At the end of the path, the maid, Icilda, met him. She had a pile of crispy sun-dried clothes in her arms.
‘You want Miss?’
Boyd answered yes. Icilda held blue-white sheets, towels and napkins, still warm from the sun. Boyd wanted to bury his face in them.
‘Come wid me,’ Icilda said, walking off, in her wake the invigorating pure scent of washed clothing. Boyd watched her bottom bouncing inside the lavender-coloured dress.
They entered the house and Icilda went to put the clothes away before announcing his arrival. Susan was nowhere to be seen. But she could appear at any time. Her scent was in the room.
He sat on the red cushion in a room full of books. There were Penguin paperbacks, hardbacks big and small and lovely red and yellow editions of the Dent & Dutton Everyman’s Library. The polished floor of the room was of dark wood and the walls were white. He wanted to rush up to the books and pick and choose but there were so many, where would he begin? Which one was the Tropic of Cancer? The smell of the books was overpowering. He inhaled deeply again and again. He wanted to touch, caress and turn the pages, see the beginnings of chapters, the last words on the back pages.
Suddenly, in the silence, a door opened with such force that the walls of the house shook. Boyd looked down the hall. The door slammed and a tall man in khakis and riding boots appeared. It was Mr Moodie. From behind the bookcases, Boyd saw him walk briskly and boldly in the opposite direction. He didn’t get far. A figure in a lime-green shirt, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, shirt-tails falling over naked thighs, barely concealing black panties, rushed upon him. Boyd saw them smash into one another. Their arms and bodies seemed to do strange things. One of Miss Hutchinson’s thighs crept up the back of Mr Moodie’s leg and massaged it spasmodically. Then they were fighting, Miss Hutchinson’s arms lashing out and scratching. Mr Moodie lifted her up off her feet and smashed her against the wall. They were growling and snarling like dogs, heads together. Both Miss Hutchinson’s legs were now wrapped round Mr Moodie’s waist and she was moaning and groaning like Mama, only louder and with great desperation and anguish. She was crying out like a pig on the butchering block.
Boyd was in a panic. He did not know what to do. He went weak at the knees and dry in the mouth. He wanted them to stop. Mr Moodie was hurting Miss Hutchison, and their voices were savage and desperate. Then he saw Miss Hutchinson tug hard at Mr Moodie’s leather belt. Her shirt came off. He saw with a tortured gasp her naked woman’s flesh, her smooth skin, her shoulders, the exposed breasts with the dark nipples, her hungry sucking mouth locked against Mr Moodie’s. Mr Moodie put her down for a moment, still at her mouth, their heads together like mounting snakes, and let her slip off the wall and fall against him. Amid her grunting and whimpering, he bundled her up and staggered into a room off the hall. Miss Hutchinson’s thighs were rippling and falling, her breasts bouncing, one hand clutching her shirt, Mr Moodie’s lips still firmly fixed upon her wounded mouth. A door slammed again and the room went quiet. Boyd strained forward to hear the feeblest sound and imagined he heard cries, the muffled death scream of a pig, but no sound entered the room. He felt like an intruder. His own loud breathing was deafening in the room and he tried to suppress it. But the effort exploded his mouth.
He turned round in the quiet among the books. Their titles leaped at him like hundreds of excited tiny voices calling out. Then Icilda appeared, innocent of the incident, but he was already walking past her.
‘You don’t want to see Miss?’ she asked, seeing his resolve.
‘No, I have to go home,’ Boyd stammered.
‘You can use the toilet here,’ Icilda suggested, trying to understand.
‘No,’ Boyd said, rushing out the door and to the bicycle. Miss Hutchinson should never know he’d been in her house. He wished he had never seen them. But he had seen it, the monstrous act. It was the brutal, physical aspect of the encounter that perplexed him so. Confusion arose because he had been curiously aroused by their cries and by what they were doing. He had wanted Miss Hutchinson’s probing tongue in his own mouth. He had wanted this pink tongue of a breast, on which Mr Moodie was feasting so ravenously, to feed on himself. But it was terribly frightening with the pig squeals and Miss Hutchinson distressed and hurting. Mr Samms, in his moonlight engagement, had not been so rough, only theatrical. But where was Mr Samms?
