The Far Side of the Sun (12 page)

Ella never said no to her husband in bed, not even when she was exhausted or he was drunk. She felt she owed him that. He had given her a nice life – not the one she had expected, but still nice – and he was unfailingly loving and kind to her. They both knew in their heart of hearts that there was a slight tilt in the balance of their marriage, that he loved her more than she loved him. But he never pushed it, never let himself express disappointment when she delivered perfunctory sex in response to his tentative approach each night.

He seemed happy enough. He certainly never complained. They had their little signs, the telling signals that Ella thought of as their mating ritual. She and Reggie nearly always read in bed – she would get stuck into the latest Hemingway or Ngaio Marsh while he studied some office documents, memorising streams of facts and figures with which to brief the Duke the next day. Ella was always impressed by her husband’s ability to remember things.

After exactly twenty minutes in bed, timed by his watch, Reggie would carefully shuffle his papers together, clear his throat, stretch out his arms with a yawn and turn off his bedside lamp. That was the signal. She would put aside her book but didn’t turn off her light until afterwards. She liked to see what she was doing. Twenty years of marriage and yet Reggie approached her each night as if she might say no. A tentative leg hooked over hers, a hand stroking her waist, a kiss on her neck. Nothing too intrusive. Not until she turned to him and kissed his mouth, her tongue stalking his.

Time and again she wished he would come at her like a lion, claws gripping her tight, snarling and snapping and taking what was his by right. But each time he would stroke and caress her body as though he’d never seen it before and was struck dumb by his good fortune. He’d told her he had never slept with any other woman and she believed him, but more and more often now she found herself wishing that he had. When he thrust inside her, he always watched her face closely, checking that he was not hurting or offending in some way. And she was tempted to tell him that tedium was by far the worst pain – but she never did, of course.

Then once in a while, she lost patience. She would straddle him fiercely and ravage him till they were both slick with sweat, his skin impregnated with hers and the taste of her breasts on his tongue. No endearments. Just bruises on his lips and scratches on his thighs. When she finally collapsed off him with her lungs heaving and her body still shuddering with release, Reggie would turn his face away from her, a blush seeping up the side of his neck.

‘Goodnight,’ he would murmur.

‘Goodnight, Reggie.’

And then this. This stretching of the strings of his face when she looked at him the next morning, as though she had somehow pulled him out of shape. Neither of them ever voiced any comment or made any reference to the night before. Ella took a bite out of her toast and smiled at her husband in a civilised manner, but this morning Reggie put down his napkin, rose to his feet and walked over to the french windows. He remained standing there with his back to her.

‘What is it, Reggie?’

She saw the slight straightening of his well-padded back. When he turned, she knew she wasn’t going to like whatever it was he was working himself up to say.

‘I am concerned, Ella.’

‘What about?’

‘The danger that you and Tilly Latcham were put in yesterday. It could have been far worse than a bucketful of pig’s blood thrown over you.’

‘Ah.’

Ella did not want to discuss it further. They had talked it to death last night.

‘You could have been seriously hurt.’

‘But we weren’t, Reggie darling.’

‘That’s not the point. We saw last year what can happen when a riot runs out of control.’

‘But yesterday was nothing more than a small disgruntled group of workers who…⁠’

‘For heaven’s sake, Ella, don’t underestimate what that labour dispute last year signalled. Those black workers faced us down and won. Don’t forget that there are only ten thousand of us, compared with sixty thousand of them. I tell you this is just the beginning.’

‘The beginning of what?’

Reggie smoothed his lips, taking the thorns out of his words. ‘Of the end of the natural order of society in this colony. One day the native blacks will demand to be our equals and then…⁠’ He smiled sadly.

Ella felt a ripple of alarm. Reggie had never voiced that conviction to her before. Yet she could imagine him closeted behind doors up in Government House with the Governor and a few select and powerful Bay Street merchants – all discussing options.
The beginning of the end
. She experienced a sharp pulse of panic.

The riot last summer had come about as an outburst by black workers. Two thousand of them crammed themselves into Parliament Square outside the pink government buildings and demanded fair pay compared with the highly paid American labourers who had been brought in to work on what was known as The Project. This was the construction of the two airfields for the US and RAF forces.

Before the war, the Bahamas was one of the most impoverished colonies in the Empire. The lack of employment on the islands made life hard. Most black inhabitants led a hand-to-mouth existence, as both the fishing and sponge industries were in sharp decline. With news of The Project, the whole atmosphere in Nassau changed and Bahamians came flocking from the outlying islands to find work. But the government had miscalculated – Reggie included. They paid Bahamians half what they were paying the American labourers for doing exactly the same job – four shillings a day instead of eight. Ella could not believe that so-called intelligent men would be so stupid. Of course anger flared. Of course it ended in a terrifying riot. The mob exploded in a two-day rampage of violence, smashing shops and looting up and down the length of Bay Street, the very heart of white colonial territory.

Peace was only restored after four men were killed by British troops and over forty injured. Finally a new pay deal was struck. Life in Nassau seemed to stumble back to normal, but underneath the tranquil surface there flowed a dark undercurrent that hadn’t been there before.

That’s why Ella – and Tilly as well – had reacted so badly yesterday in the car. This time it turned out to be nothing more than a handful of young stonemasons who were angered by a wage cut. Buckets of pig’s blood had been their weapon rather than staves. But it was enough to remind everyone of the terrors of last year when white women dared not leave their houses and white men lost their livelihoods when their shops were destroyed.

Ella pushed her plate away. ‘What are you trying to say to me, Reggie?’

‘That I have spoken with the Duke and with Colonel Lindop. We have agreed that until we are certain that the current situation presents no threat, the Commissioner is assigning a policeman as bodyguard to a number of wives of prominent figures on the island. So —’

‘No, Reggie.’

