by Alec Waugh
A week before, Maxwell thought; then he couldn’t have brought it down on my account. He can’t have known I was coming in to see him. That lets me out. It’s fantasy, all of it, nothing else. Fancying things again.
“What case was worrying you?” Sylvia asked.
“The same old headache, I’m afraid. The Carson case.”
“I thought that had been shelved a long time ago.”
“That’s what one particular man is hoping, but it’s a hope that’ll never be gratified, I’m much afraid.”
“So you’re still hopeful.”
“Never more so. I watch and wait. That’s the point this book brings out so well. As long as the criminal’s alive, so is the cat and mouse game. You think the case is forgotten because no one talks of it any longer. I don’t suppose that you yourself have thought or talked about Carson for two months.”
“It’s curious that you should say that,” Sylvia answered. “As a matter of fact we were only talking about him last week; in such an odd way too. I’ve been chuckling over it for the last five days. Darling, you don’t mind me telling the Colonel do you?”
“Of course I don’t.”
She recounted the episode of the cigarette.
“Have you ever heard anything more hilarious? Colonel Carson and myself, and Maxwell was so jealous: he was off his head about it. I’m surprised he didn’t challenge him to a duel. The things that men think up. Doesn’t that astonish you, even with your experience?”
The Colonel smiled. He had been watching Sylvia as she talked, but now he turned toward Maxwell. There was a conspiratorial quality in his smile as though he and Maxwell shared a secret, as though the incident had for them an inner significance it could not have for the others.
“No,” he said, “not altogether.”
He paused: his smile became ironic; then he turned back to Sylvia.
“If I were married to anyone as attractive as you, my dear, I should be jealous of every male that breathed.”
It was the kind of lumbering compliment for which the Colonel was notorious and for which “the inseparables” had invented their own counteroffense of Victorian coyness.
“Oh Colonel, come now,” Sylvia said.
He knows, Maxwell thought, he knows.
2
He knows, he repeated to himself as he drove on the following morning to the Leg. Co. meeting.
The meeting was to be held at ten in the Court House.
Bradshaw arrived there at quarter to. He had persuaded two of his fellow journalists to accompany him. They came reluctantly. They were here, they argued, to describe the tourist potentialities of the island. They wanted to find a nearby beach and work upon their tan.
“You can’t have too much background material,” Bradshaw had assured them.
They had gone grumbling: Bradshaw, whom in Trinidad they had thought of as a pompous old Mr. Know-all, had managed since their arrival in Santa Marta to establish an ascendancy over them. They were having a good time and they had been forced to feel that the continuance of that good time was dependent on his good will. They supposed they had got to go to this damned meeting.
By the time they arrived the road outside the court was lined with cars. Policemen were patrolling the entrance to the courtroom. They were in full uniform; white spiked helmets, white tunics, dark blue trousers with red piping. They wore their medals. The stripes on the sleeves of their coats were embroidered in red and gold. They carried swagger canes.
“The British certainly know how to put on a show,” said one of the journalists.
In the colonnaded passage way outside, the councilors, self-conscious and self-important, were standing in groups waiting till the last moment to take their places. From the court came a loud murmur of voices.
“Sounds like a lion house in the zoo ten minutes before feeding time,” a journalist remarked.
Bradshaw looked through the entrance. At the back of the hall two rows of benches were reserved for the public. There was seating accommodation for about forty. Usually there was an attendance of a bare half dozen. Today the benches were crowded and men were standing against the walls. They were all very dark; most of them were coatless; they had the look of field laborers and longshoremen. Young Boyeur’s fans, Bradshaw supposed. He looked round for Boyeur and saw him in conversation with Grainger Morris. Boyeur was wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, a plain burgundy red tie, and his shoes were black. He was starting to dress the part. Bradshaw caught his eye and came across.
“Is all this in your honor?” he asked.
Boyeur grinned.
“I guess some of the boys wanted to see how I made out. I thought they might. I warned Whittingham. As you’ll see, he’s put out some extra chairs for the elite.”
