Each week, on thin sheets of poor quality newsprint, the island newspaper, The Guardian, both recorded and reported the highlights of the events of the previous week in bothersome, smudged print. She could already picture her father with a drink to hand on their veranda, carefully dropping his eyes past the narrow births, marriages, and deaths column, and the lists of those who had attended various social functions, to the succinct paragraph which announced the arrivals and departures from their small island. It was there that he would find her name in tiny print, with the details of her vessel and its date of departure and the intended destination and anticipated date of arrival. Slowly, all the while fixing his eyes on the pertinent paragraph, her father would rise and pour more rum over the melting ice in his glass and then, profoundly shaken by a grief he was too proud to share, he would grope behind his back and ease himself back down and into his chair. His daughter was gone. His dear Gwendolen was on her way to England.
* * *
She held on to her boater and stared at England, but it remained impossible for her to empty her mind of the sadness of her final hours in Barbados. During her first few days at sea, life was busy, as they dropped anchor at various islands to pick up produce and passengers. Eventually they left Trinidad and the steamer set out across the broad anonymity of the ocean, and the officers changed from their equatorial whites into heavy dark uniforms, but her mind continued to be flooded with wistful thoughts of her father. She was old enough to know what their community said about the doctor once he was out of earshot; about how he was habitually late, and how he would sometimes attempt to perform his routine procedures with quivering hands, but these people had no notion whatsoever of the difficulties of her father’s home life. After a week or so on the ship, it became abundantly clear that the rhythmic heaving of the ocean did not agree with her, and the motion of the vessel caused an upsurge of vomiting which abated only after her aunt pressed some pills upon her. Soon after, she was able to eat and even walk about the deck, but she spoke only to those who bade her “Good day” or asked if her queasiness had subsided. At the most forward position on the top deck she noticed an elderly Negress dressed only in black who sat alone each day swathed in blankets and who appeared eager to turn her heavily lined face towards even the smallest sliver of sunshine. On the days when the light gusts evolved into a contemptuous gale, the woman tied an incongruously bright red scarf around her head to hold her battered bonnet in place, but even this gay scarf could not lift the gloom that enveloped this wretched figure who seemed beyond the help of any passengers, and who was therefore ignored by all. And then, after three weeks, her father’s world came into view. It seemed to her that the cliffs of Dover were more grey than white, and she turned her face into the wind and clung to the iron railing. Perhaps when she saw her father again she might have stories of a now joyful country to counterbalance his unhappy memories. Perhaps she would be able to help him.
12
Aunt Clarice
Having identified her trunk, she saw the plump, busy hand of Aunt Clarice impatiently beckoning her as though signaling to a dumb animal. Her aunt had insisted on going ahead in order that she might secure help, and having rejoined the agitated woman, she listened as her aunt ordered the bewildered porter to fetch both of their trunks and be quick about it. She then followed the waddling woman as they passed together through a set of imposing tall gates, and as they did so, she decided that she would ignore her aunt’s curt instruction to fasten her coat, thus extending the antagonism that had bedeviled their passage across the Atlantic. They sat in silence on the train to London, but she avoided looking at her aunt, for whenever their eyes met she felt the temperature drop. She watched as her father’s fussy sister opened her purse and took out a handkerchief, which she then used to wipe first one hand and then the other, before pushing it back into her purse, which she shut with a businesslike snap. Eventually her aunt submitted to drowsiness and closed her eyes, and the other occupant of the compartment, an older lady dressed in dowdy brown serge, spread a large map over her knees, then smiled at her before returning to her struggle with the oversized sheet of paper. Meanwhile, she remained alert and stared through the window at mist-shrouded farmland where solemn-looking cattle appeared to rove silently in treeless, hedgerow-bounded fields. Later, as the train slowly crept its way into what she imagined must be London, her aunt stirred and promptly began a short whispered lecture about the places she considered to be the principal sites of interest—St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament, and the Tower of London. As her aunt pulled on her sensible animal-skin gloves, she informed her niece that at the Tower of London visitors were able to view dungeons and instruments of torture, but it puzzled her why anybody would wish to see items that caused misery. She continued to look through the window of the train, but to her eyes London appeared to be comprised of little more than endless rows of houses boxed tightly together so that it would be logical for any newcomer such as herself to assume that English people lived like yard fowl in small coops.
