Aunt Enid’s gentleman friend, Theolonious Washington, an American, was driving down from the Melrose Hotel in Mandeville to take her back to Waterloo Avenue, Kingston that evening. He had delivered Aunt Enid to the pink house (‘In a fishtail American car,’ Mavis gushed) while the children were at Maggotty. When Mr Washington arrived in the afternoon, he cut quite a figure in a milk-chocolate-coloured suit, cream and brown shoes and a wide tie with pictures of horses on it. He said very little for an American. Aunt Enid did all the talking and, over drinks on the verandah, described Mr Washington – Theo – as a realtor who lived on Sugar Hill, a rich district in Harlem, New York. He had taken Aunt Enid to concerts at the Apollo Theater and to the Newport Jazz Festival, where they had heard Ella Fitzgerald sing. He knew about Richard Wright, who wrote the bestselling novel Native Son and had attended the Josephine Baker celebrations at the Golden Gate Ballroom on Lenox Avenue. He knew, or was acquainted with, Eartha Kitt and Harry Belafonte (Everyone drew breath at this).
‘We are nothing in America,’ Aunt Enid suddenly said, after shocking everyone with the impossible news that they actually knew people who sang on the radio – the radio. ‘Over there we’re worse than the coolies.’
Everyone gasped at this because they knew about coolies, dark people, whose blue cooking smoke rose lazily into the sky every day – coolies like Mr Ramsook, with their dirt and awful butchered pig smell.
‘If you only knew the things I’ve gone through.’ Aunt Enid shook her head slowly, a bitter smile turning into a look of outrage. ‘Me! Enid Pratt! Treated like dirt, treated worse than dark people.’
‘Drink your drink,’ Papa said in an attempt to console her.
Aunt Enid sipped her drink contemplatively. Her lips were pursed. ‘I couldn’t go to the Cotton Club,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘just because I’m black.’
‘But you’re not black,’ Papa said sympathetically. ‘You’re coloured.’
‘Coloured? Don’t be a fool, Harold. I’m a black person. I’m coloured black, as you are. You see, you don’t understand, like those who describe blacks as people of colour, forgetting that white people are coloured too.’
‘You’re nice and brown,’ Papa told her cheerfully, not understanding.
Aunt Enid sighed, regarded Papa pitifully and shook her head. She was overcome with something they could not understand: foreign experience. She told them that the Cotton Club in Harlem, New York, was a famous club run by white people where all the great black American entertainers performed, including Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald. Theo couldn’t take her there because black people weren’t allowed in the club as patrons. White people didn’t allow black people in hotels, theatres, restaurants, schools, universities or in residential areas. And the law permitted it.
‘To think that I,’ she poked her breast, ‘was treated as inferior, as a second class person, without any respect.’
‘Barred from the universities?’ Papa felt sure this was impossible.
‘They wouldn’t let that black girl, Autherine Lucy, enter the University of Alabama,’ Aunt Enid raged. ‘Her case was in the news. There are hundreds of thousands of black students who are turned away each year from universities only because they are black. It’s such a way of life that black students don’t even bother to apply to universities. And the police arrested that dressmaker, Mrs Parks, because she wouldn’t give up her seat in the bus to a white man. Can you believe a thing like that?’ Aunt Enid paused, noting that Theolonious Washington was about to speak. All eyes turned to him. It was a special moment.
‘There are a great many things you can’t do in the United States if you are a Negro, if you are black,’ he said slowly and profoundly. ‘In years to come, people are going to wonder why black people can’t do such and such, why they haven’t achieved this or that. The answer will be because they were prevented, barred, kept out, locked out for hundreds of years, by law. It will take a long time to catch up. At least another hundred years, and it will only happen if they end racial discrimination now, and that’s not about to happen.’
The verandah grew quiet. The American accent, so distinctly from another place, was a radio voice. It came straight out of WINZEE, speaking troubling words that Boyd didn’t understand. Birds warbled in the trees and somewhere in the valley a donkey brayed lugubriously. A hundred years seemed like eternity, Boyd thought. It was difficult to think that the America he knew about from the encyclopaedia, from the songs on WINZEE and from the comics, was the same place that Aunt Enid and Mr Washington spoke about.
