by Sharon Maas
‘Goodbye, Miss Cox.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Booker.’ Still I did not turn to walk away, and neither did he. Finally, reluctantly, I said it, ‘… And thank you.’
He nodded then, and turned away. So did I.
On my walk back to the village I noticed a woman and a little child walking towards me, hand in hand. Even from a distance, the woman looked familiar, and as she drew near I recognised her. I ran forward to embrace her.
‘Iris!’ I cried. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you again! Where’ve you been? Why don’t you visit?’
For years, Iris had been the nearest thing to a best friend, not counting Yoyo. She was Mildred’s granddaughter, just two years older than me, and we had played together as children in the yard. When I was ten, Iris, only twelve, had been appointed as personal maid to Yoyo and me; I had enjoyed that, as it meant that Iris could come upstairs, into my room, and we could chat while she worked. I’d never been much of a chatterbox myself, but with Iris I could say exactly what was on my mind, for I knew she was discreet and trustworthy. She never told me much about herself, but I always supposed it was because she didn’t have much to tell me; I knew all about her life. She lived with Mildred and her father – one of the yard boys – in a sweet little wooden cottage at the back of our compound. Her mother was dead.
Three years later, when Iris was nearly fifteen, she had simply disappeared. One day she was with me, the next day she was gone. I never saw her again, and neither Mildred nor Papa would tell me where she had gone. And now, here she was.
‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ I said, taking her hand. I looked down at the little boy at her side. Clinging to her hand, he sucked his thumb and stared up at me. He was very light skinned. ‘Oh, did you get a job as a nursemaid?’
That must be it: she had found steady work with one of the coloured families living in the village. In the past, in her free time Iris had often taken care of the younger children in the senior staff compound while their parents worked.
But Iris shook her head vigorously. She did not return my smile, or my embrace. In fact, she was quite unfriendly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That my own li’l boy.’
‘Oh! You had a child? But – oh, so you got married?’
She did not answer. She only shook her head, pulled her hand free from mine, and strode off, dragging the little boy away. He did not want to go. He walked backwards, stumbling as she dragged him, staring at me. Finally she turned around and swept him into her arms. He continued to stare at me over her shoulder as she marched away.
Mama’s Diary: Plantation Promised Land, British Guiana, 1892
Liebes Tagebuch,
And now I am in my new home. I am discovering that Archie did not exaggerate when he spoke of a dearth of distractions. He was right: cane fields, endless miles of them, flat and green, their fronds waving as the breeze sweeps over them like a gentle hand. The sky, vaster than I have ever seen it in Europe, for there are no hills, no mountains, no houses even to break its endlessness. Clouds drift across, and sometimes over, that vast sky, and it turns grey. Sometimes it rains, and then the rain stops and the clouds disperse and there is only that endless blue again. And the sun. Merciless, hot, all day, all year, for there are only two seasons, the dry and the rainy. I almost look forward to the latter.
As you can guess, I do not like this place, but my liking or disliking is irrelevant. I have a role to play and I will do so to the best of my ability. I have no time to indulge my sense of being an alien in this hot wasteland. That would be so selfish, so weak! Instead, it is up to me to provide the entertainment so lacking. If only I had some kind of task; but servants run after us and take care of our every need. Imagine: Archie even has a boy to remove his riding boots! Papa would laugh at such a pampered life as I now live, but I have married Archie and this is where I am. I refuse to complain – how can one as privileged as I am complain!
And of course, my resource is music! I must fill this house with music! Happy music! I have my violin, and dear Archie has bought a piano and had it transported all the way here from Georgetown. It is not a very good piano, only an upright, but it is good enough for me. Beggars can’t be choosers! I am making the most of what I have. I provide music, and laughter, and dance. Yes, Archie and I dance! Obviously it is difficult as we have no music to dance to, since I am the only musician near and far! It is rather droll! But I sing the tunes and we dance to them, and it is so funny we laugh, and we have made our happiness here.
I suspect that another child is on the way. I have not yet told him, but he will be delighted. He is the born father.
