13

BANABA

During the turbulent time after we separated, Stuart raised the subject of going to work for the British Phosphate Commission (BPC) on what was then called Ocean Island, now properly named Banaba, a tiny Micronesian island just south of the equator and due north of New Zealand. A joint British, Australian and New Zealand mining venture was in the final stages of laying waste to this tropical island for the sake of extracting its rich phosphate deposits to make fertiliser. A Newcastle specialist and his family had spent some time there, and recommended the experience to Stuart.

Stuart told me of his plans and convinced me that this would be the best thing for him – doing something totally different from anything he had ever done before. It meant there would be several months at a time when he was out of the country. But he’d only sign the contact on condition that I make two visits to the island with Sarah and Brendan.

He invited me to his parents’ house to discuss the venture. He was rational, civil and polite. It was one of those occasions that gave me cause to hope that his life had got back on track.

As I was leaving, he came out with me to the front gate. It was an awkward moment. Stuart had never been at a loss for words; they had always spilt out easily, but now he said nothing. I sensed something in him, but didn’t want to say anything to cover the silence.

He silently held out his hand as if to shake mine. I held out my hand, and he took it with both of his. He looked directly at me, and I could see tears in his eyes. A million thoughts flashed through my mind in that instant, but it was all too late. I said goodbye, got into my car and quickly drove around the corner, then stopped the car and cried for him.

It wasn’t an easy decision to take the children to Banaba, even for visits. I talked it over with my family and friends, who all expressed their concerns. It caused my parents much anguish. Still, he was the father of our children and the decision was ultimately mine. Even if I didn’t feel it was in the children’s interest, I felt a duty to give them time with their father.

My safety could never be guaranteed, but it was a small island and everyone knew each other. I convinced myself that two visits didn’t seem much to ask. The eternal optimist in me never gave up hope. Foolishly, I promised to go.

In hindsight, no matter how much I try to justify that decision, I know I shouldn’t have gone. Nothing could warrant the risk I was about to take. My short-term desire for the three of us to be safe and happy in Newcastle during Stuart’s long periods of absence wasn’t a good enough reason for me to promise to stay with him on Banaba with the children.

Stuart took up his post in 1977, and we visited him a few months later. I rented our little terrace to the writer and poet Dorothy Hewitt and packed our summer gear. Then the three of us flew to New Zealand, accompanied by my guitar, and boarded one of the phosphate container ships, the Norwegian vessel Valetta, to travel to the island.

Our voyage took a few blissful days. We ate beautifully prepared meals with the captain each evening. I spent hours on the deck looking for solitary islands and watching giant albatross wing their way across the Pacific in the vessel’s slipstream.

That first visit to Banaba was a success. Stuart seemed relaxed, immersed in his work and involved in events on the island. There was one other doctor, and between them he and Stuart looked after the health of the BPC staff and their families. The people on the island came from many different countries – some from England, Australia and New Zealand, others from the outer Gilbert and Ellice Islands. It was a privilege to obtain work on Banaba for those from the neighbouring islands, where there were few opportunities for paid employment.

Even though mining had reduced the centre of Banaba to a mass of barren coral pinnacles, the coastal fringe was beautiful. I soon began to think of it as my version of Harry Belafonte’s ‘Island in the Sun’. There were lagoons, palm trees and frigate birds. The frigate bird is now the national emblem of Kiribati, which gained independence in 1979, the same year the mining at Banaba ceased.

The locals fished the deep waters off the reef in their little out-rigger canoes, often battling giant marlin for hours with handlines. On one occasion, we watched an industrial crane on the harbour lift a giant marlin from the water to the shore. It had been caught with a handline on an outrigger, but was so heavy it had to be lifted by crane. The outrigger made a stark contrast to the boats that normally had such a catch – well-fitted deep-sea fishing vessels with sophisticated gear. Young children swam in the lagoon and ate the livers of the fresh fish that came in from the boats each day. The children were healthy and beautiful.

I loved the peaceful, friendly people of the island. They danced and sang as easily as most of us walk and talk. Each Sunday, I strained from our veranda to hear them singing as they walked to church. I can’t recall anything more beautiful – young and old voices mingl-ing as they strolled barefoot at island pace, hibiscus and frangipanis in their hair. I wish I’d recorded their perfect harmonies.

The original Banabans were taken from their home at the end of World War Two and relocated to the island of Rabi in the Fiji group, 3200 kilometres away. They agreed to this relocation for a period of two years, but many are still there today. They mounted the longest court case in British history, seeking compensation for the mining of phosphate and demanding funds to rehabilitate their island, where many yearn to go back. They are sometimes known as the forgotten people of the Pacific.

When I visited the island, we lived close to a Banaban chief and his family, who were among the handful of original inhabitants left there. We were always respectful, mindful of the reason we were on his island home. He referred to us as his friends.

