The Sugar Planter's Daughter (13 page)

Y
es
, my son, our son, had a clubfoot. Yet still he was perfect. I held him in my arms and wept because he was so perfect. Little limbs awkwardly flailing, eyes shut tight, tiny lips moving as if searching for food – how could I not be in love?

George looked down on us and the wonder in his moist eyes was palpable – he leaned in and touched our baby's little hand, stroked his little cheek, and our eyes met and no words came, because no words were equal to the joy I felt, and my joy was George's, a quiet joy that wrapped us into one.

Deirdre bent over us with arms stretched out to take him from me. I did not want to give him up. But she took him and wrapped him in a towel and, laughing at my stricken face, said, ‘Don't worry, I gon' bring he back jus' now. Just goin' to weigh him and clean he up a lil'.'

I watched as she placed him in a sling and held the scale aloft.

‘Five pounds and a half,' she said. ‘Not too bad considering he a month early. You got a name for he?'

‘Humphrey,' said George, ‘after my granddaddy.'

‘Dat's a good strong name,' said Deirdre as she left the room with my son in her arms.

‘Where are you going? Come back!' I called, and struggled to get up.

‘Gone to clean he up on the dining table,' Deirdre called back. ‘Don't worry. I not gon' teef he.'

Well, I knew she wouldn't steal him but not having my baby in my arms was a pain so intense it was physical; as if a limb had been amputated from me, and I wept.

For the first time, Ma spoke. ‘Is alright, don't cry,' she said, bundling the wet and bloody bedclothes into a heap and straightening the sheet beneath me. ‘Plenty chirren get born wit' crippled foot.'

I glared at her, and for a brief moment anger outweighed my pain.

‘It's not his
foot
I'm crying about! I don't care about his damned foot!'

‘Well, you should care! If you don't care who else gon' care! This whole mattress wet. You gon' have to move so I could put it outside to dry. You shoulda place old newspapers under you before you waters break!'

‘Thanks for reminding me,' I said, but she didn't notice the sarcasm in my tone, and I was glad of it because that biting tongue was new to me – I had never spoken to her that way before.

‘It's a clubfoot,' George said to me quietly. ‘It's all right. I had a friend with a clubfoot when I was small. Other than that he is perfect.'

‘He's perfect as he is,' I said defiantly.

G
eorge sent a telegram
, and Mama and Yoyo came the next evening. Yoyo didn't think he was perfect, and neither did Mama, though she was more tactful about it than Yoyo, who actually wrinkled her nose when she saw the twisted foot.

‘This can be corrected,' Mama said. ‘What you need is a good doctor.'

‘Oh, Mama! Is that all you have to say! Cannot you just love him as he is?'

‘I do,' said Mama, ‘but you might as well face facts. That foot will be a handicap and you should put it right.'

‘I don't want to think about that,' I said, and looked down at my baby, who was wholeheartedly drinking at my breast. His face was perfect, his lips were perfect; that tiny hand resting on my breast, with the perfect nails – all I cared to do was drink in that perfection, swallow it whole so that it was a part of me. Why should I think about a slightly unshapely foot?

But Mama folded back the towel he was wrapped in and held the foot in her hand, stroked it lovingly.

‘Poor little mite!' she said. ‘We'll put you right. Just wait and see.'

T
he next day
Mama and I took little Humphrey to Dr van Sertima, and he repeated what Mama had said. Yoyo had gone off to visit some of her Georgetown friends. She had lost interest in Humphrey almost immediately; after frowning at his foot – as if that was what defined him! She had fidgeted while Mama and I discussed baby matters, and then excused herself and returned to the Park Hotel. I had not seen her at all today, whereas Mama had spent the day with me, and insisted we see the doctor.

‘There are specialists who can fix this,' said Dr Van Sertima, ‘though none, unfortunately, in BG. I will send off a few telegrams tomorrow and see who can help. You will have to travel, though, Mrs Quint, and spend some time abroad. It can't be helped. And it will be quite costly.'

‘We will spare no expense!' said Mama.

‘Mama…' I began, a warning in my voice. We had argued about this already. I had some savings, but they were for the new rooms we would be adding to the house. I could not afford specialist care abroad.

‘Ssshhh, Winnie!' Mama said to me, and turned back to Dr van Sertima. ‘Where will she have to go? And Winnie, of course I will go with you!'

