Eden Falls (43 page)

She nodded. She’d used up her voice for the time being. Tobias longed to know the details of the exchange, but when Henrietta was settled once again in the passenger seat she patted him on the leg as if he were a loyal hound, then closed her eyes for what remained of the journey to Belgravia, and Fulton House.

S
eth still hadn’t visited Eve. He wasn’t sure how to, since his uncle had carried her off to Sugar Hill. There was an unspoken veto on casual visitors, and Seth lacked the confidence to turn up uninvited, even if his mam was there on her sick bed. He lacked the confidence, too, to ask permission, and this made him angry with himself for being such a sap. But also – and this third reason was, in truth, the principal one – Seth was hamstrung by guilt: burdened and held back by the dull weight of it. He hadn’t visited because he couldn’t bear to face the truth, which was that she might not be on the island if it weren’t for him, and if she wasn’t on the island she wouldn’t now be dangerously ill. This was the term Uncle Silas always used: not critically or chronically, but dangerously ill. She was in peril, and he, her son, was not only powerless but culpable. This fact, and it had, by now, hardened into solid fact in his mind, made Seth’s heart pound and the bile rise in his throat. On the brink of manhood, he felt like a helpless child and he hated himself for it.

When his thoughts alighted uncomfortably on the letter dictated by his uncle but written by him he blushed with shame and berated himself for the weasel words that had lured her here. In his heart he had known that Uncle Silas should have sent a businesslike letter: open, transparent, frank. There had been a good chance that his mam would have come anyway, without the need to draw her by her heartstrings. No, the right way to go about things would have been for Uncle Silas to write to his mother, stating their present difficulty and the proposed solution in clear, objective terms. Seth knew that not only would this have been the correct way to go on; it would also have been
normal
. It was not normal, not at all, to manipulate, cajole, or deceive in the pursuit of one’s own selfish, professional interests.

So.

This was where Seth always stopped. He shifted in the desk chair, stood up, paced the perimeter of the room, adjusted very minutely the position on the wall of a framed map of Jamaica. The incontrovertible truth, and the nub of the problem, was this: if he knew that his uncle’s behaviour was unacceptable in this regard, he supposed that it was unacceptable in others. This was a thornier subject for Seth. He loved his Uncle Silas and he admired him, and he resisted with all his might the diminishment of those important feelings. From the day he had left Netherwood to work alongside him, Seth had felt it an honour, and a remarkable opportunity, to listen and learn. From nothing – literally nothing – his uncle had built an empire and stamped his name all over it, so that Whittam was known across the world to be synonymous with quality. At the docks, in Bristol and here at Port Antonio, there were wooden crates of bananas stacked high, with Whittam & Co. printed on the sides in dark blue ink. A warehouse towered over the wharves with the same words emblazoned above the main entrances and again, in smaller letters, above the gantries. In Yorkshire, at Dreaton Main Colliery, a glossy blue board bore the same company name and – best of all, in Seth’s opinion – there it was again, painted on the prows of the finest fleet of liners to sail the Atlantic Ocean.

How, then, when he had made his mark on the world in such a bold, emphatic, indelible way, was his uncle capable of the sort of wily selfishness that even Seth, who was not yet seventeen, could see was almost childlike? How could his brilliance, skill and business acumen exist alongside this stubborn determination to please himself at any cost? It troubled Seth deeply that the uncle to whom he had paid such avid attention, the man he had copied in all matters of style and substance, was perhaps not everything that he should be. Something had changed, thought Seth; something had altered his outlook so that his drive and ambition, and his ruthless eye for a deal, seemed to be mutating into wild unpredictability and morose self-absorption. In Seth’s mind the letter to Eve had been the catalyst and there, again, he was able to lay the blame at his own feet. Since they had colluded over the letter everything good had been twisted out of shape. Uncle Silas had begun to drink too much; he reached for the Scotch whisky at any time of day and drank it greedily, as if he were parched. He shouted, not just at the staff but at Seth, and it happened too often and in public. He shut himself away at Sugar Hill and made a mystery of his life there. He stayed away much of the time, then, when he did appear, he scattered ill will and cynicism about him, as if his aim was to sow misery and watch it grow.

