Local Customs Page 6

  He met my mother in London. She was a widow with three children and housekeeper at a place where he became an under-gardener. I followed my father around as he planted and pruned, so is it any wonder that I, too, became a gardener?

  There were so many things I wanted to ask my father, but he was a silent man, almost speechless except when he was talking about plants. He wore his shirt even on the hottest days, but one evening, when I couldn’t sleep (my half-brothers always pushed me to the very edge of the bed), I crept downstairs and there was my father with his shirt off and my mother rubbing some kind of unguent into his back. His back was covered in strange welts; they looked like long worms that had burrowed into his body. I later knew what those “worms” really were — the healed-over marks of the lash. I crept back upstairs and neither of them noticed me, but I never forgot the sight of his poor mutilated back in the flickering light. I wanted to rush to him and throw my arms around him, but I knew it would shame him to know that I had seen. For a long time I hated every white man, hated my brothers, even, to a certain extent my mother; but because she loved him and rubbed the marks of his wounds with her special salve, I did not include her in my general hatred.

  And she had plans for me, they both did. They had seen my interest in botany and sent me off to study at Kew Gardens. Where they obtained the money for this I do not know. My brothers were resentful and called me names out of earshot of my parents: half-caste; woolly-head; freak. I expect they would have liked to escape the village as well and were jealous of my preferment. They attacked me in ways that would be most hurtful — taunts about the colour of my skin. Children know instinctively how to be cruel: mop-head, nigger-boy. Had he known, my father would have thrashed them within an inch of their lives with my dear mother calmly looking on. When I walked away one sunny morning in October, I knew I was walking away forever.

  My father accompanied me for a mile or two and then he stopped and shook my hand. “Good luck, Thomas, you will need it; the wide world can be a harsh and difficult place. We shall pray for you every day.” His big black, work-hardened hand seemed reluctant to let mine go. I was fourteen years old, and although my eyes swam with tears and I looked back more than once at the shrinking figure of my father, my natural cheerfulness soon banished the gloom. The birds were singing, the sky was blue, and I was on the way to Richmond and my future.

  It wasn’t very long before I was a botanist and first under-gardener and then head gardener at Orwell Park, near Ipswich. Sir Robert Harland was most impressed that I could not only read and write with great fluency, but that I knew the Latin name of almost every flower and tree I came across. When Sir Robert and Lady Harland had house parties, they often came out to the gardens to show me off. There was a walled garden, with espaliered fruit trees, a knot garden, glass houses where I grew melons, cucumbers and huge purple grapes. I became a bit of a local celebrity, but I never forgot my parents and visited them two or three times a year, bringing a large basket of produce (with my employers’ permission of course). My half-brothers had long gone to seek their fortunes in London and I never saw them again.

  I had a good life at Orwell Park. I even acquired a small library of my own, botanical books, mostly, and I hope this does not sound too prideful, but in later years I even corresponded with Sir William Hooke.

  I heard from time to time about the abolitionists and I hoped they would win out against the opposition and that no one would ever again have to suffer the way my father and thousands of others had had to suffer, but I did not discuss this with the other servants because I knew Sir Harland was in the other camp. I suppose it did not affect me personally — or so I thought at the time — and therefore my mind did not dwell on the struggle in any meaningful way. (And my father never mentioned it to me; perhaps he was convinced Wilberforce and his supporters would fail.) He did begin to tell me what his life in Jamaica had been like. Slowly, although every word opened up an old wound. “I want you to know,” he said, “how lucky you are.” (My mother wept in the corner with her apron over her head.) Selfish young man as I was then, I tended to think that I had made my own luck, although my father’s story moved me, of course it did, but what, really, did it have to do with me?

  George: He was a good man, Thomas Freeman; I did everything I could to help him. And then, he caused me all that trouble.

  Letty

  IN THE EVENINGS, AFTER DINNER, I read over what I’d written in the day, or perused a book, while George played his fiddle. I took an intense dislike to “The Lament of Flora Macdonald.” He said he loved those old Jacobite tunes, so mournful, most of them, but they pierced his heart.

  I had never cared for fiddle music; I’m not the least bit musical myself, as several music masters discovered early in my childhood. Couldn’t paint watercolours, couldn’t play an étude by Chopin or anyone else. I still remember an amusing conversation I had with my Yorkshire cousins the first time I visited them as a young woman.

  “Do you paint?” they asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you play the harp or the piano?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Embroider?”

  “No, again.”

  “Crewel work?”

  I shook my head.

  “I write,” I said.

  Although they weren’t very interested in what I wrote (“We never read novels”), I think Julia, the eldest, was quite relieved. Perhaps she thought she would have to teach me my ABCs.

