Island in the Sun

by Alec Waugh

  “If this happens again, I will clear the court,” the judge proclaimed. “This is not a cinema; this is not a place of entertainment.”

  The hubbub subsided. The woman preened herself in the witness box, catching the eye of one of the jurors and giggling behind her hand. Her delight with herself irritated Mavis. She only got that laugh because Grainger let her get it. She thought she was cleverer than he. Tonight she would boast to her friends of how she had humbugged the clever Mr. Morris. She had no idea how silly he could have made her look if he had chosen. Mavis wished that Grainger would take his revenge, that he would trip up this woman, make her contradict herself, humiliate her. She resented his refusal to take his revenge. Yet she would have regretted it if he had.

  “Now tell us,” Grainger was continuing, “when you have seen drunk men behave that way, froth at the mouth, grasp hold of things, then suddenly collapse on the floor, unconscious—when you have seen drunk men behave like that, have you sometimes thought, ‘That is very like my brother in a fit’?”

  She deliberated for a moment, then nodded. Yes, she had thought that.

  “Then that is all I have to ask you. Thank you very much.”

  He sat down. The girl was puzzled. This could not be the end. He had hardly started yet. If her own lawyer had questioned her for half an hour, the lawyer on the other side would question her for an hour. She stared round her, perplexed, turning an inquiring look to the bench. The judge nodded. Yes, that was all. She stepped out of the witness box, sheepishly, resentfully. She felt she had been cheated. Her big day should have been a bigger one. Her ear had been torn; her finger bitten off. She should have got more out of it than this.

  Grainger was on his feet again. He would like to ask the doctor one or two further questions. The doctor was not in court, but the hospital was within half a mile. A policeman was dispatched for him, and the court adjourned, The spectators drifted out into the street to stretch their legs.

  Mrs. Preston was in a fretful mood.

  “At this rate our case may not come on at all today. It certainly won’t have come on before lunch. We’ve wasted a whole morning and we shall have the discomfort and expense of an excruciating luncheon at the St. James.”

  She said it in the direction of her husband; but her voice was raised. Her complaint was addressed to the group at large. Carson came across to her. He was leading Bradshaw by the arm. “Mrs. Preston, here is a newcomer whom you should meet. An American journalist who’s down here for a holiday. I’ve been telling him how charmingly you’ve arranged your house.”

  He had actually said nothing of the kind. But he had an idea that Mrs. Preston was the kind of woman that Bradshaw might not dislike, and he wanted to be rid of Bradshaw for a little. He needed a drink badly, and Bradshaw was almost a teetotaller. His house was only round the corner. He looked to see if there was anyone to take in with him. He preferred not to drink alone. It was a habit he had to guard against. He noticed Maxwell Fleury beside his wife. He hesitated, then thought better of it, waved to them and turned away. Maxwell noted the hesitation. It struck him as suspicious. Why hadn’t Carson come across? Was he nervous, was he shy of meeting him? He looked quickly at Sylvia. Her face wore its invariable impassive mask. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? The sooner she was in town, so that he could keep close check, the better.

  “I do hope, Mr. Bradshaw, that you will come out and see our place,” Mrs. Preston was saying, “It’s nothing remarkable. You know what these estate houses are; a veranda round a box of rooms, but we have nice furniture. People say it’s ridiculous to bring out good furniture to a place like this, all the damp and wood rot; but good things were made to be enjoyed. It makes such a difference for children, to be brought up with beautiful things round them. They acquire taste without realizing it. Don’t you agree with me?”

  “It’s what I’ve been saying in my articles for a quarter of a century. That’s one of the great advantages that your young people have over ours. They are surrounded by the culture of the past. Beautiful buildings and planned gardens; silver and china that have been in the family for generations.”

  “You feel that? I’m so glad you do. So few people care about such things these days. And to have an American saying that. You must come out and see us. We must fix a day. Now where is Frank—oh, there’s Doctor Leisching’s car: we’d better be getting back or we’ll find our places taken.”

  Dr. Leisching looked aggrieved. He was annoyed at having been brought back to court. He had already given his evidence. This interruption in his morning’s work would involve the loss either of his siesta or his tennis. He was in no mood to be co-operative.

  “I’ve told you all I know,” he said.

  He said it rudely. Mavis’ nails bit into her palms. Dr. Leisching was an arrogant bully where those weaker than he was were concerned. He would not talk to a white man that way. Yet two hundred years ago, for all anyone in this room might know, Grainger’s ancestors were Princes of Dahomey while the doctor’s were servile serfs of a Junker landlord. Who was Dr. Leisching to think himself superior to Grainger? And why, oh why must Grainger be so patient?

  “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, doctor,” he was saying. “But there are one or two points on which we should very much value your opinion. You saw the wound that had been inflicted on the patient. Would you say that it needed exceptional strength to inflict such an injury?”

  “It would need strong teeth.”

  “Would it not need more than that? I have strong teeth myself, but I should not have believed myself capable of biting off anybody’s finger joint.”

  “Perhaps that is because it has never occurred to you to attempt such a thing. You are a sensitive, civilized, educated man. You have inhibitions, checks on your impulses which would prevent you doing things of which you are in fact capable physically. A poor bewildered savage has no such inhibitions.”

