The Sugar Planter's Daughter

by Sharon Maas

  How could we pour a small fortune into the building of what would essentially be a village, row upon row of cottages with suitable plumbing and drainage and paved roads, and still expect to balance the books?

  ‘We are not a charity!’ I cried when Mama presented me with the blueprint she and Mad Jim had come up with.

  ‘In time it will work out to our advantage,’ she replied calmly. ‘Happy labourers will be more productive. You will see. Trust Jim.’

  But I could no more trust Mad Jim than I could trust one of the invisible baccoos said to haunt the logies. If it weren’t for Mad Jim, the disaster that ended with Papa in prison would probably never have happened. But I won’t go into that now. What’s done is done, and we cannot go back in time. Yet I hold Mad Jim responsible, and I do not like him, and will never trust him. He does not have our best interests at heart, but only those of the coolies.

  Mama and I finally arrived at a compromise. We built the new village on the back-dam, but instead of cottages we built rows of attached shacks, ranges, each spacious enough to house a family and each with a small kitchen area, with outdoor lavatories and bathing rooms for groups of homes. That would have to do, and that was the situation at the time when Winnie went off to Venezuela.

  And to my surprise, Mama and Mad Jim seem to be right, for the time being. Production is up. Better workers are undoubtedly better for business; but can it be true that happier coolies make better workers? The figures seem to be telling me exactly that.

  With the plantation running so smoothly, I found I had more time for playful fantasies, and they included George. The last time I had seen him – the day before Mama and I returned to the plantation – he had been decidedly more affable towards me than in the past. I think that my teasing of him had terrified the poor boy, and during that visit I made a concerted effort to be kind. And he too was not just polite. It was almost as if he had made up his mind to turn over a new leaf. I put this down to the fact that he was finally being honest with himself regarding his relationship with me. His blanket rejection of me had not been honest – it was a defence. Now, he was quite changed, and to my delight he even initiated a conversation on one of my visits to town.

  ‘Are you enjoying being the mistress of Promised Land?’ he asked me. Not a particularly insightful question to ask, and such ambiguous vocabulary, but since Winnie was present I supposed our talk would have to run along established lines. George, Winnie and I were enjoying a walk on the Sea Wall promenade; Mama had volunteered to look after Humphrey for Winnie and it was good to get away and take an afternoon stroll in the invigorating sea breeze.

  ‘Indeed!’ I said. ‘I am discovering that a woman can fulfil many roles at once, and enjoy them all.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so true!’ said Winnie, inserting herself unasked into the conversation. ‘I’m discovering just how much I can do and I really love it!’

  ‘How nice,’ I said to her, and turned back to George. ‘Though I hope to soon follow Winnie’s example and be a mother, I do find there are certain advantages to not having a child. More time to oneself, for instance. More freedom to pursue one’s own interests, and friendships, without the burden of a baby to look after. The plantation is almost running itself these days, and I am certainly enjoying my leisure time!’

  There! Those words, coupled with the languid look I passed him, should be hint enough. The attraction that came from him was so visceral I could almost touch it, cut it with a knife. I was almost afraid that Winnie would notice, but of course she was far too innocent-minded to pick up such a subtle intimation. And walking on the other side of George, of course she could not see my face, read my eyes. George, though, regarding me as I spoke, could. However, Winnie was quick to interrupt yet again.

  ‘Oh, but little Humph isn’t a burden! He is a joy! I love every moment with him, and I would not exchange him for buckets-full of leisure!’

  Oh, the smug little prig! I should have known she’d say something like that, just to put me in my place. How could I ever find a retort to that? I did my best, however.

  ‘Well, motherhood is no doubt a joy still to come to me, but in the meantime I am certainly enjoying my life as it is. Especially when I am in Georgetown.’

  Just at that moment a strong gust of wind swept the promenade and blew away my bonnet. I had deliberately left the ribbons untied as I thought it looked more charming that way, but I had forgotten about the breeze. George immediately ran after it and recovered it. I thanked him.

