Caribbean (102 page)

“What do you make of the Gee-Gee’s daughter?”

“She’s a darling,” Mrs. Ponsford said, but her husband was more cautious: “That one gives her father real headaches,” and there the opening conversation about Delia ended, because Major Leckey appeared in gray tropical dress and topee to lead an excursion of the Ponsfords, the Gee-Gee and his daughter to a picnic at Cap Galant. When McKay heard this, he started to inform the Ponsfords that he had been picnicking at Cap Galant … But before he could finish, Leckey moved them off, for to him McKay without letters of introduction was still a non-person.

In the next days McKay interrogated the Ponsfords, Bart and Etienne about the Honorable Delia, and acquired a bit of information. Bart told him: “Lord Wrentham, the real one that is, heir to the earldom, was said to be quite upset by his niece’s behavior. Delia wouldn’t listen to Lady Gore, and only a sharp rebuke from His Lordship himself caused her to break off with a German colonel she had taken a liking to. She’s twenty-two, you know. Has a mind of her own.”

A man at a nearby table said: “The affair with the German colonel is supposed to have come close to tragedy,” and McKay asked, his voice betraying his surprise at such a statement: “What kind of tragedy could a girl her age stumble into?”

The man volunteered no explanation, so taking his leave, McKay said: “I want the jeweler to engrave my initials on the Rolex he sold me the other day,” and he walked to Boncour’s shop, only to find that by the happiest coincidence Delia herself was there to finish the business she had started when Major Leckey had so imperiously dragged her away on her earlier visit.

“Hullo,” she said breezily as McKay looked over her shoulder at the items she had selected for her charm bracelet. “I’m Delia Wrentham
and you’re … I know who you are. You wrote that article about us.”

She had pretty well selected the little charms she wanted when the door to the shop slammed open, Major Leckey strode in, took her by the arm, and led her away without speaking a word to anyone. McKay, looking at Boncour when this happened, saw that he flushed as if he had been struck, and Millard could make nothing of the incident until the talkative salesgirl who had shown him the magazine whispered, when Boncour was attending to another customer: “She comes in here all the time.”

When McKay’s second article reached the islands, it made him a hero, for in it he had written with delicate charm of the social life on All Saints, with a most ingratiating portrait of the new Gee-Gee and his style. The Honorable Delia came off as a gift to any island she chose to occupy, and her father was presented as incredibly straight and stuffy by American or Canadian standards, but just about what the island needed according to British custom. McKay also offered ingratiating pen portraits of The Club, The Tennis, the Waterloo and Tonton’s, inviting each reader to decide at what level he would fit should he visit the island.

Some English cynics asked: “How dare he write about The Club and The Tennis, seeing he’s never been invited to either?” but they had to acknowledge that he had a right to describe the Waterloo and Tonton’s, since he hung out at the former and had twice patronized the latter with Sir Benny Castain. The Ponsfords asked sharply: “How’d you know about The Club?” to which they’d already been invited on several occasions, and he gave the reporter’s favorite explanation: “I’m a good listener.”

“You must go there one day,” they said sincerely, and he replied: “I’d like that.”

The second article attracted such favorable attention at Government House that it became preposterous for Major Leckey to ignore its author any longer. But the long-overdue invitation came not from Leckey but from a more surprising source: “Hello, is this the American writer McKay? Good. Governor General here. I’ve been reading your reports, McKay. Jolly fine. We appreciate what you say about our island, warts and all. I’m giving a different kind of reception
Thursday at six. Could you find it possible to join us? Good, good. An invitation will be forthcoming.”

The Gee-Gee was no fool. His long association with reporters who covered cricket matches and those who dealt in politics had taught him how valuable a newspaper story could sometimes be, and he suspected that his forthcoming reception would be worth an entire article in McKay’s paper.

On a lovely Thursday night in early March 1938, Lord Basil Wrentham, the governor general of All Saints, the British island in the Caribbean, invited to his home for a gala celebration all the other Wrenthams on the island. Thirty-nine had been found who could come, men like Black Bart Wrentham, the owner of the Waterloo, women like Nancy Wrentham, who served as head night nurse in the charity ward at the hospital. They came in all kinds of dress, had all shades of coloring. Only two were white, a husband and wife who ran a farm near Anse du Soir, and well over half were decidedly dark, running to nearly black, so diluted had the noble Wrentham blood become.

