The Sugar Planter's Daughter (12 page)

W
innie is so
unlike her sister. I was not happy during our visit to Promised Land plantation. At first Yoyo ignored me completely, and then she started to stare at me. At first I thought it was just my imagination, but after a while I couldn't help but notice it. Her eyes seemed always settled on me. And not in a friendly way. In a calculating way. Once, during dinner, she smiled – it was during the conversation on music, which I was trying hard, but unsuccessfully, to follow. Winnie and her mother know a different kind of music to mine – my little banjo and the simple folk songs I sing can hardly compare with the great music of Europe – and so I perked my ears hoping to educate myself, and that was the first time our eyes met.

She gave me that smile so full of disdain. She has always disdained me. The very first time we met – I remember so well, since it was the day I met Winnie – it was Yoyo who told me to go to the back door to deliver my letter. It wasn't so much her words but her voice – all high and mighty.

We met again, later, at the post office and she seemed less haughty, perhaps because I demonstrated the sending of telegrams, which seemed to fascinate her.

But the moment she learned that her sister wanted to marry me she turned to ice. I could not be colder at the North Pole than in Yoyo's company. It was as if I did not even exist. I would have preferred downright hostility to such frigidity. And now, suddenly, this change.

While we listened to the musicians after dinner Yoyo fixed her gaze on me and left it there. As we were sitting on opposite sides of the piano, it might have appeared that she was watching her mother, but I knew better. Those eyes rested on me, and it made me squirm. I tried not to look back at her – I kept my own gaze on my mother-in-law – but how could I not see past to that stony face with its rigid gaze? What was going on behind that unmoving countenance? What was that clever brain thinking? What did she have in mind? Right then and there I decided to avoid Yoyo in future, and for the rest of that trip I did. It was with great relief that Winnie and I got into the car the next day for our return to Georgetown.

B
ut the unpleasantness
with Yoyo could not in any way cloud my joy at the prospect of becoming a father. I could almost leap for joy! My love for Winnie increased a hundredfold. I wanted to wrap my arms round her and protect her from every little mishap. When she was ill I rushed to fetch the basin and hold it for her. When she had been on her feet too long I encouraged her to lie down. When she frowned, I worried.

She stopped going on her rounds, collecting fruit and peppers, and I was thankful for that – but could she not stop cooking, as well, and just rest? No. My Winnie continued to make her guava jelly and pepper sauce, and would not take a rest.

‘I'm not a delicate flower!' she laughed, pouring the steaming sauce into a jar.

‘I know – but be careful! Don't burn yourself! Let me help you!'

But she would not let me. She shooed me out of the kitchen, telling me that I was making a nuisance of myself, and maybe I was. But I felt so helpless! Nature is unkind to fathers – there is nothing we can contribute while the woman is gestating; we can only watch and worry, and wonder and worship. It seemed such a miracle, such an impossibility! A small human being, growing in my wife's body! Yes, it happens a million times each day, all over the world, since the beginning of human history; and yet each time it is still a miracle, and I lived in a daze of wonder and amazement that this miracle should be happening to us. I felt so grateful, so privileged. I thanked God every day, and prayed for a safe delivery and a healthy child.

I had kept my resolve to retreat from politics. Now that I was to become a father this was even more necessary – I would need to provide for my little family, and could not afford to be arrested, as so many of our brothers were. Thrown into prison, and left to languish, for no other reason than stirring up trouble. I attended the occasional Saturday meeting, but only as an observer; and more and more the risk to the speakers became plain. Once, the meeting was broken up by the mounted police, and the speakers escaped arrest by only a hair's breadth.

The reasons I had retired from public speaking – and singing – were manifold and complex, and cowardice played no part. It was just that I felt a different stirring, a different calling in my heart. Yes, I wanted the equality of all races and justice for the oppressed of the factories and fields. Yes, my blood boiled at the treatment of sugar labourers and factory workers. Yes, rage still boiled in my heart when I remembered my friend Bhim, who had fought for our rights only to be mowed down by no lesser man than Winnie's own father. And yes, I had a gift for speaking, and for singing. Charisma, some people called it. But something had changed, and I didn't fully understand it.

Something I had been aware of for some time while I was still Theo X, the revolutionary. I was supposed to stir the crowds, and I did, but not in the way I was supposed to.

