When she and her heavily perspiring husband finally arrived at their Castries guest house, they were met by an Englishwoman who appeared to be in charge, although she had some distant memory of the small property being owned by second or third cousins on her mother’s side. Mrs. Ellis’s face was heavily enameled, which she presumed made it difficult for the strange-looking lady to express any emotion other than mild discomfort, but they dutifully followed the proprietress up a narrow wooden staircase and listened to the woman’s singsong voice as she apologetically recited the list of rules. Having run a finger along the top of the dresser to demonstrate the absence of dust, the woman untied a single key from a small assortment that she carried on a long ribbon around her neck and then handed it to Leslie, closed the door, and left the newly arrived couple in peace. She sat in silence for some moments on the side of the overly quilted twin bed before forcing herself to her feet. She glanced at her husband, who had slipped off his shoes and was spread-eagled across the coverlet, and then she decided to go out onto the balcony. Down below, on a small outcrop of rocks overlooking the wide expanse of the harbour, she saw a young Negress standing by herself and pressing a headscarf to her hair as though worried that a sudden flurry might at any moment strip it from her. Her husband soon joined her on the balcony, but neither of them said anything as they peered down on the woman, who stared blankly at the sea. After a short interval, Leslie retreated back into their room, leaving her alone, and she in turn took up a seat on a small metal chair. Two hours later the bright afternoon glare began to fade and the day offered no resistance to the upsurge of night.
After much tossing and turning in the lumpy bed, she woke suddenly to a blade of light streaming into the room. It was still dark, however, and she realized that the intrusive glow was from a streetlamp that was situated just below their room. She had no inclination to disturb her husband, so she lay quietly and waited to be greeted by the noises of a West Indian day; to begin with she heard the rattling of carts in the street, then the shrieking of seagulls wheeling in the ill-defined border between sea and land, and then the more boisterous and intrusive noises of the cook beginning to busy herself in the small yard to the side of the establishment. The woman would no doubt be preparing breakfast for the two guests from England, who she had most likely been told would expect to be treated regally. A sluggish-looking Leslie opened his eyes as though unsure of where exactly he was, and she took this as her cue to leave the bed and put on her dressing gown. Since their arrival there had been no conversation of any substance between them, and it was difficult to determine if her husband was excited or disappointed. No doubt once he discovered his bearings he would have something to say, but in the meantime she was grateful that he appeared to be allowing her time to re-enter her world in peace. She stepped out onto the balcony and looked down at the beach, where she saw a man riding a horse at a full gallop along the line where the sea was breaking in a flat, hushed whisper. With each hoofbeat a small shower of brine exploded and animated the otherwise tranquil scene. She imagined the hunched rider being stirred by both the snorting and wheezing of the animal and the roar of the wind in his ears, and she felt sure that the thunder of each stride would be rattling his every bone, but from her own distant vantage point there was a mute silken grace to the movement of man and horse.