  He underlined the words sensitive, civilized, educated, savage. It was as though he were saying, “We’ll admit for the sake of appearances to the existence of this veneer of culture that you assume. But we know, perfectly well, that under that veneer you are as much a savage as that prisoner in the dock.”

  Mavis’ temper rose. If only Grainger were not so patient. Why must he keep turning the other cheek. There was an infuriating Christlike quality about him that was at the same time the core of his attraction for her. Why was he not more self-assertive? Yet how she would have loathed it if he had been a loud-voiced, aggressive upstart like David Boyeur who was lounging back now in the corner of the back row, in a light slate-gray-blue double breasted suit with a blue and pink bow tie, his white and brown shoe planted on the bench in front, with a look on his face that said, “Don’t forget me. I may be in the background but I’m the one that counts.” She was glad Grainger was not like that. If only, though, he had something, a fraction, a leavening of that drive of Boyeur’s.

  “May I put my questions in another way,” he was saying now; there was no trace of irritation in his voice, nor was there, that she had to admit, the least subservience.

  “Would you agree,” he asked, “that every now and then a man or woman can be subject to a fit that gives them great power for the brief time that that fit is on them?”

  He paused interrogatively.

  “Naturally, of course.”

  “What kinds of fit would give a man this power?”

  “In the first place, epilepsy.”

  “Would you consider the possibility of the prisoner being subject to such fits?”

  Dr. Leisching looked at the prisoner. The prisoner was leaning forward across the dock, a blank, uncomprehending, uninterested expression on his face. He had the air of being a completely retrograde type. The doctor shrugged.

  “I should find it hard to say. I should have to make a thorough investigation.”

  “Would you say that he was a robust person?”

  “Indeed I wouldn’t.”

  “If,
for instance, to take a frivolous example, we were to have in this court, a tug of war, eight men on either side, and you were one of the captains, he would not be, I take it, your first choice.”

  There was a titter in the court, but so slight that it brought no protest from the bench. The doctor grinned.

  “I should say I wouldn’t. Looking round this room I would say he was the last.”

  “Then in that case, wouldn’t you say that it was only under the influence of some very strong compulsion, under some such compulsion for example as an epileptic fit, that as poor a physical specimen as the prisoner could have the strength to bite clean off the top joint of a human finger?”

  “I don’t know. I …” The doctor hesitated, flushed: he had been trapped and saw it. Mavis exulted. He had got what he deserved. He had been arrogant and insolent and he had been humbled. Grainger was wonderful. He wasn’t mild and meek. He could hit back when he was roused, when he had been challenged, by an equal or by a bully. It was only with the poor, the helpless, the underprivileged that he was patient, gentle, infinitely tolerant.

  How she admired Grainger. If only she could have met somebody like that in her own world, three years ago. If only she could meet someone like that, in her own world, now. Surely it wasn’t too late. She was only twenty-two. She closed her eyes. She needn’t have been the way she was, she thought, if she had met someone to look up to, someone to whom she could have given her real self. But she never had. She was warm-blooded: she had thought, why not? and she’d enjoyed it. She had felt no regrets. She had had bad moments, naturally: with Rickie in particular. But she had shrugged it off. It was just another thing. She would get over it as she had before. It was only during these last weeks that she had begun to wish things different.

  As a schoolgirl she had joked about “Mr. Right.” But as far as she had thought of any Mr. Right, it had been in terms of the young men off boats with whom she had flirted; one of whom would turn out to be Mr. Right because he was in “a marrying mood,” was good to look at, and had money. It was not till the last two weeks that she had realized her need for a quite different order of emotion.

  How shallow in comparison with that need seemed now that sequence of flirtations, in particular this final one with Euan. Why on earth had she gone into that? He was not her type: she was not even sure that she was his. Why had they started it? Boredom, propinquity: because there was no one else? That was the trouble about a place like this, one had to make do with what there was. Of everything that she had ever done, this final exploit was the shallowest. The only kick she had got out of it was the prestige of having annexed the Governor’s son; that and the talking about it afterwards to Doris…. Doris, that was another thing. How helpless she was when temptation beckoned.

  She opened her eyes. They had been closed for a bare thirty seconds as that spate of thoughts flowed through her mind. Grainger was on his feet, addressing the judge. His face was in profile. It had a clean-cut line, thin lips, a straight nose. Had a bust been made of him, now as he stood in his robes, with his tight-fitting wig, no one would have thought of him as being anything but white. It was only his skin and his crinkling hair that betrayed his African ancestry. And was his skin so very dark? Here everyone knew who his father was. But in another island, in Jamaica say, could he not have passed as white?

  “It is nearly twelve, my lord. I would like to have a conference with my client, and I would like to read over my notes.”

  “Certainly. I agree, Mr. Morris. The court will be adjourned until two o’clock.”

  Mavis waited outside for Grainger. His wig was in his hand, his gown over his arm. He was wheeling a bicycle. Without his wig there was no questioning his background; it did not disappoint her. She was glad to have seen him in uniform, but she preferred him, he was more himself, like this.

