'Exactly what I was saying,' Phillips agreed.
Oriole caught up with Meg on the front porch. 'Now come along, Meg, we'll get these horrid rags off, and give you a bath, and put you to bed, and Dr Phillips can examine you, and then he will give you a sleeping potion, and when you wake up, why, you'll be able to tell us what happened, and your father will be able to arrest those dreadful men, if he hasn't already managed to do so.'
'They were not dreadful people,' Meg said. 'And they will not be arrested. I would love a hot bath and to lie down, but I do not need a sleeping potion and I do not need a physical examination. I am not going to have a physical examination.'
Oriole gazed at her for some seconds. 'Did you hear that, doctor?' she asked at last. 'She has never spoken to me like that before. Clearly her mind is under some outside influence.'
'Well...' Phillips also came up the steps. 'It may be just exhaustion. But I do think I should examine you, Meg.'
'Don't touch me,' Meg said. 'Just don't touch me.'
Phillips looked at Oriole.
'Of course she must be examined. I'll help you.'
'Don't touch me,' Meg said again, slowly backing into the doorway. The idea of being pawed by them, after Cleave, made her feel physically ill. She looked down the steps, to see if she could force her way through them and perhaps escape, but the yardboy had already led Candy away. And besides, she was very tired.
'She really is half out of her mind,' Oriole said sympathetically.
'Yes. Well ...' But Dr Phillips was obviously thinking that Meg was a big, strong girl.
'We'll need help,' Oriole decided brightly. 'Helen,' she called. 'Mrs McAvoy. Will you give us a hand? Poor Margaret has lost her mind.'
'You wretch.' It occurred to Meg that she had always hated Oriole, for all the times she had hit her, in the main. She swung her hand, caught Oriole on the side of the face, and sent her crashing into the bannisters which lined the porch.
'Aaagh,' Oriole screamed. 'She's mad. Stop her, doctor. Stop her.'
'Now, Meg,' Dr Phillips said, advancing slowly.
'You keep away from me,' Meg shouted. Where, oh where, was Papa?
'Stop her,' Oriole screamed, regaining her feet, her face a blaze of angry red. 'Helen, come up here. Quickly.'
Helen McAvoy, hesitating at the foot of the steps, now began to hurry up. Meg realized she could not fight all of them; she could not even fight Dr Phillips, who was cautiously reaching for her arm. She jumped backwards, turned, and ran into the house.
'Stop her,' Oriole screeched.
Meg ran through the living room, checked as the maid appeared in the inner doorway.
'Get out of my way,' Meg bawled.
But this was not Prudence. This was a strange woman, who had obviously been engaged by Oriole herself. She remained standing in the doorway, and she was a large woman. Meg hestitated, and Dr Phillips seized her shoulder. She swung her hand, and he caught the wrist, half turning her. She faced Helen, reaching for her as well, and kicked, angrily. Helen gave a faint shriek and stumbled backwards. But the effort of the kick had thrown Meg off balance, and now Dr Phillips had the other arm as well.
She tried to turn, but Oriole was also in the room now. 'Get her legs,' she was shouting. 'You. Get her legs.'
The maid hesitated for a moment, then came forward. Meg kicked again, but the Negress evaded this easily enough, and stooped to seize her ankles, bring them together. As Dr Phillips still held her arms, Meg was lifted from the floor.
'There,' Oriole panted, looking down at her. 'Take her into the bedroom. We'll deal with her there.'
She wanted to scream. She wanted to shriek the place down. But she would not give them the pleasure of hearing her so humiliated. She wanted to fight them, but that would be equally humiliating. She wanted to hate them, and that was simple enough. All of them. She was too angry even to cry.
The bedroom door was open, and she was placed upon the bed.
'Don't let her go,' Oriole commanded. 'Alma. You'll take her arms. Helen, you and I will hold her feet.'
'I really wonder if we shouldn't wait,' Helen McAvoy said gently. 'At least until Tony comes home.'
'Wait?' Oriole demanded. 'The girl has been abducted, bewitched, raped ... we must be sure. Doctor?'
Dr Phillips released Meg's arms, and she sat up to swing her clenched first in Oriole's general direction.
