by Andrew Garve
“The female of the species,” whispered Celeste in Martin’s ear, “is more dangerous than the male.” She had had, he suspected, just one drink too many.
Chapter Five
It was nearly midnight, and the guests had departed. Celeste, wearing a diaphanous nligé, was brushing her hair at the dressing table. Garland, sitting heavily on the edge of one of the twin beds, was watching the rhythmical sweep of her bare arm.
“Shall I do that for you?” he asked presently.
“Oh, would you, darling? Thank you so much. You know how I love having things done to my hair.” Celeste gave a voluptuous wriggle and settled herself comfortably. Her mouth curved into an ironical smile as she studied Garland’s reflection in the mirror, his face serious and intent as a small boy’s as he brushed the hair with long even strokes.
“That was a rather attractive young man you brought along to-night,” she said, just to see the alarm leap into his eyes. “It’s so nice to see a new face. And, above all, a young one.”
Jealousy surged through Garland again. He knew he ought to make some light-hearted remark, but he couldn’t for the life of him. Celeste was the one person in the world, he told himself bitterly, who could undermine his self-confidence.
“I’m sorry you find life so dreary here,” he said coldly.
Celeste laughed. “Oh, I get by,” she said, holding her head farther back for the caress of the brush. It amused her to observe how vulnerable this man was, even after twelve months of her sort of marriage. It was such a pity he wasn’t wealthy as well as respected. Then he’d have made the ideal husband. Perhaps, in her anxiety for status, she had been precipitate. But it wasn’t so easy to find money and the rest, and so far, while there had been plenty of the rest in her life, there certainly hadn’t been much money nor even, until now, the solid professional standing and authority which Garland represented.
“I like this thing you’re wearing,” he said, touching gossamer frills. “It’s new, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Celeste. “Julia Gore brought it back from San Francisco for me. It is rather lush, isn’t it?” She preened herself.
“You always look lovely,” said Garland. The shadowy line of a breast stirred him. “I missed you while I was away.”
“Did you, darling? Naughty thoughts?”
“It wouldn’t be surprising, would it?” he said, resentment breaking through. “That’s about all I do have.”
“Well, darling, really, this heat! And if you will expect me to play the charming hostess so often … What are you going to do during Fiesta?”
His face brightened. “I thought we might spend a few days together in the hills. It would be a change for you.”
“Not the sort of change I want,” said Celeste. “The same people in a different place! I think I’ll stay here and have a nice quiet rest. You’d better go fishing.”
“I don’t mind staying here.”
Celeste stood up. “That will do for my hair to-night, thank you … No, Adrian, it’s sweet of you, but you know you don’t like sitting about doing nothing. I shall be quite all right. It’ll be a relief not to be cluttered up with servants.”
“As you wish,” he said. He recognised the note of finality in her voice. “Perhaps I’ll take West along with me.”
“Now that is a good idea.”
Garland felt an absurd sense of relief. He’d been a fool to worry. Just because she sometimes seemed rather aloof to him, it didn’t necessarily mean that she was hankering after anyone else. He said rather breathlessly, “When this new campaign is over let’s take a plane to Honolulu and have a holiday.”
Celeste swung round in surprise. “Adrian! What’s come over you? Have you been saving up and not telling me?”
“I’ve had a small legacy—from an aunt. Nothing much—a few hundreds. I thought perhaps you’d like to help me spend it.”
Celeste put her arms round his neck. “Darling, what fun! I didn’t know you had an aunt. She must have been frightfully ancient. How soon can we go?”
“In a few weeks.”
“How marvellous of you to think of it! I’ll be able to get some clothes. It’s awfully unsatisfactory having things sent.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re rather sweet to me, aren’t you?”
Garland looked down at her bright eyes. “I’d do anything for you,” he said huskily. “You know that, don’t you?”
Celeste was thinking how like a lovesick boy he was. No one seeing him now would believe that he had a reputation for ruthlessness among men. Even his eyes had lost the steely glint they showed to the world, and were hot and greedy. He didn’t look his age, in spite of that white lock, but he wasn’t her idea of romance. He must be nearly fifty-five. Still, faute de mieux—and the evening had been rather stimulating.…
With an enigmatical smile she loosened the nligé as he took her in his arms.
