The Sugar Planter's Daughter Page 11
‘Oh, I certainly won’t treat him as a lowly half-caste, as you put it. Indeed not! But you’ll find, Mama, that others in the colony won’t be as tactful as myself. Respectable society will shun him, just as they now shun Winnie. What school will he be able to attend? Certainly not the best English schools in Georgetown. Who will be his friends? Whatever it was I said, it was not due to “the strain of spite” in my nature, as you so kindly put it. It was out of commiseration for that poor child, and the unhappy future that awaits him. Half-caste, outcast. I was merely acknowledging the reality of his position. But you wouldn’t care, would you? Everything Winnie does is perfect, and I suppose this child is perfect in spite of his obvious handicap, which you refuse to acknowledge. You have always favoured Winnie.’
There. It was out. The smouldering resentment, the rage I had tried so hard to hide, out in the open and placed on the dinner table for all to acknowledge. It all came spilling out, and though I knew I was losing control by allowing those words to be said, it was as if they had a life of their own, and said themselves, and I could no more withdraw them than I could change the colour of my eyes. Just as I could not prevent the outrage I felt from showing in my eyes. I knew it was there. I felt it. Mama would see it, and know. It was a damned thing, to lose control!
‘Johanna,’ said Mama calmly. She always called me Johanna when she was displeased with me. One of the reasons why I still let myself be called by the baby name of Yoyo was for that very reason – the name Johanna was tainted with rebuke and disappointment. Yoyo was a name of joy and childlike innocence, and though it no longer suited me, I clung to it. Perhaps, somewhere inside myself, I longed for those lost qualities.
‘Johanna – you have always been jealous of Winnie. No, don’t deny it. You needn’t shake your head. I am your mother, and I know it. A mother sees these things. It’s ugly, Johanna, and you need to look at yourself more critically and put yourself right. That is all I am saying. Do not let this jealousy overcome your soul. Look it in the face, and banish it. I am leaving you with those words of advice. I am now going upstairs to pack for my trip to Georgetown tomorrow. You are welcome to come with me. But only if you promise to behave yourself.’
I couldn’t help it. The temptation was too great. However much I resented the birth of this child, however much I envied the birth of a son (for yes, I now acknowledged the name of that emotion burning me up) I could not stay away. And so it was that the next day Mama and I departed for Georgetown, leaving the running of Promised Land in the tolerably incapable hands of Clarence. At least Mad Jim Booker would be there to ensure that no disaster occurred in our absence.
And so here we were, on our way to Georgetown.
Neither Mama nor I, it seemed, wanted to prolong our argument; it came too near to touching on matters we both preferred not to explore, to tearing apart the treasured myth that a mother’s love is impartial. We both knew it wasn’t. Winnie had always been her darling. Perhaps that’s why, now, she made an effort to be motherly towards me.
‘Yoyo,’ she said, ‘what you said at dinner last night – about your childlessness’
She stopped. ‘Yes?’ I prompted.
‘You can talk to me about it, if you like. You are so young, and perhaps you need to confide in someone? I’m your mother, and you need not be ashamed to speak of such topics with me. We can discuss it, if you like. You said it’s Clarence’s fault?’
Her voice trailed off and she gazed off to the north, to the horizon. In spite of her words, I knew she was too embarrassed to speak of these things. But she was making an effort to be motherly. At least that. And at least she had called me Yoyo again. It was almost embarrassing, how much I clung to that childish name, a name so unfitting of my character! But spoken now, it meant that Mama had forgiven me my outburst at the dinner table last night; that, in spite of my bringing up yet another taboo subject, she was determined not to let the conversation escalate into quarrelsomeness. And so I replied in kind; suppressing my anger, I tried a more humble approach. There was no way I could speak to Mama about my little bedroom problem, and so I deflected her attempt to help.
‘Thank you, Mama, but it’s all right,’ I said. ‘I was just angry when I said that. I do apologise. I know I was spiteful – it’s a fault I am aware of and will try to overcome. I’m sure that soon, I, too will have a son you can sew things for. Some women take longer with these things.’
