The Lorimer Line

by Anne Melville

  Ralph obeyed her instructions at first, choosing to start his ministry cautiously. From the very beginning he found difficulty in adapting his own temperament to that of his congregation. As a boy in his father’s house, and a schoolboy at Clifton College under the regime of Dr Percival, he had been subject to harsh discipline, and as Captain of Cricket had applied the same strictness to his team. But the people of Hope Valley appeared to recognize no rules. If he asked them to do something they cheerfully agreed, and as cheerfully forgot about it. The guilt which had oppressed Ralph in relation to Claudine was directly related to the high moral standard which had been instilled into him. He accepted its absolutes and recognized himself as a sinner. But what he had done only once, his people here did regularly, and without any sense of sin whatsoever. Most startling of all was the fact that they did not appear to be sorry for themselves. Ralph had come to Jamaica out of shame that his ancestors should have done so much wrong, to their own great profit. But nobody he met appeared to bear any grudge or to recognize that any penance was necessary.

  The confusion of values troubled his mind but did not distract him from his duties. He visited each family, discussing their problems. He started a Sunday School for the children and struggled to distinguish them from each other and to remember their names. He prepared sermons with care and tried to introduce a Bible-reading scheme amongst the women. When he discovered that they were illiterate, he began to formulate a plan for teaching children to read and encouraging them at the same time to teach their own mothers. The study of the Bible he saw as the greatest benefit he could bring to his community.

  At the same time, however, the physical conditions in which the people of Hope Valley lived disturbed him quite as much as the state of their souls and he was determined, with God’s help, to make some improvements. Although he had been careful not to reveal too much interest, it seemed to him a sign from Above that on his very first morning he had heard mention of Bristow.

  Little enough had ever been said at home about the plantation which his great-great-uncle Matthew had established in 1790, but what Ralph did know was that it had been given the old name of the city of Bristol. To find that it was so close to Hope Valley whetted his curiosity. After some weeks, when he was settled in and familiar with the affairs of his own community, he put on his wide-brimmed straw hat and set off to explore. The afternoon was hot under a blazing sun and even the butterflies seemed to be sleeping. No one took any notice of his departure.

  His donkey carried him along winding tracks, barely distinguishable from the overgrown land around. Only a chimney, built of good English brick, showed where the sugar factory had once stood: only the foundations of a few stone walls marked the site of the slave hospital. Bristow Great House itself - built on a high point to catch the breeze - was damp and dilapidated, the windows gaping and the floors covered with bird droppings.

  Ralph hitched the donkey to a palm tree which must once have formed part of an impressive avenue, and went up the stone steps which led to the main floor. He walked precariously over the rotten floorboards of the lower verandah and into the large central drawing room, whose proportions gave it dignity even in its present state. The louvred jalousies which should have covered the windows had fallen away from rusted hinges, so that Ralph was able to look straight out. His eyes widened in surprise as he crossed to take a closer look. Someone had made a garden at the back.

  In order to protect it from hurricanes, the great house had not been built quite at the top of the hill. The land which continued to rise behind the house had been landscaped as a pleasure garden in the English style, with terraces retained by banks of local stone and specimen trees set in lawns of broad-bladed crab grass. The plants in the garden were untidy and over-luxuriant: climbing white lilies had entwined themselves round the branches of the trees, and what might once have been neat hedges of hibiscus now threatened to engulf the bright red tips of the poinsettias which they encircled. Although a newcomer, Ralph had been in Jamaica long enough to know that an area like this would have returned to jungle within a year if left untended. The estate might have been deserted many years ago, but someone was caring for the garden still. Would it be a Jamaican? The people seemed lazy enough even when it was a question of looking after the crops essential to their own living: it seemed inconceivable that any of them should spend what energy they had on something as unproductive as a flower garden, the neglected decoration to an uninhabited house.

  While he stood puzzling over the problem, the sound of a footstep startled him. He swung round quickly, ready to defend himself if necessary. But the man who stood there, although he carried the cutlass which was the all-purpose agricultural tool of these parts, showed no sign of hostility. He was a thick-set man in his middle years. In England Ralph would have thought of him simply as a Negro, but already his eye had become able to interpret the variations in colour and feature which had resulted from the liaisons between masters and slaves. This man he recognized as a mulatto. His skin was lighter than that of most families in the Hope Valley community: his nose was longer and his lips thinner. But his most extraordinary feature was his hair. Not as tightly curled as that of a full Negro, the ends of its thick waves were a bright orange colour. He had dyed it, Ralph supposed, although it seemed a curious thing to do.

  ‘I was admiring the garden,’ Ralph said, since something seemed to be expected. ‘Who keeps it so well?’

  ‘That crazy ol’ man.’ The mulatto came across to the window and gave a nod in the direction of the upper terrace. Ralph looked where he was directed and saw a coloured man with white hair slowly hoeing round the roots of a croton bush.

  ‘Why does he do it?’

  “Cause he’s crazy, why else? One day when him little boy, Massa Matty toP him, “Keep the garden just so till yo’ white cousin come.” An’ he keep it an’ he keep it an’ white cousin won’t never come. I tell him; he don’t heed me.’

