A View of the Empire at Sunset

by Caryl Phillips

  When she and her husband reached their hotel, the superior attitude of the desk clerk irritated her. The young man barely made eye contact, and having registered them, he asked an elderly bellman to show his guests to what she knew would be an unprepossessing room at the back of the establishment. A few minutes later she watched as the bellman placed the key into her husband’s proffered hand, and then the leather-faced ancient hovered for a moment or two before finally grasping that there would be no tip and he turned down his mouth before leaving their room. On this blustery February afternoon, she tried hard to forget both the cavalier desk clerk and the shuffling bellman and generate some enthusiasm for the voyage that lay ahead, but English people continued to bemuse and disappoint her. So much wasted energy. So much posturing. She sat on the solitary wooden chair and surveyed the familiar threadbare carpet and shoddy curtains and understood that she was tired in both mind and body and she desperately needed to sleep. It was then that she felt Leslie slip a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  52

  Wine, Please

  After she had made it clear that under no circumstances would she be dressing for dinner, Leslie decided to take control of the problem. Well, why would she return to the dining room after the ship’s steward had looked down his nose at her? The previous evening her mind had been distracted with memories of her father, when the tyrant of a steward smiled and asked again if he might clear the table for the second sitting. The man had the obnoxious habit of pointing with his chin as he spoke, and his air of patronage put her back on those stupid trains trundling around England from one unkind venue to the next. The steward’s smile died quickly, and with malice, and she wondered just who the hell did this conceited wretch think he was. Eventually Leslie understood that he should discontinue his attempts to persuade her to join him for dinner, and he announced that he would presently return. Fifteen minutes later there was a gentle knock on the cabin door, and when she opened it, she discovered her husband standing before her with a tray full of food. He stepped past her and set everything down on her bed. “On top of everything you aren’t well, but you have to eat, for it’s the only thing that will improve your health.” For a moment she saw her husband’s eyes drift towards the chair in the corner of their small cabin as though he was ready to desert her and sit, but she knew that he wouldn’t. Leslie would continue to help. He removed a bottle of red wine from the tray and she watched as he began to apply the corkscrew. “You may be feeling a little diminished at present, but we’ll soon have you restored to your former glory.”

  The wine bottle is empty, as are two others. She turns over onto her side and realizes that in less than an hour it will be light. She could reach out across the gap between the two beds and just about touch Leslie if she so wished, but she simply watches the poor smitten man thrashing about as he attempts to find some sleep in his cramped cot. Why, she wonders, does he persist, for he must know that she is undeserving of such devotion. Her father, she suspects, might well have approved of Leslie’s loyalty, but he might also have wondered why she had not done a little better for herself. He’s a decent type, Gwennie. Keeps you in check, does he? Above Leslie’s quiet wheezing and occasional tight cough, she can hear the clanking noises up on deck which announce the impending arrival of day. She understands that it doesn’t matter where you are, on land or sea, you always hear the noises before you see the light—and then soon after, the new day will arrive to torment you.

  53

  An Unpolished Performance

  She sat in the chair in the corner of the cabin and once again unfolded Owen’s meticulously corrected typed letter. In the wake of her recent visit to his suburban home, she searched for any clues which might help her to better understand her brother’s present predicament. Owen’s letter betrayed no insight with regard to his feelings on the subject of marital unhappiness, however, but instead confined itself to the vexing matter of his West Indian progeny. As far as she was concerned, her brother’s confused rush of words constituted a desperate, unpolished performance, and with each rereading his letter continued to disappoint. A father’s duty, like that of a mother, was to be with his offspring, and unlike her brother, at least she was trying. There had been no relinquishing of her daughter, despite the difficulties of geography and her child’s temperament, but Owen’s behaviour was in part inexcusable. Her husband was asleep, but she continued to have trouble accustoming herself to the movement of the ship as it rocked over increasingly sizable swells. She folded Owen’s letter and placed it back in its envelope. He was asking her to intervene in his affairs as though he bore no responsibility for his actions. Clearly, it was her guilt-stricken brother who ought to be on a ship sailing home to the West Indies.

