But Mavis was behaving strangely. She had not succumbed but was raging. Under him her fleshy buttocks bucked and thrashed, her breasts swung about and she neighed. Vincent was conscious of the neighing sound, the sound of resistance. He heard it from horses in the field. One hand went round Mavis’s throat, the other grasped her tongue the way Barry dealt with her. But Mavis neighed the more, full of fight, and might have had him on the ground beneath her, his rod pointing up, away from her, gorged, frightfully yearning but dying on him as she tried to put him in his place. This time he gave it everything. It was his last effort.
He rode her like a pig, driving with his full weight into her, hearing her grunt and squeal. He mastered her, shuddering as the heavens burst, as the stars rushed by, exploding, bursting in yellow, red and white flashes, winking, dying one by one until the sky turned black. As he slipped from her, the big hand round her neck loosened, her head sagged. They fell together on the bed, slow and slippery, down, down, down. The room spun, the light from the naked bulb attacked his eye. Vincent tried to rise but was so weak he had to fight, every muscle, every sinew straining, his eye popping, joints aching. But he made it off the bed, to the door, out the door and into that familiar Appleton night. He felt so weak but so gratified, aching but composed, lost but fulfilled, heading to his single bed with the stained, striped mattress. Before he slipped into a deep sleep, the kind he’d never had in all his twenty-six half-blind years, he heard, fleetingly, I want you to take me where I belong, where hearts have been broken with a kiss and a song.
* * *
Vincent just wished it would go away. The coolies were beating their drums down in the valley. The thumping sound reverberated in his room and he could hear their shouting, that flat, raucous sound. What time was it? His head throbbed with a harsh pain. Piercing torchlight beams came from the darkness, hurting his eye, streaking against the walls of his room, creating smoke, like the heat from a magnifying glass. The walls burst into white flames and he raised his arms to protect his eye. But there was a wild shadow in front of him, a dark figure in white light. A black Duppy. He cowered under the sheets.
‘Is drunk you drunk or what?’ the dark figure shouted from the white brightness. ‘Is past nine o’clock! Mr Brookes going to give you a piece of him mind.’
Vincent squeezed and contorted his eye and barely made out the apparition. It was Mavis at the door she’d just flung open. She was holding her nose and pointing at him.
‘Get up and get to work, you lazy no good! You little drunkard.’
Mavis’s shadow went away but the white light and the heat remained. Vincent turned his head and felt the pain. An empty bottle of white rum lay on the floor by his bed, the infamous John Crow Batty that only hard men drank every Friday night. An appalling stink reached his nostrils. His bed was covered in vomit. On the floor lay the half-smoked remains of the ganja. A refreshing zephyr swept through the louvres but it would never be enough to take away the realisation that he’d not left his bed since six o’clock the day before or the shame that he had even contemplated carrying out such a vile act on the young maid.
CHAPTER 36
Venom was what Miss Robb was full of that day. Her dark brows told of hidden frustrations, vile vexations, dreadful things. After the gaiety of H.M.S. Pinafore, she wanted discipline. And everyone was in their place. Everyone except Miss Casserly.
No one had seen Miss Casserly all morning. She had not taken the daily callisthenics and was sorely missed. Miss Robb had had to step in and put them through their paces, and it left her perspiring. The morning was very warm, even at that early hour, and it was the kind of perspiration that poured from every pore like a silent stream. Like most decent Jamaican young ladies from the aspiring classes, Miss Robb abhorred sweat and would do anything to keep it at bay. She would live in a cold country like England if she could, in order not to sweat.
She had a big, firm build, with large, powerful upper arms that were supple, smooth and shiny. She was prone to sweat, with a body like that, and kept well out of the sun and away from any strenuous activity. But that morning she had the misfortune of having to take the daily exercise classes, all because pretty Miss Casserly had not turned up. Now she was sweating like a pig and felt most uncomfortable. She could not last the day. Her only hope was to go home at lunchtime for a quick shower and a change. Until then it was hell for her and she showed it.
‘Miss Robb, just a minute.’ Sister Margaret Mary was at the door.
