by Sharon Maas
‘Oh, I’m sure Mrs Stewart won’t mind!’ I said. ‘And it might be insulting for you to send some of Cookie’s guava jelly.’
‘Do you really think so?’ She was frowning, obviously confused as to the correct etiquette for sending a young girl to stay at a friend’s house unannounced. Miss Wright was often out of her depth when it came to our more casual way of doing things in the colony, having learnt the art of governessing in a formal home in London.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We just turn up whenever we want. We’re always welcome.’
That at least was true. If I had really been going to stay with the Stewarts I would not have needed guava jelly.
‘Winnie! I just had an idea!’ exclaimed Miss Wright. I frowned. Hopefully her new idea would not call for new explanations, lies, and manipulations. I need not have worried.
‘Poole!’ she called next. He came forward, tipping his hat again. ‘Yes Miss Wright?’
‘You’re from New Amsterdam, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Miss Wright.’
‘So your family lives there. Well, I was just thinking. We won’t need you this weekend so why don’t you take the two days off and stay with your family, then collect Miss Winnie on Sunday afternoon? It would save you two empty journeys.’ Poole looked simultaneously pleased and doubtful. ‘I don’t know, Miss Wright – what Massa gon’ say?’
‘The Master has given me complete authority to make such decisions on my own,’ said Miss Wright. ‘If it is convenient to you, you may do so.’
‘Very well, Miss.’
Miss Wright took me in her arms. ‘Goodbye, dear. Do have a good trip. You’ll feel so much better once the tooth is out.’
I hugged her back. I felt sick to think of how deceived she’d be when Poole returned with an empty car on Sunday. But it had to be. I hardened my heart and turned to Yoyo.
‘Bye, Yoyo,’ I said, and the twinge of conscience this time was sharp and painful. I was deceiving her, as well, my sister, my best friend and closest ally. I had never held even a small secret from her, but now I was withholding – well, there would be an explosion when the bombshell finally dropped. For the past several weeks, I had treated her as a stranger, and she, distracted by Maggie’s presence, had noticed nothing. It was as if the chain of events, starting with our visit to the logies, had driven a wedge between us; after the first deep shock and the grief, she had recovered quickly and reverted to her usual high spirits. Whereas I – I had changed forever. I could no longer be happy at Promised Land. That one day had thrown up dark stains impossible to efface; if I could not remove them I must flee them. But to the outer world I remained the same, because who would understand? If anything, I had grown yet quieter, keeping my secrets and my love locked up. Yoyo’s trust in me was absolute, and now I was betraying it. Now she, too, clasped me in her arms and said,
‘You lucky thing – about visiting Emily, I mean, not about the dentist. Ugh, I do hate dentists! But I hate toothache more. Get that beastly tooth out, and have a wonderful time!’
I slapped my hand to my jaw at the reminder, and hugged her back.
‘Bye, Yoyo,’ is all I said. It was indeed a betrayal. But she noticed nothing.
Mama’s Diary: Plantation Promised Land, British Guiana, 1894
Liebes Tagebuch,
Another daughter! This one we have called Winifred, after Archie’s favourite aunt. She (the aunt!) is my favourite, too, quite unlike her vapid sister, my mother-in-law. (I refused to name the child after her, for fear she might take on those unpleasant qualities I told you about!) Aunt Winifred is unmarried, and such a character! So I was happy to name my daughter after her. Aunt Winifred is also very musical, which meant that we had a close connection, so much in common. But she is so far away, as is everyone else. I miss Father so much! I do wish they could all come to visit, but they can’t. We are on our own. Oh dear diary, I am so very lonely at times, and it seems not even my beloved Archie and my beloved daughters can dispel that loneliness!
I wish I could tell you more, but honestly, there is nothing to tell. One day is very much like the other here. We see the same people, and for the most part I do not like them.
