The Pink House at Appleton

by Jonathan Braham

‘You’re imagining things,’ Ann said. ‘You know you are.’

  With the moon out and the rain falling gently, there was less reason to imagine intruders, voyeurs and other creatures of the night. And so, in the last moments remaining to them, Papa and Ann walked to the edge of the verandah and looked out over the valley at the thin mist, at the droplets of rain like silver stars, flickering everywhere. Papa kissed Ann again, as he had done so many times before on that same spot. This time it was a longer, passionate kiss, more meaningful than all the rest. Ann responded, surrendering, limp in his arms. Papa did not see how he could put an end to this, although he knew he must. In a moment he would walk briskly down the steps to the vehicle parked in the shadows and drive the few hundred yards down the road, turn left into the driveway of the pink house, roar up it and be home and in bed in a matter of minutes. But it was different that night.

  Ann saw it first, a glow of fiery red across the valley.

  * * *

  When Mama, cold and trembling, returned to the pink house and mounted the verandah steps, she glanced over her shoulder with misty eyes and saw the red glow too. Someone had lit a fire. Terrible images of Mr Dixon at the Bull Pen came to mind but were obliterated as Yvonne rushed into her arms.

  ‘Mavis is here, Mama. And the baby’s stopped crying.’

  ‘Ah’m sorry, Mrs Brookes,’ Mavis said. ‘Ah was delayed, ma’am.’

  Mavis appeared from the depths of the drawing room with the baby, whose arms reached stiffly out for Mama. Her cheeks were shining in a gleeful smile and both her legs flicked at the air. Gratefully, Mama took her from Mavis in an almost apologetic posture, and it was some time before everyone realised that it was not raindrops falling from her cheeks. They saw Mama sit down suddenly on the sofa, as if she had lost all strength in her legs. She clasped the baby to her, suffocatingly close, as a grim humiliation settled on her face. She looked straight through Mavis and the children, through the rainy mist, and saw the man and the woman in a close embrace on the Mitchisons’ verandah. She had watched them for a long time, mortified, then, on weak legs, turned and walked away. She had not been confused, not misguided, not been silly, not been wrong. She had been right all along. She had known it from the very night of Ann Mitchison’s dinner party.

  In the immediate blur of mystery and tumult, the only thing Boyd heard was Mavis saying, in a clear voice, ‘I get you a cup of ginger tea, ma’am.’ And she rushed off, cotton skirts fanning out, exposing taut, brown calves. Feeling responsible for everything, Boyd wished the Mullard radio was on, alive with golden light. He wished its vibrant smell of 1957 technology, of warm valves and tubes and Bakelite, filled the dull air; wished the crackling music from foreign places could sweep away Mama’s tears.

  But Papa broke the silence, racing up the driveway in the Land Rover, water splashing right and left like swans’ white wings in the night. He stopped the vehicle by the verandah with the headlights on, bounded up the steps and shouted the most awful news. He was back behind the wheel and out the gate at the end of the driveway before anyone could draw breath. Urgent duties and responsibilities demanded his presence. Miss Chatterjee’s house, on the opposite side of the valley, was on fire and burning furiously.

  As Papa left, everyone, including Mama, ran for the verandah. Papa was grateful for the emergency. The drama distracted from Mama’s pain as it distracted from Papa’s guilt. From the verandah they could make out, between dark trees and chilling drizzle, the ominous flames, like the furious tip of a lighted match, and sense the distant violence.

  Boyd imagined Miss Chatterjee’s screams, her dark flashing hair, her white shorts and her smooth thighs against the red of the flames. He saw her rush from the house in the chilly night air, her scent pretty and light, while the firemen attended to her, some hanging on to her tennis rackets and her lovely clothes. He saw them save her and wrap her in blankets, her fabulous scent driving them on. He knew that the next day she would have to leave the house, just like Agatha. But they would give her a nice new estate house, better than the one before, with a telephone, and she would come to the club and set it alight as always. She was deathless. He held tightly onto Mavis.

  ‘Ah hope she not in the house,’ Mavis said in a worried tone, looking transfixed across the valley. ‘She and Mr Mitchison.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mama asked her, astonished.

  Instantly, Mavis’s hand went to her mouth.

  ‘Nothing, ma’am,’ she replied. ‘Ah don’t mean nothing, ma’am.’

