Strange Music (8 page)

Then Charles asked me to marry him; he said minister said marriage was good. But my own heart blew cold. I won't marry Charles. Already I'm a slave to Mister Sam, don't want to be a slave to anyone else ever again. And church spread like blister rashes through Charles' life. Blisters Charles, it seemed, had to keep picking at. More he picked, angry and red, bigger those bitter blisters grew. And Mary Ann grew lumps in she mouth, throat too, and I took she to church hothouse. They said it's ulcers she'd got and she must drink only seawater. Church felt even colder when I found out what she'd done.

And she disappearing haunted me like all she other strange acts. Why she cowered, cat-like, from everyone. Why she wouldn't do any chores. Wouldn't shine Mister Sam's boots, scrub or polish yacca floor in him blue bedchamber. Said she hated blue. Blue sky. Blue sea. Blue light falling on blue-black floorboards. Blue dress from England Mister Sam gave she. Only wanted to wear my ragged brown dress. Kicking, fighting, snarling, wildly matted mane muddled round she honey-brown neck, screaming like she felt to tackle hell's fire when Mister Sam forced she into that blue dress. He forced my daughter into its bodice, stiff-shouldered and hunched as a soldier she strutted across great-house hall. Then spewed everywhere. Sick shot across yacca floor and all over she blue dress. That night she shredded that dress.

From then I watched Mary Ann much more closely. But it was Charles found out she truth.

Mister Sam now begs me to send for him cousin.
Mister Sam decide to make him will?
Worry tightens my belly.
Him will can make my sorrows go
. Sheets feel slimy with sweat and sick; him skin takes on a ghastly milky hue in dim moonlight.

Bracing myself as he rolls, I strip dirty sheets away and, easing him back into place, struggle to lay a bleached sheet beneath him, across bed mattress. Him body, twisting, breaks into sweat.
Soften rigid spine
.

Him voice strangle between lips taut like slave ship's rigging: ‘My cousin, Kaydia, is he coming?'

‘Soon come,' I say.

Whispering, ‘Water, water,' he rests slanted awkwardly, a slab of flesh that's him shoulder cushioned by my knee, pain-creased face moonlight struck. I lever an arm from under him back, it dangles limp from a shoulder. I'm smoothing waves clean from wide sheet but its surface still crinkles like moon-white salt water. Him nightshirt's skewed; him collar, mattress cloth feels damp.

A yearning for my mama creeps out from floorboards up into bedchamber's dark air, seeping up like a yearning can. Haven't seen Rebecca Laslie for years. Waiting on Mister Sam, I long for she. Long to know if she dead or alive. How a mama can sever a daughter from she?

Something like Mama's face – if that's what she is – stares back from old stone rainwater jar when I go to fill Mister Sam's jug: my hair curls tied up in a ragged red scarf and, sharp as moon-shadows black on water, deep pits like Pa carved under Mama Laslie's eyes for crying and half drinking sheself to death. Rebecca Laslie lives. I swear she's not dead.

I have to take jug's weight, raise rim to Mister Sam's lips. Mister Sam tastes cool water, head jerking up down, up down, with each tiny sip. Eyes uplifting to mine, weakly he slides into pillows again.

Sounds I hardly know trickle into my ear, pulling my head round. Sounds like Mary Ann laughing, but how laughter can be mournful? Empty? Scared? Hall clock strikes eight, calling me for Doctor Demar's table laying. Why hall clock chimes so lonely sad?

Dancing, Mary Ann comes first into great-house dining-room. Stripes purple as lips still stand up vivid on she face. Worming a path from forehead to chin are bold lines of skin Charles' whip raised. But blue bruises faded long time past.

Cutlery in my hand, I pause from table laying. May, Jo, Friday, follow Mary Ann. Friday wears a nice green shirt, first time I seen him dress bright and crisp. But I feel badness in all this busha-house party mood.

‘Pa treat Friday to it,' Mary Ann's singing, throwing she head round.

‘Why yu tek so lang lang coming?' I ask Mary Ann. ‘Yu tink me work fe yu?'

‘It Friday's birthday,' she replies.

‘Mary Ann, Mister Sam say don't ansa back,' May says mockingly.

Pa's cracked feet pad like leather on yacca floor. Same Pa. Same mama.
Sibyl and me both sister sameway. Why sameway Pa don't treat we? Shame! Me cyaan change me red skin colour. Cyaan kill it
.

