The Secret Life of Winnie Cox

by Sharon Maas

  The rest of the letter was filled with her own news – the trivialities of life at Miss Yorke’s, her studies, little titbits of gossip. I skimmed over the words, hardly reading them. I wished I had not read this letter. It brought me back down to earth with a heart-shattering thud. It dropped to the floor. I bent over, burying my face in my hands; I wanted to cry, but no tears came, only a deep dry sob. I wanted to shout, but I had lost my voice.

  The door opened and Sibille entered. ‘Winnie, aren’t you coming down for breakf …oh, what’s the matter?’ She rushed to my side and sat beside me on the bed, and put an arm around me. I pointed to the letter on the floor; she picked it up and read it.

  ‘Oh dear. That sounds bad for your father. Must be so worrying for you.’

  Worrying! What an understatement! I was devastated. But what could I do, so far away? I was lucky to be out of it. Papa and Mr McInnes knew I’d been in the car, knew I’d seen it all, but obviously had refrained from mentioning my name. I was not to be called as a witness, and I could only thank God for that. And Papa, of course. Papa was protecting me. Or maybe, came a niggling thought, maybe he was protecting himself? Maybe he had deliberately sent me away, not because of George, but because I was a danger to him? I pushed that thought away. Firmly away. No, I was out of it. Far away. I would not think of it.

  So I pushed the whole nasty business into a little box in my mind and locked the mental door. I wrote a letter to George, gushing with love. I told him I would wait. Three years. I had waited two; three more would be easy, so easy. ‘If necessary,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait forever.’

  Just a few days later, another letter arrived, and was waiting for me in the front hall. I recognized the writing at once. I grabbed it and rushed up to my room, tore open the envelope, threw myself onto my bed, and read it.

  * * *

  Dear Winnie,

  Waiting is not the problem. My love for you is deep and lasting. The separation from you only forces me closer to you; as if love is something waiting in my heart, so comforting and so beautiful, and so perfect. The fact that I cannot have you, cannot marry you, cannot ever be with you, only pushes me deeper into a love that is not bound by physical presence; a love that does not depend on having or wanting or getting you. A love that is independent of your presence, and all the stronger for that reason. Do you understand? Do you also understand what I am saying?

  I cannot come to Barbados. That is another of your innocent dreams. It can never be, you and I. No, I don’t think you can possibly understand, shielded as you have always been from the dark side of life. For you, love is always perfect, always right, will always conquer, and I love you all the more for that innocence, and that’s why I won’t ever discuss with you the reasons why it cannot be. I do not say this without guilt; I took liberties with you I perhaps should not have … liberties only a husband may have. Yet I have no regrets, and I hope you too have none; I am only glad there are no consequences because of what I must say next.

  You and I: it cannot be.

  We are from two different worlds. Worlds that cannot meet, not ever. Not in our lifetime. Maybe in some wonderful different future. Maybe a hundred years from now, those two separate worlds will cease to exist.

  My friend Bhim was a Hindu: Hindus believe in reincarnation. If reincarnation is true, my darling Winnie, then you and I are destined to be together in such a wonderful future. But in our lifetime? No. It cannot be.

  That is why, and it breaks my heart to say this, I want you to be free. I want you to be happy. Find someone else, Winnie. Find someone from your own world, someone who loves you. I want you to find someone suitable, so that you can move on and find a life where you can be fulfilled as a woman. Do not worry about me. I have my task in life, and I will do what I have to do.. There will be no pleasure in that life, for it is one of constant struggle; and yet there will be fulfilment. Did you know that pleasure and fulfilment are not the same thing? Pleasure does not necessarily bring fulfilment; it can leave a person empty and hungry for more. But fulfilment: it sinks right down to the bones, through body and soul, and it comes from doing the right thing. I cannot do otherwise. It’s a calling.

  But you: you must move on. It is for the best. And you will forget me.

  * * *

  Yours,

  George

  George without an X. That is what broke my heart the most.

  That night I cried myself to sleep, and nothing Sibille could say would make me stop. She read the letter; she tried to comfort me; but I would not be comforted. In the morning I woke up and there was only one word on my mind: Never.

  Three weeks later, another letter lay on the hall sideboard: addressed to me, no stamp, hand delivered. I opened it in my room. It was from Aunt Jane.

  * * *

  Dear Winnie,

  It’s been simply ages since we’ve seen you and I take it that that’s a good sign. I hope you’re enjoying your work and your life in the big city. But I feel guilty; as your guardians we do need to keep a better eye on you. We do need to talk to you occasionally! Why don’t you come up for the day on Sunday? I’ll send Miller down with the car in the morning to pick you up – you can spend the night, and Miller will bring you back to town the next morning for you to go to work. We’ll have a really lovely lunch, a picnic on the beach at teatime, and a cosy chat on the veranda under the stars at night. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been up to!

  * * *

  Aunt Jane

  * * *

  PS the Courtneys are coming to lunch. Their son Thomas is back and I’d love you to meet him!

  * * *

  I groaned as I crumpled the letter into a ball. Between the lines the message was clear.

