The Secret Life of Winnie Cox

by Sharon Maas

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Theo X!’

  ‘What! Mr X heself?’

  ‘No other!’

  Maybelle whistled, a long drawn out whistle. Then she said, ‘I gone get some water from de vat – you comin’? Bring that bucket and help me, nah.’

  I heard the creak of a door opening, and then diminishing footsteps on the back door steps.

  My ears were burning, and I pressed my hand to my heart to calm it down as I returned to my seat to wait for them. Theo X? Mr X? So George had a secret identity in Georgetown? I remembered that his middle name was Theobald, so it made sense. Who was he? Obviously, he was well known … and even so obviously, I was not allowed to know more. I decided to play innocent for the time being. But I would find out more. At the very least, from Uncle Jim. For now, though, I had to behave.

  Auntie Dolly and Maybelle spent a few hours exchanging news and gossiping. They both ignored me. I was no longer of interest. I was not the centre of attention. I was no more than a piece of furniture. I bore it as stoically as I could. My time would come.

  After a while, Auntie Dolly, glancing at the clock, stood up, straightened her clothes, and said, ‘Well, sweetheart, we gotta go. I gotta take this chile to the Promenade Gardens, an’ I don’t want be late. Was lovely talkin’ to you. Bye-bye sweetheart.’ They hugged and kissed. Then she turned to me.

  ‘So, Miss Winnie. Is time to go. You ready?’

  Mama’s Diary: Plantation Promised Land, British Guiana, 1903

  Liebes Tagebuch,

  We have had a most dreadful row. The first I have ever had with Archie – for mostly I hide my feelings, my thoughts, from him – and it was all so very public. Even the girls were present. I cannot forgive myself for opening my mouth – it was very indiscreet of me – but somehow I had to and the words of protest, of rebuke against my own husband, emerged. At the dinner table, in front of guests! So very wrong. And then, after the guests had left, we quarrelled deep into the night, and the girls heard. It is a disaster, an unmitigated disaster. Now it is all out in the open, though he does not know the whole truth, the truth of my ‘friendship’. I cannot even confide in you, dear Diary. It seems too secret, so ultimately verboten. And yet – I feel no shame. Perhaps it was inevitable.

  My life is crumbling into pieces. Music does not help. Nothing helps. Darkness is encroaching on me, and I do not know how to dispel it. That darkness I thought I had dispelled. Now it is back but a thousand times worse than before. No light anywhere. Not even a spark.

  Before I am lost to the darkness I must instruct my daughters. They must know of the evil man commits against man. I have read to them the stories of slaves in America, and told them how evil this thing is. I have not told them that their beloved father is guilty of something very similar. I cannot break their illusion of him as the epitome of perfection, a Sugar King radiant in his glory, for that is how they see him. They adore him. How can I spoil it for them? I am in despair. What can I do?

  Chapter Nineteen

  There are two public gardens in Georgetown: the Botanic Gardens and the Promenade Gardens. Papa had often taken us to the Botanic Gardens, a sprawling haven in Georgetown’s south-east corner. Green clipped lawns and sandy paths lined by beautiful palms, here and there a magnificent island of vivid colour; the brilliant reds and yellows of canna lilies, and of course roses galore. Still silent ponds on which floated the giant pads of the Victoria Regia lily; the Kissing Bridge humped over a stream, where, when we were small, Mama and Papa would inevitably lift us up and kiss us all, laughing. Then the Zoo near the entrance, which we always saved for last; the pond with the manatee. We always took bread for the manatee. If you stood at the edge of the pond and whistled he would rise out of the deep like some subterranean monster, and we girls would clap and scream in glee. What carefree, glorious days those were!

  I had never been to the Promenade Gardens, located in the town centre, and much, much smaller than the Botanic Gardens. They occupied a neighbourhood block quite near to where we had first met George, with entrances on all the four streets surrounding it. Being smaller they were also more intimate – a warren of weaving sandy paths between islands bursting with colour, towering shrubs in full flower and tall trees strategically placed providing shade for people strolling by. Butterflies flitted from bush to bloom, and birds warbled overhead, serenading one another. A few people ambled through the garden; others sat on the wrought-iron benches enjoying a rest. It was an oasis of peace and calm.