Chapter Six
Johnson Johnson lived among a collection of shacks known, without intentional irony, as Paradise Heights. The denizens of Paradise had probably received more headlines in the newspapers and been the subject of more speech-making by indignant members of the Legislature than any other body of citizens in the Colony, for the place was a notorious slum. A clearance scheme had long existed on paper, and there, for the lack of funds, it was likely to remain.
From a distance of about one hundred yards, the settlement looked as though it might recently have been hit by a large bomb. It had a dusty, littered, and partially disintegrated appearance. Its site was an almost bare hillside of breakneck steepness, the surface of which was without steps or paths. Deep ruts had been scoured by the heavy rains of the wet season. On this slope had been erected dozens of wooden huts on stilts, many of them now leaning precariously as a result of eroded foundations. The best of them might have been mistaken in a more favoured country for rather neglected henhouses, but the worst gave to the site an appearance of almost unbelievable squalor, being crudely patched with wads of newspaper, bits of cardboard, old rags, rusty corrugated iron, and flattened tins. Most were single rooms, airless, windowless, and dark. In some, no more than ten feet square, two parents and as many as a dozen children might sleep at night. The incidence of tuberculosis was increasing. A Commission of Inquiry, sent out to inquire into the causes of local unrest, had boldly referred to these homes as “unsatisfactory.”
Scattered among the huts, in the interests of hygiene, were numbers of communal wooden privies. Some of these had leaking or overflowing cesspits, so that dark and noxious rivulets trickled down the slope to form stinking pools under the homes of the more luckless.
The Paradise dwellers were class-conscious, but in a way peculiarly their own. Those who lived at the top of the slope, where the rents were higher, were inclined to despise those who lived at the bottom. This was understandable, for in the rainy season it was those at the foot of the hillside who were liable to be swept away by torrents of filthy water and the swirl of accumulated refuse.
In one of the huts at the top of the hill Johnson Johnson stirred and sleepily rubbed his eyes as a ray of morning sunshine sneaked through a crack. For a moment or two after waking he stared around him a little uncertainly. His head ached—Salacity had been generous with the reki after his calypsoes. His slow gaze took in the rickety wooden table, the old rocking chair, the chest of drawers, the ten-year-old insurance calendar on the wall, the magazine picture of a pretty white child that the barber had given him, the banjo hanging on its nail. A contented smile stole over his face. Perhaps it wasn’t much of a shack for twelve shillings a month, but it was better than the one he’d had down the hill before Eke had badgered him into taking the job with Dr. Garland. And at least he wasn’t crowded. He was a smart boy—he’d been careful not to burden himself with a permanent woman.
He was aware of a core of happiness. Those white people had liked his calypsoes. He had been a popular figure—they had applauded him. He had shown them what he could do. They’d
been different from Eke, who looked down on him and thought he was only fit to do odd jobs for Dr. Garland. One day he would show Eke too. Perhaps very soon now, if he continued to study the technique of the “Howler” and “Orpheus” and “Genghiz Khan” and other masters, he’d be making up his own “le’gos”—his own smash-hits. In time, he might even have his own band, and then he’d get big money from the people who ran the calypso huts. After that, perhaps Eke would stop being so superior. Who was Eke, anyway? Just because he’d been lucky and had an education!
Suddenly Johnson remembered what day it was. Of course, this was the day they were going to bury Ephraim. Johnson sat on his plank bed, in his grimy shirt and shorts, hugging his knees and dwelling pleasurably on the prospect. It wouldn’t be a slap-up funeral, of course, not the way it would have been if Ephraim had been a big shot like Eke. A ten-pound one, maybe. Still, there’d be singing and the procession behind the hearse and no doubt a bit of a celebration afterwards.
Johnson wished he could look smarter for the occasion. What a good thing it was that Salacity had managed to beg a pair of old black trousers for him! They’d look all right with the clean white shirt he’d been saving up. And that wasn’t all. He got up carefully, stepped over the grass-filled sack which served him as a pillow, made a little detour round the rotten floorboard, and opened the top drawer of the chest. Lovingly he fingered the black tie that he’d bought for one-and-sixpence. That would show respect. That would show Eke that he knew what was what.
