Local Customs Page 12

  Some nights, if I leant over the battlements, I could see the moon broken up into splinters, like a dropped plate, yet up in the sky it was whole. The night before I died, the moon was barely there, and then it disappeared altogether behind a build-up of cloud and mist.

  “‘There’s husbandry in Heaven; their candles are all out.’ Who says that? Banquo, is it, just before the murderers spring upon him?”

  “I’m not sure,” Brodie said. “You know your Shakespeare far better than I.”

  “I used to sit with my grandmother Bishop on a Sunday afternoon, and while she nodded over her tatting, I memorized page after page of Shakespeare. I do believe there is a line from the Bard to fit every occasion.”

  “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’?”

  I shivered. “No, not that one; it’s not really appropriate.”

  “Sorry. It just popped into my head.”

  He took out a little box he’d been keeping in his pocket.

  “I have a present for you.”

  I turned away from him, once again staring out towards sea.

  “You mustn’t give me presents,” I said.

  “Just a keepsake to remember me by. Something curious. Hold out your hand. I had intended giving it to you in the morning, but there might not be an appropriate time.”

  “I can’t imagine what it could be,” I said, opening the box.

  Inside was a little bird of brass, about the size of a man’s thumb, quite beautifully done, with its head facing backwards.

  “Do you know anything about ‘lost wax’?” he asked.

  “Only the thousands of candles I have consumed, writing at night, both in London and out here.”

  He smiled. “Lost wax is a very old process used by the Africans for making small objects, beads, for example, or gold weights. Cire perdue.”

  “But this isn’t gold; it’s brass.”

  “True. But the gold weights — little brass figures of various design — are used to weigh small amounts of gold dust. All of the weights have numerical values. That’s interesting in itself, but the main interest, for me, is that many of the weights have proverbs attached to them.”

  “And the bird with his head facing backwards, what does he mean?”

  “I suppose the closest translation would be ‘Had I known.’”

  “Had I known what? Is this a message for me?”

  “Not really. I just thought it was a fine example of the craft. I collect these. When I return I’ll bring over some of them to show you, and if George is agreeable, I’ll take you to a village where they do the casting.”

  “And if your wife is agreeable…”

  “Don’t be so sure that I’ll return with a wife.”

  “You will — you will, and that will change everything.”

  Brodie: She turned it over and over in her hand, then put it in her little net bag.

  “I shall treasure it. Just the name, ‘Lost Wax,’ gives it a kind of mystery. This is very sweet of you.”

  Letty: I locked it in my secret drawer. George never thought to look there when he sent the desk back to England. Never found the dolls, the little bat, the lump of clay with three feathers sticking into it. Did those things really have any power over me or did I give them that power? Certainly somebody was trying to frighten me. For the last few weeks I started at every sudden noise, couldn’t sleep, could barely eat; the soup tasted strange; the chicken was a little ‘off.’ Were they trying to poison me as well?

  Mrs. Bailey: I suppose I should have gone to her, insisted she tell me what was wrong, but it wasn’t my place, was it. Any road, I figured it out for myself one day. After she died, when I was finished laying her out — she did look lovely — I leant down and whispered, “Don’t worry, dear, your secret’s safe with me.”

  Letty: I had always been good at masking my real feelings; George didn’t notice a thing — except to comment from time to time on how “bonny” I looked.

  “The Maclean will be here any day, Letty,” George said. “Be sure to give me all your letters and I’ll seal them in one packet addressed to Forster or your brother or whomever you wish. It will be easier that way.”

  “And my essays?”

  “We’ll seal those up in the same manner. I assume they go to William Jerdan?”

  “He can deal with the publishing side, yes.”

  “The sooner you can hand me all this, the sooner I can see that it’s packaged properly.”

  Letty: I handed over everything I had written to that date; but with the ship in, standing off in the roads but not yet ready to depart, I kept on writing letters. I wrote almost up until the moment of my death.

