by Alec Waugh
Maxwell felt himself grow drowsy. What a relief it would be to relax; to throw off his burden, not of guilt, he felt no guilt, but of isolation. To meet human beings again on equal terms; even if he met them as a criminal: to break down this barrier of false pretenses.
One day the burden would become too great. Whittingham was right. He could see himself some day in this office, talking, talking while Whittingham pivoted himself against that lower drawer, listening, nodding his head, interjecting a comment or a question, “So that was how it was,” “Ah yes, of course yes, yes.” And he would talk and talk. Oh the relief of it. One day he would break free from this prison of his isolation. One day but not now, not yet. The burden was still supportable.
He stood up.
“I mustn’t waste your time. Besides, I’ve things to do. I want to get back to Belfontaine before it’s dark.”
“How are things out there?”
“Like a long bank holiday. They sleep all day and dance in the hills all night.”
“No signs of disorder?”
“There won’t be till their funds run low.”
“If I could be sure of that I’d find my job much easier.”
They laughed together. Maxwell turned toward the door. As his hand stretched toward the handle, Whittingham called out.
“By the way, what was the answer to that point that I’d forgotten in Crime and Punishment”
“What point?”
“Whether the man who called out ‘murderer’ had been planted there by the police.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t notice?”
“No, I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Forgot. Now that surprises me.”
“Why?”
“I should have thought that even if I hadn’t asked, it’s a point you’d have wanted to clear up.”
“Why should you have thought that?”
“Because you are so interested in the way detectives work.”
“Isn’t everyone interested in that?”
“Not in the way that you are.”
“Oh, I see.”
Maxwell hesitated. He would have liked to have questioned the policeman further, but he did not dare. It was too big a risk. That was how Raskolnikov had given himself away, talking too much, asking too many questions, not leaving well alone.
“I probably didn’t notice because the point probably never was cleared up,” he said. “Didn’t you say that was a possibility, that Dostoevski introduced mystical symbolic characters? I wouldn’t know. It’s the first book of his I’ve read. You did say that didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. I’ll have to read the book again myself.”
Maxwell closed the door behind him. He was trembling. One day he would come here, as he had his afternoon: on some excuse or other, to return a book or discuss the security of his estate. But he would not leave this way. There’d be an escort, either Whittingham himself or a constable. In handcuffs? No, most likely not, since the confession had been given of his own accord. He would enter a free man and step out a prisoner. In the world’s view that was to say. But in fact, in deeper fact he would step in a prisoner, and depart in freedom, his burden shed. The relief of that, the peace, the utter peace.
It was half-past two. He had said he had things to do, but he had not really. Only a few parcels to collect. He had half planned to go to the Country Club, but that would involve a three hour wait. He had nothing to do, there was no one he wanted to see: he collected the parcels and drove back to his father’s house.
Jocelyn was reading in the drawing room.
“Is Sylvia down yet?” he asked.
“No.”
He went upstairs. The door was held open by a wooden wedge. He tiptoed into the room. He was wearing crepe soled shoes. Sylvia was asleep, breathing quietly, her face turned toward him, he saw it veiled by the mosquito net. She looked very lovely and he yearned to join her, but he held back the impulse: Good-bys were best avoided. He looked at her, and his heart was heavy. Twenty minutes back, trembling in the passage outside Whittingham’s office, he had longed for the day when he could step out of his encasing prison. Now, looking at his wife asleep, he recognized that never, never could he inflict that shame on her; he must spare her that: their child must not bear that stigma. Never, never could he draw the arrow from his side: even though the wound was festering. He must leave his child a name that could be honored. Sylvia, lying there asleep, looked so defenseless. Her life was his to mar. He must remember this, imprint this picture on his memory, to protect her when temptation came. He must carry his burden till he died.
He turned away, noiselessly trod downstairs. Through the open doorway of the hall he could see Jocelyn, her book upon her lap, looking toward the hills. He walked toward her.
“I didn’t disturb Sylvia,” he began, but she had started, her hand raised to her throat.
“Oh how you startled me. I didn’t hear you. I was daydreaming.”
Of whom? Of what? Of the happy future that stretched ahead of her with Euan Templeton. There were no clouds on her horizon.
“I’m sorry. I was so anxious not to disturb Sylvia that I can’t stop tiptoeing. Will you tell her that I decided to go back to Belfontaine right away. I wanted to see whether the house-boy had fed the pigs or not. I wouldn’t trust him not to eat the food himself. I’ll ring through to her tonight. Will you tell her that?”
“I’ll tell her.”
Jocelyn picked up her book and began to read again. He hesitated. This “last-time” sensation that had haunted him all day made him wish to say something pertinent to his sister, as he had to his father and to his mother. But no words came. They had always been strangers to each other. He shrugged, remembering how he had stood in the hall on that February afternoon, thinking what good friends they ought to have been to one another. That February afternoon. Everything had started then. Yet when that day had dawned he had expected it to be like any other day. He had heard no warning: had felt no dread, no anticipation. He had woken up with a slight hangover, and a reluctance to go over the estate accounts with his father under such a handicap. Coffee. That had been his chief concern. Coffee, hot and strong, and a great deal of it. How little he had guessed when he came down the staircase of all that he was on his way to meet.
