The Sugar Planter's Daughter

by Sharon Maas

  I opened my mouth to protest. There was that phrase again – your people – how I hated it. But George held up his hand before I could speak.

  ‘Let me finish. Standing up for truth is one thing, Winnie. But actually marrying one of us, or me marrying one of you – that’s a different matter. It’s breaking the code.’

  ‘What code? I didn’t know you had a code. You never told me about a code.’

  ‘It’s an unspoken code – it’s like a – a betrayal. Are our women not good enough for him? people will ask. Our women will feel slighted – why didn’t he pick one of us? And men—’

  He stopped. ‘What about men?’ I prompted.

  He didn’t want to speak. ‘Tell me!’ I said.

  ‘Men – well, men might disrespect you for marrying me,’ he finally said. ‘And resent me for aiming too high, above my station, when they have no such choice. Begrudge us both not knowing our place.’

  ‘What is my place? George, I wish you wouldn’t speak this way. It makes me feel that you too see a division that we can’t cross. I thought we agreed: love is the way to cross the abyss between black and white. And our love has crossed it! We’re just two people, a man and a woman, who love each other. What does it matter what colour our skin is?’

  ‘But others won’t see it that way,’ George said. ‘That’s all I’m saying. People in Albouystown know we married and it’s slowly trickling out to the rest of Georgetown. To people who don’t know I’m Theo X. If they see Theo X with you the secret will be out.’

  ‘They won’t see us together,’ I said. ‘I’ll wear a veil, like I did last time, and stay in the crowd. Quite a few people wore veils at that rally – people who don’t want to be recognised. Why can’t I? I just want to be a part of it all.’

  ‘You are a part of it all, no matter what. Even if you stay at home, you’re a part: I feel you behind me, in spirit. But that’s not the point. Didn’t you hear what I said? It could be dangerous. Sometimes the police come and break up the meetings. Sometimes they shoot – not to kill, but they did once kill a man, by mistake. I’m your husband. I’ve promised to protect you. I don’t want you in that crowd. I want you safe.’

  I laughed. ‘George, you should know me better than that! When have I ever played it safe? Did you think I would change once I became your wife? I’m coming, and that’s that!’

  Who would ever have thought that I, Winnie Cox, middle daughter of the Honourable Archie Cox, would end up as the scandal of Georgetown! Growing up I had been the quiet, romantic one, given to poetry and Bach and flowers; I stayed out of trouble, was always polite and obedient. The old ladies would say, what a sweet little thing she is! Growing up, it was Yoyo who was the adventurer, Yoyo the renegade, Yoyo most likely to rock society’s steady boat. Yet it turned out to have been me.

  Papa’s trial had brought out all the latent defiance that had built up in me over the years. My conscience, till then just a distant squeak, had roared out loud, to everyone’s amazement – including my own – and BG’s English society had fallen flat on its back in shock.

  Now, here I was, a citizen of Albouystown, the poorest and most run-down area, making a life for myself as the husband of the youngest and most hot-headed of the generation of rebel leaders spawned by the deplorable conditions on the sugar estates, in the factories, on the docks of Georgetown. Marriage for me was more than marriage to a man. It was marriage to a mission, a cause. It would be a fight, side by side with my beloved. Hand in hand we would struggle for change. I was fired by the spirit of revolution; young and passionate as we both were individually, I knew that together we were stronger. Together we would rock this complacent boat till it capsized, and we would be there to build a new, more equitable, more just society. That spirit of fight is what I loved most about George. I was at his side, and I would prove myself. There was no way I would be staying home that night.