There were a dozen office chairs in front of the benches. They were empty.
“We might as well sit down,” Bradshaw said. “It’s five of ten. They’ll be here any minute now.”
He explained the setup to his colleagues. The Judge’s chair had been brought down from its dais and placed in the apex of two curved quarter circles. Five seats were set on its right side, seven on its left. In front of each chair was an inkpot, a blotter with a weight to keep the papers from being blown about by gusts of wind, and a glass of water.
“The official and nominated members sit on the right, the elected members on the left,” Bradshaw explained.
The big hand of the clock had reached the edge of the roman numeral. In twos and threes the councilors moved in to take their places. Maxwell Fleury faced his father with Boyeur two places away on his left. Maxwell was taut, excited: his senses quickened by the dramatic irony of the situation. Here he was one of the island’s legislators, the honorable member for Belfontaine. And only thirty yards away in the police station, Whittingham was spreading his net, hoping to trap him, hoping to place him in the dock that faced him against the wall, behind his father’s head.
“Look, here they come,” Bradshaw whispered.
A policeman came first, bearing over his shoulder the gold mace. The Governor followed. He was wearing a khaki bush shirt with a Sam Browne belt. He was three inches shorter than the constable, but that did not diminish his impressiveness. He looked very imposing as he stood under the royal coat of arms with the red tabs at his collar and four rows of ribbons above his left breast pocket. He recited a prayer hoping wisdom might be granted to the Council. He bowed to his councilors, and as he took his seat, the policeman laid the mace on its stand facing him.
“As you remarked, the British certainly know how to put on a show,” said Bradshaw.
As the hall settled into its seats, Bradshaw was conscious of a rustle beside him and a wave of scent. He turned and there was Muriel Morris, flushed and breathless, embarrassed at being late. He saw Boyeur turn to her, Boyeur’s face light up as he smiled. There was a fondness in that smile that was new to Boyeur. There was pride there and gratitude and friendliness, a look of belonging, a recognition of being belonged to. It warmed Bradshaw’s heart. He had thought of Boyeur’s marriage in terms of self-advancement. The experience of his life had taught him to think of most marriages in those terms, an angling for position. Perhaps this was more than that. Perhaps this was the thing that novelists and poets wrote about. He shrugged. He did not know. How could he know? It was something that lay outside his own experience.
“Excited?” he whispered to her. She nodded her head twice quickly. This must be a big day for her. He hoped Boyeur did not make an idiot of himself. He turned back to his colleagues. “There’s quite a little routine stuff coming now. We may get fireworks later. We may not. You can never tell.”
The ordinary business of the meeting took its course. A member who had been absent for the opening meeting took the oath of allegiance to the throne, swearing that he would be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty, his heirs and successors, according to law, so might God help him. The minutes of the previous meeting were then read; two announ
cements were delivered: were any petitions to be presented? No, none were. Were any papers to be laid before the house? Yes, there was a report from the Housing Commission. Copies were issued to the councilors for their information and if necessary, action. The whole procedure took twenty minutes. It was time then for the first motion. “We may have fireworks now,” Bradshaw whispered.
“The first motion,” the Governor announced, “is that hospital patients should not have to pay to wear their own clothes; it is proposed by the Honorable Member for St. Augustine’s.”
“What on earth is all this about?” asked Bradshaw’s colleague.
“Probably a private quarrel with a matron somewhere. But we shan’t know that.”
The Honorable Member for St. Augustine’s rose to propose his motion. He was an elected member. He was short, dapper and quarter colored. He was dressed in a black cloth suit with a high butterfly collar and a black and white polka dot bow tie. He looked as though he were dressed to take part in an Edwardian comedy. He spoke slowly, articulating his words carefully as though he was speaking in a foreign language.
