Coconuts Kill More People Than Sharks

Quantuck Lubeck’s last job before leaving the cobbled high street of his hometown, was to visit the three single-storey stone buildings his father had left him and dispose of them. Th is was easier said than done because Quantuck had been brought up in another town by his mother and had never seen the buildings before. Not knowing his father at all, Quantuck expected to fi nd the assets broken down and worthless. To his surprise the fi rst had been converted into a pub, and, to judge by the splendid coat of arms swinging from the iron work, it did a thriving trade. He might as well sell the leasehold to the publican. Th e next building was a library – at least according to the paper sign in

the window. And the third – Quantuck never got to see the third. He stopped at the second. Th is building, identical to the fi rst, was built in the gothic style and stood, like its partner, in a prominent place in the centre of an open area of the town.

Quantuck was intrigued. What would his father, whom he knew to be a hard-headed man of business, want with a library? He knocked on a small blue door at the side. A slim girl dressed in a simple skirt and white woollen top opened the door.

‘Yes?’

‘I am Quantuck Lubeck, the owner.’

It was best to be direct, he decided.

She looked down, then up and invited him in, retreating and turning sideways to allow him to pass her in the narrow passageway. Th is led to the main accommodation. Th e building was, in fact, only one long room. Rafters held the roof in place, and he could see immediately that ‘the library’ contained no books, no, not even shelves. Lubeck confronted an empty room. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

She shifted uneasily before him, and shuffl ed her shoes on the dusty linoleum.

‘Well, are you the cleaner?’

She shook her head.

‘Your father…’ she began.

‘Yes,’ Quantuck said impatiently, ‘my father, what about my

father?’

‘He says you’re to take me with you.’

Now she looked up at him.

‘America.’ she said, her face bright. ‘Take me with you to

America.’

‘Why? Don’t you like it here?’

She looked uncomfortable; tussling, it seemed, with doubts and

ideas she could not put into words. It was bad not to love your own country, of course it was, and she did not want to be unpatriotic. She looked up at him.

‘Your father said our people need a strong leader who will stand on their heads. If no one stands on our heads we will kill each other. Now he is dead. Everything will again…’ irritatingly for Quantuck, she tailed off .

‘Again what? What are you talking about, stand on people’s heads?’ he said loudly.

‘Th ey will start killing each other! Th ey have hatred in their hearts. But your father stood on their heads. He kept them down. Th ey could not fi ght. Now they are free. Th ey see themselves as diff erent people, diff erent nationalities.’

‘I see,’ he said hurriedly, to cut off her fl ow. ‘And what of this, this library?’

‘Th is is the library of understanding,’ she said, almost reverently, looking about the empty area.

‘But there are no books,’ he said.

‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Th is is for you. When you come back from America a rich man, you will make a foundation here. For understanding. Th at was your father’s wish.’ ‘And where do you fi t into all this?’ he asked, looking for a chair to sit down upon and fi nding only a packing case. He jumped up on to this, and gesturing, off ered her the other side...