A View of the Empire at Sunset

by Caryl Phillips

  In her darkest moments, she thinks, Poor Owen is quite possibly being held against his will by this Dorothy, and if this is the case, the very least I can do is make an effort to travel out and see him. In the past, he had written and confided in her with regard to his wife (“Things are never easy with Dorothy”), and although she initially wondered if his litany of complaints constituted another of Owen’s attempts to evade responsibility for his actions, she has begun to build up in her mind a picture of a woman who arranges flowers and keeps a neat house and thereafter devotes the remainder of her time to passing judgment on her brother’s life, both past and present. In fact, her brother suggested as much in his last letter. He concluded: “If only we had a weekend, or even an evening, in which we two might sit and talk, then my heart might find some of this burden lifted from it.” And then there were no more letters. What on earth has this woman done to her Owen?

  The train begins to slow, and once again she hears the guard bark the name of her station, and she receives it as less of an announcement and more of a warning. The last time she saw her brother was before she left for England nearly thirty years ago now. Will she even recognize him? Her mind begins to race. She envisions a short walk to his door, and then a rattling of the letterbox, and she gradually begins to come to terms with the reality that she will most likely soon be standing face-to-face with Owen’s wife. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might actually like this Dorothy, but if this transpires, how on earth will she balance her protective instinct for Owen with her surprise at having discovered a kindred spirit in Dorothy? She leaves the compartment and begins to inch her way towards the train door, but the corridor is blocked by people seemingly keen to idle there in anticipation of the train’s arrival. She will have to be patient with these loafers, and then she realizes that she has been remiss in not bringing a present of some kind for their child, her nephew, but it is too late now, and as the train shudders to a halt, the guard insists on yet again announcing the name of the station.

  It is a servant girl who opens the door to the semi-detached house, and her initial thought is that the girl has lips that look like they can take a kiss, and she’s sure that this one’s not going to settle for a life of beating the knots out of pillows. However, the real mystery is why such a modest house possesses any servants at all. She tells the girl her name and lets her know whom she has come to visit, and the young girl stands to one side and ushers her into the narrow hallway and then into the first room on the right, which is an overly furnished, somewhat funereal front room, which obviously exists for show as opposed to habitation. She takes a seat on the sofa, and the girl announces that she will go in search of Mrs. Williams, but she has already guessed that the lady of the house is most likely upstairs by her brother’s bedside. From the moment she crossed the threshold she could smell sickness in the place, and so she simply watches as the doe-eyed girl leaves the room without offering her any refreshment or even asking if she might take her coat. As she waits, she notices that late-morning light is slanting through the net-curtained windows, but the light fails to illuminate the dull, lifeless room and instead seems to cause the shadows to deepen further, thus establishing a joyless tone which she imagines radiates throughout the whole house.

  She hears a whispered conversation in the hallway and then the door opens. A stout grey-haired lady, whose mane is curled and clipped to the top of her head, and whose heavy woollen clothes suggest no real shape to the lumpy body they cover, enters and scrutinizes the wayward sister who has made this unannounced visit.

  “Gwendolen—if I may—how very kind of you to travel all this way to see us.” The woman extends a limp hand. “Dorothy, Owen’s wife.”

  It is only when she releases the woman’s hand that she realizes that the servant girl is standing to attention by the door and awaiting instruction.

  “Would you care for some tea?”

  She nods and watches as Owen’s wife makes the smallest of dismissive gestures with her hand, which suggests that the woman is familiar with the business of organizing domestic help.

  “I apologize for not giving you notice, but I have been worried about Owen. My last two letters have gone unanswered and I thought it best to seize the initiative.”

  “Of course, I understand.” The woman takes a seat in the armchair opposite her. “My husband is resting at the moment, but since our return from Australia, things have not been easy for him. However, he always speaks of you with fondness. You’re up in London, aren’t you?”

  “At the moment, yes. My husband works there.”

  “Forgive me, but I thought your husband resided on the Continent. Perhaps I’ve been misinformed?” She laughs, which involves displaying all of her teeth while emitting very little noise.

  “I have another husband. An English husband.”

  “Oh, I see.” She pauses. “Please forgive me for any embarrassment I may have caused.”

  “And the doctor? Does he have an opinion about my brother’s condition?”

  “Doctors have many opinions, not all of them free of error.”

  “But may I ask, what exactly is the problem?”

  “My dear Gwendolen, there is no need for alarm. Now do tell me a little about yourself. We mustn’t be strangers.”

  Again the woman laughs before asking another question, and then yet another. It quickly becomes apparent that, as far as this Dorothy is concerned, time spent on conversational superficialities is an acceptable way to pass the morning, for the woman appears to be in no hurry to introduce her into her brother’s company.

