up the slopes. It will be a cool night, despite the warm spring day. Random white shapes are still visible in the fields – Michael’s sheep still browsing on the new growth. Why is white so much more visible at dusk? And do the sheep eat deep into the night when no one watches? She looks back at the blank paper. The letter must be written. She must speak to Francesca. But it is all so hard. She should be feeling relief. Teo has offered a way out. But how can she begin to say the words?

And which words? Ann is terrified of Francesca’s reaction. Her daughter sometimes seems fragile in a way that Ann doesn’t want to explore. No doubt it is simply teenaged angst. But Ann has feared, from time to time, that the fragility might stem from some buried memory of her unwanted birth. Could a similar shadowy memory have been at the root of her father’s depressions? Surely not. Ann has read widely – secretly – on the subject of inherited and learned characteristics. She has watched Francesca with a hidden anxiety during the early years of her life, and then relaxed to see her daughter grow up an ordinary little girl with normal fears, normal bursts of pleasure. Fran is secure in the love of her mother. Ann cannot bear to shake that security. Will not. From her first days, Francesca has been loved. Surely that is what matters? Ann remembers the little bundle left on her doorstep back in Samoa. A haggard Teo had knocked on the door early one morning. His head hung down so she couldn’t see his eyes. He spoke no word, but indicated with one hand the basket at his feet. Before she could utter a word of protest he whispered ‘Fa‘afetai lava’ in a
shamed voice, keeping his head bowed, and ran away.

The tiny baby looked out at the world with dark, unfocused eyes. She had a shock of dark hair; her skin was creamy. A lavalava made a nest for her in the basket and covered her lightly. Apart from that she was naked. Ann had lifted the basket gently. Inside the house, the baby took her proffered finger; gripped it as if life depended on that link.

Ann had been lost in love from that moment; could not contemplate severing the precious bond. That trust. Against all reason, all common-sense, she had determined to keep the baby. Until these last few weeks it had been a decision she’d been proud of. They’ve lived a good and true life together.

And now this letter from Teo. It sits in the drawer here, alongside one for Francesca. Ann smiles for a moment to think how Elena must have browbeaten Teo! And yet the letter seems genuine. She could ignore them both; would have but for the looming threat of Stuart. A note was waiting for Francesca when she arrived yesterday – a report from the police informing her that Stuart Roper had been released on bail, pending a court hearing. He was not considered a danger, the report stated; he had expressed regret for his mistaken behaviour and had agreed to return to Auckland.

‘Good riddance!’ Fran had shrugged, dismissing the matter. But before she ran upstairs to unpack, she gave her mother an odd little glance. A question in the air between them. Ann didn’t like to show her dismay. Perhaps the incident at the exhibition had persuaded Stuart to let the matter lie? Perhaps he had gone back to Auckland. If so, Ann and Francesca would be able
to continue their old, comfortable life. Nothing need be said.

Ann takes out Teo’s letter and re-reads it. It is carefully worded – he hasn’t written my name, she thinks, because he is unsure what to write. 

Ann fingers the letter to Francesca, which she has read. It is all possible. All so careful. And yet she hesitates. Francesca believes in her Italian heritage. Ann is used to being Ann Hope.

Outside it is dark now. Peaceful. Ann loves this old house on the hill out in the country. She tries to imagine living another life and can’t. She is settled and valued at the school. Francesca loves coming home to this place. It’s home to both of them.
For the time being I will say
nothing. If it’s possible to stay this way, surely it will be
best. For both of us.

A sharp image from Samoa invades her determination. These flashes are becoming more frequent. Elena and Stuart have unlocked her painstakingly erased past. Against the dark scene outside, she sees the brightly lit colour of sunlit water and kaleidoscopic fish – Palolo Deep. That beautiful underwater world teeming with tame fish wanting to nibble her fingers, take a little bread from her outstretched hand. She can feel again the perfection of floating there, watching until her fingers and toes turned white and wrinkled, the only sound the soft in and out of breath in her snorkel. The electric blue fish sharp as the tiny flame of a blow torch;
the striped yellow and black clowns, flat as a painted cut-out, slipping upright through the water to nibble at fronds waving in the coral; the shoals of silver fish, escaping a single sinister barracouta, their synchronised movement an outrageously beautiful choreography. The blue luminous tips of the branching coral. So brilliant. So beautiful.

So unlike that other palolo, the dark night in the lagoon.

She stands, with the letters in her hand, suddenly filled with fear.
This will never go away. Damn Elena.
Damn, damn, damn Stuart
.

She puts the letters back in the drawer. Below Francesca has stopped singing. The comfortable kitchen noises are silent. The meal must be ready. A morepork in the tree outside hoots. Ann leaves the letters in the drawer and goes downstairs.

