by Sharon Maas
‘All right – arrest me. Put me in handcuffs and drag me down to jail. Make a laughing stock of me. Who cares? Not me. My reputation is shot anyway. Go on, put on the handcuffs. I’m a terrible terrible person. I’m a slut and a harlot and whatever other names they can hurl at me. What do I care? Go on. Arrest me.’
She held out her hands to the officer, upturned wrists together, and at last she left enough silence for him to get a word in.
‘Ma’am, I’m not here to arrest you,’ he said very gently. ‘No one is accusing you of anything. It’s the other way round. The – er – gentleman concerned has been accused of violating you and I’m here to take your statement, to find out the truth of the matter. So that he can be charged with rape. If you wouldn’t mind…’
Yoyo turned a whiter shade of pale. She stared at him, struck dumb for a moment.
‘George – raped me?’
‘Yes ma’am, that is the allegation. I would like to take a statement from you as to what occurred last Saturday night at the home of Mr Andrew Stewart, if you don’t mind.’
She fell silent, and I watched her face as one emotion after another passed over it. Yoyo has always managed to keep a stony mien even under pressure, even as a child, and I had not always been able to read what went on behind that. But today the inner upheaval was visibly cracking the hard outer casement, and I could read her like a book: guilt, surprise, calculation, hostility, fear and, again and again, guilt. I realised, as she must have done, that Yoyo possessed now the power to twist everything to her advantage. To salvage her reputation, and bestow the final punishment on George and Winnie. She held an axe in her hand, and George’s neck was on the chopping block. I held my breath, waiting for her next words. And I realised that Yoyo had reached a fork in her road. Her next words would determine which way she would go. What would she say?
She whispered one word. ‘Margaret.’
All at once the shifting emotions fled from her features. Her eyes turned hard as rock, and she spoke the words of absolution: ‘I have nothing to say. You can put your notepad away.’
‘But, ma’am’
‘Didn’t you hear me? I said I have nothing to say. Nothing happened. Go back to Georgetown and tell them that nothing happened. Nothing.’
And for the second time that day she stormed off, this time up the stairs, two at a time.
And I let go of the breath I had been holding.
After the officer had left I walked upstairs and knocked on her bedroom door. When no answer came I walked in. Yoyo lay face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out.
I walked over and placed a hand on her heaving back.
‘Dear,’ I said. ‘Would you like to talk?’
‘What’s there to say!’ she spluttered between sobs. ‘I’m just a horrible horrible person, a mean nasty horrible person. I’m bad, through and through bad. Everyone hates me, everyone, and I deserve it because I’m just so horrible, horrible, horrible!’
‘No darling, you’re not horrible. You just made some terrible mistakes, that’s all. But we all make mistakes. The thing to do is, when we recognise that, go back and put things right.’
‘How can I put things right?’ She sat up and glared at me. ‘How can I put it right! Winnie has lost her baby. How can I put it back into her womb, alive? It’s all my fault but it’s not what I wanted. It’s not what I wanted at all! I’m sorry, so sorry, so sorry, Mama!’
She flung herself at me then, and howled into my breast, repeating again and again the words she had just said: words of regret and rue and repentance, words of sorrow and grief and compassion for another. Words of healing. I held her then, and let her weep and bitterly sob, and as I held her I felt a tide of darkness leave her body and wash against my own heart. I felt a greater love for Yoyo at that moment than I had ever felt, greater even than the love I felt when she was first placed in my arms as a newborn. Love filled me through and through, and welcomed her darkness. Absorbed it into itself. And after a while the sobs subsided and Yoyo simply lay in my arms, like a baby. It was an absolution – of sorts.
But it wasn’t as easy as crying on Mama’s shoulder; it wasn’t over. Yoyo still had work to do. The next morning, after breakfast had been cleared away and Clarence had slipped off to work, Yoyo stood up to go. I reached out for her hand. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Yoyo, please stay a moment. Let’s talk.’
She hesitated, then sat down again, a quizzical look in her eyes. Contrition does not wear well with pride, and by the look in her eyes I could tell that some of the old Yoyo had reasserted herself.