‘Very well, and you are right. Sometimes it does take longer. Be patient, Yoyo.’
The relief in her voice was palpable.
She reached into the bag at her feet, removed a handkerchief and wiped her forehead. It was indeed hot in the car, in spite of the open windows that let in the cool sea breeze. We had left Rosignol by now, and were heading westwards down the coastal road towards the capital. Poole drove at a tolerably swift speed along the sanded road, and rice fields moved slowly past us, along with now and again a village with its lowly shops and cottages and, very occasionally, to our left a glimpse of the Atlantic, with fishermen wading in the tide and boats upturned and women picking fish out of nets. How I loved this landscape! So did Winnie. It was the one thing we had in common: love for this beautiful country, our homeland.
17
Winnie
Yes, my son, our son, had a clubfoot. Yet still he was perfect. I held him in my arms and wept because he was so perfect. Little limbs awkwardly flailing, eyes shut tight, tiny lips moving as if searching for food – how could I not be in love?
George looked down on us and the wonder in his moist eyes was palpable – he leaned in and touched our baby’s little hand, stroked his little cheek, and our eyes met and no words came, because no words were equal to the joy I felt, and my joy was George’s, a quiet joy that wrapped us into one.
Deirdre bent over us with arms stretched out to take him from me. I did not want to give him up. But she took him and wrapped him in a towel and, laughing at my stricken face, said, ‘Don’t worry, I gon’ bring he back jus’ now. Just goin’ to weigh him and clean he up a lil’.’
I watched as she placed him in a sling and held the scale aloft.
‘Five pounds and a half,’ she said. ‘Not too bad considering he a month early. You got a name for he?’
‘Humphrey,’ said George, ‘after my granddaddy.’
‘Dat’s a good strong name,’ said Deirdre as she left the room with my son in her arms.
‘Where are you going? Come back!’ I called, and struggled to get up.
‘Gone to clean he up on the dining table,’ Deirdre called back. ‘Don’t worry. I not gon’ teef he.’
Well, I knew she wouldn’t steal him but not having my baby in my arms was a pain so intense it was physical; as if a limb had been amputated from me, and I wept.
For the first time, Ma spoke. ‘Is alright, don’t cry,’ she said, bundling the wet and bloody bedclothes into a heap and straightening the sheet beneath me. ‘Plenty chirren get born wit’ crippled foot.’
I glared at her, and for a brief moment anger outweighed my pain.
‘It’s not his foot I’m crying about! I don’t care about his damned foot!’
‘Well, you should care! If you don’t care who else gon’ care! This whole mattress wet. You gon’ have to move so I could put it outside to dry. You shoulda place old newspapers under you before you waters break!’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ I said, but she didn’t notice the sarcasm in my tone, and I was glad of it because that biting tongue was new to me – I had never spoken to her that way before.
‘It’s a clubfoot,’ George said to me quietly. ‘It’s all right. I had a friend with a clubfoot when I was small. Other than that he is perfect.’
‘He’s perfect as he is,’ I said defiantly.
George sent a telegram, and Mama and Yoyo came the next evening. Yoyo didn’t think he was perfect, and neither did Mama, though she was more tactful about it than Yoyo, who actually wrinkled her nose when she saw the twisted foot.
‘Oh, Mama! Is that all you have to say! Cannot you just love him as he is?’
‘I do,’ said Mama, ‘but you might as well face facts. That foot will be a handicap and you should put it right.’
‘I don’t want to think about that,’ I said, and looked down at my baby, who was wholeheartedly drinking at my breast. His face was perfect, his lips were perfect; that tiny hand resting on my breast, with the perfect nails – all I cared to do was drink in that perfection, swallow it whole so that it was a part of me. Why should I think about a slightly unshapely foot?
But Mama folded back the towel he was wrapped in and held the foot in her hand, stroked it lovingly.
‘Poor little mite!’ she said. ‘We’ll put you right. Just wait and see.’
