The Pink House at Appleton (12 page)

‘She wasn't right for him,' Papa said, quietly observing Mama.

‘I thought they were just right for each other.'

Papa seemed shocked. ‘It was doomed from the beginning.'

‘You couldn't tell,' Mama stuttered and clasped her hands together. ‘There wasn't anything outward for anyone to tell that they were unhappy.'

Papa considered this. ‘She didn't care for him,' he said. ‘She's heartless. Moodie's better off.'

But Mr Moodie didn't feel better off. News reached them that the first thing he did after the shock of the news was to send the keys of his Appleton house by courier to Patricia Moodie all the way in Kingston. He couldn't let her go. She'd gone into him deep. He wanted her to know that she still had access and would always have access, because she was special, the only woman he had opened his heart to, that he would never let her go, that he was nothing without her. He didn't wait long for an answer. The keys were returned the following day without a written note, without an oral message delivered by the courier, just the cold keys on their own, alone, like he was. It was the lowest point in his life – he was abandoned, discarded, tossed aside, of no significance. He was not even history. It was as if she had erased him from memory, when he so much wanted to be remembered. He cried like a baby all night.

Boyd dreamt of Patricia Moodie, her swirling skirts, her supple calves, the high heels, the red-lipsticked lips, the pearls falling into the secret part between her breasts, her warm presence.
How could it be that she didn't last forever?
He knew her scent and the music from her.
If she, someone he knew so well and was so passionate about, didn't last, who could?
In these Technicolor dreams he was tossed and torn and felt the searing pleasure of her heartlessness.
People come, people go, nothing lasts forever
.

And in the days after her leaving, he saw a drooping Mama still with no real friends, listening to
Housewives' Choice
day after day, pondering her own future and talking to Mavis, fascinated with her gossip. For a maid, Mavis seemed to know more about the goings-on at the estate than Mama; about the Mitchisons, the Dowdings, Miss Chatterjee, what happened at the club, the Bull Pen over the weekend, who did what, when and how.

‘All the men fancy Miss Chatterjee, ma'am,' Mavis gushed.

Mama rolled her eyes.

‘Every single one of them, ma'am,' Mavis laughed.

Mavis reported the demise of Mr Dixon, the electrician who lived at the Bull Pen. She had news long before Papa announced it at the dinner table.

‘Ruby throw kerosene oil all over Mr Dixon last night and strike a match,' Mavis said. ‘While him sleeping in bed, ma'am. Sleeping in bed!'

‘What?' Mama asked, astonished.

‘Yes, Miss Victoria, ma'am. Mr Dixon scorn her and take up with another woman. Ruby, the woman him scorn, so vexed she went straight to the Bull Pen when she know him sleeping. Set him alight in the night, ma'am. Poor Mr Dixon burn bad, bad. And Ruby in the lock-up now, mad as a dawg.'

Before Mama could draw breath, Mavis carried on. ‘And Mrs Mitchison always at the club, planning this, planning that and chatting with Mr Brookes. If she have anything to say, she say it to Mr Brookes. She respect him, ma'am.' Seeing Mama's look of disbelief, she asserted, ‘Yes, ma'am, is true. So Evadne tell me. Her cousin, Ralstan, is the bartender at the club. And when Mrs Mitchison have her lunch at the club she take little Susan with her. Evadne have the run of the house from ten o'clock every day when Mrs Mitchison drive off, ma'am. And…'

Mavis didn't understand Mama's sudden silence and her fixed stare into the distance. She knew that Mrs Brookes was a very thoughtful woman. The nicest and the best women were.

