Boyd, breathing valley air and feeling the sun brisk upon his skin, glanced at the coolie barracks in the distance and shouted, pointing. Susan, turning and caught off balance, stumbled. But Boyd was upon her in an instant, like Kid Colt Outlaw leaping off his horse at a bushwhacker or like a tiger leaping at its prey. He dived as though watching himself from a distance, as if he were on show, as he sometimes dived upon Yvonne on the lawn in front of the house. Unlike Yvonne, Susan did not scream out for Mama. Susan just fell into the wild daisies and laughed so much that she couldn’t speak, while Boyd wrestled with her, more overcome than she was. He could not believe that there was a real girl with him among the daisies under a blue sky with the sun on his back. He had spent many hours at that same spot with Poppy but had never known such delight. It was the sensation of Pepsi a thousandfold more. Their wrestling stopped and they fell backward, arms and legs flung out. The sky was clear, not a cloud anywhere, so that Boyd could see the mountains in the distance. And Susan’s breath was upon him, sweet and hot.
‘Chase me round the hill,’ she said, rising, tugging at him, running still in her. ‘Chase me to the trees, into the forest.’
Boyd, wanting her to stay with him in the grass forever, to prolong and give life to the new feelings flowering in him, said, ‘Look at the coolies. Look at their cooking smoke.’
‘Into the forest!’ Susan cried, her scent drawing him to her. When he hesitated, she said, ‘Watch me like the moon, watch me like the moon.’ It was hopeless to resist.
The thing was, Susan was the radio, a magical being. She was music and sun and rain and everything. She was Mama’s caresses, the first taste of sweet potato pudding, a long lick of ice cream in the afternoon, sunshine falling through leaves. She was the smell of evening primrose and a dozen other fragrances. She was all of those things and many others. She was a living sensation, a girl with girl hair and girl looks and girl scent. And she was there with him, within him, throbbing, dazzling, exciting.
* * *
Evadne had had a half-day off from work and was returning just after three o’clock that afternoon. She was late and had taken the back roads, criss-crossing the cane fields, passing behind the coolie barracks and hurrying along the river road with its dried yellow mud and tractor tracks. Looking towards the hill, she could see the white walls of her employers’ house. To get to it she would have to clamber under the fence. To do that she would have to gather up the hem of her dress, ease herself carefully under the barbed-wire, walk across the open space surrounded by poinciana trees and up the hill to the paddock road.
Evadne gathered up her floral cotton skirt and wrapped it expertly between her legs. With one hand holding up a rusting strand of the barbed-wire and the other holding down a second strand, she lowered herself in the space between and made it safely to the other side. Then she hurried towards the crimson poinciana carpet below the first tree. She was late, not because some demanding matter had detained her, but because Mr Mitchison was not at home. He was visiting Frome Sugar Estate, a responsibility that fell to him as assistant general manager. Mrs Mitchison, the very best kind of lady to work for, was not demanding or officious in any way whatsoever. If Evadne was late by an hour or so, all Mrs Mitchison said with a warm smile was, ‘Oh, there you are Evadne.’ There was nothing she wouldn’t do for that woman. Mrs Mitchison made her feel, not like an ordinary maid, not like a common labourer, not like an ol’ Neaga, but like a real person. Evadne was late because Mrs Mitchison, willing even to make her own tea, did not mind. She thought that Evadne’s family responsibilities were far more important than returning to work on time.
Evadne heard the birds crying as they made their way to the river. But she cocked her head. Her ears detected another kind of crying. It came in on the warm air. She turned about. It was a voice she knew. There was nothing to see but the pulsing bougainvillea bush, stationery trees, creeping shadows and the green sea of sugar cane beyond. She heard the cries once more and turned about, squinting carefully at the bougainvillea, past the bleached wooden fence and along into the deep grass. Then she saw them.
