‘Sure. Send him in.’
She beckoned to the figure standing in the corridor.
‘Sir, this is him. Tots.’
Song got up out of his chair. The little boy cowered as Song approached him.
‘Hello, Tots,’ Song said, putting out a hand. ‘So you want to be a pork-knocker, do you ?’
Little A nudged him. He shook Song’s hand. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘Sir.’
‘And how old are you ?’
‘Nine, sir.’
‘Nearly ten,’ Little A said. ‘He’s stronger than he looks.’
‘You’re pretty young to be wanting to go upriver. You don’t have to pretend you’re tough at your age, you know.’ Song had been pretending at Tots’ age but he wished he hadn’t had to.
‘How about something else ?’ Song asked. ‘I’m sure we can find you something to do here at Sugar House.’
‘Can he not go upriver, sir ?’
‘I think you’re too young, Tots. I was older than you the first time I went upriver and that wasn’t even to work. Come back in a few years. If you want to do something else in the meantime, I can find you work here in Georgetown. You just let your sister know.’
Little A nudged him again. ‘Yes, sir,’ Tots said. ‘Thank you, sir. I’d like to go upriver one day and work for you. Everyone wants to work for you. They say you’re a good man. That you can get rich quick upriver. I’d like that.’
A good man. He didn’t feel like one. Song tried to deflect some of Tots’ praise. ‘If only it were that easy. Although some say if you believe hard enough that you’re lucky, you will be. I’m not sure I agree but it’s a nice thing to hear. Take your time, Tots. There’s no need to rush into life.’
Some weeks later, Song was in his study when Hannah came to him. She glided in with uncharacteristic lightness, and moved towards the back of his chair. As she put her arms around his neck, she glanced at the list on his desk.
‘What’s that ?’
‘Nothing important,’ he said.
‘But what is it ?’
‘It’s a list of those who refused to come to Phillip’s christening. The punishing of a baby for the father he happens to have.’ He took her hands and pulled her around. ‘What do you think, Hannah ? Will we ever be accepted by this town ?’
‘In time. Rose herself says how odd Georgetown can be, and she’s from here.’
He sighed.
‘You’re not happy here, are you ?’
Song pulled Hannah closer. ‘You make me happy. I love the home you’ve made for us. You, me, Mary Luck, baby Phillip. But Georgetown, I don’t know. It’s like two towns. One for us and one for them. I sometimes think I may as well be working on the plantation again. That’s where they want to keep us.’
‘But we have friends here now. Jon and Rose. Mr House pops in from time to time. Mr Hing.’
‘But all of them are outsiders, too. We’re on the very fringes.’
Hannah squeezed his hand. ‘I have an idea. Let’s go to the races on Saturday.’
‘The races ? Is that a way to be part of this town ?’
‘Everybody goes to the races. I think it would be fun. We haven’t been out for ages.’
‘You know I won’t gamble or drink,’ Song said. ‘Isn’t that what the races are all about ?
‘We’ll just watch.’
Song pulled out the list. ‘Will these people be there ?’
‘I expect so.’
‘If you think we should go, let’s go.’
Hannah clapped her hands together.
The following Saturday Hannah put on a modest yellow dress and sun hat. Song wore a three-piece suit with a tie the same colour as Hannah’s dress. They walked slowly to the racecourse.
Hannah had asked the Ting-Lees if they could join their box. Mr Ting-Lee saw Song and Hannah from a distance and moved towards the couple. ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Georgetown’s most talked about couple make it to the races.’ He turned to Song. ‘We’ve been asking Hannah to come for months. She said she wouldn’t come without you but you’re always upriver.’
‘I’m to blame, that’s for sure,’ Song said. ‘Thank you for not giving up on us.’
‘I can’t take the credit for that. The women do the invitations and all the social hullaballoo too. We men just bet.’
‘You’re going to be disappointed in my performance then,’ Song said. ‘I only watch.’ Song still had no interest in gambling. He had already risked so much in life, he couldn’t bear to lose lightly what he had earned at such a high price.
