The Promise Ese (39) Everyone laughed, especially the sick man. Morris slapped his thighs – and all his teeth were gold. Hunt retreated to his improvised canvas-tub sledge and sat down. “I must think about this,” he said in a pother. “What have you got in that thing?” asked Hector. Hunt raised a corner of sacking. “It’s my golden rock and you can’t have it. It’s to pay the ransom – I mean there may be a ransom demand, on the cards would you say?” Hector stared at the considerable nugget. “Give in, would you?” he questioned contemptuous, then called, “Right lads, once more unto the breech,” and many men dived like rodents from the tractor into the sea of snow and banded together behind their new leader. Greave’s foot had miraculously resurrected its blackened tissue. The mood was upbeat. “Very well,” Hunt burbled to himself, “you go ahead and I’ll follow. What a pair of mitts you’d make,” he said, half-heartedly to his favourite dog, White-Cloud. * * * After the applause had died down, Hector prepared to speechify. He put his thumbs in his waistcoat and surveyed the tracts of geriatrics and Sunday-school graduates. Emmy was next to him on the stage, as grande- damerie as her humility allowed. The completed cloth made a gracious altar-cloth on the trestle table and the slides were set. Hector had donated a cache of lantern slides to the missionary Society and upon this occasion talked his Skipper into providing the commentary, Skipper a charming and confident snuggle of grins and light-blue eyes and mawkish, humorous elocution. “Ladies and gentleman, honoured guests etcetera,” Hector commenced. “Many times have I been asked why and many times have I answered, the choice is not my own and the task of exploration seems not a sane one to those that have not experienced the calling but it is what I know and remains the truest and most stringent test of Faith that one could hope for. So far we have weathered the storms and god willing may we beat back the stings of all storms that threaten to overturn our diligent seeking. It has been said that the icy wastes reaffirm mans insignificance on this vast earth, that he is diminished but I prefer to think the opposite to be true. The scope of the empty plain magnifies man into a great and significant event, it makes the small man, large by virtue of his humanity unique in a wilderness where other life is almost non-existent. Such a life entails responsibility. He must not smear the unsullied reaches nor attempt to disgrace the virtues of his simple humanity, because nowhere else on our Earth, does God see clearer, than on the snow plains where there is nowhere to hide. And er, this magnificent tablecloth, for the fledgling explorers on our new ship, as it looks as white as snow, can only serve to remind them of the responsibility that so many have been willing to bear before them, in the name of Progress, scientific endeavour and the witnessed Truth.” Emily thought he was truly great for once, if a trifle convoluted. Then the Skipper Stanley Spencer Wilkes assuming front and centre at the prompting of Lady Phyl Moncrieff, a somewhat gargantuan, over fed MC, commenced with a jest along the lines of “the tablecloth failing to remain as pristine as it is tonight after a few weeks on the mess-table, under the mess-table, etc with the men…” Jests relating to drunkeness sunk in the creaking, white-washed, tin-ceilinged hall like lead balloons except when they spouted from Wilkes – a waverer, but a navigator of undisputed genius. Hector never tired of letting people know. “Before the slide presentation,” gobbled Moncrieff like a friendly turkey, I’m hoping that Captain Wilkes will undertake in layman’s terms to outline the nature and the purpose of the proposed new voyage – where exactly are you going?” He said, the rascal, they were planning to explore some uncharted islands down south then go treasure- hunting. “Allow me to qualify what the Skipper has said,” Hector interjected, judiciously. “Missionary expeditions of the past two-hundred years throughout the south pacific have reported upon the existence of an island, an island of mystery and rare plants, 250miles south-west of Rarotonga. They tentatively called it Terrascotia, in honour of a Glaswegian cleric, Father McGuffie, but have since met with difficulties trying to relocate its precise position. There may be Kanaka type peoples living there. By intensive study of some old maps and charts we hope to be the first to grab hold of the palm trees and nail them to within a few degrees of dead cert. Latitude and longitude.” Conspicuous in the audience a wily reporter