Twenty-Three

“Chicken Willy’s – Nambawan nice one”

In which an empire is founded – a party is organised – we throw open our doors to some familiar faces – and I take a well-earned rest.

When Tassels and I pushed open the rusty hinges of the double front doors the sight was pretty uninspiring.

Tucked just around the corner from the bank, the building was really too big for our purposes. It had, in a former life, served as one of the ubiquitous general stores but now it was simply a large, empty room with a dingy back office. But, despite its unprepossessing appearance, this was more than just a scruffy, wooden building – this was to be, we knew, the flagship of a phenomenon that might yet sweep the world.

I had spent that morning, as I had steered us through the smooth, azure lagoon, reflecting on the distance covered since my arrival. Now we did have a ‘business’, a money-making project that would provide the islanders, even at our present scale, with a healthy income. Whether they chose to expand the chicken farm or to pursue the fast-food sideline, how they chose to spend any resultant profits – to invest in their futures or to amuse themselves – must be entirely up to them. Indeed if the whole were to come to a grinding halt after my departure then this too would be their autonomous decision. Perhaps the teacher in me wanted to push to achieve the best results, but the rest of me, which by now was much the greater part, just felt very pleased and privileged to have lived this Solomon Time.

“Suppose you me look inside this one?”

“Why not?” replied Tassels and grinning together we went inside.

The original counter had collapsed leaving only the odd twisted nail sticking out of the wall. Working behind the till must have been a precarious pastime as several of the floorboards were missing and nearly all the glass strips that made up the louvres of the windows were broken, cracked or absent. The paintwork outside was hardly in evidence and some patches of leaf roof had rotted through but there did not seem to be any major structural problems to overcome.

At the back of the building we discovered a brass stand-pipe overgrown with thick green vine. Stripping it away, Tassels twisted the tap open and, with an asthmatic wheeze and a couple of hawks, coughs of rusty muck spat out until the water flowed clear and strong, splashing on the cocoa-brown dirt before it puddled and dried into the cracked mud.

A few days after we had settled on a rental price of fifteen chickens a month with the owner, the work team arrived to start the refurbishment of the hut. Imp worked with tremendous enthusiasm, always asking for my opinion on how something looked or whether something should be higher, lower, left a bit or right a bit. Very often he would have me hold whatever was being positioned and skip a few feet away to judge it for himself. Holding his pencil at an angle he thought suitable, he would narrow his eyes and hum quietly. If things were not quite right he would furrow his tattooed brow and pull gently on the piece of mother of pearl that was inserted in his earlobe.

Occasionally, but only occasionally, he would consult his apprentice, Gordon, and together they would crouch on their haunches to draw diagrams with sticks in the dirt in front of the building. Planks fashioned with axes were brought from the island, as were all the materials necessary to build the worktops and restaurant furniture. Geoff lent us his tools and we spent some of our savings on paper bags of different-sized nails.

Although the work was basic, it was tough, solid and in its own way quite attractive. The tables were constructed from the round trunks of trees sawn into three- or four-inch-thick tops, supported by three reasonably straight lengths of branch, and around these were arranged three-legged stools of the same design. The counter was broad and smooth; it had been cut in one piece out of the jungle and oiled with coconut oil until it gleamed. Its front was decorated with broad cuts of bamboo and pinned to these were fish shapes carved in wood by the children of the kindergarten. In the centre, crowing loudly, was the silhouette of a large chicken. On the serving side were two long tables where the cooking would take place. Here Ellen, Ethel and their team would cook the food to order for our clientele. Behind in the small back room two food preparation teams would be busy working, one group peeling and slicing the sweet potatoes, the other plucking, drawing and quartering the chickens. The birds would be brought over every day and kept in a wire coop behind the restaurant until their order number was up. Freshness was our promise.

