Island in the Sun

by Alec Waugh

  Her shoulder pressed above his heart, her breast lifted and sank slowly as she breathed, her hair scented with jasmin was against his cheek. Her nearness was a delight beyond words’ measurement. Why should fate have given him such delight only to imperil it? Why had this torture had to visit him? Why could it not have struck at someone who did not value life, who did not care whether he lived or died, who could have shrugged off his grim necessity? To many men life meant little. Why could not fate have attacked one of them? Why had it chosen him?

  What were they plotting for him, down there in Jamestown, Whittingham and the Governor, with their traps and tricks? But they won’t get me alive, he vowed; never, never, never.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  1

  David Boyeur stood in front of his mirror and turned slowly round. He was wearing evening clothes for the first time. He had bought them in Trinidad, three months back. They had been made by an East Indian tailor. They had cost a hundred and thirty dollars. He had charged the cost against Union Funds. His conscience was clear on the morals of the transaction. The Union’s representative needed to be well dressed. He must not appear at a disadvantage when he met the Sugar Barons. Every morning when he dressed he would look at his white dinner jacket on its hanger and the black trousers with their broad braid stripe, wondering when the day would come for him to wear them.

  He had read that some of the British Labor politicians had appeared at Court in ordinary lounge suits, refusing to wear the livery of social servitude. He had thought that ridiculous. Beat them at their own game. When the A.D.C. had rung him up, he had not asked what he should wear. No doubt Archer had expected him to say, “But I’m afraid I’ve got no Tuxedo,” and Archer had no doubt had his answer ready. “H.E. doesn’t bother about that kind of thing. It’s you we want to see.”

  Probably some of the other guests were wondering at this moment how he would appear, saying to themselves, “Poor fellow. He won’t have a Tuxedo. He’ll feel embarrassed. We must put him at his ease.” Put him at his ease, my foot.

  As he turned slowly round he twisted his head first over one shoulder, then over the other. My, but it was something. The high squared shoulders, the tight fit over the hips, the narrow waist, the long skirted coat; that East Indian had known his job. And then the accessories; the long tie like those he had seen in the Hollywood movie papers, the semi-soft poplin shirt with its crisscross piqué, and the black satin waistcoast embroidered with flowers in gold thread. He’d show them.

  He had arranged to call for Muriel at ten to eight. He arrived at half-past seven. He wanted to see Grainger first. He was not sure of his exact position at the Leg. Co. He needed his future brother-in-law’s advice. But Grainger was not in. He had gone out directly after supper. Wasn’t that unusual, didn’t he always after an early meal work on his cases until ten? Yes, that was usual. But tonight he had gone out. He had not said where he was going nor when he would be coming back.

  Afraid of meeting me, Boyeur thought. Mrs. Morris looked embarrassed. She talked about the Test matches in England, then about a film that was to come next week. She was making conversation, avoiding any topic that might lead to a danger issue; and any ordinary local topic would. In a small place like this everyone was discussing the same three or four topics of the hour. And he himself, right now, had ousted every other one.

  At the end of the veranda the youngest Grainger boy, with his heels tucked under him, stared at the visitor with wide fascinated eyes. He was awe-struck by Boyeur’s elegance. The white dinner jacket, the piqué shirt in contrast to his brother’s armor, the satin embroidered waistcoast. He was more impressed by Boyeur’s clothes than by his brother’s. He had remembered his brother’s homily “work hard, that’s the only way.” He had been working with fierce concentrated vigor ever since. Boyeur could not tell that he was thinking that. Boyeur supposed that that unwavering stare was inspired by horror, that the child saw him as some black ogre come to steal his sister.

  Mr. Morris came onto the veranda; he was out of breath and over-apologetic at having kept Boyeur waiting.

  “I’m very sorry. You came a little earlier than we expected. We keep early hours. Supper at half-past six. Fell into the habit for the children’s sake and kept it up.”

  Why was he so flustered, so apologetic?

  They were all of them ashamed of him, Boyeur thought. They didn’t know how to treat him. They were regretting that they had agreed to the engagement. They were wondering how they could get out of it. He could give them the answer to that one. They couldn’t.

