The Shadow and the Peak

by Richard Mason

  “If we’re going to be progressive at all, we’ve got to stick to our ideas and show people they work.”

  Pawley smiled.

  “I’m afraid Norah’s plight isn’t going to help convince them.”

  “We couldn’t tell that was going to happen, though,” Douglas said rather lamely.

  “If we’d stopped Silvia leaving the grounds this afternoon, it wouldn’t have happened at all.”

  “But you agree that from Silvia’s point of view it was best to let her go.”

  “Yes, but not from the point of view of people outside.”

  They were going round in a vicious circle.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Douglas said. “I thought I was only putting your ideas into practice. I share them—and I don’t share the ideas of people outside.”

  Pawley spread out his hands regretfully. “I’m afraid we can’t afford to be extremists, Lockwood. The world being what it is, we must learn how to compromise. We must learn to apply our ideas where and as best we can.”

  “I’m no good at that sort of thing,” Douglas said. “I’m not sufficiently in touch with local feeling to know when we can apply our ideas and when we can’t.”

  “I think I can rely on your judgment,” Pawley said patiently.

  “I don’t know that you can.” He knew he had no right to be annoyed, in Pawley’s position you couldn’t afford to overlook public opinion entirely; but the trouble was that Pawley lacked the personality to make compromise seem a virtue. “I can see the same thing is going to crop up over and over again with Silvia. Unless I have a free hand, I’d rather not be in charge of her. I’d rather you gave her to someone who can handle her according to outside opinion with a clear conscience. Why not give her to Duffield?”

  Pawley looked rather hurt. “I wasn’t suggesting I wanted to take her away from you.”

  “I know,” Douglas said. “But why not? Duffield won’t let her wander about all over the countryside. He’ll flog her and keep her in after school.”

  “I don’t think that’s the solution,” Pawley said.

  “Well, then, what is?”

  Pawley considered this carefully. After a time he said, “I tell you what, Lockwood. I’d like you to go on treating Silvia exactly as you have done up to now. Only perhaps”—he waved his hand unimportantly—“perhaps we could put our heads together if any particularly awkward situations arise.”

  “Life with Silvia is one long awkward situation,” Douglas said.

  “I feel quite confident that you’ll be able to decide when you need my help,” Pawley said. Then as if he was asking a favour, “Would you mind awfully if I didn’t give her to someone else? You’d be doing me a great service if you persevered.”

  Finally Douglas agreed.

  “Thank you, Lockwood,” Pawley said. “I’ve every reason to feel extremely grateful to you.” Douglas got up to go, but Pawley held out a hand to detain him.

  “There was just one other thing I was going to ask you.”

  There was always one other thing with Pawley. Douglas sat down.

  “A less serious matter, this time,” Pawley said. “I wonder if you enjoy cocktail parties?” Douglas looked non-committal.

  “I hope you do,” Pawley said. “Because I’ve been invited to one next week, and I shall be too busy to attend. All this paper work . . . I wondered if you’d like to represent me? You could take my wife down—it’s her brother who’s giving the party, on Wednesday.”

  “That’s my day off,” Douglas said. “I’ve made arrangements to go down to Kingston.” He had written the note to Judy to say he couldn’t meet her and then torn it up.

  “What a pity,” Pawley said. “I was particularly hoping you could make it.”

  Douglas laughed. “I should have thought if anything was going to cause scandal in Jamaica, it would be my appearance at a cocktail party with your wife.”

  “You sometimes take me rather too literally” Pawley said. “We mustn’t make the mistake of underestimating people’s intelligence. And of course I should ring up my brother-in-law to explain.”

  “I’m sorry it isn’t some other day,” Douglas said.

  “I’d be delighted to let you have Thursday off instead,” Pawley said generously. “You couldn’t manage to alter your engagement?” He goggled hopefully. Then he gave an apologetic laugh and said awkwardly, “To be perfectly honest, Lockwood, I hoped you might manage it for my wife’s sake. It’s not very exciting for a woman up here, you know. Mind you, she hasn’t said anything—but I expect she gets a bit bored at times.” He grinned frankly. “She probably gets a bit bored with me. It would make a change for her if you could take her out once. I can’t insist on it, of course. But it would be doing me a great favour.”

