The Pink House at Appleton

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The Pink House at Appleton Page 28

by Jonathan Braham


  The wind moaned horribly when he started the Land Rover out in the staff parking area. Heavy drops of water hit the dust like bullets, and by the time Dalphus, the gateman, let him through, dark clouds had descended. The windscreen wiper flew about madly. Out on the road, yellow floods were already rushing, taking along twigs, weeds, leaves, hubcaps, old boots, bagasse and dead wood. Papa could barely see ahead. He slowed the Land Rover to a crawl, face up close to the windscreen. The railway tracks stopped some of the rushing debris but only temporarily. Papa crossed the rails and sank into deep water on the other side. On his way home from the club at night, he just bounced across the tracks and shot onto the white gravelly road, speeding towards the bridge three hundred yards away. It was a straight run and he usually floored the gas pedal. Now, from where he sat, he could neither see the bridge nor the furious leaves of cane in their customary place on either side of the road, so he judged the distance and the direction. But he was worried. Appleton people talked about the foolhardiness of trying to cross the bridge over the Black River during heavy rain, a storm, or worse, a hurricane. Anyone who tried would be found weeks later at the river’s mouth, at Black River town on the coast, over twenty miles away, bloated and unrecognisable. In a storm, the river always flooded its banks and only giant tractors dared to cross, driven by reckless men without families or loved ones.

  Papa had thought that he’d be out of the laboratory, across the bridge and at the pink house well before the existing conditions had any chance of developing. He was wrong. The elements had moved swiftly, stealthily, tricking him. In the dashing rain and the swirling greyness, he couldn’t see a thing. He lost direction. His judgement failed him. It was impossible to go back. He did not know where ‘back’ was. The only thing to do was hold steadfast to the wheel, keep the vehicle in gear and inch forward as best he could. He did not believe the river was flooded yet and that the bridge was impassable. On an ordinary day, the lowest section of the bridge was a good twelve feet above water. Still, he regretted not having left the laboratory ten minutes earlier. A few minutes could have made a difference.

  Eventually the rain slackened a bit, the howling decreased and Papa, senses invigorated, his hopes rising, began to see shapes. He was in the middle of what the road had become, a rushing river of yellow, swirling water. The canes on either side of the road were all flat on the ground, green leaves submerged, the fields an expanding lake. About thirty yards ahead, he glimpsed the black iron bridge, squat and ugly in the rain. It seemed passable. He speeded up, caution becoming his enemy, while making a mental note of his surroundings. And it was at that moment that he saw the Land Rover, a familiar vehicle but in an unfamiliar location, resting in a peculiar position. It was rain-battered and soaked, up to its wheels in the mud, at the edge of the fields, pointing recklessly into the canes. Surprised, Papa drove up, craning his neck to look. He stopped and got out, immediately sinking to his knees in water, his dry khakis turning dark. The driver’s door of the vehicle pushed open from the inside and Papa, on tenterhooks, was not as surprised as he felt he should be to see Ann Mitchison emerge.

  Her lips moved but he couldn’t hear the words. Her eyes expressed distress. Papa stumbled forward and she, reaching out, almost fell into his arms. She was warm, very warm. Their movements seemed to be in harmony, as if worked out beforehand. Ann ended up next to Papa in his Land Rover as the wind and thunder returned, fiercely, as if in jealous rage, bringing hard sheets of thumping rain and a maniacal fog. A dark greyness had crept upon them, and the howling, like the screams and moans of animals and children, drowned out every attempt to speak. Ann was numb with fright, hands grasping at Papa’s shoulders. Papa heard voices too, of Mama and his children, but he also heard other voices. He heard Ann’s voice, persistent and urgent, rising above the others. He heard his own loud voice, in terrible conflict.

  Papa headed straight for the bridge with Ann as his passenger. The Land Rover struggled as it mounted the ramp into the roaring torrent. He realised immediately that the river was in flood, felt at once the hydraulic pressure against the vehicle. Ann too felt the vehicle under stress, saw Papa struggle with the wheel, heard the mighty rushing, the cracking and creaking, the million voices like dying people calling out to their loved ones. All about them the thunder raged relentlessly like beating drums, crashing cymbals. Ann continued to grip Papa’s shoulder, as if to draw strength. His body was rigid, eyes piercing, head snapping back at the vicious bolt of lightning striking the bridge, sparks flying out and up and down. Ann cried out, clinging to Papa. He saw, in the sudden light, the hulking shape, the crude metal uprights, the crusty rivets. They crossed the bridge. A final stuttering struggle and they were at the other side. There the mist was not as dense.

