The Collected Short Stories

by Jean Rhys

  The Dominica Herald

  Dear Sir,

  March 24th, 189–

  I hate to interfere with the amusement of your readers, but I must point out that according to English law it is highly improper to discuss a case that has not been tried (sub judice). In this country the custom seems to be more honoured in the breach than in the observance.

  Yours truly,

  Fiat Justicia

  This correspondence is now closed. Editor.

  On the same day the editor, who was known as Papa Dom, remarked in a leading article: ‘These are fishy waters – very fishy waters.’

  6 Cork Street

  Roseau, Dominica

  My dear Caroline,

  March 24th, 189–

  Your letter rescued me from a mood of great depression. I am answering it at once – it will be such a relief to tell you about something that I don’t care to discuss with people here.

  You wouldn’t remember a man called Jimmy Longa – he arrived soon after you left. Well, Matt found him trying to saw a little girl in two – can you believe it? – and is to be the main witness for the prosecution. The whole place is buzzing with gossip, arguments, letters to the local newspaper and so on. It is most unpleasant. I’ve begged Matt to have nothing further to do with it, I’m sure there’ll be trouble. He says why should there be, Longa’s a white man not a black one. I say ‘Jimmy Longa will be an honorary black before this is over, you’ll see. They’ll twist it somehow.’ But he won’t even talk about it now. I’m not at all happy about Matt. He doesn’t look well and is so unlike what he used to be. I begin to wish I’d never persuaded him to settle here when he retired – a visit to escape the winter is one thing, living here is quite another.

  The first scandal about Longa was that Miss Lambton turned him out as he got so drunk every night. He’s a jobbing carpenter, quite a good one when he’s sober, so he soon found a place to live and got plenty of work. His story is that he’s on his way to America and stopped off at Dominica to make some money. I wonder who on earth could have advised him to do that! He gave out that he was a socialist, extreme – the new world must be built on the ashes of the old, that sort of thing. He preached fire and slaughter in the rum-shop and everywhere else so you can imagine he wasn’t very popular with the white people. Then he got malaria badly and Miss Lambton, who had him on her conscience, went to the hospital to see how he was. She said he looked very ill and told her that his only wish now was to get back to England, but he couldn’t raise the money. She started a subscription for him and headed the list with £10, which she certainly couldn’t afford. Nearly everyone chipped in and a good deal was raised. But somehow he managed to persuade Miss Lambton to hand the lot over directly. Then disappeared. There was no case against him – he’d been careful not to promise or sign anything – besides, a lot of people thought it comic. They said ‘Poor Mamie Lambton, it seems she’s very upset. But what a chap! You have to laugh!’ Even when he reappeared, more fanatical than ever, nobody took him seriously – he was the Dominica funny story. And now this.

  I’ve got one piece of pleasant news. Because Matt dislikes the town so much we’ve bought a small estate in the country where he may be happier. It’s called Three Rivers – an old place, and as usual the house is falling to bits. It’s being fixed up – but lately I’ve wondered if we’ll ever live there.

  No one at home would understand why all this is looming over me so much, but you know the kind of atmosphere we get here sometimes, so I think you will.

  I’m so glad you are happy and don’t feel the cold too much. Perhaps the next time I write it will all be over and I’ll be more cheerful.

  Meanwhile I send you my love,

  Affectionately,

  Maggie

  The day after Jimmy Longa’s trial there was a long report on the front page of the Dominica Herald. The reporter, having remarked on the crowded court-room, usually empty for assault and battery cases, went on to say that the prosecuting counsel, M. Didier of Roseau, had seemed so nervous at first that he was almost inaudible. His speech was short. He said that it was fortunate that there had been an eyewitness to the attack on the child, Josephine Mary Dent, known as Jojo, for though Mr Longa’s activities were common knowledge in Roseau, no one had dared to come forward to accuse him, a white man. ‘There are a certain number of children, abandoned and unprotected, roaming the streets. This child was one of them. The accused is a danger to all children, but these are particularly at risk.’ M. Didier asked for a sentence heavy enough to deter possible imitators. He then called his first witness, Mr Matthew Penrice.

