by Alec Waugh
‘And that is what did happen. I had been careful to spend a very quiet evening the day before. I left Jannek among her friends. I would call for her in the morning. I ate only soup and drank a small bottle of beer. But I woke with a cracking headache. When I tried to get out of bed, I collapsed. I could not even crawl to the bathroom to get an aspirin. I waited for the maid to bring me coffee. The smell of the coffee made me vomit. I lay there waiting, sweating. At ten o’clock she came. On her face there was a look of gloating triumph. “What did I say?” she said. “I don’t make empty threats.” She had a piece of paper in her hand. “Sign this and when it has been delivered you will feel well again.”
‘She read me what was written on the paper. It was an order countermanding Jannek’s passage. “Sign this,” she said. “I will take it to the airport. The moment I have delivered this paper to Jannek, you will recover. If you do not sign it, I will stay here beside you. The plane is due to take off at eleven ten. It may be late. The moment the plane is in the air you will feel well again. Come now, sign.” I shook my head. I had not the strength to speak. “Very well,” she said, “I will sit here and wait.”
‘She sat silent, motionless, watching me. I was not in pain as long as I did not move. I watched the hand of my bedside clock move round. Quarter to eleven, eleven, five past eleven. “Nearly time,” she said. The minute hand moved on, reached the two and covered it. “The plane’s late,” she said. “I’m sorry.” The minute hand moved on. Quarter past, twenty past; suddenly she stood up. “All right. The plane’s taken off. You can get up now.” My headache had disappeared and I felt ravenous. I swung my feet onto the floor. The floor did not move beneath them. “Now you know I was not fooling you,” she said. “You will never be able to leave this island. You will be foolish if you make the attempt, but if you ever become weary of Dominica, you have only to bring Jannek back and all will be the way it was.”
‘That afternoon I made enquiries at the airport. The southbound plane had taken off twelve minutes late. Yes, she had put her gri-gri on me.
‘But would her spell be effective if she did not know the exact time of my departure? That I must find out. I must make an attempt to get away when she couldn’t possibly know that I was leaving. She could invoke her powers if I was leaving on a scheduled flight or sailing, but what if I went unannounced. I would avail myself of the first chance I got.
‘I hadn’t long to wait. A yacht from the north put in at Portsmouth. Its captain had a letter of introduction to Elma Napier. She invited me to lunch to meet him. He was to leave for St Lucia that afternoon. I took a small suitcase with me. “I wonder,” I asked, “if you could take me with you. There’s a matter I’m very anxious to discuss with the Administrator.” “Nothing easier,” he said. I asked him that at the very end of lunch, when we were alone; when no servant could have overheard. I had brought my gardener with me. He could drive back the car. I would tell him at the last moment. My excitement mounted as we took our farewells. I could see his yacht at anchor. In half and hour I should be on her. I took my seat at the wheel. I would not tell my gardener what I was planning till I was out of earshot. He might have an arrangement with the cousin. She could not possibly know that I was leaving. The news would reach her when I was beyond her powers. I had fooled her. I was free. I released the clutch. I put my foot on the accelerator. The car moved slowly forward. And then without warning agony convulsed me. I fell across the wheel: I shut my eyes. The car swung into the ditch. I did not lose consciousness. I knew precisely what was happening. The pain I had felt when I was wounded in the war was trifling in comparison. I was incapable of movement. My gardener called for help. I was lifted out of the seat. “It’s no good,” I said, “you’ll have to drive me back.” Though the pain did not diminish I was in complete control of my faculties. I apologised to my prospective host. “I’m very sorry. It’s nothing. I have these attacks. It’s not unusual. It’ll pass in half an hour. Don’t worry. I’m all right.”
‘As his car swung out of sight, my pain vanished as suddenly as it had come. There were no after-effects. “So this is that,” I thought.
‘Two days later I met the cousin in the market. There was a look of triumph on her face. “You see,” she said. “I warned you. There is no escape.” She looked me up and down. “The remedy lies in yours hands,” she said. “You have only to bring Jannek back. Then you can go.”
‘“I shall never do that,” I said.
