by Sharon Maas
I sat down in the chair next to him and tilted my head prettily for his benefit. I discreetly pulled a strand of hair from behind my hair and twirled it round my finger while gazing intently into his eyes, which proved harder than I imagined as his were lowered.
‘George,’ I said, hoping that my silky voice would encourage him to raise his gaze. I had practised that voice with Clarence, on whom it had no effect whatsoever, but, after all, Clarence was an anomaly among men. Most men melt when a woman lures him with her softness. It’s the antidote to their hardness. I discovered this as a young girl, at all the balls we girls were taken to. There is a dearth of white girls in the colony and a superfluity of men, and that’s how I learned the ways of men. Even a young girl of fourteen can have adult men grovelling at her feet. These tough men, accustomed to the brutality of plantation life, were as dough in our hands; they pine for our gentleness. And even a married man, even a happily married man, which I assumed George was, cannot resist. It’s instinct, and I learned this at a very early age – perhaps that is our instinct, as women. Thus it is that women are ultimately the stronger sex; we just must know how to apply that strength. Coupled with crafty intelligence and a plan, it cannot be defeated. The trouble with Winnie is that though she has that softness she lacks both intelligence and a plan. She is without wile, unlike me.
Indeed, George looked up and I saw the capitulation in his eyes. I smiled in triumph and reached out my hand to him again. Since he did not take it, I took his, placing my fingers gently round it as it lay on the armrest of the chair. Immediately he stiffened, and pulled away – I allowed him to. It wouldn’t do to scare him too much on this first day. I returned to curling that stray lock of hair with my finger, and gave him my most beautiful smile, even while turning my head in a way I knew was charming, exposing my long neck. He was palpably frightened – that wouldn’t do. I thought it would relax him if I spoke about Winnie, with whom he was still besotted, so I did.
‘Tell me, George – what’s this I hear about Winnie going into serious business with her guava jam and pepper sauce? Is it really true that she’s even selling it at Fogarty’s?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Ma’am! He actually called me ma’am! Obviously an attempt by him to distance himself as far as possible! Which meant that, deep inside, my strategy was working. I decided to ignore the ma’am. I chuckled.
‘Goodness gracious! So she is a businesswoman. Dear me – I am impressed. Winnie didn’t know how to even boil a kettle of water as a girl! How droll to think of her in the kitchen with all the pots and pans, cooking up gallons of guava, selling them all!’
‘It’s very good,’ he said, defending his wife as a good husband should.
‘Oh, I know! Up at Promised Land we finished the first jar of guava jelly you brought us in no time, and we are now halfway through the second. And the pepper sauce has its place on the dining table – a little too hot for my taste, but I do try a little now and then.’
Margaret returned, and shortly after that the servant appeared with a tray on which stood a teapot and a cup and saucer, as well as a sugar bowl and a little jug of milk. I kept up the chatter as she poured George’s tea.
‘Oh! I’m so sorry – I didn’t introduce you to my friend, Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth. Previously Margaret McInnes – you know the McInnes family, of course – you used to deliver their letters.’
Margaret giggled at that, and I caught her eye and winked. She knew full well what I was doing, and was richly enjoying the game. Just as I was. George was such an easy prey. It pleased me to see, once again, how much power I could have over a man, seeing as how I had failed with Clarence. It pleased me to see George’s discomfort. It was all so harmless, at this stage; a little game that gave me infinite pleasure even as it pleased me to see this unwanted addition to our family in discomfort. A little act of revenge, one might say.
‘I’m sure Margaret would love a jar of the guava jelly, and the pepper sauce!’ I continued. ‘Do you like it hot, Margaret?’
She shook her head, unable to speak as she was almost bursting with unspent giggles. I, on the other hand, managed to keep a straight face as I said, ‘Well, I’m sure your husband does! George, you must bring a jar of each round tomorrow when you deliver your letters. I’m sure they’d fit in your letter-bag. You must make sure, though, that the lids are on tightly. We can’t allow the pepper sauce to leak all over your letters – now that would be a catastrophe!’
It was a joke, and so both Margaret and I were permitted to laugh out loud, which was a relief – one can only keep a straight face so long! Poor George. He didn’t see the joke. I’m afraid the poor boy entirely lacks a sense of humour. I believe all darkies do – one never hears them laughing and joking among themselves.
Instead, he sipped hastily at his tea; it must have been far too hot, but he didn’t seem to care. Perhaps it’s true that they are insensitive to pain. He sipped again and then downed the rest of the cup in a few gulps, extremely rudely, of course, and with a complete lack of etiquette. Which just goes to show how shallow were the manners he had displayed during that ghastly visit to Promised Land. At heart he was crude. Having emptied the cup, he stood up.
‘I got to go,’ he said, picking up the postbag.
I would have loved to keep him longer, but I decided to let him go.
‘We must see more of each other, George!’ I said as we walked to the front door. ‘After all, we’re family now! I’ll make sure you and Winnie are invited to a party I’ll be attending later this week.’ That was a lie, of course. There was no possibility of a fellow of his ilk being invited to a society party. But getting his hopes up was all part of my ploy. A cat and mouse game – that’s what it was.