But there was a real racist thing happening among most of the BPC workers. They kept to themselves. There was a movie theatre for whites and another for islanders, a whites-only swimming pool, a white bus and a black bus. I couldn’t understand it.

The island people had much more than any of us in terms of history, culture, society, acceptance and contentment. They willingly shared their food, their laughter, their music and life with us. Stuart and I both preferred their company, even though we couldn’t always speak their language. Stuart later became quite fluent during the time he was there. They were a beautiful, generous, shy, talented, loving people.

Having grown up with Rogers and Hammerstein’s musical South Pacific, I think I went in search of the original Bali Ha’i. Indeed, I felt I’d found it. The sky was often a ‘bright canary yellow’, and I heard the call of the islands ‘where the sky meets the sea’. I devoured James A. Michener’s Tales from the South Pacific, which was based on stories he’d collected during World War Two while stationed at Espiritu Santo, one of the islands of Vanuatu.

Looking back, it stands to reason that our first visit to Banaba was uneventful; otherwise, I wouldn’t have contemplated returning. But return I did. In spite of the stark landscape of coral pinnacles encroaching on the remaining village and club, it was the same beautiful island I remembered.

I spent my first few days on the island in bed with a frightful headache. The BPC staff had air conditioners in their bedrooms, but the units weren’t properly maintained. Mine had become blocked with phosphate dust and salt, so the fresh air wasn’t getting into the room. My head ached more each day. It was only the need for warmth that got me out of the bedroom and into the much-needed oxygen of the open air.

Not long after we arrived, Stuart took me down to his surgery and introduced me to Rakentati, a young Gilbertese woman who worked as his nurse and assistant. Rakentati, or Raken as she was generally known, had a lovely smile and sparkling eyes. Stuart told me she was invaluable to him as a nurse and interpreter. When speaking Gilbertese to the patients, Raken was quick and confident, firing off Dr Wynter’s long and detailed instructions. Then, when she interpreted a patient’s response in her excellent English, her voice became shy and quiet. She’d bow her head, but always with a mischievous smile.

Stuart was much more on edge this second visit. One afternoon, he was haranguing me when Brendan fell off the back veranda onto the coral, wounding the back of his head. I felt responsible for having taken my eyes off him, even though at the time I’d had little alternative. I secretly hoped this unfortunate event might bring about a change in Stuart’s behaviour. Even though we didn’t discuss it, I believe at the time Stuart also felt bad. We both silently recognised that Brendan might have fallen off the veranda to distract us. Stuart stitched Brendan’s head and treated him with gentleness and care during the procedure. There were two sides of Stuart’s personality, and the good side was indeed good.

Before long, though, Stuart started talking about local law and telling me how he could get away with murder in this remote part of the world if he wanted to. He described in great detail how easy it was to seriously hurt or kill someone. You lift up their arm, he said, and a sharp knife can penetrate the armpit to the heart with little force, as there’s no skeletal bone for protection. I was mindful that there were lots of large, sharp fishing knives around the house.

When I remember his violence, I can recall the injury and the pain but not the trigger. This was the case on many occasions. I think in order to move past an unpleasant incident, I’d block out the conversation that triggered his anger and violence. We didn’t argue like normal people, because I was never permitted to disagree with him. When I was with Stuart, he made all the decisions, so there was never any dispute over an issue. I fell in with his plans, suggestions and arrangements.

The dialogue that triggered an outburst was usually one-sided. It often began with Stuart criticising some aspect of my personality. In his opinion I’d laughed too loudly at a joke, spent too long talking to someone or said the wrong thing to someone else. There was no line of defence on which I could respond. It was all silly. Privately, I’d wonder how someone as intelligent as Stuart could behave like this. We were attempting to act as something of a family, but families didn’t do this to each other.

One evening we were on our way back from the movies when he punched me in the face and broke my glasses. We’d just said goodnight to a group of people and were walking back to the car park. This was something he’d never done before. He’d always been careful not to leave any visible marks. By morning, a dark bruise had developed around my eye and nose, and there was a visible cut in my eyebrow from the broken spectacles. When people asked what had happened to me, I made up some excuse, and Stuart just laughed it off. I felt ashamed of him for what he’d done to me.

Many years later, Sarah told me she was also drawn into covering up for her father while we were on the island. She watched in horror from the school bus as Stuart pushed me in the garden. The little girl next to Sarah saw it and commented on the incident. Sarah said to her friend, ‘It’s OK, they’re just playing.’ In spite of the passage of time, it still upsets me to think that a six-year-old should have to make excuses for her father. It pains me to think what she saw, how she reacted and the effect it must have had on her.

Fortunately we lived next door to a lovely family called the Worcesters, who had been on the island for a very long time. They fussed over Sarah and Brendan. I remember Sarah telling them in wonderful childlike detail how she could fly. It afforded me some security to have them close by.