‘“Then you will never leave this island. You will be my prisoner.”
‘That was seven years ago,’ he said.
I stared at him, believing and yet not believing him. I believed in the power of gri-gri. Everyone does who has spent any time among those peoples. Yet it seemed incredible that he could have spent seven years upon this island. ‘A prisoner for seven years,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘They’ve been my seven happiest years. For the first time I’ve known complete peace of mind. There was nothing to be done about it. That was what made everything so easy. I remember you telling me of the relief you felt in September 1939 when you rejoined your regiment. For twenty years you had been plotting the graph of your personal career, wondering what books you should write, what editors you should work for. You were making decisions all the time. From now on, until the war was over, you had only to find out what the man immediately above you wanted and carry out his orders to the best of your ability. Life is very simple when there are no alternatives. That’s what you said to me in Cairo, that was how I felt here in Dominica a quarter century later. I knew what I could do. I knew what I couldn’t do. I knew for instance that I couldn’t be an Administrator. I should be unable to go to other islands for conferences. I should be unable to visit London for discussions. I wrote to the Foreign Office, expressing my deep regret, and assuring them how more than happy I should be to assist the government in any way I could, and in point of fact I have been able to do quite a lot. If there is only a very little you can do, if your work is limited by a short radius, it’s surprising how much that little can amount to. I fancy that our own Royal Family, though it has no constitutional powers, is able to achieve more than many absolute monarchs can. That’s in our small way what John Archbold and I do here. We’re both above the batde, above it and outside it. John’s a very rich man, of course. I’m not; but I’m not poor. We’ve neither of us got an axe to grind, our advice is often asked. And we’re able to get people together who might otherwise not know how to meet each other. John being an American is a help in one way; it gives him an independence. And my being English helps in another. John and I complement each other. I’m not nearly as much involved in the island as John is, but I’ve got enough to keep me busy. What’s more I’m doing all I can. Which is something I’ve never been able to feel before.
‘I’ve always from the start felt that I should be doing something, that I’d been put here for a purpose. But I couldn’t find out what the purpose was. I was irked by that. I always felt that I ought to be doing something different, something more; there was a basic central dissatisfaction. That’s over now. I’m doing all I can. It’s enough to keep me busy. And I like doing it. That’s as much as any man has a right to ask of life. And besides, this is a lovely island. It rains too much, but even so, it doesn’t rain all the time, even today I shouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t clear up in the end.’
Already it had grown lighter. There was no break in the clouds, and it was raining still. But the rain had become a mist rather than a downpour.
‘Let’s have another punch, and let’s move lunch forward half an hour. I bet we’ll be able to manage a walk after our siesta.’
The punches were brought: and he changed the subject. ‘Tell me more about all our friends. There’s so much I want to hear. Francis Beaumont-Palmer. Tell me about him.’
‘He and Sylvia live in Brighton now, they’re fine. I’m planning to go down this summer.’ We went from friend to friend. But soon inevitably we returned to his o
wn position. ‘What’s happing to Jannek?’ I asked.
‘She’s fine. She’s married—to a lawyer, quite a rich one; they’ve got two children.’
‘Surely, in view of that, that cousin would cast off her spell?’
‘She might, I don’t know. I haven’t asked her. I don’t like to ask her. I don’t want to ask favours of her.’
‘But surely you want to get away from here ?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve got used to it. Tell me about Peter Quennell. I was very fond of him.’
‘Me, too. He’s fine. I see him now and then.’
‘And Tony Powell?’
Name followed name. I felt very close to him, talking over the past. The past that was as real to him as it was to me: the past that for him, an exile, could never merge into the present. In all human probability this was the last time that we should meet. It was unlikely that I should ever come again to Dominica. And since he was resolved never to return to London … It was strange to think of him a prisoner on this island. ‘Don’t you miss your old friends ?’ I said.
