The Pink House at Appleton

by Jonathan Braham

  ‘If you say so,’ Vincent returned, his witty reply shocking him.

  ‘No, ah don’t say so. Ah don’t say so at all. If is woman you looking for, go and get your own. You not going to find any around here.’

  ‘Ah don’t have no woman,’ Vincent confessed, looking up, sensing opportunity.

  Mavis laughed in his face, kept on laughing and had to hold on to her sides. When she stopped laughing, she gave him a pitiful look, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  Vincent hung his head like a scolded child. He had never lived next door to an attractive young woman, never felt the kind of unruly sensations that coursed through his body at that moment. ‘You can get Fats Domino on it?’

  Mavis fixed him with a vile stare. ‘Ah get Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Professor Longhair, The Coasters, everybody.’

  Vincent looked at the floor. ‘You going out?’ he asked her in a cowed voice.

  ‘Is none of your business,’ Mavis told him. ‘And stop knocking at me door, you lickle fool. Go and get a woman. Clear off!’

  Boyd, hearing Vincent’s cruel dismissal, cleared off too, running back to the periwinkle fence, hoping to see Papa returning from the Mitchison’s. But back at the fence, no Land Rover appeared, only the winking lights of the peeny-waalies meandering through the night. But he waited.

  When Mavis pulled the door shut and returned to her dresser, shaking her head, she did not see Vincent’s smile. It was impossible for her to know that he had experienced dizzying heights of sexual delight during their little encounter. Vincent thanked his employers. He thanked his good fortune. He thanked God. Mavis had not, as he had feared she would, slammed the door in his face. No. She had engaged with him. She had let him watch her in a state of undress. No other woman would have allowed that. No woman in his whole life experience had let him come even close; just one look at his dripping eye had turned them away. Vincent believed that for all Mavis’s bluster she had feelings for him. He’d heard that women were like that, saying no when they meant yes. Why else would she have allowed him so much latitude?

  And so, in the extremes of his delusion, Vincent returned to Mavis’s room a little later. He knocked gingerly at the half-opened door and made as if to turn away when there was no answer. But he knew she was there because he could hear music, the words of a song that, in his dreams, came from his own lips: Since I met you baby, my whole life has changed. Brushing his fear aside, he pushed the door wide open. Mavis had discarded her brassiere and now wore only panties, lying on her bed, looking out the window at the yellow moon. She turned, smiling, but seeing who it was, scowled horribly, sprang up and pointed a malevolent finger.

  ‘You again! Get out! You idiot. Get out!’

  ‘But,’ Vincent started, remembering the moment when so much seemed possible.

  ‘Get out, you Cyclops! Get out, before ah call Mrs B.’

  ‘But, but.’ Vincent was confused. She had let him watch her half-naked. The encouragement, the hidden show of feelings for him, those little looks, meant nothing?

  He got his answer as Mavis slammed the door more violently than ever, shaking the rafters, sending him slinking back to his lonely room. Hurt and dejected, he barely made out, from the corner of his eye, the form of a man approaching Mavis’s room. Vincent stopped in his tracks. He saw the strange man lean his bicycle against the side of the building in the dark, enter Mavis’s room unhindered and close the door quickly behind him.

  When Boyd finally left the darkness at the periwinkle fence, instead of returning to the house, he turned again towards Mavis’s room. Mavis was going to a dance. She had spoken about it when she served dinner.

  ‘Just you watch out for the hooligans,’ Papa had advised her.

  ‘They never bother me, Mr Brookes,’ Mavis replied.

  As he carried on to Mavis’s room, Boyd heard Poppy’s growls of alarm and saw the dim light of a bicycle lamp. A man was approaching up the back path. They breathed the scent of a bold cigarette, Four Aces probably, and vulgar cologne. They saw the man enter Mavis’s room. Boyd bounded away on light toes and took up his position by the frangipani bush further down the path. Soon the dim light of the bicycle appeared. Mavis sat cross-legged on the crossbar, the man hunched above her, his gold teeth flashing, talking low. He was not wearing bicycle clips and his turn-ups were big and awkward as he pedalled. They seemed very happy, Mavis giggling, eyes flashing, her Essen pervading the night. She had never spoken about this stranger.