For instance, Mr McInnes, Archie’s estate manager – I cannot stand him and I wish Archie did not drink in his every word. He sometimes comes over for dinner and then he and Archie shut themselves away in the study and drink their rum swizzles and chat about whatever it is men chat about when they are on their own. And I play my violin, or my piano, and pour my loneliness into that. Oh, how I miss Papa, my brothers, the cobbled streets of Salzburg, the opera, the balls, the concerts! The mere tuning of an orchestra now would be the sweetest music on earth!
Here, we have servants to fulfil our every desire. Archie even lets his boots be removed by someone he calls Boy. I found out that Boy actually has a name, and it is Wilfred. I call him Wilfred.
There are other people on the estate: a whole community of English and Scottish people right next door, the senior staff and their wives. I find I cannot talk to these ladies. Something must be wrong with me but I just don’t know what to talk about – I cannot chat the way they can. And they too disdain me, because I am a foreigner. They laugh at my imperfect English. What would they say if they knew I was born Jewish!
Then there are the coolies, who work in the fields. But I have nothing at all to do with them. They do their jobs, and are part of the landscape. Once Archie said to me that they are like animals, and I flinched. How can he say that, I wonder? Where is his Christian heart, to describe other humans as such? I am sure he got it from Mr McInnes. I truly loathe that man. But enough. Archie does not like me to think about business, and he is right.
Chapter Fourteen
The sun was already half-way up the sky when we reached the East Coast Road. This was my first real drive in the car. I had been out with Papa a few times on the plantation in the last few weeks, just to try it out, but only Yoyo had been on a proper excursion, and as the East Coast Road was the only properly paved road in the district, Poole was able to drive at full speed. Rice fields and villages popped into my window and disappeared again, racing past us, though of course it was we who were racing. I leaned forward.
‘How fast are we going, Poole?’ I asked.
‘Thirty miles an hour, Miss Winnie. Top speed!’
‘Goodness! Why, we’ll be in New Amsterdam in no time!’
‘Yes, Miss.’
I regarded Poole with interest. He was tall and thin and very black indeed. He wore white gloves and a white shirt, and in contrast his face and neck glistened as if polished. He glanced back at me.
‘Are you comfortable, Miss? You want me to drive slower?’
‘Oh, no, of course not! The sooner we get there the better. I dare say you’ll be happy to get to your family sooner, as well!’
He smiled. ‘Yes, Miss.’
‘You’re married?’
‘Yes, Miss. I got a wife and three li’l chirren.’
‘Really! I wouldn’t have thought …’ I stopped, not sure if it would be polite to say he looked too young for such a large family. Instead, I said, ‘You must miss them when you’re up at Promised Land!’
‘Yes, Miss, I do. But Massa generous wit’ holidays an’ I get to go down once a month.’
‘That doesn’t seem very often!’
‘Better than other men in me family that does work on the estates, Miss. Me brother …’
He stopped suddenly.
I waited, and when he didn’t continue, I asked, ’What about your brother?’
‘Never mind, Miss. I only want to say I ain’t got nothin’ to complain about.’
Soon we were in quintessential Booker territory, if such a thing could be claimed in a country that belonged to Bookers lock stock and barrel. We passed Albion, a Campbell estate; Papa was friends with the manager, Mr Bee. The Campbells themselves being absentee owners, and we had often exchanged visits with these families. I recalled those days as of a bygone a
ge, as far from my present reality as the moon. If they could see me now, those ladies in their prim frocks, looking over us girls as if we were so much cattle. We were prizes on the marriage market, that we knew. And here I was, off to meet my darkie sweetheart. I smiled at the irony of it all. If they could see me now!
