by Alec Waugh
The obvious solution was, of course, for her to go back with her mother. But that he knew would not work. Betty, as she said, had lost touch with England, and did not want to be reminded of that lost world. Moreover, and he had to face the fact, she had never got on well with Jocelyn. They had not quarreled, but there had been no sympathy between them. They had never enjoyed doing things together. He could not picture them alone together on a six months’ trip. If Jocelyn went, he would have to go back too; he could afford the trip, there was a boom in copra. But was he justified in leaving Maxwell behind to run the estate alone at a time like this.
Times were difficult, and likely to become more difficult. He had only spoken the half of what he felt the other night to that American journalist. He distrusted Whitehall courtiers who drew up blueprints for colonial development with no firsthand knowledge of the countries for which they legislated. In London they only met cultured and educated West Indians: how could they appreciate, untraveled as they were, the backwardness, the superstitious ignorance, the basic savagery of the average peasant? How could they gauge how easily those peasants could become the prey and victim of corrupt self-seeking politicians? It was highly inflammable material. Every present day situation in the Caribbean came as the climax to a long and bloodstained history.
There was much to remind him of that history as he drove out to Belfontaine. The main road was a firm, macadamed thoroughfare, but the side roads were rough and rutted, and on the hillside the squat rounded windmills long since wingless, the skeleton houses, the crumbled masonry of walls and gateways, silently testified to the days of departed grandeur.
There were signs everywhere of decay. Large stretches of land had gone out of cultivation, and were used for grazing. There was no sign of bustle on the estates. The cane had been already cut, the coffee already planted: here and there a peasant or two would be collecting cocoanuts; a squad of convicts was clearing the ditches by the road; casual domestic occupations like weeding and charcoal burning were in progress. There was little traffic along the road. The sun was shining; pale dove-colored clouds drifted across the sky; in the rivers women were washing their clothes, beating the damp cotton against the stones. At the foot of every ghut was the collection of wooden shacks that was called a village; women sat on their doorsteps, chattering. There was an air of placid and contented apathy. Nobody was working hard. No one had worked hard since emancipation. Thanks to their small gardens, the peasants managed well enough on their small wages; they had no wish to better themselves. If you raised their wages, they did less work. Occasional men like Boyeur had ideas of grandeur. There were exceptional men like Grainger Morris. But for the rest…
What meaning could Democracy have to this friendly, feckless people. Trouble was bound to come if power was put into their hands too soon.
So he mused as he drove along the curving road under the bright February sun.
2
The Prestons’ estate was four miles from Belfontaine and Fleury had planned to arrive there at about eleven. He had an idea that Mrs. Preston was as much responsible as her husband for the way in which the situation had developed, and he was anxious to see her alone. At eleven Preston would certainly be in the fields.
He was right in his assumption. Mrs. Preston was on her veranda, knitting. He honked his horn and swung round into the drive. As she rose to greet him, his spirits sank. He had forgotten how her company depressed him.
She was a type that is produced only in rural England and by the county families. Of medium height, freckled, with sandy hair, she had a long, thin neck. In England she would have worn tweeds, woolen stockings, and stout shoes; in winter her nose would have been slightly red. In the tropics barbaric colors might have suited her but she preferred pastel blues. She was the mother of two children, but her figure was flat. She kept her hands half closed and only at the card table did you realize that her nails were bitten to the quick. She had a high-pitched voice that was slightly inflected by a whine.
She was not popular in the island, her manner conveyed that she felt herself superior to her environment. Fleury, because of his West Country background, was the only islander whom she accepted as an equal. They had one or two acquaintances in common, and whenever they met she would invite or provide news of them. Whenever she saw him in the club she would, the moment there was a pause in the conversation, proceed to tell him the latest social gossip from the Blackmoor Vale. She would talk about people whom no one else in the group knew personally and she had the exasperating habit of referring by a Christian name to anyone who was at all well known, particularly when the owner of a title was concerned; only at the end of the anecdote would she casually permit the uninstructed listener to appreciate whom she had been discussing.
At the sight of Julian Fleury her face lit up. “I was thinking of you this very morning. I received such an amusing letter from Lily Percival. She tells me that the National Trust is refusing to take over Matchett. It’s a great blow to Victor. You know Victor don’t you?”
“I’ve met him.”
Victor was the Duke of Wessex and Fleury had occasionally shot at Matchett but he did not know him as Victor. He would have been inclined to doubt if Mrs. Preston did, had he not, on one occasion, taken the trouble to check up on her, only to learn from a mutual friend that she was in fact a very close friend of the politician with whose name she had one evening peppered her conversation. Carson had summed her up pithily. “She’s bloody but not bogus, damn her.”
He listened to the news about the Duke, then changed the subject, asking her about her husband.
“He’s happy enough. Why shouldn’t he be? He’s in the open air, he’s busy with his hands: he likes his laborers, I can’t think why. They drive me mad: they steal, they’re lazy, they need flogging. We daren’t leave the place for half a day. They’ve no feeling for the animals. They’d let them starve if we didn’t watch them. Would you credit it, we’ve actually caught them eating the food we put out for the pigs. They’ve no gratitude. At first we tried to be good neighbors. Twice when one of them came round to say his wife was sick Frank drove into town in the middle of the night to fetch a doctor. There was nothing wrong with the woman. The man wanted to get a sack of copra into town. They’re terrible. You can’t trust them.”
