The Sun Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  Archer brought the car to a halt. Along the street, Cecily could see an imposing gothic church, where a large crowd of protesters had already gathered outside. He stepped out to open the door for her.

  ‘I’ll park up at the end of the street, on the corner of Lenox Avenue, just across from here,’ he pointed. ‘If there’s any trouble, you come a-runnin’ and I’ll be waitin’, okay? You sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes, Archer, thank you, I’m meeting up with friends,’ she said with far more confidence than she felt, as she walked away from him towards the crowd.

  She surveyed the mass of people, many of whom were holding handwritten placards bearing slogans such as ‘EQUAL RIGHTS!’ and ‘HOUSING FOR ALL!’. Her heart in her mouth, Cecily walked hesitantly towards the crowd, who were all facing a raised platform that had been set up as a stage on the sidewalk outside the church.

  ‘There you are!’ Rosalind’s familiar voice cut through the clamour. Cecily turned to see her new friend approaching her, dressed in a pair of slacks and a man’s coat. ‘I’m so glad you came,’ Rosalind said. ‘The others were already taking bets on whether you’d turn up or not. This is my husband Terrence,’ she said, gesturing to the tall black man beside her.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Cecily,’ he said, shaking her hand and smiling warmly at her. ‘We appreciate your support.’

  Cecily wasn’t surprised to see that she was one of very few white people present, but she was greeted with smiles as the other protesters stepped out of her way politely. A few were holding flasks of coffee to ward off the cold, and Cecily saw that one woman had a baby strapped to her chest.

  ‘How long will this go on for?’ she whispered to Rosalind.

  ‘Oh, just an hour or so,’ Rosalind replied cheerfully. ‘It’s a great turnout – Beatrix is a marvel at getting people motivated. And look, here she is!’

  Beatrix appeared beside them, her eyes shining with excitement, her dark hair braided tightly against her scalp. ‘Cecily! It’s wonderful you came! I . . .’

  Beatrix was drowned out by a roar from the crowd as three men stepped onto the stage. Cecily recognised Mayor O’Dwyer from the photos in the New York Times. Two other white men stood beside him, one of whom was dressed in the regalia of a police chief and was glowering at the placards.

  ‘Harlem! ’Tis an honour to be here!’ Mayor O’Dwyer began in his strong Irish accent, and the crowd cheered in response. Cecily looked around at the gathered faces, and felt suddenly galvanised. Here were people who were passionate about creating a better world; she had not felt such exhilaration and hope around her since the VE-Day celebrations in Nairobi. Beatrix handed her a placard that read ‘HARLEM IS NOT A GHETTO!’ and Cecily proudly held it aloft. She listened to Mayor O’Dwyer’s speech, which promised housing reforms and better funding for schools, and blinked as a reporter’s flashbulb went off close by.

  As people began to jostle forward for a better view, an elbow knocked Cecily from behind, and Rosalind reached out to steady her as she stumbled. Despite the frosty air, Cecily felt sweat gathering at the back of her neck and realised how tightly packed the audience was.

  As the police chief stepped up to the microphone, a ripple of unease spread through the crowd and Cecily shivered. She craned her neck to see how far the crowd extended to either side of her, and was shocked to see a ring of police officers surrounding them, their hands on their wooden nightsticks, their faces inscrutable under their blue caps.

  ‘Why are the police here?’ she whispered to Rosalind.

  ‘Just stick with me and Terrence, you’ll be safe,’ Rosalind whispered back.

  ‘Murderers!’ Beatrix spat. ‘Those cops attacked Robert Bandy – shot him when he was unarmed and just trying to save a woman’s life. Goddamn pigs!’

  A wave of anger began to emanate from around them, and Cecily took in a gulp of air as the crowd was pressed in on itself further by the police officers. Cecily could no longer hear the speeches from the stage, only the cries of dismay from the woman near her whose baby began wailing in its sling as she tried to shield it from the crush of bodies.