Miss Robb excused herself but returned almost immediately, glaring. She walked between desks inspecting books and hunting for bubblegum. Her ruler made slapping noises.
‘Draw a line under the work,’ Miss Robb commanded, and everyone reached for their rulers. These plastic rulers were fascinating, very 1957, in Kool-Aid-red, lime-green and electric-pink, all made in America and bought at Mr Chang’s shop at Siloah.
‘Yes, Miss Robb,’ everyone intoned.
But Miss Robb was called away again before her ruler could slap some more. This time she met Sister Margaret Mary in the hall. They conferred, heads together. Then Sister walked away, her rosaries singing, her blue skirts sweeping the floor. Miss Robb followed, her proud bottom waggling. They stopped at the entrance of the school, where the sun brightened their features. Miss Robb’s arms glistened and her hair shone like splintered light. Sister’s white bib blazed. They were talking to a man who held his felt hat in his hands and faced down, a sinner repenting. Boyd recognised the man as Mr Burton. Miss Robb’s arms were folded. Sister held her’s as if in prayer. They moved away from the door and out of sight, but not too far away, for Boyd could see their shadows against the wall.
In the hushed silence, Adrian Lees tugged at Doreen Chang’s hair and blew pink bubblegum, bought at Mr Chang’s shop at Siloah, made in America and outlawed by Sister. Adrian’s behaviour was shocking because that very day he would be taking Holy Communion with Father John the Baptist at Our Lady of Sorrows. Wasn’t he conscious of the watching eyes of the Holy Ghost, the all-seeing, all knowing God the Father? He could be struck down!
But it was Mr Burton who was struck down in shame, even though Sister said he was not to blame, that he couldn’t be held responsible for the sordid behaviour of his reprobate nephew. Miss Robb thought differently and kept her silence to show it, because she knew what Sister did not know, could never know. She’d never really appreciated Mr Burton. Him and his American ways. He could do what he liked in America. Balaclava was a decent place with nice people. Not a place for buggery. She said nothing when he left, pretending to be ashamed, pretending to show outrage, pretending to be apologetic, holding his hat in his hand and everything. Well, he could pretend all he liked. He and his nephew were the same. She could see through men like that, always covering up for bad behaviour. He may have Sister fooled but not her. He couldn’t possibly remain the official school supplier now. And she told herself that she would make certain that Father John the Baptist knew the facts. Father John the Baptist would know what to do.
Miss Skiddar came to the door of the classroom just then. She was still Sir Joseph Porter, with all the drama of H.M.S Pinafore. At the sight of her, the children heard I am the Monarch of the Sea and lived all their emotions again.
‘Those for Our Lady of Sorrows, follow me,’ Miss Skiddar said, moments before Miss Robb took her aside and whispered long into her ear.
‘No!’ Miss Skiddar said, shocked, two elegant fingers at her mouth.
‘Yes,’ Miss Robb confirmed solemnly, darkly.
Boys and girls made their way out of the building towards the stone fence at the far side of the school where the spreading guango tree stood. Beyond the stone fence lay a large field full of tamarind trees. Our Lady of Sorrows faced the field, a small brick church with a cross made of multi-coloured glass set into the brick. Full of the facts, Miss Skiddar, guiding the children, did not know it but Mr Burton was making his way to Our Lady of Sorrows at that moment. They would get there before him because th
ey were taking the shortest route across the field.
Mr Burton took the long way, up the Balaclava road, walking slow and dignified. He did not understand Edgar. That boy was determined to ruin him, by every lascivious deed. But he would pray for him.
Miss Robb looked grimly at her watch. It was close to the end of the school day and the trees were beginning to rustle and stir. And something else too. Boyd heard it first, before the other children. Beautiful singing. The sound of heavenly voices and piano music swept down the hill from the convent. The nuns were singing a song of forgiveness and of hope. They sang throughout the afternoon. Even when the children flowed from the classrooms with their brown grips and satchels and said their goodbyes, the nuns’ voices floated into the wind. The sisters were still singing when the school bus arrived. Mr Chin was downcast and Sister Margaret Mary’s lips were tight and creased and white. The school bus was quiet and Boyd felt the tension of not knowing.