  ‘I’ll have to be careful I don’t blow away myself!’ I added. ‘But George can hold on to me, can’t you? Won’t you offer your sister-in-law an elbow?’

  Not waiting for an answer, I hooked my left arm round his elbow. That might have been just a bit too forward; embarrassment flickered for a moment in George’s eyes. But Winnie was her usual unsuspecting and unworldly self, and said, ‘He can hold on to us both!’ and she grabbed his other arm, and so we strolled on for a while in silence, George between us. A few people threw us curious looks – a black man between two white ladies was a very unusual spectacle in BG – but I have never worried about what people say or think. I care only for my own plans and desires.

  The silence gave my mind the space to concoct a new plan. It was fairly simple, and so I went on to express it.

  ‘So, Winnie, I take it that you will be leaving for Venezuela in September? For half a year, or longer?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ she replied. ‘We don’t know how long it will take as yet – that will depend on how well Humphrey’s little bones respond to the treatment.’

  ‘So you will be gone for Christmas! What a shame! Or will you come back for the celebration?’

  Everything depended now on her response. But I need not have worried.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Much as I’d love to, it’s not worth interrupting the treatment for the time it will take me to come here and return. I will spend Christmas in Venezuela.’

  ‘Then, George, you must come to Promised Land and celebrate with us! Yes, I insist!’

  ‘Oh, Yoyo, how kind of you. That’s a wonderful idea. George, you must go! You will have two days of holiday anyway – Christmas Day and Boxing Day – and added to the Sunday, perhaps you can take a day or two of unpaid leave, and make a real holiday of it all.’

  George was silent for a while, and then he said, ‘If I do take unpaid leave I would rather join you in Venezuela.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Winnie, and reddened as she considered this tempting option. I suppose George had to say that, to deflect any suspicion she might have, but it was a risk. Suppose she accepted his proposition? But then she spoke, and relief flooded me.

  ‘No, George,’ she said. ‘You would have to take almost a week off just to account for travelling to and from Caracas. That’s too much. Just two days off to visit the family is far more reasonable. We must be sensible. Not that I wouldn’t love you to come – but I’ll sacrifice that joy. We shall have so many more Christmases together – let’s not worry about this one.’

  And so it was decided. I looked up at George in triumph, but his face was turned away, towards his wife. I suppose that after such a noble self-sacrificing speech he had to show his appreciation. How droll, the way she played right into our hands!

  22

  Winnie

  They arrived late; I think the girls had almost given up hope. But then the bell by the door chimed one more time, and Eliza’s face lit up and she rushed to the door. Once there she stopped, brushed her hands over her hair, straightened her skirts, glanced back at us all and swept open the door. The three fellows marched in, hats in hand. A collective signal swept through the room, emitted by the ladies. Eliza had chosen her guests carefully; she had planned the party entirely around these three male guests of honour. There were about twenty guests in all – men and women; but the only single women were my three young marriage-hungry friends. All the other women were there with their husbands. Perhaps this observation of mine is a bit mea
n: perhaps Eliza’s only single friends were Tilly and Kitty. But I rather thought not. There were one or two single men: Kitty’s brother Harold and a friend, whose name I’ve forgotten. But it was strikingly obvious that these newcomers would have a limited choice of female company.

  ‘How wonderful of you to come!’ Eliza managed to say with great charm and dignity. I knew that she was excited beyond words, but from her demeanour one would think she did this every day – hobnobbed with highly eligible young white men. And these young men were indeed catches. Andrew, Emily’s elder brother, was a lawyer, just returned from his studies in England. Once upon a time Emily’s mother had hoped to see him married to me, but George had put an end to that plan. Now here he was, a handsome young man just starting out on his promising career. Further enhancing his appeal, he was handsome, the best-looking of the three.

