Island in the Sun

by Alec Waugh

  “I stand here as a candidate in the elections …”

  Once again the din of the steel band broke out. This time Maxwell did not attempt to shout above it. He waited. The band went on. He leant down and whispered to the priest. The priest stood up. There was instant silence.

  “This,” the priest said, “is a disgraceful exhibition. Mr. Fleury has come here to address you in your own interests. You should listen to what he has to say. I insist that you should listen. Some of you may not want to hear, but others do. Those who do not want to hear have not the right to prevent those who want to hear from listening. I insist on silence.”

  The priest sat down. Maxwell began once more. “I stand before you as a candidate …”

  A voice from the side called out, “We heard you the second time.”

  Maxwell started on another tack.

  “The elections that will take place in a few days are an event of the greatest importance in the history of Santa Marta: they are a unique occasion. Santa Marta is now a self-governing community. It is for you to prove that you are worthy of self-government. It is for you to prove that you are worthy of the trust that has been placed in you. It is for you to show the world …”

  He was speaking in a slow schoolmaster’s voice. This won’t do, Bradshaw thought. He ought not to be saying “you”; he ought to be saying “we.” They won’t like this, if they understand what he’s saying, which probably they don’t.

  “It is for you to show that you are capable of running this island for yourselves. And how can you do that? There is only one way of doing that, by choosing the right men to govern you.”

  Bradshaw winced. Oh no, he thought, oh no, no, no. It was all wrong. He’d put their backs up.

  “It is for you to find …”

  The sentence was never finished. The clatter of the steel band burst out again, fierce, barbaric, mandatory. For a minute it continued, then it stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The complete silence following upon the noise was as disconcerting as the interruption. Maxwell hesitated. He had lost the thread of his argument. He began a sentence, abandoned it; stammered, then started on another.

  “The duty of a Government,” he said, “no, I don’t quite mean that, the duty of the electors of the Government is as great as the duty of the Government to the electors. There is a mutual obligation. You owe it to the Government to choose the right men to form the Government.”

  Now what does that mean, Bradshaw asked himself. He could see what had happened. Maxwell was an inexperienced speaker. He had lost the thread of his argument. He could not improvise. He had fallen back on a passage that he had memorized, so as to recover his confidence, to get back into his stride, to get used to talking. No doubt that passage about “duty” and “obligation” would have been pertinent in its proper context. It was meaningless now.

  “That is the joint purpose of Government: the interrelationship of obligation between the governing and the governed.”

  Maxwell paused. He had regained his confidence. He knew where he was standing.

  “You will ask me how this affects you,” he began again, “where this affects you, the voters of Belfontaine, who will soon be casting your votes here in this room behind me. You will ask me …”

  Now this is better, Bradshaw thought. He’s making it personal. He’s got on to a “you and I” basis.

  “You will be going each one of you to the polls, many of you for the first time in your lives. …”

  Once again the sentence remained unfinished. Once again the din of steel broke out; to cease again abruptly ninety seconds later; to leave Maxwell once again uncertain, hesitant, off his guard. Once again it took him three or four stammering sentences to recover his composure; and then once again as soon as he had begun to speak with confidence, the steel band interrupted him.

  There was no doubt whatsoever that it was prearranged, and that David Boyeur, if he had not actually planned it, had been in the plot. Where would it end, Bradshaw wondered; had any climax been prepared: or was it to be a war of attrition, an endless series of interruptions until finally Maxwell was forced to abdicate?

  Bradshaw watched, curious and interested, forming in his mind the sentences with which he would describe the incident in his next article. Romer had thought himself to be pensioning off an old retainer; he was now learning how little use he had made of one of the best writers on his staff. When he returned to Baltimore it would be on his own terms. What terms would he dictate? A pipe dream flowered as the din of the steel band beat on.

  Once again the noise ended without warning in the very middle of a passage. Once again Maxwell stood, silent on the veranda, his face in shadow, his hands clenched upon the table. It was the sixth time that this had happened, and his nerve was shattered. He was inarticulate. At that moment into the channel of light that divided the two sections of the crowd walked David Boyeur. He checked in the very center and looked up at Maxwell. He was illuminated by the spotlight. He was wearing a white and blue check coat, a bow tie and dark blue trousers. He looked very handsome. His face wore an expression of amused contempt. He laughed, then turned his back on the veranda. He raised his voice.

  “This isn’t amusing any longer. Let’s go.” He walked back into the crowd and the crowd started to disperse. There was the shuffle of feet, a purr of voices. Within two minutes there were barely thirty people in the audience. Maxwell glared at the remaining few.

  “You don’t deserve a vote,” he said. “I’m going.”

  He drove back to his house in silence. How differently had he foreseen this hour. He had seen himself returning home in the glow of victory, with Sylvia proud of him, he himself confident and masterful. The priest’s house was half way back to theirs.

  “Will you come in for a moment?” the priest asked. Maxwell shook his head.

  “It’s too late. Thank you very much. It was very good of you to come. I wish we had given you a more satisfactory evening.”

