‘Wonderful,’ the woman next to him breathed.
‘Wonderful,’ Mr Burton repeated, acknowledging her and bowing simultaneously to the couple to his left. At the same time, he noted that the lights the electricians had erected around the grounds had also dimmed. Expectation rose in the audience. Necks craned, eyes peeled, every movement, every sudden rustle of the curtain on stage was quickly and eagerly noted. Mr Burton observed the audience, his eyes moving in a 180 degree angle. And they came to rest on a young man he did not immediately recognise, a young man in the shadows beyond the orchestra, in the school grounds, making his way to the back of the main building. It was when the young man appeared to climb in through a partly opened window on the ground floor of the building that he realised who it was. It was none other than Edgar. Mr Burton felt white wrath. The trouble that boy had got him into lately. The Devil take him!
* * *
Papa sat at the bar smoking, physically exhausted. He enjoyed being at the club among the men, among kindred spirits, especially after a bruising day at the factory. He liked to see the factory in the background, the battleground, hear the distant hiss of steam, feel the heat and inhale the sugar aroma, the rum from the distillery, imagine the constant hum of power and know that he had a responsible role in that world. His role, an integral one, gave him substantial kudos. His nocturnal activities with Ann heightened his impression of himself. A phrase came to him. He couldn’t remember if it was the title of a book or a film. The Power and the Glory. But that had to be the caption under his smiling picture, the one for posterity.
He was terribly relaxed now, having seen off the troubles at the factory and arranged Mama and Ann’s safe transport to the concert. It was not an evening he had been looking forward to, certainly not one that included Mama and Ann in the same company. He felt much obliged to Moodie for standing in as he did.
Papa appreciated the club and the people there, sometimes more than he appreciated being at home, to be candid about it. The club offered pleasures that home could not. The wine-coloured, cellophane packet of his Royal Blend lay on the bar next to his nine-ounce tumbler of rum and ginger, which he fondly caressed. Men at the other end of the bar were in an expansive mood. Most had not been home yet, driving straight to the club from the factory. The tennis courts were empty. At that time of day, it was not the tennis playing crowd that lined the bar and brayed at small tables, puffing away, baring their souls, contemplating the approaching night with faces that betrayed loneliness and conflict. Few women were at the club at that time.
‘Harry, you’re the man I’m looking for.’ It was Moodie, coming out of nowhere. He wore crumpled khakis and brown riding boots. The sleeves of his khaki shirt were rolled up and he had the look of a big-game hunter. He’d been told that before and liked to look the part. ‘You need to give me a lift.’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Papa demanded.
Moodie laughed, appreciating Papa’s sense of humour. He hunched over the bar, grinning and ordered a drink. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Harry?’ He laughed.
‘Is it over already?’ Papa asked, not smiling. He was clawing at Moodie in a theatrical fashion. ‘Did you get there and back so soon? How was it?’
‘What are you talking about, Harry? My car ran out of gas on the road from Maggotty and I’m late for my little rendezvous.’ Moodie grinned slyly.
‘What? The concert, man, the concert.’
Moodie’s grin faded, slowly. ‘What concert? Your note said not to bother.’
‘What note?’
‘Your note, Harry, on my desk.’
‘I sent no note,’ Papa said, alarmed. ‘Are you trying to tell me you didn’t pick up the women?’
‘Harry, hold on. The note said, Not to bother, going with Mr Chin instead. Note on my desk from you.’ Moodie stressed every word.
‘From me? No, no.’ Papa shook his head, thoughts racing. ‘The note didn’t come from me. Don’t you think I’d know?’
‘Well, I didn’t send it to myself. It was Dalkieth’s handwriting.’
‘Christ! What did it say?’
Moodie repeated himself.
Papa knew at once that the note was from Ann. ‘Jeezas. Why on earth didn’t you check with me?’
‘Why should I? Your name was at the end of it, Harry. I assumed Dalkieth wrote it at your instruction. You mean you didn’t send it?’
‘That’s what I said, dammit man!’ Papa imagined Mama impatiently waiting, her impatience quickly turning to astonishment, then to incredulity, to anger and then finally to revulsion as the hours slipped by. There was no way in which she would have known about the botched arrangement with Moodie. ‘Jeezas,’ Papa repeated, ‘Jeezas.’ Mama was still waiting on him to pick her up.
