by Sharon Maas
Mama’s Diary: Salzburg, 1889
Liebes Tagebuch,
I cannot contain it! I am simply bursting with it all but I have to tell someone or else I will explode! Oh, I will! How I wish I had a friend, a sister of my heart! Since I do not, dear diary, YOU must be that friend. I am in Love!
It is madness. No other word can describe it. But it is not a bad thing for I am mad with love! Oh, yes I am! Don’t look at me like that, dear diary – shaking your sensible head! Because I am sure you are sensible! Yes, I can almost see you and you are frowning and saying things like ‘silly girl!’ and ‘get down from your cloud’! But I won’t because I like it up here on my cloud and love is just the most wonderful, magnificent thing that has ever happened to me in all my seventeen years! Yes! Go ahead and disapprove, deny, deride!
I’ll tell you about it – I know you are curious. You know that Father was invited to Vienna to stay with the Bonhoffers – Dr Bonhoffer being Father’s old friend from University. They have a daughter, Liese, who is around my age so I was invited as well. And so we all went to Vienna for a fortnight. I love Vienna! I love it more than ever now, for that is where I met HIM!
We went to the Kaiser’s ball. Well, it so happened that Dr Bonhoffer has a good friend named Dr von Brandt who also went to the ball. And this Dr von Brandt had a young friend staying with him; that is, the young friend is the son of an English friend – someone he had met in Cambridge many years ago – Cambridge, you know, is an important University town in England. That is, he met the father of this young man, not the young man himself. Oh, it all sounds so complicated but it isn’t!
His name is Archibald Cox – The Honourable! Archibald Cox! (The son, I mean – the father wasn’t there.) Archie, for short. And he is the handsomest, most charming, most delightful young man in the entire world! Are all Englishmen this handsome, this charming? No. He is special, unique. Mine! And we danced – oh how we danced! He whirled and twirled me around beneath the chandeliers and the orchestra played the Blue Danube and I will never ever dance with another to that music, for it is ours alone – we have claimed it! And as we swirled I laughed, and so did he – and his arms were strong and his eyes were blue and if there is a heaven on earth, this is it. I am still dancing in my heart, dear Diary. I will always dance in my heart. I want to keep this memory alive forever, and this is why I have written you this letter. So that I will never ever forget.
The best thing is that Dr von Brandt has invited us all to dinner tomorrow evening – the Bonhoffers, and us! I will see my Archibald again. Oh, I cannot wait!
(By the way, I wore a beautiful green satin dress, cut wide along the shoulders, with puffed sleeves – and I will keep this dress forever!)
(Oh and I should mention, though I don’t want to make a fuss about this but afterwards Dr Bonhoffer told me that Archie is the son of an Earl. Imagine that!)
Chapter Two
After Edward John’s death, and Mama’s final and complete withdrawal. I mourned our mother as if she too had died. I mourned her with a dry-eyed silence that gradually grew into a tendency to introspection and a yearning for – well, I can certainly define it with long impressive words but finally I can only call it Love. Love with a capital L. Mama left a space, a vacuum, that had to be filled.
As for Kathleen, at nineteen and the eldest, she was cut from a different fabric. Yoyo and I loved British Guiana, Berbice County, the Courantyne Coast, Promised Land; this was our home. For Kathleen, as for Papa, England was Home. Born in Norfolk, Kathleen laid much value on being the granddaughter of an Earl, and aspired to heights Yoyo and I were oblivious of and indifferent to. And so it was Kathleen who was sent to England when she reached marriageable age. It was Kathleen who won Mama for herself when she sailed across the ocean, bound for that magnificent Norfolk manor which Yoyo and I knew only from the painting in the library. Mama went as chaperone; but I suspect that Mama needed her more than she needed Mama; that accompanying Kathleen across the ocean was simply the excuse that Papa, in his solicitude, needed to get Mama back to Europe. First to England, to deliver Kathleen to the Cox family, then on to her people in Austria, to Vienna, and to that famous doctor who had agreed to cure her. Dr Freud was his name. Freud, meaning joy in German. He would return the joy to Mama’s heart. That is what Papa told us; what we hoped.