She sees Francesca sitting silent and still, her profile just visible in the lamplight, her back to the stairs. Her stomach lurches to see Stuart, sitting in shadow opposite her, facing them both. A gun in his hand. Not his old rifle, but a pistol, stubby and sinister. He raises it slowly as she cries out and stumbles down the last steps towards her daughter.

‘Sit there,’ he says, his voice level, almost conversational, ‘where I can see you both.’ He holds the gun steady, pointing at Francesca.

Ann sinks slowly, slowly, into her comfortable old chair, which accepts her now as a prisoner. She looks from Stuart to her daughter and back again.

‘Mum …’ says Francesca.

But he waves the gun at her and her voice dies.

‘I will do the talking tonight,’ he says.

Ann sends her daughter a tight little smile of encouragement, but her heart is failing. Will it all end like this?

Stuart has dressed smartly this time. In his shadowy corner his white shirt and blood-red tie glow. The golden light from the lamp highlights the curve of his cheek. He is freshly shaved. He could almost be handsome.

‘I’m sorry about the gun,’ he says quietly. ‘It seemed necessary after last time. I will shoot the dogs if they come.’

Francesca looks at her mother. Her eyes ask the question.
What’s happening? He has been here already
?

Ann makes a tiny movement of her hand.
Keep still
;
be patient
.

Stuart rests his gun hand on the arm of his chair. Ann can see that the weight of it bothers him. He has only one useful hand. That might be an advantage to them.

Sweat sheens Stuart’s face and yet the room is chill. His breathing is quick – almost panting. Jeanie looks at him for clues. Is he truly mad, or simply trying to frighten them?

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Jeanie,’ he says. ‘We just need some honest answers, Francesca and me. Don’t we?’

Ann remembers times in the past when he used that light brittle voice before he hit her. She braces ready to take whatever comes. But not death – surely it won’t be that?

Stuart suddenly flashes a bright smile at Francesca who flinches as if struck. ‘Stay still!’ he shouts. ‘Didn’t I say be still?’ Into the silence that follows he speaks
to Francesca proudly, making normal conversation it would seem. ‘Your father’s a very good shot, aren’t I Jeanie? I’ve always had a good eye. Shall I show you? That pot on the top shelf.’ He takes a quick aim. The explosion is impossibly loud in the confined room. Breath is sucked from Jeanie’s chest as if a tornado has struck. Francesca screams. A shower of pottery shards lash down, one drawing blood on Ann’s cheek. She feels the blood welling.

Stuart laughs like a child with pleasure as the two women mop at themselves, brush away fragments. ‘Bull’s eye!’ he says. ’Did you see that?’

Ann frowns quickly at her daughter:
He’s mad; we
must be very careful
. Francesca’s nod is infinitesimal, agonised, but alert. Ann is proud of her.

For several minutes nothing happens. Stuart’s eyes travel slowly back and forward between the two women. He seems to be talking to himself; he nods quickly several times, strange expressions pass across his face.
Yes
,
he is mad
.

Outside it is night. Ann wonders if Michael might pop in. Sometimes he comes. But his arrival might be more dangerous for them all. She clears her throat. In the silence it sounds to her like thunder.

‘Something’s burning,’ Francesca says in a tiny voice.

Ann can smell it too; something burning in the kitchen. Perhaps she can ring Michael from there?

‘The dinner’s burning,’ she says trying to keep the words steady. ‘Could I just go and turn it off?’

He thinks about this. ‘We could have dinner together later, couldn’t we?’

Ann nods.

‘What’s for dinner?’ His tone is conversational again.

‘Spaghetti Bolognaise,’ says Francesca.

‘I don’t like spaghetti. Could we have potatoes?’

‘No,’ says Francesca quickly, then looks in horror at her mother as Stuart raises the gun. ‘Yes,’ she says.

‘With veges?’

Ann can not believe they are having this conversation.

‘Yes, cabbage. That’s what’s burning.’

‘Well we’d better not let it burn. Not you!’ as Francesca begins to rise. He nods at Ann. ‘Go and turn it off, but leave the door open.’ He stands, holding the gun pointed at Fran’s head.

Fran catches her eye. Hope in that quick glance.

But Ann finds she can’t risk the phone. Stuart is watching her, his eyes darting back and forth between the two women. Ann dumps the burning pan in the sink. Her shaking hands can scarcely turn the tap. Cold water suddenly spurts and the gun jerks in Stuart’s hand. She can’t think what to do. Her thoughts are only for Francesca. She’s wasting an opportunity but all she can think of is her own panic.
It’s not true your nerves turn
to ice in real danger. You turn to jelly
.