  Vincent saw it all. He’d seen them earlier together in the room in an encounter that outraged him. He’d seen them from his latest discovery that night of a hole in the wall between his room and Mavis’s. He felt forsaken, and there was a scene in the dark drama unfolding in his head, in which he put up two vicious fingers at the bicycle rider. He knew he would see the man again later that night when Mavis was danced out, when they would roll about on her single bed. The man was no good. There were dozens like him in the parish, wanting only one thing. If only he could make Mavis see that. As the drama in his head grew darker, he fought to keep out the inhuman acts that should strike down the stranger, acts that he knew he was capable of.

  CHAPTER 17

  That hot August night, Mama waited up for Papa, wishing to be magnanimous, wanting to be tender and kind, to dispel any imagined obstacle that might have come between them. But Papa was late coming home as usual and she fell asleep. When he arrived, in the early dawn, she awoke. And when he came to her in bed, he was unnaturally fierce, like a mountain ram.

  After lunch the next day, Mama cornered him in the bedroom and asked him tearfully, ‘What have I done, Harold? What is the matter? Tell me, I want to know.’

  ‘Dammit, nothing’s the matter,’ Papa retorted, walking quickly out of the room. Minutes later, Mama saw him speeding away, the dust violent and scathing behind him. She couldn’t help it and burst into tears. Ever since the Mitchisons’ dinner, it seemed not a single day passed without a row, even though she went out of her way to be accommodating.

  In those days, Papa quarrelled with everyone in the house, including Mavis, Vincent and Poppy. He glared at them and ignored them and held them in contempt. He imagined they were on Mama’s side and that was enough. Weren’t they all together at the house while he was away at the factory? They were all in her camp, every single one of them. He was the outsider, always outnumbered, never receiving any support, a stranger in his own home. And all the time he was slaving away at the factory to put a roof over their heads, clothing on their backs, food in their bellies, what did he get? She was poisoning them against him, his own children. That was what was going on. See the way they huddled and broke away at his approach? See how they kept away from him, their own father? See how they looked down, always suspicious and guilty, whenever he called them, in a firm voice, to come to him? Ungrateful wretches, every single one of them.

  The children kept well out of Papa’s way during these internecine wars, quietly reading, fidgeting in their rooms and longing for him to leave the house. When he did leave, in a thunderous walk down the hall and out the kitchen door, they hoped Poppy would be sensible enough to remain under the house or, if he happened to be lounging on the patio near the kitchen, remain motionless, not giving eye contact. Twice before Papa had found his presence obtrusive, frankly disrespectful and threatening. Poppy had felt hard brogue leather about his ribs on both occasions. And Mavis, going about her business conspicuously in the kitchen, was always given the cold shoulder. Vincent, crouching by the flowerbeds on his knees, always kept his back to Papa and his head down.

  Whenever Mama and Papa made up, the sun seemed more radiant. Everyone helped the mood. Mavis’s washing up in the kitchen took on a musical sound. Vincent whistled as he worked under the windows. Poppy barked a joyful bark and chased invisible mongoose. Papa’s face shone brilliantly too, like the moon in Yvonne’s drawing book, with a smile so wide it cut his face in two, laughing loud and long and showing perfect teeth. This Friday evening in late Aug
ust was typical.

  ‘You little angel, you,’ Papa said, suddenly appearing in the drawing room and pinching Yvonne’s cheek. When she presented the other cheek, he pinched that too, swept her off her feet and took her to Mama, where the noises coming from the bedroom were the same as from a school playground. Papa was like a little boy, cuddling and tickling and shocking everyone. He chased Yvonne around the room so that she could feel the gritty hairs on his chin. She shrieked and ran to Mama, only pretending, running back to Papa and falling into his arms for another feel of the bristles.

  ‘Boyd, you’ll be a great man one day,’ Papa said, walking fast down the hall. ‘Just look at you. You’ve got great written all over you. A chip off the old block, I tell you. You shall have the best education, you and Barrington and Yvonne. We were destined to be great, we Brookeses. Like father, like children. You shall be as great as your Papa – no, greater – and carry on the family name, my son!’ He slapped Boyd on the back, and Boyd sniffed the Royal Blend, the sugar, the contents of test tubes, that Papa aroma, and believed every word. And in that moment, all his doubts about Papa disappeared, especially when Papa said to Barrington, ‘My big son, shake your Papa’s hand!’ And Barrington, smiling proudly as only big sons do, put out his hand in that pretend adult way with a boyish grin.

