The Sugar Planter's Daughter (22 page)

I
have found just
the property, but I'm not telling her yet; it will be a surprise. It is a large plot of land on Lamaha Street, near the train station. It has several old fruit trees growing on it: mango, and genip, and guava; and the rest of the yard is a bit of a jungle. It has a small one-bedroom house on it, which won't be of any use to us – but the house is in good condition, and we can add to it, make it big enough to fit us all. I am beyond excited, jumping for joy within, but I can't speak of it yet – I need to make sure it can really be ours before I get her hopes up only to dash them again. I have reached an agreement with the owner as to price. A little above our budget but we can do it. Tomorrow I have an appointment with the bank manager, and I pray with all my might. I have been saving so rigorously over the past five years… I worry only that he might think I am overstepping my boundaries. Cummingsburg is a high step up from Albouystown. This house will place us firmly in the domain of coloured middle class. The bank manager, being white, might not approve.

O
h joy
! The loan has been approved! The conversation went something like this:

Him:
Mr Quint, your name seems familiar, somehow. Have we met before?

Me:
No sir. Not as far as I can recall.

There are, after all, very few occasions on which someone like me meets someone like him. We live in different worlds, different universes. I can count the white men I have ever spoken to on one hand, and Uncle Jim is one of them.

Him:
But that name, that name – George Quint. I know I've heard it before.

My blood froze. I knew where he had heard that name before. Seven years ago, before the trial of Winnie's father, my face and my name were splashed all over the newspapers. Me, carrying a sign screaming for Justice – Justice, against a white man! White society rallied for their own, and I was the enemy… I knew then that I could say goodbye to the loan, to the house, to our future. I remained silent. I was not going to remind him. Let him remember on his own. Why should I aid and abet the crashing of all my dreams?

Then suddenly, he pounded the desk with his fist.

Him:
I know! I've got it! I remember!

My heart crashes to the ground. This is it. The end.

Him:
Your wife! Is her name Winnie?

Me (questioningly):
Yes?

Him
: She makes a guava jelly called Quintessentials, doesn't she?

Me:
Yes?

Him:
She was here, many years ago, applying for a small loan so that she could expand. She brought me a jar of that jelly, and some other things too – pepper sauce – too hot for me – pickles and whatnot. My wife – she was ecstatic! Your wife is a remarkable woman, you know! Such an easy charm, she has. She gave me the samples, told me to take them home and try them, and she'd be back a week later. She was, and she got her loan. Winnie Quint. How could I forget! A remarkable woman.

Me:
She is.

Him:
My wife told me a bit about her. Said she'd married a black man, a George Quint. That's how I remembered your name. My wife loved the jam but disapproved of the marriage, turned up her nose. Told me a bit about some murder trial – the usual gossip. You know what most women are like. Gossip, gossip, gossip, and bad-talking each other.
Your
wife is different. Me, I thought the marriage only confirmed what a remarkable woman she is. Shows bravery, it does. And you must be a remarkable man.

Me:
Thank you, sir. I'm lucky to have her.

Him:
Well, I can see how hard you've saved over the years, how well you've managed your money. And you want to buy a house for her, you say? I think you deserve each other. And you deserve to get your house. Yes, of course you can have the loan. I'll get the papers drawn up – come back next week.

I walked out of that bank dazed and stumbling, as if drunk. I could hardly ride my bicycle. I wanted to sing and shout and dance! But all I did was ride down to the property and gaze at it in longing. It is ours – I know it is! It is perfect. Just a ten-minute walk up Camp Road to the Sea Wall. Round the corner are the beautiful Promenade Gardens. Queen's College, a five-minute bicycle ride away – all my boys will go there! They will all become doctors and lawyers. They will win scholarships, as I did, but do something with their education, as I didn't.

Round the other corner, a few blocks southwards and to the west, is Bishops' High School, the best girls' school in the country; round the other corner, a few blocks down, is St Rose's High School, Catholic. If we ever have a girl we must choose…

I can still hardly contain my joy, and it is the hardest thing not to burst out with it, to tell her. But still I must wait. There are some legal issues concerning the ownership of the property; the previous owner died a month ago and it is still under probate – a question about the will being contested. My heart is in my mouth. I fear it will all fall apart at the last moment, and I cannot let Winnie rejoice only to disappoint her again. No, I will wait until the last signature has been signed and the house is ours. A home for us all! I am even beginning to believe that the baby is a girl. That Winnie is right, this time. That Gabriella Rose is on her way to us.

I
feel so
bad that I have denied Winnie her visits to the home she loves so much, Promised Land. But I cannot go back there, ever. Not after that terrible Christmas Eve, when Yoyo showed her true colours. And it tears my heart apart that I must keep the truth of that visit a secret from my wife.