  ‘She’s playing go-between for me and this Courtney boy,’ I said to Sibille later. I un-crumpled the letter and let her read it. She only laughed.

  ‘I think it’s a good idea, in principle. Maybe he’s the one.’

  ‘The one is here. Right here,’ I said, a hand on my heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Aunt Jane looked up at the sound of wheels crunching the gravel, and a short sharp toot of a horn. ‘They’re here,’ she said. She jumped up from her chair and rushed to the window, gesturing to me to follow. Reluctantly I did; I was curious, in spite of myself.

  The motor car had parked in the drive just a few yards from the window. Miller got out of the driver’s seat, walked around the bonnet to the front passenger seat, and opened it. Mrs Courtney emerged, brushing at the lap of her dress. The two back doors opened simultaneously and two men emerged on either side, one old, one young. The young one looked up, as if he knew he was being watched. In spite of myself, I caught my breath.

  ‘He’s so good-looking,’ sighed Aunt Jane. ‘Isn’t he? You have to admit it, Winnie; he’s really handsome, isn’t he? Such a lovely smile!’

  She waved and smiled back; Thomas had seen us standing at the open window. He waved both arms above his head and walked around the car towards us. He walked with a casual but firm gait and a lithe swing to his long legs. He wore white long trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt open at the neck, dressed as if for cricket. His hair was blonde and a little too long, and flopped over his forehead as he walked. He pushed it back impatiently. He looked around for his mother, whose arm had been taken by Mr Courtney, and, not being needed by her, strode forward to climb the stairs to the front door. The maid, Rosie, had already opened it for him and a minute later he was with us, Aunt Jane in his arms.

  ‘Auntie! So good to see you again! How are you!’

  ‘Is this my little boy, my little adopted son? That little spotty teenage boy I sent away four years ago? I can’t believe it! Let me look at you, boy!’

  She held him at arm’s length and looked him up and down. He let himself be inspected, grinning amiably, his hands held firmly in hers.Then she started, and turned to me. ‘Oh! Where are my manners? This is my niece, Winnie, from British Guiana.’

  His eyes rest
ed on me. I sensed the approval in them and dropped my gaze to the floor.

  ‘Mother has told me about you, Winnie. How do you do?’ He held out his hand, and I took it. We shook hands.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I murmured, looking up again. I wished he wouldn’t stare so; it made me nervous. And shy. And tongue-tied.

  By this time Mr and Mrs Courtney had entered the room and Aunt Jane was busy greeting them; and then it was my turn to say hello and Uncle Donald emerged from his study and the children came running down the stairs followed by Nanny and everyone was exclaiming over this and that, except Thomas, who was still looking at me and seemed hardly to notice Uncle Don’s greeting, or the older children crowding round him and calling out his name. It seemed he was a well-loved member of this household, the four-year absence merely increasing his popularity.

  ‘Come, let’s go out to the veranda and have some drinks. Mayleen has this wonderful new rum punch recipe and I’d like you to try it – it’s made with passion-fruit and is simply heaven!’

  We all walked out to the veranda, Thomas and I bringing up the rear. I felt his eyes on me. I kept mine averted. We – the adults – all sat down around the table; the children were sent away to amuse themselves till lunchtime. At first, Thomas was the centre of attention, cajoled by Aunt Jane into giving a summary of his last four years in London. He spoke easily, saying neither too much nor too little, with just the right mixture of friendliness and politeness, answering questions, telling funny little anecdotes that made everyone laugh out loud. I took note with only one ear, hearing without listening. I was far too busy trying to deal with that look in his eyes whenever his gaze scanned mine – which was far too often for comfort.

  To my dismay, I was the next object of conversation. Mrs Courtney insisted on a reiteration of my family credentials, and I knew very well it was all for Thomas’s sake. And then the talk turned to my life in Bridgetown, which brought about an instant diminishment of her approval.

  ‘I still don’t understand how a girl of your upbringing could possibly want to work at all, much less in a telegraph office. A telegraph office! Gracious, it sounds so very common! Sending telegram here and there!’

  ‘Well, someone has to do it!’ said Thomas. ‘Think of all the telegrams you’ve sent me over the years! Do you think they got to me by magic?’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t have to be a young lady whose grandfather is an Earl! If we don’t keep up the standards then who will? Surely …’

  ‘Oh, Mother, what a lot of twaddle! The world is changing, and so quickly! What does it matter who her grandfather is? Lots of young women are working in London these days, and I say, jolly good for them! They’re far more interesting than those spoilt brats mollycoddled in Papa’s mansion in Surrey, fishing for titled husbands in ballrooms!’

  Mrs Courtney gave a little gasp but Thomas had turned his attention to me. ‘So you had to do a training course in Morse code, I expect. Is it hard to learn?’

  I shook my head and spoke a full sentence for the first time since his arrival.

  ‘No – I already knew it. That’s how I got the job. I didn’t need any training.’

  ‘Really? How on earth did you learn it?’

  ‘A – a friend gave me the code,’ I said. ‘But I taught myself.’

