Where Gita failed so conspicuously to please, Mynah succeeded. She was her mother’s favourite daughter; her prize exhibit, second only to Julian in her affections. ‘By far the prettiest and best-behaved of the three,’ she would say. ‘Is a pity that Gita and Shanty not like she. Even as a baby Mynah was different from them. I remember when I was having Mynah, it didn’t have a day when I was sick. But it was another story altogether with Gita and Shanty. Gita especially. I could hardly raise my head off the pillow without vomiting all over the place. Ask anybody if it wasn’t so.’ Mr Bholai would object mildly. ‘I don’t remember it being like that, Moon. It was more or less the same with all of them.’ ‘You!’ Mrs Bholai spluttered. ‘Who ask you anything? You who can’t see what in front of your own nose contradicting me. Well I never! Soon you going to be saying is you who carry them in your belly and not me.’
Thus Gita’s and Shanty’s sins chased them to the womb. Mrs Bholai could not sing Mynah’s praises loudly enough. ‘The man who finally marry she should thank his lucky stars. It could only have a handful of men in the whole of Trinidad who deserve she – if it have any at all, that is.’ Indeed, as time went on, it became increasingly apparent to her that there were no such men in Trinidad; and she came to the conclusion that Mynah would have to find herself an Englishman. It was Mynah who sprinkled vases of artistically arranged flowers about the Bholai sitting-room; and, as extra accomplishments, did watercolour drawings and played the violin in fits and starts.
Between Mynah and Shanty there was an unconcealed rivalry, aided and abetted by their mother’s open partiality. Gita, unfitted for such a struggle, acted in vain the part of peacemaker; and Mr Bholai, reduced to the level of an impotent spectator, could do nothing but watch the battles of the warring factions from a distance. Shanty, who had no artistic pretensions, poured scorn on Mynah’s efforts. Sometimes their battles were more than verbal and they fought with each other, Mynah usually getting the worst of it; though they both emerged with scratches and bruises. ‘These children,’ Mr Bholai complained, ‘they going to send me to my grave well before my time. And Moon don’t help matters. She does behave exactly like one of them.’
It was only Julian who commanded anything akin to authority. None of the girls willingly courted his displeasure. Mynah might have tried but that would have meant forfeiting her mother’s support. Julian alone could restrain his mother’s extremist tendencies by coming manfully to Shanty’s defence. They were fellow conspirators against their mother. It was hard for Mrs Bholai to understand how Julian could be so blind to his sister’s manifest faults. In temper, he and Shanty resembled one another: they shared the same perverse and obstinate streak. But what was pardonable – and even charming – in Julian, was unforgivable in his wayward sister.
The sanitary screen had not worked effectively with Shanty. She was not unwilling to expose herself to the profane scrutiny of the Settlement, unafraid of showing herself in the grocery, serving and talking to the customers, male and female alike, with no sign of embarrassment or any undue maidenly modesty. She was unaffected when the men sitting outside the Palace of Heavenly Delights whistled at her and doffed their hats. ‘If you go on playing the woman with me,’ Mrs Bholai warned, ‘I going to throw you out of this house. You as shameless as Sushila and Miss Sita. Mynah wouldn’t dream of doing the things that you does do. She wouldn’t embarrass me like that. But your father have to share some of the blame too for making we live in a place like this.’ Nevertheless, Shanty persisted in her errors, supported by her brother who, to Mrs Bholai’s dismay, undermined her every effort to direct her daughter on to the paths of sanitation and righteousness. Still, while Wilbert was there, Mrs Bholai did her best to tone down the virulence of her criticisms (though she could not eliminate them entirely) so as to present her daughter in a more flattering light and not sabotage her unspoken hopes; and, to promote them, she left the two young people alone as often as was seemly.
‘It looks,’ Shanty said, ‘as if Ma has plans for us.’
They were in the sitting-room. The family had – allegedly – gone to bed. ‘But don’t let that worry you,’ Mrs Bholai had said. ‘The two of you could stay up as long as you like.’