It would be good to get back to Belfontaine, to think the whole thing over, plan it out: throw up his defenses. For Whittingham knew: of that he had now no doubt whatsoever. Whittingham knew.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
1
Maxwell reached Belfontaine soon after five. He had told the maids that they need not prepare dinner: they could lay out a cold buffet meal. But one of them must stay in the house, on that point he had insisted. One of them had. A strange bicycle was leaning against the woodshed. A boy friend had been invited.
He went into his bedroom to change his clothes. There was a faint smell of gardenias in the room. Sylvia’s scent. How long would it stay upon the air? How long would he be able to detect it. If he had not had such a strong sense of smell, he would never have noticed the smoke of that Egyptian cigarette and none of this would have ever happened. On what trivial things one’s fate depended.
Sylvia’s brushes and combs, her powders and face lotions and her scent were spread along the dressing table. She kept a duplicate set in town. He picked up her comb and held it against his cheek. With that scent against his nostrils, he could fancy that she still was here. The bed was reflected in the mirror. This time yesterday he had been lying beside her, waiting for her to wake. It had been one of the loveliest moments of his life. He should be grateful to fate that he had known that moment. He could not have lived a day more fully than he had yesterday. Perhaps if he had not caught the whiff of that cigarette, yesterday would have been less perfect. Payments canceled out. That’s how he should think of it, he thought. Yesterday was the counter cheque.
Yesterday was the reward. As dusk fell he sat
on the veranda, with rum and water by his side, living over that last day, hour by hour, minute by minute, detail by detail: remembering what he and Sylvia had done, remembering how Sylvia had looked, what she had said, remembering tones that came into her voice. Five months ago he had never heard those tones. He had only half known Sylvia; not that; not quarter known: and he himself had been half alive. Suppose that he had died six months ago before he had heard those tones, seen her eyes widen and grown tender. “Every day is like a honeymoon now.” Had she really said that, said that “to him, with that new depth, new warmth for him in her voice. Did not that pay for everything?
The moon waxing to its full had lifted between the division of the hills. Fireflies were flickering above the crotons. Bullfrogs were croaking in the ditches. The palm fronds rustled in the breeze. No sound came from the village. They were still tired after their long night’s dancing: they were resting before the night of dancing that lay ahead. It was very peaceful: as peaceful as it had been last night when Sylvia was at his side. Tonight she was sixty miles away, but the telephone was in the hall. He had promised to call her up. It was early yet. She’d be at the club; she wouldn’t be back till eight. He refilled his glass from the decanter. He sipped it slowly, then took a glass of water as a chaser.
It was good to sit by oneself, brooding over happy things while the rum ran warmly through one’s veins. To drink alone. Whittingham had said something about secret drinking. But that was different. Secret drinking was stealing off to the bottle in the bathroom, slipping away six drinks to everybody else’s one. To drink quietly by oneself, reflectively, that was another matter. It was something he had rarely done. He had hardly ever been alone. First he had been living with his parents, then he had married. This must be the first night he had spent away from Sylvia. Had there ever been another time when he had sat alone like this in an empty house, with a glass beside him. He thought back. He tried to remember one. He could not. He probably never had, and now he had a week, two weeks perhaps of evenings such as this. It would be good, very good sitting here, evening after evening while the moon ripened to its full, his mind abrood over that long day and night of honeymoon.
In the room behind him a table had been laid. But he was in no mood for sitting at a table by himself: he would make himself a sandwich, cut himself a slice of cheese and sit here, nibbling and sipping, waiting till it was time to telephone, remembering minute by minute what he had been doing, what he had been saying twenty-four hours back.
He went into the dining room to fix his sandwich. There were hardboiled eggs, cold chicken and piccalilli. He was slicing the chicken when the telephone bell rang, three times. It was Sylvia.
“Darling, I was starting to get anxious.”
There was a genuine ring of anxiety in her voice.
“I thought you’d be at the club.”
“If I had gone, I’d be back by now.”
“Already?”
“What do you think the time is.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Heavens, I’d no idea it was as late as that.”
It was after twenty to nine. “I was so happy sitting there on the veranda, time raced away.”
“Happy with me away.”
“Happy thinking about you, reliving yesterday.”
“Ah, sweet.”
“It was lovely, wasn’t it.”
“It was a dream.”
“We’ll keep it that way, won’t we?”
“Of course.”
“I’m missing you.”
“Me, too.”
“Don’t stop.”
“I won’t. Have you had dinner yet? How was it?”
“I’m fixing myself a sandwich now.”
