Authors: Caryl Phillips
Cambridge (22 page)
The shallow basin of rose-coloured water stood between them. Emily watched as again Mr McDonald dipped his hands. He allowed the water to run like lace through his fingers. Then he dried his hands purposefully on the silently proffered towel.
"Thank you, Stella.'
The light from the kerosene lamp caught Stella's eyes. Emily could see that they were opaque and distant. For this black woman a terrible ordeal was reaching its conclusion. The man dabbed at his brow and then he was finished. Stella retrieved the sodden and crumpled towel and withdrew herself to a far corner of the room. Mr McDonald eyed her lumbering gait. Then he turned back to face Emily.
'And when will you be returning to our country?'
'Our country?'
'England, of course.'
England. Emily smiled to herself. The doctor delivered the phrase as though this England was a dependable garment that one simply slipped into or out of according to one's whim. Did he not understand that people grow and change? Did he not understand that one day a discovery might be made that this country-garb is no longer of a correct measure? And what then?
It had been a bright clear morning when the doctor arrived. Stella had summoned him. To be more accurate, one of Stella's
people, under instruction from Stella, had hastily mounted a mule. He beat the poor exhausted animal the few miles into Baytown in order that he might inform Mr McDonald that Miss Emily's time had come. And so indeed it had, with contractions of monstrous proportions, and a fever that Stella tried to dowse with a dozen dampened cloths. But it was the heat that caused Emily the greatest suffering, the heat and the babbling voices of nature which saluted this day as any other. And then Mr McDonald broke into Emily's half-world of pain and numbness ('Please keep still and stop talking. Stop talking'), and his hands, his large clumsy hands, and Stella like a dark butterfly hovering, silently darting first this way and then that, obeying, concerned, and again Mr McDonald's hands.
It was a distraught Stella who carried the lifeless body of the child clear out of Hawthorn Cottage. It was Stella who rapidly committed the tiling to the ground. It was Stella. Darkness fell as she patted the last cake of earth onto the pitiful mound. Then she climbed to her weary legs. Through the unshuttered window Emily could discern the moonlit silhouette of her grief-stricken companion. How Stella had hoped for something they might share. Emily watched as the black woman dried her eyes on the hem of her flour-sack cloth skirt. Then she moved out of sight. Emily listened as Stella walked slowly to the stand-pipe and ran water into a shallow basin so that Mr McDonald, who had recently completed his auscultations and palpitations, might now wash and dry his hands. Emily dreamed of something that she might give Stella to replace that which had been lost. Something that the two of them might share. England?
'I expect I will soon return to England.' Emily paused. 'After all, it is my home.'
'Good, good. Of course.'
Mr McDonald seemed cheered by this news. He carefully pushed the shallow basin to one side with the outside of his polished boot. Then he draped himself about a rocker in the
self-satisfied manner of one whose laborious task has come to a successful conclusion.
'I daresay we might even find ourselves as travelling companions.'
Emily changed positions. She hoisted herself upwards by a few degrees. She could now see that the sky held the full shield of the moon, clean and white and pure. And then Stella emerged from the darkness and spirited away the basin.
'Travelling companions?'
Mr McDonald seized his opportunity.
'Your father's decision to sell up means that I find myself well advised to take my leave. I'm afraid that his plantation provides the bulk of my income. Never mind, I'll establish a small country practice, or some such thing. Nasty business a bad crop, especially now. But he should get a fair price for the blacks. Should be a few years before this emancipation thing takes a grip, if it ever does that is.'
Stella re-emerged from the shadows with a fresh pitcher of cold water. She poured some into a glass, noisily ringing the two vessels together. Mr McDonald watched but said nothing further until Stella had once again withdrawn. Emily set down the now empty glass on the bedside table-top. She dabbed at her mouth with a lace handkerchief. She felt weak and empty. Literally empty. She disliked the patronizing tone in the voice of the doctor, as though he had cured her of some terrible ailment.
'I take it you're not an emancipationist.'