beknownst to Sir Hector grinned at the strange announcement then nudged the fellow next to him who in turn nudged a lady in front until eventually the series of discreet nudges reached the podium and Lady Moncrieff. She nodded her head vigorously then whispered to Wilkes who whispered to Hector “ I’m not sure. Do we have a name for the ship?” He shook his head and smiled then declared, smugly to the audience: “No we do not have a name for the ship, well we may, but until the official announcement, arranged to coincide with the er…enshrining of our rowing-boat the J.C on the roof-top of a city store on the tenth of March, our little craft shall remain the ‘ship’.” Gazump the unveiling, never! There was a hint of a murmur but most everyone had come to see the slides and to hear Wilkes yarn in his youthful, nonchalant way and the finished table-cloth, Hector, missionary business, even the sandwiches and cakes melded into a shadow of the Stalwart’s flaming progress. Hector sat back and watched the tapestry ships flounder through the dangerous shoals of signatures and maritime symbolism. He imagined his coffin filling it out like a strong sou’westerly and all the people dabbing their eyes and doodling on his eulogy leaflet and not singing. He thought of the open-hearted crowds welcoming them from New Georgia Island, the rivers of people, the river of love, the love of the public which lay upon one like clover. Then personal, private one-upon-one love, the love with a dirk up its sleeve and poisoned lace handkerchiefs. The more threatening love. His children were sitting in the front row with the Moncrieff girl and her Father, bearded, patriarchal. Charles, a sullen studious youth, head cocked like a ruminative medical-man already and Gwennie, motion-picture sensation if she could pull off the Clara bow. Hector subsided on the banks of his own wit. The gas was being lowered and the slides were slotting in and out. Winkun Wilkes could nose um into the teeth of a gale and keep a steady course. There, a splendid panorama of the Island. Hector peeked. The audience seemed entranced by the sheer razors of ridges and the glissading glacier ice. How beautiful it looked! How he longed to picnic there on a snow-ramp over looking the wineglass bay with… “That’s Lady Hunt isn’t it.”? Emmy smashed his visions with a whisper. He jumped. Her lantern-lit fleck of face had come along side, craning from its chair next to his. He said nothing. “There,” she continued quietly, “at the rear of the hall. Just came in this minute.” “Its dark. Could be anyone.” “But you said she was tall” Emily was persistent. “Do look would you”. Hector frowned a snorting frown and trained his eyes into the Hades of ambiguous figures. Three along the back partition. My god, her hair was knotted in a kind of burnoose. She stood out, one candle in a branching candelabra. Her face was immobile. All faces were turned into the wind of the screen and the jaunty narration and asides and the lantern glow danced spears of golden light over the special wefts of chameleon silks. Hector satisfied his wife with a positive identification. Then the Skipper uttered some trenchant simile, or just slowed his voice, enough to make the hair stand up on peoples necks at the tragedy of the maiden ‘Stalwart’ succumbing to a cold molestation by a cruel-hearted ice-king with her masts; once again tearing at the sky their message of help, the ant in the palm of a giant, black on white. Hector always thought he was over it. The silence in the hall was a mid-winter silence. Wilkes, the wizard, making him cry, making the entirety cry, making the ‘Stalwart’ cry out her suffering. Katherine had not moved. Would she cry for a ship? Would she cry for the annihilation of his ambitions? Because that is what the ships loss meant to him now. The rest was addenda. Through his mizzly eyes he saw her handkerchief. The ensign of emotion. Thank God she had a heart. He couldn’t love anyone who hadn’t. Emily, impermeable, said: “I should invite her down to Bournemouth since our sons are friends. What about the Sorley-Sharpes? What about a picnic when spring comes, before she is married?” “We don’t know them well enough,” he said firmly. Emily had become so familiar lately, her casual, gossipy, far- from-the-bone, grabs at his ear all because he had turned abstemious. Then the frothing and mooning about, all because she had reintroduced the ‘physical’ into their relationship – her idea of it, that is – a pet and a poke. He almost preferred the brooding scrutineer Emily with her drilling eyes and devious ways. The settled in her wifeliness Emmy dragged