“I hear you’re having trouble with one of your neighbors at this moment.”
“Indeed we are. Some of our cattle got through a gap in the fence; and how did that gap get there I should like to know? It was a new fence and a stout one. Frank put it up himself. It was the nigger man himself who made the gap. We can’t prove it but I’m convinced. If you give them an inch, they take an ell. It’s the thin end of the wedge. That’s what I’ve told Frank. If you give way now, you’re laying up a mint of trouble for yourself. Whenever they want a few more dollars, they’ll let our cattle through onto their land. It’s a racket. But you don’t need telling that, you know these people.”
Half an hour earlier he had been thinking along very much the same lines himself, but he resented the criticism coming from Mrs. Preston. They were his people after all.
“Was there much damage done?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t know; that’s a technical point. Frank could tell you about that. It’s the principle of the thing that worries me. If Frank takes this lying down, anything may happen.”
Fleury nodded. All this bore out what he had thought.
“Will your husband be back soon?” he asked.
“He’ll be in for his morning punch. You’ll join him, won’t you?”
“I’d love to, thank you very much.”
Preston returned shortly before noon. He was a short stocky man with a close-clipped military mustache. He was wearing a khaki shirt, khaki shorts and gray-green stockings. His hair was matted by heat and dust, and his hands were dirty. He started at the sight of Fleury. “This is an honor and a surprise.”
“I was on my way to Belfontaine. Your wife very kindly suggested that I
should stay on and join you in a punch.”
It was a good punch, not too sweet, made with fresh limes and bitter oranges.
“What I wouldn’t have given for one of these when I was in the Western Desert,” Preston said.
His four years in the Middle East had been the big adventure of his life. He was always referring to it. He missed not having more people in Santa Marta with whom he could “talk over old times.” Colonel Carson was the only other Santa Martan who had served there and Carson disliked war talk.
“I told you, didn’t I, about that week when we lost those tanks at Knightsbridge….”
Fleury had heard the story several times, but he encouraged Preston to continue. He wanted to get him into a good mood.
Preston’s voice began to glow. He was once again the officer in charge of men, in command of other officers: he had forgotten for the moment that he was now become a planter, uncertain of his future; fretted by his wife’s disapproval. He had long since ceased to be in love with her, no doubt. But he respected her opinion. He respected the things she stood for. He could only feel self-confident when she was pleased; and that she rarely was. She had been taken out of her niche and she blamed him for it. She made him feel inadequate.
Fleury let him have his talk, then brought up the reason of his visit.
“I was talking to your wife about the trouble you’ve been having with that neighbor of yours. I hear you’re appealing against Graham’s verdict.”
“I should say I was. The most disgraceful affair I ever heard. The man has no right to be a magistrate.”
“It does not seem to me a very heavy fine. Fifteen dollars, and there was trespass.”
“That’s not the point. A deliberate attempt was made to exploit the incident.”
“In what way?”
“I’d better put you in the picture.”
“I’d be most grateful if you would.”
“It started off as a straightforward case. There was a gap in my wire. I don’t know how it got there, but there was a gap. My cattle got into his property. I was prepared to make reasonable amends. He said he would be satisfied with a hundred dollars. Now that was quite absurd. It was old cane, stubble. A herd of cattle couldn’t do that amount of damage. I asked to see the damage. He showed me hoof marks, but I couldn’t see that anything had been destroyed. I wasn’t going to argue with him. I wasn’t going to haggle. I won’t haggle with that kind of person. ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘we’ll get the agricultural advisor to make an inspection and estimate the cost of damage.’ I acted in good faith. I put in my report to the Agricultural department.
“You know what Harrison is like. He took four weeks to make his visit. By then the new cane had grown. He asked to see the damage and Montez told him that you could not see it now. ‘In that case,’ Harrison said, ‘there is no damage,’ so I refused to pay. Montez then proceeded to sue me before the magistrate for fifty dollars. He’d come down, you’ll notice, from a hundred to fifty. Graham came round to see me. You know what Graham is. He wanted me to settle out of court. He thought Montez would be happy with twenty-five. But I wasn’t having that. I stand by my rights. Graham argued that it was well worth saving all the trouble there’d be for twenty-five West Indian dollars which was only five pounds after all. But no, I wouldn’t agree. I went into court, and I brought with me Harrison’s report that he could see no damage.
“Graham did not like it at all. He wants to keep on the right side of these nigger men. He doesn’t want to have his car tires slashed. Do you know what he said at a cocktail party the other day, that he wasn’t going to retire with a bunch of ulcers. That, I ask you, from a Government official. Well, there he sat in court, looking at Harrison’s report: he found a quibble in it. It didn’t say there was no damage, but only that Harrison could see no damage. So Graham said, ‘I will call on the Agricultural officer to make an official report. Until then the case is adjourned.’ An official report, mind you, from my own witness.”
