‘That is what you think. But I been watching you recently …’
‘You serious?’ He gazed worriedly at her. Latterly he had become preoccupied with his health.
‘You much paler these days,’ she said. ‘And nervous.’
He examined his face in the mirror. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well to tell you the truth.’
‘That’s the first sign. You sickening for something.’
‘What you suggest?’
‘A bit of sea air. If I was you I would rent – or better still, buy – a house somewhere by the sea. Then you could go there whenever you want and relax. Everybody buying beach house these days. Is the thing to do.’
‘I is not everybody,’ Egbert Ramsaran said. ‘Anyway, where you expect the money to come from?’
He refused to talk about it further. Sushila retaliated by sulking restlessly about the house for a week. Egbert Ramsaran pondered. Sushila’s restlessness disturbed him: it revived his fears of her departure. Sushila knew this and she exploited it to the full: it was a risk but a calculated one. She declared Victoria was slowly driving her mad and pined volubly for the delights of Port-of-Spain and San Fernando. She did not refer once to the beach house. One afternoon she disappeared unaccountably for several hours and declined to tell him where she had been. ‘I’m not a prisoner,’ she said. It was a prelude to rebellion and Egbert Ramsaran was suddenly terrified that she was not bluffing.
‘Don’t take on so,’ he begged.
‘Take on how?’ Sushila protruded her hips. ‘I not taking on anyway. As you know, I never liked being tied down in one place too long.’
‘If you leave, what about Sita? Who else will pay for she education?’
Sushila looked at him and said nothing.
‘Is this beach house, not so?’
Sushila shrugged. ‘If you going to let a little money come between you and your health …’
‘Don’t be so hasty. Let’s discuss it.’
‘It have nothing to discuss if you going to worry about money.’
She pressed home her advantage. ‘If you want to drop down dead, I’m not going to prevent you.’
‘But somebody have to worry about money. Is I who will have to decide where it going to come from.’ He stared at her plaintively.
Sushila reckoned the time had come to adopt a fresh tactic. She sat down beside him and, taking his hand in hers, she squeezed it affectionately. Gratitude and relief coursed through Egbert Ramsaran: he felt as he had done on the day she had gone to fetch Sita from the Settlement.
‘Remember is not for myself I asking it. Is for you. For your sake.’
‘I realize that,’ Egbert Ramsaran said.
‘Is not for me to say where the money going to come from,’ she said modestly. ‘But you ever think about that estate you have?’
‘You want me to sell it?’
‘I don’t want you to do anything.’ She spoke measuredly; reassuringly. ‘But I would like you to tell me what you keeping it for. What good it does do to you just sitting there with Singh on top of it? When was the last time you went down there? It wouldn’t make no difference to you not having it.’
The spate of her rhetoric astonished him. He was thrown off balance.
‘You see!’ Sushila cooed triumphantly. ‘You have no answer to that. Look at it this way. A beach house is a good investment and it will do your health no end of good. What you have to lose?’ She smiled bravely. ‘If after two three years you don’t want it, you could sell it. It will have people lining up to buy it.’
‘What I going to do with Singh if I sell the estate? I just can’t throw him out of there. I bet you haven’t considered that.’
Sushila had. ‘Simple,’ she said. ‘You will need somebody to look after the beach house for you. A caretaker. And who better than Singh? At least he’ll be doing something useful for a change.’
‘He mightn’t like that.’
‘You going to let Singh tell you what to do? If you tell Singh he have to go what he could do? He must do as you say.’ Sushila was not to be denied.
The proposition appealed to Egbert Ramsaran. From all points of view it commended itself. It would please Sushila; it might conceivably be beneficial to his health; Singh would be adequately provided for; and he stood, if he were clever enough, to make a substantial profit out of the deal: there was no lack of potential buyers. He would extract the maximum price the estate would command and acquire one of the more inexpensive beach properties. Egbert Ramsaran put the estate up for sale.
