The Secret Life of Winnie Cox

by Sharon Maas

  Otherwise, life went its old boring way, with a few changes. Yoyo and I drifted further apart. She seemed determined to put the past behind her, to forget the shocking scenes we had witnessed in the blinding light of our awakening. She, who had been most passionately affected by the squalor of the logies, who had been ready to tear the whip from Papa’s hands herself, had to all appearances forgiven him all and returned to being the carefree, headstrong youngest daughter who bantered and argued with him at the dinner table, laughed at his weak jokes, and teased him for the shape of his moustache. I could not understand it.

  Between us, too, everything had changed. There was now a barrier. A barrier I had placed by keeping the greatest thing in my life a secret from her. How could I ever tell her about George? How could I tell her about the roller-coaster ride between euphoria and despair I had travelled along since that day at the post office? How would she ever begin to understand, she who scoffed at the very idea of romance, and dismissed my love-story novels as drivel? I couldn’t. To do so would be to dishonour that love by dragging it through the mud of her scorn. As the days and weeks passed I learned to play the part of myself: of Winnie, the dear quiet elder sister, reticent, always smiling, always supportive. But beneath the surface of that Winnie, a thousand feelings, insights and perceptions struggled for a final form. The real Winnie, the woman I was meant to be, was taking shape just as a caterpillar becomes a butterfly within the concealing hull of its cocoon, out of sight from the world.

  But the biggest change to life at Promised Land was the arrival of Clarence Smedley.

  I loathed Clarence Smedley at first sight. I loathed those beady blue eyes that inspected me up and down as if I were a prize cow at auction. That self-satisfied guffawing at his own weak jokes. The way he strutted through Promised Land as if it already belonged to him, with us, Yoyo and me, as its appendages, up for grabs. His slimy ingratiating voice when he and Papa conversed at dinner. His oily smirk whenever Papa mentioned future developments. His unctuous assumption that he was the prize bridegroom; that our politeness was veiled attraction; that our reserve towards him was a ‘feminine game of hide-and-seek.’

  For of course Yoyo detested him too. ‘He’s worse than I ever imagined!’ she whispered to me the first evening, and in that at least we again found common ground: an alliance of abhorrence. We no longer joked about marrying him. That dismal prospect was too near to home; how could we giggle about an outcome that everyone treated as a finished deal?

  Uncle Jim liked to tease me about Clarence Smedley. ‘Sounds like a good match!’ he said, with a playful twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Don’t joke about it!’ I said, ‘Papa really believes I should marry him!’

  ‘So you gon’ let he marry some other girl,’ said Uncle Jim, ‘and allow your inheritance to slip through you fingers?’

  ‘What do I care? I can’t wait to turn my back on Promised Land. I hate it. I hate everything it stands for. I don’t care about any inheritance. And anyway, Yoyo and I’ve already inherited – when our grandfather in England died he left us both a trust fund which we come into when we’re twenty-one. Mr Smedley can have Promised Land. All I want is George. All I’m afraid to lose is – is George’s love.’

  ‘That might happen,’ Uncle Jim conceded. ‘It could happen. Just like you might stop loving him … No, don’t bother to protest …’ I had opened my mouth to say that that would never ever happen. I shut it again.

  ‘Is better to face reality than to run from it. When you’re young emotions can be as strong as a hurricane. While they’re there you think that’s all there is in the world, that nothing else can ever exist, and you want to hurl yourself into its vortex and be swept away in your euphoria. But hurricanes pass by, Winnie. They’re as fleeting like they strong.’

  Suddenly he dropped his stick, grabbed my shoulders. He shook me, and cried, ‘Winnie, wake up! Come to your senses! Jus’ wake up – oh, damn it!’

  I let myself be shaken. I simply hung limp and looked at him without speaking. He let go of me, almost flung me aside. Then he spoke again.

