by Alec Waugh
“I can think of several reasons,” he said, “but I’ll suggest this one—that you made an impression on Mavis Norman and she was curious to find out whether she had made one on you.”
“Do you think that’s likely?”
“Can you think of a likelier explanation?”
Euan did not want to think of one. Here perhaps was the recompense for those arid months in Suez? Mavis Norman had not made a vivid impression on him. She had seemed an agreeable, nice-looking girl and that was all. But now, in terms of her newly discovered interest in himself, he saw her with new eyes. He remembered that she had long eyelashes and a firm supple figure, that she walked with a smooth easy grace. He would not find it difficult to fall in love with her, if she showed a disposition to be courted. “I’d better ring up Grainger right away,” he said. “Would I find him at home?”
“Almost certainly.”
5
Grainger Morris lived with his parents in a section of Jamestown that had been fashionable before motor cars had come into general use. Now the rich planters and officials had moved farther out to a neat collection of houses set along a bay on the windward coast, while the bungalows on the lower slope of Trois Frères, the three-peaked mountain that made of Jamestown the stage of an Attic amphitheater, had been taken over by the better-class colored families. The Morrises were one of these. As a family, apart from Grainger they were typical of their day and origin.
The father, as part owner of the Bon Marche and one of the directors of the Carlton Cinema, was a man of a certain substance, but he was shy, retiring, had taken no part in public life, and was not invited to G.H. more than once a year. Grainger had three brothers and two sisters, all except one sister younger than himself. His elder sister who looked likely to remain unmarried was one of the chief nurses at the hospital; his younger sister Muriel was just seventeen, she was pretty and gay and likely to become a problem. The youngest brother was only twelve. Neither of his older brothers looked likely to make anything particular of their lives. They lacked drive.
After the Governor’s party Grainger had gone to the Aquatic Club, but he had only stayed ten minutes. It was gay enough with a number of the younger set splashing in the water and the veranda crowded with chattering groups; the moon was three-quarters full; fireflies were hovering above the crotons; shadowy on the horizon across thirty miles of water was the cone-shaped outline of an island; but the contrast between the atmosphere of Government House and that of the club depressed him. It reminded him of how rigid still was the barrier between black and white.
His family had finished their evening meal when he arrived. “I’ve kept some soup hot for you,” his mother said.
He shook his head. He had taken a good deal of nourishment at the party. He was in no temper to sit at table and make conversation. He wanted to be alone with his own thoughts: to sit on the veranda, looking out over the harbor, his mind abrood. In his study briefs that should be attended to were awaiting him, but he was in no mood for work. He would set his alarm clock for half-past four, and come fresh to them next morning.
He had been home five months now, but he had not realized until tonight to what extent those seven years in England had spoilt him for life here in the island of his birth. He had been as a child brought up to accept the fact of color, as something that separated him from the members of the Country Club, in the same way that in feudal times the son of an English peasant had accepted that the fact of rank divided him from the squire and the doctor. He had accepted the fact, and it had not worried him.
In England, however, where nearly everyone was white, his dark skin had been disregarded. The English with their innate sense of superiority might be accused of classing alike as “dagoes” Italians, Spaniards, Indians, Africans, but he did not believe that he would have had any better time at Oxford if he had been white. Ceylonese, Iraqis, Chinese, Afghans had all been treated there on their deserts. As a rugger and a cricket blue, he had met his contemporaries upon equal terms. He had been a member of Vincent’s. He had been president of the Union. He had met girls from Somerville at cocktail parties. Afterward they had gone on in groups, sometimes in couples, to dine at the Mitre or the George. There had been no awkwardness, no embarrassment. How different it was here.
This afternoon under the aegis of Government House there had been a general amnesty; everyone had talked to everyone; he had spent half his time with Jocelyn Fleury and with Mavis Norman; they had been open, friendly, and forthcoming. But had not they looked a little surprised at the warmth with which young Templeton had welcomed him? Had such an unexpected meeting of old friends taken place at a London cocktail party, the four of them would have teamed up and gone on to dinner. It was very different here, with one group going to the Aquatic, and another to the Country Club; probably next time he met Mavis Norman, though she might wave to him she would not stop to speak. There were two camps. He was in the other.
The breeze was warm upon his cheeks. It was scented with the small white flower of the night. The moon was high above Trois Frères, silvering the palm fronds and the ragged leaves of the banana, the frogs were croaking in the bushes, the lights of the town twinkled round the carenage; the honking taxi horns were faint. How often in chill bleak England, shivering over a stuttering gas fire, had he not felt homesick for those scents and sights and sounds, how often, on a winter evening, had he not wished himself back here upon this veranda; but now that he was here, with all this beauty spread before his eyes, his heart was heavy, he was homesick for England’s freedom. His seven years there had spoilt him for this pigeonholed society; would he ever be able to adapt himself to this, having once known that?
“Telephone, Grainger.”
It was his brother calling from the living room. He hurried to answer it. “Yes, this is Grainger Morris.”
