Local Customs Page 14

  “It’s unfortunate. How I should love a gallop across the sands. And an officer on a horse looks so … important, don’t you think? One has to literally look up to him. That would be useful when dealing with the natives.”

  “They would be useful for lots of reasons; but until someone figures out what sickens them, it is useless to bring them here.”

  I started publishing just two years before my father died, after we moved back to London. William Jerdan lived next door and my cousin showed him some of my verses. He said I had talent; he said he would gladly become my editor and publisher. It was he who came up with the L.E.L. idea. It added mystery, he said. I found out later that a lot of the boys at Oxford and Cambridge fell in love with me because they thought I was a boy!

  William Jerdan was married, but unhappy. Whittington needed to go up to Oxford; Lizzie needed medicine; my mother, well, she needed to keep a respectable household. Even so, nearly every evening I had to listen as she told over her beads of complaint. I had to help; I didn’t hesitate to help. But it is not a good thing to always have money as the carrot in front of you to keep you writing furiously. It saps you. Not one of my friends knew how little money I kept for myself. If my grandmother Bishop hadn’t left me £400, I could not have lived at 22 Hans Place. I don’t think Mother or Whittington ever thanked me properly.

  Well, Mother would get all the money from the Scott essays. What with that, and George’s contribution, she would be quite comfortable.

  So — no horses at all to carry me to the graveyard, no graveyard in fact, for I was buried within the Castle walls. Tramp tramp tramp went the soldiers when they did their morning parade. Did they ever think of me? Hic jacet. George’s memorial was quite lovely. I tended to forget that he had an excellent education. Buried in haste. No real funeral at all, a few words from Mr. Topp, a hymn. Brodie organized the interment; George sat in his room, reading the Bible. Two days later he left for a visit to Accra. The Governor Maclean sailed for England, carrying my “worldly goods,” my Scott essays, my packet of cheerful letters, and the news of my untimely death.

  Mr. Freeman’s famous letter was also on the ship. Once it was published in The Watchman out flew “Rumour with her painted tongues.”

  I was eating very little. Fruit compote seemed to be the only thing which really appealed to me anymore. I couldn’t stand anything fried in palm oil. I was eating very little and yet I felt bloated a great deal of the time. Perhaps it was my turn for the seasoning fever. I also suffered from a series of boils in my left ear, which Mr. Cobbold had to lance. I was horrified to discover there were maggots inside. The doctor said the washboy must have been laying the bed linen over bushes to dry. Flies then laid their eggs there.

  “He knows better than to do that; I must have a word with him.”

  George did not get the boils, but he was very concerned about me. The lancing was painful, but bearable, but the thought of what was in the boils made me quite ill. There were two days when I simply didn’t get up at all. Brodie came to inquire, but I sent him away. I looked ridiculous with a big bandage on the side of my head.

  Mrs. Bailey came in to keep me company. She said the washboy had been sent away and wasn’t it lucky she did our petticoats, bodices, and stays or they might have been full of eggs. I suggested she talk about something else.

  About every half-hour she felt my head for fever until I finally told her to stop.

  “I do not have fever, Mrs. Bailey. I’m just a bit upset.”

  “Do you wish you were goin’ home, Mrs. Maclean?”

  “My home is here.”

  “Of course. But you might be feeling a bit homesick, with the ship in and all. I know I’m very anxious to get back to the family. Not looking forward to the voyage, though. Mrs. Topp has given me some remedy for nausea, but I don’t know if I dare take it; it’s a most peculiar colour.”

  “I’d take it if I were you. Anything to avoid that awful seasickness.”

  “Well, I’ll give it a try. If it don’t kill me, mebbe it will cure me.”

  Mr. Freeman came to inquire; it was easy to send him away.

  Mr. Freeman

  I WAS SORRY TO HEAR THAT MRS. MACLEAN was indisposed. I had thought she looked unwell the previous Sunday. I prayed for her, for both her body and her soul. Now that the Dry Season was almost upon us, how ironic it would be if she succumbed to fever.