The neighbouring landowners, who had importuned in vain so many years ago, competed eagerly with one another and expressed their amazement at his sudden change of heart. After protracted negotiation the estate was sold at a handsome price and a beach house bought in its stead. Singh was duly transferred from the one to the other without consultation. The beach house was in poor condition and crying out for repair and renovation, but Egbert Ramsaran felt he had done his duty and Sushila, disappointed though she was by its shabbiness, did not dare complain. They began going there at weekends.
3
It was not many weeks after he had bought the beach house that Egbert Ramsaran fell ill with a fever. For Sushila it was a most inopportune occurrence since he was inclined to lay the blame on the cool sea breezes. ‘I never had a day’s sickness in my whole life,’ he grumbled to her. ‘Then I follow your advice and the next thing I know I fall sick.’
Sushila parried the thrust. ‘Your getting sick is nothing to do with the beach house,’ she said. ‘It would have been a lot worse without it. If you had listened to my advice before it would never have happened.’
‘Chut!’ he replied. ‘Never a day’s sickness in my life …’
‘The beach house is not the trouble. The trouble is you too old to be working so hard. That’s the real cause of it. I tell you a hundred times to let Wilbert take over some of the responsibility. What he doing in school? Is a waste of his time and your money. Is not as if he studying to be a doctor. You should be enjoying your life more. Then you wouldn’t get sick.’
‘Maybe you right,’ Egbert Ramsaran said. ‘Maybe you right. Is time that boy was getting his hands dirty.’
Egbert Ramsaran was glad of the opportunity provided by the fever: it was better than any excuse he could have drummed up. He had continued to manage the Company single-handed, tolerating no advice or interference however well-intentioned. It had been his sole preoccupation and, until Sushila’s arrival, retirement had never featured in his calculations. However, circumstances had changed in a way impossible to forecast and there were other things competing for his attention. Even now he had no intention of making his retirement absolute. What he envisaged was a progressive slackening of his duties. The time had clearly come to initiate his son into the mysteries. He summoned Wilbert.
‘What you learning in school these days?’
‘Nothing. I does hardly be there.’
‘What you does do when you not there?’ Egbert Ramsaran’s brows wrinkled quizzically.
‘Nothing much. I does go walking about the place.’ Their eyes met.
‘So you admit is a waste of your time and a waste of my money?’ He was matter-of-fact.
‘I suppose so.’ Wilbert was equally matter-of-fact.
‘Well, I going to put a stop to all that time and money wasting. Is hard work for you from now on, my boy. Man’s work! You won’t have no time for walking about the place.’
Wilbert stared expressionlessly at the almanac.
‘You think you cut out for hard work? If you not, you going to be no good to me. I have no time for people who is no good to me. If you not up to the job, is out you going to go. Out! Son or no son.’ Egbert Ramsaran’s voice whistled. ‘I will judge you as I does judge everybody else who working for me. No favouritism. So don’t get any fancy ideas.’ He rearranged the pillows more comfortably about him, and extended his arm. ‘Come. Let me feel your hands. I want to see if they is hands th
at could work.’
Egbert Ramsaran kneaded his son’s palms. He dropped them. ‘Not bad,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Is a start. But they going to get harder, you understand? They have to get hard like iron and steel put together. And not only hard. But dirty! Black and dirty with oil and grease. You frighten to get your hands black and dirty?’ He giggled. ‘So dirty that people in Port-of-Spain won’t want to shake hands with you?’
‘That don’t frighten me,’ Wilbert said. He stared at his palms and at the short, stubby fingers and imagined them as hard as steel and coated with the grime of oil and grease. It was what he had been born for: the fulfilment of his life. ‘That don’t frighten me,’ he repeated.
‘Good. That’s the idea. I wouldn’t have reached where I was today if I had been frightened to get my hands dirty.’ He exhibited his palms. ‘I starting you right at the bottom and your hands going to get so dirty and black that you will hardly be able to wash them clean with soap and water when you come home in the evening. And you going to be so tired the only thing you will want is your bed. I going to make you learn by heart about every nut and bolt it have in that place.’
