The Pink House at Appleton

by Jonathan Braham

  Barrington looked up. He knew something about sports but he had never heard about this Althea Gibson who was the best in the world. The world.

  ‘In the whole world?’ Barrington asked the world the question.

  It was impossible. They knew Miss Chatterjee, who was a great player, and Dennis, who beat everybody at Munro College and boasted about it incessantly at half-term. Pamela was very good too, even Miss Chatterjee said so. She used to be the captain of the lawn tennis team at her school, Hampton. And yet Althea Gibson was better than all of them! But, surely, no one could beat Miss Chatterjee with her Slazenger Challenge racket. The children were quiet for a long time and then, just when they were about to pepper Miss Hutchinson with questions, Papa said it was time to go. It was eight-thirty.

  The Mitchisons had not appeared. There was talk among the men that Mr Mitchison was in Kingston yet again, at the Sugar Manufacturers’ Association headquarters. Poor Ann Mitchison was alone at home. Boyd saw some of the men whispering mischievously and laughing behind their hands.

  ‘Mrs Mitchison can come out on her own, surely,’ Miss Hutchison said with conviction, as Mama rose to go. ‘She has a maid to keep house.’

  ‘It’s okay during the day, but how would it look at night?’ Mama said, never having left the Brookes’ home to go anywhere on her own in her life.

  ‘How?’ Miss Hutchison did not understand. ‘She can drive herself here and drive herself back.’ And she spewed smoke above her head, while giving Mama a probing smile. ‘I do it all the time.’

  As Boyd said his goodbyes, he glanced at Barrington, who was even more downcast than he was. The Pinnocks’ grey Riley had not arrived.

  They kissed Miss Hutchinson, whose eyes were pink and lovely under the lights. Mr Samms arrived, kissed her on the cheeks, called her Cynthia in a soft voice and sat at the table eyeing her up. Manjula Chatterjee was nowhere to be seen. Someone said she had already left, as she would be taking the diesel train into Kingston for the weekend. She always seemed to have theatre engagements or tickets for the Ivy Baxter dance concerts or Madame Soohih. And she would probably meet up with Patricia Moodie for dinner. Mr Moodie arrived just then, stinking of white rum from the distillery, smiled at the children, waved at Mama and winked at Papa, who pretended not to see.

  They bundled into the Prefect, feeling snug and warm in the delicious, leather-scented air. Papa drove brisk and hard but bumped erratically over the railway tracks just the same, catching Mama’s look of reprimand. They bounced over the black metal bridge, glimpsed the moon-spattered water, roared up the winding white slope, dust billowing behind, into the driveway with its yellow light and parked just outside the garage before anyone had said two words. The children just had time to see Poppy’s eyes in the headlights and hear his tail whipping the door of the car when Mama said something sharpish, which they didn’t catch. But they did hear Papa’s calm, perhaps too calm, reply.

  ‘I have to go back out.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘The factory. Some problem’s come up. Moodie’s been working flat out since seven this morning. I have to look after him, y’know. He’s still coming to terms with the break-up. Children, go inside.’

  They tripped over Poppy, and after an extraordinarily long time, it seemed, Papa and Mama joined them in the house. Mama’s hair was out of place.

  Papa left quietly, driving back under moonlight to rescue Mr Moodie. Boyd, on the verandah, saw the headlights of the Prefect meandering in the distance, past the giant flame trees at the factory gates, speeding away from Mama.

  Back at the club, the men, and a few women, were getting ready to drink seriously. Ralstan, the bartender, had arranged for a suckling pig to be prepared with an assortment of fine yams and breadfruit. And there was to be soup, the kind the men liked – pepperpot, heavy with calaloo, scallion and dumplings, and hot to shrieking with red bird pepper, the kind that grew wild. This sort of food gave the men backbone and sometimes made them take unnecessary risks.

  Curled up by the radio, Boyd dreamt about what might have been had Susan turned up at the club. Mama glided by in her nightgown, unsmiling, while in the faraway world where Althea Gibson was the greatest woman tennis player, LaVern Baker sang, Two hearts, do-wap-de-doo, beat like one, do-wap-de-doo – my happiness, my happiness…

  ‘Get to your bed!’ Mama snapped.