  George

  IT WAS STRANGE TO BE EATING DINNER ALONE. I missed her. She had planned a dinner party for the evening before the ship sailed. She loved dinner parties and would be so disappointed if she were ill.

  After my own dinner, I had Isaac take a tray in to her and I sat by her and tried to persuade her to eat. She sat in bed, propped up by pillows, and tried to reassure me.

  “I will be fine, George. I think it was just the shock, you know, the horror of it. And the heat. It does seem to be getting hotter by the minute.”

  “Would you care for some ginger beer?”

  “Now that sounds like a splendid idea.” But when I left, she still had not touched it.

  Letty: He gave my cheek a little pat.

  “Sleep well.”

  Letty: There was no one outside the door those nights. That frightened me even more. Did it mean the “presence” had given up, or that some new devilry was planned? No more breathing; no more dolls.

  Letty

  ON THE THIRD DAY I FELT SO MUCH BETTER that I decided to get up and walk outside along the battlements. When the sea fog lifted I could see the ship, way out, and canoes going back and forth from shore to ship to shore. A great many goods had to be unloaded and some, like the crates of spirits, needed to be guarded until they could be carried to the storerooms. All was bustle in and around the Castle. The merchants each collected the crates that were marked for them and porters carried away the goods on the tops of their heads. I was always amazed at the loads these people could carry. I once saw a boy with three wooden chairs balanced neatly on his head.

  Canoes full of coconuts went out to the ship, great hands of bananas and plantain. Crocks of palm oil. Net bags of oranges, lemons, pineapples.

  George and Mr. Topp gave orders and consulted lists. The canoe-men shouted to one another, ran at the canoes, gave them a mighty shove, and then, laughing, jumped in.

  The sun on the sea made everything glitter and twinkle. It was such a jolly scene, but I could not help but wonder what this had looked like when the cargo was men, women, and children. One by one, in a long line, led out through “The Door of No Return” and packed into the canoes. Mr. Freeman said most had never even seen the sea before.

  “This place,” said Mr. Freeman, making a sweeping gesture that included the Castle and the sea, “this place is redolent with misery.”

  I will frankly admit that I had not thought much about the slavery question when I was growing up. Slavery in England had been abolished when I was only five and although I saw black servants in some of the fine homes I visited later, some of the boys and young men dressed beautifully in livery, I just accepted that they were there. Where they came from never entered my mind. I supposed that is one of the reasons I found Mr. Freeman so irritating; he was bound and determined I should feel guilty for such ignorance.

  “All dwellings have voices, Mrs. Maclean; this castle is one long cry of agony. Doesn’t it affect you, how you live now and how those others lived down below? Imagine terrified creatures crammed so tightly into cells that they could only squat to sleep. I wonder how many would fit into this spacious room, ten times the size of one of those cells. Five hundred?”

  I tried not to think about it, or the fact that in a few more days Brodie would leave. No doubt I would even miss Emily Bailey and her knitting needles.

  George turned and glanced up; I waved at him and was rewarded with a big smile. I think I could have grown to love that man.

  But wasn’t it better this way? If this were a novel, I certainly couldn’t have written a more dramatic ending. I do feel ba
dly that George came under suspicion. All the fault of Mr. Freeman and apologies were made and somewhat reluctantly accepted. The earlier rumours didn’t help and no doubt Mrs. Bailey fanned the fire when she finally got home. I know she suspected me and toward the end gave me many a knowing look as though to say, “You can’t fool me, my girl; why not come out with it?” Vomiting, fainting spells, lack of appetite. I suppose, with our Elsie, so fecund, on her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder. I thought of that python making its lazy undulating way down the washing pole. How she had screamed. But supposing she hadn’t seen the snake, only felt its presence, or heard a faint slithering, what then? Mrs. Bailey had “ocular proof” that her distress was legitimate.