  * * *

  As the train pulls away from the station, she searches in her bag for a handkerchief and she finally finds a small lace one. She reclasps her bag. It had been established that the young servant would walk with her back to the train station, although there was no need for her to do so, for she had found her way to Owen’s semi-detached house without any hitch. However, she agreed to this escort in the hope that the young girl might reveal something about her brother’s situation. Sadly, they walked together in silence and her attempts to open up a confessional exchange with the girl (“How long have you worked for my brother?” “From where exactly in Ireland do your family originate?”) were either ignored or met with the briefest of responses. An hour earlier the servant had led her up the stairs to the room in which her brother lay on his back with his eyes shut, tumbling in and out of a feverish sleep. She recognized Owen’s ailment as one which had not originated in Australia but had plagued her brother since his youth, causing him to suffer from delusions and bouts of agitated mania, which she knew Owen would endure until he ultimately sweated it out of his system. Under the watchful eye of the Irish girl, she sat on the side of the bed and took Owen’s clammy hand in hers. She understood. Her now middle-aged and significantly flabby brother would soon return to the world and respond to her letters, but first he had to make his hot, perspiring journey through the tropics. The young girl continued to stand sentry by the door, but eventually they both heard Owen’s wife making her slow, controlled way up the creaking staircase, and so she released her brother’s hand and rose to her feet. She had absolutely no intention of granting this woman the victory of suggesting that it might now be best if she allowed her brother to rest. By the time Dorothy appeared in the doorway, she had already picked up her handbag. She was ready now to walk back to the train station and return to London and her English husband.

  50

  A Continental Lunch

  She stopped at the corner of the street and on impulse bought a bunch of winter tulips from an old lady who appeared to be blind. She opened her purse and took care to press each coin individually into the outstretched palm, and then she thanked the woman. The somewhat surly old lady weighed the coins by impatiently moving her hand up and down, and then the woman muttered something inaudible under her breath. Leslie took her arm before she could say anything to the flower seller, and then, without making any attempt to smell the flowers,
he commented on the agreeable fragrance of the tulips. This was his first time in Holland, and as they walked together on this unusually bright late December morning, she listened as he praised the elegant lines of the lofty houses on either side of the canal. Suddenly a wind rushed up the street and she swiftly dropped a hand to prevent her skirt from ballooning skywards, but her husband pretended not to notice.

  “Look at the patterns,” he said, gesturing towards the metallic water. “You can see why they are a nation of painters. I imagine it’s the combination of light and shadow and, of course, the reflections.”

  She glanced in the direction of the canal. “Well, the Dutch take the trouble to look and see things, but that’s because unlike some people, they’ve got cities worth looking at.”

  Leslie said nothing and continued to take in his surroundings. He had made up his mind. This was her day and there would be no arguments.

  * * *

  “And does your father choose your clothes?”

  Her daughter ignored her question, and the girl’s eyes followed the flies that were now buzzing around the limp-looking salad on the plate. The three of them were taking lunch on a small balcony overlooking a canal, and the weak sun filtered onto them through the almost naked branches of a towering screen of trees. Leslie reached for his water but appeared to be frustrated by the excessive amount of ice he would have to navigate. Crooking a finger beneath the lip of the glass, he flipped some ice out and placed it back into the jug. The bright-eyed waiter hurried to the table to ask if everything was alright, but the adolescent girl with the heavy heap of brown hair ignored the fuss and continued to follow the flies. Eventually she turned and faced her mother.

  “Will Papa pick me up here, or has it been arranged that you will walk with me back to the house?”

  “Well, it’s a pleasant enough day, so we thought we might perhaps deliver you back to your father’s residence.”

  She glanced over her daughter’s shoulder and into the dim interior of the restaurant, where the regular diners were preoccupied with their prix fixe lunches before presumably ambling their way back to the drudgery of office work. She then returned her attention to the narrow balcony, where it was getting cold, and she worried that it might rain. Her husband cleared his throat and prepared to try once again to engage the bored girl. Meanwhile, she could see that down below a steady stream of cyclists continued to trundle by in both directions, and out on the canal the occasional low hum of a motor signalled the surprisingly graceful passage of a barge.

  The girl discarded the salad and set aside the fork with a clatter. She looked at her daughter’s lustrous silver necklace and wondered who had given it to her, but she knew there was little point in posing a question that was likely to be met with scorn. When she had written to Lenglet and informed him that, before embarking upon a voyage to the West Indies, she and her husband were considering a short visit, he replied and told her that he thought it a good idea. However, when they arrived at their hotel and telephoned his house, her former husband sounded less certain and suggested that they begin with a lunch, but he made it clear that he would not be in attendance, for he felt it important that Maryvonne spend some time with her mother. The bored girl stared into the middle distance and began to loop her curls around a forefinger and then indulge in the filthy habit of chewing her hair, but her mother had already come to the depressing realization that without the aid of the child’s father, it was going to be impossible for her to establish any real connection with her moody daughter.