  54

  All at Sea

  She is guessing that it must now be about seven o’clock in the morning, for the harsh light is bleeding around the edges of the miniature curtain where her husband had failed to properly draw it across the porthole. Last night she noticed his oversight but was too tired to bother adjusting it, and then she must have dozed off. She has on all her clothes, including her shoes, and she is lying on top of the covers, which makes her feel a little queasy, for she already suspects that these French stewards do not value cleanliness. As she sits upright, she can see yet another tray of untouched food on the chair in the corner, for she is still refusing to visit the dining room, and this being the case, every evening her husband continues to act as her personal waiter.

  She swings her legs out over the side of the slender bed and rests her feet down onto the small rectangle of rug. Then she tries to stand, but is suddenly overcome by dizziness, so she remains seated. She feels fragile and would give a shilling for a glass of water, but she knows that there is no longer anything to drink in this cabin. She looks across at her sleeping husband, who must surely be wondering why he has inflicted this suffering upon himself. Mabel always insisted that the key to happiness was to simply stay quiet and make them fall for you. Eventually she learned how to do this, but it was afterwards that always proved difficult, when she invariably decided that she no longer wished to remain quiet. That’s when they would start to inch away from her, but not Leslie. She would observe them beginning to distress themselves with indecision, for they were never entirely sure as to how they might delicately set the untamed creature to one side, but not Leslie.

  55

  Walking the Decks

  The French barman doesn’t say a word as he places another whisky in front of her. He’s not said anything since she asked him if, given the size of the measures, they were rationing drinks on this ship. He cast her a look which indicated that she had crossed a line, but it’s not as if he were friendly before this apparent faux pas of hers. Anyhow, if she were he, she would keep quiet, as his tourist-class bar is empty and she is clearly his best customer. It is a reasonably pleasant afternoon out on deck, so he could offer this as an excuse, but the truth is, given this man’s regrettable personality, she imagines that every day is most likely a little slow in this particular bar.

  This morning she and Leslie shared a late breakfast together. She had finally decided to resume taking meals, and so her relieved husband escorted her into the dining room, where two places had been set at a table by the window. They took up their seats, and it was the same disagreeable French barman, in the guise of a waiter, who brought in her scrambled eggs and two slices of bread and butter on a side plate and set them down in front of her. At least the eggs were warm, she could say that for them, but beyond this, there was little merit to the breakfast. She looked out of the window and could see that it was a blustery morning, but it wasn’t raining, so she decided that once she had finished her eggs she would leave her husband, who had already declared his intention to go back to their cabin and read, and go out on the decks for a walk.

  By eleven she had abandoned her walking and taken up a seat on a canvas-backed chair. She was minding her own business and watching the sun dissolve what re
mained of the morning haze when the pair of them strolled by. They pulled on their cigarettes and nodded a curt greeting in her direction, and in their wake they trailed a fume of what she surmised to be an expensive scent. The young men weren’t talking to each other, which was the first odd thing that she noticed about them, for she’d long ago come to the conclusion that men didn’t know how to walk with each other without talking. It was also clear that they were both misty-eyed, which immediately made her wonder if they had spent the night in the ship’s casino. She watched them amble off, and she followed them until they vanished into the bend near the bow of the ship. No sooner had they disappeared from view, however, than they must have decided to return, for they were quickly walking back in her direction. For a moment she thought about getting up and fleeing before they reached her chair, but not wishing to behave in a way that might be deemed unfriendly, she sat rigid and waited.

