by Sharon Maas
He led me along a sandy path that cut through the bushes. He did not speak. The path was far too narrow to allow us to walk side by side, and the bushes were thorny, and so I walked behind him, holding my skirt close to my legs to avoid the brambles. Finally we emerged on the other side. I gasped. A magnificent vista opened before my eyes: a beach, perfectly white, stretching out along a softly curved bay and beyond it the serene aquamarine of the Caribbean. The water lapped, curled and frothed like a skirt of lace against the whiteness of the sand, making pleasant slapping and sucking sounds. Spellbound, I let my heart open in delight. I soared upwards in sweetness and light, in the pristine purity of it all, and I let out a laugh of utter joy.
“Take off your shoes,” said Thomas, and I did, and so did he. We walked towards the sea, I holding on to my hat lest the breeze sweep it away. The sand was warm and as fine and soft as talcum powder beneath my bare feet. The wind played gently with my skirt blowing it against my legs, and puffed out my blouse so that I felt it cool against my skin. Thomas took my hand again and led me into the sea. The water, warmed by the sun, splashed ever so gently against my calves. I raised my skirt to protect it from the water, but I soon let it go, not caring how wet it would get. Not caring about anything. This was just too wonderful, too beautiful, too glorious to care. I laughed again and turned to Thomas.
“That’s better!” he said, and took book my hands. “The sparkle’s back in your eyes. You looked almost sad when I picked you up today. So you like it?”
“Oh Thomas! I’ve never seen anything so – so utterly breathtaking in my whole life! Oh, it’s just glorious! Look! The water is so clear, it’s like glass! It’s even nicer than Uncle Ron’s beach!”
“The best beach on the island,” he said, “at least, the best one I’ve ever discovered. And it’s all yours.”
I stopped laughing and looked at him. I must have misheard.
“Pardon?”
“You heard right. At least, almost right. It could be yours, because it’s mine. This is the plot of land my parents gave me, as compensation for not being the eldest son and inheriting the plantation. But I don’t want the plantation. This is better. Five acres, to build myself a home and create a piece of paradise. What do you think?”
My face must have looked as blank as the pristine sand.
“Can’t you see it?” He went on. “A beautiful white mansion, made of wood, just like those lovely Georgetown ones everyone talks about. Lots of verandas and balconies. Red roses growing up the walls and a bougainvillea-shaded walkway down to the beach. Coconut palms dotted around the clipped lawns. All the windows facing out to the sea. Maybe a little jetty with a boat moored to it. Mother thinks I should put up a hotel here for people to escape the dreary English winters, but that would spoil everything. No – it’s to be a family home. Children playing in the surf. Garden parties, picnics on the beach, evening strolls along the surf, gorgeous sunsets over the horizon.” He spread his arms and turned around and around as if to claim the entire earth as his own.
“It’s lovely, and that’s nice, but I don’t …”
“It’s mine and it can be yours too.”
He sank to his knees, fished in his pocket, and produced a little jeweller’s box. He opened it.
“Winnie, I love you. You’re the most lovely, enigmatic, interesting, mysterious, delightful, remarkable, smartest, most wonderful, bravest girl I’ve ever met. Will you be my wife?”
I looked at him, at those pleading blue eyes, the sun-kissed , straw-coloured hair, the face, so familiar now, looking up at me in anticipation. I looked at what he held in his hands: a ring with a solitaire diamond set in silver, reflecting the sun in a thousand shades of light. The breath caught in my throat. Something moved within me. My eyes grew moist and prickled with unshed tears.
“I – I don’t know what to say,” I said at last. I put my hands behind my back. “Oh Thomas! That’s so lovely and so sweet of you! I – I’m so completely … I just don’t know what to say. I’ll have to think about it.”
I didn’t have to think about it. I knew my answer. But how could I say an outright no? I had to let him down gently.
He immediately stood up, snapped the little box shut and slipped it into his trouser pocket. His voice was sharp as he spoke again; I had never heard him use this tone.
