Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  eventually would. So then, she waited ... for Richard's return? She rather dreaded that, and it was still a long way in the future. For Oriole to drop dead ? But Oriole, even as she sailed past fifty, was obviously as healthy as ever before in her life. For her own lassitude to disappear, for the certainty of her own health to come bubbling back through her veins and her mind like that energy she remembered from her youth? Or had her youth been only a dream?

  Only of her hate was she certain. She hated Oriole, and she hated Billy. She would avenge herself on them one day, of that she was absolutely certain, absolutely determined. But she had no idea when.

  Until the day when she was not allowed to leave her room at all, nor were the drapes drawn from across her windows.

  'The mistress saying you got for spend this day in bed,' Madge said, and she had brought Lilian along to reinforce her decree.

  'But I am not ill,' Meg protested. She never did anything more than protest nowadays, where once she would have commanded. 'There is no reason for it.'

  'The mistress got reason,' Madge said. "That man coming. You got for stay in bed until he gone again, and that is a fact.'

  "That man?' Meg asked. 'What man?' 'That nuisance man. That is what the mistress done call he. That Captain McAvoy man.'

  Meg sat up as if jerked by a string. 'McAvoy? Alan McAvoy?'

  'Now, mistress, the mistress say if you making a noise you got for take your medicine.'

  Meg stared at her. Her heart seemed to have doubled in size and was trying to break its way out through her ribs. But it could not be true. 'I won't make a noise,' she promised, lowering her voice. 'Is this man named Alan?'

  'Well, I ain't knowing about that, mistress. Now you got for he down.'

  She held Meg's shoulders, and Meg allowed herself to be pushed flat on the bed.

  'But he's a sailor,' she said. 'You must know that, Madge.'

  'Well,' Madge said. 'He got for be a sailor.'

  Oh, my God, Meg thought. Oh, my God. She closed her eyes, because she could feel the tears start. How to explain it? Alan had been killed in the jungles of Cuba, fighting the Spaniards. No, he had not been killed. The colonel had asked her questions, about his name and his whereabouts. She had assumed that he must have been killed, because she had heard no word. In all the time she had been in prison, in all the months she had spent in the American hospital, she had heard no word. If Alan had been alive, he would have come looking for her, surely.

  But Madge said he was coming looking for her now, and thus she was to be confined here in darkness, unable to communicate with him, until he was gone again. Well, they would see about that. They ... her door opened, and she sat up again violently.

  It was Oriole. 'You may draw the blinds, Madge,' she said. 'And how are you this morning, my dear?'

  Madge drew the curtains. Meg stared at her cousin. 'Where is he?' Oriole frowned at her. 'Where is who?'

  'Alan,' Meg shouted. 'Alan McAvoy.'

  Oriole looked at Madge.

  'Ow me God,' Madge said. 'But she asking why she locked up in here ...'

  'And so you told her, you stupid nigger.' Oriole came closer.

  'Was it Alan?' Meg begged. 'Was it?’ Oriole's face twisted, then she smiled. 'Yes, it was your lover.'

  'But... I had thought him dead.'

  'He is dead, so far as you are concerned.'

  'But tell me what happened. Please, Oriole. Please.'

  Oriole hesitated, then shrugged and sighed. 'It appears he was very badly hurt in that battle you seem to have had with the Spanish authorities. Do you remember anything of that?'

  'Yes,' Meg said. 'Yes. Please go on.'

  'Well, his friends, if you can call them that, apparently took him away to a place of safety ... I am merely recounting what he has told me, you understand; I have no idea of how true it is.'

  'Yes,' Meg said. 'Please go on.'

  ‘Well, after some time they managed to nurse him back to health. And then, he claims, he tried to find you, and was told that the Spaniards had sunk his schooner, and that you had gone down with it. He says he nearly went mad with despair, abandoned Cuba, and sailed away in some American ship. He spent several years trading in the South Seas, would you believe it, hobnobbing with cannibals, and then returned here, just on passage to England, oh, six years ago. And discovered you were still alive. Well, it was during your breakdown, you know. He came rushing out here. But of course Billy and I had him sent off the plantation. I mean, the idea of it, your lover trying to see you in your husband's home.'

