by Sharon Maas
‘What can we do?’ I whispered. ‘I feel so helpless!’
She nodded. That was the worst of it; the knowledge that there was not one thing she or I could do. But I had to do something; if only to assuage the appalling sense of guilt.
‘We must do something!’ I said. ‘I know we can’t change things – but there must be something we can do to help? To show, at least, that we care?’
‘I know.’
We stood there, hands clasped, staring at each other. Beyond the veranda’s balustrade the rain continued to sluice down. Dry and safe, we were; but all I wanted, right now, was to run through the rain screaming every last breath from my lungs. I hated my bubble. Hated my privilege. Hated my very skin. My perfect bubble of paradise – well, it was pierced, and could never again be whole.
We breakfasted in glum silence. Lessons that morning passed by as in a dream; if Yoyo was anything like me then she too was listening far more to the thunder of the rain on the rooftop than to the drone of Miss Wright’s voice. I racked my brain for that one little gesture of guilt-assuaging solidarity that would, perhaps patch one of the holes in my once-perfect world.
Then I had an idea, and after class I shared it with Yoyo. ‘Their clothes must get soaking wet,’ I reasoned. ‘Wouldn’t it be helpful if at least they had some dry clothes to change into? Why don’t we give them our old dresses from the charity box? At least the women would be helped that way.’
‘But they don’t wear dresses,’ Yoyo answered. ‘They wear saris!’
‘Surely if you’re soaking wet you’ll wear anything you can get your hands on! I think we should just do it. Or do you have a better idea?’
She didn’t. By lunchtime the rains had ceased for a while, and so, after lunch, the two of us found the key to the downstairs store-room, stole into it, and opened the charity box. It had been started by Mama to collect our cast-off clothes to send to the Anglican vicar in New Amsterdam to distribute to the poor. Mama hadn’t attended to the box for several years now, but Mrs Norton had continued the tradition; our maids would pass our outgrown dresses, skirts and blouses on to her, laundered and neatly folded, and they would end up in this trunk.
‘How many shall we take?’ Yoyo asked as I lifted the top layer. A whiff of moth-balls rose up from the trunk, so astringent I coughed. ‘Phew!’ She added. ‘These stink!’
‘As many as we can carry,’ I replied. ‘There are a lot of women down there. Let’s take the whole trunk!’ I lifted one of the leather straps. ‘Oh! I said. ‘It’s so heavy! We should take little bundles one by one.’
Yoyo tried one of the straps and realized I was right.
‘If we’re going to take it all,’ she said, ‘let’s give away Mama’s things as well.’
I had opened the trunk lid again; I dropped it and it slammed shut. I glared at Yoyo.
‘Give away Mama’s things! You mean her dresses? Her clothes?’
Yoyo smiled, and it seemed to me there was something like triumph in that smile.
‘Well, she won’t be needing them anymore, will she? Or do you think she’ll send for them? After all, she’s not coming back.’
‘Yoyo, how could you even say such a thing! Of course she’s coming back!’
Yoyo shrugged, as if to say, if that’s what you believe, then go ahead. ‘At the very least, we could give them Edward John’s clothes. He won’t be needing them. And they had a baby – remember?’
I did remember; the little bundle hanging in a sling from the roof in Nanny’s hut. And I remembered Edward John’s clothes, stored in the window-seat in Mama’s bay window. Most of those garments had been individually sewn by Mama’s private seamstress, and embroidered by Mama herself; tiny suits, cotton jackets. No dresses; they had hoped desperately for a boy and to prepare girls’ clothes would no doubt have shown lack of faith in Mama’s prayers. They were beautiful garments; some of them quite exquisite. We girls had often wondered if Mama would pass them on to us when we had sons of our own. I thought she would. Yoyo thought she wouldn’t. Mama was too attached to them; they anchored her in her grief. Whenever her sorrow reached a low ebb she would open the lid on Edward John’s clothes, lift the garments, raise them to her cheek, stroke them, and sigh. Grief would come rolling back with all its power, and Mama would be soothed again, for Mama was only soothed while wallowing in grief.
