Coconut Wireless Read online

  Coconut Wireless

  What happens when a young Solomon Islands man and a cynical London girl step out of their comfort zones? Find out in this novel about love, life and gossip in the South Pacific.

  by Nicola Baird

  copyright 2010 Nicola Baird

  ISBN: 978-1-4661-7296-8 Smashwords edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters are imaginary.

  Events take place in the early 1990s, in and around Honiara.

  Half of any money produced by sales of Coconut Wireless will be given to support projects working with Solomon Islands women and children.

  Story summary

  What happens when a young Solomon Islands man and a cynical London girl step out of their comfort zones? Find out in Coconut Wireless, a novel about love, life and gossip in the South Pacific.

  When Suzy overhears her on-off boyfriend Dan flirting with another girl she decides to quit her London job and take up a maths teaching post as a VSO on an island in the South Pacific. Yet again she discovers that nothing is quite what it seems to be.

  At first Suzy feels like a big fish in a small pond, whereas Henderson, a charming young islander, is uneasily finding his feet in the big city - but somehow both their lives are forever changed by one chance meeting.

  It’s not just a love story that keeps you guessing until the end – there’s also the chance to learn about life in Honiara, the bustling capital of Solomon Islands as Suzy acclimatises to heat, mosquitoes and serious humidity. Enjoy meeting a cast of island characters including clever Stella who has to find a way to protect herself, and her children, and the old Malaitan woman Anna who grew up during world war two, and their nemesis: an MP with an eye on making enough cash to buy Ozzie beachfront real estate.

  This cracking story by Nicola Baird of star-crossed destinies mixes magic and the everyday with a tropical South Seas backdrop. You don’t get that sort of weather in the Twilight series!

  Coconut Wireless is the perfect next read if you loved novels such as One Day by David Nicholls, The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith or anything by Marian Keyes, or non-fiction travel books such as Pies & Prejudice, Solomon Time by Will Randall or Castaway & Faraway by Lucy Irvine.

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  Author Nicola Baird has written seven published books including the best selling Save Cash & Save the Planet (Collins, co-written, 2005) and Homemade Kids: thrifty, creative and eco-friendly ways to raise children (Vermilion, 2010). Coconut Wireless is her first e-novel. Nicola lived in Solomon Islands from 1990-1992 working as a VSO journalist trainer for Solomon Islands Development Trust.

  Coconut Wireless Contents

  Story summary

  Chapter 1 Wet wet wet

  Chapter 2 Leaving home

  Chapter 3 The bridge

  Chapter 4 Anna’s story

  Chapter 5 Not on holiday

  Chapter 6 Mob dreams

  Chapter 7 Water’s off

  Chapter 8 Crazy nights

  Chapter 9 Malaria madness

  Chapter 10 Fresh start

  Chapter 11 Rough justice

  Chapter 12 Honorary Mrs

  Chapter 13 Walkabout

  Chapter 14 Secrets

  Chapter 15 Wheel of Fortune

  Chapter 16 Absolutely Normal

  Chapter 17 In the dark

  Chapter 18 Bad magic

  Chapter 19 If only

  Chapter 20 Soldiers’ Graveyard

  Chapter 21 Sacked again

  Chapter 22 Life ain’t easy anymore

  Chapter 23 Heart-to-heart

  Chapter 24 Pantomime

  Chapter 25 The feast

  Chapter 26 That’s my boy

  Chapter 27 Solomon time

  Info about Nicola Baird, author of Coconut Wireless

  CHAPTER 1: WET, WET, WET

  Suzy, legs-up-squashed into the bath, wonders how mad you have to be to give up baths, friends and going to the movies for two years? She’ll soon know because in a few hours she’ll be at Heathrow airport with her one-way ticket to Solomon Islands.

  Things that are bad about this:

  1 No one knows where this country is (actually nor did she – but thanks to a right-on Peter’s Projection map she now knows that the capital, Honiara, is on the biggest of a chain of islands just to the top right of Australia. Make that north east).

