The Sugar Planter's Daughter

by Sharon Maas

  Then suddenly, he pounded the desk with his fist.

  Him: I know! I’ve got it! I remember!

  My heart crashes to the ground. This is it. The end.

  Him: Your wife! Is her name Winnie?

  Me (questioningly): Yes?

  Him: She makes a guava jelly called Quintessentials, doesn’t she?

  Me: Yes?

  Him: She was here, many years ago, applying for a small loan so that she could expand. She brought me a jar of that jelly, and some other things too – pepper sauce – too hot for me – pickles and whatnot. My wife – she was ecstatic! Your wife is a remarkable woman, you know! Such an easy charm, she has. She gave me the samples, told me to take them home and try them, and she’d be back a week later. She was, and she got her loan. Winnie Quint. How could I forget! A remarkable woman.

  Me: She is.

  Him: My wife told me a bit about her. Said she’d married a black man, a George Quint. That’s how I remembered your name. My wife loved the jam but disapproved of the marriage, turned up her nose. Told me a bit about some murder trial – the usual gossip. You know what most women are like. Gossip, gossip, gossip, and bad-talking each other. Your wife is different. Me, I thought the marriage only confirmed what a remarkable woman she is. Shows bravery, it does. And you must be a remarkable man.

  Me: Thank you, sir. I’m lucky to have her.

  Him: Well, I can see how hard you’ve saved over the years, how well you’ve managed your money. And you want to buy a house for her, you say? I think you deserve each other. And you deserve to get your house. Yes, of course you can have the loan. I’ll get the papers drawn up – come back next week.

  I walked out of that bank dazed and stumbling, as if drunk. I could hardly ride my bicycle. I wanted to sing and shout and dance! But all I did was ride down to the property and gaze at it in longing. It is ours – I know it is! It is perfect. Just a ten-minute walk up Camp Road to the Sea Wall. Round the corner are the beautiful Promenade Gardens. Queen’s College, a five-minute bicycle ride away – all my boys will go there! They will all become doctors and lawyers. They will win scholarships, as I did, but do something with their education, as I didn’t.

  Round the other corner, a few blocks southwards and to the west, is Bishops’ High School, the best girls’ school in the country; round the other corner, a few blocks down, is St Rose’s High School, Catholic. If we ever have a girl we must choose…

  I can still hardly contain my joy, and it is the hardest thing not to burst out with it, to tell her. But still I must wait. There are some legal issues concerning the ownership of the property; the previous owner died a month ago and it is still under probate – a question about the will being contested. My heart is in my mouth. I fear it will all fall apart at the last moment, and I cannot let Winnie rejoice only to disappoint her again. No, I will wait until the last signature has been signed and the house is ours. A home for us all! I am even beginning to believe that the baby is a girl. That Winnie is right, this time. That Gabriella Rose is on her way to us.

  I feel so bad that I have denied Winnie her visits to the home she loves so much, Promised Land. But I cannot go back there, ever. Not after that terrible Christmas Eve, when Yoyo showed her true colours. And it tears my heart apart that I must keep the truth of that visit a secret from my wife.

  It has taken all my skill and all my wiles to deflect her from that truth. I invented a quarrel with Yoyo; that is, I exaggerated the little spat we had had that time over dinner, and made it into a conflagration, a fully-fledged quarrel, one that I could never overcome unless Yoyo apologised. I made her believe I was stubborn and unforgiving. I even allowed her to believe that Yoyo had insulted me about my race. I didn’t lie directly, but when she asked I hung my head and pretended to be too insulted to talk about it. I knew she’d jump to that conclusion. I’d let her believe anything rather than tell her the truth about what happened.

  Because telling her the truth would destroy her inviolable trust in her sister. How could I shatter her illusions? Winnie holds Yoyo in such high estimation. Yoyo is everything Winnie is not: assertive where Winnie is accommodating, outspoken where Winnie is tactful, uninhibited where Winnie is discreet. Winnie admires her sister no end; yes, she knows that Yoyo has faults, but she minimises those faults and sees them only as minor flaws. How could I tear away that image of near perfection?

