Authors: Lady Colin Campbell
Now you could not pick up the
Gleaner
or the
Star
, the two daily newspapers, without reading about crimes against the property and person. Thefts, burglaries, muggings and stabbings seemed to be becoming an everyday feature of Jamaican life. Although some of the burglaries took place in the smarter residential areas, the majority of crime was limited to the rougher parts of town. Murders of the haves by the have-nots were still unheard of, and although murders among the have-nots had increased, they were relatively uncommon. So the haves remained assured, for the escalating violence had not yet reached too threatening a point.
I can remember the moment the established families were shaken out of their reverie. It was a Sunday morning, 19 May 1963. The event that carried the ugly wave of crime on to their shores was the first of many subsequent killings perpetrated by the small but venomous criminal class. The man murdered was my mother’s father, Lucius Dey Smedmore. By rights, Grandpa should not have been killed, for there was no money in the house – indeed, he had none himself. The thief, however, thought otherwise. At 8.15 p.m. on Saturday 18 May, he entered an open door into the drawing room of my Aunt Marjorie’s house, where Grandpa was sitting in an armchair reading his Bible and listening to Stainer’s
Crucifixion
.
The robber demanded money, and when none was forthcoming, he battered Grandpa with a plank stuck with nails and chopped at him repeatedly with a machete. Although he was sixty-three and suffering from osteoporosis, Grandpa was basically strong, and fought for his life with such vigour that he was able to push the fiend outside and close the drawing-room door. In the confusion of the moment, however, he neglected to lock it. While Clifton Eccleston was outside hunting for a weapon to kill him with, Grandpa, who was always fastidious, went into his bathroom, washed his face and hands, and took off his shirt, leaving it on his bed. He then went to the telephone to call the police, unaware that Eccleston had re-entered the house. As he was dialling, Eccleston crushed his skull with a large terracotta flowerpot from the garden. Grandpa died instantly.
Eccleston then moved Grandpa’s body back to the chair where he had disturbed him initially, stripped off his watch, and stole the five-shilling note that was in his wallet. For everyone in the family, it was forever afterwards a source of great consternation that the life of a good and loving man, who had done so much unsung good for many poor people, as well as for those he would have called his social equals (snobbishness being his only real failing), should have been sacrificed for so little. To his credit, during his trial Eccleston did stop my grandmother on her way back from the witness box and say to her, ‘Mrs Smedmore, me hear your ’usband was a good man. Me truly sorry me kill him, ma’am, but me come into this world like a wild beast, and me going leave like one.’
Grandpa’s murder caused a media sensation. Being the first of its kind, it had novelty value, but it also featured other elements the newspapers like. The family was known and liked, and the death had been gruesome. Later, when the details were publicised during Eccleston’s trial, they were reported with unsparing exactitude. And I had better reason than most to know how accurate the reports were. On the day after the discovery of Grandpa’s body, I had opted to go to school rather than stay at home suffering from grief and boredom. Daddy took me, stopping at Aunt Marjorie’s house on the way. Intrigued by all the snippets I had gleaned from the radio, television and the adults’ conversations, I disobeyed Daddy, who had said I must stay in the car, and went inside. The first thing that struck me was the sight of Grandpa’s brains, which had oozed out of the back of his head, down the back of the chair and on to the floor. Looking around, I noticed that one wall of the dining room was sprayed with blood. The peculiar thing was that some of it had reached the ceiling. I had never imagined that anyone’s blood could spurt so far. Almost transfixed, I walked past the spot where the thief had dealt the final blow, which was oddly devoid of any trace of abnormality, to the bedroom. Sure enough, there was blood on the bed where Grandpa had taken off his shirt and thrown it down. The basin in the bathroom was drenched bright red. Having seen all there was to see, I quickly returned to the car before Daddy discovered me.
Later that day, the horror of what I had seen hit me like a punch in the gut. From nowhere, a wave of nausea overcame me, and I was sure I would throw up on my desk. Retching, I started to tremble from the shock, and had to be excused and go home.
