The Sugar Planter's Daughter (23 page)

‘Where are the boys?'

Usually by this time the boys would be climbing all over me, screaming
daddydaddydaddy,
grabbing my hands,
pulling me in four different directions. Today the house was quiet. No boys, no screaming babies.

‘Oh George, I told you this morning! Don't shake your head – I did remind you. The big boys are with the Barrows and the babies are with Ma – she's taken them to a neighbour so they'll be out of our way. Now here's a towel – hurry up and bathe.'

She thrust a towel at me and I did as I was told. The bathroom was in the backyard – how Winnie would rejoice at the new house and its indoor plumbing! – and I took my time, washing off the sweat and the grime of the day under the cool spray, lathering the soap into a fragrant foam. I took my time – Winnie's vexation was shallow, that I knew, and there was still plenty of time. My happiness had returned. I thought of the house that was to be, and how delighted she would be when at last I broke the news. I closed my eyes and held my face up to the shower head, letting the water wash away the suds from my face. A silent prayer rose in my heart:
Thank you, Lord. Oh thank you thank you thank you.

By the time I was bathed and dry, and back in the house with the towel wrapped round my hips, Winnie was dressed and Aunty Dolly had arrived to prepare Winnie's face and hair. Aunty Dolly had once worked for an elegant English lady and knew all about fixing the hair of white women.

There was plenty of time. It was a mystery why Winnie had been so frantic at my lateness. If only I could have told her the true reason! I dressed, poured myself a glass of lime juice from the jug and settled down in the gallery with today's newspaper. I read the news and then picked up a pencil to do the crossword. I could hear Winnie and Aunty Dolly discussing hair styles and lipstick colours over the partition walls to the bedrooms. I smiled to myself at some of the conversation.

‘That belly nice and round! And low! Is another boy, I tellin' yuh, Miss Winnie!'

I could hear Winnie's confident smile in her response.

‘Don't tease me, Aunty. You know as well as I do that
this
time it's a girl!'

‘Don't count you chickens before they hatch. Is not good to get too cocky about the tings we want. When we get too cocky the Lord does step in to make we humble again. Dorothy daughter was seven months gone and she start to bleed and lose the pickney. Better not to'

‘Oh, Aunty, don't say things like that, please! You scare me!'

‘All right darlin'. Sorry. But you'se a strong woman. A good strong woman, and you done had five babies already with not a problem. Everything gon' be all right. Here, take the mirror and see if it all right at the back.'

‘Oh Aunty, it's beautiful. Thank you so much! I must show George. George! George, come!'

I sprang to my feet and hastened to the bedroom. I stood in the threshold, speechless with wonder. Aunty Dolly had worked magic on my wife. She stood there in her glistening green dress, looking like a queen, radiant, exquisite, utterly and completely glorious. Her lips, stained a subtle pink, bowed in a smile and her eyes were like jewels. I wanted to rush forward and take her in my arms. Instead I only gaped. She would surely be the most beautiful woman at the party tonight – and that despite, or maybe because of, the beautiful protruding roundness of her belly. I could hardly believe that this was my wife. I was the luckiest man in the world.

Little did I know that I was just about to ruin everything.

T
he coach came
and it was time to go. All of my worries had flown by this time; I was proud, so proud of my beautiful wife, proud of escorting her to the ball; tonight she was my queen, and I was in a fairytale, and it had all come true. I had married the princess. What had I done to deserve such luck? My misgivings at attending this white-people party had all fled; in the coach Winnie and I laughed and cuddled and flirted and then I placed my hands on the tight round swell of her belly and closed my eyes and she was still and it was the most perfect moment of my life; the three of us, Winnie and me and the soul of our unborn child united in a place where there were no bodies separating us, just a single blissful soul.

The Stewarts lived in Kingston, near the sea. Once Winnie and I had bought our property and built our house we would be just a stone's throw from them – walking distance. I had met Andrew once before, and of course I knew Eliza. They were good people, kind, like us a mixed-race couple, though reversed. Of course, it was much easier when the man was white and chose a coloured woman as his spouse. There would never be the accusation of
him
rising above
his
station; instead, he had lifted
her
up. Eliza would never have to face the revulsion and rejection Winnie had; by dint of her husband's skin colour, she would slowly but surely find her place in a higher echelon of society. It is the man who determines the woman's position. Andrew lifted Eliza up; I dragged Winnie down.

But all that was going to change. I realised now how selfish I had been refusing to socialise with these higher-positioned folk. Yes, their acceptance of me was hesitant and probably in some cases grudging: but if it was my aim to lift Winnie out of the squalor of Albouystown then I must accept the condescension that would inevitably accompany her movement upwards. And I do accept it. Tonight is the beginning.