  ‘Is he your father?’

  ‘That’s right, master. That crazy ol ‘man.’

  An uneasy suspicion froze Ralph’s heart. No one in the Lorimer family had spoken much about his great-great-uncle Matthew. That he had bought slaves and worked them Ralph knew, and that he had bequeathed them to his nephew. But the phrase ‘white cousin’ — even if it were a joke - suggested that he might on occasion have demanded a relationship closer than that of master and slave. Was there, Ralph asked himself, looking at those bright orange locks - could there possibly be - such a thing as a redheaded Negro?

  ‘What’s the old man’s name?’ he asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

  ‘Rascal Mattison, master.’ The words rolled out with a sonority which added to Ralph’s dismay. Rascal, son of Matthew: it was like a bad joke.

  ‘Was he the only one?’ Ralph asked, still avoiding the direct question. The younger Mattison seemed to know well enough what he meant.

  ‘Massa Matty done father ten little childer here on Bristow, master. But after he done die, then the bad days come. And the overseer, he done the childer wrong. All but the one, ‘cause his own daughter fancied him. That crazy ol’ man’s the last one living, talking all the time about that white cousin. When white cousin don’t come, he say house all his own, land all his own.’

  ‘Crazy, as you say,’ said Ralph, and was relieved that the son did not disagree. They moved away from the window.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Red Mattison, master.’

  Ralph nodded.

  ‘I came to see the old house,’ he said. ‘It’s sad when something like this rots away.’

  He returned to his donkey, his mind busy with questions. That orange-haired stranger must be a cousin of a sort. Ralph’s conscience told him that he ought to acknowledge the relationship but there was more to make him hesitate than a natural distaste. He had been in Hope Valley long enough to realize that the name of Lorimer meant nothing to the families he served. Perhaps it had not been widely used even while Ma
tthew was alive. Certainly it seemed that almost seventy years had been enough to obliterate it. Ralph had no wish to be linked in any way in the minds of his congregation with the memory of their former oppressors. For that reason it was tempting to keep away from the Lorimer estate altogether. Yet the land was more tempting still; and Ralph knew better than anyone else how unlikely it was that anyone would ever claim it.

  What he had in mind troubled his conscience more than the unwelcome discovery and rejection of a distant cousin. As he urged the donkey through the thick, tangled land of the lower plantation, he was mentally clearing and replanting. Later that evening, as the rain thundered down on his roof, his brain was busy first on the legal, and only then on the ethical aspect of his discovery.

  Matthew Lorimer had left the estate to his nephew Alexander; Ralph was certain of that. He was not sure how he knew, but it was part of the family history that Lorimer’s Bank had been founded with the compensation paid for the slaves after they were given their freedom. It was possible that Alexander had sold the land as soon as emancipation made the running of a sugar plantation uneconomic. Ralph assumed that he could discover that from the land office in Spanish Town. If it was not sold. Alexander would have left it to John Junius, his only son. And if John Junius had not sold it either, it ought to have been put on the market by the Receiver at the time of the bank crash. In no circumstances could William have been entitled to inherit it, for John Junius had nothing legally left to bequeath at the time of his death.

  So there was one fixed point: that William had no rights. Then there was the unknown factor: a possible purchase of the plantation by an outsider. That could be checked. If both those potential claimants were eliminated, the land might be said to be in limbo. The bank’s debts had been wound up, and no good could come from revealing the existence of a new asset which had been overlooked. It might stir up old troubles and old hatreds but would bring advantage to no one, for it was likely that the estate had little or no cash value. Yet to the members of his congregation it could represent a Promised Land into which Ralph himself, like Moses, could lead his people; out of poverty and towards a new life.

  Suppose the land were indeed in limbo, what then was the moral position? Ralph assured himself that John Junius would have wished him to have it. It had never been the old man’s intention that his younger son should have no inheritance. He would have made a settlement, as he had done in William’s case, as soon as Ralph had reached the age of twenty-one. Accident alone had prevented him. This gave Ralph a moral right, surely, to use for the advantage of others what lay so conveniently to hand. Perhaps even a duty, for who but the Almighty had guided him to Bristow? What he had in mind would be for the good of the people and would bring no personal advantage. As the night wore on, Ralph became more and more convinced that he would be justified in carrying out his plans.

  2

  It is humiliating for a man of God to discover after telling a lie that he would have achieved more by telling the truth. When, a few weeks after his exploration of Bristow, Ralph had an opportunity to make the journey into Spanish Town, he went first of all to the shabby shingled office which housed the land records. It took him only a short time to discover that the Bristow estate was last registered as being the property of Alexander Lorimer of Bristol. Ralph asked to see the most senior person in the office.

  ‘So you have inherited Bristow, have you, Mr Lorimer?’ said that gentleman, after Ralph had put forward his claim with as much confidence as he could muster. ‘Well, you’ve come only just in time.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘There’s new legislation in force to deal with some of the land problems on the island. I don’t know whether you’ve been here long enough to see the position for yourself. Good land lying uncultivated; and willing workers fretting for the chance of a plot of their own. Under the new regulations, any land that hasn’t been worked for fifty years is liable for reallocation unless the owner appears with an undertaking to cultivate it again himself.’

