Abducted by dad - part 1/2

Dedicated to my Dad, who considered us worth saving

“Come on, get in”, mum’s voice sounding impatient as I struggled to hoist my backpack in first and climb aboard the small plane, her and my sister Emma following.
Soon we were up in the sky, my chin pressed against the bottom of the window, the engines sending a jarring buzz through my daydreams as the small craft laboured toward Henderson airport on Guadalcanal.
“I don’t like these little planes”, I thought, “much prefer proper ones, Boeing jets”...  I drifted into another daydream… our family boarding a 747 from Singapore bound for Heathrow... then a drive to Portsmouth, a ferry to the Isle of Wight, ah... granny and grandpa and meadows, stiles and streams....

But for now it was about as far from the Isle of Wight as earthly possible – flying over Melanesian islands dense with coconut and sugar cane plantations, white beaches merging with the teal shallows and azure coral reefs.

And about as harsh as reality could get: Monday morning, leaving our holiday location of the past week, an early start with dawn just breaking.  And to top it off: just in time to make it to a full day of school, drat!!  Might I add school started at 7.30am! Double drat!!
I wouldn’t have comprehended in a million years that that night we would fall asleep very late... in a hotel in Brisbane.

Dad had stayed home alone during our little holiday get-away with mum.   We’d enjoyed a week with relatives, at a primitive new settlement on an island in Solomon Islands Western Provinces. To this day if I’m asked ‘where d’ya reckon is the most beautiful place in the world?’ - I say “Solomon Islands”, and I think of that place: Noro. Pristine turquoise lagoons, night fishing through mangroves, eating fresh fish cooked over an open fire in a secluded bay. Noro, where our drinking water was collected from a crystal clear spring in small cave with stalactites. The only time I’ve called water ‘delicious’, it came perfectly chilled too.  Paradise. But with it, the bitter sweet twist association that it was the last time spent with mum before she was gone from that role in my life for good.

For years I would torture myself “Vicki, you should’ve known that was your last time with your mum, you should’ve appreciated it, why didn’t you?”

Oh child how could you have known?  You didn’t know.

Mum hailed a taxi outside Henderson Airport - and after the short ride over the pot holed roads we turned into Woodford School. I rolled my eyes, thinking ‘I can’t believe we have to go to school’, Emma finally made the request on behalf of both of us as she always did; “mum, can we just stay home today?” she ventured. We gazed at mum in hope. She could say anything. “Yeah, take us home taxi driver, we live in Lengakiki”. Relief!

Oh, but suddenly the school principal, somehow very nearby, was approaching our vehicle, what bad luck, I thought! “Hello Mr Marsh”, my sister greeted. I remained silent, partly from shyness and mostly willing him to just go away.

Well evidently he had our school bags, arranged with Dad. “Come on into school, girls, your dad dropped off your school bags early this morning”. We looked to Mum to make good on her word.  “oh no, sorry I’m going to take the girls home, we got up very early and they’re quite tired. They’ll come to school tomorrow”.  Yeah, you tell him, mum. Now let’s go.

Mr Marsh’s face twitched. “Oh...”. He seemed troubled. Bizarre, we thought. “Ohh, um, just wait here please Barbara”. He turned and hurried off. And he didn’t. Come. Back. For. Nearly. An. Hour.

We became increasingly frustrated in the car, the sun rose to more heat as we waited. “Muuum, lets just go!” we complained several times in futility, knowing full well none of us would dare stand up the school principal! Mum grew in frustration too, “what’s he doing"!” she repeated.
Finally he re-appeared, striding across the netball court toward our taxi.

We all sat up straight in that back seat and mustered a polite expression and smile.

“Ah”, he began with a stammer, “ah, yes…um, both the girls have a… a test today. And, ah… their teachers would like them to stay… until after the test” We groaned inwardly and I could barely mask my dismay. “Bye mum”... we got out of the taxi forlornly and trailed Mr Marsh into school.

We never saw or spoke to mum for over three years after that, and as far as my eight-old-spirit could reason, our relationship was severed and she as good as died.

My classroom was the second on the right but Mr Marsh neither paused nor looked in.  “Come with me, both of you”. Emma and I glanced at each other, a frown flickered across her face. The noise of my classroom came and went in a wave and I briefly made eye contact with Collette, one of the Year 5’s, a posh girl from the UK.  For a moment I felt semi relieved not to have to be around her just yet.
Mr Marsh ducked into his office. His black secretary with her tight afro hair sat typing as the fan rotated nearby. Her eyes lingered on us with an expression I couldn’t read. Our school bags were in his office which he scooped up with one swing of his long arms, before snatching his keys from his desk.
“Come with me”, he repeated firmly with his Australian accent. Then we headed out towards the staff car park. And we both felt it confirmed in our hearts (later we would discuss it) - our principal was taking us away to murder us. In cold blood. There was no doubt.
I’m guessing this isn’t a normal thought to cross the minds of 8 & 10 year old girls? But with the things we had witnessed and experienced, especially in more recent times, we sensed our mortality all too well. And besides that, we trusted no one. We had seen people charm and woo others, and the same people behave violently behind closed doors.

And we accepted it. We got into his vehicle, both in the back seat close together. We each asked him weakly once or twice “where are you taking us?” - to which he refused to answer as he headed with purpose away from the central area. Definitely going to get killed, somewhere in the bush. We knew it as we bounced along, our heads nodding to the familiar rhythm of the pot holes, staring blankly at the passing scenery. 

But wait, Emma’s hand on my forearm as if to say “look Vicki” - he’s turning off, and we know this place, very well! The golf club!
“Get out”, he instructed. We clamoured out with our school bags, ready to face our fate.

(continued in Part 2/2)