Sugar Hall

by Tiffany Murray

  ‘We can go back, then?’ she’d asked, but her voice was wavering. Ambrose would term it frightened. He’d looked at his wife, trying to communicate, but that had always been a chore.

  Then Mrs Sugar was standing in front of him, offering him a weak hand to shake and saying, ‘Thank you for your hospitality. We will go. Come now, Dieter, wake, wake up. Saskia. Come now, we go home.’

  ‘Are you sure, Mrs Sugar?’ he’d asked out of politeness.

  ‘Of course, girls’ silliness, that is all. Nothing, there is nothing.’

  For a moment Ambrose thought the fat daughter would plead to stay because she wouldn’t move from Daphne’s rose-pattern sofa, and she kept muttering about, ‘the boy upstairs, the horrid boy, he’ll hurt us.’ Then something in her seemed to switch off and she stood. She thanked him for having her.

  They were such strange children.

  After they left, Daphne had insisted Gladys dust down the sitting room because their visitors had left a strange smell. It was a scent akin to fearful animals, Ambrose thought: musty, vinegary, though at the same time creamily sweet, like hard toffees warmed by the sun. The shivering teenagers had left that scent on the fabrics, and Gladys had to open the windows. Now that Daphne had sent Gladys home, she was dealing with the supper alone. This was never good, and Ambrose was glad to be locked away in his study; he was also glad of his hidden box of chocolate liqueurs on the top shelf of his bookcase.

  He pressed down onto the white cotton with the hot iron and a thrill ran up from the soles of his feet to the tops of his thighs; he touched the iron and winced, giggling, because he loved the sharp heat that an iron brought. As a child he’d wait at the foot of his bed every night, while his mother ironed sheets that were already tucked into the mattress. It had been such a glorious feeling crawling into that warmth.

  His bare legs were cold, the suspenders cutting in tight below the knee. He picked up a white vest and thought of the fat daughter’s words: ‘the boy upstairs, the horrid boy’. Ambrose let the steam rise to his face, and breathed it in.

  Ambrose knew whom she meant.

  He had, for his first and rather long winter here, researched even embraced local stories. After all as vicar he had to know exactly what his congregation feared (apart from God). He had to know what he was up against. Sugar Hall had one peculiar story, and it was a story the whole village claimed. It seemed there were many ghosts at the Hall; Cavaliers, Roundheads, jilted brides, headless knights, but the one ghost that lived present in the imagination of his parishioners was ‘the Slave Boy’. That was the name they gave him, plain and simple. Ambrose had listened to the stories of a slave child come back to haunt his masters, a tale of revenge. The gossips in the village said the boy had been hanged in the woods behind Sugar Hall for some crime almost two centuries ago, and a curse had fallen on the Sugars ever since. There were so many stories. They said the slave boy was a Sugar himself, born at the hall to a lascivious master; they said he had attacked this master when the master killed the boy’s mother out in the Hall’s graveyard. They also said the boy had killed the master’s son because this son had forced himself on a sister, and there was a child; they said the boy had fallen in love with someone he shouldn’t and the old master had taken his revenge. Love seemed unlikely, but Ambrose had listened as former staff from the Hall told him tales of plates smashing, shoes and hats disappearing (they were very definite about the shoes), figures walking out of paintings, and a cold blue room in the attic. It was too ridiculous and Ambrose knew this first-hand because as hard as he had researched he had found no firm record of this particular boy in parish records. Slaves in the English country home were signs of great wealth, he’d discovered, but still they were commodities. At any one time – back in those days – Sugar Hall seemed to have between one to three slaves, yet they changed hands so fast, they were sold on so frequently, it was impossible to tell one apart from the other in the parish books.

  Ambrose guffawed and bent at the knee as he thought of the names he had stumbled upon, so ill-fitting: ‘Caius’, ‘Scipio’, ‘Romulus’, ‘Remus’, ‘Caesar’, even a ‘Pompey’. One note in the records told him, ‘Julius Caesar, a black drummer was buried, 15th February, 1795, out of hallowed ground’. Another told him, ‘Ino Caesar Hinton, a lusty black fellow…’ and something in the vicar thrilled to the word ‘lusty’ ‘…ran away the 16th from the service of Mr Viney of the city of ______ with a blue Livery lined with yellow and a dark brown wig.’ Ambrose wondered how far the fellow had reached dressed like that.

