“I just don’t understand why we’re stuck in Nouméa,” said Enid. “I thought you were worried someone else would find the beetle first.”
“We are here because of our paperwork,” said Margery. “And, anyway, I have no luggage.”
“Why can’t we go without that stuff?”
“Because I can’t climb a mountain in my best frock, Enid. And I certainly can’t do it without my equipment. You don’t even have proper boots. Besides, we could get arrested without a visa. As soon as I have it all sorted out, we can go to the bungalow. The bus leaves every two days.”
“The bus?” repeated Enid. “We came here on a flying boat, and now we’re making the adventure of our lives by bus?”
“There’s no other way to get there.”
“Mules?”
“No, Enid. We absolutely will not go by mule. That will not be necessary.”
They were taking petit déjeuner in one of the charming French cafés that lined the Baie des Citrons, but Enid had woken in a bad mood and was flipping through The Times without actually reading it. Not that there was any need. It was dated August 1950—everything it reported had happened when they were still at home. Apparently, British newspapers arrived in New Caledonia only spasmodically—it could be Christmas before anything new came. And even though Enid kept trying, she couldn’t get a signal for her radio because of the mountain. Meanwhile, she would still say nothing about Taylor, or how she’d got past his gun, and if Margery asked about Perce, she simply shook her head. Out in the bay, white surf flicked a coral reef, and beyond that, the open sea was dark blue. Within the irregular arc of coral, the water was as still as a lake—blues of all shades, along with shadowy green and purple. Men were unloading fishing boats on the sand, and a woman was hunkered beside them, scooping out fish innards and slopping them into a bucket. Birds hopped round her.
“The kagu,” said Margery, helping herself to another croissant.
“The what?” said Enid.
“That big white bird. With the spindly red legs. They’re indigenous to New Caledonia. They can’t fly.”
“Oh,” said Enid, remarkably unimpressed. “That’s probably why they’re indigenous to New Caledonia.” She pushed away the newspaper and glanced left and right, as if checking for someone. “This is mad. We should leave. What difference does it make if you don’t have your paperwork?”
“If you must know, I made a mistake once. I don’t wish to make it again.”
“What kind of mistake?”
Margery drew her mouth into a plum shape. “If you must know,” she said again, because saying old things twice seemed safer than saying new ones once, “I stole my boots.”
“You stole them? Where from?”
“From the school where I worked.”
“You stole your boots from a school?”
“Yes, Enid. This is not a laughing matter. It is now in the hands of the British police.”
But for Enid it was a laughing matter. She laughed a lot. “I can’t believe you stole your boots. What came over you, Marge?”
“I don’t know.” It was a question she still asked herself but without ever coming up with an answer that she deep-down believed. “The point is, we can’t just go. Besides, I’m waiting to hear from the British consul. I expect a reply any day.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re British. It’s about connections, Enid. Who you know. The British consul will help us. He could sort out my visa.”
Enid whipped a cigarette from her packet and lit it. A shot of smoke escaped from the side of her mouth as if she were on fire. She said, “Someone is still following me.”
“No one is following you. Or, rather, everyone is following you, but you’ve only just begun to notice. Even mangy stray dogs follow you.”
Enid ignored that. She just patted Mr. Rawlings and fed him half a croissant. She said, “He was on the ship. Remember? He followed me in Aden. And I’m sure he was there at the camp in Wacol.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I never really saw him. I think he had no hair.”
“But why would he be following you?”
Enid shrugged. Or maybe she shivered. “The trouble is that you think we have time and we don’t, Marge. We need to leave this place and start searching.”
To Enid’s relief, the lost luggage arrived at their boardinghouse that same afternoon. There was only one snag.
“It’s not hers,” said Enid. “And her Gladstone bag is missing.”
The French delivery boy said (in French) that the luggage looked like Margery’s. He was dressed in white with canvas shoes to match. Someone had sewn a brocade trim onto the shoulders of his shirt—presumably his mother, because he looked all of twelve. His skin was golden and fluffy, much like that of a peach.
“How could you possibly know what her luggage looks like?” said Enid. “You’ve never seen it.” (This in English, but with a mime of a person looking for something and carrying a suitcase. The delivery boy was delighted. He sat down to watch.)
“Where is my equipment?” said Margery.
In answer, the delivery boy pointed again to the suitcase he had delivered. He could point as much as he liked; it still wasn’t Margery’s. For a start, it was brand-new. Enid said they should check the case anyway, but when she tried to open it, the lock wouldn’t move. Margery was about to make an emergency phone call to the airline when Enid came up with a better idea. Enid’s better idea was to pick the lock on the suitcase, open it, and see what was inside. It was inconceivable to her that they would return a suitcase that didn’t belong to them without even taking a look.
Margery counted on the lock stumping Enid, but she might as well have laid bets against her running out of things to talk about. Enid examined the lock with one eye rammed against the shaft, fetched a bobby pin, and had the thing open in seconds. She pulled out sundry items: Bermuda shorts, short-sleeved shirts—some plain, some patterned with flowers—socks, garters, and a large jacket with pockets.