'Bewitched,' Oriole screamed, ducking. 'Alma.'
The Negress caught one wrist, and when Meg slapped her across the face, got hold of the other. 'Now why you don' lie down proper, mistress,' she said. 'Like Mistress Oriole done say?'
'She will not listen to you,' Oriole said. 'Hold her down, doctor. We must know. I must know.' Her voice was so high as almost to suggest hysteria.
Meg's legs were free. She twisted and kicked, and Oriole gave a shriek of mingled alarm and pain as the bare toes caught her in the stomach. 'Aaagh. She's demented. Helen, help me.'
Helen McAvoy almost threw herself across the bed and Meg's legs.
'For the love of heaven, Meg,' she begged. 'We are only trying to help you.'
'Help me??' Meg snarled, and heaved again. But she was helpless under Helen's weight and Alma's strength.
Oriole had recovered her breath. 'You'll examine her, doctor.'
Phillips hesitated. 'I really do think ... well, it is a matter of obtaining permission, Mrs Paterson.'
‘I am giving you permission,' Oriole told him. 'My cousin has seen fit to place Margaret's upbringing in my care, and I wish her physically examined. Now.'
'Yes, but...' Phillips glanced at Helen.
'Shouldn't we obtain a midwife, really?' Helen murmured.
'Midwife?' Oriole shouted. 'And have this shouted all over Kingston? All over Jamaica?'
'It will be in any event,' Phillips said.
'So we must know,' Oriole said. 'Now.'
Meg twisted again, as she thought she felt Alma's grip relaxing. But immediately the fingers tightened on her arms, which were extended above her head and becoming quite painful. One day, she thought. One day ...
'You'll excuse me, Meg,' Dr Phillips said, 'but I must do as Mrs Paterson wishes.'
'If you touch me,' Meg said, 'I... I'll kill you.' Phillips glanced at Oriole.
'Oh, that is her dementia speaking,' Oriole said. 'Why, it didn't even sound like Meg.'
'Ah ...' Phillips was looking more and more embarrassed. 'Her legs ... limbs will have to be ... well. ..'
'We'll take one each,' Oriole said to Helen McAvoy. 'Careful now, or you'll likely get a kick in the head.'
'Bitch,' Meg shouted, wishing she knew a stronger word. 'Whore. If you touch me ...'
'Ignore her,' Oriole panted. 'Ignore her.'
Meg felt her legs being dragged apart, and a moment later Phillips, carefully turning his back so that he would not have to look at her face, was folding back her skirt and then her shift. She lay still, because to wriggle now would be even more humiliating, but could not stop herself panting; she could feel her belly inflating and collapsing with each angry surge of breath.
'Well?' Oriole demanded, bending close the better to see. Helen had closed her eyes.
'No bruising.'
'Then what is that?' Oriole demanded.
'A slight chafe on the buttock,' Phillips said. 'She was riding astride.'
'Astride,' Oriole complained at large. 'My God, what next.'
Fingers touched her flesh, and Meg wanted to scream. The last fingers to touch her there had been Cleave's. Or had she dreamed that? Now she was not at all sure. But those fingers, whether real or imagined, had caressed and driven her into a paroxysm of ecstasy. These fingers prodded and pulled, in a way at once more intimate than she remembered, and more horrible than she had ever known. She made herself lie still; the idea of moving her body while those fingers were inside her filled her with a physical horror. She even held her breath so that her stomach should not inflate while he was peering there, with Oriole peering besi
de him.
'Well?' Oriole demanded. 'Well?'
Phillips straightened, almost with relief, and rolled down her gown. 'I know it seems incredible, Mrs Paterson. But Meg is still a virgin.'
She lay on her face, the bolster hugged tight in her arms. She was exhausted, mentally as much as physically. Yet she could not sleep. Her mind seemed to be racing, like a galloping horse, through endless glades of overhanging fern which every so often debouched into huge open pastures, and then careered through narrow ravines and heavy, gloomy forests. Almost she could feel low hanging branches sweeping across her face, just as she could almost feel the movement of the horse's back, between her legs.
