The Sugar Planter's Daughter (16 page)

T
hey arrived late
; I think the girls had almost given up hope. But then the bell by the door chimed one more time, and Eliza's face lit up and she rushed to the door. Once there she stopped, brushed her hands over her hair, straightened her skirts, glanced back at us all and swept open the door. The three fellows marched in, hats in hand. A collective signal swept through the room, emitted by the ladies. Eliza had chosen her guests carefully; she had planned the party entirely around these three male guests of honour. There were about twenty guests in all – men and women; but the only single women were my three young marriage-hungry friends. All the other women were there with their husbands. Perhaps this observation of mine is a bit mean: perhaps Eliza's only
single friends
were
Tilly and Kitty. But I rather thought not. There were one or two single men: Kitty's brother Harold and a friend, whose name I've forgotten. But it was strikingly obvious that these newcomers would have a limited choice of female company.

‘How wonderful of you to come!' Eliza managed to say with great charm and dignity. I knew that she was excited beyond words, but from her demeanour one would think she did this every day – hobnobbed with highly eligible young white men. And these young men were indeed catches. Andrew, Emily's elder brother, was a lawyer, just returned from his studies in England. Once upon a time Emily's mother had hoped to see him married to me, but George had put an end to that plan. Now here he was, a handsome young man just starting out on his promising career. Further enhancing his appeal, he was handsome, the best-looking of the three.

Emily, quickly scanning the three newcomers, must have taken note of this, for she chose Andrew to hook by the elbow – casually, again as if she did this every day – and lead over to our little group. George and I were seated with Kitty and Tilly in gallery chairs, glasses of mauby in our hands. George had been reluctant to come at first, and had been extremely reticent at the start of the party, but my three enchanting friends had managed to penetrate his reserve and now he was entirely relaxed and chatting with us all with his usual easy charm. I was proud of him.

Eliza tonight was simply beautiful. She wore a lovely dress of pale mauve satin that exposed her exquisitely bronzed shoulders just enough, and displayed her slim waist and full bosom to great advantage. Her face was alight with natural joy; her eyes shone, her face glowed, and when she smiled her teeth gleamed white in perfect contrast to the smooth brown of her skin. Her hair was coiffed into an elaborate style involving plaits and ribbons. She was without doubt the most striking female at the gathering, which was entirely fitting, it being her party.

It was obvious from the start that Andrew was not at all oblivious to all these charms. Though he greeted me politely – we were, of course, old friends – and made an effort on introduction to Tilly, Kitty and George, during the ensuing conversation his eyes returned again and again to Eliza. As did those of his two friends. And I realised then and there: Eliza, too, was a catch, and all that she had lacked to date was the opportunity to meet a man of higher standing. Though it hurts me to use such vocabulary, I must be honest: in the mating game, a good man can be the turning point in a woman's life. Eliza, being beautiful, was in high demand, and could take her choice; but she had held out for an opportunity like this one, and her success was immediate. We had all seen it: that spark of mutual frisson that leapt between her and Andrew. These two were meant for one another, and to have played a part in their meeting filled me with great satisfaction.

The other two chaps tried their best. They talked about cars – one of them was importing one from Britain – and cricket – the other was in the national team. The girls were suitably impressed, and gasped and giggled at the appropriate places in conversation. Both were relieved not to be in England right now, ‘considering that there's going to be a war.'

‘We'd probably both be killed, and what good would that be to anyone?'

‘It's true then?' asked Tilly politely. ‘There's going to be a war in Europe?'

We all read the papers and followed the goings-on in Europe – but it was all so far away, and those of us born and bred in BG with no family ties at all to Britain felt it was really not our business; that we were lucky to be an ocean away. But these young men were English through and through; they may also have been born and bred here, but their lives were nevertheless rooted in that small island on the other side of the ocean. They had uncles, grandparents, sisters, aunts, cousins over there. That was the great difference between them and us. The war, to them, was the news of the day. They were involved, as we weren't.

‘Oh yes, there'll be a war all right!' said one of them.

‘But without us,' said the other.

‘Just a little scrap, most likely. A little tussle.'

