Читать книгу Bird of Paradise - Rosemary Esmonde Peterswald - Страница 7

When she awoke from a restless sleep, it took Merryn a few moments to remember that she was on a Trans Australian Airliner flying high above the Coral Sea and heading towards Jackson Airport at Port Moresby. Below, the shadow of the plane rippled across the vast expanse of warm tropical ocean. Around her passengers dozed—one with his mouth open wide as though in the throes of death. A small child rested his curly head on his mother’s knee, a contented smile on his cherub face. A lie of course, for on waking, he would turn into the monster he was before sleep had mercifully claimed him.

The impossibly well-groomed hostess threw Merryn an airy smile before handing the burly man in the seat opposite a half bottle of Scotch. Knocking out a Camel, he struck a match, holding the flame to the end. Before too long a plume of smoke wafted over to where Merryn sat.

From her handbag, she pulled out a small leather trave lling clock, an early birthday gift from her mother. She saw it was nearly seven o’clock. How could anyone want a Scotch at this hour of the morning? she wondered. Let alone a cigarette for that matter?

Whilst placing the clock back in her handbag, she felt the flimsy paper of an aerogram rub against her skin. She lifted it out and read the words on the page once more.

My dear Merryn:

Thank you for your letter. It was good to hear from you again.

However, what you have asked me to do isn’t possible. It was an agonizing choice you made those years ago, but having made that decision, it is in your best interest to put what happened out of your mind.

Even if I were authorized to tell you what you asked, my conscience would not allow me to do so. I wish you all the best with your new job in New Guinea and pray each day you may find peace in your life. In the meantime, I must ask that you do not contact me again.

Yours sincerely in the Lord,

Sister Bernadette

In slow motion, in case the words suddenly and miraculously changed in front of her eyes, Merryn closed the letter and placed it back in her handbag. It was a refusal she knew well—very well. Why had she expected anything different, just because she’d told the nun she and Jake were getting married? Not that that mattered anymore.

Across the aisle, Ernie Morris rested his forehead against the window. Christ! Was it only three months since he’d gone to Brisbane for the operation? Pouring another shot of Scotch into his glass, he shook the final cigarette from the pack and lit up.

‘Only one lung left now, old fellow, so make sure you look after it,’ the young white coat had said, leaning over Ernie’s hospital bed. ‘And what’s more, go easy on the whisky, then with any luck you should live to see independence back home.’

‘Reckon we’ll all be dead and buried before that happens,’ Ernie said with a chuckle. ‘You included, mate.’

‘You think so?’ said the surgeon with surprise. ‘I thought things were progressing well. Five years at the most.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Ernie assured him.’ In any case, I’m not certain I’d want to be around to see it happen.’

Ernie smiled as he recalled the doctor’s face. He’d pissed him off with all that ‘old fellow’ talk and such. If he’d lived in New Guinea as long as Ernie had, he’d realise there was a hell of a long way to go yet before the locals were up to running the place on their own.

He gazed across the aisle to where a young woman sat in the window seat. Something was not right about her—that was for sure. He’d tried grinning to gain her attention but had trouble making eye contact. Then, when he finally did, the smile she tried didn’t get off the ground. And either Somerset Maugham was dead boring or she had problems, for he hadn’t noticed her turn a page in hours.

He’d seen them like that before. The endless heat and boredom would drive them mad, sometimes insane, yet they’d always come back for more. In the twenty odd years since the war, he’d seen heaps. But she looked young to be one of those. Early twenties he’d guess. She had a look about her, though, not beautiful, yet sort of compelling. Almond shaped eyes, the colour of a good Napoleon Brandy, abundance of lashes. And crikey, wouldn’t he give a quid to run his hands through that hair. Was it the gold flecks glinting in the sunlight? Or was it the dress that got to him? The cut of the armhole? Or the way it sat well above her knees? He lifted the bottle of whisky and poured the final shot.

Unexpectedly the plane dropped down and then rose again, jarring the passengers. Merryn, oblivious to the analysis she was receiving from across the aisle, grabbed hold of the armrest to steady herself. Instinctively, she brought the other hand to her stomach, where anxiety and dread knotted together. It had come in gulps, unexpectedly assaulting her and then leaving her empty.

Yet it wasn’t just the jolting of the plane that was causing the turmoil inside her. She’d encountered worse turbulence than this since gaining her pilot’s licence. She wished with all her heart the plane would keep on flying. To Singapore perhaps. Lae even. Anywhere other than Moresby, where she dreaded landing.

Would Jake be at the airport to meet her? Or would he be too much of a coward to come and face up to what he had done? She had no way of knowing.

Looking around, she noticed none of the other passengers seemed to have felt the plane jolt, or if they did, it was not obvious. Even the fellow opposite seemed unmoved, swigging the last of his whisky—no doubt the end of a long line of many over the years, the bulging eyes and florid skin a dead giveaway.

She pulled a wrinkled newspaper from the seat pocket in front of her. More Vietnam Casualties screamed the headlines. When is it ever going to end? she asked herself. How many more young men need to be slaughtered in the jungles of that godforsaken place before it was all over?

A ravaged-faced John Gorton, the prime minister of Australia, stepping down from a helicopter in Vung Tau, leapt out of the page at her. Next to that was a photo of Ainslie Gotto, his private secretary. Merryn looked hard and long at her chiselled features. What does Gorton’s wife make of it all? she wondered. For there was hardly a month when the press didn’t hint subtly at a closeness between the prime minister and his young secretary. Turning the page of the newspaper, she noticed a report of a dreadful car accident at Collector in New South Wales. A shiver ran through her body as she read how a semi-trailer had smashed into an oncoming car, totally wrecking it and holding up the traffic for hours. A couple and a young child had been rushed to hospital in Canberra, but there was no mention of how they were faring. I hope no one died, she thought, recalling the many times she’d driven that shocking stretch of road herself.