  There was nothing of a hanging in the woods: nothing about a slave boy and a crime.

  In his research he had noted that the women were given plainer names – ‘Sarah’, ‘Susannah’, ‘Hannah’, ‘Charlotte’, ‘Betsy’ – though he did recall a ‘Dido’. Their place of origin was sometimes local, it seems some of these slaves were actually born here; slaves begat slaves, Ambrose supposed, and indeed masters begat slaves. He shuddered and pressed down on the iron until the hairs on his legs stood to attention. Yes, he had found some were born here and some weren’t slaves at all, but servants, indeed some were perfectly free and always had been (to his surprise he’d discovered records in Bristol of four businessmen, two violinists, a circus owner, and a gentlewoman). In fact Ambrose had spent a most vexing afternoon when he’d discovered baptismal and burial records going back to 1583. He’d become dreadfully confused because he was almost sure most had arrived on slave ships – though whether from the West Indies, the Americas, or directly from West Africa itself, he couldn’t always tell. But one thing he was certain of, many of those dreaded vessels had sailed to Bristol port, and some up the Severn River itself, barely a mile away. The Middle Passage, Ambrose had read, was a dreadful endurance, and as the abolitionists told him in their pamphlets (he’d been very happy to find two in the local library) many did not endure. Then if the West Indies or the Americas beckoned it seemed plantation life was another dreadful existence. Ambrose was proud of his careful study of the workings of sugar plantations in Barbados, in Antigua, in Jamaica (he found he understood the English colonies far better). He’d learned new words: ‘overseer’, ‘field hand’, ‘absentee landlord’, and it seemed that sugar had been quite the modern industry. How he imagined himself the missionary out there, saving poor lost souls!

  Yes, the Slave Trade, the Trade Route – like a triangle across the Atlantic – was all tied up with sugar, coffee, cotton and rum, and slaves of course. Also, from what the vicar could tell, little white shells that made necklaces were dreadfully important.

  He pressed down hard with the iron.

  That first winter he had taken copious notes; the research had quite possessed him. Daphne called him a ‘busy bee’ and he hadn’t stopped with parish and library records, no. He had read around his subject until this small story of the Slave Boy of Sugar Hall, the slave who came back to haunt his masters descendants, was forgotten. This figure was merely the trigger, and Ambrose had even indulged in a little Abolitionist literature, in Equiano himself. He had noted the rebellion in Haiti and a tremendous man called Toussaint L’Ouverture. He had read about Obeah and Voudum (such superstitious nonsense) while the runaway slaves called ‘maroons’ fascinated him and he discovered the Gullah people in South Carolina had their very own language. Ingenious! It really was all quite stimulating. One evening, though, he had seen a photograph of a fearful-looking man in a great trailing mask; he was, the book said, ‘an egungun’, and Ambrose had had to snap the book shut.

  This was the end of the vicar’s interest in the Slave Boy of Sugar Hall.

  ‘Damn!’ he spat through the steam. Ambrose saw the browning of the iron on his underpants; he had left it on the cloth too long, a schoolboy error. He set the iron down, admired his successful pile of pressed and folded white underwear, and made himself ignore the mistake. Ambrose shook himself and walked to the high desk that stood against the far wall. It was raised but tilted, ideal for his work. He sat, trouserless
, and switched on the angle-poise lamp. He reached for his magnifying glasses.

  During the peak of his research, Ambrose had purchased a map of Africa, one that charted the ancient kingdoms. The names had pleased him so: ‘Dahomey’ was such a strange word. He had read that the kings of Dahomey dressed in leopard skins and would bury their wives, alive. A smile tickled on Ambrose’s lips because he recalled the very moment he had read this – sitting across from Daphne in front of the four-bar fire – he remembered that his fingers had twitched on the page. In fact, as he’d watched her swollen hands twist around her crochet needle he’d given her a lingering look from the crown of her flat-haired head down to her thick ankles, and at that moment Ambrose had greatly admired those Kings of Dahomey. Burying your wife alive suddenly seemed like an awfully good idea, and he imagined himself in the skin of a leopard, standing over her open grave. He imagined it all, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and the knock of her fists on the coffin.