Seth, out of his depth in so many different ways, considered his situation. His uncle’s frequent absence meant he was, he supposed, in charge, and yet he felt just about the least capable person on the premises. None of them – Ruby, Maxwell, Batista, Scotty – ever sought his opinion about anything. The menu, the decor, the drinks they served in the bar: all were organised and overseen by the Jamaican staff. Even the new waitresses, Precious and Patience, who were younger than Seth, didn’t seek his direction. Rather, they stared at him boldly and made him feel hot to his roots. They wore knee-length sleeveless frocks in vibrant colours and their slender brown arms and legs were alluring but also innocent, and this provoked some turbulence in Seth’s soul. He was unequal to their silent poise; without ever uttering an insolent word, he felt they mocked him.

All of these anxieties drifted through Seth’s mind now. They were familiar thoughts, and he was weary of them. He stared out of the window and comforted himself with the fact that Hugh Oliver would soon be here. When Hugh came everything would be better. He was urbane, competent and calm, and he was due any day now. By rights, Uncle Silas would then sail back to Bristol for a few weeks, although Seth wondered if his mam’s illness might keep his uncle here. Miserably, he acknowledged that, at the moment, he hoped it wouldn’t. He wanted Uncle Silas to go away, and that seemed terribly wrong: a sort of betrayal. He had to cling to his respect for his uncle. All of Seth’s pride, all of his standing in the world, was invested in that.

Outside, he could see his little half-brother Angus talking to the gardener. The child was squatting on his haunches, chirruping away to Bernard who, Seth could see, now and again nodded or smiled or said, ‘Uh-huh,’ which was all Angus needed for encouragement. Seth felt guilty about Angus too, although not as guilty as he did about Eve. He couldn’t summon any genuine interest in the child, who resembled Daniel too much to feel like flesh and blood. Seth didn’t mind Daniel, but he was part of a chapter of his mam’s life that Seth felt didn’t include him, just as Jamaica was a chapter of his own life that probably shouldn’t have included his mam. Watching Angus, he felt a swell of resentment at the child’s ease in Bernard’s company. He might be a native, hunkered down like that, barefoot and tousle-haired, and then Ruby Donaldson appeared and the three of them – the cook, the gardener, the child – all laughed at something she said.

‘God damn it!’

His uncle’s favourite curse in Seth’s voice sounded unconvincing, so he tried again: ‘God damn it all to hell!’

This time it was louder than Seth had intended. Bernard and Ruby turned impassive gazes towards the sound, and Angus, confused and alarmed, stood up and stepped sideways, closer to the cook. Ashamed, Seth ducked down, and moved quickly away from the window.

Ruby had seen him. White-faced, jug-eared, peering out at them from the safety of his office, which none of them were meant to enter without first being summoned. She kept her mouth shut, because here was little Angus and that strange individual at the window was, after all, his brother. Whatever Ruby might think of Seth, she didn’t wish to alter the little boy’s view of the world, whatever that might be. But, over the top of Angus’s head, Ruby and Bernard exchanged a look that said plenty.

Bernard was Batista’s cousin – ‘From de laang, lean branch o’ de family,’ he said when he first came to work here. Ruby had looked up at him, and then down again to short, fat Batista with a sceptical smile. He was devout, like his cousin, but less mournfully so; he regarded life not as a long, deep river of human suffering but more a pleasant sojourn in God’s earthly garden. They shared a similarity around the eyes, though, and a certain quiet belligerence. Bernard was digging up peonies, which he’d planted six years ago, under sufferance, knowing full well they wouldn’t thrive; it was too hot for them here, and when it rained the few blooms they’d mustered soaked up the water like sponges and bent in a sorry, sodden arc to the soil. Bernard planned to make a bed of Jamaican orchids, which is what he’d recommended to Mr Silas at the time. Well, now, Bernard thought, a bucket with a hole is no use at the riverside. Mr Silas should learn to mind those parts of his business that he knew about, and leave the rest to others. He carried on thinking and digging, as if Ruby and Angus weren’t there. The orchids would be pink, like the peonies, but they would hold their heads high in the sun and the rain. There were two hundred species of orchid on the island, Bernard knew: only a white man would want peonies instead.

‘His daddy’s a gardener,’ Ruby said now, placing a proprietorial palm on Angus’s head. The novelty of his hair – soft, like silk thread – never failed to charm her, and she twirled a strand around her finger and watched it slip away.

‘My
pa’s
a gardener,’ Angus corrected her. ‘Not my daddy.’