  Meg bit her lip. My home, she wanted to say. My home, she wanted to shriek. My home, she wanted to yell, as she tore Oriole's face to shreds. Why, she had not felt like doing that in six years. Her hate had been too deep-seated.

  'And then would you believe it,' Oriole said, 'he wrote you a letter. Quite the most disgusting thing I have ever read.'

  'Oh, please, may I have it ?'

  'Good heavens, no, I burned it. Obscene it was. I thought then we had seen the last of him. But here he is back again. Well, I have convinced him that you have no desire ever to see him again. And of course that it is doubtful you will ever fully recover your senses. For which misfortune he must accept a large measure of responsibility. Oh, indeed, he may come to Kingston as regularly as he likes; I imagine we have seen the last of him at Hilltop.'

  Meg stared at her, her entire brain seeming to have frozen into hate.

  'So now, you had better spend the rest of the day in bed,' Oriole decided. 'You are looking quite pale. You'll keep an eye on Mistress Meg, Madge. And don't hesitate to give her the potion should she begin to be restless.'

  The door closed behind her, and the two black women came to stand by the bed. Meg shut her eyes. She did not wish to look at them, and she did not wish to have the potion inflicted upon her. She wanted to think, as she had never thought before, as she had never had reason to think before.

  First of all, to understand. Alan was alive, and well, and still in love with her. Else why come out here twice?

  But he supposed her mad, and beyond his reach.

  Therefore it was up to her, to find him again, to convince him that she was nothing more than a prisoner. Alan would know how to help her free herself, how to help her regain control of Hilltop.

  But how to reach him? She had no hope of escaping Madge and Lilian at this moment. And they were with her every moment of the day.

  Well, then, at night. But soon Alan would have left, and she did not know when he was coming back to Jamaica, or indeed if he was coming back to Jamaica. But oh yes, he was coming back. Oriole had suggested that. He was coming back. Oriole had suggested that. He was coming back. Well, then, escape when he returned. Except that she might never know when he returned.

  So, then, escape as soon as it was possible, and ... how? The stables were patrolled by watchmen all night, as was the main road leading to Kingston. And even if she tried to go on foot, and evaded the watchmen, it was better than twenty miles. She would be missed and overtaken long before she could gain the town. And supposing she did gain the town ? Who would help her? They all believed her mad. They would be eager to return her to the loving care of her cousin.

  She felt so despairing she wanted to shriek her agony. But she kept her eyes closed, made herself lie still. There was no such thing as an insoluble problem. Not for Margaret Hilton. How many years was it since she had thought that?

  Be rational, she told herself. Escape Hilltop Great House. There was the first priority. That could be done, at night. She was sure of it.

  Escape the plantation itself? That could be done, on foot. But then what? And supposing that was accomplished, somewhere to live until Alan returned. Somewhere safe, where she could never be found.

  In Jamaica?

  The tears were starting to come again, seeping out from under her closed eyes, dribbling down her cheeks. Madge grunted, perhaps in sympathy, and moved away from the bedside. It was close now, and the maid threw open the wind
ows. Faintly filling the room, drifting down from the mountains. Meg heard the beat of the drums.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE MAMALOI

  HOW they filled her head, all night, rhythmic beats of hope. If she dared.

  But did she dare? Throughout the great days, when she had followed her own whims, her own decisions, her own impulses, with a total disregard for anyone else's feelings, she had yet never really contemplated crossing the river and making for the mountains. She had feared the implicit surrender in such an act, and then she surely could have feared no surrender.

  This trembling creature feared everything.

