The Sugar Planter's Daughter Read online

  I still cooked the products myself, though, and jarred them. I prided myself on a secret ingredient that added just that subtle touch of deliciousness. People were asking for more and more of them. They were still calling them the White Lady jelly, or pickle, or sauce, and I decided I had to give my products a name. White Lady would not do. So once again George and I found ourselves agonising over a name.

  ‘Winnie’s – something,’ I said. I mean, I could call them Winnie’s Guava Jelly and Winnie’s Pepper Sauce and so on – but I prefer a name that would cover them all.’

  ‘What about Winnie’s Wonder?’ said George.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Not really.’

  And then it hit me. ‘Quintessentials!’ I cried. That’s exactly it!’

  ‘I prefer Winnie’s Wonder,’ said George, ‘but Quintessentials will do.’

  ‘I’ll get labels made, and Quintessentials will be in everyone’s kitchen!’

  But then all production stopped. Because my baby, my first child, decided to make a somewhat early appearance, at two on a Sunday morning.

  My waters broke. I screamed at George: ‘Go, George, fetch Dr van Sertima!’

  ‘But he said to bring you to his clinic when the time comes!’

  ‘Well, the time has come, and I’m not going anywhere!’

  George’s eyes opened wide in panic. ‘What – what shall we do?’

  ‘Call Ma!’

  But Ma had heard the commotion through the open ceiling and was already at the door issuing instructions.

  ‘Go to Deirdre Barrow house on Lime Street,’ she commanded George, ‘and tell she to come at once.’

  She turned to me. ‘Deirdre Barrow is a midwife – best midwife in Albouystown. In the whole of Georgetown. Everything goin’ to be all right. Don’t worry. Calm down. Breathe easy.’

  George returned with Deirdre Barrow. Ma ordered him to put on a pot of water to boil. I could feel the baby pressing down, pushing its way into the world. An hour went by, two, with Ma and Deirdre ministering to me. Finally I let out a long cry of agony, and then it was there, sliding out on to the bed.

  ‘A boy!’ cried Ma.

  ‘Give him to me! Let me hold him!’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Ma and Deirdre exchanged a look. I saw something in that look that I didn’t want to see. Why weren’t they laughing with joy? What did the frown on Mama’s forehead mean? I sat up in bed and reached out for my baby.

  ‘What’s the matter? Give him to me! Give him to me now.’

  Deirdre smiled comfortingly. ‘Leh’ me wrap him up in a cloth first.’ She was doing something to my baby, and my panic only grew.

  ‘What are you doing? Give him to me! What’s wrong? Ma, what’s wrong with my baby? Give him to me, now! Ma! What’s wrong? Is he all right?’

  15

  George

  Winnie is so unlike her sister. I was not happy during our visit to Promised Land plantation. At first Yoyo ignored me completely, and then she started to stare at me. At first I thought it was just my imagination, but after a while I couldn’t help but notice it. Her eyes seemed always settled on me. And not in a friendly way. In a calculating way. Once, during dinner, she smiled – it was during the conversation on music, which I was trying hard, but unsuccessfully, to follow. Winnie and her mother know a different kind of music to mine – my little banjo and the simple folk songs I sing can hardly compare with the great music of Europe – and so I perked my ears hoping to educate myself, and that was the first time our eyes met.

  She gave me that smile so full of disdain. She has always disdained me. The very first time we met – I remember so well, since it was the day I met Winnie – it was Yoyo who told me to go to the back door to deliver my letter. It wasn’t so much her words but her voice – all high and mighty.

  We met again, later, at the post office and she seemed less haughty, perhaps because I demonstrated the sending of telegrams, which seemed to fascinate her.

  But the moment she learned that her sister wanted to marry me she turned to ice. I could not be colder at the North Pole than in Yoyo’s company. It was as if I did not even exist. I would have preferred downright hostility to such frigidity. And now, suddenly, this change.