The next day Mama and I took little Humphrey to Dr van Sertima, and he repeated what Mama had said. Yoyo had gone off to visit some of her Georgetown friends. She had lost interest in Humphrey almost immediately; after frowning at his foot – as if that was what defined him! She had fidgeted while Mama and I discussed baby matters, and then excused herself and returned to the Park Hotel. I had not seen her at all today, whereas Mama had spent the day with me, and insisted we see the doctor.
‘There are specialists who can fix this,’ said Dr Van Sertima, ‘though none, unfortunately, in BG. I will send off a few telegrams tomorrow and see who can help. You will have to travel, though, Mrs Quint, and spend some time abroad. It can’t be helped. And it will be quite costly.’
‘We will spare no expense!’ said Mama.
‘Mama…’ I began, a warning in my voice. We had argued about this already. I had some savings, but they were for the new rooms we would be adding to the house. I could not afford specialist care abroad.
‘Ssshhh, Winnie!’ Mama said to me, and turned back to Dr van Sertima. ‘Where will she have to go? And Winnie, of course I will go with you!’
‘Europe will be best,’ said Dr van Sertima. ‘England, or’
‘Germany! Austria!’ cried Mama. ‘That would be perfect. Winnie, I would take you home to Salzburg, to Vienna. Get the very best doctor to put him right. You will meet Father, your grandfather, and your uncles!’
‘Mama – I can’t possibly travel to Europe. I don’t want to go anywhere! Can’t we just…’
Can’t we just accept him as he is, I thought. I couldn’t bear the thought of putting this child through the torture of medical treatment – for whatever it was that could be done, it was clear to me that it would be painful, and a little baby cannot understand why his mother would put him through pain.
‘Or can’t we wait till he is older?’
‘It needn’t be done right away,’ said Dr van Sertima. ‘Still, the sooner the better, while the bones are soft and pliable.’
Soft and pliable! I cringed at those words. They wanted to bend and bow my baby into some perfect shape, and hurt him! I cuddled him close, and tears pooled in my eyes.
‘No, no, I will not allow it!’ I said.
‘She will do it,’ said Mama firmly to Dr van Sertima. ‘And I will pay for it. Please find the best doctor in the world for what needs to be done.’
18
Yoyo
Alleluia! It seems there really is something like divine intervention after all, because all the prayers I would have said, had I been the kind of person who said prayers, have come true. It’s far from my nature to gloat, but Winnie delivering a crippled baby has played right into my plans. The thing I was dreading the most was Winnie lording it over me, making fun of my inability to bear a son – when it is not my fault at all. It’s all Clarence’s fault. But I cannot let that be known without disclosing the intimate secrets of my marriage, and that wouldn’t do at all.
So this has taken Winnie down a peg or two. She claims she does not care, that she loves this child just the same – but why then is she crying all the time? That’s according to Mama, who has extended her stay in Georgetown.
So have I. It was not actually planned, but on my first evening here I paid a visit to my old friend Margaret McInnes, who is now Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth, having married Matthew of the same name shortly after my own marriage to Clarence. The Smythe-Collingsworths are Booker people, and everyone knows what that means: a manager of Booker Brothers, the ravenous monster company that’s slowly devouring the colony, one shop, one shipyard, one sugar plantation at a time. Bookers now owns almost the entire Corentyne Coast, Promised Land being one of only three plantations not in Booker claws. Without Clarence’s (or rather, his father’s) investment we, too, would inevitably have been swallowed up.
Mr Smythe-Collinsworth, Margaret’s father-in-law, manages a shipyard and Margaret and Matthew are staying at their house in Main Street just until they can find suitable accommodation of their own. Mrs Smythe-Collingsworth the elder is a very fine lady and invited me to stay for a week, and I accepted the invitation. I do so miss the excitement of town – I feel so locked away on the plantation, much as I love it!
So I sent a telegram to Clarence informing him of the delay. He and Mad Jim will just have to run the place for a while, and I dare say they will manage, though not without some strife. Mama too is staying on for a week. She is quite distressed about the baby, though she is putting on a brave face.
