The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q (18 page)

And yet – was he really gone? Without a body ever found, how could anyone be really sure? Certainly, Ma Quint did not believe it.

‘He is alive; I know it! A mother knows these things!’ she said, from the moment she recovered from the first shock of the telegram, and that was her standard reply to the condolences immediately following the news, and to any reference to Freddy in the past tense thereafter.

As for Dorothea: she took refuge in rationality. It was the only way to keep going. She would believe the worst, and keep going. So she forced herself to believe that Freddy was dead until information to the contrary told her otherwise. That was the only sensible attitude.

Sometimes, though, her heart seemed to cut loose from the earth of reason to swing up to the sky, joining Freddy wherever he might be. Whenever she heard the melancholy strains of a mouth-organ she started, and looked up – was it him? She suffered from insomnia most nights, and on such occasions she took to riding her bicycle to the Sea Wall where she would walk for miles in the moonlight or the starlight, the Atlantic wind whipping at her skirt and moulding it to her legs as she walked; and there she would look up at the vastness of space and the twinkling of stars and he would be there, all around her, a knowledge and a being as strong and as near as God. And she would call to him, and he would answer.

Y
ears passed
; the war ended. With the exception of Howard, killed in Singapore, the other Quint brothers all returned from war, safe and sound. The surviving Quint brothers were now all married, except Humphrey. They had all moved out of the big higgledy-piggledy house, established their own households and were busy building careers, families, and, in some cases, already emigrating. Each one was different, and each had lived up professionally to the nickname given him in his youth: ‘The Businessman’, ‘The Revolutionary’, ‘The Mechanic’, ‘The Artist’.

Humphrey had always been ‘The Philosopher’, the quiet one, and so he remained; withdrawn, even-tempered, sweet-natured, happiest when buried in his books and his stamp-albums. Many an evening Dorothea sought his company for the solace it gave her. Humphrey helped her wind down after a hard day’s work, becoming the brother she’d never had. Humphrey was the only man – apart from Pa Quint – with whom she did not wage war.

She liked to visit Pa with Humphrey. Pa’s Annex was like a little mid-air island set among the trees behind the house. It had windows along all four sides so the breeze whipped through, except for the one corner with his desk and the two wooden chairs, one for Pa, one for Humphrey.

Pa kept his best stamps not in albums but in biscuit tins. One stamp, he kept in a tin all of its own. He showed the stamp to Dorothea. It was smudged and faded and not in the least impressive, but Pa let her look at it through a magnifying glass.

‘See those letters there?’ he said. ‘T.A.Q. Theodore Anthony Quint. My father! One day, the Post Office ran out of stamps so the Postmaster General had a batch printed by local printers. But they were badly done, easily forged. So he tell the postal workers to sign them wit’ they own initials before selling. Grandpa was one-a them workers. He save this stamp as a souvenir, and give it to me.’

‘There’s only one other stamp like this left in the world,’ Humphrey told her. ‘And nobody knows about this one. The other one is considered the rarest; it went to auction recently and achieved a small fortune. We prefer to keep this in the family. The only other person who knows about it is Matt. He wants to buy it, but we won’t sell.’

‘What makes a stamp so valuable?’ Dorothea asked.

‘Rarity,’ Humphrey answered. ‘These were one cent stamps, for newspaper wrappings. People don’t save them. They look so cheap, not worth collecting. But this one – I love it!’

Pa replaced the lid on the biscuit tin. ‘Pah! You can have it. It’s all yours. When I dead and gone the family going to throw out everything in here, all these ol’ man tings.’ He waved around the room. ‘If you want this stamp, you better take it now.’

‘Can I have that in writing? That you have given it to me? I can quickly draw up a document.’

Dorothea wrinkled her nose. Humphrey, the lawyer, could get a bit pedantic at times. Why did he want it in writing, that his grandfather was giving him this silly scrap of paper? She asked him later.

‘Because,’ Humphrey said, ‘There are many of us brothers, and human nature is greedy. This stamp is worth a lot of money on the market. Not that I would ever sell it; for me, it’s the sentimental value. I just want to own it, to look at it, to imagine my grandfather initialling it with his own hand. It’s family history. If you loved stamps, you’d understand. But I need it to be official, that Pa gave it to me. I don’t want anyone challenging my ownership.’

