by Sharon Maas
She left the house through the front gate. Ram, the East Indian gardener, on his knees as he worked on the weeds in the front garden, stared as she walked past and placed his palms together, bowing his head as if in deference to some Hindu goddess. Other people stared too; pedestrians on the middle walk of Waterloo Street, and people on bicycles riding past on Lamaha Street, pointing and laughing. She did not care. She opened the gate to the Quint residence. Their gardener, Singh, doffed his straw hat as she walked past, head held high. It was the first time she had ever entered through the front gate.
Up the bifurcated front staircase. Another first; it had always been the back stairs and the kitchen for her. Always secretly, covertly, always in hiding, in shame and fear. All that was at an end. She rapped sharply at the door. A few seconds later, it opened.
‘Hello, Humphrey!’ she said in greeting. Humphrey’s jaw fell open like a gaping fish, and his eyes bulged as she walked past him into the gallery. She threw him a friendly smile in passing; she knew how much Humphrey cared for her, and how shy he was and in need of kindness. She always gave it when she could. Humphrey had only recently returned from Law studies at the University of London, and was currently completing an internship in a Georgetown law firm. If he’d volunteered for the war effort he’d have to give that up.
Most of the others sat at the breakfast table; six or seven brothers, their parents, and Pa. Leo was missing; Leo had recently married and his young wife was pregnant. He’d be with her now. All the brothers were either in their first jobs or finishing off various studies. Young men in the prime of youth, none of them ready for war. It was a travesty. All looked up as she marched into the dining area, bulging pillowcase in hand, followed by a still gaping Humphrey. A collective gasp of shock greeted her. Freddy sprang to his feet.
‘Dorothea! Your hair...!’ he cried
She glanced at him and resisted the temptation to fly to him and throw her arms around him. Instead, her eyes sought Ma Quint’s.
‘Ma,’ she said, ‘I left my parents. I can’t live there no more. I’m going to have Freddy’s baby. Can I move in here with you?’
A moment of shocked silence followed these words. And for a split second Dorothea feared she had done everything wrong. Her courage and sense of freedom this morning – it was all illusion; she was a bad girl. A fallen woman, a harlot, as Pa would say. Freddy had used her. Ma Quint would hate her. The Quint brothers would mock her. Father Quint would throw her out for intrusion. It was all a huge mistake …
And then Ma Quint stood up, pushed back her chair, walked around the table and placed her arms around Dorothea, who buried her face in her shoulder and smelled the sweetness of her hair and the warmth of her body, and knew she had come home. At last, Ma Quint released her, and, holding her at arm’s length, regarded her, squinting.
‘My, Dorothea, I always said you were a pretty girl and now we can all see for ourselves – what a noble head you have! But you’ve got to grow back that hair of yours, right? We’ll find a nice flattering wig for you till then. And you know you’re welcome here; you know you’re my daughter. But it’s not as easy as that. You’re still a minor – your father must be dealt with, and there are legal ramifications. But we’ll talk about that afterwards, when we’re alone. And now, I’m sure you must be hungry. There’s Leo’s chair, sit there. And have some coffee.’
* * *
After breakfast, Ma Quint took Dorothea upstairs to her room, sat her down on the bedside, and took her hand.
‘Now, dear. You tell me all about it. Don’t be afraid or ashamed. You know me.’
So Dorothea told her.
‘So,’ said Ma Quint, when she’d finished. ‘It was just the one time?’
Dorothea nodded. Tears bulged in her eyes; they’d been rising steadily all morning and pressed urgently for release. Dorothea fought them back.
‘Then why do you think you’re pregnant?’
‘You said, you told me … how to not get a baby. We didn’t do that. We didn’t use anything.’
‘So, no protection? None at all? Not even … withdrawal?’
‘No. See, Ma, I want a baby. Freddy’s baby. If he’s going off to war I want this from him! And I told him so.’