‘Europe will be best,' said Dr van Sertima. ‘England, or'

‘Germany! Austria!' cried Mama. ‘That would be perfect. Winnie, I would take you home to Salzburg, to Vienna. Get the very best doctor to put him right. You will meet Father, your grandfather, and your uncles!'

‘Mama – I can't possibly travel to Europe. I don't want to go anywhere! Can't we just…'

Can't we just accept him as he is, I thought. I couldn't bear the thought of putting this child through the torture of medical treatment – for whatever it was that could be done, it was clear to me that it would be painful, and a little baby cannot understand why his mother would put him through pain.

‘Or can't we wait till he is older?'

‘It needn't be done right away,' said Dr van Sertima. ‘Still, the sooner the better, while the bones are soft and pliable.'

Soft and pliable! I cringed at those words. They wanted to bend and bow my baby into some perfect shape, and hurt him! I cuddled him close, and tears pooled in my eyes.

‘No, no, I will not allow it!' I said.

‘She will do it,' said Mama firmly to Dr van Sertima. ‘And I will pay for it. Please find the best doctor in the world for what needs to be done.'

A
lleluia
! It seems there really is something like divine intervention after all, because all the prayers I would have said, had I been the kind of person who said prayers, have come true. It's far from my nature to gloat, but Winnie delivering a crippled baby has played right into my plans. The thing I was dreading the most was Winnie lording it over me, making fun of my inability to bear a son – when it is not my fault at all. It's all Clarence's fault. But I cannot let that be known without disclosing the intimate secrets of my marriage, and that wouldn't do at all.

So this has taken Winnie down a peg or two. She claims she does not care, that she loves this child just the same – but why then is she crying all the time? That's according to Mama, who has extended her stay in Georgetown.

So have I. It was not actually planned, but on my first evening here I paid a visit to my old friend Margaret McInnes, who is now Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth, having married Matthew of the same name shortly after my own marriage to Clarence. The Smythe-Collingsworths are Booker people, and everyone knows what
that
means: a manager of Booker Brothers, the ravenous monster company that's slowly devouring the colony, one shop, one shipyard, one sugar plantation at a time. Bookers now owns almost the entire Corentyne Coast, Promised Land being one of only three plantations not in Booker claws. Without Clarence's (or rather, his father's) investment we, too, would inevitably have been swallowed up.

Mr Smythe-Collinsworth, Margaret's father-in-law, manages a shipyard and Margaret and Matthew are staying at their house in Main Street just until they can find suitable accommodation of their own. Mrs Smythe-Collingsworth the elder is a very fine lady and invited me to stay for a week, and I accepted the invitation. I do so miss the excitement of town – I feel so locked away on the plantation, much as I love it!

So I sent a telegram to Clarence informing him of the delay. He and Mad Jim will just have to run the place for a while, and I dare say they will manage, though not without some strife. Mama too is staying on for a week. She is quite distressed about the baby, though she is putting on a brave face.

She says she cannot yet leave Winnie on her own, which is another example of favouritism. Had it been me she would not have hesitated to leave me in the care of my in-laws. Be that as it may, I am staying in town, and so is Mama. And I do intend to enjoy myself while here. Margaret has always been great fun, and she knows how to cheer me up. She intends to throw a party for me – how jolly!

A
very interesting
thing happened this morning. Margaret and I were sitting in the gallery of her house drinking tea and chatting, when the dog began barking; that in itself was not a problem, as the dog is tied to his kennel in the yard – but Margaret got up to see who had entered the gate, and she said, ‘Oh – it's the postman.'

She was about to take her seat again when her face broke into a smile and she said, ‘I almost forgot – he's your brother-in-law, isn't he?'

‘It's George? Really?' I got up and went to the window, where I saw George walking down the garden path towards the house, several envelopes in his hand.

‘He must have something for us to sign,' said Margaret. ‘The postbox is attached to the front gate, and he only enters if it's a telegram or a registered letter.'

That's when I had an idea.

‘Do you mind if I invite him in for a few minutes? Would your mother mind?'

‘Well – she's not at home, is she? She need never know. What dastardly plan do you have up your sleeve, Yoyo? I know you – it's not the kindness of your heart speaking there!'

I grinned at her, and winked. She did indeed know me well. And I did have a plan, though calling it dastardly was perhaps an exaggeration. I just intended to have a bit of entertainment with George. He is so easily embarrassed, and this was a perfect opportunity.