  ‘You could work as a spy in the war!’ said Mr Courtney with a loud guffaw. ‘They’ll need people who know codes and things!’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Henry, there isn’t going to be a war!’

  ‘There is, there most certainly is!’ said Mr Courtney. ‘If Germany doesn’t …’

  But Mrs Courtney wouldn’t let him continue. ‘You don’t mean to say, Thomas dear, that you’re in favour of those horrid suffragettes?’

  ‘I certainly do think women should have the vote,’ replied Thomas. ‘Why ever not?’

  Mrs Courtney spluttered something about husbands, and Thomas took the opportunity to turn to me again.

  ‘What do you think about women and the vote, Winnie? Are you interested in politics? Would you vote if you had the chance?’

  I actually had never thought of such a thing, but I did now. It was as if a light went on in my head and I thought of British Guiana and the plantations and the situation of the Indians and what would happen if there was a party that stood up for them and if women could vote and, being more compassionate by nature than men, how we could change the world.

  I nodded vigorously, instantly making up my mind. ‘Oh, yes, indeed! I’d vote if I had to, and if there were a party that supported my views!’

  ‘See, mother? You can’t roll back time. Things are changing!’

  Mrs Courtney snorted and brushed back her hair and made a new start with me, but on the same track. I focused on my meal. It was a typical Sunday lunch of roast beef and potatoes. At Promised Land, Mildred had even tried, but failed, to reproduce Yorkshire pudding. What is it about the English that makes them want to live exactly the same everywhere, no matter what country they are in?

  ‘And where are you living, Winnie dear? In a boarding house, or with a private family?’

  ‘In a boarding house.’

  ‘Ah yes; I heard there’s a hostel for English women in Bridgetown. I suppose it’s quite respectable.’

  I raised my eyes head, looked her straight in the eyes. I shook my head and said, loudly and clearly. ‘No. I’m in the other boarding house. The one for coloured women.’

  A stunned silence fell over the table. Even Mr Courtney, who had been involved in war talk with a nodding Uncle Ronald, looked up, brow creased in puzzlement.Then Thomas roared with laughter.

  Aunt Jane stuttered, ‘Really, Winnie, I don’t think …’

  Mrs Courtney exclaimed: ‘Goodness Gracious!’

  Back to Thomas, who stopped laughing and said, ‘I like that, I like that. The one for coloured women! Hysterical, just hysterical. Mother, I think you’ve met your match.’

  Aunt Jane said quickly, ‘You see, Mrs Courtney, there was no room available at the English home …’

  ‘But that’s not true, Aunt Jane. I didn’t even know if there was room or not. I didn’t ask. I went to the home for coloured women first – I didn’t even know it was that – and they had a room available and I took it. A bed, I mean. It’s a double room. I share with a woman called Sibille Hart and she’s my best friend.’

  The thing is, I was sick and tired of lies and subterfuge. Sick and tired of sneaking around hiding the truth from everyone. Sick and tired of feeling shame for liking or loving people my people disapproved of. Sick and tired of my people and your people. It may have been necessary – or opportunistic – in British Guiana, but it wasn’t here. What did I care of Mrs Courtney’s opinion? What did I care if Aunt Jane reported back to Papa? I straightened my back, looked from Aunt Jane to Mrs Courtney and back and said,

  ‘She’s a fine person, a teacher. I’m learning a lot from her. She’s a Barbadian, a real Barbadian. You English, you’re really just like pot-plants in a greenhouse – you don’t belong here. You may have lived here all your lives but you live apart in your own little bubble, just like I used to do back in BG. And it’s not a good thing, not a real thing. I used to live that way and I wasn’t real. Now I am. Or at least, I’m beginning to be. I was shy and confused and selfish and now I’m trying to change. There’s nothing wrong with that and I just wanted you to know, and if you don’t like me because of that – well, you don’t have to. I don’t really care.’

  Aunt Jane leaned towards me and said, ‘Dear, that was very rude. Apologize immediately!’

  ‘But why should I apologize? It’s the truth!’

  ‘Quite right! If it’s the truth she wasn’t rude!’ And I looked up then and met Thomas’s eyes as boldly as can be.

  Thomas chuckled and clapped. ‘Bravo!’ he said.

  Aunt Jane changed the subject, and the meal eventually came to a welcome end.

 

  ll out left>

  There’s a natural tiredness that sets in after lunch when the sun is directly overhead and the day is at its hottest. After lunch we retired to our rooms for a midday rest. The Courtneys were offered lounge chairs on the veranda, which the elders accepted gratefully. Mrs Courtney, especially, seemed exhausted. She had avoided any direct conversation with me for the rest of the meal, and seemed happy to retire for a while.

  My foot was on the first step of the stairs when Thomas appeared out of nowhere. He placed a hand on mine, which was resting on the banister.

  ‘Winnie,’ he said, ‘would you come for a walk with me?’

  ‘A walk? At this time of day?’

  ‘It won’t be far. Just to that tree over there; it’s nice and shady underneath. Or to the rose arbour. Or we can just stay in the house if you prefer.’