like a sea-anchor. He could fight her off again if the worst turned to the worst – the wurst to the best, Clara had written on a further card from Munich – schnapps kingdom. “Pat will buy me anything, my own the-ater, hmm.” Jolly good. “Well,” kept on Emily, “what about dinner in London.” “Dear woman, he said without averting his dilatory stare from the auditorium, “are you that curious? I’m surprised you’ve not served on some committee with her by now – reformed polar explorers or widows of lost seaman. Telephone, have a talk by all means but exclude me from arrangements. She is the foe, after all.” He paused. “Why not approach her when the show is over…. may be hungry.” “Yes she is painfully thin.” said Emmy with a purpose in mind. Hector’s doughy, syrupy, sugary, cream-puffy, fruity, raspberry-jammy painting of supper co-erced Wilkes to the missionarie’s hall. Hector had appointed pockets of men all over the land to promote this voyage, because if it didn’t ‘make’ them all for life- rich and famous, happy, nothing could. So carte blanche to the youngsters. Hector felt he was too tired. Misty-eyes and the audience concentration had amazed the Skipper. “You would have thought the war exhausted all feeling.” The big-wigs from the South-Sea branch accumulated in the men’s corner of the supper room, to pore over Wilkes’s maps. “It’s a boy’s tale for sure,” Lord Moncrieff said, “Now what about this treasure?” “Captain Kidd’s”, the skipper laughed fitfully. “Five-million pounds there for the taking – and the giving, of course, Cocos Island. If Britain was to lay claim…” Reverberant and crammed about the supper trestles. Dunking, spilling, half-bitten scones. Gwennie and Evelyn attending like slaves to the ranks of the thirsty. In swanned Katherine, her light gait distinctive, particularly in comparison to the closed walk of Emily who accompanied her, her new toy. Charles slunk behind, probably counting footsteps or the feet, or watching for elephantiasis in the ankles. Hector presented him as a future president of the Royal College of Surgeons, yet the young man said his interest ran with psychological disorders, his primary aim was a science degree, a solid grounding in all the sciences. “And then Dr Livingstone. Would you not want to follow in his footsteps, my lad?” Suffused with waggery, Hector elbowed Wilkes; “Say Stan, I warned you, as a Stanley…” “I presume…” “Yes?” Great fun these old boys. “I presume Livingstone took flour with him?” “No he consumed the local fare. You must have read his works? Africa and Arctic, they both begin with the letter ‘A’.” “But which comes first in the encyclopaedia?” Some good-natured ragging drew a few smiles and laughs. “Hector?” The call came. It was only a matter of when. Emmy was an inevitable. ‘What a charming chaperone you make, m’dear. The room is full of wolves.” “Don’t be silly. Lady Hunt has a request to make of you.” Hector, in accommodating mood, inclined towards her scent. What a wild violet she seemed on the wagon-train of puritanical dreariness. My Mexican wench. He felt possessive, but on what basis? She soared freely, that’s why. He would he could borrow that freedom, forever. “I would like to employ you as a model for my Tasmanian commission. There is a town there, Ross, I’m making them an ‘unknown soldier’ for the square, for the wreaths to lean on. Your wife has granted her consent.” She said, slipping in a measured giggle for the man hoping to borrow some free spirit. “I do hope you can spare me some time. I’ve fallen behind with my timetable, I’ve been unwell.” A spontaneous, delicate cough into her gloved, lily-languid hand. “Oh, said Emily, bemused by the sudden languor, “but he can’t sit still for very long.” “Everyone always says that but you would be surprised.” Katherine settled herself, reservedly, aware of the sidelong glances and whispers and hero-worship, playing for sympathy. Her husband whipped the Pole. Her hand went to the jade. She wore a plush black fur-coat. She looked down onto Emily as they spoke about sittings. Several dowdy ladies gravitated towards them, bringing cups plates and enquiring minds. Katherine’s nerves screwed. Women’s groups were her acknowledged loathing whether relations, schoolgirls, peeresses. As a white woman in a black village of sunburnt Christian evangelicals she stuck out. One must put on the seemliest airs if one chose to come out and be among one’s fellows. She was soon surrounded. Hector hung about off- camera. Her hand in the glove resembled Meurats hand of the pianist. Skipper Wilkes fell in beside him.
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