‘Sounds like there’s enough risk-taking in your real life,’ Mr Ting-Lee said, winking at him. ‘But what’s a small bet on a horse from time to time ? Have to sharpen your brain to work out the winnings. Bookies’ll short-change a dull wit in a blink.’
‘Race card ? Race card ?’ A young boy called out as he passed.
Song gave him a coin and passed one to Hannah. It listed the afternoon’s races with details of horses, jockeys and the odds at the time of print.
‘The starting price is chalked up on the blackboard at the finish line,’ Mr Ting-Lee said. He was studying his own race card and did not look up.
‘Do you want to put a bet on the first race ?’ Song whispered to Hannah. He pressed some money into her hand. ‘Just don’t tell me which horse.’
Hannah walked off towards one of the bookmakers at the edge of the track. Song smiled as he watched her negotiate – her hands waving the bookie down – before returning with a chit. Her face was flushed.
‘Ah, here’s someone who likes to place a bet,’ Mr Ting-Lee said. ‘Women always do. What’s your horse ?’
Hannah caught Song’s eye. ‘It’s a secret,’ she said.
‘Superstitious too, eh ?’ Mr Ting-Lee said, elbowing Song. ‘Follow me. Let me introduce you to the others.’
Mrs Ting-Lee was as warm and welcoming as her husband. She put a rum punch in Hannah’s hand and gave her a chit. ‘We put a bet on for you since it’s your first time,’ she said. ‘Duke of York is a super runner, especially with young Robin on his back. One of the exciting new jockeys.’
‘Too late,’ her husband said, nodding towards Hannah. ‘This one’s already given a bookie a very hard time.’
Mrs Ting-Lee caught sight of the chit in Hannah’s hand and looked deflated. ‘Oh, you already have one.’
‘Two is twice as lucky,’ Hannah said. ‘I didn’t choose the Duke of York so you’ve just doubled my chances.’
‘What’s your horse ?’ Mrs Ting-Lee asked.
Her husband cut in. ‘It’s a secret. Superstitious like you.’
Mrs Ting-Lee laughed. ‘He’s right. I never used to tell anybody my picks but I lost enough to realise it didn’t matter a jot. You keep it to yourself though. We all have our oddities at the racetrack. I always wear blue.’
Song watched Hannah looked up and down Mrs Ting-Lee but didn’t see anything of the colour blue.
Mrs Ting-Lee flashed her a smile. ‘Somewhere.’
Mr Ting-Lee introduced Song to their other friends in the box. In addition to Dr Patel and his wife, who they were already close to, there were the Chungs, who owned a jewellery shop, and the de Waagens, who ran the hardware store on Fullers Street; Song felt a cool reception from both couples.
‘Song is the man everyone is talking about,’ Mr Ting-Lee said. ‘And this is his lovely – and very lucky – wife, Hannah. She has the secret winning ticket.’
Mrs Chung pointed at Hannah’s bracelet. ‘Lovely thing. From Bartica ?’
‘I don’t know. Song gave it to me before we were married.’
‘Before you were married ?’
‘On our engagement.’
‘Quite a different thing,’ Mrs Chung said. ‘Watch yourself with that kind of talk. There are women in Georgetown who can twist your words up until you no longer recognise them yourself.’
Hannah bit her lip.
‘Don’t worry.’ Mrs Ting-Lee said. ‘There are lots
of lovely people here, too. And so many of them are in our box today. A toast! A toast to our box!’
Everybody raised their glasses.
‘So tell us about this goldmine, Song ?’ Chung said. ‘How much are you bringing out ?’
‘It’s no goldmine,’ Song said. ‘We’re just getting started.’
‘I hear Ebenezer’s buying from you,’ Chung said. ‘He doesn’t like dealing in small amounts.’
Song didn’t want to give anything away. ‘We’re only talking.’
‘He’s a funny fellow. Lives alone in a tiny rundown apartment. Never seems to spend a penny. He must sleep on a mattress stuffed with money.’
‘And tell me about your jewellery shop,’ Song said.
‘Chung has the best gems in town,’ Mr Ting-Lee said.
‘We get stones cut in Europe and then set them here,’ Chung said. ‘Come by the shop and take a look. How much did you say you were bringing out ?’