The day we saw them off on the Georgetown wharf was the day my heart shattered into a million shards, a mirror crashed against stone. How could Mama leave us behind? She had not been a mother to us for many years now, but at least she had been physically with us. At least she had filled the house with her music, reminding us of her presence. At least we could see her face, pinched and drawn and soulless though it was. At least she was there. How could she leave us? I did not understand it. Kathleen could surely have found another escort – another English woman returning Home, maybe. I burned with jealousy: why should Kathleen have Mama all to herself, when I was the one who needed her the most! And this Dr Joy – well, hopefully he would cure her and she would return. Soon. But there had been little talk of Mama’s return. None, to be quite honest. Whenever I asked, Papa would hem and haw and mumble something about these things taking time. I might be an adult before I saw her again! And then the dreaded day arrived.
How could I ever forget that day? The whole family at the Georgetown dock, Papa to the fore, pushing a way through the crowd like a coolie forging his way through a dense cane field. The rest of us came single file behind him. Three porters behind us carried the luggage on their heads and under their arms. At the gangplank, Papa brandishing the tickets, spoke to a liveried official of some sort, and then turned to wave us all to gather round. The man nodded and signalled for us to pass, and across the gangplank we walked, single file again, Papa leading.
I was already sick to my stomach. I would have preferred to say my goodbyes elsewhere. At the Park Hotel, or better yet, back home at Promised Land. Why postpone the agony? But then we were there, in the first class cabin Mama would share with Kathleen. Kathleen, bright-eyed and eager, chattering away, her head full of hairstyles and hats, Mama, silent and stricken. Papa, stern and watchful. Yoyo, dry-eyed and tight-lipped and pale, clasping my hand tightly, and I hers. My own eyes stinging with unshed tears.
And then Mama seemed to wake up out of a trance. She rushed forward and swept me into the first embrace she had given me in years, and as she held me she shuddered and whispered the words into my ears: Ich wollte es nicht, mein Schatz; ich wollte es nicht! I didn’t want it, my treasure, I didn’t want it!
I clung to her but then she let me go and hugged Yoyo, and then I grabbed her again, howling now, but Papa clutched my arms and pulled me away. And there was Mama, miraculously crying, calling my name and reaching out for me, and I knew she loved me still; but it was all too late.
‘Don’t go, Mama, don’t go!’ I wailed, and I reached for her even as Papa pushed me out of the cabin and into the corridor, and then he shut the cabin door and dragged me away, Yoyo following, and took us home. At some point, through my devastation, I realized Mama had not taken leave of Papa, nor he of her.
That was how I lost Mama a second time. Home, Promised Land, had been empty for me ever since. A home without a heart.
Promised Land plantation had been in our family’s possession for many generations, and passed down from father to son, had been competently managed by a series of English and Scottish men engaged for the task. Papa, being the Earl’s third son and therefore with no prospects of his own in England, came here as a young man, temporarily leaving behind his wife and baby daughter. Mama and two-year-old Kathleen followed once Papa had established himself as one of the legendary Sugar Kings who ruled the colony. He built a palace worthy of his status. It was constructed of sturdy greenheart wood in the Dutch Colonial style, typical of the land. Sparkling white in the sunlight, with filigree fretwork and the lattices that provided its ventilation and curlicues on the jutting Demerara windows, it resembled a fairytale castle made of
lace. This was our home.
Yoyo and I were born into this palace of wood. We loved every nook and cranny of it. We loved the staircases and the tower, the breeze-filled verandas, the rafters for little girls to swing on, the balustrades for little girls to balance on. Most of all we loved the garden: the orchard that brought forth fruit of every imaginable variety, every month a different and more delicious kind; the mango tree with its low-slung branches inviting us to climb. Birdsong and flowers framed our little perfect kingdom: the call of the kiskadee; the wing-whirr of the hummingbird; the huge bunches of purple, pink and vermillion blooms hanging low from the towering bougainvillaea that climbed our porticos and porches, not to mention the hibiscus, and frangipani, and oleander, and the rose-fragrance that wafted through it all, carried on the wings of a cool sea-breeze.
