‘If you will excuse me, Mr. Haynes,’ said Miss Atwell from next door (she was as sharp as a needle and missed nothing). ‘It’s no use even talkin’ about ’im. ’E’s a bitter black boy.’
Ella had been cooking in the kitchen at No. 2 for about a month, and during that time Aucher had given every satisfaction. Mrs. Rouse called the dull-witted but willing Wilhelmina four times to Aucher’s once, and during the three following weeks she changed three boys, and all through the day she quarrelled with them. Aucher was caught after a week and sentenced to four weeks’ hard labour and Mrs. Rouse was so worried about the boys and distracted by Benoit that Ella assisted her regularly, especially since, with the departure of the nurse, the scheme of getting Haynes as a boarder had faded out.
As the days passed the tension became more acute. For a time, although Mrs. Rouse and Benoit would quarrel in the night, not infrequently next morning they seemed to have made it up. But this could not last. Benoit’s behaviour was too flagrant.
He now came regularly into Haynes’s room for a few minutes before he took his lunch or round about dinner and, in fact, whenever he had time to spare. He seemed to avoid being with the others. By this time the relationship between the nurse and himself formed his sole topic of conversation with Haynes. He referred to her always as ‘the white woman’, often he talked so loudly that Haynes had to motion him to be quieter else Mrs. Rouse might hear.
‘What if she hear?’ he burst out one day. ‘I ain’t her husband, man. I am a free man to do what I like.’
One morning, opening the bathroom door suddenly, Haynes came face to face with Mrs. Rouse for the first time for a few days. There had been a fierce row the night before; she had collared Benoit and threatened to use a knife on him. When Haynes opened the bathroom door she was washing a tea cup at the sink, but she was looking into the distance and the water was running unheeded over her fingers and the cup.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Rouse,’ said Haynes uncertainly, unwilling to interrupt her and yet not wishing to pass without speaking.
She started and looked round at him.
‘Good morning, Mr. Haynes.’
Their eyes met and held together for a few seconds. Perhaps it was because he knew of her difficulties and trials, but he seemed to read in her face all the pain and shame and weariness of the recent days. So they looked at each other without speech and Haynes, remembering his conversations with Benoit and all the laughing, suddenly felt ashamed of himself.
Mrs. Rouse’s eyes filled with tears and Haynes felt as guilty as if it was he who was playing her false.
‘Mr. Haynes,’ she said, ‘you sorry for me?’
‘Yes, Mrs. Rouse,’ said Haynes.
‘Speak to Mr. Benoit for me, Mr. Haynes. He will respect what you say. You are young, but you are a gentleman and you have education. Perhaps he will listen to you where others fail. Do that for me, Mr. Haynes. God will bless you.’
Haynes could make no reply.
‘All right, Mr. Haynes. Thank you for your sympathy. Don’t let me detain you.’
In his conversations with Benoit, Haynes had always been careful not to express any opinions on the rupture in the domestic peace of No. 2. But moved by Mrs. Rouse’s appeal, he decided after much anxious heart-searching to venture a word of remonstrance to Benoit when he saw a suitable opening. It would be the first time in his life that he had even voluntarily interfered in anybody’s private affairs.
Very carefully he thought over what he could say without giving offence, and at last being satisfied waited a suitable opportunity. One afternoon Benoit was on his usual topic and at a pause in the conversation Haynes produced a bottle of rum and while pouring out some said jocularly:
‘You know I am a man myself and we all dislike women to boss us, but you are doing this thing too openly and regularly, Benoit. Go sometimes, but go on the sly and stay home a little more.’
‘Don’t go so often? No, man. Things looking too good down there … and I have to go.’
‘Have to go?’
‘Twice a day. If I don’t go twice that woman will kill me. You don’t know her.’
His face was serious while he spoke and for a moment after. So serious that Haynes did not dare go any further. Benoit did not only remain flagrantly unfaithful. Some devil in him made him discuss the liaison openly, even in its most intimate details, not only with Haynes, but with everybody. If Maisie happened to say that she had taken a walk the evening before, he was quick to say that he and ‘his girl’ were on the seawall on such and such a night, or that the next night they were going for a long drive in the tramcar. The number and nature of his embraces, the nurse’s reactions, all these he would dilate upon with very slight provocation. He seemed absolutely callous of the effect of all this on Mrs. Rouse. Most of his remarks she neglected, but once or twice she let drive at him. Philomen and Ella pacified her, however, when she burst out. Once Benoit left the kitchen and came into Haynes’s room, his hands coated with dough.