  While we listened to the musicians after dinner Yoyo fixed her gaze on me and left it there. As we were sitting on opposite sides of the piano, it might have appeared that she was watching her mother, but I knew better. Those eyes rested on me, and it made me squirm. I tried not to look back at her – I kept my own gaze on my mother-in-law – but how could I not see past to that stony face with its rigid gaze? What was going on behind that unmoving countenance? What was that clever brain thinking? What did she have in mind? Right then and there I decided to avoid Yoyo in future, and for the rest of that trip I did. It was with great relief that Winnie and I got into the car the next day for our return to Georgetown.

  * * *

  But the unpleasantness with Yoyo could not in any way cloud my joy at the prospect of becoming a father. I could almost leap for joy! My love for Winnie increased a hundredfold. I wanted to wrap my arms round her and protect her from every little mishap. When she was ill I rushed to fetch the basin and hold it for her. When she had been on her feet too long I encouraged her to lie down. When she frowned, I worried.

  She stopped going on her rounds, collecting fruit and peppers, and I was thankful for that – but could she not stop cooking, as well, and just rest? No. My Winnie continued to make her guava jelly and pepper sauce, and would not take a rest.

  ‘I’m not a delicate flower!’ she laughed, pouring the steaming sauce into a jar.

  ‘I know – but be careful! Don’t burn yourself! Let me help you!’

  But she would not let me. She shooed me out of the kitchen, telling me that I was making a nuisance of myself, and maybe I was. But I felt so helpless! Nature is unkind to fathers – there is nothing we can contribute while the woman is gestating; we can only watch and worry, and wonder and worship. It seemed such a miracle, such an impossibility! A small human being, growing in my wife’s body! Yes, it happens a million times each day, all over the world, since the beginning of human history; and yet each time it is still a miracle, and I lived in a daze of wonder and amazement that this miracle should be happening to us. I felt so grateful, so privileged. I thanked God every day, and prayed for a safe delivery and a healthy child.

  I had kept my resolve to retreat from politics. Now that I was to become a father this was even more necessary – I would need to provide for my little family, and could not afford to be arrested, as so many of our brothers were. Thrown into prison, and left to languish, for no other reason than stirring up trouble. I attended the occasional Saturday meeting, but only as an observer; and more and more the risk to the speakers became plain. Once, the meeting was broken up by the mounted police, and the speakers escaped arrest by only a hair’s breadth.

  The reasons I had retired from public speaking – and singing – were manifold and complex, and cowardice played no part. It was just that I felt a different stirring, a different calling in my heart. Yes, I wanted the equality of all races and justice for the oppressed of the factories and fields. Yes, my blood boiled at the treatment of sugar labourers and factory workers. Yes, rage still boiled in my heart when I remembered my friend Bhim, who had fought for our rights only to be mowed down by no lesser man than Winnie’s own father. And yes, I had a gift for speaking, and for singing. Charisma, some people called it. But something had changed, and I didn’t fully understand it.

  Something I had been aware of for some time while I was still Theo X, the revolutionary. I was supposed to stir the crowds, and I did, but not in the way I was supposed to.

  I only know that whenever I opened my mouth, it was not words of rage that emerged, but words of peace. No matter how much I tried, I could not whip the crowds into the frenzy needed for revolution. That was why I had given up Theo X. I was no longer that man of revolution. It was as if another
being took hold of me and I spoke to individual hearts rather than to crowds; and there was nothing in the world I could do to stop it. And now, as simple George, people still loved my words, whether they were spoken or sung, and called for me to speak and sing to them. And over the months I found myself speaking at smaller gatherings all over town, invited into the homes of those who knew of my identity; and I spoke to them, and I sang.

  This went on for some time. I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t refuse. People called me, and I went. How can you not go, if you are called? But then came the night when all this came to an end.

  ‘George! George, wake up! Something’s happening’

  For a moment I was dazed, but only a moment. I shot up in bed.

  ‘Winnie! What’s happening? Is it the baby?’

  ‘Yes, George, yes! Everything’s wet! The whole bed! My waters have broken!’

  I didn’t know what that meant, waters breaking. But it sounded dangerous. Anything breaking sounds dangerous.