‘We don’t have average figures yet,’ Song said.
‘Last month ?’
‘Last month wasn’t a good month.’
Chung pressed him. ‘The month before ?’
‘It’s early days.’
Mrs Chung interrupted their exchange. ‘Stop harassing the man,’ she said to her husband. She turned to Hannah. ‘You must come around for ladies’ mahjong some afternoon. Do you play ?’
Hannah shook her head.
‘It’s ever so easy. But hard to play well, of course. I’ll teach you. Everyone will be dying to meet you.’
Song was glad to see Hannah making friends. At that instant there was a gunshot and the crowd moved towards the barrier. Hannah stretched up on her tiptoes but their group was too far back for her to see. The cantering came closer. The ground rumbled as the horses thundered by.
‘Were you able to see ?’ Hannah said excitedly, turning to Song.
‘Not a thing,’ he replied. He was looking up at the second tier of boxes, a good fifteen feet above their heads, with panoramic views of the track. He could see the Stewarts from the tax office. There was the governor and Mrs Johnson, alongside a man he assumed might be Mr Bolton, the new governor that Johnson had described. He didn’t look so stern. In fact, he was laughing at that moment. But Song knew the sort of man that the governor had hinted at. A man determined to keep wealth and power in the hands of the colonialists. Resentful at anyone else’s success. Song knew they wanted a man like him to remain trapped by the station of his birth.
‘Ting-Lee, do you mind me asking how much you pay for your box ?’ Song said.
‘Six dollars a year. Best money I spend. Business expense, of course.’
Song pointed up to the second tier of boxes. ‘How about those ?’
‘Same price,’ Mr Ting-Lee said. ‘But it’s not about money up there.’
‘What’s it about ?’
‘Your last name, your friends, the colour of your skin.’
Song thought about himself, with an assumed last name, the wrong friends, certainly not the right skin colour.
Mrs Ting-Lee came squealing up to the group. ‘You won, Hannah. The Duke of York won.’
‘Really ?’ Hannah said. ‘But it was your pick. The ticket’s yours.’
Mrs Ting-Lee put her arm through Hannah’s. ‘I picked it for you. It’s a sign.’
Hannah went to collect the winnings and with them bought a round of rum punches for the box. The group toasted her victory; as they raised their glasses, Song looked around, feeling heartened. The Ting-Lees were generous hosts and it was fun to be out with Hannah like this. Everyone warmed to her. And this wasn’t gambling like he knew it from Bartica, the hard drinking, desperate kind, this was frippery.
‘You were right, you know,’ Song said, under his breath. ‘Everybody’s here.’
‘And I won,’ Hannah said.
Song pointed upwards. ‘Next time I’ll get a box so you can watch your horse come in.’
CHAPTER 27
Song felt the passage of time more slowly in Georgetown and he was glad to hear Edward Hoare had arrived on the ferry from Bartica. Edward sent word to Sugar House inviting Song that evening to the British Club for a drink. As the hour approached Song began to have doubts.
‘But you already know most of these men,’ Hannah said.
Song adjusted his tie. ‘Not like this. It’ll catch them off guard if Edward hasn’t warned them. Which, knowing him, he probably hasn’t.’
‘You’re his guest,’ Hannah said, choosing some cufflinks. ‘It’s up to him who he brings. If you feel uncomfortable come home.’
‘I’ll see it through.’
Hannah took Song’s chin in her grasp and turned it towards her. ‘I think you want to catch them off guard.’
Song thought how well Hannah knew him.
Song reached the club a few minutes early and hung back.
‘Loitering ?’ Edward said, as he approached.
‘I thought I’d let you arrive first,’ Song said. ‘I didn’t want a scene before the first drink.’
Edward chuckled. ‘I’d quite like a scene.’
‘I thought as much,’ Song said.
The two men walked in together. The bellman glanced at Song and looked nervous. ‘You’ll have to sign in your guest, Mr Hoare,’ he said.
‘Damn paperwork,’ Edward sighed. He wrote Song’s name in the visitors’ book.