  Before either of them could say a word, she invited them to sit with her, and both men were unable to disguise their delight. They each shook her hand, and then sat down in adjacent chairs and announced that they were from Buckinghamshire and taking a holiday together, as they had lost one of their friends. She had no interest in their history, but Leonard, the taller of the two men, seemed keen to share their personal details, and so she let him talk himself out. “And that’s about it. Some diseases can be cured and some cannot.” Colin, the younger and more diminutive of the two, who possessed an unfortunate pockmarked face, simply nodded. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, but he seemed a trifle overcome with shyness and embarrassed to be mouthing even these few words. Leonard stared out to sea, and then he turned to look at her as though suddenly remembering that he was in company. “But of course we mustn’t depress you.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “We’d be awfully thrilled if you’d submit to join us for a late-morning tipple.”

  She and Leonard sat together in awkward silence at a table in the far corner of the bar, while Colin ordered the drinks. She understood that her looks were not what they had been, and she had gained a little weight, and these days found herself much more reliant upon her eyes, but it still surprised her that Leonard appeared to be thoroughly indifferent to her presence. After all, nobody could accuse her of not being splendidly attired, Leslie having finally responded to her hints about the necessity for a new wardrobe by allowing her to indulge herself on Oxford Street. She smiled sweetly while her new friend took an abbreviated drag on his cigarette and then blew a puff of uninhaled smoke upwards before stubbing the cigarette out, as though finding the whole experiment unsatisfactory. When Leonard saw his friend gingerly making his way over to their table with his hands cupped like a ten-fingered blanket around three glasses, he came to life and pushed back a chair for Colin to sit down. “Whisky for the lady,” said Leonard as he reached over and took her drink from his friend and placed it in front of her. She looked at this Leonard and realized that one day he would make some lucky girl a good, loyal husband, for he had a gallant eagerness about him which suggested that his present station in life was not a place where he was prepared to remain stranded. Unlike her husband, Leonard possessed ambition, and perhaps some talent, and she felt sure that his good manners and keenness to give out the right impression would ensure his progress. His friend, on the other hand, was a follower who she imagined would be susceptible to being easily led by both men and women, and for whom the apology, both the short humble version and the long and exasperating variant, would undoubtedly be a part of his future. Neither of them wore rings that might suggest an affiliation, but Leonard had about himself an aspect of great vigilance, which led her to believe that the next young woman who crossed his path was likely to be seized upon and offered the possibility of a lifetime of companionship.

  After the third drink, it was Leonard who suggested that he and Colin had better be making their way back to their cabin. They both hoped that her husband would soon feel better and they were grateful to her for spending some time with them. There was a sudden ungainliness about their decision to leave, and she thought that it might be connected to her asking the barman if they were rationing the whisky on this ship. The barman had been attentive enough to come to their table, tray in hand, but he had clearly been offended by her comment. The two men stood, and so she too got to her feet. Leonard said they would like to walk her back to her cabin, but she told them there was no need, for she was going to move from their table and sit at the bar and have one more drink, as she had a number of things to ponder. As she took up her seat on a bar stool, she watched them pass through the door. It was then that the sullen barman simply placed another whisky in front of her before turning his back and continuing to wipe clean some glasses.

  56

  Other Women

  This morning there are two other women sitting out on deck. She said a polite “Good morning” to them both as she took up her seat, but received only the briefest of smiles in response. The birdlike younger one with plucked eyebrows, who is dressed in a navy blue twinset, is easy to sum up. No doubt she is returning to the islands to continue to help her husband manage an estate after perhaps visiting relatives, or even a child who has been shipped off to a minor public school in the English countryside. The matronly woman is older, closer to her own age and perhaps not yet fifty, although the muscles on this woman’s face have slackened dramatically. She reads an out-of-date newspaper like a man, with the sheet spread out and occupying her full wingspan, but there is plenty of room on deck, so why not? Occasionally she leans forward and licks a finger to make turning the pages a little easier, and her guess is that the woman is a schoolteacher of some description, for her shoes seem more functional than fashionable and lying on the seat next to her is a briefcase. She has noticed that women today no longer seem to feel the need to justify, or even explain, why they exist independently of men. Progress, she assumes, and a part of her envies such modern women, but are they any happier? Do they truly know what to do with this freedom? She wonders, Is the stern-looking woman sitting opposite her, with a man’s briefcase on the neighbouring chair, really what the suffragettes were dreaming of when they chained themselves to railings and threw themselves beneath the feet of galloping horses?