  Boyd’s tear-stung eyes met her’s as he dashed from the room. Much later, when the house was very quiet and the only sound the barking of dogs, worlds away, he listened for the Prefect. The light was still on in Mama’s room, streaming in a yellow flood on the flowers beneath her window. Papa still hadn’t come.

  The Prefect left the club early that night, much earlier than Papa’s companions expected, which surprised them, as he was not known to leave their ribald company early. The Prefect returned across the bridge and mounted the slope, past the sleeping pink house and came to a stop outside the Mitchisons’ property, where the servants had already retired. Ann Mitchison sat in the warmth on the darkened verandah, alone, breathing white oleander, the distant lights of the factory reflected in her grey-blue, waiting eyes.

  CHAPTER 18

  During the night, Boyd had fantastic dreams of Miss Hutchinson dancing atop a table at the club during the last Crop-Over Dance. The thought of her removing her panties in public shocked and thrilled him. It was comparable to the fleshy pink women hidden away in the encyclopaedia walking out of the pages and displaying themselves on top of a table at the club for the men to see. It was impossible to believe that Miss Hutchinson had stood, drunk, in front of everybody, and while they all watched, lifted up her dress to pull her panties down. That a private bedroom act could be presented in public, in such a manner, at such a place, with such daring was extraordinary. Her performance was as impossible as his licking the flowers in Papa’s presence or having his secret thoughts about Susan exposed for everyone at the dinner table to see. Miss Hutchinson impressed and bothered him; she provoked in him sympathetic feelings and unbending adoration.

  Still intoxicated with the dream and his secret quest, Boyd lay on the orchard side of the fence under the navel orange tree. Kiss music was in the grass. Poppy lay flat on his belly beside him, head cocked to one side, listening, waiting for their moment.

  ‘You take your time,’ Boyd heard Mavis say.

  ‘Ah come as fast as ah could,’ Evadne replied, as if reprimanded.

  ‘Give me the red Cutex and ah’ll give you the pink one, okay?’ Mavis handed over a small bottle with a white top. Evadne did the same.

  ‘Ah can’t stay long,’ Evadne said, peering at the bottle in her hand. ‘Mr Mitchison at the house.’

  ‘Is good Cutex,’ Mavis informed her. ‘Give it back tonight.’

  ‘No,’ Evadne said. ‘Ah can’t do it tonight. Mr Mitchison going to Kingston later this morning and not coming back till next week. Mrs Mitchison give me the night off and ah going up to Lacovia to see me family.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Mitchison give you the night off even though she going to be on her own?’ Mavis asked, unbelieving.

  ‘Is not the first time,’ Evadne replied airily. ‘Everytime Mr Mitchison go to Kingston. Sometimes, for no reason, she even ask me if ah want the evening off.’

  ‘And what you say?’

  ‘What you think ah say?’

  ‘Well, ah know what ah would say.’

  ‘Ah say the same thing you would say,’ Evadne laughed.

  ‘Okay,’ Mavis said, thinking Mrs Mitchison a strange woman. ‘But don’t leave it until weekend. Ah going to a dance at Taunton, Saturday, and ah want pink Cutex.’ She turned away. ‘See you later, alligator.’

  ‘After a while, crocodile,’ Evadne returned, walking off rapidly in the opposite direction, concealing the small bottle in the deep pocket of her uniform.

  Boyd rose on his elbows as Mavis vanished up the garden path. He knew what he had to do. As expected, Tim Mitchison, grim-faced, roared by in the Jaguar. As the Jagu
ar vanished down the hill, he and Poppy crept into the orchard and came to a secluded spot overlooking the Mitchison property. Hidden in deep grass, they had a clear view of the open windows at the rear of the house, where frilly white curtains streamed. And they felt the first drops of light rain. But they waited.

  Birds called out in the quiet and Boyd ducked down again as another vehicle thundered past. It was the Mitchison’s Land Rover, Ann Mitchison at the wheel. Susan was now alone at home. She was alone and Evadne and Adolphus didn’t matter.

  Breaking free from the trees, Boyd and Poppy scurried across the road. The white curtains still flowed free at the windows. Boyd could feel the hibiscus in his hand, sense the silkiness on his tongue. Through the gate he crept, crouching now, and carried on to the curtained window, feeling the sprinkling droplets of rain. Her scent came to him, singular among the many others, whispering, guiding him. He would climb in through the window, part the curtains, step into the room, head towards the bed. The kiss music, the writhing lips and the garden perfumes would erupt like the last flash of sunset.

