‘You mean you’ve read it?’ Anna’s voice was cold.
‘Well of course I have. Sure, what’s the point of being able to read if you don’t from time to time exercise the talent? He didn’t say I wasn’t to.’
Anna held out her hand for the note. ‘In future, please leave any messages from Mr Sykes on the hall table. Unread, preferably.’
‘Oh,’ said Norah, diverted from the possibility of contrition by a sudden new thought. ‘There’s a letter for you, missus, on the hall table, since you mention it. A big fat one. Probably from Mrs MacLeod because it looks to be from Barnsley, although the postmark’s a bit blurred and it could be Burnley, so it could, although I thought to myself, But who does the missus know in Burnley?’
As she prattled she handed over Amos’s note to Anna and smiled, quite oblivious to the irony of her situation. Anna considered pointing it out – postmarks should not be scrutinised, just as private notes should not be read – then thought again. There was a letter from Yorkshire, and it might be from Eve. Norah’s incorrigible nosiness was, by comparison, of no account at all. She left the room and Norah burst immediately into song. She couldn’t work if she wasn’t allowed to sing; another idiosyncrasy that had revealed itself after her appointment, naturally.
T
he docks in Port Antonio were seething with ships, fruit and people, and at the eye of the storm was the stately bulk of the Whittam liner, the
Cassiopeia
. She was a fine vessel, one of three luxury passenger ships owned by the company, and noticeably more spruce than any of the other vessels moored in the greasy blue-green waters of the harbour. The gangplank was down and the first passengers, hesitant and unsteady after three weeks at sea, were beginning to pick their way towards terra firma.
Scotty, watching them, drew on what was left of his cigarette, pinching the inch of stub between thumb and forefinger and pulling the acrid smoke through his teeth. He squinted across at the new arrivals, looking for trouble; he could tell, from their face and bearing, which of these newly hatched Englishmen and women would end up on his wrong side before they had even reached the hotel. He was a connoisseur of the multifarious forms of disdain employed by whites in their dealings with blacks: the curled lip and up-tilting nose, the click of the fingers in place of a ‘please’. Scotty had seen it all, and so often that it didn’t rattle him any more: it wasn’t personal, he knew, and it wasn’t even their fault. These highborn English folk had simply lost their way when it came to manners and mutual respect. Scotty didn’t care. He relished the prospect of engaging them in battle.
Down on the dockside Mr Silas was running back and forth like a man with bees in his pants, and two steps behind him was young Master Seth, who took his lead, always, from his uncle. Mr Silas in a stew, Master Seth in a stew. Mr Silas happy, Master Seth happy. It was as if the boy had no ideas of his own about how he could be. Neither of them had learned that the way to go in Jamaica was slow: you get there anyway, but you don’t break sweat. There were four charabancs belonging to the Whittam Hotel, but they were late – forced to wait, more than likely, for the congested harbour road to clear – and the bewildered gaggle of English passengers milled by the luggage, sticking close together for safety. They looked, thought Scotty, as though they fully expected to be robbed. He laughed aloud at their imagined predicament, and Edna, the mule, shot him a sideways look of reprimand.
‘Beg pardon, Your Ladyship,’ Scotty said with a small bow. He sucked the last scrap of flavour from the stub of his cigarette, dropped it and ground out its glowing end with his heel. He was barefoot as usual, but the skin on his soles was as good as boot leather. He could strike a match on the balls of his feet; he could walk over hot embers in a barbecue pit.
‘Scotty!’
This was Mr Silas, shouting as usual. He dressed cool and casual, thought Scotty, yet he burned up with anger all the time. Today his face, beneath his panama hat, was taut with irritation.
‘Scotty, move your idle backside and get this luggage up the hill. Where the devil is Maxwell? And the charabancs?’
Scotty gave no indication that he’d heard and stood where he was for a few comfortable moments longer, before moving in his rangy way towards the trunks and valises that were forming a sizeable obstruction on the quay.
‘Seth, you’ll have to help him load up the cart or we’ll be here all day.’ Silas spoke sharply, even to Seth, who had done nothing but oblige him all morning. The boy jumped to it and scowled at Scotty, a reflex he’d learned from his uncle.
‘Where’s Maxwell?’ Silas said again, and then, ‘Hands clean?’
Scotty raised his brows and his broad, smooth forehead erupted into furrows. He didn’t answer either question, and he certainly didn’t hold out his palms for inspection. Instead he hauled a leather trunk up and onto his shoulder, and loped towards the cart that he’d left in the shade cast by the offices of United Exotic Fruits. This had been strategic, calculated to irritate.