I only know that whenever I opened my mouth, it was not words of rage that emerged, but words of peace. No matter how much I tried, I could not whip the crowds into the frenzy needed for revolution. That was why I had given up Theo X. I was no longer that man of revolution. It was as if another being took hold of me and I spoke to individual hearts rather than to crowds; and there was nothing in the world I could do to stop it. And now, as simple George, people still loved my words, whether they were spoken or sung, and called for me to speak and sing to them. And over the months I found myself speaking at smaller gatherings all over town, invited into the homes of those who knew of my identity; and I spoke to them, and I sang.

This went on for some time. I didn't want to go, but I couldn't refuse. People called me, and I went. How can you not go, if you are called? But then came the night when all this came to an end.

‘
G
eorge
! George, wake up! Something's happening'

For a moment I was dazed, but only a moment. I shot up in bed.

‘Winnie! What's happening? Is it the baby?'

‘Yes, George, yes! Everything's wet! The whole bed! My waters have broken!'

I didn't know what that meant, waters breaking. But it sounded dangerous. Anything breaking sounds dangerous.

‘What shall I do?'

‘Go, George, fetch Dr van Sertima!'

‘But – but Winnie, he said to bring you to the clinic! He never said…'

Dr van Sertima was a fancy white doctor. How could I bring him here, to Albouystown? Would he even come? But how could I get Winnie to the clinic?

‘Winnie – it's too early! The baby's due next month!'

The panic rose as bile in my gorge. It felt like the end of the world.

‘Oh George, you're hopeless. Fetch Ma!'

Ma appeared at the door and she took matters in hand. She sent me to get Aunty Deirdre from Lime Street. Everyone in Albouystown knew Aunty Deirdre. Aunty Deirdre brought half of us into the world. She brought me into the world. I pedalled frantically through the streets till I came to her house and I hammered at her door, yelling for her to come.

She was there in a trice. She stood there glaring at me.

‘Oh – is fancy boy George Quint. Wha' goin' on?'

‘Winnie – Winnie! Her baby's coming! It's too early! Come, please come!'

‘Oho! I thought you had a fancy white doctor?'

‘It's Sunday – night-time! He said to bring her to hospital! How to get her to hospital this time of night? Please come, Aunty Deirdre.'

‘I not good enough for the likes of you.'

I was in tears by now.

‘Aunty Deirdre! Is one month too early. She gon' die, and the baby gon' die!'

‘No white lady gon' want me fumblin' in she pumpum.'

I wept. I sank to my knees and buried my face in her nightie.

‘Please, Aunty Deirdre! Please!'

Seeing me on my knees seemed to break something in her, because from that moment on she was all speed and business.

‘George, go back home immediately and start to boil some hot water. I need clean towels – you have? Sheets? I'll be right behind you.'

And she was. I sped home and put the water on to boil and she was there at the door and then she was in the bedroom with Winnie and Mama and there was I, walking up and down the little passage outside biting my nails and pulling out what little hair I had. Winnie's moans and groans were as loud as if I were in the room, because there was no ceiling, and I longed to rush in and hold her hand but this was women's business and all I could do was pace the corridor and bite my nails and pull out my hair. And I prayed. Oh how I prayed!

‘Oh Lord don't let her die. Please don't let her die. Please save her and the baby. I will do anything for you Lord, anything, just save her life!'

I prayed aloud, begging God, pleading with him. Winnie let out a blood-curdling scream and I fell to my knees, and prostrated myself, and begged again. It was as if my whole being was just that, a plea for her life.

And then I fell silent, and a great peace descended on me, and I sat back on my heels and held my hands on my knees with the palms upwards and the serenity that washed through me was more than I could bear. And all in me was silence. And in that silence I felt it.

And I knew in that moment that all was well. I knew it right down to my bones. I knew it in my blood and in my being – a sense of deepest peace flooding through every inch of my body and soul. And then the wail of a newborn child split the air and I wept once more, tears of relief and gratitude and love and dedication and promise. I knelt there weeping for several minutes and then I got up and knocked at the door.

‘Can I come in?' I called.

‘Just a minute – wait!' they called back.

And then Winnie's panicked cry: ‘What's wrong? What's wrong with my baby?'

I could wait no more. I pressed the handle and flew through the door into the room.

Winnie was sitting up in bed, her hair dishevelled, her arms stretched out to the women in the corner, her face distorted by an agony that leapt right into my heart, banishing my new-found peace. Aunty Deirdre and Ma were standing aside, holding a bundle and whispering together. They turned round at my anguished cry.

