The Pink House at Appleton

by Jonathan Braham

  And it was while he was drugged with these torrid thoughts that the idea of a scheme came to him. The boldness of it made him sit up. He would go to her and do it in Technicolor. He would end the waiting and go over to the Mitchison’s house and do it there.

  PART TWO

  The Middle

  CHAPTER 14

  The Mitchisons sat on the verandah of their new home. It was eight o’clock, a warm night and the stars were out, starlight-white in a night-blue sky. The scent of orange blossoms drifted in from the trees at either end of the garden, and there were other scents, too, that they did not recognise. They loved the new house. It was modern, airy and painted in sober, cool colours, appropriate for the tropics. It was much bigger than their house at Monymusk in Clarendon, and more stylish, with the modern flat roof that was all the rage. The gardens were very well-kept, too well-kept for their liking. They would teach their gardener, Adolphus, how to make it more unkempt and interesting, the way they liked it. Susan, their child-fairy, fast asleep in bed, needed a magic garden, not a golf course.

  ‘Good man, Brookes,’ Mitchison said. ‘The sort of man you need on an estate like this. Full of ideas, very competent and always punctual, something most of his countrymen have yet to learn.’

  ‘He’s impressive, isn’t he?’ his wife agreed. ‘And so polished.’

  ‘Polished?’

  ‘You know, all-efficient in a management kind of way.’

  ‘A great talker, too. If you have nothing to say, keep away from him. I see he cornered you at drinks the other night and wouldn’t let you go. What was it, politics or sugar production?’

  For some reason Ann blushed, a deep pink, which in the darkness of the verandah appeared as radiance. ‘Both, actually. And, for the record, I cornered him. I heard he supports Norman Manley’s case for self-government. I wanted to hear exactly what his thoughts were. He quoted from Manley’s speech in the House last year on full, internal self-government. Great speech. He’s absolutely fascinating.’

  ‘So is Victoria,’ Mitchison said.

  ‘I meant Manley, the Chief Minister.’

  ‘I see. Isn’t Brookes?’

  ‘Of course. The most charming man on the estate. Almost as charming as you.’

  Mitchison laughed. ‘Save your flattery. What do you think of Victoria?’

  ‘Very quiet, doesn’t say much. Seems decent, though. She’s expecting their fourth child. And it hardly shows.’

  Their maid, Evadne, appeared with a wooden tray on which were two glasses and a crystal pitcher. She was beaming.

  ‘Thank you, Evadne,’ Ann Mitchison said.

  ‘Thank you, Evadne,’ Mitchison repeated.

  ‘Tenk you, ma’am, sar,’ Evadne returned, combusting with bliss. She was not accustomed to being thanked so much by her Jamaican employers, and never for doing her job. ‘Tenk you.’

  When Evadne left, Mitchison spoke carefully, registering a change of tone. His hair was receding, leaving his forehead wide and smooth and ochre-red. The remaining hair was dark and brushed hard back, revealing a hint of grey around the temples. The smooth flesh of his forehead caught the diffused light of the drawing room. Ann was convinced his forehead was getting bigger all the time, transforming his head from one that was respectably ageing into something grotesque. She had never mentioned it and did not intend to, since he was so sensitive about losing his hair, but the forehead was so conspicuous that nine out of ten times she found herself looking at it rather than listening to him.

  ‘What’s that, dear?’ she said now.

  ‘Christ, Ann!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away. And you were almost whispering anyway. Do please tell me again.’

  Mitchison sighed heavily. ‘What I said was, I don’t want you getting too close to these people.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Ann said wearily, giving him her full attention.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. At Monymusk you single-handedly ran the Crop-Over Dance, you took charge of the library and any social function at the club and took it upon yourself to visit every disadvantaged family in the district. You are not the social welfare officer, you are not a social worker, you are not the estate party planner and you are not a political activist. You are my wife.’

  Ann sat open-mouthed, her fleshy lips trembling, but not through distress. She was shocked and irritated. ‘I had no idea you felt that way. For goodness’ sake, Tim, why haven’t you said anything before?’