But they were a sterling group, men and women whose ancestors had experienced the full triumph and tragedy of this island. Four had been in jail, and Major Leckey had made this known to the Gee-Gee, who said: “They aren’t in jail now.” The food served was a little more solid than usual, the drinks much weaker, but the same band played as for the all-white receptions and the floral decorations were just as carefully positioned about the big rooms. Lord Basil met everyone, greeted each as his cousin, and made the evening a true reunion.

Half a dozen members from each of the other All Saints social groups had also been invited: white business leaders, Sir Benny Castain, light-colored merchants and politicos like Etienne Boncour. The Gee-Gee took special pains to introduce McKay in the various rooms, telling his guests: “We’re honored to have this distinguished American writer visiting our island and sharing with his readers some of the truths about us.” As they passed from one room to another he whispered: “I’m having a small supper at The Club after we break and I’d be delighted if you could join us.”

The evening should have been an unqualified success, for even Major Leckey, knowing that he must follow the Gee-Gee’s lead, came
up to welcome McKay as if they were established friends. But as he and McKay walked together, almost arm in arm, toward another room, they came upon an alcove and froze. There the Honorable Delia was embracing the jeweler Etienne Boncour with an almost animal passion.

In that one instant each pair saw the other, their eyes meeting, their voices unable to form words. Then Leckey gripped McKay’s arm and hurried him along to another room. Neither spoke. Neither would ever refer to the incident. But each knew that what they had seen carried a terrible significance: for Major Leckey because the scene struck at the very fabric of the social order in All Saints; for Millard McKay because he was a practiced newsman, but also because he had himself fallen in love with Delia Wrentham.

The supper at The Club was a tense business—Delia, Leckey and McKay had to share the same table for twelve, with Lord Basil at the head, yet they could barely look at one another. Etienne Boncour, as a man of color, was ineligible to dine at The Club, of course, even if the Gee-Gee’s daughter was infatuated with him.

Several of the older guests stopped by to congratulate McKay on his second article: “Much better than the first with all that white and black nonsense.” One husband and wife asked: “Is The Club pretty much as you imagined it?” McKay ignored the barb and smiled: “It’s a haven. A wonderful, tropical haven,” and he pointed to the luxurious flowers.

He went to bed that night impressed by Lord Wrentham’s imaginative gesture in bringing his island relatives together, but disturbed by his daughter’s brazen lovemaking with Boncour. As he twisted back and forth, unable to sleep, he began to see the affair as any ordinary newsman would: She’s a spoiled bitch. Been kicking up her heels all over Europe. Got in the habit, so when she hits an end of the world, like All Saints, she simply has to look around for any man who is remotely eligible. Hell, it could be anyone. This won’t last long. She’ll move on to another man in a short while, just like she did in England. And with that, he fell asleep without having given a thought as to how he was going to report this heartwarming reunion of the island Wrenthams.

Four days later, as he was finishing a lonely lunch, the Ponsfords came in for their own very late meal, and after taking a seat at a table somewhat removed from McKay’s, Mrs. Ponsford slipped quietly over to speak with her American friend: “Make no gesture. Say nothing.
But Delia Wrentham is going to drive by that front door shortly in a Government House car. You’re to be waiting.”

His heart thumping, he walked nonchalantly from the dining room, stood behind some shrubs where he would not be noticed, and waited for this bewitching woman. What could be the meaning of her summons? Why would the granddaughter of an earl seek him out? He had not even begun to frame the possibilities when a small English MG pulled up and he ran out to hop in.

“I need your help,” she said tersely as the car leaped forward.

To McKay’s surprise, she headed for the southeast corner of Bristol Town and the famous mountain road that first climbed up in a series of very tight turns, then dropped down in a chain of frightening hairpins downhill to the oceanfront town of Ely. Delia drove the straight-ahead portions connecting the seven turns at high speed, then, as the next hairpin approached, she slammed on the brakes and screamed half-sideways round the corner. McKay, sitting in what was for him the wrong side of the front seat, was terrified.