The other disagreed. He thought it was going to be huge, with all the countries in Europe at each other's necks, and possibly America joining in as well. They argued for some time. Tilly and Kitty yawned, and not too discreetly, but the men didn't notice, so intent were they on their war talk. Andrew leaned forward to whisper in Eliza's ear and she giggled, her hand over her mouth. A few moments later the two of them stood up and excused themselves to go off to chat on their own in a far corner of the gallery. That seemed to snap the two other fellows to attention. They brazenly looked at their watches and declared they had to go. Tilly looked disappointed; Kitty relieved. But we were all happy for Eliza. It was her birthday, and she deserved the best.

Just a month later Eliza and Andrew announced their engagement. According to Emily – whom I now saw regularly – this prompted no end of spiteful talk among the ladies of high society. How dare Andrew – one of the most eligible bachelors in town – choose a coloured girl over them!

‘But who cares!' said Emily to me. ‘I think she's delightful, and they're so in love. Doesn't everyone love a bit of romance? And now I have a sister, and a new friend. Life is good.'

‘My good deed of the month,' I said. ‘And now it's off to Caracas.'

I
missed them so much
, but it was all for the best. Winnie wrote to me every day, and sent me long letters like diaries once a week, documenting Humphrey's treatment every step of the way. She was pleased with the way it was all going. And as happy as she could be under the circumstances. Once her mother had seen her settled, she returned to Promised Land; Winnie was invited to stay at the home of one of the nurses who were looking after Humph, and she enthused over Gabriella's kindness and the warmth of her family. She was learning Spanish; she was learning about life. She wrote me all sorts of things.

Once Winnie had written to me that she was expecting another child I became almost delirious with loneliness. I longed to hold her in my arms, stroke her belly, cuddle Humph and talk and talk and talk about our future. Our daughter! What would we call her? Automatically my mind began to go through lists of girls' names. I thought a flower name would be lovely: Rose, Marigold, Daisy… but when I wrote to Winnie with my suggestions she immediately dismissed them.

I had to agree with Winnie – Gabriella was indeed a lovely name; and so it was settled. ‘Gabriella Rose!' I wrote back, and Winnie agreed. Our daughter – if the baby was indeed a daughter – already had a name. She was almost a real person! I loved her already.

The one thing I worried about was the size of our cottage. Ma and Pa were doing well in the annexe, but we only had the two bedrooms in the main part of the building. My two sisters and I had all grown up squeezed together, and I knew it could be awkward, girls and boys sharing a room. Of course it doesn't matter when they are small, but later on it would have been better to separate us. I know that thinking this way is getting above my station – after all, who else in Albouystown has the luxury of separate bedrooms for girls and boys! But I am ambitious for Winnie's sake. She deserves better. She deserves a proper house with a lovely garden, and enough rooms and a big kitchen and even a balcony. I have the ambition to offer this to her.

I have not told her yet, but I have applied for the position of telegraph clerk. They are expanding the department and a new post has been advertised. I am certain I can get it – and then there will be a raise in salary. It comes with training – but of course I don't need much training! I taught myself the Morse code, I built my own Morse machines when I was younger. Morse is my second language! I know that there will be applicants from young men of good families, but surely none of them will be as qualified as I am? Their fathers will pull strings, no doubt, and utilise connections – but I am determined to win this position through talent alone. I have sent in my application. And I made it original – after the usual details as to my education and work history, I rewrote everything – in Morse. Just so they know what I am capable of.

Even if I get the job, it will still be a long time before we can afford a new house. But already I am dreaming. As I ride through town on my bicycle I look at the nicer homes – not the Main Street mansions of course; I do know my limits – and imagine Winnie living in one of them, our children playing in the garden. Winnie at the window, waving to me as I wheel my bicycle through the gate, home from work in my white shirt and tie. No more postman's uniform for me! A boy and a girl leaping at me as I walk up the stairs, calling out ‘Papa! Papa! Papa!' And Winnie with a baby in her arms, smiling for me as I walk through the door, falling into my embrace. I am determined to make this happen.

But that is in the far distant future. The telegraph job is to start on the first of January. I still have December, and the dreadful Christmas season, to endure. Not that the Christmas season is dreadful in itself, but it will be dreadful without Winnie. But most of all, it will be dreadful because I must spend it at Promised Land. Yes – I dread Christmas week as I have dreaded nothing in my life. My instinct tells me nothing good can come of it. But Winnie insists, and I have promised her I will go.

