Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  'My bed? Oh, Lord.'

  'And do not say Oh Lord. Young ladies do not say Oh Lord.' A last petticoat was removed, and Meg gazed at the corset in utter amazement. Oriole was reaching behind her, fumbling at the ties, sighing as she slowly released them.

  'Isn't it very uncomfortable ?' Meg asked.

  'A lady isn't supposed to be comfortable, goose.' A last sigh, and the corset was laid on the chair with the petticoats. Although underneath was yet another garment, over her drawers, to separate the whalebone from the flesh. But Oriole was looking much happier. It occurred to Meg that one reason for her sharpness might have been sheer discomfort. 'We shall have to get you one.' 'Me?'

  Oriole removed her shift 'Of course. You look positively indecent as you are.'

  Meg's mouth slowly fell open. Oriole's perfection of feature extended to her body, for now she sat on the end of the bed to remove her stockings. It was the first time Meg had ever seen another white woman's body; Negresses were either very large, from too much child-bearing, or very thin, from insufficient food. But while Oriole's shoulder blades, and her ribs, could be seen, they were well bedded in that utterly marvellous pink and white flesh, and her breasts, if bigger than they had appeared when hampered by the corset and all of the petticoats, were not even as big as her own, Meg realized, and perfectly rounded, with sharp little pink teats standing out in joy at being released from their earlier heat and confinement. Meg felt quite disappointed when, after rolling down her stockings to reveal feet of a similar delicacy and whiteness, Oriole opened her suitcase and dropped a nightgown over her shoulders before removing her drawers. But what a nightgown, a mass of pink lace at bodice and shoulder, with pink lace frills brushing the floor.

  But still she wasn't finished, for now she opened the other suitcase, and removed a variety of bottles and jars which she placed on the table. 'Have you no dressing mirror?'

  Meg shook her head. She was too bemused to speak.

  'Good Heavens. Well ...' Oriole delved once again into the case, produced a hand mirror. 'You can hold this for me.'

  Meg dutifully held the mirror, while Oriole sat on the bed and applied creams and unguents to her face. 'Why are you doing that?' Meg asked. Oriole glanced at her. 'To keep my skin soft,' she said.

  'You will have to start using them as well. I also discovered, on the ship coming over, that I had to use more, and to protect my face from the sun. Your complexion is a disgrace, Margaret. How your father could have permitted you to spend so much time in the sun I shall never know. And it's a shame, because you could be such a pretty girl.' She sighed. 'I will do the best I can ...' She removed herself and her jars, and instead picked up a hairbrush. By the time she is finished, Meg thought, it will be time to get up all over again.

  Oriole walked to and fro, brushing and counting. 'How many strokes do you give it?' Meg asked.

  'Forty-three, forty-four, one hundred, and don't talk or I'll lose count, forty-five, forty-six ...'

  Meg lay down to watch her. But at last she was finished, and blew out the candle. 'Now move over,' she commanded. 'And don't wriggle.'

  Meg opened her mouth to say, it's my bed, and thought better of it. Oriole's feet slid under the sheet, and Meg was enveloped in that delightful perfume. Oriole sighed, and then sat up straight, throwing back the sheet. 'What on earth ...' She felt beneath herself. 'Crumbs? When last was this bed made?'

  'Well ... today.'

  Oriole had hopped out and was brushing away at the bottom sheet. 'You wretched girl. You've been eating biscuits in bed. Where did you get them ?'

  'Well...'

  That nigger housekeeper of your father's. My God, I'll have a word with her. She'll have to go.'

  Meg sat up. 'Prudence? You couldn't sack Prudence.'

  'Don't be absurd.' Oriole seemed satisfied, lay down again. 'You'll be telling me next she's your friend, like those ghastly little boys.'

  Meg lay down cautiously. 'She is my friend. She's the oldest friend I have. She's been here ever since I can remember. She and Percy.'

  Oriole raised herself on her elbow, looked down. 'You are an unhappy child, aren't you?' 'Unhappy? Why ...'

