The Sugar Planter's Daughter (14 page)

Poor George almost fled down the front stairs, his postbag banging against his hip.

Margaret collapsed against me in giggles.

‘Oh Yoyo, you're such a coquette! That was simply – simply tremendous! Your finger in your hair! Your pout!'

‘Yes, I am rather a tease, aren't I? I never knew it was such fun. Or that I could be so good at it.'

‘I have to say – he is rather nice-looking, if one looks past his colour.'

‘He is, isn't he? And not really black, either. More a delicious cocoa-brown.'

She giggled again. ‘Cocoa-brown! Oh, Yoyo, that sounds as if you'd like to
eat
him!'

‘Well, I could, of course, if I wanted to. Those darkies would cut off their limbs to get a white woman in their bed.
Any
white woman, but someone like me, a high society beauty, well. I could just snap my fingers and he'd come running.'

‘Oh, but not
George!
Everyone says he absolutely
adores
Winnie.'

‘Nonsense, Margaret. It's all just lust.
She
adores
him
, so she was just the easiest white woman he could get. I could easily win him off her. If I wanted to, that is. There's no such thing as fidelity when a man is tempted.'

‘But you wouldn't tempt him, would you? Not seriously!'

‘It would be rather fun, wouldn't it? Just to show him how silly this love nonsense is. He doesn't really love her. A serious temptation, from another white woman, and this whole notion of love would fly out the window.'

‘But you
wouldn't,
would you? Not seriously. You couldn't. Not with a
darkie
!'

‘Well – that whole aspect of married life is so dreadful anyway. There's that rumour that black men can be quite enjoyable. I am slightly curious, you know! Can an act so utterly disgusting be actually
enjoyable?
I wonder…'

‘Yoyo!
You wouldn't!'

I didn't answer. I merely smiled, a secretive smile. An interesting little thought had occurred to me, and I didn't know whether to dismiss or entertain it.

‘Yoyo! You have that naughty twinkle in your eye! You're up to something again!'

‘You and I – we always had those bets, didn't we, Margaret? Dares. And I never turned down a challenge, did I?'

Margaret burst into uncontrollable giggles, her hands over her mouth. Me, I simply smiled.

M
y sister
-in-law is a strange being indeed. Cold as a fish at first, she one day suddenly showed great interest in me, and even artificial warmth. It had started during our visit to the plantation, but now it was even worse. I suppose it is a result of the baby – everyone loves a baby, and no doubt the birth has encouraged her to accept me as a family member. But her lack of sensitivity is alarming. She interrupted my postal rounds by inviting me into her friend's home – she didn't give me a chance to refuse, and did not understand that I had no leisure time to sit around in a gallery drinking tea, and certainly no time for a chat.

I managed to break off the unnecessary delay by simply rising to my feet and leaving. It may have appeared rude but frankly at that juncture I didn't care. I should have been that firm right from the beginning, but she took me by surprise. In future, I swear, I shall be wary of this woman. She is unpredictable. I finished my rounds without further disruption, did some letter-sorting work in the afternoon and then in the evening returned home to my wife and child – the high point of my day.

For now, Mama has returned to Promised Land, and, to my relief, Yoyo went with her. I was glad of that. Every day on my rounds she has attempted to waylay me again but, forewarned, I have been able to avoid her. I never entered the Smythe-Collingsworth house again.

W
hen I hold
him in my arms the love I feel for that child sweeps through me like a hurricane. I have never known anything like it – different from my love for Winnie, it is; the love of a father is a protective love, infused with a sense that this scrap of humanity is more precious than diamonds; that nothing on earth can ever diffuse or dilute that love; that it can never grow stronger, for it is perfect from the first moment and onwards, perfect and full and fulfilling. In it is power, for in love is all the power of God, and it sweeps through every tiny particle of body and soul. Winnie and I were joined in that complete love. We needed no words; a glance, a smile, a touch told me that this was the consummation of all that had been before.

Humphrey's tiny left foot is twisted so that the sole turns sideways. It does not seem a serious disfiguration to me. Babies, after all, are not shaped like small adults. He is not a miniature man. Surely it will grow out?

But apparently not. Mama – as my mother-in-law insists I call her – swept him off to Dr van Sertima and now there is talk of treatment abroad – perhaps even as far away as Europe. I am strictly against it.

