When Mavis looked in on the patient, she saw that he was deep into the pillows with eyes closed, brows terribly wrinkled, body curled up tight.
‘Ooh, petal,’ she said and clasped him to her. ‘Ah get some more Bay Rum.’
Boyd opened his eyes. ‘Are you going away?’ He felt the closeness of Mavis, heard the rustle of her dress. They were alone in the house. He wanted to surrender to her.
‘Going away?’ Mavis feigned shock. ‘And leave you here on your own? Ah never hear such a thing. Ah looking after you, making sure you are good and well when your Mama get back. In the evening, after me shower, ah coming to keep you company. Not letting you out of me sight. No sir.’
Mavis undressed him. ‘Lawd, have mercy. You so hot.’
‘And wear lipstick like you’re going out?’
‘Wear lipstick like ah going out.’ Mavis laughed and gave him a look. ‘You just get into bed, you hear me. Ah want you better.’
‘And Essen too.’
‘Essen? What about Essen?’
‘Wear Essen and lipstick like you’re going out,’ he told her.
Mavis laughed again. ‘You are a funny lickle boy, y’know. A funny lickle boy. You going to buy me lipstick and Essen?’
‘I have money in my purse,’ he said, pointing to the chest of drawers.
Mavis propped two large pillows against the mahogany bedhead. ‘You keep your pocket money,’ she said, contemplating the little face looking up at her. And she touched the tip of his nose playfully after applying the Bay Rum. ‘Now you stay right here and read your book. If you want anything, just ring the bell.’ She pointed to the little silver bell with the black handle standing on the bedside table and left the room. And Boyd, wanting so desperately the pleasure of the garden and Susan, found that he could not leave his bed, dragged down as he was with a fever, pain and delirium.
And that afternoon, for the very first time, Susan rode up the driveway of the pink house, perspiring lightly in the heat, a zephyr fanning playfully at her hair. Both her parents were away at Monymusk, only Evadne and Adolphus were at home. She was dying for Boyd to appear at the window, on the verandah, by the side of the house or at the periwinkle fence. But only Poppy appeared. He came to her quietly, head down, running low on the ground, tail in a spin. And she stroked him and patted him and watched as he rolled over on his back and gave her his belly to tickle. But she wanted Boyd.
She wanted him to come out to play. She wanted him to chase her into the trees, chase her into the forest, the Forest of Arden. She wanted him to come to her like Orlando, ride her bicycle and read her books too. He could come over to her house. She knew he wanted to. She would wait just a little bit longer. Maybe he would appear at any moment.
Susan saw Vincent emerge from behind the house and walk down the path to the driveway. She turned her bicycle round and Poppy followed her back to the gate.
As Susan rode away, Mavis stood in the doorway watching Boyd sleep, the silence in the room and her own questioning stillness intensifying the feeling of unspoken yearning. She returned to him later that evening when the swallows were strung out on the telegraph wires and the scent of ginger lilies filled the room. Her lips were red and moist. She wore Essen. He giggled when she sat down on the bed. She giggled too.
‘Ah keeping you company until eight o’clock. After that, ah putting you straight to bed. You feeling better?’
‘My head still hurts,’ he said, touching his forehead.
‘Oh, petal,’ she said, placing warm fingers across his forehead. ‘Let me get you some more Bay Rum. Ah want you better by the time your Mama and Papa come back.’
Boyd clasped and stroked Mavis’s arms. He was warm in the bed. She was warm next to him and she wasn’t going away. Her Bay Rum-covered hands caressed his neck, chest, cheeks, forehead and arms, and the deep, pink part of him that no one could see.
‘Shh,’ she kept saying every time he opened his mouth to speak. The Bay Rum, Essen, lipstick and the late evening smells from the garden sent encouraging signals. Mavis was wearing a creamy cotton blouse buttoned down the front that Mama had given her. His hands undid the buttons unhurriedly as if it had been agreed in advance.