  Hard rain tore into them, hurled down fruit, blinded their eyes. They put their hands against their faces, but it was useless, the rain was relentless. His clothes were wet and tight about him and his feet danced about in the rising crystal-clear water. He heard a multitude of voices but not his own voice, which was washed away. He heard Susan’s voice, shrieking, full of intensity, calling, seeking, until their voices, far away, found one another and came back. In that moment, he tore off his shirt and trousers, stretched out his arms as little streams of steam came off him. Through clear water he saw Susan. She was pink all over, having removed her clothes too. Her wet hair hung in dark strings about her face, and her arms, like his, flailed about, steaming. They were hot in the rain, feverish, and in the falling whiteness of it and the impenetrable noise, felt safe, as if they were alone in their bedroom. They did not speak. There was no need for words.

  The tension was too great. Poppy barked in the powerful silence and every eye turned upon the creeping figures. Poppy, sensing the attention like an ant under a microscope, barked again with discomfort and tried to clutch at his tail. A door opened and a dark adult shadow appeared. Boyd turned and dashed back through the fence and into the orchard, Poppy at his heels, his heart in his mouth and the rain crashing down upon them.

  * * *

  That Sunday evening, Miss Hutchinson visited to announce that Dennis had agreed to give them tennis lessons at the club. Mr Samms visited too, on his shoe-polish-brown horse, which he tethered next to Miss Hutchinson’s car. As the small, calf-coloured Hillman Minx came to a stop, Poppy and Boyd rushed forward. Miss Hutchinson kissed the tip of Boyd’s nose as she gave him the great news.

  ‘Soon,’ she whispered. ‘Soon you can visit me.’ It was as if, between them, there were deep secrets. When she joined the others on the verandah, he was left dreaming of the thrill of going to her house to read Tropic of Cancer. It seemed such an impossibility. But tennis at the club was the more urgent thrill because it meant only one thing. Susan. Boyd could not wait for Dennis to arrive.

  On the verandah, Mr Samms roared at one of Miss Hutchinson’s jokes. He seemed to have eyes only for her that evening and Boyd wondered what Mr Samms did the night Miss Hutchison lifted up her dress. Papa had described him as a man of substance. The fact that he rode up to the house on a horse when everyone would die to arrive behind the wheel of a car, set him apart. They said he came from a good family in Kingston but had been badly let down in love and, although outwardly confident, was weak on the inside.

  ‘Putty in women’s hands,’ Boyd heard Mr Moodie tell Papa one afternoon.

  As Mr Samms fawned over Miss Hutchinson, Papa put on one of his long-playing records, Earl Grant. We kiss in a shadow, we hide from the moon, our meetings are few and over too soon! We speak in a whisper afraid to be heard, when people are near, we speak not a word! The music, adult music, gushed over the voices on the verandah. Papa, animated after several drinks and oblivious of Mama’s look of disapproval, placed one of his Louis Prima records on the record player, music he reserved only for drinking sessions with Mr Moodie. These long-playing records had sleeves with titles like The Call of the Wildest and The Wildest Show at Tahoe, and songs that burst with energy and audacity. On went Papa’s favourite, “Angelina Zooma Zooma,” music that got shoes tapping. I eat antipasta twice, just because she is so nice, Angelina, Angeliiinaaaa, the waitress at the pizzeria. Boyd heard the bellowing delivery of Louis Prima, the trombone and the deep drumming. But Mama had her way and the music ended with a sudden scratch of the record. Darkness descended, the fledgling stars came out and the voice of Earl Grant returned softly. We kiss in a shadow…

  In the comforting blackness, Boyd tongued velvet roses as Miss Hutchinson’s voice floated down from the verandah. He heard the words Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. And because she had become quite emotional, the timbre of her voice rose like someone singing a difficult note. When she’d finished, no one said a word. Mr Samms spoke first, mumbling something about sugar estates being a legacy of slave society. Papa replied, too loudly perhaps, so that his voice hung awkwardly in the air.

  ‘All the more reason why we must govern ourselves. Good God, man!’ Papa must have said those words a million times.

  Crickets shrieked as if to drown out the awkward silence and several peeny-waalies danced about the verandah, but Papa dispelled them all.

