The Secret Life of Winnie Cox

by Sharon Maas

  Night fell. I lay down on my cot. It was hard, the mattress thin and lumpy. I was still in my clothes. Sleep – a ridiculous notion. What time was it? I lay in the dark and wished I had a watch. Where was the nearest church? There’d be a clock there and it would peal the hour. I listened to the town. The clip-clop of horses hooves outside, somewhere the beat of drums, dogs barking, the inevitable night orchestra of crapauds and crickets. I kept listening, and soon I was rewarded. A clock began to chime – possibly St George’s Cathedral, a huge white wooden building at the top of the street. I counted the chimes. Eight.

  I waited. The clock chimed again. Nine. A plan was beginning to hatch in my mind. I lit the lamp, and waited. Ten. I rose in my bed and walked to the window. I placed the lamp on the floor and looked out. Would he come? If I were not there, would he wait? Carmichael Street was black but for the circles of light thrown by the widely spaced lamps. All the houses were in darkness. Would he come? Would I see him?

  As did Main Street, Carmichael Street had a central walkway shaded by trees. If he came at all it would be hard to see him. Possibly he would keep to the walkway, protected by the trees. What was that? A dark figure darted across one of the light pools thrown by a street lamp. Was it him? I could not tell. I wanted to shout, but did not dare. It was time to put my plan into action. I leaned over, picked up the lamp, placed it on the window ledge.

  If he was watching the house he would see the light. It would be the only light in the house. He would surely see it, and know it was me. I turned the knob that lowered the wick. The lamp went out, I had lowered it too much. I muttered a little oath. I should have spent the last few hours practicing. I couldn’t risk it going out again. I had to think. I needed something, an object, to hide the light. The wash-basin. I relit the lamp, replaced it on the window-ledge, held the basin in front of it. Lifted the basin, held it up, and lowered it. Quick and slow. Slow and quick. I soon found my rhythm. G-E-O-R-G-E. I spelled out the letters in short and long light flashes, over and over again. Calling his name in the only way I could. Our secret language.

  There! That black shadow again! It was standing beneath one of the avenue trees. It was him. It had to be him. And there! The flutter of something white. Flutter, flutter, flutter: a white flag, now long, now short, now long again. My heart began to pound. He had heard! He understood! He had read the message! George and his handkerchief!

  Y-E-S, said George. W-I-N-N-I-E.

  I C-A-N-T C-O-M-E L-O-C-K-E-D I-N D-O-N-T G-I-V-E M-E U-P I L-O-V-E Y-O-U

  The handkerchief flashed. I L-O-V-E Y-O-U T-O-O B-U-T

  I interrupted. N-O B-U-T-S B-E-L-I-E-V-E I-N L-O-V-E I-L-O-V-E Y-O-U I L-O-V-E

  Y-O-U

  A pause. Then he too flashed goodnight. It had been a long conversation, thoroughly exhausting, but thoroughly satisfying as well. My heart swelled to almost bursting. I did not care that Papa, or possibly Miss Wright, was coming tomorrow. I did not care for whatever evil things lurked in our future. All I knew was the seed of hope in my heart. I belonged to him. He to me. That was a knowledge so complete, so certain, not even a flicker of doubt could displace it. Not ever.

  Papa himself came to pick me up the following evening. Miss Yorke had kept me imprisoned the whole day. A servant brought meals and took away the chamber pot. After lunch Yoyo appeared outside my door and called to me through the keyhole. I came and crouched beside the door, though she was the last person I wanted to talk to.

  ‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘All right. I’m here.’

  ‘Winnie, is it true? Tell me it’s not true! You were making love to some darkie on Main Street?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! I just don’t. It’s not like you at all! It’s just some wicked rumour, isn’t it?’

  I shrugged, but of course she couldn’t see me.

  ‘Winnie! Just tell me it isn’t true! Because I’m sticking up for you! Denying it! You would never do anything so barmy!’

  I still said nothing.

  ‘I don’t understand. Who is it? How could you? What’s got into your head?’