The funeral was held the following day. Never before, nor since, have I seen so many people, except for the crowds for the Prince of Wales’ wedding. Kingston Parish Church was filled to bursting with friends, relations, dignitaries, acquaintances and staff of the family enterprises. Outside, the large central square was so packed with spectators that the police outriders assigned to accompany the cortège to the graveyard had a job clearing a path for the cars. Having heard that the police were working on the theory that Grandpa’s death might not be a failed robbery but an assassination plot, I should have been terrified that one of the faces in the crowd might pick us off. But I was not. Indeed, when a black bystander pushed her hand into the car and stroked my cheek, saying, ‘Don’t cry, darling. Not all black people are like that murderer,’ I felt that she had expressed a compassion most of the onlookers seemed to feel.
When the excitement of the funeral was over, the family was left with nothing but the awful aftermath. Fortunately one British habit the Jamaicans have never acquired is leaving the grief-stricken to cope on their own in the misguided belief that they will prefer privacy to companionship. There was a steady stream of visitors, though even their presence could not prevent the terrible reality of what had happened from sinking in. Aside from the grief, which was worse for my mother and Aunt Marjorie than for anyone else, there was the insecurity of not knowing who the murderer was, and whether we would be next. I refused to sleep alone, so my Great-Aunt Cissy Burke came to stay, sleeping with me and the machete which I insisted was kept within easy reach. I fully intended to defend myself before anyone had a chance to kill me.
Although my grandmother had been divorced from my grandfather since 1956, they had remained good friends and had even had lunch together on the day of his murder. She had been the first person in the family to see the body, for she had been the first on the scene and had pushed aside the hand of the policeman who had tried to prevent her from entering the house. Upon seeing Grandpa, she immediately lost her memory and remained bedridden for a month in a state of amnesic shock. Only when Clifton Eccleston was caught did the terror that any one of us could be the next subside. It never disappeared completely, for the long line of such killings in Jamaica has not stopped to this day. The rest of my teenage years were marred by insomnia. The sounds of the night, which had hitherto been so reassuring, now became potential warnings. Did that bush rustle because a wildcat was running past it, or was it a thief, and prospective murderer, lurking in the grounds? Did the wild dogs that so proliferate in the West Indies, roaming from one house to another searching the dustbins for food, bark or give chase because they saw another dog, or a man?
Even when my grandmother recovered and my mother and aunt had come to terms with their grief, my father remained excessively vigilant about our safety. All four of us children were now banned from leaving the grounds of the house without his, or Mummy’s, permission. As I was the only child not at boarding school, I was the only one who had to live with this restriction all year round. But if there is one quality I have never lacked it is resourcefulness, and I took to sneaking out until Daddy was
due back home. I had finally found a reason to appreciate his rigid punctuality. After Grandpa’s murder things were never the same for any of us again. The solid texture of our family life began unravelling in unforeseen ways. Some were trivial. For instance, the murderer had decided to rob Aunt Marjorie’s house after reading in the
Gleaner
’s social column that she and Uncle Ric were away in Mexico. Daddy and Mummy therefore took the sensible precaution of forbidding Violetta Riel, the social columnist, to report any of our movements, especially our future plans. We children were also discouraged from ever revealing information about Daddy and Mummy’s activities to anyone at all, with the result that discretion became second nature to us. The more profound effects on the family were rather sadder. Uncle Ric’s health deteriorated dramatically and he died of a heart attack four years later, aged forty-three. Mummy was never quite the same carefree person she had been before. Daddy, who had had to identify his father-in-law’s brutalised body, was so traumatised that he became even more anxiety-ridden. And I lost the one person whom I felt could help me out of the jam I was in.
Throughout the previous year, I had thrashed about looking for someone who could intercede with Daddy and Mummy. Instinctively, I knew it could not be a friend. The taboo of taking one’s problems outside the family – washing your dirty linen in public – was too great. That narrowed down my options to the most appropriate people within the family. And it seemed to me that only Mummy’s father had the degree of leverage required. It took me several months to screw up the nerve to speak to Grandpa. On several occasions, I nearly got it out. Each time, however, I would back off. He knew I had something on my mind, but sensibly, he did not force the issue. The night before his murder, Grandpa took Mickey, my best friend Suzy Surridge and me to the movies. Afterwards, he dropped Mickey off at a party, took Suzy home and then me. ‘Grandpa,’ I piped up as he attempted to turn the car round (he was an appalling driver, and I, who had been taught to drive by Mummy when I was eight, often had to reverse his car for him). ‘Yes, dearie,’ he said, struggling manfully to avoid hitting the culvert. Once more, I went quiet. After sitting there in the dark for several minutes trying to find the right words, I said, ‘It’s OK, Grandpa. I’ll tell you some other time.’ But by now I sensed I would soon have the strength to jump over the parapet. Although Grandpa’s death removed his ability to intercede, it did not dissipate the strength I had been garnering. But I was back to square one in the matter of finding someone who could intercede.