It was, he later said, “the worst ten miles I’ve ever ridden,” but when he became accustomed to it, he had time, especially during the straightaways to think: This is great! I’m heading to an unknown destination with a titled Englishwoman, and a knockout! High adventure for a Detroit newspaperman educated at Rutgers, and he laughed at himself for feeling like a freshman.

Finally he asked, “Where are we going?” and she said: “You’ll see.” He did not venture even a guess as to what was happening.

He had half expected her to stop in Ely, a town he had wanted to see for its snug harbor on the Atlantic, but she roared through its narrow streets, rousting chickens and terrifying citizens. “Slow down, killer!” he cried. “This is a town.” But she ignored him, exiting by a narrow southern trail that ran along the cliffs overlooking the ocean.

After a breathtaking ride they reached the top of a long descent at the foot of which lay the colorful and isolated town of York, a big village, really, strung out along the two sides of Marigot Baie, a starkly handsome indentation from the Atlantic. He had read that in hurricane season York sometimes absorbed a good deal of punishment, for great waves came storming into the enclosed
baie
and tumbled helter-skelter onto the roads and houses at lower levels. But a few days of sunshine usually dried out the damage and York resumed its quiet ways.

“What are we doing in York?” McKay asked, but Delia merely
fluffed out her hair with her right hand, then patted him on the knee with her left and assured him: “You’ll see.”

She was adorable, there was no other word McKay could think of as she sped them to the south arm of the
baie
where the island road ended. Darting impatiently from one cul-de-sac to the next, she found herself hitting dead ends repeatedly, and was forced at last to halt the car, summon a black peasant to her window, and ask almost petulantly: “Where’s the road to Cap d’Enfer?” and he explained what she already knew: “There be no road, ma’am, just a path.”

“I know,” she snapped. “But where is the path?”

He showed her the almost invisible exit from the paved streets of the town to an earthen trail which would have been appropriate for cattle but not for a car accustomed to well-kept highways. But the man wanted to be helpful, so he assured Delia: “You drive slow, strong car, you get there fine.” She thanked him with a huge, warm smile and took off down the dusty trail at a speed much greater than he would have advised.

Now McKay insisted that he be taken into her confidence: “Tell me what we’re doing or I’m getting out.”

“Not likely!” she said half scornfully. “You jump out of this car at this speed and you’ll be a dead pigeon.”

“Does it have to do with what Leckey and I came upon the other night?”

“Let’s just say you’re my alibi.” She flushed, turned her eyes from the path, gave him an almost anguished look of appreciation, and said almost tearfully: “You know what that bastard Leckey’s done? Because Etienne dared to kiss a white girl, he’s been dismissed from the council, lost his job with the Tourist Board, and his jewelry business is already beginning to suffer!”

“I can’t believe it. What a rotten deal …”

She leaned forward over the wheel as if to distance herself from McKay, then said in sincere frustration: “Have you ever reflected that in London, Etienne would be a sensation with those good looks, those manners, his solid education? The man’s a find. In Paris he’d be the king of the Left Bank. But here in All Saints …”

“Or in Detroit,” McKay added.

When she tried to respond, her voice caught and she had to bite her lower lip, a pouting action which made her even more desirable, so much so that McKay reached over impulsively and kissed her. She had apparently been in such a situation often before, because she said
easily: “You do that again, buster, you’ll wreck this car,” then, to restore his confidence, she patted him on the leg again and whispered: “But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Okay, so now tell me.”

Slowing the car to avoid the deep cuts which made the road perilous, she said: “I’ve never been down this way …” Then bluntly: “I need assistance from someone I can trust.”

As she maneuvered the car deftly around the holes, McKay said: “You seem like the last girl in the world who needs assistance,” and she laughed in agreement: “But I do need your secrecy. I trust you, Millard. I have to.”

Now even this fragmentary trail ended, but off to the left continued a mere footpath leading to Cap d’Enfer, Cape of Hell, the rocky southeast tip of the island where in the old days sailing boats had frequently come to grief. Driving gingerly along the edge of a deep cliff, Delia, with a slow, sure hand, slowed the car to a walk, and at last they reached the tip end of the land, and there Etienne Boncour stood waiting beside his blue Ford pickup.