  Screams filled the air. A man pushed her aside to escape a police officer who was coming towards him with his nightstick held aloft. The man raised his placard in defence, but was struck down until he lay sprawled in the dirty street, protecting his head from the continued blows. Cecily heard a shrill whistle and the whinny of horses and looked up to see that mounted police officers were advancing on the protesters, many of whom were now running away.

  ‘Cecily! Stay close!’ Beatrix grabbed her hand and guided her towards a gap in the line of police. Cecily followed Beatrix blindly, her heart thumping as she ran, dodging other protesters who were also seeking safety. She tried to ignore the cries of pain and the sickening thuds of nightsticks colliding with human bodies. With a sudden wrench, Cecily found herself knocked to the ground and looked up to see Beatrix being restrained by two police officers. She was fighting like a wild cat, her curls breaking free from her braids as she was dragged away.

  ‘No! Beatrix!’ Cecily shouted, trying to get up as pain shot through her ankle. ‘Stop! She’s done nothing wrong!’

  She sat looking around in shock and bewilderment. What had begun as a peaceful, orderly gathering had descended into chaos. ‘Archer,’ she murmured as she tried to remember where he’d said he would wait for her. She attempted to stand, but her ankle gave way as a fresh wave of protestors stampeded towards her.

  Just as she thought she might be trampled where she sat, she heard a deep male voice from above her.

  ‘Can you walk?’ She looked up to see a white man towering over her.

  ‘My ankle . . .’

  ‘Take my hand.’

  Cecily did so, and the man pulled her to standing. Then, with his arm supporting her, he began to guide her through the crowd.

  ‘My driver . . . he’s waiting for me on Lenox, over there at the end of the street,’ she managed to gasp as her senses returned to her.

  ‘Then let’s get you out of here fast; it looks like things are about to get even uglier.’

  All around them, violent skirmishes were breaking out as the protestors rallied and began to fight back.

  As they neared the intersection of West 138th and Lenox, Cecily spotted the Chrysler and pointed to it. ‘There’s Archer!’ she yelled above the melee. The man swept her into his arms and ran with her to the car, wrenching open the rear door as they reached it.

  ‘Thank the Lord you’re safe, Miss Cecily!’ shouted Archer, starting the engine. ‘Let’s get outta here!’

  ‘You take care, ma’am,’ the man said as he lowered Cecily into the seat. As he was about to shut the door, Cecily stopped him, seeing two policemen with nightsticks heading towards the car.

  ‘Archer, wait! Get in now!’ she screamed to the man, mustering her remaining strength as she reached out to grasp his arm and pull him inside, just as the policemen charged forward to grab him. ‘Go, Archer! Go, go, go!’

  Archer gunned the engine and the car sped off.

  As the Chrysler pulled away from the nightmare scene they had left behind, the three occupants breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for your help . . .’ Cecily ventured.

  ‘It’s nothing. I should thank you for yours just then.’ The man was leaning back in the seat, his eyes half closed.

  ‘Can we take you somewhere? Where do you live?’ she asked.

  ‘Just drop me at the nearest subway stop.’

  ‘We’re just coming up to 110th Street station,’ Archer interjected.

  ‘That will suit me fine,’ the man said.

  Archer pulled the car over.

  ‘Can I at least take your name?’ Cecily said.

  The man hesitated for a moment, then reached into his pocket and handed her a card, before getting out of the car and slamming the door behind him.

  Cecily woke up two days later, her ankle still throbbing
with pain, despite the ice packs she had placed on it during the night. On their return from the protest, dirtied and hobbling, Cecily had sworn Archer to absolute secrecy. He had hesitantly promised not to speak of the event to her parents.

  ‘If I’m not oversteppin’ my place, Miss Cecily, it might not be a good idea to get involved with those kinda things again,’ he’d said as they’d sat outside the house whilst Cecily composed herself, genuine concern in his eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Archer, but I’m old enough to know what I’m doing,’ she’d replied curtly. ‘And someone has to stand up to inequality, don’t they?’

  ‘So long as you keep safe, Miss Cecily. But that ain’t your battle to fight. You’re a lady.’