‘What is it?’
Defiance flared in her eyes, as if she knew what was coming, and already resisted. She had been subdued all through breakfast, but humility did not sit well with Yoyo. She liked to be on top; on top of everyone and everything. Which is exactly what had led to the present fiasco.
I hesitated. This might be difficult. The last thing I wanted was to provoke a Yoyo-rebellion. Even as a child, she had never liked to be told what to do; she liked to be led by suggestions; she liked a move to be offered mildly so that she felt she had a choice, so that it appeared to originate with her. She liked her pride protected, the reins of control firmly in her hands. As a parent, tact had been required. One had to say, soothingly, ‘Yoyo, don’t you think it would be a good idea to…’ Anything else was likely to produce the very opposite of what was required; often a tantrum.
Now, I took a deep breath and the words emerged: quite different ones to the mild encouragement I had planned. Words with a life of their own, unplanned, and most direct.
‘Yoyo: you must go to Winnie. You must confess. You must open your heart to her as you did to me last night. You must.’
She gasped. Her eyes opened wide. But it was not rebellion or pride I saw there, but panic; and I knew I had said the right thing. I had caught her while she was down; I had encountered the true Yoyo, the Yoyo unprotected by pride.
‘Oh Mama! No! I can’t! How can I face her? How can I tell her the things I’ve done?’
‘I thought you were so strong, Yoyo? Then prove it. This is a strong thing to do. You must save what can be saved, and the first thing you can help save is Winnie’s marriage. Neither she nor George deserve to live with the consequences of what you did. You must put it right.’
‘I don’t want’
‘It’s time to stop doing what you want and start doing what is right. The two don’t always go together.’
‘But, Mama! She hates me already – she won’t listen, she’ll’
‘Johanna! Stop making excuses and just do it! You and I will return to town today. You will go to Winnie in hospital and you will tell her exactly what you told me last night. You must do this.’
‘How can I look her in the eye?’
‘You will. You must. That will make you truly strong. Your pride, your arrogance, is your weakness, Yoyo. Your honest confession will give you strength. It will make you clean.’
We drove to town in separate cars, for I intended to stay there longer; Winnie had hopefully moved on to the next stage of grief, or would soon. Sooner or later she would need me, and I wanted to be near her when that moment came. I was a veteran of grief, an expert. I knew it inside out. At my time of grieving there was no one at my side, no mother, only an unrepentant Archie long alienated from me. I had been alone; I had to make sure that Winnie wasn’t.
Since Yoyo was heading for the hospital, I told Poole to drive me to Albouystown, to George. But George wasn’t at home. He was back at work.
‘Dey drop de investigation,’ his mother told me, smiling broadly. ‘Dey in’t got no evidence and no proof.’
I sighed with relief. ‘Thank goodness! Of course they have no proof because no rape happened.’ I told her briefly of my conversation with Yoyo.
‘It turns out the mysterious witness was Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth,’ I said. ‘Trying to protect her own reputation.’
Once Yoyo had explained, it all made perfect sense. Yoyo had been
Margaret’s guest; they were best friends. She had confessed a certain illicit attraction to George, and Margaret had goaded her on. She could never prise George away from Winnie, Margaret had taunted; George was far too devoted to his wife. Yoyo had taken up the challenge. She could. Of course she could! George would be a pushover. She had tried, and failed, that Christmas Eve so long ago. That failure had gnawed at her over the years. Then came Andrew’s party, and a second chance. But it all went dreadfully wrong. After the disaster, Margaret saw it as her duty to rescue Yoyo, and herself, from an impossible predicament.
For Yoyo to have voluntarily dallied sexually with George, a black man, a married black man, a black man married to her own sister, would mean social ruin. Yoyo would never be able to hold her head up in society again. She was now a scarlet woman, a slut. That’s what people would call her. And as her best friend, that ruin would reflect on Margaret herself. They would both become outcasts. When Yoyo went home to her that night Margaret had explained all this to her, but Yoyo didn’t care; Margaret did, though. The Smythe-Collingsworths were BG’s elite. Even knowing Yoyo was playing with fire for Margaret; this scandal would be catastrophic.