He stripped off his shirt, took up a piece of soap and a bucket, and stepped out of doors in his underpants. The sun was already hot—he reckoned it must be seven o’clock. Paradise was fully awake. O’Connor, the barber, was lounging beside his chair, watching without impatience for early morning customers. A little way down the hill Miss Jones, the dressmaker, was spreading out her washing on boxes, while the three black babies she had inadvertently acquired in the course of a passionate spinsterhood scrabbled happily in the dirt beside the door. Between the huts scores of other children, some naked, most of them bare-foot, a few pot-bellied, were beginning the long day’s play.
Johnson responded amiably to the shouted greeting of his neighbour’s “mistress,” who was routinely engaged in picking lice from her eldest daughter’s woolly head. Most people greeted him in a friendly way in Paradise; he had something of a position there, as a calypsonian. Full recognition had still to come, but at least he was beginning to be appreciated.
He sauntered to the nearest standpipe, idly kicking stones and humming to himself. A comely young Negress named Delta, who had not so far responded to his rather half-hearted advances, was washing her hair at the tap. She pretended not to see him. He seated himself on the ground and waited. He was in no hurry. Presently his fingers began to beat a tattoo upon the hard earth and his bare toes to wriggle in time with the tune which had come into his head. He wished he had brought his banjo.
“A young gel washin’ of her hair
Can’t do nuffin’ ’bout it ef folks stop an’ stare.”
Maybe he could turn that into a “le’go.” He frowned. Popular taste was very uncertain. He watched a lizard peep from under a stone and then skid down the hill with one flick of its tail. He loved watching things; he found everything full of interest. He might lack Eke’s prepossessing exterior, but he had the soul of an artist.
The girl squeezed the water out of her hair and departed unconcernedly. Johnson sighed, filled his bucket at the stand-pipe, poured the water over his head, and began to soap himself. He didn’t take his underpants off; he just soaped over them. The decencies were usually observed in Paradise, and everyone soaped over their underclothes. The sun soon dried them.
Having washed himself, Johnson hummed his way back to the hut. While his shorts dried he went into the lean to kitchen and lit the paraffin stove. He was rather proud of his kitchen; he had built it himself out of old wooden crates, one of which still bore the words “Made in U.S.A.” When the water boiled he made himself some cocoa, emptying the last of his condensed milk into it. With the cocoa, Johnson ate some bread. Then he put on his black trousers, his white shirt, and his precious tie and set off for the church at a loitering pace, for the sun was hot. It was very pleasant to have the morning off. On the way he stopped and had a shoeshine. He decided that when he succeeded in composing a “le’go” he would style himself “Prince Banjo.”
As he had feared, it was only a ten-pound funeral. The church was an obscure building with a rusty iron roof, and forty people inside it made it seem full. Johnson wasn’t a near relative of the deceased, so he contented himself with a modest seat at the back. He saw Eke a couple of pews away, but failed to catch his eye. He felt annoyed at first, but as soon as the service started he forgot about everything else.
When the mourners fell in beside the purple-draped hearse, Johnson established himself at Eke’s side. The great man condescended to nod gravely. A tall Negro in a top hat seated in the back of the hearse behind the coffin wound up an old horn gramophone, and with the first strains of the “Dead March” the cortège started off. This was the part that Johnson liked—the long slow shuffle behind the corpse. It was slow rhythm, but it was rhythm. His step was sedate but springy. People stood on the curb, respectfully watching the solemn black and white men, the fluttering heliotrope women. It was almost as good as being in a pageant. He glanced at Eke, who was sweating profusely. It must be fine to be dressed up like that, thought Johnson—a complete black suit, without a speck of dust on it, and white gloves. Eke had certainly got on in the world. Johnson could remember him, long long ago, also sitting in the dirt of Paradise, also strumming a banjo. Eke wouldn’t like to be reminded of that now.
The ceremony at the graveside was brief but satisfying. After Ephraim had been interred the mourners gathered in a hired room in the town. Johnson continued to stand close to Eke, who at last deigned to address him.
“Well, Johnson,” he said loftily in his fine accent that was so hard to understand, “how are you getting on?”