We were nearly there. Conversation drew to a halt. Poole had by now told me not only about his close family but his cousins, aunts and uncles in Georgetown. There was nothing left for him to say, and nothing for me to say to him because by now I was going over the plan again and again in my thoughts. It had to work. I had to make it work. I unfolded the note and read the plan again, to make sure there were no loopholes:
a) go to the dentist. Leave suitcase in car. Go in and make appointment for later.
b) return to car, get Poole to drive me to Emily’s house.
c) take suitcase into Emily’s yard, but hide it in the garden, under a bush (Emily’s garden is full of bougainvilleas!) So her mother doesn’t ask difficult questions.
d) ring the doorbell. When the maid answers, ask to see Emily. Greet Mrs Stewart politely. Tell her I just came for a few hours, until my dentist appointment.
e) confide in Emily. Don’t let her know that George is who he is. Let her think he is white.
f) (I need to convince Emily! But she loves a good romance. I’m sure she will help.)
g) Give Emily the note for Miss Wright, letting her know I’m safe and in Georgetown.
h) go to the dock, buy ticket, and catch ferry to Rosignol
i) buy ticket for train to Georgetown, get on train
j) arrive in Georgetown, and FIND GEORGE!!! (Go to the Post Office and ask for him.)
The nearer we drew to New Amsterdam, the more crowded the houses, the more people on the road. We drove past a large market where portly women sat or stood behind stalls piled with fruit and vegetables. The car slowed to a crawl, for it was the only one and people swarmed over the street. Some of them peered into the car, and stared at me as if I were a foreign artefact intruding into their world. I felt alien, as if I was on a strange new planet. It was a feeling I would have to get used to; in running away to George I’d be leaving my old familiar world behind and jumping head-first into another. My heart began to thump audibly, and for the first time I felt panic. I remembered Mad Jim’s lecture. He had meant it well. What if he was right? What if I could not face the backlash that would come? I steeled myself against that doubt. No. I would. I could.
It was approaching midday when we finally drew up at Dr Hodgkin’s surgery, and I was already worried; I had not calculated time into my plan at all. Poole came round to my door and opened it. I stepped out into the sunshine. I left my suitcase on my seat and said to Poole, ‘Wait here a moment. I’ll just go and make an appointment for this afternoon.’
‘Lemme come in wit’ you, Miss!’ said Poole.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Miss Wright said I gotta look after you!’ Anxiety veiled Poole’s eyes. ‘NO!’ I cried and glared at him. ‘I’m NOT a child! I don’t need looking after! Wait here!’
I strode off before he could reply, marched through the gate and into the receptionist’s office.
They knew me here, of course. Mama had brought us girls for regular check-ups all through our childhood, and in our later years it had been Miss Wright. The receptionist was a plump, older darkie woman whom I had known for several years.
‘Miss Cox!’ she exclaimed when she saw me! ‘Eheh! But is good to see you again! You come for a check-up? Where you sisters?’
I placed my hand on my jaw. ‘No check-up,’ I said. ‘Toothache! I think I need an extraction. Can you give me an appointment for this afternoon?’
‘I can give you an appointment right away!’ She looked at her ledger and picked up her pen.
‘No, that’s not necessary!’ I said. ‘You have all these people waiting.’ I gestured around the room, which was lined with chairs, all of them occupied by darkies and a few coolies.
‘Don’t worry about them!’ said the receptionist, embarrassingly loudly. ‘I can get you in now. Won’t be ten minutes. You can wait in the office, we got a nice comfy chair there.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t stay now. I’ll come back later. Maybe at two o’clock?’
‘You quite sure? You can stand the pain that long?’
‘It’s not that bad,’ I said truthfully. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll see you at two.’
I gave a sweeping and rather nervous smile to everyone in the room as I turned to go. None of them smiled back.
Poole leaped out of the motor car and held open the door as I approached.
‘All done!’ I said. ‘I’ve got an appointment for two o’clock. Now let’s go to the Stewarts.’
He nodded as I stepped into the car. ‘I shall come and pick you up at two, Miss.’
‘Don’t be silly, Poole! I can walk over easily. It’s not that far. Just drive.’
‘Yes Miss.’ He cranked up the car and we drove off.
Sly. That’s the word. Almost overnight I had turned into a sly, conniving young woman and I didn’t much like this new person. But I could no more stop the momentum than I could pull out a bad tooth on my own. It had to be. George Theodore Quint was a giant horseshoe magnet and I was a piece of iron drawn to Georgetown by a power I could neither explain nor resist. The steps I had to take to get there might be underhand and reprehensible by the principles of morality, but they were just that: single steps that didn’t matter in the long run. All that mattered was getting there. Your family will be hurt! Said a quiet voice within me. But I refused to listen. I had my plan, and I would follow it through to the end.