  2 She may like baths but she’s not into water. In fact Suzy is a bit frightened of out-of-her-depth swimming and gets sea sick on boats. How will she cope on a chain of islands in the middle of the Pacific ocean?

  3 Just a hunch but at 32C it’ll surely be too hot and humid to wear trainers or even glam up with a bit of lippy. Ever.

  4 Developing such a fear about the chances of Honiara having a hairdresser that she made her stylist give her the first sensible (think short) haircut since her mum stopped having a go, around the time she was 10. The trick said her hair man is to avoid mirrors. At least that will be easy: Solomon Islands has no wine bars and no department stores. There’s probably no chance of dressing up again.

  5 No one she knows lives there, has been there or wants to visit her there…

  Despite these fears Suzy is also very over-excited. She’s found a great new job half way around the world teaching in a country where it is pretty much always sunny. She skilfully flicks soap bubbles from thigh to knee contentedly knowing that she won’t miss winter rain, thermostat battles with flatmates, the crush on the tube, Mrs Thatcher, or her old job in a classroom with no windows. Or the fact that everyone in London’s always busy according to their Fil-o-bloody-faxes. She especially won’t miss liar not-really-boyfriend, Dan, either.”

  In fact it’s all Dan’s fault she’s doing this. She was in this very bath when the missile moment happened.

  Suzy remembers how the ceiling light was off, less for modesty than to remove the irritating noise of the rented flat’s extractor fan. She’d lit a scented candle and was smug in the bubbles assuming that as Dan had come round about six o’clock he’d be staying with her for the whole weekend. She now realises she was just a convenient early Saturday evening stop-off.

  Suzy and Dan are an old university habit.

  He’s brown-eyed, curly haired, has a gorgeous grin and plenty of wit. He wants to see the world on an expense account. He’s happy to be around children, but not planning to have any of his own ever as he says whenever he picks up a condom. He’s loving the get it spend it whirl of 80s business. Thinks he might even set himself up as a Greed Guru, or run a nightclub.

  She’s slim, dark haired and forever fussing about morals and miners. Because she’s a feminist men find her an usually cheap date – she’ll even go halves on a kebab.

  It’s obvious to Dan that they want very different things in life.

  Even so he likes being with Suzy, and he likes the fact that her flat practically overlooks the Loftus Road ground. That grey Saturday he’d swung by in his lucky suit after the match for a little food and fun. But after the pitta stuffed with sweetcorn and mayonnaise, a bit of cuddling and a shower, there’s still time for a better date with Cassie, the good looking blonde in advertising who wrote her number on his shirt cuff at a mate’s party.

  Suzy remembers, yet again, how she heard him picking up the phone and dialling.

  “You ther
e darling?”

  “Yes,” says Suzy, surprised out of her after-sex, bath time reverie, because in all the years she’s known Dan, he’s never called anyone darling.

  “Do you mean me?” asks Suzy too softly for Dan to hear.

  “Hey, didn’t think you’d be in. We met yesterday, remember? Do you want to meet at that new Russian place – vodka, champers and caviar – about 10pm and then go on to Limelight? Yeah? Good, see you later.” He mumbles something she can’t hear, then laughs wickedly as he puts down the receiver.

  Next moment the TV clicks on. It’s Disappearing World, his favourite - he loves to watch just how far the Coca Cola brand can get. Shocked by what she’s heard Suzy slips deeper into the water, an attempt to wash away what’s going on. A few moments later the two-timing rat is lying to her through the bathroom door.

  “Suze, I’ve got to go now. Need to read reports before work on Monday. I’ll give you a ring.” He edges open the bathroom door, leans in to kiss her wet head and before she can splutter any kind of protest he’s let himself out of the flat into the city that never sleeps.

  Instead of crying Suzy promises herself that things have got to change. She narrows it down to three options. She could spend three months moping. She could start looking for someone better than Dan to be a real boyfriend rather than carry on with this on-off pretence. Or she could disappear and take a long trip enjoying herself while Dan learns to miss her.