  I stood up and walked to the window. I gazed out to the street, to the place he’d been standing the night before. All optimism, all faith in our future, gone, dissolved into nothing. Only despair remained.

  Papa stormed into my prison. His face was as red as a lobster, and the words spluttered on his tongue, and I learned the meaning of the word apoplectic. I did not, could not, look at him. I sat on my wooden chair with head hung low. I had to sit on my hands to stop them from covering my ears. He spluttered and hollered and glared and roared and I just sat there, looking down, silent. What was there to say?

  ‘Do you realise? Can you even begin to realise how – dastardly, how entirely… ’ He searched for a word but couldn’t find it.

  ‘Utterly atrocious behaviour, and at a time like this! It’s bad enough as it is without you going berserk! Completely berserk!’

  I said nothing. I gazed out of the window.

  ‘Look at me, you – you vile creature!’ I did as I was told. I looked at him, but my eyes glazed over at the sight. All I saw was a stranger in a terrible temper. I did not care. It did not affect me. The cruel words bounced off my body. I heard them without absorbing them.

  ‘You don’t care, do you? You aren’t even listening. You don’t care that your reputation is utterly and completely ruined. You don’t care about the trouble you’ve created for me. You don’t care about anything.’

  I closed my eyes the better to form a shield against his shouting. He was marching up and down by now, bawling out the words. They were true. I didn’t care. What could I say? There was nothing I could deny. Yes, I closed my eyes against them and took a deep breath.

  ‘You whore! Listen to me!’

  WHAM! My face exploded in red-hot pain. My eyes flew open as I cried out. Papa was standing right in front of me, rubbing the palm of his hand. His eyes were wild, his hair dishevelled. But striking me seemed to have provided an outlet for some of his rage. He shook his head in sheer perplexity and, without another word, strode out of the room, locking the door behind him.

  Half an hour later he was back.

  ‘Come with me, young lady. Your bags are packed. You can’t stay here. You’ve brought disgrace to Miss Yorke’s house. Do you know how I’ve had to beg and grovel to persuade her to keep Yoyo? We’re leaving.’

  Yoyo came too. She had been given leave to join Papa for dinner. As we walked out into the street she kept staring at me in wonder. I even detected a hint of admiration in her gaze. But I might have been mistaken.

  We had dinner at the Georgetown Club, the three of us at a white-table-clothed table for four. Dark-skinned waiters in black-and-white livery like penguins glided to and fro bearing glasses and platters, bowing down to us as they served us. We had often eaten here in the past, as a family, with Mama and Kathleen. The room was filled with other guests at other tables; the Georgetown Club, though exclusive, was known as the best place for dining among the British community. The hush of muted conversation and the chink of glass and cutlery added to the atmosphere of dignified grandeur.

  Papa’s rage had now diminished into seething but quiet wrath. His eyes, when they glanced at me, were filled with disgust. Yoyo, too, kept looking at me.

  ‘So it’s really true, about Winnie! Golly, I would never have thought it of her!’

  ‘Completely taken leave of her senses.’

  So they talked about me as if I were invisible, as indeed I longed to be. I was aware of their conversation without taking any actual interest, though they spoke of me. I was past caring. I was also aware of the stares of several of our fellow diners at the neighbouring tables, the whispering behind upheld hands. My notoriety was drawing unwelcome attention. Papa ignored the ogling, though once he did look around, catching several gazes with silent belligerence. Faces turned red and eyes looked away.

  �
�There’s only one thing for it,’ I heard Papa say from miles away. ‘I have to send her away. I can’t keep her in the colony; not after this. I’m sending her to England.’

  Finally he’d caught my attention. I stared at him in wild horror.

  ‘Don’t look at me as if you’re surprised. What did you expect? Who do you think will take you in after this? Do you think any decent English family wants someone like you?

  ‘B-b-b-but …’ I couldn’t get the words out. They seemed all of a tangle within me. I didn’t know what to say. My instinct was to spring to my feet and dash across the room and run into the street straight into George’s arms. Luckily, a fraction of good sense remained in my addled brain. I had done far too many stupid things these last few days, things that, as I now realized, only hastened to put an end to all my hopes and dreams. England! I hung my head.