Between her legs. There was the fount of her excitement no less than her lurking misery, no less than her total confusion. What had happened between her legs ? Total ecstasy, to which her mind and her body reached in memory, again and again and again. And yet, not total. She did not know. She could not understand. No one would explain it to her. Yet from the heated exchange between Dr Phillips and Oriole there was no question that what had happened to her had not been what Oriole suspected. And yet, the ecstasy had been there. No doubt Oriole, with her peculiar point of view, had never known the ecstasy.
But what had happened? She had been drunk with the excitement of her surroundings no less than with the rum she had swallowed. So she could not remember clearly. She could only remember the ecstasy.
And now ... she raised her head, at the sound of horses' hooves. Several horses. The posse returning. It was well into the afternoon, and she had lain here for hours. Oriole had locked the door and taken away the key, and she had had nothing to eat or drink. Her throat was parched and her belly was rumbling; she had had almost nothing to eat last night, either.
And now Father was home.
She lowered her head again, but rested her chin on her hands, the better to listen. Perhaps, with Father home, things would improve. The ultimate catastrophe had apparently not happened. She had not been raped. There was nothing to be hysterical about. Oriole was, as usual, overacting. And how she wanted to have that bath, and a hot meal, and then bed. She thought that after a bath and a meal she might be able to sleep. And if she could sleep, then no doubt she could also dream.
But suppose they had caught Cleave? And Jack? And the nameless others?
She sat up, sweating. But there would have been more noise had that happened. She could hear voices calling, asking. The replies were less audible. No triumph there. The men were thirsty and hot and tired.
She could hear booted feet on the stairs, and clumping on the porch. She got out of bed, stood at the closed jalousie, looking through the slats. Several women were gathered outside, and the horses waited patiently by the gate. More than that she could not see without opening the jalousie, and she could not bring herself to do that, to be stared at, by all those women who had known her since birth; by Jimmy Pilling, she could just see his feet, but from the way they constantly shifted they could belong to no one else. Thank God Alan was no longer here. But he would hear of what had happened soon enough. Helen would see to that.
But what had happened ?
Voices, inside the house, and the clink of glasses. She would be granted a few minutes more respite. Because she could not doubt that the moment of crisis was approaching. Oriole would not forgive her, for anything, but most of all for the names she had called her, and for kicking her in the stomach.
And the respite was going to be short lived. Already the feet were clumping on the stairs, and the voices had the sharpness of the open air. Oriole again. One drink, because
they deserved that for their effort, and then away. There were matters to be attended to.
Meg rolled on her back, listening. The hooves clip-clopped down the street, the sound of voices died. She listened to Oriole's voice, coming from the kitchen, telling the servants to go home to the Negro village. That was a surprise. Who would prepare supper? The thought made her even more hungry.
Doors, closing, and then again voices. Oriole's voice mainly, talking, lecturing, remonstrating. Father, answering in occasional monosyllables. Oriole, raising her voice, but speaking so vehemently it was difficult to be sure of exactly what she was saying. But there were words like 'honour' and 'punishment' and 'decision' and 'no alternative'.
And then feet again, in the corridor, and coming closer. The key, scraping in the lock. Meg sat up, the bolster still clutched protectively against her belly.
The door swung in, and Father stood there. He still wore his riding clothes, was stained with dust and looked tired. Oriole stood beside him, her face pale with suppressed emotion.
Meg licked her lips, got up, realized she was still holding the bolster, and put it down.
'This is a very serious matter, Meg,' Tony Hilton said. His voice was low, but clearly he too was under considerable emotional stress.
Meg licked her lips again. 'I'm sorry, Papa.'
'Sorry,' Oriole said. 'Ha.'
'I had supposed at first,' Tony Hilton said, 'and I know both Oriole and Dr Phillips felt the same, that you were under some kind of shock, a concussion, perhaps, a drug. Who knows ? If that were so, of course, your actions would be entirely excused.'
He paused, and gazed at her. Meg's tongue did another circle of her lips.
'But Oriole now feels that it was nothing of the kind, that you have been deliberately perverse, and indeed, terribly wicked.'
'I... nothing happened? Meg said. 'My God,' Oriole said.
'Dr Phillips said so himself,' Meg shouted. 'Nothing happened. I swear it, Papa. I spent the night with some ... some people. That is all. I am sorry about it.'