Emily ran an idle hand through her hair.
'You may take it that I am not sure of what I am.'
The doctor laughed nervously.
'Your wit reminds me a little of old Wilson. Poor devil's been outdone again. But it's said that he'll stay on as a merchant of some sort. It's doubtful that he'll ever leave these parts. Strange fish.'
Emily lowered her eyes. The silence was peaceful. She no
longer cared for the presence of the doctor. Then, after some awkward creaking of the rocker, the doctor drew himself to his feet.
'I do hope my driver hasn't made off without me.'
Emily said nothing. Stella reappeared and handed the doctor his hat.
'I'm so terribly sorry, Miss Cartwright.'
Mr McDonald bowed sharply. Stella escorted him to the door and waited mere until neither she nor Emily could hear his carriage. The night was once more their own. Stella closed the door. Her tasks were complete. All that remained was for her to turn down the lamp and retire to her small room. This she would do, but not before placing her hand on the arm of Miss Emily and giving it a tender squeeze. Emily looked up at Stella. Goodnight my Stella. Goodnight Miss Emily.
Emily lay in bed. She gazed up at the unceiled roof. The dead of night. Stillness. Then she listened as a lizard played beneath her window, tireless, noisy, awkward. Snatches of remembered prayers andanted their way through her head. Emily caught and held one. In a high breathless tone she hurriedly recited it, dedicating the prayer to those, like herself, whose only journeys were uprootings. And now she recalled the day.
'It's doubtful that he'll ever leave these parts. Strange fish.'
Emily lowered her eyes. Something had merely sheltered in her body. She had felt a certain relief at expelling it, covered as it was with a greasy film. Mr McDonald moved her gently to one side and revealed the dark medal of blood which stained where she had lain. Stella had already rescued the carcass. She stood weeping behind the table upon which stood three squads of bottles containing fluids of the unlikeliest colours. Soon Stella would step outside and introduce the child to the earth. Emily would not answer Mr McDonald's gaze. His silence begged her to try and live bravely and put aside any desire to feel a child's mouth on her breast. Put aside any desire to feel a
kiss of undoubted devotion and dependence, unlike that of a man, a kiss which might cause a confident radiance to sear through her body. The slave-doctor looked her up and down with great economy of movement. Emily continued to ignore Mr McDonald. She watched the lamp, its orange flame, the clouds of smoke, the soot blackening the roof, and she sunk deeper into indifference, wrapping it around her like an old and friendly blanket. Unpleasant thoughts broke into Emily's bruised mind. They sought to further disfigure her memory. She turned away from Mr McDonald. Her body curled slowly into a protective foetal ball. She remembered her great thirst through pregnancy, her burning desire to taste the milk-stained breath of a child, and then . . . how was it possible for a whole life to vanish before it has begun? How could so much love and care be squandered on the production of a child who selfishly reaches the far side of life without travelling through this one? Like goods in a shop-window, Emily knew she was becoming faded by too many bright mornings. She lifted her hand from her forearm and noticed the light blue finger-bruising against her white skin where she had held herself tightly. Her body had worked spitefully against her, as her mind did now. Go away, Mr McDonald. Emily attempted to console herself with the hope that time would chill the channel of her emotions, and that eventually the incessant waterfall of memory would freeze solid at its source. And then there would be peace.
'I do hope my driver hasn't made off without me.'
Emily said nothing. Stella reappeared and handed the doctor his hat.
'I'm so terribly sorry, Miss Cartwright.'
Mr McDonald bowed sharply.