I openly admit that I had been cold towards George in the past, and it was time for that to change. I had made a beginning the last time he and Winnie had come to visit us at Promised Land, and here was a perfect opportunity to show him the more pleasing side of my nature.

George was such easy prey – but no, that's the wrong word. My intentions with him were in no way malicious; I just enjoyed seeing him squirm, which he did, whenever I spoke to him. I suppose it had to do with his innate reverence towards the white race – all darkies have that, it's in their blood – and me being his sister-in-law; and added to that, my indisputable feminine charms. Many a young man has fallen victim to
those
in the past, and why not George? So yes, now I think of it more,
prey
is indeed the right word. What young woman doesn't enjoy seeing a young man reduced to jelly simply by dint of a suitably fluttered eyelash? Harmless fun – and I intended to have it.

So when George knocked on the front door it was I who got up to open it, and Margaret who accompanied me, shooing away the servant who hurried forth from the kitchen.

I flung the door open.

‘Hello, George!' I said, offering him my widest and most welcoming smile.

Poor George! He actually jumped when he saw me, just as if he'd seen a ghost, and stepped backwards, stumbling on the porch.

‘Careful!' I said, reaching out to help him find his feet. I took his hand till he found his balance, and I didn't let go once he had.

‘George!' I said, ‘Margaret and I saw you coming up the path and we wondered if you'd drink a cup of tea with us?'

He actually turned a shade of pale – difficult for a man of such dark complexion, but I swear it happened. He stuttered as he spoke.

‘M-m-m-miss…' How darling! He still wanted to call me Miss Cox, even though he had every right to call me Yoyo!

‘Yoyo,' I said firmly, ‘Do call me Yoyo. I was so sorry to have missed you last night when I came to see your lovely baby – you must come in now. Margaret, get the maid to make a new pot.'

‘Um, I-I-I can't, I'm working,' he said, patting the bulging postbag that hung over his shoulder.

‘Oh nonsense. No one will notice. Just for a few minutes. I insist!'

And I pulled him inside the house and shut the door.

The poor chap! I swear there was panic in his eyes, like a trapped animal. I could hear Margaret behind me, tittering, and I too found it hard to suppress a giggle. What fun this was going to be! Still not letting go of his hand, I practically dragged him into the gallery, chattering all the time – some nonsense about how much I missed Winnie and how happy I was for her and how we sisters had to catch up while I was in town. Margaret meanwhile had scampered away to order the tea and I led George over to one of the Morris chairs and bid him sit. Which he did. I did let go of his hand now, for he was almost trembling with trepidation.

I sat down in the chair next to him and tilted my head prettily for his benefit. I discreetly pulled a strand of hair from behind my hair and twirled it round my finger while gazing intently into his eyes, which proved harder than I imagined as his were lowered.

‘George,' I said, hoping that my silky voice would encourage him to raise his gaze. I had practised that voice with Clarence, on whom it had no effect whatsoever, but, after all, Clarence was an anomaly among men. Most men melt when a woman lures him with her softness. It's the antidote to their hardness. I discovered this as a young girl, at all the balls we girls were taken to. There is a dearth of white girls in the colony and a superfluity of men, and that's how I learned the ways of men. Even a young girl of fourteen can have adult men grovelling at her feet. These tough men, accustomed to the brutality of plantation life, were as dough in our hands; they pine for our gentleness. And even a married man, even a happily married man, which I assumed George was, cannot resist. It's instinct, and I learned this at a very early age – perhaps that is
our
instinct, as women. Thus it is that women are ultimately the stronger sex; we just must know how to apply that strength. Coupled with crafty intelligence and a plan, it cannot be defeated. The trouble with Winnie is that though she has that softness she lacks both intelligence and a plan. She is without wile, unlike me.

Indeed, George looked up and I saw the capitulation in his eyes. I smiled in triumph and reached out my hand to him again. Since he did not take it, I took his, placing my fingers gently round it as it lay on the armrest of the chair. Immediately he stiffened, and pulled away – I allowed him to. It wouldn't do to scare him too much on this first day. I returned to curling that stray lock of hair with my finger, and gave him my most beautiful smile, even while turning my head in a way I knew was charming, exposing my long neck. He was palpably frightened – that wouldn't do. I thought it would relax him if I spoke about Winnie, with whom he was still besotted, so I did.

