Local Customs Page 4

  (I had contemplated making a small cut on my wrist and collecting the blood in a tiny vial, so that there would be “proof” of my chastity. I gave up the plan because I didn’t think George was the sort to notice such things.)

  There were a few strokings, a few thrusts, a few little whimpers from me, and then we were truly One.

  Just before he turned over and fell asleep, he said, “What was the wife going on about?”

  “About how much fun it was going to be. In Africa.”

  We went back up to London after three days and stayed with friends until we left for the ship. Our marriage had been found out, probably through Bulwer, who could never keep a secret, and I did get some of the attention and presents a bride is entitled to. I hardly saw George; he didn’t even take time off for Queen Victoria’s Coronation procession, but I watched it with great interest, surrounded by friends. We were looking down from a second-storey balcony, to avoid the throngs that lined the streets, so of course we couldn’t see her face as the carriage passed, but I couldn’t help but wonder what her life would be like, every moment of her day regulated according to tradition. Every movement observed; every utterance noted. I didn’t envy her, our first reigning queen since Queen Anne. What is that old proverb? “A favourite has few friends.” In my own, much smaller way, I had discovered how true this was. Detractors, scandal mongers — they buzzed around me like wasps. Indeed, there was a nasty scandal sheet called exactly that, The Wasp.

  Would Victoria succeed or fail? She was very young, eighteen, nineteen? And would need good advisers. Even so, how many of those courtiers who bowed to her and fawned over her today, would secretly wish her ill? How well Shakespeare understood all that: “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!”

  If I had not married George, I would no doubt have lived to what they call a “ripe old age.” But in what circumstances? My popularity was already waning, my commissions for scrapbook verses drying up, and prose becoming more and more popular. I could write prose, but only of a certain sort. Mr. Dickens’s star would shine brighter and brighter, for he had the ability to combine dead mothers and mistaken identity with a picture of life in England in all its harshness for any but the wealthy. I could “do” faithful old nurses but I couldn’t really portray the life of the streets, couldn’t really re-create London the way he could. I didn’t know enough and perhaps I didn’t feel enough. My mother used to accuse me of being cold and self-centred, with no sympathy for my poor afflicted sister. Perhaps it was true; I didn’t have time for sympathy. I needed to write and write and write. If I didn’t write I should die.

  And so, what would I have been like in a few years down the road? Would I be able to find another set of adoring old maids like the Misses Lance when I was an old maid myself? I had visions of scrag ends of beef, cooking for myself, saving candle ends, turning the sheets to make them last, doing my own washing and mending, my fingers rough and unsightly. Of course, if George had died first and I returned to England as a widow, with some sort of pension, that would be different.

  And finally — death. A small notice in the Times. “Oh,” says somebody at a dinner party, “I read today that L.E.L. has died. You know, the poetess. Quite the rage in her day.”

  Her neighbour at table shakes his head. “The name means nothing to me, I’m afraid. This grouse is excellent.” Perhaps it is better, in the long run, to experience sudden death? My story, at least, will live on. Those who walk through the Castle courtyard a hundred years from now will pause at our two graves, side by side, will be told the story.

  “But there is still a mystery surrounding her death.”

  We sailed on the fifth of July, in the brig Maclean, travelling down by train as far as we could go, and then on by coach. I had never been on a train before and loved it, in spite of the noise and rocking to and fro, in spite of the grime.

  “We must build railroads in Africa!” I said to George. “Such fun.”

  Whittington was a member of the farewell party; he had insisted on it, although George, for some reason best known to himself, was barely civil to him. George’s brother Hugh was with us as well, but as we missed the first train and he did not, we did not join up with him until Portsmouth. Hugh was a surgeon in the Indian Army and home on leave, much more polished in manner than George; quite charming. If I had seen him first perhaps I would have been going out to India instead of darkest Africa. But I didn’t.