Tony Hilton sighed. 'Being sorry is not enough. You spent the night with some black people. Is that not true?'
'Well... yes, they were black people.'
'After swimming, naked, in the river.'
'Well, I... I couldn't go in the water with my clothes on.'
'Insolence,' Oriole said. 'I have never heard such insolence.'
'That is not "nothing", Meg,' Tony Hilton said, still speaking quietly. 'This is disgusting. Horrible. For a young lady...'
'A Hilton,' Oriole pointed out.
To go swimming by herself is quite unheard of. For a white girl to go off for the night with black men, why, I doubt we shall ever be able to hold up our heads in Kingston again.'
'Is that important?' Meg demanded. 'You have just told me, she is always telling me, that I am a Hilton. Hiltons do what they like, she tells me. Do we care what other people think or say about us ?'
'There is such a thing as common decency,' Oriole said.
'And to cap it all,' Tony Hilton went on, 'you return here in this mood of insolent defiance. You call your cousin, who has devoted two years of her life to caring for you and attempting to make you into a lady, quite unprintable names, you refuse to give us any help in apprehending these people, or to submit to an examination from your own doctor...'
'Listen to me,' Meg shouted. 'Please listen to me.' Tony Hilton gazed at her. She dared not look at Oriole. 'I ... I was upset,' she said, controlling her breathing with an effort. 'Because... because Oriole sacked Prudence. Did you know that, Papa? Oriole sacked old Prudence.'
'For drunkenness, and lewdness,' Oriole said. 'She was quite disgusting.'
Meg continued to look at her father. Tony Hilton chewed his lip.
'You know she was disgusting, Tony,' Oriole said. 'I have spoken to you about her before. And you placed me in charge of the house.'
'Oriole is quite right, Meg,' Tony Hilton said, although his face had lost some of its grimness. 'She has convinced me that Prudence cannot be regarded as a good influence upon you. It is better that she should go.'
Meg felt panic rising into her chest. He was on Oriole's side. Nothing she could say or do would make any difference now.
But she had to try. She licked her lips. 'I was upset,' she said, surprised at the evenness of her voice. 'So I rode to the north of the plantation.
I had never seen the river before. So I went swimming. I suppose I forgot how late it was. Anyway, when Jack ...' She bit her lip.
'Ah,' Tony Hilton said. 'One of them was called Jack.'
'It doesn't matter,' Meg said.
'It matters a great deal,' Oriole said.
Meg sighed, and kept her temper with an effort. 'Anyway, he asked me back to his village for the night. That was all.'
'Why did he not bring you here?' Oriole demanded.
'Because ... oh, because he had stolen one of the kids. There. That was his crime. He couldn't bring me back.'
'Stole a kid,' Oriole whispered. 'My God. Voodoo.'
'To eat,' Meg shouted. 'They have no meat in the mountains. He wanted to have something to eat.'
'And you went with a man who had stolen one of my animals?' Tony demanded.
'Well ... it was one of mine too, wasn't it?'
'Voodoo,' Oriole whispered again. 'There was a voodoo ceremony.'
"There was ..Once again Meg bit her lip. "There was a dance. They were happy. They are happy. Happy people,' she shouted. 'Is there something wrong in being happy? They were happy. They made me happy.'
"They debauched you, you mean,' Oriole said. 'There was rum on your breath when you came home. There is still rum on your breath.'
'They made me happy,' Meg insisted. 'And so I slept there, and came down this morning. That is all. They stole a goat. Nothing more. And I gave them permission to do that. Don't you see?'
'They had their way with her,' Oriole whispered. 'Don't you understand, Tony? My God, you must know what happens at those voodoo meetings? It is unbridled lust, from beginning to end. And to think of a white girl, alone with those savages. My blood runs quite cold.'
'They did nothing to me,' Meg cried. But oh yes, Cleave had done something to her. Cleave had made her aware of her body in a way she had not suspected would ever be possible. Yet no one could ever know. Not Oriole and not Papa. They thought black people, enjoying themselves, must necessarily be evil. That secret had to go with her to her grave. 'They did nothing. Dr Phillips examined me, and found nothing.'
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