‘Aha. Now tell me dear, when did Aunty Flo last come to visit?’
Dorothea frowned. ‘I don’t know … can’t remember. Does it matter?’
‘Yes dear, of course it does. Weren’t you paying attention when I explained it all to you? A woman has to keep track of these things, whether she wants a baby at all costs, or it’s the last thing she wants. So we need to figure out your chances of being with child.’
Dorothea thought back, and when she had a notion, told Ma Quint, who shook her head, and squeezed Dorothea’s hand.
‘If that’s the case, my dear, then it’s very unlikely that you conceived. We should know in a few days.’
The first tears leaked out of Dorothea’s eyes. ‘You mean … you don’t think it worked? But I so want … I want so much … I thought …’
And then she gave up the struggle and the floodgates opened. Ma Quint held her until it was all over, crooning words of comfort, a strong hand held against her back. At last the reservoir of tears dried up and Dorothea drew away.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m such a baby. And you’re so strong, I mean, your boys, all of them, not just Freddy … going off to fight. How can you bear it?’
‘A woman can learn to cry inside,’ was all Ma Quint said. ‘I offer my tears to God, and He dries them. And now, dear, let’s take care of you; there’s more we need to discuss. Come with me.’
Ma Quint led her into the bathroom and poured her a basin of cold water from the jug. Ma Quint washed her face with soap, and handed her a fluffy white towel. They returned to the bedroom and sat down again on the side of the bed.
‘What I’m thinking,’ Ma Quint said, ‘Is that you and Freddy better get married before he leaves. He’s got a few weeks left before he sails. I’ve been thinking that’s the best solution, because we do need your father’s permission and if you’re not pregnant he knows now what you’ve done and getting married is the only way to make that right; in his eyes, at least. And to get his permission for you to move in here. It’s also important for your reputation; you can’t live here in a houseful of young men and preserve your good name. People will talk.’
‘I don’t care about my reputation!’ Dorothea said fiercely. ‘That’s why I did this!’ She ran her hand over her bald head. But then her eyes softened. ‘But I do want to marry Freddy. Of course. Do you think we could? Really?’
‘Technically, of course you could. A lot of boys are going to get married before they go off to war. A couple of mine as well, no doubt, not just Freddy. But you do need your parents’ permission. You’re only eighteen.’
Dorothea frowned. ‘Pa won’t give it. I know that. He’s like that.’
‘Not even to make a respectable woman out of you? After all, if you’re living here with Freddy under one roof you’ll be living in sin, in his view. Surely he’ll want to change that.’
Dorothea shook her head. ‘You don’t know Pa. He’ll say, giving me permission would be tantamount to rewarding me for my sin. He’d rather see me burn in hell.’
‘What a strange religion he has!’
‘He’s like that. But I’ve heard somewhere, I read in the papers, that an underage girl can get permission from the courts, if the parents refuse?’
‘It’s true. But, Dorothea, taking the legal route won’t be easy. Much better to get this sorted with your father, to get his agreement.’
And that was how Winnie Quint approached the matter. Wearing her Sunday Best she visited the van Dam house and spoke to Pastor van Dam in her best clipped English accent. She presented the case to him, not mentioning the fact that Dorothea probably wasn’t pregnant; promised to do all she could to avert a scandal – scandal being the thing that Pastor van Dam most feared – and wheedled his permission ou
t of him; and, with the speed of light, in a simple and quiet civil ceremony, attended only by relatives on the bridegroom’s side, Dorothea van Dam married the love of her hitherto short life and became Dorothea Quint.
* * *
Even before that event, Dorothea had had to accept certain conditions imposed by Ma Quint, to which Freddy, surprisingly, and to her great disappointment, agreed. ‘No babies, Dorothea,’ said Ma. ‘If you happen to be pregnant now, then very well, I’ll stand by you. But if not … I can’t have you planning one in cold blood, when Freddy’s about to leave for an undetermined time. You must protect yourself. I’ll take you to my doctor to get you sorted out with a cap.’