  'Layabouts and niggers for friends, no clothes to speak of, no breeding, I think I got here in the nick of time.' She lay down again, and to Meg's amazement, slid her arm under her neck to hug her close. 'I'm going to be your friend from now on, Meg. I'm going to make you into a lady. Far more important than that, I'm going to make you into a Hilton. Because you are the very last Hilton. Didn't you know that? The very last'

  Meg awoke with a start, for a moment and for the first time in her life unsure where she was. In her own bedroom, of course. But Oriole's arms were wrapped around her, and her head rested on the soft lace of Oriole's nightgown, and the entire room was filled with the delicious glow of Oriole's scent.

  Gently she disengaged herself, slid out of bed, threw her nightgown on the floor and dragged on her clothes. It was very late, at least seven o'clock. She couldn't remember when last she had slept in, mainly because Prudence always awakened her. But no doubt Prudence had been afraid to enter the room this morning.

  'Whatever are you doing ?' Oriole inquired.

  'I must hurry,' Meg explained. 'I shall be late for school.'

  'You have forgotten your petticoats,' Oriole pointed out.

  'I don't wear petticoats,' Meg said. 'No one does, as a rule, in Jamaica. It's too hot'

  Oriole sat up. 'Good Heavens. I thought, yesterday, that ... but I supposed it was the sun. Good Lord. You must wear a petticoat, Margaret I can see right through that gown.'

  'I don't have any petticoats.' Meg emptied some water from the ewer into the china basin and splashed it on her face.

  'Anyway,' Oriole said. 'What do you want to go rushing off this early for? It's barely dawn.'

  'School starts at eight,' Meg explained. 'Because we stop for breakfast and siesta at eleven. Then we go back at three until five.'

  'I never heard such nonsense in all my life,' Oriole decided. 'Anyway, you're not going to that school any more. School ? I could not imagine anything more ridiculous.'

  Slowly Meg turned to face her. 'Not going to school? But...'

  'I will teach you,' Oriole said, extending one utterly delightful arm and reaching for her robe. 'What you need to know. What does this Mrs McAvoy teach you ?'

  'Well, reading, and writing and arithmetic, and history and geography.'

  'Can you read?'

  'Of course.'

  'Can you write? Can you count up to ten?’ 'Of course I can.'

  'Well, then, I am sure you know enough of that. History and geography are really not subjects that a young lady need be acquainted with. Do you speak French?'

  'French?'

  'Do you sew? I mean needlework, not darning. Do you play the piano?'

  'How can I?' Meg demanded. 'I don't have a piano. Neither does Aunt Helen.'

  'Mrs McAvoy, please. You are surely not related to her? Of course you have a piano. There is one in the Great House.'

  'But... we can't go there.'

  'Why not?'

  'Papa keeps it locked. He doesn't allow anyone in there. He'd be furious.'

  Oriole smiled, and held up a large key. 'What do you suppose this is ? Your father and I had a heart to heart talk last night I explained to him how terribly wrong he has been, just allowing you to run wild. He has agreed to make your education my responsibility. Now, you go and have your breakfast, or whatever it is you call this meal, and I will get dressed. Then we'll explore, shall we?'

  Meg felt she should be resentful, even angry, at the way her life was being taken over. But she was far too excited. She was going to get inside the Great House, after all these years. She was going to be taught the piano. And French. Why French? If any foreign tongue was spoken in the West Indies it was Spanish. But no doubt Oriole knew best. Oh, indeed, no one could doubt that Oriole knew best.

  She gulped her steaming cup of coffee, chewed her homemade bre
ad, finished with a banana. She really didn't like bananas, but they were the one fruit which was always available, which was probably why she didn't like them.

  'Eh-eh, but you ain' going to school ?' Prudence demanded when the meal was over, and she sat down to wait

  'Not today. Not ever again.'

  'Eh-eh, but you crazy or what, chil’? You must go to school.'

  'Ha,' Meg said, and stood up, as Oriole swept into the room. It was easy to see that she had made some concessions to the climate. She no longer wore a corset that was obvious, just as it was obvious that she was only wearing perhaps two petticoats, and her gown was muslin, in soft lilac, and was open at the throat, although her sleeves were tightly buttoned at the wrist

  'All ready ?' she demanded.

  'I am. But aren't you going to have something to eat?'

  'I never take anything in the mornings,' Oriole said. 'And you may have to adopt the same programme, if you propose to keep on growing. You. Your name is Prudence, I understand.'