  George was putty in my hands. Not that he was weak – no one who had seen George in action would call him that – but once I had made a decision I stuck to it with all my might. Sometimes, in the past, they had been silly decisions, and the consequent tumbles had opened my eyes and drummed sense into me. But to be turned back by the fear of risk? No – that was not Winnie Cox’s way, and it would never be Winnie Quint’s way. Now, having informed George that I would not be obeying him – in spite of my marriage vows – I softened the blow by giving him my biggest smile and opening my arms to him, and of course he fell into my embrace. This is how, as a woman, I had learned the art of triumph; I fought for truth, calmly and stubbornly, and when I won I disarmed my man. This method worked well with George. I suspect it works with other men too. Men are basically powerless against us women, their ostentatious strength a mere shadow of our quieter power. I was a quick learner. And I would go to that rally.

  10

  George

  In a way I was glad that Winnie had come to the rally. It was best that she heard the news from Theo X, the revolutionary, not from George Quint, her husband.

  Winnie loved the latter, but she revered the former, and that had been bothering me for some time now. In solid, caring, reliable George lived the daring, dashing rebel she longed to emulate – but our lives had changed and the time for rebellion was over. That dual personality was inconsistent with marriage, which must be solid and strong and unified. Winnie did not yet understand. Youthful exuberance burned in her heart; the risks she had taken to be with me, the courage that had set her apart from her people and her race, they were like waves rising in the ocean and crashing on the shore: they were exciting, but limited. The ocean itself is still and deep. It carries the waves, but inevitably the waves fall back into it. Our marriage must be like the ocean, not the crashing waves. We must move on.

  Theo X must die.

  That night, though, Theo X was on fire as never before.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ I began, and even at those non-committal words the crowd broke into a frenzy. It was a larger crowd than ever before – over the years word had spread, and with each full moon the gathering swelled just a little more. Now, it clapped and cheered and people rose to their feet and called my name and chanted: Theo X! Theo X! Theo X!

  Somewhere in that crowd was my Winnie. Knowing Winnie, she would be more enchanted than ever: proud of her Theo X, filled with revolutionary fervour, probably clapping and chanting herself.

  ‘I want to be at your side, fighting for justice with you!’ she had said earlier, and later tonight I would have to tell her it was all a dream. We were not going to be that revolutionary couple. She was married not to Theo X but to reliable, solid George Quint.

  When the cheering died down, I began to speak. I never wrote my speeches in advance. They came spontaneously. It was like magic: the moment I opened my mouth the words would pour forth, as if recited from a script written in my soul. Words of inspiration, words of fire, words of truth:

  ‘Never believe, not for one moment, that the colour of your skin makes of you a lesser man, a lesser woman, than the man and woman of white skin! Never believe that you are a lackey, a servant, a serf – even if you play those roles in your everyday life! In each of your hearts burns an ember, and it is the ember of true identity! Cling to that ember, cling to that knowledge, cling to that faith: you are precious, you are golden, you are a child of God! Let that ember lend you dignity, even if your outer life is one of servitude and toil. Let that ember keep your chin raised up, even if your back is bent under the weight of your burden! The ember might be tiny, so small you can hardly see it, hardly feel it, but I assure you it is there and in times of despair, in times of devastation, may you remember that spark of life and may it infuse you again and again with new strength, new courage, new hope. Change will happen, my brothers and sisters. It will. But whether that change comes slowly or soon, you must never let go of that truth: you are precious, you are golden, you are a child of God!’

  Gradually over the last two years my speeches had taken that turn into pers
onal motivation. I had not planned it; it was not a conscious thing. I did not resolve to do this. The words came not from me, but through me, and I was as surprised by them as anyone in the crowd. Tonight, they even took on a religious bent – where did this child of God business come from? I was not a religious man – why then did I say such things? Yes, it was time to stop.

  The leaders of People for Justice were already in two minds about me. On the one hand, I drew the crowds. Of all of their speakers, I was the one who had people cheering and clapping. The speakers who had gone before me tonight had drawn little reaction with their words: basically, we had all heard the same things before. Resist the white man. We shall overcome. Fight for justice. Words that had become clichés over time, because how are you going to resist when you have to earn a living to put bread on the table; when your overseer is behind you on a horse and carrying a whip (even if he is not allowed to use that whip) or when the lady of the house commanded you to scrub floors on your hands and knees and the pittance she paid you would put crumbs of bread in your child’s mouth? They were all empty words, and they had drawn little reaction from the crowd because we had all heard the same words before, from the same speakers.

