Island in the Sun

by Alec Waugh

  “That’s probably what they would do, isn’t it?”

  “There are more villages on the leeward side, there’s more for them to see.”

  “We don’t need to feel guilty about them, do we?”

  “They’ll be all right.”

  It was very quiet. The nearest village was two miles away. The beating of the steel drums carried faintly against the wash of the waves upon the shingle, the croaking of the frogs, the rustle of the palm fronds.

  “Why don’t I make some tea,” she said.

  “That’s an idea.”

  “Sylvia’s very wasteful. We’ll probably find a cake in the bread tin.”

  They did not find a cake, but they found a box of biscuits. Sylvia had an electric kettle. “We’ll switch on the current,” Jocelyn said.

  The electric plant was housed in a stone cistern, fifty yards away. It was connected with the house by an outside wire.

  “It’s a funny Heath Robinson contraption,” Jocelyn said. The handle was concealed behind a mirror. She pulled it gently, but no answering throb came from the cistern. She pulled again. There was no response.

  “It keeps going wrong. We’ll have to use the stove,” she said.

  They brought the tea and biscuits onto the veranda. The hot, sweet tea was infinitely refreshing.

  “They won’t be coming now,” he said.

  “No, not now.”

  “I’m glad they won’t. I want to see that emerald ray.”

  They had not long to wait. The sun grew rounder and redder as it dipped. First the tip touched the horizon; a quarter was submerged, then a half.

  “Be careful not to blink,” she warned him.

  He wanted desperately to blink. The sun dried his eyeballs. Three quarters were under now. He blinked fast, twice. Now he could hold out surely. He stared, fascinated. He had heard so much of the emerald ray, the last flash of vivid green as the sun submerged. But every time when the sky had been cloudless, the horizon had been hidden behind a hill. Whenever he had had an uninterrupted view, the sealine had been banked with clouds, and the sky streaked and torn and glorified with streamers of gold and orange, green and blue. This was the first time he had a clear chance to see the ray. He stared, resolved not to blink: the sun had almost vanished. One moment it was there and his eyes were smarting: another moment and it had gone and he was blinking hard.

  “Well?” she asked.

  He laughed. “I don’t know. It was a blur. I’ll say I saw it.”

  “That’s what most people do.”

  He looked back at the horizon. “‘Evening’s after green,’” he quoted. It was very lovely; the air was cooler now; a breeze was blowing from the mountains; the white flower of the night was opening, spreading its sweet heavy scent. The croaking of the frogs grew louder.

  “Oughtn’t we to be going soon,” he said.

  “I suppose we should.”

  But she made no movement. The dark fell quickly. There is no twilight in the Caribbean. Stars began to stud the sky.

  “What time does the moon rise?” he asked.

  “It’s three-quarters full. It should be coming over the mountain in about an hour.”

  “Let’s wait a little. It’d be nice driving back by moonlight.”

  “We’d better put the tea things away first. The light’s not working.”

  They moved the tea things down into the kitchen.

  “In England we’d have to wash them up,” he said.

  “That’s one of the advantages of living here.”

  They fastened back the shutters, closed the windows; locked the doors opening onto the veranda. The road was unlighted except on the outskirts of each village. The circling cars provided their own illumination. It was not exactly dark. The sky was starlit, and the moon mounting on the leeward coast was heralding its approach behind the mountains, but it was dark enough for them not to be able to see each other’s features. Conversation became difficult.

  “Perhaps we should be going back,” he said.

  “Perhaps we should.”

  “Before we’re quarter way there we’ll have a moon to light us.”

  “In less than that.”

  “We might stop on the way and have some supper.”

  “That’s an idea.”

  “Then we’re on our way.”

  They walked down the short flight of steps into the avenue. The steps were narrow and they were very close. She got into the driver’s seat.

  “Would you rather I drove?” he said.

  “It’s Maxwell’s car. It’s got its idiosyncrasies. I know them.”

  She pressed the starter. There was no response.

  “I suppose that’s one of them,” he said.

  “You wait. It’s got plenty of others.”

  She pressed the starter again. Again there was no response. She sat back, rested; pressed again; the same result. Another pause; another attempt; still silence.

  “This time it’s got me puzzled.”

  “I’ll try the jack.”

  But the jack was no more effective.

  “I hope you’ve got a torch,” he said.

  “I have.”

  He lifted up the hood, and flashed the torch. “Well, well,” he said, and let the hood down. “I hate to break it to you, but your carburetor’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “Your car, lady, has no carburetor.”

  “What?”

  “Come and look.”

  She got out of the car and peered. “You’re right, it’s gone.”

  “Is that a carnival idea of humor?”

  “You could call it that.”

  “What do we do now? Ring up your father?”

  “We can try.”

  He took the key out of the flowerpot, and opened the main door.

  “You’re better at your machines than I am.”

  She spun the handle, lifted the receiver, stood with it against her ear. There was a minute’s silence. She hung the receiver back, swung the handle; stood again with the receiver against her ear. Silence again.

  “It’s no good. It’s dead.”

