Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  He drove on in silence for a few moments, and then added, “I should warn you, the atmosphere at Barney’s may not be as cheerful as usual tonight. Dorabella Hamilton was buried today, and the whole island attended her funeral. They’re . . . bewildered, I think. They don’t doubt that she killed Mavis Ironmonger and then committed suicide—but they can’t comprehend it properly. There’s even some resentment against Eddie, which is unheard of among these people. Suddenly, he seems to represent the Establishment, and Dorabella the ordinary people. That’s one reason I’m going to Barney’s. Just to keep an eye, you know.”

  They heard Barney’s Bar long before they saw it. A deafening, cacophonous wave of music swept down the lane as if to attack them. It was rougher and less expert than the tamed steel drums of Pirate’s Cave. It also thrummed with vitality and zest. Raising his voice, the doctor said, “I hope you have strong eardrums. Fortunately, the music is not continuous.”

  He pulled the Jeep to a halt outside the source of the din—a smallish concrete building, painted pistachio green and surrounded by hibiscus and oleander bushes. Through the open door, Henry and Emmy could see a brightly-dressed, gyrating crowd of islanders, dancing with that almost static energy and rhythm that few non-Caribbean people can imitate. Mercifully, just as Dr. Duncan ushered the Tibbetts into the bar, the band decided to take a beer break, and blessed peace descended.

  Henry noticed that they were not the only white people in the bar. He recognized a few faces from Pirate’s Cave—a handful of youngsters who had been dining with staid-looking parents, and had now escaped to a more congenial ambience; plus a couple of the clean cut young Americans who had met them at the airfield. There were also two bearded characters in blue jeans, unmistakably off a boat. However, the predominance and mood of the place was obviously black and local, and it was at once clear that the doctor had been right. Once the music stopped, so did any semblance of gaiety. People stood and talked quietly as they drank their beer or rum, and saluted each other gravely, without any of the islanders’ usual ebullience.

  Dr. Duncan was greeted warmly, and with obvious affection— and Henry and Emmy, as his guests, felt themselves under the friendly protection of his aegis. Nobody mentioned Dorabella, but her memory hung over the crowded little bar as palpable as smoke. Henry wondered how these people would react if they learned what he suspected. And then, as the band struck up again, he saw Winston Horatio Nelson.

  Saw him, but for a moment did not recognize him. Winnie Nelson, back in his own environment, had shed the somber outer coating of a diplomat as a butterfly sheds its cocoon. He was wearing bell-bottom cotton pants striped in gaudy pink and purple, and over them a loose shirt printed with brilliant tropical fish cavorting in a bright blue sea. He was dancing—and dancing beautifully—with a breathtakingly lovely black girl whom Henry recognized as one of the receptionists from Pirate’s Cave.

  The second time around the small dance floor, he noticed Henry. Abruptly, he stopped dancing and turned his back on his partner, who was immediately claimed by one of the score of single men hanging round the bar. Nelson made his way over to the Tibbetts.

  “Chief Superintendent,” he said, with exaggerated mock courtesy and a marked upper-class English accent. “What a pleasant surprise. I had no idea you were on the island.” He swayed slightly, and Henry realized that he was more than a little drunk.

  “Sir Edward kindly suggested that we should spend a few days’ holiday at Pirate’s Cave,” said Henry. He was surprised that Nelson had not heard of the arrangement. “I don’t think you’ve met my wife. Emmy, darling, this is Mr. Nelson, First Secretary at the Embassy in Washington.”

  “Hello,” said Emmy. “How nice to meet you. I’m just crazy about your shirt—I’d love to take one home. Can you get them here on the island?”

  Emmy had spoken perfectly sincerely and spontaneously, but as soon as the words were out, she saw that she had blundered.

  “Not at Pirate’s Cave, madam,” said Nelson. “Not in the kind of shop that you would deign to patronize.”

  Dr. Duncan said, “Winnie . . .” in a soft, warning voice, but Winnie took no notice. Suddenly, he began to shout. “Slumming! That’s all you’re doing here! Slumming! Why can’t you stay in Pirate’s Cave where you belong, with all the damn Yankees and the fat cats and the bloody Watkinses? Pity Dorabella didn’t finish off the whole family while she was about it!”