‘You bad lickle boy,’ Mavis breathed repeatedly, pinching and caressing his cheek. She knew what he wanted, but first she would see to it that the front and back doors of the house were closed. She didn’t want Vincent to suddenly appear, not that he ever entered the house, but there was always a first time. She put the lights on in the living room and the verandah and returned to him, breasts taut. Outside, the sky was fuchsia-pink. She drew the curtains, subduing the crickets, took off her shoes and drew up close to him on the bed. His hands reached out as if to take something that his mouth watered for. She slapped him playfully but deliberately, taken aback by the ferocity of his hands. He pouted.
‘Behave yourself,’ she said, placing a finger on his lips. ‘Behave.’
‘I want to,’ he said, pulling at her arms, trying to get at her blouse.
‘Ah know you want to, but not so rough. You are bad, very bad.’
But she relented and drew even closer to him. She helped him with the blouse. The last of the buttons was undone. His seeking hand stole under her dress up to her thighs. And the cool evening air slipped in behind the drawn curtains as she eased one firm, warm breast out and guided it to his waiting mouth.
It was well past eight o’clock when she left the bed. Boyd was asleep, breathing softly, knees up. She pulled down her dress which he’d lifted above her hips, slipped her brassiere back on, squeezing in her burning breasts, buttoned up her blouse and studied her face in the round bevelled mirror of the bureau. She saw the face of a young woman, well developed for her age, with eyes that were not regretful, not furtive, not suspect, but tranquil, responsible, dutiful. She returned to the bed and lay awake for a long time, breathing the scent of wilted roses.
CHAPTER 27
When Mama and Papa returned from St Catherine, they were full of the smell of death.
‘Did Boyd behave himself?’ was the first question Papa asked Mavis.
‘Oh, yes, Mr Brookes,’ Mavis replied sweetly. ‘He behave himself very well. He was a good boy, Mr Brookes, a good boy.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Papa said, giving Boyd, who stood meekly nearby, a hard look.
Mama was weepy all through the next day and kept to her room, Yvonne her only companion. Barrington went off on his bicycle and, brazenly, stayed out late. Papa was more impatient than ever, betraying a restlessness that couldn’t be contained. He left the house early, missed lunch and dinner and returned in the wee hours, like a man hunted, stumbling into bed exhausted. The following day was the same, except that during the magical part of the morning, during the Housewives’ Choice hour, Yvonne ran up to Boyd.
‘Susan’s at the gate on her bicycle,’ she said. ‘And Poppy’s with her.’
Boyd, his senses reeling, was filled with a sudden boldness but pretended that the news meant nothing. Then, as Yvonne left, he looked round to see that no one was about and ran to his bedroom window. He was too late, getting there just in time to see Susan riding away and Poppy looking about mystified. Elated in the extreme, Boyd knew that he would have to go to her that night and do what he had to do.
In bed that evening, Susan put away her Lambs’ Tales from Shakespeare, opened at a certain page. She thought of the picture of the Forest of Arden, where Orlando lived, of the moment at the pink house with Boyd’s little spotted dog, of the feelings that defied explanation. She saw the pretty blackness outside the opened window and breathed the scented night air. The small hand of her bedside clock pointed to eight.
It was so nice to wake up every morning and feel the crimson feelings. Tomorrow she would ride her bicycle yet again up the driveway of his house and hope to catch a glimpse of him, forever hiding in the shadows, watching her. She could always tell if he was hiding in the bushes because his little dog made yapping noises. He was bound to come
out this time. She’d never had a playmate in her life, not in England, not in Barbados and not at Monymusk. The other children had been so silly, like everybody, not magical like Boyd. She knew he wanted to play. She was desperate to play too.
At eight o’clock, Boyd got out of bed in his day clothes and clambered out the window to join Poppy. Together they crossed the periwinkle fence in the moonlight and, frightened but exhilarated, continued up the road in the dark. Poppy led the way. Susan’s scent was strong and Boyd started to run, blind to every obstacle. They crept through the Mitchison’s fence and got to Susan’s window, where the curtains quietly danced. Boyd was about to stand on a low ledge to get up to the window when shadows appeared. Rigid in the dark, they saw Papa and Mrs Mitchison come down the path to the gate. For the first time, Boyd recognised Papa’s Land Rover, parked under the trees. He squatted low down, his heart in his mouth. Then, fright giving him wings, he hurt himself dashing back to the house and through his bedroom window before the headlights of the Land Rover lit up the driveway.