  Maryvonne was now walking together with Leslie some few yards ahead of her. She had excused herself and stopped to buy chocolate as a gift for her daughter, but having left the shop, she now felt a demoralizing compulsion to simply lag behind, as opposed to rejoin, the two of them. She assumed that the girl liked chocolate, but she felt queasy with embarrassment at the clumsy predictability of her stupid gift. Once again, her eyes settled upon her daughter’s green socks and her heart sank, for the evidence of her neglect was unequivocal. She would never, under any circumstances, let a child of hers wear anything green, let alone such ridiculous anklets. As they neared a busy junction, a light speckling of rain began to make the cobbles slick. Quickly wiping away a tear, she slowed to a halt and found temporary shelter in a shop doorway. As the rain intensified, she looked at her husband and daughter and fought the urge to turn and walk briskly away, thus allowing Leslie and her child time to get to know each other.

  51

  On the Train to the Ship

  Leslie had purchased first-class train tickets for the passage to Southampton, where they would rendezvous with the S.S. Cuba and begin their sea voyage to the West Indies. Unfortunately, the anticipated pleasure of a comfortable journey failed to materialize, for they found themselves sharing their accommodation with a well-dressed man who seemed determined to secretly peer at her. He had boarded at Weybridge, and although she suspected that the other compartments were most likely empty, he had insisted on coming to sit with her and her husband. The vain man adjusted his collar and pretended to be minding his own business, but he really wasn’t much of an actor. She continued to gaze out of the window at the colourless landscape that was Leslie’s beloved England, but the man wouldn’t leave her alone. He kept sneaking a look at her, although the fool didn’t appear to realize that by simply glancing at his reflection in the glass she could see exactly what he was doing. After a while, he spoke to her husband, but he talked down to Leslie as though addressing a person of inferior rank. Unhappily for this interloper, she immediately recognized the man’s laboriously cultivated tones as those of a pretend-toff. She imagined that the dissembler was most likely the son of a menial tradesman or else the occupant of some equally mediocre step on the English social ladder. Having softened up her husband with a profusion of inane observations about the weather, the man enquired about their destination, as if this were any of his business, and then he commented on how annoying it was that the trains appeared to be frequently delayed. Apparently the situation was different on the Continent, especially so in Germany, where Herr Hitler had been busily encouraging everybody to pull up their socks. She looked directly at the man and offered him a smile calculated to let him know that during her time in his country she had met people of all backgrounds and therefore she would not be participating in his game. She turned away and focused her attention on Leslie’s England.

  A grey, foggy shroud made it impossible for her to see the full expanse of the bucolic landscape, but occasionally the bleak curtain would unexpectedly part, enabling her to glimpse a cluster of cows huddled together in one corner of a field, or the distant outline of a small farmhouse flanked on either side by pyramids of hay. Without any warning, however, this pastoral world would again disappear behind the grey veil and she would be left to exercise her imagination. Somewhere in the distance perhaps there were villages, and small streams, and gracefully swaying trees, and on another day such scenes might well be visible and bathed in glorious sunshine, but not today. As the train continued to fumble its slow way through the chilly late-morning murk, she searched for the words. I’m sorry, Leslie, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to go home. Her husband couldn’t hear her, and so she carefully unsealed her lips. I think I need a little more time, that’s all. The man continued to attempt to engage her husband. Visiting Maryvonne in Holland has somewhat upset my equilibrium. I can see that my daughter needs a mother, even if it appears as though this mother is incapable of offering anything to her child. So what am I to do? Is it not selfish of me to be chasing off like this across the ocean? To be going home. Does this make me a poor mother? Surely this makes me a poor mother. Please, Leslie, it is very kind of you, but perhaps we might obtain some form of reimbursement from the shipping line? By the time the train reached Basingstoke, the man had given up trying to talk to her now taciturn husband. Soon after, and without excusing himself, the irritating intruder simply got to his feet and left their presence. Feeling relieved, she cl
osed her eyes, and she must have nodded off, for the next thing she remembered was the guard poking his head through the door of their compartment and shouting, “Southampton next! Southampton!” The fellow then slid the door shut and moved down the train. Did the guard imagine they were deaf?

  Having alighted, they passed through the main entrance to the train station and out onto the street, and suddenly it all came flooding back to her. Her life after Mr. Tree’s school. Her life in the chorus. Endless travelling in cramped third-class carriages. Frightful belching trains crawling the back way into miserable industrial towns. Arriving at yet another soot-blackened train station. Finding suitable theatrical lodgings with Mabel. They played many seaside towns where she was always disturbed by the smell of stale English sea air, but sadly these were the only places she found even vaguely tolerable. She stole a quick glance at a tired-looking Leslie, who held a large suitcase in each hand, and then she drew a little of the sea breeze into her lungs. It all seemed so long ago now, traipsing from one dismal town to another and enduring the smug condescension of landladies who considered them all to be little more than tarts. She learned how to put up with substandard soap that wouldn’t lather and how to make the best of stiff thin towels; she quickly became familiar with how to disregard the leering male lodgers who would shave and clean their teeth in the kitchen sink; and then each evening she would perform the same old songs, with Mabel.