‘He will never be able to walk without a limp,' Mama said when she and Winnie came back from the doctor's. ‘Never run like other boys, and jump. He will not be invited to join the cricket team, if you do not operate.'

‘Well, maybe he will be a quiet boy, one who loves reading and – and postage stamps, like his grandfather! Not all boys like to play cricket.' I cradled him in my arms, rocked him to and fro, placed my finger on his palm. His little fingers closed around mine in a vice-like grip, and I smiled fondly.

‘He will have no friends, for the boys will tease him and make fun of him. He will be lonely and unhappy, for he will be left out. He will suffer!'

The thought of my boy suffering caused me to suffer. A lump rose in my throat, and I pulled him closer to me. I said nothing, for words stuck in my throat. Winnie, who had been in the kitchen preparing warm water for his bath, came into the gallery and stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders.

‘It is for him, George. For his future. I don't want to go at all, but it is the best thing to do.'

‘But – where will you take him? How long will you be gone?'

‘Dr van Sertima has taken some photographs of the foot and is writing a letter to a specialist in London. We must wait for a reply. There are good hospitals in London and Germany and Austria. I may have to go there.'

‘We cannot afford a trip to Europe, and to pay for expensive doctors!'

‘I will pay,' said Mama. ‘My grandfather died last year and left me a good deal of money. I can afford it. I will pay.'

‘I cannot accept'

‘We can accept, George. I didn't want to at first either, but the doctor and Mama have persuaded me otherwise. It is best for him. We want him to be healthy and happy, don't we?'

What could I say to that?

W
eeks passed
, and at last we had a reply. Yes, said Dr van Sertima's specialist friend, there were excellent doctors in Europe – but why travel all that distance?

‘Dr Garcia is one of the world's greatest surgeons in paediatric orthopaedic surgery,' said the letter, ‘and he is based in Caracas, Venezuela. Isn't that near to where you are? I have taken the liberty of sending your details, as well as the photographs, to Dr Garcia. I am sure he can help. You should be hearing from him shortly. Should you, on the other hand, insist on coming to London, I am willing to accept poor little Humphrey as a patient. I just thought it would spare you the trouble of a long sea journey.'

And so it was planned: Winnie and Humphrey shall go to Venezuela, and I must wait for them at home. They will stay for as long as is necessary. I don't know how I will bear it; but it is for Humphrey's sake, and so I must. Winnie's friend Kitty MacGonigal shall take over the running of Quintessentials.

Mama will go with them, see them settled, and then return. They are likely to stay several months. They will go when Humphrey is eight months old.

M
y baby became my world
, caring for his needs my mission in life. He filled me up, raised me up – just looking at him filled me with delight, and every task I did for him I did gladly, my limbs moved by love. It was, indeed, a delirium of love.

Yet I did not forget George. George felt exactly the same towards Humphrey, though his task of love was a different one: that of providing for us, that our little home be safe and secure. The annexe was now finished and Ma and Pa had moved into it, leaving the bigger bedroom for George and me. The bedroom we had once shared became my workroom, the place where I made my jellies and sauces and stored them. I now had less time for the making of them, and none for the delivery – but the income from sales was enough to employ Harold, the son of one of our neighbours, who made the deliveries for me.

My life was perfect, but it was not to be for long. Mama had made all the arrangements for the trip to Caracas, where Humphrey was to be treated by Dr Garcia. I know nothing about banking, but somehow she had arranged for money to be transferred from her bank in Salzburg to Dr Garcia's account, advance payment for the treatment – a lump sum, I was told, which included my board and lodging on hospital property. Everything was in place. Mama and I would move to Caracas in a few months' time; once I was settled, Mama would return to BG and I would stay for however long it took to get Humphrey's foot repaired. I knew it was an ongoing task – that he would be wearing a leg brace for years to come, and would always walk with a limp. But he would be a loved child, a healthy child, and that was what mattered.

Everyone loved Humphrey! He was a good-natured little chap, and though I suppose all mothers think that of their children, he had the sweetest baby-face I had ever seen. But I wasn't the only one to think that. My friends Kitty, Eliza and Tilly visited me frequently, and they all confirmed what I knew – that Humphrey was the sweetest baby alive.