‘But who would ever do that?’

The answer was immediate. ‘Leo. ‘The Businessman.’ Even as a child he turned everything he could to money. Last year, when William had his first successful exhibition, you know what Leo did? He went to the storeroom and found all of Will’s old paintings and sold them. Made a small fortune. And kept the money. That’s why Leo and William fell out. So I want it official, that this stamp is mine.’

Humphrey smiled at her. ‘And you’re my witness.’

Pa died a week later. As he had predicted, all his old-man things were thrown out. Humphrey claimed the stamp collection. No one else wanted it. The rest of what he left was split six ways among the six surviving brothers. And Humphrey moved into the Annex.

T
he greatest changes
, though, in the intervening years, had taken place in the colony itself. British Guiana was slowly stumbling towards Independence. From the midst of the most oppressed sector of society, the East Indian sugar labourers, had arisen a saviour: Cheddi Jagan, a man of the people, charismatic, outspoken, and passionate. He had studied dentistry in the USA and returned with an American wife, Janet, a woman of substance and every bit as zealous as Cheddi himself.

Cheddi and Janet let their voices be heard, and people listened; the country, in particular the hordes of downtrodden sugar workers, rose up in protest, demanding human working conditions and the end to imperialism. Cheddi and Janet founded the People’s Progressive Party, a multi-party, multi-ethnic, multi-class, party supported by labourers and intellectuals. The PPP joined forces with the country’s second party, People’s National Congress.

Elections were coming up in a year or two; with Cheddi as the country’s leader, Dorothea was sure, British Guiana would win independence from Great Britain. She could hardly contain her excitement. She herself had joined the PPP and risen up the ranks; now, she threw herself into the struggle for Freedom. Independence! That was the dream, and Dorothea dreamt it day and night. Cheddi was a man of the people; his wife a living example and inspiration to her; yes, women could be leaders, could make their voices heard, could put an end to oppression. Dorothea found a political home, and applied herself to
change.
The country would change, and she, Dorothea, would help change it.

O
ne evening
, when Dorothea was sitting with Humphrey, she noticed that he was unusually nervous. He’d read her a rather good poem by a local poet, published in the
Argosy
, and Dorothea was talking – she regretted the fact that Guianese talent was never promoted in the schools; it was always English poets.

‘All the characters in all the books we read are English, white-skinned,’ she said. ‘And they all eatin’ strawberries an’ cream and scones. Why not Guianese children, eatin’ mango and pineapple? We need more local writers!’

But Humphrey wasn’t listening. She could tell. His eyes, usually steady and fixed on her, were jumpy today, and he kept rubbing his nose and sniffing, though he didn’t have a cold.

‘What’s wrong, Humph?’

‘Ah … nothing.’ He linked his fingers and cracked them.

‘Ouch! Don’t do that! It makes my skin crawl!’

‘Sorry!’

‘Humphrey, don’t tell me nothing’s wrong because is not true. Tell me right now what bothering you.’

Humphrey began to stutter; he always did when emotionally disturbed.

‘I-I-I …’ he started again. ‘I wanted t-t-t-to ask – ask you if, if, if …’

Dorothea had a strong premonition of what was to come. And she was right – the next words came rushing out.

‘If you would marry me.’

She said nothing for a while. And then she took his hands in his.

‘Oh, Humph. You’re so sweet. A darling. And I don’t know what I’d a done without you, these last few years. But I’m sorry. I can’t marry you. You’re a good friend, almost a brother. And anyway …’

She paused. Humphrey finished the sentence for her.

‘… you’re waiting for Freddy.’

And it was true. Five years had passed since that awful telegram. He had officially been declared dead. No one hoped any longer that he would return, not even Ma Quint. Even Turtle and Parrot had died of old age, taking with them further memories of Freddy. But still …

Dorothea sank her head. She could not look into Humphrey’s clear dark eyes, see the love there, and not respond. She couldn’t do it. And so she only whispered:

‘I’m so sorry.’

G
ranny had asked
her to go to Bookers pharmacy after school to get some Benadryl Expectorant; a grandchild she was taking care of this week had a cough. The thought made Rika nervous. She would have to walk right through the whole store to get to the other end.

