The Pink House at Appleton (29 page)

No one had respected him in New York, where they called him Negro and Nigger, words he hated with a passion. Sister Margaret Mary's respect was invaluable to him. It was a certain path to establishing himself in the Balaclava community, not existing at the fringes like some people he knew. Respect, because he was upright, a responsible businessman who could be taken seriously. He had had a refreshing shower, splashed on some Royall Lyme cologne, whistled as he dressed with the radio on and had walked the half mile to the school up the Balaclava road, feeling satisfied with himself. And to top it off, there he was sitting among decent Balaclava people, especially those respectable women to the left and right of him. It was an experience to relish.

Mr Burton delighted in the presence of the women around him. Only women knew how to dress and present themselves in such a way that brought elegance, sophistication and civility to any scene. Some might ask, given such thoughts, why he wasn't married or engaged in some purposeful relationship with a woman. But he didn't think like that. He liked women, regarded them as the very best suits a tailor blessed with talent could make. The suits shouldn't be worn. They were too good for that. Like the finest art, they should be displayed to be admired, coveted, be fascinated by, put on a pedestal and be written about. The wonder of women, their charms, their inexplicability, their essential goodness as the giver of life; these were the things that he adored women for and the things that kept him away from them, because, after all, he could never be good enough for any of them.

Moreover, should he be lucky enough, he knew the resulting union would be his undoing. A long time ago, on the streets of Harlem, he learned that it was men who gave him the kind of pleasure others obtained from women. It was a desire he had tried to keep at bay because it had been so difficult to come to terms with, and he had succeeded, at least until a few months ago. The young man, Jarrett, seeming lost, on the road to the train station and a new life, leaving Appleton for good, had flagged him down for a lift. He had stopped. They had talked. And one thing led to another. But he had no regrets. He had only behaved true to himself. And so had Jarrett. Fate had brought them together.

‘Looking forward to it?' the woman sitting next to him asked, with a smile that could only be the product of a decent upbringing.

‘Yes, indeed, ah sure am,' Mr Burton replied, his American accent rising to the fore. It was amazing how when he was among women, he always seemed to behave like a young man. It was as if he were back in New York as a youth of twenty, opening doors for well-dressed, glamorous women, tipping his hat, bowing, smiling in acknowledgement across a table, standing back in deference to allow them to pass on the street.

The orchestra started up and there was a sudden movement through the audience, like quick falling leaves, rustling of paper, respectful hissing. The lights dimmed and darkness descended like a warm, gentle cloak.

‘Wonderful,' the woman next to him breathed.

‘Wonderful,' Mr Burton repeated, acknowledging her and bowing simultaneously to the couple to his left. At the same time, he noted that the lights the electricians had erected around the grounds had also dimmed. Expectation rose in the audience. Necks craned, eyes peeled, every movement, every sudden rustle of the curtain on stage was quickly and eagerly noted. Mr Burton observed the audience, his eyes moving in a 180 degree angle. And they came to rest on a young man he did not immediately recognise, a young man in the shadows beyond the orchestra, in the school grounds, making his way to the back of the main building. It was when the young man appeared to climb in through a partly opened window on the ground floor of the building that he realised who it was. It was none other than Edgar. Mr Burton felt white wrath. The trouble that boy had got him into lately. The Devil take him!

* * *

Papa sat at the bar smoking, physically exhausted. He enjoyed being at the club among the men, among kindred spirits, especially after a bruising day at the factory. He liked to see the factory in the background, the battleground, hear the distant hiss of steam, feel the heat and inhale the sugar aroma, the rum from the distillery, imagine the constant hum of power and know that he had a responsible role in that world. His role, an integral one, gave him substantial kudos. His nocturnal activities with Ann heightened his impression of himself. A phrase came to him. He couldn't remember if it was the title of a book or a film. The Power and the Glory. But that had to be the caption under his smiling picture, the one for posterity.

He was terribly relaxed now, having seen off the troubles at the factory and arranged Mama and Ann's safe transport to the concert. It was not an evening he had been looking forward to, certainly not one that included Mama and Ann in the same company. He felt much obliged to Moodie for standing in as he did.