That night, Papa stayed up late on the verandah smoking fiercely, flinging the cigarette butts into the darkness, ill at ease. Boyd heard him when he finally went to bed, slamming the French windows. And Boyd heard him when he locked the bedroom door. But the locked door could not keep out the tumult that night.
The children woke up thinking the worst. There were dreadful noises coming from Mama’s bedroom. They heard Mama say, ‘Stop it!’ Frightened, they stumbled out into the hall, Yvonne in crumpled crushed cotton Peter Rabbit pyjamas. Barrington stood by the door to his room, glaring at Papa.
‘Get back to your beds!’ Papa bellowed, and they scattered like rabbits.
The following day, there was much activity. Nurse Lindo, State Registered, was sent for. She arrived in her little pastel cream and green Morris Oxford, bought in England where she’d studied. Nurse Lindo was like polished ebony. Her perfect skin, pink tongue and white teeth set against the white of her dress and shoes made the children think of Sunlight soap and Colgate Palmolive toothpaste. Displaying professional calm, she spoke to Papa, who listened earnestly with his hands behind his back. After she’d gone, Papa called Mavis to him.
‘Get Mrs Brookes’ bag,’ he told her.
Mavis had no time to apply Cutex and Essen or put on her new shoes to look presentable, but was bundled into the Prefect with Mama. And Papa drove away without a word. The children were left on the verandah, biting their fingernails, Vincent looking on from the front lawn, his sharpened machete in his quivering hand.
* * *
It seemed that Mama had been away for a whole year when Papa packed them into the Prefect and drove along the winding roads to the Maggotty Nursing Home run by Nurse Lindo, SRN.
As he entered the nursing home, Boyd looked across the street and saw a modern house with a double garage at the end of a wide driveway. His eyes travelled along the radiant bougainvillea and past the garage doors to the front door, where a small girl in white shorts emerged into the sunlight. Following behind her was another figure in powder-yellow shorts. Boyd blinked, certain that this was no other than Susan. But the girls were Ann-Marie and Dawn, two pretty Chinese girls who attended the Balaclava Academy. Their father, Mr Michael Chin, drove up in a red and cream Studbaker Champion, brand new from America. The girls got in and the car drove off. Papa and Mr Chin exchanged purposeful waves.
Nurse Lindo gushed with charm and efficiency as she welcomed them into her house of women and babies. She wore brilliant-white, crepe-soled shoes and spoke in a low, firm voice. She led them down a corridor, the swish, swish, swish of her white nylon dress and stockings the only sound. The children could see that Papa was nervous because he kept his hands behind his back and sweated.
The white door at the end of the hall opened and Nurse Lindo stepped back, beaming. Papa entered, a plastic smile upon his face. He was very awkward, tripping over a rug by the bed. Mama smiled and started to cry, glad to see them ‘Come in, come in.’
Boyd stood back, wanting everyone else to go first. He felt tearful, especially when Mama said, ‘Boyd, here, come here,’ pointing to a spot near her.
When Nurse Lindo opened the door, the smell of floor polish gave way to baby smells – Johnson’s Baby Oil, Johnson’s Baby Powder, freshly laundered baby nappies. Yvonne had exuded those same smells not long ago, but now she just smelled of crayon. Mama’s room was large and airy. A big sash window brought the sparkling sunlight in and showed a small pink baby in her arms, fast asleep, its dark curly hair slicked back, eyes funny like baby puppy eyes.
‘It’s a girl,’ Mama said.
They stood looking at the baby for a long time, barely breathing, not knowing what to say. Yvonne eventually reached out to touch the tiny figure, glancing at Papa as if she expected him to stop her and giggled when he didn’t. She touched the little bundle twice, each time reluctant to take her hand away.
‘She’s the new baby now,’ Nurse Lindo said, massaging Yvonne’s arm fondly as she left the room.
‘I was never a baby,’ Yvonne retorted, pulling away, lip trembling.