  Papa, rushing down the hall singing, Beecaause you come to me, beecaause you speak to me, beecaause, gave instructions to Vincent to have the car washed and polished within the hour.

  ‘Put your back into it,’ Papa said good-humouredly.

  But Vincent, feeling low after his encounter with Mavis, took it badly. The only person who seemed to have reservations about his diligence and the quality of his work was his current employer. He missed Mr Maxwell-Smith with every passing day.

  ‘We’re going to the club,’ Papa announced, ‘as a special treat.’

  The house exclaimed joyously at this announcement. Boyd immediately inhaled the scent of delicate pink lilies. Beautiful music filled his ears. He and Barrington dressed in their pepperseed trousers, tailored by Mr Tecumseh Burton of Balaclava, and applied palmolive pomade to their hair. Yvonne wore black patent leather strap shoes and a cotton dress gathered at the front. Mama wore club clothes, her two-tone shoes of cream and brown and dabbed Evening in Paris behind her ears, under her chin and several places on her arms. Pleasures smote Boyd at every turn: the sunset, the Shhh, Shhh, Shhhing of the factory, Mama and Papa speaking again, Papa singing Beecaause, Mavis competent in the kitchen, the car polished and waiting. Somewhere, distant but near, Susan waited all nervy and trembly in torrid loveliness. He hoped intensely that she would be at the club too. Beecaause you come to me, Beecaause.

  White birds flew into the sunset as they left the car after a brisk drive and walked up the steps to the club enveloped in Mama’s Evening In Paris. Miss Chatterjee and Miss Hutchinson were the first to greet them. Boyd’s heart raced. Miss Hutchinson was the curling blue smoke from a poised cigarette, the intoxicating drink from a sparkling glass, the perfume in a hand-cut crystal bottle that savaged the senses, the look that carried deep, powerful meaning. But she was no match for Miss Chatterjee, who simply stepped out of a book, an undying sensation. Miss Chatterjee was exclusive, although quite friendly with Patricia Moodie, as they both came from the same suburb of Kingston. Men avoided her because she was a perfect picture, only to be looked at, never touched.

  There was no sign of Susan yet. But Boyd knew that the Mitchison’s Jaguar (‘A cream Mark II with red leather seats,’ Barrington said) was at that very moment making its way across the bridge and to the club. He would turn casually and there they’d be, coming up the steps to the terrace, Susan with shining hair, wearing little white gloves and smelling like pink lillies. And the evening would be dramatic, like a film, full of crimson skies and seductive music. And he would try to get her away alone and do it then.

  Older women than Mama sat at green wicker tables in the gardens, in perfume and evening shadow, shielded by clipped green hedges against a soft sunset. The evening breeze buffed their tender skins, dark skins, caramel and pink skins, while they showed glimpses of thigh and crinoline petticoat. They were all of flashing eyes, pearly teeth and pretty lipsticked mouths, and Boyd completed dramatic stories in his head about them all.

  At the table on the terrace with Mama, he watched Miss Chatterjee between cream soda bubbles. She was teaching Barrington, who would rather have played football, how to grip a tennis racket. She laughed and moved towards his brother, putting her arms about him to demonstrate the correct racket position. Earlier, when they’d arrived and everyone kissed, Boyd had been overcome by her Essen and the look in her eyes, and found himself pulling away from her embrace, unable to manage his exploding feelings. Now the same sensation overcame him as Miss Chatterjee giggled, smacked the ball with elegant arms, the poise of a ballet dancer in tennis skirts, dark hair flying, smooth thighs subtly rippling. She brought her own racket with her, Slazenger Challenge or something or other, withdrawing it carefully from its case each time. Everybody else used club rackets.

  Boyd moved to the edge of the terrace, looking down on the court as men at the bar downed liquor in small chunky glasses. The men who had lived abroad drank Johnnie Walker Scotch whisky (born 1820 and still going strong). They watched Miss Chatterjee out of the corners of their eyes and propositioned her in secret.