  Emily, quickly scanning the three newcomers, must have taken note of this, for she chose Andrew to hook by the elbow – casually, again as if she did this every day – and lead over to our little group. George and I were seated with Kitty and Tilly in gallery chairs, glasses of mauby in our hands. George had been reluctant to come at first, and had been extremely reticent at the start of the party, but my three enchanting friends had managed to penetrate his reserve and now he was entirely relaxed and chatting with us all with his usual easy charm. I was proud of him.

  Eliza tonight was simply beautiful. She wore a lovely dress of pale mauve satin that exposed her exquisitely bronzed shoulders just enough, and displayed her slim waist and full bosom to great advantage. Her face was alight with natural joy; her eyes shone, her face glowed, and when she smiled her teeth gleamed white in perfect contrast to the smooth brown of her skin. Her hair was coiffed into an elaborate style involving plaits and ribbons. She was without doubt the most striking female at the gathering, which was entirely fitting, it being her party.

  It was obvious from the start that Andrew was not at all oblivious to all these charms. Though he greeted me politely – we were, of course, old friends – and made an effort on introduction to Tilly, Kitty and George, during the ensuing conversation his eyes returned again and again to Eliza. As did those of his two friends. And I realised then and there: Eliza, too, was a catch, and all that she had lacked to date was the opportunity to meet a man of higher standing. Though it hurts me to use such vocabulary, I must be honest: in the mating game, a good man can be the turning point in a woman’s life. Eliza, being beautiful, was in high demand, and could take her choice; but she had held out for an opportunity like this one, and her success was immediate. We had all seen it: that spark of mutual frisson that leapt between her and Andrew. These two were meant for one another, and to have played a part in their meeting filled me with great satisfaction.

  The other two chaps tried their best. They talked about cars – one of them was importing one from Britain – and cricket – the other was in the national team. The girls were suitably impressed, and gasped and giggled at the appropriate places in conversation. Both were relieved not to be in England right now, ‘considering that there’s going to be a war.’

  ‘We’d probably both be killed, and what good would that be to anyone?’

  ‘It’s true then?’ asked Tilly politely. ‘There’s going to be a war in Europe?’

  We all read the papers and followed the goings-on in Europe – but it was all so far away, and those of us born and bred in BG with no family ties at all to Britain felt it was really not our business; that we were lucky to be an ocean away. But these young men were English through and through; they may also have been born and bred here, but their lives were nevertheless rooted in that small island on the other side of the ocean. They had uncles, grandparents, sisters, aunts, cousins over there. That was the great difference between them and us. The war, to them, was the news of the day. They were involved, as we weren’t.

  ‘Oh yes, there’ll be a war all right!’ said one of them.

  ‘But without us,’ said the other.

  ‘Just a little scrap, most likely. A little tussle.’

  The other disagreed. He thought it was going to be huge, with all the countries in Europe at each other’s necks, and possibly America joining in as well. They argued for some time. Tilly and Kitty yawned, and not too discreetly, but the men didn’t notice, so intent were they on their war talk. Andrew leaned forward to whisper in Eliza’s ear and she giggled, her hand over her mouth. A few moments later the two of them stood up and excused themselves to go off to chat on their own in a far corner of the gallery. That seemed to snap the two other fellows to attention. They brazenly looked at their watches and declared they had to go. Tilly looked disappointed; Kitty relieved. But we were all happy for Eliza. It was her birthday, and she deserved the best.

  Just a month later Eliza and Andrew announced their engagement. According to Emily – whom I now saw regularly – this prompted no end of spiteful talk among the ladies of high society. How dare Andrew – one of the most eligible bachelors in town – choose a coloured girl over them!

  ‘But who cares!’ said Emily to me. ‘I think she’s delightful, and they’re so in love. Doesn’t everyone love a bit of romance? And now I have a sister, and a new friend. Life is good.’

  ‘My good deed of the month,’ I said. ‘And now it’s off to Caracas.’