13
England
On her first night in England she discovered that she would be sharing both a room and a bed with her aunt in a disheartening small hotel in the central London district of Bloomsbury. As she stood with her aunt at the reception desk and waited for the elderly female employee to present her aunt with the key to their room, it struck her again that she would have to listen closely to English people, for she found it difficult to understand what they were saying. She had mentioned this problem to her Aunt Clarice as they had journeyed across London in a motorized taxicab, but the woman simply turned towards her and asked if she didn’t suppose that English people might experience some frustration comprehending her. That night, unable to find sleep, she spent several hours trying to discover a place of comfort on the sagging mattress and avoid rolling in the direction of her aunt. She shivered under the scratchy blanket, which she pulled up to her neck, and she listened to the strange snatches of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter that rose up from the street. She tried hard to avoid touching Aunt Clarice, which meant moving ever closer to the edge of the bed, but her aunt appeared to take her niece’s restlessness as encouragement to spread out even further, and she soon feared that she was in danger of toppling onto the floor. After a long, restless night she eventually opened her eyes and saw the first light of day beginning to stripe the corners of the curtains and decided that it was time to flee the imprisonment of the shared bed. She stepped down onto a small square of rug and quietly pulled on multiple layers of clothing before cautiously opening the bedroom door and silently making her way along the corridor.
Out on the streets London appeared to have suddenly burst into life and people were walking in all directions without bothering to greet one another or even look into the person’s face. She watched an old man slowly pedalling a bicycle, his head bent low over the handlebars and his face contorted with effort, and then a carriage raced by and splashed water, which caused her to rapidly step back to avoid the spray. A filthy wisp of a boy selling newspapers began to roar with laughter and point in her direction. He said something unintelligible to her ears, and she stared in fascination at his lack of teeth. As she moved off, she wondered what had happened to cause this boy such disfigurement. On this first morning she idly followed street after street, and listened as the tumult of sound grew all about her. When she finally came to her senses, she discovered herself marooned at a junction with the world rushing by on all sides, and nothing appeared to be familiar. She remembered the address of their hotel and the fact that it was near a place called the British Museum, and so she asked a passing woman if she might point her in the right direction. The stranger was kind enough to give her instructions, but the concerned woman touched her arm and asked if she was alright. She nodded and attempted to compose herself, but the woman continued to appear worried. “Are you sure, my dear?” Again she nodded, but as she moved off, she could feel the woman’s eyes up
on her and she sensed that her would-be rescuer would most likely continue to watch her until she was swallowed up by the crowd.
Back at the hotel, the elderly receptionist rushed nervously from behind the desk and quickly escorted her to Aunt Clarice’s table in the breakfast room. She understood that she must be a fairly ludicrous sight, decked out as she was in mismatched articles of clothing, and she began to sniffle, for her nose was blocked up with the beginnings of a cold. “Well,” said her aunt, barely bothering to look up from her bowl of porridge. “Would you care to explain this morning’s attempt to flee?” She had to suppress her desire to laugh, for surely her aunt didn’t imagine that her intention had been to run away? After all, she had just made a great effort to find her way back to the hotel. “Do you intend to continue to insult me with your mute insolence?” By now she could see that other guests were gaping at them. “Well?” Her aunt now raised her head and stared directly at her before carefully placing her spoon on a side plate and gently pushing her bowl an inch or two away from herself. She realized that her lack of sleep and her cold, plus the stressful adventures of her early-morning walk, had left her feeling lightheaded and hungry and in need of some food on her stomach. “Well?” asked her aunt. “Are you pretending to be ignorant of the fact that you owe me an explanation? Clearly your parents have failed to inspire you with the prevailing ideas and responsibilities of your class.”
14
Dear West Indies
During the late spring term she was called before the headmistress to explain her disconsolate demeanour, and so she confessed to Miss Kennett about Myrtle’s hostility and she was thereafter directed to go and sit by herself in the chapel. An hour later, Miss Kennett came in and first sat, then knelt, in the uncomfortable, overvarnished pew, and without turning her head, she asked if Myrtle truly was the reason behind her unhappiness, or was there something else that was troubling her? She chose not to kneel beside the slender woman whose hair was hooked artlessly behind her ears, for she sensed that Miss Kennett wished to avoid any familiarity and speak with her in this odd manner, which forced her to address the back of the headmistress’s head. “No, Miss Kennett, nothing else is disturbing me.” Miss Kennett suppressed a cough. “You have done well at the Perse School, and in your short time here I have watched your self-esteem grow, despite the fact that you don’t appear to have been the recipient of a murmur of tolerance from some quarters. But really, you cannot allow one silly girl to ruin your life.”
At the beginning of the school year her exasperated aunt had conveyed her recalcitrant niece to Cambridge, where her father had apparently decided that she should attend the Perse School. From the moment that she saw the building she knew she could never be happy in such a place, for behind the neatly trimmed shrubbery the school loomed ominously like a small brick castle. Whether this school truly was her father’s scheme, or something that her Aunt Clarice had suggested to him, she couldn’t be sure, but once they passed inside the building their footsteps echoed eerily in the cold corridors as they made their way to the headmistress’s office. She sat and listened to her Aunt Clarice making polite conversation with the vigilant Englishwoman, and then her aunt turned to face her and pressed a piece of paper upon her with both her aunt’s name and home address written neatly upon it. Aunt Clarice stood abruptly and then bent forward in order that her niece might peck her on the cheek.