Sometimes I am lonely. But I push those feelings away. Sometimes we visit Georgetown, the capital, which is a day’s journey away, and there I have made a few lady friends, but I do not like them very much and they do not like me. They are such snobs. I have the feeling they look down on me, because I am not English. So I have only my husband, my daughter, and you, dear diary. You three will have to suffice. Even though I seem to neglect you, writing in you only occasionally, I talk to you all the time. There is a running commentary in my head as I tell you all the news, and all the things that have happened. Though there is not much happening from day to day! Ah, the torpid languor of a sugar plantation!
PS: I can’t believe I forgot to tell you that I survived the fearful Atlantic Crossing! How droll! As you can see, I am alive and well, though I was seasick for most of the journey!
Chapter Thirteen
If Mr Booker thought that his little lecture would discourage me and diminish my love, he had misjudged me. The effect was the opposite: it spurred me into action. It seemed to me, in the days of rumination that followed, that Mr Booker had been far too interfering. It was perhaps entirely his fault that George had written the letter he had, and run back to Georgetown with his tail between his legs. Perhaps Mr Booker had put the fear of God into his heart, and talked him into desertion; convinced him that he had insulted me, and that to love me was to ruin me forever. He may have meant well; but finally it was none of his business. And it was even less his business to summon me to his home only to give me a ticking-off for loving George, and to harangue me into giving him up. What a dreadful busybody. The more I thought about his words, the more they seemed to me a challenge. Far from deterring me, they were to me a gauntlet, and I had to pick it up. I would win this challenge! Or rather, love would win!
I never had a single doubt as to my next move. It was as clear as daylight to me. My only doubt concerned the means, not the goal. Once again I was called upon to use wiles, and trickery, and lies. It stood me in good stead that I was known as the quiet, innocent, undemanding one among us three sisters. It is that very reputation that had always misled Yoyo into regarding me as lacking in initiative; as needing her lead in all matters; when in fact all I had needed in life was a worthy cause. Still waters run deep, it’s said. I was not one to waste energy on trivialities, and only of late had our lives spiralled into realms of serious consideration.
I had to get to Georgetown. I had to get to George. I had to declare myself to him. More than ever, George needed to know my heart. That I loved him; that he had not insulted me; that I was not afraid of the obstacles that might lie ahead; that I would wait for him until I was of age. Beyond that disclosure, I had no plan. I would cross each bridge as I came to it. The future was vague, but our love would give us the strength and the courage to face whatever came, just as Mr Booker had defined it. This was no passing fancy; it was real, and I would prove it so. I was not so foolish as to believe we could marry now; I was only sixteen, after all, and even had I not needed Papa’s permission, I was not ready. But in five years I would be 21, a grown woman, legally free, and would need no one’s permission. And though it seemed a lifetime away, time itself was one of the crucial tests, just as Mr Booker had said. This was one I would pass with ease.
Declare myself to George, that was the first step. Everything else would follow on from that. I had to go to George
town. Once there, George and I would find a way. It would take a great deal of planning. It would take money, and timing, and subterfuge. Money I could come up with. We each of us kept a stone jug on our dressing tables, into which we dropped our spare pennies after we had spent whatever we wanted in the village.
Timing would take more thought. I decided to wait. Papa had planned a trip to Barbados in June, two weeks from now; our uncle Don lived there, on Enterprise, another family plantation. Papa and he exchanged visits on alternate years, and this was Papa’s year. He would be gone for a month. Perfect.
Subterfuge would be my greatest challenge. The longer my own absence from Promised Land remained undetected, the better my plan would work. I thought it over again and again, and finally wrote it down on paper, so I would not forget. It seemed foolproof.
Who would have ever guessed that dear, sweet Winnie Cox was so good at concocting lies! I was myself astonished at this new-found ability: I who had never told a single lie in all her life, calmly developing a master plan of deceit, while all the while pretending that nothing, nothing in the world, had changed! If it were not all so deadly serious I would have laughed out loud. In the meantime, I had to bear the excruciating wait until Papa left. But finally, leave he did. Poole drove him all the way to Georgetown and returned with the empty motor car. The thought of the motor car inspired me no end. It kept me awake at night. I waited three more days before rolling out my plan. It needed to start on a Friday.