Diana Delfosse and another of the big girls sat behind Mr Chin, whispering. The chill wind that blew through the cane fields in the valley entered the school bus. It made Diana Delfosse furrow her brows.
‘Your skin’s just like a naked chicken,’ someone said, pointing at Carol Lees, who was milky-white with freckles.
‘White like salt and speckled like fish,’ someone else joked.
‘It’s goosebumps,’ Carol replied.
‘Chicken bumps,’ the voice returned.
‘Shut up,’ Carol said.
Mr Chin had spoken not a single word since he drove out of the school gates. He spun the large steering wheel, changed gears, stepped on the brakes and said nothing. He looked right and left, his slick black hair swinging about. He turned on the trafficator, which flicked out like the tongue of a lizard on heat, waited at the railway crossing and said nothing. He accelerated away from the railway crossing, up the smooth asphalt road, telegraph poles flashing by, and still said nothing.
That afternoon, Mr Chin, for the first time ever, drove up a side road (it may have been to deliver a message from Sister). He drove where the frangipani grew wild, where the estate shade trees were not pruned and where Boyd had once been with Vincent.
Mr Chin drove up to the Bull Pen where the bachelor men of the estate lived, where Four Aces cigarette butts lay all day in ashtrays on the long verandah and where the smell of the men hung carefree and suspect. It was the Bull Pen of the unfortunate Mr Dixon, set on fire by the scorned woman, Ruby. The Bull Pen of the rampant Edgar, who had a baby in every parish. No one understood it at all. A mist hung over everything. Boyd remembered the shrieking, the arms thrown up, the skirts flouncing, the rushing about, but most of all the pain in the woman’s voice. It was Miss Casserly, just visible through the mist on the verandah of the Bull Pen. She was hurt.
The school bus was quiet for a long time. All the splendour and the beauty of H.M.S. Pinafore, the lovely songs like Sweet Little Buttercup, could not save her. After a long silence, someone, it might have been Junior Chin, uttered two words that echoed into the mist.
‘It’s Edgar,’ he said.
* * *
It was the dastardly Edgar who caused the hurt and the silence in the school bus that day. And they never saw pretty Miss Casserly again. People said she went by BOAC to London, or moved to Kingston like Patricia Moodie. But no one knew. And Mr Burton went away too, after Father John the Baptist learned the facts from Miss Robb.
At first people said he left Balaclava under a cloud. They said he packed up and left for Water Lane, Kingston, to set up a new tailoring establishment in a busy place where people minded their own business and where no one knew his name. He no longer cared to live in a small place like Balaclava, with its lovely white houses, vines running up their walls, its clean air and cloudless skies, which he loved, and the sedate gentility of the place. He no longer cared to be a Catholic. Catholics were fair-weather friends, unconcerned about human beings like him. People said that the young man, Jarrett, who learned his trade from Mr Burton, also set up shop in Water Lane and changed his name. They were not allowed to live together among nice Balaclava people.
In the end, it was Corporal Duncan who brought definitive news. A hideous body, hanging from a rope, was found in the back room of Mr Burton’s old house. It was the flies and the stench that finally gave it away. Mr Burton’s body had been hanging there for sometime, in the centre of a room full of pictures and mementos of his life spent in New York and Balaclava. The police didn’t think there were any suspicious circumstances.
CHAPTER 37
That Friday afternoon, Boyd, in turmoil, his heart hurting for Miss Casserly, his senses consumed with the absent Susan, left the school bus and went straight to Mavis. When the cauchee sounded four o’clock, Mama, looking out the window, saw him rush from Mavis’s room and enter the house. She pretended not to see him as he went down the hall and into his own room. He was only a child, just a little child.