  ‘We are men,’ he said, ‘responsible for our own destiny. Men, not mice!’

  Miss Hutchinson giggled and that encouraged Mama, who didn’t need much encouragement, especially when the talk turned to issues she did not fully understand. Mr Samms gave one of his thunderous Ha, ha, haas, as Mavis came with new glasses and ice and a humorous but respectful comment. The voices resumed in subdued tones with an occasional oui from Miss Hutchinson.

  As if Miss Hutchinson’s oui was the signal, Ann Mitchison appeared like a white shadow from the bottom of the garden, gliding across the lawn and up the verandah steps. Her scent wafted in the dark warmth and her voice, when she reached the verandah, cascaded. Mavis hurried about with new glasses and ice. The men restrained their voices and the women laughed out loud again and the atmosphere became quite jolly. And Boyd heard Ann Mitchison speaking.

  ‘I attended political meetings in England,’ she said.

  ‘Political meetings!’ Mama was astonished.

  ‘Oh, yes. My father saw to it. He believed that if you lived in a democracy it was important to be involved, express yourself and confront injustice openly and responsibly. He was international in his outlook. I would describe him as anti-colonial and, of course, he had a very strong impact on my political views. Going to political meetings never did me any harm as a child. I learned a lot from them.’

  ‘Anti-colonial?’ Papa seemed confused.

  ‘Of course,’ Ann replied breezily. ‘The fact that you are English, or British, doesn’t mean you are hell-bent on colonizing most of the world. In any case, we are no longer the power we were. The war saw to that. I wonder what my father would say today, gosh.’

  The women laughed and Mr Samms joined them. Papa remained silent, smoking. He would like to hear Ann say Rule Britannia, shock them all and inflame his passions. He wanted her to retain her cachet. That was part of the attraction.

  Then Miss Hutchison was talking, about meetings that she, too, had attended in London, about the famous people who attended them and about the ensuing press reports. Papa talked a lot about politics but had never been to a meeting or engaged in any activity. His politics were strictly in his head. Everyone listened earnestly to Miss Hutchinson and Papa’s cigarette butts fell into the garden slowly.

  Boyd knew that it was no use trying to get to Susan that night. He would wait for the tennis lessons. Susan was bound to be at the club when he would have every opportunity. He moved away in the scented night, embracing the warm wall of the house, staring at the stars. As he approached Mr Sa
mms’s horse, the kitchen door opened and Mr Samms and Miss Hutchinson came down the steps.

  He saw them in the moonlight by the wall next to the kitchen. Mr Samms had Miss Hutchinson up against the wall, his hand on her bottom. Her own hands encircled his head and made caressing movements as he kissed her very hard. Frightened alarm froze Boyd to the ground. He heard Miss Hutchinson gasp as she broke away. Then they were at it again, grappling in a tight dance. Suddenly Mr Samms was dragging Miss Hutchinson, who seemed quite drunk, to her car. She got in, one leg out, chin raised. Mr Samms held her hands in a dramatic pose, slowly releasing them. He shut the door, looking deep into her eyes and blew her a kiss. She started the car and drove off, the headlights like yellow fingers pointing out trees, the eyes of a cat secretly watching. Mr Samms sprinted towards his horse, mounted and galloped off at a respectable pace. Boyd stood where they had been, dazed, breathing Miss Hutchinson’s lingering perfume.

  From the verandah, Papa’s cigarette butts continued to fall more rapidly now, like shooting stars. He sat alone with Ann Mitchison, Mama having been called away by Yvonne, and felt the electricity between them. However nice she appeared, Ann was the imperialist maiden, to be captured and subdued.

  On shaking legs, Boyd wanted to stand beneath the verandah in the undergrowth and listen to what they were saying, but it required bravery of the fatal kind. So he returned his thoughts to Susan, tennis at the club and Dennis.

  * * *

  Dennis was due to arrive in just over an hour. In his heart Boyd thanked Miss Hutchinson. And in his pocket he felt the secret note, words that would say everything, words that he had written carefully that very morning in a trembling hand, words that would lay the way for the ultimate act. He saw Susan waiting by the tennis courts in the early heat and her scent touched his nose, foretelling of pleasures to come.

  ‘Eat up,’ Mama said, observing Boyd struggling with his sausages. She sensed the tension in him. ‘Look at Barrington, that’s the way to eat.’