She says she cannot yet leave Winnie on her own, which is another example of favouritism. Had it been me she would not have hesitated to leave me in the care of my in-laws. Be that as it may, I am staying in town, and so is Mama. And I do intend to enjoy myself while here. Margaret has always been great fun, and she knows how to cheer me up. She intends to throw a party for me – how jolly!
A very interesting thing happened this morning. Margaret and I were sitting in the gallery of her house drinking tea and chatting, when the dog began barking; that in itself was not a problem, as the dog is tied to his kennel in the yard – but Margaret got up to see who had entered the gate, and she said, ‘Oh – it’s the postman.’
She was about to take her seat again when her face broke into a smile and she said, ‘I almost forgot – he’s your brother-in-law, isn’t he?’
‘It’s George? Really?’ I got up and went to the window, where I saw George walking down the garden path towards the house, several envelopes in his hand.
‘He must have something for us to sign,’ said Margaret. ‘The postbox is attached to the front gate, and he only enters if it’s a telegram or a registered letter.’
That’s when I had an idea.
‘Do you mind if I invite him in for a few minutes? Would your mother mind?’
‘Well – she’s not at home, is she? She need never know. What dastardly plan do you have up your sleeve, Yoyo? I know you – it’s not the kindness of your heart speaking there!’
I grinned at her, and winked. She did indeed know me well. And I did have a plan, though calling it dastardly was perhaps an exaggeration. I just intended to have a bit of entertainment with George. He is so easily embarrassed, and this was a perfect opportunity.
I openly admit that I had been cold towards George in the past, and it was time for that to change. I had made a beginning the last time he and Winnie had come to visit us at Promised Land, and here was a perfect opportunity to show him the more pleasing side of my nature.
George was such easy prey – but no, that’s the wrong word. My intentions with him were in no way malicious; I just enjoyed seeing him squirm, which he did, whenever I spoke to him. I suppose it had to do with his innate reverence towards the white race – all darkies have that, it’s in their blood – and me being his sister-in-law; and added to that, my indisputable feminine charms. Many a young man has fallen victim to those in the past, and why not George? So yes, now I think of it more, prey is indeed the right word. What young woman doesn’t enjoy seeing a young man reduced to jelly simply by dint of a suitably fluttered eyelash? Harmless fun – and I intended to have it.
So when George knocked on the front door it was I who got up to open it, and Margaret who accompanied me, shooing away the servant who hurried forth from the kitchen.
I flung the door open.
‘Hello, George!’ I said, offering him my widest and most welcoming smile.
Poor George! He actually jumped when he saw me, just as if he’d seen a ghost, and stepped backwards, stumbling on the porch.
‘Careful!’ I said, reaching out to help him find his feet. I took his hand till he found his balance, and I didn’t let go once he had.
‘George!’ I said, ‘Margaret and I saw you coming up the path and we wondered if you’d drink a cup of tea with us?’
He actually turned a shade of pale – difficult for a man of such dark complexion, but I swear it happened. He stuttered as he spoke.
‘M-m-m-miss…’ How darling! He still wanted to call me Miss Cox, even though he had every right to call me Yoyo!
‘Yoyo,’ I said firmly, ‘Do call me Yoyo. I was so sorry to have missed you last night when I came to see your lovely baby – you must come in now. Margaret, get the maid to make a new pot.’
‘Um, I-I-I can’t, I’m working,’ he said, patting the bulging postbag that hung over his shoulder.
‘Oh nonsense. No one will notice. Just for a few minutes. I insist!’
And I pulled him inside the house and shut the door.
The poor chap! I swear there was panic in his eyes, like a trapped animal. I could hear Margaret behind me, tittering, and I too found it hard to suppress a giggle. What fun this was going to be! Still not letting go of his hand, I practically dragged him into the gallery, chattering all the time – some nonsense about how much I missed Winnie and how happy I was for her and how we sisters had to catch up while I was in town. Margaret meanwhile had scampered away to order the tea and I led George over to one of the Morris chairs and bid him sit. Which he did. I did let go of his hand now, for he was almost trembling with trepidation.