  “What can I offer you,” Mr. Morris asked. “A swizzle?”

  Boyeur shook his head. He rarely took alcohol and only on occasions when he was certain that he would not need to be upon his guard. Alcohol was an extravagance, so was tobacco. He would rather spend his money upon clothes. Alcohol was a betrayer. You committed yourself to things, were indiscreet and injudicious. He made enough mistakes without alcohol. Besides, he did not like the taste of it.

  “Will Muriel be long?” he asked. “I’d like to have a talk with her before we go.”

  At the sight of her in the doorway Boyeur started. It was an off the shoulder dress. White with a small pink and green flower pattern. She was so young, so fresh, so unaware: and his to mold, to fashion; his and his alone. He pictured himself walking with her at his side into smart hotels in Trinidad. He would wear her like a buttonhole. No one would suspect that she was colored. Their children would pass as white. They would go to school in England. The future dazzled him. His future was symbolized by this tall, slim girl, with her delicate features and firm, pliant figure.

  “You do look beautiful,” he said.

  There was a ring in his voice that sounded like a film star’s. How often, as a schoolgirl watching from the stalls entranced, had she not dreamed of the day when a man’s voice would sound like that for her. How long would she have to wait? Three years, four years, two years. She had read the movie magazines. All the heroines of the screen had had their first dates when they were sixteen. Many of them had married before they were twenty. How long would she have to wait? Then she had looked from the screen idol to the heroine who had inspired that glint of the eye, that hunger in the voice. No wonder a man felt like that when that kind of a woman beckoned. On her return she had faced her reflection in the mirror. She had noted her scraggy arms, the hollows under her shoulder blades, the unformed breasts, the flat hips, the coltish legs. Would any man feel like that about her when the world was full of women like Lana Turner? She would never see that gleam in a man’s eye, never hear that tremor in a man’s voice. She had cried herself to sleep in impotent despair.

  And that was only a year ago, and now here she was, a circlet of diamonds and rubies on her left hand, facing a tall young dashingly handsome man; his eyes were shining, his voice was echoing in her ears. A year ago she would not have dared to wear a dress like this. She would have wanted to cover over her skinny shoulders; now she wanted to display them. They were round and smooth. A miracle of transformation had taken place.

  “I’m early,” Boyeur said. “But I wanted to see you for a moment first. Although the party is being given for me, I shan’t be allowed to spend one second with you. They’ll separate us the instant we arrive. Let’s go for a drive.”

  He took her by the arm, above the elbow. She was breathlessly conscious of the electricity in his finger tips. It made her knees feel weak.

  She sat away from him in the corner of the seat. She could not trust herself to be too close to him. Later, when he drove her back, not now.

  “Is this party really for you?” she said.

  “That’s what the A.D.C. said. He asked me to pick the night. That means it must be for me. Or rather I’d say it was for us, in honor of our engagement.”

  A party at G.H. for her. It was the first time that she had dined there. And to have on that first time a dinner party in her honor. It was wonderful to be engaged to David, to someone who wa
s both young and vivid and was crazy over her; and so important too. Yet the most wonderful thing of all about it was that it would not have made any difference to her if he had been poor and obscure; a minor Government official, say. But it was wonderful, there was no use pretending that it wasn’t, that he was one of the chief figures in the island. All this and heaven too.

  “I reckon that H.E. is trying to kill two birds with one stone. He wants to honor our engagement, and he wants an opportunity, I won’t say of apologizing for that scene in the Leg. Co., but explaining to me that it was only a routine affair. Nothing to be taken seriously. He knows that he’s got to keep on the right side of me. Otherwise we’ll have the Trades Unions down on him like a ton of bricks. At the same time he has to maintain appearances in the Leg. Co.”

  He was talking to impress himself as much as anything; to convince himself of his own importance. She listened, entranced not so much by what he said, as by the force and vigor of his voice. He was such a man, so confident, so forceful. That he should want to marry her.

  2

  Boyeur arrived at G.H. at eight minutes to the hour. Julian Fleury was at that moment calling impatiently to his son.