‘Let her loose off some steam,’ he said. ‘I don’t care.’
But that was not true. Sometimes when he came into the room he did not speak for long periods and sat deeply preoccupied and worried. On occasions he would mutter to himself. And it was always after he seemed more than usually bothered that when he returned to the kitchen he did his worst. ‘After all, I ain’t married to her. She not my wife. I am a free man.’ He said this over and over again.
One Sunday night Mrs. Rouse collapsed. Benoit had left at about nine in the morning, and when Haynes went out shortly after eight in the evening he had not yet returned. Two hours later, when Haynes reached the house he heard a commotion in the little drawing-room. Somebody seemed to be ill. He listened and became certain. Before going to enquire he hesitated. Ella had been hinting that unless he was very careful he would soon be drawn in some way or other into the confusion which raged in the house. He listened again and distinctly heard groans and sighs. It was Mrs. Rouse. He decided to go in. He went round to the back, knocked at the door which was ajar and had to knock again and wait before anybody came. The blind between the dining-room and drawing-room was closed so that he could not see, but there were at least a dozen people in the room.
Maisie came to the door wearing a Sunday dress and when she saw him she began to preen herself.
‘Come in, Mr. Haynes. Mrs. Rouse sick. She went out and she faint away in the road.’
‘Did she hurt herself?’
‘No, Mr. Haynes. Come right in, Mr. Haynes.’
There were some fifteen people in the room, all women, a few of whom he recognized as neighbours. There was a general chorus of ‘Good evening, Mr. Haynes,’ ‘Good evening, Mr. Haynes,’ and one or two people bent over a sofa and said:
‘Come, hold up. Here is Mr. Haynes to see you. Come, my dear. Hold up and talk to Mr. Haynes.’
They made way for him and Haynes, who had only intended an enquiry, had perforce to go forward. Mrs. Rouse lay on the sofa, her face tear-stained, her vast bosom heaving like a sea. Every few seconds she shuddered and moaned. Miss Atwell knelt on the floor at her head with smelling salts and a wet towel. Everybody was saying ‘Keep back,’ ‘Give her air,’ but at any sound she made half of them crowded nearer.
Haynes’s approach was hailed as if he was the doctor. Miss Atwell exhorted Mrs. Rouse to speak to him. Mrs. Rouse did not open her eyes, but with a sweeping gesture stretched out a hand which Haynes held and felt its fingers close on his.
‘Mr. Haynes,’ she said. ‘You come to see me? You sorry for me? I know a gentleman like you will be sorry for me. Mr. Benoit living with Nurse Jackson. He leave here this morning at eight. He said he was coming back for lunch and I ain’t see him up to now. Mr. Haynes, you live here and you see and know everything. He leave in the afternoon at one, he come back at five. He go again at seven, he come back at eleven. One day the rain fall and he didn’t go in the afternoon and that night he never come back till three. Mr. Haynes, tell me, do you think t
hat is right?’
‘I have told him myself that he isn’t behaving well.’
‘Mr. Haynes, everybody knows that but he.’
She gave a convulsive wail, the grip on his hand tightened, and she almost shouted: ‘Better God take me than leave me to bear this injustice,’ then, more quietly but with infinite feeling: ‘Lord, my burden is heavier than I can bear.’
Her passion subsided, but she still held fast to Haynes’s hand.
‘Don’t mind, love,’ said Miss Atwell, passing the wet towel over her head.
‘I must mind,’ said Mrs. Rouse, and she shuddered and groaned.
Haynes looked at her lying on the sofa. Forty-five, fat and ageing, weeping, fainting, in hysterics over the defection of her paramour, a hero of forty, who was in ardent pursuit, or rather possession, of a woman who had had so long a string of lovers and in such quick succession as to justify any title which one might choose to apply to her. And he, Haynes, held her by the hand and was in the thick of it. He was uncomfortable, and wished he was elsewhere. But it was life, he thought.
