Harry St Clair: Rogue or Doctor? by Fiona McArthur Read Free Book Online

appeared fazed by the intrusion.
    The whole compound looked sparse and basic. Not a place that was used to luxuries she took for granted every day. Happy children ran up and down with shrieks of merriment and a young father smiled at them as he plaited strips of thin bamboo with his tiny son.
    Bonnie lowered her voice and leant closer to Harry. ‘So what do they do for wages here?’
    ‘Bamboo production.’ He pointed to the huge stand of thick bamboo that grew at the bottom of the street. ‘Dewi, here, is a skilled plaiter and his sheets of bamboo matting are used for the internal ceilings of most types of buildings. When you go back to your hotel you’ll notice that the roof in your bedroom is made up of this plaited bamboo. It’ll be from a village like this. Dewi’s work is much sought after.’
    Bonnie smiled at the young Balinese man and she couldn’t help her wider grin when she realised his son was trying to plait a smaller version of his father’s work. His little face was screwed up in concentration as he laboriously weaved.
    The father spoke in Balinese and Harry laughed and answered him, then turned to Bonnie. ‘He said his sonlooks perfect now but he’ll get sick of it soon and start to cause mischief.’
    ‘Where’s his mother?’
    Harry pointed to a covered work area ahead. ‘She’s stripping the bamboo with his grandmother, further down. Each villager does part of the process, from the man beside the bamboo who harvests to those that split it in half then quarters and pass it on to the next section, who keep thinning it down until Dewi has workable strips to weave with.’
    They moved past the sections, the tourists snapping pictures and watching the villagers work, and all the time Harry spoke to the villagers in their own language, smiling and greeting them by name.
    It was interesting to Bonnie how the people they met hailed Harry, patted him on the back, called out to him, considering he seemed transient, and she wondered if he ever thought of when he would leave and get on with his life.
    But why should she care? She could feel a creeping sense of evangelistic purpose to save Harry’s working soul and she stamped it down.
    Stop it. He’d not thank her for it and it was none of her business. He was just a man she’d met. But a place inside her ached for the occasional glimpse of the caring, lost soul he tried to hide. She pulled her thoughts away and concentrated on village life.
    She admired the one cow the family owned, the eldest son’s pride and joy and, according to Harry, a huge investment. The cow chewed placidly and stared at them from a private sheltered bale, a long-lashed, happy cow, living in Utopia.
    Pigs snorted in muddy pens and chickens darted underfoot, chased by a red-combed rooster, and Harry told her the wives cared for the other animals while the husbands cared for the cow.
    Consistently, it seemed Harry picked up on her interest when the guide spoke of traditions and when he mentioned the ceremonies each family was responsible for.
    Harry enlarged on the subject after Wayan had moved on. ‘The cost of a burial sometimes take years for a family to save for—it can cost the same as their one cow. But the family are happy to ensure their relation is cremated with a full and proper celebration.
    She looked around at the bare compound. ‘What if the family can’t afford a funeral when someone dies?’
    ‘The person is temporarily buried, maybe a year or two, and exhumed when they can afford it. Or sometimes when another family is having a funeral they share the costs with several families who have members to bury. But it’s a necessary expenditure for ancestor status.’
    Harry waved at another man and as he stopped to talk Bonnie caught the eye of a young pregnant woman sitting quietly in the doorway of a building, slicing ginger.
    There was something about the way she held her neck stiffly that attracted Bonnie’s attention and she drifted over to say hello.
    The