  ‘Waiting might sound boring to you. But it’s the only thing that’ll work. If after five years, you both have found your feet again and stand up straight and look each other in the eye and still say I love you, then I’d say you’ve got something real there. Real love is quiet. It’s what remains when the storm pass. And it’s strong; and trust me, you goin’ to need strength. Because if the day comes that you can be together, that’s the day the real storm will come and it will be from outside, not from inside, and if you want to survive it you’ll need to be able to stand straight and steady. Or else it’ll destroy you.’

  ‘How can I bear it – out there with Papa and knowing – knowing …’

  Papa! How can I even begin to describe the collapse of every daughterly affection I had ever held for him! The pain of discovery, as I realised that what I had once adored had been only a mask, one he had worn at home for our appreciation and applause. Oh, I did not doubt his love for us was genuine: Papa was a family man, and we were the centre of his world. But the face he presented to us was not the real one, and the image he had cultivated for our benefit was little more than a role played on a stage. The guilt I felt at being his daughter consumed me.

  ‘You can’t help the circumstances of your birth,’ said Uncle Jim. ‘You can’t help being his daughter. You’re not responsible for the things that go on there.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I know it’s not fair. The East Indians see you as their enemy, even though you’ve done nothing yourself. You can’t change that.’He must have been reading my thoughts. I was about to remind him that the Indians did hold me somehow responsible. To them, I was on the other side, the wrong side.

  ‘I don’t want them to hate me! I want to help them! I’m on their side! Really I am!’

  ‘That’s a good place to be,’ said Uncle Jim. ‘But you can’t expect them to fold you into their hearts. You’d have to prove yourself in order to that.’

  ‘How can I prove myself? How can I help?’

  ‘Winnie, you’re …’

  ‘Don’t say I’m too young! Don’t treat me like a child! Yes, I know it was childish to run away like that but I learned my lesson and I grew up so much when I was in Georgetown and I’ve thought about it a lot and I want to help. I truly want to help. There must be something I can do? Some little thing – so that people, Indians, can trust me and know, and not look at me like that, as if I were some, some white devil or something.’

  Uncle Jim didn’t reply right away. He just looked at me. He looked at me in a thoughtful, quiet way, as if sinking into himself and not really thinking about me at all but listening to some other voice, not mine; almost as if he hadn’t heard. Then he stood up and walked to the window and stood with his back to me. The minutes ticked by. I thought he had forgotten me. Perhaps I had said something of such extraordinary stupidity he was lost for words. I began to get nervous. I reached out and grabbed myself a handful of peanuts from the bowl Aunt Bhoomie had left on the table. I cracked open the shells and ate the nuts one by one, still waiting for Uncle Jim to come back and sit with me and talk.

  At last he returned. He sat himself down opposite me and reached for a handful of nuts himself. He casually cracked open the first one.

  ‘There is something you can do, Winnie. If you really mean it. His voice rose with the question. My heart gave a little spring.

  ‘Yes, yes of course! Tell me! What?’

  ‘Is just a little thing. Is not at all dangerous for you. I wouldn’t-a put you into any danger; you know that. It’s a small thing. But still – it’ll be a solid proof of your loyalty. Whether it’s there or here. Can you do it?’

  ‘Well, just tell me what it is and you’ll see!’

  ‘Listen,’ said Uncle Jim. ‘Just listen.’ He stopped there. I didn’t understand. I waited for him to continue but he didn’t.

  ‘I’m listening,’ I said. ‘Go on!’


  ‘No. That’s it. I want you to listen. When you’re at home, keep you ears open and listen. Let us know what your father is thinking. If he planning repercussions to – to any of the actions – let us know. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course I can! Why, that’s the easiest thing on earth!’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Uncle Jim slowly. ‘It will mean disloyalty to your own father, your own blood. It goes against your own interests. Because if the labourers get what they want – well it’s not exactly what your father wants, which is more and more profit. You’ll be turning against him. It’s a question of family loyalty. It will make of you a sneak. It’s – no. No, I can’t ask that of you. Forget I ever asked. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘No, no wait! Of course I can do it! Of course I will! I understand! I know what you mean! You want me to be a spy! A spy, not a sneak! Why, that’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever done! I’d love to, if it will help!’