  Dorothea had been dismayed at the state she was in, and Cecily had quickly fabricated an elaborate lie about tripping on a subway grate, before gingerly taking the stairs up to the attic floor to find Stella with Lankenua. Stella had run into her arms and Cecily had gripped her tightly.

  ‘Why are you so dirty, Kuyia? Where have you been?’

  ‘That’s not important, honey,’ Cecily had said, smiling down at Stella. ‘I’m simply happy to see you.’

  There was a tap on her bedroom door and Evelyn entered with a tray of coffee and toast. She laid it on Cecily’s lap, then checked on her ankle, which was propped up on a pillow.

  ‘It’s lookin’ much better, miss,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Evelyn,’ Cecily said, regarding her with new eyes. ‘Evelyn?’

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘Do you like working for my family?’

  ‘Why, what a question, Miss Cecily! I’ve been doin’ it so long now, since you was a little girl.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Evelyn, but don’t you wish you’d had other opportunities?’

  There was a pause, then Evelyn said cheerfully, ‘I’m very grateful to have this opportunity. I’ve been happy to serve your family, Miss Cecily. Ain’t you happy with my work?’

  ‘Of course I am! I’m sorry,’ Cecily said helplessly. ‘I just . . . Oh, don’t worry, Evelyn, I’m being silly.’

  ‘You just ring the bell if you need anythin’, Miss Cecily.’

  Evelyn left the room and Cecily let her head fall back against her pillows. Since the horrific events of the protest, her entire world view had turned on its axis. She could not stop seeing the terrified faces of the protesters being taken by force by the police, and the sheer, outrageous injustice of it all. At least Rosalind had telephoned yesterday to let her know that Beatrix and some dozen other protesters had finally been released from jail.

  ‘It was a hefty bail, but our lawyer spoke to the judge and got them a good deal. It’s the second strike against Beatrix, so she has to be more careful in the future.’

  ‘That could have been Stella who got attacked, just because of the colour of her skin. What kind of world do we live in . . .?’ Cecily said softly to herself now.

  A world that benefits you, her mind replied. And why was that? Simply the fact that she was rich and privileged and white.

  Please stand with us, Beatrix had said to her.

  Cecily looked out of her bedroom window where she could see snow covering Central Park in a downy white blanket. Everything looked at peace in this small part of New York, but now that she had been exposed to another side of it – one marred by suffering and oppression – nothing could ever be the same again. She remembered seeing the pictures of German concentration camps liberated by American soldiers at the end of the war, her tears of shock falling onto the newspaper, her mind scrambling to comprehend such cruelty. And yet now she knew that, just like in Kenya, only a short drive from her front door, people’s lives were filled daily with similar injustice.

  ‘People believe it’s the land of the free, and yet we don’t do a darned thing about righting the wrongs for them once they’re here,’ she whispered.

  As she ate her toast, a bubble of tense energy filled her chest and she felt desperate to speak with Rosalind and Beatrix. She couldn’t imagine discussing any of these thoughts with her sisters, let alone her father – or worse, her mother. If only Dorothea had seen her at the protest, standing shoulder to shoulder with the ‘Negroes’ – whose babies she worked to raise money for, but who were no more welcome in her home as a guest on an equal footing than the average fat sewer rat.

  ‘But it’s true, I’m not one of them,’ she reminded herself, as she drank her coffee. So why did she feel this fire, this need to fight for justice for what she had witnessed in Harlem two days ago?

  Because you love the child you call your daughter, her senses told her. And you must fight for her and others like her, because she cannot . . .

  Later that day, Cecily took a few hesitant steps and found that her ankle could bear weight again. While her mother was taking her afternoon rest, which had grown longer and longer in the weeks since Kiki’s death, Cecily dressed Stella in her room and let the little girl admire herself in the full-length mirror.

  ‘Where are we going, Kuyia?’ Stella asked as she adjusted the collar on her red coat.

  ‘A school, with lots of other little children just as bright as you. Would you like to meet them?’

  ‘Yes!’ Stella squealed. ‘Can I take Lucky to meet everyone too?’ She gripped the stuffed lion by its mane.