At the dead of night, Emily climbed from her bed. She stood naked before a mirror that was powdered with the light dust of neglect. She noted (with a resigned sigh) that the masonry had truly tumbled from all corners. She noted that beauty
was in the process of abandoning her, that the lined ruins of her face were telling her a story that did not please her. My God, I'm only . . . Emily had aged as pregnant women age. Her face and hips had broadened as one. Her lightness of step had gone as though her foot had been chopped off. Her body had become leaden, but her vision had begun to pulsate with a new and magical life, her mind had become a frieze of sharp stabbling colours. Love, love, love. You see, I'm not such a bad woman am I? Except love for him ran only a short distance. To the point where he was losing control. And freedom. She knew this now. And then it was turned off. And forgotten. A mistake. She fell over like a foal. Emily thought warmly of Stella. Without doubt their greatest virtue was their unswerving loyalty. Dear Papa, your negroes are a deep, oily black, with the occasional matt one dulled by the sun. Emily looked in the mirror at the reflected evidence of her full, idle breasts. They had dropped and now rested heavily against her chest. Below them her belly stood up proud, a house of life which had shamefully pitched out its tenant. Emily turned her head and laughed as she watched moths breaking their wings against the glass chimney of the lamp. Above the stridulation of the crickets she heard voices. She wondered about her child, who knew nobody. Now she must keep it company. Soon. And her travelling companion, Isabella. Poor, good Isabella. They were close, mother and daughter (almost), their words running and racing like rivers, locked together at one moment, the next parting into separate streams of consciousness, then coming together again in a great burst of happiness. Now suffering on the ship. The beads of sweat individually spaced on her brow. Fever began to disfigure her ivory flesh, and then life was snatched from her just when she thought joy might finally present itself in the form of adventure. Her eyes were open, the stare clear and unglazed. Do not (Isabella had reminded her) grow old in a place that is unkind to you. They were kind, they journeyed up the hill and brought her food.
Cassava bread and bush tea mixed with milk. The mistress.
Six months, six weeks, six days, it mattered little for her status
was secure. The mistress, she had a position, but they would
never learn to read and understand her strange moods. And
now fallen upon curious times, standing alone and listening
to the voices that disturbed the night. Papa, was he dead?
His endless pleas for her to return. To Thomas Lockwood?
Papa dead? No. Would she be forgiven for her indiscretion?
There was once a threat of impending arrival transported to
her by a sad Mr Wilson. He could not lift his eyes to meet
the glare in hers. Doomed. She laughed at him. He looked as
though he might shed tears. And men Mr Wilson rode off and
never came again to visit. And Papa's threat was never executed.
And now? Was the pleading at an end? I'm still here. Emily
gestured, palms upturned, eyebrows arched. Are there no ships
that might take me away? But take me away to what and to
whom? She giggled. A man strung up, mouth agape, tongue
protruding. Hercules. Cambridge. With his Bible. Murderer.
A slow chill rippled through her body. ('Please keep still and
stop talking. Stop talking.') To encourage the delicate head
of a child to lie peacefully in the shallow valley between her
fallen breasts. But not now. The head ballooning out of her
body into the earth. Emily squashed a mosquito against her
arm, brushed it to the floor, and wiped away the blood with
the back of her hand. Her autumnal eccentricities. Premature.
Turning the last corner of beauty. Stella claimed that the estate
would be sold off in small plots to free whites and mulattoes
(and negroes who could afford such things). Ah, thought
Emily. Ship? Useless thoughts fell quietly like over-ripe fruit
into freshly lain snow. Snow-white face, unseen snow, never
again. Emily. Miss Emily. Emily Cartwright. Emily. Emily.
Inside of me once. The little foreigner now no longer resident
in my womb. I speak and Isabella answers, and now silence.
Emily listened. In this small cottage she listened carefully but
heard nothing above the noises of the night. Quick, come quick,
death. Emily understood that the patient ones decentre quietly and with more beauty. I have been patient. Quick, come quick. Quick.
Emily stood before the mirror. And now sunrise. She knew that she must bear the weight of yet another day. She knew that she must endure the undignified melee of dawn. She knew that, in all likelihood, she would have to witness the dying of the sun come dusk. She understood this. The fragrance of poinsettia came wafting into the room in small eddies that caused the light in the lamp to dance in tune to the scent. She remembered. Journeying up the hill to Hawthorn Cottage. With her friend. Stella. Dear Stella.