Christmas and Boxing Day, both public holidays, happen to fall on a Friday and Saturday, so I have only taken one unpaid day's holiday on the Thursday, Christmas Eve, for travelling up, and will return home on Sunday. That is ordeal enough.

I
was called
for an interview in mid-November. Interviewing me was the head of the telegraph department, Mr Talbot, a white man, though I would call him more ruddy than white. He possessed a large white handkerchief, with which he kept wiping the sweat from his face – he did seem to have a lot of it. Some of the English never adjust to our climate, and I wondered what kept them here. However, Mr Talbot didn't give me much time to wonder, for he plunged right into the core of the matter.

‘I liked what you did,' he said. ‘Wrote out the whole application in dits and dots. Original thinking, that! Your application stood out from the rest – shows initiative. You say you taught yourself Morse?'

‘Yes, sir!' I said, ‘and I built myself a Morse machine – I've brought it along – here it is.' I plunged my hand into the cloth bag I had brought with me and removed the little wooden apparatus I had made myself, at the age of nineteen. It was a primitive thing, of course, consisting of levers and springs I had salvaged from various discarded machines and things, with a small wooden base. But it worked, and I was immensely proud of it. I placed it on the table and tapped out a quick SOS.

Mr Talbot leaned forward and took my machine in his hands, turned it round, tapped out a few words himself.

‘My goodness!' he said. ‘I would say this is almost a work of genius, for a young man of limited means. You say you made this all by yourself? How did you…'

‘Well, I was at Queen's College and we were learning about telegraphy and we had a picture of a real Morse key, and so I just – well, I just figured it out myself. And then I kept practising and practising until I could send messages with my eyes shut. Look!'

I shut my eyes then, and tapped out a quick message:

PLEASE GIVE ME THE JOB STOP I AM THE MAN YOU ARE LOOKING FOR STOP

Mr Talbot threw back his head and roared with laughter.

‘Well, Mr Quint, you have certainly made an impression – I like you! We do have a few more applicants to interview – the job is in demand – but if it were up to me… well, it's not my decision to make. I have to consult with the board. We will let you know in a week or two.'

My heart sank to my shoes. I knew what those words meant. There were bound to be a few coloured middle class chaps who had applied, and even English chaps whose fathers knew how to pull strings. I knew I had won over Mr Talbot himself, but what about this mysterious board? Why would they accept me, a humble postman? I had walked in to that office with my head high, confident and smiling. I walked out with a slump. I knew what would happen. It was hard for a fellow of my standing and my colour to rise up in the world.

A
nd yet
, just as Mr Talbot had said, a week later an official-looking letter arrived. I tore open the envelope and scanned the single page, and at the very first words my heart leapt up to the heavens:
We are delighted to inform you that…
It was signed by Mr Talbot. Somehow, he had won over the board, and around town there would be several coloured middle class and maybe even one or two English boys wondering what had happened, and why the strings they had pulled had snapped. The job was mine! I hastened to write to Winnie with the good news. This would mean a significant rise in salary – we could start saving for a new house. A home of our very own. Now there was just the ordeal of Christmas to put behind me.

I
should have trusted
my instincts, which had told me quite clearly that Christmas at Promised Land would be a mistake. That instinct was confirmed almost the moment I walked in the door. Yes, it was true that Yoyo's attitude towards me had changed enormously in the past year – ever since our last visit, before Humph's birth, in fact – but this time she was practically fawning over me. I was not the only house-guest – her friend Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth and her husband had been invited for the week – but I was the only one treated as if I were guest of honour. It was downright embarrassing, her
George Darling
this, and
Darling George
that. I wanted to tell her to stop – but how, without making an ass of myself, and earning not only a rebuke but perhaps even a tantrum? Everyone knew that to upset Yoyo, to contravene her plans or contradict her in any way, was to play with fire. And anyway, I had promised Winnie to do my best. To be nice. And so I acquiesced, accepted her graciousness with an awkward smile and walked directly into her trap.

She showed me up to my room herself. This was properly the task of a servant but no, Yoyo had to take my hand and lead, almost drag, me up the stairs. I threw my mother-in-law a desperate glance over my shoulder – a call for help – but she only shrugged and made a gesture of helplessness with her hands.