  ‘Of course you can,’ Cecily said.

  Archer brought the car to a halt outside of Rosalind’s brownstone. The snow had only recently stopped and had not yet had a chance to turn to slush, so Stella laughed in delight as she made small, perfect footsteps up the stoop to the front door.

  ‘Thank you, Archer.’

  ‘No problem, Miss Cecily. I’ll be waitin’, so whenever you’re ready,’ he said, giving her a wink. It seemed that the secret between them had also forged a bond.

  Cecily lifted Stella so she could use the heavy bronze knocker. Rosalind opened the door and greeted Cecily with a warm hug.

  ‘Welcome, sister,’ she whispered into Cecily’s ear. ‘And you must be Stella,’ she said, crouching down and extending her hand.

  Overcome with shyness, Stella hid behind Cecily’s legs.

  ‘It’s okay, honey,’ Cecily encouraged her. ‘Rosalind is a friend of mine, and she’ll introduce you to all the other children.’

  Hesitantly, Stella took Rosalind’s hand and allowed her to lead them through to the back of the large house, until they reached an airy room with French doors that opened onto a small patch of garden. It had been converted into a schoolroom of sorts, with a blackboard faced by five small wooden desks. Bookshelves filled with exercise books and primers, stationery and toys lined one side of the room, whilst another wall was dedicated to times tables, a map of New York and pictures of animals drawn by childish hands.

  ‘Who’s your friend, Stella?’ Rosalind asked.

  ‘This is Lucky,’ Stella said, lifting the lion.

  Rosalind petted his fur appreciatively. ‘He’s very beautiful, I’m honoured that you brought him. Now, have you been to a school before?’

  ‘No, but Kuyia teaches me.’ She looked up at Cecily, who nodded encouragingly. ‘“Kuyia” means “Aunt”,’ she explained to Rosalind, who then led Stella to a small reading corner, where cushions were strewn on a play mat, and they sat down together. Cecily watched with pride as Stella became animated as Rosalind asked her questions, then reached for one of the picture books on the shelf beside them. Stella began to read aloud the passages that Rosalind pointed to.

  Cecily sat down at one of the small desks, as Rosalind took Stella through some basic arithmetic, then some logic questions, which Stella answered with ease. After thirty minutes, Rosalind suggested that Stella meet the other children, and she jumped up eagerly. They were led downstairs and into a large kitchen where four children were eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at an old oak table.

  ‘Say hello to Stella, everyone!’ Rosalind called, and the boys and girls stood up shyly to welcome her. Cecily watched as Stella smiled widely and w
ent to sit at the table next to Rosalind’s daughter, who was introduced as Harmony, her hair styled in curly, ribboned bunches, and gave her half of her sandwich.

  ‘So, it would just be you and me teaching at the moment,’ Rosalind said quietly to Cecily as they watched the children giggling together at the table. ‘If the school’s a success, I hope to expand. My thoughts are that I’d fund it by asking some of my more well-off Negro friends who are hungry to get a decent education for their kids to pay, which would enable us to take on the brighter kids whose parents can’t afford to do so.’

  ‘That’s a great plan. You’ve really thought this all through,’ Cecily said, full of admiration for her new friend.

  ‘Well, since I’m home here with Harmony anyway, I might as well put my degree to good use. So, tell me more about Stella. It’s obvious she’s a bright spark and adores you.’

  Cecily watched to make sure Stella was fully occupied, then indicated the two of them should move out of earshot.

  ‘I actually found her when she was only a few hours old, left for dead in the woods on my farm in Kenya. I took her home and, well,’ Cecily sighed, ‘it’s hard to explain, but it was love at first sight. My husband was shocked when I said I wanted to care for her, to bring her up as our own, but he came round to the idea and we hatched a plan so that we could.’

  Cecily explained Lankenua’s arrival in their lives and how Stella believed she was her mother.

  ‘Of course, no one else knows the truth, Rosalind. My mama would simply die if she got wind of the real state of the relationship, but it’s the best we can do.’