‘What's wrong? Give me the baby! What's wrong with the baby?'

Aunty Deirdre smiled, but it was a false smile. She walked towards me, holding the bundle, holding it out towards me.

‘Your son, George. He's fine – a lovely healthy boy!'

I held out my hands for the bundle and she placed it in my arms and I looked down into the most beautiful face I had ever seen and my heart broke for the umpteenth time that night, and I fell in love for the second time in my life. A love like a hurricane, it was, sweeping through me and blowing away every fear and every doubt I had harboured.

‘Why, he's perfect!' I said.

‘Give him to me! Give me!'

Winnie was struggling to get out of bed, so I turned and held out the baby to her and placed him in her outstretched arms.

‘It's all right, darling – he's fine! He's perfect!' I spoke soothingly, because she was so upset. I couldn't imagine what the problem had been but it was cast aside – our boy was wonderful, a little miracle.

‘No – something's wrong! I know it! I just know it!'

She placed him on the bed before her and was busy unwrapping the blanket he was swaddled in. At last he lay there naked.

‘Oh!' she gasped, and I stepped forward to look.

Aunty Deirdre stepped away to make room for me, and Ma sat down on the bed behind Winnie and stroked her back.

‘He got a clubfoot,' said Aunty Deirdre. ‘But apart from that he perfect! Congratulations, Miss Winnie, George – y'all got a son!'

I
t was
as I had feared all along – Winnie gave birth to a son. Not that a son was any danger to me – though he was Papa's first grandson, Clarence was still the anointed heir and our son would be next in line. It was all there in writing – I had now checked it. Clarence's father and Papa had it all worked out. What worried me was that we might never have a son at all, the way Clarence was behaving. I had so hoped Winnie's child would be a girl.

The business of reproduction is horribly frustrating. One has no control whatsoever over the results. As a woman who likes every detail planned out in advance, I was pulled by this complete lack of power into a condition of emotional disorder that I did my best to hide, for it threatens my authority to be revealed as mentally weak. And authority was the one thing I could not lose. What in heaven's name was wrong with Clarence? Why couldn't he do his duty, as any man does with the greatest of ease? I let him know of my displeasure in no veiled terms, but my anger only seemed to aggravate the situation.

And so, while feigning joy at the birth of my nephew, I inwardly seethed. Winnie had sent a telegram bearing the good news: SON BORN HEALTHY STOP ALL DELIGHTED STOP. Mama was sickeningly elated at the dinner table, and Clarence smirked. He really did. It was as if he knew my ‘Oh, how lovely!' was false; as if he took actual pleasure in denying me exactly that which Winnie now had, through no effort of her own. This is what happens when one marries a man who is not a real man.

Mama's pleasure overflowed – it was sickening!

‘I shall go down to Georgetown tomorrow!' she declared. ‘He's come three weeks early, so I haven't finished embroidering that last little jacket, but it's no matter – it's a size too big for him anyway, but he'll grow into it – all the tiniest garments are finished and waiting. I can't wait to see him! I do wish I had been there with them, but as we weren't expecting the birth yet…'

On and on she gushed. You would think this was the first child ever born on the face of the earth. I nodded and smiled, and finally managed to get a word in, but unfortunately I spoiled it all with my second sentence.

‘How delightful,' I murmured. ‘But what a pity he is a half-caste.'

‘What? What did you say?' Mama turned to me, and she was no longer smiling.

‘Oh, nothing,' I said, giving her my most gracious smile. ‘Just that I'm delighted. Clarence, would you pass the potatoes, please?'

‘Johanna, I heard what you said. There's always been a strain of spite in your nature. You might want to curb it. The child may be a half-caste, as you say, but he is as much valued and as loved as any white child that might be born into this family. Including your own, I might add, which seem to be taking their own good time.'

I looked up at her in fury. It wasn't like Mama to make such sarcastic digs.

‘It's not my fault I don't have a child!' I cried. I pointed to Clarence. ‘Ask him!'

Clarence merely bowed his head and pushed another fork of food into his mouth. He wasn't even capable of admitting his own ineptitude. I suppose it
was
rather too intimate a subject for the dinner table, but really. He might have spoken up for me in some way.

‘This is not about you, Johanna. It's about your disrespect towards Winnie's son. I want you to know that in no way is he to be treated as a lowly half-caste. As you put it.'

‘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.