I sensed, though, that George was unhappy. It started, really, the day before Mama and Yoyo were due to return to Promised Land. It was a Sunday, and they came round to say goodbye. Now Sunday is the one day George and I can be together the entire day, and I understand that he was irritated that he would have to share that one day with my relatives. But surely they are
his
relatives too? Surely he could welcome them, and share his son with his grandmother and aunt? But no. The evening before, sitting in the gallery enjoying the night air, we had a little quarrel – more of a lovers' spat, really.

‘I thought you liked Mama!'

‘I do. It's just…' He shook his head.

‘George! Don't turn away. If you like Mama… it's Yoyo you don't like, then?'

He hesitated just a fraction of a second too long before replying: ‘Yoyo…she'

‘You don't like her! George, how could you? I mean, I know she was rude to you at first, when we announced our engagement. But she has made such an effort. It's not easy for her, you know. She's still a part of English society and people might shun her just because of us. I mean,
I
don't care about being shunned but it's hard for Yoyo –
she
isn't the one who married you, after all. And you have to admit she has made an effort. She was so kind to you when we were at Promised Land, and the fact that she came to town to see Humphrey, it shows that she is now willing to accept us, accept you. You could be a bit kinder, and more forgiving.'

He said nothing and I know he was not listening. He had hardened his heart against her.

‘George, she's my sister! I love her. I want you to love her too – or at least, be friendly towards her, when she is making such an effort. I insist – they're coming, and I want you to be at home and agreeable to both.'

George again did not respond. He stood up, glass in hand, and walked out of the gallery. I would even say he stamped his feet a little while walking, like a petulant child. I sighed, and got up to follow him. But Ma, who had been sitting silently in her rocking chair all this time, grabbed my hand as I swept past. The gallery was so narrow – there was hardly room for the three of us to sit at ease. Pa was already in bed.

I looked down at Ma.

‘What's the matter?'

‘Don't nag him about that girl.'

‘About Yoyo? But she's my sister. I don't understand why he's so disagreeable towards her. And he refuses to talk about it!'

‘That girl is trouble.'

‘Oh, Ma! I know she isn't the friendliest person; I know she's a little bit snobbish, and she may have slighted you when she was here. But you must make allowances. She has never been in a cottage like this before, never set foot in Albouystown. She has never hobnobbed with our kind before. She'

‘Your mama also never knew people like we before. But she was all gracious and kind when she was here, and did not look down she nose at we.'

‘Yes, but Yoyo'

‘Yoyo think she better than we. She got malice in she heart.'

‘Malice? Oh Ma, what a horrible thing to say! I agree that Yoyo can be chilly and dismissive of others at times but she isn't malicious. You are doing her wrong. I promise that in her heart she's a good person, and would never do anyone any deliberate wrong. I
know
her!'

Ma sighed, and let go of my hand. ‘Winnie, you is too simple-hearted. You think everyone is like you. Is not true. One day you gon' see into the hearts of people and you gon' see the nasty things brewing there.'

That hurt me. Simple-hearted! As if that was all I was, after what I had been through! I had seen the evil nestling in my own father's heart, and had wrestled with my conscience, and won – how could she dismiss me as simple? And to be so suspicious about my Yoyo…

‘You have no right to call my sister nasty, Ma.' I said it with as much dignity as I could. ‘Yes, I
do
prefer to see the good in others. And what of it? I thought you were a Christian – going to church and praying for others. Yet you say such things. Is it because she is white? Well, remember how you were suspicious of
me
at first? How your suspicions meant you formed an undeserved bad opinion of me? Just because I am white? Well, this is
exactly
the same. Yoyo is my sister. I know it's your house and if you don't want her to come here I will let her know and I will meet her elsewhere. But I'

‘Let she come. I don't care. All I sayin' is, watch she like an eagle. Now go an' make up wit' George. Is not good for husban' an' wife to go to bed on a quarrel.'

I stood for a moment, looking down at her as she gently rocked in the chair, eyes closed now, humming gently to herself as if she had completely dismissed our conversation. I wanted to continue it, to convince her that she was wrong. But I thought the better of it. I could smell the sweet-acrid scent of the mosquito coil George had lit in our room, and I was anxious, as Ma had said, to make up with him. She was so right about not going to bed on a quarrel. What did it matter what she thought of Yoyo? In time she would change her opinion, as would George. I had to give them time. Yoyo would show them her true colours, all in her own time.