As it transpired, she spent the greater part of the day nursing Leslie, who directly after breakfast succumbed to diarrhea, which forced him to remain confined to their room. It had been clear to her that the bacon was overcooked, and she had avoided it, fearing a failed attempt by the cook to compensate for the lack of any cold storage, but Leslie had eaten a hearty helping. Whilst her husband tossed and turned, looking as though he might at any moment wilt in the heat and humidity, she was able to lightly doze in a wicker chair that was set in the shade away from the window and accustom herself to the heavy thickness of the air. By late afternoon Leslie had recovered sufficiently to be able to contemplate joining her for dinner, and she was relieved to see an untroubled ease to his gait as he made his way downstairs to the dining room. After dinner, they accepted Mrs. Ellis’s offer to join her in the parlour and listen to Mr. Ellis playing the piano. As Mrs. Ellis introduced them to her mild-mannered husband, she instantly surmised that Mr. Ellis was the type of Englishman who in the privacy of his own home would ha bitually soak his feet in a basin of hot water and each night place his teeth in a glass. The man’s dark eyebrows almost met, and his slightly slack-jawed mouth was disturbingly overcrowded with his ill-fitting dentures. The proprietress informed her guests that when they lived in Kent her husband used to provide the accompaniment to the silent pictures at the cinema, but tonight she and Mr. Tilden Smith would constitute his audience. Mr. Ellis proposed playing for them a selection of classical and popular favourites, although Mrs. Ellis quickly interrupted and warned them that her husband drew the line at German music, which had never had any place in his repertoire. Mrs. Ellis must have warmed to her guests, for before the onset of the recital the woman offered them a specially imported blend of fragrant tea and a plate of sliced fruitcake, all served on what was clearly her best china. An hour later Mr. Ellis concluded his presentation, but he remained seated at the piano, his dull-hooded eyes wide open as he continued to stare at the keys where his meaty fingers remained poised. It was then that she noticed that Mr. Ellis was wearing brown carpet slippers with ill-matching socks—one grey and one black—and in an instant she understood the Ellises’ story to be one of difficulty and struggle.
Mr. Ellis continued to wait, but for what it was impossible for her to divine. Mrs. Ellis, on the other hand, seemed completely unperturbed by the melancholy stupor into which her husband appeared to have fallen, and she stood and in one fluid movement picked up the tray of tea and untouched cake. With this done, she shuffled her way out of the room and closed the door behind her. Shortly thereafter Mr. Ellis appeared to return to the world. Standing up from his piano stool, he padded his way to the drinks cabinet, inside of which was gathered a nest of small glasses and a bottle of sherry. He quietly poured two neat measures, which he handed to his guests, commenting that it helped with the cold on a dark night. With this done, he poured himself an allowance and then sat opposite them both, and it was possible for her to see that the man’s eyes were now damp with emotion. As Mr. Ellis lifted the glass to his lips, she understood that he would say no more. A few minutes later, Mrs. Ellis re-entered the room and looked tenderly at her tranquil husband and simply said, “It’s time, Alfred,” at which point the man rose to his feet and diligently replaced his empty, but unwashed, glass in the cabinet. He then positioned himself by his wife’s side, but he continued to look much affected, as though he had suffered some great loss. “Good night,” said Mrs. Ellis, offering them both the briefest glimpse of a smile. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to turn out the lights when you retire.”
Once upstairs, she put on a cardigan and then opened the door to the balcony and took her glass of sherry with her out into the cool night air. The salty smell of the sea stung her nose with a sharpness she had not noticed during the daytime, but she decided to remain outside until her husband had fallen asleep. It occurred to her that Mr. Ellis most likely felt obliged to obey his wife, for it was probably Mrs. Ellis’s money (a bequest perhaps?) that had enabled them to travel out to the West Indies. There was no doubt that it was her fierce energy that kept the hotel running smoothly, for Mr. Ellis appeared to be incapable of rising to meet such responsibilities. She conjectured that Mr. Ellis’s dreams of a life in music, giving recitals and composing melodies, had been unhappily shipwrecked on the rocky shore of his wife’s practical common sense. Over dinner the woman had, after all, shared a little of their history with her guests. (“Alfred’s doctor insisted that he wouldn’t last another winter in England, so I said, For heaven’s sake, let’s find some sun.”) Out on the small balcony, a shiver ran through her as the wind rose, and she wondered if she had correctly intuited the source o
f the sadness that hovered over the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Ellis.