Wilbert laughed. ‘What kind of plans?’
‘Work it out for yourself. Why you suppose she leave us here?’ Shanty giggled. ‘Your father really have millions stashed away under his bed as Ma keeps saying?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Wilbert replied. ‘The only thing he have under his bed is books – as far as I know.’
Shanty, drawing her knees close together, pouted irritably at him. ‘I don’t mean literally. I mean in the bank or somewhere like that.’
‘He never tell me about it. But is not millions.’
‘That’s a relief.’ She laughed.
‘Why?’
‘Because if it was millions I would have to marry you. That’s why. As it is, I could take you or leave you.’ She threw her arms up in the air.
‘Who say I would want to marry you?’
‘You would have no say in the matter,’ she replied calmly. She narrowed her Chinese eyes and, resting her hands on her knees, swung them easily to and fro.
‘Oh?’
Shanty leaned back casually in her chair, clasping her palms together. ‘Ma would point a gun at your head. You wouldn’t have a chance.’ Drawing her legs up under her, Shanty folded herself into a convivial heap, twisting her head to one side. The skin over her knees was stretched with such a taut smoothness, it was easy to imagine her legs were truncated at that point. For Shanty, the situation breathed promise. Wilbert’s coming to stay with them had opened up the possibility of an illicit sexual adventure: she had resolved on it even before she had set eyes on him. It was an experiment and virtually anyone would have sufficed. To that extent, her plans had coincided with her mother’s. But she did not know how to set about it and, to disguise her latent unease, had adopted an aggressive and bantering tone in all their encounters. It had puzzled Wilbert. Of the three girls he was most drawn to her: her liveliness attracted him. But though she was more friendly to him than either of the other two (Mynah was aloof and Gita was wrapped up in her peculiar affairs), her friendliness had been oblique and inconsistent. Her approachability fluctuated from hour to hour and he was at a loss to know what regulated it. Tonight was the nearest they had come to anything like a straightforward conversation.
‘What kind of woman you would like to marry?’ she asked.
‘I never think about it.’ Wilbert smiled. ‘What kind of man you would like to marry?’
‘I would like to marry someone like Julian,’ she replied unhesitatingly. ‘He has nearly all the qualities I admire in a man. Intelligence. Good looks. A sense of humour. Lots of other things.’ She gazed up at the ceiling. ‘But there can’t be many like that about.’
Wilbert frowned and said nothing.
Shanty peered at him. ‘You jealous?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You don’t like Julian, do you?’
‘I never said so.’
‘You don’t have to say anything. I could tell – I not that foolish, you know.’ She squinted at him. ‘The two of you don’t get on. Anybody could see that from a mile off. Why is that? And don’t say it’s because the two of you not in the same class. Pa might swallow that but not me.’
‘We is different people,’ Wilbert said. ‘He like reading books. He going to be a doctor. As for me … well, I have to look after my father business when he die.’
‘There must be more than that to it …’
Shanty laughed. ‘Okay. Anything you say. What you want to talk about?’
Wilbert shrugged. ‘Anything – but not Julian.’
Shanty curled herself into the depths of the chair. ‘You ever kiss a girl?’
Wilbert started. ‘No,’ he said after a short pause.
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
Shanty’s head sagged. She played
with one of the buttons on her blouse.
‘What about you?’
Shanty raised her head and looked at him narrowly. ‘Once,’ she admitted, ‘with one of my cousins in San Fernando.’ She laughed mutedly. ‘That was fun. Everybody was sleeping at the time – like now as a matter of fact. He was very experienced.’ She folded herself even more compactly and shivered a little, as if she were cold. ‘Well?’ she prompted with a hint of annoyance. ‘You can’t expect me to do all the work. We may as well make use of the opportunity Ma give us.’ She stared boldly at him: she had rehearsed this scene. ‘Don’t tell me you frighten.’