  And even if he doesn’t miss her, she’ll find a way of being out of London for long enough to come back a new person. She sees herself with a tan, skinny enough to wear chic size 10 clothes, with long tresses and a bunch of stories to rival anything she’s done yet in her life. She will be the sort of person men like Dan will want to call “darling” (in an ironic sort of a way). Oh yes, and she’ll be bilingual, maybe even trilingual - a woman who can teach anytime, anyplace, anywhere…

  On Sunday Suzy stops crying and thinks up more professional reasons to sign up as a maths teacher with Voluntary Service Overseas. The next two years of life look set to be:

  Sunny. Tick.

  Long way off. Tick.

  Different. Double tick.

  Well paid. Not at all. Anyway who but Dan cares about that?

  The doorbell buzzes Suzy out of recall mode and swiftly into comfy travelling clothes. It’s Dan. He’s come round to wish her luck with the head hunters of the Solomon Islands.

  Just typical he should be so politically incorrect.

  “It’s not too late to stop this you know,” he says surveying her bed adrift with last minute packing that can’t be crammed into a backpack.

  “You could just not turn up at Heathrow. You don’t have to go and live in a country no one but an anthropologist or TV crew can locate. You don’t have to teach barefoot teenagers. You can stay here Suzy, near me. London’s brilliant. Ow. What on earth does a 23-year-old thoroughly modern Ms need this for?” he laughs removing a plastic box from where he’s sitting. “And why have you got so many?”

  “It’s Tupperware. Someone’s mum said they are useful in the Tropics because they keep camera film, medicines, typewriter ribbons, that sort of stuff (she’s not going to mention diaphragms or spermicidal cream) a better chance of lasting in the humidity until their sell-by-date,” replies Suzy feeling as crushed as the box Dan’s holding. He’s not made a declaration of love, so go she must.

  “You’ll write to me won’t you?” she hears herself saying, uncooly.

  “Yes,” says Dan taking off his Ray Bans to give a wink, “but you know me, I’m better at reading…”

  CHAPTER 2: LEAVING HOME

  ONLY A STRANGER would find it odd - everyone is in the church. The dark-skinned men up by the mahogany cross decorated with flowers. Their women, soothing babies by a curious pitch and roll of breast and belly, are spilling into the aisles and out of the rough carved door searching for a breeze. A few of the more daring women whisper to each other in a language of apostrophes and laughter, raising their eyes with silent humour as the old priest talks on and on, in the grand English of the church. Every now and then he breaks into an angry splutter of Pijin English accompanied by a menacing finger point. The village women don't feel comfortable when he does that: and, lowering offended eyes, switch babies from breast to hip. They are waiting for the singing.

  Impatient, one old woman - 10 children and scores of grandchildren - shuffles barefoot along the aisle to the front, eyes cheekily down, knees and shoulders dipped, and drops two large kumara and a yam into the offerings sack. Curious, everyone abandons their struggle to follow the priest's Sunday words to stare at their bold relation hurrying the service to be over as she walks back down the aisle to the rickety bench outside the church. Her husband fidgets, the old woman is just as impetuous as when he first met her. Beside him their youngest, already 18 years, is purposefully staring at a hymn book. Accidentally he brushes the boy's arm making the green-backed book of modern hymns tumble on to the floor. His son's admirable Christian concentration is exposed ... a fat novel by Sidney Sheldon.

  "Henderson, what kind of person are you? Why are you reading a book on the Sabbath? In Church?" demands the old man, embarrassed now by both wife and son during church.

  "Yeah," whispers a grey-haired uncle, sitting close by, and with added authority because he has been trained as a lay preacher to speak in capital letters, "and What Ever Happens in a Book Anyway? THIS is Real, Henderson, Father's Words are the WORDS OF GOD - your Book is NOTHING."