“A sandwich. Why on earth?”
“So that I can watch the moonlight.”
“I see.”
“It’s more romantic in the mood I’m in.”
“And what about the pigs?”
“They weren’t starved either.”
“Then everything’s all right.”
“Yes, everything’s all right.”
“Nothing for me to worry over?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
“And you’ll call every evening.”
“What do you think.”
“Good-night then darling.”
He took his sandwich out onto the veranda. He sipped at the smooth, full-bodied rum and munched his sandwich, and the waxing moon sank toward the sea, turning the green of the cane fields to a silver blue, and at last from the foothills at his back came the beat of congo drums. Yes, Sylvia was better off down there in Jamestown. It was time for bed, he told himself. The pillow next to his was scented with gardenia. He held it in his arms, close, close against his cheek.
2
Maxwell woke with his mouth dry and his head throbbing, as he had done four months ago on the morning of the Governor’s party. It was not a hangover, but he felt irritable. He walked onto the veranda and looked at the decanter. It had been three-quarters full when he had brought it out. Less than a third there now. Not much too much, but still too much. He must watch himself in future. It was easy to drink too much when you were by yourself. He must put the decanter away in future when he went in to dinner, and not touch it afterward. And he must eat a proper dinner tonight. It was easy to get into sloppy habits when you were by yourself. The servants got into sloppy habits too. A full three course meal tonight.
He went under the shower and felt better. He looked at the razor brush below his mirror. There was no need to shave and his hand might be unsteady. It was a temptation but he resisted it. Missing a morning’s shave was the thin end of the wedge.
“Breakfast in ten minutes,” he called over the stairs and went back into the bathroom. His hand proved to be unsteady and he cut himself three times.
The maid who brought his breakfast looked illkempt, but he could not tell in what way exactly. They’d tend to get out of hand with Sylvia away. He’d have to watch them.
“I shall be in for lunch and dinner,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
She stood waiting for orders. This was something he had forgotten. He would have to order two meals a day for an indefinite period. He had never kept house before.
“A curry lunch,” he said.
“What kind curry, sir?”
“Lobster.”
“No lobster, sir, sea too rough, no men go fish.”
“Chicken then, and what for dinner.”
“What for dinner, sir?”
“Soup.”
“What kind soup, sir?”
“Vegetable soup.”
“What kind vegetable, sir?”
He felt his temper rising. Couldn’t she think of anything for herself. Did Sylvia have to go through this every morning. But then Sylvia had nothing else to do.
“Potato soup,” he said, “and after that, well, some kind of meat.”
“What kind meat, sir?”
Her face wore an expression of vacuous amiability that was on a morning such as this infuriating. He could understand how in the old plantation days, a slave owner had strung up his property to a tree and watched it thrashed: anything to see that silly ignorant expression change, even if he damaged his own property.
“Go to the market, buy any meat there is and stew it. And after that some fruit, any fruit.”
“Yes, sir.”
She glided away on her hard-soled wide-toed feet. She had prepared him a dish of scrambled eggs, to follow a slice of pawpaw. The fruit was soft and soggy. He pushed it away. He had no appetite for eggs. Coffee. That was what he needed, coffee hot, strong, and black. It was hot all right, so hot that it burnt his mouth, but it was neither black nor strong. A week of this will drive me mad, he thought.
He looked at the clock. Five minutes to eight. Four hours and thirty-five minutes to lunch. And then when lunch was finished, six hours to dinner. Ten hours and thirty-five minutes. What on earth could he find to do?<
br />
He sought his manager, whom he had not seen on the previous evening.
“What news?” he asked.
But he knew the answer to that question before he set it. There was no news, how could there be. Nothing had happened. Nothing could happen for several days. Coconuts were rotting on the ground, but on the whole the loss to the estate even if the strike continued for several days would not be very great. They had managed to ship all the copra that they had stored. The cane was cut. The cocoa was not ready yet for picking. The men during this month would normally have been employed on routine maintenance. That work could wait. From the planters’ point of view, Boyeur could not have made his attack at a better time.
Normally after his morning interview with his manager, Maxwell would have ridden round the estate supervising the work in progress. There was no work in progress. There was nothing to supervise. The stables, the pigsties, and the chicken run lay within a few yards of the house.
“I’ll go and see how things are at Mr. Preston’s,” he told his manager.
Preston too, as he had imagined, had nothing to report. There was no work to supervise. There was no point in riding round idle coconut groves. Nothing was happening in the village. Nothing would happen till strike pay was reduced. Then anything might happen.
“Have you any idea when the strike pay will be cut down?” Maxwell asked.
“Your bet is as good as mine. But Master Boyeur is impatient. He likes to have things happen fast. Inaction gets upon his nerves. He has to attack himself, he does not lure the enemy to attack him. I think he’ll cut down the strike pay before he actually needs, to get things moving. When’s the next Leg. Co. meeting?”
“Wednesday week.”