‘Oh, okay,’ Icilda said. She glanced out the window, saw Mr Moodie’s red Buick at the gate and understood perfectly. Then she returned grimly to the kitchen to wash and rewash pots and pans, making as much noise as possible.
Out on the road, Boyd pedalled with such force he surprised himself. A bittersweet pleasure gave him unimaginable powers. The bicycle forced itself up the slope with Ten-To-Six-like determination. On exhausted legs he put the bicycle down by the garage and crept lustfully into the deepest reaches of the garden, hot and sweating, his breathing tortured, soft pollen powdering his shoulders and arms.
CHAPTER 21
Soft pollen powdered his shoulders and arms as he slipped deep into the green arms of the garden, where everything was in unadulterated harmony. The only discordant sound was the distant squealing of a pig. In a sudden panic, he left the garden and rushed towards the house, flying past Vincent who was staring blankly into air by the forget-me-nots.
When he got to the kitchen door, he heard stomping, the sound of someone jumping up and down on the wooden floor in the hall. Mavis was in the kitchen walking back and forth, brows raised, hands soapy and wet, unable to do any washing. It was Barrington. Papa had him by the front of his short trousers in the hall. Barrington’s feet were almost off the floor, his mouth a violent hole, his screams pig squeals. Mama stood back at one end of the room, frightened, hands rigid, crying, ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ to no avail. Yvonne stood at the door to her room, her doll in one hand, her other hand fisting the tears from her eyes. Papa was a gigantic figure. He filled the space with his fury, and fire seemed to blaze from his nostrils. His right hand wielded the thick brown strap, hurling violent blows on the plump boy struggling beneath him. Papa’s hand slipped as Barrington twisted and turned to evade the brutal blows, whup, whup, whupping his head, shoulders, back, buttocks, legs. Papa grabbed down and hard. Barrington’s eyes went white and fixed on Mama. He was frothing at the mouth. Mama pushed forward and tried to pull Papa away. She and everyone could see that Papa had Barrington in an iron grip by his teapot. Barrington’s screams were like death. Papa blocked Mama’s path. It was ghastly.
Boyd stood trembling, watching his brother being held down. It was the coolie pig, the blood, the shameless squeals, the helplessness, the hideous smell of butchery all over again. It was also Miss Hutchinson and Mr Moodie, the savagery, the animal sounds and the peculiar feelings. Papa was a coolie butcher. Boyd glared at him, piercing looks of hatred and started to cry. No one was helping Barrington. His own brother, whose scent and feelings he knew, who, although eleven years old, was still only little, was dying, butchered by their father. Boyd heard Barrington gag, his begging now without dignity, his voice no longer his own.
‘Stop it!’ Boyd commanded, seeing Barrington lying dead in the centre of a small crowd, his pitiful body strange and still, smelling of death. ‘Stop it!’
Papa glanced round but continued with the beating until Mama, drawing strength from somewhere, restrained his hand long enough for Barrington to slip away. Papa stood alone, furious, the strap writhing in his trembling hand.
His voice was hoarse when he said, ‘You disobey me again, you little monkey, and I’ll kill you! Bringing shame to the family. We are not common people. You hear me?’
In the kitchen, cups and saucers fell to the black and white tiles, shattering into a hundred pieces. Papa’s brogued feet thundered about the house for a while then he got into the Land Rover and drove off in a cloud of dust. Poppy did not follow him to the gate as usual but hid wherever he was. Vincent, feeling helpless on the porch, scowled at Papa as he rushed by. And for the first time,
he regretted not having begged to go to England with the Maxwell-Smiths.
Mavis entered the room to see if she could help but Mama said it was all right. She took Barrington in her arms. Yvonne stroked his leg. Boyd looked at his sobbing brother and their eyes met. He felt a peculiar embarrassment and wished that he, not Barrington, had received the beating. He wiped away the tears quickly so no one could see. The whole house trembled with fear.