  Mr Penrice said that on the late afternoon of February 27th he was walking up Jetty Street on the way to the Club when he heard a child screaming in a very distressing way. As he approached the house the screams came from, the sound stopped abruptly – no angry voices, complete silence. The house stood well back from the empty street, and there was a fence round it. It occurred to him that a child, left alone there, might have met with an accident, and on an impulse he knocked at the wooden gate. There was no answer so he pushed the gate open. As he did so he heard a man say: ‘Now I’m going to saw you in two, like they do in English music halls.’ The yard of the house was quite a large one; there was a tree in the corner, and under the tree a plank raised up on trestles. A naked little negro girl lay on the plank, her head hanging over the end. She was silent, and her face was almost green with fright. The man’s back was to him and the saw in his hand was touching the child’s waist. Mr Penrice called out ‘What the devil’s going on here?’ The man turned, dropping the saw, and he recognized Mr Longa, who was not in court. Mr Longa said: ‘I wasn’t going to hurt her – I was only joking.’ He had been holding the child on the plank, and when he turned she rolled off and lay on the ground without moving. Mr Longa repeated that it was a joke. When the witness approached the unconscious child he saw that her body was covered with bruises. He did not speak to Mr Longa again, but wrapped the child in his jacket and took her to the house of Madame Octavia Joseph, which was close by. He then sent for the doctor who fortunately was able to come at once. After the doctor had arrived he went to the police station and reported what he had seen.

  Cross-examined by counsel for the defence, Mr Penrice was asked if Jetty Street was his usual way to the Club. He answered that it was not, but he was in a hurry to keep an appointment and Jetty Street was a short cut.

  Counsel asked him: ‘Would it surprise you to know that information from your household reveals that on that particular day you left for the Club very much earlier than usual? The domestic remembers it clearly, as it was her birthday. As your habits are so regular, she wondered why you had left the house on foot on such a hot day, nearly two hours earlier than usual. Why, then, did you have to take a short cut?’

  Mr Penrice replied: ‘Two hours is an exaggeration. I left my house earlier than usual to go for a walk – I don’t mind the heat – and I forgot the time, so I was trying to get to the Club as quickly as I could.’

  ‘When you heard the accused say “Like they do in English music halls”, was he aware that anyone was listening?’

  ‘No, he didn’t know that I was there.’

  ‘So he was speaking to the child?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you know that there is a popular trick on the English music halls when a girl is supposed to be sawn in two?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘And is anyone ever sawn in two, or hurt in any way?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s a trick.’

  ‘Perhaps you were too startled and shocked to realize that when the accused said “As they do in English music halls” he was really declaring that what he was about to do was not to be taken seriously. It was a joke.’

  ‘It was not a joke.’

  ‘And why are you so sure of that?’

  ‘When the man faced me, I knew that it was not a joke at all.’

  ‘I see. But is there not
a certain amount of prejudice against Mr Longa in this island? Are you not very ready to believe the worst of him? Has there not been a great deal of gossip about him?’

  ‘I only know Mr Longa by sight. The gossip here does not interest me.’

  ‘So you are not – shall we say – prejudiced?’

  ‘No, not at all. Not in the way you mean.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Now, as you say the child was unconscious and badly hurt, would not the normal thing have been either to take or to send her to the hospital?’

  ‘I didn’t think of the hospital. Madame Joseph’s house was near by and I knew she would be well looked-after so I took her there and sent for the doctor.’

  ‘Mr Penrice, has Madame Joseph ever been in your service?’

  ‘Yes. She was with us for nearly five years, off and on, when we used to winter here before making it our home. That was why I was so sure that she was not only a kind woman, but a perfectly reliable one.’

  ‘When she left your employment, did you give her a large present of money?’