‘I do and don’t. It’s wonderful to have you here, to pick up the old threads. It’s wonderful when any old friend comes out; quite a few do, you know. They look in on cruises: and those that do look in are, in terms of health, staying the course. But I don’t want to hang around in London, while my friends check out, seeing them go one by one: thinking, “his colour’s bad; he won’t last much longer.” There was a fellow I knew in the thirties. He wasn’t old, not much over fifty; but he was dying, of cancer. He’d been given a few months to live. He kept coming into White’s: each time he looked thinner and more drawn. I could see his point; he wanted to get the most out of his last weeks alive, but he did depress us. I made a vow then that when my time came I would keep to myself.
‘No, I don’t want to see my friends grow older. When I read their obituaries I want to be able to picture them in their prime. That’s the way, too, I want my friends to remember me; as I was in my big days. After all, I had something, hadn’t I?’
‘I’ll say.’
‘That’s how I’d like to stay, for them, the way I was. Out here it doesn’t matter. I quite relish the idea of growing decrepit here. I’ll enjoy making jokes about it, here where I know everyone, where I can say to some young stalwart, “Your father can remember the time I climbed up to the boiling lake. Couldn’t do that any longer.” “No, man, you couldn’t.” There’ll be something rather cosy about growing old out here, with familiar sights and sounds around me and familiar faces. I love the Dominicans and they love me. I’m an institution here. Besides, here, in this country of easy growth one lives and feels and thinks in terms of the Old Testament; the coconut palm rises, the nut falls, man goes to his long home.’
We went into lunch. At last it was easy for me to ask him the essential question. ‘After Jannek, what?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. I called that off; one has to some time. Better on one’s own terms than later upon nature’s. I’ve heard two men talk of the humiliation of going to bed with someone and have nothing happen. I’ve spared myself that shame. The Sophoclean calm. Best to anticipate it if you can. End on a high note. “Just once in a while we can finish in style.” Jannek was the tops. What news of Iris?’
Name followed name; place followed place. He asked about London’s clubs. Did I belong to the Savage still ? ‘As a country member; we’ve amalgamated with the National Liberal. It’s still got the feel of Adelphi Terrace.’
‘Adelphi Terrace. How I hated seeing that go. And the old curve of Regent Street: as it was in that line-drawing of Pennell’s in the first number of The Savoy. There’s so much about modern London I’d detest; to walk out of White’s, turn left and at the end of the street to see St James’ Palace, not against the sky but against a skyscraper.’
‘London’s the same at heart.’
‘Is it ? I suppose it is. If you’ve seen the changes coming year by year. What about that network behind Brompton Road? Rutland Street, Montpelier Square?’
‘As Soames Forsyte knew it.’
‘For how long, I wonder.’
Name followed name. ‘Myra. I can’t get accustomed to the world without her.’
The room had lightened as we lunched. ‘We’ll get a swim all right this afternoon,’ he said. By the time we left the table the rain had stopped, the sky had cleared. We walked to the edge of the verandah. We stood in silence, looking out over a world refreshed and radiant. I am old, I have travelled far, I have seen some majesty; but I have seen nothing more regal than the pageant of Dominica’s greens that afternoon.
‘Italia, oh Italia, thou who hast,’ he said.
To myself I finished the quotation: ‘The fatal gift of beauty.’
The mountains that were its glory brought the rain; the rain gave the foliage its special splendour, the rain washed away its crops and roads and bridges: the one was the complement of the other. The fatal gift of beauty. Raymond and Dominica. Were not their fates identical? He had been too good-looking, had had such grace and graciousness. He had showed such promise, seemed destined for the world’s rewards. He had only to stretch out his hands to take them. The race was won before the pistol went. He had been born to what others had to earn. Love had been given to him so freely that he had taken it for granted. Now he was alone. No one had ever thought that he needed to do anything but wait for the right opportunity: the opportunity that had never come. Yet even so he was at the end of it all as happy as any man I knew. I could relieve Timothy Alexander of his anxiety.
The crested plumes of the bamboo waved in the breeze: the ragged leaves of the banana plant glistened in the sunlight, reflecting it like burnished shields. The humming birds darted above the crotons. ‘A siesta and then a swim,’ he said.
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © by Alec Waugh 1973
Published in 1974 by W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd.
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ISBN: 9781448201310
eISBN 9781448202638
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