  But right now, words were pouring from my mouth and I had no way of stopping them. Where did they come from? Why was I speaking them? They scared me – and yet I could not stop.

  ‘There is a light within you – cling to that light throughout the darkness! Believe in that light – know that it is always there, even when the darkness is closing in and you cannot see, cannot even breathe! Brothers and sisters, you are precious! Each one of you! Know that! You are diamonds in the dust! Keep the faith!’

  It was as if the crowd arose with one single heart to accept my words, to bathe in them; the cheering was louder than ever before and it was several minutes before I could speak my last words, words that would burst the bubble.

  ‘Brothers and sisters, thank you, thank you, thank you. I can feel your love and I know we are all joined in that love. But I must tell you one more thing. As of tonight, Theo X is no more. For personal reasons I have decided to retire from People for Justice. Please understand, please forgive me, and most of all: keep the faith.’

  Utter silence descended on the gathering. For a moment it was as if the crowd was stunned, too shocked to react. But then they did react, and the concerted wail that rose almost coaxed me back to the dais. As I walked away a few people ran up behind me, grabbed my arms, tried to call me back. I shook them off. I could not go back. In fact, I was in tears. There was no return.

  While speaking I had been transported away from reality, a mere mouthpiece for words I had not created, that came from who knows where. Now that it was over the stark reality burst in upon me: I was no more a part of the revolution. The realisation tore me apart.

  I had thought I was making this decision for Winnie: to protect her and my family-to-be. I had seen myself as a rebel, a radical, a revolutionary, a fighter for Truth and Justice – both written with large letters. I was the one who would avenge Bhim’s death – my closest friend, killed in cold blood by my future father-in-law. I was the one who would keep Bhim’s memory alive, and work from my gut outwards to keep his mission alive.

  But as I walked from that dais I knew I was none of these things. It was as if I had been struck down from on high. Smitten by a sword. You are nothing, said a voice from within, you are but a grain of dust. I walked on, weeping, a sense of disintegration, of cracking apart, tearing at my being. Now I was sobbing out loud, sobbing for a dream I could never fulfil: Theo X was dead! How I had revelled in that name, in that image! How I had basked in the sense of my own significance! How I had delighted in the adulation of others! And as Theo X crumbled into dust I wept.

  I walked northwards, and so inevitably I arrived at the sSea wWall. I hoisted myself on to it and stood there, the breeze whipping my clothes and wiping dry my face. I opened my arms to the Atlantic, to the sky and the universe, and screamed, What then? Why now? Who am I? I screamed the words out loud and the wind tore them from my lips. And I closed my eyes and beat my chest as if I would beat the living heart out of myself… and the ocean beat against the shore in indifference, and the full moon sailed above in a vast and starless sky, and clouds drifted past in the pale moonlight, and I felt the pulse of the earth and my smallness in the grand scheme of things and a voice rose up in me, a voice so small it was near silent, and it said: You are. That is all. Be Here Now.

  And with that voice came calmness, and no more tears, only a deep intake of breath as I settled into a renewed sense of simply being alive, and filled with joy and purpose and

  Purpose! My purpose was right here, where I was, and right now, and I was neglecting it! Winnie! She was my purpose, and I had left her behind, in that confused and floundering crowd! I turned and ran.

  11

  Winnie

  In order to keep the meetings truly secret, the People for Justice group met at a different place each Saturday night, that place only revealed through word of mouth on the Saturday morning. Tonight the meeting place was on one of the playing fields near the Sea Wall.