  I had the dolls, of course, and a dead bat, but if I told George? I was afraid he would laugh at me, would remember the hysterical letters I sent to Scotland, shake his head, confer with Mr. Cobbold. And so I kept quiet. If I could only put a face to it, I thought. If I could only see what it looked like, however horrible that might be.

  Mr. Freeman

  I MEANT NO HARM. I was just trying to reassure any potential female missionaries that Mrs. Maclean did not die of fever or dysentery. I wrote that she was in perfect health the night before and that was true. At dinner she was laughing, quite in fine form, but then she always blossomed when Brodie Cruckshank was around (which was often). She did excuse herself early, but that was not uncommon: “I’ll leave you gentlemen now.” All rose. Mr. Cruickshank offered to accompany her to her apartments and she accepted; he took up a lamp and they left. Captain Maclean smiled at her most tenderly and said, “I shall be along presently,” but Letitia replied, “No, George, you have been working very hard; stay and enjoy yourself. You will be very busy again tomorrow.”

  And that was the last I saw of her, as, with Brodie carrying the lamp and lighting her way, she disappeared.

  George

  SHE WAS WEARING SOMETHING WHITE. I have no talent for describing women’s dress, but it was something white, and gauzy. I thought for an instant of the huge white moths that beat their wings against the lamps at night. I watched her until they turned a corner.

  I did not see her again that evening. Whenever I stayed late at the Mess and indulged a bit in drink, we slept apart.

  We did not share morning tea and biscuits when we spent the night in separate apartments, so when I awoke with an aching head and Isaac appeared with only one cup on the tray, of course I gave no thought to Letitia. The Maclean was to sail at 11:00 a.m. and there were still last-minute things to be seen to. I was thinking how glad I would be when it was off and things could get back to normal, when I heard screams from above and running feet.

  Mrs. Bailey

  I WAS UP EARLY (how could I sleep when I was going HOME?) and dressed myself in my travelling costume. My trunks had been taken on board the day before, so there was only my one case and a few odds and ends left out. I decided I would go down to see how Mrs. Maclean was faring after her collapse and met Isaac just as he was coming up the stairs with her tea tray. I was pleased to see how far he had advanced in just eight weeks, remembering the tray cloth and the slices of lemon, now Letitia took her tea in what she called “the Russian fashion.”

  I liked the good old “English way” myself, strong tea, milk in a milk jug, plenty of sugar. I remembered all them high-born abolitionist ladies refusing to take sugar in their tea because of slavery on the plantations. I suppose they were right to do so, but my mum said she was glad she was just common stuff as she couldn’t abide tea without sugar. And how would you keep the babies quiet without them sugar-tits?

  Anyway, I took the tray from Isaac and said I would give it to Mrs. Maclean myself, but when I knocked there was no answer. Perhaps she has taken a sleeping draught, I thought, as she was so upset.

  I set the tray down and knocked harder, but there was still no reply, so I pushed at the door, but it would only open a few inches. I pushed harder, but something was hindering my entrance. I shoved with all my might; the door opened and there she was.

  Letty: D for Dead.

  Brodie Cuickshanck

  IT HAD BEEN ARRANGED THAT THE VESSEL should sail on the forenoon of the sixteenth of October and I agreed to dine and spend the evening of the fifteenth with the governor and his lady. It was, in every respect, a night to be remembered.

  The dinner was excellent and Letty was in fine form. She insisted we call forth Ibrahim and Isaac to congratulate them. We raised a toast to them; they bowed and returned with the sweet and dessert. We toasted the Queen. We toasted Letty for recovering from her indisposition. We toasted George. I was toasted and wished bon voyage. The linen was perfectly pressed; the silver and the plate gleamed; the crystal sparkled. It was hard to believe that a few hundred yards away, in the town, people squatted over braziers, making ground-nut stew and eating with their fingers. “Here” was a little bit of England; “there” was Africa. Which was the reality?