  By the time of my death I had grown to loathe George’s fiddle and rather hoped the white ants would be attracted and make a meal of it. And although I was a regular night owl back home, by ten o’clock I was ready for sleep. I’m not sure when George slept, if ever, for when I went to my own rooms I could often hear the faint strains of “The Braes of Killiecrankie” come floating through the air. I also know that even when he quit the fiddle-playing, he often ascended to a tower room he called “the cockloft” where he kept his telescope and maps. No wonder he found it difficult to get up in the morning. If he hadn’t had such a strong sense of duty, I doubt if he would have risen before noon. (By noon, if I attempted to write a letter, I perspired so much I had to put little arrows to the margins with “Not tears! Not tears!” to explain away the smudges.)

  The Dutch governor of Elmina Castle volunteered a visit. He came, with his aide-de-camp, in complete regalia. You can imagine my anxieties. A dinner party for the local merchants and others was easy compared to this. However, I believe it went off smoothly; the old man was very gallant, even if his English left something to be desired. It sounded very much like Oom Kroop de Poop. George had made his special rum punch, which was indulged in before dinner. I think the men out here will use any excuse to make a toast. The Queen, of course, but sunrise, sunset, moonrise, moonset, perhaps the birds in the trees, the snakes on the ground. Always “absent friends.”

  The next morning George could not get up at all. I’d ascribe some of it to the “flowing bowl” and all the wine at dinner, but much of it to that uniform in that heat. His tunic was a very tropic in itself. I was mortally embarrassed to have to preside over the breakfast table by myself, but the old gentleman very kindly pretended nothing was amiss.

  I never did get to see Elmina Castle, although it is only seven miles away. The Portuguese built it and Brodie said its name means, “the mine” because of all the gold they hoped to find there. He also said there was a ladder in the old slaving days and a trap door that led from the courtyard to the governor’s quarters. The female slaves would be assembled and the governor, from his balcony, looked down and chose the one he desired. If the woman became pregnant, she was set free. There are many children and grandchildren of these women in Elmina town. Did the same thing go on at Anamaboe or Cape Coast Castle? I asked. No, he said, only at Elmina. (Did the terrified women stand there, hoping to be chosen?)

  I had a child once. I gave it away. I have to say “it” in order to think of that time at all.

  Tho
se awful scandal sheets, particularly The Wasp, were horribly close to the mark when they said I went away into the country stout and returned my usual slim self. (Although I was never sylph-like. “Pleasingly plump” the Misses Lance used to say.)

  It was arranged that I should go to a convalescent home in the Cotswolds, a village with the ominous name of Lower Slaughter. There, after I was registered under an assumed name, he kissed me on my cheek, said, “Be a brave little soldier,” and left me. We had agreed there would be no communication between us during the weeks I was away until the manager of the home contacted him through a third party.

  Outside of a stroll around the grounds twice a day, there was really nothing to do. This was not a place where one struck up instant friendships. How I longed for London and conversation. I felt the way I had in Paris when Miss Turin, my companion, was bedridden and dear Mr. Heine came to call. He inquired, in beautiful French, if I had been to the shops, the Jardin des Plantes, the opera, the theatres, had I made the promenade? After each question I sadly replied, “Mais non.”

  Finally, in desperation he said, “Mais mademoiselle, qu’est qu’elle a fait?”

  “Mais … mais … j’ai regardé par la fenêtre.”

  I had a few books with me, of course, but I couldn’t settle to anything. All I could do was lie on the sofa and curse my fate. The house was extremely quiet, quiet as the tomb, you might say, although there were the occasional dreadful distant screams and the sound of hurrying feet. I needed someone to talk to. I was a prisoner there for over two months and I hated everything about it: Matron’s cheerful, “And how are we this morning?”; the banal chatter of the aides who walked me around the gardens and asked if I enjoyed knitting; the bland food. Most of all I hated the man who was responsible for my being in this place.

  Needless to say, I couldn’t write; what would I write about? “Ode to the Counterpane”? “Sonnet On the Breakfast Tray”? I did try, wrote the beginnings of a piece on solitude, but my brain wasn’t up to it.

  One morning the staff nurse came in to tell me, “We’ve had twins this morning, lovely boys.”

  I asked her politely not to disturb me with news reports of what went on elsewhere in the nursing home.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure,” she said, and flounced out.

  Later, I think she took pleasure in the fact that my labour was so long and painful.

  (“What is that cry?”

  “It is the cry of women, my good Lord.”)

  When my time came, I asked to have a silk scarf tied around my eyes, for I did not want to see it. I was in Hell for twenty-four hours and they feared for my life. I bit my lip clear through and begged for them to kill me. When it was over and I heard the baby’s cry, I fell back senseless.

  By the time they had revived me, it had been taken away.

  William came the next day. “I’ve made all the arrangements,” he said, “there’s nothing for you to worry about now. Just stay here and rest until you are strong enough to return.”

  I said nothing and refused to look at him.

  “Poor Letty,” he said, but when he went to stroke my hair I slapped his hand away.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  At the door he turned. “I gave her a name.”

  I clapped my hands over my ears. “Go away!”

  “Laura,” he said, “as you’re so fond of Petrarch.”

  I began to scream and a nurse rushed in.

  “What have you done to upset her?”