Papa appreciated the club and the people there, sometimes more than he appreciated being at home, to be candid about it. The club offered pleasures that home could not. The wine-coloured, cellophane packet of his Royal Blend lay on the bar next to his nine-ounce tumbler of rum and ginger, which he fondly caressed. Men at the other end of the bar were in an expansive mood. Most had not been home yet, driving straight to the club from the factory. The tennis courts were empty. At that time of day, it was not the tennis playing crowd that lined the bar and brayed at small tables, puffing away, baring their souls, contemplating the approaching night with faces that betrayed loneliness and conflict. Few women were at the club at that time.

‘Harry, you're the man I'm looking for.' It was Moodie, coming out of nowhere. He wore crumpled khakis and brown riding boots. The sleeves of his khaki shirt were rolled up and he had the look of a big-game hunter. He'd been told that before and liked to look the part. ‘You need to give me a lift.'

‘What the hell are you doing here?' Papa demanded.

Moodie laughed, appreciating Papa's sense of humour. He hunched over the bar, grinning and ordered a drink. ‘What the hell are
you
doing here, Harry?' He laughed.

‘Is it over already?' Papa asked, not smiling. He was clawing at Moodie in a theatrical fashion. ‘Did you get there and back so soon? How was it?'

‘What are you talking about, Harry? My car ran out of gas on the road from Maggotty and I'm late for my little rendezvous.' Moodie grinned slyly.

‘What? The concert, man, the concert.'

Moodie's grin faded, slowly. ‘What concert? Your note said not to bother.'

‘What note?'

‘Your note, Harry, on my desk.'

‘I sent no note,' Papa said, alarmed. ‘Are you trying to tell me you didn't pick up the women?'

‘Harry, hold on. The note said,
Not to bother, going with Mr Chin
instead
. Note on my desk from you.' Moodie stressed every word.

‘From me? No, no.' Papa shook his head, thoughts racing. ‘The note didn't come from me. Don't you think I'd know?'

‘Well, I didn't send it to myself. It was Dalkieth's handwriting.'

‘Christ! What did it say?'

Moodie repeated himself.

Papa knew at once that the note was from Ann. ‘Jeezas. Why on earth didn't you check with me?'

‘Why should I? Your name was at the end of it, Harry. I assumed Dalkieth wrote it at your instruction. You mean you didn't send it?'

‘That's what I said, dammit man!' Papa imagined Mama impatiently waiting, her impatience quickly turning to astonishment, then to incredulity, to anger and then finally to revulsion as the hours slipped by. There was no way in which she would have known about the botched arrangement with Moodie. ‘Jeezas,' Papa repeated, ‘Jeezas.'
Mama was still waiting on him to pick her up.

‘What are you going to do?' Moodie fingered his chin.

Papa glanced at his watch, the gold flashing in the light from the bar, and got off the stool. Moodie heard the Blakeys clip-clop on the heels of his brogues. Papa demanded the telephone from the bartender. It took a long time before Evadne answered it.

‘Mrs Mitchison left a long time, sar,' Evadne said. ‘In Mr Chin fishtail car, sar.'

‘Jeezas,' Papa said again when he put the telephone down. ‘God Almighty. Moodie, quick, we're leaving. I'll drop you off at your place. Get a move on.'

As the Prefect roared up the estate road, sugar cane leaves bowing and rearing up in its wake, Moodie tried to tell jokes. Papa was silent. Halfway to Moodie's rendezvous, he knew it was no use driving by the pink house and then on to the school. By the time he got to the house and set out for the school, the concert would have been over a long time and Boyd would be waiting. He hoped that by some miracle Mr Chin, a man too kind for his own good, would have thought to stop by for Mrs Brookes. Ann herself would have thought of it. He grasped at every reasonable possibility. All he could do now was drop Moodie off and drive like hell for the school. Sister Margaret Mary and the teachers would think the Brookeses were philistines if no one turned up. It would be worse than anything Mama could throw at him. And what would the other parents think when the news got out, as it would? The family at the pink house were
Hurry-Come-Ups
. Common people.
Common people
! People unable to appreciate the importance of attending, as a family, such a civilised occasion as a school concert, such a vital moment in their child's development.