‘What in God’s name are you doing, tethering the mule there?’ Silas had followed Scotty; he hissed at him under his breath, keen to disguise his discomposure.
‘Shadier shade,’ Scotty said. He smiled as he walked along, though to himself, not at Silas.
‘Tie the damn beast by the Whittam buildings in future,’ Silas said, trotting beside him. Behind, Seth staggered under the weight of two suitcases. His young face was set in a grimace of effort and rivulets of perspiration ran into his eyes. Scotty and Maxwell should deal with all the luggage, he thought; it reflected badly on him to be compelled to do their job. These episodes were frequent, and he found them undermining. It was hard for him to introduce himself as anyone who mattered when all the guests had seen him labouring like a porter at the docks, sweating like a pig. Ahead he could see his Uncle Silas berating Scotty, though his words were inaudible. Scotty, even from behind, exuded unconcern.
‘Young man! I say, young man!’
The crisply imperious tones sliced through the hubbub and commanded attention. Seth turned. A large woman in cerise chiffon – high-necked, long-sleeved, tight-cuffed – was bearing down on him with steely purpose. Seth, immediately anxious at the prospect of a confrontation, felt his ears flush red and his heart beat a little faster, but suddenly there was his uncle, his voice and manner quite altered by a seamless transition to mellifluous cordiality.
‘Lady Millbank,’ he said, all charm and smiles. ‘May I assist you in some way?’
She laughed, hollow and humourless.
‘Mr Whittam,’ she said stridently. ‘We are being jostled by negroes in atrocious heat on a vile-smelling dock where bananas and pineapples appear to take priority over people so, yes, I should imagine you can assist in some way, and I sincerely hope you can do it swiftly.’
There was a brief silence and then Scotty laughed again, mouth wide, showing brown teeth and a wet pink tongue. Lady Millbank took a step backwards in distaste and alarm, and Silas, thin-lipped with fury, ordered him about his business. Scotty gave an insolent shrug and loped off towards the luggage.
Silas shuddered inwardly. In all the time he’d been running this luxury service from Bristol to Jamaica, he still hadn’t quite managed to overcome the difficulties encountered after mooring in Port Antonio harbour. An atmosphere of cheerful chaos presided here, always. Crates of bananas, pineapples, mangoes and coconuts blocked the thoroughfares while cargo ships were loaded and unloaded; farmers and peddlers came daily to hawk their paltry produce; old men with rotten teeth and addled minds smiled inanely at visitors and sang strange, tuneless songs, holding out straw hats in expectation of coins; mules brayed, dogs barked, children ran through the mêlée looking for easy pickings from unguarded pockets. Lady Millbank, who had paid for her passage to paradise, was sorely disillusioned. Furthermore, the bones of her corset dug into her damp flesh and beneath her flamboyantly beribboned bonnet her hair – she alone knew – was steaming gently in the absurd heat, spelling certain disaster for her curls. She glowered at Silas, purveyor of false promises. Silas turned on Seth.
‘Why are you still here?’ he said. ‘Lady Millbank needs assistance. Please deposit those suitcases,’ – because Seth was still holding them, legs braced and arms tensed, like a strongman demonstrating his prowess – ‘then make it your business to accompany Her Ladyship to the charabancs.’
Seth looked at his uncle, appalled. The charabancs hadn’t arrived, and both of them knew it, but Silas’s eyes were cold and Seth recognised the challenge. The crisis had been handed to him in its entirety, and to fail now would be unmanly, unacceptable, unprofessional; this was familiar territory. Lady Millbank swivelled her head like an owl, turning her hostile gaze upon him.
The charabancs came, of course. They finally processed in stately fashion towards the variously stupefied, hostile and wilting huddle of English guests. Relieved beyond words to see the vehicles, Seth made flamboyant movements with his arms, waving the charabancs to a standstill as if without him they might have merely rolled on by. No one was fooled. His only small success had been to find a chair for Lady Millbank. She had accepted it ungraciously and sat like an angry monarch, waiting impatiently for a further improvement in her circumstances. At last – ushering, coaxing, apologising – Seth had them on board, and while it was perhaps in less comfort than they were accustomed to – the seats were wooden, and the long upward sweep of Eden Hill rutted – the journey was swiftly accomplished, at least once the crowded harbour was behind them.