  ‘Not large, no. Both my wife and myself thought she had given us invaluable service. She was no longer in very good health, so we were happy to give her enough to buy a small house, where she would be comfortable and secure.’

  ‘No doubt she was very grateful?’

  ‘I think she was pleased, yes.’

  ‘As she was so indebted to you, you must have been sure that in an emergency any instructions you gave her would be carried out?’

  ‘In saying that, you only show that you know nothing at all about the people of this island. Madame Joseph is a most independent woman. Even if I – or rather, we – had installed her in a palace instead of a small house, she would not have thought herself bound to follow my instructions. No.’

  ‘And it really seemed to you proper to leave a badly injured child in the care of an ex-servant, however devoted, who had no medical knowledge and no experience of nursing?’

  ‘I did what I thought best for her.’

  ‘And did you tell the doctor that you had taken her there because Madame Joseph was the child’s close relative?’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort.’

  ‘But you can imply a thing without actually saying it, can you not?’

  ‘You most certainly can.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Penrice. You may stand down.’

  Mr Penrice was followed in the witness box by Madame Octavia Joseph, a dignified woman who gave her evidence clearly and obviously made a favourable impression on the magistrate, Mr Somers. When she saw the state the little girl was in, she said, she understood why Mr Penrice was going to the police. ‘It was a very wicked person did that.’ Soon after the doctor came the child recovered consciousness, but at once began to tremble and scream. Having treated her bruises, the doctor gave her a sedative, said he would call the next day, that she was to see nobody, and that she was not to be questioned until she was better. Madame Joseph had done her best to follow the doctor’s orders and had taken great care of the child, whose condition was much improved; ‘But she says she does not remember anything about being attacked. When I told her she ought to try to remember, she only began to cry and shake, so I thought it better for the doctor to speak to her.’

  The last witness for the prosecution, Dr Trevor, said that on the evening of February 27th he had been at home when he got a message to come at once to 11 Hill Street to treat a badly injured child. When he first saw the child she had fainted and obviously been savagely beaten. When she recovered consciousness she was so frightened and hysterical that after treating her he gave her a sedative. She was probably about eleven or twelve years of age, but as she was very thin and undernourished, she may have been a year or two older.

  Counsel asked Dr Trevor: ‘Have you seen the child since?’

  ‘Yes, on several occasions.’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘I saw her yesterday.’

  ‘And what did you think of her?’

  ‘I found her condition had greatly improved. She has been carefully looked after and is well on the way to recovery. Already she seems quite a different child.’

  ‘When you visited this child, did you ever question her or ask her who had attacked her?’

  ‘Yes, after I thought she was better I did question her, of course. She always behaved in the same way. She says she has forgotten. I tried two or three times to question her more closely – the only result is that she becomes frightened, hysterical and quite incoherent.’

  ‘When you questioned the child, was Madame Joseph with you?’

  ‘She was there the first time, but I have often been alone with the child and this is invariably the way she behaves.’

  ‘Did it strike you at all that because of what has happened, she had been mentally affected?’

  ‘No, I saw no signs of that. She’d probably be quite a bright little thing, given a chance.’

  ‘Did you not think it somewhat strange that although she is so much better, she still refuses to say anything about what happened to her?’

  ‘Perhaps it is not as strange as you think. Some people after a great shock or fright will talk volubly, others “clam up” as they say in parts of England. She’ll probably talk eventually, but it’s impossible to say when.’

  ‘And you find nothing unusual about this “clamming up”, as you call it?’

  ‘I have known cases when, after a frightening and harmful experience, the mind has protected itself by forgetting. If you try to force recollection, the patient becomes agitated and resentful.’

  ‘Do you really think that this interesting but rather complicated theory could apply to a Negro child, completely illiterate, only eleven or twelve years of age? Is it not more likely that she remains silent because she has either been persuaded or threatened – probably a bit of both – not to talk?’