  “Don’t be depressed. These people are incalculable. They’re like their climate; one moment the sun is shining; the next it’s raining.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Or rather he should have known. They were impossible. There was nothing to be done with them. It had been madness to give them the vote, to change the constitution. They couldn’t run anything on their own; they were savages. He’d been a fool to run for the Council. It was only a moment’s mood; because of what Carson had said that evening. Carson. What did Carson know. He’d only been here three years. Carson! He had admired him once, but that was before he’d known. Carson, Carson, Carson. Carson was at the back of everything that had gone wrong with him these last two months. He drove on in silence.

  “Are you hungry? What would you like?” Sylvia was asking.

  They had had a late substantial tea before they started. They had agreed that they would not know how they would be feeling till they returned. There was a cold chicken pie in the refrigerator with a half bottle of champagne beside it. He had planned it as an occasion.

  “I’m hungry. We’d better have that pie,” said Sylvia.

  He had been too excited to eat before he left; but he had no appetite.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “We might as well have the champagne since it’s there,” she said.

  He did not feel in a champagne mood and the wine struck sour on his palate. Sylvia cut herself a large helping of the pie. She ate with gusto. The evening’s fiasco had made no difference to her appetite. He resented her ability to enjoy her supper.

  “I think I’ll withdraw my candidature,” he said.

  She looked up from her plate incuriously.

  “I never quite understood why you put yourself up,” she said.

  “I explained it didn’t I, at the time.”

  “It never made much sense to me.”

  She spoke on a note of unconcern. She did not care whether he ran or not: whether he failed or succeeded. She did not shar
e his life; she was not a wife in the real sense of the word. A wife was someone with whom you talked your problems over, in whom you confided, to whom you brought your triumphs; who offered you consolation when things went badly. If he had had a wife like that, he wouldn’t be the pitiable failure that he was. He was no good here. He never would amount to anything in a place like this. It might be different in England. Here he was laboring all the time against the handicap of being white. No one trusted him, nobody believed in him. No one was on his side. How could he show these people what he was worth?

  “I’ll tell my father what happened here tonight,” he said. “I’ll withdraw my candidature. When he hears what’s happened he’ll refuse to serve as one of the nominated members. It was a put-up job tonight: that was obvious wasn’t it? How could my father serve with men who have treated his son like that.”

  So he talked: angry, resentful, self-distrustful, on the night when Bradshaw’s third article stood in type, on the printing press of The Voice of Santa Marta.

  Chapter Thirteen

  1

  The morning paper did not reach the Fleury town house until Julian Fleury had left for work; a second copy was delivered at his office. Ordinarily he did little more than glance at the arrival and departures column. On this morning however, the headline above Bradshaw’s article caught his eye. He had better see what the fellow had to say. But even so, it was not until close on noon that he found time to study it.

  He read the opening paragraphs with interest. It was well and clearly put. “Let us take some typical examples …” Two inches below his eye he saw his name. He had read of a sick feeling in the pit of a man’s stomach. Now he knew what that meant. He closed his eyes. Pull yourself together, he adjured himself, and take your medicine. He opened his eyes.

  “The Fleury family,” he read, “provides a pertinent example of this mixed situation. The Fleurys are one of the oldest families in the Caribbean. Their estate house at Belfontaine is historic. Its present owner, Julian Fleury, was brought up in England. He was educated at Eton and at Oxford. His great-grandfather, as an absentee owner, had bought a house in Devonshire. The Fleurys are as well known in the West of England as they are in the West Indies. A distinguished Wessex family was delighted when Julian Fleury proposed marriage to their youngest daughter. Presumably they did not know, and if they had known they might not have cared that Julian’s mother who died in childbirth was a Jamaican, with colored ancestry. The wheel has now come full circle and the Fleurys are resident once again at Belfontaine.”

  The lines that the editor had erased had linked Jocelyn’s name with Euan.

  Julian Fleury stared at the paragraph: that this should have been brought up after all these years. Thank heaven Arthur had never known. Betty, Jocelyn, Maxwell, how would they take this? Had they read it yet? He called up his house. Jocelyn answered.

  “Is your mother there?”

  “She’s here. Do you want to speak to her?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He could hear Jocelyn calling, “It’s Daddy, Mother.” Then there was Betty’s voice, “Yes, darling?”

  “Have you read Bradshaw’s article?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  They had read it, had no doubt discussed it. A sense of guilt bore down on him. It was outrageous that they should be subjected to such a shock; that he should have brought this on them.

  Yet he had brought it in all innocence. He had had no idea of his real background when he came out here. He had never suspected it. His father had never told him.

  Their voices dropped as he came onto the veranda. He looked first at Betty. There was sympathy and fondness in her smile. As at all times in their joint life she was standing by him. The knowledge gave him courage. Jocelyn’s face, however, was set and stern; as it would be naturally.

  “Is it true?” she asked.

  “It’s true.”

  “And you told me that there was no good reason why I shouldn’t marry Euan Templeton.”

