The Pink House at Appleton (30 page)

All that Papa had seen of
H.M.S. Pinafore
was the lighted stage with a lot of pretty teachers in make-up and small children dressed as sailors, Boyd among them, splicing and pulling at imaginary ropes and singing. It was a long wait, after the performance was over and everyone clapped and surrounded the stage, the players receiving ovation after ovation, before he found Boyd. Parents and other members of the audience hugged the makeshift bar, sipping light rum punch while a quintet played classical music. The children and their teachers seemed to be cavorting about behind the curtains and in the dimly lit classrooms. Papa did not see, but Little Buttercup lost much of her lipstick and make-up in the clutches of a throbbing young man in the dark. She had not been able to resist him when he took her under the trees and later in a dark classroom where they thought no one could see. But they had been followed from a distance and the young man stood accused.

* * *

‘What time is this?' Mama demanded.

The house was dark and it didn't seem as if anyone lived there when they got home. But Mama was in her room with the light low.

Boyd witnessed Papa trying to speak.

Mama slapped Papa's face, hard. Boyd heard the sharp sound, saw Mama's crushed and wounded face. It was a self-conscious slap, embarrassing for Mama, but she had to slap Papa.

‘Victoria, let me explain,' Papa said, massaging his cheek with one hand while the other closed the door firmly behind him. ‘It was Moodie, Moodie!'

But Mama was so full of venom that she could barely speak.

Boyd stood still outside the door hearing Mama's voice spitting sulphur. It could not be suppressed. In his room he could taste the rouge and smell the sweet make-up, like chocolate, like the melange of creams and lotions
on Mama's dressing table, applied to his face by dainty hands, Miss Casserly's hands, and remember all the beautiful things. His sleepy head was full of red lipstick drama. He had imagined Susan, in a salmon taffeta dress and white gloves, sitting in the audience watching him, felt her there, drew on the essence of her. Papa's own performance, the kissing of Ann Mitchison, confused him at first, but it seemed to be wrapped up with
H.M.S. Pinafore
. He really wasn't sure if he had imagined it, the night being so full of drama. That memorable moment had been devoid of guilt. Yet Papa's head had been bowed at the door to Mama's room.

* * *

Vincent's head had been bowed too, earlier that night. The half-smoked cigar hung from his fingers, no longer a mystery. In a back room at the rum bar in Lacovia, the men, jolly and friendly (he had grown to like them), had let him know that he'd been smoking a certain weed
called
ganja, which Rastafarians smoked. The men said they really should have charged him more for that special tobacco, but seeing as how he was a regular and – he shouldn't take this the wrong way – he was half-blind, they were willing to be generous.

When Mr Brookes didn't arrive to take Mrs Brookes to the concert, Vincent became agitated. But later he leaned back against the wall in his room, feet stretched full out on the striped mattress, eyes gazing into darkness as the calm overcame him. The small flat bottle of
John Crow Batty
found his waiting mouth again. The hot lick of the liquid was not madly appealing but he was beginning to appreciate it. What he craved absolutely was the impact, the sudden change in his bones, in his gut and in his head. He sipped and inhaled and inhaled and sipped, filling the room with white smoke that hung motionless. It would not be long. He felt a weight being lifted off him, calming his senses.

The notes of reproach he had already dismissed. In his lonely, bitter years, years in which he had denied himself again and again, it had been those voices that he had listened to, bowed and succumbed to. Never again. Right was on his side. It wasn't as if he were one of those raging drunks, wild of eye and heavy of tongue, pissed to the point of unconscious, incapable of reason. He had worked everything out, from beginning to end.

Mavis, once she truly understood what he was about, would be nice to him. That was what women did, put up a fight for show then give in. That was the wisdom he heard frequently at the rum bars in Lacovia and elsewhere, articulated by men,
pasture bull
men, who knew what they were talking about. He had seen that wisdom played out often enough. His one good eye peeled on Mavis's bed and on the two contorted figures there, like two stray dogs copulating, he had learned that lesson. It never ceased to amaze and frustrate him that Mavis always said, ‘Barry, stop it! Stop it!' and in the next moment, with Barry in her mouth and up behind her, was ready to surrender herself to him in the most lascivious fashion. He took one last swig of the white rum, put the bottle aside and raised the ganja to his lips. He felt nothing at all.

Now that the moment was near, he was more certain than ever of the righteousness of his objective, more convinced of its legitimacy. Hearing movement in Mavis's room, he rose from the bed on flat, padded feet and peered through the hole in the wall. The light was on. Mavis had entered the room to change into her dressing gown before returning to the big house. She was sitting before the little dressing table, arms raised, yawning. He saw her spread buttocks, partly opened thighs, jutting breasts. He was ready.