  “It’s carnival, remember, the girl at the exchange may be on a jag.”

  “I know when a line’s dead.” She paused thoughtfully. “The electric light engine, the carburetor, now the telephone. Three things can’t be a coincidence.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It might mean anything. Grudges get paid off at carnival.”

  “Against you, against me, against my father?”

  “They don’t know it’s me. They don’t know it’s us. They only know it’s Maxwell’s car. He may have put their backs up. Or Sylvia may have done.”

  “We need a drink.”

  “You couldn’t be more right.”

  The refrigerator was worked not from the electric battery but by gasoline. They brought up ice and limes, rum and sugar and a bottle of angostura.

  She mixed the ingredients.

  “One of sour, two of sweet, three of strong and four of weak.”

  She spun the swizzle stick. “It’s very dry. It must be sipped. But you’ve learnt that by now.”

  He had. A dry swizzle, the rum heavily drenched in angostura, looked pink and frothing after it had been beaten up, as sweet as grenadine but it had a bitter aftertaste. He finished his cocktail in a couple of quick gulps.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. The others must have taken the other road.”

  “They must.”

  “They won’t start worrying about us for hours yet.”

  “Not till tomorrow morning.”

  “If they did, they’d decide there was nothing they could do about it. That’s what they’d want to decide anyhow. They wouldn’t start driving back to look for us when they were hungry and wanted dinner.”

  “If they thought about us at all, they’d feel it wasn’t any of th
eir business to find out where we were.”

  “That’s much more likely.”

  “In which case, since there’s nothing that we can do about it, we might as well have another drink.”

  “That’s an idea.”

  “Let’s make it a long one this time. Let’s get some soda. There must be a bottle in the icebox.”

  There was also in the icebox, half a chicken pie.

  “We’ll be able to have a good supper later on.”

  Their search for the soda had not taken them three minutes. But they returned to a world transfigured and transformed. In those three minutes the moon had risen over the shoulder of the hill. Three-quarters full, its soft cool light burnished the palm fronds, throwing long shadows along the avenue; they could see the expressions on their faces.

  “I’m beginning to enjoy this,” he said.

  They sat back in their long chairs on the veranda, sipping at the long, weakened, sour-sweet punch. How happy I always am with him, she thought.

  “How much longer have you got here?” she asked.

  “I’m supposed to have four months.”

  “Supposed?”

  “I don’t go up to Oxford till October. My father wanted me to spend all the summer here, but I’ve been rather wondering…”

  He paused. She helped him out.

  “Has Mavis made all that difference?”

  “No, no, it isn’t that, it’s… But what did you know about Mavis?”

  “I was in on it from the start wasn’t I?”

  “I suppose you were.”

  “At the beginning you were always talking about her, then you stopped talking about her, so I assumed something was happening. I was there that afternoon outside the court house, so you see.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t mind my having mentioned it?”

  “Of course I don’t….” He did not want to discuss it, at least not now. He frowned.

  She hesitated. Was there anything to say that could lessen the blow for Euan, that could restore his self-esteem. She knew the way Mavis thought, the way Mavis acted. She had her own explanation of what had happened. Mavis resolute to make the most of any opportunity for a good time provided by chance visitors, preferred to play the game on her own terms. She would call the tune and pay off the pipers when she was in the mood; and the fact that she had been humiliated by Rickie would make her all the more anxious to rehabilitate herself in her own and in the general esteem by walking out upon the Governor’s son. Jocelyn had no idea how far the thing had gone. But it was not impossible that Mavis had “led Euan up the garden path” to make his discomfiture the more complete. Euan had been sacrificed to Mavis’ injured vanity. His position as the Governor’s son made him the more desirable as a victim.

  She could hardly explain that to him without being disloyal to her friend. Yet she wanted to make it up to him.

  “Then if it isn’t on that account that you’re thinking of cutting your visit short…” She paused, interrogatively. It was an opening if he chose to take it.

  “Well, I suppose …” he started.

  But the sentence was never finished. Right in front of them and right along the cane field sprung shafts of fire that rose and roared; fanned by the wind, crackling, sweeping up the hill, tossing their sparks into the sky.

  For a moment they stared transfixed, then simultaneously they jumped to their feet and ran to the veranda rails. They stood there side by side, dazzled by the utter beauty of the sight; the orange and red flames, the clouds of smoke with the moonlight silvering their fringes; the dark backcloth of the sky, with the stars that studded it; the flickering glare upon the palm trees. He had never seen anything more lovely.

  “Somebody’s got it in for your brother right enough,” he said.

  She made no answer. He felt a sharp hot sting against his cheek.

  “Better stand back,” he said. “The sparks are flying.”

  But she did not move.

  “That’s the only danger,” she said, “that one of the sparks might set the house on fire.”

  “How far does the cane go?” he asked.

  “For half a mile, but the stream runs that way. The stream will stop it.”

  “Then it’ll turn south. How far do the fields go that way?”

  “For a mile or two, but there may be a field that’s been ploughed up.”

  “We ought to cut an avenue that the flames can’t jump across.”