She saw them beneath the poinciana tree at the other end of the field, partly hidden by the sprawling bougainvillea bush, in crimson on the ground. It was the little boy, Boyd, the Brookes boy, the one Mavis talked about, she saw first. Evadne could not believe what she was seeing. Boyd had Susan on her back in the grass. Susan’s dress, one that Evadne had hand washed often enough, was raised above her legs, and she was fighting. Her legs, golden-brown in the sun, flicked up and down. She was crying out. The small dog was barking and rushing about, his little tail briskly wagging.
The sin of the flesh.
Evadne remembered her church, the ravished lives in the pews and the thundering, warning preacher. Images of her past came to her, images of childhood and adolescence. She remembered the bush and the hot grass and the dust and the pain. She remembered being held down in the cane-piece by boys from the district on her way home from school. No one had heard her cries and she had hollered like a braying donkey, fought like a wild dog. She was only fourteen at the time and attending Teacher Fraser’s school at Taunton. So she knew what boys got up to, no matter how young or how old. It was always nasty and vicious. The eternal lust of the flesh. They were only after one thing. And big-shot people were no different. A decent boy like Boyd. She didn’t want to speak about something that didn’t concern her but she knew what Mr Brookes, the father, was up to. She had seen him and Mrs Mitchison more than once on the verandah, talking and drinking and getting familiar when Mr Mitchison wasn’t there. She blamed Mr Brookes for whatever was going on, not Mrs Mitchison. Nevertheless, it wasn’t her business. Big-shot people could get up to whatever they wished. But Susan was a child. A innocent lickle chile.
Evadne wanted to run up to the children lying in the grass and tell them to stop at once. She wanted to invade the scene of fornication and put an end to it. She wanted to shout Stop it! Stop it! and drag Susan back to the house. But she felt restrained. A lifetime of service in which her voice didn’t count kept her in check. She did not want to make the mistake of involving herself and then have the fathers, Mr Brookes and Mr Mitchison, the ones who would ultimately decide it, round on her. You could never tell what big-shot people would do when it came to their own children. Before she knew what was happening she would be fired, kicked out of the house, put on the road again to fend for herself in an unforgiving world. Maybe if she talked to Mrs Mitchison alone. Mrs Mitchison would want to protect her lovely little daughter. Such a nice chile, with such nice hair.
Thirty or so yards from the children, Evadne stopped, concealed behind a tree. When she heard the dog bark, she stepped forward, saw them break apart and rise in one motion, Susan pushing her dress down and laughing. The small dog was upon Evadne immediately.
‘Stop it!’ Evadne shouted as the small dog sniffed at her dress. ‘Stop it!’
‘You frightened us,’ Susan called out, face flushed cherry-pink.
Boyd brushed dried grass from his hair and clothes. ‘Poppy, come here,’ he called.
‘Chase me up the hill!’ Susan cried again. She was as frisky as a pony.
She broke away and ran off, Boyd chasing hard. Evadne saw them breach the base of the hill and start up it. Boyd caught Susan halfway up, grabbed her around the waist and brought her down. They tumbled and rolled a good ten yards down the hill and came to a stop, legs in the air. Then they were up and running again, poinciana blossoms falling off them, arms and legs flailing, their voices like foreign music. This time Evadne saw them vanish up the paddock road in a flash of colour, heading for the orchard. She wished she could tell someone about what she’d seen. Maybe if she mentioned it to Mavis…
Over at the Dowding’s house, Mrs Dowding sat at her window viewing the pink poinciana-strewn field. It was a scene she appreciated, especially when the sun was dying and the whole valley was painted in a pink light. She hadn’t been at the window two minutes before she saw the
children, and she watched their every move with growing uneasiness. Like Evadne, she knew that any close contact between a boy and a girl meant only one thing. It would be impossible to tell Victoria what she’d just seen. These were children. Children. How could she describe a thing like that? She would mention it in no uncertain terms to Gerald, who would mention it to Harold Brookes.
That night, when dinner was over, when the amber light shone from living rooms onto lawns, when the peeny-waalies were not yet out in abundance, when maids found the time to gossip, Mavis listened again to Evadne’s shocking story.
‘Repeat what you just said.’ Mavis stood erect, her hackles rising.