‘But …’
‘No buts about it, Dorothea. We don’t know how long this war is going to last or what the outcome will be, God help our souls.’ She crossed herself. ‘A child needs a father, and not having one around isn’t easy – for the child or the mother. You have no idea; you’re almost a child yourself. If you were to have a child then guess who’ll have to be co-mother, and no, I won’t do that deliberately. I’ve had eight boys and that’s enough. No, Dorothea. You must be sensible. I want you to live here with me and wait and pray for Freddy to come back just like I’ll wait and pray for all my boys. We’ll give each other strength, comfort each other, as women in wartime always do.’
And Dorothea had to acquiesce. She believed with all her heart that she was with child, but reason told her she wasn’t. And reason proved correct.
* * *
And so she and Freddy lived together as man and wife. It was a time simultaneously fraught with despair and filled with light; the very knowledge that soon he would be gone dug deep into their beings and gave them a joy that lovers in safer times can never know, a joy made all the stronger and more magical by the knowledge of looming separation.
Most evenings she and Freddy rode to the Sea Wall, Dorothea on the bar of his bicycle, and they would hold hands and gaze out over the ocean and smell the salty air and feel the cool breeze on their skin. Freddy would play his mouth-organ, and the wind would whip the melodies from him and carry them away. The strains of ‘Oh Danny Boy’ would fill her with a melancholy so deep she thought she would burst. And her sorrow carved a hollow in her heart, which the very next moment would fill up with joy; and she grasped that joy while it was all hers. She learned the meaning of living in the present, for the future was too dire to consider. There was only the now, and the need to fill each moment with love; but that love too carved into her being, making room for yet more sorrow to come. But sorrow was in the future and she pushed it away. For now.
* * *
Meanwhile, more mundane matters had to be taken care of, things like visits to doctors and the outfitting of the room she would share with Freddy, and, of course, the buying of a wig. There was no way, Ma Quint said, she could allow Dorothea to leave the house with her head shaved.
‘But it’s important!’ Dorothea pleaded. ‘A symbol of my love for him!’ But Ma Quint was adamant, and that very first afternoon, the wig-outfitter arrived with a selection of styles.
None of the wigs were anything like Dorothea’s original hair. It was as if girls of African descent, should they ever be in need of a wig, snatched at the chance to outwit nature and flaunt a head of good hair, European hair, straight, curly, long, short, brown or even blonde, it didn’t matter as long as it was European. Dorothea chose a wig of black, curly hair that fell heavy to her shoulders and swung as she moved. Mums would have loved it; but there was no Mums to admire her. There was only Ma Quint, mother-in-law and mother of her heart.
* * *
Dorothea continued in school, where rumours of her immoral situation (it was a shotgun marriage, everyone whispered; Dorothea has done it!) soon trickled through and the girls snickered behind her back. The rumours trickled upwards and reached the headmistress, Miss Moody, who summoned her for ‘a little talk’.
Dorothea told her story.
Miss Moody nodded. She had had dealings with Pastor Van Dan in the past, unpleasant dealings. She took Dorothea’s side.
‘Very well, Dorothea,’ she said. ‘Usually, when a girl marries she leaves school and stays home until she has babies. What a waste of brains, I always say. A girl should finish her education before she even thinks of marriage. And in your case, it would be a crying shame; you know you’re among the candidates for the British Guiana Scholarship.’
Tears in her eyes, Dorothea nodded. ‘And if I win?’
‘Then you can go to England and study whatever you want. Under normal circumstances. But with this war on … The scholarships have been suspended, Dorothea. Who knows how long this war will last? If you win, maybe you can go later. But who knows. Who knows.’