‘George!' I called. ‘I'm coming.' And I almost ran from the gallery, and plunged through the doorway and into his waiting arms.

‘I'm sorry,' he murmured into my hair. ‘Of course your sister can come tomorrow. I'll be friendly to her. I promise.'

‘I'm sorry too,' I said. ‘I was so horrible to you. I'm a horrible person.'

‘You, horrible!' George's voice held a smile. ‘You're too decent for your own good, Winnie. Your goodness shines in your eyes. But you need to be wary in this world.'

‘I know, George, I know. I am a bit naïve, sometimes. But I know Yoyo. I'm the closest person to her and I want us to be friends again. Give her a chance. Please! Isn't that what you preach? To see the best in everyone? To learn to love? Why not practise with Yoyo?'

‘I will. I promise.'

And so we closed the day in peace and harmony.

A
nd he kept his promise
. When Yoyo and Mama came the next day my George was the perfect host. He greeted them both warmly, and I was happy to see how amiable Yoyo had become. Her initial hostility towards him had vanished completely, and it was so rewarding to see that she now appreciated his qualities: his warmth, his kindness, his charm. And she responded in kind.

‘You will miss Winnie when she has gone to Venezuela,' she said. ‘You must come to Promised Land whenever you want. It is your home too.'

‘Unfortunately,' said George, ‘I will not be able to come very often. It's such a long journey – a day trip there, and a day trip back. I work six days a week and it is not easy to get a day off.'

‘Well then, I will have to come to Georgetown more often,' Yoyo replied. She turned to me.

‘Margaret is expecting her first child soon. You and she should get together. You can perhaps offer her some advice – it's time, Winnie, that you found your way back into society. You have been punished enough.'

Hearing such words from Yoyo was sheer music. My heart leapt in joy – but at the fact that she spoke them at all, not at the words themselves. For I had no intention of finding my way back into society. Marriage to George and life in Albouystown had altered me so much that I knew I could never again be a part of that world, with its affectations and vanities and its snobbishness. I had never much liked Margaret McInnes, and I doubted I would like Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth, much less make friends with her. I had become a different person in a matter of months, at home in my new surroundings and voluntarily isolated from the values I was reared with.

So who am I, exactly? Well, I am a work under construction, like a building whose blueprint is not quite finished in the architect's eye. A wife, a mother, in the first instance, those roles which provided me with the fountain of love that would form the foundation of the woman I would one day become. But they are just that – roles. Roles that every day teach me more about myself, my strengths, my weaknesses; roles that will help me to find my feet in the world I have adopted. And even Humphrey's problems, serious though they are, provide an opportunity for me to be strong, and decisive; it is as if skin after skin, layer after layer of the old me falls away even as the new me emerges from the dead skin of the old.

K
itty
, Eliza and Tilly have become my firm friends, even though since Humphrey's birth I see somewhat less of them. I like them, and enjoy their company, but, as George explained, as members of the in-between layer of society, wedged between the dark-skinned labouring class and the ruling upper class, they firmly strive upwards, and I can't get rid of the sense that at least part of their friendship is rooted more in where I come from than in who I am. They are all three single, and I can easily pick up their hints. They are hoping I might have access to some eligible white bachelors.

It is dispiriting, how much the colour of one's skin, the quality of one's hair, the thickness of lips and hair determines one's place in this society. The girls, as I think of them, speak quite openly of it. Eliza, for instance, spoke disparagingly of a young man who raised his hat to her after church.

‘With his Negro features, who does he think he is?' she sneered.

‘He's not very dark, though,' said Kitty. ‘And quite handsome. And he has a good job at the Hand-in-Hand Insurance Company.'

But Eliza shook her head. ‘No. Not for me.' She turned to me. ‘Winnie, dear – I'm thinking of throwing a big party for my twenty-first birthday. Don't you know some nice young men from the plantation – you know, from the senior staff, I mean – who might like to come?'

All three of them looked eagerly at me, and I knew at once that this one thing had been the reason for today's gathering. Eliza had asked me round for afternoon tea – not unusual in itself, but I had been surprised to see not only my other two friends but Eliza's mother and her aunt, hovering at the tea table and offering me a variety of cakes and pastries, wearing smiles that did not reach their eyes.