  Papa pictured the scene on a normal day: a white road ascended from the bridge and continued up the slope between green pastures, ending on a plateau where the roads forked. One road went to the distant Taunton and the other to the pink house and other staff houses on the hill. Now there was no road, just a roaring torrent of yellow water, rushing down towards the river. It was impenetrable, suicidal to try to traverse it. Remaining in the Land Rover was not advisable so close to the metal bridge, a lightning conductor. They were unable to move forward or back. However, Papa knew there was a hut nearby, a two-room office, small and white and fairly sturdy, where the ranger paid wages to the labourers on a Friday. It should be halfway up the slope. If they could get there, they would be safe till the storm blew over.

  ‘We’ve got to get out!’ Papa shouted.

  ‘What?’ Ann’s lips replied.

  Papa indicated his intentions. They left the Land Rover at the side of the road, next to a stricken tree, its trunk broken, exposed and white, and braved the deep waters. Once they got beyond twenty yards, Papa picked out the ranger’s hut in its familiar place on the slope. There the rain came down in straight streaks and the water, rushing down the hill, was clean and smooth and treacherous, like glass. But it was easier to make progress there. Papa felt the weight of fear lessen as they neared the little white-washed building.

  * * *

  Boyd dashed to the verandah the moment the rain started. He stood looking out, feeling the growing excitement as the wind tore at the trees, as birds dashed about looking for safety. Fruit fell to the ground by the dozen and the sky grew black and foreboding and wonderful. The whirling rain crashed against the house like the drums of the coolies. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed. Inside him, in the quiet, he shouted with joy, his heart pounding, and he wondered what Susan was doing at that very moment. Mama commanded that all the windows should be closed and shuttered, the verandah chairs dragged into the drawing room. Everyone shouted and waved their arms because their voices could not be heard. Boyd liked the shouting, the quiet shouting, voices competing with thunder and the tremendous thrashing sounds. He liked the rushing about, the impending disaster, the look of concern on Mama’s face, the fear in Mavis’s and Yvonne’s eyes.

  ‘This is the worse I’ve seen it for years,’ he heard Mama say.

  ‘It looking bad, ma’am,’ Mavis panted, dragging at the verandah chairs. ‘Is Hurricane Audrey come back, ma’am.’

  ‘You mean Hurricane Charlie,’ Mama told her. ‘Hurricane Charlie destroyed the Palisadoes Airport and Port Royal and killed almost two hundred people. I was expecting Boyd then. It’s not the kind of hurricane you want to wish back.’

  In his room, Boyd raised the binoculars to his eyes and stared out the bedroom window at the unfolding drama. Down in the heart of the valley it was misty and dark and the heaviest rain seemed to be concentrated there. Unseen forces were at work, battling with earth and sky and wind. He saw figures and his heart leaped. These were familiar shapes, a man and a woman running, struggling through the rain, and he thought he heard their cries. He put the binoculars down. He wanted to tell Mama but knew that that would only make the storm worse. The house grew dark and the lights went on but he remained in the darkness of
his room, breathing hard, Susan his only companion.

  * * *

  The door of the ranger’s hut opened with one push and Papa and Ann tumbled in, awkward and close in their wetness. Papa realised that Ann had been holding onto him glue-tight in their desperation up the hill and now, in the relative quiet of the room, he tried to release her but couldn’t. He was close up against the creature who, night after night, walked about in his dreams, her lips calling him to her. The storm seemed to wash away all propriety and he didn’t care now, even if the neighbours could see. As he turned, pulling the door shut behind them, he saw her crying and clutching at her hair. That did it for him.

  Ann started to speak, her lips blood-red.

  Papa said, ‘Shh.’