  “Hurry up now, Maxwell, for heaven’s sake. We’re going to be late.”

  “Two minutes, Father, not a second more.”

  It took five minutes to drive up to G.H. His father always fussed about the time and Maxwell was resolved to arrive last. He wanted to see how the stage had been set out for him; how the enemy’s forces were disposed, and who the enemy were. His nerves would not have stood the strain of waiting, of watching the arrival first of one adversary then another. He might have given himself away, before the eyes of one who had been deputed to observe each gesture. He wanted to see the whole order of battle set out before him in a glance.

  They arrived at two minutes to eight.

  “I thought you weren’t going to make it,” Archer said. He did not appear, however, in the least bit flustered. That, Maxwell reflected, was one of his chief merits. He never panicked. If a guest was late, it was the guest’s fault not his.

  “What was all this mystery about?” Maxwell inquired.

  “You’ll see.”

  Archer led the Fleurys into the room.

  “This is one of the fortunate occasions when I don’t have to bother about introductions,” Archer said.

  Maxwell looked round him. He saw young Templeton and Mavis Norman and Doris Kellaway. The usual group; what was the mystery? His eye ran on, to be checked, in sudden relieved recognition. David Boyeur. Of course. Now he understood. He had had no cause to be alarmed. Boyeur started too. He, on the other hand, was puzzled. What did this mean? Why was young Fleury here? He met Maxwell’s stare and held it. Young puppy, damned young puppy. A door slammed upstairs. The Governor stood at the head of the stairway, paused, looked down at his guests, then slowly came down the stairs to welcome them. He was dressed informally in tight fitting dark blue patrol trousers with a white tunic high buttoned at the neck. Muriel found it hard not to gasp. She had never guessed that he could look so impressive. She had thought of him as a little man.

  As soon as the Governor had shaken hands with his guests, cocktails were served. Boyeur shook his head, but at dinner he allowed the butler to fill his glass with wine. He was feeling nervous. It was the first time that he had dined at G.H. Its mixture of informality and ceremony made him feel awkward. In a sense it was a family party, yet he was conscious of being entertained by the representative of the British Crown. There were twelve places laid. General conversation was impossible. He could not impose his presence and personality. Mavis Norman was on his left. He did not find it easy to talk to her. He had always been told that she was the liveliest of the unmarried Country Club set. But she did not have much to say for herself. Small talk was not his line. A pause between them lengthened. He was seated near the end of the table, and Mrs. Fleury who was occupying the hostess’s position at the table’s foot, addressed a remark to Mavis that started a triangular conversation, with himself excluded, with Mavis’s back turned on him. On his right Mrs. Norman was occupied with Julian Fleury. The talk had divided on either side, turning away from him. He looked round the table. He felt conspicuous sitting silent while everyone else was busily engrossed in talk.

  Muriel, placed on the Governor’s left, was talking easily, it seemed, to Maxwell Fleury. Her skin looked very dark against the Governor’s white tunic. She had seemed white enough against her family’s darker coloring, but what a difference there was between Maxwell’s skin and hers; and Maxwell had African ancestry. Max-well would pass anywhere for white. It had never occurred to anyone that he was not white till Bradshaw’s article appeared. While as for Jocelyn with her fair skin and blue eyes and light blonde hair—the very replica of her mother—no one would have thought of her as being anything but white. It would be a long time before his children could pass as white, whereas Maxwell’s and Jocelyn’s children…

  He looked resentfully at Maxwell; resentfully and enviously too. Maxwell had put Muriel at her ease, whereas he himself had failed to hold Mavis’ interest. Maxwell had put Muriel at her ease, because he was at ease himself. Maxwell ate his food without appearing to be taking nourishment, eating as he talked, yet never seeming to eat when he was listening, or when he himself was talking. His entire attention was concentrated upon Muriel, yet the volume of food upon his plate diminished. How did one do that? He had read about young men dining for the first time in grand houses being embarrassed by the number of forks and knives and spoons confronting them. He wasn’t. He knew all about that. He had bought a book on etiquette. But this business of eating while you talked, that puzzled him. He liked to talk, then eat, then talk again. How did you do two things at the same time.