  He wasn’t particularly anxious to do Pawley a favour, not this sort of favour anyhow, but he could see that difficulties were going to arise over the station-wagon—he wouldn’t have it to himself all day if Mrs. Pawley wanted it too—so he said he would take her.

  Pawley leaned back in his chair with a gratified smile. His tact had triumphed again.

  “Thank you, Lockwood. I hope you won’t find it too much of an imposition.” And then in case Douglas had got hold of the wrong idea, he added, “By the way, it’s entirely my own suggestion, I thought it might be worth-while to mention it . . . My wife had no idea I was going to ask you.”

  Mrs. Pawley also thought it might be worthwhile to mention it, and she mentioned it within five minutes of setting off in the stationwagon on Wednesday afternoon. She said:

  “I was so surprised when my husband told me he’d asked you to take me down. You didn’t think it was my idea, did you?”

  He told her he had no reason to think it was her idea. He had no reason to bother whose idea it was; he was only cross with himself for being so easily persuaded. He was particularly cross because there had been no answer to the letter he had written Judy. He had asked her if she could meet him on Thursday instead. Either she had already left Kingston or else writing a letter had been too much effort. Or else his letter had got lost—or hers had. In any case, he was afraid that on account of Mrs. Pawley’s brother’s cocktail party he was going to miss her altogether. It upset him to contemplate missing her, which showed that he was still making use of her as a pit-prop. He wished he hadn’t been so short of pit-props. He wished he really cared about playing the violin or studying the habits of ants. Or even about being a successful teacher.

  “You’re very silent,” Mrs. Pawley said.

  “I’m concentrating on the road.”

  “You’re not in a bad temper?”

  “Not at all.”

  “That’s a good thing,” she said. “You might as well enjoy yourself, even if you’re doing this as a duty.”

  “It’s not a duty.”

  “Isn’t it?” She gave a short, impatient laugh. “How charming of you to say so.”

  Mrs. Pawley’s brother lived in a house on the lower slopes of the hills behind Kingston. It was half-past six when they arrived. The drive was already filled with cars. As they got out of the station-wagon Mrs. Pawley said:

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake remember not to call me Mrs. Pawley—unless you want to give the impression that we’re hardly on speaking terms. People here aren’t half so conventional as you seem to imagine.”

  Her name was Joan, he remembered now, but he still couldn’t bring himself to call her by it. He couldn’t call her anything.

  The party was on the lawn. There were a couple of hundred people there, and a dozen white-coated Negro servants carrying round trays of drinks and canapés. None of the guests were coloured. It must have been quite difficult in Kingston to rustle up two hundred guests of positively guaranteed Caucasian extraction. You could only do it if you didn’t mind admitting Jews. Mrs. Pawley’s brother evidently didn’t�
��broad-mindedness ran in the family.

  Douglas had not met Mrs. Pawley’s brother before. He ran a large sugar property that had belonged to their father, and he never came up to the school. Mrs. Pawley seldom went down to see him; she said she disliked his wife. She led Douglas over to her brother, and the wife was with him. The brother was tough and good-looking—in a rather brutal and insolent way. His name was Findlay. His wife was plump and good-natured and over-painted. According to Mrs. Pawley she had married her brother for his money, and tricked him into transferring half his property to her name. If it was true, she was brighter than she looked.

  Findlay had one of those bone-crushing handshakes.

  “Are you from that mental home, too, man? How d’you stick it? I’d shoot myself if I had to spend a week up there. Still, I suppose you’re one of these brainy chaps.” He said to Mrs. Pawley, “He’s one of these brainy chaps, is he?”

  “I don’t know what we’d do without Douglas,” Mrs. Pawley said.

