Under Patronage

“PIM” Short Story:

By Alma Gross

“WHAT do you think of this, Mac?” ?▼ asked Captain Roberts.

He read aloud from a newspaper. It was a plan to uplift and brighten the lot of the Papuan native, after the war.

There was to be no more exploitation by the white man. The native was to be scrubbed, cliniced, remodelled, educated; the transformed being to be made a member of a trade union. All this as a reward for loyal services rendered to the British Empire. ‘‘And I guess,” interrupted McPherson, “the Fuzzy Wuzzy will like that as much as the chap who wrote it would like to be tattooed, feathered, given a bow and arrow, and made a member of a Fuzzy Wuzzy tribe. Gawd, don’t read any more.

You’ll spoil my day’s leave.” ‘‘Well, let’s go for a walkabout down Tarlu way,” and Roberts tossed the newspaper on to a heap of old papers and magazines. “I might get a cookie boy from the village.” ♦ ♦ * The two men made their way leisurely along the path which ran beside the sea.

Both men were former managers of coco nut plantations. When war came to the British Solomons they had retreated to the hills, and later joined the United States Army. Here, on the Guadalcanal Coast, their thoughts were often of pre war days, “Old Charlie would eat his hat if he saw Tenaru now,” said Mac, indicating the war-torn condition of the former tidy plantation. They talked of other plan tations and their chance of reconstruc tion.

The sea was flat and quiet, as though it drowsed with its hands in its lap. It wore on one finger, like an emerald soli taire, the island of Savo, glowing with green fire in a setting of blue sea and sky. Far to the east, the islands of Tulagi and Gela were a soft blur of olive green and grey. The whole had a deli cate texture, like fine china. And the sunlight shimmered over it.

“I brought my mending with me,” said Roberts. “Some of the Yanks say there’s a coon in the village who owns a sewing machine, and is hot stuff on the darning needle. I remember my wife saying that Kaki, our old cookie, could run as neat a seam as any woman.”

The men left the road for a narrow pad. It led over rough, coral stones, white and slippery. The bush became thicker, and jostled the men, until, native fashion, they walked one ahead of the other. The mild breeze from the sea did not penetrate here. The jungle seemed to swallow everything, the sound of their voices, and even the air their lungs required. When they reached a clearing they felt like swimmers breaking the sur face after a deep dive under water.

The village was quiet. A few dogs rushed at them —mangy, thin mongrels that turned tail and ran yelping, as soon as the white men spoke. The houses, made from the plaited grass of the ivory nut palm, seemed forlorn. Many of them were deserted. Roofs were sagging, walls rotting. There were no women and chil dren to peep shyly from the dark door ways. They had gone to the hills—the old men, too. Here were a few young lads making a sweet fortune by exploit ing the needs of American troops. Rob erts called to a group of natives, who were smoking and chewing betel-nut under the shade of a tree.

“Me look em one feller boy. He savvy sew em calico.”

“E stop,” answered one. Then, “Kaki,” he bawled.

Prom the most pretentious of the houses came a tall native. The men were struck by his air of extreme hauteur. He wore khaki shorts and shirt, and a red cummerbund, which reminded the white men of the uniform of the old Solomon Islands police-boys. But this was no police-boy!

“Starve the lizards!” said Roberts. “It’s my old cook. What a bloody swell he is!”

The native evidently was waiting for the white men to come to him. Then he recognised Roberts. He forgot his arro gance and came quickly, smiling.

“Hullo, Kaki. Me no savvy you stop along here. Em e place belong you?”

“No more, Master, em e no place belong me. Me work along here.”

There was more talk in Pidgin, and Kaki explained that when Mrs. Roberts had been evacuated she had left a lot of her worldly possessions. Kaki was looking after some of them, including the sewing-machine and kitchen utensils.

Roberts produced his mending, and the two men retired to the shade of a mango tree.

Kaki brought a grass mat from the hut. He considered the ground, and the position of the sun, then ceremoniously laid down the mat, and placed on it a sewing-basket which Roberts recognised as his wife’s former mending-basket.

Then Kaki seated himself, and had become engrossed in the job of darning when two natives entered the village.

Although Kaki noted their arrival he paid no attention. Other village boys talked with them, and brought them to him. With much gesticulation and clamour, they explained that they wished to hire the frying-pan for an especial occasion. They were told they could do this only as a favour, as the frying-pan was once the esteemed property of Mrs.

Roberts. The rental would be one dollar.

Other natives came, and for the price of a dollar were graciously allowed to sew a seam or two on Mrs. Robert’s sewing machine.

Roberts and McPherson chuckled.

“The Yanks have skyrocketed the stan dard of living,” said Mac. “It used to be one shilling for services rendered.

Now it’s one dollar.”

The mending was finished. Roberts inspected the job, and complimented the seamster. Kaki coughed discreetly.

“Em e one dollar. Master,” he said.

Mac sniggered, while Roberts paid up. ‘Time Missus go along Sydney/’ began Kaki, “e talk along Kaki all asame. ‘You look out along sewing-machine belong me. Suppose you no give him plenty oil. e no good.’ Now, Master, machine e no got oil.” .

“You want some sewing-machine oil?”

“Yes, Master,” said Kaki, with the smile of a child whose wish has already been granted.

Roberts promised the oil, and took his leave. When they were clear of the vil lage McPherson laughed.

“I thought you were looking for a cookie-boy. Most people like the boys they have trained themselves. Why didn’t you ask Kaki to come along?”

“I’d rather ask the Governor of the Bank of England to black my boots.”

“And all business done under the gra cious patronage of Mrs. Roberts! I won der how Kaki would take to trade-union ism?” McPherson mused, as they saun tered back down the track, and the bush swallowed their laughter.