Coconut Chaos by Diana Souhami (best ereader for pdf TXT) 📗

could not leave the frozen heart of my relationship with Verity and that my mother’s madness was a strait through which no ship could pass.

II

TAURANGA TO BOUNTY BAY

Anywhere can be a destination. Usually we arrive where we choose to go

11

The Pitcairn Commissioner’s office was on the tenth floor with views of Auckland’s Bay of Plenty and wharves. Trevor Murray wore a blue shirt of wifely creaselessness. He’d just returned on a supply ship via Panama from two months on Pitcairn. On his new flat-screened computer were 351 unanswered email.

He didn’t question why I wanted to visit the island and I again volunteered my interest in the flightless rail. He said I should remember I was going to an entirely isolated community. The impending trials had divided family against family and everyone on Pitcairn was, or was related to, a victim or defendant. Lawyers, judges and journalists were about to swarm there, ferried from Mangareva on the Braveheart. I thought of the newspaper reports of abusive sex with underage girls. I’d not dwelt on the details which seemed squalid.

Murray told me to buy wellington boots and take no valued clothes, because when it rained, red volcanic mud splashed everywhere. Pitcairners went barefoot but visitors needed shoes. I should observe the island’s customs and go to church. Rosie and her husband were very devout. They preached the sermon in church for there was now no pastor on the island. They didn’t drink alcohol, tea or coffee, or smoke or trade on the Sabbath and they said grace before all meals. It would be acceptable, though, if I bought a liquor licence and took wine with me to have with my food.

I thought of Rosie’s blouse and feared I’d chosen unwisely. I wondered why I was going to a place inhabited by sex offenders where I’d not be wanted and I’d confound some notion of God if I had a drink. I said I liked swimming. Murray spoke of a natural pool formed by seawater at St Paul’s Point – beautiful, but too cold in August, which was winter in these Pacific islands. Waves might break with great force over the rocks. Many of the place names of Pitcairn were in memory of accidents: Nellie Fall, Robert Fall, Dan Fall, McCoy’s Drop. ‘Have no illusion,’ he said, ‘you’re going to a very primitive place.’

He talked of projects to improve shipping, extend the jetty, lay a concrete road, generate electricity by the wind, encourage ecological tourism and provide a boat for tourist trips to Henderson Island. I liked his practical cast of mind. He said theft was unknown on the island. There was barter, kindness and no hunger. Pitcairners liked fried food and a lot of it and there was a problem with obesity and diabetes. A locum from New Zealand was there for three months giving dietary advice, but Rosie’s food was good and I’d eat avocados and mangoes, pawpaw, passion fruit, salads and fish.

Shirley, his personal assistant, sprucely dressed and with a no-nonsense air, checked my papers and payments. I signed a disclaimer for Seatrade in case anything disastrous happened to me on the Tundra Princess, an assurance that I was not carrying anything to do with bee-keeping, and I paid twenty-five dollars for my liquor licence. I was to carry flu vaccines, in an envelope padded with ice slabs, for two of the island’s elderly, and a new watch for Rosie because hers had broken. I was to instruct the captain of the Tundra Princess to store these vaccines in the ship’s fridge, and give him a letter thanking him for carrying me, one other passenger, the vaccines, mail, supplies and other items. These included gas cylinders, and the perimeter fence for the prison the island’s men were themselves building and where they’d be incarcerated if found guilty of the offences for which they’d been charged.

Shirley warned me not to take sides over the islanders’ claims and counterclaims concerning the trials. I should be non-committal, have no opinions and say only ‘Oh really’ or ‘Oh yes’. She, too, warned against wearing anything but shorts and T-shirts because of the dreaded mud. It would never wash out – not from trainers, jeans, not from anything. I should forget about make-up and appearance. I’d get up in the morning, pull on yesterday’s clothes and run my hands through my hair.

The Tundra Princess was to leave on 2 July. The dangerous part of the voyage was getting off the ship into the Pitcairn longboat down a rope ladder, two or three miles offshore from the island. In twelve years they’d not lost anyone, but there’d been near misses in bad weather. She warned yet again that leaving the island would be difficult and special arrangements costly. I should contact her by email two months before I wanted to leave, but she couldn’t say how long it would then take to find a ship.

In Tauranga she’d reserved a room for me in the Pacific Motor Inn. She gave me the mobile number of the shipping agent who’d issue my embarkation instructions and take me through customs formalities. There would, she said with a grimace and a laugh, be another passenger on board. ‘An admiral’s wife. A most unusual woman. She’ll be company for you. The crew’s all men.’

In the lobby of the Domain Lodge in Auckland I downloaded email from my brothers about mother. She’d overdosed on diazepam and was in hospital. She was conscious, but thought my brother was the milkman. A neighbour, woken in the night by her smoke alarm, had broken a window, crawled through it and found her on the hall floor, a burnt-out milk saucepan on the lit gas ring and a scorch mark on the kitchen ceiling. Social Services said she’d be at risk if she returned to her house and a place was reserved for her at Sunset View. The fees were £600 a week and her house and possessions were to