Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  'Oh, I'll take them off as well,' she said. 'You mustn't look.'

  He stepped behind her, and she knelt, bending almost double as she thrust her hand up to release her garters. 'You're looking, you monster.'

  'I am not,' he protested. But his cheeks were purple. 'Do you often go about with no stockings or shoes?'

  'If I want to run.' She stood up, rolled her stockings into a ball, crammed them into the boots. She'd pick them up on her way back.

  'Well, I never,' Billy commented.

  Meg looked back for a moment, at the factory and the village, at a two-wheeler making its way along the road from Kingston. More guests? Father hadn't mentioned any.

  'Come on, come on,' Alan was shouting. He was already at the gate to the paddock. 'Come on,' Meg cried.

  'Mind you don't step in any sheep dung,' Billy said, following more slowly. 'Ugh.'

  'What kept you?' Alan leaned on the gate.

  'My shoes hurt,' she explained, limping towards him. 'And now I've a thorn in my foot'

  'I'll pull it out. Sit down.'

  She propped her back against the rotting gatepost, still panting, while Alan slowly extended her leg.

  Billy arrived, gasping for breath. 'I say, you can't do that.'

  'Do what?' Alan was peering at the white instep.

  'Well, touch a woman like that. And you're looking up her skirt.'

  'You're not, Alan,' Meg begged.

  'Of course I'm not. He's just a louse. There it is. Right?'

  He stroked her flesh.

  'Ouch!' she screamed. 'Oh, that's agony.'

  ‘I’ll have it out.' He scrabbled at the bruise, and she screamed again.

  'Stop it. Stop it. Oh ...' She tried to roll away from him and as he was still holding her by the ankle only succeeded in landing on her stomach, her face on the grass. 'Let me go.'

  'It has to come out,' Alan said. 'It could be poisonous. I know, I'll suck it out.'

  'Well, really,' Billy protested.

  'Oh, would you, Alan, really?' Meg cried. She could think of nothing more romantic.

  'Of course I will. It may hurt a little. But try to keep still.'

  'Don't you realize she has just run across the sheep pasture?' Billy pointed out. 'With that foot?'

  'Which foot would you have her use?' Alan inquired. 'Anyway, you're always pretending to be a proper gentleman, and fond of Meg too. Wouldn't you suck a thorn out of her, no matter how dirty it was ?'

  'Well...' Billy flushed. 'If she was in danger.'

  'And suppose this is poisonous?' Alan demanded. 'Next thing her whole foot will swell up, and she'll get gangrene, and they'll have to amputate, and we'll have a one-legged Meg.'

  'Oh, God,' Meg wailed. 'Take it out, Alan, please.'

  She felt his lips on her flesh, and there was a sudden surge of agony, but it was the sweetest agony she had ever felt, and it ended suddenly, leaving only a slight burning sensation.

  'Ugh,' Billy remarked again. 'Wait until your father hears about this.'

  'You wouldn't tell him,' Meg cried, rolling over once again and sitting up. Her hat had fallen off.

  'Of course I'll tell him,' Billy said. 'Well, he ought to know.'

  'Oh, Lord.' She looked at Alan.

  'He won't tell him,' Alan declared. 'Because he's going to suck your foot too, aren't you, Billy boy?' 'Me?'

  ‘You. Right now.' Alan grabbed his arm, and he tugged angrily. 'You let me go.'

  'It's that or rubbing your face in sheep dung,' Alan decided. 'All up to you.'

  'Why, you ...' Billy wriggled, but Alan was far too strong for him.

  'Don't you like my foot, Billy?' Meg lay down again, laughing, raised her right leg and rested it on her knee.

  'No. Why, you ...' Billy gave a tremendous tug and broke free. He ran away from them, over the pasture.

  'I'll get him.' Alan ran behind.

  'Wait for me,' Meg shouted, coming at the back, waving her hat.

  'Got you,' Alan shouted, hurling himself through the air to seize Billy round the ankle and bring him heavily to the ground.

  'Oh, you ...' But he was out of breath. 'Sheep dung, sheep dung, sheep dung,' Alan chanted. There,' Meg shouted, now equally excited. 'Well, grab an ankle.'

  ‘You let me go,' Billy shouted, attempting to roll away from them. But Alan had retained hold of one ankle, and now Meg seized the other. 'Stop it,' he bawled. 'Oh, stop it' Tears welled from his eyes.