Placing the newspaper on the seat beside her, she leant her forehead against the cool surface of the window and stared below—to the blue waters of the ocean. The plane passed low over a tiny island surrounded by a translucent reef, a dazzling mix of ochre and green silhouettes dancing beneath the surface, where dugout canoes and fishing boats trawled amongst the coral. In the distance, the never-ending Owen Stanley Ranges soared one upon another to mingle with the clouds. To Merryn they appeared almost mystical as the early morning light poured a halo of shining amber across their spectrum. Then the plane dropped altitude again as Moresby’s airport came into sight, a large corrugated iron shed standing in a dust bowl, its shiny roof a beacon. Surrounding the airstrip was the parched, khaki earth and dry savanna grasslands. It looked as though everything was badly sun burnt, and the lack of vegetation only added to the bareness of the view. What Merryn saw below her was in stark contrast to the lush tropical rainforest she had envisaged.

She braced against the seat in front as the plane skidded down the runway, screeched, and came to a halt. After a moment, the airhostess opened the door. Hot humid air filled the cabin, and it took only a second for Merryn’s makeup to melt and her straight hair to become soggy. Even the airhostess’s tight curls seemed to sag in an instant. It was a heat Merryn had never experienced before. She had read about it, of course, but never envisaged anything like this. She stood to get her bag from the locker above.

‘You forget what it’s like,’ said a gravel y v l oice behind her.

Turning around, she almost bumped head first into the man with the bulging eyes and smelled his sweat. He coughed from his feet up, and it was obvious he’d eaten a peppermint to disguise the whisky and cigarettes.

‘Think you’d remember,’ he said, stepping back to give her some room. ‘You don’t. Not until they open that bloody door. Then it comes back to you. Wonder how the hell you survive, but somehow you get used to it again.’

Merryn smiled and wiped her top lip. ‘Thank God for that.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. They came away clammy.

He noticed the sweating. ‘Your first time then?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Thought so...’

‘Oh! How can you tell?’

‘Reckoned you seemed...well...sort of anxious. Not looking forward to coming back to this place, then guessed it was your first time.’ He gave a hesitant smile. ‘Anyone meeting you?’

Merryn noticed he made little attempt to hide the hunger in his voice.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A friend...in the army. He’s stationed at Karu Barracks.’ Yet as soon as she spoke, she regretted having disclosed so much.

‘The army, eh?’

Merryn nodded. ‘He’s with the Pacific Islands Regiment.’ She stood in silence, shifting from one foot to the other. After a moment, she decided not to elaborate any further.

He glanced at her bare ring finger. ‘You know him pretty well?’

Merryn raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’

He read the bafflement in her eyes. ‘Nothing. A bloke being curious, that’s all. At any rate, good to see you’ve a friend here. Moresby can be a bugger of a place at first. Mind you, most of the Aussie expats are kinda tame,’ he winked his right eye, ‘even those serving in the queen’s forces!’

Merryn smiled. ‘Well, that’s good to know.’

He lifted a liver-spotted hand, placing a large straw hat on his balding head. ‘You staying long?’ he asked.

Merryn shrugged. ‘Not sure...depends...on work and things.’

She stretched up for her bag, but even in her heels, she had trouble reaching.

‘Here...let me.’ He reached up and grabbed her red leather carryall from the small compartment, laying it on the seat. ‘By the way, name’s Ernie...Ernie Morris...from Tapini up in the highlands. However,’ he went on cheerfully, opening another locker to haul his own bag down, ‘I’m in Moresby most weeks.’

Merryn hesitated for a moment. Under normal circumstances, she would have held out her hand and given him a huge smile— introduced herself. But this wasn’t normal circumstances. He seemed a nice enough guy, but once she’d told him who she was, there’d be no stopping him. Next he’d want to know her life story. Where she came from? Who or what had brought her to Moresby? Was it the bloke meeting her?

She lifted her eyes to meet his. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ernie.’

Ignoring his searching look, she leant down and picked up her bag.

‘Need a hand?’

‘No thanks,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m fine.’ She gave him a half smile. ‘You never know then. Maybe I’ll see you around...when you’re in town sometime.’

Ernie looked a bit put out but managed a grin. ‘Yeah, you never can tell. After all, it ain’t such a big place.’

He left her then, having been around long enough to know a brush off when he saw one. Moving down the aisle, he squeezed his large frame between the seats. Now feeling guilty, Merryn called out after him and held up her carryall. ‘Thanks again, Ernie, and...hey...I’ll keep an eye out for you.’

He turned and grinned back, his parched skin crinkling in the corners of his devilish eyes. Making a mock bow, he tilted his hat. ‘Well, young lady, reckon I’ll be looking forward to that.’

Merryn saw him framed against the light seeping through the small windows—the mottled face with the five o’clock shadow, the brown shorts reaching just above his fleshy knees, the floral shirt loose enough to cover his ample stomach, and the big straw hat. She had a feeling that somewhere inside that body was a good-looking bloke grappling for a way out. She watched him weave between the other passengers and then lost sight of him.

Merryn stood back to let the remainder of the passengers pass. She was the last to leave the plane—usually was—for what was the point in rushing when it meant having to wait by the baggage trailer for one’s luggage? But today she had a different reason for holding back.

The humidity hit her in the face when she walked down the gangway, like stepping into a sauna. She gulped for air. None came. Although the sky was overcast and looked as though it may rain, she suspected it would not, for it was the dry season. She stopped for a moment and glanced towards the terminal, droplets of sweat running down her forehead and on to her jaw. Lots of people were waiting, waving, and calling out.

Jake wasn’t one of them.