‘For all the problems he has to face,’ Aunt Enid informed them when Theo excused himself and left the verandah, ‘he is a very successful man. You don’t realise what is happening in America. You live in paradise here, paradise. Jamaica is paradise. The English people out here are nothing like the white people in America.’ She turned to Papa. ‘What would you do if you went up to the club tonight and they told you that you couldn’t enter because you are black?’
They all stared at Papa. He looked horrified.
‘It is so wrong,’ Aunt Enid said, quite emotional. ‘So wrong.’
They had never seen her like this before. She had never been to America before. Boyd saw the fierce light in her eyes, her passion so ravishingly displayed, heard the hurt in her voice, caught the candy scent of her. He shifted in his chair uncomfortably because everything was so confusing, so shocking, so impossible, but must be true because it came from his pretty Aunt Enid’s lips.
The most uncomfortable thing on the verandah was the silence. Then Miss Hutchinson arrived and there were kisses and cries of amazement and wonder and the tension went away. Then Mr and Mrs Dowding made their entrance.
Later that evening, Ann Mitchison visited with presents for Mama and the baby, just as Aunt Enid and Mr Washington drove off into the sunset. Boyd observed Ann Mitchison as she sat on the verandah with Papa and the other guests, smoking and laughing beautifully. When Ann Mitchison arrived, she had looked in at Mama, the baby, Miss Hutchinson and Mrs Dowding. In her interlude with the women, she stroked the baby, cooing gently, her fleshy lips moist, exotic. And Boyd, hovering nearby, heard her say that Susan couldn’t wait for school to begin. Hearing the name, Susan, from her mother’s own lips, almost sent him into apoplexy.
‘A lovely man, Mr Chin,’ he heard Ann Mitchison say. ‘He’s promised to pick Susan up every day in his Plymouth when she starts school. He drives up with his own children, Ann Marie, Dawn and Junior, and a few others from Maggotty, then to Balaclava and back again in the afternoon. A wonderful person – and a first class businessman too.’
‘Delightful,’ Mama said. Mr Chin had offered his Plymouth station wagon as a school bus. Taking Boyd to school each day would have been a huge strain on Papa, the factory requiring his attention crucially between seven and nine in the morning. No one was more pleased than he when Mr Chin offered his services. ‘He’s a brick,’ Papa declared. ‘We need more men like him in Jamaica.’
But the reality of finally going to school in the company of strange children created powerful anxieties for Boyd, and suddenly he didn’t want it to happen. He wanted to remain at home and dream of meeting Susan alone behind the house where no one could see. He wanted the waiting to continue, this beautiful waiting that was so painfully sweet. School would put an end to it.
Unfamiliar feelings settled upon him; what with the new baby, Susan’s mother in the house, Susan near yet so far away, thoughts of school and troubling images of Aunt Enid hurt in America. In the end, Mavis rubbed him down with Bay Rum and put him to bed, where he fell instantly asleep. So he did not see Papa, finally and inevitably that evening, alone with Ann Mitchison on the verandah in the low light, speaking in dull tones. Mama and the baby were asleep too. The Dowdings had left and so had Miss Hutchinson, “to spread the news at the club”. Boyd did not see Papa eventually escort Ann Mitchison to the periwinkle fence, vanishing among the smooth-touching leaves and caressing trees, kissing her forcefull
y in the dark. Only Vincent saw it with his one eye, secluded in the blackness, breathing in the peculiar fumes of his strange cigar, his resentment of Papa growing by the minute.
* * *
Mr Samms left Appleton. He left without a word, a note, or a sign to anyone. The last time he was seen was at the club. He was at a table with Mr Moodie, Miss Hutchinson and Miss Chatterjee when he suddenly stood up, bowed gracefully to Miss Hutchinson, kissed Miss Chatterjee’s hand, nodded to Mr Moodie and walked away, straight-backed, hair glistening, highly polished shoes dazzling. No one saw him again.
‘Took the train back to Kingston,’ Papa said grimly at dinner. ‘He just needs an ordinary decent woman. Cynthia Hutchinson is far too sophisticated for him, far too sophisticated. He had other hopes too, but,’ and Papa shook his head sadly, ‘Manjula Chatterjee is out of his league completely.’
‘Manjula Chatterjee!’ Mama exclaimed. ‘You mean – ?’
‘Yes,’ Papa said and calmly left the table.