It so happened that Mummy had recently had surgery, and, hearing how highly she spoke of her gynaecologist, I decided to go to him. If I had to go outside the family, a doctor, I now realised, would be more appropriate than a friend. I knew instinctively that a picture is worth a thousand words, and a living one provides a greater explanation than anything one can say. I made an appointment to see the gynaecologist in the name of Betty Brompton. I wanted to conceal my identity in case the visit went wrong.
When the morning of the appointment came, I listened out for Daddy’s departure, got up, had breakfast quickly, then returned to my bedroom. I knew that I could leave the house undetected
as long as I dressed quietly and escaped stealthily. Mummy was not an early riser, and the other children were in bed. I quickly applied the make-up I had bought, donned a wig to cover my short hair, hauled on the dress I had made especially in the previous weeks and slipped on the stockings and high-heeled shoes I had removed from the shoe department of Daddy’s shop downtown. Checking my appearance in the mirror, I was surprised to discover that I looked better than I had expected. This moment was momentous in that it was the first time that I, a girl, had seen myself dressed as one. But the matter was far too important for me to get bogged down with trivialities such as whether or not I was an attractive one. That was not the issue. Even if I had been ugly as sin, I would still have needed to find my true identity.
Moreover, having been brought up not to fancy myself, I dismissed the encouraging reflection as a subjective opinion, opened my bedroom door carefully and tiptoed down the passage, past the family dining room into the kitchen, out of the back passage, past the servants’ quarters and out to the driveway. Walking quickly lest anyone should see me, I made it to the street undetected, walked to the nearest main road, Hope Road, and hailed one of Edgar Munn’s father’s yellow cabs.
I was a jangle of nerves. As I waited to be called by the doctor’s receptionist, I was in such a state of agitation that I was amazed I could sit still. Not for one second, though, was I tempted to turn tail. This, I knew, had to be faced, and I just hoped it would mark the beginning of the end of an acutely painful year. The moment I walked into the doctor’s office and started speaking to him, I realised why Mummy liked him. He was humane. From the word go, he treated me with a combination of focused professionalism and quiet compassion. I could tell from the questions he was asking, and the respectful way he listened to my responses, that he viewed me as a living, breathing individual worthy of being listened to, not as some child who should be dismissed until she is old enough to be permitted to have a voice. He then asked me to strip, examined me and made an appointment for one week hence. I had told him who I was, and we agreed that neither of us would tell my parents about this visit until after the next appointment, as he wanted to make medical inquiries.
At the time, I had no way of knowing that my condition was rare: most doctors would not encounter such a case in their whole professional lives. But it was not unheard of, for medical science had progressed significantly in the thirteen years since my birth. Although experts in the field still did not know enough about sex and sexual identity to agree upon exact definitions, they had recently formulated tests to determine chromosomes and the hormonal levels. They therefore knew how to identify two of the most basic scientific differences between the sexes. Any responsible gynaecologist, confronted with a case like mine, would have had to locate and read up on some fairly inaccessible research before he could handle it with any confidence. Experts in sex and gender were few and far between then, as it was an area of expertise not even a decade old, and such research as existed was seldom trumpeted. Moreover, there was little interest in a group of patients whose problems were viewed as acute embarrassments. Remember
that, prior to the mid-1960s, the whole subject of sex – whether it was sexual activity (or indeed sexual inactivity), sexual identity, sexual orientation, sexual preference or sexual problems – was simply not discussed openly. It would take Helen Gurley Brown’s
Sex and the Single Girl
in America, and the Profumo scandal and the Argyll divorce in Britain, to put sex on the front pages of the newspapers and the tips of our tongues. Only then did what we now know as the Sexual Revolution begin, and even then, it took a good few years to get the ball rolling.