A fascinating prospect. Simone, down in the garden, straightened up and shaded her eyes against the blinding sea. My wife would not wear a hat, had never worn one, even to church, which was an outrage to the Samoan congregation. But that was Simone. She would shrug her shoulders – very Gallic, even after thirty-five years in the islands – and say ‘My hair is my hat. God will understand.’ She had a point there. Simone was just as curious as I was about the New Zealanders, but for different reasons. She pitied them and feared for their safety. Gertrude Schroder was arrogant and cruel when crossed. To my knowledge no one had survived more than an hour in her presence without invoking her disapproval in one way or another. Simone was already preparing to mother-hen the newcomers. All week she had been muttering. She predicted a dire outcome. Up she strode from the garden, her loosely tied lavalava displaying slim brown legs and arms, talking to herself as she came.