  The room was dry. It contained a table and chair and a long bench along one wall. In the adjoining room, Papa spied crocus bags and burlap sacks, labourers’ paraphernalia. These were the only objects Papa identified clearly, and the only moment that an objective calculation was made. After that, events took their turn, tumbled one into another with unstoppable force, like the storm. Once again their movements, though frantic, had co-ordination and harmony, as if choreographed. This time it was not short and they did not break apart. This time there were no kling-kling birds to frighten them into thinking they were being observed by strangers. This time no menacing dreadlocked Rastafarian appeared, no suspicious figures lurked in the darkness. This time it was long and slow and tight like pure molasses, full of heat, shocking in its intensity. They grew weak. There was only one place to go; to ground. It was hot and sweet there in their steaming nakedness, his flesh against her flesh and hers against his. They took turns on the burlap sacks and on the coarse bags, grunting and panting and crying out, and going at it again and again like labourers, falling like sheaves.

  CHAPTER 34

  Everyone marvelled at Papa’s bravery in rescuing Ann Mitchison from the storm. Tim Mitchison rushed round to shake Papa’s hand and to thank him. Papa achieved heroic standing. Mavis viewed him with the kind of expression reserved only for film stars like Joel McCrae and Randolph Scott.

  ‘You are a star, sah,’ she told him.

  ‘But where were you during the storm?’ Mama was confused, staring at Papa.

  ‘We sheltered in the ranger’s hut,’ Papa answered quickly, with the sort of look that said he was lucky to be alive and that Mama should be rejoicing not interrogating him.

  Boyd had swallowed hard as he watched Mama tearfully try to apply Bay Rum to Papa’s chest and shoulders. He couldn’t meet Papa’s eye. Sitting on the bed, Papa had been strangely quiet. Boyd was quiet too, hoping that there would be school in the morning, that Susan would be seated in the school bus watching for him, that they would exchange the same secret, feverish, longing look as on that first day in the classroom. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, and he was sure there were many things she wanted to tell him. Words were not enough.

  But the storm didn’t go away.

  Unbearably, it was Susan who went away again. Mavis reported it, with equal amounts of secrecy and intrigue. There had been words between Mrs Mitchison and Mr Mitchison after the storm, harsh words, and Mr Mitchison had left the house overnight. Susan was now at Monymusk with her father, and Mrs Mitchison was alone at home.

  Mama was speechless before the gossiping Mavis.

  ‘Evadne say the quarrel wake her up, ma’am,’ Mavis told Mama, eyebrows raised. ‘They quarrel all night and Mr Mitchison say things he shouldn’t say, ma’am.’

  ‘When is she coming back?’ Yvonne articulated Boyd’s only thought.

  ‘Who?’ Mavis asked.

  ‘Susan. She’s always going away. She should be going to school with Boyd.’ Yvonne seemed quite concerned.

  ‘Only God know,’ Mavis said and carried on with her gossiping.

  As usual, Mama listened, embarrassed and wide-eyed like an innocent. Boyd was more anguished than confused. He didn’t understand the complexities involving Papa and Mrs Mitchison and Mr Mitchison’s going away, but he knew Susan’s absence had something to do with them. Would she return? People who went away did not come back.

  At dinner that night, Papa made no reference to the Mitchisons but sat stoney-faced. And because he said nothing, Mama kept silent too. The tension was palpable. Boyd, feeling desperate, curled up by the radio till way past his bedtime and heard a slow voice on the WIMZEE station singing, Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.

  That night, while Papa was still away, Mama came to him in bed. She had pink streaks in her eyes from crying. He breathed her bedclothes smell. She did not speak as he thought she would, confiding in him, sharing with him the sad stories of the many nights, the sad stories of the unknown future. The language was in her touch. She kissed his forehead, touched his cheeks with warm hands and rose from the bed. Looking down at him, she managed another smile then fluttered her fingers at him and left the room. It all seemed so final. His heart sank. Something was coming to an end.

  And in the morning, the quiet storm raged. The Land Rover came and went, bringing Papa from the factory to the pink house and back in silence. And at night, in the conniving darkness, it crept up the road to Ann Mitchison’s house, empty of Mr Mitchison and Susan. At that time, a multitude of dark suspicions rose up in Mama. But she struck them down, every one, desperate to be wrong, desperate not to overreact, desperate to maintain her sanity.