The broken glass windows were replaced with wire fly nets and a large padlock protected the door. Above this Small Tome, standing precariously on a home-made ladder, painted our company name. He painted slowly and methodically, the tip of his tongue just pointing out of the side of his mouth. Occasionally he came down to earth and, standing at some distance, waving his paintbrush flamboyantly, he would consider his progress. He used the same reds and blues that had decorated the stall but now he cunningly highlighted each letter with white so that the whole stood out and could be read clearly from as far away as the airstrip. He also painted the front weather boards of the building in thick stripes and the banisters of the small veranda at the front alternately in the same colours. When finally he was finished we assembled outside and looked up at his work – it was the house that young Hansel and Gretel had discovered in the forest, good enough to eat.

Steady streams of onlookers stopped to enquire what we were planning. Small Tome would look down over his shoulder from his ladder, smile at his questioner and gesture vaguely at me with his paintbrush before turning back to his work. Some passers-by walked off shaking their heads but most seemed enthusiastic.

Once again Small Small Tome was elected to go about the business of posting notices, this time to spread the news of our Grand Opening. His simple but extraordinarily expressive mimes of people eating and dancing and generally merrymaking ensured that soon everyone in the small town was talking about this exciting event.

Even the three American cowboys who were still sneaking about the islands asked if they might come. They seemed strangely friendly, considering that my silence had to all intents and purposes demonstrated that I was not willing to help them. They appeared bullish, overly confident, too pleased with the way things were going. One day during our preparations I had noticed them, in close conference, in the big leaf house at the rest house. Dwayne had seen me and had made a face that was an extraordinary combination of greeting and venom. I had waved lightly but as I moved hurriedly away, I had spotted Bunni standing behind him, talking animatedly to Pat and Clinton. He had winked at me in the most troublesome way.

On the other hand, the Americans had made no further approach to me or, as far as I knew, to anybody else, so I presumed that they too were just succumbing to the ether of Solomon Time. Anyway, with only a week to go, everyone in the village was working flat out – by our standards at least – to get ready for the big evening. From the telephone in the post office, which happily was still working, I had once again press-ganged Nick in Honiara into helping out. Now I asked him to try and find some paper plates, cups and napkins. He was more than happy to help and promised that he and Jane would fly down especially for the opening.

“By the way Nick, I know this, is a bit of a long shot but do you think there is anywhere in Honiara that you can get T-shirts printed with special designs?”

He had laughed for a long time.

“What, you mean Chicken Willy’s T-shirts?” he finally asked incredulously.

“Well, you know, I think it might add a touch of class.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He rang back later that same morning. He was sorry but the best he had been able to find were plain T-shirts and a special material that could be cut into any shape and then ironed on.

“Where do you expect me to find an iron?”

“Use your initiative. You’re bound to be able to use something. What colours do you want?”

Off the top of my head, I asked for red T-shirts and blue lettering, which seemed to fit well enough with the colours of the restaurant – our corporate image.

“I’ll send them down on the next plane.”

As good as his word, the T-shirts appeared the following day. I took them over to the village and explained that, as we were all working together, we should all be wearing the same clothes. This concept was greeted with some consternation. What on earth for?

“Well, you see, that’s what people do because, well…” I tailed off.

“Oh, you mean like a football team?” suggested Luta.

Yes, that was exactly what I meant. Now everybody understood.

Ellen organised the Mothers’ Union into action and with the help of the scissors I used to cut dressings and sticking plasters, letters were carefully cut out. These were laid on the T-shirt and carefully arranged into a circle, the ‘Chicken’ arching over the top and the ‘Willy’s’ like a smiling mouth at the bottom. In the middle of each shirt was placed the outline of a cock crowing or at least of a bird that was reasonably closely related. They looked magnificent but I was concerned that we would never be able to get them to stick. Undeterred the women lit a huge fire and, wrapping grey lava stones in banana leaves to prevent them getting either too hot or too blackened, they heated them in the embers. Held in bamboo pincers, they were applied to the task. One by one the letters magically stuck. Eventually they were all finished and Ellen, now indisputably ‘in charge’, tried one on to murmurs of approval from her audience. Then, with great care, she folded it up and it was put away with the others ready for the big day.