Mary Ann's face aglow with wickedness. A thin brown hand stretches out, making for cutlery by Doctor Demar's plate. She all curiosity, Mary Ann. I wonder if she aware of Doctor Demar's gaze. But sparkling silver's within she reach. She dares to touch one fork, pretty plate.

Looking like Pa's about to attack, jaw hard-grinding roast coffee beans, him eyes sad, mean; Pa's lean shoulders set angrily. Lizards scuttle into hiding.

I cuss pickney, ‘No, outta de weh.' Running around all with eyes of different colours – Friday's green, Jo's blue-brown, May's grey – pickney scatter onto dark verandah, bare backs half-black as my own daughter's.

Brooding, sucking him teeth, Pa gazes at Mary Ann. She head bobs beneath table-top, eyes peering up.

‘Mary Ann, clear de hall table wen Doctor Demar rum finish,' I'm saying to she.

Pa, deciding something, teases dirt from under fingernails, flicks it towards sea. What's past's more real to him than what's present. Pa's arm skates Mary Ann. ‘Cho! Cease an sekkle,' he yelling.

Ducking, Mary Ann squeals, ‘Me aint done noting!'

Striding onto verandah Pa's foot scuffs a centipede, leaving a scaly smudge, oozing slightly.

Centipede's skewered on a splinter, scaly patterns delicate like lace. Mary Ann, in a trance, cages it between toes, hurting it for pleasure.

Turning, Pa says, ‘De saltin fish yu mek dis mornin have a bad flavour.' He cut him eye at me. ‘Wot mek yu not tek back yu baby fadda, Charles, huh?'

‘Me bring Mary Ann into dis place,' I say. ‘Me tek care of she.'

Mary Ann's mashing a withered claw between verandah planks, a twisting body. I know of all Pa's ways to bring Mary Ann pain.

‘Git out, Mary Ann,' I shout. ‘Git to kitchen block, do yu chores. Clear Doctor Demar's rum fram hall table.'

‘Wa mek yu send me send fe Doctor Demar wen Doctor Demar ere?' Pa asks.

‘Me didn't know dat, Pa.' Peering through open doorway moonlight moves darkly, sneaking across sea's endless blank face. I shout after Mary Ann into darkness, ‘Yu skim de oil fe coconut meat? Yu do chores wid May, Jo an Friday? Fetch wata, bucket in dere fe yu.'

Looking like he could kill, Pa grinds him iron jaw. Like I making things worse, not better. ‘Me didn't know,' he cuts.

Struck again by all badness that's happened I'm walking through great-house hall. Candle-light flickers along corridors. Strong smells seep from rum and coconut oil polish I rubbed into mahogany wall panels until they shone. Mary Ann – she misery stings cruelly,
If me stab meself pain'll go?
On hall table a rum tumbler, pitcher of water and strong rum punch jug set out earlier on silver tray for Doctor Demar, waits for Mary Ann to clear.

Shutting out sweeping ocean, both drawing-room doors I close. ‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' I'm shouting. Mary Ann's where? Can't see or hear my daughter any more. Lantern don't shine from kitchen block.
God forgive all we here
. Mary Ann stood high as my shoulder, she was nine when she hiding began. Suddenly I can't stop crying and aching for she. I don't know how to wipe clean this stain that's Mister Sam's badness. Memories sicken me.

Mister Sam's door stands half open. Him eye plead helplessly. Blue in him eye's too dark to see. Arms lie like a cross on him chest.

Thrashing like him drowning, Mister Sam's hands crab sheets. Like a sudden raw energy throbs in him blood he vomits, full force, as I never seen man or woman vomit before. Kneeling, mopping up him vile mess, I'm thinking I'm no better than Mary Ann – Mister Sam's fancy thing – like all woman in this place, trampled by a man. Mister Sam's hands, hot as sun-scorched sand, reach for mine. Foul black bile streams from him mouth. Mister Sam's fever brings spasms all night.

Hot night passes. Mournfully conch-blow wails – monster's dawn-break sound. Punching pillows to make them light, my heart's pounding as surf crashes on pink coral reefs.

Sunlight spreads, glittering gold across blue sea. Mary Ann smiles wickedly from under Mister Sam's four-poster but she eye's glazed and crazed like Rebecca Laslie's.

‘Gimme a cup a-chalklit, do,' Mary Ann says. Crawling lizard-like on she belly, she upsets Mister Sam's tray I hold.

‘Yu dun yet? Wot a ting!' I'm saying to she.

Mary Ann searches for fruit, sugar grains, china chips. Scars don't show on Mary Ann's face when she's looking down. She mumbles, ‘It brik,' trying to fit patterned china slices back together.