  George: She never sealed her letters without showing them to me first. When the gossip-mongers began their malicious campaign it infuriated me. Because I saw her letters, she often teased me through them — it was a joke between us.

  “There, George,” she would say, “do you think I have blackened your character enough?” It was in jest.

  Mrs. Bailey: One afternoon Mrs. Maclean swooned just after we came in. Swooned and vomited. She said it must have been the fish at luncheon. Well, Emily, I said to myself, no good wondering about things that are none of your business.

  “Too much sun, mebbe,” says I.

  Letty

  SOME THOUGHT I MODELLED MY DISCUSSION of Colonel Mannering on George, read things into that little essay that I never intended.

  The habits of a man accustomed to command — especially on a foreign station, would necessarily be removed and secluded. Now, what is but necessary authority in official life, and with man over man, seems harshness when extended to woman.

  But I didn’t invent Colonel Mannering; Scott did. And George was never harsh with me; he simply wasn’t there. He knew I was occupied with my writing; he assumed I lacked for nothing (nothing material, that is), and so he was content.

  In the mornings, as I worked, I could hear the voices of the prisoners who were sweeping and cleaning. Because I could not understand a word of what they were saying, it became nothing but sound and not in the least distracting. There seemed to be a lot of joking between the soldiers and their charges. I doubt those bayonets were ever used.

  The vowels are rounder, very rich, although the women’s voices, down in the town, are higher and more nasal.

  The fishermen were the only men I noticed doing hard physical labour day after day (except Tuesdays, of course). It is the women who were constantly in motion, while the men stood around talking or sat under a silk-cotton tree playing Oware. A few men have special skills — the weavers, the carpenters, the drummers — but the universal skill seems to be avoiding work. I suppose if you have several wives, most of your needs are taken care of. George worked harder than ten of them put together; it was completely up to him to keep order. The other members of the Council helped, Mr. Cobbold and Mr. Topp in particular, yet no one seemed to have that keen sense of duty that permeated my husband through and through. I wondered if any of them, with a price upon their heads, would have gone alone to confront the King of Apollonia?

  Of course there was Mr. Freeman and he did work hard, but somehow that was different. Was it because he always let you know how hard he worked?

  “Ah, Mrs. Maclean! Now that the rains have virtually ceased, you must come and see the progress we are making on the Chapel. I work right alongside the men; I think that inspires them. In the heat of the day we stop and share a simple meal of stew and fou-fou and then, after an hour, we are up again and pounding away. The windows are in and the men refused to take any money. Truly, I am blessed in my endeavours!”

  Me: C for Chapel; D for Drum; F for Fisherman; G for Goat.

  Mr. Freeman: I often wished she would stop by and see me there, stripped to the waist, see the strength in my back, my arms, admire me. “Vanity, vanity.” We all have our moments.

  “Roof nearly on!” he called out to me as Mrs. Bailey and I made our way to call on Mrs. Topp and the baby.

&nb
sp; “Wonderful, Mr. Freeman,” I called back. (But wouldn’t you think they’d put the roof on before putting in the windows?)

  One day he did make a formal call, and, as I’d put him off several times and Brodie was back at Anamaboe, I told Isaac to send him up.

  “Ah, Mrs. Maclean. I just had to show you this. I am hoping it will be the first of many such things to decorate the Children’s Room.”

  It was a Noah’s Ark, perhaps a foot long and a foot high, wonderfully carved, with all the pairs of animals you might find in Western Africa — antelopes, monkeys, goats, snakes, parrots, crocodiles, pigs, elephants. And Mr. and Mrs. Noah, of course, dressed respectably (trousers and shirt for Mr. N., colourful dress with bodice and full sleeves for Mrs. N.).

  “But what’s this?” I said.

  “What’s what?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Noah have been painted white. Did the carver do that?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Where is Mount Ararat, Mr. Freeman? Wouldn’t Noah and his wife have been, at the very least, swarthy?”