When he entered Mavis's room, the radio was playing
Marianne
but he did not hear it. He only saw the outline of Mavis's body shimmering in the yellow light. And Mavis saw his sudden shadow under the light from the single bulb.

‘What you want?' she asked fiercely, eyes narrowing, rounding on him, throwing her skirts between her thighs in a single motion.

‘What ah want?' Vincent shut the door behind him menacingly.

He did it so surely and so calmly that Mavis froze. He took that as the sign that things were proceeding correctly. Even when Mavis, overcoming her initial shock, shot up from the chair so that it made a clattering noise and bounced off the floor, his composure was total. He had seen that kind of play between Mavis and that man Barry countless times. Mavis, for all her bluster, her feigning, which was quite impressive, wanted only one thing. Had he known it would be so easy, that he was so capable of being a
pasture bull
, he would have made his move a long time ago. Down in his balls he felt the fire and before him saw the yellow haze that was Mavis. She was dazzling now and calling his name, saying please, please, using all the words that turned him on heat.

She was against him, he could feel her, a strong young woman. He met her, man to woman, force for force, slap for slap, wrist for wrist, bite for bite. She was determined to fight hard before giving in. He would have to get her down on the ground, spread her on her back, master her. The bed against the wall was square and bright-white, the only shape of any clarity in the room. Mavis had him against the door, using knees, elbows, chest, her hot, wet breath like compressed steam against his face. She had pimento breath. He got his own knees up between her parted thigh flesh. Those mighty thighs and calves of his got to work; those ripcord-hard biceps and triceps did his bidding. Responding to the long pent-up power in his loins, he hoisted Mavis up and, feeling the looseness of her dress about her fiercely resisting body, threw her down on the white patch of bed. She bounced. He was upon her from behind. Barry's past performances were encrypted in his head. He was programmed for the final act, the moment when Barry slid off her, perspiring, spent, his black hood slowly withdrawing, shrivelling, growing small and useless. Watching from the hole in the wall, Vincent always thought they looked like curs in the village street where he came from, fucking hard and determined, eyes everywhere and nowhere, seeing nothing, engulfed in that rigid up and down dance to the end, to the last satiated gasp.

But Mavis was behaving strangely. She had not succumbed but was raging. Under him her fleshy buttocks bucked and thrashed, her breasts swung about and she neighed. Vincent was conscious of the neighing sound, the sound of resistance. He heard it from horses in the field. One hand went round Mavis's throat, the other grasped her tongue the way Barry dealt with her. But Mavis neighed the more, full of fight, and might have had him on the ground beneath her, his rod pointing up, away from her, gorged, frightfully yearning but dying on him as she tried to put him in his place. This time he gave it everything. It was his last effort.

He rode her like a pig, driving with his full weight into her, hearing her grunt and squeal. He mastered her, shuddering as the heavens burst, as the stars rushed by, exploding, bursting in yellow, red and white flashes, winking, dying one by one until the sky turned black. As he slipped from her, the big hand round her neck loosened, her head sagged. They fell together on the bed, slow and slippery, down, down, down. The room spun, the light from the naked bulb attacked his eye. Vincent tried to rise but was so weak he had to fight, every muscle, every sinew straining, his eye popping, joints aching. But he made it off the bed, to the door, out the door and into that familiar Appleton night. He felt so weak but so gratified, aching but composed, lost but fulfilled, heading to his single bed with the stained, striped mattress. Before he slipped into a deep sleep, the kind he'd never had in all his twenty-six half-blind years, he heard, fleetingly,
I want you to take me where I belong, where hearts have been broken with a kiss and a song
.

* * *

Vincent just wished it would go away. The coolies were beating their drums down in the valley. The thumping sound reverberated in his room and he could hear their shouting, that flat, raucous sound.
What time was it?
His head throbbed with a harsh pain. Piercing torchlight beams came from the darkness, hurting his eye, streaking against the walls of his room, creating smoke, like the heat from a magnifying glass. The walls burst into white flames and he raised his arms to protect his eye. But there was a wild shadow in front of him, a dark figure in white light. A black
Duppy
. He cowered under the sheets.

‘Is drunk you drunk or what?' the dark figure shouted from the white brightness. ‘Is past nine o'clock! Mr Brookes going to give you a piece of him mind.'

Vincent squeezed and contorted his eye and barely made out the apparition. It was Mavis at the door she'd just flung open. She was holding her nose and pointing at him.

‘Get up and get to work, you lazy no good! You little drunkard.'