  Meg and Alan dragged him across the grass to where the still soft curds lay, and rolled him across them, and then let him go, to stand back and laugh.

  'Why, you.' Billy rose to his knees desperately, swept his arms and his fists about in blind anger.

  'Ow,' Meg cried, as a flying fist caught her on the knee. 'Oh.' She was hit by a foot as well, and went tumbling over.

  'I'll ... I'll kill you,' Billy shouted, throwing himself at her.

  'No you won't' Alan shouted, throwing himself on top of Billy in turn. 'My hat' Meg screamed. 'You're squashing my hat'

  They went rolling down the slope in a mingle of arms and legs and gasping bodies, to come to a halt in a hollow, suddenly paralysed at the sound of a voice.

  'Why, Meg, whatever are you doing?'

  'Papa.' Meg made a frantic effort to get untangled, and only succeeded in falling over again.

  'Is that - Margaret?' inquired a voice she had never heard before, speaking an accentless English she had never heard before, in the strongest contrast to the Jamaican brogue, and so icily filled with disapproval she felt a shiver running down her spine. She turned, regaining her knees, and straightened, to stare at quite the most resplendent woman she had ever seen in her life. Beautiful, certainly, and in a familiar way, for she was undoubtedly a Hilton, with strong, fine features, the more dramatic for being set in a flawless pink and white complexion, and a profusion of chestnut hair, quite superbly dressed, for while it was gathered away from the face in front, to reveal her ears, it was apparently loose at the back, and escaped from beneath the cream straw hat with the white plume which was set well back on her head. But even her looks were not quite as breath-taking, to Meg's eyes, as her clothes, for she wore a grey poplin gown, far too hot for the climate, but quite magnificently cut to fit her bodice and her hips, with accordion pleats at hem and neck, in ultramarine, and ultramarine bows behind her thighs to support the train.

  For a moment the tight lips almost relaxed, at the obvious admiration in the girl's face, then they tightened again. 'Well, child, lost your tongue?'

  Meg looked at her father.

  'Ah, Meg, do get up,' Anthony Hilton said. 'I would have you meet your cousin, Oriole Paterson.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MENTOR

  MEG reached her feet slowly, cast a desperate look at her new hat. But it was ruined beyond repair.

  She stepped away from the two boys, also slowly getting up, and approached the grownups. 'C... cousin?'

  'I am your father's cousin, to be sure, Margaret,' Oriole said. 'My father is your Great Uncle Tom. So I am your second cousin.' She held out her hand, then hastily withdrew it again as Meg reached for it, her features seeming to freeze while her nostrils dilated. 'Whatever have you been rolling in?'

  'Sheep dung. I'm sorry.'

  'Sheep dung?' Oriole Paterson's voice rose an octave. ‘Sorry?'

  'And in your clean dress, too,' Helen McAvoy remarked. 'Oh, Meg, you are terrible.'

  Terrible?' Oriole demanded in scandalized tones.

  'And your hat,' exclaimed Lawyer Reynolds. 'It'll never be the same.'

  'I... I'm sorry,' Meg said. 'We were playing a game, and then I got a thorn in my foot, and ...'

  'Oh, Meg,' Helen protested. 'You really are growing too old for rough games like that, you know. Alan, you should be ashamed of yourself.'

  Alan stood on one leg.

  They should all be ashamed of themselves,' Oriole said severely. 'It has been a great pleasure meeting you, Mrs McAvoy, and if I am to stay here no doubt we
shall become

  friends, but I'm sure you will agree that it were time to end this entertainment.'

  'Oh, I ...' Helen looked at Tony Hilton, but Oriole's tone had really left very little room for argument.

  'Well, I... it seems a little early,' Tony said.

  'My dear Tony,' Oriole said. 'Your daughter has to have a bath, and quickly. I shudder to think what dreadful disease she might have contracted.'

  'From a little sheep dung?' Harry McAvoy inquired.

  Oriole turned a gaze on him which might have shrivelled him to the ground. 'Sheep droppings,' she said. 'The thought is nauseating. Come along now, Margaret. Off you go.' She checked, pink spots appearing in her cheeks. 'But you have no boots.'

  'I... I took them off,' Meg explained. 'They're new, you see, Mrs Paterson, and I didn't want to scuff them.'

  'And no stockings ?' Oriole's voice rose an octave higher.

  'Well... they'd have gone into holes.'