  Now, as he settled down on his stool, fine tweezers in his hand, his magnifying glasses on, Ambrose made himself think of nothing. He poured the acetone in a small Petri dish and on to the abdomen of the creature, and slowly, carefully, he began removing the tiny hairs.

  Acherontia atropos

  His display case, oak, was half full but there had been such a glut of moths in his traps these past months that Ambrose was behind with his local collection. Angle-Striped Sallow, Common Fanfoot, the Great Oak Beauty; they would all have to wait. The butterflies, too: the Small Pearl-bordered Fritillary, Wood White, Green Hairstreak, Purple Hairstreak; they were all delayed. The stunning and the killing were done, and thankfully before wings were shredded in fright, but now Ambrose had to set and pin: the most delicate of jobs. He was particularly proud of a stunning Pale Bridled Beauty and he thrilled at the thought of it. And then of course there was his exotic collection. Ambrose thrilled a little more, because tomorrow he expected a delivery; he had a particularly beautiful Large Blue – Maculinea Arion – arriving from London, and he had to prepare.

  Ambrose was soon lost in the intricacies of his work and any thoughts of Sugar Hall, the Slave Boy or the strange Lilia Sugar and her stranger children were forgotten. He tapped his shoes on the strut of his stool and he listed his collection out loud.

  ‘Garden Tiger, Alder Kitten, Pale Bridled Beauty, Scalloped Oak, Pearl-bordered Fritillary, Angle-Striped Sallow, Silver-Washed Fritillary, Lunar Hornet, Ghost Moth, Diamond Back, Map-Winged Swift, Bird-Cherry Ermine.’

  The words spilled from his lips as sacred as the Lord’s Prayer. Ambrose bit his lip and he said the last words once more, ‘Bird-Cherry Ermine’.

  Later that evening as Ambrose, now fully clothed, and Mrs Daphne Hetherington cut their pork luncheon meat and lettuce into small, manageable piles, both were thinking of the goings on up at the Hall that day and how the fabric of society was simply failing. And then, as the clocks ticked and her figurines on the display shelves gathered dust, both Ambrose and Daphne considered how much they disliked each other. Though this wasn’t in a clear tangible way, rather it came in small pulses of disgust: as Daphne passed the salt and Ambrose said, ‘very nice, dear,’ and pushed his half-eaten plate away.

  Doctor Portman’s Orders

  21

  Lilia was singing and it was a new song: ‘Hänschen klein ging allein in die weite Welt hinein. Stock und Hut steht ihm gut, ist gar wohlgemut.’ She was sitting out in the sun because Alex had cleaned down the old stone benches and he’d found an iron table that was quite secure. ‘Doch die Mutter weinet sehr, hat ja nun kein Hänschen mehr! “Wünsch dir Glück!” sagt ihr Blick, “Kehr’ nur bald zurück!”’

  She stopped the song, shaking her head.

  The lawn was now Lilia’s place and the sun was out and it was as if nothing strange had happened at all. She had made herself forget the chaos at the Hall that day; it had been two weeks since Saskia became a Sweet Sixteen and this passage of time had calmed Lilia.

  Dieter was eating again; his fingers were healing, and they had slotted together: her family and Alex. They took their meals in the kitchen and when Alex said ‘please pass the butter’ to Dieter at breakfast, Lilia didn’t even look up from her paper. It was as if it had always been. She and Alex stuck to English now because in truth they had felt so awkward, like children, in their old language (also Dieter hated it, he’d asked her what secrets she was keeping).

  So, it was almost July and Alex was still here. He’d driven off that morning with Saskia in his hire car. They were shopping and Alex was treating the girl. Lilia appreciated his kindness. She stared down at Dieter and John as they worked on that old air balloon and basket at the edge of the ha-ha.

  It was doctor’s orders.

  Doctor Portman told her that a project was the best idea for her boy. Doctor Portman had said keeping Dieter out of school but keeping him occupied was a grand plan. ‘He simply needs feeding up, Mrs Sugar. No rations now, there’s no need to scrimp.’

  ‘What is this “scrimp”?’ she’d asked, because there were still times when English words tripped her up.

  John was pulling the big wicker basket across the lawn and dust clouded up in the breeze. Lilia thought that for a slight man John was terribly strong and she liked the way his rolled-up sleeves showed his brown arms. She sipped her coffee and listened.