  “Nothing,” he said, “she is prone to hysterics, poor girl. I’ll leave her now.”

  As soon as I could manage to walk from the bed to the window, I rang for the matron and said my “father” (the mistake was initially hers, but we had decided it was a useful pretense) had brought me a letter the day he visited and I was instructed to go directly to my uncle’s home in Yorkshire as soon as I was well enough to travel.

  “You are too weak, still, to travel such a distance by yourself; surely your father or mother should accompany you.”

  “My mother is dead; my father has had to leave for the Continent.”

  “I think, then, you should wait another fortnight at the very least.”

  “I can’t wait any longer. Please arrange a seat in the coach and ask the maid to pack my trunk.”

  “This is against my wishes; you do understand that?”

  I absolved her and her precious “Home” of any responsibility and the next day I was carried down the stairs and placed in their private, closed carriage which would connect me with the coach.

  The journey north was a nightmare and I was nearly weeping by the time I reached my uncle’s house. How startled he looked to see this half-dead woman pounding on his door at dusk. He did not even recognize me at first.

  “Yes?” And then, “For Heaven’s sake, Letty!”

  At which point I fell senseless at his feet.

  I told my aunt, a kindly and circumspect woman, that I had undergone an operation for a “female complaint” and had fled the hospital because I couldn’t stand the noise and smells. She did not believe me, but she never questioned me, just put me to bed with hot water bottles to stop my shivering.

  My uncle wanted to call a doctor immediately, but somehow she persuaded him not to, said that all I needed was rest and nourishment. Men, unless they are doctors, are reluctant to inquire too closely into women’s illnesses and so the doctor was never called.

  I sent a note to William at his office.

  Dear Sir:

  I caught a chill and so am spending a somewhat longer time than originally planned at my uncle’s in Yorkshire. I will contact you when I return to London. I do realize I must continue to rely on you for commissions to write reviews, etc. and for some help with the business side of things, but other than that I feel our friendship is at an end. I am afraid I have relied on you too heavily in the past and it has caused talk; this talk has caused me pain. A woman alone has to be very careful of her reputation; I’m sure you understand this, being an “honourable man,” yourself.

  L.E.L.

  After that I simply let myself recover. Such an interesting word — something one does to shabby settees and chairs: re-cover. Also to worn-out bodies and souls. (I am not sure either completely recovered from that terrible experience.)

  Thanks to basins of gruel and buckets of broth, I was finally able to take meals with the family. My uncle had four daughters, two of whom were now married and living in Scarborough, “the Paradise of the North”; the other two were just waiting their turn.

  We had prayers every morning and night — all knelt except the invalid — and readings from the Bible. I felt I laid up such a stock of good behaviour during that fortnight in Yorkshire, that I might be forgiven for at least some of my sins.

  The Misses Lance, their ancient papa and the other boarders were delighted to have me back.

  “Oh, Letty, how we missed you!”

  I had one rather mean letter from W.J. waiting for me on my return.

  I made you, you know. You were just a plump little girl rolling a hoop when you lived next door, a plump little girl whose cousin sent me some verses by you, desiring my opinion. There was a spark, certainly, of something, in those juvenile efforts, but it was I who fanned that spark into a flame, who edited and corrected and encouraged. Don’t you ever forget that. You and I share many bonds that can’t be broken.

  Kindest regards,

  Wm. Jerdan

  Henceforth I only communicated with him by letter. What arrogance! “Made” me, indeed. What a puffed-up little man. Any traces of affection I still felt for him vanished forever.

  Mr. Freeman

  I DID ENJOY BEING A GARDENER and had imagined I would probably remain at Orwell Park until rheumatism forced me to retire. I even had a sweetheart. Then one Sunday afternoon, in a motley crowd, my life took a different direction; I stopped to hear a man preaching under a tree. For the first time I understood that God belonged to everyone, or rather, that G
od cared for everyone, and cared about us equally. I had never felt that before, growing up as I did with one foot in Africa and the other foot in England. I was always a misfit, even more than my father, who at least was purely black. I was “the mulatto.” I knew my suffering was as the bite of a gnat compared to the suffering of my father and the thousands like him, but to a small child, and then a growing lad, looking different is very hard. My village would have shown me more kindness if I had been the local idiot.

  And then, this revelation: all souls who accepted Christ Jesus were shining white! Money meant nothing in the grand scheme of things; position meant nothing. I scarcely remember now what the man said, but he was so full of conviction and contentment that I went back to my quarters a different man.

  I began attending these al fresco gatherings whenever I could and in due course this got back to Sir Robert. One morning he stopped me as I was suckering the tomato plants.

  “Are you become one of those Wesleyan, Thomas?”

  “I think so, Sir Robert. I do believe I’m headed in that direction.”

  “Well, if that is really the case then you will soon be heading away from Orwell Park. We can’t have Dissenters here. At some point you will have to choose. I’ll tell you frankly that you are the best head gardener we have ever employed and it would be hard, if not impossible, to replace you. But I mean what I say. If you keep on in this way you can’t stay here.”