Mavis's shadow went away but the white light and the heat remained. Vincent turned his head and felt the pain. An empty bottle of white rum lay on the floor by his bed, the infamous
John Crow Batty
that only hard men drank every Friday night. An appalling stink reached his nostrils. His bed was covered in vomit. On the floor lay the half-smoked remains of the ganja. A refreshing zephyr swept through the louvres but it would never be enough to take away the realisation that he'd not left his bed since six o'clock the day before or the shame that he had even contemplated carrying out such a vile act on the young maid.

Venom was what Miss Robb was full of that day. Her dark brows told of hidden frustrations, vile vexations, dreadful things. After the gaiety of
H.M.S. Pinafore,
she wanted discipline. And everyone was in their place. Everyone except Miss Casserly.

No one had seen Miss Casserly all morning. She had not taken the daily callisthenics and was sorely missed. Miss Robb had had to step in and put them through their paces, and it left her perspiring. The morning was very warm, even at that early hour, and it was the kind of perspiration that poured from every pore like a silent stream. Like most decent Jamaican young ladies from the aspiring classes, Miss Robb abhorred sweat and would do anything to keep it at bay. She would live in a cold country like England if she could, in order not to sweat.

She had a big, firm build, with large, powerful upper arms that were supple, smooth and shiny. She was prone to sweat, with a body like that, and kept well out of the sun and away from any strenuous activity. But that morning she had the misfortune of having to take the daily exercise classes, all because pretty Miss Casserly had not turned up. Now she was sweating like a pig and felt most uncomfortable. She could not last the day. Her only hope was to go home at lunchtime for a quick shower and a change. Until then it was hell for her and she showed it.

‘Miss Robb, just a minute.' Sister Margaret Mary was at the door.

Miss Robb excused herself but returned almost immediately, glaring. She walked between desks inspecting books and hunting for bubblegum. Her ruler made slapping noises.

‘Draw a line under the work,' Miss Robb commanded, and everyone reached for their rulers. These plastic rulers were fascinating, very 1957, in Kool-Aid-red, lime-green and electric-pink, all made in America and bought at Mr Chang's shop at Siloah.

‘Yes, Miss Robb,' everyone intoned.

But Miss Robb was called away again before her ruler could slap some more. This time she met Sister Margaret Mary in the hall. They conferred, heads together. Then Sister walked away, her rosaries singing, her blue skirts sweeping the floor. Miss Robb followed, her proud bottom waggling. They stopped at the entrance of the school, where the sun brightened their features. Miss Robb's arms glistened and her hair shone like splintered light. Sister's white bib blazed. They were talking to a man who held his felt hat in his hands and faced down, a sinner repenting. Boyd recognised the man as Mr Burton. Miss Robb's arms were folded. Sister held her's as if in prayer. They moved away from the door and out of sight, but not too far away, for Boyd could see their shadows against the wall.

In the hushed silence, Adrian Lees tugged at Doreen Chang's hair and blew pink bubblegum, bought at Mr Chang's shop at Siloah, made in America and outlawed by Sister. Adrian's behaviour was shocking because that very day he would be taking Holy Communion with Father John the Baptist at Our Lady of Sorrows. Wasn't he conscious of the watching eyes of the Holy Ghost, the all-seeing, all knowing God the Father? He could be struck down!

But it was Mr Burton who was struck down in shame, even though Sister said he was not to blame, that he couldn't be held responsible for the sordid behaviour of his reprobate nephew. Miss Robb thought differently and kept her silence to show it, because she knew what Sister did not know, could never know. She'd never really appreciated Mr Burton.
Him and his American ways
. He could do what he liked in America. Balaclava was a decent place with nice people. Not a place for
buggery
. She said nothing when he left,
pretending
to be ashamed,
pretending
to show outrage,
pretending
to be apologetic, holding his hat in his hand and everything. Well, he could pretend all he liked. He and his nephew were the same. She could see through men like that, always covering up for bad behaviour. He may have Sister fooled but not her. He couldn't possibly remain the official school supplier now. And she told herself that she would make certain that Father John the Baptist knew the facts. Father John the Baptist would know what to do.

Miss Skiddar came to the door of the classroom just then. She was still Sir Joseph Porter, with all the drama of
H.M.S Pinafore
. At the sight of her, the children heard
I am the
Monarch of the Sea
and lived all their emotions again.

‘Those for Our Lady of Sorrows, follow me,' Miss Skiddar said, moments before Miss Robb took her aside and whispered long into her ear.

‘No!' Miss Skiddar said, shocked, two elegant fingers at her mouth.