‘Always yu brik crockeries. Go'way, Mary Ann,' I say, and haul sodden sheets from Mister Sam's mattress. ‘Yu aint got betta sense?' I ask.

Moaning, ‘It's breaking,' Mister Sam bends him spine until it bows and curves like machete blade.

Mary Ann stands up and says, turning, ‘Me a-go now, Ma.' Gold sun rays thread between jalousie blinds. Silently Mary Ann slips out, she sun-gold back disappears.

In one sweeping movement Mister Sam swings him legs down from mattress, lunges for pineapple shape carved into mahogany-red bedhead. Sunlight splashes on shining wood. Him head thuds on yacca board flooring; face hidden by hair, a soft floppy mess of straw-coloured spikes. Breath comes so thin it's mysterious. I heave him up into bed, shake him shoulder, call him name.

Mister Sam's mouth opens and shuts like red snapper.
He does know? Him remembering?
My heart sounds like thudding drum beats,
walnut jewellery box on black dressing-table
. Blocking my thoughts. Sunlight strokes Mister Sam's sheets, him eyelids flicker into sleep.

Chapter Four

. . . Torquay is a beautiful place – but as to its
human
aspect, it is much more like a hospital than anything else, & so, none of the gayest – Respirators & stethoscopes ‘go about the streets' – I have not made one acquaintance since I came, except my physician's – a privation for which you won't pity me . . .

. . . I hear very often from Miss Mitford – who has been much distressed lately by the illness of her father. He is recovering almost miraculously. Ask for me whether there is an edition (in one work) of the Platonic philosophers – mind,
not
of
Plato,
but the
Platonists
in Greek . . . My dearest Papa is with me just now. It is such a happiness! no room for a word more! . . .

I am wondering, as I gaze across the monotonous sea, how to obey the conventions and etiquette of this world in which I exist and remain faithful to my heart and desires. For a falling-out has occurred. A falling-out within the family.

Bro
will
stay with me. He
must
. He
shall
. Or I shall be mad. Madness results from losing all one's loved ones. So I shall tell Papa I am going mad. My pleading for Bro to stay in Torquay so angered Papa he resorted to slamming the door minutes ago as he went out. Perhaps his temper will soften with the coming of spring. Though it doesn't usually. Chains heavy and cold enough to be iron would enter into my soul were Bro to leave. I don't understand why I must be separated from those whom I love, and who love me; nor do I understand why Papa tries to curb all that brings me joy.

There has not been a reply to my last lengthy letter from anyone in London for ten days since. Sam docked in London weeks ago. Has he forgotten me altogether? He was never the most sagacious of writers. He must have been about sixteen when he wrote to Henrietta from Charterhouse whilst Mama was convalescing in Cheltenham:
I suppose the next thing I shall hear will be that Mama has been to one of the dashing Cheltenham balls and then I shall hear that you are gone off to Gretna Green with some dashing young man
. The next news Sam received of Mama was that she was dead.

All morning I have tolerated a humming buzzing noise inside my head which is equal, in annoyance, to one of Henrietta's tuning forks. Yet I am certain this noise comes from within, and is, perhaps, less of a noise and more a sensation. Am I tuning up for something? I rather fear I anticipate change. What the change actually is and how it will come about, I cannot say. Instinctively I feel it concerns matters I have never been able to discuss with Papa, matters weighing heavily upon my mind, such as Bro's need for direction.

Without warning the door blows open and the woman who watches me floats in. She seats herself before the window; her movements fluid, haunting. Might this creation have been formed by my morning medications? Surely my remedy – opium – hasn't soused reason with delusions. I fancy my mind has melted into pools of delirium. Shaken, and with a spiralling sense of dread, I am compelled to watch. Swiftly her head turns. She lifts her face, raises her wet eyes beneath a crêpe veil. But it is on the ocean that her look alights. She seems shut up in a world of her own. Shut up in her own darkness.

Whatever it is she's experienced is a particular kind of loss about which I understand nothing. I cannot read her thoughts yet sense she possesses an omniscient knowledge of mine. Now she weeps as I weep. Huge heart-wrenching sobs wrack her fragile frame. She resembles Mama when, when . . . this woman who comes to my bedside when others leave, why should
she
lose a baby? Life will never be the same for her, not after such grief, such intense pain. My sister, Mary, died at the age of four. I was eight, and Mama's sadness and suffering then was incomprehensible to me. I start thinking, what is it like to bury a baby? Is this the first she has lost?