  In the centre of it all, in a large clearing, stood the Round House. Not really a house: it was obviously a band-stand, similar to the one on the Sea Wall where we often went as a family when we were in Town; but this one was bigger. Round, or almost round, it was like a pavilion, raised a few steps above the ground, with only an ornate wrought-iron balustrade around the sides. I could well imagine the brass bands that would play here in the early evening, drawing in the people who lived nearby. Good, decent, respectable people who knew the rules and kept to them. Not people like me, like us, who broke them.

  George was already there. He sat on one of the benches around the clearing, nibbling at a sandwich. A glass bottle half-full with water stood on the ground at his feet. He sprang to his feet as he saw us, and, with a hasty look around to make sure no-one was watching – they weren’t – rushed up to meet us, leaving his sandwich on the bench.

  Auntie Dolly was on high alert. With one arm hooked into my elbow she clasped me to her side; the other arm she raised, palm outwards, warning him to slow down. He did; but she need not have worried. Though I longed to rush forward into his arms I now knew better, and he, not ambushed by surprise as on the earlier occasion, slowed down of his own accord as he drew near. My heart thumped palpably. My face felt as if it were just one huge smile. His certainly was, though his eyes were veiled by anxiety.

  He came to me, and stood before me, and all that unease melted from the gaze that now seemed to swallow me up. Oh, how I longed to just let go, to fling myself at him, to be consumed by the love I saw there! I could only hope that my own eyes mirrored that love, and perhaps they did, because now it was Auntie Dolly who grew anxious.

  ‘Two a-you, stop that! Stop it right now, you hear me?’

  Stop what? We had not even touched! But Auntie Dolly was looking around in great agitation and whispering to us conspiratorially.

  ‘Y’all can’t behave like this. You can’t. Somebody gon’ see an’ then all three a-we gon’ be in trouble. Behave youself.’

  George, then, came to his senses. He looked from me to her and his face lost that exhilarated expression – I was sad to see it go – and he said, ‘All right Auntie. I promise to behave. But I need to talk to her. We need to talk. Maybe …’

  Auntie Dolly pointed. ‘There!’ she said. ‘Go down that way with she. Sit down on the bench and talk. I gon’ stay here and keep guard. But only talkin, you here? No lovey-dovey?’

  ‘I promise, Auntie!’ said George. She turned to look at me.

  ‘Well, Miss Winnie?’ She frowned, and wagged a warning finger.

  ‘I promise, Auntie.’

  We walked off. ‘And remember: you goin’ right back home tomorrow!’ she called after us. I said nothing to that.

  We sat down on one of the benches, a foot apart. I folded my hands primly on my lap. I did not look at George. All of a sudden I felt shy. I had no idea what to say. The memory of rushing across the road, flying into his arms, made me blush – what had I been thinking? Not thinking at all, according to Auntie Dolly, or thinking stupidly. Maybe he thought so too, Maybe he thought I was brazen. Maybe he thought …

  ‘Winnie,’ he said, in a low soft voice. I turned to look at him.

  ‘Yes?’ We gazed at each other over a gap that seemed so much wider than a foot of garden bench. I realised that he was just as tongue-tied as I was, struggling to find words.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said, and it came out almost as a wail. ‘I – I was so happy to see
you this mornin’. So happy. And yet, and yet … Winnie – I think about you all the time. I tried to forget you, I really did, but it didn’t work and then you was there, were there, standin’ at the bottom of the stairs. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’re always saying you’re sorry,’ I replied. ‘That’s all you ever say. Are you sorry you love me, then?’

  ‘No,’ he said at once. ‘No, Of course not! Lovin’ you – is the most wonderful thing in the world but also I’m broken-hearted because …’

  ‘But I love you too, George! I told you that! That’s why I came to town, to tell you that because that letter you wrote me, it was so wrong! So very wrong! How could you even think of saying such horrible things to me? Do you know how you broke my heart?’