‘So you will have a bodyguard to accompany you outside at all times until —’

‘No, Reggie. No.’

‘Until we are confident there is no further danger.’

‘Reggie! You’re not listening to me.’

‘It will probably only be for a week or two.’

‘I refuse to —’

He came towards her with quick purposeful strides that took her by surprise. He leaned over her where she sat and took her face between his hands. Not with the tentativeness she was used to. His palms were rigid and the force behind them made her teeth ache. His gaze was set on her face and what she saw in his eyes shocked her: it was stark unbridled rage.

‘You could have been killed, Ella. Left dead in the street. Isn’t there enough of that going on in the towns and cities of Britain at the moment? Aren’t you thinking of that? Our families back home are going through hell already, without you putting yourself in danger over here too.’

‘It wasn’t that bad, honestly. And that’s not fair, Reggie. You know all of us over here worry all the time about our families and the bombing back home. Look what happened to Tilly’s poor uncle in the raid on Bristol.’

‘You must have a bodyguard, Ella, I insist. I can’t risk —’

She placed a hand over his on her cheek and gave him a nod. Instantly a skin of politeness descended and he went back to being her diplomatic Reggie.

‘Good,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ll go and telephone Lindop. He’s the one arranging it all.’ He smiled at her, nothing but the usual affection in his eyes now. ‘It’s not just you, Ella. There are other wives as well who will be protected, Tilly included.’

‘But it was your idea, wasn’t it?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I admit it was, but…⁠’ he was turning away to the door, so he missed the sudden sag of her shoulders at the prospect of being dogged by a stranger wherever she went, ‘… it’s important to prevent any further incidents that would enflame resentments on either side.’

‘Of course, Reggie.’

The moment he departed, Ella fled the room into the garden.

Ella was tightening the restraining string around her abundant growth of passion flowers, which had a habit of unfurling their amethyst star-shaped blooms with outrageous abandon. That was the joy of a garden in the tropics – it never knew when to stop. It was never diplomatic. Ella loved the vitality of her garden and its wildlife. She paused to watch a woodstar hummingbird flash its iridescent violet throat at her, just as the first few drops of rain began to fall.

‘Miss Ella!’

‘What is it, Emerald?’

‘You got yourself a visitor.’

Ella straightened up. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’

‘Especially not this anyone.’

Emerald’s bulky neck was hunched down between her shoulders and Ella wasn’t sure if it was against the rain or against her visitor.

‘What do you mean, Emerald? Who is it?’

The maid’s broad nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘A skinny white miss who claims she has a private matter to discuss with you.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Miss Dodie Wyatt.’

‘What does she want?’

‘She ain’t sayin’.’

They started walking up the path together.

‘What’s wrong with the young lady, Emerald?’

‘She ain’t no lady.’

‘Emerald, you are a terrible snob.’

Emerald grinned proudly. ‘Yes, I sure am.’

‘I hope you were polite to her.’

‘’Course I was polite. Ain’t I always polite?’

‘No, you ain’t.’

They both chuckled.

They were nearing the house, the bougainvillea on the terrace flailing its magenta flowers in the wind. Ella frowned. It would take a battering in the coming storm.

She shook her finger at her maid. ‘Just because I feed you too much, that’s no reason to take against a girl for being skinny. It’s hard to find employment on this island.’

Emerald smacked her palm on her own broad backside with affection. ‘That’s ’cause us fat black folks will insist on hoggin’ all them dirty low-paid jobs ourselves. Can’t understand it, myself.’ She turned wide innocent eyes on Ella. ‘Can you, Miss Ella?’

‘Stop that, Emerald. If you want to argue politics, go and argue with my husband.’

‘I ain’t arguin’. I’m just sayin’.’

‘Well, go say to Miss Wyatt that I’ll be with her in a moment after I’ve washed my hands. Where did you put her?’

‘On the south verandah. It’s out of the wind there.’

‘What’s wrong with the drawing room?’

‘There’s good silver in that room.’

‘Emerald, you are bad!’

Emerald grinned. ‘Just lookin’ out for you, Miss Ella.’

Emerald was right about one thing, Ella had to admit. The girl was thin. As Ella stepped out onto the covered verandah, the girl turned at once from where she was studying the tonsured lawn and the towering mango tree swaying in the wind. Her face possessed fine delicate features, but her cheekbones were too prominent and lips too full for conventional attraction. Yet there was something of the little hummingbird about her, an iridescence that made it hard to take your eyes off her. At the moment her mouth was pulled into a tense line and she was assessing Ella from under thick dark lashes. Her pale green eyes looked young and Ella realised she must be little more than half Ella’s own age.

‘Good morning, Miss Wyatt. What can I do for you?’

‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Sanford.’ Her fingers twitched at one of the folds of her dress. ‘I need to speak to you about something.’

There was a diffidence in her manner that appealed to Ella and a bright awareness in her eyes, but her dark chestnut hair was yanked back by baling twine and her feet were in ragged sandals.

‘Let’s sit down.’ Ella gestured to two chairs beside a table and noticed with a smile that Emerald had laid out a jug of fresh lemonade and a plate of her homemade ginger biscuits. Obviously, in Emerald’s book, even Miss Wyatt needed feeding if she was skinny. ‘What is this about?’

‘It’s about Mr Morrell.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Mr Morrell. A big American with bushy hair.’ Her eyes were fixed on Ella. ‘I think you know him.’

‘Oh, yes, possibly.’ Ella hesitated and looked at the girl uneasily. ‘But I don’t exactly
know
him. I just met him briefly the other evening and we exchanged a few words, that’s all.’

‘May I ask what about?’