by Alec Waugh
He was on the brink of hysteria. Bradshaw’s article exacerbated the humiliation of the previous night. Jocelyn was ashamed of herself for taking a sadistic pleasure in the foreknowledge of the shock that the truth would be to him, but she could not resist it. What was he making all this fuss about; why should he get all this sympathy? Her parents exchanged a glance; she read the meaning in her father’s nod. Her mother rose, put her hand on Maxwell’s arm.
“Darling, it’s true,” she said.
Jocelyn noted with satisfaction the expression of incredulous dismay that wiped the indignation from her brother’s face. Poor little boy, indeed.
3
The discussion dragged on and on. Jocelyn had missed her siesta and her eyes were aching.
Maxwell turned to his sister.
“How will this affect your engagement?”
“It’s the end of that, of course.”
“Now wait …” It was her mother once again who intervened, but once again she checked. What was on her mind, Jocelyn asked herself? She seemed to be keeping something back. Her brother did not notice the interruption. He was too absorbed in his own predicament. In a way that Jocelyn could not guess the revelation of his heritage was catastrophic.
It was the end of the dream picture he had cherished of a return to England under Templeton’s protection. He had seen himself reestablished under the patronage of his English cousins. He had seen his sons as the nephews of a peer carving for themselves careers that had been denied their father: he would be justified by his children. That dream was over now and the memory of his humiliation before the villagers returned to him with heightened violence. How could he face his friends in the light of this fresh exposure? How they would be chuckling at the club tonight. How would they treat him? Would they cold-shoulder him? Membership of the tennis club was restricted to white residents.
“Are you going to resign from the club?” he asked his father.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It might make it easier in the long run if you did. It throws the responsibility on them. They can’t say ‘Unfortunately the Fleurys do belong. If we’d known about them in time we wouldn’t have elected them.’ “
He could hear himself talking. He was being silly, but he could not stop. He was easing his own disquiet by magnifying his trouble. He enjoyed masochistically making out his position to be worse than it was.
Jocelyn watched him in silence, in contempt. No wonder Sylvia despised him. What a fool he was making of himself. What did it matter to him, whose life was rooted here, whether he had a twentieth, an eighth or a quarter of colored blood. He was not seeing, as she was, a whole life in ruins. He was thinking only of himself, of his minor malady.
“Did you hear about the scene last night at my meeting?” he was asking.
“No, I didn’t.”
“They wouldn’t let me speak. They howled me down. It was a put-up thing. They had a steel band. Whenever I was reaching a key argument they began to play; they drowned my words. I couldn’t go on. I had to stop. It was a put-up show, organized by Boyeur. He was there himself. He gave himself away, at the very end.”
What on earth was all this about, thought Jocelyn? He was crazy, hysterical. What had all this to do with her engagement, or a newspaper article announcing that their father had colored blood? There were times when Maxwell was barely sane.
“It was an insult to me. It was an insult to Belfontaine. It was an insult to the family. It has to be avenged. We have to prove to these upstarts that we can’t be pushed around. There’s only one thing to do, convince H.E. that the decent elements in the island won’t stand for this. I’ll tell you how you can prove it, by refusing to sit on the Council with a man like Boyeur. You must refuse to be a nominated member.”
“Now, my dear boy, do listen to me quietly for one moment….”
Patiently, slowly, stage by stage, Julian Fleury explained to his son the impossibility of his suggestion.
“At the start of any misfortune one thinks that the end of the world has come. But it’s only one step in a long journey. You know how it is at golf. You slice an approach into a bunker. You’ll be unlikely to get on to the green with your next shot. You won’t get your four but you’ve still a chance of a five if you lay your chip dead: anyhow, with any care, you should be certain of your six. You have two shots to make up during the rest of the round. That’s all there is to it. The important thing is not to lose your head when you see the ball lying in the bunker. That’s what we must do now: keep our heads. You and Jocelyn, your mother and myself. It’s an unlucky business, but it’s not as bad as you or Jocelyn think it is. The great thing is to do nothing hasty: behave as though nothing extraordinary had happened. If we behave as though a calamity had befallen us, people will say ‘Look at the Fleurys. They don’t dare hold up their heads in public.’ People are always glad of an opportunity to say malicious things behind your back, but if you behave normally, if you show that you do not care, that you are not concerned, they say ‘What was it all about after all?’
“I should for instance advise you to go to the club this evening. Behave quite naturally. Don’t avoid people. At the same time don’t be ostentatious. Don’t start standing drinks to everyone. Don’t refer to the article unless someone else does and you can be very sure they won’t.”
How very wise he is, Jocelyn thought. She felt guilty, ashamed, remembering how she had turned against him. This must be bad for him. But he was not thinking of himself. Only of his family, her mother, Maxwell, and herself. He must have a sense of guilt about it all, blaming himself, though actually he was not to blame. In one way he was the one to be most pitied.
“I shan’t go to the club myself,” he said. “It shouldn’t be made to look as though the clan were mustering in force. I’d suggest that Jocelyn waited till tomorrow. Then I’ll go up with her: we don’t want to seem to making an occasion of it. Behave as though nothing had happened. That’s the line.”
