by Sharon Maas
The judge entered, everyone stood up, and I lost sight of George. He sat down again. I could see the back of George’s head, Papa in the dock.
My head was spinning by this time and I found I could not pay attention. Too full was I with my conversation with Papa, this new Papa full of regret and self-accusation, full of blame and jealousy and distress. This new small Papa who bore no resemblance to the Papa I had once known. The things he had told me! Shocking things, and things that made everything fall into place. I understood now, everything. Mama had not deserted us! And Mama – Mama and Uncle Jim – the two of them – Edward John …
The world turned fuzzy and my knees gave way. It seemed to happen in slow motion, for the last thing I remember is a man, a stranger, crying out as he reached out to grasp me as I sank to the floor. And then everything turned black.
When I came to I was once again in the private room, lying on a cot, and George was there sitting on a chair next to my head and holding my hand. I sat up immediately.
‘What happened?’
‘You fainted. They brought you here.’
‘No, I mean to Papa. The verdict?’
‘Second degree murder. They said he deliberately took the gun as self-protection, but that he had no intention to kill originally, but he genuinely believed Bhim was armed and he reacted out of fear. It wasn’t intentional, the judge said. And because he confessed, he’ll get a lighter sentence. Ten years in prison, Winnie.’
I sobbed aloud.
‘But he’ll get off early,’ George said. ‘And they’ll probably send him back to England. It would be too dangerous for him, prison in BG. The other prisoners – they’ll be furious and might harm him.’
That was a relief, but only a minor one. I collapsed into his arms, convulsed with sobs.
‘Papa! Oh, my Papa! I made him do this! Oh, I hate myself! I loathe myself!’
George rubbed my back and murmured comforting words.
‘You did the right thing, Winnie. The courageous thing. You made him confess.’
‘I had to! I couldn’t keep silent! I didn’t realise – I couldn’t …’
‘You did the right thing,’ he repeated.
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen now. To us both, Yoyo and me. Yoyo will hate me now! And what is to become of her? She’s so young, and now she has neither mother nor father. And what will I do, where will I go? Everyone will hate me. Everyone knows what I did. Everyone knows it was me. That I somehow changed the outcome; they saw me arrive with Mr Bhattacharya. They know, and they’ll hate me for it.’
‘Not everyone, Winnie. Don’t you realise? To us you’re a hero!’
‘Am I?’
‘Of course you are. How could you not be?’
And yet, being a hero seemed not to matter. It was a minor thing. A very minor thing. Only one thing mattered, now.
‘I sent you a telegram. A silly telegram. You don’t say things like that in a telegram.’
‘No. It’s not a thing for a telegram.’
‘Then …’
‘Winnie … you haven’t thought it out properly. You don’t know. I can’t offer you anything. Only hardship and struggle.’
‘I want to struggle at your side, with you. Isn’t that what marriage is about? For better, for worse?’ I could feel my lips quivering. I bit the bottom one, to stop it.
‘You’re so young. So innocent.’
Now it was my voice that quivered as I spoke. ‘Not so innocent any more, George. I’ve dug deep inside myself. It’s not just some sentimental fairy tale. Not any more. I’ve been tried and tested. I’ve been lured into a better life and I almost took the bait. I’ve been forced to grow up. I’m not a little girl any more and I know life isn’t going to be all roses and violins, life with you.’The words sounded so false; true on the surface, and yet … I had rehearsed them so often to myself. It was what I wanted to say, what I felt I should say, and they were true but only to a degree.
‘You don’t understand, Winnie. It’s not personal any more. It’s political. I have to step into Bhim’s shoes. I have to follow in his footsteps, fight for his sake, so that his death was not in vain. Up to now I’ve been covert, an underground fighter. I have to come out, Winnie, and speak up openly and fight openly. It’s bigger than just you and me. Any woman at my side would have to take second place to that fight.’
Now, both lips and voice quivered. But I had known he would say that, and I knew the answer I had to give. ‘Your fight is my fight. I will be there. I can do it. I know it.’
‘Winnie – are you sure? Quite sure?’ His eyes were fully of worry, full of hope; surely they saw the tendrils of doubt in mine. I was wearing a mask, a mask of bravery I did not fully feel. Surely George knew that I was not yet ready. Not yet capable. Not yet strong. That I still had knots to untie, matters to put right.
A vision rose in my mind’s eye of a beautiful house on a white powder beach lapped by sparking turquoise waters, roses growing up the walls, and, yes, from somewhere in the sky an orchestra playing the Blue Danube. Thomas, holding out his arms for me. I could still have that. Thomas would forgive me, that I knew. I had done my duty, spoken up, stood up for truth and justice. I was free to go, to return to a life that seemed cut out for me. Yes, the news of what I had done would follow me to Barbados and make of me a pariah. But if Thomas could forgive me so would, in time, everyone else. I had done my duty in speaking up, confronting Papa. I was free to make that choice. I could not have done so, had I not spoken to the prosecutor, for the guilt would eventually have killed me.
But now, a different kind of guilt plagued me, sharp and relentless, a knife twisting within me: guilt towards Papa but of a deeper quality. No longer just the guilt of testifying against him, but the guilt of selfish motives.
Had I betrayed my own father just so I could win George for myself?
Was I such a manipulative person, so evil, so devious, that I was prepared to send my father to prison just to impress, and win, the man I loved? Was water thicker than blood? How could I live with myself, with George, knowing the terrible price I had been willing to pay? Could I ever forgive myself? Had I done the right thing? Where lay selfishness, unselfishness? Had I betrayed my own people, my own blood? But what choice did I have? Weren’t truth and justice of more worth than ties of blood? Would I ever find peace again? What about Yoyo, the plantation? Miss Wright – would she stay, now that Papa was in prison? Had I betrayed her, too? All these questions swirled through me, tumbling over each other, tearing me apart. Where was the answer? Where? What was right, what was wrong?