  ‘You will? Really? That would be excellent! Just excellent! Brave girl!’

  ‘No, not brave at all, just a little less cowardly! I’d love to do so much more and I would if I could!’

  ‘You can’t.’ Uncle Jim’s voice was firm and absolutely final. ‘But that’s already a lot. And I want you to know, Winnie: the Indians mean no harm – no physical harm, I mean, to your father or his property. They don’t want to overthrow him or destroy the plantation. This is their livelihood. Their work. They came here to work and that’s what they want. All they want is better conditions. Better wages – wages they can live from and support their families. Better housing. You’ve seen the logies, I’ve heard, so you know. They want medical care, and education for their children. If those demands are met there will be peace. Until then – there’s a big fight ahead. And if you want to show whose side you’re on …’

  ‘I do! I will! I’d love to! Thank you! Oh, I don’t know what to say – thanks for giving me the chance, for trusting me!’

  And that was how I became a spy against my own father. There are people who will point at me and curse me; blood is thicker than water, they’ll say, and what I did was despicable. Sneaky. To them I say: there is a relationship of the heart, and that is thicker yet than blood. My heart cannot be with those who are cruel, who oppress, who whip and kick at helpless people. Rather, my heart must be with the underdog. They are my brothers and sisters. To them, I must be loyal. That was the reasoning behind what I did.

  And truly, it wasn’t much. As ever, Papa never brought business to the dining table. He and Miss Wright discussed mostly foreign politics: the worsening situation in Europe was the topic of the day and Yoyo and I listened, but Europe’s politics were hardly of interest to me. Europe was on the other side of the world. I cared only of what was going on right here, under our very noses. That, now, was my job.

  The only time I was able to report to Uncle Jim on anything of substance was when Papa had guests, owners and senior staff from Promised Land or the other Courantyne plantations, and occasionally even from Demerara and Essequibo. After dinner Papa would take the men to his library and then the serious talk began, and my job. It was easy, so easy. The front veranda could be accessed from any of the downstairs rooms; all I had to do was draw one of the wicker chairs near to the library, whose windows and veranda doors stood always open. All I had to do was sit there, as if enjoying the evening breeze. Just as Yoyo and I used to do, when we were younger.

  How could Papa ever suspect anything? I was that docile, introverted, romantic girl who took no interest whatsoever in business or politics. I was that harmless daughter who dreamed away her days. If ever the men came out with their rum-swizzles and cigars to stand on the veranda and talk, they would merely glance at me and smile or remark on the lovely evening or the beautiful moon, and sip their drinks and puff on their cigars … and talk.

  Up to now I had always shunned the politics of the sugar industry. It had indeed been men’s business – boring talk of labourers and profit margin and export and grinding charges. It had nothing to do with me. I’d basked in my persona of romantic dreamer who cared only for the beautiful things in life: poetry, and art, music and flowers, novels and love. Now all those things dropped away and I listened. I listened carefully and secretly. In listening my awareness grew. The more I learned of the sugar industry and the history of its workers the more I understood that only a man of no conscience could stay at its helm. It was as if the Papa I had loved had been a mere coating made of some fragile substance. Truth had cracked that outer coating and it had fallen away to reveal the real man behind it; a man of cruelty and hardness whose only care was for profit; a man lacking in all the sensibilities that were the essence of humanity. I judged his morals, and found them deficient. In my heart I turned from him in disgust. Yet on the surface I continued to play the part of the Sugar Princess, the role he had assigned me. And behind it all I plotted.

  I would play this role. I would play it to the best of my ability. No-one must suspect the truth. Not Papa, not Miss Wright, not Yoyo, not Emily Stewart. I would go through all the motions expected and required of me. I would play their shallow games and join in their false laughter. It was a waiting game, dictated by necessity, and by my youth. It was a life in abeyance. I played croquet on the lawns of the Senior Staff Compound and all the while I yearned to catch a Demerara fowl. One day, I would.

