The Sugar Planter's Daughter (9 page)

W
innie wrote
to say they were coming to visit, she and George. I couldn't imagine what for – the last time I had seen Winnie, we had parted on less than cordial terms. But I supposed she wanted to see her mother. I almost wrote back to say she should come, but not to bring George. It was going to be most awkward. George, who was once our postboy on the estate, now living in the house as part of the family! Most inappropriate. It's not that I was a snob. I just felt it would lead to disrespect – not only on his part, but on the part of the servants.

Mama, of course, was delighted that they were coming. It was scandalous, how openly she showed her preference for Winnie. Though most of Mama's behaviour was scandalous anyway. Mama thought nothing of fraternising not only with the house servants but with the labourers as well. She was wielding far too much power around the plantation – I should never have taken her advice and employed that Mad Jim Booker as estate manager. Yes, it had been necessary to dismiss Mr McInnes, but we should have waited until we found an appropriate replacement.

Mr Booker was anything
but
appropriate, the way he ran around with that bushy beard and those faded old clothes! I had to admit, though, that he was a good manager; the coolies worked well for him – better, even, than under Mr McInnes – even though he was far too gentle with them. But perhaps it was indeed true what he said – the carrot was better than the stick.

I just didn't like the way he and Mama were undermining my authority. It's not that I necessarily disagreed with this approach – if it increased production, who was I to protest – but they needed to know who was actually running the plantation, and that was I. But the fact remained that I was better at figures than at people, and they were the ones out there giving directions whereas I was the one bent over the books. This was confusing for the coolies.

Coolies are simple people, like children, really, and they would never understand that in the end everything came down to me. That I was the boss. It was I who approved the plan to build new lodgings for them on the back-dam. We would have to sacrifice an entire cane field for this – would the coolies be able to grasp the significance of that? No! Of course not. They would think of us as soft, as giving in to their demands.

I had always said that change had to come from above – that was the only way to maintain authority. We could not be seen as having caved in as a result of their strikes and protests – but that was exactly what would happen. Once you gave them a hand they would take the whole arm – what would be the next demand? But it was not the coolies now who were making demands – it was that Mad Jim, hand-in-glove with Mama. Better pay, shorter hours, more free days, schools for the coolie children, a dispensary with a resident nurse, maternity leave, old age pensions – what would be next?

There was a time when I too had dreamt such unrealistic dreams. But I was only fourteen at the time, my heart softened by witnessing the atrocious conditions my beloved Nanny had lived and died in. I saw myself, back then, as some kind of saviour – a benefactress, bestowing blessings on my underlings. It wasn't a bad thing to be. Doing good makes one feel good. I understood that much. But now I had a plantation to run and you can't do that on kindliness and generosity. So I had to harden my heart and make myself more like a man. Rough and tough. That's the only way I could succeed.

Mama didn't understand that – she was all woman, kind and caring, and she had no business mixing herself into plantation business. Papa always said that women didn't have the head for business, and I could see that with Mama. Too kind by far. And now Winnie was coming. With George. Frankly, it was a catastrophe.

T
hey arrived the following week
; I had offered to send Poole down with the car to fetch them from Georgetown, but Winnie sent a cable back saying no, they preferred to come by train, but that we could send Poole to New Amsterdam to collect them.

They arrived in time for dinner. Mama, of course, flew at the car and flung her arms round both Winnie and George. I gave them a more circumspect greeting – I hugged Winnie, of course, and I gave George a polite and reserved handshake. It was an awkward thing, and once again I was reminded how very inappropriate this marriage was. This time, as I was at home, I didn't have a big hat to wear to show my disapproval, but I would wear a frown and a distant demeanour. Brother-in-law or not, George needed to know his place inside my home.

I sent them up to their room to change out of their limp and bedraggled travelling clothes, and sent the boy up behind them with their luggage. Their room. The biggest travesty of all. My sister, sharing a bed with the black postboy. It was beyond disgusting.

They came down again all washed and tidy. I couldn't help noticing that, although Winnie's clothes were clean, they were rather plain. As a young girl Winnie had loved fashionable attire – how could she bear living in Albouystown with a poor husband who couldn't afford to keep her in beautiful frocks? I was curious, and over the next few days I hoped to prise all the details out of her. A white lady in Albouystown! It was actually quite intriguing. And this husband of hers. Well, I intended to thoroughly size him up – discreetly, of course. What on earth did she see in him? She had pursued him relentlessly, running away at least twice to meet him secretly, when she could have had her pick of any number of appropriate young suitors.

According to Uncle Don, Papa's younger brother with an estate in Barbados, she actually turned down just such a young man on the island. And of course she could have had my Clarence, and been mistress of Promised Land. Yet she chose the darkie postboy, this George. It was extraordinary. I mean, I knew that George wasn't an ordinary darkie. He was quite clever, for a start, and I suddenly remembered the first time we had met him – I had been quite impressed at his knowledge of telegraphy and Morse code, and indeed I had found him rather interesting, for a darkie.