Just as she had known, a clutch of boys in Saints uniforms was hanging around outside the store, Jag among them. He was sitting on his motorbike, which was parked just in front of the bicycle-stand area, so Rika had to walk right past them wheeling her bicycle. They all turned to watch as she approached, and stopped talking; there was nothing she could do but walk straight past them, her face burning. One of them let out a wolf-whistle as she passed by, and the others chortled heartily. She parked her bike and it took all her effort to walk, not run, into the store.

She walked through the east wing of the store and emerged into the park area, which she had to cross to get to the drug store and supermarket in the west wing, when she heard somebody call her name. She stopped and turned; it was one of the Saints boys who had been with Jag at the entrance. He was sprinting towards her, calling her name:

‘Rika! Hold on a moment!’

So she stopped and waited for him to catch up. She had no idea what his name was; he had reddish-brown skin and his hair was cropped very short, like black carpet.

‘Hi!’ He stopped running and sauntered up. He came with a slight swagger, and his grin was a little too wide, that of someone feigning friendship.

‘Hi,’ she said, and waited.

‘I got a message for you,’ said the boy, without introducing himself, as if assuming that Rika would know. ‘From Jag.’

‘From
Jag?
A message?’ Rika frowned.

‘Yeah. He said to tell you, you got beautiful eyes and evil lips. And nice curves.’

‘What! I …’ Rika was lost for words, but she didn’t need any because the boy had laughed out loud and then turned around and sprinted back the way he had come. She was left standing, staring after him, her cheeks red-hot, her heart thumping and her thoughts in disarray.

A moment later she shuddered as if to shake off the shock, and turned to walk towards the pharmacy. She bought the Benadryl, paid for it, walked back through the store. As she reached the east exit she hesitated. She had to pick up her bike but it would mean walking past those boys again, walking past
him,
and she didn’t know if she could without her legs turning to jelly. So she stopped at the door, eased herself forward and peeked around the corner first, and saw that the boys had gone. She picked up her bike and cycled home as fast as her legs could take her. Later that afternoon, as soon as she could manage, she slipped through the palings and down the alley and into her grandmother’s yard.

At first, Rajan was nowhere to be seen; just buckets filled with genips around the tree; a ladder leaned against the trunk. Then Rajan called from above; she looked up and there he was, sitting on a branch high above her.

‘Hang on; coming down,’ he cried; but before coming himself, he lowered a bucket filled almost to the brim with plump ripe genips.

‘Catch it!’ he called, and Rika caught hold of the bucket swinging on its rope and lowered it gently to the ground.

Rajan scrambled through the upper branches till he reached the lowest branch; from there he leaped to the ground, landing beside her as nimbly as a cat. He wore torn old khaki shorts and nothing else; his chest was taut and glistening with sweat, and his face, too, gleamed and little bits of tree-bark and a leaf or two clung to his skin. He was barefoot.

‘Come on, time for a feast,’ he said, grabbing a bucket. He gestured to the wooden bench under the house, and Rika walked over with him.

‘What’s up?’ he asked. She didn’t often come mid-week, and when she did it was to tell him of some hurtful incident that had happened in school – Jen Goveia and her gang seemed determined to put her in her rightful place – or for help with an imminent maths problem. Only on Saturdays and Sundays did she come just to chat and talk philosophy. She told him what had happened.

‘Beautiful eyes!’ he said, and smiled. ‘Well, that’s true. Nice curves, too. But evil lips?
Evil?
Let me have a look …’ And he leaned forward, as if to inspect her mouth.

‘Don’t tease! Evil means …’

‘I know, I know … it’s a compliment. So you’re flattered? Go on, have some genips.’ He grabbed a handful of the little green balls and they rolled from his hand into her open palms.

‘I suppose so,’ she said. She transferred all the genips to one hand, picked one off its stalk and placed it between her teeth. She pressed down gently so that the soft shell cracked open. The fruit, soft and golden, slid onto her tongue and for a moment she savoured the tart sweet taste of it.

‘Ummmmm,’ she moaned. ‘Heavenly. I think this is my favourite fruit ever.’

‘Mine too,’ said Rajan, and produced a small cracked enamel bowl for them both to spit the sucked-dry stones into. ‘You can take a bucket home if you like. We have plenty. Your grandparents always said we could pick them, sell them, do what we want with them.’