59
A Now Empty World
In the morning, she found herself wide awake and listening to the monotony of Leslie’s light snoring while it was still dark outside. All night her memory had rushed crazily, and it was her mother who featured at every turn, until finally she looked into the woman’s dim eyes and asked for forgiveness, but her mother seemed puzzled and assured her that she had done nothing for which she needed to be forgiven, and then she woke suddenly, as though a blanket had been torn away, and she blinked hard and eventually realized where she was. The prospect of a sleepy early-morning exchange with Leslie seemed too awkward to consider and so she dressed quietly and left their shared bedroom. She tiptoed down the stairs and stepped into her shoes at the front door, taking particular care not to disturb the small table which supported Mrs. Ellis’s delicately balanced vase of poinsettias. Once outside, the cloying density of the night air and the strong chorus of palpitating insect life let her know that dawn remained some way off, but her mind was made up. She moved purposefully through the silent streets and in the direction of the small outcrop of rocks overlooking the harbour, where she intended to station herself so that, in an hour or two, as the listless waves continued to lap, she might witness the full glory of the sun rising over her now empty world.
60
A Dream
She perched awkwardly on the clump of damp rocks, and although she felt uncomfortable, she was determined to remain motionless and empty her troubled mind of her joyless life in England and, perhaps in this manner, make room for the present. However, as she waited patiently for evidence of the first light of dawn, she continued to be tormented by last night’s dreams of her mother, and then she was alarmed to remember that, at some point before sitting bolt upright in bed, Lancey had made an uninvited and prolonged appearance in her overwrought imagination.
She dreamed that once she reached Charles Street she warily mounted the steps and rang the doorbell, whose resonant chimes sounded just as ominous as they had done a quarter of a century earlier. However, the apparition who opened the door was not familiar to her. Lancey was now white-haired, rheumy-eyed, and most shockingly, he was bent over and supporting himself by leaning heavily against a cane. She had sent a message to Lancey from the hotel so he would know that she intended to call upon him, but when she asked at the concierge’s desk if there was a letter for her, she was informed that there were no messages. Although initially puzzled, she eventually persuaded herself that the lack of a response meant that Lancey was happy for her to visit, even at such short notice, and so she set out for Mayfair. Lancey smiled and held on to the door, but she could see that pain was lodged just beneath the surface of his warm smile. Slowly he stepped to one side to let her pass and enter.
As she sat down on the drawing-room sofa, it was immediately clear to her that this large grand house was now far too much for Lancey to manage. The disarray and dust were unhealthy, and judging by the scattered debris, it appeared that Lancey spent the greater part of his time in this one cold room. Where was his butler? Where were his servants? On the mantlepiece sat a framed photograph of Julian, and Lancey’s eyes followed hers to the portrait. “I imagine you heard?” he began. “We lost Cousin Julian during the war. Ypres. He fell along with most of the men under his command. Such a waste, but although I was devoted to him, I haven’t forgotten that you two had your quarrels and you thought him a horrid person.” Lancey continued and told her about his mother, who lived to be nearly eighty-five, and then he remembered himself and asked if she might like some tea, or perhaps something a little stronger. “I’m sure I’ve got a drop somewhere.” She shook her head, and then it was her turn. There had been a husband, and time spent in France, and now she was back in London, where she had secured for herself a second husband, but she didn’t say more than this, for she was not hankering to advertise her own situation. Truthfully, given the startling state of Lancey’s health, she was now beginning to rue having called upon him. As the silence between them deepened, she sensed that Lancey was trying to decide whether to remain faithful to his preferred mode of polite reticence, or whether he should make the effort to speak from the heart. He looked up and met her eyes. “You do understand that we all make mistakes in life, don’t you? As a result, I feel I must apologize for whatever hurt I might have caused you. My dear child, I felt trapped by circumstance, but why should this lessen your sense of injustice?” She was unsure if he expected her to answer, but she said nothing. Lancey’s gaze fell to the floor, and she gaped at the bald spot on the top of his head and tried hard to reconcile herself to the fact that the shell of a person before her was the man she had loved. He coughed and stammered slightly, for he was clearly struggling to maintain the fluid grace of his speech. “Shall we dine together this evening? I can call on you at any time that is convenient. Shall we say eight o’clock?” Seeing the hopeful gleam in his eyes, she nodded and confirmed the name of her hotel. She then rose to her feet and watched as Lancey pushed forcefully against his cane and pressed himself upright. “Now then, you will require some time to rest and make yourself ready. I can call a taxicab for you, or better still, I can walk with you, as the exercise will most likely do me some good.” She smiled at him, but declined his offer. “Thank you, I shall be fine.”