L
ooking back
on the events of that terrible night I can only say I was living in a fool's paradise, lost in wishful thinking that blinded me to the stark reality of who I was and where I stood. There is something in me that perhaps will always be lowly; something in me that knows my position and will always bow when the white man – or woman – passes by. That will always be in thrall to the command of a white voice. That will
come
when a white finger beckons. It is ingrained in me; it flows in my blood; the child in a slave-mother's womb feels her fear and absorbs it into his soul; and that fear is passed along from generation to generation.

But that night I thought no deep thoughts. I knew only pride as I stepped into that drawing room, Winnie on my arm; and that pride swelled yet more as heads turned and conversation hushed and faces lit up in admiration.

Eliza rushed forward, arms held out.

‘Winnie! You came! Naughty girl, you're ten minutes late and I was beginning to worry. And George! Welcome, welcome. I'm so glad you made it!'

Then Andrew too, came forward, hand held out for mine, and smiling. He led us to the group of people standing at the back of the room and introduced them, one by one, and I could see right here how the rigid lines were softening. At least half of the guests were of mixed blood – mostly women, admittedly, and I was the darkest of them all – and as they all, every one of them, welcomed me with genuine warmth the last of my inhibitions fled. Georgetown society was changing. Could it be that one day there would be nothing remarkable in a mixed-race marriage? What a joyous time that would be!

Andrew looked at his watch. ‘Four more guests to come, and then we'll move to the dining room,' he said, and turned to Winnie. ‘Why, you know one of the guests, from back in the day. Remember how we all used to play together? Margaret McInnes, and her new husband, Jeremy Smythe-Collingsworth – I ran into them at a friend's house this week, and invited them on the spur of the moment. She asked if she could bring a friend along – she has a house-guest. I've no idea who it is, but'

At just that moment the doorbell rang. The housegirl opened it, and in swanned Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth, followed by her husband and…

Yoyo had always known how to make an entrance and she did it now. She swept in, all wide flouncing skirts of rustling red satin, cast her cold dead eyes around the room, and, the moment they lit on Winnie, she strode forward with the smile of an imposter painted on her face.

‘Winnie! How lovely to see you here! I haven't seen you – why, in donkey's years! And George! Dear George! What a surprise!'

In that moment I knew that this had all been planned. Rage rose within me – although against whom I did not know. Had Winnie planned it? No, that couldn't be. The anxiety with which she looked at me, the embarrassment in her stuttered response, the pain in her eyes – no, Winnie would never be party to such a trick.

Eliza? But she too looked flustered and abashed, as if she knew that something was wrong; that Yoyo and I are not supposed to be in the same room – ever. Nobody does know why as far as I'm concerned; except, of course, for Uncle Jim, and Yoyo herself. Had Yoyo told others? Surely not – surely she would not spread a scandalous tale that painted her in a bad light! But with Yoyo you never knew. Quite possibly she had told Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth . Yes, I was sure she had. That smug smile, that fevered excitement in Margaret's eyes as I glanced at her told me everything. She knew. This was planned. In that moment I knew that I was the prey tonight. Yoyo was out for revenge. What's that they say about a woman scorned?

I
had sworn
to myself never to set eyes on that woman again. Never to speak to her. Never to look again into those calculating ice-blue eyes. But she had other plans. She planted herself right in front of me and said, in that false, high-pitched voice of hers, ‘Well,
hello,
George! We meet again!'

What could I do but smile? I avoided her eyes but still I felt the frozen dagger of her glare. I turned and walked away, and she cackled behind me. Glacial talons closed around my soul. If what we fear and what we loathe is what holds us bound – well, Yoyo was about to prove it. It was as if I had, right then, even though I walked away, a premonition of what was to come. That I could no more prevent it than I could prevent the sunrise the next morning. That I was doomed.

Yet as the night wore on I relaxed, for Yoyo kept away from me. I told myself that she had done her bit, and it was over; that she had seen my fear, and was satisfied. My senses were all alert and I heard her voice, loud and commanding, as she chatted with her table partner. I heard that distinguishing cackle again and again, but far from me, and as, later on, we stood to move to the drawing room for dancing, I was relieved to see that she had hooked her arm possessively into that of the gentleman she had arrived with – a tall thin white man I had been introduced to, but whose name I had forgotten.

The Stewarts had a new thing: it was called a gramophone, and with it one could play music on flat round discs called records. It was the newest invention from America, and it was miraculous, almost as miraculous as telegraphy. There were only a few of these gadgets in the colony; Andrew had procured his through a distant cousin in America. He turned out to be as fascinated as I was by the technology of it, and he and I struck up a conversation on the subject and stood next to it, talking excitedly.

Someone pressed a glass of rum punch into my hand. I took a sip and gasped at the strength of it, and Andrew laughed. I found him not only keen but genuinely friendly and I came to the conclusion that Uncle Jim was not the only white man I might trust. Perhaps tonight really was a breakthrough for Winnie and myself – perhaps we would one day find acceptance in a different, more tolerant set. I hoped so.