Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  'I've come to say goodnight, Papa.'

  'Ah. Goodnight, Meg. Had a good day?’

  'Yes, Papa.'

  Then sleep well.'

  'Yes, Papa.' She hesitated. 'Papa?'

  'Yes, Meg.' He was writing industriously.

  'In ... in a week's time I will be fifteen, Papa.'

  'I hadn't forgotten. There will be a celebration. Oh, yes. We shall have your friends to tea.'

  Meg took a long breath. 'Papa, for a present, do you think ...' She bit her lip.

  At last Anthony Hilton raised his head. 'Do I think what, Meg?'

  "That... that I... that we, I mean you and me, could go up to the Great House? Just to look at it.'

  Anthony Hilton peered at his daughter. "The Great House? Whatever for?'

  Meg's courage began to desert her. 'I... I would so like to see it.'

  'What rubbish. It's a mausoleum. To our family. You don't want to enter the family mausoleum, Meg. Not until you're dead. Now off you go to bed.'

  Meg sighed, and then turned and went into the little hall, carefully closing the study door behind her. Prudence waited with a candle.

  'Now why you go upsetting your Papa? You ain't know he has enough to worry about, thinking how he going to feed us all for another year? I saying again, you is a worthless chil'. Now off to bed before I cut your tail,' she said.

  Meg pulled a face at her, seized the candle and hastily retreated to the small bedroom, closed and bolted the door; Hannibal spent the night outside; it was his task to discourage prowlers. Although he didn't seem very good at discouraging the sheep stealers. Hilltop was always losing lambs or kids from the goat herd. Papa said it was mountain people, living beyond the river. Because they were starving. She wondered if they were the same people who beat the drum.

  She placed the candle in its holder, sat on the bed. She supposed Prudence was right, and she was in a funny mood today. A mood created by Alan, damn him.

  She got up restlessly, went to the jalousied window, half opened the slatted wooden shutters, looked through. It was dark now, and the lights flickered in the other houses of the compound. There were several glowing windows in the McAvoy house. But Alan would also be going to bed. Thinking of her? She supposed he would. He certainly should.

  Supposing he were to think so hard he would cross the street and climb up to this window. As the window was twelve feet from the ground that was impossible, but if one was going to dream, then everything was possible. He would climb in, and she would be waiting for him, like Juliet. And she would close the jalousie behind him.

  She closed the jalousie.

  Then he would want to hug her. Tightly. He always did that. She seized the pillow from her bed, held it in her arms, hugged it and hugged it and hugged it until she became dizzy and overbalanced, falling across the bed, panting, sweat dribbling out of her hair.

  Then he would want to touch her breasts. She rolled on her back, gazed at the sloping roof rising above the rafters; as in all West Indian houses, there was no ceiling, the better to allow air to circulate. And sound as well. She must not make a noise.

  They must not make a noise. But he would be touching her breasts now, as Prudence had done. As she had done in the past. By accident. She always pretended that. Yet she had to touch them when bathing. She adored bathing.

  Her hands came up, and the nightgown moved with them. Hastily she pulled it down again. He would never wish to touch her bare flesh. That just was not possible. She could not imagine what she would do, were he to want that. She drew a long breath, inflating her lungs, closed her hands on the mounds of swelling flesh, crossing her wrists. And was immediately rewarded by a hardening of the nipples, and distracted by a wild desire which raced through her body, calling on her to ... to ... she had no idea. She only knew that after doing that he would want to press himself against her again, harder and harder and harder. She pulled the bolster against her belly, wrapping her legs round it as best she could while they were caught up in the clinging nightdress, still holding her breasts, rolling back and forth, causing the bed to creak, sweating and gasping for breath.

  And stopping, in exhausted frustration. There was no rod. Only the beat of the drum.

  She awoke to the sound of Hannibal barking, and being joined by Rufus from across the street. She sat up, because the dogs were calling to each other more urgently than usual. And now the cacophony was increased by the sound of human voices, shouting.

  She got out of her bed, threw the jalousies wide, and heard the crack of a rifle.

  'Got the bastard,' shouted Harry McAvoy.

  The street filled with men. Lights came on in most of the houses. The chattering of women filled the air.