  ‘I want things to be different at Appleton.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to get involved. You’ve always encouraged me, made it quite clear you didn’t want a stay-at-home wife.’

  ‘I’m not saying you should disengage completely. At Monymusk things got out of hand.’

  ‘Out of hand! But you said nothing.’

  ‘At Monymusk things got out of hand. I’d come home and you were never there, always at some women’s group or some poor person’s house. Be the wife of an estate assistant manager. That is what I want.’

  Ann sat straight up in her chair. ‘I thought that that was precisely what I was doing, what I do. Tim, we cannot simply live here like typical English people, the ones you used to despise, keeping ourselves to ourselves. We’ve always said we would never be narrow, that we should always mix. This is yet another opportunity for us to get to meet people of all backgrounds.’

  ‘That is what I’m afraid of.’

  ‘That is what you’re afraid of? Can you imagine what they already think of us? Whatever you want to think, we are representatives of the colonial power, to use their term. You know the history. You’re familiar with the politics. If we remain aloof, we run the risk of giving the most dreadful impression of ourselves, and also of being completely ineffective at estate management. Well, you’re the one who’ll run that risk. You’re the manager. We’ve been through this before in Barbados after you became junior manager – I thought you were genuinely concerned that I was taking on too much.’

  ‘Ann, I’m simply saying …’

  ‘It’s the tone, Tim. And I simply don’t understand what you mean by getting too close to these people. You haven’t made that quite clear. Who are these people?’

  ‘No need to get so het up.’ He was used to her forthrightness. Her entire family was like that.

  She fixed her grey-blue eyes upon him. He looked away, uneasy because it was not what he had intended. He had wanted simply to make a statement and for her to understand. Evadne was closing the shutters in the pantry. Soon she would come out to the verandah to smile her smile and say goodnight.

  ‘Tim, ever since Barbados you have changed.’

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  ‘That’s where it started. I don’t know what’s happened to you. Where’s the generous, inclusive man I married? I’ll tell you. Slowly going the way of all Englishmen who work in the tropics. Exclusive, intolerant and selfish.’

  ‘That’s cruel. I don’t accept that at all.’

  ‘You need to listen to yourself sometimes. Don’t you think that people like Samms and Brookes see exactly what you are? They’re not fools.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘No. Look, I think I know what this is all about. We haven’t talked about it but I know perfectly well how you felt about not getting the estate manager’s post in Barbados, especially after the excellent job you did as junior manager. It wasn’t your fault. We should keep doing what we are doing. We weren’t long enough at Monymusk. You’re a good manager. I think we can really make a home in Jamaica and at Appleton. But that means being part of society, not living in a glass bowl. And Susan, for all her independence, needs consistency and a sense of permanence.’

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ Mitchison said, getting up, visibly upset.

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Tim. This is just what we need to do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Talk.’

  ‘You can talk. I have a long drive into Kingston tomorrow.’

  ‘Not aga
in?’

  ‘That’s what the job’s about.’

  ‘Well, please don’t get delayed in Kingston again. Remember, we’re having dinner at the Brookes’.’

  But Mitchison had already left the verandah.

  Ann surveyed the darkened grounds, felt the sweet, warm air of the estate, and relaxed. She loved the sugar estates. Tim was a bit of a worry but he would get over it. Her assessment was that he seemed to be losing his confidence. Three estates in five years, and still only assistant general manager. It was tough but she knew the remedy. It was to focus on the job at hand and engage with people, buck up and manage. They could not keep moving from estate to estate with nothing to show for it. And moving back to England was not an option. Making a go of it at Appleton was such an exciting prospect. She was looking forward to the Brookes’ dinner and joining Harold Brookes in conversation again. And she viewed it as much more than intellectual stimulation.

  CHAPTER 15

  On the evening of Mama’s dinner party, it was not intellectual stimulation that absorbed Papa, although he was stimulated beyond belief. It made his heart pop and his senses tingle and, Christ; it was a wonderful thing for a man. But he hadn’t gone out of his way to seek it. All of a sudden it had come upon him, snared him, made him feel young and vigorous and dangerous all over again. It could not be denied. He knew it, absolutely. What manner of man would walk away from such a prospect? The tension drove him too; it was what he thrived on. He would confound the risks and manage them as he managed his life.