  He had not arrived back in England in time for our wedding or he certainly would have stood up for George. As it was, he docked and then went immediately to Urquhart to pay his respects to his family, sending round a note that he would meet with us before we sailed. You might think it strange that I did not invite my mother. Shouldn’t a bride have her mother by her on her “great day”? I told Whittington not to discuss the wedding with her until it was over and he agreed. She would have found fault with everything — my dress made me look sallow, all the secrecy boded ill — “Your husband must have something to hide” — the breakfast was “a poor sort of affair.” Things like that. Any praise would be reserved for her son. Having written to assure her that her stipend would continue to be paid through my bank, I felt I had done enough. I have such happy memories of my father — swinging on the gate as I awaited his return from town.

  Up on his horse, such a chestnut beauty, he looked down at me from a great height. Later, when I read about Centaurs, that image came to mind, my father on his horse, looking down at me. I loved the way he said, “Well, Letty, how’s my girl today?” then dismounted and handed me the reins. I loved the way he smelled — of horse, of tobacco, but also of London, the place I longed to be. Frankly, I was glad when he couldn’t keep up the farm; I hated the country even then, and wanted to kiss the cobbles when we returned to civilization.

  The next morning George did not come down until nearly noon, so I had a chance to write a few more farewells while Whittington and Hugh took a long walk about the town. I tried to imagine what on earth they would find to talk about, but perhaps they spent the time extolling the virtues of their respective siblings. They seemed quite congenial, at any rate, when they returned.

  We ate a cold luncheon and very soon after we were told it was time to go down, the tender was waiting. As we stepped on board the Maclean the guns fired a salute that quite startled me and set my ears ringing. All the sailors were lined up to greet Governor Maclean and his wife. And when we went below and I saw the tidy cabin that was put at my disposal, with every possible little luxury provided — soft towels, French soap, a small looking-glass, a table for my travelling writing-desk, a chair, even a vase of fresh flowers, such a charming gesture. I smiled at George. “You have a touch of the romantic after all.”

  He laughed. “I must confess it was Hugh’s idea. I think he has had more to do with ladies than I have.” He waved his arm. “It’s all right then, is it? You’ll be comfortable?”

  I nodded and we trooped back up on deck, where, to my surprise, I was introduced to a rather stout woman named Mrs. Bailey. She was the chief steward’s wife and was to be my companion for my first few months at the Castle. Her cabin was next to mine and should I want anything I was to knock three times on the wall. George had a small cabin to himself, next to the captain’s, as he said he would be spending most of his time on deck or with the officers.

  Our trunks and boxes had all been sent down early, so once the cabin baggage had been deposited, we had to say goodbye to our brothers; the captain was anxious to catch the tide. As Whittington stood in the tender, looking up, I threw him down my purse. “There,” I called, “look after this for me; I shan’t need it where I’m going.”

  Away they went and then away we went. I stood on deck waving a white handkerchief until I could have been no more than a dot to them. I had been across the Channel to Paris, so I was not unfamiliar with the sight of England receding behind me, but this was different, this was adventure of a very high order.

  “Africa,” I whispered to m
yself. “Africa.” I felt as though all the events of my life had been leading up to this moment.

  George came to fetch me for tea.

  “I am so happy,” I said to him, linking my arm in his. “I am so very, very happy.”

  “Come below now, Letty,” he said. “Later on, you will put on your heavy cloak and we’ll look at the stars together. Nowhere are they more beautiful than when seen from the deck of a ship.”

  We did that, and then the next day the ship began to roll and my love for the sea disappeared, and with it my determination, as a child, to “marry a pirate and sail the seas.” Not only was I dreadfully seasick, the helpful Mrs. Bailey was even worse — no help at all. The sea became so violent that all the furniture was lashed together, the bed to the table, the table to the chair, and the only way I kept from rolling out of my bunk was by placing bolsters on each side of me. I could eat nothing and could drink only small sips of watered wine. There were days when I felt my old self would turn itself inside-out, like a glove. It is really impossible to describe seasickness unless you have experienced such violent upheavals yourself. George looked in from time to time to make sure I wasn’t dead, sent broth, or whatever he thought I might fancy.