  ‘I do not believe that the result of illiteracy is an uncomplicated mind – far from it. And I do not know who you are suggesting would have frightened her. My orders were that she should be kept perfectly quiet and see no one except Madame Joseph, whose house is surrounded by inquisitive neighbours. If anyone else had been there I would have been told, believe me. The child certainly isn’t at all afraid of Madame Joseph. On the contrary, she seems to trust her, even be attached to her – insofar as a child like that can trust or be attached at all. However, if you are not satisfied with my evidence, why not question the child? In my opinion you will get nothing at all out of her and may do her harm, but you must decide for yourself.’

  Here Mr Somers intervened and said that the child must certainly not be questioned by anyone as long as the doctor thought it might be harmful.

  Counsel then asked Dr Trevor: ‘Were you led to believe that the child had been taken to Madame Joseph’s house because she was a close relative?’

  ‘No. I suppose I took it for granted. In any case, I made no suggestion that she should be moved. I thought she was in very good hands.’

  Counsel for the Defence, Mr Berkely, said that his client was too ill to appear in Court, but that he would read his statement. This, he submitted, was a complete answer to the charge.

  Mr Longa’s Statement: ‘I had not felt very well that day. It was too hot, so I thought I’d knock off for a bit. But as I might be able to work later on when it was cooler, I left my saw in the yard, with a plank I was working on to make bookshelves. I was very thirsty and had a few drinks, then I fell asleep. I don’t know how long I slept before loud screams woke me up, coming from my yard. The noise these children make is very trying and that’s putting it mildly. They climb over the fence into the yard to play, and get up to all kinds of mischief. I’d chase them away, but they always came back. They’d follow me in the street, jeering and laughing, and several times I’ve been stoned. I don’t deny I’ve grown to dislike them very much indeed.

  ‘I got up feeling shaky and in a bad temper, and in my yard I found a little girl lying on the g
round, screaming. I asked her what was the matter several times, but she took no notice at all and went on yelling. At last I told her to shut up, get out, and go and scream somewhere else. She wouldn’t even look at me, and the noise she was making went through and through my head, so I lost my temper, picked her up and put her on the plank, telling her I was going to saw her in two, but I didn’t really mean to hurt her and I told her so. I didn’t notice anything wrong with her, or think it strange that she was naked – they very often are, especially on hot days. No, I never meant to hurt her. But I hoped to frighten her a bit, and that she’d tell the others, and then perhaps they’d leave me in peace. These children have made my life a misery, and I wanted to stop them from doing it. I swear that was all I meant – to frighten her. It was just a joke. When Mr Penrice came and accused me I was too confused to say much. I told him I hadn’t meant any harm but he wouldn’t listen to me, nor would the policemen when they arrested me. I am sorry for what I did and for frightening her, but I had been drinking. I quite lost my temper and was very angry. That is what happened, and that is the truth.’

  To this Mr Berkely added that Mr Longa was now very willing to leave the island. ‘He says that even in England he would not be treated with such injustice. As to the rumours about my client, I am surprised that my learned friend has mentioned them, as he has failed to produce a single witness to substantiate them. Without wishing to impugn Mr Penrice’s word, I must point out that there is no evidence at all that Mr Longa was the child’s attacker. She may have run into the empty yard to hide, or – more likely – she was thrown there by the real attacker who then made off, feeling certain that Mr Longa would be accused. Mr Penrice admits that he heard Mr Longa saying “As they do in English music halls” before he knew anyone was listening. This seems to me to prove conclusively that Mr Longa’s behaviour was a joke – a rough, even a cruel joke if you like, but certainly not deserving of several years’ imprisonment in a gaol not fit for any human being, Englishman or not.’

  Mr Berkely ended by saying that Mr Longa was a very intelligent man left terribly alone and isolated – also he was not a well man. It was hardly surprising that he turned to rum for consolation, and easy to believe that, woken suddenly, he felt extremely irritable and behaved in a way that was not normal to him.