  And so I allow her to believe that it is only my stubbornness that prevents reconciliation, and a visit to Promised Land. I foster this belief, make it the sole cause of my refusal to visit Yoyo, and we have never gone back, for five long years. Every year, especially around Christmas, we have this little argument, and every year there is one more little boy to complicate matters.

  There is some risk in this strategy – what if Winnie approaches Yoyo and tries to get her to apologise? Yoyo might laugh and tell her the truth – that really it was just a short exchange of words, a few mild insults. What if she indeed apologises, laughs them off, mocks me for taking offence when none was intended? I’m fairly certain she won’t tell Winnie what actually did happen – Yoyo certainly wouldn’t want Winnie to know the extent of her betrayal. But – what if she lies? Winnie herself has told me that Yoyo is careless with the truth. What if Yoyo tells her that I tried to seduce her? Who would she believe?

  These thoughts have plagued me all through the years. And the guilt, that Winnie is kept from the beautiful house that was once her home and must live in a cramped cottage. But all that is going to change. I shall build her a home as beautiful as Promised Land.

  I came home later that afternoon, trying hard to wipe the grin from my face. For how could I explain it? Winnie can read me like a book – what would I do when she asked what was making me so happy? What would I say? And so, as solemn as could be, I wheeled my bicycle through the gate and into the shed. But Winnie was already halfway down the stairs.

  ‘George, wherever have you been? You’re so late! I’ve been waiting and waiting!’

  I no longer had to try to be solemn. Her stern voice wiped the smile from my face.

  ‘Sorry, dear, I-I was held up at work, and’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to hear the whole story – just hurry up now and get ready. We’re running late!’

  ‘Late? What for?’

  ‘Oh George. So you have forgotten. It’s Andrew’s birthday party! Remember? I told you about it last week. It’s tonight!’

  The words wiped the last remnants of joy from my soul. Andrew’s birthday party. Yes, she had told me last week and we had almost quarrelled, for I did not want to go. All those white people!

  ‘Oh George! You always accuse the English of being racist but you’re just as bad.’

  Would she ever understand the difference? When the English reject us it’s because they consider themselves better, us inferior. When we reject them, it’s because we know this, and prefer to avoid their sneers. I’d explained this to her a thousand times but try as she might, she could not bridge the gap.

  ‘You could at least try! And not everyone is going to be white. There’s Eliza, and her friends. Kitty and Tilly will be there, and Tilly’s husband – as dark as you. This is the most open-minded group of English in the whole colony – you could at least try. Nobody is going to look down on you. They’re my friends, you know. I really want to go out a bit more. I need to – I need the change!’

  And that’s the argument that changed my mind. Winnie did need to go out more, by herself, without the children. Just the two of us. When was the last time we’d gone anywhere together, just us? I couldn’t recall. And tonight it wouldn’t be just us either – really, I would have preferred a quiet dinner somewhere, or a walk just with Winnie, rather than a party. But she needed this, and how could I have forgotten? All weekend she’d been excited about the dress. A dress that would flatter her while concealing her condition as much as possible. Aunty Dolly came and measured her – in the sixth month of pregnancy, Winnie of course had quite a bulge – and t
he two of them had spent hours bent over a women’s magazine discussing styles and cuts and so on. Women’s matters. Winnie purchased yards and yards of some shiny green material at Fogarty’s, and it was to be her first new party dress since the wedding. I assumed it was finished now – I had not thought of it, or the party, for days. I had agreed to go, and promptly forgotten.

  ‘Anyway, you’re here now. So hurry up – you need to bathe! I’ve laid out your best clothes for you.’

  ‘Where are the boys?’

  Usually by this time the boys would be climbing all over me, screaming daddydaddydaddy, grabbing my hands, pulling me in four different directions. Today the house was quiet. No boys, no screaming babies.

  ‘Oh George, I told you this morning! Don’t shake your head – I did remind you. The big boys are with the Barrows and the babies are with Ma – she’s taken them to a neighbour so they’ll be out of our way. Now here’s a towel – hurry up and bathe.’