  But between my stolen visits to Uncle Jim and the occasional nights listening to Papa and his fellow planters on the veranda and days splashing about in the senior staff pool or playing tennis with my would-be friends and being friends with Emily Stewart there was the sheer emptiness of life at Promised Land. Of course, in these August holidays there were no lessons to fill the days. Papa had sent Miss Wright to stay with family in Barbados, for a holiday, and Yoyo and I were set free to do as we wished. Yoyo, very much at home with Maggie McInnes and the other young people in the senior staff compound, led her own social life.. I read books, practised the violin, and dreamed of the future. I made simple, inconspicuous changes to my life, such as never again calling the Africans darkies or the Indians coolies or the house servants ‘boys’ and ‘girls’. I was slowly, gradually, becoming a new person. But I was bored.

  Then one day, I remembered the paper with the Morse code that George had given me so many months ago. It seemed an age since I had brought it back home from the post office, still flushed with exhilaration. Then, I had been so caught in the throes of emotion I had completely forgotten it. I’d put it at the back of one of my drawers, where it languished unseen.

  One day that August I remembered it. I brought it out, and unfolded it. I sat at my table and tapped out a few words, just my finger on wood. George’s name. My own name. ‘I love you,’ ‘Wait for me.’ And many such silly things. Just trying it out, getting back into practice. After a while I got up and searched for Mama’s sewing basket. I found her silver thimble and slipped it on. Then I searched for a suitable hard surface, and came upon the china plate beneath the jug of water standing next to the basin on my wash-hand stand. I experimentally tapped my thimbled finger against the plate: instead of the dull thud of flesh on wood, the satisfactory clackety-clack of metal on china. I smiled, and took the plate to my desk. I had created my own Morse key.

  Before the holidays were over, I not only knew all the letters of the Code by heart, I could tap them out with some speed. I wished there was someone I could send messages to and receive them from! I closed my eyes as I tapped, and learned to ‘read’ the tapping sounds as easily as I could read written language. Learning all this somehow brought me closer to George. It was my link to him, however tenuous; it was our secret language, and even though we could not actually speak in it, just knowing that we shared this language was enough.

  And so it came to pass that one October evening, I was sitting on the veranda as usual, all on my own, sipping at a sundown swizzle, listening to the silver chorus of night insects and the soothing rhythm of faraway d
rums when a strange thing happened. I could understand the drums, the faint throbbing that came from Dieu Merci. Involuntarily, heir thump-thump-thumping made sense to me, formed words I could hear as easily as I could read a book.

  ‘STRIKE ON PLANTATION ROSE HALL MONDAY,’ said the drums. ‘EVERY DAY PLANTATION STRIKES EAST UP THE COURANTYNE COAST.’

  I sat up straight. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Was I hearing right? Yes. I was. The message repeated itself, again and again. There was no mistake. And then the same message, louder, this time coming out of our own logies, was carried on the Atlantic breeze drifting over the cane fronds, to be heard by anyone who could read this language. Fifteen minutes of that, and then, faint again, another set of drums took up the same rhythm, further down coast. Glasgow Plantation. The message had passed on to the next plantation.

  And then I laughed. I laughed so much I almost fell off the chair. So this was the big secret! Papa and his friends had always wondered at how well coordinated the strikes and demonstrations and even riots were that plagued the Courantyne Coast. Sometimes the strikes would move swiftly along the coast from one plantation to the within two hours of each other; the Indians would simply lay down their tools and not work for a few hours on one plantation; no sooner had they started work again, than the next plantation, miles away, would stop work. Or sometimes, the entire coast would stand still and the workers would march to the owner’s house, chanting their demands, using the same words down in Albion at one end, as in Skeldon on the other. How did they communicate, Papa and his cronies had wondered. Now I knew!

  ‘I know,’ I said to Uncle Jim the next time I saw him. ‘It’s the drums.’

  He looked at me suspiciously. ‘Drums? What you mean.’