Maxwell nodded. His father was quite right. He must face the music. He’d control himself. His blood was hot and his mind seething. He longed to be avenged on someone or on something: to get his own back somehow. But he must hold himself in check.
Through the window he saw a plane circling above the town. It was the plane from B.G. that was bringing back the Governor and his son. Maxwell said exactly what Jocelyn had. “He’s got a nice surprise waiting him.”
4
Denis Archer was thinking the same thing as he stood beside the runway. How would the old boy take it?
The plane circled, settled, taxied up the airstrip. The ground staff hurried forward with the steps. The passengers started to file out, not in order of protocol, but as they had chosen to seat themselves. There was a dapper colored man in a neat summer weight suit; an untidy man with a rumpled collar, his jacket over his arm, a tourist probably, looking hot and grubby; a couple of shapeless negresses, with trailing skirts and bright scarves round their shoulders, carrying wicker baskets piled with fruit. How could they afford a passage? Then framed in the doorway Archer saw the Governor, a panama hat bound with an I.Z. ribbon set at an angle over his left eye. He looked very spruce and laundered as he came down the steps. Euan was behind him: as they came onto the asphalt, Euan caught up with his father and they walked side by side; not talking, not exactly smiling, but with the air of finding life enjoyable. It was not a smug look: it was one of wholesome healthy enjoyment of the things life offered. For Archer the moment had a deep content of dramatic irony. Would they look back to it with a “last time” feeling. It might well be that never again at Santa Marta would they know that feeling. A pang of pity for them ran along his nerves. I must like them more than I thought, he told himself. It was unusually hard to resist taking a malicious pleasure in the misfortunes of one’s acquaintances: particularly if they were persons in high office.
“Any news?” the Governor was inquiring. Archer shook his head. He could not tell him, not at least direct
ly.
“There’s been a mail in since you left. It’s sorted out,” he said.
“Fine, fine. Then probably I’ve more to tell you than you have to tell me. In the first place …”
As the car drove them to G.H. the Governor outlined the salient features of the B.G. conference.
“They are all very curious about our elections,” he concluded. “They regard us as a guinea pig. They’re waiting to see how things happen here before they make their own decisions with regard to Caribbean Federation. It’s odd to think that a small island like this can set a lead. It gives one a pleasant sense of responsibility and importance. One feels that one’s the spearhead.”
It was nearly four when they reached G.H. H.E. looked at the pile of letters on his desk and hesitated. “Aren’t I seeing Carson sometime today?”
“Yes, sir. At five.”
“Then I’ll leave those till afterward. I’ll take a rest. I missed my siesta. What about you Euan?”
“I’ll take one too.”
“Fine, then I’ll see you later.”
Archer touched Euan’s elbow. He owed it to his own generation to put Euan on his guard. “Can you spare me a couple of minutes.”
“Certainly.”
He took Euan into his office.
“You’d better read that,” and handed him Bradshaw’s article.
He watched Euan closely as he read it. Would it be a great shock to him? How would he take it? How far had he absorbed the local prejudice about color? At G.H. there were no distinctions drawn. Euan had seen a good deal of Grainger. Unless Grainger had talked to him on the subject—and the probability was that he had not—Euan might very well be unaware of the extent and nature of the problem. Euan had spent eighteen months in the Middle East, an experience that must have countered his insularity. He would not think of an Arab as being inferior to a European. He would see no reason why an Englishman should not marry an Egyptian, a Turk, a Syrian, a Lebanese. Why should there be any complication about the grand-daughter of a quarter African?
Whatever Euan might be thinking, his face remained impassive.
“Thank you for showing it to me,” he said. “I’ll call Jocelyn right away.”
It was Maxwell who answered him, however.
“Jocelyn’s gone out,” he said.
“Do you know where?”
“She didn’t say.”
“When do you expect her back?”
“I’ve no idea. She won’t be at the club this evening; that’s all I know.”
Euan hesitated. It might be difficult to ring her later. Telephones were difficult in this kind of thing. There might be a misunderstanding. He wanted to see, to talk to her. Better to leave a message, to make a date, after he had discussed it with his father.
“Tell her not to worry. Tell her it’s all right,” he said. “Tell her that I’ll call for her tomorrow and we’ll go and swim.”
Chapter Fourteen
1
The Governor had asked Carson to come up so that he could discuss the scene with Dr. Leisching. He had kept in touch through Whittingham with the development of the case. The committee was trying to stall, was hoping that by delay a decision would be first postponed and then avoided, but they had counted without Teutonic thoroughness. The doctor was resolved to have his pound of flesh. Sooner or later there would have to be a general meeting and the Governor suspected that the publication of Bradshaw’s article would hasten action. It was no good any longer trying to pretend that nothing had happened.
As he waited for Carson in his study, the Governor wondered what Bradshaw had said in his latest article. While he was in B.G. he had seen a copy of that first issue of The Voice, and had noticed that the editor had cut out the remark about Euan and Mavis Norman. He was glad of that, he was grateful for that. But he wished he had been in Santa Marta when the article appeared. He would have liked to have read the next two articles in proof. It might have been as well to make some further cuts; he could have brought pressure to bear upon the editor. There were ways of doing things. It was lucky that he had made this appointment with Carson before he left.