We grew up indifferent to the apples and pears and grapes Mama described to us in the early years of her motherhood, trying to entice us, to lure us, into her own European world. We cared not for rhododendrons and tulips and edelweiss, golden autumn and budding May. We did not yearn for snow and mountains, as she did. We had the vast sky with its puffy clouds, the ocean and the breeze-brushed emerald cane. Yoyo and I ran free and laughing through our paradise. We turned from little girls into adolescents, barefoot princesses only vaguely aware that one day we must grow up to marry one of our kind. But where was the guidance towards that blessed state? Who would teach us about Love?
For many years, Mama had been a withdrawn, silent being whose only lifeline had been her music, but after Edward John’s death, she was in utter despair. Papa, of course, busy as he was with estate business, had no time to offer us more than affectionate pats on the head and expensive gifts from Georgetown. Yoyo found comfort in Nanny’s arms. Kathleen yearned for London. Behind the laughter, the fun and freedom of estate life, unseen by all, I nurtured a great big hole in my heart where Mama had once dwelled.
We arrived home in time to change for dinner. Yoyo and I shared a large upstairs bedroom; though there were rooms to spare in the house, we preferred to be together, sleeping in the same wide bed under the ghostly white tent of the mosquito net where we could talk into the night until our eyelids grew heavy and our breath long. We changed in silence, each occupied with her own thoughts. I found myself praying – not to God, but to Mama. Hold her tongue! I begged her. Don’t let her lash out at him!
My fear was that Yoyo would create a scene, blaming Papa for Nanny’s appalling last years; that the two of them would have one of their ghastly shouting matches. But I need not have worried: Papa pre-empted any drama on Yoyo’s part by presenting a little furore of his own, one that momentarily banished all our own concerns and cancelled the planned confrontation. He strode into the dining room that evening chortling with mirth.
It was always possible to divine Papa’s mood by the shape of his moustache. Long, blonde, and copious, it literally drooped, dull and unkempt, and turned down at either end, when his mood was low – all too often in these days. On his good days it stretched out long with the upward curve of his lips, neat and almost boyish in the way it curled up at the ends, constantly stroked into shape by preening fingers. This was such a day. Papa’s pale blue eyes sparkled as he took his place at the head of the table. He had, of course, changed from his khaki work clothes into evening wear, long black trousers, a white long-sleeved shirt and a tie; as always, he looked as crisply neat as a perfectly peeled egg.
He guffawed a hearty greeting to each of us in turn. We both looked up, at each other and at him; such good cheer was rare, for times were tough on the plantation. He beamed back at us: a handsome man, in his mid-forties, his sun-bronzed skin leathered from the outdoor life, his features sharp, his chin firm and square, his blonde hair trim. Settling into his seat with great ceremony, he adjusted his cutlery carefully before reaching into the top button of his white evening shirt, removed an envelope, and waved it at us – the same envelope that had been delivered by registered mail that very afternoon by the cocky dark youth on a bicycle.
‘Girls!’ he said, as he removed the letter it held, ‘I have some excellent news! Excellent. This here is a letter from your Uncle Percival. Let me read it to you.’ He flapped open the letter, perched his spectacles on his nose and, holding the letter on high, read it out:
‘“Dear Archie, I hope – etc etc etc – Please forgive the months of silence; you will be wondering by now if I ever even received your last. I did, but truth be told I was reluctant to write earlier, since my initial endeavours regarding the mission you requested of me proved fruitless.