Wilbert relinquished the farce of school and donned a pair of overalls. The days he had spent visiting Chinese Cha-Cha and wandering about the streets near the market receded from him; as did the siren songs of his uncle. He had put the aimlessness of those times behind him. His life’s work had begun. Wilbert crawled under the bellies of the trucks of the Ramsaran Transport Company and familiarized himself, as his father had instructed, with every nut and screw. His hands grew hard and calloused and became deeply ingrained with traces of dirt and grease which even soap and water would not completely wash away. Wilbert did not shirk his duties. His dour zeal impressed those with whom he worked and he returned home to eat in exhausted silence and tumble into bed. Egbert Ramsaran had been as good as his word. He bestowed no special favour on his son. Wilbert was treated as the other employees were treated. His colleagues in the repair sheds searched diligently for the merest hint of paternal bias but could find none. They were bewildered.
Sammy, one of his fellow mechanics, taxed him with it.
‘How come,’ he asked, ‘the boss does treat you so funny?’
‘He don’t treat me funny. I does get the same treatment as the rest of you.’
‘That is exactly what I mean,’ Sammy said.
‘Why should he treat me as if I was special?’ Wilbert replied indifferently. ‘I have a job of work to do and the only thing that count is how well I do it. Being his son don’t count.’
Sammy could not accept that. ‘It must count for something. If it was my father …’
‘Well it isn’t your father,’ he replied curtly.
Sammy was not to be fobbed off so easily. ‘We does only work here because of the money he does pay we. If it wasn’t for that I wouldn’t be here. But you … you going to be the boss one day. That is the difference between you and the rest of we. You would expect …’
‘I don’t expect nothing. My being boss is a long way in the future. I don’t think about it.’ He prepared to crawl under one of the trucks awaiting repair.
‘So you will be happy to go on like you is for ten or maybe twenty years? Your father might live a very long time.’
‘I have work to do,’ Wilbert said, sliding under the truck. ‘That is what we here for – to work not talk.’
Sammy could get no more out of him. Wilbert’s stoicism remained an enigma. The mechanics discussed it at length among themselves but arrived at no satisfactory explanation. ‘Is not natural,’ Sammy said. ‘Something must be wrong somewhere and he bottling it all up inside of him. Like a volcano which does remain quiet for years and then all of a sudden … bang!’ There were other things about Wilbert which puzzled and intrigued them. It was their custom, after they were paid on Friday afternoons, to spend the evening touring the rumshops of Victoria. They invited Wilbert to come along with them and ‘have some fun’. Wilbert declined the invitation, saying he was tired and wanted to go to bed early.
‘You talking like if you is an old man,’ Sammy said. ‘What you saving up your energy to do? Is the end of the week. Time to have some fun and forget about work for a while.’ He grabbed his arm. ‘Come and have a drink with we, man. That won’t kill you. In fact a little rum will make you sleep all the better.’
Wilbert laughed and detached himself from Sammy’s grip. ‘I don’t like rum.’
‘You don’t like rum!’ The mechanics guffawed. ‘We will teach you how to like rum. But you don’t have to drink rum. You could drink beer instead.’
‘Some other time,’ he promised.
‘I think you only fooling we about not liking rum and wanting to go to bed early,’ Sammy said. He poked him in the ribs. ‘Is some woman you have to see, not so? Own up!’
‘I don’t have any woman to see,’ Wilbert said.
‘What’s she name?’ Again Sammy poked him in the ribs.
‘I don’t have any woman.’
‘What she look like? She pretty?’ Sammy wiggled his hips.
‘I tell you I don’t have any woman.’ Wilbert raised his voice. ‘Neither a pretty one or a ugly one. I don’t care for them.’
‘You don’t like women either?’ The mechanics were nonplussed. ‘You don’t like rum. You don’t like women. What it is you like then?’
‘I like people not to harass me with stupid questions.’
‘It have so many different kinds of women,’ Sammy said. ‘It must have some you like. What about that girl who does live with you and your father?’