‘What are you going to do?’ Moodie fingered his chin.
Papa glanced at his watch, the gold flashing in the light from the bar, and got off the stool. Moodie heard the Blakeys clip-clop on the heels of his brogues. Papa demanded the telephone from the bartender. It took a long time before Evadne answered it.
‘Mrs Mitchison left a long time, sar,’ Evadne said. ‘In Mr Chin fishtail car, sar.’
‘Jeezas,’ Papa said again when he put the telephone down. ‘God Almighty. Moodie, quick, we’re leaving. I’ll drop you off at your place. Get a move on.’
As the Prefect roared up the estate road, sugar cane leaves bowing and rearing up in its wake, Moodie tried to tell jokes. Papa was silent. Halfway to Moodie’s rendezvous, he knew it was no use driving by the pink house and then on to the school. By the time he got to the house and set out for the school, the concert would have been over a long time and Boyd would be waiting. He hoped that by some miracle Mr Chin, a man too kind for his own good, would have thought to stop by for Mrs Brookes. Ann herself would have thought of it. He grasped at every reasonable possibility. All he could do now was drop Moodie off and drive like hell for the school. Sister Margaret Mary and the teachers would think the Brookeses were philistines if no one turned up. It would be worse than anything Mama could throw at him. And what would the other parents think when the news got out, as it would? The family at the pink house were Hurry-Come-Ups. Common people. Common people! People unable to appreciate the importance of attending, as a family, such a civilised occasion as a school concert, such a vital moment in their child’s development.
When Papa arrived at Moodie’s rendezvous, the house was in darkness except for a light over the front door, illuminating green shutters partly covered in luxuriant creepers. It was Miss Hutchinson’s house.
‘Just a minute,’ Moodie said, leaping out of the car.
The front door opened and Papa saw Icilda, Miss Hutchinson’s maid, standing solemnly under the light. She had a seductive figure and they could see that her dressing gown was wrapped loosely about her.
‘Where is Miss?’ Moodie asked her.
‘She gone to see a film show, sar, with friends. She not coming back till late. Ah was just going off to my room for the night.’
‘To your room?’ Moodie hesitated. Papa saw him move forward and speak in lowered tones to Icilda, who laughed out loud, a vulgar nasal snort. Moodie turned and moved hastily towards the car, grinning. He’s obviously been drinking before he got to the club. Icilda stood under the light, smooth thigh exposed.
‘Harry,’ Moodie said, ‘leave me here.’
Papa stared at him. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’ Moodie smiled broadly. ‘Go on, I’ll see you tomorrow. Give Victoria my love.’ He lurched towards the light and Icilda.
Papa drove off, scattering pebbles in the ruler-straight driveway before turning left into the long road to Balaclava. The headlights of the Prefect shot out in a powerful arc, illuminating the darkness, finding the road black and empty. Papa floored the accelerator and, above the howling of the wind, the throbbing engine, the turmoil within him, he found an intriguing peace.
* * *
&
nbsp; ‘Go and get your things,’ Papa said.
At the door to the changing room, Boyd met Miss Casserly hurrying away, glamorous and demure, an elegant scent floating from her. He stood still. When she got a few feet away, she started to run, her skirts and arms frivolous. Mr Burton and Edgar were just inside the room, their first words of argument bursting forth. Boyd thought they made a puffing sound, like steam bursting from a bag. At his approach, Mr Burton turned away from Edgar, the tail of his jacket flaring out like a woman’s skirts behind him, and walked purposefully from the room.
‘What I do is my business,’ Edgar callously shouted after him. ‘You live your life, I live my life.’
Just then, away from the lights, by the warm Prefect, Ann Mitchison returned to Papa. A moment earlier, she had thanked Mr Chin for his kindness but informed him that she would be returning with Mr Brookes. In the dim light, as she came to Papa, she was the colour of creamed peach, her eyes reflecting the peeping moon, her lips a rich burgundy. Papa, solid and dark, full of the essence of sugar and caramel, felt her approach. He noted her movements and the moving figures of parents and excited children, a few yards from them but a world away, under the full lights. The Prefect, in the dark, was parked under the apple tree in the schoolyard. Fallen apples lay on the ground, their skins crimson, some whole, some squashed, their torn flesh white and seeping.