At the hotel, the atmosphere of the group lightened. The elegant porticoed entrance and polished wooden floors of the foyer did much to lift flagging spirits and the great flat blades of the ceiling fans stirred the damp air, bringing a modicum of relief to the suffering souls in their suits, gowns and hats. Ruby, in a loose cotton frock and with bare feet, circulated with a tray of lemonade, pitying them. Lady Millbank stood with her brother Charles. They had little to say to each other, and nothing to say to anyone else. Charles took a glass from the tray offered by Ruby and raised it at her in a salute of silent thanks. Lady Millbank took another and peered into it with an expression of profound distaste, as if it were full of frogspawn.
‘Odd colour,’ she remarked without looking up.
‘It’s lemon-colour,’ Ruby said, not being facetious but simply stating a fact. ‘If you taste it, you’ll find it very refreshing.’ She smiled, because unlike Scotty, Ruby always tried to give the guests the benefit of the doubt: she was minded to like them, or at any rate to speak with them, noting as she did the nuances of pronunciation that would raise her own English to the standard to which she aspired.
‘I would like a glass of water,’ Lady Millbank said, replacing her drink, untasted, on the tray. She had set her gaze just above Ruby’s head, for optimum
froideur
.
Ruby said, ‘Very well, but first I shall offer around what is on my tray.’ She was pleased with the way she sounded, pleased particularly with her ‘my’, which was full and rounded and quite unlike the short, lazy ‘ma’ she had grown up using.
Now Lady Millbank was forced to look upon the young woman who stood before her. Ruby smiled again, though she was beginning to realise that her attempt at pleasantness was falling on stony ground; there was no warmth in the woman’s expression.
‘Insolent creature,’ Lady Millbank said, raising her voice so that conversations stopped and people turned to stare. ‘In future you will address me as “Your Ladyship”. In the meantime, you will do as I ask, and you will do it at once.’
Ruby pursed her lips. The Englishwoman, stout and overheated, glared at her with prominent, angry eyes. If she would but take off her bonnet and sip her lemonade she’d feel a deal less botheration, thought Ruby. She sighed and said, ‘If you ask me again, but nicely, I might oblige.’ Her tone was weary, like a mother teaching manners to a child. She waited for a long moment, head cocked in expectation, quite undaunted by Lady Millbank’s horrified gasp, and then, when it became apparent that no progress was to be made, she shook her head almost sadly, but not quite, and sashayed away. There were, here and there, a few sympathetic tuts, but Lady Millbank, whose face was now a study in shades of purple, had made few friends on the Atlantic crossing, so there was very little interest in her plight. She turned for support to her brother who, standing beside her, lifted his own glass of lemonade, which was already half finished.
‘It’s very good, Mildred,’ he said.
She glared at him. ‘That’s hardly the point, Charles.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No! The point is, that girl just addressed me in the most offensive manner.’
‘Mmm.’ He took another deep drink and lemonade splashed from the glass on to his nose and chin. He whipped a silk handkerchief from his top pocket to dab at his face, and though he wasn’t trying to further annoy her, he did.
‘After all, Mildred, we were tipped the wink about the natives, remember? Brunswick’s been more than once to Jamaica and he’s never yet found a man willing – not to mention able – to dress him.’
‘I’m not looking for a valet, I’m looking for a glass of water,’ Lady Millbank said coldly. Her brother was a fool; she’d always known it, but three weeks on the
Cassiopeia
had revealed new heights of ineptitude and now here he was, dribbling lemonade and failing, once again, to defend her position. She cast her gimlet eyes around the room, looking for prey. The boy who’d accompanied them to the hotel on those dreadful bone-shaking contraptions was occupied, still, with the luggage, which had now been piled up just inside the hotel entrance. Lady Millbank was able to count one, two, three – no –
four
unoccupied negroes in the boy’s vicinity, and yet he strove alone to organise the trunks and suitcases into manageable lots. And there was the rude young woman with the lemonade. Her tray was empty now, and she beat it gently against her hip as she walked, like a percussion instrument. Something about her – her casual, swaying gait, her long, exposed neck, her bare, brown feet – made Lady Millbank look away with a new flush of anger. Where was the owner? He and his pitiful sidekick presided over a shambles. She was beginning to rue the day that Charles – ever the enthusiast for new experiences – had burst into her drawing room, flapping in her face a printed advertisement extolling the beauties and benefits of Jamaica, courtesy of Whittam and Co.’s bespoke holiday service. Well. Mr Whittam must be sought out, she decided now. Sought out, and called to account.