‘I not frighten,’ he said. However, he remained as he was.
‘Prove it then.’
With an effort, Wilbert got up and took the few steps across to where she sat and stared down at her inflamed, upturned, pouting face.
‘Well? Is not a telephone conversation we having, you know.’ She spoke carelessly.
Wilbert brought his face closer to hers.
She retreated. ‘Switch off the light.’ It was a command.
Wilbert switched off the light. In the darkness he bent low over her and Shanty closed her eyes, the lids squeezed tight and puckering. Their lips brushed lightly. A car went by on the road below, its tyres screeching on the curve. He would have been glad of release but there was no likelihood of that: he had committed himself. Shanty’s mouth smelled of toothpaste and his expiring pleasure melted away finally in its raw, clinical freshness. He was detached, giving in to Shanty’s gratuitous, grappling violence. They groped and fumbled in an awkward, interminable embrace, teeth chattering in their tangled mouths, breathing in rushed gasps. At last Shanty drew away from him, disengaging herself, and sank back into the chair, opening her eyes. She rearranged her tousled hair and straightened her crumpled blouse.
‘You enjoyed that? Is never so good the first time. You have to have practice.’ She giggled. ‘Practice makes perfect.’
‘Everything is an art.’ Wilbert smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I enjoyed it.’ In retrospect, it did seem to him that he had enjoyed it and now that it was over, the anticipatory pleasure revived. Maybe Shanty was right. Maybe it would be better the second time. He bent low over her again, but Shanty pushed him away, laughing softly.
‘No, no. That was enough for tonight. Is not good to over do it. You mustn’t be too greedy.’ She stood up, yawning and stretching. ‘Tomorrow night,’ she said.
‘Here?’
‘No. Not here. In the garden. Is safer there.’ She vanished behind the partition.
The garden was a collection of strange black shapes. There was no wind and it was warm and close. The slim crescent of the moon was hidden by cloud. Wilbert wandered along the line of the fence which sagged and bellied its way around the garden, plucking at the leaves of the rose bushes and the fruit trees. The frogs croaked deafeningly. Once he turned to look at the house. The windows in the back bedroom were open and he could see a light burning dimly behind the motionless curtains. Then he returned up the steps.
Shanty avoided him the next day; as provocative and contrary as she had ever been. Wilbert sought her out and managed, eventually, to corner her in the kitchen where she was doing the washing-up.
‘I can’t think why you been following me around all day for.’ She was piling dirty cups and glasses in the sink.
‘Why you didn’t come last night?’
‘Last night?’ She was casual and offhand. ‘Where was I supposed to go last night?’ She held one of the glasses under the running tap and scrubbed concentratedly.
‘You know well enough. The garden.’
‘Oh! That you talking about.’ She giggled. ‘It wasn’t convenient.’
Wilbert grasped her arm. ‘You lying.’
She laughed, putting down the glass to drain. ‘Let go my arm. You hurting me.’
‘Not until you answer my question.’ He tightened his grip.
She lost her temper. ‘But what the hell you think it is? You think you own me or something?’ She tugged resolutely but to no avail. ‘Don’t get any fancy ideas in your head. I not married to you and I not intending to get married to you. The night before was fun. That was all. Now let me go before somebody come in and find you behaving like a fool.’
‘It was Julian who put you up to it, not so? You and he plan it together …’ Depression crept over him. Depression and rage.
‘If you don’t let me go this instant I’ll scream.’ She opened her mouth wide, ready to carry out her threat. ‘If I had known you was going to be like this …’
Wilbert dropped her arm. He was walking away when Julian entered the kitchen.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’ Julian was jovial. ‘Just say the word and I’ll disappear.’
‘You not interrupting anything,’ Shanty said.
Julian swaggered around the kitchen, his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘I just finished reading a really great book. It’s a pity you don’t like reading, Ramsaran. You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He slapped his sister on the bottom. ‘What the two of you been talking about, eh? Or is it a secret?’ He winked at her.
