A Bird on My Shoulder Read Online Free Page A

walked to the window. Outside, the moon hung in the sky like an open, unblinking eye; it reassured me that there was boldness in waiting, adventure in standing still. It told me that I must simply surrender, and have faith that if real love ever came my way, I would be ready.

4
    I remember the sea that day, the bursting sun, the lilt and
    slap of wood and water; the harmony of our silence.
    At the open-air market in Gordons, a suburb of Port Moresby, brightly coloured bilums , locally made string bags, hung from a wire perimeter fence. Cement benches were laden with organically grown produce – oranges, sweet potatoes, peanuts, coconuts, cabbages and greens.
    Clutching a handful of notes and coins –I rarely carried a bag as I did not want to tempt anyone to try and steal it – I wandered through the market early in the morning. Some expatriates said it was too dangerous to go there, but if you listened to all the scare-mongering, I realised, you would never go anywhere. Anyway, Julian was taking me sailing and I wanted to buy some fresh limes.
    Yes, Julian was taking me sailing. After Ros had left, he rang again to suggest we might sail to a nearby island instead ofhaving coffee. I usually grabbed any chance I could to get out of the city, so without really thinking it through, I accepted. How the mighty fall , Ros would have said, laughing.
    As the day approached, I became more anxious about the prospective outing and wondered what on earth had possessed me to agree to it. Julian and I would be thrown into each other’s company with no chance of respite. I worried that it might be awkward but it felt too late to back out now and I was too cowardly to try.
    •••
    The markets were overflowing with people haggling, chatting, exchanging news. One of the most quoted facts about Papua New Guinea is that it contains more than two-thirds of the planet’s languages; walking around the streets of Port Moresby, it was extraordinary to hear so many voices lilting and dipping in so many different tongues. Even the vividly patterned clothes, from overseas and bought from second hand-stores, added another layer of colour to this dynamic and fascinating melting pot of cultures.
    The women arranged their displays of fruit with pride as though they had prepared them for a still-life painting. Nests of peanuts were tied on their stems and perfectly spaced in neat rows, oranges were in small pyramids. Even the knobs ofpeeled garlic were laid out in delicate, measured sequence like tiny fat moons.
    Suddenly people started to chase an erratic figure amid wild shouts of anger. I stepped behind a stand of vegetables where a middle-aged man was observing the melee.
    ‘ Ol i mekim wanem? What’s happening?’ I asked.
    ‘ Wanpela raskol em stilim bak. A rascal stole a bag.’ He shrugged and squinted, his eyes barely visible inside the drawstring lines of his face.
    There was a loud cry from the corner of the market and a huge crowd disappeared into a storm of dust.
    ‘ Ol paitim ya. They are beating him.’ He turned to me with a satisfied grin. ‘ Yu no ken wori . Don’t worry.’ His teeth were rotted black, his gums a garish, bloody red as he chewed on his betel-nut. He grasped my arm. ‘ Mipela bai lukautim yu. We will look after you.’
    •••
    Julian arrived promptly at 9 o’clock, wearing blue shorts, a white t-shirt and a khaki hat. Extraordinary. We were wearing identical clothes.
    He got out of the car and immediately came around to open the door for me.
    With a bottle of chilled lime juice in hand, I clambered into his four-wheel drive. He had packed the back seat with gear – aflask of coffee, a bag of fruit, petrol, an extra sail, a few ropes. I imagined a rather sweet little boat which we would sail on the morning’s glassy sea, leaving behind the dry, dusty city.
    Port Moresby was not, by international standards, a particularly beautiful capital. Carved into brown, rocky hillsides, and subjected to an almost