Inside the club there was a large noisy room with smoke hanging low like river mist. Men sat in pairs upon red leather sofas speaking softly and drinking from glass tumblers. At the far end was the bar. Song and Edward headed across the room. There was whispering in their wake. Song envied Edward’s natural ease, or his naïveté.
‘A whisky,’ Edward said to the barman.
‘And a tonic,’ Song said.
The noise level slowly picked up again. Song knew almost everyone in the room by face.
‘Business crowd are in the pale suits,’ Edward said. ‘Civil servants in the dark suits. Latter think they’re running the country. Former actually are.’
Song smiled at Edward’s observations. He thought how Edward didn’t belong here either.
‘It’s the same crowd, wherever you go,’ Edward continued. ‘That’s the problem with the colonies. You can’t get away. Except in Bartica, of course. No one here would want to be posted there.’
‘Is that why you’re in Bartica ?’ Song asked. ‘To get away.’
‘It’s one of the reasons. Of course, there isn’t a Mrs Hoare either. I guess that would keep me in a place like Georgetown. But I like my own company. I’d always preferred doing my own thing. I’ve never fitted into places like this. I mean, look around you.’
Edward was right. The men around them were noisy, the brash sort, nothing like Edward.
‘There are the big drinkers; they’re always good fun, of course,’ Edward continued. ‘Married men with good intentions. Married men with bad intentions. There are the good-looking single ones, bloody good at tennis, and sleeping with bored wives who insist to their husbands they want to improve their serve. The husbands are too proud or too ashamed to address it. Keeping it on an even keel. The problem with this place is that people have too much time. Boredom breeds mischief. Messages from London take so long to reach us – and besides they’re so out of touch there with what’s really going on here – that we just do what we can to keep everything on the same old heading, which honestly doesn’t take more than five minutes’ work a day. An even keel, a steady course. You don’t want to show any initiative and stick your neck out. That could get you in trouble in the colonies.’
‘My father used to say something like that.’ Song thought how long it had been since he’d started rejecting that advice.
Edward continued talking about his other postings, in Colombo (‘remarkably similar to Guiana’) and Barbados (‘much closer, geographically speaking, but wholly different’), and how he didn’t regret not marrying but was sorry to have missed out on having children (�
�life centres around work and whisky for men like me’).
Song let his eyes move around the room. He saw Mr Burford, the husband of the woman who had objected to Song living with Father Holmes. He was on the sofa talking intensely to Mr Stewart, Millie’s father. In walked Governor Bolton and both men stood to greet him. Song also recognised Mr Boyle, who he thought would probably no longer remember the altercation between his wife and Father Holmes. How she had told Father Holmes that Song should have been ‘out cutting cane, not reading books’. Song remembered hiding in the shadows before he disappeared into the night, angry but frightened, too. He could still hear the distant sound of Father Holmes calling his name, conscious that he might be sent back to the plantation. Song wasn’t afraid any more; he would never run again.
One of the men tapped his glass and the room hushed.
Edward lowered his voice. ‘Deputy secretary. Not sure of his name. New, I think.’
‘Gentlemen,’ the man said. ‘I want to make you aware that we are still raising money for the swimming pool. Now I know you already know this, but I’m sorely disappointed by your shallow depths of generosity.’ There was a ripple of laughter. ‘Dig deep, gentlemen. This is a community project. It’s also my personal mission to get the ladies wearing fewer clothes. What do you say to that ?’ There was a cheer. ‘There’ll be a box on the table.’
It was this hypocrisy Song found so distasteful about these men: they thought one thing, lived another, preached something else. They’d sit in the front pew at church, condemning the sinners, and pretending to be pious, to be perfect. Bartica was wholly different. There was no shamming, perhaps because there was little shame attached to sinning.
‘They won’t be getting anything from me,’ Edward mumbled.
They had a second drink and then Song made his excuses.
‘Thank you for inviting me, but I should get back. Besides, I don’t want to get you thrown out.’
Edward scoffed. ‘We’re allowed guests. You could probably buy the club if you wanted to.’
‘That’s an idea,’ Song winked. ‘By the way, I’ll be heading back to Bartica soon. Will that tie in with your plans ?’
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