In his room, a feeling of desperation came over Boyd. It was the end of another week and there had been no news about Susan. The Mullard radio reported the death of someone called Christian Dior and sad music accompanied the reports. He was convinced that this time they would receive news of Susan’s death. So many people had died: Grandpa and Grandma Pratt, Mr Donald Lee of Water Lane, Mrs Ten-To-Six, the hundreds of people in the Kendal Crash and now Mr Burton. He sobbed, self-consciously, knowing that it was over.
Eyes misty, he looked out his bedroom window, half-expecting to see another frightful postman come riding up. But the driveway was empty and in soft afternoon sun. No postman appeared. What he glimpsed was a familiar flash of colour on the road through the trees, a fleeting emotion. Desperation flew out the window in that instant. What he saw was the pink figure of Susan. She was on her bicycle, alone. She had returned. His heart leaped and he cried out, unconsciously. Happiness: the taste of lollipops, the sound of music, the scent of lilies assaulted his senses.
Glancing swiftly behind into the hall and seeing no one, Boyd mounted the windowsill and dropped like a stone into the carpet grass. Then he was up and running on weak legs, already breathless, towards Barrington’s bicycle propped against the garage wall. Poppy was ahead of him down the driveway, himself feeling the blazing excitement. So furiously did Boyd ride that he came out ahead of Susan down the lane where the roads forked. Barrington’s bicycle, made from scavenged Raleigh parts and put together at the factory by one of the mechanics, was old and skeletal, without mudguards, but it could go. As Boyd flew by at unimaginable speed, Susan gave a startled cry, as if set upon by small birds, and braked at the side of the road. But Boyd could not stop.
The bicycle had no brakes and could only be stopped by exerting extreme pressure on the pedals or, as Barrington liked to do, extending one leg on the rear wheel and pressing down hard with his crepe-soled shoe. Boyd applied as much pressure as he could till his calves and thighs bulged and weakened, but could only slow a hundred yards away. By then, he was facing the Mitchison’s house, whereas Susan was near the entrance to the pink house in the opposite direction. It would be difficult to turn and ride back, passing Susan a second time. But that was what should be done; it was what his inner voice whispered, what Poppy wanted, bounding back and forth and waiting for him to follow. Seeing her after such a long time, in the heat of the moment, had made him reckless. But the extreme exertion had sapped his bravery. He stood astride the bicycle in the middle of the road. To ride back was impossible. What could he say? What would he do? The only voice he listened to told him not to go back.
Susan now turned and was riding towards him, yellow sun shafting through the trees, stroking her as she advanced. It was as if she rode through yellow bands of flame. Boyd continued up the road away from her, past her house, past the Dowding’s house down the lane, past the paddocks where the Dowding’s horses were, down the incline to open ground beyond the houses, where large poinciana trees grew. He got off the bicycle under the trees, out of anxiety but also out of exhaustion, and
sat on the soft grass among the bright pink blossoms of the poinciana. If Susan should come riding down the grassy slope, which he desperately hoped and prayed she would, he would be trapped, unable to get away; in the perfect place.
If only it were possible to speak the words he could not speak, it would be so easy. He envied Yvonne, speaking so effortlessly. Words simply flew from her, light and gay, like small birds. His words were like muscovado sugar, heavy, crude and slow, demanding so much of him that in the end it was better to say nothing. He knew, from kindergarten, that his words were only feelings. He wanted Susan to be at that place with him where words would not be necessary, only feelings, looks, a gentle touch.
Her scent now descended like falling pollen. She came down the slope at girl-speed, steady and upright, holding the handlebars purposefully, the familiar image of his days and nights. This was not a dream, lovely feelings in a classroom or a distant vision. Around him the scarlet blossoms shifted. They too felt the end of the long waiting. Boyd hoped, a fleeting, cowardly hope, that Susan might turn at the very last moment and ride back up the slope. But there was a silence, the silence of unseen movement. Poppy barked. Boyd glanced over his shoulder. Susan had put her bicycle down carefully nearby and was walking over, her strap-shoes rustling the grass. Poppy went to her as if approaching an old friend, tail in a smooth round motion, and sniffed at her frock. Susan bent to stroke him, and if she blushed it was unseen as poinciana-pink reflected everywhere.
The Pink House at Appleton Page 31