Once she left Charles Street, she turned away from the direction of her hotel and set out towards Hyde Park, where she soon found an empty bench to sit on. A light breeze carried the voices of happy children up into the air and in her direction, but she tried to block them out. She wished to bestow the gift of contentment upon Lancey, some kind of closing of accounts that would allow him to stop worrying and go forward in peace, but she suspected that, having outlived his peers, the man was now dawdling in his mind and incapable of moving on. Sadly, she would now have to accustom herself to the fact that she had nothing further to offer him, and her heart sank, for she realized that it was foolish and selfish of her to have sought him out, and she was inundated with guilt. Her decision was lamentable, but inescapable, for it was now clear to her that this evening she should probably not leave the confines of her hotel room.
* * *
The following morning the front desk clerk telephoned her room. When she came down she discovered a dishevelled Lancey seated in the lobby in a dreary suit with his cane standing upright between his legs. He stood to greet her, and he raised his hat politely and asked if she felt inclined to take tea with him. Once they were seated in the dining room, she began to apologize, but he held up his hand. “Please, I’m conscious of the fact that I am hardly a feast for the eyes.” Lancey reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a red velvet case which, when he finally fumbled it open, she could see contained a pearl necklace. “The necklace was my mother’s. I would very much like you to have it.” She thanked him, but made it plain that she couldn’t possibly accept his benevolence. He smiled and lifted the long delicate object from its box, and then he placed it on the table in such a manner that it lay abandoned midway between them as though devoid of any value.
61
Why Don’t They Like Us?
She watched Leslie steadily backing away from what remained of the Great House. He raised his camera to his face, then suddenly he lost his footing, and as he tumbled towards the dirt, he reached out an arm and braced himself against a fall. Righting himself, he dusted down his trousers and then found a flat rock upon which to stand, and again he raised his camera. The house was as Owen’s letter had suggested she might find it—burned, but not quite to the ground. Charred beams remained where once there had been a roof, but the stone walls of the structure still allowed her to imagine the estate home that for her mother’s family had been a country retreat for well over a century. Behind her husband, and brooding on the horizon, she could see the island of Martinique. It was a perfectly beautiful day, and with the sun at its highest point, no shadows were being cast.
This mo
rning she made plans with the Paz Hotel for a car to take them to where the uphill track began. When they arrived at the clearing in the bush, they were met by an elderly Negro guide with two horses, who explained that the porters had already gone on ahead with the luncheon baskets, which contained everything that she and Leslie would require for a picnic. The woman behind the hotel desk had looked at her with incredulity when she announced that she intended to make this rigorous excursion, but the hotel employee knew that the estate was in her guest’s family and so she refrained from offering an opinion. When their transport arrived at the Paz, Leslie eased himself into the backseat of the car next to her, and noticing that she was nervous, he instinctively reached over and took her hand. “You said you were happy there once, and so you’ll be happy there again.” She smiled without meeting his eyes, and then turned to look out of the window as the car engine coughed to life and they began to make their slow and dusty way through the still-cobbled streets of Roseau. This was only their third morning on the island and already she was doubting the wisdom of her decision to come home. The town needed a fresh coat of paint and the people appeared poor and slovenly. What troubled her the most, however, was the fact that the Negroes stared rudely at her and her husband when they walked together in the streets and she detected insolence in their faces. It would be hard to explain to Leslie the full extent of her disappointment, so she said nothing and simply tried to hold at bay the rising tide of resentment and embarrassment that seemed primed to engulf her.
A View of the Empire at Sunset Page 21