  They eyed young Barrington with impatience, disdain even, thinking that, if given the chance, they wouldn’t stand about like a moron. The fact that he was a boy meant nothing – they saw themselves in his place and berated him in their hearts for not behaving like a man. They would do something, anything but let a fine opportunity slip by. Through a haze of liquor, boiling sugar aroma drifting up from the factory, that mixture of sensations that only estate workers who spend their time at the club know, they dreamed. But some things were only club dreams. The men had experienced a moment of recklessness. They returned to their rum and ginger, their whisky and water. Miss Chatterjee’s squeals and giggles, a red-blooded reminder of their youth, fleeting fast. But Boyd, only eight years old, sniffing the warm sugar smells, seeing the radiant sunset, studied Miss Chatterjee and saw the future.

  ‘Have some salted biscuits and cheese, darling,’ he heard Mama say as she placed her Babycham on the table, bubbles bursting silently.

  Mama was sitting with Miss Hutchinson, charming Miss Hutchinson with the shapely calves, who, people said, had pulled down her panties at the club during the last Crop-Over Dance while drunk and dancing on a table. She had stopped only when the music stopped, gin and tonic in one hand and panties in the other. Mama and Papa arrived at the estate the following year so hadn’t been present.

  ‘People will say anything,’ Papa had remarked. Mama, clearly in agreement, confirmed by saying, ‘Did you know she speaks three different languages?’ Boyd had heard every word, lurking behind the living room door, picturing the fascinating half-naked Miss Hutchinson. Miss Hutchinson was laughing with Mama now and smoking a cigarette, Senior Service, legs crossed, eyes half-closed and mouth sultry. She wore what Mama called “tropical clothes”, and when she blew her cigarette smoke it was done with the sort of sophistication that people who depended entirely on posing and vanity lacked.

  When Mama wasn’t looking, Boyd wandered down the hall to the men’s room, basking in the ubiquitous attention of powdered, plump women with big pearls, on their way from the women’s room. But the Mitchisons were nowhere to be seen.

  On his way back, he saw Edgar, Mr Burton’s nephew, fondling a pretty girl in the parking lot. Edgar’s cigarette smoke rose up from the pink oleander bush, a young man’s cigarette smoke, not adult like Papa’s Royal Blend or Miss Hutchinson’s Senior Service. Edgar probably smoked Four Aces, the cigarette of a man on the make.

  ‘Men like him have a baby in every parish,’ Mr Samms once said at dinner, shaking his head. ‘Not to be let loose on nice girls.’ And yet certain girls ran to Edgar like bees to honey.


  When Boyd returned to the terrace, every vibrant face was Ann Mitchison’s, every seeking, small face was Susan’s. But they were not on the terrace or in the garden. Barrington sat next to Mama, bored, while Yvonne picked her nose and listened loudly to Miss Hutchinson. Miss Chatterjee sat three tables away, her skin glowing, eyes glancing repeatedly towards the club’s entrance, tense, waiting too.

  ‘Mama, will Miss Chatterjee teach us to play tennis?’ Yvonne asked.

  ‘You’re too young, darling.’

  ‘Oh, they’re never too young,’ Miss Hutchinson said quickly. ‘Dennis Dowding can teach them. He’s up from Munro now. If he can’t do it, we’ll get young Pamela Carby. She’s very good.’

  Mama smiled reluctantly.

  ‘She was teaching Barrington,’ Yvonne quickly pointed out.

  Barrington grimaced, more bored than ever. He would have preferred talk about Wembley and English football, or Brazilians like Pele and Garrincha. He’d been watching the terrace and couldn’t see Geraldine Pinnock anywhere, but he hoped that the Pinnock’s car would arrive at any moment. They drove a grey Riley with brown leather upholstery.

  ‘She’s far too busy,’ Mama said. ‘She won’t have the time.’

  ‘She wasn’t teaching,’ Miss Hutchinson said. ‘She was just playing about. Anyway, she goes off to Kingston almost every weekend these days. We’ll get Dennis or Pamela to do it. Since their Senior Cambridge exams, they’ve had nothing to do. They’ll teach you so that one day you’ll be as good as Althea Gibson.’ Miss Hutchinson threw back her head and calmly blew blue smoke stylishly towards the heavens.

  ‘Who’s Althea Gibson?’ Yvonne asked.

  Miss Hutchinson smiled and tickled her arms. Yvonne shrieked and threw up her hands, displaying frilly white bloomers. Mama’s eyes went immediately to the white bloomers, and seeing that they were clean, displayed maternal calm.

  ‘Althea Gibson? She’s a black American girl. She played at Wimbledon, the big tennis tournament in England, and beat everybody. She’s the best woman tennis player in the world.’