  The first of the guests to arrive was Mr Samms, all spit and polish, wearing his recently trimmed Clark Gable moustache. In the early night light, the tight black waves of his hair glistened. He sat with Papa smoking and tossing cigarette butts into the hedge circling the verandah, the very hedge Vincent had laboured to trim and tidy up that day, including removing a hundred cigarette butts, lollipop wrappers and dead leaves.

  Miss Hutchinson arrived next, wearing a black dress that showed off her slender honey-brown arms, smooth shoulders and firm, ripe bosom.

  ‘Get to your room, all of you,’ Papa commanded the children when she arrived, assuming they would be up to mischief during dinner and making sure to put a stop to it before it started. But she came to them with her double string of pearls and her effervescence.

  ‘Tropic of Cancer,’ Boyd whispered in her ear as she bent down to kiss him. Intoxicated with her woman’s scent, he wanted to touch and snuggle up but held back.

  ‘It’s for big boys,’ Miss Hutchinson whispered mischiev-ously, stroking his chin. But she smiled encouragingly. ‘Soon, very soon.’

  On the verandah the Dowdings arrived to a gentle, relaxed reception. Then Boyd was conscious of much activity, of an unfamiliar but elegant bouquet sweeping into the house. Ann Mitchison had arrived. He crept down the hall in the dark, wanting to hear the swish of skirts, the unmistakable sound of pearls and other jewellery, the constant murmur of voices, the clink of glasses. Most of the action was taking place on the verandah where Miss Hutchinson’s stylish laugh could be heard. But then there was a lull in the flurry of sound and Boyd heard footsteps trooping into the dining room. He shrank back out of sight, catching the first thrilling wave of new woman scent, more ravishing than Patricia Moodie’s.

  As he watched from the darkness, the seated diners seemed like a grand painting in their rich colours and deep shadows. There was Ann Mitchison, the mother of Susan Mitchison, sitting next to Papa, light-brown hair like polished horse’s mane, cheeks like the pink of a ripened mango, teeth straight and white and even. Her eyes were grey-blue like Mama’s crockery, but the part of her that held his attention was her lips. They were Mama’s red lips but not firm and round like hers. Ann Mitchison’s lips were luscious, with fleshy lines, heavy from end to end; they moved with every word she uttered, parted and poised, quivering, sensual and alive. And the burnished red of the lipstick gave her lips drama and romance in the light of the dining room. They were film stars’ lips.

  Boyd remembered little else but those lips; not the powder-blue linen dress that the owner of the lips wore, not even the striking baroque earrings of pearl and light-gold mounted on black enamel. There was little memory of Mr Mitchison, whose yellow-gold wristwatch flashed in the light, but whose face had been obscured by the vibrant head of Miss Hutchinson. Papa’s eyes had been hooded, his own lips eagerly smiling, jousting and parrying, unable to get away from the relentlessly seeking lips of his guest. He had seemed cornered. And Boyd remembered one more thing – the name of Mr Ramsook, the coolie pig-killer, of all people, spoken by Ann Mitchison, bringing a knowing nod from Papa.

  ‘They are good people,’ Ann Mitchison said. ‘Mr Ramsook only wants a chance. He’s willing to work and there’s work that needs doing.’

  Papa just kept nodding.

  Boyd imagined that he had been at the pictures, seeing Ann Mitchison’s fleshy wine-red lips filling the screen, dripping in Technicolor, mouthing adult words, waiting for the embrace, waiting for the passion and the kiss music. The memory only made him more excited about his ecstatic designs upon Susan. That night in bed, the windows wide open, the curtains streaming, he climbed in through her bedroom window. And they licked pink lollipops, threw the crispy wrapping paper on the floor and touched. And Susan’s scent was strawberry.

  CHAPTER 16

  They met up at the coolie settlement in the afternoon heat, two Land Rovers parked in the red dirt of the estate road under the trees at the gate. Papa got there before her and, hands on hips, was speaking to Mr Ramsook, who was dressed in a soiled, sleeveless vest and washed-out dungarees pushed deep into black waterboots. Two other men with him showed their respect by looking down at their shadows, black hair falling over their eyes.