  The conversation drifted on to Papa’s situation. I hadn’t really been thinking of that at all, too wrapped up in my own little drama as I was. It seemed he was as notorious, now, as I.

  ‘It’s not going the way I thought it would,’ said Papa to Yoyo. ‘Sergeant Jones came to take my statement yesterday and I told him the truth, of course. There really shouldn’t be any problem but it seems there is. Those damned coolies are creating quite a stink.’

  ‘But surely even they must realize that you had to defend yourself?’

  ‘Yes. But now they’re saying the scoundrel – the one who was killed, I mean – wasn’t armed. They’re saying I killed him in cold blood. That I had planned it, even. I don’t understand why anyone even listens to them. Plainly, they are all in it together, with the lie.’

  ‘But he had a cutlass. He did. Didn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he did! It was clearly self-defence. My goodness, the man was rushing me with the dammed thing! What was I supposed to do, stand there and let myself be slaughtered? Anyway, Mr McInnes is a witness and he will support me.’

  By this time they had my full attention. I stared from one to the other, horrified. I gasped aloud, and my jaw fell open. They both turned to look at me.

  ‘What is it you want to say, Winnie?’ Papa’s voice was quite calm now, friendly almost.

  I struggled for words.

  ‘But – but it’s not true, Papa! Bhim wasn’t armed! He didn’t have a cutlass!’

  Papa frowned. ‘You seem to be very knowledgeable about the whole thing!’

  ‘But I saw! I saw, Papa! I was there! And he didn’t have a cutlass.’

  ‘That’s perfect nonsense and you know it. I don’t want to hear you repeating such twaddle ever again, do you hear? Not ever again! Now, Yoyo, it’s time for you to get back to Miss Yorke’s. Poole will drive you there. Winnie, you stay with me. We’re going to the Park. It’s getting late. Bedtime for you girls.’

  He raised a hand to draw our waiter’s attention. He stroked his moustache and gazed at me. Worry veiled his eyes.

  ‘Complete twaddle!’ he muttered to himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Papa took me to the Park Hotel and deposited me in a room to which he held the key. There was a chamber pot in the room, and a jug of water and a basin. I was on my own, with only the Bible as companion. Papa had been extremely negligent in choosing this room, for it was at the back of the building and the next morning it didn’t take me long to discover that the back windows opened up on to the fire-escape that serviced all the rooms at the hotel’s rear. My plan was instantly made. I threw a few clothes into a pillowcase. I pushed up the sash window, climbed through onto the fire-escape, and scaled the steep metal stairs leading down to the ground. It didn’t take me long to sneak around to the front of the hotel and exit the main gate. I was on Main Street now.

  I walked north until I found a park bench; I sat on it to wait. It was still early; the church clock had only just chimed eight, and I knew that sooner or later he would pass by on his rounds. All I had to do was be patient. Papa would not miss me; his plan for today was to book me the earliest passage possible to England. That would surely take all morning. This was my last chance, our last chance.

  The morning slipped by with the pace of a snail. I was terrified in case Papa were to return early and, going up to my room, find it empty; but what else could I do? I had to wait here for George. I contemplated other possibilities; I could, for instance, make my way to the Promenade Gardens and hide there, hide somewhere, anywhere, until nightfall and then find George’s house. I could find a coach that would take me to Kitty, to Auntie Dolly. I could walk all the way to Peter Rose Street to Dolly’s daughter Maybelle – I knew the way, after all. But I was loathe to involve either Auntie Dolly or her daughter in this escape plan. This was between George and me. I had to see him – now. I could not wait until tonight. I could not just turn up on his parents’ doorstep.

  At last I saw him, making his way northwards up Main Street, his postbag slung over his shoulder. This time, I didn’t call out. I simply ran. I ran towards him and threw myself into his arms. When he saw me hurtling towards him his eyes opened wide in shock and his arms opened wide to catch me. And then I was in his arms, and he was holding me close, rocking me, speaking my name, and I was safe.