* * *
The brothers were called in for their medicals and Humphrey failed his. It was his bad eyesight, and the fact that one leg was slightly shorter than the other that let him down. Ma Quint grasped that failure – Humphrey’s shame – as her single comfort in this dreadful time. Humphrey would be staying; one of her sons was spared the ordeal of war. Dorothea wished with all her heart that Freddy, too had failed. But it was not to be.
Two weeks later, seven Quint brothers boarded the ship that would take them to the war, and Dorothea’s heart broke a final time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DOROTHEA: THE FORTIES
Dorothea tucked her pain into a pocket of her being and returned to work. The day Freddy set sail for the war she plunged into schoolwork with all the passion she could no longer give to him, and passed her final exams with flying colours, top of her year.
She allowed herself not a second’s mourning, not a moment’s self-pity. The indulgence of missing Freddy was not for Dorothea. She looked for a job, and found one right away at the Argosy. She worked for half a year as a cub reporter, specialising in stories on women and children; as the only female reporter it was she they sent out to interview the mothers and the daughters and the wives of the men who made the news. Because, of course, only men made the news. Very soon, Dorothea had her own little column. The first one had been about the lowering of the age of consent for marriage to eighteen.
Encouraged by those articles, women wrote letters to Dorothea. From all over the country, the letters poured in, heartfelt, often desperate letters in which women told of their troubles and confided in her stories of sometimes horrific circumstances. She replied to each one privately, sometimes through the girl’s aunt or cousin. Word spread. More letters came.
She kept her column free of controversy; the time had not yet come. Dorothea found she had a wit of her own, and with that wit tackled serious subjects with a light and breezy tone. And yet, for those who had ears to hear, a coded message was there between the lines. Her knife was yet sheathed. She knew she had to tread carefully. After all, there were men’s toes all around the office. She avoided stepping on them. For the time being.
After six months of this, the Sunday Editor, Mr Braithwaite, called her into his office. They were starting up a Woman’s Page, he told her, and how would she like to be in charge of that page, as Women’s Editor?
She would, indeed. He smirked.
And how would she like to sit on his lap? And did she know how pretty she was?
If she was pretty, Dorothea certainly did not care. Her hair had grown back, of course, but she kept it short, like a man’s, never longer than an inch, moulded to the finely chiselled contours of her head in a tight black cap. With her high forehead and squared chin it gave her a regal aura, that of an Ethiopian queen. The last thing she was interested was sitting on some man’s lap; certainly not her boss’s.
Now, Dorothea slapped Mr Braithwaite’s cheek, right and left, and walked out. She reported the incident to the newspaper’s owner, sent in her resignation, and that very day applied to the Graphic. Would they like a Women’s Page?
Yes, they would. The editor there had been following Dorothea’s stories and liked her style. They’d be delighted to
have her.
Of course, she had to wait out her notice at the Argosy. She let it be known that her very first article at the Graphic would be on the subject of Sexual Harassment of Women in the Workplace. She had a stack of letters, she said, to illustrate her case and now her very own first-hand experience.
Management at the Argosy promised to sack Mr Braithwaite if only Dorothea would stay, and offered her a higher salary than the Graphic. The sacking of Mr Braithwaite being what she wanted, Dorothea decided to stay on.
The new Sunday Editor had not yet quite grasped Dorothea. He wanted her to concentrate on ‘Women’s Issues’: fashion, weddings and children. Dorothea played along, for the time being. The country was in the first throes of its fight for independence, and unless they were directly concerned, readers were more interested in the PPP’s attacks against the British Establishment than in some poor women beaten half to death in a village up the East Coast.
But privately, Dorothea got busy. She now had her own rickety old car, a green Ford Prefect, in which she drove all around town and up and down the coast and to the villages along the Demerara River, visiting women in their homes and intervening where she could.
Through her Women’s Page she built up her connections. She attended functions and made herself known among the Ladies of High Society. And the men. She found out secrets, for people confided in Dorothea. Behind the scenes, she pulled strings and connected wires. She found advocates for her causes in the highest echelons of society.