He went as always straight to the point.
“I asked you up here, as you’ve probably guessed, for a special reason. It’s about that quarrel you had in the club with Dr. Leisching. I’ve heard about it as, naturally, I hear about nearly everything on a small island such as this. But unofficially I’d like to hear how you feel about it.”
Carson grinned.
“I made a fool of myself, sir. That’s all there is to it.”
“Have you taken any action?”
“No, sir, none.”
“You’ve been to the club since the incident?”
“Naturally. I don’t mind standing at a bar alone.”
“I suppose you’ve read this article by Carl Bradshaw.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It will bring things to a head. Everyone in the island knows about it. It’ll strengthen Leisching’s hand. He’ll consider himself entitled to redress.”
“I’d thought of that, sir.”
“What do you imagine will happen then?”
“They’ll ask me to resign.”
“That’s what I had thought.”
Templeton looked thoughtfully at Carson. He put himself in Carson’s place. Carson in one way would rather enjoy being expelled from the Santa Marta Country Club. It would make a good story. He could tell it to tourists in the St. James’ bar. “A very exclusive club,” he’d say. “They’ll blackball anyone who they think might be unkind to Germans. They’ve taken that song of Noel Coward’s seriously.” Carson had no real friends in the island. He’d probably have more fun in a hotel. Templeton had to find an argument that would appeal to Carson.
“It would be an embarrassment for me,” he said, “if you ceased to be a member of the club.”
“For you, sir?”
It was said in something that was very near a gasp: Templeton had attacked on the right line.
“When I came here, as a stranger, both to this island and to the West Indian way of life,” he said, “I looked round me for the kind of men I could rely upon, men who came from the same world, who understood the things I stood for, to whom I could talk in shorthand. In many ways I was very lucky. There was the Fleury family. Our families grew up side by side. Julian Fleury and his wife gave me many invaluable sidelights on the island’s way of seeing things. I had another piece of good luck. I found you here.”
“Me, sir?”
“Exactly. You. You are a regular officer. We don’t need to explain ourselves to each other. When I learnt about you, and later when I met you, I recognized in you one of the potentially solid elements of the community. I knew what I had to build up here, a sense of solidarity, the team spirit. So that each person in the island would feel himself one of the many working toward a common goal, the island’s good. I saw at once that there had to be for a time distinctions of color. You can’t merge the Aquatic Club and the Country Club; but G.H. can act as a catalyst. They can all meet each other here, as sergeants meet officers at a regimental dance or cricket match.
“I was more happy than I can say to know that there was someone here who had been trained in the same tradition as I had, who had been taught to realize that all men were not equal, that there were differences of class and birth and rank and race. The man is a fool who says there aren’t. At the same time those differences don’t affect the unity of a unit. When I’ve said that, I hope you’ll understand me when I say that nothing could make me unhappier than the news that you had left the club.”
He paused. He had watched Carson carefully as he had talked. I’ve got him, he thought. I mustn’t let him slip. He followed quickly on.
“I have been thinking of what would happen if you left the club. You would make your base at the St. James. You are a man who enjoys company. You would go there every evening. Because you were there, others would start going there. It would split the commu
nity. You have English friends who will be calling here as tourists. It would seem strange to them if you could not take them to the club. What impression would they form? Would they consider that you were to blame; of course they wouldn’t. They know you, they like you and they trust you. They would think that there is something wrong with the island. The club is the center of the life of a British colony. ‘Santa Marta is a funny place,’ they’d say, ‘if a man like Hilary Carson can’t join the club.’
“It’s bad for an island to get the reputation of being odd. These small communities are very touchy. It doesn’t do for them to get chips on their shoulders. During my service I’ve had a good many opportunities of seeing how British Colonies work. I remember an occasion in Africa when the Chief Justice and the Administrator were not on speaking terms. It split the community in half. What I’m saying, my dear fellow, is that I regard you as one of the most influential figures in the island. This is a very small place, very cut off from the big world. What might seem trivial in Jamaica is important here. I repeat, in my opinion it would be a calamity for Santa Marta if you found yourself forced to resign from the Country Club.”
He paused again. He had watched Carson as he had talked. He was used to handling men of Carson’s type. He knew which strings to play on. He had touched his vanity, he had also played upon his sense of loyalty, of duty, of responsibility, upon Carson’s strongest instincts as a soldier. He waited for Carson to reply, for the kind of reply that as a colonel he would have looked for from one of his company commanders.
He got the kind of answer he had expected.
“What are you suggesting that I should do, sir?” Carson asked.
“I’m suggesting that you should do something that you will find very difficult, that you should go up to Leisching in the club when there are a number of others there, that you should apologize, and offer to shake hands. If I know him, he won’t be able to refuse. Germans regard appearances and form. They’re as keen as the Japanese are upon saving face. If you can bring yourself to do that, the incident will be closed. Do you think you can? You’d be doing a big thing for Santa Marta. You’d be making my job here a great deal easier.”