Evadne, taken by surprise at Mavis’s vehemence, repeated her words.
‘Clear off!’ Mavis spat at her.
‘But, ah’m only telling you what ah saw!’ Evadne pleaded.
‘Clear off, you ol’ nasty Neaga!’ And Mavis stormed away.
CHAPTER 38
A frivolous breeze, low on the ground, made Mama’s ferns tremble. Barrington, home for the weekend, sat in his room, dignified, reading a book called Far from the Madding Crowd. He would much rather have been at Munro so that he could steal away with one of the boys, ride out to Hampton where Geraldine Pinnock was a student and meet her in a field nearby. He had done it before and intended to do it again.
Boyd, behind the garage, felt the breeze up his legs. He was dreaming of his rendezvous in the garden with Susan. His secret note, rewritten on a fresh piece of paper that night, lay in his pocket. He was going to give it to her to consummate their union. She was expecting it. He had promised it the day before in a moment of breathtaking bravery.
‘Did you read Great Expectations?’ he’d asked Susan out of the blue.
‘Pip and the convict!’
Boyd was astonished by her reply, hearing no reference to Estella. But it should have been so easy to say the words. Instead he said, ‘I have something to show you.’
‘What?’ Susan came near.
‘Something.’
‘But what is it? What is it about Great Expectations?’
‘I’ll show it to you tomorrow.’
‘But what is it?’
Boyd smiled weakly. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Will you show it to me in the forest?’
‘Yes,’ Boyd said, knowing that the path was laid at last.
As he waited behind the garage, he saw Papa approaching fast through the gate at the periwinkle fence, mouth hard, brows dark. He knew that walk. It was full of aggression; a walk that would end in punishment for someone, end in the assuaging of Papa’s fury, end after a fiery minute of pain delivered by a whipping right hand.
Boyd stayed behind the garage and watched as Papa mounted the steps to the verandah. Something had happened. Papa had heard something, probably at the Mitchison’s. What had Vincent done, or Yvonne, or Mavis, that had made its way to the Mitchisons and assaulted Papa so? The last time Boyd had seen Papa so smouldering was the time he came home and gave Barrington a severe whipping for sending notes to Geraldine Pinnock.
He went further behind the garage, kicking at the frangipani blossoms on the ground. Deep inside him, sublime music played but his hands trembled because the music could not obscure overtones of distress.
‘Boyd!’ Yvonne appeared at the corner of the garage. ‘Papa wants you.’
‘Me?’ It was as if he had suddenly slipped over a precipice and was hurtling down onto sharp rocks below.
Yvonne saw the look of alarm, the futile efforts to conceal terror. She knew his body language well, his tricky attempt at disguise, having employed them herself: the looking away, the studied casualness, the feigned appearance of innocence implying that, whatever the matter, it wasn’t important because it had absolutely nothing to do with him.
‘What did you do?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘Nothing.’ Boyd’s answer came quick and defiant. But in that single word a lifetime of Papa-inspired fear expressed itself. Yvonne, full of understanding, patted his arm and stared into his eyes.
‘Papa said, “Where is Boyd? Go and get him!’’’ she said in a gruff voice, imitating Papa. ‘Did you let out the car tyres?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘What then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you forget to flush the toilet?’
‘No!’
‘Then what?’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Did you shoot one of the little humming birds with your slingshot?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Did you break a window?’
‘No.’
‘Did you throw stones at the kling-kling birds?’
‘No.’
‘You interfered with Papa’s important papers in his desk!’
‘No, I did not!’ Boyd was especially vehement, remembering the letter.
‘Well, Papa’s going to beat you,’ Yvonne said. ‘Papa talked to Mama and they’re waiting for you. They’re looking very serious. Mama was even crying.’
Yvonne fell silent after that. Boyd sniffed, feeling terribly wronged. Whatever it was had all been decided. He was guilty. Mama’s crying put the seal on it. He wondered what it was that he had done to make her cry. They entered the house together, Mavis smiling, not knowing what had happened as they passed her in the kitchen, until Yvonne told her.