That day, I came down to breakfast holding my jaw. Miss Wright immediately asked, as I knew she would, ‘What’s the matter, Winnie? Have you got a toothache?’
I nodded. ‘It’s awful; I hardly slept at all last night.’
So far, no lies; at least, none in words. Indeed, I had not slept the night before.
Miss Wright frowned. ‘Oh, you poor thing! Let me run up and get you an aspirin.’
I made as unhappy a face as I possibly could and told my first lie of the day. ‘I took one last night, Miss Wright, before I went to bed. It hasn’t helped a bit. In fact, the pain is even worse today!’
‘You probably need an extraction,’ said Miss Wright.
‘You poor thing!’ said Yoyo.
‘It’s off to the dentist with you!’ said Miss Wright briskly. ‘Yoyo, you and Maggie will have to manage on your own for today’s lessons. You can catch up on your French and write me an essay on Julius Caesar. I’ll inform Mr Poole to get the motor car ready. I’m sure Dr Hodgkin can arrange an emergency appointment. We’ll just turn up at his surgery.’
‘Oh, Miss Wright, please don’t trouble yourself!’ That, of course, was kind, thoughtful me, always accommodating to others, never wanting to put anyone out of their way for my sake. I continued. ‘You see, I thought – as it’s Friday – I’d like to spend the weekend with Emily Stewart. You know Emily, my friend?’
That was a bit of a stretch. Emily wasn’t exactly a friend; she was a girl my age, the daughter of one of the Scottish overseers. Like almost all the older girls in the senior staff compound, she spent the term in New Amsterdam in order to attend secondary school there. Her parents rented a second home there, where Emily and her older sister lived with their mother during term time.
‘Emily has always been begging me to come and visit for a day or two, and I think I will – if only I can get rid of this pain! Why don’t I just kill two birds with one stone: get the tooth extracted, and then pop over to Emily’s? Poole can pick me up again on Sunday afternoon.’
Emily had indeed invited me to stay; several times, in fact. I had accepted the invitation but never taken her up on it.
‘You can’t just arrive at the Stewarts unannounced!’ said Miss Wright.
‘Oh, but I can! Mrs Stewart said so quite expressly! She said I can come to stay any time I wanted. Just knock on the door, she said. I have the address, upstairs!’
That much, at least, was perfectly true. Mrs Stewart was one of those people who fawned over those of higher rank, and wanted her daughters to move in more elevated circles. I also suspect she hoped to marry me off to her son Roland, who was presently in his first year at university in England. Mrs Stewart would not only have no objection to find me standing on her doorstep, suitcase in hand, she would be delighted.
‘Oh, but I want to go too! Do let me go too, Miss Wright!’
It was quite typical of Yoyo to ask Miss Wright for permission to accompany me, but not even to consider asking me if I wanted her to come; much less, to ask herself if Mrs Stewart’s invitation included her at all. It was true that for years we had been inseparable, but we had grown apart recently, and it was most trying of her to take my compliance for granted. Thank goodness for Miss Wright’s sense of responsibility.
‘No, Yoyo,’ she said firmly. ‘I think this time, you stay behind and we can catch up on your French – you do need extra time.’
‘I hate French! Why do I need to learn it?’ Yoyo grumbled.
‘And anyway, what about Maggie? She’ll be here in a short while.’
Yoyo made a face; she’d obviously forgotten about Maggie. She shrugged, finally accepting her fate.
Miss Wright turned to me. ‘Well, Winnie, that sounds like a reasonable plan. Very well. You may spend a couple of days in New Amsterdam. It will be good for you to cultivate a friendship with Emily – your social life is so restricted. After breakfast you can go upstairs and pack. Do you need any help?’
I smiled at her. ‘No, Miss Wright. I’ll be fine.’