The only way for Margaret to save her own skin was for Yoyo to have been raped. She had tried to convince Yoyo to press charges before leaving town but Yoyo had brushed her off – that kind of a lie was anathema to her. She had rushed back to Promised Land the next day, leaving Margaret to pick up the pieces, never guessing what would come next.
Margaret had not wasted time: she made up a story of rape, and had run to the authorities to ensure that that was the fiction being spread in Georgetown, that that rumour should take root. Proving that she was every bit as vile as her father.
‘She’s a she-devil!’ said Ma.
‘Indeed!’ I replied. ‘But Yoyo refused to go along with it – she does have some integrity.’
‘Hmmmph!’ snorted Ma.
‘She’s gone to the hospital. She’s going to talk to Winnie. Tell her what really happened.’
‘Hmmmmph!’
‘Hopefully, this will mend things between Winnie and George. Yoyo’s explanation is better than George’s.’
‘Dat girl is a slut!’
I immediately withdrew my smile of goodwill.
‘That girl is my daughter and I would thank you not to call her names. She has made a dreadful mistake and hopefully she can put things right.’
Mrs Quint sniffed and turned away. ‘She can’t bring back dat dead baby though!’
She was right, of course. I didn’t want to quarrel with Mrs Quint, who was rightly appalled at what had happened. Yoyo’s ‘dreadful mistake’ had led to the death of a much-wanted baby girl and of course she would not be easily forgiven by that baby’s other grandmother. My tone had been haughty; my reprimand uncalled for. Ma was a mother too and had had to support George through this terrible time. Of course she was furious at Yoyo; of course she would call her names.
I hurried up to her.
‘Mrs Quint!’ I cried. ‘I’m sorry for my tone just now. It was rude. And I’m here to help. How are the boys coping? How are you coping? How is George?’
She gave me a searching look, as if checking to see if I was sincere, and I must have passed muster because her features relaxed and she said, ‘Everything all right. George took de boys to play cricket on de beach yesterday. And he helped with de babies too. Dem girls you engaged – dey a bit lazy. Dey don’t know one thing about babies.’
‘Well, I’m here now so we can dismiss them, and hopefully Winnie will be back from hospital soon. Yoyo’s with her now.’
She looked at me, startled. ‘Yoyo gone to Winnie?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She went to tell Winnie the whole story: to confess and say she’s sorry. That won’t bring back the baby, I know, but at least it might heal things between Winnie and George. If Winnie knows that George – well, George is only a man. Few men can resist a woman like Yoyo, if she turns on the seduction.’
That won a smile from Mrs Quint. ‘Men!’ she said, ‘when de willy talk de mind gone. Men is slave to dey willy. No brain! An’ still dey tink dey strong!’
‘Oh, you can tell me that again! I can tell you a story or two…’
And I did; and she and I laughed and joked over men-stories as we cared for the babies and by the end of the morning we had found a new rapport; and then Yoyo’s car drove up and a pale and visibly distraught Yoyo stood in the doorway.
‘Mama,’ she said, ‘that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. But I did it.’
‘How did Winnie take it? Did she accept your explanation? How is she?’
‘What do you expect? She’s still crying. She didn’t want to see me. But I forced myself on her and I forced her to listen. I’m good at forcing people.’
I smiled at her irony. ‘And sometimes it’s the right thing to do,’ I said. ‘So she listened? Did she say anything?’
‘Well, you can ask her yourself. She’s coming home tomorrow. And I’m going home. I did what you wanted. It was the right thing to do. Now, I won’t be back in town for a long time. Town does bad things to me.’
And she was off.
31
Winnie
Those three days I refuse to relive. I won’t speak of them.
But on the fourth day, Yoyo appeared at my bedside and forced me out of my hole.
‘Go away.’
‘No. I need to tell you something.’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘You must.’