  “I need to emphasize the fact that they are of a different order than the Africans.”

  “I don’t follow your thinking.”

  “That’s all right; I brought the Ark here to be admired, not criticized.”

  “I do admire it; the carvings are wonderful. I’m just not sure you should ‘Europeanize’ the humans.”

  He went away shortly thereafter. Mr. Noah wore a hat and Mrs. Noah a bonnet, but the carver had given them recognizably African features. (Underneath hat and bonnet they probably sported woolly wooden hair.) I didn’t point out to Mr. Freeman that he had forgotten to whiten their wrists and hands. What would he do to Moses or the disciples? I shuddered to think. When I told George about it that night, even he, who is very lenient towards Mr. Freeman, thought it was bizarre.

  “What do you think he will do with Jesus?”

  “These are Methodists, Letty. I doubt if there will be a crucifix anywhere, white or black.”

  A for Ark, then. S for Snake, the only letter that looks like what it represents. F for fever. W for Wench.

  All the members of the Council had country wives, with the exception of Mr. Topp, so when George and I dined at their houses (which were very nice, white with green shutters, quite spacious and cool), I was the only lady present. When George had his country wife, did he take her with him, or did she remain back in the Castle, sulking? Did she ever live in the Castle? There were so many questions I couldn’t ask.

  When an officer dies here, it has been the custom to sell his clothes to other officers, partly to pay off any debts, partly because clothes, like everything else out here, deteriorate so quickly, and this way an officer could get new boots or a new shirt or breeches. However, Mrs. Bailey said a few things end up in the market and at the moment there was a quantity of clothes from the missionaries who had died. They did not have the same cachet as the things from the Castle, but still, they would gradually be purchased simply because they were European. Isaac told her that when a bundle of European clothes came into the market, it was called Bronie wawu: “a white man has died.”

  Why do these people set such store on the worn-out clothes of dead Europeans? George said the chiefs often ask for military garb (new) when they are trading. Tunics, boots (which they have to cut open because their feet are so wide), even cocked hats!

  I don’t blame the natives for turning up their noses at the missionaries’ clothes, particularly the women. Who would want to go around dressed like a piece of old pewter?

  I wonder what George did with my wardrobe? Did Mrs. Bailey pack it up and take the trunk to England when she finally left? Poor Mrs. Bailey. George asked her and Mr. Bailey, who had returned with the ship, to stay on for a bit. She must have missed “our Dulcie’s” confinement. Perhaps she prevailed upon Brodie to carry the knitting back to London? She wasn’t a bad sort, Mrs. Bailey, just not my sort. She did cause a lot of bother re: that bottle.

  Every time I thought I was becoming accustomed to all the insect life and the general strangeness of the flora and fauna, something new came along.

  I was just coming out of my room one morning when Mrs. Bailey’s screams brought me running. I’m ashamed to say the first thing I thought of was that dreadful woman’s warning in Eastbourne. Mrs. Bailey was being murdered by one of the servants or a desperate prisoner who had escaped. What had actually happened was this: she was unpinning our garments when the pole she used to adjust the line began to move. A python had curled itself around the pole — huge, maybe seven feet long. One of the soldiers ran it through with his bayonet and Ibrahim skinned it. I told him he could have the meat, we didn’t want it, but to give half to the soldier.

  Mrs. Bailey is shortsighted; she had to lie down for the rest of the afternoon. Later, I could hear laughter from the servants’ quarters; I suppose they were delighting in the tale of the python and the washing pole, but that snake was enormous, something out of a nightmare, and she actually touched it, felt it move.

  George went down to admire the skin, which was tacked up, drying, in the kitchen. Pythons have been known to kill a small goat, even a small child. God must have thought up some of these creatures when He was in a playful mood.

  I told Brodie about Mr. Freeman and the Noah’s Ark.

  “He will go far, I think.”

  “Oh, Letty, you are wicked to make fun of him; he’s very dedicated. He helps with the building of the chapel, right along with the other men.”