‘What must I do? What must I do?’ she wailed. ‘Mr. Benoit is living with Nurse Jackson and I am deprived.’
‘Come, darling,’ said Miss Atwell. ‘Don’t mind that good-for-nothing. Men is all deceivers. Mr. Haynes, speak to her. Comfort her, Mr. Haynes.’
There was a rush forward. Mrs. Rouse held Haynes so tight that in the hot room with the bunch of women around him he began to sweat. He could not so much as turn his head. In the close atmosphere, the smell of bay rum and smelling salts, mingled with the smell of cheap perfume and human flesh, was almost overpowering. His hand was becoming gradually numbed from Mrs. Rouse’s strong and undiminished clasp. He felt that if he were a woman he would faint. He certainly would faint if this went on much longer.
Her eyes still closed, Mrs. Rouse began to speak again, her voice deep and vibrant like that of a tragic actress.
‘The woman whom I succoured, the friend I saved, the one I gave my heart and hand. Look what she has done me.’
There was a general chorus of ‘Yes. True. Indeed.’
‘She who I helped in her distress, she cause me mine … I have nourished a viper in my bosom. She was nothing when I took her.’
‘Don’t mind that, love,’ said Miss Atwell, ‘Jesus do more for Judas and look what Judas do ’im. Put a crown of thorns on ’im and spit on ’im.’
Mrs. Rouse went off into another fit of hysterical weeping and moaning, and during the attentions which were showered upon her Haynes escaped. He retired to a far corner of the room and wiped his streaming face.
Maisie came up to him and told him what had happened. That morning Mrs. Rouse prepared Benoit’s lunch early and waited for him from twelve o’clock. He never came. When it was eight o’clock she had given up all hope of seeing him, and sitting by the window she started to cry. Philomen came in and urged her to take a walk. She consented at last, Philomen practically dressing her, but they had not gone twenty yards in the street when Mrs. Rouse collapsed; she had not eaten anything since ten in the morning. A policeman and a friendly passer-by had helped Philomen to get her home, and when they put her on the sofa she started to bewail and lament. All through Maisie’s story blame was freely showered on Philomen, though no reason was given.
‘Where is Philomen?’ he asked.
‘She! She somewhere outside.’
Haynes made his excuses, wished Mrs. Rouse better and went out. The cool night air of the yard was an inexpressible relief. But, still more inexpressible was the relief at having got away from playing leading man to all those women. And yet he had a feeling of exhilaration as if he had just come triumphantly through some great and exciting ordeal.
As soon as he opened his window he heard a faint sound of sobbing and could dimly make out a form leaning against the trunk of the mango tree – Philomen.
‘Mr. Haynes? Is that you, Mr. Haynes? Come a little please, Mr. Haynes.’
Haynes went out to her.
‘Mr. Haynes, how is Mrs. Rouse? They all blamin’ me. They saying is my fault. I’s not my fault. Whole day Mrs. Rouse there waitin’ for Mr. Benoit. She was very distressed and by night she was in tears. I say I will take her for walk and talk to her a little bit and distract her mind. But I didn’t know she was goin’ to faint. I couldn’t know she was goin’ to faint. O God, Mr. Haynes, you will beg Mrs. Rouse pardon for me?’
She burst into a fit of wild sobbing.
‘But of course Mrs. Rouse will pardon you. You haven’t done anything.’ They stood in the dark under the tree and Haynes began to feel dreadfully tired.
‘Come along, Philomen,’ he said. ‘Come along. Come. I’ll go in with you.’
A sudden footstep behind startled them. It was Benoit. ‘It’s only me, Haynes,’ he said and laughed. ‘I catch you fair, you fox. So is the coolie girl you like, eh?’
At the words Philomen became a different woman.
‘Mr. Benoit, you must not say such things about Mr. Haynes.’
‘You are quite wrong, Benoit,’ said Haynes. ‘Philomen was crying and—’
Maisie’s voice came from nowhere.
‘But, Mr. Haynes! What you explaining to the man? He not your father. Philomen, Mrs. Rouse calling you.’
‘You want cooling down, you,’ said Benoit, good-humouredly. ‘I notice that since the other day.’
‘Maybe. But you bet I not going to give you the job,’ said Maisie and walked away.