  She thrust a towel at me and I did as I was told. The bathroom was in the backyard – how Winnie would rejoice at the new house and its indoor plumbing! – and I took my time, washing off the sweat and the grime of the day under the cool spray, lathering the soap into a fragrant foam. I took my time – Winnie’s vexation was shallow, that I knew, and there was still plenty of time. My happiness had returned. I thought of the house that was to be, and how delighted she would be when at last I broke the news. I closed my eyes and held my face up to the shower head, letting the water wash away the suds from my face. A silent prayer rose in my heart: Thank you, Lord. Oh thank you thank you thank you.

  By the time I was bathed and dry, and back in the house with the towel wrapped round my hips, Winnie was dressed and Aunty Dolly had arrived to prepare Winnie’s face and hair. Aunty Dolly had once worked for an elegant English lady and knew all about fixing the hair of white women.

  There was plenty of time. It was a mystery why Winnie had been so frantic at my lateness. If only I could have told her the true reason! I dressed, poured myself a glass of lime juice from the jug and settled down in the gallery with today’s newspaper. I read the news and then picked up a pencil to do the crossword. I could hear Winnie and Aunty Dolly discussing hair styles and lipstick colours over the partition walls to the bedrooms. I smiled to myself at some of the conversation.

  ‘That belly nice and round! And low! Is another boy, I tellin’ yuh, Miss Winnie!’

  I could hear Winnie’s confident smile in her response.

  ‘Don’t tease me, Aunty. You know as well as I do that this time it’s a girl!’

  ‘Don’t count you chickens before they hatch. Is not good to get too cocky about the tings we want. When we get too cocky the Lord does step in to make we humble again. Dorothy daughter was seven months gone and she start to bleed and lose the pickney. Better not to’

  ‘Oh, Aunty, don’t say things like that, please! You scare me!’

  ‘All right darlin’. Sorry. But you’se a strong woman. A good strong woman, and you done had five babies already with not a problem. Everything gon’ be all right. Here, take the mirror and see if it all right at the back.’

  ‘Oh Aunty, it’s beautiful. Thank you so much! I must show George. George! George, come!’

  I sprang to my feet and hastened to the bedroom. I stood in the threshold, speechless with wonder. Aunty Dolly had worked magic on my wife. She stood there in her glistening green dress, looking like a queen, radiant, exquisite, utterly and completely glorious. Her lips, stained a subtle pink, bowed in a smile and her eyes were like jewels. I wanted to rush forward and take her in my arms. Instead I only gaped. She would surely be the most beautiful woman at the party tonight – and that despite, or maybe because of, the beautiful protruding roundness of her belly. I could hardly believe that this was my wife. I was the luckiest man in the world.

  Little did I know that I was just about to ruin everything.

  The coach came and it was time to go. All of my worries had flown by this time; I was proud, so proud of my beautiful wife, proud of escorting her to the ball; tonight she was my queen, and I was in a fairytale, and it had all come true. I had married the princess. What had I done to deserve such luck? My misgivings at attending this white-people party had all fled; in the coach Winnie and I laughed and cuddled and flirted and then I placed my hands on the tight round swell of her belly and closed my eyes and she was still and it was the most perfect moment of my life; the three of us, Winnie and me and the soul of our unborn child united in a place where there were no bodies separating us, just a single blissful soul.

  The Stewarts lived in Kingston, near the sea. Once Winnie and I had bought our property and built our house we would be just a stone’s throw from them – walking distance. I had met Andrew once before, and of course I knew Eliza. They were good people, kind, like us a mixed-race couple, though reversed. Of course, it was much easier when the man was white and chose a coloured woman as his spouse. There would never be the accusation of him rising above his station; instead, he had lifted her up. Eliza would never have to face the revulsion and rejection Winnie had; by dint of her husband’s skin colour, she would slowly but surely find her place in a higher echelon of society. It is the man who determines the woman’s position. Andrew lifted Eliza up; I dragged Winnie down.