“Ah’se all right, Eke, man,” said Johnson.
Dubois frowned. He very much disliked being called Eke. Perhaps it was too much to hope that his old intimates would drop the name, but the trouble was that it had spread into circles where he expected to be called MacPhearson Dubois—or at least Dubois. The familiarity jarred on him.
“A dignified farewell to poor old Ephraim,” he observed.
Johnson nodded, his mouth full of sandwich. “Ah bin like fo’ to see de way dey open dey mout whan dey bin sing de song ‘Fight de Good Fight’.”
“Very stirring,” said Dubois. “Well, is Dr. Garland satisfied with you? You’ve not been wasting your time, I hope.”
“De wuk’s mo ’ ard dan clark’s job,” said Johnson sadly. “Ah cuts de grass an’ grows de wegetables an’ cleans de auto an’ sometimes ah goes fishin’ wid Dr. Garlan’. Aw Gawd, yo shud see dem fishes wha we ketch.”
Dubois regarded him coldly. “It’s a pity you can’t learn to talk the King’s English,” he said.
Johnson looked crestfallen. “Yo tink ah’s foolish an’ hignorant?”
“I think you’re lazy. I’m told you spend most of your time sleeping.”
“Wha yo tark ain’t true,” said Johnson indignantly. “Who bin tel yo dat? Ah ony sleeps whan ah’s tired.” His expression became sullen, but only for a moment. “Las’ night ah sings calypso fo’ Doctor Garlan’s frien’s.”
Dubois shook his head in disapproval. “That strumming will never get you anywhere. There are too many good-for-nothings in this Colony who think they can make a living by calypso. You must learn to work hard, and then you’ll get on.”
“Dey say dey wan calypso an’ mek me fo’ to sing,” Johnson protested. “Anyways, yo aw wrong ’bout calypso. Ah’s goin’ fo’ to be big calypsonian. Ah ain’t so chupit as you tink. Yo tink ah sleeps al de day an’ al de night but dat ain’t so tal. Ah sits up in de mango tree an’ ah listens. Ah ’ea
rs wha plenty mens say. P’raps ah sing calypso ’bout um.”
“Eavesdroppers always come to a bad end,” said Dubois sententiously. “And what do you hear, pray? Nothing of any significance, I’m quite sure.”
Johnson felt flattered by this faint stirring of interest, and searched his mind for scandal.
“Ah ’ears ’ bout de feller Salacity bin cosy wid de dark out night.”
Dubois smiled. “You surprise me.”
Johnson was further encouraged. It was pleasant to surprise Eke. He dug deeper into his memory, “An’ ah ’ears all ’bout dat deh leper place an’ wha dem peoples going fo’ to do deh.”
“You could have read all about that much more safely in the newspapers. One day you’ll fall out of that tree.”
“Ah knows tings yo nah know ’bout deh leper place,” said Johnson, provoked. “Doctor Garlan’ ’e tark wid dat man wha come from Australy ’bout deh leper folk. Deh tark ’bout all de new ’ouse an’ tings dey goin’ fo’ to mek dey at Tacri an’ de Australy mans ’e say ’e give fifty tousan’ pound.”
“That’s a likely story,” said Dubois. “You mean Rawlins, the contractor? He wouldn’t give a penny. He’s a very smart business man, not a philanthropist.”
“An nah childs, ah growns up,” said Johnson. “De fifty tousand pound nah fo’ lepers, et fo’ Doctor Garlan’.”
Dubois face suddenly lost its bantering look. He dropped his voice and said in a sharp tone, “You’d better be careful what you’re saying, Johnson. You ought to be ashamed of yourself after the way Dr. Garland’s helped you. If you talk like that, you’ll soon find yourself in jail.”
Johnson looked hurt. “Nah don’t go fo’ to put yo fut ’pon me. Ah won’t lan’ in jail, please Gawd. Doctor Garlan’ ’e very good mans. Wan de Australy mans say ’e give fifty tousand pound, Doctor Garlan’ ’e shek is ’ead.”
“I tell you, Johnson, you mustn’t talk like this. The whole thing would be against the law. Rawlins would never have said a thing like that.”