“Think about it? I thought – I mean, I was sure you knew this was coming and were as excited as I am! Winnie! All this time, all these weeks – isn’t this the whole point? I mean, you must have known I was going to propose! Girls know things like that!”
“But I didn’t!” I wailed. “I mean, it’s too early, I need time; there’s so much to think about and to consider, and …”
“If two people love each other there’s nothing to consider! I thought you loved me! You gave me every indication …”
“No, I didn’t really – I mean, yes, I really like you and I’ve enjoyed all the things we did together, the sailing and the dancing but it was just pleasure; it was just enjoyment – I don’t know if it was love. I just don’t know! And …”
He was silent for a while. Then he walked over to the bag he had set down on the sand, opened it, removed a blanket and spread it on the beach. He gestured to me to sit down, and I did. I drew up my knees, wrapped my skirt around them, and burying my face against my thighs, hugged them. I felt rather than heard Thomas sit down next to me. Then he said:
“Winnie!”
I looked up.
“It’s not someone else, is it?”
I didn’t answer, just gave a sort of a shrug.
“It’s not that chap in Georgetown is it?”
My jaw dropped. “How did you …”
He gave a wry, humourless chuckle. When he spoke again his voice was calm but restrained, as if he were holding back some great emotion. Now and then it cracked.
“Mother has good friends over there, in BG. When she first met you she wrote to them asking for information about your family – the reports were very good, excellent, in fact, which was why she approved of you in the first place. But then, just before Christmas, she got another letter with quite a different story. Seems you fled here in the midst of some scandal – some love affair with a darkie? And your father wrapped up in a murder investigation?”
I said nothing, my silence confirmed his words.
“See, I’ve known all of this for the last couple of weeks. Mother told me everything and strongly advised me against you. I went against her wishes. I was willing to forgive your past – we all make mistakes when we’re young, and the way you flout convention is one of the things I love most about you. You’re not like those silly fashionable girls in London who – well, never mind. I love the way you got a job and moved into a coloured women’s hostel – I love your spunk. I admire everything about you. But sooner or later, we all have to grow up and find our place. I thought you’d realized that. I thought we were of one mind! I even stood up for you against Mother, told her that was all in the past and that you deserve a second chance. And you led me on. You played with me. I thought you were sincere – I – I can’t believe – I just can’t believe what a fool you’ve made of me!”
His voice was now loud and tinged with anger.
I glared at him. I could not argue with him. How could I? What defence did I have, except that I, not he, was the fool, the greatest fool on earth, naïve and stupid and immature. I should never have come here. I leaped to my feet.
“Well, then!” I said. “That makes it easy doesn’t it! What would you say if I told you more? Oh, you would be so shocked! Yes, Thomas, I love him, and what’s more, I’ve been intimate with him and you would never, ever marry me after that, would you?”
I turned and ran back up the beach, towards the car.
‘Winnie! Stop!’ he ran behind me. I reached the brambles and stumbled – I had trodden on a thorn. He caught up with me.
‘Your shoes,’ he said, and handed them to me. I put them on, and he did the same.
‘Wait and let me get the blanket. I’ll take you home.’
We drove back to Bridgetown in silence. He stopped in front of Miss Goode’s turquoise house and when he spoke his voice was calm once more.
‘This isn’t the end, Winnie. I still want you. I forgive you. Everything – even, even that. He seduced you didn’t he? I forgive you. I want you as my wife. You said you’d think about it – please do. Think about it seriously. This is your future at stake. Don’t make a huge mistake. You might never get as good a chance as this.’
He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. I tried not to pull it away. I tried to meet his gaze above our clasped hands. I blinked back the tears, and nodded.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I promised, but I already knew it was a lie.
‘You’re probably the biggest fool who ever walked the earth,’ said Sibille later that day. We had walked down to the harbour and sat watching the white yachts coming in, their sails billowing in the wind. ‘You could have been on one of them boats a little while from now. Most girls would jump at the chance.’
