Scatter the Stars, page 25
Michael stopped, took her arm and tucked it through his, then continued walking. ‘It sounds so cold. So clinical. Are you really sure? You don’t think you’ll meet someone . . . ?’
Janie sighed. ‘Sometimes they say when you give up on things, give up wanting something too much, then once you let it go, it falls into place. Maybe once I stop looking for a man and have all my focus on the baby, the right man will come along.’
Michael was dubious about her rationale. ‘I find the whole thing difficult to deal with. As a man. I mean, it’s threatening that you can do this without a man’s active cooperation, that you’d consider getting pregnant and raising a child on your own. It’s hard for me when, frankly, I’m running so hard in the opposite direction. Pregnancy represents a big fear for me – being tied down, responsibility, failure, commitment. All the things I’m trying to escape, you crave.’
Janie smiled. ‘Crazy, isn’t it. That’s the trouble with a lot of relationships. We never want the same thing at the same time.’
They were almost back to the meter where Janie had parked. The violation red flag was up. ‘Damn. I hope I haven’t got a ticket.’
Michael checked the windscreen. ‘All clear. Where are you off to now?’
‘An appointment with an Alexander Technique teacher.’ She stopped as she unlocked her car door. ‘Michael, we’ve had this great lunch and we haven’t even touched on what we were supposed to talk about.’
He gave a smile and hit his head in a slapstick fashion. ‘Gee whiz! Well, we’ll just have to get together again very soon, won’t we? How is your research into Randy going, by the way?’
‘Pat Jordan’s still negotiating with Randy’s agent in New York, but she’s sure we’ll get him so we’re going ahead.’
‘If you like, suggest to her that you use my stuff for the profile. We could collaborate and do one thing, two versions. Edit down the career stuff for the launch party, and keep the personal stuff for my show. That is, if I’m not taking work away from you. We’d work together so you’re still doing your end of the job.’
‘You know, Michael, that sounds a sensible idea. Our biggest problem is that we need to go to air first when the new studios are launched in November. We need this tribute to be the first time he’s been seen for years. That could work as a good promotion for your in-depth piece on Behind the Scenes. What do you think?’
‘It makes sense. I’d like to talk to this Pat Jordan of yours when she gets here.’
‘I think I’d like to work with you, Michael. Do you get grouchy, difficult, pedantic?’
‘Of course. I bet you can have a temper too if you’re pushed.’
Janie got in her car. ‘We’ll find out. I’m actually a very laid-back operator – except when it comes to crashing technology.’
‘I get minions to fiddle with that high-tech stuff. The video is about my limit.’ He grinned.
Janie started the engine and pushed the button so her window hummed down. ‘I’ll call you after I’ve spoken to La Jordan.’
‘Okay.’ He leaned in and kissed her forehead. ‘See you. Oh, and by the way,’ he covered one of her hands on the steering wheel, ‘if you want someone to hold your hand through the baby thing . . . I’ve no idea what’s involved, but I’m here.’
Janie caught her breath. It was looming as a daunting ordeal to face on her own. Just telling Michael had made her feel better in one respect, on the other hand, he’d made her aware of the huge implications of her decision. ‘Thank you, Michael. I mightn’t need hand holding. But just knowing you offered means a great deal to me.’
He gave one of his beautiful smiles. ‘Isn’t that what best friends are for?’
Los Angeles 1953
The weeks rolled on, the tour being extended rather than shortened as the popularity of Voyage to Paradise mushroomed.
Randy Storm was, to quote Variety, ‘Taking them by Storm.’
Every night Randy complained about the increased workload to Ariel.
‘I can’t see that my being at every opening of the film in a different city counts that much. It’s the film they go to see, not me walking into the cinema and then leaving by the back door after the opening credits.’
‘Don’t you believe it. Once a fan has breathed in the same air you breathe, you’re bonded. They’ll be a fan forever.’