I had almost forgotten about my toothache. I screwed up my face in pretended agony and buried my jaw in my hand once more. The first stage of my little scheme had worked.
I was astonished at how good I was at this new art of subterfuge. I played my part so convincingly that neither of them had the slightest suspicion that all was not as it seemed. In a way, I suppose, it was simple: I did not have to play a part. Just by being myself I was able to convince them. I lied only when I had to, and the lies came easily. I had told the truth all my life, worn my heart on my sleeve, never told an untruth, and now the fibs rolled off my tongue as if lying was second nature. I did not even have a guilty conscience; I reasoned to myself that it was not I who was in the wrong, but they; they would reject George out of hand for despicable reasons. They would call him names, and be cruel, if they knew; whereas I quite simply loved him. As long as I caused no harm to anyone it was right to fight for love, right and good and noble. I was on the side of humanity, and if that demanded stratagems that included bending the truth, well, God would forgive me. I know that I forgave myself, and instantly.
All of this went through my mind as I packed my suitcase after breakfast. Miss Wright had suggested that Nora pack for me, but I had rejected this offer, and nobody was the wiser as to why. Of course I needed to pack myself! I’d be gone far longer than a weekend. I packed as much as I could to last a while and as little as needed to prevent suspicion. And then there was the jug of coins. I delighted at the flow and tinkle of copper as I emptied this into a separate cloth bag. There was no time to count the money, of course, but I was sure it would last me quite a while. And if not – perhaps I could get a job in Georgetown. I was certainly willing – but would my age be a handicap? Would I need Papa’s permission to do so? An unpleasant shadow passed over my elevated spirits. Papa. What would he do, what could he do? He’d search for me. Would he find me? Bring me back? Enough of that. That was future, this was now. First I had to get to Georgetown. Declare myself to George.
And then? Where would I live, since we could not yet marry? I had heard of a boarding house for young women in Georgetown. For girls, rather. Some of the girls around my age from the senior staff compound stayed there in order to attend school in Town. Bishops’ High School was the girls’ school. It was a good school. Why couldn’t I go there? Would I be able to stay at the boarding house if I were not a pupil, but a working girl? Surely there were other boarding houses? George would help me. But it was futile to think of these things at this
stage. I would take this one step at a time, cross each bridge as I got to it, buoyed by confidence. Love would see me through and give me strength. It was time to go.
I picked up my little suitcase. It was unevenly heavy, due to the coins. I needed to ensure that nobody else handled it; it was far too heavy for a two-night stay, and would raise undue suspicions. I managed to slip down both flights of stairs unseen. Poole had already driven the motor car around to the front and was waiting in the driver’s seat; before he could climb out and open the door for me I did so myself, and threw in my suitcase. Immediately, Poole was at my side, tipping his hat hurriedly.
‘Oh, Missy, I sorry, I didn’t see you come – lemme put the suitcase on the luggage rack,’ he said.
‘Oh, no, don’t bother,’ I replied. ‘It’s only a small one. It’s not worth it.’
‘If you say so, Miss.’ He looked doubtful, but accepted my words.
‘I’ll just run back up to say goodbye and then we can be off,’ I said to him. ‘You can start the motor car.’
‘Very well, Miss.’ He walked around to the front and began to crank the motor.
I turned to go back upstairs, but Miss Wright and Yoyo, and Maggie, who had arrived by now, had come down to see me off. How kind everyone was, how unsuspecting! And how underhand of me, to trick them all like this! But, I reminded myself, it was all for a good cause. I smiled, and at the last moment remembered to cradle my jaw and wince in pain.
‘Oh, you poor dear!’ said Miss Wright. ‘There’s nothing worse than toothache, is there! But Dr Hodgson will soon put you right. Poole will wait for you and drive you to the Stewarts. Oh dear! It just occurred to me that I should send something as a gift – how can I let you go empty-handed! Let me just look in the larder, perhaps Cookie has some nice treat I can send, guava jelly maybe – or perhaps …’