  'Yes'm.'

  'Madam. You will call me madam. This house is like a pig-sty. I want it cleaned, and I want it cleaned today. If the work is too much for you, get some help from the village.

  There must be dozens of women just lying about there, doing nothing. See to it, or I'll have you dismissed.'

  Prudence merely goggled at her, but Oriole was not wasting time. 'Come along, Margaret,' she commanded, and swept into the front room, where she picked up a brightly coloured parasol. 'Where is your hat ?'

  'I'll have to wear my old one.' Meg set it on her head, then pulled her skirt to her ankles. 'But I'm wearing my new boots. Aren't they splendid?'

  Oriole sniffed. 'That style of boot went out of fashion in England over ten years ago. You've a lot to learn, my dear. Shall we go ?' She led the way down the steps. Alan McAvoy waited by the gate. 'Can we assist you?' she inquired.

  Alan raised his hat. 'I was waiting for Meg, Mrs Paterson.'

  'Why?'

  'Alan always walks me across to school,' Meg explained.

  'But you are not going to that school any more,' Oriole pointed out with great patience.

  'Not going to Mother's school ?' Alan cried.

  'You may tell your mother that I will call... no, that I would be very pleased if she would call on me, this afternoon,' Oriole said. 'When I will explain the situation to her. Now, if you will excuse us, young man.'

  Alan had already opened the gate. Oriole swept through, and Meg followed, pausing to give him an apologetic smile, then hurrying behind her mentor. Hannibal bounded out of the gate to follow them, barking and scattering the sheep. The Great House loomed at the top of the hill, bathed in the morning sunlight. Meg felt so excited she thought she was going to be sick. She wished she could invite Alan along; he wanted to see the inside as much as she did. But Oriole would never permit it.

  'You have been encouraging that young man,' Oriole said, and shot a sideways glance in time to catch Meg's blush. 'Don't trouble to deny it.'

  'Oh, but, he's my ...'

  Oriole sighed loudly. 'A friend, you were going to say?

  I thought I had explained that. That boy could not be your friend, even if you had a brother. You are a Hilton. You are heiress to the Hilton Plantations ...'

  'They're worth nothing now,' Meg said.

  'Kindly do not interrupt. They are going through a temporary depression. I have studied the matter deeply, and it would pay you to do the same. West Indian sugar is depressed because it receives no subsidies, not even duty free entry into England. Whereas beet sugar from the Continent is supported by government bounties which enable it to be placed on the market too cheaply. But there are moves afoot to correct this state of affairs. Oh, indeed. I see a great revival ahead, for West Indian sugar.'

  'Is that why you came out here?' Meg asked.

  Oriole paused at the foot of the front stairs. 'Of course not.'

  'Then why did you come?' Meg persisted. 'Papa says your father is still alive.'

  'Of course Father is still alive. But he is well cared for by my sister. And when James died, why, I knew I had a duty to perform. Hilltop is the fountainhead of everything Hilton. Without it, without its splendour, the family is as nothing. And the family, I can tell you, is utterly scandalized at the way your father has let it run to ruin. It must be our task, yours and mine, to restore the plantation, to restore everything Hilton to the greatness it once knew. The greatness it deserves. Don't you agree?'

  'Well... that would be lovely, if it could be managed.'

  'Of course it can be managed,' Oriole insisted, and led the way up the steps. 'Get away, you brute, you can't come in here. Now. Let us inspect the House.'

  It took an effort to turn the key in the lock, and then another effort to pull the huge mahogany door, bound with strips of rusting iron, open. The two women peered at the gloom beyond, sniffed the mustiness. 'Quite eerie,' Oriole commented.

  'We should have brought a candle,' Meg suggested.

  'Not necessary, there is light enough. From the skylights. Didn't you know there were skylights? Four of them, in the roof.'

  And in fact it was growing lighter by the moment, as the sun rose.

  'But we must have some air,' Oriole said. 'I know. We'll open them as well.' She climbed the stairs. 'Careful now. We don't know how solid these boards are.'

  They creaked, and there was dust everywhere, gathering on Meg's hands as she touched the balustrade, seeming to clog her nostrils. But she was too fascinated by the row of pictures to care. 'Are they all Hiltons ?'