‘Thanks,’ said Rika. ‘But tell me, why did he say that? What does it mean?’

‘Who? What? Oh – that boy? What’s his name again?’

‘Jag. Don deSouza.’

The words had been turning over and over in her mind ever since she’d heard them.
Beautiful eyes, evil lips
… a message from Jag! He had sent his friend expressly to tell her that! Why? What about Jen? She wouldn’t like it – definitely not. Why did boys say things like that? Rajan was a boy – maybe he could explain it.

‘It got your attention, didn’t it?’ said Rajan now. ‘Just like he got your attention the other day, at the snack bar.’

‘But – but why? I’m nothing special. There are so many other girls much better-looking than me. I’m a nobody! And look at Jen, and her friends! I mean why would he say that to
me,
of all people?’

‘Why do you let your looks define you, Rika? Why do you see yourself as worthless?’

I stared at him, speechless. I hadn’t thought of it like that. ‘Worthless? I – I don’t know. I just know I’m not a bit like them. Not even close. I don’t see why a boy like that – I mean, he’s so popular, he could get any girl he wanted in this whole country. Why would he tell
me
things like that?’

Rajan just shrugged. ‘He’s probably just bored. Looking for a bit of excitement. Looking to get
you
excited. And you are, aren’t you?’

‘Well, I – I…’

‘See? He got your attention and now you’re thinking about him. I bet you weren’t thinking about him at all last week, before that snack-bar story. And now you are. He was invisible, and now he’s not.’

‘I still don’t understand. He’s got Jen.’

‘I told you – excitement. Drama. When people get bored with their lives they do something to ease the boredom.’

‘But why me? Of all people…’

‘You just happened to put in your appearance, right time, right place, and he probably thought you’re as good as anyone else. Entertainment.’

‘So I’m just – entertainment? Nothing – nothing more?’

‘You mean, do I think he’s fallen in love with you? No, I don’t. I don’t think he’s really interested in
you.
I think you’re a convenient diversion, and he thinks it might be a bit of fun to get a girl who – well, a girl …’

Rajan hesitated.

‘Go on, say it. A girl like me. A nobody.’

‘Well, in his eyes you are probably a nobody and that’s the whole point. The question here is, why are you in your
own
eyes a nobody? Go home now, Rika, and think about that. I’ve got work to do. Go on, take the bucket.’

And he stood up, as if thoroughly bored with her and the whole subject, and handed her the bucket, in which by now the level of genips had been substantially reduced.

Rika took the bucket and her leave. Lost in thought, she made her way to the hole in the fence and took off for home. Rajan had given her much to think about; but his philosophising was a little too deep for her, too arcane. He seemed not to take Jag’s message seriously. He just wasn’t interested.

Actually, Rika was a bit disappointed in Rajan. She had thought, hoped, that he’d say something along the lines of ‘But you’re beautiful too!’ or ‘You’re not a nobody; you’re wonderful, unique!’ That’s why she had turned to Rajan in the first place; for him to offer support, boost her confidence. She knew all too well that she lacked self-esteem. She wallowed in that lack almost every minute of every day, but Jag’s interest in her was helping to repair that fault-line of her consciousness.

She’d thought Rajan would see that, and would apply some well-needed compliments to help her on her way. Instead, he had asked questions that practically worsened that crumbling confidence: ‘Why are you in your own eyes a nobody?’ What sort of a question was
that?
Instead of giving her a hand to help her out of that wallowing pit, he was pushing her back in again! A simple
but you
are
beautiful, and worthy of his attention!
would have worked wonders. Yes, she was disappointed in Rajan – she had thought him more sensitive to her needs, more understanding than that.

B
ut he was right
about one thing. She couldn’t remember when anything as exciting as this had happened to her.
Beautiful eyes, evil lips
… she couldn’t wait to look at herself in the mirror. Maybe she wasn’t really as plain as she thought.
Nice curves
– but surely she was too fat? She breathed out, pulled in her stomach, regarded her sideways profile in the mirror. Maybe not fat, after all. Maybe she was actually attractive –
Jag
had noticed her!
Don
deSouza
! That had to mean something. She wasn’t quite sure yet what, but it did mean something. Jag had noticed her.
The
Jag. Maybe she really wasn’t as worthless as she thought.