  I couldn’t help the colour of my skin, but I had to prove that I was not of a different ilk, and I had to take the distrust and sometimes blatant dislike I attracted as part of my heritage. I had to earn first their trust and then, if that went well, perhaps also their respect and their affection. And so, attending that first rally after my marriage, I went in disguise; I wore a black veil that hid my pale face, and kept my hands concealed.

  George and I went together; I rode on the crossbar of his bicycle, and he let me down when we were near the field so that I could walk the remaining short distance. George himself wore a mask; just a half-hood that covered the top part of his face, with slits for his eyes. His work was becoming more and more dangerous, and it was vital that his identity be kept secret. Theo X had committed no crime that was in the book; but he was working to destabilise the colony’s government, and that, in the eyes of the British, was indeed a crime.

  I arrived in good time, and quietly merged with the crowd and found a place to sit on the hard ground. All around me, others took their seats; mostly men, some couples, but no other women alone as I was. But I spotted a group of three young women, sitting near me. I longed to be part of such a group; to have a friend, another female, who thought as I did, felt as I did! Someone to share my hopes and aspirations with! I had had few friends back on the plantation; Emily Stewart, in fact, was the only girl I could regard as a true friend, but I had lost touch with her since my engagement. What a shock that must have been to her! And so I was on my own here in Georgetown. But I must be patient; one day, I would find friends.

  Meanwhile, I edged nearer to those three ladies. As a single woman in that crowd of mostly men I was an anomaly, and I noticed that I was indeed drawing attention. Heads turned to look at me; the fact that I was wearing a veil made me a mystery woman, and I understood their curiosity. How I wished I could tear away that veil, and sit there open-faced as did the three women in that group!

  They put their heads together, and one of them glanced back at me: they were talking about me! I had attracted their attention, just as they had attracted mine. In that moment I made a bold decision: I stood up, walked over to the little group and sat down.

  ‘Hello!’ I said. ‘May I sit with you?’

  One of them giggled, and they shuffled to make room for me. ‘Yes of course – sit down,’ said the girl who had giggled.

  Another said, ‘Why you wearin’ a veil?’

  I looked around to make sure we were not being watched – we weren’t; it seemed the fact that I was now part of a group had assuaged people’s curiosity – and gestured for them to gather closer. Once they had shuffled near to me I lifted my veil, and quickly dropped it again. They all gasped.

  My face was well known. During the trial – less than six months ago – it had been splashed all across the newspapers, on the front
pages. I was as much a public figure as my father had been: he the villain of that story, I the heroine. That was the very reason I had to keep my presence here a secret, the reason George feared for my safety.

  ‘Winnie Cox?’ said one of the ladies at last, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  ‘I am she,’ I said. ‘But I’m now Winnie Quint.’

  One of the ladies held out her hand for me to shake. ‘So pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘My name is Kitty – Kitty MacGonigal.’

  ‘I’m Eliza Woodcock,’ said another, and I shook her hand too.

  ‘Matilda Barnett,’ said the third. ‘Call me Tilly. You are very brave to come here!’

  ‘You were very brave to do what you did,’ said Eliza. ‘At the trial, I mean.’

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to resurrect the past, and so I changed the subject. ‘Do you go to all the PFJ meetings?’

  ‘Most of them,’ said Kitty. ‘If we can all three get away, we come. We would never come alone, like you did.’

  ‘Ssssh!’ said Tilly. ‘They’ve arrived.’

  The buzz of chatter that had been hovering over the field hushed into an expectant silence; one or two people clapped, but apparently this was frowned upon for they were isolated, and no one joined in. Three men walked to the front of the field and climbed up on what must have been a low dais, although I couldn’t see it from my spot on the ground. Now their heads were all visible – all masked, but for those who knew them, still easily identifiable. My new friends craned their necks to see better.

  ‘The one on the right,’ Eliza whispered to me, ‘that’s Theo X – the youngest.’

  ‘And the handsomest!’ giggled Kitty.