  ‘Uncle Jim told me to write.’ His voice contained a world of desolation. ‘Uncle Jim said there was no hope for us in the world. He said I would only get you into trouble, bad trouble. He said I would ruin you with my love. He said your father …’

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks! That Uncle Jim – an interfering old man!’

  ‘He’s not! He’s very wise and he knows what he’s speakin’ of. He and his wife …’

  ‘But that’s them and this is us! I don’t care, you see. I don’t care! I don’t care what my father or anybody says! I hate my father! I know what he does! He’s an evil, evil man!’

  ‘Why you say that, Winnie? You got to love you parents! You is their child!’

  ‘They don’t own me! They don’t own my heart! I’ll love who I want to love! And now that I know what Papa is like I just don’t care if he approves or not! In fact, all the more reason to disobey him and shock him and – and slap him in the face!’

  ‘I don’t understand. What he done to you, to make you hate him so?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Not to me, personally. But I saw – I saw what he does, what he did, to our coolies. I saw how they live. I saw him whip them, George! I saw it with my own two eyes and I couldn’t bear it! And since then all I can think of escaping him, and you, and coming to Georgetown, and …’

  ‘Winnie!’ He spoke sharply now, which I was not expecting. ‘Did you come to me to punish you Daddy? Is that all this is about?’

  ‘No! No, of course not. I love you! I love you with all my heart, with all my soul and I wanted to tell you that. I had to tell you, and that’s why I came. After I got your letter it’s all I wanted, to tell you I love you, you see, I couldn’t let you go on believing I was insulted. Loving you makes me so happy, George. It’s the only thing in the world that makes me happy. You’re the only one I want to be with. That’s why I came – to tell you that and to be near you. I don’t care what Papa does or what anybody thinks. And I’m not going back! I told Auntie Dolly I would but it was a lie. I only told her so she would help me find you, because I was late yesterday, you see, and didn’t know what to do, and I almost gave up, and then I told her everything and she offered to help but only if I promised to go home, so I promised, but it’s not true. I can’t go home, George. I don’t have a home!’

  ‘Wait, stop.’ He held up a hand to brake the avalanche of words. It was as if I needed to tell him my whole life story right there and then. I had not only found my voice, I had found my very spirit, and he needed to know. Know everything.

  ‘I’m so miserable, George! I had to come. Being with you is all that makes me happy. I

  want …’

  ‘You can’t always get what you want!’

  He said it so sharply, almost belligerently, that I stopped right there. It was exactly what Auntie Dolly had said. About my expecting to get everything I wanted, just because I was white and privileged. To hear the exact words from George’s lips – well, all of a sudden I felt a deep shame. It rose up in my being like a deep red blush that must have turned my face as red as a tomato. It silenced me completely. It was George’s turn to speak.

  ‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘You can’t just run away from home like that. You’re how old? Fifteen? Sixteen?’ I nodded. ‘Well then. You’re a minor. You can’t do what you want for five or six more years. Your father has to give permission to anything you do. You can’t just come to town and be with me!’’

  Oh, the embarrassment! To hear him put it like that – as if I made an indecent proposal! I shook my head in misery.

  ‘I thought – I thought, I would get a job. Live in a hostel – there’s a hostel for English girls, you know! And – and I could work, maybe in a bank.’

  Lots of English girls worked in banks. Girls I knew – the elder sisters of my friends from the senior staff compound. They worked in banks until they got married. Barclays Bank, the Royal Bank of Scotland – those were good, decent girls. I could do that. Except that I was hopeless with numbers. But George didn’t know that.

  ‘You’d still need your father’s permission, Winnie. You’ll need it until you’re twenty-one. Haven’t you thought of that?’

  I shook my head. Despondency brought tears to my eyes. I wiped them away with the back of my hand, and looked up at George.

  ‘Please, George. Please! Let me stay! I love you so much!’ More tears came. George produced a huge handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I wiped my cheeks with it. It was wet not only with tears but with sweat: the sun was now high overhead, and though the bench stood in the shade my clothes felt like hot damp rags. Why did we women have to walk around in so many yards of clothing? I envied George his open-necked, short-sleeved shirt. I pulled at the high lace collar of my own blouse, and pushed the sleeves up my wrists. Auntie Dolly’s dresses all had short sleeves. When I came to live in Georgetown I too would wear short-sleeved dresses and blouses. And no corsets and long underwear. And it was when, not if I came to Georgetown.