  But there was even more. When last Cleave had seen her, she had been a girl of sixteen. Now she was thirty-five, and perhaps older than that. She remembered the ceremony with a continuing thrill of pleasure, because it was a memory. How could she be sure she would not be disgusted by the eroticism of the dance, by the primitivity of her surroundings ? And what of Cleave himself, when he came to touch her? The last man to touch her, sexually, had been the twelfth sailor on board the Spanish guardacostas; Jaime's rumblings had been no more than fumblings. But the sailor had not been the last thing. That had been the seething rope, the feel of which still had her awake in the small hours, often enough. Could she stand the touch of man's hand? Or would she immediately break into an uncontrollable screaming?

  And what of Cleave? She had been sixteen, he had been older. He would now, perhaps, be forty. He would have

  changed, and not only in appearance. Besides, as he had never come to her at the river, why should she even suppose he still wished her, would be prepared to help her?

  Why should she even suppose he still remembered her? That night in the mountains might have been the most dramatic, the most important of her life. It could have been no more than an episode in his, and it had been nineteen years ago.

  But Cleave, and Jack, had said come back when you know you want to. Come back, they had meant, when you know there is no one else to whom you can turn. And now there was no one else to whom she could turn.

  But there was the dream again. Snap her fingers, and find herself in the mountains. She listened to Lilian snoring, sitting in the chair by the window; she and Madge took turns. But there was little difference between them. Meg rolled over violently, causing the bed to creak, and instantly the nodding head came upright. Escape could be nothing more than a dream while Madge and Lilian shared her room.

  She rolled on her back, gazed at the white gauze mosquito netting with which the bed was surrounded; another innovation of Oriole's, because it had become fashionable - and it certainly afforded protection from the insects which swarmed to the glow of the lamp. She was going to dream no longer. How could she, if she would ever regain her freedom, regain Hilltop, regain Alan? And he was there. He had come out to see her, only a week ago. He still loved her. He would help her.

  So why should she be afraid of a black woman? They did not both sleep in here. They were here one at a time. She was at least as big, and surely as strong. Was she so afraid of violence? They were authorized to use violence to her.

  So then, think, but think carefully and accurately, and above all, honestly. The maid could be dealt with, if she had the strength, at least of mind as well as body. And if it turned out that she did not, well then, what had she lost? She would no doubt be given a sleeping potion and put back to bed. That had happened often enough in the past.

  Then what of afterwards ? Hilltop Great House was never locked. Leaving the house would be simple enough. But the surround and the garden were patrolled all night by a watchman. Only a watchman. How one's sins came home to roost. Oriole did not like dogs, would not have one near the house. Only a watchman.

  More violence ? Against a man ? Or stealth. Or subterfuge. That too could only be tested at the time. But afterwards. They would suppose she had made for town, which would be to her advantage. But there was her weakness for self deception, for dreaming, once again threatening to bring her down. Oriole would know where she had gone. Oriole would know there was only one place she could have gone.

  But would Oriole dare to follow? Would Billy? They would turn out the police, and the police would follow. But by then a good twenty-four hours would have elapsed. By then she would know whether Cleave would help her or not. Once again, failure could only be followed by a sedative, a confirmation of what everyone already knew, that she was mad. There was nothing to lose, there.

  But supposing Oriole followed, right away. How long would she have? Be honest, she shouted at herself in her mind, be realistic. One hour? Surely more. She did not propose to kill her watchdog. So, stunned ... an hour. No more. She could not expect more than an hour. Then they would be behind her, and Washington would track her down. Washington could track anything. Well, then, was there anything which could prevent Washington tracking?

  Rain. Torrential Jamaican rain. There it was. The wet season was only a month away. A month was no time at all, when one has been imprisoned, in various cells, for eight years. A month would merely give her time to build her strength, and plan. She wanted to smile. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to shout for joy. As in the past, the solution to her problem was so simple she was amazed she had not thought of it before. It required only patience. And determination.

  It required her to say, perhaps for the last time, I am Meg Hilton.

  She lay on her back, and listened to the rain. Driven by the wind from the mountains, it struck her jalousies like handfuls of pebbles thrown by a gang of roistering giants. And the wind was high, too; the gusts almost seemed to shake the old house. It was a good night to be in bed.