“What happened then?”
“The worst thing of all. There was a long delay, there always is, where the law or at any rate where Graham is concerned. Finally a date was fixed. On that very day I had a touch of fever. I caught malaria in the war. I sent a message down to Graham. He told me that my attendance wasn’t necessary, that he had heard my evidence. Then in my absence, in my absence mark you, he fined me fifteen dollars. I never heard of such a breach of justice. I won’t stand for that.”
“Did you see the agricultural officer’s report?”
“I did not, for the very good reason that there never was one.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“As sure as I can be of anything. Harrison wasn’t going to put in a report against Graham. They’re all hand in glove. But a clerk in Graham’s office heard the two of them discussing it. She heard Harrison say, ‘How can I make out a report after a three months’ delay? The cane is six foot high. You can’t see anything.’ There wasn’t any damage, I can assure you that.”
“Will that clerk go into the witness box and swear to what she told you?”
“I shan’t ask her. I don’t want to get her into trouble with Graham. She’s no right anyhow to be telling me what goes on in a government office.”
“Which lawyer have you go to handle your case?”
“I haven’t one.”
“Isn’t that unwise?”
“I don’t trust these colored lawyers. They’re all hand in glove. I want to have my day in court, say my say before a judge. Probably I shan’t get justice, how can you expect to in a place like this, but I’ll have made my protest.”
Fleury made no reply. As Preston talked, he had felt his irritation rising. He could see Graham’s point of view. Trespass had been committed. Trespass presumed damage. An ignorant peasant would feel entitled to compensation. He could not tell how much. One hundred dollars and fifty dollars were much the same to him in a case like that. It would be an occasion for a bottle or two of “mountain dew” with his friends round him, and the steel band for an hour. Graham understood that. He was the magistrate; he knew his people and he had to keep the peace. In terms of practical politics he was right. At the same time, legally he was probably at fault. No damage had been proved. In England he had been always told as a boy that if you were caught trespassing you were safe if you handed over sixpence and told the landlord he would have to prove that more than sixpence worth of damage had been done. Preston knew that, and Preston was the kind of man to stand upon his rights. He had the temperament of the small official with his regard for rules and regulations; and with this wife of his undermining his self-confidence, it was not surprising that he was making an issue out of a sum as ridiculously small as fifteen dollars.
“If Frank doesn’t fight this case,” Mrs. Preston was saying, “if he doesn’t show these nigger men that when an English gentleman says a thing he means it, I shan’t be able to hold my head up in the village.”
It was precisely the kind of remark that would inflame the resolution of a man like her husband.
“There’s another thing too,” she said. “If they once find they can get money out of us that way, we shall have them pulling our fence down every week.”
There, Fleury recognized, she had a point. The peasants were crafty and dishonest: or rather they did not regard stealing as dishonest. The rights and wrongs in the case were evenly divided, but he himself, living in the district, had no doubt that Graham had acted in the general interest. Himself he didn’t want the laborers discontented, as they would be if they believed that one of their people had suffered an injustice at a white man’s hands. A white man’s cattle broke loose over a colored man’s property and the colored man had got no compensation. That’s how they would see it. They were so easily swayed. They were sunny, friendly, happy when everything was going well, but when they got a grievance, when that sense of hereditary grievance was played upon, anything could happen.
He would advise Jimmy Templet
on to suggest to Preston that he let the matter drop.
He rose to his feet. He had learnt all he could.
“I must be on my way,” he said.
3
Belfontaine, with its avenue of palms, its “welcoming arms” stairway, its dignified colonnaded portico and two-storied frontage is as familiar an illustration in West Indian guidebooks as Josephine’s statue in Martinique. It is one of the few estate houses in the Caribbean that have survived hurricanes, earthquakes, and the neglect of absentee ownership.
As Fleury turned his car into the drive, his son cantered across the paddock. Maxwell was hot and dusty and he was frowning.
“That tractor’s broken down again,” he said. “They’re the most hopeless people; all they’re good for is cutting cane with a cutlass. God, but I need a drink. They drive me mad. Sylvia,” he called, “I’ll be ready in five minutes. I’d like a sour cocktail.”
Sylvia came out of the house, looking very cool and fresh, in a light cotton frock, with her hair smooth and shining. It would cheer a husband coming in from a long morning in the fields to find her waiting there, his recompense and reward.
As her father-in-law came up the steps, she ran to meet him. She lifted herself upon her toes and flung her arms round his neck; her cheek was soft and cool. There was a pleasant scent of lavender. A young man ought to be happy with a wife like this.
“Would you like a sour cocktail too?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“I’ve already had a punch. I’d like a lime and soda.”
“A punch already. Where’ve you been?”
He told her. He was beginning to explain the situation when Maxwell came down, his hair still damp from his shower, his shirt changed, wearing a pair of freshly pressed gray gabardine trousers; he looked fit and healthy; surely he was a husband to be proud of. Was Sylvia bored? What did they do with themselves when the quick evenings fell. There was no club here.