  ‘What do you mean by reallocation?’

  ‘It will be divided into smallholdings and made available to deserving families. The head of the household has to be sponsored by someone in a responsible position - someone such as yourself. We give him a seven-year lease to begin with. At the end of that period, if he’s looked after the land and no legal owner has come forward to claim it, we shall grant a freehold right. Bristow was eligible for reallocation. But it’s a different matter now if there’s an owner on the spot. Have you brought any documents with you, sir, to support your claim?’

  ‘They all lie in Bristol,’ said Ralph untruthfully. ‘They can be sent for when I know what you need to see. But let me consider for a moment.’

  He was angry with himself for not having made a more thorough study of the present situation before deciding on his approach. The reallocation scheme which had just been described was precisely what the people of Hope Valley would want. However, Ralph was not prepared to admit that he had lied, and there was no other way of withdrawing his claim to ownership.

  ‘I am the pastor of Hope Valley,’ he said. ‘I would not have troubled to claim Bristow on my own account. I am content with a life of poverty and have no wish to be a property-owner. My intention in coming to you was to divide the land amongst the people of my community.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop you doing that, sir. Once the estate is registered in your name, you can do what you like with it.’

  ‘But it seems to me now that the reallocation scheme you have described would be a more suitable way of achieving this end. As pastor, I could provide the recommendations you need. You could issue the seven-year leases - and the land would be under cultivation more quickly than if we have to wait while letters are sent to Bristol and documents searched out.’

  Ralph had taken the risk of putting in his claim on the basis of his observation that in such a hot climate no one wished to be rigid about regulations. A white man who spoke with confidence automatically carried a certain authority. Assurances were likely to be accepted, based on promises which need never be kept. He waited now, while the land officer wiped the sweat from his forehead, to sec whether he had judged correctly.

  ‘Well now, sir, let’s consider. There’s plenty of land to come under the scheme. The first to be allocated ought to be the estates where we don’t expect any owner to appear. You can see for yourself, it will cause discontent if a man clears his patch and digs it for seven years and then sees it go back to a stranger. That may have to happen in some cases, but we must avoid it if we can.’

  ‘But since in any case I intend the people of Hope Valley to have the estate …’

  ‘Well, you say that now, sir, but you could change your mind. Or, more to the point, you could die, and your heirs might feel differently.’ He considered the matter in silence for a moment. ‘How about this for an answer, Mr Lorimer? I give you a seven-year lease on the whole of Bristow estate under the reallocation scheme. That way we don’t need to wait for your documents. At the end of the seven years, the freehold right comes to you automatically because if you’re the owner in any case, no other owner will have turned up with a claim. If you want to give the land to your congregation after that, it’s no business of ours.’

  It was as easy as that. He would have to make another journey to Spanish Town in order to sign the documents which would specify the Bristow boundaries, but the matter was settled.

  At the beginning of the day Ralph had been sincere in his intention to divide the Bristow land amongst the people of Hope Valley: only because of this could he justify to himself his false claim. But as he travelled back that evening, he was assailed by another temptation. The documents which would transfer the land to his care were legal, involving no untruthful statements. All the rights would be in his own name. Would he not be wise to retain control, in the best interests of the community? Divided into small plots, the Bristow estate would soon become the same kind of agricultural slum
as Hope Valley. The heads of some families would prove neglectful, and there would be no sanctions by which they could be made to support their families. Ralph believed in discipline. As the owner of the land he could reward hard work and penalize laziness. He could plan a proper balance of crops and ensure cooperation on such matters as drainage and irrigation. He would transform Bristow into a model plantation. Yet again, he told himself, the hand of God had led him by devious paths to discover at last what was for the best.

  Until his plans were complete, Ralph kept his own counsel. Then one Sunday morning he addressed his congregation more directly than usual. The next day, he told them, he would preach at six in the morning at the Baptist Hole. The words he spoke then would change their lives, and every adult member of the community who was not in paid employment must be there. He did not ask but ordered them, using the tone of voice which he had so often heard from his father. It was the first time he had spoken in such a way, and he was conscious of his hearers’ approval. They had not understood his reasoned sermons, so carefully prepared, but now he was going to tell them in simple terms what they ought to do, and they would obey. The idlest of the unemployed men had not come to the chapel, but he could trust their women to see that they kept the morning rendezvous.

  They were all there before him, waiting at the foot of the waterfall as dawn broke. As he climbed to the ledge of rock from which he could see them all, even the children were silent. He began to address them, and it was as though he had been visited with the gift of tongues. All the reticence and hesitations of his upbringing fell away from him as he reminded his people of the oppression under which their fathers had suffered, the poverty in which they themselves lived. His audience groaned in sympathy for themselves as they listened: they began to rock and moan. Then, as his mood changed, so did theirs. ‘Hallelujah!’ they cried out, and ‘Amen!’ as he called to them that the Lord spoke through him, promising His people a land of milk and honey. It was not through the long journeyings of the children of Israel that they would come at last to the Promised Land, but by many days of labouring in the vineyard. He was here to lead them to their new future: they would start the work at once.