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Go, George, fetch Dr van Sertima!’

  ‘But – but Winnie, he said to bring you to the clinic! He never said…’

  Dr van Sertima was a fancy white doctor. How could I bring him here, to Albouystown? Would he even come? But how could I get Winnie to the clinic?

  ‘Winnie – it’s too early! The baby’s due next month!’

  The panic rose as bile in my gorge. It felt like the end of the world.

  ‘Oh George, you’re hopeless. Fetch Ma!’

  Ma appeared at the door and she took matters in hand. She sent me to get Aunty Deirdre from Lime Street. Everyone in Albouystown knew Aunty Deirdre. Aunty Deirdre brought half of us into the world. She brought me into the world. I pedalled frantically through the streets till I came to her house and I hammered at her door, yelling for her to come.

  She was there in a trice. She stood there glaring at me.

  ‘Oh – is fancy boy George Quint. Wha’ goin’ on?’

  ‘Winnie – Winnie! Her baby’s coming! It’s too early! Come, please come!’

  ‘Oho! I thought you had a fancy white doctor?’

  ‘It’s Sunday – night-time! He said to bring her to hospital! How to get her to hospital this time of night? Please come, Aunty Deirdre.’

  ‘I not good enough for the likes of you.’

  I was in tears by now.

  ‘Aunty Deirdre! Is one month too early. She gon’ die, and the baby gon’ die!’

  ‘No white lady gon’ want me fumblin’ in she pumpum.’

  I wept. I sank to my knees and buried my face in her nightie.

  ‘Please, Aunty Deirdre! Please!’

  Seeing me on my knees seemed to break something in her, because from that moment on she was all speed and business.

  ‘George, go back home immediately and start to boil some hot water. I need clean towels – you have? Sheets? I’ll be right behind you.’

  And she was. I sped home and put the water on to boil and she was there at the door and then she was in the bedroom with Winnie and Mama and there was I, walking up and down the little passage outside biting my nails and pulling out what little hair I had. Winnie’s moans and groans were as loud as if I were in the room, because there was no ceiling, and I longed to rush in and hold her hand but this was women’s business and all I could do was pace the corridor and bite my nails and pull out my hair. And I prayed. Oh how I prayed!

  ‘Oh Lord don’t let her die. Please don’t let her die. Please save her and the baby. I will do anything for you Lord, anything, just save her life!’

  I prayed aloud, begging God, pleading with him. Winnie let out a blood-curdling scream and I fell to my knees, and prostrated myself, and begged again. It was as if my whole being was just that, a plea for her life.

  And then I fell silent, and a great peace descended on me, and I sat back on my heels and held my hands on my knees with the palms upwards and the serenity that washed through me was more than I could bear. And all in me was silence. And in that silence I felt it.

  And I knew in that moment that all was well. I knew it right down to my bones. I knew it in my blood and in my being – a sense of deepest peace flooding through every inch of my body and soul. And then the wail of a newborn child split the air and I wept once more, tears of relief and gratitude and love and dedication and promise. I knelt there weeping for several minutes and then I got up and knocked at the door.

  ‘Can I come in?’ I called.

  ‘Just a minute – wait!’ they called back.

  And then Winnie’s panicked cry: ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong with my baby?’

  I could wait no more. I pressed the handle and flew through the door into the room.

  Winnie was sitting up in bed, her hair dishevelled, her arms stretched out to the women in the corner, her face distorted by an agony that leapt right into my heart, banishing my new-found peace. Aunty Deirdre and Ma were standing aside, holding a bundle and whispering together. They turned round at my anguished cry.

  ‘What’s wrong? Give me the baby! What’s wrong with the baby?’

  Aunty Deirdre smiled, but it was a false smile. She walked towards me, holding the bundle, holding it out towards me.

  ‘Your son, George. He’s fine – a lovely healthy boy!’

  I held out my hands for the bundle and she placed it in my arms and I looked down into the most beautiful face I had ever seen and my heart broke for the umpteenth time that night, and I fell in love for the second time in my life. A love like a hurricane, it was, sweeping through me and blowing away every fear and every doubt I had harboured.