E
very day
after that Rika went to Bookers after school, even if there was nothing she had to buy. Just to see if … anyone was there. But nobody ever was; at least, nobody of note. There were always a few groups of boys and girls in the various uniforms: Bishops’ girls in green with their Panama hats, Queens boys in khaki trousers and yellow striped ties, St Rose’s girls in blue tunics, St Joseph’s girls in green, Saints boys, Central High School girls and boys. Rika’s eyes now invariably roved, looking out for the familiar blue-grey of Saints; and sometimes it was there, but the wearer was never Jag.

As for Jen, as another St Rose’s girl she was unavoidable, but as she was in a parallel class they weren’t thrown together all that much. The teasing stopped, as if Jen had grown bored with her. Sometimes they passed each other in the corridors, or at break time, but Jen made a point of demonstrably turning away each time, and always with a snort of sheer disdain; and all her minions turned away with her. Rika wondered if Jen had heard. Heard what Jag had said about her:
beautiful eyes, evil lips.
Maybe Jen was jealous? Of
her!

Rika now looked closer at herself in the mirror every day. Her eyes didn’t seem all that special. Big and brown, yes, but her eyelashes were too short and curly; you were supposed to have long black sweeping lashes, like Jen. And her lips were too thick. She’d always known that and it hadn’t really bothered her up to now, but now that Jag had said they were
evil
– the absolute ultimate in compliments! – she took a closer look, moved them about, tried smiling and pursing them to see what was so evil about them. Jen’s were definitely more evil, thinner for a start, but Jag had said ... Rika’s heart sank.
Everything
about Jen was lovely, she thought in despair.
Nice curves
– but definitely too fat, when all was said and done. She’d have to go on a diet. She couldn’t imagine why Jag could have said those things about her, a nobody, when he had Jen all to himself. Jen was so very, very beautiful; so sparkly and witty, radiant with confidence, and with the ability to wither lesser girls, like Rika, with a mere glance. That’s how superior she was. Like a goddess, and especially since she was Jag’s girlfriend. Superior in every way. In comparison she, Rika, felt like something thrown up by the tide. Jen made her feel dirty, inadequate. She had tried to confide in Rajan about this, but all he had said was, ‘There’s nothing uglier than self-importance,’ and changed the subject, as if the very thought of Jen disgusted him.

The incident at the snack-bar still stung Rika to the core.
Idiot.
Jen’s face as she spat the word at her.
Idiot!
Yes, exactly. That’s what she was. Jen had hit the nail on the head, and it had pierced the very nerve of her being, because it was true. And that look Jen had thrown her. So full of venom! She shuddered just to think of it. The very memory of it made her want to disappear; but oh, to somehow vanquish Jen! If Jen could only find out what Jag had said!
That
would make her sorry …

She stopped at the cosmetics department. Maybe if she wore lipstick it would help. There was the Elizabeth Arden stand with the lipstick samples and a mirror. She tried out a bright red on the back of her hand. But no, that was too obvious. Maybe a pale pink? No, that looked ridiculous. Only white people could wear pink. Maybe a sort of reddish-brown? Yes, that would do. But you couldn’t wear lipstick at school, and there was no point wearing it at home. Maybe she could put it on after school, just in case … did she have enough pocket money? If not, she’d buy it next week, when she did. And some perfume. Elizabeth Arden’s Blue Grass.

But then Rika caught herself in the mirror and melted into a puddle of anguish. Her
hair!
Never mind about her eyes and her lips. She would never, ever be able to do anything about her hair. The only thing you could do with hair like hers – a mane of black frizzled wire that behaved exactly the way it wanted to – was tie it back in one or two plaits, and that was that. Nothing
evil
about plaits, and there never would be. It was then that Rika, looking into the mirror, saw Jen saunter past with her clique of close friends, giggling together as if at a secret joke. Probably laughing at her. Jen’s eyes caught hers in the mirror and she was right; there it was again, that withering, soul-destroying sneer. Rika hurriedly replaced the red-brown lipstick sample in its holder and slunk away. It was all hopeless. Probably she had just dreamt up the thing about beautiful eyes and evil lips. Or else, Jag didn’t mean it. He’d just said it to tease her.