How dare she! How dare she come to my bedside to stand there and gloat! I used to adore Yoyo, as everyone did. Though she was younger than me, she had been my idol: always so confident, so self-assured, so strong. Not just strong but headstrong, it was true, and sometimes Yoyo had needed me, as a boring but sensible elder sister, to stop her from barging her way into situations only to make them worse. Yoyo could never see consequences; I could. It made me tiresome to her; she mocked me for it, looked down on me. Disrespected me.
Now she had barged her way into my life with her red dress and her perfume and her powers of seduction, the very ones I lacked. She was still young, and beautiful, her body unspoilt by childbirth, whereas I – well, after five births I lacked the flush of youth, and I was often so very tired at night. No wonder I couldn’t keep hold of George.
How I had envied her, in the past! Boys, men, had always been charmed by Yoyo, and well she knew it. She could twist them round her little finger with a pursing of her lips, a tilting of her head, a wink, a word, a sway. Simply by breathing. They fell at her feet, and she so careless with their adoration. Now George, my George, had fallen too. Into her web. I could not bear to look at her. I no longer envied her. She repulsed me. I abhorred her. She made me sick.
‘Go away!’ I cried it out loud, I screamed it at her. ‘Go away, go away, go away! What are you doing here!’
But she stood her ground. Yoyo always stood her ground. Or, to be precise, she sat her ground, drawing up a chair to my bedside and plonking herself down on it.
‘Winnie, you must listen to me. Please! Just let me talk. Just listen!’
‘I don’t want to hear anything you say! I just want you to go!’
I reached for the bell-pull to call a nurse but she grabbed my wrist before I could get there.
‘Let me go! How dare you!’
We wrestled for a moment; but I was weak and she was strong.
‘I’m not going until you hear me out!’
‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!’
‘I know you do and I deserve it. Listen, Winnie: I hate me too!’ Her voice was hesitant, as if it were a struggle to speak the words – but her eyes were steady, locking on mine, and pleading.
‘No you don’t. You’re in love with yourself. Always have been. You don’t care about anyone else.’
‘I do and I came to say I’m sorry and – and to explain.’
‘I don’t want any explanation. I know
what happened. I saw. And I saw your face afterwards. Laughing. You enjoyed it. You’re not sorry, Yoyo.’
‘I am now. I came to tell you that and to – to apologise.’
‘I don’t want your apology. It’s not going to bring my baby back.’
At those words the howling started again. The abject, desperate howling that sometimes had overtaken me during the last three days. Howling like some pathetic animal that had been wounded and left to die. A wolf maybe, or a jaguar. Because I had been wounded to the death.
‘Don’t,’ said Yoyo. ‘Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.’
And then the impossible happened. She too burst into tears.
Yoyo crying was so rare, so astonishing, that it immediately stopped my howling. I could only remember seeing her cry once in my life, and that was when Nanny had gone. She never even cried when Mama left us so long ago. And now here she was, bent forward so that her upper body rested on the bed, her face buried in the sheet, and sobbing as if her heart would break. Heaving and spluttering, her fingers grasping the sheet and the mattress like a drowning man grasping at flotsam.
I couldn’t help it: I have a soft heart. I cannot bear to see another creature suffer. I reached out and placed a comforting hand on her back. Immediately she grabbed that hand and clung to it, and then looked up.
‘I’m truly, truly sorry, Winnie. Let me confess. Please, let me confess.’
How could I remain hard?
‘All right then,’ I said. And I let her talk, and I listened. She told me everything. She did not spare herself. She did not sugar-coat her behaviour. She did not make excuses. It was all her fault, she said. George had said no, clearly and repeatedly, but she had been determined to overcome that no. She had – practically – forced him into compliance. George was a good, sweet man, she said. Too naïve for his own good. Unschooled in the wiles of women, the wiles she knew so well and had bombarded him with. George was innocent, even if his body was guilty. She had known how to make his body react the way it did, and she had used that knowledge. It’s the power of a woman, our only power, perhaps, over a man. And she had used it, unashamedly. It was a power I knew little of; I had been a young girl when I met George, seduced only by the romance of it all.