‘I do beg your pardon. Your pa, of course.’

‘Gardeners fine fellows,’ Bernard said, tuning in, though only briefly. ‘Fine fellows.’ He had a slow drawl, difficult for Angus to understand.

‘My pa has a big garden,’ Angus said. ‘As big as this island, I think.’

Bernard chuckled. ‘Dat some plot.’ He stooped to worry with his fingers at the earth, where old roots clung with desperate tendrils to the loamy soil. Angus helped him, burrowing with two hands into the bed, wheedling out the parts of the peonies that the spade had missed. Ruby left them to it and walked down the path to the road where Maxwell and Edna were waiting – for the second time that day – to take her to Sugar Hill.

‘Can I come?’ Angus called, but he stayed by Bernard’s side and there was no real urgency to his question, or any expectation of success.

‘Soon,’ Ruby said over her shoulder. ‘Maybe next time.’

Eve was propped up in bed, pale and slight against the bolster. Beside her was the small pile of letters, sent from England and, until today, unopened. The curtains were drawn closed, but behind them a window was open and the cream fabric billowed and swelled in the warm breeze, like the sails on a boat. Eve’s eyes were bright with recent tears. Ruby understood, and said nothing about it. Instead she cocked her head jauntily and said, ‘Well aren’t you a sight to gladden the heart?’

Eve smiled. The yellow taint had almost entirely gone and her complexion was now merely wan. She said, ‘Justine’s gone to fetch tea. I feel like Lady Muck.’

Ruby put down her basket. ‘Who’s she?’

‘Figure of speech,’ Eve said. ‘I just mean, I’m being waited on. I’m not used to it.’

Ruby perched on the edge of the bed. ‘You’ve been waited on for some weeks,’ she said. ‘Waited on, and watched.’ When she’d left Eve this morning she was awake, but barely so, and Ruby had had to support her while she took small sips of bitter bush tea. There was more of it in a flask in the basket; it was a dark brew, foul tasting, but it was helping mend Eve’s poor, ravaged insides. The herb-filled bath that she and Justine had given her a few days ago had worked differently, from the outside in. It had enveloped her in a pungent steam that every Jamaican mother knew could work miracles when other medicines failed. Look at her now, thought Ruby: a living soul, brought back from the very edge of death.

‘Do you remember the bath?’ Ruby asked now; she was wondering what Eve knew and what she didn’t. They had carried her from the bedroom, lowered her into the bath, supported her while the aromatics rose up from the hot water in a healing cloud, lifted her out, dried her and placed her back into bed, all without any sign from Eve that she knew what was happening.

‘Oh,’ Eve said. ‘Yes, vaguely, I think I do. It smelled of sage, I think. Made me sweat.’

She had no idea, thought Ruby, of how close she had come to death, or how miraculous were the plants that had saved her. She had no idea, either, that Roscoe was Silas’s son; the conversation in the kitchen was forgotten, the memory of it trammelled by the fever’s progress. Ruby looked at her and wondered how and when she could tell her again; she felt she must, now that it had been told.

‘What is it?’ Eve said, but Ruby only smiled and said she was glad to see her so much improved.

‘Will you bring Angus next time?’

Ruby nodded. ‘He’s very well, your boy. I left him gardening with Bernard.’ She saw Eve’s eyes fill again. She took her hand and Eve laid her head back on the bolster, letting the tears run unchecked down her face.

‘Cho! Come come, now’s not the time for tears.’

‘I want my family,’ Eve said. ‘I want to go ’ome.’

Justine crept in on bare and silent feet, carrying a tray with a china teapot, cup and saucer. Ruby hadn’t been there when she had left the room but she showed no surprise, only smiled cautiously and nodded, then placed the tray on the bed beside Eve. Then, with infinite humility, she retreated. Eve turned her head wearily and watched her leave, then said, ‘She never stays if there’s anyone else ’ere, and she never speaks unless someone speaks to ’er.’

‘She’s a very humble person,’ Ruby said. ‘Too humble, perhaps.’

‘She’s ’aving a baby, by t’looks of things.’

‘She is.’ To discourage further speculation – it was too soon for this conversation, just as it was too soon for the other – Ruby reached for the teapot and said, ‘What have we here?’

‘Real tea,’ Eve said, smiling damply. ‘Not fish tea, or fever-grass tea, or bitter bush tea.’