  “He believes he is one of those people destined to set the world right.”

  “Couldn’t one say that about your husband?”

  “No, never. He is not puffed up like Mr. Freeman. He simply tries to do his job as best he can.”

  “And Mr. Freeman is not doing that?”

  “Mr. Freeman is doing his job for the glory of Mr. Freeman.”

  Brodie did agree that the black trousers and skirts, the white blouses and shirts, were probably a mistake.

  Brodie Cruickshanck

  I CAME TO CAPE COAST REGULARLY now that the ship was in. George looked over my various reports before I sealed them.

  “You realize,” he said one day, “that the present government cares nothing for what goes on out here. Now that the slave trade is officially over, I think they would like to shut us down. Anything, anything at all, that you can do while you’re on leave would be very helpful. Call on the Colonial office, tell Forster to keep up all his connections. Somehow we have to get it across to them that England will be very sorry if she removes her flags and her officers from this coast. We must remain here and we need more money. When I was in London one of those armchair travellers at the Colonial office asked why on earth I needed money for entertaining these ‘nigger chiefs’? Why should I give them presents? Surely a show of power would be far more effective than a waistcoat or an iron skillet. It was all I could do to keep from hitting him, hitting all of them, lounging around in their leather armchairs, sniffing brandy, talking about ‘the good old days.’ Of course I’m a Scot — and you are as well. We don’t have the right accents. We came up the hard way. Do what you can. I’ve tried to explain our position, yet again, but I’m sure a ‘man on the spot’ would help to emphasize our cause. It’s our duty to stay, but they can’t see it.”

  Brodie: I stole one of Letitia’s handkerchiefs; it smelled of her eau de cologne.

  Letty (to Brodie): “I drink such quantities of tea, I’m sure I slosh when I walk. Fifteen cups yesterday and the Dry Season not really begun. I take it in the Russian manner now, clear, with a slice of lemon. So refreshing. I do rather limit the biscuits, however; I have a horror of getting fat. Mrs. Bailey has no such qualms, but then, she was fat to begin with. Have you met her consort? He is a very small man, small and wiry. When they walk together on Sunday, he looks like some kind of child beside her, a child with bowed legs and an ancient, sun-tanned face. Or maybe she’s a small ship with the figurehead walking along beside, instead of
up front where it belongs. I expect you’ll see quite a lot of them on the voyage home.”

  One day I heard a lot of screaming down on the beach, just below the battlements where I was standing. A girl was being dragged into the water by a group of girls and women. Other girls ran along beside, pelting her with red mud. They tumbled her over in the waves.

  I rushed to find Isaac.

  “They are going to drown her!”

  Isaac laughed.

  “No, Madame. Dis ting is good ting.”

  “Not good for the girl, surely. Can’t we do something?”

  “Look, Madame, she be laugh.”

  And it was true. They were dragging her out of the water now and she was laughing.

  “Well,” said Brodie, when I told him, “she must be pregnant.”

  “Pregnant? That little girl?”

  “They weren’t hurting her, Letty. They are making sure the pregnancy will go well. They do this to keep the bad luck away. Later, a fetish woman will tie all sorts of charms and amulets on her and mutter some spells.”

  “And all that will keep her safe.”

  “Perhaps. It won’t hurt, at any rate. We all have our customs and superstitions. In Scotland, a groom is sometimes tarred and feathered and paraded though the village streets on the night before his wedding. And many a farmer’s field, to this day, has a wee triangular bit left unplowed — ‘the devil’s share.’”

  Letty

  I DID NOT TELL ANYONE about the other dolls I had received; George only knew about the first one. He assumed the matter had been taken care of. Three were locked up in my secret drawer, along with other things. I did not tell anyone about the person who came at night and stood outside my door, anyone except Mrs. Bailey, who, being such a practical person, just thought I was having some kind of hysterical fit and she was not to tell.