It has taken all my skill and all my wiles to deflect her from that truth. I invented a quarrel with Yoyo; that is, I exaggerated the little spat we had had that time over dinner, and made it into a conflagration, a fully-fledged quarrel, one that I could never overcome unless Yoyo apologised. I made her believe I was stubborn and unforgiving. I even allowed her to believe that Yoyo had insulted me about my race. I didn't lie directly, but when she asked I hung my head and pretended to be too insulted to talk about it. I knew she'd jump to that conclusion. I'd let her believe anything rather than tell her the truth about what happened.

Because telling her the truth would destroy her inviolable trust in her sister. How could I shatter her illusions? Winnie holds Yoyo in such high estimation. Yoyo is everything Winnie is not: assertive where Winnie is accommodating, outspoken where Winnie is tactful, uninhibited where Winnie is discreet. Winnie admires her sister no end; yes, she knows that Yoyo has faults, but she minimises those faults and sees them only as minor flaws. How could I tear away that image of near perfection?

And so I allow her to believe that it is only my stubbornness that prevents reconciliation, and a visit to Promised Land. I foster this belief, make it the sole cause of my refusal to visit Yoyo, and we have never gone back, for five long years. Every year, especially around Christmas, we have this little argument, and every year there is one more little boy to complicate matters.

There is some risk in this strategy – what if Winnie approaches Yoyo and tries to get her to apologise? Yoyo might laugh and tell her the truth – that really it was just a short exchange of words, a few mild insults. What if she indeed apologises, laughs them off, mocks me for taking offence when none was intended? I'm fairly certain she won't tell Winnie what actually
did
happen – Yoyo certainly wouldn't want Winnie to know the extent of her betrayal. But – what if she lies? Winnie herself has told me that Yoyo is careless with the truth. What if Yoyo tells her that
I
tried to seduce
her
? Who would she believe?

These thoughts have plagued me all through the years. And the guilt, that Winnie is kept from the beautiful house that was once her home and must live in a cramped cottage. But all that is going to change. I shall build her a home as beautiful as Promised Land.

I
came home later
that afternoon, trying hard to wipe the grin from my face. For how could I explain it? Winnie can read me like a book – what would I do when she asked what was making me so happy? What would I say? And so, as solemn as could be, I wheeled my bicycle through the gate and into the shed. But Winnie was already halfway down the stairs.

‘George, wherever have you been? You're so late! I've been waiting and waiting!'

I no longer had to try to be solemn. Her stern voice wiped the smile from my face.

‘Sorry, dear, I-I was held up at work, and'

‘Oh, I don't want to hear the whole story – just hurry up now and get ready. We're running late!'

‘Late? What for?'

‘Oh
George
.
So you
have
forgotten. It's Andrew's birthday party! Remember? I told you about it last week. It's tonight!'

The words wiped the last remnants of joy from my soul. Andrew's birthday party. Yes, she had told me last week and we had almost quarrelled, for I did not want to go. All those white people!

‘Oh George! You always accuse the English of being racist but you're just as bad.'

Would she ever understand the difference? When the English reject us it's because they consider themselves better, us inferior. When we reject them, it's because we know this, and prefer to avoid their sneers. I'd explained this to her a thousand times but try as she might, she could not bridge the gap.

‘You could at least
try!
And not everyone is going to be white. There's Eliza, and her friends. Kitty and Tilly will be there, and Tilly's husband – as dark as you. This is the most open-minded group of English in the whole colony – you could at least try. Nobody is going to look down on you. They're my friends, you know. I really want to go out a bit more. I need to – I need the change!'

And that's the argument that changed my mind. Winnie did need to go out more, by herself, without the children. Just the two of us. When was the last time we'd gone anywhere together, just us? I couldn't recall. And tonight it wouldn't be just us either – really, I would have preferred a quiet dinner somewhere, or a walk just with Winnie, rather than a party. But she needed this, and how could I have forgotten? All weekend she'd been excited about the dress. A dress that would flatter her while concealing her condition as much as possible. Aunty Dolly came and measured her – in the sixth month of pregnancy, Winnie of course had quite a bulge – and the two of them had spent hours bent over a women's magazine discussing styles and cuts and so on. Women's matters. Winnie purchased yards and yards of some shiny green material at Fogarty's, and it was to be her first new party dress since the wedding. I assumed it was finished now – I had not thought of it, or the party, for days. I had agreed to go, and promptly forgotten.

‘Anyway, you're here now. So hurry up – you need to bathe! I've laid out your best clothes for you.'