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her ‘aiga claim that by taking the matai title, he was in effect abrogating his European status. They claim that his deathbed wish was that when Gertrude died, the plantation should go to Tiresa and her ‘aiga and be considered customary village land. No longer freehold. Deathbed statements are taken very seriously in Samoan custom.’
    ‘Are they in the right?’ Jeanie was more interested than concerned.
    It would be an interesting case. One would assume Gertrude was in the right. But this was in the early days of independence and there might be a shift in legal opinion. It would certainly help Gertrude’s position if she had family to inherit the plantation. One would expect her to have the right to pass on the land. It was willed to her. But there were other issues to consider: Had the deathbed wish been witnessed? Would Tiresa’s ‘aiga have some claim under the Family Protection Act?
    ‘I won’t even hazard a guess,’ I said. ‘At any rate the case will be relished by all parties. Don’t expect an early decision.’
    ‘Enough, enough!’ called Simone. ‘Let us remember please that the aunt is still alive! Hamish you are boring them to death.’
    I wasn’t. Of course I wasn’t. They needed to know. Possibly I was boring Simone to death.
    She tapped me smartly on the top of my head. ‘We must go out! There is devastation outside and you are chewing away at lands and titles. Let us find what is left of the garden and the town.’
    She had a point. The hurricane. This was two daysafter the storm, and still radio and power were cut. The only way to find out any news was to go on foot. John and Jeanie came with us as we picked our way over fallen trees and waded through standing water. In the distance we heard the sound of chainsaws, but our own road was still blocked by a fallen mango tree. The sun was out again and the evaporating water made the air almost unbearably humid, even for Simone and me. Jeanie’s dark hair was clinging to her cheeks. By the time we reached the waterfront, John was flushed and panting. I began to think it had been a mistake to come.
    ‘We will go into Mackenzies,’ decreed Simone, ‘to cool off. It has air-conditioning.’
    Not this day. We all gaped to see the windows of the store broken, Beach Road littered with palm leaves, banana boxes, even a canoe or two and chunks of coral flung up by the sea. Waves must have broken right across the road. Three women were sweeping water out of Mackenzies’ door. Simone went to talk to them, then came back with the translation. ‘All the stock’s ruined inside,’ she said. ‘Salt water in everything. And the banana boat so recently arrived.’ She threw her hands about in dismay, ‘Even so, there have been looters. They should know better!’
    I think she would have stayed to help guard the ruined merchandise, if I hadn’t pulled her away. Simone’s indignation gets the better of her sometimes.
    The water in the lagoon, usually crystal clear and calm, slopped and heaved, awash with debris – whole coconut palms, rubbish from goodness knows where, a couple of dead pigs. Out on the reef, the usual dull roarof breaking surf was now deafening. Normally we would see a demure frill of white foam out there. Now, two days after the storm, the ocean rollers were still immense, the spume leaping high. For once the barrier of the reef, so often a nuisance, appeared a comforting guardian.
    Most of the stores and offices were closed; the windows of the High Commission still shuttered. Town workers would be back in their villages clearing up their own homes. The thatched roof of the open market had collapsed, entombing an ancient bus lying forlorn on its side. The humidity and heat blanketed us, dragging at our spirits. John, particularly, looked ready to drop. No information to be gleaned here. Apia seemed empty. Nothing to be done but to struggle home again.
    ‘Will this be bad for the island?’ Jeanie asked as we plodded uphill.
    Simone