  But all that was going to change. I realised now how selfish I had been refusing to socialise with these higher-positioned folk. Yes, their acceptance of me was hesitant and probably in some cases grudging: but if it was my aim to lift Winnie out of the squalor of Albouystown then I must accept the condescension that would inevitably accompany her movement upwards. And I do accept it. Tonight is the beginning.

  Looking back on the events of that terrible night I can only say I was living in a fool’s paradise, lost in wishful thinking that blinded me to the stark reality of who I was and where I stood. There is something in me that perhaps will always be lowly; something in me that knows my position and will always bow when the white man – or woman – passes by. That will always be in thrall to the command of a white voice. That will come when a white finger beckons. It is ingrained in me; it flows in my blood; the child in a slave-mother’s womb feels her fear and absorbs it into his soul; and that fear is passed along from generation to generation.

  But that night I thought no deep thoughts. I knew only pride as I stepped into that drawing room, Winnie on my arm; and that pride swelled yet more as heads turned and conversation hushed and faces lit up in admiration.

  Eliza rushed forward, arms held out.

  ‘Winnie! You came! Naughty girl, you’re ten minutes late and I was beginning to worry. And George! Welcome, welcome. I’m so glad you made it!’

  Then Andrew too, came forward, hand held out for mine, and smiling. He led us to the group of people standing at the back of the room and introduced them, one by one, and I could see right here how the rigid lines were softening. At least half of the guests were of mixed blood – mostly women, admittedly, and I was the darkest of them all – and as they all, every one of them, welcomed me with genuine warmth the last of my inhibitions fled. Georgetown society was changing. Could it be that one day there would be nothing remarkable in a mixed-race marriage? What a joyous time that would be!

  Andrew looked at his watch. ‘Four more guests to come, and then we’ll move to the dining room,’ he said, and turned to Winnie. ‘Why, you know one of the guests, from back in the day. Remember how we all used to play together? Margaret McInnes, and her new husband, Jeremy Smythe-Collingsworth – I ran into them at a friend’s house this week, and invited them on the spur of the moment. She asked if she could bring a friend along – she has a house-guest. I’ve no idea who it is, but’

  At just that moment the doorbell rang. The housegirl opened it, and in swanned Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth, followed by her husband and…

  Yoyo had always known how to make an entrance and she did it now. She swept in, all wide flouncing skirts of rustling red satin, cast her cold dead eyes ar
ound the room, and, the moment they lit on Winnie, she strode forward with the smile of an imposter painted on her face.

  ‘Winnie! How lovely to see you here! I haven’t seen you – why, in donkey’s years! And George! Dear George! What a surprise!’

  In that moment I knew that this had all been planned. Rage rose within me – although against whom I did not know. Had Winnie planned it? No, that couldn’t be. The anxiety with which she looked at me, the embarrassment in her stuttered response, the pain in her eyes – no, Winnie would never be party to such a trick.

  Eliza? But she too looked flustered and abashed, as if she knew that something was wrong; that Yoyo and I are not supposed to be in the same room – ever. Nobody does know why as far as I’m concerned; except, of course, for Uncle Jim, and Yoyo herself. Had Yoyo told others? Surely not – surely she would not spread a scandalous tale that painted her in a bad light! But with Yoyo you never knew. Quite possibly she had told Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth . Yes, I was sure she had. That smug smile, that fevered excitement in Margaret’s eyes as I glanced at her told me everything. She knew. This was planned. In that moment I knew that I was the prey tonight. Yoyo was out for revenge. What’s that they say about a woman scorned?

  I had sworn to myself never to set eyes on that woman again. Never to speak to her. Never to look again into those calculating ice-blue eyes. But she had other plans. She planted herself right in front of me and said, in that false, high-pitched voice of hers, ‘Well, hello, George! We meet again!’

  What could I do but smile? I avoided her eyes but still I felt the frozen dagger of her glare. I turned and walked away, and she cackled behind me. Glacial talons closed around my soul. If what we fear and what we loathe is what holds us bound – well, Yoyo was about to prove it. It was as if I had, right then, even though I walked away, a premonition of what was to come. That I could no more prevent it than I could prevent the sunrise the next morning. That I was doomed.