On the morning itself the younger children helped Old Edith to bring over the decorations that they had prepared cross-legged on the steps of her house. These they festooned across the ceiling and along the walls of ‘Chicken Willy’s’. Decorations of remarkable intricacy hung from the dusted beams in yellows, reds and bright greens, folded and threaded together like multicoloured Jacobean ruffs. Peering up as Young John, standing on his brother’s shoulders, hung one of the garlands, I suddenly saw that they had been made from hundreds of old sugar and tea packets, sweet and biscuit wrappers dug out of the bins behind the rest house. Tin foil, recycled from the same source and carefully washed, was cut into star shapes and interspersed with circles of plastic bag. I noticed, as I admired them, that one of the paper chains looped along the walls was made from coloured advertisements cut out of Chinese newspapers. When they were all in place the room took on an air of real celebration – it was going to be a proper gala event.

We had no idea how many people to expect but decided to open our doors at dusk. Kerosene lamps, brought over from the village, were being filled and hung over each table and the Sunday school choir and the Mothers’ Union were to provide a musical entertainment. Dressed in their smartest clothes, the children, with for the main part clean faces and combed hair, were practising in the corner. Tassels conducted with a gusto worthy of one of the big concert halls of the world and their voices drifted out through the open doors.

As I wrestled with a bamboo cage of chickens, the evening flight to Honiara came low overhead to land. It touched down lightly a couple of times on the tarmac before swinging one way and then the next as it approached the small terminal. As its engines slowed and it came to a halt, I was much surprised to see Bunni emerging from the waiting room with his entire family and a considerable quantity of belongings. What was he up to now, I wondered as I straightened to watch. I knew enough about him now to realise that all his actions were to be viewed with the deepest suspicion. Still, I thought, as the last of his small children disappeared into the white plane, at least he was going away. That had to be good news.

A few minutes later I noticed out of the corner of my eye the three Americans talking animatedly, even angrily, to Luta as they followed him up the short slope from the rest house. He appeared to be not a little nonplussed. As they approached, Dwayne fixed me with a wild stare.

“Where is he, you bastard?”

This was not a friendly question.

“Go on,” he shouted. “Where is he?”

“Yeah, and where’s our goddamn money?” Pat joined in.

Even Clinton looked a little perturbed.

“Hang on!” I said, surprised. “Where is who and where is what money?”

“The money we gave that bloke. He said he was going to talk you guys round, show a load of money upfront.”

Dwayne’s eyes were popping and some ugly swellings bulged in his neck.

“Sixty thousand bucks,” he gasped.

“What bloke?”

“Bunni.” Luta shook his head in mock astonishment. “I can’t believe this one.”

His eyes sparkled as he looked up at me.

“You gave Bunni money?” I was incredulous. “Sixty thousand dollars!”

My last sighting of Bunni suddenly made sense. I grinned.

“Well where is he?” squealed Pat.

“Try that plane.” I could not help grinning as we watched the white machine taxi unsteadily up the runway and disappear behind the screen of trees.

The three Americans grabbed their hats from their heads and set off in baking-hot pursuit. They too vanished and a short while later with a mosquito whine we watched the plane rise again into view and head out across the sea: We never saw any of them again.

Gradually people collected outside the restaurant, an atmosphere of friendly curiosity building as Luta and I walked towards the crowd, laughing quietly. Low in the sky, the sun breathed its last, heating a light breeze as it settled down to rest behind the mountain peaks of Randuvu. Slowly the light of the kerosene lamps began to shine through the windows and figures bustled to and fro inside.

Suddenly, Ellen, resplendent in her T-shirt, appeared in the doorway with a welcoming smile. Stepping out over the threshold, she spread her arms dramatically.