  Ann Mitchison approached, looking out of place, Papa thought, in such desperate surroundings. Her creamy hand held onto the straw hat on her head. A flowery blue and white cotton handkerchief hung about her neck and the sleeves of her pink striped cotton shirt were rolled up at the elbows. All the coolie women came out to look. Never before had the wife of any manager visited the barracks. Papa turned from Mr Ramsook to confer with his companion, who, under the full sun and in such a rude open space, seemed extraordinarily young and vulnerable, in spite of her self-confidence. When it was over, Papa settled with Mr Ramsook, who bowed first to Papa and then in the direction of his benefactor. The other men kept on bowing as Papa walked away.

  Under the trees in the dust at the gate between the parked Land Rovers, Ann Mitchison smiled with gratitude and drew near to Papa. Her faint perfume reached his nostrils and, in the heat, evoked outrageous juvenile lust.

  ‘Thank you so much, Harold,’ she said. ‘Will you stop by this evening for tea? There’s so much to discuss.’

  Papa seemed to hesitate for just a moment.

  ‘Close any loopholes,’ Ann added.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Papa assured her. And he heard himself say words that were not calculated. ‘Far better than going up to the club.’ But he’d hesitated because he knew that Tim Mitchison was in Kingston and that he would be alone with Ann if he took up her invitation.

  Ann gave a girlish laugh. ‘How nice,’ she said, smiling self-consciously, the kind that told of growing intimate knowledge. Papa’s smile said the same. It was not the first time they had met up under the Appleton sun in some undistinguished place in the twelve thousand acres of the estate.

  * * *

  That hot August night, Mama sat with Mavis in the pantry, the coolest room in the house, going over the grocery list. Barrington was demonstrating his fast-draw action, in the manner of the Rawhide Kid, to Yvonne and Vincent out on the porch between the kitchen and the laundry room. But Vincent’s eye rested only on Mavis and his heart overflowed with deep desires.

  Boyd’s heart overflowed with desires too as he stole away in the pretty darkness to the periwinkle fence. Glancing back at the house, he saw the yellow light from the opened windows gushing onto the lawn. He heard the Mu
llard radio: All day all night, Marianne, down by the seaside sifting sand, even little children loved Marianne, down by the seaside sifting sand. In the darkness no one could see him. It was the best time to do it, in the dark. The pictures in his head, as he came upon Susan, were romping voluptuous, like the pictures in the encyclopaedia.

  Creeping stealthily towards the fence, he barely got through it before he heard, just barely, a vehicle approaching. Surprisingly, the headlights were switched off. The vehicle came in sight, a lumbering dark shape. Boyd peered out from the darkness expecting to see Mr Mitchison, but it was a familiar Land Rover passing slowly, surreptitiously.

  His quest aborted, Boyd returned to the verandah, heart pounding, breathing hard. He wondered why Papa had been driving without headlights towards the Mitchisons and looking around so suspiciously. And he instinctively thought of the unsuspecting Mama in the kitchen, deligently preparing the family’s grocery list with Mavis.

  Later that night, among the crotons, Boyd sniffed the streaming Essen from Mavis’s room and heard her music, Day-ho, day-ho, day dey light and me want go home. If only he could go to Susan as he went to Mavis. If only it was so easy. He saw Mavis pacing about in her panties and brassiere, saw the sensuous shadows in her room, heard the knock at the door and saw Mavis turn to open it. Vincent stood there blinking.

  ‘What you want, big head?’ Mavis seemed extraordinarily casual.

  ‘Is who singing?’ Vincent stammered, staring.

  ‘Is Shirley Bassey, from foreign.’

  ‘Harry Belafonte sing Day-ho. Who Shirley Bassey?’

  ‘You deaf or something? Ah told you is Shirley Bassey from foreign.’

  ‘So, Harry Belafonte don’t sing it no more?’

  ‘You ask too many damn fool questions. Is what you want?’

  ‘Where you get radio from?’

  ‘Don’t be fresh. You going to stand there staring at me all night?’