  But it was the third such in a row. The weather had broken, and the mountain trails would be hardly recognizable. Not even Washington would be able to track up those. Supposing she ever left this warm bed. Supposing she dared.

  Because, having made the decision, this last month had been comparatively easy. She had even smiled at Oriole. She had a secret. And the secret would take her back to where she belonged, and send Oriole back to where she belonged.

  But it was so easy to say 'tomorrow', and lie here, in the warmth and the comfort. Suddenly, when it came to the point, it no longer mattered whether or not she was Margaret Hilton, whether or not she was Mistress of Hilltop. Suddenly it no longer mattered who she was, or what. But what a dangerous thought. No doubt it was how ninety per cent of the people in the world felt. So long as they were fed, and clothed, and housed, they were perfectly willing to exist, moving from one simple pleasure to the next, allowing others to make their decisions for them.

  But they were not Hiltons. It had to be now, now, or it would never be at all.

  She rolled over restlessly, and Madge's head jerked. 'I am so thirsty,' she said.

  Madge signed, and got up, and rescued the pitcher of water from its cooling position in the windowsill, poured a glassful, still sighing, and waddled across the room. Meg had already lifted the mosquito netting, was waiting for her. She drank, greedily; she was thirsty. Her throat was parched with fear of the coming moments.

  'Now you go to sleep,' Madge said. Just as if she were fifteen again, she thought, and Prudence was scolding her. It helped to make her angry, to reinforce the decision.

  'I must go to the toilet.'

  'Eh-eh? But you just drink the water,' Madge commented. But she raised the net higher, and waited. Meg got out of bed; the lamp on her bedside table had burned right down, and there was only the faintest glow of light in the room, but she had rehearsed in her mind so often what she must do that she had no doubt she could have carried out her plan in utter darkness. For Madge now stooped to tuck the mosquito netting under the mattress, to make sure no insects could get into the untended bed.

  Meg sucked air into her lungs, turned down the wick, and in the same instant picked up the lamp and swung it against the back of Madge's head. The Negress gave a gasp and fell forward, hands flapping out to grasp the netting, and with her weight tear it from i
ts wires and bring it down in a cloud of white gauze. She struck the bed, and lay still.

  Meg found herself gasping. Had she meant to hit quite that viciously? She bent over the woman, heart pounding so hard she could hear nothing else for a moment. Then Madge breathed stertorously. But she did not move. And there was no time to be lost. Again it had all been rehearsed, time and time again, in her mind. She dropped her nightgown on the floor, scooped up her pale green day gown from the chair where she had placed it last night. She needed nothing else. She was going to Cleave.

  She opened the door, stood there for a moment. There was no lantern in the gallery, and the house was utterly dark. Nor could she hear a sound above the pounding of the rain on the skylights, and the booming of the wind as it got under the eaves. She closed the door behind her, tiptoed to the stairs, hurried down them. Perhaps they creaked, but if the rain drowned them to her ears, then it drowned them to all other ears.

  At the foot she hesitated again, looking through the gloom towards the portraits, towards herself, hanging there smiling at her. Jeremy Spender had apparently been instructed by Billy to finish the painting, when she had been supposed dead. And it was a fine likeness. Margaret Hilton. The Hilton. It smiled at her, saying to her with those confident lips, 'Come back to me, Meg. Come back to yourself.'

  She pulled the front door open, and a gust of wind got inside and whistled up the stairs. Oh, my God, she thought; that would certainly wake them. She stepped outside, closed the door again, thought she had banged it but could not be sure, flattened herself against the wall while she got her breathing back under control, looked out at the garden and the pasture beyond. All utterly black. There could not be a better night for escaping, supposing she did not lose her way.

  She ran across the verandah, reaching the top of the stairs, and heard feet, squelching in the wet ground. She dropped to her hands and knees, then lay flat on the floor, body pulled in against the verandah rails. But the watchman was not really worrying with anything that might be happening, save the rain. He huddled beneath a waterproof cape, head bowed, as he walked round the house. He was required to do this at least once in every hour. Nothing more. Within seconds he would have found himself some shelter under the verandah.