“Numbawan kokorako ready now,” she announced to the startled crowd. “Now yu fala like for come tryim?”

Uncertain, the more intrepid shuffled forward. As they walked up the shallow steps and began to form a queue, Tassels’ singers began to sing lightly and rhythmically. Friends began to appear. Nick and Jane, who had arrived on an earlier flight, walked up from the sea with Geoff, Marlene and Gerry. Stanley, who was wearing a T-shirt several sizes too big for him and, it appeared – as it hung down around his knees – nothing else, brought them plastic cups of bush lime juice.

“I don’t believe it, mate,” said a voice from behind me as I went over to greet them.

Into the dim light cast from the doors of the shop stepped Warren, diminutive and hirsute as ever.

“Never thought you fellers would do it – good on ya.” He winked at Small Tome who beamed back.

Harold had managed to find some ketchup from one of his suppliers in Honiara and had brought an almighty bottle along as a gift. Pools of the red unguent sat in coconut shells on each table and Silas, the postmaster, was dipping his chips into it with great aplomb as he chatted animatedly with the lady from the bank. He had brought me letters from a couple of my former pupils as a surprise present. What they would have made of this scene I found difficult to imagine.

Stuffing the letters into my pocket, I looked around. The noise level had gradually increased as more and more people arrived to congratulate the villagers, exclaiming how good the chicken was. Dogs – waifs and strays who normally spent their time rummaging through the rubbish, to scavenge a scrap here or a nibble there – could hardly believe their luck, as bone after bone thumped onto the ground. They lay contentedly under the tables, drumsticks gripped between their front paws, gnawing on the delicious gristle and sinew. I peered round the back to see that all was well and found Ellen plucking for all she was worth.

“Ouff, everyone hungry tumas,” she panted as the white down floated around her head like snow.

Animatedly, Warren was telling anyone who would listen about how he would personally take over the sizeable order that Chicken Willy’s was surely going to require every week. He would be able to provide me with a cheap gas freezer. I should just wait and see, Warren would sort me out. I didn’t have to worry. It would be a piece of piss, mate.

The Kings appeared in their family canoe and Sam ran up the shore to shake my hand.

“Don’t believe you all did it, Will,” he gasped excitedly before he dived into the restaurant with his younger brother and sister. Don and Alice his wife laughed and shook their heads before they too sampled the fare.

We all celebrated long into the night. After we had closed up the shop and said good night to the last of the customers, we settled at the bar in the Lodge, drank much too much beer and told the tale of Chicken Willy’s. Eventually Tassels, Small Tome, Ellen, Ethel, Luta and I wobbled back down the wooden jetty, got into the canoe and set off into the star-filled sea. The night was fine and warm as we crossed the lagoon and the phosphorescence foamed neon green along our bows. Out on starboard side I spotted the twin humps of Kiri Kiri – my island! Overcome by the emotion of the moment I suddenly felt a misplaced affection for my former ‘home’.

“Tassels, I want to stay there tonight,” I yelled above the sound of the engine. “Will you drop me and come and pick me up tomorrow?”

“Why not? ‘Spose you sure, no worries.”

I knew I could count on him, surprised as he was by nothing. We coasted over the black and white surf of the sand spit and I stepped out. Coconut husks floated at my feet.

“You sure you want to stay here tonight?” asked a surprised Luta.

“Sure.”

“OK. No worries. Rodo diana.”

Out of the dark came flying a small yellow package which landed softly on the sand beside me – my life jacket. Picking it up, I turned to walk up the beach, tripped and fell lightly to my knees. ‘Good nights’ rang out across the water as the canoe disappeared.

“Rodo diana, Chicken Willy!”

The laughter died into the sound of the surf as I lay down on my back, pulled the life jacket out of its holder and, without a second thought, pulled the ripcord. I no longer needed it.

With a violent whoosh the plastic inflated between my hands. Tucking it behind my head, I closed my eyes. Rodo diana. Good night.