CHAPTER 28
Manjula Chatterjee stepped out onto the balcony of a small, private hotel in an exclusive part of Kingston, West King’s House Close. Her hair, black and wet, was steaming as she towelled it while looking out over the gardens and the pool that she had just vacated. The Sunday afternoon heat delighted and invigorated her. A faint breeze blew over the gardens from the direction of King’s House, the Governor’s residence. The first time she spent a weekend in Kingston, they’d wanted the Myrtle Bank Hotel, whose advertisement boasted that it was the rendezvous for Jamaica’s social smart set. But, because of its colour bar, they’d settled for the Mayfair instead, a more elegant and welcoming place. They’d spent three weekends together there already and several clandestine evenings at her house at Appleton. But it was tricky at Appleton and so the weekends at the Mayfair were set to continue. She always took the diesel train in from Appleton and back rather than make the long, exhausting journey by car. It was better in every respect.
What Manjula liked most of all when they were together was their conversations. They spent most of the time talking. She liked his quiet listening, the attention he paid to her every word, the absence of guile and the fact that he reminded her powerfully of her father, to whom she had been extraordinarily close. The conversation was mostly about her. And always there was that steady gaze: the boyish, fun-uncle eyes full of goodness and patience, never lacking in openness and honesty. He didn’t know it but she’d been swept off her feet that first time. She had seen him watching her after a tennis game when she was hot and beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and on the tip of her nose. When they were introduced, she’d expected the usual going-over – the evasive eyes like hidden hands up her dress, the suggestive mouth, the appraisal of her shape and form – and braced herself for it. But his eyes never left hers. There had been no innuendos. They had perfect eye contact; he had seen into her and she had seen into him and so they built a bridge between them. That night, going home, she stopped the car as the full impact of what had happened sunk in. He had walked across the bridge and into her very being.
‘Cocktail, Manjula?’
‘Yes,’ she called back. ‘And join me out here.’
She stretched out easily on the lounge chair, noticing the faint ripple of flesh along her burning thighs while positioning the tortoiseshell sunglasses over her eyes. The scent of mint from the garden and his Old Spice tantalised her. Then he joined her, a cocktail glass in each hand, and bent to kiss her lips, a slow, lingering, tender kiss. But she was aroused, her lips parting, urgent tongue darting out, mouth and chin raised, exposing a firm, elegant neck, one hand circling and guiding his head down. He grunted, expertly balancing the cocktail glasses and lightly tongued her smooth neck. Manjula loved these moments, the clean heat, the mint scent all about, the cocktails that charged her tongue and her senses and the slow sex in the long afternoon. Much later, when it was all over, when the sun was still a strip of pink over the Blue Mountains, she would begin to think of the long train ride back to Appleton, the return to work on Monday morning. She hoped it would be a smooth journey back. There had been troubling news on the radio that hooligans had disabled a train between Kingston and Appleton.
The news was all over the radio that night, in the newspapers the next morning and the following days and ran as the main item for weeks. The newspapers reported it as The Kendal Train Crash. An overcrowded excursion train had arrived in Montego Bay on the Sunday. On its return journey to Kingston, passing through Kendal, a small Manchester town, the train left the rails and hurtled down an embankment, killing almost two hundred people. Up to a thousand more were injured. Mama read every bit of news about it in The Daily Gleaner and The Star. And she told the stories over and over again.
‘Dead bodies were scattered everywhere, hanging from the upturned carriages, armless, legless, headless,’ Mama said. ‘Headless!’
‘Lawd-a-mercy!’ Mavis cried out. ‘Is the third bad news, ma’am. At least you out of it, ma’am.’
Mama paid no attention. ‘One woman returned to her home in Kingston that Sunday night and her mother let her in. The following day, the mother found out that her daughter, her daughter, the woman she’d let into the house the night before, had died at Kendal.’
‘Lawd Jesus,’ Mavis shrieked, wild of eye. ‘Is her Duppy!’
‘No, Mavis,’ Mama corrected her. ‘Her spirit returned home.’
The children trembled. Mavis still had a wild look about her, reflecting their own fear.
‘People at the scene said that the dead bodies were like minced meat. Minced meat!’ Mama shook her head in horror, daring them to believe it. Then she folded the paper grimly and returned to the bedroom and to her baby, with a cup of ginger tea to settle her nerves. She saw tragedy and horror everywhere.