  “I don’t mind admitting I’m not a brainy chap,” Findlay told Douglas. “I only know how to run a property. If you asked me what five times seven were, I shouldn’t know. I can’t say it bothers me. I pay a clerk to do my arithmetic for me. Come on, man, let’s find you a drink.”

  Douglas followed him through the crowd. There were whisky and gin drinks on the trays, but no rum. Douglas took whisky. Findlay said, “How do you get on with that bearded monster up there? He gets my goat, you know. I was damn relieved to hear he couldn’t make it this evening. He’s no good at a party like this. He’s no idea how to mix.”

  Douglas said something about Pawley having other qualities—at a distance he always felt quite loyal.

  “I never could make out what my sister saw in him,” Findlay said. “Still, she’s a bit of a crank herself.”

  Douglas said something about Mrs. Pawley having qualities too.

  “Do you get on with her?” Findlay said. “Wouldn’t have surprised me if you didn’t. She can be difficult if she wants. Always had the deuce of a temperament. Perhaps you’re doing her some good, though. She needs someone to knock her about.”

  “I haven’t got round to that,” Douglas said.

  “I wish you’d teach them both some sense,” he said. “They’re wasting their time up there. All this modern stuff might be all right for us at home. But the people out here aren’t ready for it. They’ve got to be prepared slowly.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything they’ve got to be prepared for,” Douglas said. “It’s supposed to be a way of preparing them.”

  Findlay didn’t look as if he registered that. He said, “Of course I’m all for progress myself. I’m not one of these chaps who’s prejudiced against colour. But it’s no good pretending the nigger’s the same as ourselves. He’s bone lazy, and if you want to get any work out of him you’ve got to show him who’s boss. That’s what I don’t think you chaps just out from England realize. Now excuse me, old chap, I’ve got to mix around a bit. I’ll introduce you to someone.”

  He picked on a middle-aged man and pulled him out of a group. It was another estate owner, called Higgins. He said to Higgins:

  “Lockwood’s one of these brainy chaps. He’s get hold of the idea that we’re a lot of nincompoops out here. Rough colonials, you know. Tell him about those nuts of yours, and see if that changes his mind.”

  Higgins was dry and taciturn. Douglas had to press him to talk about the nuts. In 1938 there had been twenty-five thousand coconut palms on his property. They were insured for ten shillings a palm. He reckoned that every year there wasn’t a hurricane, there was more likely to be one the next, so in 1939 he stepped-up the insurance. He stepped it up higher every year after that, and by 1944 they were the most heavily insured palms in Jamaica at four pounds a palm. That year there was a terrific hurricane. Its centre passed right over his property. The next morning there were only five thousand palms left standing. The rest had been snapped in half like match-sticks. The insurance company had to pay up eighty thousand pounds. Douglas was going to ask him more about the hurricane, but just then someone else came up and started talking to Higgins, so he faded away and pushed amongst the crowd. Presently he found himself near an elderly Jewish-looking man with a stoop and a monocle hanging on a black ribbon round his neck, and he was just thinking of something to say to start up a conversation when the Jew gave him an amiable smile and fingered his monocle and said:

  “I never know how to start conversations at cocktail parties, do you? I remember reading a story of a brilliant professor of science who had the same difficulty. It worried him. He wanted to be a success at parties to please his wife. After a time he thought of preparing some topics of conversation and witticisms, and jotting down key-words to remind him on his cuff. He became one of the most sought-after men in the town. His wife was delighted. Then one day he muddled up all the key-words and started talking gibberish. Nobody could stop him. He was carried off to a lunatic asylum.” He gave Douglas a twinkling smile. “The only note on my own cuff is a reminder of that story. The trouble is that I never know what to say when I’ve told it. Unless I satisfy my curiosity and ask you point-blank what you do.”

  Douglas told him what he did, and he told him a bit about the school, and then the Jew said:

  “I had a niece who went to a school of that kind in England. Before she went she was a nasty, irresponsible little child. When she left it she was even more nasty and irresponsible. Five years later she killed herself.” He fingered his monocle and smiled charmingly. “Of course, if she’d been to a different type of school she might have killed herself a few years earlier. It’s so difficult to tell, isn’t it?”