‘I hate Papa!’ The words burst out of him. But it was mainly because he wanted Barrington to know that he was not alone, that he felt for him.
‘You mustn’t say that, darling,’ Mama said, cuddling Barrington close.
‘You mustn’t say that, Boyd,’ Yvonne echoed, still sniffling.
‘I mean it.’ He did not face Barrington, who was also looking away.
‘No.’ Mavis’s hand was gentle on his shoulder. ‘No, petal.’
‘Mama, why did Papa beat Barrington?’ Yvonne asked.
Mama continued to cuddle Barrington, saying not a word. But she knew that voices had whispered at the factory. Voices had whispered about a disgusting note being sent. The same voices had whispered that Dennis had sat at a table at the club with a group of girls creating a nuisance and that Barrington Brookes, son of Harold Brookes, had been there at the table with them, slurping his soup. Mrs Dowding mentioned it to Papa, having heard about it fourth hand. She said that people were talking and that Dennis, though his name had been mentioned, never once slurped his soup, never once.
In the afternoon, when the house was quiet, when Vincent had gone away to Lacovia, Boyd went to Mavis’s room and sat on her bed. The house was a violent place even with Papa out of it. He could still hear the pig squealing and see the walls of their home splattered with its blood. Mavis’s room was quiet and there was no violence there. Pleasant things, her Essen, her Cutex and her personal belongings were there, and the music from her pretty brown radio with the big cream dials. His anxiety subsided.
Mavis had her skirt tucked down between her thighs, revealing radiant dark-brown knees. She sat in such a way that she could see herself in the small square mirror while at the same time reach out to the tub of palmolive pomade on the table. She was plaiting her hair with dexterous finger movements. The pomade gave her hair a brilliant sheen and a sweet and agreeable smell. He drew closer to her until he was so close they touched.
‘You going to get hair all over you, petal,’ Mavis said.
Her body scent was pomade sweet. Little beads of sweat on her arms gave her smooth skin the translucence of rose petals. Boyd could see the slit between her breasts and the sweat like tiny dewdrops suspended there. Her thighs were like brown allamanda. Heat came off every part of her. He wanted to touch and stroke her thighs as he would the allamanda, or any of the silky, fleshy flowers. He felt the urgency that always enveloped him before he bit into the petals in the garden. He wanted her breasts.
‘You thinking of Barrington,’ Mavis said gently, feeling his quietness, his intensity. ‘It was wicked, wicked.’
Boyd’s lips trembled. She came to him immediately, wiping her hands on her dress as he reached out to her. She did not feel his hands on her thighs, this sensitive child of her employers, this little enigma.
‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Don’t cry, petal.’
But that only encouraged the tears. She felt his tiny body convulse against her, felt the breath from his sobs, felt his hot cheeks pressing against her breasts.
‘Hush petal, hush, hush,’ she said, rocking him against her and feeling the maternal instinct rising. ‘Hush, hush, hush.’
His hands brushed against her arms as he tried to position himself comfortably on the bed. She felt his hot breath upon her breast. The bed creaked. As she took him properly in her arms, one strap of her sleeveless dress slipped down exposing a plump brown breast. He saw the flesh like a fresh rose and his lips parted. Her nipples stuck and he sucked and she, as if from a distance, saw a mother and child. Under her dress his hands caressed her thighs and she kissed his forehead and stroked his hair. She could see how he had been affected by the brutal beating, for she had been affected too and had been unable to rid herself of the horror still inside her. She continued to let him milk her as the feeling of fulfilment steadily grew and the tension ebbed. It was very quiet in the room, so quiet that even the sound of falling leaves could be heard. The big house seemed very far away.
* * *
It was quiet among the crotons where he lurked outside Mavis’s window that night. After the experience at her breast and the scene at Miss Hutchinson’s, the strange craving would not go away. That evening, he found himself sucking his own tongue so hungrily that Mama slapped his wrist and said, ‘Stop that!’