  When I could speak I gasped out my story. ‘George – he’s sending me away! To England! On the next ship! You can’t let this happen! I can’t go! I can’t leave you!’

  George came to his senses in a matter of seconds. ‘Winnie!’ he said, pushing me away and holding me at arms length. ‘Winnie, how often have I said you can’t do this. You can’t ambush me on my rounds, in public! It’s just – just not right!’

  ‘Don’t you love me?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, you know I do! I love you with all my heart but we have to be sensible!’

  ‘Sensible! How can I be sensible when he is sending me away! Away from you, forever!’

  ‘Winnie, don’t you see? Don’t you realise? Things have changed. Everything has changed – with Bhim’s death it’s all over. There’s no chance for us, no hope.’ He pushed me away properly then, and turned his back on me, and then swung around and his eyes glistened with tears.

  ‘We can’t, Winnie! Don’t you understand? Your father killed my best friend! It’s no longer just about you and me! It’s all over! We have to accept it’s all over! It’s best for you to go to England.’

  ‘No! Don’t say that!’

  ‘But I am saying it!’

  ‘You can hide me; let me stay with you!’

  ‘What would I do with you, Winnie? They would find you and then – what?’

  ‘Are you afraid of getting into trouble? Can’t you fight for me, for us?’

  He sighed deeply, and started again, calmly and slowly as if he were a parent trying to patiently talk good sense into a child. But I was desperate and wouldn’t listen. And slowly I realized I could not win. I could not talk him into hiding me from my father.

  ‘All right,’ I said at last. ‘I’ll go. But I’ll come back. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?’

  He hesitated. ‘Winnie. I love you and always will. But I can’t promise anything. Everything has changed. I don’t know what the future will bring. I might be dead by then. You see …’

  ‘No! Don’t say that!’

  ‘Winnie …’ He was growing anxious now, looking behind him and from side to side in case we were being watched.

  ‘All right then. I’ll go. I’ll go because you don’t want me now. But, George – George! I have an idea! Come to me tonight! To my room!’

  ‘Winnie, are you out of your mind? How on earth …’

  Breathlessly I told him about the fire escape and the open window.

  ‘George, I’ll go now and let you do your rounds. But come to me tonight. I’ll be waiting. Come at ten. Just sneak into the hotel yard and come round the back and up the fire escape. I’ll be there, waiting! I’ll put a lamp in the window so you’ll know!’

  ‘Winnie – I …’

  But I wouldn’t let him finish. I wouldn’t let him s
ay no. I turned and ran, back to the hotel, back to my room. He would come. Tonight. I knew it. He would come to my room.

  When night fell I placed the glowing lamp on the window-sill and waited. Would he come? When? I hadn’t given him a time. I hadn’t waited for his answer. But he would come. He had to.

  I lay down on my bed, still fully dressed, closed my eyes. Stood up, walked to the window, opened it, peered out into the darkness. Nothing. The seconds ticked away- The Sacred Heart church chimed eight, and then, an eternity later, nine. Now I stationed myself at the window. Outside, the night was pitch dark – it must have been new moon. I pushed open the sash and peered out. Nothing. Would he come?

  I perched myself on the sill of the open window, lamp in hand. He had to come! He had to! If he loved me he would! But it was so dark. How would I know? My eyes strained to hear the sound of his coming: the scrunch of his feet on gravel, the creak of the fire-escape. But the night creatures were out in full force with their nightly serenade, and nothing out of the ordinary caught my attention.

  And then it came. At first I thought I had imagined it – it was a whisper of the breeze, the swish of the tamarind tree in the back yard. But then it came again: an urgently whispered ‘Winnie!’

  Yes, it was him. My heart lurched and I leaned out of the window and whispered back, as loudly as I dared: ‘George! Come up! I’m here!’

  And then he was there. Outside my window, climbing in, standing in my room. Holding me, clasping me to his chest, tighter and tighter, his lips nuzzling my cheek, my forehead, seeking, and finding, my lips.