The Secret Life of Winnie Cox

by Sharon Maas

  I pulled away, but only for a few seconds. ‘Wait!’ I said and lowered the sash. And then I held out my hands to him and he took them and we gazed at each other in wonder for a second before a power stronger than both of us forced us together, into each others’ arms.

  We stood there in silence, kissing. He was mine, I his. I felt him hesitate, and I knew why. I pulled my lips away and spoke the words of permission:

  ‘George – I love you. I want to be yours, all yours, in every way possible.’

  He pulled away, as if the words had jerked him out of a spell. ‘Winnie! I can’t! We can’t! Don’t you understand!’

  ‘Why not? Because we aren’t married?’

  ‘Because – because you and I – we can never – it’s …’

  ‘Let this be our marriage, George. Let this be our wedding night! Let it be between just you and me forever! George – my ship leaves tomorrow! To Barbados! There isn’t a ship leaving for England for two weeks so he has packed me on the first vessel out! I’m going to my Uncle Don and Aunt Jane in Barbados! It’s our very last chance! I need to be yours, George! Otherwise I will die! If I am yours nothing can ever separate us, not even the ocean. If we – then I will go in peace! I promise! And come back whenever …’

  ‘Winnie! What if you get a baby!’

  ‘There’s nothing I would love more! Then you would have to marry me!’

  ‘Oh Winnie!’ He could not resist, for I was stroking him, his face, his chin, his back, pulling him towards me, towards the bed.

  His protests were growing weaker. I pulled him down, down. I covered his face in kisses. In the lamplight’s golden glow his face shone like polished bronze. He was beautiful, so beautiful he took my breath away.

  ‘Winnie, you kill me!’ he said, and started to unbutton my blouse, and I knew that I had won. We sank back onto the pillow.

  The next day I was on the HMS Amaryllis, Barbados-bound. And I was content. George had claimed me, sweetly, gently; I had melted into him, become a part of his body and his being. Nothing could separate us; neither time nor space. I had woken up that morning and found him gone, but a dent in the pillow next to me where his head had lain, and a delicious sense of calm filling my soul. I was content, and looking forward to whatever the future would bring.

  I was fond of Uncle Donald and his wife Jane. They were much younger than Papa – Uncle Donald being the youngest of five children – and on the rare mutual visits between our families they had carved a place in my heart. Certainly, living with them until I came of age was the least of many evils, even if it meant a further three years of separation from George. At least it wasn’t England, that cold dreary land so far across the seas.

  Barbados! Uncle Donald had inherited the smallest and least profitable of the Cox West Indian plantations, but it was arguably the most desirable of all. Neatly tucked between rolling Barbadian hills and a private, palm-lined beach, it was a personal piece of heaven, and my first few days there I spent simply basking in pleasure, sloughing off the mental aches and pains of the last week. I locked it all behind an internal door. I could not bear to think of those final scenes on Promised Land. Bhim’s look of horror as the blood spurted from his chest. Papa standing with a smoking gun. I could not bear to think of George, and what this would mean for our future. I could not bear to think of that last embrace. I laid my hand on my belly. If only – if only!

  But enough of dreaming. I lived in the present, in the glorious, sunny, breeze-brushed gardens of Oleander Cottage. There I lounged with Aunt Jane on the fine white sandy strand just outside the garden gate; I frisked in laughter with the children in the clear warm turquoise waters of Caribbean Sea lapping practically at our doorstep. I lay on my back in that water and closed my eyes and basked in the glorious Now.

  And then I talked. I talked and talked and talked. I told them everything and they listened sympathetically and without judgment. Sometimes I cried and Aunt Jane dried my tears. Uncle Donald nodded in empathy. No frowns of disapproval, no gasps of disgust when I said I had kissed George – more, of course, I could not confide. At least not yet; not until I must, if my dearest wish came to pass. But also: no encouragement.

  ‘You see, Winnie, it really is an impossible situation. Marriage is best when the partners are from similar backgrounds. You and George: you may be madly in love now, but what will it be in a few years time, when the birds have stopped singing and the flowers have stopped blooming and you have to live through harsh reality together? For it will be harsh.’

