Tahitian Wedding. Angela Devine
lived in large, extended families and a daughter’s homecoming was a big occasion. Two sets of aunts and uncles, half a dozen cousins, all the neighbours on the block and ten or twelve of Claire’s old schoolfriends provided a good basis for a guest list. And, since nobody arrived empty-handed, there was plenty to eat and drink while they waited for the pig to finish cooking. By noon there was a dull roar of conversation, counterpointed by children’s laughter, the clink of ice-cubes in glasses, some lively ukelele music and the faint rustle of banana leaves in the tropical breeze. Overhead white puffs of cloud drifted lazily in a soft, blue sky and beyond the wall the lagoon glittered jade-green under the midday sun. It was impossible to go on feeling tense in such a setting.
Claire, who had been temporarily deserted by her affectionate clan, closed her eyes and let herself relax in a deck chair on the patio. It felt marvellous to enjoy the steady warmth of the sun beating down on her bare arms, the scent of flowers and salt air and the distant swish, swish of the waves lapping on the sand…until the scrape of another chair on the paving bricks intruded on her reverie. Her eyes flew open.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said bleakly.
Alain gave a short laugh.
‘Don’t sound so overjoyed,’ he warned. ‘I might feel tempted to stay and chat.’
This sarcasm made Claire bristle and yet she could not help noticing the smoky, rather hoarse quality of his voice. As a teenager she had found it unbearably seductive, but now it filled her with panic. In any other man she would have thought it very attractive, but not in Alain Charpentier.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded, sitting rigidly upright as she watched him move the chairs and peer underneath.
‘A pair of canvas gardening gloves,’ he replied. ‘Your father assures me that he left them somewhere over here. I need them to help lift the pig out of the pit.’
But a joint search beneath the deck chairs and around the pot plants that bordered the patio failed to locate the missing gloves.
‘Try the flowerbed near the African tulip tree,’ suggested Claire. ‘Unless Papa has changed dramatically, he’s probably left them out there when he got sick of weeding. Over there, see? Where the women are setting up the tables.’
Alain’s gaze followed her pointing finger to the spot where a group of chattering, laughing women were leisurely draping tablecloths and arranging dishes on a battered collection of garden furniture.
‘Why aren’t you helping them?’ he asked.
Claire stiffened, wondering whether he was attacking her. Then she remembered her promise to her mother. She was going to be nice to Alain Charpentier, even if it killed her.
‘I was helping,’ she protested. ‘But I dropped a glass bowl of green salad and they decided I was more trouble than I was worth.’
‘Understandable,’ said Alain tersely. ‘I’ve often thought the same thing about you myself.’
Claire ground her teeth.
‘I can’t do a thing right where you’re concerned, can I?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve simply made up your mind that I’m selfish and that’s that!’
‘If the cap fits…’ murmured Alain.
‘You’re impossible!’ snapped Claire.
As they stood staring at each other in angry confrontation, Marie Rose appeared around the corner of the house. Her gaze darted from Alain’s grimly set jaw to Claire’s flushed cheeks.
‘Whatever’s going on?’ she asked in dismay.
‘Nothing important,’ muttered Claire, tossing her head and turning pointedly away from Alain. ‘Did you want something, Marie Rose?’
‘Yes—Alain. The other men are ready to lift the pig now and they want him to come and help.’
‘I couldn’t find the gloves,’ confessed Alain.
‘No problem,’ replied Marie Rose, brandishing them triumphantly. ‘Papa had left them in the flowerbed under the tulip tree, so we’re all organised now. Don’t you want to come and watch, Claire?’
‘All right,’ agreed Claire in a subdued voice.
She was so angry with Alain that she would gladly have climbed over the boundary wall and marched off along the beach without a backward glance, but such an action was unthinkable. After all, she was the guest of honour and the raising of the pig was the highlight of traditional Tahitian barbecue. So she followed her sister across the garden with no more than a single resentful glance at Alain. And when they stood on the edge of the smoking pit she watched with interest while the huge parcel was lifted carefully out and laid on a metal tray. Once the banana leaves were unwrapped, the smell of succulent barbecued pork filled the air.
‘Try a piece, Claire,’ urged her father.
‘Mmm. Wonderful,’ she approved, licking her fingers. ‘Even better than usual. Did you put something special in the marinade?’
‘Alain did,’ replied Roland. ‘It’s his recipe, so you’ll have to ask him if you want the secret.’
Alain. Always, Alain, thought Claire, with a flash of resentment. Can’t this family do anything without him these days? But she tried not to let any sign of her annoyance show in her face as she watched Alain carving the pork. All the same, she was conscious of Marie Rose watching her with a troubled expression. Forcing herself to smile, Claire looked across at her sister.
‘It’s a wonderful party, Marie Rose,’ she said. ‘I hope you didn’t spend days and days getting it all ready.’
‘I was happy to do it,’ replied Marie Rose. ‘I only hope you’re going to enjoy your stay here.’
There was such a worried note in her voice that Claire could have kicked herself. Poor Marie Rose! How typical of her to spend days preparing a welcome home party for Claire at a time when she was so busy. And how ungrateful it would be if Claire didn’t make any effort to enjoy herself! With that thought firmly in mind, Claire took her laden plate and sat at a table under the big tulip tree. She was soon deep in sparkling conversation with two of her cousins.
The meal was excellent and reflected the rich cultural diversity of Tahiti. Apart from the traditional Polynesian spread of barbecued pork, breadfruit, steamed yams and bland, porridge-like poi, there was a tempting array of other dishes. The Chungs, who lived across the road, had brought Chinese beef in black bean sauce on a bed of rice and crisp, stir-fried vegetables. And there were yards of crusty French bread, various chicken casseroles, salads and huge platters of luscious mangoes, pineapple and bananas. Finally, as a triumphant conclusion to the meal, Eve Beaumont cooked a huge pile of pancakes, doused them in Grand Marnier liqueur and set them alight. When the blue flames had finally died down everybody crowded around to eat the crisp, hot, syrupy crêpes. After that, people lay down under the coconut palms and rested while Roland played the ukulele.
The long, lazy afternoon wore on and at sunset Claire’s cousins brought out their tall wooden drums covered in shark skin and began to beat them, softly at first and then with rising excitement. Soon everybody was dancing the tamure, shaking their hips, clapping their knees and uttering shrill cries of excitement. For the first time Claire felt her tension ebb away from her completely and she kicked off her light sandals and joined the dancers. Conscious only of the compulsive rhythm of the drums, she let herself plunge into the movements of the dance and gave it all she had. Claire had always been an excellent dancer. Slim, lithe and graceful with boundless energy, she was soon vibrating joyously over the trampled sand. One by one the other dancers came to a halt and backed away. Claire was vaguely conscious that they had drifted away, but she did not pause to wonder why. The drums were still thudding urgently and that was enough to keep her hips shimmering at the speed of light and her arms swaying gracefully, while she called the traditional cries. Only when the frenzied drumbeat stopped and she slowed to a halt, gasping and laughing, did she realise that everyone was watching her. For a moment she stood