‘Yes,’ I said now, firmly. ‘Edward John’s clothes must go. But not Mama’s. Mama will return. We can’t give away her things.’
So up we traipsed to the Seaview Room and down again with as many of Edward John’s clothes as we could carry, and prepared to pack our bundles of goodwill.
It felt good to be doing this! Good and kind and compassionate – Christian. I wished I could see the beaming faces of the coolie women when they unpacked the sacks. Surely they would gasp in joy at our English-cut skirts, dresses and blouses, our petticoats and bodices! Everything was still in best condition, almost new: cotton skirts for every-day and tailored blouses to go with them, fancier dresses for special occasions. Of the latter there were few, for the dinners and garden parties and balls for which Promised Land had once been famed had come to an abrupt halt with Edward John’s death; still, we were occasionally invited out and had to dress appropriately.
Now, the lovely silk and satin dresses, specially sewn from us by Millicent, a darkie seamstress from New Amsterdam who came to measure and fit us and recreate the fashions we pointed out in the magazines sent to us from London, brought oohs and aahs and ‘do-you-remembers’ to our lips. Not that either of us was as fashion-conscious as Kathleen; but what young lady does not like to see herself in a glimmering evening dress, if only on occasion? We were growing girls, though, and hardly had we worn one dress once than it no longer fitted. Our social life was simply too limited. And the baby clothes were exquisite. The coolie mother of that baby would be delighted. She’d hold them up and admire the embroidery and stroke the beautiful fabric in wonderment, and smile up at us in gratitude.
Except that we would not be there to see that smile: neither of us dared to return to the logies. No: we had to find Gopal. Now that the rain had ceased he would be at work, somewhere in the acre of garden that surrounded the house; while it rained he, along with the other gardeners and yard-boys, would have taken shelter in the roundhouse or one of the pavilions or garden sheds scattered amid the bougainvillea and honeysuckle bushes.
In a corner of the storeroom was a neat pile of gunnysacks, once used for rice. Had I been more astute I would have remembered that many of the logies were patched together with gunnysacks, and that they were probably of more use than the clothes. But I wasn’t thinking. We each grabbed a sack and filled it with as many clothes as it would be practical to carry; and off we walked into the drizzle, each with a sack over her shoulder.
We found him in the rose garden, restoring the bushes that had been battered by the morning’s downpour, and clearing up the petals that littered the beds. Yoyo called out to him; we hoisted our skirts (for the path was wet and there were many puddles) and ran over to him, and when we had reached him we held out our sacks, beaming with pride.
‘This is for you!’ said Yoyo.
‘For your wife!’ I corrected. ‘And the other ladies. We hope you like them!’
Gopal looked mystified. He stuck the secateurs he was holding into the waistband of his trousers and took both of the sacks; holding them both, he opened one and peered into its depths.
‘Our dresses!’ said Yoyo, flushed with excitement. ‘And skirts and blouses – all really good quality; some of them we haven’t worn much at all! And I know we are only girls but your women are quite thin, aren’t they, and small – much thinner and smaller than we are – so they should fit nicely. Some of the dresses are real silk!’ She paused, waiting for Gopal’s response, and when none came, repeated: ‘We do hope you like them! And there’s more where those came from – much more!’
‘And baby clothes!’ I added. ‘We saw you have a baby �
� a young baby. There are lots of baby clothes in there, as well!’
Gopal closed the sack and looked into the other one, as if to ascertain that its contents were similar. He looked at us, from one to the other, still not speaking. We looked back, waiting for his thank you. It did not come. The smiles faded from our lips; we looked at each other, and then at him. Finally he spoke.
‘Miss Winnie, Miss Johanna,’ he said, speaking to the air between us, ‘is very kind of you-all to give we these things. But I can’t take it. We don’t want you old clothes.’
‘But,’ said Yoyo, ‘They’re not really old! They’ve only been worn once, most of them! The poor women in New Amsterdam adore them! They are so grateful! Mildred told us! Nothing’s wrong with them, nothing at all! And the baby clothes: they are quite new, never worn and perfectly exquisite! Why, you couldn’t even buy baby clothes as good as those, not even in London! They are hand-embroidered, by Mama! And …’
Yoyo, oblivious to the sensitivity of the moment, not noticing the hardness in Gopal’s face, prattled on. I pinched her then, and she stopped. Gopal had placed the clothes he had removed back in the sack. He closed the sack with determined finality.