  ‘I know and I’m prepared for it. I believe that true love is also strength, and will carry us through.’

  Uncle Don and Aunt Jane threw each other knowing glances. Then they both looked at me with loving smiles.

  ‘He’s your first love, isn’t he?’

  I nodded.

  ‘First love always feels that way. It’s so fresh, so pure, isn’t it! It feels eternal. If only we could maintain it!’

  ‘But I can! We can! I …’

  Aunt Jane wouldn’t let me finish. ‘It always feels that way, Winnie. But you know what? It usually isn’t eternal. Donald wasn’t my first love, and I wasn’t his. And yet, look at us! Aren’t we the perfect pair!’

  They laughed and hugged and snuggled up to each other. We were sitting on the veranda of Oleander Cottage on a mellow night about a week after my arrival. The younger children were all in bed, the two older ones playing a card game in the gallery. The stars were out in their full glory, scattered like silver jewels on a black velvet sky. On the table before us were long tumblers filled with golden rum punch. Several candles glowed in glasses, protected from the balmy breeze coming in from the sea. I looked at Uncle and Aunt and away again. I envied them. If only George and I – maybe one day. One day it had to be.

  ‘And besides, you don’t know him very well, do you?’ Aunt Jane continued. ‘How often have you seen him? How long have you been with him in total? How many hours? How many conversations have you had? How well do you know this man, Winnie?’

  Towards the end of her little inquisition her voice grew stern and anxious. I knew she was genuinely concerned for me, but there were no words that could put her at ease. Thinking about her questions I realised, for the first time, how ridiculous this love of mine must look to an outsider,and how very mismatched we were.

  I remained silent.

  Uncle Donald spoke next. ‘What you need to do, Winnie, is meet some other nice young men. Who knows – maybe there is someone out there who is perfect for you in every way. Someone you can be happy with, someone who does not come with a burden.’

  I looked at Uncle Donald and frowned. In the flickering candlelight his face was nothing but relaxed and friendly. His voice was calm and soothing, inviting me to listen and agree, almost hypnotic But I didn’t trust it.

  ‘Did Papa tell you to find a husband for me?’

  He chuckled. ‘Archie sent me a cable as long as a novel, and yes, part of his instructions were to make sure you were introduced to every single eligible young man on the Island. English young men, of course. Though even Scottish would do at a pinch.’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ I said at once.

  ‘Let’s not discuss that now, Donald,’ said Aunt Jane quickly. ‘There’s lots of time. For the time being she should just think of enjoying herself. What would you like to do while you’re here, dear? There’s not very much to see and do apart from sea-bathing – it’s a small island – but perhaps you’ve thought of something?’

  I nodded. I had thought it all out while on the ship. ‘I want to get a job,’ I said. ‘I want to work. In Bridgetown. There must be jobs available for girls like me? I’ve read in the English newspapers – lots of respectable young women are working in London. I’d like to do that here. And move out, into a boarding-house, or something like that. Rent a room with an English family, perhaps.’

  They glanced at each other yet again, and this time I noticed a frown on both their brows.

  ‘Ar
e you quite sure, dear?’ said Aunt Jane after a while. ‘I mean – what would you do? What qualifications do you have?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ I admitted. ‘But I was thinking of teaching. I could give violin lessons. Or I could teach French, and English, reading and writing to young children. And German! I could teach German!’ I waited.

  ‘Well, you’d need a teaching certificate for the best schools,’ said Jane carefully after a while. ‘I suppose you could give private violin lessons to children. But – well, I’m wondering how many pupils you’d get? Enough to live on?’

  ‘And who on earth would want to learn German in Barbados?’ scoffed Uncle Don. ‘This isn’t Europe, you know. French is about all you need – there are a few French islands dotted about the place, but there’s not much exchange between us.’ He paused. ‘You see, Winnie, you do have to be sensible, and realistic. Yes, it’s true that more and more women are working in England. But this isn’t England. Girls from respectable families don’t work in Barbados. Why should they? Why should you? You have everything you want. Your father arranged a generous allowance for you. When you come of age you’ll have your trust fund. Why should you have to work?’