  ‘Why, he’s perfect!’ I said.

  ‘Give him to me! Give me!’

  Winnie was struggling to get out of bed, so I turned and held out the baby to her and placed him in her outstretched arms.

  ‘It’s all right, darling – he’s fine! He’s perfect!’ I spoke soothingly, because she was so upset. I couldn’t imagine what the problem had been but it was cast aside – our boy was wonderful, a little miracle.

  ‘No – something’s wrong! I know it! I just know it!’

  She placed him on the bed before her and was busy unwrapping the blanket he was swaddled in. At last he lay there naked.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, and I stepped forward to look.

  Aunty Deirdre stepped away to make room for me, and Ma sat down on the bed behind Winnie and stroked her back.

  ‘He got a clubfoot,’ said Aunty Deirdre. ‘But apart from that he perfect! Congratulations, Miss Winnie, George – y’all got a son!’

  16

  Yoyo

  It was as I had feared all along – Winnie gave birth to a son. Not that a son was any danger to me – though he was Papa’s first grandson, Clarence was still the anointed heir and our son would be next in line. It was all there in writing – I had now checked it. Clarence’s father and Papa had it all worked out. What worried me was that we might never have a son at all, the way Clarence was behaving. I had so hoped Winnie’s child would be a girl.

  The business of reproduction is horribly frustrating. One has no control whatsoever over the results. As a woman who likes every detail planned out in advance, I was pulled by this complete lack of power into a condition of emotional disorder that I did my best to hide, for it threatens my authority to be revealed as mentally weak. And authority was the one thing I could not lose. What in heaven’s name was wrong with Clarence? Why couldn’t he do his duty, as any man does with the greatest of ease? I let him know of my displeasure in no veiled terms, but my anger only seemed to aggravate the situation.

  And so, while feigning joy at the birth of my nephew, I inwardly seethed. Winnie had sent a telegram bearing the good news: SON BORN HEALTHY STOP ALL DELIGHTED STOP. Mama was sickeningly elated at the dinner table, and Clarence smirked. He really did. It was as if he knew my ‘Oh, how lovely!’ was false; as if he took actual pleasure in denying me exactly that which Winnie now had, through no effort of her own.
This is what happens when one marries a man who is not a real man.

  Mama’s pleasure overflowed – it was sickening!

  ‘I shall go down to Georgetown tomorrow!’ she declared. ‘He’s come three weeks early, so I haven’t finished embroidering that last little jacket, but it’s no matter – it’s a size too big for him anyway, but he’ll grow into it – all the tiniest garments are finished and waiting. I can’t wait to see him! I do wish I had been there with them, but as we weren’t expecting the birth yet…’

  On and on she gushed. You would think this was the first child ever born on the face of the earth. I nodded and smiled, and finally managed to get a word in, but unfortunately I spoiled it all with my second sentence.

  ‘How delightful,’ I murmured. ‘But what a pity he is a half-caste.’

  ‘What? What did you say?’ Mama turned to me, and she was no longer smiling.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, giving her my most gracious smile. ‘Just that I’m delighted. Clarence, would you pass the potatoes, please?’

  ‘Johanna, I heard what you said. There’s always been a strain of spite in your nature. You might want to curb it. The child may be a half-caste, as you say, but he is as much valued and as loved as any white child that might be born into this family. Including your own, I might add, which seem to be taking their own good time.’

  I looked up at her in fury. It wasn’t like Mama to make such sarcastic digs.

  ‘It’s not my fault I don’t have a child!’ I cried. I pointed to Clarence. ‘Ask him!’

  Clarence merely bowed his head and pushed another fork of food into his mouth. He wasn’t even capable of admitting his own ineptitude. I suppose it was rather too intimate a subject for the dinner table, but really. He might have spoken up for me in some way.

  ‘This is not about you, Johanna. It’s about your disrespect towards Winnie’s son. I want you to know that in no way is he to be treated as a lowly half-caste. As you put it.’