‘What a load of codswallop,’ sighed Randy. ‘I don’t mind making a film, but this going to lunches, talking to press people, signing autograph sessions, waving to the mob at the cinema, is a pain in the arse. I just want to get back to Talia. We’ve missed Christmas together. I want to be home soon.’
‘Have you talked to her?’
‘Once when she was in Madang. She saw the doc. He said everything was okay. I can only cable her through Frank at Burns Philp, but she’s going to see her family before she gets too big and uncomfortable. Shit, Ariel, I’m missing so much of this.’
‘You’ll be there before the main event,’ she promised.
After she returned home, Talia had bloomed. Mac hugged her when he heard the news he was to be a grandfather. He fussed over her and wouldn’t let her do any work about the house until, finally, Talia sat him down.
‘I’m feeling terrific. I want to keep busy. The boys will do any heavy things for me. I promise I’m taking care. Between you and Randy, anyone would think I was sick!’ She spent a lot of time in the garden which, in the lush climate, had thrived while she was in America. She settled herself on the verandah and began painting small watercolours of the jungle, the plantation and views over the palm-fringed bay.
Mac joined her one morning. ‘I’m thinking we should make a little trip east to the northern district. This palm oil business the government is talking about interests me. I’ve got mates in Popondetta and Higaturu on plantations. I think we could develop palm oil here at Paradis and make pretty decent money if we get it up and running. It’s certainly worth looking into.’
‘Why don’t you wait till Randy gets back?’
‘I’d like to have all the info. See what you think too.’
‘Me? You want me to go with you?’
‘Yeah. I think you’d like it. The Richards are lovely people. He was in the coastwatch with me. You can stay with them while I plod around the plantations. Please yourself, though.’
While Mac had always been a self-contained person, not so much a loner, but happy in his own company, Talia could tell he wanted her with him. Her pregnancy had so filled him with delight that he liked to spend more time with her during the day, offering cups of tea, looking at her work, idly chatting and making plans. He was building a baby bed and painting a room for the baby, the kind of things he’d never bothered with before.
They sailed the Sorcerer to Buna and Bob Richards drove them on the rough track to his house on the outskirts of Popondetta, the small town overlooked by Mt Lamington. The air, being inland and landlocked, was steamy and infested with biting midges. Talia missed the sea, and the brooding volcano made her uneasy.
The mountains of New Guinea are amongst the most spectacular in Oceania, soaring into cloud and snow despite the fact the island is within four degrees of the equator. Massive tropical rainfalls feed the powerful rivers that carve through the mountainsides. Landslides were a danger in the monsoonal wet season and throughout the year earthquakes ranged from slight tremors to severe shakes.
The Richards hadn’t seen Mac for several years and were delighted to meet Talia. Bob Richards had arranged for Mac to visit friends at a newly developed palm oil plantation. Jocelyn Richards promised to take Talia out looking for the province’s famed Queen Alexandra bird-wing, the world’s largest butterfly.
In the early dawn Talia stirred, reaching for Randy. Half awake she realised he was still away. She was in a strange bed and something had woken her. She sat up as the bed gently shivered. The house trembled and then was still. Her heart beating, she got up and went to where her father was sleeping under a mosquito net on the verandah.
‘It’s only a tremor, happens all the time up here,’ he reassured her. He was unfazed by the tremor, the guria. The people in this part of Papua New Guinea had learned to live with gurias – the trembling of the earth. Their land breathed, shivered, occasionally shook as if to remind its people that they lived amongst sleeping giants.
Mac and Talia walked out into the crisp clear dawn. ‘No clouds yet. Look, up there.’ He pointed to the volcano’s peak where smoke and a faint red glow were visible.
Over breakfast, Bob was cheerful. ‘Good sign. There’s been some smoke. Means any pressure inside is being released gradually.’
On Saturday, the men set off in Bob’s jeep planning to return from the palm oil plantation the following night.
On Sunday morning, the weather was sunny and peaceful. Jocelyn Richards dressed for church and called to Talia. ‘Are you sure you won’t come? We could go to the markets afterwards. Everyone has gone, I’m afraid.’