As Boyd heard Susan's name mentioned, a sudden warmth spread from his cheeks down to his toes.
And Susan came to him. She came to him suddenly. Mama did not know. Papa did not know. He frolicked about with her in the sun. They climbed trees together, sweated and laughed and sat in the shade and chatted. They dashed about in the gardens till late in the afternoon and felt each other's heat and breath. Sometimes they watched, close together, not speaking, the evening shadows growing long on the cooling grass, and forgot to hear the dinner bell and so had to be pulled apart by the cloying hands of Evadne and Mavis. Susan was all the pretty girls in all the books he'd ever read. And she was Estella. Pretty, heart-breaking Estella, growing more alluring each day with absence. Susan was sitting next to him with her legs drawn up under her berry-red gingham dress with the puff sleeves. She was a pink hibiscus. He just wanted to run his tongue slowly up the silky petals and down deep into the pink centre. He wanted to feel her lips like he felt the petals. He wanted to kiss just like in the movies, lips squashing against lips, eyes closed like babies at titties, the music rising while the sun turned to Technicolor red, hearts beating amid hard breathing.

And it was while he was drugged with these torrid thoughts that the idea of a scheme came to him. The boldness of it made him sit up.
He would go to her and do it in Technicolor
.
He would end the waiting and go over to the Mitchison's house and do it there.

The Mitchisons sat on the verandah of their new home. It was eight o'clock, a warm night and the stars were out, starlight-white in a night-blue sky. The scent of orange blossoms drifted in from the trees at either end of the garden, and there were other scents, too, that they did not recognise. They loved the new house. It was modern, airy and painted in sober, cool colours, appropriate for the tropics. It was much bigger than their house at Monymusk in Clarendon, and more stylish, with the modern flat roof that was all the rage. The gardens were very well-kept, too well-kept for their liking. They would teach their gardener, Adolphus, how to make it more unkempt and interesting, the way they liked it. Susan, their child-fairy, fast asleep in bed, needed a magic garden, not a golf course.

‘Good man, Brookes,' Mitchison said. ‘The sort of man you need on an estate like this. Full of ideas, very competent and always punctual, something most of his countrymen have yet to learn.'

‘He's impressive, isn't he?' his wife agreed. ‘And so polished.'

‘Polished?'

‘You know, all-efficient in a management kind of way.'

‘A great talker, too. If you have nothing to say, keep away from him. I see he cornered you at drinks the other night and wouldn't let you go. What was it, politics or sugar production?'

For some reason Ann blushed, a deep pink, which in the darkness of the verandah appeared as radiance. ‘Both, actually. And, for the record, I cornered him. I heard he supports Norman Manley's case for self-government. I wanted to hear exactly what his thoughts were. He quoted from Manley's speech in the House last year on full, internal self-government. Great speech. He's absolutely fascinating.'

‘So is Victoria,' Mitchison said.

‘I meant Manley, the Chief Minister.'

‘I see. Isn't Brookes?'

‘Of course. The most charming man on the estate. Almost as charming as you.'

Mitchison laughed. ‘Save your flattery. What do you think of Victoria?'

‘Very quiet, doesn't say much. Seems decent, though. She's expecting their fourth child. And it hardly shows.'

Their maid, Evadne, appeared with a wooden tray on which were two glasses and a crystal pitcher. She was beaming.

‘Thank you, Evadne,' Ann Mitchison said.

‘Thank you, Evadne,' Mitchison repeated.

‘Tenk you, ma'am, sar,' Evadne returned, combusting with bliss. She was not accustomed to being thanked so much by her Jamaican employers, and never for doing her job. ‘Tenk you.'

When Evadne left, Mitchison spoke carefully, registering a change of tone. His hair was receding, leaving his forehead wide and smooth and ochre-red. The remaining hair was dark and brushed hard back, revealing a hint of grey around the temples. The smooth flesh of his forehead caught the diffused light of the drawing room. Ann was convinced his forehead was getting bigger all the time, transforming his head from one that was respectably ageing into something grotesque. She had never mentioned it and did not intend to, since he was so sensitive about losing his hair, but the forehead was so conspicuous that nine out of ten times she found herself looking at it rather than listening to him.

‘What's that, dear?' she said now.

‘Christ, Ann!'

‘I'm sorry, I was miles away. And you were almost whispering anyway. Do please tell me again.'

Mitchison sighed heavily. ‘What I said was, I don't want you getting too close to these people.'

‘Oh, dear,' Ann said wearily, giving him her full attention.