  But her eyes gave her away.

  ‘Children, go to your rooms,’ Mama commanded.

  ‘Mama, Mama,’ Yvonne remonstrated. Flashes of red were already beginning to be reflected in the French windows. Yvonne and Boyd hoped to see much bigger flashes, see churning black and white smoke, see the headlights and hear the screaming sirens of the fire engine and other vehicles racing to the scene to save Miss Chatterjee.

  ‘Get to your rooms!’ Mama shouted, seeing them hesitate, the veins standing out in her neck.

  As they hurried away, Mavis sat down, staring out at the distant fire.

  ‘Mavis, what do you know?’

  ‘Me, Mrs Brookes?’

  ‘Don’t play the fool with me. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘Well, ma’am, ah only know what Evadne told me and she only know what Adassa told her.’

  ‘Which is?’

  They talked until the red flames went out and the blackness descended and the air turned chilly on the verandah. They talked until Papa returned, disorientated, eyes bloodshot and so exhausted he could hardly stand.

  ‘Ginger tea, Mavis,’ Mama instructed, lips set.

  Papa wept in his hands, shoulders rounded. They had found Manjula Chatterjee lying amid the ruins, blackened, burnt and disfigured, unrecognisable, hideous, life and beauty extinguished. There had been someone with her, a male companion, dead too, only a yellow-gold wristwatch to identify him by. A beautiful young woman, the future of Jamaica, was dead. Papa wept like a child. It was because of everything, past and present, things for which there was no redress. Overnight events had shut out the incriminating letter, put off for a time the terrible judgement against him, his certain punishment, which would come in the morning.

  CHAPTER 41

  In the morning, Papa left the house while everyone was still asleep. When he returned, late in the afternoon, he walked slow. All his swagger was gone from him. He did not speak to Mama and Mama did not speak to him. They avoided each other for two hours.

  ‘Victoria,’ Papa said towards evening, finding the strength to face her at last in the bedroom. ‘About the letter.’ He stuttered like a schoolboy confessing.

  Mama folded her arms and set her lips so tight they creased. The bedroom door was closed. Outside, under the windows, crickets peeped.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ Papa said solemnly. ‘A big mistake. It happened a long time ago. I swear I only knew just before we left Worthy Park.’

  ‘Why, Harold?’ was all Mama asked.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ Papa told her, hands together, head down. ‘A mistake. I wish I could make it right.’

  ‘Make it right? How? She’s your daughter.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m not denying that.’

  ‘You went to see her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Papa tried to face her again but couldn’t. ‘Victoria, I’m ashamed.’

  Mama said nothing.

  ‘I didn’t set out to bring shame. It wasn’t – ’

  ‘You’re going to support her?’

  ‘Yes, I have to. It’s my responsibility. I ask you to forgive me.’

  ‘Forgive you?’

  ‘I can only ask it.’

  ‘I do forgive you,’ Mama said, shocking Papa. Her face showed no bitterness, only hurt. It was just a plain and simple face acknowledging a reality that had come upon them. ‘What am I to do? Pretend it hasn’t happened? Ignore it? You’ve said you’ll accept responsibility. It’s the right thing to do. The poor
child is innocent in all of this.’

  ‘Yes, Victoria,’ Papa said gratefully, moving towards Mama in a supplicatory stance. Mama moved away and folded her arms across her chest, her back to him.

  ‘Do you have anything else to say to me?’

  ‘Anything else?’

  She stopped him. ‘Do you love us, Harold?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What’s difficult about that? Do you love me and the children?’

  Papa stepped back and sat down. His posture beseeched Mama to believe him. ‘You know I do,’ he said, hands shaking. ‘How could you ask a thing like that?’

  ‘Love us, Harold? Love us?’ Mama backed away as if staring at a frightful monster whose light sleeping she did not wish to disturb. ‘After everything you’ve said. About our future, our lives together, the children’s education – you don’t love us.’ She stood by the window. The curtains parted to reveal wedding-white June rose blossoms catching shafts of setting sun.

  Papa was up on his feet and across the room, arms reaching out. ‘Victoria, you have every right – ’ he said.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ Mama hissed. ‘I know you – ’

  ‘I always put you first, Victoria. You and the children come first. You know that.’

  ‘I don’t know that,’ Mama snapped. ‘You only pretend. All this talk about values and principles. You don’t mean any of it.’