After her aunt’s departure, the headmistress smiled and opened a folder on her desk. She explained that a girl had already been assigned to show her the school and introduce her to both where she would sleep and the location of her classroom. The girl would also help her to understand how everything functioned at the school, and the headmistress assured her that she shouldn’t worry, for she would be in safe hands. “Myrtle is one of our star pupils.” Then, as though prearranged, there was a knock on the door, and when it opened she saw a small, confident-looking, black-haired girl who seemed bored at the prospect of helping anybody.
During the course of the next few weeks this Myrtle would one day pretend to be her friend and the following day openly conspire against her with the other girls. “We don’t understand what you are saying.” “Do you speak English?” “Why do you wear such old-fashioned clothes?” “Have you no other shoes, you heathen?” “What do you mean you have never ridden a bicycle?” “Snow is white, stupid, and it falls from the sky. Like rain.” “Do you have monkeys in your family? I mean as relatives, not pets?” “Why would you think anybody might be interested in seeing you, of all people, upon a stage?” “Truly you have no singing voice. You screech like one of your parrots.” Myrtle, she suspected, was part foreign, and perhaps that was why the headmistress had chosen the girl, but although Myrtle herself was not much to consider, with her flat chest and funny little screwed-up eyes, the spiteful girl’s habitual taunting made her feel as though somebody was pinching her skin. “What boy will want to walk out with you, Gwen Williams?” “When I leave school I shall travel with my mother to Switzerland to join my father at his business.” “Tell me honestly, do you even have a mother or were you hatched from an egg?”
* * *
After Miss Kennett left the pew, she sat by herself and looked up at the stained-glass windows through which she could see daylight falling and coming to rest in long blue and red streaks on the stone pavement which led up to the altar. She had now spent over a year in England, with only the occasional brief letter from her father giving news from home. On her birthday she received a card signed by everybody, her mother included, but it troubled her that her father had never suggested that she might return home, nor did he raise the possibility of his journeying out to keep her company in England. At Christmas her Aunt Clarice had claimed to be ill, and so she had remained in Cambridge with the other “orphans,” and they had all pretended they were somehow superior to those who had to endure the onerous rituals of family. However, privately it pained her to be cut off from her father in this way, even though she knew she bore some of the responsibility for the rupture as she had not stirred herself to write with any regularity. As an elderly servant sauntered her way into the chapel to light the candles, it occurred to her that the two Christmas weeks she had spent at the school without Myrtle sniping away at her had been the time she had most enjoyed at Perse. Once the candles were lit, the servant paused and then turned in her direction, and she wondered what the poor woman imagined she was staring at. A devout girl perhaps, who had spent the greater part of the afternoon praying and asking to be absolved for her sins? It was then she realized that the servant was waiting patiently, and so she clambered to her feet and followed the old woman out of the candlelit splendour and into the heavily shadowed courtyard.
The beginning of her second year at the school proved a little easier, for Myrtle seemed preoccupied with establishing herself with an older set of girls, all of whom wore brassieres. Myrtle’s indifference enabled her to begin to forget her so-called friend’s campaign of vindictiveness, and the slightly discomforting spring afternoon in the chapel with Miss Kennett, and direct some energy towards exploring what the school might have to offer. To this end she volunteered to play the part of Tony Lumpkin in the school production of She Stoops to Conquer, and much to everyone’s surprise, she turned out to be a great success. After this her mind was made up. In a somewhat dramatic telephone call, Miss Kennett told her Aunt Clarice that she had “run off” to London to audition at a stage school, and despite the fact that she had returned safely at the end of the day, the school demanded corroboration from her aunt that there had been no inappropriate liaison whilst in London. It was only after her aunt visited the school and spoke with the headmistress that the headmistress calmed down. Miss Kennett informed her aunt that although she still regarded her absconding in this way to be a serious breach of the rules, she saw no reason not to accept her explanation that she went to London for the sole purpose of auditioning for admission to Mr. Tree’s Academy of Dramatic Art. Less than a month later, a
nd much to the school’s delight, she received a brief letter informing her that she had won a place at Mr. Tree’s school. She had already discovered that when she pretended to be somebody else there was nobody available for Myrtle, or any of the other girls, to mock. A week or so after she received the acceptance letter, she was advised that she should visit the headmistress’s office, where Miss Kennett warned the aspiring actress that she must be mindful, for London could be a treacherous place for a young girl. In particular, she should take care not to dress in a manner that might appear flirtatious. She nodded, but she would not look up and meet the woman’s eyes. The headmistress continued and promised her that despite her aunt’s strenuous objections she would once again write to her Aunt Clarice and suggest that she should cease pressing her niece to go back to the West Indies and give her the chance to discover herself on the London stage, for, of course, such opportunities would be impossible when she returned to the colonies.
A View of the Empire at Sunset Page 6