  23

  George

  I missed them so much, but it was all for the best. Winnie wrote to me every day, and sent me long letters like diaries once a week, documenting Humphrey’s treatment every step of the way. She was pleased with the way it was all going. And as happy as she could be under the circumstances. Once her mother had seen her settled, she returned to Promised Land; Winnie was invited to stay at the home of one of the nurses who were looking after Humph, and she enthused over Gabriella’s kindness and the warmth of her family. She was learning Spanish; she was learning about life. She wrote me all sorts of things.

  ‘George, I do admire so the dedication of all the nurses and doctors here in the hospital! And do you know, if I could live my life over again, I think I would become a nurse – or even a doctor! It’s so strange that Papa never gave me the option of finding out what I could do with my life, besides getting married. Not that I for one instant regret my marriage to you, George! It is as it is, and as odd as my life is, I think I have made the most of what was possible for me. It’s just that… well, there’s no point whatsoever in regretting what never could have happened, is there!’

  ‘I’m so glad to hear that Kitty is enjoying the running of the business. She is a good cook and her guava jelly is every bit as good as mine. And her pepper sauce as hot. And she has the time, as I do not. And space: her home is much bigger than mine, living alone with her mother as she is. I think we have come to a good compromise as regards profit-sharing; she does need the income.’

  ‘George! I’ll give you three guesses! No I won’t because you’d never guess right. We are going to have another baby! Somehow in all the hullabaloo of getting Humph over here and his treatment I completely ignored my body, but actually the signs have been there for some time and now it has been confirmed. She will be born soon after I return home with a much more able-bodied Humph. I say “she” because I feel in my bones that it’s a girl. A boy and a girl – how lovely! I know you would love a daughter!’

  Once Winnie had written to me that she was expecting another child I became almost delirious with loneliness. I longed to hold her in my arms, stroke her belly, cuddle Humph and talk and talk and talk about our future. Our daughter! What would we call her? Automatically my mind began to go through lists of girls’ names. I thought a flower name would be lovely: Rose, Marigold, Daisy… but when I wrote to Winnie with my suggestions she immediately dismissed them.

  ‘No flower names, George! Please! That is so obvious! Let’s find something beautiful in itself. I love the name Charlotte. Or Sibille, after my friend in Barbados. But do you know what I would love? Gabriella, after my best friend here in Caracas
! Isn’t that a wonderful name? Of course, we have to be open to the fact that it might be a boy, so let’s think of boys’ names too. One never can tell, can one! But, fingers crossed for a girl!’

  I had to agree with Winnie – Gabriella was indeed a lovely name; and so it was settled. ‘Gabriella Rose!’ I wrote back, and Winnie agreed. Our daughter – if the baby was indeed a daughter – already had a name. She was almost a real person! I loved her already.

  The one thing I worried about was the size of our cottage. Ma and Pa were doing well in the annexe, but we only had the two bedrooms in the main part of the building. My two sisters and I had all grown up squeezed together, and I knew it could be awkward, girls and boys sharing a room. Of course it doesn’t matter when they are small, but later on it would have been better to separate us. I know that thinking this way is getting above my station – after all, who else in Albouystown has the luxury of separate bedrooms for girls and boys! But I am ambitious for Winnie’s sake. She deserves better. She deserves a proper house with a lovely garden, and enough rooms and a big kitchen and even a balcony. I have the ambition to offer this to her.

  I have not told her yet, but I have applied for the position of telegraph clerk. They are expanding the department and a new post has been advertised. I am certain I can get it – and then there will be a raise in salary. It comes with training – but of course I don’t need much training! I taught myself the Morse code, I built my own Morse machines when I was younger. Morse is my second language! I know that there will be applicants from young men of good families, but surely none of them will be as qualified as I am? Their fathers will pull strings, no doubt, and utilise connections – but I am determined to win this position through talent alone. I have sent in my application. And I made it original – after the usual details as to my education and work history, I rewrote everything – in Morse. Just so they know what I am capable of.