  Meg dragged on her dressing robe, opened the door. Papa's bedroom door was ajar, and the bed was empty. She went downstairs; there was a single candle flickering in the living room, and Papa's rifle was missing from its bracket on the wall.

  She opened the front door, stood on the porch, watched half a dozen men, four overseers and two black watchmen, walking slowly past the gate to the compound, carrying something. Behind them came three more men; Papa, and Harry McAvoy, and Paul Simmonds, all armed.

  'Where, do you reckon?' Papa was asking as they opened the gate and came within earshot.

  'The mountains,' Harry McAvoy said. 'Had to be the mountains.'

  'After the sheep?' Simmonds asked. 'I heard the drums tonight.'

  'Had to be,' Harry McAvoy agreed. 'And thought he'd try his hand in the compound.'

  'Um.' Anthony Hilton paused at the foot of the steps. 'Well, I'll take your statements in the morning.'

  'Statements?' Harry McAvoy demanded.

  'A man has been killed, Harry. And I am magistrate for this district'

  'But... you'd have shot at him if you'd seen him first,' McAvoy protested.

  'I wouldn't have shot to kill, Harry.'

  'Well, for God's sake, Tony, I didn't mean to kill the chap.' McAvoy's voice dropped. 'You don't suppose there'll be trouble?'

  'The man was a burglar,' Simmonds pointed out 'Unarmed,' Tony Hilton said, perhaps to himself. 'A black man,' McAvoy insisted. 'Prowling around our compound, for God's sake, prowling around our women, at night And we know he came from the mountains. They worship the snake god up there, Tony, you know that as well as I.'

  'I know that,' Tony Hilton said. 'And there'll be no trouble. As you say, he was a black man from the Cockpit But we'll do it legally, Harry. There'll be a statement I'll see you in the morning.'

  He climbed the stairs, stopped in surprise at the sight of his daughter.

  'Meg? Whatever are you doing up?'

  'I heard the noise. Papa, has a man really been shot? By Mr McAvoy?'

  He rumpled her hair. 'A burglar. One of the bad men from the mountains. Only bad men live in the mountains, you know. If they weren't bad, they'd be down here looking for work. Harry was doing his duty. Now off you go to bed, and forget about it.'

  'Careful, chil', careful.' Prudence held the first boot for Meg to slip her foot inside. The boot was made of cream kid, with black patent leather toe and heel, and red laces, and Prudence stroked it lovingly as she held it; she had never seen anything quite so magnificent in her life.

  Neither had Meg; the pair was her birthday present from Papa. Now she carefully fitted her foot inside, and Prudence made sure the tongue was properly settled, and then slowly tightened the laces.

  'Not too tight,' Meg begged.

  'It got for be tight, chil’. Or it going slip around your foot and make blisters.'

  Meg extended the other foot. The first boot certainly fitted perfectly, at this moment. Soon her left foot was also encased, and she could stand, and listen to the faint creak of the new leather, and the clump of her heels as she walked up and down; she had gained at least two inches in height.

  Prudence rocked back on her heels. 'You looking too good this day, Mistress Meg. You looking good enough to eat.'

  Meg held the glass up a
t arm's length, the better to see; she did not possess a full-length mirror. Her hair was brushed and washed and lay straight down past her shoulders; her face had been scrubbed until it glowed, a welcome pink peeping through the brown suntan; her blue gown was linen, her very best, and it had been carefully pressed by Prudence; and her stockings were also her best, with only a single ladder up the inside of the left calf. But no one was going to see that. And everyone would see the new boots. She dug her fingers into her skirt the better to raise it a little higher, so that the whole ankle was exposed.

  "There then,' Prudence said. 'You go get your Papa. I got that cake to see to.'

  Meg went into the corridor, her heels drumming in her ears. She knocked on the study door, waited her usual second, and then entered. It was four o'clock in the afternoon; normally siesta would be ending, and the overseers would be pulling on their riding boots and getting ready to start their second session in the fields. Not that Papa ever took a siesta. He spent the hot part of the day working at his interminable figures. But today, in any event, he would not be returning aback; it was her birthday.

  'What is it?' The pen continued to scratch away.

  'It's Meg, Papa. It's four o'clock.'