When Papa arrived at Moodie's rendezvous, the house was in darkness except for a light over the front door, illuminating green shutters partly covered in luxuriant creepers. It was Miss Hutchinson's house.

‘Just a minute,' Moodie said, leaping out of the car.

The front door opened and Papa saw Icilda, Miss Hutchinson's maid, standing solemnly under the light. She had a seductive figure and they could see that her dressing gown was wrapped loosely about her.

‘Where is Miss?' Moodie asked her.

‘She gone to see a film show, sar, with friends. She not coming back till late. Ah was just going off to my room for the night.'

‘To your room?' Moodie hesitated. Papa saw him move forward and speak in lowered tones to Icilda, who laughed out loud, a vulgar nasal snort. Moodie turned and moved hastily towards the car, grinning. He's obviously been drinking before he got to the club. Icilda stood under the light, smooth thigh exposed.

‘Harry,' Moodie said, ‘leave me here.'

Papa stared at him. ‘I hope you know what you're doing.'

‘I know what I'm doing.' Moodie smiled broadly. ‘Go on, I'll see you tomorrow. Give Victoria my love.' He lurched towards the light and Icilda.

Papa drove off, scattering pebbles in the ruler-straight driveway before turning left into the long road to Balaclava. The headlights of the Prefect shot out in a powerful arc, illuminating the darkness, finding the road black and empty. Papa floored the accelerator and, above the howling of the wind, the throbbing engine, the turmoil within him, he found an intriguing peace.

* * *

‘Go and get your things,' Papa said.

At the door to the changing room, Boyd met Miss Casserly hurrying away, glamorous and demure, an elegant scent floating from her. He stood still. When she got a few feet away, she started to run, her skirts and arms frivolous. Mr Burton and Edgar were just inside the room, their first words of argument bursting forth. Boyd thought they made a puffing sound, like steam bursting from a bag. At his approach, Mr Burton turned away from Edgar, the tail of his jacket flaring out like a woman's skirts behind him, and walked purposefully from the room.

‘What I do is my business,' Edgar callously shouted after him. ‘You live your life, I live my life.'

Just then, away from the lights, by the warm Prefect, Ann Mitchison returned to Papa. A moment earlier, she had thanked Mr Chin for his kindness but informed him that she would be returning with Mr Brookes. In the dim light, as she came to Papa, she was the colour of creamed peach, her eyes reflecting the peeping moon, her lips a rich burgundy. Papa, solid and dark, full of the essence of sugar and caramel, felt her approach. He noted her movements and the moving figures of parents and excited children, a few yards from them but a world away, under the full lights. The Prefect, in the dark, was parked under the apple tree in the schoolyard. Fallen apples lay on the ground, their skins crimson, some whole, some squashed, their torn flesh white and seeping.

‘A pity Victoria wasn't able to attend,' Ann said. ‘It was a wonderful, wonderful performance. Boyd was such a little sailor, such a little sailor.'

As Ann spoke, she stroked Papa's arm in consolation, for she could see his disappointment, sense his misery. Papa felt disappointment of a kind, and misery too. In that peculiar frame of mind, he manoeuvred her under the dark of the tree where there were no shadows. A large hurrying shape passed by on the other side. Eyes accustomed to the dark saw the compromising figures. Mr Burton, shocked for the second time that night, hastened away. Papa was reckless and felt Ann's own recklessness in his arms as they kissed. They had to stop, they knew it was madness, but neither took the initiative. Little mewing sounds came from Ann.

‘Papa?'

A small shadow stood by the car. Papa broke away and Ann adjusted her dress. It was Boyd, still in his sailor suit with rouge upon his face. The small bag that he held in both his hands contained his day clothes and his sailor hat, some silver and gold paper, a pink plastic sea urchin and a sea cow.

‘Boyd, get in the car,' Papa said boldly, striding forward to open the rear door. ‘Mrs Mitchison's coming with us.'

Boyd pretended not to be despondent because Papa had tried to explain it all, but he was. Mama and Yvonne had not seen him on stage and Papa hardly at all. At least Ann Mitchison had been there, and he had sensed Susan's eyes upon him. Ann Mitchison's adult perfume, her unexpected presence and her observations about
H.M.S. Pinafore
kept him quiet in the car, but he felt abandoned.