  ‘Because – because of George,’ I said, and my reasoning sounded lame even to me. How could he possibly understand? I had known for years now that, sooner or later, if George and I were to have a future, I would have to give up my pampered life. How could Uncle Don understand how spoilt I felt in the bosom of a family where everything was provided, where food appeared on the table as if by magic; where I never needed to pluck a fowl or boil an egg or even wash my own undies? Just one day in Auntie Dolly’s care had changed my life forever; I could never be that mollycoddled English girl again.

  ‘Well, in that case,’ said Aunt Jane brightly and briskly, ‘there’s nothing like the present! Why don’t you and I drove into Bridgetown tomorrow, and visit some schools? You can speak to the headmistresses and find out exactly how eager they are for your services.’

  ‘So that’s that.’ Aunt Jane slithered down the back seat next to me. Miller the chauffeur slammed the door, walked around the car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove off, and headed back home. ‘Well, dear, I did warn you.’

  She certainly had. Just as she had predicted, none of the three primary and two secondary schools had been the least interested in my potential as a teacher. One or two headmistresses, in fact, had been quite scathing in their dismissal. But I wasn’t ready to give up.

  ‘Perhaps I can work as a governess,’ I said. ‘Or a nanny. In an English home, looking after young children. I do love children!’

  Aunt Jane gave a yelp of horror. ‘A nanny! What would your father say to that! Oh, he would murder us! We are responsible for you, you know! And a governess! Who do you think you are – Jane Eyre?’

  I turned away from her, gazed out of the window. The last buildings dropped behind us and the glittering sea appeared past a field of palms. Tears pricked my eyes.

  Aunt Jane reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘I know you’re disappointed, dear, but it was always going to be a long shot. I say – why don’t you work for us? The nanny we have really isn’t up to scratch and the children adore you. It wouldn’t really be work as you spend so much time with them anyway and we could just pretend, and of course we’d pay you a generous salary. What do you say to that?’

  I said nothing to that. Just shook my head and continued to gaze out of the window so she wouldn’t see the tears I couldn’t hold back. I bit my lip so it wouldn’t quiver. Little crybaby! I scolded myself. Take hold of yourself!

  And I did. I turned to Aunt Jane. ‘Thanks, but no. I have to get a real job, and I will. I know I will. I need to move into Bridgetown, be independent. You see, it’s important. It really is!’

  She sighed audibly. ‘Well, I don’t know what your father will say to that – you living in some boarding house! He would think it quite common.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to know, does he? You don’t have to tell him. Otherwise he’ll just pack me off to England on the next ship. Please, Aunt Jane. Don’t tell him.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t anything to tell yet, is there? And I don’t suppose there will be. Who really wants a young girl without a single qualification or skill?’

  I’d been asking myself the same question for days, which was why teaching had occurred to me as my only option. I had a sudden brainwave. ‘I could take a course!’ I said. ‘Shorthand and typing! Then at least I’d be qualified as a secretary. I’d enjoy that – taking the course, I mean. And then I could surely get a good job.’

  ‘A secretary! Really!’ Aunt Jane’s opinion of that suggestion was clear from her tone.

  I said no more on the subject. But once we arrived home I grabbed the newspaper on the hall table and took it out to the veranda. There were several pages of advertisements near the back; perhaps I’d find what I was looking for there. And, it occurred to me now, why on earth had I not done this earlier? I always read the newspapers cover to cover – a habit I’d developed in my spying days – but never the advertisement pages. A serious omission.

  ‘Miss Kirby’s Secretarial College’ I read now, and ‘The Barbados School of Business’, offering courses in, among other things, shorthand and typing.

  I circled those two advertisements. My eyes drifted down the page. And stopped. My jaw dropped. My breath stopped. I almost cried out.

  ‘Telegraph Operators Needed. Training Given. The Bridgetown Telegraph Office.’ I didn’t circle that ad; I tore it out of the page. I ran into the kitchen where Aunt Jane was giving the cook instructions for tonight’s dinner party.