‘Yes,' Miss Robb confirmed solemnly, darkly.

Boys and girls made their way out of the building towards the stone fence at the far side of the school where the spreading guango tree stood. Beyond the stone fence lay a large field full of tamarind trees. Our Lady of Sorrows faced the field, a small brick church with a cross made of multi-coloured glass set into the brick. Full of the facts, Miss Skiddar, guiding the children, did not know it but Mr Burton was making his way to Our Lady of Sorrows at that moment. They would get there before him because they were taking the shortest route across the field.

Mr Burton took the long way, up the Balaclava road, walking slow and dignified. He did not understand Edgar. That boy was determined to ruin him, by every lascivious deed. But he would pray for him.

Miss Robb looked grimly at her watch. It was close to the end of the school day and the trees were beginning to rustle and stir. And something else too. Boyd heard it first, before the other children. Beautiful singing. The sound of heavenly voices and piano music swept down the hill from the convent. The nuns were singing a song of forgiveness and of hope. They sang throughout the afternoon. Even when the children flowed from the classrooms with their brown grips and satchels and said their goodbyes, the nuns' voices floated into the wind. The sisters were still singing when the school bus arrived. Mr Chin was downcast and Sister Margaret Mary's lips were tight and creased and white. The school bus was quiet and Boyd felt the tension of not knowing.

Diana Delfosse and another of the big girls sat behind Mr Chin, whispering. The chill wind that blew through the cane fields in the valley entered the school bus. It made Diana Delfosse furrow her brows.

‘Your skin's just like a naked chicken,' someone said, pointing at Carol Lees, who was milky-white with freckles.

‘White like salt and speckled like fish,' someone else joked.

‘It's goosebumps,' Carol replied.

‘Chicken bumps,' the voice returned.

‘Shut up,' Carol said.

Mr Chin had spoken not a single word since he drove out of the school gates. He spun the large steering wheel, changed gears, stepped on the brakes and said nothing. He looked right and left, his slick black hair swinging about. He turned on the trafficator, which flicked out like the tongue of a lizard on heat, waited at the railway crossing and said nothing. He accelerated away from the railway crossing, up the smooth asphalt road, telegraph poles flashing by, and still said nothing.

That afternoon, Mr Chin, for the first time ever, drove up a side road (it may have been to deliver a message from Sister). He drove where the frangipani grew wild, where the estate shade trees were not pruned and where Boyd had once been with Vincent.

Mr Chin drove up to the Bull Pen where the bachelor men of the estate lived, where Four Aces cigarette butts lay all day in ashtrays on the long verandah and where the smell of the men hung carefree and suspect. It was the Bull Pen of the unfortunate Mr Dixon, set on fire by the scorned woman, Ruby. The Bull Pen of the rampant Edgar, who had
a baby in every parish
. No one understood it at all. A mist hung over everything. Boyd remembered the shrieking, the arms thrown up, the skirts flouncing, the rushing about, but most of all the pain in the woman's voice. It was Miss Casserly, just visible through the mist on the verandah of the Bull Pen. She was hurt.

The school bus was quiet for a long time. All the splendour and the beauty of
H.M.S. Pinafore,
the lovely songs like
Sweet Little Buttercup
, could not save her. After a long silence, someone, it might have been Junior Chin, uttered two words that echoed into the mist.

‘It's Edgar,' he said.

* * *

It was the dastardly Edgar who caused the hurt and the silence in the school bus that day. And they never saw pretty Miss Casserly again. People said she went by BOAC to London, or moved to Kingston like Patricia Moodie. But no one knew. And Mr Burton went away too, after Father John the Baptist learned the facts from Miss Robb.

At first people said he left Balaclava under a cloud. They said he packed up and left for Water Lane, Kingston, to set up a new tailoring establishment in a busy place where people minded their own business and where no one knew his name. He no longer cared to live in a small place like Balaclava, with its lovely white houses, vines running up their walls, its clean air and cloudless skies, which he loved, and the sedate gentility of the place. He no longer cared to be a Catholic. Catholics were fair-weather friends, unconcerned about human beings like him. People said that the young man, Jarrett, who learned his trade from Mr Burton, also set up shop in Water Lane and changed his name. They were not allowed to live together among nice Balaclava people.

In the end, it was Corporal Duncan who brought definitive news. A hideous body, hanging from a rope, was found in the back room of Mr Burton's old house. It was the flies and the stench that finally gave it away. Mr Burton's body had been hanging there for sometime, in the centre of a room full of pictures and mementos of his life spent in New York and Balaclava. The police didn't think there were any suspicious circumstances.