Stuart had grown his hair long and had a big bushy beard. He was very fit, loved fishing for yellowfin tuna and involved himself in coaching the local football team outside work. He seemed to be at home on the island; he’d learnt the language and was popular with the islanders. Still, something was very wrong. Outside, he was easy-going, but he was edgy and anxious at home. What was it about me that brought out this deep, unrestrained anger?

His rages often now took place in front of Sarah and Brendan. One afternoon, for no reason, he pushed me to the floor and held me there. My body ached for days. Though I did everything in my power to maintain peace, I was becoming increasingly fearful for our lives. The children and I were completely isolated. The next container ship wasn’t due to dock for a couple of weeks, and we weren’t booked on it anyway.

I still have nightmares about what happened next. They were events of such intense horror that I can never, ever forget them. Out of the blue, Stuart shoved me in front of some people at a New Year’s Eve celebration. I think there was some embarrassment and shock at this, but Stuart was highly respected, and maybe the others misunderstood his sudden fury. The only other reason I can put forward is that he was hoping to find some allies with this display of aggression in front of an audience. If that was the case, it backfired. No-one laughed or said anything.

We went home early, although it was already after midnight. His face was white, his eyes twitched, and he seemed to be frothing slightly at the corners of his mouth. I put Sarah and Brendan to bed, desperately trying to work out a way to defuse the situation.

I wanted to run for my life with the kids, but I couldn’t. There was nowhere to go. Everyone on the island was celebrating the New Year. The lights were out in the Worcesters’ house, indicating that they were still at the festivities. Our house was one of the few left on the remote side of the island, because the remaining staff preferred living closer to the club and harbour.

Stuart went absolutely berserk and chased me around the house with a fishing knife. I was scared to death. I managed to get out of the house and run for my life, but I had to leave the house on my own, without the children. It crossed my mind that our lives were about to unravel on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific.

I crawled underneath the Worcesters’ house and stayed there shaking, adrenalin pumping through my body. I prayed to God to not let Stuart hurt my children. I could see everything from where I was crouching under the house. We didn’t have curtains or blinds and all the lights were on, so I could see through the window of the bedroom where they were sleeping. A couple of times, he went into their room, and I put my head between my legs to stifle a scream.

When the Worcesters eventually came home, I crawled out from under their house, knocked on their door and told them everything.

I must have looked and sounded deranged as I shook and sobbed and pleaded with the neighbours. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me. After all, I was the wife who only occasionally came to the island to visit her doctor husband. He healed people and played footy and feasted in the meeting-house with the locals. But I had to tell them the truth, because our lives hung in the balance. It was never easy to talk to anyone about our predicament. I had to explain our whole life in a minute or two and get Sarah and Brendan out of the house.

Fortunately, the Worcesters immediately understood the seriousness of the situation and went out of their way to comfort me. They went next door and talked briefly with Stuart, then called the manager of BPC. Even though it was 3 am, he came straight over.

I watched through the Worcesters’ window as Mr and Mrs Worcester went into Sarah and Brendan’s bedroom and woke them up. Relief doesn’t adequately describe the moment when they brought the children over to me.

The Worcesters literally saved our lives. They welcomed us into their home, providing the safe shelter we desperately needed. That night I held my two precious children in my arms until they went to sleep. All night, I kept them close to me.

The BPC manager assured us we could get the next boat back to New Zealand and then home to Australia. I was grateful to the manager for helping us jump the queue; only a small number of passengers were allowed to travel on the container ship, and it wasn’t our turn. I have no idea what story Stuart told the manager or anyone else about the events of that evening. More than likely, he told them I was crazy and said he wanted me off the island.

I didn’t care. I focused on our safety and prepared to leave the island with Sarah and Brendan. I didn’t go out alone or with the children. Deep in my heart, I knew Stuart had the capacity to kill, and I knew I’d put Sarah and Brendan in harm’s way by taking them to the island.

I can’t recall how long we waited for the ship – perhaps a couple of weeks – but throughout that time I felt safe, even though Stuart was still living next door and going about his daily work. The Worcesters never once questioned my predicament. We spoke in depth about the importance of family and the need to feel safe, and they knew the three of us were heading home to our loved ones.

The day we left, there was a big ocean swell, so we had to be loaded into a cage and hoisted onto the ship. It was a dangerous departure, dangling from a crane in a swinging metal cage over a huge swell, but I felt safe in comparison to what we had been through.

Quite a few islanders came down to the wharf to hang flowers around our necks and kiss us goodbye. It was a sad farewell, as I knew I would never see them or set foot on their island again.

I took home a sad song the Banabans taught me called ‘Nanou’, which in translation means ‘My heart is with you’. It was a tribute to their fellow islanders who were still far away on Rabi. I sang this song many times on my return, and people understood it, even though it was in a different language. I’ll always remember the songs of the forgotten people of the Pacific.