‘It’s no secret,’ Shanty said. ‘We were talking about the garden.’
‘The garden!’ Julian exclaimed. ‘That’s a strange thing to be talking about.’
Shanty giggled and resumed the washing-up.
‘What’s Shanty been saying to you about the garden, Ramsaran?’
Wilbert was standing in the doorway. ‘Ask her,’ he said. He went out and Shanty’s laughter billowed behind him. The taste of raw toothpaste still seemed to linger at the back of his throat and he swallowed hard to get rid of it. But it would not go. It had lodged there like a constricting bone.
5
Mrs Bholai was not far from right when she saw Wilbert and Julian as natural enemies. In this respect she was more perceptive than her husband. The barriers to friendship were mutual. It was an elemental antagonism which neither could control. Wilbert was profoundly jealous of Julian. He envied his good looks and the universal admiration he excited. It was impossible for him to compete with Julian’s charm and wit. He was slower, more thoughtful and deliberative. Ideally, Julian would have liked to use Wilbert as he used everybody else: as target practice for his exercises in vanity. Wilbert, recognizing the danger, did all he could to resist this: he could feel the temptation to slip under his domination. That morning, with Shanty’s laughter billowing about him, his resentment came to a head. He scowled at the photographs decorating the walls of the bedroom; he scowled at the book-laden shelves; he scowled at the rows of model aeroplanes on the dresser. All these objects were like so many physical expressions of his hatred. The room was suffused with an alien, hostile presence. He heard Julian calling out to him.
‘Ramsaran! Ramsaran!’
Wilbert did not answer. To be called ‘Ramsaran’ was suddenly hateful to him; as hateful as ‘young master’.
‘Ah! There you are, Ramsaran. I was wondering where you had got yourself to. Why you hiding in here? Was it Shanty who vex you?’ Julian came into the room and sat down on his bed. ‘You shouldn’t let Shanty vex you. Tell me what it’s all about.’
‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.’ Wilbert stared at the model aeroplanes.
Julian was mystified. ‘How you mean, Ramsaran? I don’t understand. What’s it all about?’ He smiled. ‘Is it something to do with the garden?’
‘Don’t play innocent with me, Julian. You put her up to it.’
‘To what, Ramsaran? You’re talking in riddles. I haven’t got the slightest idea what it is you’re blaming me for.’ He knitted his brows. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still holding that business about the book and Sita against me. Is not that, is it?’
‘That too,’ Wilbert said.
‘If it’s a fight you want to pick, Ramsaran, you better go and find somebody else. I don’t want to pick no fight with you. I don’t believe in fighting.’ Julian watched him anxi
ously.
Wilbert picked up one of the planes: the transport helicopter. He rotated the blades.
‘It easy to break, Ramsaran. Be careful.’
‘And suppose I break it?’ Wilbert faced him for the first time since he had come into the room. ‘What would you do if I break it?’ He held the plane above his head.
‘That’s a stupid question. Why would you want to break it?’ Julian laughed nervously, brushing, with a characteristic flick of the wrist, straying strands of hair away from his face.
‘But supposing I did break it? Suppose I let it fall from my hand and smash on the floor. What would you do then?’ It was as if Wilbert were listening to another person talk: a dispassionate witness of a stranger’s fury.
‘Then I would ask you to replace it.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Don’t be childish, Ramsaran. Put down the plane and tell me why you so upset.’
Wilbert’s fingers spreadeagled. The plane clattered on the floor, tiny wheels spinning across it. The blades fell off. Julian looked at Wilbert and laughed again. He bent down and picked up the twisted blades. ‘What you think you doing, Ramsaran?’
For reply, Wilbert lunged forward and swept the front line of models off the dresser. Injured planes slid in every direction. There were broken wings and runaway wheels and dented fuselages. The laughter had gone from Julian’s face.
The Chip-Chip Gatherers Page 17