  ‘Please, Victoria, please,’ Papa pleaded, lips trembling uncontrollably.

  Mama glared at him, but fear was in her eyes. And she would have turned away, not wanting to reveal her secret, but she saw Papa stare past her out the window.

  ‘Damn, they’re here,’ he said. His tone of voice changed instantly. ‘Moodie and Cynthia. Victoria, I promise to deal with this properly. Please, don’t cast me aside.’

  Out on the driveway, the windscreen of Mr Moodie’s Buick winked in the late evening light as it roared up the driveway. Miss Hutchinson’s little Hillman Minx followed close behind, at speed.

  ‘Forgive me, Victoria.’ Papa said this in his best begging voice and reluctantly left the room, lingering awkwardly at the door.

  Mama noticed that he hadn’t used the word sorry, a word that didn’t come easily to his tongue. She just wanted to make Papa suffer, make him hurt as she was hurting. But she was scared because she had nowhere to go. Her place, inevitably, was with him. Seeing Ann Mitchison in his arms had suddenly focused her mind, given her the fright of her life, made her come to her senses. She was the one begging, not Papa, but he would never know it. The letter and the business with that woman from Lluidas Vale were irrelevant now. She could come to terms with that. Ann Mitchison was quite a different matter. Mama knew how naive she had been. But she also knew how right she had been. Her suspicions, from the very first moment, had been correct. What had been lacking was faith in herself. She didn’t want to lose Papa and everything they had, and she now feared that there was some possibility of that. If she pushed Papa too far, he could walk. What would become of the children? It was a scenario she could not contemplate. She saw how her life was actually pleasant, rewarding, easy even. No more would she put pressure on Papa to let her take up dressmaking. What on earth had she been trying to achieve? She had clearly driven him into Ann Mitchison’s arms at a time when he needed her most. Did she not have enough responsibility? And could she not derive as much satisfaction and well-being from looking after her children, being a good mother and wife, as Papa wanted? Nothing was clearer to her now than the fact that she had been selfish. She just wanted Papa back. She just wanted to be his wife; she could take the hurt. They would start afresh after Papa confessed, as she knew he would. She joined him in the bathroom, face hard but heart melting, and touched Evening in Paris about her neck with a trembling hand.

  Boyd, hearing everything, left his place under the bedroom window and beckoned for Poppy, a few paces behind, to follow. He had not been able to look Poppy in the eye since the brutal act. The shame of it would never go away. They made their way round to the verandah by the pink oleander bush. It was already dark. Mr Moodie was sitting alone with Miss Hutchinson, waiting for Mama and Papa to join them.

  ‘They caught that bugger, Ten-To-Six,’ Mr Moodie said. ‘Cornered the bastard on the riverbank, two miles down from the bridge. Pissed himself begging for mercy. Corporal Duncan said it was a miracle he wasn’t shot. Had a machete in his hand at the time, the same one he used to murder his wife and children.’

  ‘That lunatic should be in the asylum,’ Miss Hutchinson said aloud and with feeling. ‘Poor Manjula. I can’t believe it’s happened.’

  Mr Moodie shook his head, not speaking.

  ‘The maids are talking,’ Miss Hutchinson told him.

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘That she and Tim Mitchison have been together.’

  ‘Impossible. He’s always in Kingston on business. If he’s been having an affair it’s sure to be with a Kingston woman.’

  ‘Do they know who the man was found with her?’

  ‘God only knows. The police are looking into it and we’ll get the facts soon enough. Manjula is – was – a young woman with needs like everybody else. Could even be that culprit Edgar, from what I hear. Nobody knows where he is.’

  ‘Edgar, who two-timed Miss Casserly?’

  ‘Shh!’ Moodie hissed. ‘Don’t look now, but Ann’s coming across the lawn.’

  Boyd turned and saw Ann Mitchison walk swiftly towards the verandah in the soft dark. The moment she started up the steps, Mama and Papa stepped through the French windows. Boyd leaned against the verandah wall, listening with dread.

  Ann Mitchison had been on the verandah not more than five minutes when unrestrained shouting tore apart the night, frightening away the peeny-waalies.

  ‘Miss Ann! Miss Ann!’ It was Evadne, limping through the periwinkle fence. ‘Come quick, ma’am. Come quick! The police on the telephone, ma’am.’