“It’s me, Euan. Listen, are you doing anything tomorrow in the late afternoon?”
“Nothing that matters.”
“That’s fine. Then you can come out swimming with some girls.”
“What girls?”
“Mavis Norman, Jocelyn Fleury and I don’t know who else, that bunch that was up today.”
“Now wait a moment, I must think….”
He must think very fast. Those girls would not want to meet him on such terms. Euan had rushed them into it, or very likely he hadn’t yet consulted them. It was the kind of mistake that visitors to the islands kept on making. They met members of different groups, then they gave a party and mixed up in one room people who for generations had tacitly and friendlily agreed not to meet one another and with whom they did not want to make social contacts that would subsequently embarrass them. He had often heard his father say, “It’s all very well for these tourists; they go away but we have to go on living here.” He must save Euan from that mistake.
“I’m sorry, but a bathing party’s not quite my line. I thought you meant a quiet gossip in the Jamestown Club.”
“We can have a gossip on the beach; you needn’t swim, you can sunbathe if you like.”
Euan was persistent but Grainger remained adamant. Finally Euan yielded. “I’m disappointed. So’ll the girls be, they just rang up to ask me to persuade you.”
“They rang you up? Who rang you up?”
“Mavis Norman. She thought I would have more influence with you than she would. She guessed wrong.”
“But if she rang up …” He checked. It made all the difference if the girls had rung up Euan. Perhaps he had been fancying things; perhaps color had come to matter less here, in the same way that rank was ceasing to count in England. Perhaps it was only the old people who continued the old prejudices. If that were the case it would be churlish of him, it would be ridiculous of him to refuse. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “I can’t promise definitely until tomorrow, but I’ll do my best.”
In a very different mood he returned to his chair on the veranda. Perhaps he had been wrong about Santa Marta. It might not be the same place that
it had before the war. Ideas had changed, and when the younger generation took their parents’ place, the island would become as liberal as England was.
Chapter Three
1
Santa Martans as a rule retire early: they rise at daybreak and it is rare for them to stay up long enough to hear the BBC news at ten. Within a few minutes of rising from the dinner table, Sylvia Fleury went upstairs, leaving Maxwell and Jocelyn with their father.
Julian Fleury was in a reminiscent mood.
“It was curious seeing Euan Templeton today,” he said. “Seeing the two standing there together in the receiving line, I couldn’t help remembering how Jimmy Templeton and his father had received their guests at his coming of age dance. Exactly the same scene thirty-five years later.”
Maxwell smiled, wryly. That’s how you’d have liked it for yourself, he thought; a son of whom you could be proud, of whom everybody would say “like father, like son.” Instead of that you’ve me. It’s too bad, isn’t it?
Maxwell rose to his feet. All this talk of sons and fathers, of Eton and Oxford, and coming-out dances in English country houses. The heritage he had been denied. He’d had enough of it. But he’d show them one day.
“I’ve come to a decision tonight,” he said. “I’m going to stand for the Leg. Co. in the next elections.”
“My dear boy….” The surprise on his father’s face annoyed him, but strengthened his resolve. He’d show them. He’d show them all.
“What made you decide this?”
“Nothing in particular. It’s something I’ve had on my mind for a long time. It’s absurd the way we all sit around saying the island is going to the dogs and making no attempt to influence events in the one place where we can influence them, in our equivalent for Parliament.”
Because he was quoting his hero, his words carried conviction to himself.
“I shall stand as an independent. I shall throw my vote whichever way I choose. That way I shall be of influence and power.”
“You have to get yourself elected first.”
“I’ll manage that.”
He spoke with confidence. He’d be all right. He was a Fleury wasn’t he? But he couldn’t argue it out now.
“I’m tired, father, I’m going up,” he said.
“A whisky first?”
“No thanks. I’ve had enough. It’s been a long day.”
As long a day as he could remember. That tedious discussion of the accounts with a splitting headache, all those rum punches before lunch; coming back to find the smell of that cigarette; his brain racing so that he couldn’t sleep, and then the party. A long, long day. Oh, but he’d show them yet, no doubt of that.
Sylvia sat before her mirror. He stood in the doorway watching her. Was she too reliving the day, incident by incident; was she brooding over that half hour in the morning with a man of whom she had not spoken to her husband?
Her back was turned to him, but in the mirror he could see her smile. What memory had inspired that smile?
“It’s funny to think of all those girls going to sleep tonight dreaming about Euan Templeton,” she said.
“Are you surprised?”
“Indeed not.”
“You thought him attractive?”
“Certainly.”
“Indeed not.” “Certainly.” The dreamy inflection of her voice struck rough on his raw nerves.
“I suppose you envy them,” he said.
“Envy them?”
“Envy them their opportunity. Don’t you wish that you were still one of them, that you could throw your bonnet into the ring and try your chances with the young Adonis?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“That’s not absurd. He’s the most attractive man to come here in a dozen years; the most attractive man you’ve ever met. It’s too bad that you can’t try your luck with him.”