‘I’m not most girls and I’ve been on one,’ I replied.
‘I know. You said it was wonderful. I don’t understand why you’re turning down that sort of a life. I mean, I know why, but I just don’t understand.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Not really. Just surprised. I thought that’s the direction you were drifting towards. You come home from these outings laughing as if it were Christmas, and then when it gets serious you throw it all away. For George? For hardship and struggle and humiliation all you life. And George hasn’t even proposed!’
‘He will!’
‘He won’t. Winnie – wake up! That last letter of his – you have to take it seriously!’
‘No, I won’t! He said he loves me! That’s the most important thing! He loves me Sibille! He does! I know he does! He told me so! He’ll never forget me’
‘Maybe not. But deep inside you belong to another world. Thomas’s world. Not George’s. George’s world is too tough for you, Winnie. And from what I know of him, he’s trying to protect you from a life too hard for you to bear.’
‘But I can! When …’
I looked at her more closely. There was something new in her eyes, something I hadn’t ever seen before. A challenge? A goad? Something that told me to stop talking and listen to her.
‘You’re playing devil’s advocate, aren’t you?’
‘I have to,’ she replied. ‘It’s time to wake up, Winnie. This isn’t a happily-ever-after love story. This is dead serious. George is dead serious, but you aren’t taking him seriously. It’s time you did.’
Something in her tone alerted to me. To – what? A sense of danger. A warning. ‘What’s the matter, Sibille?’
She slipped her hand into her pocket. ‘Read this.’ It was a newspaper page. ‘This was today’s Barbados Herald front page.’
The headline splashed across the front page screamed, in big, bold letters: ‘BG SUGAR KING ON TRIAL FOR MURDER!’
Right below the headline was a subtitle: ‘VICTIM’S FRIEND LEADS PROTEST MARCH!’, and below that, two photographs, portraits. One was a close-up of Papa. The other was a full length picture of George, my George, with his head tilted back and his eyes turned upwards as if to an absent God; his fist was raised to the sky, and he bore a placard across his shoulders, scrawled with the words: JUSTICE FOR BHIM!
My head swirled. My eyes swam, so much so that I could not read the words. I handed the clipping back. ‘Read it to me!’ I said. She took it and read aloud:
The murder trial of British Guiana Sugar King Archibald Cox, one of the few remaining independent sugar-cane planters left in the colony, starts next Monday under strong protest from the local population. Cox is accused of shooting in cold blood the leader of an East Indian labour uprising on his Berbice plantation, Promised Land. The trial is expected to last a month, since there are conflicting reports as to the crime: Cox claims self-defence, but the East Indian majority insist that that the victim, Bhim Persaud, was completely unarmed. Mr Persaud was himself not a labourer; educated at the prestigious Queen’s College in Georgetown, a boys’ secondary school whose pupils hail predominantly from the European upper class, he was however deeply involved in the recent wave of labour strikes and protest riots on the Berbice sugar plantations.
In Georgetown, a growing crowd has been picketing the Victoria Law Courts this past week and is expected to continue throughout the trial. The protest is led by the victim’s best friend, George Quint, a former Queen’s College schoolmate of African race …’
‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘That’s enough. I get it.’
I got up and turned towards home, towards Bird Street and Miss Goode’s Boarding House for Young Ladies. Sibille called for me to wait but I did not.
Sibille organised an emergency meeting for that evening at Oskar’s house. Everyone was there: Oskar and Ivan, of course, Max and Valerie, Johnnie and his girlfriend Amy, Richard and Paul, all laughing and horsing around and jostling. Oskar poured everyone a rum tonic while Sibille read out the newspaper article in full. Their laughter left their eyes and their bodies grew still as she read, and all eyes turned to me in the silence that followed.
‘Tell them,’ said Sibille. ‘Tell them the truth.’
I told them. And I told them what I planned to do.
‘I have to speak out. Bear witness, against him. Against my own father!’
Oskar let out a long drawn out whistle.
‘Oh boy!’ said Max.