“Are you an idiot?” shouted Enid. “Of course this stuff isn’t hers. Have you any idea who this woman is?”
The delivery boy shook his head, surprisingly upbeat for someone who had just brought a full set of male safari clothes to a hot lady and her volatile friend.
“She’s a famous explorer,” said Enid. “That’s who. She’s going to find a beetle and take it back to the Natural History Museum.”
“But my equipment?” said Margery, again. The Gladstone bag contained everything she needed. She felt hollow. “Where is it?”
At this point Enid took over. Sensing disaster, she tipped the delivery boy and ushered him out of the room. She got Margery a chair and sat her down. “Marge, I need you to be calm. I need you to tell me exactly what you’ve lost.”
“A killing jar, a pooter. Oh, no. I have no ethanol—”
“Marge, that’s not being calm. That’s flapping. Tell me what those things are for.”
But Margery could barely think in a straight line. Without her collecting equipment, there was no way they could continue. “We might as well cut our losses and go home. I could try to get another teaching job.” Her voice ran out even as she said it. She couldn’t think of anything more desolate.
“No!” Enid practically shouted. She twisted her hands and paced up and down, followed at close quarters by Mr. Rawlings. “There has to be a way round this. Can we buy the stuff?”
“Where? And, anyway, I can’t afford it.”
“Okay, okay. What is a pooter?”
“What is a pooter?”
“Yes. Marge. What does it look like? Don’t go blank on me. Think.” Slowly, and with much faltering, Margery managed to explain that a pooter was a small suction collector with two rubber tubes going into it, one of which you placed over the beetle, the other you sucked.
Enid stopped her pacing and listened.
“How long are the tubes?”
“About eighteen inches.”
“Like in a chemistry set?”
“I suppose like a chemistry set. Yes. I suppose.”
“All right,” said Enid. “What else?”
“Naphthalene.”
“What is naphthalene?”
“It stops other insects from eating the specimens.”
“Okay. Naphthalene. Got that. What else?”
“Pins. I need pins.”
“Like ordinary pins? Dressmaking pins?”
“Yes, they would do. They must be very small.”
“What else?”
Forceps. Tweezers. Pitfall traps. A sharp knife. A brush. Not to mention blotting paper, ink, pens. Her head began to spin. It was worse than being on the ship.
“I get the gist,” said Enid. “There are a few inquiries I need to make, but I won’t be long.” Before Margery could ask anything else, she was out of the door.
Margery had no idea of whom Enid might possibly make inquiries in Nouméa. It was true she often wandered off and found something in the market: a bag of mangoes, a terrible painting of the Baby Jesus, a square of brightly colored fabric. And she always had a story of some poor, unhappy person she’d befriended on the way back. But she’d made no mention of meeting anyone normal, let alone a person who owned insect equipment.
She returned after ten minutes. She remained just as evasive after her inquiries as she had been before them.
“Well?” said Margery.
“All sorted out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, leave it with me.” Enid changed into a pair of slacks and gloves and put on her baseball cap. Margery began to object that whoever she was going to meet, Margery should meet, too, but Enid cut her off. Margery had nothing to wear except a pile of clothing belonging to a big man they had never met. Either that, or her best frock. “And I’m sorry, Marge, but we need to sweet-talk this chap, not put him off.” She kissed Mr. Rawlings and told Margery not to worry. When Margery tried to give her money, she said she still had her traveler’s checks, so it would be fine.
Never had time passed so slowly. Enid was gone for the whole evening. The sun lowered and, in the distance, the mountains glowed like pink whales. Margery walked Mr. Rawlings beneath the palm trees, though he was so distraught he kept laying his head on his paws and letting out sighs that seemed to deflate him. He really was the most useless dog in the world. The last post was delivered—with one letter for Margery—but there was still no sign of Enid. By the time she turned up, it was dark. There was a full white moon, and low purple clouds lay over the horizon. She kicked the door open, bearing a box of supplies that was so big her torso was hidden. She was just two thin legs and a head with a baseball cap on top. Her face was popping with happiness.
Two bottles of ethanol, three of naphthalene, Kilner jars, Band-Aids and bandages, lengths of rubber tube, specimen jars, safety pins, a box of pins, a broom handle, scalpels and blades, scissors, tweezers, insulating tape, several small empty tins, as well as a pair of old soccer cleats—
“Enid? How did you get so much? Where’s it all from?”
Enid mumbled something about a nice doctor who liked helping people. Then she threw herself onto the bed, like a child in snow. “You’ve got your equipment. I have a pair of boots. Now can we do this thing? Can we get out of here?”
Margery beamed triumphantly and stood taller in her girdle and stockings than she had ever stood before. “I, too, have news, Enid. My efforts have not been in vain. An invitation came in the evening post from the British consul. We are going to a garden party at six P.M. tomorrow.”