  For once, Henry was glad of the deafening blare of the music, which prevented more than a handful of people from hearing Winnie’s outburst. Trying to sound unembarrassed, he said with a smile, “I met Mr. and Mrs. Watkins for the first time today. They’re going home tomorrow, and I think they’re wise. They don’t seem to fit in here very well.”

  “No goddam whites fit in here!” yelled Nelson. “Why don’t you get out, all of you? Pirate’s Cave, goddam Navy, the lot! This is our island!”

  By now, quite a group of people had gathered around Nelson, most of them encouraging him and nodding their heads in emphatic agreement. Henry noticed with a pang of real alarm that Dr. Duncan had slipped away from the bar and disappeared.

  One of the young Americans from the Pirate’s Cave staff saved the situation by walking over to Nelson, slapping him on the back, and saying easily, “Come off it, Winnie. Where would your economy be without us? You can shout all you like, but you need us and you know it.”

  “That’s what you think! You wait. You just wait. I’m telling you—”

  At that moment, a huge, bearded black man elbowed his way through the crowd, calling, “Nelson! Winnie Nelson!”

  Winnie turned toward him. “What’s up, Barney?”

  Barney jerked his thumb toward the back of the room. “Telephone,” he said, laconically. “For you.” Then, to the band, who had momentarily ceased operations, “That’s enough beer break, boys. Give the folks their money’s worth.”

  The band broke into another ear-splitting number, Barney ambled behind the bar and began serving drinks, and the little group of militants dispersed as Nelson shouldered his way toward the telephone. The dangerous moment had passed. Dr. Duncan appeared, apparently from nowhere, and resumed his seat at the bar.

  “Thank you, Barney,” he said. “Winnie’s a little upset, which is perfectly understandable. Lucky Eddie was in. He’ll have him safely up at The Lodge in no time.” He turned to the Tibbetts. “Sorry about that. Still, no harm done. Ah, there he goes.” Winnie Nelson, expressionless, was making his way quickly out of the crowded bar and into the street. “Now, what are you drinking, you two? Make that three beers, Barney, and have one yourself. Have you got a moke for these good people tomorrow? They plan to drive over to Sugar Mill Bay . . .”

  When Henry and Emmy got back to Pirate’s Cave just before midnight, the whole place seemed to be asleep. The band had stopped playing, the bar was dark, and only a few cottages still showed lights. Evidently, the rich and beautiful either went to bed early, or continued their revels in the spicier night spots of the town. Henry and Emmy were glad of the muted gleam of the lanterns to guide them back to their cottage. There was no light on the Belmonts’ side of the building. By the light over the doorway, he could see that a piece of paper had been pushed halfway under the door. Henry picked up the paper as he went in.

  The message was short. It read: “The Tampica Research and Development Company. Chairman, Francis Fletcher (barman, Pirate’s Cave). Only Tampicans may buy stock. List of stockholders impossible to obtain. O.S.”

  The next morning, Henry and Emmy went snorkeling, as planned. Emmy had had serious doubts about even trying the sport, as she was not a strong swimmer and had always been averse to putting her face under water. Plowever, spurred on by Henry’s ecstatic accounts of submarine marvels, she finally struggled into the awkward flippers, adjusted the mask over her eyes and nose and bit firmly on the rubber mouthpiece which, by means of the orange breathing tube, would keep her in contact with the upper air.

  Her first two attempts e
nded in spluttering failure. Panicking, she managed either to open her mouth or to submerge the upper end of the air tube, thus inhaling sea water before shooting to the surface and ripping off her mask, certain of imminent death by drowning. These two setbacks might have turned Emmy against snorkeling for ever—except for one thing. At the second attempt, just before she came to disaster, she had caught a brief glimpse of the magical world under the sea. For a fleeting moment, she had seen yellow, blue and purple fishes swimming nonchalantly among the petrified forests of coral: she knew that she must see that world again.

  And so, in the course of the morning, Emmy mastered her flippers and mask, and found to her delight that she could spend many minutes drifting lazily above and around the reef, watching the brilliantly-colored fish that were apparently oblivious to the larger and clumsier human swimmers invading their world. She also saw and grew to recognize the dangerous and painful black spines of the sea urchin, nestling in clefts of coral, as well as the lovely but treacherous jelly fish, white and lilac, floating like bridal veils in the clear water, but capable of administering a nasty sting.