‘See,’ he said, ‘we don’t like charity, we Indians. We don’t like it at all.’
Shock and shame rushed through me in a red-hot tide; I was melting from the top down. I looked at Yoyo; she was red as a tomato, as I most likely was myself.
Yoyo spoke again, but now it was just a stutter. ‘I-I … we … d-didn’t think … I-I
m-mean …’
But Gopal had started to speak again, and with such confidence as I had never heard in a coolie.
‘I sorry if I is rude, Miss. I don’ want to be rude – or ungrateful. I know you does mean well. I know you is good girls. But – we don’t want no charity.’
‘We only wanted to help – a little,’ I heard myself say. ‘We were so sorry – about what happened – we wanted to help. We thought you’d be so wet – in the rain – we wanted you to have some dry clothes – I know it’s just a drop in the ocean but we wanted to show …’
‘We don’t need your help,’ said Gopal. He stood tall and straight before us. He pointed to the rejected gifts. ‘And this don’t help at all. A li’l cloth is not what gon’ help we.’
‘We meant well,’ I managed to say. Now it was Yoyo who, for once, seemed tongue-tied. Gopal softened his stance. His voice, when he spoke again, was gentler.
‘See,’ he explained, ‘we Indians been here ten, twenty, thirty years in BG. Them that din’ die in de boats, that din’ die on the field, that din’ die from exhaustion and disease, survived to this day, and we gon’ survive longer. Before us, the slaves. We learn to deal wit’ the heat an’ the rain and the punishment. We don’t need charity. We is strong.’
‘But …’
‘We need more than charity,’ said Gopal. ‘We need change, but change in’t gon’ come from you white people. Change got to come from we, weself. We gon’ change we own situation. You is good girls, both a you. You got good hearts. But is not enough. Change gon’ come, but not from you. It happenin’ already. You stay out of it. Take care. Don’t worry ‘bout we.’
I had no words; I could only stare at him. Tears pricked my eyes: tears at the knowledge of what he and his people endured, tears too of shame: that it was my people who put them through this hell. Tears of helplessness. As for Yoyo, she was still red, bowed, and speechless.
I reached out, took the sacks, handed one of the sacks to her, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Gopal, if we insulted you. Come, Yoyo, let’s go.’
It rained solidly for the next few days, making it impossible to leave the house. On the third day, above the rattle of rain on the roof, we heard a strange honking from the yard; Yoyo and I ran to the gallery window and looked out. There, standing in the forecourt, half hidden by the veil of water falling from above, was a black motor car. Emerging from the front seat was a tall, thin figure in black; another figure in black ran around from the other side of the car and held an open umbrella over the first.
‘Papa!’ shrieked Yoyo. ‘He’s got a motor car! At last!’
She ran to the front door, down the stairs and into the rain to greet him. I was more circumspect; once upon a time I too would have flung myself into Papa’s arms when he returned from a trip to Georgetown, especially so with a motor car. Those days belonged in the past. I was an older, wiser being now; a woman who knew that even a beloved father can have a dark side, a side kept hidden like an ugly beast caged in a dungeon. I had seen the beast; I could not return to the carefree days of naive girlhood. Yoyo now, she was different; she could continue in her role as Papa’s favourite; it may have been an act, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she still loved him just the same as before; maybe her love was unspoiled by any wrong he could do. And maybe, even, hers was the higher form of love, unconditional. Who was I to judge?
I watched from the dry refuge of the gallery as Yoyo, ignoring the rain – as she always did; she loved getting soaked through – danced around the car, darted in and out of its doors, hugged Papa who stood watching under the umbrella, danced around the vehicle again, and finally, took Papa’s hand and led him inside. I waited in the house for them both to come in. Still holding the umbrella, papa entered and closed it immediately. Yoyo laughing and chattering, hung on to his arm. Water collected around them in puddles on the floorboards. He removed his raincoat, handed it to Mrs Norton who had glided up out of nowhere, and reached out for me, talking all the time.