  57

  The Bluest Sea

  The schoolteacher has neatly folded the newspaper and slipped it into a briefcase. She didn’t even offer to share it and give her the opportunity to catch up on the news. Now both the sensibly shod schoolteacher and her twin-suited friend are blissfully dozing, their heads occasionally snapping to attention before they once again readjust their positions and fall back asleep. She recognizes that her quandary with Leslie might best be described as unhappy, but not desperate, and she realizes that there is a difference. In the distance she hears a clap of thunder, which wakes the schoolteacher but leaves the younger woman still dreaming. The older woman looks around as though momentarily unsure of where she is, and then the rain cloud bursts and the torrent begins. The woman leans back in her chair and proceeds to try once again to rest. They are all three seated beneath the bridge, so unless a strong wind begins to blow, they will remain dry. But what to do now? Really, the woman might have offered to share her newspaper. At least she has married a decent man who has made an effort to help her, although at times he has tried a little too hard. However, she is adamant that she doesn’t want to do anything that might cause Leslie hurt. After all, it is clear that whatever professional capital the poor man once possessed, he has recklessly spent it promoting her own stumbling career, and his present unemployed condition must surely be causing him both grief and embarrassment in equal part.

  She looks again at the sleeping schoolteacher, and then from her pocket she draws a violet headscarf and fastens it tightly about her head, although the odd shred of hair insists on breaking cover and flying free in the forceful breeze. My husband and I no longer enjoy any intimacy. So this is my situation. I don’t anticipate your sympathy, nor do I wish to receive your judgment. I’m sorry, b
ut I say this just to clear the air. Given the fact that they will presently be approaching the tropics, she wonders if at some point soon the schoolteacher is perhaps contemplating a change in travel costume, from heavy tweed to light cottons. My husband hasn’t done me any actual wrong that I can identify. If anything, Mr. Leslie Tilden Smith has been too devoted, and not infrequently he has left me feeling claustrophobic and angry and I’ve lashed out. People say that time heals, but it doesn’t. You just train yourself to forget the ugly incidents, but it only takes one thing to bring it all back again. In fact, the only thing you really learn is how to forget temporarily. My husband miscast me. Sadly, these days my Leslie’s thoughts about me are difficult to discern, for they are well hidden behind a mask of diligent formality. Unfortunately, I fear that I may have robbed him of the capacity for happiness. But she says none of this, and turns from the slumbering woman and stares now at a suddenly deep blue sea that rises and falls under a stormy sky.

  58

  Home

  From the deck of the S.S. Cuba she gazed at the densely textured slopes of the St. Lucia hills. They were thickly matted with foliage which exhausted every possible shade of green and capped by an azure, cloudless sky, and she breathed out with relief, for she was home. They would remain here for a few days before taking a smaller vessel that would convey them north to Dominica and her reconnection to a world that she hoped would lift the burden of anonymity from her tired shoulders. She looked at the lush island landscape and journeyed back in her mind to her childhood. She remembered her mother busying herself in the living room rearranging her father’s books and newspapers, or meticulously draping the polished table in a lace cloth, which always seemed to remain stubbornly decorated with a lattice of stiff folds; she also remembered her mother seated squarely in her bedroom before the looking glass and staring fixedly, as though unable to see her own reflection. As the years passed by, she began to notice that her mother was becoming progressively more careless about polishing her nails, and increasingly disinclined to trouble herself with the task of rouging her lips. She remembered her father, whose distrust of the English she now understood, but over the years she had trained herself to exercise caution once her father made an appearance, for his loss had plunged her into a state of despair from which she knew she had never truly recovered. As the S.S. Cuba edged its way into the crescent of the harbour, she fought hard to banish her father from her thoughts, for she had no desire to temper the elation of her arrival with the sorrowful affliction of grief.