  ‘I love you too,’ he said, and his voice was gentle again. ‘And that’s why we really have to be sensible about this. And mature. Uncle Jim is right. You much too young. It’s too difficult. Winnie – I want you to go back home. You can’t stay here.’

  Another gush of tears. ‘I hate my home!’

  ‘But you have to go. Go back tomorrow. Promise me?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. I want to stay.’

  ‘You with your ‘I wants!’ This time he really exploded. ‘You don’t see, Winnie, you behaving like a spoiled li’l girl – a spoiled li’l white girl! All-you think you can just decide things you want for yourself and then you can get them, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘But it’s not that way at all! You want to get us both into trouble?’

  I looked up at that. ‘You’d get into trouble too?’

  ‘But of course! What you think? A black man interfering with a white girl? You know in America, black men does get hanged for that? You don’t read the newspapers, or what? You never heard of lynchings?’

  ‘Oh!’ is all I could say to that. No, I didn’t know. All at once I felt stupid and childish. A long deep silence fell between us, a silence in which I felt like a piece of dirty clothing in a wash-tub, pounded and scrubbed by a pair of strong black hands. I edged nearer to him. One of my hands fell from my lap on to the boards of the bench. A few moments later the side of his hand touched mine. And then his hand was covering mine, then closed around mine.

  Those clasped hands became to me an anchor in the sea of my tossing emotions. All at once I felt calm. The tossing ceased, and though I can’t say I felt strong, I suddenly understood. I understood the full extent of the madness I had set out to accomplish. I understood the magnitude of my own utter stupidity. The magnitude of the risk and the danger and the divide between us. The fullness of the love that would close that divide, but which must remain hidden.

  I squeezed George’s hand to tell him I understood. He squeezed mine back. As at an invisible signal we both turned so that we sat slanting on the bench, facing each other; he raised a tentative hand and touched my chin, as faintly as if it were a butterfly’s wing brushing past. He pushed a loose lock of my hair behind my ear. He gazed into my eyes, and I into his.
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  Footsteps scrunched on the path before us; it was Auntie Dolly, marching towards us with a thunder-darkened face. Hastily we drew apart; she stood now directly before us, looked from one of us to the other. Her frown faded. She too understood.. I had admitted defeat. The little girl that had been me had grown up in the space of a lunchtime break.

  George looked at his watch, as if Auntie Dolly’s approach had pulled him back into the real world.

  ‘I got to go,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t we – can’t we meet again?’

  He frowned, an odd expression in his eyes. I continued, stuttering a little.

  ‘I mean – I mean, I know you have to go back to work but after work? I mean, can’t we meet this evening, tonight, maybe? I only have to go back tomorrow. I’ve lots of time …’

  And it seems a shame to waste it,’ I wanted to say, but he interrupted.

  ‘I don’t have any free time,’ he said. ‘After work I got to mind my parents’ shop, in Albouystoun. And … and tonight I got to … see some people.’I nodded, accepting. He stood up. He held out a hand; I took it and he pulled me up so that we stood facing one another. Simultaneously we glanced at Auntie Dolly, as if asking for permission. She snorted, looked around for possible danger, nodded slightly, and turned her back. Then George’s arms closed around me, and he drew me to him. We embraced; a quick hug that said it all, then we pulled apart, smiling both. He kissed me on the forehead.

  ‘I’ll write,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll write to you care of Uncle Jim. Go there whenever you can. You can write back to me through him.’

  I nodded. There was a lump in my throat. No words came; not even goodbye. Now that it was happening, now that he was really leaving, I wanted to cry but I wouldn’t. I would be strong. No longer a spoilt little girl who couldn’t get her own way. I watched him walk away.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ said Auntie Dolly. Her voice was gentle and full of understanding, comfort even. I nodded. I only noticed it now, the hunger. It wasn’t important, though, for it was nothing next to the emptiness now that George had gone. But I had to be strong. I had to remember.