“Let’s go back to the house, Gwen. Before night falls.”
She stared at what remained of daylight fading on the restless ocean, and the failure of the whole venture threatened to overwhelm her, and so she closed her eyes against the futility of her situation. As she listened to the raucous and persistent engine of the sea she felt sorry for poor Leslie, anchored to her earth and floundering about in his ordered mind, and she understood that never before had the void between her world and his felt so vast.
64
Resting Place
By the time she reached the Anglican cemetery, morning light was beginning to bleed through the purple sky, although the outline of a slender crescent of moon was still visible. She saw nobody on the short walk from the Paz Hotel, except the occasional servant shuffling unhurriedly to work. Once she reached her destination, she noticed a mongrel bounding excitedly through the tombstones with a carefree glee illuminating its yellow eyes. She stood at the entrance gap, where she remembered there used to be a gate, and she could see that the ramshackle stone wall which surrounded the cemetery appeared to be tumbling down of its own accord. She knew that unless tropical cemeteries were maintained with great vigilance, such places had a tendency to quickly return to nature, and in Roseau only the much larger, and impeccably presented, Catholic cemetery seemed to be winning the fight. As the dog finally disappeared from view, and the sky began now to flood with light, she was able to make out some wilt ing flowers and curled wreaths, which announced a recent Anglican loss.
Entering the cemetery, she saw her father’s weed-choked gravesite to her immediate left. On top of the slab an ancient-looking urn was crammed with brown, flowerless stems that she construed might snap with the lightest pinch of finger and thumb, and above both slab and urn a large stone Celtic Cross listed considerably off the vertical, but it was still possible for her to read the inscribed words, for they were emboldened with lead.
IN LOVING MEMORY
WILLIAM POTTS REES WILLIAMS
BORN IN CARNARVON, NORTH WALES
29TH SEPT. 1853
ENTERED INTO REST 19TH JUNE 1910
FOR 29 YEARS
MEDICAL OFFICER IN DOMINICA
She took a white cotton handkerchief from her sleeve and with one corner began to slowly clean each letter so that new life was affectionately rubbed into each word. Halfway through the task she became aware that she had an audience. The elderly Negro was barefoot and stood with a hand of ripe bananas balanced securely on his head. He had positioned himself some few yards away from her on the main pathway that cut through the heart of the cemetery and he stuttered slightly as he began to speak.
“Mistress, I place you. I believe you is the Williams girl from Cork Street?”
She stopped polishing the lead and looked up at the grey-haired laggard, who was now grinning as though the fact that he had recognized her gave them both some special bond.
“And you are?”
He ignored her question and addressed the itch on the instep of one of his thickly calloused feet by scraping it against the dirt. Having solved the problem, he continued to beam as the sun began now to beat down on them both.
“Mistress, I can do that work for you.”
She had forgotten to bring a hat and knew that the walk back to the hotel would be uncomfortable, but the sooner she finished her task, the sooner she would be able to leave her father in peace.
“Thank you, but I can manage quite well.”
The Negro nodded, but continued to grin. As she once again rubbed a begrimed letter, she could feel the man watching her, but she was satisfied that he meant her no harm. If he maintained his distance she would, at the completion of her task, offer the Negro a handful of coins. Her father would, of course, have deemed it the right and proper thing to do.
65
Leaving
Just before the launch was due to leave Dominica, its captain sounded two loud whistles, which stopped traffic all along the bayfront. Throughout the length and breadth of the small capital people ceased what they were doing and listened to the sad wailing echo that hung in the air. Down by the pier, those who would remain raised their hands and squinted at friends and loved ones on deck who were leaning up against the railing and waving back their own farewells. Then, after a third and final blast of the whistle, the modest craft began to labour away from the island and inch its slow and circumspect passage past the flotilla of fishing boats beating a path home at dusk. Once clear of the small fleet, those on land could now see the launch beginning to move purposefully towards the horizon, where it would eventually slip out of sight and tumble down into a landless, watery world.
She was standing on deck when she heard the initial double blast of the whistle, and her heart quickened. But she understood that weeping for unrequited love is hopeless, for only one person suffers. She also understood that it is not enough to be recognized. The human soul demands more nourishment than mere recognition. As the launch picked up speed, she looked back at the vastness of the mountain range which hovered over the children’s village that passed for a capital, and she realized that she was suffused with the kind of love that is impossible to explain to another person. Her island had both arranged and rearranged her, and she had no words. She dare not turn to face Leslie, who had informed her that he had spent the greater part of the early morning worrying about her absence, and at one point seriously considered informing the authorities. Now Leslie was standing tall by her side, and she could feel him leaning close to her and trying desperately to see whatever it was she was seeing. She turned and beheld him and smiled. She has been fortunate in dear Leslie, but pity would be an uncharitable gift. She took his hand and held it in one of her own, and then she turned back to her island and looked again at her mountains and rivers and quietly, without Leslie noticing, she broke off a piece of her heart and gently dropped it into the blue water.
A View of the Empire at Sunset Page 23