  “I can see no good reason.”

  “How can you say that? Euan’s heir to a title. Can you picture a black man sitting in the House of Lords?”

  “There’s no need to exaggerate. My mother was three-quarters white. I’ve only one-sixteenth of colored blood; your children will be completely white, all but a thousandth part.”

  “What about a throwback.”

  “That’s an old-fashioned theory. It’s been disproved: the blood gets whiter all the time.”

  “That’s what the scientists are saying now, but have they proved it? The risk’s too big, in Euan’s case. If he were an ordinary person it wouldn’t matter, but he’s not. His being a peer makes all the difference. You can’t pretend it doesn’t. Even in these democratic days. A colored man in the House of Lords. That fear would poison everything.”

  She spoke quietly, but accusingly.

  “Why couldn’t you have told me years ago,” she said. “Then I wouldn’t be in this fix. I’d have been on my guard. I’ve always wondered. One wonders about anyone who’s born out here: I’ve compared photographs of your father and yourself. There’s a different cast of feature. I’ve looked at myself in the glass. I’m exactly what mother was at my age. I can’t see a trace of it in myself, but Maxwell’s dark, like you. I’ve always wondered. Why was there so little talk about my grandmother? Mr. Bradshaw’s right. All this whispering and secrecy. Why wasn’t I told? I had a right to know.”

  Julian Fleury looked toward his wife. There was nothing but fondness in her eyes. If only it were just the two of them they could brave this thing through so easily. It would be an added bond between them. Once again, as so often in the past, he found himself resentful of the children who had come between them, who had disturbed their harmony.

  “I never knew it myself till I came out here,” he said. “There was nothing to make me suspect. My father toured the West Indies with a cricket team, he fell in love and married. Within eighteen months he was back in England as a widower; a year later he had married again, a girl he had been half engaged to before he sailed. That was all I know. My stepmother was a mother to me. Why should I have felt any curiosity about a mother that I’d never seen, about an island that I never heard discussed. It was something I fancy that my father and stepmother wanted to forget. It was a brief episode in their lives. Perhaps my father should have told me, but I don’t see why he should. I might have been worried by it. He never expected that I’d come out here. He warned me against coming here. He acted as he thought best, as I’ve acted as I thought best.”

  He did not elaborate the story. His mother, so he had learnt since, had belonged to one of those quiet, respectable middle-class families who were educated with care, whose sons worked in Government employ. He had always imagined that his father and mother had had the kind of romance that can so easily happen with a visitor to an island, that there had been no talk of marriage till his mother had found that she was pregnant. To a girl in her position an illegitimate baby would have been a great disgrace. His father had behaved honorably. No doubt his father had thought of his wife’s death in childbirth as a merciful intervention of providence. He could then go back to England, to the life for which he was fitted by taste and training, to the woman he really loved. His conscience had been clear. How could he have foreseen that sixty years later a situation such as this would arise?

  “I never knew till I came out here,” he said. “I don’t suppose I ever should have known if I hadn’t met a remote cousin in Antigua.”

  Betty smiled.

  “I wasn’t certain if you knew.”

  “So you knew then.”

  She nodded. “An anonymous letter.”

  “You never mentioned it?”

  “If you didn’t know, it was better that you shouldn’t.”

  Ah, there it went again, thought Jocelyn. Secrecy. Whispers. Anonymous letters. Nothing in the open.

  “I didn’t think it mattered,”
her mother added.

  Jocelyn stared at her. Not matter, when her own life was being ruined by it.

  The maid announced that lunch was ready.

  “When does H.E. get back?” her mother asked.

  “This afternoon. It’ll be a nice surprise for him.”

  “Before you decide on anything …”

  Jocelyn interrupted her. “Let’s lunch,” she said.

  They seated themselves round the table. It was a curry luncheon. Julian’s favorite dish. The sight of the high piled plate filled him with nausea. The telephone bell rang.

  “I’ll answer it,” said Jocelyn.

  Anything to be out of her parents’ company.

  “It’s Maxwell,” she announced on her return. “He’s seen the paper. He’s coming in right away.”

  Her parents exchanged a glance. Maxwell would take this badly.

  “How did he sound?” asked Mrs. Fleury.

  “Hopping mad. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

  “Poor little boy.”

  Poor little boy indeed. Jocelyn’s temper rose. Why should Maxwell deserve pity. His life was not being spoilt. His die was cast. She would not worry if she were in his position. Poor little boy. She couldn’t look her mother in the face. She was too resentful. Her mother had never cared for her. It was Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell. Just because he was disagreeable and ill-tempered. The mother’s affection for the ugly duckling. Poor little boy.

  2

  Maxwell arrived soon after three, seething with indignation, vowing vengeance.

  “We must break this fellow, we must sue him in America. That’s where we can get big damages. You can’t trust our juries. Besides they’d say that it wasn’t doing any damage. In America it’s different. To call a man colored is to ruin his career. We must sue in Baltimore.”