  ‘Aunt Jane! Aunt Jane!’ I cried. ‘I found just the job! I need to get back to Bridgetown – now! Can I borrow the car?’

  ‘A job? What kind of a job?’

  I told her. She raised her eyebrows. ‘A Telegraph Operator? What an extraordinary idea! Why on earth …’

  ‘Because I can! I know the Morse Code! I can work with a Morse machine! And I’m quick – really quick! I won’t need much training! Oh, it’s just the perfect job!’

  She frowned. ‘But I’m not sure if it’s quite the done thing, dear. What would your father say?’

  ‘He doesn’t have to know! He doesn’t! Please, Aunt Jane – just let me have the car! I know I can get this job!’

  ‘Well, Miller can drive you back into town after lunch, but really – and where would you stay? You can’t drive back and forth to Bridgetown every day.’

  ‘I’ll find a hostel, or something. I will. I’ll get the job, and then I’ll find a place to live!’

  ‘I should really speak to your uncle. I can’t come with you this time; I have this dinner-party to arrange; the Courtneys are coming. You’ll have to go on your own. Are you sure …’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you, thank you!’

  I lunged at her, grabbed her at the waist, hugged and kissed her, swung her around, and dashed off to find Miller.

  I got the job. Mr Clarkson, my future manager, was sceptical at first but then he let me demonstrate. I had never used a real Morse machine before, but I quickly mastered it.

  ‘By George! You’ll be our fastest operator!’

  ‘I can have the job then?’

  ‘Of course! Save us the trouble of training you. When can you start?’

  ‘Just as soon as I can! As soon as you want me!’

  ‘Right away. Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, yes, tomorrow. But – oh, I need a place to stay – a women’s hostel, or something. Do you know of anything?’

  ‘Well – there’s that place on Bird Street. Big white house with a sign. What’s it called – Miss Goode’s Hostel for Young Women or some such thing. The name’s right though – Miss Goode. That’s why I noticed it. Gives it a respectable touch, no doubt. Can’t go wrong under Miss Goode’s beady eye.’

  Actually, it was Miss Goode’s Boarding House for Young Ladies. Miss Goode was a plump Scotswoman with chestnut hair pinned on to
p of her head. She stared at me through large tortoiseshell spectacles.

  ‘I’ve only got the one bed free at the moment,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But …’

  She shook her head.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know if you realise this. Of course I couldn’t put it on the sign. But this is a home for coloured women. Coloured middle-class women, working women, all very decent, of course. Secretaries, teachers, and so on. All coloured. There’s a hostel for English women on Parade Street. You’d fit in there better.’

  ‘No – no! Of course not! I – I don’t mind at all. I’m happy to stay here. I’ll take the bed.’

  ‘It’s in a double room,’ she warned. ‘No vacant single rooms.’

  ‘A double room is fine. How much is it?’

  She told me; I gulped, but agreed. I wasn’t working for the money but for the independence.

  She looked me up and down. ‘You’re very young. I hope you’re not a runaway! We don’t take runaways. If you’re a minor we’ll need your parents’ permission.’

  ‘No! No I’m not running away. I’ve got a job! I’m a telegraph operator – look, here’s my contract!’

  I whipped out the paper I’d just signed. She glanced at it.

  ‘Parents’ permission? Your parents have to act as guarantors.’

  ‘My guardian. My aunt – she’s my guardian; she’ll be my guarantor.’

  ‘Then welcome. You’ll be sharing with Miss Hart – Sibille Hart. When do you want to move in?’

  ‘Right away! No, wait – I have to go home and pack. But tomorrow! I’ll come right after work.’

  ‘Very well then. So – come into my office and I’ll get your details down. And tell you aunt to come and sign.’

  ‘A telegraph operator? What a very peculiar thing!’ Mrs Courtney looked me up and down as if I had a bad skin disease, and passed me the sauce.

  ‘It’s not really peculiar,’ I said. ‘Lots of people do it. If you have telegraphs you have to have people operating them.