‘I bought it in Georgetown,’ he was saying; ‘It really wouldn’t do for me to be the last of the planters with a horseless carriage! How do you like it, from what you can see? I shall take you both for a drive the moment the rain lets up. Now we’ll be able to dash into New Amsterdam and back in the space of a morning! And we can drive to Georgetown, too, now and then, instead of taking the train. Girls, this is a new era!’
‘Oh Papa! It’s heavenly! What fun we shall have! Can you drive it yourself? Did you learn to drive already? Is it hard to drive? Can I learn to drive?’
Yoyo, jumped up and down in excitement, with the water still dripping from her hair and clothes. Mrs Norton rushed up with a cloth to mop the floor. Papa, this stranger, stuck the wet umbrella in the stand next to the front door, and approached me with arms spread wide.
‘Winnie, my dear!’ he said as he enfolded me in his embrace. ‘You haven’t said a word about the car. You do like it, I hope?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ I replied dutifully. ‘It looks lovely.’
I let him embrace me; he did not notice my lack of response.
Over his shoulder I saw Miss Wright descend the stairs, her face grim. Papa heard her footsteps and turned around.
‘Miss Wright!’ he began and stepped towards her with outstretched hand. Really, Papa was behaving as if he’d been gone a year instead of just five days. Miss Wright, instead of shaking his hand, gestured with her chin in the direction of Papa’s study. He let his hand drop, turned from her, and opened the door to let her in. He entered himself, and the study door closed on them. Yoyo and I exchanged a look and a shrug and went upstairs to continue our game of cards.
Half an hour later the car door slammed, easy to hear because now the rain was little more than a trickle and the windows were open. Yoyo rushed to the window.
‘Oh, Winnie, look!’ she called. ‘Papa’s going for a drive! I’m going to go with him!’
She dashed to the door and a moment later her feet clattered on the stairs. I stayed behind and watched. The chauffeur – I could see him clearly now the rain had let up – a tall thin darkie, wearing the dark blue Promised Land uniform, was cranking at a handle at the front of the car; Papa was already inside it. A few moments later Yoyo, skirt raised the better to run and hair dishevelled, flew down the front stairs and up to the car window. There she stood, obviously arguing with Papa, and obviously being refused, for she turned away, stamped her foot and stood watching in the drizzle as
the car puffed and shuddered, and the chauffeur climbed in, and drove off down the drive.
At dinner it was raining heavily again and Papa’s mood was sombre. He hardly spoke; he answered Yoyo’s questions regarding the car and the journey and Georgetown in a series of monosyllables. Mildred cleared the dishes of the main course, served the pudding, and retreated into the kitchen. Papa looked from Miss Wright to Yoyo, and to me and finally spoke.
‘I heard the police have been here,’ he said. ‘And I’m happy to hear that you can support me in my insistence that the cause of the mischief lies entirely in the hands of the coolies. You didn’t see what happened! It was an attack! A riot! They tried to storm the gate, intent on violence. This is our home, our castle; we defended it admirably and no harm was done. I have been to the estate manager’s quarters and had a word or two with Mr McInnes. We are all in agreement: all that we did was defend our property, as is our right. Defend our lives: the coolies were, after all, armed. Heaven knows what would have happened if the gate had been open, if they had gained entrance! Everything was quite above board. It seems they were impertinent enough to report a whipping. I ask you. A whipping! It never happened. Mr Stewart and Mr McInnes both agree, there was no such thing as a whipping. I can’t believe that Mr Armstrong tried to involve you girls in this preposterous affair, asking you for statements. Why, you could have been hurt! Young girls! You saw them: they were armed!
‘Anyway, enough is enough. Tomorrow I’m going to drive down to New Amsterdam to speak to Mr. Armstrong. I have no doubt that the misunderstanding can be cleared up, and then we’ll hear not a further word on the matter. And I want you girls to put it all out of your heads and simply enjoy your lives. Oh! I almost forgot to give you your presents! You shall have them after dinner.’