‘A pity Victoria wasn’t able to attend,’ Ann said. ‘It was a wonderful, wonderful performance. Boyd was such a little sailor, such a little sailor.’
As Ann spoke, she stroked Papa’s arm in consolation, for she could see his disappointment, sense his misery. Papa felt disappointment of a kind, and misery too. In that peculiar frame of mind, he manoeuvred her under the dark of the tree where there were no shadows. A large hurrying shape passed by on the other side. Eyes accustomed to the dark saw the compromising figures. Mr Burton, shocked for the second time that night, hastened away. Papa was reckless and felt Ann’s own recklessness in his arms as they kissed. They had to stop, they knew it was madness, but neither took the initiative. Little mewing sounds came from Ann.
‘Papa?’
A small shadow stood by the car. Papa broke away and Ann adjusted her dress. It was Boyd, still in his sailor suit with rouge upon his face. The small bag that he held in both his hands contained his day clothes and his sailor hat, some silver and gold paper, a pink plastic sea urchin and a sea cow.
‘Boyd, get in the car,’ Papa said boldly, striding forward to open the rear door. ‘Mrs Mitchison’s coming with us.’
Boyd pretended not to be despondent because Papa had tried to explain it all, but he was. Mama and Yvonne had not seen him on stage and Papa hardly at all. At least Ann Mitchison had been there, and he had sensed Susan’s eyes upon him. Ann Mitchison’s adult perfume, her unexpected presence and her observations about H.M.S. Pinafore kept him quiet in the car, but he felt abandoned.
All that Papa had seen of H.M.S. Pinafore was the lighted stage with a lot of pretty teachers in make-up and small children dressed as sailors, Boyd among them, splicing and pulling at imaginary ropes and singing. It was a long wait, after the performance was over and everyone clapped and surrounded the stage, the players receiving ovation after ovation, before he found Boyd. Parents and other members of the audience hugged the makeshift bar, sipping light rum punch while a quintet played classical music. The children and their teachers seemed to be cavorting about behind the curtains and in the dimly lit classrooms. Papa did not see, but Little Buttercup lost much of her lipstick and make-up in the clutches of a throbbing young man in the dark. She had not been able to resist him when he took her under the trees and later in a dark classroom where they thought no one could see. But they had been followed from a distance and the young man stood accused.
* * *
‘What time is this?’ Mama demanded.
The house was dark and it didn’t seem as if anyone lived there when they got home. But Mama was in her room with the light low.
Boyd witnessed Papa trying to speak.
Mama slapped Papa’s face, hard. Boyd heard the sharp sound, saw Mama’s crushed and wounded face. It was a self-conscious slap, embarrassing for Mama, but she had to slap Papa.
‘Victoria, let me explain,’ Papa said, massaging his cheek with one hand while the other closed the door firmly behind him. ‘It was Moodie, Moodie!’
But Mama was so full of venom that she could barely speak.
Boyd stood still outside the door hearing Mama’s voice spitting sulphur. It could not be suppressed. In his room he could taste the rouge and smell the sweet make-up, like chocolate, like the melange of creams and lotions on Mama’s dressing table, applied to his face by dainty hands, Miss Casserly’s hands, and remember all the beautiful things. His sleepy head was full of red lipstick drama. He had imagined Susan, in a salmon taffeta dress and white gloves, sitting in the audience watching him, felt her there, drew on the essence of her. Papa’s own performance, the kissing of Ann Mitchison, confused him at first, but it seemed to be wrapped up with H.M.S. Pinafore. He really wasn’t sure if he had imagined it, the night being so full of drama. That memorable moment had been devoid of guilt. Yet Papa’s head had been bowed at the door to Mama’s room.
* * *
Vincent’s head had been bowed too, earlier that night. The half-smoked cigar hung from his fingers, no longer a mystery. In a back room at the rum bar in Lacovia, the men, jolly and friendly (he had grown to like them), had let him know that he’d been smoking a certain weed called ganja, which Rastafarians smoked. The men said they really should have charged him more for that special tobacco, but seeing as how he was a regular and – he shouldn’t take this the wrong way – he was half-blind, they were willing to be generous.