‘Tell me, George – what's this I hear about Winnie going into serious business with her guava jam and pepper sauce? Is it really true that she's even selling it at Fogarty's?'

He nodded. ‘Yes, ma'am.'

Ma'am! He actually called me ma'am! Obviously an attempt by him to distance himself as far as possible! Which meant that, deep inside, my strategy was working. I decided to ignore the ma'am. I chuckled.

‘Goodness gracious! So she
is
a businesswoman. Dear me – I
am
impressed. Winnie didn't know how to even boil a kettle of water as a girl! How droll to think of her in the kitchen with all the pots and pans, cooking up gallons of guava, selling them all!'

‘It's very good,' he said, defending his wife as a good husband should.

‘Oh, I know! Up at Promised Land we finished the first jar of guava jelly you brought us in no time, and we are now halfway through the second. And the pepper sauce has its place on the dining table – a little too hot for my taste, but I do try a little now and then.'

Margaret returned, and shortly after that the servant appeared with a tray on which stood a teapot and a cup and saucer, as well as a sugar bowl and a little jug of milk. I kept up the chatter as she poured George's tea.

‘Oh! I'm so sorry – I didn't introduce you to my friend, Margaret Smythe-Collingsworth. Previously Margaret McInnes – you know the McInnes family, of course – you used to deliver their letters.'

Margaret giggled at that, and I caught her eye and winked. She knew full well what I was doing, and was richly enjoying the game. Just as I was. George was such an easy prey. It pleased me to see, once again, how much power I could have over a man, seeing as how I had failed with Clarence. It pleased me to see George's discomfort. It was all so harmless, at this stage; a little game that gave me infinite pleasure even as it pleased me to see this unwanted addition to our family in discomfort. A little act of revenge, one might say.

‘I'm sure Margaret would love a jar of the guava jelly, and the pepper sauce!' I continued. ‘Do you like it hot, Margaret?'

She shook her head, unable to speak as she was almost bursting with unspent giggles. I, on the other hand, managed to keep a straight face as I said, ‘Well, I'm sure your husband does! George, you must bring a jar of each round tomorrow when you deliver your letters. I'm sure they'd fit in your letter-bag. You must make sure, though, that the lids are on tightly. We can't allow the pepper sauce to leak all over your letters – now
that
would be a catastrophe!'

It was a joke, and so both Margaret and I were permitted to laugh out loud, which was a relief – one can only keep a straight face so long! Poor George. He didn't see the joke. I'm afraid the poor boy entirely lacks a sense of humour. I believe all darkies do – one never hears them laughing and joking among themselves.

Instead, he sipped hastily at his tea; it must have been far too hot, but he didn't seem to care. Perhaps it's true that they are insensitive to pain. He sipped again and then downed the rest of the cup in a few gulps, extremely rudely, of course, and with a complete lack of etiquette. Which just goes to show how shallow were the manners he had displayed during that ghastly visit to Promised Land. At heart he was crude. Having emptied the cup, he stood up.

‘I got to go,' he said, picking up the postbag.

I would have loved to keep him longer, but I decided to let him go.

‘We must see more of each other, George!' I said as we walked to the front door. ‘After all, we're family now! I'll make sure you and Winnie are invited to a party I'll be attending later this week.' That was a lie, of course. There was no possibility of a fellow of his ilk being invited to a society party. But getting his hopes up was all part of my ploy. A cat and mouse game – that's what it was.

I had to admit that, were it not for the colour of his skin, George would have been a decidedly attractive man. He had a certain appeal to him, a certain innocent charm, which most of our own men lacked. Perhaps it was his lack of male posturing and self-aggrandisement, which can be so very tiring. I know I had initially rejected him, but I could now understand a little why Winnie had been so completely gaga for him. I wondered: if I had seen that appeal before her, would I have fallen as strongly for him as she did? Would I have cast caution to the wind, and given up all for him? I did not believe in romantic love, not at all – but a certain magnetic pull cannot be denied. That day at Promised Land, when George had first squirmed under my gaze, I had noticed the pleasure it gave me to see his discomfort. And today, that pleasure was so much more. Clarence's rejection of me had given me such doubts – a little harmless game with George was enough to restore my faith in myself as a woman. Just a little harmless game. It was so easy to tease him.