‘What about her?’ Wilbert replied, his expression hardening.
‘Some people think she is one of the prettiest girls in Victoria.’
‘Well? So what? What’s that got to do with me?’ Wilbert stared at him, wrinkling his brows. ‘And it have nothing to do with you either.’
Sammy recognized the danger signal. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘If you not interested in women is nothing I can do about that.’
The invitation to join them on their Friday evening excursions was not repeated and the mechanics were altogether more circumspect and wary in their dealings with him.
That same evening, as he went past Sita’s bedroom, Wilbert noticed that the door, which was usually closed, had been left slightly ajar. ‘Some people think she is one of the prettiest girls in Victoria.’ On impulse, Wilbert stopped and glanced in. Sita was sitting at her table under the window and writing busily, her head twisted to one side. The room was clean and tidy. Her books were arranged in neat piles. Insects orbited the ceiling light. She seemed totally absorbed in what she was doing.
The shadow which had interposed itself between them had not disappeared. But what had initially sprung from an understandable embarrassment had become transformed through neglect into something bordering on an unspoken animosity. Each had waited for the other to make the first move; and neither had obliged. Sita had grown too adept at hiding her feelings for her to bring them out unsolicited into the open. She had temporized, searching for signs of encouragement in Wilbert’s behaviour towards her; some gesture of implied good will which might have made it easier for her to do so. Unfortunately, she could detect nothing of the kind. This angered her. If Wilbert was determined to maintain his distance, why should she humiliate herself before him? He might rebuff her advances out of sheer vindictiveness. She would not risk that. There was no reason why she should be feeling guilty. She had done no wrong; had injured no one. She bore no responsibility whatever for her mother’s actions. Furthermore, it was Egbert Ramsaran himself who had brought her into the house; it was he Who had offered to send her to school in Port-of-Spain. No doubt his reasons for doing these things did not have their origin in any genuine kindly feelings towards her (Sita had no illusions on that score), but why should she concern herself with that? It was only natural for her to take advantage of his generosity. Anybody in her position would do the same. If Wilbert detested her for it, t
here was nothing she could do about that. It was a pity – but there was nothing to be done. She was perfectly willing to be friendly: all she required was a little encouragement which did not seem to be forthcoming.
Yet, Wilbert also had been searching and waiting for some sign of encouragement or gesture of good will, but Sita’s aloofness and reticence barred any approach. He too was afraid of being rebuffed. Embarrassment turned to bitterness. Who did Sita think she was? This was his father’s house and it would, in due course, be his. She was a guest and the least she could do was show her gratitude by being friendly towards him; not the other way round. It was only right that the burden of proof should be on her. Her inordinate pride – for this was how he interpreted her aloofness and reticence – was offensive; the rock against which his good intentions had been dashed. However, his grievance against her had another, more specific cause.
Wilbert had almost forgotten his fight with Julian Bholai and his promise to recompense him for the wrecked aeroplanes, when Julian suddenly presented himself and reminded him of it. ‘I finally think of something you could do if you still want to make up for the planes, Ramsaran.’ Julian scratched his head and smiled. ‘Could I come one day and … and visit Sita?’ Wilbert was taken aback. ‘I don’t consider that making up …’ ‘I would consider it so,’ Julian said hastily. ‘You see, I could tell Ma it’s you I’m coming to visit.’ ‘She wouldn’t believe that,’ Wilbert said. ‘She will have no choice.’ Julian replied. ‘She could never disprove it unless … what you say? Is that a bargain?’ Wilbert did not relish the idea but he had no grounds for refusal. Julian did not confine himself to one visit. He became a regular visitor. He and Sita would sit in a secluded corner of the verandah and talk in whispers. Wilbert was not invited to share in these conversations and, if he appeared unexpectedly, their flow of chatter dried up and they looked distinctly uncomfortable. If Sita liked Julian she could not possibly like him. It was this which aggravated Wilbert’s bitterness against her and provided it with an identifiable focus.
The Chip-Chip Gatherers Page 24