  “It’s more exciting than a film,” she said. “It’s been fascinating, trying to guess why you were asking a certain kind of question, then getting the reason. You caught the doctor out all right.”

  “He was pompous, wasn’t he?”

  “Will you get your man off?”

  He shrugged. “These juries are incalculable. You can never tell what they may have in the back of their minds. Very often they know something that never comes out in court. That’s something one must remember. Everyone knows everybody here. It’s not like England where no one on the jury has heard of the prisoner before he actually walks into the box. Sometimes a verdict will astonish you, but you always know that there’s a reason. Anything may happen this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be here to wish you luck.”

  “That’ll make a difference. It has made a difference having you in court. It put me on my mettle.”

  He said it lightly. But she felt he meant it. He jumped on his bicycle. She watched him ride away. Couldn’t he afford a car? She looked round for Sylvia. Sylvia would no doubt want to make an occasion of it; it was her first visit to Jamestown for a week.

  “Where would you like to go?” she asked her.

  “The St. James. We shall see all we want of the club tonight.”

  “Where’s Maxwell?”

  “With the boys. In the Jamestown Club. He’ll have a heavy head this evening.”

  He was not the only one who might be expected to have a heavy head. The club was crowded; the noise was deafening. Bradshaw looked round him with discomfort. He had not wanted to come here. He disliked drinking. It was an unfortunate occupational hazard of his profession that the best way to get a story was to sit about in bars. One of the things he had liked best about his New York assignment was the being able to spend more time in drawing rooms than in bars. All the same he might find something here. He looked round him inquisitively. It was not the first time he had been in the club, but it was the first time that he had been here before lunch. He was surprised at the number of colored members and at the ease with which they were mixing with the whites. Was the color line a matter of feminine influence, or was it that though white men were quite happy to mix with colored men, they wanted to keep their women away from them? Something of both most likely. He was not, he reflected, seeing enough of the colored community. He sought out Carson.

  “Is David Boyeur here?”

  Carson looked round. “Yes, over there, by the fireplace.”

  At the sight of Boyeur, a little start ran along Bradshaw’s nerves. That was a very personable creature.

  “I’d be very grateful,” he said, “if you’d introduce me.”

  3

  Mavis was back by five to two. She knew what line of defense Grainger would adopt; that the prisoner was subject to fits that were either epileptic or of an epileptic nature, that a fit had seized him when he was struggling with his sister and his teeth in the spasm of the fit had closed upon her finger. They had talked it over at lunch.

  “Doesn’t that sound very reasonable?” she had asked her father.

  “Up to a point, but that torn ear will need to be explained. You can only bite in one place at a time. One of those bites must have been deliberate.”

  The point had not occurred to Mavis. She wondered how Grainger would argue round it, or if it had not occurred to him. She had arrived early so that she could warn him.

  “I’m looking forward to your address,” she said.

  “I wish I were.”

  “Don’t tell me you are nervous.”

  “It isn’t that. I wish I knew what form my speech will take. A maddening thing has happened. The idiot prisoner is resolved to make a statement. Heaven knows what he’ll say; but he’ll almost certainly run opposite to the defense I’d planned.”

  “Can’t you stop him?”

  “I’ve done my best, but you know what these people are, they want to be the center of attention. He can’t resist the chance of having all eyes turned on him. And it’s his legal right. I couldn’t stop him.”

  “Then I hurried my lunch in vain.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

/>   She told him. “I wondered if that point had occurred to you.”

  “You thought of that yourself?”

  She smiled. If it had been anyone else she would have taken the credit for her father’s perspicacity, but she could not lie to Grainger.

  “I wish I had. We were discussing it at lunch, my father raised that objection.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m more touched by this,” he said, “than I’ve been by anything since—I can’t remember when I was touched so much. I shan’t forget it.”

  There was a look in his eyes that told her that he would not.

  4

  The court was fairly empty after the resumption: empty at least of the upper crust members of the community. For them the chief interest of the session lay in the Preston case which would not come on for a half hour yet. They preferred to linger over their coffee. But the back benches were crowded with the proletariat; and the prisoner, looking round him from the dock, brightened at the prospect of addressing so many friends. It was a gala day for him.

  “My Lord,” he began, “I would like you to understand …” He took it slowly, explaining how there had always been friction between his sister and himself. Her father had always hated him. Her father had been jealous of his father. His mother had preferred his father. His sister had insulted him, her father had told her to insult him. If he had tried to hit her, her father had thrashed him. Her father was dead now and she could not take shelter behind his strength. She deserved what she had got. She had “troubled” his food. When she was a child she had insulted him. Her father was here no longer to protect her. She deserved what she had got.

  “He’s running off the course,” said Carson. The tale trailed on: a mixture of self-pity and self-vindication. It tore Grainger’s defense to shreds. There was no chance now of his pleading the unconscious violence of a fit. Mavis saw him exchange with the judge a glance of histrionic and amused despair. She felt very sorry for him. He had given up his whole day to this case, and this was his reward. Yet perhaps in the long run it would not be wasted. It would show the Santa Martans that there was such a thing as justice: that even if a man was penniless, a member of the bar would argue in his defense.