  Lunchtime came around all too quickly. At half-past two, one of the young Americans on the staff came to the terrace table where the Tibbetts were finishing their coffee, and announced that Barney had delivered their mini-moke to the parking lot, and here were the keys.

  The mini-moke is the packhorse of the Caribbean. Lighter and flimsier than the Jeep, these astonishing little cars perform miracles on the unmade roads, taking in their stride near-vertical climbs over boulders and streaming gullies, or hairpin descents on slippery concrete at a forty-five degree angle, with only the skill of the driver and the reliability of the vehicle between the road and the Atlantic breakers hundreds of feet below.

  This is all the more remarkable since most of the island mini-mokes are innocent of handbrakes, rear mirrors, direction indicators and other “effeminate” gadgets considered desirable on safer highways. As Henry and Emmy discovered, the first drive in a mini-moke on island roads is a somewhat hairy experience. After that, should you survive, the thing develops into a lifelong love affair.

  The moke which Barney had allocated to the Tibbetts was painted bright yellow and had Tampico. Taxi and Traction Company painted in purple on one side of the chassis. It was open to the elements, with the exception of a sort of hood, like the canopy of a four-poster bed, held in place by four iron poles and made of red and white striped canvas. Like the surrey in the song, it also had a fringe and bobbles, giving the little car the appearance of a miniature traveling circus. Barney had come along to give Henry some basic driving tips on the way back to the garage. Then he set them on the right road for Sugar Mill Bay, and they were on their own.

  As Dr. Duncan had said, the road started off smoothly enough, leading first into the town of Tampica Harbour and then snaking up the hillside towards The Lodge. True, some of the hairpin bends were somewhat steep, but the surface was tarred and a low wall gave at least an illusion of security on the seaward side. However, once past the imposing iron gates of the Prime Minister’s residence, the picture changed abruptly. The tarred surface gave way to a dusty track, and the road narrowed. As the gradient grew steeper, so did the surface deteriorate, for the autumn rains had turned it into a series of rivulets, each of which had scored its own sinuous path over the uneven surface. Then the stones and boulders began to appear.

  Henry clung grimly to the wheel, urging on his game little vehicle, bouncing dizzily from rock to rock, not daring to slow down for fear of never starting again (he was uncomfortably aware of a total absence of handbrake). Double-declutching with a roar into bottom gear, the moke screamed round a tight S-bend to be faced with a rock-strewn climb apparently up the face of a wall. Emmy let out a small squeak of alarm and protest, but there was no turning back. It seemed impossible, but the moke did it. With her last ounce of growling power, she heaved herself over the top, and Henry was rewarded by the blessed sight of a few hundred yards of almost flat track before the dirt road plunged down again on the other side of the mountain. They had reached the summit.

  There were no parapets or other protections from the precipice up here, but there was a parking space scooped out of the rock, so that drivers could pull off the road to admire the view. Thankfully, Henry pulled into this space and switched off the engine. He was not surprised to find that his hands were not quite steady. He and Emmy climbed out of the car and walked to the edge of the road.

  The view took their breath away. Far, far below them, the dark green wooded mountain gave way to crescent beaches of golden sand, against which the sapphire waters crawled and crested. They could see the town of Tampica Harbour, with its yacht marina and fishing port laid out like a toy on a nursery floor. Higher up the hill, the red roof of The Lodge peeped from among clusters of brilliantly flowering trees—the spectacular deep scarlet of the flame of Barbados, the delicate pink of the so-called white cedar, the bright yellow blossom and fernlike greenery of the peacock tree. They could even make out the steeply-raked roof of the Pirate’s Cave dining area, and see the tiny figures on the beach.

  Below them, out at sea, a great schooner of old-fashioned design plowed majestically through the rippled water, her long bowsprit tapering toward the sky, her complicated rigging and ratlines tracing geometric patterns against the white of her square sails. It took no great feat of imagination to picture her crew not as millionaire holiday-makers, but as pigtailed, straw-hatted seamen sweating at the halyards and swarming up to the yardarms and finding a new dignity and pride in their ancient trade, thanks to the revolutionary attitude of their captain—a small, slight man who in those days still had two arms and two eyes, and was always seasick for the first few days out.