‘Thank you. I think I’ll read in the garden. Maybe I’ll write a letter to Richie.’
‘Of course, dear. You do whatever you feel like.’ Jocelyn Richards pulled on her straw hat and smiled at the glowing young woman. No wonder Mac was so proud of her. As she’d said to her husband before he left, Mac had raised a lovely girl. And on his own. They’d first met Mac on Samarai Island and she remembered there’d been quite some talk when Mac had taken up with a local girl and had a child. They’d stuck by Mac, although he’d rarely asked them or anyone to visit him and Talia’s mother. Now, with the child grown into this lovely woman, obviously in love and content with her Richie, she was continuing the bridge between the races.
Talia leaned back in the garden chair, dropping her book in her lap, her eyes closing. Suddenly she was jerked to alertness by a sudden spasm shooting through her body. She put her hands on her abdomen and realised the movement was the baby. A kick, feeble at first then another stronger one, rippled inside her as the baby made its presence felt. Talia laughed out loud. Oh, the joy. It wasn’t a dream, there really was a small life inside her. A life created from the love between her and Richie.
She got up, then felt as if she were going to faint. There came a slight tremble, shivering through the soles of her feet. Puzzled, she stared at the ground and then another tremble shook her body. Then she heard the groan, the earth moaning as if in deep pain.
Panic stricken, she ran towards the house as a huge explosion rattled the windows. She reached the steps to the verandah as a rip in the earth suddenly split the ground in front of her. Then the bottom step caved in. The earth looked as if it wanted to swallow her up. She jumped across it, grasping the post and flung herself into the house as the splintering timber cracked around her. The rumble became louder. Frantically she tried to think where to shelter. Under a bed? A table? She ran, then stopped in front of the living room windows staring at the scene of devastation outside the house – the tall palm tree in the garden was suddenly severed in front of her, falling before the onslaught of a fast-moving, dark rain cloud.
But it wasn’t rain. Now everything around her was dark. It took a moment to register that the world in front of her was monochrome with its shades of greys and black as far as she could see. A grey flat tidal wave was obscuring all that had been there a few moments ago. The roar that came with it was deafening. She had no time to think.
Talia ran for the back of the house. But she got only as far as the kitchen doorway before she felt herself being pushed to the floor. Around her, the house folded like paper, disintegrating under the rolling tide of boiling mud, lava, soil and ash.
Inside the church, it had been just another peaceful sunny Sunday morning. Jocelyn Richards stood in the second row of pews, her voice raised in praise of the Lord. It was 10.30 a.m. Above the township, mighty Mt Lamington blew out its side in an explosion that sent a fireball and cloud like an atomic bomb surging over and devastating a sixty-mile radius, burying all before it.
As the earth and lava began to cool, the first patrol officers into the area tied handkerchiefs over their faces and stepped carefully amidst still steaming pools of lava. Dazed by the sight that confronted them, they could only helplessly examine the hundreds of dead bodies, frozen mid-action as if grey cement had been dumped on them. Many had skin seared from their bodies and those who had been struck down lay on their backs, their chests and ribs smashed by the huge force. The shapes of once human forms, sculptured as they tried to run, were solidified under the solid grey sludge. For many miles around the volcano, the earth was a moonscape. The smell and smoke pall hung low.
For days, the men worked to swiftly bury the hundreds of bodies. The workers retched and wept as they shovelled the rigid forms in their protesting positions into the earth.
Mac and Bob Richards fought the authorities to be allowed into the devastated area. ‘C’mon mate, it’s my wife, she’s in there somewhere . . . dear God, make them let me through!’ Bob had cried. But the sympathetic patrol officers and officials held him back.