“Now Maxwell …”
She swung round upon her stool. Her face wore a haughty, displeased look, as though she was saying, You’re being childish. It was a familiar look, it never failed to madden him. He caught her by the arms underneath the elbows.
“Don’t look at me like that. There’s no need to pretend where I’m concerned. I read you like a book. I know what you’re thinking about young Templeton: how you’re envying Jocelyn and Mavis and Doris Kellaway. The most attractive man that’s ever landed and he’s outside your reach, because you’re married.”
“Now, Maxwell …”
“No, don’t deny it. Don’t start ‘Now Maxwelling’ me. Of course you feel that way. ‘Indeed not.’ ‘Certainly,’ but you’re mine. He’s not for you. You’re mine.”
He shook her as he said it. Her flesh was soft under the thin dressing jacket. All the frustration, the doubt, the self-pity, the irritation of the day, culminating in his resolution to run for parliament, had reached their peak in a need for self-assertion. In her face was that look of faint revulsion that disconcerted and disarmed him: that made him ashamed of his own appetites. He could not face that look. The mirror was lit by a long narrow bulb; he switched it off. The moon might light the room, but it hid that look from him. He caught her under the knees and round the shoulders, lifted her from the stool, tossed her onto the bed. The mosquito net sagged, but it did not tear; he dragged it away from under her: he pulled off her dressing jacket, caught at her nightgown, ripping it, tossing it across the room.
“Mine, mine, you’re mine. You’re never to forget that, never.”
He gloated in his possession; confident in his strength and mastery. She was his prey and powerless. He let his hands travel over her like a miser letting the golden coins run through his palms. His fingers met behind her head, moved upward through her hair, ruffling it forward. Her arms lay at her sides, her face averted, in profile against the pillow. He did not know whether weariness or resignation, disgust or hate were written there. He did not care.
Whatever his father reading in the study below might think of him, whatever they might say about him in the club, though the inseparables might pity Sylvia, though somewhere in Jamestown the man who had smoked that cigarette might be savoring the memories of a stolen hour; though Sylvia herself might in the daylight shrink away from him, might daunt him with her aloof contempt, whatever he might be elsewhere at other times, here in the dusk he was the master: supreme, unchallenged.
The long strain of the day, the drinks in the club that morning and that night, gave him a strength and a control of that strength that he prolonged with a deliberate relish. She was at his mercy. His hands closed on her shoulders.
“You’re mine, mine, mine.”
He shook her as he whispered it. She moaned, stirred, writhed beneath him; whether in response or revulsion he did not know. He did not care. He was concerned only with his mastery of her white body; with the self-justification that that mastery conferred on him. He had no feeling for her, except in her subjection to him. A perverse impulse flashed on him to confirm that subjection by denying her her woman’s victory when a man, his strength drained out of him, reveals himself in weakness, a Samson shorn before Delilah, the vanquished become the victor, the tyrant become the suppliant. Tonight at least she would be denied that moment. He rose and stood away from her. He took her hand, forced on it a recognition of his dominance.
“You’re mine. You’re never to forget that, never, never.”
2
Across the passage Jocelyn undressed quickly. She had stayed only a few minutes with her father. She wanted to brood in the darkness over the day’s events. So much had happened, so much that was the prelude to so much. Doris had been right. The time of their lives had started. A succession of parties, with Euan’s own niceness making the whole prospect gayer.
She smiled, remembering the silly triangular game that they had played with the Archdeacon. It was the kind of silliness that was amusing. There was something unspoilt about Euan Templeton. It was flattering to her that he had made his approach to her. They had picked up each ot
her’s wave lengths right away, falling into the silly game with an instantaneous accord. Now steady, she warned herself, don’t start fancying things. Don’t start thinking about affinities. Haven’t you got wise to yourself yet, and to this island, and the way things are here. Why can’t you be like Mavis.
She had heard Mavis declaim her point of view so often. “This is a very small island. There are a dozen girls like ourselves, and there is a lamentable dearth of personable men. At the same time we’re not uncherished. Men-of-war put in, there are pleasure cruises, yachtsmen look in on their way elsewhere. Quite a number of people come here, one way and another and with one main intention, to give and to be given a good time, on a short term basis. They get my full co-operation.”
When she’d been asked “Where does all that lead?” she’d had her answer ready. “You don’t get anywhere by looking too far ahead; someone who comes to trifle may find it sufficiently agreeable to make a whole time job of it.”
And Mavis might well be right.
But that was Mavis’ way, not hers. It would be all wrong for her. Herself, she had to go on believing that somewhere she’d find someone who’d prove to her that he’d been worth the waiting for.
3
In the room below, her father’s attention wandered from his detective story. Much was on his mind, too. It had been strange seeing the Templetons standing there together on the lawn backed by that Colonial portico, just as Jimmy and his father had stood on a July evening on the eve of the first World War, in the entrance to that Paladian drawing room under the vast Venetian chandelier, very much as he and his father had stood two years earlier at the dance given for his coming-of-age.