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Authors: Jenny Pattrick
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flung an arm towards a fallen clump of banana trees. ‘Disastrous. Catastrophic! What will they eat?’ Her white hair, silvered with damp and snaking around her head like Medusa, gave her the appearance of a prophet of doom.
‘We don’t know yet how much of this island, or of Savai‘i has been hit,’ I said. ‘Perhaps our district and Apia suffered the worst.’ I was thinking of Gertrude’s plantation. How ironic if it was destroyed, after all her machinations.
The next day we learned that Gertrude’s plantation had survived remarkably well, but that the old lady herself had died in the storm. Reports of her deathwere disturbing to say the least. It seemed Stuart had been negligent in some way. Versions of his behaviour ranged from careless to criminal. I never really learned the truth. The trouble with a small town is that everyone takes an interest and everyone has an opinion. Truth becomes distorted very quickly. One could write a paper on it.
Certainly Roper’s behaviour later, at the reading of the will, was appalling. As Gertrude’s executor, I invited them and Tiresa over for tea at our home. The office rooms I share had been damaged in the storm. Simone laid on home-made liver pâté with breadfruit chips (I would have preferred a good date scone) and it all started pleasantly enough. Stuart had come down from the plantation the previous day. He didn’t look good. I put it down to the strain of the death and the funeral, but Simone was sure he’d been drinking.
Gertrude had been quite cunning. She left a small separate estate – copra and a few cattle – to the Levamanaias. It was negligible as far as income went, compared to the cacao plantation, but might stand in her favour if the will were contested. The rest – the plantation, the plant and both her houses simply went to her nephew John O’Dowd.
Tiresa, magnificent in a flowered puletasi, a necklace of cowrie shells hanging over her ample bosom, flowery woven hat perched on her pile of grey hair, grunted ominously. ‘Let me see, Hamish.’
I handed her the document. I’m not sure the old lady read English but she studied it with great care. Tiresa was no fool. ‘That little coconut plot is worth nothing,’ she pronounced in her deep man’s voice. ‘We willcontest this of course.’
She rose, thanked Simone for the food, which she had not touched – a deliberate insult, according to Simone – and stumped out.
I looked over, smiling, at John and handed him the document. He nodded, read it carefully and handed it back. What a formal fellow he was! At the funeral he had spoken a few quiet words, recited a piece from Robert Louis Stevenson, and then withdrawn into himself.
‘Let me see!’ Roper shot out a hand and grabbed at the will. His face had gone a dark red. ‘That’s not what she promised!’ he positively shouted. ‘It was to be left to all three of us jointly!’
I put on my most formal voice. Roper’s manner was most unsuitable for this occasion. ‘My client believed it safer to leave the entire estate to one person alone.’
‘It’s here!’ the rude fellow ranted. ‘You’ve crossed it out. Look at my name here! This is tampering!’
‘My client requested the change. You will see her signature, and mine and another witness to the deletion.’ I admit I took a small pleasure in pointing out the detail. ‘And the deletion duly dated,’ I added. Simone said I was outrageously smug. Perhaps I was, but the fellow riled me. I held out my hand for the will and had to wait several stormy moments before he complied.
Jeanie put a comforting hand on his, then turned to me. ‘He’s had a hard time recently. The plantation is damaged; there is much to do.’
Such a small woman – so fragile to look at. And yet there was a quality in her that I found hard to pinpoint. As if a fine bright line of unbreakable steel ran through her.
Roper calmed at her words. He was a strange man. Simone declared he needed Jeanie and
‘We don’t know yet how much of this island, or of Savai‘i has been hit,’ I said. ‘Perhaps our district and Apia suffered the worst.’ I was thinking of Gertrude’s plantation. How ironic if it was destroyed, after all her machinations.
The next day we learned that Gertrude’s plantation had survived remarkably well, but that the old lady herself had died in the storm. Reports of her deathwere disturbing to say the least. It seemed Stuart had been negligent in some way. Versions of his behaviour ranged from careless to criminal. I never really learned the truth. The trouble with a small town is that everyone takes an interest and everyone has an opinion. Truth becomes distorted very quickly. One could write a paper on it.
Certainly Roper’s behaviour later, at the reading of the will, was appalling. As Gertrude’s executor, I invited them and Tiresa over for tea at our home. The office rooms I share had been damaged in the storm. Simone laid on home-made liver pâté with breadfruit chips (I would have preferred a good date scone) and it all started pleasantly enough. Stuart had come down from the plantation the previous day. He didn’t look good. I put it down to the strain of the death and the funeral, but Simone was sure he’d been drinking.
Gertrude had been quite cunning. She left a small separate estate – copra and a few cattle – to the Levamanaias. It was negligible as far as income went, compared to the cacao plantation, but might stand in her favour if the will were contested. The rest – the plantation, the plant and both her houses simply went to her nephew John O’Dowd.
Tiresa, magnificent in a flowered puletasi, a necklace of cowrie shells hanging over her ample bosom, flowery woven hat perched on her pile of grey hair, grunted ominously. ‘Let me see, Hamish.’
I handed her the document. I’m not sure the old lady read English but she studied it with great care. Tiresa was no fool. ‘That little coconut plot is worth nothing,’ she pronounced in her deep man’s voice. ‘We willcontest this of course.’
She rose, thanked Simone for the food, which she had not touched – a deliberate insult, according to Simone – and stumped out.
I looked over, smiling, at John and handed him the document. He nodded, read it carefully and handed it back. What a formal fellow he was! At the funeral he had spoken a few quiet words, recited a piece from Robert Louis Stevenson, and then withdrawn into himself.
‘Let me see!’ Roper shot out a hand and grabbed at the will. His face had gone a dark red. ‘That’s not what she promised!’ he positively shouted. ‘It was to be left to all three of us jointly!’
I put on my most formal voice. Roper’s manner was most unsuitable for this occasion. ‘My client believed it safer to leave the entire estate to one person alone.’
‘It’s here!’ the rude fellow ranted. ‘You’ve crossed it out. Look at my name here! This is tampering!’
‘My client requested the change. You will see her signature, and mine and another witness to the deletion.’ I admit I took a small pleasure in pointing out the detail. ‘And the deletion duly dated,’ I added. Simone said I was outrageously smug. Perhaps I was, but the fellow riled me. I held out my hand for the will and had to wait several stormy moments before he complied.
Jeanie put a comforting hand on his, then turned to me. ‘He’s had a hard time recently. The plantation is damaged; there is much to do.’
Such a small woman – so fragile to look at. And yet there was a quality in her that I found hard to pinpoint. As if a fine bright line of unbreakable steel ran through her.
Roper calmed at her words. He was a strange man. Simone declared he needed Jeanie and
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