  The pen was laid down. Anthony Hilton picked up the huge old gold watch which had belonged to Great-Grand-father, and no doubt to other Hiltons before that. 'My word,' he said, raising the cover. 'So it is.' He smiled at her. 'Your birthday party. And you are looking very pretty today.' Yet for some reason he accompanied the compliment with a faint frown, as if he hadn't expected such a thing to be possible.

  'Thank you, Papa.' She did a small curtsy.

  'Miss Meg. Miss Meg.' Prudence hurried along the corridor. 'You got guests, Miss Meg.'

  'I'm coming. Be sure Hannibal is chained.'

  He had a habit of biting strangers.

  'I'm coming as well.' Anthony Hilton got up slowly; he was not yet forty, but he moved like an old man. 'We'll greet them together. Fifteen. My word. Why, you are almost a woman.' He might have been talking to himself.

  But to her amazement he took her hand in his, walked with her down the corridor. She felt an immense sense of excited pride. Perhaps he no longer hated her now she was fifteen. Now she was almost a woman.

  Percy had already opened the door, and Harry and Helen McAvoy were there, with Alan clearly as freshly scrubbed as herself, wearing a floppy cravat and looking decidedly hot and embarrassed. Now it was her fault. For the entire week she had refused to go up to the Grandstand with him, making the excuse that she was preparing for her birthday. What excuse would she give him tomorrow ?

  'Why, Harry. Helen. How good of you to come,' Anthony Hilton said, as if he did not see them every day. 'Alan, you're looking well. A fine boy, you have there, Harry. A fine boy. When will you be sixteen, Alan?'

  Alan licked his lips. 'Next... next March, sir.'

  'Ah, then you'll be a man. Yes, indeed. Time to start him going aback, eh, Harry?'

  'I'd had that thought already,' Harry McAvoy agreed. For Alan was intended to follow his father and be a Hilltop overseer, a career to which he apparently looked forward. But good Lord, Meg thought, as she gave him a hasty smile; that means that one day he could be my Field Manager. She had never thought of that before, although Alan clearly had. Indeed, that might explain a lot of his actions.

  And she found it a curiously satisfying idea.

  'We have a present for you,' Helen McAvoy said archly, and produced a parcel.

  'For me,' Meg screamed, and seized the box.

  'Careful, now,' Helen said, trying not to frown. 'You'll tear it.'

  Meg was already tearing it, removing the ribbon in a few tugs of her strong brown fingers, ripping through the paper with a single thrust of her thumbnail, opening the box inside to discover the three lace handkerchiefs, one in pink, one in pale blue, one in pale yellow. 'Oh, they're beautiful.'

  'I've embroidered your initials in the corner,' Helen explained.

  'They are very pretty,' Anthony Hilton said, putting his arm round Meg's waist to give her a squeeze. 'And now, I know Percy has prepared some punch, and ...'

  A gig rattled up the street and came to a halt outside the bungalow. 'Is Mr Reynolds,' Percy said, hurrying to the door.

  Alan and Meg exchanged glances. But Walter Reynolds had to be invited to a Hilton birthday party. Reynolds and Son had been the Hilton family lawyers for over a hundred years, and besides, there was Billy. He came up the stairs at the side of his father, short and plump, his fat cheeks already blushing at the thought of meeting Meg again.

  'Why, Walt. Good of you to come,' Anthony Hilton said, shaking his friend's hand. 'Billy. You're looking well.' 'Can I kiss Meg, Mr Hilton? It is her birthday.' 'Well, of course.'

  'He can't,' Meg said. 'You don't kiss someone just because it is her birthday.'

  'If we men can't kiss a lady on her birthday,' Harry McAvoy said, 'when can we?' He glanced at his wife and flushed.

  'We shall all kiss you,' Anthony Hilton decided, and set an example by holding her shoulders and kissing her on the forehead. Harry McAvoy followed. For a moment Meg shrank away from him. Only six days ago he had killed a man. Then she remembered that after all it had only been a Negro, and not even a Hilltop man. And he had been attempting to get into the white compound. He deserved to die. She allowed McAvoy to kiss her forehead, then Walter Reynolds. 'Now you, Billy,' Anthony Hilton said.

  Billy came close, held her arms just above the elbow, as he had seen the men do. He had stronger fingers than she had supposed; they bit into her flesh. But of course he was two years older than she, at seventeen was already apprenticed in his father's office, would one day take over the business. Then he would be her attorney. She felt a sudden sense of imprisonment, that she was growing up with the men who would be spending the rest of their lives working for her.