* * *
In the evening as it grew dark, Boyd, hidden in his usual spot in the tall grass watching the Mitchison house, heard Mavis and Evadne speaking.
‘Mr Mitchison gone to Kingston again,’ Evadne said. ‘Second time this week. Mrs Mitchison have the house to herself.’
‘Mr Mitchison live in Kingston!’ Mavis laughed sardonically.
‘Him is a busy man. Sometimes three days pass and him don’t come home, whole weekends too. Then they talk and Mrs Mitchison get upset and hang up the telephone. Ah never know that white people could behave so bad. Them behave just like Neaga people.’
‘You would get vex too if your hubby never at home,’ Mavis said.
‘Hmm,’ Evadne agreed. Then she raised her eyebrows. ‘You know Adassa?’
‘Adassa who?’
‘Adassa, who used to work for Mr and Mrs Brookes before you?’
‘What about her?’
Evadne’s eyes widened. ‘You know what she tell me?’
‘What?’ Mavis stamped her foot, showing her impatience.
‘She say that Mr Mitchison sleep one night over at Miss Chatterjee.’
‘Mr Mitchison spend the night with Miss Chatterjee! When?’
‘The night of the Kendal Crash is when. She and Mr Mitchison drive up from Kingston that night. She couldn’t come by train because of the hooligans. Is what Adassa say, and she should know. She work for Miss Chatterjee now.’
‘The night of the Kendal Crash!’ Mavis exclaimed. ‘Mrs Mitchison know?’
‘You foolish or what? Who you think going to tell her?’
‘Lawd-a-mercy!’
‘Man up to no good. And is not only Mr Mitchison.’
‘What you mean?’ Mavis demanded.
‘Man up to no good is what ah mean,’ Evadne replied cooly. ‘Your baas not different from the rest of them. Him is only a man.’
‘You leave Mr Brookes out if it.’ Mavis pointed a steady finger.
‘Heh, heh,’ Evadne laughed mockingly.
‘Big shot people business is not our business,’ Mavis told her severely, ‘so keep out of it. Try this Essen and give me back the lilac bottle. Ah wearing it out this weeken
d. My man giving me rock and roll, chile.’ And Mavis hurried back to the house.
Boyd followed behind her, unseen. He looked in at Mama nursing the baby and inhaled the delicate scent of Johnsons Baby Oil, the smell of new life. Barrington and Yvonne seem preoccupied at supper and he wondered how it was possible that they did not know about Papa. Maybe they knew but chose to say nothing. Full of secret knowledge, he saw Papa drive over to the Mitchisons, where Ann Mitchison had the house to herself.
They could not prevent it, Papa and Ann. Amid the news of the tragedy and the careful show of distress, it was written, not by them but by fate, history, politics and by every damned thing that existed. It was written before that night, and it was being written as they engaged in their contrived tête-à-tête.
Susan was in bed, asleep, where she should be at that hour. People were in their homes, in their beds, doors locked up for the night. The world was asleep. They were alone in the world, Ann and Papa. No one could see them in this warm, dark night.
When it got past ten o’clock, Papa looked at his watch. Ann, seeing this, glanced at hers too. They said not a word as they walked down the steps and into the garden. They walked between oleander and bougainvillea and came to open ground hidden from the house, overlooking the valley and the lights of the factory. Here they sat on freshly mown lawn, still warm beneath them, soft as a woollen carpet, and came together as the moon went behind a cloud. Papa caught sight of Ann’s creamy hand removing her clip-on earrings and placing them in the pocket of her skirt, just before he got her on her back on the grass. Ann uttered a short sigh, inhaling the overpowering sugar and nicotine smell of him, a veritable male odour, as he crushed her beneath him. Papa remembered the smooth, hot fleshiness of her raised thighs and their whiteness in the dark. And his fiercely seeking mouth, full of guilt and betrayal, attended diligently to her raised lips.
The kiss didn’t last long although it seemed so to Papa, worried about the stupendousness of what they were doing, so close to their matrimonial home, with Mama waiting back at the house with the new baby. And suddenly they broke apart, as if caught in a shameful act. Papa swore that he had glimpsed a shadowy figure.
The Pink House at Appleton Page 24