  ‘Best we lay it out, lad, see what we’ve got,’ John said. ‘You grab that end and I’ll get this!’

  She watched Dieter run to the other side of the balloon’s flat skin: eager, laughing. It pleased her so, that sound. She thought about the good cut of beef in the larder and a generous dose of horseradish (because Juniper had visited with her usual gifts). John was walking around the balloon like a policeman inspecting the scene of a crime. Lilia hid a giggle with her hand.

  ‘Reckon that bit of old material was tied to this basket, do you?’ he asked Dieter.

  ‘Of course, it’s called a flying balloon! Dr Samuel Ferguson flew one with his servant Joe, and his friend Dick Kennedy in Five Weeks in a Balloon.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s my favourite book by Jules Verne. They fly across Timbuktu and all over Africa! No! Not there, John, here!’

  Lilia loved to hear Dieter light up like this. She watched the chaffinches nibble seed at the bird table as red admirals and cabbage whites fed on the flowering lines of purple and red buddleia. Lilia lifted her face to the sun.

  ‘I don’t have time for your nonsense now, lad,’ John laughed, ‘just tell me how we put these two together because it’s not a puzzle I can fathom.’

  ‘Well, it needs all sorts of gases to fly. Like camping stove gases or something. I’ll have to look in my book. I think Dr Ferguson used hydrogen, like the bombs. Pa said they used balloons in the war.’

  Lilia shifted in her seat, she had a cushion but the stone was hard. She shielded her eyes and frowned. Could John truly get the thing to fly? No, he couldn’t, surely. She imagined standing in that ratty basket, and the feeling of it taking off, just inches above the lawn.

  At least she would feel free, weightless, for the tiniest of seconds.

  ‘Let’s shake it out,’ John said, ‘you hold it that end, tight now it’s heavy, mind.’

  Lilia half stood, on the verge of helping as Dieter and John lifted an end each; she watched the balloon sag in the middle with the weight.

  ‘Now hold it, lad, hold it while I shake!’

  John shook the thing and Dieter fell. Lilia was on her feet as decades of insects and dust puffed up and into the breeze. She watched the wind carry the cloud over the ha-ha and into the field beyond: it danced, and now Dieter was coughing and laughing and on his feet and the skin of the balloon was almost bright.

  She sat back down.

  ‘Let’s wash the rest off, lad, let’s see those pretty patterns,’ John said, and then he was striding past her to the back of the Hall. John didn’t look down at her but she enjoyed the firm crunch of his boots on the gravel. John had
n’t spoken to her much since Alex arrived. She knew he was jealous, but what could she do? She turned back to see Dieter jumping around the balloon and the basket, hollering and waving his palm over his mouth. ‘Weeee-hooo-hooo! Weee-eeee-hooo-hooo!’ he cried. Lilia reached for a shortbread biscuit.

  Lilia thought of Alex as she crunched. She had set up a camp bed in the boot room for him, simply because it was the only other warm room in the Hall and the toilet there worked. She sighed. Alex Behr was sleeping in her home. It was strange but she didn’t want him to leave, not yet. She poured herself more coffee from the pot and watched John walk back across the lawn with a bucket of soapy water, it steamed in the sun. This time he did look down at her as he passed; he nodded but he didn’t smile.

  Yes, John was sulking.

  So much had changed in these weeks, and one thing had been decided Saskia was leaving them for a holiday. Saskia was going to London to see her friend Flinty. Letters had been written. Phone calls had been made. Lilia tried not to think about it, because what she didn’t want to think about was her relief. She knew she should be with her daughter now, out in town, picking out a new dress, a handbag, but she had sent Alex instead. Saskia would catch the 8:08 next Thursday morning, and Flinty promised faithfully to meet her at Paddington. ‘She doesn’t have to, Mother! I know my way around London!’ Saskia had cried, ‘I don’t need meeting!’

  Lilia didn’t let Thursday worry her. Today she would sit in the sun and watch Dieter laugh; she would drink an entire pot of coffee and relish the quake it gave her. In fact the coffee was starting to make her feel as if she wasn’t here at all; as if she was floating up in this summer’s day; as if she was grasping the edges of that wicker basket while the old balloon carried her high above the Hall, above the tops of the oaks, the forest beyond, and away from here.