  Henderson ignores both his relations. He has just reached another interesting part – and already there have been three mysterious deaths and extraordinary sex. He is hungry to live the life of the book's heroes, discover what is really happening out there, guess the villain or villains. He also knows the only peace for reading he can steal is in church. Not many of the villagers read English that well, so Henderson can take whatever reading matter he likes into the church - and always does - even though his father rebukes him, and the priest has started calling him "too proud" and pointing his long finger more often in his direction.

  Henderson just doesn't care. The only drawback to Church reading is that by mid-morning services become so hot, despite the cooling views, over half walls made from long leaves, out to the blue shaded Solomon Sea. Today it is scorching. Sweat trickles down Henderson's back, as if he was playing soccer, but when the women fan their hymn books ferociously over their babies' boiling bodies a soft breeze cools his neck.

  If this church service ever finishes Henderson plans to lie still and sleep, dreaming of the exciting life that must be going on in the big city right-now-this-minute. He is sick of being bossed around by old men and women, the only people who seem to live in his village any more, in fact in any village any more judging by the quietness of nearby Heranisi and Panatu. All his school mates have long gone on walkabout in town and the students don't come back for Christmas holidays for another four months. There aren't even any girls to flirt with - the single ones are working as house girls (or that's what they say) with relations in Honiara and the married ones are busy with babies - and gardening, and cooking, and cleaning, and most of all gossiping about the wild goings on of relations on walkabout around town.

  Henderson bends slowly to pick up his dropped novel and is surprised by a message: "What are you doing here?" The words are on page 158, curiously highlighted by a shaft of sunshine, but they might just as well be a gift from God.

  Henderson's mind races to make sense of the question. What is he doing back home at the village when every other Solomon boy is having a real life? A modern life? The village is boring: it's an old-fashioned place, its daily rhythms of work punctuated only by church bells. It's lotu, lotu, lotu as the priest would say, for he always makes his points three times.

  Since he failed his school certificate, about three years ago, Henderson has helped his family run their small village store, letting his father, an untrainable teacher, spend more time with the primary school kids. There a
re plenty of youngsters and classes spill out of the tatty leaf building which his father calls "school". Henderson may not be a scholar (blame malaria for all that time off), but he is one of the rare ones who loves to read books. Diplomatically he stays silent about his father’s poor teaching, done in the Sunday School manner. Father tells the students to do this, or do that, and mixes English and Pijin in such a way that he's almost invented another language. The students, even the littlest ones, study torn primers of English grammar ineffectively. They learn everything in English, which most of them will later use to fail their secondary school entry exams.

  In the village everyone talks their home language though no one finds this easy to read. About five years ago some overseas Christians came to stay in a nearby village to translate the Bible into their local language. Henderson remembers everyone being so surprised that they were bothering. After all most services by the old priest were in English. And then the day came when the newly translated Bible was ready and every family received a free copy. It was such a shock - inside were words everyone knew and understood when they heard them, but very few people could actually read them! And then there were the mistakes which caused so much amusement, and the fact that their own language was being used to send messages and praise God, the Big Man, (whom they thought only understood English salutations) that in the end the priest (who came from a bush village up the lagoon - and had a different home language anyway) abandoned the experiment just to keep order amongst his congregation. Some houses still have their gift copy perched in safe places away from the sticky hands of small children, but plenty too have been spoilt by cockroaches, or grown a mould which leaves an acrid dust on anyone who rashly touches the laminated cover.

  The long-awaited singing begins and Henderson is side-tracked by the performance. The Sunday school kids, mostly students at his father's school, have formed a choir.

  Today they are singing in a cappella style but there are plans at Christmas, when most of the villagers who don't live in the village return for a month’s holiday, to raise funds for a keyboard and guitars. His father is already rehearsing a play version of The Pilgrim's Progress. A wild looking 12-year-old will star as Christian - chosen because he owns a vital prop - a bulky backpack - and, more importantly, is a brother of the local MP.