‘She growing nice,’ said Benoit. ‘Make your move quick, Haynes, or you’ll be left. Boy, I was on a big time today. I reached the nurse at half-past eight this morning and I ain’t put my foot outside till just now. Beef, pork and a three-pound chicken, pigeon peas and rice. Rum, vermouth and gin. She even had some nuts for me after breakfast. How this one here? She must be tearing brass, I expect. I’ll see you tomorrow, Haynes. Cheerio.’
The next morning Haynes was awakened by Ella earlier than usual.
‘I want some extra money, sir, to buy merinos and socks. And the black shoes, they want half-solin’, sir. The rainy season.’
‘Go ahead, Ella. Fix up everything. I’ll give you some money tonight.’
She turned about the room.
‘What is it, Ella?’
‘I hear you was in the mix-up last night, sir.’
He pointed warningly next door.
‘She not there, sir. I meet ’er goin’ down the road. I’s she who tell me, sir. She say you gave a lot of help, sir. She say from the time you speak to Mrs. Rouse she start to get better. You mixin’ up with these people too much, sir. Murder or madness goin’ to come out of this, sir. You better move, sir, and move quick. Mrs. Rouse tell Miss A. that she goin’ to stop ’im goin’ there, if even she have to put a knife in ’im. And if anything happen, your name sure to come up, sir, and there goin’ to be a lot of trouble.’
‘You think she will do anything to him, Ella?’
‘I don’t know, sir. But if I was you I wouldn’t stay.’
‘All right, Ella.’
Haynes felt her eyes on him. But she said nothing more, to his relief. He knew that Ella was right. He had been saying the same thing to himself in bed the night before. If anything did happen there would be a terrific scandal. And he might lose his job. If he did he could no longer pay the instalments on the mortgage, and his mother’s house would go. Rarely did he think of the old life now. The present life was too intense. But the less he thought of his mother the more he was determined to keep his pledge to her about the house. If there was a scandal old Carritt might do anything. What was Mrs. Rouse to him or he to Mrs. Rouse? The wise thing would be to take Ella’s advice and leave. And yet he felt that to leave the house would be an unbearable wrench.
Maisie stood at the door.
‘Mr. Haynes, Ella gone to shop. I can do anything for you?’
She entered without waiting for an answer.
‘Mr. Haynes, I heard what Mr. Benoit told you last night ab
out me. Don’t mind him, Mr. Haynes. He is a man with a dirty mind. Don’t listen to anything he tell you about me.’
She sat down.
‘And Ella want you to leave here. You don’t want to leave us, Mr. Haynes?’ She looked at him quizzingly with a touch of malice and yet with real affection.
‘No, Maisie,’ said Haynes.
She smiled, a friendly, intimate smile.
‘I knew that, Mr. Haynes. None of us want you to go.’
In the silence that ensued a new aspect of Maisie, vaguely present for some time in the background of his mind, suddenly emerged clearly. She was a damned pretty girl, and would be very nice to sleep with.
Chapter Eleven
Next day Haynes, dreading being dragged into conversation and discussion by the egregious Miss Atwell, ‘kept himself to himself’, as the lady would have said. But after tea Benoit came to see him.
Benoit chewed at his nuts as usual (he couldn’t eat while working in the kitchen, up to his arms in flour, so as soon as work was over he began). He looked tired. His cheeks were drawn and his eyes bloodshot as on the night after the nurse had left. But he was very cheerful.
‘You have cigarettes?’
Haynes showed him the box and he lit up. He looked at Haynes’s bed covered with books and magazines.
‘I thought you was on a time with the coolie,’ he said, ‘but I find out I was wrong. But you are a funny fellow. You only reading books the whole day. A young man like you. Man, when I was your age, by the time one was out another was in. You have a nice little batchie here where girls can pass through the back without nobody seeing them. What’s wrong? You sick?’
Haynes said nothing was wrong with him.
‘You don’t go after girls?’
‘Of course,’ Haynes lied bravely, ‘but not very much.’
‘These books you always reading,’ he picked up one and looked at the title. ‘About science! Ah! You read about science. Then you have books by de Laurence?’
This de Laurence was an American writer on magic and psychic science, whose books had some vogue in the islands.
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