  ‘Calm down!’ Boyd heard Papa say as Evadne neared the verandah.

  ‘What is it?’ Ann Mitchison asked.

  ‘The police, ma’am, the police.’ Evadne could barely speak, bent down, hands on knees, exhausted from her headlong sprint up the road. ‘They want you, ma’am. They waiting on the telephone.’

  ‘Didn’t they say what it’s about?’

  ‘No, ma’am. They just say they want to talk to you urgent, ma’am. They say it of uttermost importance. To do with the fire.’

  ‘The fire?’

  ‘The fire, ma’am. Come quick. Come quick, ma’am.’

  The pastel-coloured verandah chairs were all pushed back, a tumult of metal scratching against tiles. Boyd heard again the jumble of voices and then an unnatural silence. Ann Mitchison was again rushing across the lawn, soft, creamy, like powder in the night, Evadne making haste behind her.

  ‘God!’ Miss Hutchinson exclaimed.

  ‘What can they want her for?’ Mama appealed to Miss Hutchinson.

  ‘There could be more going on there than we know,’ Moodie said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mama asked, perplexed. ‘Why do you say that?’

  No one had noticed but Mama had been quietly drinking gin and tonic, not a drink she favoured and not one she was used to. And her hand shook.

  ‘Believe me, Victoria,’ Moodie told her, ‘there is more there than meets the eye.’

  ‘You’ve already said that,’ Mama replied irritably, her fingers flicking out.

  ‘Someone should go after her, see what the matter is,’ Papa said. He was as taut as piano wire. Mama kept her eyes on him.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Mama told Moodie. ‘What could there possibly be to know? Is there something you’re not telling us?’

  ‘A lot,’ Moodie said, feeling like a real gossip.

  Papa turned to Moodie in disbelief.

  ‘The maids are talking,’ Miss Hutchinson said. ‘What I hear is that Mitchison’s been sleeping in Miss Chatterjee’s bed. My maid, Icilda, came out with it the ot
her day after I caught her gossiping with that imbecile Adassa, Miss Chatterjee’s maid.’

  ‘What?’ Papa said. ‘Adassa, Miss Chatterjee’s maid?’

  ‘That’s what they say.’

  Mama’s face showed pure disgust. ‘Sleeping in her bed? Rubbish. Maids’ gossip. A decent man like that. He has his own wife to sleep with.’

  ‘Gossiping isn’t going to help,’ Papa advised calmly. ‘A tragedy has taken place. We shouldn’t just stand about gossiping.’

  ‘This isn’t gossip,’ Mama said, sipping from her glass.

  ‘What can we do?’ Moodie asked, pouring himself another stiff drink.

  ‘We can help Ann for a start,’ Papa replied, louder than he intended. ‘I’m going over there to see what the matter is. She contacted Kingston but they gave her wrong information. Tim wasn’t at the hotel. Only God knows what she’s going through.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Mama asked, watching him like a hawk.

  ‘Victoria, Ann told us herself,’ Papa replied, shaken.

  ‘When? I didn’t hear.’

  ‘Just now,’ Papa told her.

  ‘Liar!’

  Mama flung her glass on the table. The slice of ripe lime, like a small yellow quarter-moon, flew out, landed on the polished tiles and slithered into a dark corner. The sound of the glass hitting the table was outrageous. Mama was shaking, her eyes dark, and her breath came in tortured bursts. Moodie and Miss Hutchinson stared, dumbstruck.

  ‘If you go over there, don’t come back!’ Mama’s voice was breaking, weepy but determined. ‘Go, and stay there. You hear me, Harold? You hear me?’

  It was icy cold suddenly and deadly quiet. Boyd hugged the warm wall beneath the verandah, trembling. On the verandah, Papa did not seem to know what to do with his hands or where to look. Moodie looked from face to face, trying to work out the background to the sudden drama. Miss Hutchinson knew at once and tried to reach out to Mama.

  Mama rose from her chair, stumbling, losing all control of her voice. ‘Harold, I warn you. Go over there and don’t come back. I know what you’re up to. You and your deceitful ways and your lies.’ She started to weep, her voice now rash. ‘No, go to her. Don’t let us stop you. You never cared for us, your wife and children, go to your woman, go to your white woman, you lying wretch!’