When Mr Brookes didn’t arrive to take Mrs Brookes to the concert, Vincent became agitated. But later he leaned back against the wall in his room, feet stretched full out on the striped mattress, eyes gazing into darkness as the calm overcame him. The small flat bottle of John Crow Batty found his waiting mouth again. The hot lick of the liquid was not madly appealing but he was beginning to appreciate it. What he craved absolutely was the impact, the sudden change in his bones, in his gut and in his head. He sipped and inhaled and inhaled and sipped, filling the room with white smoke that hung motionless. It would not be long. He felt a weight being lifted off him, calming his senses.
The notes of reproach he had already dismissed. In his lonely, bitter years, years in which he had denied himself again and again, it had been those voices that he had listened to, bowed and succumbed to. Never again. Right was on his side. It wasn’t as if he were one of those raging drunks, wild of eye and heavy of tongue, pissed to the point of unconscious, incapable of reason. He had worked everything out, from beginning to end.
Mavis, once she truly understood what he was about, would be nice to him. That was what women did, put up a fight for show then give in. That was the wisdom he heard frequently at the rum bars in Lacovia and elsewhere, articulated by men, pasture bull men, who knew what they were talking about. He had seen that wisdom played out often enough. His one good eye peeled on Mavis’s bed and on the two contorted figures there, like two stray dogs copulating, he had learned that lesson. It never ceased to amaze and frustrate him that Mavis always said, ‘Barry, stop it! Stop it!’ and in the next moment, with Barry in her mouth and up behind her, was ready to surrender herself to him in the most lascivious fashion. He took one last swig of the white rum, put the bottle aside and raised the ganja to his lips. He felt nothing at all.
Now that the moment was near, he was more certain than ever of the righteousness of his objective, more convinced of its legitimacy. Hearing movement in Mavis’s room, he rose from the bed on flat, padded feet and peered through the hole in the wall. The light was on. Mavis had entered the room to change into her dressing gown before returning to the big house. She was sitting before the little dressing table, arms raised, yawning. He saw her spread buttocks, partly ope
ned thighs, jutting breasts. He was ready.
When he entered Mavis’s room, the radio was playing Marianne but he did not hear it. He only saw the outline of Mavis’s body shimmering in the yellow light. And Mavis saw his sudden shadow under the light from the single bulb.
‘What you want?’ she asked fiercely, eyes narrowing, rounding on him, throwing her skirts between her thighs in a single motion.
‘What ah want?’ Vincent shut the door behind him menacingly.
He did it so surely and so calmly that Mavis froze. He took that as the sign that things were proceeding correctly. Even when Mavis, overcoming her initial shock, shot up from the chair so that it made a clattering noise and bounced off the floor, his composure was total. He had seen that kind of play between Mavis and that man Barry countless times. Mavis, for all her bluster, her feigning, which was quite impressive, wanted only one thing. Had he known it would be so easy, that he was so capable of being a pasture bull, he would have made his move a long time ago. Down in his balls he felt the fire and before him saw the yellow haze that was Mavis. She was dazzling now and calling his name, saying please, please, using all the words that turned him on heat.
She was against him, he could feel her, a strong young woman. He met her, man to woman, force for force, slap for slap, wrist for wrist, bite for bite. She was determined to fight hard before giving in. He would have to get her down on the ground, spread her on her back, master her. The bed against the wall was square and bright-white, the only shape of any clarity in the room. Mavis had him against the door, using knees, elbows, chest, her hot, wet breath like compressed steam against his face. She had pimento breath. He got his own knees up between her parted thigh flesh. Those mighty thighs and calves of his got to work; those ripcord-hard biceps and triceps did his bidding. Responding to the long pent-up power in his loins, he hoisted Mavis up and, feeling the looseness of her dress about her fiercely resisting body, threw her down on the white patch of bed. She bounced. He was upon her from behind. Barry’s past performances were encrypted in his head. He was programmed for the final act, the moment when Barry slid off her, perspiring, spent, his black hood slowly withdrawing, shrivelling, growing small and useless. Watching from the hole in the wall, Vincent always thought they looked like curs in the village street where he came from, fucking hard and determined, eyes everywhere and nowhere, seeing nothing, engulfed in that rigid up and down dance to the end, to the last satiated gasp.
The Pink House at Appleton Page 30
