An Island to Oneself by Tom Neale

Author:Tom Neale [Neale, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

At first I hardly dared to touch it. Then I grabbed the packet, ripped it open and pulled out one of those beautiful, white, smooth cylinders.

Savouring the moment of anticipation in case it vanished before my eyes, I lit up.

Then in a glow of relaxation, I recalled that when the Mahurangi left, the skipper had given me a few packets of cigarettes and I had carefully stored them away in my office. One of them must have slipped between the books. If Mrs. Thievery hadn’t lost her footing, I might never have found them.

“Had my first cigarette for a month,” I wrote in my journal. “It tasted like something out of this world, and feel so much better that I celebrated with six eggs properly fried for dinner, and as a reward gave my companions extra large portions of an eel which I had caught on the reef. All hands very contented tonight but tomorrow will unwrap the 19 cigarettes left and remake them, two out of each one.”

Next morning, I awoke feeling an entirely different person. One of the first things I did was to break open each cigarette into my tobacco tin so that before long I was able to increase the number to thirty-eight cigarettes sparingly rolled in my own papers. I determined to make them last over a month, and planned to smoke the last one on Christmas Day after I had eaten my bully beef.

Alas, for human intentions. I, who had previously never smoked very much, now entered into a fit of madness and smoked all thirty-eight within five days. I knew it was mad but I could not help it, and after they were gone the craving returned and tortured me far worse than before.

I felt I could do no work. For days I lazed around, waiting, waiting, waiting for Christmas Day—and my tin of bully beef. The craving for cigarettes was bad enough, but no I knew there was not a shred of tobacco on the island some of my longing seemed to become transmitted into a hankering after meat, a slice of bread and butter or, from time to time, a bar of chocolate.

The craving for meat tortured me worst of all. Possibly I was still suffering from a touch of fever, for sometimes I woke in the night sweating with anticipation and, when I had dropped back into disappointed sleep I would dream of home, and my mother lavishly spreading thick hunks of bread with butter. Visions of hoggett, a famous New Zealand meat (half-way between lamb and mutton) invaded my subconscious thoughts, and even after I awoke I seemed to see big pot roasts of hoggett in front of me, at the foot of the bed, or on the shelf where I kept my few books.

And then my dreams took a new and horrifying turn. Until now they had always centred on plain but hugely satisfying dishes. One night, however, there was a startling change. No longer did I crave hoggett, nor even bread and butter; only one mouth-watering dish.

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