  'Of course they are.' Oriole's voice echoed. 'Our ancestors. People we have to live up to, Margaret.' She reached the gallery. 'Help me.'

  Meg hurried to her side and together they untied the rope from its cleat, and slowly tugged the skylight open. A breath of pure nectar seemed to slide in.

  'There we are,' Oriole said, retying the rope. 'Good heavens, what a lot of dust. We shall both need baths after this. We'll just open another light, then we can find the piano.'

  Meg could hardly wait to get downstairs into the huge withdrawing room. Here the light from upstairs did not reach, so they had to wrestle with one of the great barred french windows leading on to the verandah.

  "There we are,' Oriole said, dusting her hands against each other.

  'It's magnificent,' Meg whispered, staring around her.

  Oriole ran her finger over the top of the piano. 'It's absolutely filthy. It'll need an enormous amount of work. I shall have to recruit a team, I can see that.'

  'Wouldn't it be wonderful,' Meg said, 'if Papa would agree to moving back in here?'

  Oriole had lifted the lid to the keyboard and was running her fingers across the keys. The music tinkled through the great room. 'Ugh. We can't do anything with this until it is tuned. I suppose there is such a thing as a piano tuner in this misbegotten place? And of course your father is going to reopen the House. You don't think I'm going to spend the rest of my life in that little bungalow, sharing your bed, do you?' She laughed, a splendid sound, and got up to throw her arm around Meg's shoulders. 'Although I did sleep very well last night, to be sure.'

  The rest of your life ?' Meg inquired.

  'Of course,' Oriole said. 'Hilltop is my home now. I am going to be at your side, now and always.'

  Which, in a remarkable fashion, was fast becoming a reassuring thought. Her energy was quite frightening. She was intelligent enough quickly to understand the problems presented by the Jamaican climate, and to adapt herself to them. She still insisted on wearing far too many clothes, in Meg's opinion, but she realized the necessity to rise very early, and get the main part of the day's work done by eleven. They studied French, and dressmaking, and above all deportment and speech, by the hour. A piano tuner was secured from Kingston, and soon Meg was practising her scales as well, because all the lessons took place in the Great House.

  This was all that did take place in the Great House, for although Tony Hilton was willing to let Oriole
open it up for the purpose of educating Meg, he steadfastly refused to move back up there himself, or to spend the money necessary to renovate the place. There was a brief, stormy scene over this. 'Hiltons, worrying over money,' Oriole said contemptuously. 'Really, Anthony, I sometimes wonder if you are not a changeling.'

  'Would you like to look at the books?' Papa inquired, speaking more vehemently than Meg, listening outside the door, had ever heard him.

  'I am not the least bit interested in book-keeping,' Oriole declared. 'I can look around me, at this land ...'

  'Which nobody wants,' Papa pointed out

  'What nonsense. There can be no one in Jamaica would not like to own Hilltop, if only for the prestige its name carries. But if the land does not impress you, what of your crops ?'

  'Bah.'

  'No bah at all. Perhaps your cane isn't doing very well. Your bananas are. Do you know what any man of spirit, any true Hilton, would do? He'd tear out all the cane, and plant the entire plantation in bananas.'

  'Hilltop? Bananas?'

  'What's so strange about that? Didn't your father begin planting them in the first place ?'

  'Grandfather opposed him. I think to the end of his days Grandfather regretted giving control of the plantation to Father.'

  'But he's dead,' Oriole insisted. 'They are both dead. You are in control. There is no one in the entire world can oppose you, Anthony. Whatever you choose to do, you can do.'

  There had been a brief silence. Meg could imagine the pair of them, staring at each other. Then Papa had spoken, in a low but very determined tone. 'You are perfectly right, Oriole. I am in charge of Hilltop. There is no one in the world who can tell me what to do, and no one in the world from whom I need accept advice. So I would be very obliged if you would keep your nose entirely out of my affairs. Educate Meg. I believe you are right there. I have neglected the child, and I wouldn't anyway have known how to bring her up. Use the Great House if you choose. But don't expect me to move back up there, don't expect me to waste money renovating that mausoleum, and don't attempt to interfere in the running of this plantation. Because if you do I shall put you on the next boat back to England.'