But already the original plan was in shambles. It was so late! And I would arrive at Emily’s at lunchtime, and surely Mrs Stewart would invite me for lunch, and I would have to be polite and nod and make small talk and then talk to Emily and that would all take an hour, or more. I calculated mentally. If I had a quick lunch – for I was indeed hungry – I could get to the ferry by one o’clock; cross the Berbice River to Rosignol; get the two-o’clock train to town, and I’d be there by four. Would there be time to find George? I feared not. When did he finish work? I had to devise an alternative. Quite probably I would not find him today, which would leave me stranded in Georgetown.
Worse yet: I had not once considered how I would find George. I had vaguely imagined turning up at the main post office and asking for him by name; as if Georgetown’s post office was anything like our little one in the village, with only one clerk. That was my entire plan. But Georgetown was huge! The post office would be huge! And anyway, George delivered letters; he might be anywhere in town. And if I arrived too late the post office would be closed and I would be in a strange town without my family and with only a bag-full of coins to my name.
Well then, I’d go to the Park Hotel. That’s where Papa always took us when we stayed in town. They knew us. They knew me. I could ask them to put the charge on Papa’s bill. Papa never paid cash anyway, that much I knew. Papa was an important man. They’d never turn me away. Or else – I knew people. We had friends in town, the Dalgliesh’s and the Turners, I knew where they lived. I was good at lying by now. I’d tell them some story, I’d think it up on the journey down, and ask to spend the night. They’d let me, and I knew they would believe me, because everyone knew what a good, quiet, honest girl I was. Now, if it were Yoyo – people would suspect Yoyo of mischief right away. Not me. Yes. I would think of something. I would find George, and he would help.
Emily Stewart’s home was on Pope Street, less than five minutes away. New Amsterdam was not a large town. I knew the house well, and I knew that the front garden was full of shrubs and bushes. This time when I left the car I grabbed the suitcase. Poole reached for it.
‘I’ll carry that for you, Miss!’
‘Oh, don’t bother. I’ll be fine. You go off to your family. They’ll be so happy to see you!’
Poole looked unconvinced.
‘I shouldn’t just leave you like this. Lemme carry the bag and walk you to the door.’
‘No!’ I said it firmly, and clasped the little suitcase to my chest as if it were a treasure.
‘Just go!’
My voice must have sounded harsher than I intended, for he looked at me with confusion in his eyes before looking down and apologizing. ‘Very well, Miss. What time I should pick you up?’
‘At four on Sunday afternoon.’
‘Very well, Miss. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Poole. And thank you. Enjoy your holiday. .’
I opened the gate to the Stewarts’ garden and turned around to wave goodbye. The motor car still stood on the curb, the motor running; Poole waved back. It seemed he would not budge until I had arrived safely at the door, which was a problem since I had to hide the suitcase. In the end I shrugged and marched off. Let him see me at the door without the case. He might not notice, and if he did, well, let him think what he wanted. What could he do anyway? No plan is completely perfect.
High bougainvilleas hid me from sight as I walked towards the house, and I shoved the suitcase out of sight, in among the bushy base. I walked on, and up the stairs to the front door. I lifted the rapper, and knocked three times. I waved again to Poole down in the motor car; he waved back, but still did not drive off. The door opened; it was a maid, and at last Poole drove away. Only then did I relax.
The maid knew me. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said. ‘Missy Emily gon’ be home soon! Come in. She gon’ be happy to see you!’
I’d quite forgotten that Emily’d be at school. Another big hole in my carefully laid-out plan. I began to panic. Why had I started out so late? Why had I included Emily in the plan? The morning was almost over and I was only in New Amsterdam, and now even more delays. Foolish, foolish, foolish.
‘Who is it, Ivy?’ called Mrs Stewart from the drawing room.