  Doris Kellaway was sitting next to Maxwell. Young Archer was on the other side of her. Archer too was thoroughly at his ease; eating and talking and laughing and emptying his glass. A series of automatic movements. Boyeur concentrated on Archer. He preferred watching Archer. He liked Archer. Margot had created a bond between them. Archer never attempted to high-hat him. He was just another guy; he would not mind taking lessons from Archer. Archer was, in one way, indebted to him, had reaped where he had sown. Young Fleury was a bastard, neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring. Archer was different. He was the real thing; in the way that the Governor was.

  Boyeur looked at Archer enviously, but not resentfully as he had at Maxwell. He noted the cut of Archer’s dinner jacket, it was white, single breasted and hung loosely on his shoulders. It had been bought off the peg most likely. Archer was wearing a soft shirt: it was not an evening shirt at all but it was made of silk. His tie was of a butterfly wide-ended style, a prewar tie judging from the movie magazines. It was slightly aslant upon its axis. Yet at the same time Archer looked well dressed. He made Boyeur, with his padded shoulders and fancy waistcoat, feel overdressed. Wasn’t the test of a gentleman the way he wore evening dress. That was what he had always read.

  Boyeur turned his attention from Archer to Julian Fleury, who was wearing a high wide-winged collar and a plain stiff shirt fastened with a single black pearl stud. You never saw a collar and shirt like that in the movie magazines. Yet Julian Fleury looked well dressed, in the same way that young Archer did. Whereas I don’t. I’m overdressed. I’ve got a lot to learn.

  Boyeur felt awkward, embarrassed, sitting there silent, while everyone else was jabbering away. He felt hot and uncomfortable. His skin was damp under his padded shoulders. A lot to learn, yes, but he would learn it. He was disdainful, truculent. He’d show them.

  The fish plates were cleared away. The Governor turned to his left, to Muriel.

  “Now I want to hear all your plans: when you are going to be married, where you are going to live: everything. May I say that I think you are a very clever young lady to have captured our most eligible bachelor. He has been, from what I gather, the despair of designing mothers-in-law for several years. Now that I see
you, may I say that I am not at all surprised.”

  Muriel flushed with happy pride. It was the kind of little speech that she had heard British Diplomats make on the screen, old-fashioned, mannered, courtly. The whole evening was like a film. The Governor coming down the stairway, the A.D.C. making the introductions, the long candle-lit table, the silver candlesticks and flower bowl; the china with the royal arms, the servants in uniform; the whole dressed-up atmosphere of it all; Mavis and Jocelyn and Doris Kellaway in their pretty frocks, with herself on equal terms with them; and all the men so handsome and so smart, with her David so much the smartest; look at Captain Archer’s tie, all swiveled round; no one else had an embroidered waistcoat. She felt so proud of him; so proud of herself because of him. This was the loveliest evening of her life and at the end of it all, the crown of it, they would drive out past the fort to St. James’s point and park the car there, high above the sea, to talk it over, and that rich tremor would come into his voice. Oh, but it was lovely to be in love; and to be loved.

  Mavis turning back to Boyeur, saw Muriel as she leant forward across the table. She looked very young and happy and excited. It sent a pang not of envy but of nostalgia along her nerves. This was what as a schoolgirl she had wanted for herself, to be in love and to be engaged and to have a party given for her. It was something she would never have, not in the same way. To be engaged to the first person that you were in love with, what a dream that must be: you only realized what a dream it could be when you had passed the possibility of its realization.

  Muriel was lucky, but then Muriel had stood more chance. She had had a much wider choice of men. Muriel was not walled in, as she was, by this color conflict. David Boyeur was many degrees darker than Muriel. By Moreau St. Mery’s reckoning there was more difference between Muriel and David Boyeur than there was between Muriel and herself, yet whereas everyone welcomed and honored Muriel’s engagement, she herself could not meet socially a man like Grainger Morris. Grainger could not belong to the Country Club.