  Then Henry and Emmy turned to look ahead of them, to the north of the island. They picked out Sugar Mill Bay at once. The characteristic cone-shaped tower of the mill—now in ruins—stood on a bluff just above the beach. Between it and the water, there was a straggle of buildings painted pink, blue and green; at the ramshackle wooden jetty, several small boats were tied up. The only other structure in sight was a good-sized house, built like a single level rambler, which stood on the far side of the bay in a couple of acres of flowering garden. This, surely, must be the Tibbetts’ destination, the home of Miss Lucy Pontefract-Deacon, uncrowned Queen of Tampica.

  Meanwhile, between their present dizzy vantage point and Sugar Mill Bay, they could see the thin ribbon of sandy road as it wound downwards at terrifying angles towards the sea. From here, it looked as though the drive up had been child’s play compared with the shorter and steeper drive down.

  This proved to be quite true, and, given the lack of adequate brakes, extremely hair-raising. However, by downshifting and praying the engine would not stall, Henry managed to hold the little car under control until at last they reached the settlement of sugar-almond houses at the waterfront.

  There was no need to ask the way. A group of barefoot children crowded around the moke, pointing enthusiastically.

  “You go Miz Luce? This way, Miz Luce. We ride with you?”

  It was not really a question. The children leapt onto the moke and clung to it like a swarm of flies, giggling and yelling and pointing. Henry made his cautious way around the tiny harbor and up the slope to the house.

  At the gate, the children dropped off the car, ran to open the gate, and then rushed ahead through the garden towards the house, shouting to “Miz Luce” that she had visitors. Henry was glad that he had not tried to pay a surreptitious visit to Miss Pontefract-Deacon.

  Before Henry had finished parking the moke in the graveled drive, the door of the house opened and a woman came out. Henry had been looking forward to this encounter with some curiosity, and was not sure what to expect. One thing that he certainly had not anticipated was to find himself face to face with Prudence Barrington.

  “Good heavens,” she said abruptly. “Mr. Tibbett.”

  “The surprise is mutual,”
Henry assured her. “I’m delighted to see you. Weren’t you expecting us?”

  “Oh, Lucy said something about somebody coming to tea—but that happens every day. How naughty of her—she should have told us that you were on the island. And you must be Mrs. Tibbett. I really am pleased to meet you, my dear, and I’m very sorry you didn’t come to dinner with your husband in Washington. I simply didn’t realize he had a wife—not in America, anyway . . . that’s to say . . .” As usual, Prudence was losing her way in a spate of verbal good will.

  Henry said, “Yes, Mrs. Barrington, this is Emmy. Darling, you remember me telling you about Bishop and Mrs. Barrington?”

  “Of course,” Emmy said warmly. “So you and your husband are staying with Miss Pontefract-Deacon, are you, Mrs. Barrington?”

  “Yes, just for a few days. We always come to Lucy when we manage to get back to Tampica. Of course places like Pirate’s Cave are quite out of the question for simple people like us. Where are you staying, Mrs. Tibbett?”

  “At Pirate’s Cave, of course,” said a deep feminine voice. “I am so pleased you could come over, Mr. Tibbett. . . and Mrs. Tibbett . . . I am Lucy Pontefract-Deacon.”

  Miss Pontefract-Deacon was a tall woman, slightly stooped but still agile, despite her snow-white hair and wrinkled, suntanned face. She was standing on her own front door step, with a small black child comfortably straddled over each hip, and four others pulling at her skirts. Instantly, Henry realized why she was called the Queen of Tampica, and why she knew everything that happened on the island.

  Henry said, “I’m so pleased to meet you. It was most kind of you to invite us—”

  Lucy Pontefract-Deacon cut through these unnecessary niceties. “You are Chief Superintendent Tibbett from Scotland Yard. You are here because of Mavis Ironmonger and Dorabella Hamilton, and I very much want to talk to you. Prudence, dear, please show Mrs. Tibbett the garden and the beach, and collect Matthew on your way back. Tea will be ready at four.” Abruptly, she bent her knees and flung out her arms, dislodging her two small passengers, who tumbled to the ground in gales of laughter. “Off you go now, all of you! Come to the kitchen at four and you’ll get some cake. The one who finds the most seashells can feed the rabbits.”