Initially, certain of an eager response, I waved the splendid prospect of inheriting a sugar plantation in British Guiana before all the eligible young men in our extended family, but to no avail. To my everlasting astonishment, there were no offers of acceptance. I am afraid the great British Pioneer Spirit seems to be all but absent in the younger generation, for all the young men so approached, refused. They are reluctant, it seems, to abandon their familiar life in England for, as they are prone to call it, ‘the backwaters of the New World’ – demonstrating, if you ask me, a decided lack of the very pluck and fortitude that has been the backbone of the British Empire, and has placed the Great in Great Britain. Our forefathers must be turning in their graves! No – our young men would not be tempted. I am afraid the pleasures of Ascot, the Hunting Season, the comforts of their paternal country manors, and, last but not least, a new flock of fresh-faced young debutantes waltzing their way into the London scene each year have proved enough to outweigh the temptation of becoming one’s own man on foreign shores. Alas! Manhood is at a premium in these leisurely days – a spineless generation. For us who fought in the Boer War these modern chaps certainly seem a spoiled, foppish lot. That’s what happens when boys are reared in pampered comfort – life is too easy. But don’t let me get into that – you know my feelings.
“Be that as it may, I now have great pleasure in reporting an unmitigated success. The young man in question is my wife’s nephew – no relation to the Cox’s, which is actually a positive detail; one does hear that marriage between cousins occasionally has troubling ramifications for the health of the offspring. But that is by-the-by. His name is Clarence Smedley – the youngest son of Lord Smedley. A fine chap, if I may say so – now approaching his 30th birthday. Lord Smedley is eager to see him settled, and as far away as possible. Do not let this last alarm you. It is true that he has got himself into a spot of bother of late – nothing too serious; a bit of bad luck at the races, and I believe there was some scandal with a young woman of ill-repute – but boys will be boys, as you yourself know, and it is nothing that the responsibilities of learning the ropes of plantation business will not cure. It will make a man of him, if you ask me, and I am sure those are exactly Lord Smedley’s thoughts and intentions.
“I am aware of your worries regarding the fortunes of the plantation and I am delighted to inform you that Clarence will be endowed with his portion of his inheritance upon his arrival in BG. This will enable you to build the sugar-processing factory that will, I presume, reverse your fortunes, and chase away the bloodthirsty Booker vultures. So, good news for all concerned, and several birds killed with one stone – an heir for Promised Land, money for the proposed factory, a second chance and a manly future for young Clarence, a pre-emptive move to prevent that Booker beast from destroying everything we have built over the generations, and last but not least, God willing, a husband for one of your daughters, and a father for your grandsons!
“Young Smedley will be ready to sail the moment we receive confirmation from you that you approve of this plan. If at all possible, send a telegram – a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will be quite sufficient, but I am already assuming the ‘yes’ and I know that the Smedleys are similarly positively inclined. Indeed, this seems like the answer to all your prayers.
“Ethel” – no, I’ll skip that. Let me see – there’s something about your mother – ah, here it is: “Ruth and Kathleen
have not yet arrived at the time of writing. Their ship is due next week and I shall be there to meet them at Southampton. I’ll send you a telegram when they do arrive. We greatly look forward to the pleasure of their company, and I can tell you in confidence that we have lined up several immensely eligible young men to whom we will introduce Kathleen at the earliest opportunity. We’ll have her walking up the aisle in no time, and I shall be delighted to act in loco parentis and take her on my arm. Once Kathleen has settled in we shall send Ruth on to Salzburg, as you requested. We shall find a suitable companion for her. You need not worry about a thing.
I am etc etc etc."
‘Well, girls, what do you say to that? Magnificent news, eh? Eh?’
When we made no response, he continued: ‘I know you girls will be particularly interested in the hints of marriage; at your age, your thoughts will be drifting more and more towards your futures and I have to admit, I myself was rather worried; most of the eligible young men in the colony are unfortunately Booker men. We don’t want that, do we? Well, I suppose you girls wouldn’t know the ramifications of that, and I’m afraid I’ve broken a few of my own rules today, by inadvertently bringing business matters to the dining table – but it’s practically impossible to extract one’s own personal prospects from plantation matters; it’s imperative to keep Promised Land out of the claws of Bookers and I want you both to be very aware of that when the time comes. Your mother – this should have been her job …’
He paused here and a shadow momentarily wiped the smile from his face, as if the thought of Mama had erased the pleasure the letter had brought. The ghost of Mama swirled over our heads. Mama, gone forever from us. I was sure of that. Unless this Dr Joy healed her. But even if he did, my great fear was that she would never return. That Europe would claim her and never let her go again.