I had to admit that, were it not for the colour of his skin, George would have been a decidedly attractive man. He had a certain appeal to him, a certain innocent charm, which most of our own men lacked. Perhaps it was his lack of male posturing and self-aggrandisement, which can be so very tiring. I know I had initially rejected him, but I could now understand a little why Winnie had been so completely gaga for him. I wondered: if I had seen that appeal before her, would I have fallen as strongly for him as she did? Would I have cast caution to the wind, and given up all for him? I did not believe in romantic love, not at all – but a certain magnetic pull cannot be denied. That day at Promised Land, when George had first squirmed under my gaze, I had noticed the pleasure it gave me to see his discomfort. And today, that pleasure was so much more. Clarence’s rejection of me had given me such doubts – a little harmless game with George was enough to restore my faith in myself as a woman. Just a little harmless game. It was so easy to tease him.
Poor George almost fled down the front stairs, his postbag banging against his hip.
Margaret collapsed against me in giggles.
‘Oh Yoyo, you’re such a coquette! That was simply – simply tremendous! Your finger in your hair! Your pout!’
‘Yes, I am rather a tease, aren’t I? I never knew it was such fun. Or that I could be so good at it.’
‘I have to say – he is rather nice-looking, if one looks past his colour.’
‘He is, isn’t he? And not really black, either. More a delicious cocoa-brown.’
She giggled again. ‘Cocoa-brown! Oh, Yoyo, that sounds as if you’d like to eat him!’
‘Well, I could, of course, if I wanted to. Those darkies would cut off their limbs to get a white woman in their bed. Any white woman, but someone like me, a high society beauty, well. I could just snap my fingers and he’d come running.’
‘Oh, but not George! Everyone says he absolutely adores Winnie.’
‘Nonsense, Margaret. It’s all just lust. She adores him, so she was just the easiest white woman he could get. I could easily win him off her. If I wanted to, that is. There’s no such thing as fidelity when a man is tempted.’
‘But you wouldn’t tempt him, would you? Not seriously!’
‘It would be rather fun, wouldn’t it? Just to show him how silly this love nonsense is. He doesn’t really love her. A serious temptation, from another white woman, and this whole notion of love would fly out the window.’
‘But you wouldn’t, would you? Not seriously. You couldn’t. Not with a darkie!’
‘Well – that whole aspect of married life is so dreadful anyway. There’s that rumour that black men can be quite enjoyable. I am slightly curious, you know! Can an act so utterly disgusting be actually enjoyable? I wonder…’
‘Yoyo! You wouldn’t!’
I didn’t answer. I merely smiled, a secretive smile. An interesting little thought had occurred to me, and I didn’t know whether to dismiss or entertain it.
‘Yoyo! You have that naughty twinkle in your eye! You’re up to something again!’
‘You and I – we always had those bets, didn’t we, Margaret? Dares. And I never turned down a challenge, did I?’
Margaret burst into uncontrollable giggles, her hands over her mouth. Me, I simply smiled.
19
George
My sister-in-law is a strange being indeed. Cold as a fish at first, she one day suddenly showed great interest in me, and even artificial warmth. It had started during our visit to the plantation, but now it was even worse. I suppose it is a result of the baby – everyone loves a baby, and no doubt the birth has encouraged her to accept me as a family member. But her lack of sensitivity is alarming. She interrupted my postal rounds by inviting me into her friend’s home – she didn’t give me a chance to refuse, and did not understand that I had no leisure time to sit around in a gallery drinking tea, and certainly no time for a chat.
I managed to break off the unnecessary delay by simply rising to my feet and leaving. It may have appeared rude but frankly at that juncture I didn’t care. I should have been that firm right from the beginning, but she took me by surprise. In future, I swear, I shall be wary of this woman. She is unpredictable. I finished my rounds without further disruption, did some letter-sorting work in the afternoon and then in the evening returned home to my wife and child – the high point of my day.
For now, Mama has returned to Promised Land, and, to my relief, Yoyo went with her. I was glad of that. Every day on my rounds she has attempted to waylay me again but, forewarned, I have been able to avoid her. I never entered the Smythe-Collingsworth house again.
When I hold him in my arms the love I feel for that child sweeps through me like a hurricane. I have never known anything like it – different from my love for Winnie, it is; the love of a father is a protective love, infused with a sense that this scrap of humanity is more precious than diamonds; that nothing on earth can ever diffuse or dilute that love; that it can never grow stronger, for it is perfect from the first moment and onwards, perfect and full and fulfilling. In it is power, for in love is all the power of God, and it sweeps through every tiny particle of body and soul. Winnie and I were joined in that complete love. We needed no words; a glance, a smile, a touch told me that this was the consummation of all that had been before.
Humphrey’s tiny left foot is twisted so that the sole turns sideways. It does not seem a serious disfiguration to me. Babies, after all, are not shaped like small adults. He is not a miniature man. Surely it will grow out?
But apparently not. Mama – as my mother-in-law insists I call her – swept him off to Dr van Sertima and now there is talk of treatment abroad – perhaps even as far away as Europe. I am strictly against it.