  I was so pleased when Letty asked if I would light her way to her apartments. She said she had a few more letters she hoped I would undertake to deliver. I had wished for a word or two alone with her, but knew it would be improper for me to suggest it.

  “Let us walk along the battlements for a moment,” she said. “I do believe it is cooler out here than in my rooms.” A cloud passed over the moon.

  “I can’t avoid envying you a little, the happiness of seeing the dear old country again. You must not forget to call on some of my more particular friends, and assure them that I am happy and in good health.”

  “Write to me. And you must catch and bottle up the very essence of that great city. Send it to me by the next ship and I shall add it to my medicine chest, indulge in a whiff or two whenever I am lonely.”

  “I will do that with pleasure.”

  Letty: I gave a little laugh, which somehow turned into a sob and there I was, collapsed in a puddle of tears and muslin, clinging to his legs like some beggar-woman calling, “Take me with you! Please!”

  Brodie: I was astonished and then horrified, and so I did an unforgivable thing: I pried her fingers loose and fled.

  Mrs. Bailey: I was just coming from turning down her bed and making sure she had everything she needed for the night. There was Mr. Cruickshank, or Mr. Cruickshank’s back, disappearing at a fast clip, and there was Letitia, sunk to the floor and weeping hysterically. I rushed to her at once and asked what on earth had happened. She made little sense, something about a face — I think she said “a face,” mebbe it was “a place” or “no place”? but I’m not sure and something about “poor Brodie” and then laughing hysterically — she looked proper wild, she did.

  “Did Mr. Cruickshank say something to upset you? Is that it?”

  Laughed again — “No, no, it is I who upset him, I who have upset him. Oh, Bailey, lend me your arm, help me to my room. George mustn’t see me like this. Hurry. We must hurry.”

  I half-carried her up to her room and helped her to undress. I even offered to stay with her, although I was not quite finished with my own packing. She had calmed down somewhat, but still gasped as though she couldn’t get enough air.

  She asked me to leave a candle burning as she knew she wouldn’t sleep for a while. I can still see her, propped up on pillows, terribly pale.

  “Should I fetch the doctor?”

  “‘No doctor; it’s not a doctor I need. Just go. And thank you for your help.’“

  Then, just as I was opening the door.

  “Mrs. Bailey. Do you ever hear cries at night? Not the hyrax, but something else?”

  “I don’t think so, but I sleep very soundly. Once I’m down, I’m down. Mr. Bailey says only the trumpets at Judgment Day would wake me and maybe not even then. But with all this mumbo-jumbo around, perhaps you hear the wails from one of their outlandish ceremonies. Sound carries. Although, with that infernal surf, I’d be surprised you could hear anything from the town.”

  “I don’t think it’s from the town.” She shrugged. “Oh wel
l, I suppose it’s just my overactive imagination.”

  “I expect so. Good night, Mrs. Maclean.”

  And those were the last words I ever said to her, poor thing. I should have stayed and tried to find out what had put her in such a state. Somehow I didn’t think Mr. Cruickshank was at the root of it, although his running away aroused my suspicions at first. I could hardly go to the governor with what I’d witnessed; he didn’t approve of the amount of time she spent with that man. He’d immediately think the worst. I don’t like mysteries, myself, want everything aboveboard.

  I should have stayed with her; I’ll have that on me conscience for the rest of me days.

  Mr. Freeman: I was just checking that the watchman was actually watching our building supplies and not just sound asleep on a pile of boards, when I heard someone running along the main path. They did not seem to be coming towards the church and so I didn’t bother to investigate. It was only later, given what happened the next day, that I wondered.

  George: I felt such an incredible tenderness toward her that night. The way she had gone all out when planning the dinner party, the way she had coped for the past eight weeks without all the refinements she was used to. After she left, we men stayed on talking for quite a while and when I stood up I realized I was quite drunk. I wanted to go to her, to make love to her, to tell her how proud I was of her; but it was past midnight and I knew she would be fast asleep.