He wanted to look at Mavis as he looked at the women in the encyclopaedia. He wanted to see her undress just like Mama and Aunt Enid, quietly, when no one was around, when there was no sound to be heard, just his breathing. And he wanted to know what it was like to see another person, like Miss Hutchinson, take her panties down.
But there were stealthy movements in Mavis’s room. It was not Vincent with her, as he imagined, but a man with gold teeth; the strange man who had ridden off with her in the night. He had Mavis against the wall and she was not resisting. Boyd heard her crying out like Mama. Her face was against the man’s face.
‘No!’ Mavis’s whisper was harsh.
‘Shh! Is okay,’ the man said, picking her up and taking her bodily to the bed, her dress rising above her thighs, her shoes falling to the floor. As frantic shadows crowded the room, the man wrestled her down on the bed saying ‘Shh!’ every few moments.
Boyd clung to the windowsill, fingertips burning, breathing fast. He had not expected the hard-looking stranger in the room. Should he run and tell Mama, or get Vincent? He was in a quandary and felt even more frightened when Mavis started to cry out. But pictures of Mama and Papa wrestling in bed came to him. And the fresh images of Miss Hutchison and Mr Moodie appeared too, dramatic and violent. It was what they did in private, adults, when they thought no one could see.
‘No, Barry. I said no! Stop it! I work here. You can’t do this.’
‘You not going to give it to me?’
‘Barry, please.’
‘Give it to me, Mavis. Give it to me.’
Boyd stood on one leg and then the other as if the ground was on fire.
‘Please, Barry, stop it! Stop it!’
Barry was not stopping it. He was fighting her on the bed, her thighs on either side of him, his hands furious, her hands furious. Barry had her panties off in a flash and his face was upon her face and Mavis wasn’t crying out any more. She said things that had no meaning. Suddenly Mavis rose from the bed, titties loose, dress falling around her ankles and turned out the light. Just before the light went out, Boyd saw the patch of dark hair in the space between her legs. Just like Mama’s. Just like the pink women. He stayed long enough to hear the bedsprings squeak, then, as the peeny-waalies swarmed about, made his way back to the new book lying on his bed, The Old Curiousity Shop.
Vincent’s one good eye saw everything. He’d seen Barry arrive, watched him biding his time alone in the room smoking his Four Aces. Vincent took a thousand blows as the scene unfolded, felt the pain rear up in him from a deep place. As Barry mastered Mavis on the bed, he’d turned away from the wall. He went out of the room and slumped on the warm grass near the plum tree, watching the peeny-waalies in the deepening darkness. The warm night breeze brushed against his grim features and he wondered, with much doubt and self-pity, what a wretch like him would have to do to gain some recognition from Mavis. He came from nothing, had nothing and was nothing. And then, as if commanded, he reached for the strange tobacco that he had been introduced to recently by transient men in the back room of a rum bar in Lacovia. And the rain pelted down.
CHAPTER 22
The rain pelted down all the next day and Vincent kept out of Mavis’s way, wounded and despised, like an old dog left behind by a cruel,
departing family. He sat behind the garage, watching the young corn leaves, apple-green in the light, listening to the rain. While he listened, a kernel of an idea emerged deep in his head. It was revolting but he did not care. The rain drowned out all sound, and he returned to the comfort of his room and his new cigar. An hour later, in drugged ecstasy, as the rain ceased, he heard the Land Rover’s splashy approach. But he did not see Papa walk quickly into the house, slightly unsteady, smelling of drink.
‘All your shenanigans will end when I get you out of this house and back to school.’ Papa stood with both feet apart, hands on hips, glaring at Barrington, who sat on the sofa in the living room, frozen. ‘All your nonsense will stop when you have to do some work at school. You hear me?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ Barrington stammered, eyes wild, body primed, ready to run.
‘You understand, do you? Then you’ll be glad to know that I paid the fees at Munro today. You’d better start doing some book work now – arithmetic, science. You’ve got the books, so get with it.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ Barrington said, eyes fixed on Papa’s gesticulating hand.
The Pink House at Appleton Page 19