  And Billy had to stand on tip-toe to kiss her cheek. And to whisper, 'Oh, Meggie, you do look lovely today. I could hug you, really I could.'

  Hastily she pushed him away. Suppose someone had heard ? And she hated being called Meggie.

  'Now you, Alan,' Anthony Hilton decided.

  Alan licked his lips. 'Perhaps Meg doesn't want to be kissed any more,' he said.

  'I don't,' Meg said. 'I'd rather have tea.'

  'Ah, well,' Anthony Hilton said. 'You've missed your chance, Alan. You don't want to go through life missing chances. Seize them, boy, seize them, especially where women are concerned, eh? Ha ha.' Papa seemed determined to enjoy himself this afternoon, which was as it should be. But there was no laughter in his eyes, and the faint frown remained drawn across his forehead.

  'Wait a moment, Tony,' Walter Reynolds said. 'We have a present for the young woman.'

  'I'll do it, Father.' Billy hastily retreated to the porch, came in with an enormous square box. 'For you.'

  Meg didn't really want to accept a present from him; but she did so want to discover what was in the box. She hesitated, then seized it and tore it apart with as much energy as she had destroyed the box of handkerchiefs. Inside there was a mound of soft paper, and then... slowly she took out the wide-brimmed white straw hat, decorated round the crown with artificial flowers, while a long pink ribbon trailed down behind.

  'Oh, but it's beautiful,' she cried without meaning to.

  Walter Reynolds beamed, and Billy blushed all over again. 'Chose it myself.'

  Meg had hurried to the wall mirror, to put the hat on, and turn herself this way and that while she admired herself.

  'Well,' said Anthony Hilton. 'New hat, new handkerchiefs, new boots, why, there'll be no stopping you, young lady.'

  No stopping me from what, she wanted to ask, but Prudence, wearing her best white apron and her white cap, had appeared in the inner doorway to inform her master that tea was served.

  'Don't I get another kiss ?' Billy whispered, leaning against her as she took off the hat.

  'No, you do not,' she said. 'But thanks all the same. It is a lovely ha
t.'

  'Well, then,' he said, 'can I cut the cake with you?'

  'No,' she said. 'I'm going to cut it with .. . with Papa.'

  Who was obviously pleased, but after the meal the grownups were clearly settling down to drink Percy's rum punch.

  'Can't we have some, Papa?' Billy wanted to know. 'Or at least me.'

  'One glass each,' Anthony Hilton decided. 'Then you can go off and amuse yourselves.'

  'I know,' Alan hissed at Meg. 'Let's take him up to the Grandstand.'

  Meg sipped the ice-cooled brown liquid, and felt heat seeping through her belly. 'You can take him where you like,' she said. 'I'm going to wear my hat.' She stood before the mirror to put it on again.

  'Well, come on then, let's take a walk.' Billy had already finished his punch. His cheeks seemed to have settled into a permanent red glow.

  'When I'm ready.' She drank some more punch, made sure her hat was on straight. 'Do I look all right, Aunt Helen?'

  'You look like a dream, my dear,' Helen McAvoy said. 'I really wonder if she should not have a chaperon, Tony.'

  'Ah ...' The thought had obviously never crossed Anthony Hilton's mind.

  'Why,' Meg said, ‘I am walking with two gentlemen. There's protection enough, surely, Aunt Helen.'

  'Well...' Helen McAvoy looked at her son.

  'We'll bring her back safe and sound,' Alan promised, and held the door for her. 'Race you to the Stand.'

  'Race you to the Stand,' she shouted, scattering down the steps, holding on to her hat with one hand and her skirts with the other. Hannibal barked futilely, tugging at his chain behind the front steps, and was joined by Rufus in noisy protest.

  'Well, I say, really,' Billy grumbled. But he followed.

  Alan went up the street, through the opened gate, and across the pasture beyond. Meg endeavoured to follow at the same speed, but found her boots were too tight for running. 'Oh, bother,' she said, and sat on the grass to untie the laces.

  Billy arrived, panting. 'Whatever are you doing?'

  Taking off my boots, silly.'

  'But you can't go running about the place in your stockings,' he said.