There were standing instructions, he explained, that patients in the Jamestown hospital might only wear their own clothing on payment of a shilling. This was an antediluvian instruction. He did not know how long it had stood upon the books or for what reason it had been put there, but it was hard to conceive of a more ridiculous regulation. It was obviously in the interests of economy that patients should wear their own clothing; it represented a considerable saving in wear and tear of nightgowns and pyjamas; there were some people who had an affection for their own clothes; sick persons have their little fads and those little fads should be humored; the speed of recovery might depend on it. A shilling a week might not sound a large sum to the members of this Council, but it was a large sum to certain sections of the public. What, he asked, was a laborer’s wage. A dollar a day. A shilling was quarter of a day’s work. Would any planter be satisfied to pay away every week one quarter of a day’s profits for the privilege of wearing his own pyjamas when he was sick? Besides, apart from the money involved, there was the principle of the issue. Was it not manifestly unjust?
“There must be some private feud involved,” said Bradshaw. “That’s how things happen here.”
The proposing speech lasted thirteen minutes. It was seconded by a five minutes speech. Its supporters on the elected side were brief. Boyeur retained his seat. He did not want to speak for the sake of speaking. He did not want to echo the others. A Boyeur speech must be an event. It paid not to speak too often. That was how to be effective. Let the others speak every time there was a motion so that they could see their names in the papers. Better to be shock troops.
“Has any other Honorable Member anything to say.”
Julian Fleury rose.
“I was unaware, sir, of the existence of such a regulation. I do not know when or how it came into effect. But it does seem to be a case in which the opinion of the medical authorities should be invited. I can imagine several reasons why this regulation was made. Many of the hospital patients come from very humble homes. Many, unfortunately, live in squalor. Such patients may arrive in a verminous condition. It is essential for the sanitation of our hospitals that their clothes should not be brought into the wards. The charge of a shilling, when this regulation was made, must have been designed to prevent such clothes being brought into the wards. Thirty years ago a shilling was a large sum of money and the kind of person who would arrive in that condition would not be able to afford a shilling a week for the satisfaction of wearing those clothes. A shilling is possibly too small a sum today.”
He was not, however, he continued, going to propose that the charge should be raised to a dollar, a proposal he had incidentally considered; but he was going to suggest an amendment to the motion: he suggested that the charge of a shilling should be removed but that the medical authorities must be satisfied that the sanitation of the hospital was being at all times maintained.
Maxwell, watching and listening from across the table, was touched for a moment by that old sense of self-inadequacy, of resentful jealousy. His father carried off this kind of thing so well. Why couldn’t he? He had been sitting silent for forty minutes, wanting to say something, but lacking the confidence, the assurance. If his opinion had been invited, he would have been able to make some contribution, but when the pause came, when a speaker finished, he lacked the experience to interpose his comments. Why couldn’t he be more like his father? But it was only for a moment that he thought that. It was a matter of practice; that was all; he’d soon learn.
This afternoon they were to discuss the tourist potentialities of the island. He had ideas on that. He had made notes, memorized his key sentences. It would be his first speech and it would be effective. It was the first step that counted. Within a year he would have acquired his father’s poise. Within a year …
He checked his thoughts. Where would he be within a year? Only three rooms away Whittingham was spreading the meshes of his net. Where would he be within a year?
“The amendment to the motion reads—” the Governor was announcing.
Would the day ever come when a Governor would read out his amendment to a motion.
“Will all those in favor say aye.”
It was carried unanimously. How easily his father got his way.
“The next motion is ‘That immediate steps be taken to vote an adequate sum of money to repair the schoolhouse in St. Patrick’s.’ To be proposed by the Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s.”
There was a stir, a shuffle of feet from the crowded benches. This was what they had been waiting for. There was a pause. Boyeur was in no hurry.
“Sir.”
From the other side of the House had come an interruption. Julian Fleury was on his feet.