‘You know perfectly well what I mean. At Monymusk you single-handedly ran the Crop-Over Dance, you took charge of the library and any social function at the club and took it upon yourself to visit every disadvantaged family in the district. You are not the social welfare officer, you are not a social worker, you are not the estate party planner and you are not a political activist. You are my wife.'

Ann sat open-mouthed, her fleshy lips trembling, but not through distress. She was shocked and irritated. ‘I had no idea you felt that way. For goodness' sake, Tim, why haven't you said anything before?'

‘I want things to be different at Appleton.'

‘I thought you wanted me to get involved. You've always encouraged me, made it quite clear you didn't want a stay-at-home wife.'

‘I'm not saying you should disengage completely. At Monymusk things got out of hand.'

‘Out of hand! But you said nothing.'

‘At Monymusk things got out of hand. I'd come home and you were never there, always at some women's group or some poor person's house. Be the wife of an estate assistant manager. That is what I want.'

Ann sat straight up in her chair. ‘I thought that that was precisely what I was doing, what I do. Tim, we cannot simply live here like typical English people, the ones you used to despise, keeping ourselves to ourselves. We've always said we would never be narrow, that we should always mix. This is yet another opportunity for us to get to meet people of all backgrounds.'

‘That is what I'm afraid of.'

‘That is what you're afraid of? Can you imagine what they already think of us? Whatever you want to think, we are representatives of the colonial power, to use their term. You know the history. You're familiar with the politics. If we remain aloof, we run the risk of giving the most dreadful impression of ourselves, and also of being completely ineffective at estate management. Well, you're the one who'll run that risk. You're the manager. We've been through this before in Barbados after you became junior manager – I thought you were genuinely concerned that I was taking on too much.'

‘Ann, I'm simply saying …'

‘It's the tone, Tim. And I simply don't understand what you mean by
getting too close to
these people
. You haven't made that quite clear. Who are
these people
?'

‘No need to get so het up.' He was used to her forthrightness. Her entire family was like that.

She fixed her grey-blue eyes upon him. He looked away, uneasy because it was not what he had intended. He had wanted simply to make a statement and for her to understand. Evadne was closing the shutters in the pantry. Soon she would come out to the verandah to smile her smile and say goodnight.

‘Tim, ever since Barbados you have changed.'

‘Now you tell me.'

‘That's where it started. I don't know what's happened to you. Where's the generous, inclusive man I married? I'll tell you. Slowly going the way of all Englishmen who work in the tropics. Exclusive, intolerant and selfish.'

‘That's cruel. I don't accept that at all.'

‘You need to listen to yourself sometimes. Don't you think that people like Samms and Brookes see exactly what you are? They're not fools.'

‘Stop it.'

‘No. Look, I think I know what this is all about. We haven't talked about it but I know perfectly well how you felt about not getting the estate manager's post in Barbados, especially after the excellent job you did as junior manager. It wasn't your fault. We should keep doing what we are doing. We weren't long enough at Monymusk. You're a good manager. I think we can really make a home in Jamaica and at Appleton. But that means being part of society, not living in a glass bowl. And Susan, for all her independence, needs consistency and a sense of permanence.'

‘I'm going to bed,' Mitchison said, getting up, visibly upset.

‘Oh, don't be silly, Tim. This is just what we need to do.'

‘What?'

‘Talk.'

‘You can talk. I have a long drive into Kingston tomorrow.'

‘Not again?'

‘That's what the job's about.'

‘Well, please don't get delayed in Kingston again. Remember, we're having dinner at the Brookes'.'

But Mitchison had already left the verandah.

Ann surveyed the darkened grounds, felt the sweet, warm air of the estate, and relaxed. She loved the sugar estates. Tim was a bit of a worry but he would get over it. Her assessment was that he seemed to be losing his confidence. Three estates in five years, and still only assistant general manager. It was tough but she knew the remedy. It was to focus on the job at hand and engage with people, buck up and manage. They could not keep moving from estate to estate with nothing to show for it. And moving back to England was not an option. Making a go of it at Appleton was such an exciting prospect. She was looking forward to the Brookes' dinner and joining Harold Brookes in conversation again. And she viewed it as much more than intellectual stimulation.