  He asked her a succession of quick, practical questions. What chance was there of getting any of the villagers, was there a bicycle? Were there two bicycles? He wouldn’t want to leave her here alone, but perhaps they shouldn’t leave the house unguarded. The house was surrounded by a drive and garden. There was little danger of a spark landing on the veranda, but there was that danger.

  “They’ll probably see the fire won’t they? If they do, they’re bound to come and see what’s happening.”

  She laughed. “They’ll know about it right enough. You’ve heard of coconut wireless. They’ll soon be flocking round from everywhere.”

  “We might as well wait for them.”

  They had not moved since they had left their chairs: it was scarcely five minutes back, but it seemed that they had been living in another world when they had lolled back in the moonlit dusk, sipping at their long, cool, sour-sweet punches. The heat from the fire flushed their cheeks. He was conscious of an excitement mounting along his veins and nerves: there was the incredible beauty of the raging fire against the tropic night, and the spice of danger was intensified by his sharing of it with this girl. His arm was round her waist.

  “You’re not frightened are you?”

  “No, I’m not frightened.”

  “It’s like the air raids in London. There was danger, but a very slight one. You never expected a bomb to pitch where you were. Yet the fact that there was a danger gave a zest to everything. You enjoyed everything more because of it.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought you would have been there for the raids. Didn’t your parents keep you in the country?”

  “Daddy was in the Middle East. The house was shut. Mummy was in London. I didn’t want to stay with aunts.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  There was not a great deal to tell. He had been in London on that first Saturday in September when the first raid came. He had stayed on through the week, had seen that incredible Sunday, the 15th, when all day long the sky had been lined with the white trails of aircraft, when he had watched dogfight after dogfight right above his head; when he had seen a German plane crash wingless in circles to the ground. Then he had gone back to school. When he had returned for the Christmas holidays, the worst was over: there had only been the one big Sunday fire raid just after Christmas, when half the city had been in flames. That had been the end of London for him. During the Easter term his mother had been killed. After that he had spent the holidays with his aunts. He had not seen another raid. But that fortnight of raids during that first September was among the most vivid experiences of his life.

  “It wasn’t unlike this in a way,” he said, “though it couldn’t be more different. But it was beautiful in its own way too. The complete darkness of the city; the searchlights in the sky; the star shells scattering and growing brighter as they fell. I’d never realized how beautiful London was till I saw it in the blackout. You can’t see the lines and the proportions of the buildings when there are all those street lamps and neon signs, but when you see a London square suddenly emerge out of the darkness in the light of a star shell, you can’t see its base; it seems suspended in the air, then the shell fades and it slowly vanishes. It looked like a magician’s trick.”

  As he spoke it seemed to him that she drew closer to him, as though they were not here on a West Indian night looking onto a grand-scale bonfire, but back in London, sharing London’s proudest hour. He shifted his arm, adjusting it to her changed position; his fingers brushed against her breast and lingered ther
e.

  “There was one very strange thing about it all,” he said. “When I got back to school after that two weeks of bombing, I didn’t, as you’d have expected, sleep as I’d never slept before. I was restless. I kept waking up all night wondering how things were in London.”

  His hand was cupped now about her breast. He was vividly conscious of its smooth soft roundness under the thin brassiere. She did not move away. She appeared to be unaware that he was touching her.

  “I’ve been told,” he was going on, “that a lot of Londoners felt like that; that they’d go out of London for a weekend, hoping to get some sleep, and couldn’t sleep at all: they worried about what was happening in London.”

  His hand was moving now, softly, slowly over her breast, stroking it, caressing it. She leant a little closer to him. The blood pounded through his veins. The nipple lifted and hardened under his caress. He went on talking about London in the blackout, in the bombing, pretending that nothing was happening. He was watching and listening for the villagers’ arrival, with one part of his mind praying that they would hurry, with the other half praying that they would delay: praying for time to stay its hand, yet wishing for this moment of taut expectancy to be broken by some outside agency.

  The fire was now roaring up the hill, and turning southwards: immediately in front of them it had burnt low, and its heat was lessening, but its glare still flickered on the outhouses and on the palm trees. Her face in profile below his was soft and glowing.

  “How little I thought when I stood at my bedroom window on that first September night that one day I should be standing on a West Indian veranda, looking out on to a fire, talking about it to a girl.”

  She made no answer. She seemed to be as unaware of what he was saying as she was of the slow movement of his palm and fingers. She might have been asleep. Then suddenly she started.

  “Look, they’re here,” she cried.

  In the avenue there was a horde of them. Twenty, thirty, forty, he could not tell how many. They looked fantastically barbaric in their carnival costume, with the glare of the conflagration on their painted, glistening faces. More seemed to be coming every moment: boys, women, girls, half a village. The men were carrying cutlasses.

  “We must get this organized,” he said.

  He became in an instant the officer he had been until six weeks ago; taking control, giving orders confidently, with assurance, knowing they would be obeyed: finding the leaders, splitting up the villagers into teams, sending one party here, another there: giving them their instructions.