‘Papa’s going to beat Boyd.’
‘Beat Boyd for what?’ Mavis asked. ‘Boyd, what did you do?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
Mavis dried her hands rapidly with a towel, took off her apron and followed them down the hall, lips pursed, Evadne’s outrageous story fresh in her mind.
Boyd stood before Papa in the drawing room, not in the pantry or the dining room or the hall, where Barrington and Yvonne received their punishment. His sin was clearly monumental. Papa was sitting forward in the armchair, very calm, Mama next to him in a corner of the sofa, her face pained, drained, shattered. She couldn’t hide her feelings and he could tell instantly that she was under a great deal of stress. The words were written on her face for all to see: Boyd, what made you do it? Boyd saw the agony in her eyes and began to cry. He was frightened because Mama was frightened and because everyone knew that he had done something horrible. It was the look of despair in Mama’s eyes. He had done something so monstrous that Papa’s anger had been restrained. It was so terrible that they were prepared to talk to him first, as if to a prisoner who, in the harsh reality of the moment, is expected to confess to unimaginable crimes before certain execution. What could he have done? He thought rapidly. Pictures in black and white flashed by. It couldn’t be about the letter from Miss Connor. No one knew about it. The only thing that he could think of was the day before when he had looked at the pictures of the women in the encyclopaedia while eating Jell-O. Some of the Jell-O, crimson and lovely, had dropped onto the page. He had wiped it away quickly but not quickly enough. A smudge remained on the pink flesh of the women. Was that what they’d seen, the damage to the books, and now knew that he had been looking at the pictures? But why had Papa come from the Mitchisons? Or was it the Dowdings? Was it something to do with the Dowdings? Had Dennis said something about Tropic of Cancer? Was it to do with school? He looked from Papa to Mama and glimpsed, through his tears, the blurry figures of Barrington, Yvonne and Mavis crowding in at the door.
‘Boyd,’ Papa said slowly and sadly, looking directly at him, as if genuinely trying to help, ‘I want you to tell me the truth – the truth – you understand?’
Boyd didn’t know how to answer. The truth? About what?
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, Papa.’ For the first time he glimpsed the dark-brown leather strap lying between Papa’s thigh and the arm of the chair, like a resting snake. It had never seemed so thick and capable before. It said values and principles over and over in a steady adult voice, the kind of voice that turned innocence into guilt.
Mama was crying. Yvonn
e came into the room, walking mechanically, head down and cuddled up to Mama. She too was crying.
‘Boyd,’ Papa started again. This time Boyd could see the deep lines on his forehead. Papa did not look at him. ‘What did you do to Susan?’
There was an intake of breath at the door. It was either Barrington or Mavis, or both. They now came further into the room, mouths agape.
‘Answer your Papa,’ Mama said, eyes red.
‘Nothing, Papa.’ Boyd’s hands were behind his back, wringing, squeezing, twisting. He stood on one leg.
‘Are you going to stand there and tell me that you did nothing?’
Boyd stuttered. ‘No, Papa.’
‘Well then, tell me. Stop crying like a baby. What did you do to Susan?’
‘Nothing, Papa.’
‘So everybody is lying and you’re telling the truth?’ Papa picked up the leather strap and made as if to rise from the chair. For the first time, Boyd noticed that the brown of the strap was very much like the brown of the bakelite Mullard radio, silent in the corner.
‘No, Papa.’ Boyd’s stifled whimpering filled the room.
‘If Boyd say he didn’t do it, he didn’t do it,’ Mavis said suddenly, stepping forward. ‘Look at him, he not lying. If that Evadne say something to Mr and Mrs Mitchison about Boyd, she lying. Ah know the woman, Mr Brookes, she a liar and a fraud. Mrs Brookes, you can’t believe a word that woman say, ma’am. She – ’
‘Okay, Mavis,’ Papa said calmly, indicating the door.
Mavis returned to her place at the door, folding her arms, chest heaving.
The Pink House at Appleton Page 33