Mac blindly pushed past anyway and walked, robot-like, into the hellish scene, silently calling Talia’s name. When a patrol officer grabbed his arm, Mac turned an anguished face to him and cried out, ‘She’s all I have in the world. She’s my baby.’ The patrol officer, haunted by Mac’s face, knew he’d never forget this man’s agony. He walked him to the temporary shelter covering the lines of bodies. Time and again they went through the nightmare of peering under sheets, blankets and tarpaulins trying to identify the contorted and burned faces. But neither Jocelyn Richards nor Talia was ever found.
An ABC radio reporter from Australia interviewed the district officer. ‘Any chance anyone has survived up there?’
‘The houses, the church, half the town is buried,’ he answered in a tired voice. ‘There’s no chance anyone could have survived. Lower down, people have been evacuated. But not from here. The gaol, the mission, the police headquarters have been buried. It’s estimated that two thousand Sangara people have been incinerated, and about five thousand villagers have been forced from their homes.’
The sun glinted off the skyscrapers, the fumes from the cars settled on the clogged freeways, advertisements were everywhere he looked. All was suddenly depressingly familiar to Randy as the limo from the airport cruised along Sunset Boulevard. Cities, hotels, movie houses and plush restaurants. He’d seen enough of America.
At least he would be glad to be back at the Garden of Allah. It would make him feel closer to Talia.
As he approached the reception desk to pick up his key and collect his mail, Randy wondered if there would be a letter from Talia. He flipped through the first envelopes to a cable marked URGENT.
As he opened the envelope, Randy assumed it was an update from Mac confirming details of his arrival back in New Guinea. It took a few moments to register the bald words on the slip of paper.
MOUNT LAMINGTON VOLCANO ERUPTED. THOUSANDS KILLED. TALIA MISSING. NO MORE DETAILS. DOING WHAT I CAN. MAC.
‘No! Oh Christ no!’ The anguished cry brought the Garden of Allah manager running to the desk where Randy stood, ashen faced. ‘Oh, God, don’t do this to me.’ Randy was unable to move. He felt as if lead was replacing the blood in his veins, weighing him down. Finally he sank onto a chair the manager had brought for him, and he put his head on his arms, his shoulders shaking.
In the limbo of night, in the space where he floated between earth and sky, Randy only knew he was lost in a nightmare hell. As the plane headed back to Australia where he could transfer to a flight to Port Moresby, he turned his face to the window wondering who was the anguished man whose features stared back at him. He lay back in the seat and closed his eyes but the images of Talia kept running through his head. Her serious face as she concentrated on her painting . . . the memory of her patting the head of her Massim carving as she came through the door, laughingly tucking hibiscus flowers in her hair, kissing his nose, sweetly sleeping on the pillow next to him. In this senseless state of despair, he tried to block out her voice as it whispered to him the words that seemed so long ago, ‘I’m not afraid to die.’
At the airport, Mac’s anguished face and sagging shoulders spelled out his emotional devastation. Randy knew as soon as he saw the old man that there was no hope.
They embraced briefly, awkwardly. ‘Nothing definite. People were buried quickly. There’s no hope. Really, mate. She would have got a message through if she was all right. I’ve checked what survivors there were. In a bloody mess they are.’
Randy swung from welling sobs that were wrenched and squeezed from his bones, his heart, his soul, to bouts of anger and fear at facing life without her. Why? Why? The question punctuated every thought. There was a constant tightness in his chest that made breathing difficult. Nothing about him looked the same. He was in pain, in his body, his head, his heart and he couldn’t imagine it ever abating.
Mac stopped him going to the area and took him instead back to Paradis.
They spent long nights on the verandah overlooking the bay, drinking and talking, sometimes only drinking and thinking. Lost in private memories. Oblivion and snatched sleep only came when they fell into a drunken stupor. Randy slept in another room, unable to be in the room he’d shared with Talia, the room where they’d conceived their child. A boy or a girl? He’d never know. He damn well knew this though, and he kicked at whatever was closest, he’d never love anyone again. There’d be no child. There was no God, only a devil-minded bastard who tried and tested you and when you came through, and when you got on top, when things were right, he knocked you over, kicked the stuffing out of you. And laughing, left you.