  “What I fancy is being thrown overboard.”

  “Poor Letty.” And off he went, the picture of robust health. I hated him.

  After we stopped at Madeira and took on arrowroot and citrus fruits, I began to feel a little better, but I was very weak and the nausea never completely left me. I did go up on deck a few times, after the Bay of Biscay, but I thought to myself that all the various horrors of Cape Coast must be truly horrific indeed, if they could top weeks at sea in the brig Maclean.

  One night, when the sea was relatively calm and I had managed to keep down some ginger beer and a biscuit, George asked if I would enjoy a short stroll on deck. I felt I should make the effort, for his sake, if not for mine, and so I wrapped myself in a shawl (no need for heavy clothing now) and after a few turns stood at the rail with him. We were not too far off Sierra Leone, where George had been secretary to the governor at one time.

  “Nothing is so reassuring, after crossing such a broad expanse of water, as the sight of land. It won’t be too long now before those winking lights will be the lights of home.”

  “Do you think of it as home, George, the Gold Coast?”

  “Ach, Scotland will always have a hold on my heart, but it’s important to put that behind me when I’m out here. Men who don’t, men who can’t accept it or adjust to it, can sicken and even die.”

  I waited for him to say something romantic like, “Home is wherever you are, from now on,” but of course he wasn’t that sort of person.

  Unwilling to quit the beautiful moonlight, which made everything seem as bright and clear as day, we just stood there, listening to the jingle-jangle of the rigging above us, each wrapped in our own thoughts, until I looked down.

  “What’s that out there?” I pointed to something floating close to the ship. George looked where I was pointing and then swiftly turned me around. “Don’t look, Letty. Just return to your cabin.”

  “But …”

  “Just go.”

  But I had seen; it was the ghastly, bloated, headless body of a man.

  I did as I was told, but could hear shouts and running feet above my quarters. The next day there was no mention of this incident; it was as if it had never happened.

  Had that thing been black … or white?

  I did manage to write a few poems, one of which, “Ode to the Evening Star,” I thought quite fine. Still, I’d rather find my inspiration for poetic subjects while on dry land!

  George and I had an arrangement; if, after three years, I had had enough of the Coast, I could return to England. He would come home on leave from time to time and eventually retire. This was a not unpleasant thought. In three years I would have enough anecdote and adventure to dine out whenever I felt like it; my book of essays about Scott’s heroines would, hopefully, be published, and all those old scandals would have died down. “L.E.L. is back,” the reviews would state, “and her star is brighter than ever!” A garden flat somewhere, or a house, even, filled with curios. An elephant’s foot umbrella stand (I saw one of those somewhere) or strange carvings.

  Matthew Forster shook his head and said, “Letty, Letty, you’ll be back on the next boat that lays off Cape Coast Town.”

  “Nonsense,” I replied. “I may like it so much I’ll choose not to come back at all.”

  We landed on the fourteenth of August, or rather, we stood off, in the roads, for no ship could actually “land” at that spot, the sea so fierce and the rocks so treacherous. There was a thick fog and we could see nothing; it felt as though the whole world were wrapped in thick, wet, white wool. Hot, as well, hot and humid. All we could do, the captain said, was wait until the canoe-men came out in the morning. Meanwhile, we stood on deck, peering through the fog, anxious to be off and away from this hated prison of five and a half weeks and onto dry land. We could hear the crashing of the surf beyond, but we couldn’t see it. And there was a strange smell, very faint, like a conservatory or florist’s shop, plus something more acrid, which George said would be the charcoal fires in the town.