“I hope, sir, that I may be forgiven this interruption, but before the Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s addresses us, I would like to remind the House that the priorities for the rebuilding and repairs of schools lies in the control of the Board of Education. There is an urgent need for repair in a number of school buildings. St. Patrick’s, no doubt, is one of them. But is it desirable that this House should debate an issue that is being discussed and decided upon with the full authority of this House, in another place? I venture to make this interruption because I am not sure whether the Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s is aware of the situation.”
The interruption did not discomfit Boyeur. His voice in reply was firm and confident.
“The Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s is perfectly aware of the fact. It provides an example, a typical example, of what we in this new Council must be prepared to fight, what we must fight. The board is our servant, not our master. It has been allowed to think of itself as our master, because up to now this island has been run on an antiquated system. If we had a ministerial system such as exists in England and indeed in Trinidad …”
Bradshaw leaned over to his colleagues. “I’ll explain this,” he whispered.
He wrote on a sheet of paper, “The system in Britain is to have various Civil Service departments, Fuel, Transport, Post Office, Treasury, over which members of the cabinet are made ministers, responsible to Parliament for the conduct of these departments. Some West Indian Islands have that system too. But not Santa Marta yet.”
He paused, then continued, “Each island has its own distinct system. In some islands the administrator presides over the council. Some councils have a speaker. Santa Marta is the only island where the Governor presides.”
He paused again, then added: “There’s an Executive Council that carries out the instructions of this Council. H.E. presides over that.”
It took Bradshaw two minutes to explain the situation to a man ignorant of the political formula; it took Boyeur ten minutes to attack a system with whose working every member of the Council was familiar.
The Governor sat back with his elbows rested on the arms of his chair, his hands c
lasped on its round knobs. As Boyeur’s jeremiad grew more perfervid, his hands tightened their hold. This had got to stop. One had to allow councilors a certain latitude. It was traditional for elected members to shout, wave their arms, exaggerate. West Indians were naturally oratorical, and councilors talked to impress not so much their fellow members as their constituents in the districts. They wanted to be quoted in The Voice, they wanted to have the districts discuss the vigor with which their interests had been defended by their representatives. Councilors must be allowed some latitude. But Boyeur had passed the bounds.
The Governor looked at the crowded benches. Every face was turned to Boyeur; the eyes wide and gleaming; sometimes the lips moved, following his words in a mesmeric trance, as Boyeur harped back on that refrain “The Board is our servant. We are its master.” No, this was too much. The Council could not be turned into a circus. Boyeur must be brought to heel.
The Governor tapped the table with his gavel and stood up. Boyeur surprised, checked in the middle of a sentence. He gaped, staring at the Governor. H.E. sat down and turned to Grainger.
“For the benefit of the Honorable Member who is not, apparently, familiar with our procedure, I will ask the Attorney General to read out Standing Order 7 c.”
“Standing Order 7 c,” Grainger read. “When the President rises to his feet, any member who is standing will resume his seat.”
The Governor bowed, “Thank you,” then tapped again upon the table. As he rose, Boyeur sat down.
“I must remind the Honorable Member for St. Patrick’s that his present duty is to propose the motion under his name, namely that immediate steps be taken to vote an adequate sum of money to repair the schoolhouse at St. Patrick’s. The system of Government in this Crown Colony is not under discussion. The time at our disposal is limited.”
He sat down and Boyeur rose.
“I apologize, sir, to you and to the house. I was carried away by my enthusiasm, by my anxiety to serve my people. I had thought what I was saying was relevant, as a prelude to what I had to propose, in view of the intervention by the Honorable Nominated Member. But I was carried away. I spoke at too great length. I will confine myself strictly to my proposal. Gentlemen, I was carried away. In my place you, too, might have been. I speak of a blot upon our colony. How many of you have ever visited the school house at St. Patrick’s, where the children of my people, my poor, poor people are learning to be worthy and loyal citizens of the British Empire? Have you seen the crumbling steps that lead to it; have you seen its leaking roof and the rotting timbers that support it? Once it was the house of a rich planter: for many years now no planter has deigned to live in it. It is not good enough for him; but it is good enough for the children of my poor people.”