  Aunt Enid, recently returned from America and living in Kingston, visited. Mama had written to her. She had drawn apart from Theolonious Washington with grace and much credit. Her investment houses on Kingswood Avenue and Queens Avenue gave an indication of her credit. She came roaring up the driveway of the pink house in a brown and beige Vauxhall Cresta. Accompanying her was one Mr Fenton Fitz-Henley, a former RAF pilot, who had seen action during the Battle of Britain. Mr Fitz-Henley sported a handlebar moustache which fascinated Boyd. He wore a starched striped shirt, grey woollen trousers, highly polished black shoes and was extremely attentive to Aunt Enid. He had refined manners, sitting down only when the women were seated and rising every time Mama or Aunt Enid entered the room. He had serious designs upon Aunt Enid and spoke about his empty but comfortable house in South Kensington, London, where he hoped they would make their abode.

  Aunt Enid brought a sunny fragrance to the house but locked herself away with Mama for serious talking. Mr Fitz-Henley sat on the verandah cross-legged, smoking his pipe and doing the crossword. Boyd sniffed at him and liked his tobacco aroma. But Mr Fitz-Henley did not engage with children. He did not see them.

  And no one saw Boyd, halfway down the driveway as the morning wore on, put out his hand to take a letter from the cursed estate postman on his rickety red bicycle.

  ‘Mawning, baas.’ The postman grinned and rode away.

  Boyd hurried up the path behind Vincent’s room, past the small field of ripened corn, to a spot in the shade under a tangerine tree. He was desperate for Mama not to receive more bad news. His intention was to tear up the letter so that no one would ever know what troubling message it contained. But curiosity got the better of him. The envelope was not addressed to Mama as he thought, but to Papa. Unimaginable fears instantly took hold of him, heightened and multiplied when he considered the implications should Papa ever find out. But it was too late. Trembling, unstoppable fingers tore the envelope open to reveal a lined piece of paper full of scrawly writing. The letter was from a woman called Miss Connor and came from Lluidas Vale. Boyd knew immediately that she was the woman that Grandma Rosetta had spoken about, the very woman who’d made Mama cry. He couldn’t understand the letter. It was written on both sides of the paper, and the ink was smudged. But one sentence burned into his memory: If I don’t hear from you, I will see to it that your wife knows everything.

  Unsettled by the revelations, Boyd buried the letter and hurried back to the house. Aunt Enid and Mama were still closeted in the bedroom and Mr Fitz-Henley was still reading the newspaper on the verandah
.

  When Papa came home for lunch, he was greeted by Mr Fitz-Henley with a stiff outstretched hand and faced a string of intelligent questions about sugar production and Jamaica’s future. Papa warmed to Mr Fitz-Henley at once and would have laid out his political perspectives in detail had Aunt Enid not come out of Mama’s room and spoken in a low, businesslike tone to Mr Fitz-Henley, who said ‘yes’ a lot. Each day the woman who would become Mrs Fitz-Henley grew in his estimation. She was a formidable woman. He was a mere man.

  Aunt Enid spoke to a reluctant Papa in Mama’s bedroom and later, when the door opened, she came out alone. The children clung to her as she kissed each in turn, Boyd smothering his face against her reassuring breasts so dramatically and with such abandon that Mr Fitz-Henley stared in amazement.

  Everyone stood on the verandah and waved as the Vauxhall Cresta drove away. Boyd returned to his room and waited, frightened for Mama, listening hard to learn what Papa intended to do. He didn’t wait long.

  Vincent, smoking on his doorstep with his new smile, seeing stars where there were none, heard the rattle of the Land Rover and, unusually for him, uttered a curse. There was trouble up at the house. That was why Miss Enid was visiting. He had heard them talking in the bedroom as he tended to the lilies under the window, and he’d got up and left, not wanting to know the private problems of his employers. But he did know, and could not un-know what he knew. The knowledge brought out all his insecurities. What if everything came to a sudden end? Where could he find another job? Who would want to employ such a person as him? Little things that he had come to take for granted: three meals a day, his little room next to the apple tree, his wages received in the brown envelope every single Friday. Everything could disappear just like that. He blamed Mr Brookes. His fooling around with the white woman, Mrs Mitchison, was the cause of everything. Adolphus told him things he did not want to know.

 

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