But Winnie, it seemed, had been completely captivated from the start. ‘Love at first sight', she called it. Baloney! There's no such thing. But Winnie latched on to him like a leech, pursued him, betrayed her family for him, and this is what we ended up with: the family dragged through the ugliness of a public trial, our father a convict, and a Cox princess married to a darkie postboy from Albouystown. No wonder she and I quarrelled incessantly when she moved back to Promised Land after the trial! I could not forgive her, and I was glad when that cursed wedding was finally over and done with and I could get down to my work managing the plantation.

I hadn't reckoned on Mama being every bit as stubborn as Winnie when it came to making changes and, backed by Mad Jim Booker, overriding my objections.

And now here we were: the new housing almost finished, the coolies excited and rallying around their new manager; me in a subordinate position, reduced to mere accountant, and Winnie and George due to arrive at any minute.

So yes, I was angry. But I couldn't show it. Not blatantly, anyway. On the outside I would be as cordial as a sister can be; on the inside, seething. I would play my cards subtly, and cleverly. I was in no hurry.

W
e took
our seats at the dining table and I glanced at George. He had changed into a rather smart suit with a white shirt and a bow tie, and actually looked quite dapper, if one looked past the colour of his skin. George could be charming when he wanted to be, and obviously, this evening he did want to be – after all, he had to impress his mother-in-law. Though he didn't have to work hard for that; it was quite obvious that Mama was completely taken in by George and fully approved of Winnie's choice. That, to me, was inexcusable. To her right sat Clarence, but it had been plain from the start that Mama and Clarence were like fire and water and, having lived with him for several months by this time, she had not the least compunction in ignoring him completely and giving all her attention to George.

The table was set for five, with Mama at the head, Clarence at her right and Winnie at her left. George sat next to Winnie, and I sat on Clarence's right, opposite George. Pansy brought out the steaming bowl of mulligatawny soup. I had engaged a male Indian cook from Georgetown – Rupnarine was his name – and I had expressly requested this soup, as it was his
pièce de resistance.
The very aroma of it was enough to make even the most dedicated ascetic swoon, and George, not being an ascetic, immediately commented on it.

‘That smells delicious!' he said, making an exaggerated gesture of breathing it deep into his lungs. ‘Mulligatawny is my favourite!'

‘His mother makes it too,' chirped Winnie, smiling at Mama. This was her strategy, it seemed: to be constantly drawing attention to points in her new family's favour. ‘And she's taught me to cook it!'

And, I might add, boasting of her newly found accomplishments in her new life. She never let me forget the fact that she was, apparently, an expert Morse technician and had even worked in the telegraphy office in Barbados – as if working in a public institution was anything to boast about! Perhaps she had forgotten one of the many German aphorisms Mama had taught us as children:
Eigenlob stinkt –
self-praise stinks. She had been far more modest before this affair with George; when we were growing up Winnie was the one who never seemed to believe in herself, and I was the star, the one everyone admired and praised. Yet here now was Winnie putting on airs, passing herself off as some kind of a gourmet cook.

‘She's good, too!' said George, beholding her with shining eyes as if she were an angel with spreading wings floating above us all. Winnie beamed at the sycophancy.

‘I like cooking,' she said. ‘I never thought I would – I was never very practical as a girl – do you remember, Mama? You always said I had two left thumbs when it came to sewing and embroidery!'

‘Tell her about your guava jelly,' said George, in between sips at his soup. He held the soup spoon completely wrong, slurping out of the front of the spoon instead of nipping at the side. It was obvious he had not been brought up with any kind of table etiquette whatsoever, and that Winnie had not bothered to teach him either. A drop of mulligatawny soup fell on to his shirt, and I couldn't help but titter. Clarence, too, noticed this, and we exchanged a secret smile.

Winnie, of course, did not notice – she would probably never see any fault in her George – and now she took his encouragement as a cue for yet more bragging. Oh Winnie, Winnie – where did you leave your modesty?

‘Yes, Mama – you see, we have two guava trees in the backyard and they bear the most delicious, huge, white guavas. They are far tastier than the pink ones – quite a delicacy! Well, on my first day as a married woman George's mother – who can be quite formidable when she wants to be – taught me how to make guava jelly. And since then I've been going around Albouystown buying those white guavas from anyone who has a tree. I walk from door to door with a basket and I pay good prices. That way I also made a few friends among the women. And then I make the jelly, and sell it. You see, Yoyo – you're not the only businesswoman among us!'

I smiled and bowed my head in acknowledgement, but inwardly I fumed. How dare she compare guava jelly to a sugar estate? How dare she compare
us
? How dare she!

‘And you know what?' said George. ‘Now people have started calling the white guavas “White Lady Guavas”. Not just in the neighbourhood – the name has stuck even in Bourda Market.'

Winnie had the grace to blush.

‘How lovely!' I said, and caught George's eye. He frowned, and I suspected he had read my sarcasm, but Winnie hadn't – she was far too naïve to mistrust any praise I offered, possibly because it was so rare. She simpered and said, bubbling over with enthusiasm: ‘I've brought you some jars, Yoyo, so you can try it. And some pepper sauce, and tamarind chutney, and mango pickle! I brought them in the trunk of the car. Has Poole brought them up to the kitchen yet? I've been trying out all these wonderful recipes George's mother taught me, and it's such fun – I never knew I'd be good in the kitchen!'