  Oriole looked at Tony, her eyebrows arched, her chin rigid.

  'Ah, well, I suppose Oriole is right, Meg,' Tony Hilton said. 'You really shouldn't run about the pasture without shoes and stockings.'

  'And playing with boys’ Oriole pointed out. 'Why, I've seen nigger children in Kingston better behaved. And better dressed. Off you go.'

  Meg looked at her father.

  'Yes, well, I suppose you do need a bath, Meg,' he agreed.

  She wanted to stamp her foot with anger. But that would only get her a sore instep. She tossed her head, gathered her skirts, and hurried for the distant village. On the way she passed the spot where she had discarded her stockings and shoes, but she was too angry to pick them up. Let somebody else do it. And who the devil was this beastly woman to come here and start telling everyone what to do ? Well, she couldn't see anyone telling Papa what to do, really. He just had not wanted to be rude in front of the McAvoys and Walter Reynolds. Later on ...

  'But what happen with you?' Prudence demanded from the top of the steps.

  'I fell over in some sheep shit,' Meg said crossly. 'And am to have a bath. Draw it for me, please.'

  'Is that woman, eh ?'

  Meg reached the top of the stairs. 'You've seen her?' 'What ? Miss Meg, she come in here like some mamaloi, because there weren't nobody in Kingston for to meet she.' 'To meet her? But...'

  'Well, it seems she saying she did write to the master, oh, one time ago, saying she is coming for a visit to he, and he ain't replying. He ain't even remembering. Well, you must know what your daddy is like. He does throw all them letters straight in the trash.' She wrinkled her nose. 'But she right about you smelling, chil'. You would even frighten a sheep.'

  'Oh, draw my bath,' Meg shouted. Coming to stay ? That was impossible. She stamped along the corridor to her room. Where would she sleep, for a start? There were only two bedrooms.

  She unfastened her gown in such a rage that she popped off two of the buttons. And then nearly tore her drawers. But the bath felt so good. Prudence had placed the huge tub in the very centre of the floor, and filled it with steaming water into which she had scattered some sweet-smelling herbs. Meg sank in with a great sigh, and leaned her head back so that her hair would trail in the water. Hannibal, freed from his chain, also uttered a great sigh, and lay down with a thud. And suddenly Meg began to laugh. It really had been a most amusing afternoon. And what Prudence had told her just capped it. No wonder this Oriole was furious. Left standing all by herself on the Kingston dock ... her head jerked as the door opened and she gazed at Oriole Paterson. 'You can't come in here,' she screamed, crossing her arms over her breasts and leaning forward.

  'Don't be absurd,' Oriole said, entering the room. 'Out,' she commanded. 'You belong in the yard. Out.'

  Hannibal heaved himself to his feet, glanced at his mistress, went through the door.

  'He's my pet,' Meg protested.

  'One doesn't have pets in the bedroom,' Oriole explained, closing the door. 'You and I must have a ...' She stared at the girl. 'My God. What has happened to your hair?'

  'My hair?' Meg started to reach behind her for the hair then hastily closed her arms over her body again.

  'It's wet,' Oriole said.

  'Well, I am sitting in a bath,' Meg said sarcastically.

  Oriole glared at her for a moment, then her hand came out with quite startling speed while her body bent forward like a striking snake. The force of the blow almost knocked Meg out of the tub. Water scattered everywhere, and she fell back, arms and legs flying. For a moment she was too surprised to speak.

  'You obviously need to be taught a great deal of manners,' Oriole said.

  'You ...' Meg bit her lip. Now the cheek was starting to sting, and she was so angry she wanted to burst. So she merely began to cry, and became even more angry.

  'Oh, stop that,' Oriole said. 'Hiltons don't cry. Not if they are Hiltons. Your name is Margaret. You're named after the first great Hilton woman. Do you think she ever cried ?' She smiled. 'And she had far more than you to cry about.' When she smiled, and the tightness of her features relaxed, she was utterly lovely. 'Now don't move.'

  Meg couldn't have moved if she tried. She merely sat in the slowly cooling water and stared, while Oriole removed her hat, and her gloves, and then unfastened her gown and removed that as well. Slowly the garment settled about her ankles, and she stepped out of it. But she was no nearer being undressed. Underneath she wore a petticoat which was actually fastened at her neck, while when she bent over the bed to smooth the gown Meg could see that there were at least another five skirts. How she stood it in the afternoon heat was impossible to imagine, and indeed her back and under her arms were damp. But as she undressed she exuded a quite marvellous perfume which prevented any suggestion of perspiration.