I hid my face in my hands and wept. All the guilt, the emotion, the pressure of the last few weeks and the final climax here in this building of justice flooded through me, an ocean wave that found its only outlet in tears, in great heaving sobs that racked my body. George tried to hug me but I pushed him away; I had to walk this path alone. Yet I did accept the handkerchief he offered. Wave after wave washed through me and it seemed it would never end, that I would weep forever.
But finally the flood ceased, and then came the ebb, bringing peace, and final conviction. I looked up at George, whose last question still hung in the air, unanswered.
I looked up, and my voice broke, yet it was clear and firm. ‘George: I’m sure. I’m not free! I can’t – I just can’t! I need to put things right first. I need to be there for Yoyo – she thinks she’s grown up but she isn’t. She’s all alone now. I need to be there for her. She must hate me – I need to put that right! I have to go back to Promised Land – we girls will have to run the plantation for a while. I can’t leave it in the hands of Mr McInnes, and Mr Smedley, and Yoyo just isn’t old enough. I don’t even know if I’m old enough. But I’ll try.’
I reached out and grasped his hand, squeezed it.
‘I’m more than ready for that fight, George. But I need to put my own house in order first. That’s where my fight begins. Wait for me.’
The End
Epilogue<
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Telegram from Ruth Cox, Salzburg, to Winnie Cox, Tower Hotel Georgetown:
ARRIVING GEORGETOWN AUGUST FIFTH STOP SO SORRY LOVE YOU STOP MAMAX
Letter from Sharon
Thank you so much for reading The Secret Life of Winnie Cox. I do hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
When I write I am always thinking of you, the reader, and feel somehow connected to you. It's thrilling for me to know that out there you, a perfect stranger, are reading the words I wrote, following a story that came from my heart; somehow, this makes you not a stranger, but a friend. Isn't it wonderful how words, stories, can connect us all?
I'd love to know how you reacted to this story. Did it make you sad? Did it make you cry? Did it make you think? Did it take you back to the past? To a country that you perhaps did not know before? Which of the characters did you like the best, and which one did you love to hate? Did it make you see history from a new perspective? Did it change you in any way? I'd be delighted to hear your reaction, and the very best way of getting back to me is through a review, even a short one.
Getting feedback from readers is always wonderful, and it also helps to persuade other readers to pick up this, or another one of my books, for the first time.
I also hope you are eager to hear how Winnie's story continues – because it does! Yes – this is the first of a trilogy, and in the next two books you will find out how her life continues. Does she marry George? Does her mother return to British Guiana? Does Yoyo take over the plantation? All of these questions will be answered in my next book, coming out next year! And here's a big secret – you can take a sneak peek by jumping a few decades: you'll meet Winnie again as a wise Grandma in my previously published novel, The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q. She doesn't play the main role in that book, but she's there all right!
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Acknowledgments
The first person I'd like to thank is my Aunt, Zena Bone, who one starry night in the Pomeroon District of Guyana told me the fascinating story of my paternal grandmother, her former mother-in-law, Winnie Westmaas. I immediately knew that here was the seed not only for a new novel, but for several. The seed sprouted and grew: the result is The Secret Life of Winnie Cox and its follow-ups. Of course, in the writing, the story grew legs of its own – my Granny never lived on a sugar plantation, as far as I know, and all the details are completely of my imagination – but she did inspire the story as a whole, and so I thank her, too, posthumously.
It's not easy writing a novel set so far in the past, for research is necessary and the facts are sometimes hard to come by. But two people in particular answered my questions: Clem Seecharan, the author of Sweetening Bitter Sugar Jock Campbell - The Booker Reformer of British Guiana 1934 –1966; a book that became my Bible as I was writing. That book is dedicated to Ian McDonald, Clem's friend and a former Booker employee, and I was fortunate enough to meet Ian in Guyana. The Booker story seemed worth telling, and fiction is as good a way as any. How many readers know, for instance, that one of the biggest prizes in literature, the Booker, owes its existence, and its name, to British Guiana's oppressive Sugar Kings of centuries past (don't worry, that story does turn good!)? Between them, Clem and Ian helped me build up the setting for my book, and I am hugely indebted to them.
My good friend and fellow author Jan Lowe Shinebourne actually grew up on a sugar plantation on the Courantyne coast of British Guiana, and so she and her novels helped me to put myself there, to recreate the atmosphere – the smells, the sounds, the sights of a sugar plantation are one of a kind, unforgettable, and I hope that some of that ambience seeps through the words of this book.
I made it a point to stay for a weekend at Albion Estate (mentioned in the book) in one of my visits to Guyana, and I'd like to thank the many members of staff who showed me around and explained the industry to me. I have fond memories of staying at Albion as a child, as my Uncle Leonard worked there and lived in the staff quarters with his family, and it was fascinating to delve further into sugar's story.
However, none of us were alive in 1910 and so, in order to tell the story I also had to rely on imagination, and I admit to taking poetic licence here and there. Any mistakes I made in the setting and history are mine, not theirs.
Last but not least, I'd like to thank the wonderful team at Bookouture: Oliver Rhodes, who agreed to publish a book many agents had rejected, my gifted editor Claire Bord, (who is always right!), and Kim Nash, Bookouture's Publicity Manager, who I just know is going to put her heart and soul into making this book a success, just as she does with each and every one of our books. Thank you all for your faith, for your support, for your work!
Also By Sharon Maas
Of Marriageable Age
The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q
Published by Bookouture
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN
United Kingdom
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www.bookouture.com
Copyright © Sharon Maas 2015
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Sharon Maas has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
ISBN: 978-1-910751-48-0
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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