‘She’s planned to go back to be a witness for the prosecution,’ said Sibille.
‘Very brave of you, Winnie,’ said Valerie. She reached out and took my hand, squeezed it.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not brave at all. It’s horrible. My own father! I can’t do it! But I have to!’
‘It’s a real dilemma,’ said Sibille. ‘Because if she doesn’t she’ll feel guilt, and if she does she’ll also feel guilt.’
‘Whichever way I turn, it’s wrong!’ I wailed. ‘How can I turn in my own father! He’ll get the death penalty!’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Oskar. ‘Maybe they’ll decide on second degree murder, and then it’ll be life in prison.’
‘That’s bad enough,’ I said.
‘Better than the gallows,’ said Max.
‘Manslaughter?’ asked Ivan.
‘You say he took the pistol with him?’ Oskar asked. ‘From home?’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘That sounds premeditated to me,’ said Paul. Paul worked as a clerk in one of the Ministries.
‘I thought you and your father were estranged?’ asked Ivan.
‘Yes, we are,’ I replied. ‘But he’s still my father! I know he’s a cruel bully, I know he’s the worst kind of Englishman, I know what you think of that kind of person … and I agree with you. But he’s still my father. And – and somehow, somewhere, I still love him. I do.’
Tears welled in my eyes and I brushed them away in anger. Anger at myself, for not being clear and decisive, and strong in my decision to do the right thing. I knew what the right thing was. I knew they all knew. It was as clear as day. Anyone of them, if asked, would say, ‘You must give your statement. You must tell the truth.’ I let my eyes wander from one of them to the other and I saw it there. They wanted Papa to face justice. It was only fair. To Bhim.
Oskar said: ‘And this George, leading the protests … that’s your George, isn’t it.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what makes it even worse. As if in making a statement, she’s doing it for herself, to impress George. To win him back. I can tell them, can’t I, Winnie?’ Sibille looked at me and I nodded. I no longer cared what they all thought of me. Let them know the worst.
So she told them about George’s letter. ‘He loves her, but he’s broken it off. He wants her to go her own way. With her own people. White people.’
‘Whom she would be
tray, if she speaks the truth,’ said Max, nodding as he understood the conundrum.
‘But I have no own people!’ I cried. ‘I’m just a girl – just a person, a person who loves another person! But everyone will think I did it for him, for George – and it’s not for him at all. It’s because, because it’s the truth, and I want justice for Bhim. I know his mother. I knew him, and even though he never trusted me, I liked him. I admired him. He was a good man, fighting for truth, and justice, and change, and my father killed him. My own father! How can I just keep silent, when I know what he did! How can I be such a coward, keeping the silence just because my father did it! But how can I send my father to the gallows! And by keeping silent – I mean, it won’t bring Bhim back, will it!’
I stopped, and started again. ‘But it will send a message. A message to all plantation owners, that they cannot do this. That they too are subject to the law of the land. They cannot do as they like to the labourers. Speaking out is right – but how can I!’ ’The last words tailed off in a wail of despair. The only thing that broke the silence that followed this outburst was my own sniffing as I struggled to hold back the tears. Someone passed me a handkerchief, and I blotted my eyes and blew my nose. The silence remained. Then, at last, Oskar broke it.
‘I think you should just do the right thing,’ he said.
Max nodded. ‘So do I.’
Everyone nodded and murmured agreement. I looked from face to face and I read there encouragement, hope, confidence in me. Confidence that I would, indeed, do the right thing. There was no doubt what the right thing was.
Then Ivan spoke again. ‘Winnie, you and I need to talk. I’ll give you some free legal advice. Let’s go out to the veranda. There might be a way out for you.’
The next day, my first telegram of the day was to George. It bore only three words:
‘MARRY ME. WINNIEX.’
It was only after I’d sent it that I remembered George’s words from long, long ago: ‘You don’t say marry me in a telegram – that’s the best way to get a marriage refusal.’ Well, it was too late now.