  'Now,' she said, turning. 'Let us do something about you.' She knelt beside the tub, behind Meg, and Meg felt her gathering the hair. 'Such lovely hair. All Hiltons have lovely hair. I have lovely hair, don't you think?'

  Meg hesitated. But she did have lovely hair. 'Yes,' she muttered.

  'Actually, it does need washing,' Oriole said. 'But you cannot wash your hair in your bath, really. We will do it tomorrow. And you must start brushing it I never saw such a mess of tangles. There.'

  She stood up, and without thinking Meg put up her hands to feel the coiled mound of hair on the top of her head. She had never had her hair up before.

  'You are a quite lovely child,' Oriole said, and Meg hastily lowered her arms again. 'What am I saying. You are a quite lovely young woman. Or you could be. Really, your father ought to be whipped, for just letting you run to ruin like this. Perhaps all men ought to be whipped. They are a worthless crew. My late husband was worst of all. But perhaps I have caught you in time.' She leaned forward, and Meg tensed herself for whatever might be coming. But it was only a kiss on the forehead. 'Now you finish your bath and then go to bed. I must have a talk with your father.'

  'I haven't had my supper yet,' Meg said. Oriole smiled at her. 'You are not going to have any supper, my dear.' She resumed her gown. 'No supper? But...'

  'You were very naughty, and must be punished. Bed without supper is better than a whipping. You should be grateful.' She went to the door while Meg stared at her.

  There she paused, to smile again. 'Now, do as I say, and I won't have to punish you again. I'm sure we are going to be friends, you and I.'

  Meg got out of the bath and dried herself. She dropped her nightgown over her head, and sat down, gazing moodily at the wall. She still seethed with anger. How could she not, as her face still ached from the blow. But she felt curiously excited as well. Oriole Paterson was so ... so elegant. There was the word. Meg had never known an elegant woman before. Although surely Mother would have been elegant.

  But if Mother had been elegant, why had she refused to live in the Great House ? One could hardly be elegant in a small bungalow.

  She lay down. She could hear their voices, now. Or rather, Oriole's voice, seeping across the roof to co
me down into the bedroom. Papa answered briefly. And defensively. Poor Papa. He must be wondering what had hit him.

  Her door opened. 'You sleeping, chil' ?'

  She sat up. 'Prudence?'

  ‘I come for the bath, chil'.' Prudence closed the door behind her. 'But is true you ain' having no supper?'

  'I'm being punished,' Meg said bitterly.

  'Oh, she does be a one,' Prudence agreed and came closer. 'But we can' have you starving, chil'. Or how your bubbies going grow big like mine?' She held out a plate of biscuits.

  'Oh, Prudence, you are a treasure.'

  'When you done,' Prudence said, 'put the plate in your drawer.'

  'I will. Thank you, Prudence. Thanks ever so much.'

  'Yeah. Well, you got for take care while she is here.' Prudence stooped, exerted her enormous strength, lifted the tub, still full of water, from the floor. 'Me too.' She went outside, closed the door. Meg ate the biscuits. Dear Prudence. But for the colour of her skin she would be the best mother anyone could have.

  Save that no one could possibly describe Prudence as elegant. She finished her biscuits and fell asleep, and awoke again with a start as the door opened, very quietly, to admit first of all the glow of a candle, then Oriole herself. Instantly she sat up, wondering what new assault, on her person or her way of life, was imminent.

  'It's all right,' Oriole said brightly. 'She's awake.' The door opened wider, and Oriole came in. 'Do cover yourself, Margaret,' she said.

  Behind her was Percy, carrying two suitcases. Meg slowly lifted the sheet to her neck.

  'Just put them down, man,' Oriole said.

  'Yes'm,' Percy said, and put them down.

  'Madam,' Oriole said. 'You will call me madam. Do you understand?'

  'Yes'm,' Percy said. 'Goodnight, Miss Meg.' He closed the door behind him.

  'Stupid people,' Oriole complained. 'And far too familiar. Especially with you, Margaret. I will have to speak to them.' She took off her gown.

  'But... what are you doing?' Meg asked.

  'Undressing.' Petticoat began to follow petticoat on to the chair.

  'Here?'

  'Where else? I am going to share your bed, my dear Margaret. At least until we can make some other arrangements.'