  “This fog is not really healthy, Letty, and you are very new to the climate. I suggest you go below and get to bed early. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  It was hard to sleep, not just from the excitement, but from the sensation that the ship was still rolling violently from side to side. My mind told me it wasn’t; my body told me it was. I finally dozed, but was startled awake by the sound of feet tramping above. The next morning I discovered George had decided to disembark — a canoe had come out for him — and arrived at the Castle on his own. I was very surprised at this behaviour and a little put out, but he explained it away later by saying he wanted to be sure the rooms had been adequately aired and fumigated and that everything was ready for my reception. He paid for all this concern for my wellbeing — if that’s what it was — by catching a bad chill, which laid him up for days.

  George

  I HAD TO MAKE SURE THAT WILLIAM TOPP had seen to things. The other wasn’t a lie — about our apartments. Letty deserved pleasant, airy, clean rooms upon her arrival. She’d been terribly seasick throughout the voyage and now it was my duty to make her life at the Castle as comfortable as possible. I had to make sure the apartments had been smoked. It was just bad luck that I fell ill — too long in Britain had weakened me. Of course there was the other worrying business as well.

  Letty

  THE MISTS CLEARED BEFORE NOON and there was the Castle, shining whitely in the sun. George was right; it did not look like the Rhinish castles from my children’s books, but it was very impressive just the same. It was only up close that one saw what the climate had done to it — great chunks of whitewashed plaster had fallen off and this gave the walls a scabrous appearance — the whole exterior had to be redone once a year. Everything decayed in the heat and humidity. I had been advised not to bring any books that I really treasured, for mould and worms would soon attack them. A writer, however, cannot live without a few of her favourites, so I had packed one little case with books I felt were absolutely essential and my travelling writing kit contained enough paper, quills, wafers, and quill nibs — such a good invention — to keep me going for some time. George said there was no need for me to bring blotting-paper as there was “sand aplenty.”

  We were lowered into the enormous dugout canoes that came out to fetch us — our goods in one, ourselves in another. Later Mrs. Bailey said she “didn’t know where to look without blushing,” for the canoemen wore nothing but a small strip of cloth around their loins. I understood for the first time what “girded his loins” really meant. Their torsos were magnificent, brown and gleaming with some sort of oil — like the statues of Greek gods I had seen in books — all muscle and male beauty. I have no aptitude for painting, but I did wish there were someone present who cou
ld record this scene in full colour: the dazzle of the sunlight on the water, the strength of the men as they dipped and raised their paddles (which were shaped like wooden tridents), the Castle in the distance, the two European ladies hanging on to their parasols for dear life.

  When we were nearly ashore, four giants waded out through the surf and we were placed on their crossed arms, two giants to each lady, and carried to the watergate, where we were set down carefully by Gog and Magog and their brothers. Our skirts were wet at the bottoms, but they would soon dry. I wanted to kneel down and kiss the land (“Oh Land, there were times when I feared I should never see you again; Oh Land, I shall never take you for granted again!”) but I felt that might embarrass George. After all, I was now the governor’s lady. I did think that I must make time that very afternoon to jot down my first impressions.

  George was waiting in the courtyard, all the servants assembled, and the soldiers who looked after the few prisoners. Most of the servants were men, although there were four young girls whom I later discovered were called “pra-pra girls” and were responsible for sweeping the courtyard every day with little hand brooms called pra-pras. They were very pretty, giggled and lowered their eyes when I smiled at them.

  My husband escorted me up the broad staircase to our rooms, which were much nicer than I dared to hope. There was one large bed-sitting room for the two of us, then a slightly smaller separate bedroom and boudoir for myself. My rooms were at the seaward side of the Castle, and, as we were fairly high up, they would catch whatever breeze might blow in across the water. All of our private quarters were distempered a pretty pale blue and in our shared areas there were prints upon the walls. I was quite surprised to see that they were copies of Boyden’s prints of scenes from Shakespeare’s tragedies: Othello, Macbeth, Lear, etc. Everything was extremely tasteful; it was hard to believe that just a few metres away was a town of about six thousand Negroes plus a few merchants and missionaries.