‘He will never be able to walk without a limp,’ Mama said when she and Winnie came back from the doctor’s. ‘Never run like other boys, and jump. He will not be invited to join the cricket team, if you do not operate.’
‘Well, maybe he will be a quiet boy, one who loves reading and – and postage stamps, like his grandfather! Not all boys like to play cricket.’ I cradled him in my arms, rocked him to and fro, placed my finger on his palm. His little fingers closed around mine in a vice-like grip, and I smiled fondly.
‘He will have no friends, for the boys will tease him and make fun of him. He will be lonely and unhappy, for he will be left out. He will suffer!’
The thought of my boy suffering caused me to suffer. A lump rose in my throat, and I pulled him closer to me. I said nothing, for words stuck in my throat. Winnie, who had been in the kitchen preparing warm water for his bath, came into the gallery and stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders.
‘It is for him, George. For his future. I don’t want to go at all, but it is the best thing to do.’
‘But – where will you take him? How long will you be gone?’
‘Dr van Sertima has taken some photographs of the foot and is writing a letter to a specialist in London. We must wait for a reply. There are good hospitals in London and Germany and Austria. I may have to go there.’
‘We cannot afford a trip to Europe, and to pay for expensive doctors!’
‘I will pay,’ said Mama. ‘My grandfather died last year and left me a good deal of money. I can afford it. I will pay.’
‘I cannot accept’
‘We can accept, George. I didn’t want to at first either, but the doctor and Mama have persuaded me otherwise. It is best for him. We want him to be healthy and happy, don’t we?’
What could I say to that?
Weeks passed, and at last we had a reply. Yes, said Dr van Sertima’s specialist friend, there were excellent doctors in Europe – but why travel all that distance?
‘Dr Garcia is one of the world’s greatest surgeons in paediatric orthopaedic surgery,’ said the letter, ‘and he is based in Caracas, Venezuela. Isn’t that near to where you are? I have taken the liberty of sending your details, as well as the photographs, to Dr Garcia. I am sure he can help. You should be hearing from him shortly. Should you, on the other hand, insist on coming to London, I am willing to accept poor little Humphrey as a patient. I just thought it would spare you the trouble of a long sea journey.’
And so it was planned: Winnie and Humphrey shall go to Venezuela, and I must wait for them at home. They will stay for as long as is necessary. I don’t know how I will bear it; but it is for Humphrey’s sake, and so I must. Winnie’s friend Kitty MacGonigal shall take over the running of Quintessentials.
Mama will go with them, see them settled, and then return. They are likely to stay several months. They will go when Humphrey is eight months old.
20
Winnie
My baby became my world, caring for his needs my mission in life. He filled me up, raised me up – just looking at him filled me with delight, and every task I did for him I did gladly, my limbs moved by love. It was, indeed, a delirium of love.
Yet I did not forget George. George felt exactly the same towards Humphrey, though his task of love was a different one: that of providing for us, that our little home be safe and secure. The annexe was now finished and Ma and Pa had moved into it, leaving the bigger bedroom for George and me. The bedroom we had once shared became my workroom, the place where I made my jellies and sauces and stored them. I now had less time for the making of them, and none for the delivery – but the income from sales was enough to employ Harold, the son of one of our neighbours, who made the deliveries for me.
My life was perfect, but it was not to be for long. Mama had made all the arrangements for the trip to Caracas, where Humphrey was to be treated by Dr Garcia. I know nothing about banking, but somehow she had arranged for money to be transferred from her bank in Salzburg to Dr Garcia’s account, advance payment for the treatment – a lump sum, I was told, which included my board and lodging on hospital property. Everything was in place. Mama and I would move to Caracas in a few months’ time; once I was settled, Mama would return to BG and I would stay for however long it took to get Humphrey’s foot repaired. I knew it was an ongoing task – that he would be wearing a leg brace for years to come, and would always walk with a limp. But he would be a loved child, a healthy child, and that was what mattered.
I sensed, though, that George was unhappy. It started, really, the day before Mama and Yoyo were due to return to Promised Land. It was a Sunday, and they came round to say goodbye. Now Sunday is the one day George and I can be together the entire day, and I understand that he was irritated that he would have to share that one day with my relatives. But surely they are his relatives too? Surely he could welcome them, and share his son with his grandmother and aunt? But no. The evening before, sitting in the gallery enjoying the night air, we had a little quarrel – more of a lovers’ spat, really.
‘I thought you liked Mama!’
‘I do. It’s just…’ He shook his head.
‘George! Don’t turn away. If you like Mama… it’s Yoyo you don’t like, then?’
He hesitated just a fraction of a second too long before replying: ‘Yoyo…she’
‘You don’t like her! George, how could you? I mean, I know she was rude to you at first, when we announced our engagement. But she has made such an effort. It’s not easy for her, you know. She’s still a part of English society and people might shun her just because of us. I mean, I don’t care about being shunned but it’s hard for Yoyo – she isn’t the one who married you, after all. And you have to admit she has made an effort. She was so kind to you when we were at Promised Land, and the fact that she came to town to see Humphrey, it shows that she is now willing to accept us, accept you. You could be a bit kinder, and more forgiving.’