  Douglas asked him what sort of school he had been to himself.

  “An inexpensive and inferior private school in the Midlands,” he said. “I find it difficult to remember who were the most sadistic—the masters or the boys. I was persecuted by them all for being a Jew.”

  “It didn’t embitter you?”

  “On the contrary, it taught me an extremely valuable lesson. It taught me that human behaviour was ever rational, and consequently saved me a lifetime of disappointments. Three years of great misery was a modest fee for such convincing instruction.”

  “We’ll have to include persecution in the curriculum at the Blue Mountain School,” Douglas said.

  “Certainly you should. May I suggest that you adopt a system of allowing naughtiness to go unpunished, whilst inflicting the most hideous punishments on innocent children by lottery? It should be most interesting to study the results.”

  Douglas thought the Jew was rather a find. He liked the twinkle in his eye and the same twinkle in everything he said, and he would have stuck to him all evening, but cocktail parties being what they are all over the world from Shanghai to Valparaiso, he lost him after a time and found himself with a woman who asked if he had been over to Montego Bay to watch the polo. He said he hadn’t, and so she said that polo bored her too. She then asked if he had been to the Governor’s last reception at King’s House. He said he hadn’t, and she said that she could never understand why people set such store on being asked to receptions at King’s House, especially in view of the fact that you never knew who you were going to meet there. She herself could remember the days when black men only served at the Governor’s table. Now they sat there. She was only wondering how long it would be before white men actually waited on the black men. Douglas was just marvelling at the accuracy and eye for detail with which English women in the colonies lived up to novelists’ conception of them, when she reclaimed his attention by saying that she had been sorry to hear about his divorce. She explained that she knew who he was because his photograph had appeared in the Gleaner. (Nearly everybody who landed in Jamaica, whether for a “restful holiday in Montego Bay” or to “look into the possibilities of Jamaica as a field of investment,” was photographed by the Gleaner. His
own likeness had been modestly captioned, “Mr. Douglas Lockwood, who has forsaken a brilliant career as one of London’s advertising elite to assist Mr. Leonard Pawley in his educational experiment in the Blue Mountains. Welcome to Jamaica, Mr. Douglas Lockwood!”) But since the Gleaner had tactfully omitted to mention his divorce, he presumed that the lady had gleaned this information elsewhere. She hastened to explain that she herself did not regard divorce as an adverse reflection on a person’s character.

  He felt very gratified by this, and allowed himself to exchange his empty glass for a full one that was being held out on a tray. She then asked him in a lowered and confidential voice how he could tolerate living in such close proximity to Mr. and Mrs. Pawley. Before he had had time to sketch any of Mr. or Mrs. Pawley’s qualities, she quickly pointed out that she had nothing against them personally, except that they were both such bores, that Mr. Pawley’s beard was probably to conceal some blemish on his chin, and that Mrs. Pawley was notoriously a snob. She had also heard, though it was probably only one of those rumours that circulated with such scandalous ease in Jamaica, that Mrs. Pawley was not indifferent to the opposite sex. It was puzzling, was it not, that such a couple should have appointed themselves to the education of children? After that she forgot she had asked him how he could tolerate living with them, and invited him to tell her whether or not it was true that one of the boys at the school had leprosy.

  “It is not true,” he said.

  She smiled knowingly. She was a woman of thirty or thirty-five with the superiority of someone who thinks herself a femme fatale because junior officers in the colonial garrison have no one better to make passes at.

  “You’d naturally want to keep it a secret,” she said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Nevertheless she looked as though she had faith in her flapping eyelashes to elicit the truth.

  “If one of the boys had leprosy, he presumably wouldn’t be kept at the school,” Douglas said.

  “Oh, the Pawleys have such weird ideas.”

  “They’re not so weird as all that,” he said, and then he said he would be interested to know where she had heard the story about the leprosy.