The daffodil-yellow sun came through the window and crept up to the baby, who shifted in Mama’s arms and yawned, lips seeming to form into a silent operatic note, one arm reaching into the air, tiny fingers groping. Boyd reached out and touched the baby then. It was pink and soft and fragile with wrinkles around its neck, like the baby mice he once found in a drawer in the storeroom. He touched its little fingers while Barrington stayed back like Papa.
‘Go sit on the verandah and behave yourselves,’ Papa told them. ‘You can play with the baby later.’
They kissed Mama, stroked her arms and looked at her as a long-lost friend returned with impossible gifts. She smelled of bed-things and baby, an achingly beautiful scent. She radiated intrinsic goodness. And they knew why Papa had been so affected. They hoped desperately that he and Mama would be friends again.
* * *
When they arrived back at the pink house, they saw a pretty woman in a yellow polka-dotted dress on the verandah, sipping lemonade. Mavis was in animated conversation with her. Mama burst into tears again for it was Aunt Enid. Mama was crying so much she couldn’t get out of the car and Mavis rushed out to attend to the baby, cooing and aahing and crying too. Papa stood to one side awkwardly. The children couldn’t wait to get to Aunt Enid and galloped into the house. Boyd hugged Aunt Enid and caressed her silky, ample woman’s arms. Aunt Enid kissed him on the lips, nose and forehead and hugged him close, her eyes closed.
‘Hello, my little darling,’ she squealed.
Boyd wept.
Then the two sisters were together in a tender embrace. Papa, trying for something appropriate to say, muttered obliquely to the children, ‘They’re like twins, y’know.’
The tiny baby lying on the bed in Mama’s room, watched over by Mavis, opened her eyes and started to splutter. Aunt Enid rushed to the bedroom, closely followed by Mama and the children. Papa brought up the rear in slow motion. Aunt Enid took the baby in her arms and rocked it gently back and forth, humming. The baby, arms and legs bicycling, eyes wide open, gurgled and kept on gurgling.
‘We’ll call you Babs,’ Aunt Enid said as the baby clapped its little hands. Who could refuse an aunt like Aunt Enid, standing in the centre of the room in summer yellow, holding a baby so clean, so pure, so new, everyone looking, waiting, expecting.
Papa and the children were banished from the room while Aunt Enid and Mama chatted. Papa took refuge on the verandah with a glass of rum and ginger and a packet of Royal Blend, but not before he motioned Vincent over.
‘Give the Prefect a good polish,’ he said. ‘And use that new wax. I want to see my face in the paintwork.’
‘Ah always use the new wax, sar,’ Vincent replied quickly.
‘Well, use more of it,’ Papa told him impatiently. When Vincent hesitated, intending to offer his congratulations on the birth of the infant Brookes, trying to find the right words to do so,
Papa’s reaction was a gruff ‘Well, get on with it, man!’
After Vincent sloped off, feeling terribly slighted, Papa sipped his rum, spewed cigarette smoke and surveyed the gardens. The significant events developing so rapidly could sink a less able man. It was a dangerous position to be in but one he accepted as an indisputable challenge. Thoughts of Mama and the baby, such a wonderful little thing, his own flesh and blood, the fruit of his loins, were partly crowded out by white-hot images of Ann Mitchison. He wanted her at that very moment. And he felt ashamed. She assailed his veritable maleness. Her image was in Appleton heat, impossible to deny. He was the wet sugar in the centrifugal drums at the factory, falling and spinning and sucked dry into the honeycomb walls. The process was dangerous if not managed. He would let events dictate and act decisively and manfully at the appropriate moment. There was no question that his father would have opposed his shoddy behaviour, in no uncertain terms, even though he was a philanderer himself. Papa would oppose it too if it were another man. But it was a unique test, and only he knew how it mattered, what it really meant. The situation was fully under control. His chemistry saw to that. He poured another rum and ginger, measuring the rum carefully. The Dowdings were visiting for a celebratory drink and he wanted to be on tip-top form. He expected Ann Mitchison to visit too.
The Pink House at Appleton Page 23