Last Saturday, I took my nephew, JR, and my nieces, Ana and Bella, to the Bula Festival. After they’d gone on the rides, we went to the nearby children’s park to eat and wait for the float procession.
The park was already crowded. Parents sat on the grass, watching their children race between the slides and swings.
A few paces ahead of us, a boy of about six picked up a piece of yellow paper and showed it to his father, who was seated on the concrete seat encircling the park’s central tree.
As we drew closer, I realised that the paper was a hundred-dollar note. A young woman hurried over, breathless, claiming the money was hers, that she had dropped it. The man handed it to her and they fell into conversation.
We found a place to sit. While we were eating, the young woman hurried over to a young man sitting on a sulu a few metres away. She sank down opposite him, her face tight, hands clenched into small fists. Her words came out in short bursts as her eyes welled up.
Snatches of their conversation drifted over. The hundred dollars really was hers but another bill was still missing, part of the two hundred dollars needed for the young man’s fare to Savusavu the following day.
When the park closed, we walked over to Bargain Box. I was looking for books, but at the entrance, I ran into the baggage checker, who had told me the previous Saturday that she had been on sick leave because of her leg. I asked how she was doing. She said it was still swollen, but had to return to work because she was renting and needed the money.
I still think about those two women.
I wonder if the missing fare was ever found, and if the young man made it to Savusavu. I wonder if the baggage checker found enough rest for her swollen leg, or if it ever stopped swelling.
I will likely never know.