The collected stories (4 page)

'You could explain,' said Philippa. 'In the book.'

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'Montparnasse was small, too. It was a village. One knew everyone who lived there. I saw James Joyce. This was at a party. We spoke for a while, and I thought, "What a kind man!" He had dark spectacles; he must have been nearly blind. I loved him - I don't think I even knew he was a writer - and I felt that this was a man that one could depend on. Dependable, that's what I thought. Gertrude Stein was very noble - a very noble face. And there was Alice B.'

'What did she do?' said Philippa.

'Knitting - something of the sort. Just sitting there and knitting, while Gertrude looked great and noble. I saw Hemingway -1 didn't know him. But Djuna Barnes - how grand she looked! She had a huge cape on her shoulders, a huge black cape.'

'So I was right!' said Philippa in triumph. 'It will be a lovely book. I'm sure Roger will be thrilled. I don't know what gave me the idea, but I just knew it was a good one.'

Miss Bristow smiled and put her glass down and pushed it until it hit the ashtray. Hearing the clink, Philippa looked down and then searched for the waiter. Fresh drinks were brought.

Miss Bristow said, 'Once, at a party, I met the lunatic Crosby. He wanted to talk and he noticed I was wearing a pretty ring. This ring. "I've been admiring your ring," he said. "The boy who gave me this ring just got out of prison," I said.'

Philippa lowered her head and frowned.

Miss Bristow said, 'Crosby was very shocked. He looked at me and said, "And you mean you kept it?" That's all he said. "And you mean you kept it?" And he went away.'

Philippa said, 'That's just what I had in mind. Funnily enough, I never thought of James Joyce as dependable.'

'I am telling you what I felt.'

'It would be a marvelous book.'

'What was the other thing?'

'What other thing?'

'You said you had two ideas,' said Miss Bristow. 'You have told me only one.'

'Oh, yes,' said Philippa. 'Would you like another drink?'

'The same,' said Miss Bristow.

Philippa's glass was full: one drink was brought. Miss Bristow sipped and watched Philippa trying to begin. The girl was having difficulty. Miss Bristow said, 'Is it my new collection?'

WORLD S END

Tartly. But first of all I want to tell you what a brilliant collection it is-'

With this preface, Miss Bristow thought, the news can only be bad. She was aware that it was an old woman's book, rather a monochrome, all memory, without adornment or invention. But Miss Bristow had discovered this as her strength.

Philippa was still praising her: the news was very bad.

Instead of speaking, Miss Bristow drank, and the drink was like speech, calming her, relieving the apprehension she felt, so that by the time the drink was gone and Philippa had finished, Miss Bristow was smiling and had forgotten her initial uneasiness about the girl's reservations. She heard herself saying, 'Why, that's all right then, isn't it?'

'Gosh, you're quick.' Philippa turned. Now the waiter was nearby and ready, anticipating the order. He brought Miss Bristow another drink.

'Lastly,' said Philippa suddenly, surprising Miss Bristow.

Miss Bristow peered over the rim of her glass.

'The icehouse story.'

'Rather short, I'm afraid,' said Miss Bristow.

'I have no objection to its length,' said Philippa, looking very frightened.

'Does it seem overobvious to you?'

'Not that.' The girl was lost. She looked around as if searching for a landmark and the right way through this confusion.

Miss Bristow said, 'These waiters must be wondering what's keeping us.'

Philippa took a deep breath and said, 'Miss Bristow' - the name alone was warning of worse to come - 'Miss Bristow, some of us at Howletts think it will hurt your reputation.'

Saying so, Philippa sighed and squinted as if expecting the ceiling to crack and drop in pieces on her head.

Miss Bristow laughed hard at the girl in disbelief. And as she laughed she saw the people in the restaurant alter: they were skulls and bones and rags, and even Philippa was skeletal and sunken-eyed, with a zombie's stare.

'Who thinks that? 1 said Miss Bristow, spacing out her words.

'Roger - some others/ Philippa used her teeth to clamp her lip and chafe it. 'And I do, sort of. 1 mean, 1 can see their point.'

'My reputation is no concern ot mine. It is a figment in other

M

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people's imaginations. It does not belong to me. You should know that.'

Tm not sure I understand,' said Philippa. 'But I think I understand the icehouse story. It's easily one of the best-written things you've done, and maybe that's why I think it's going to hurt you.'

'How can it possibly hurt me?'

Philippa said, 'Well, it's anti-Negro for one thing.'

'Yes?' Miss Bristow was incredulous; her eyes asked for more.

'And for another thing-' Philippa tried to go on, started twice, and finally said, 'Isn't that enough?'

'If what you said were true it would, I suppose, be more than enough. But it is not true.'

'It's what some readers will think.'

'I don't care about "some readers." It's the others that I care about - and I do care, passionately.'

'Roger thinks-'

'Tell me what you think,' Miss Bristow said sharply.

'I think it presents the black people - oh, God, I hate people who say things like this, but anyway - I think it presents the black people in a bad light.'

'It happened a long time ago,' said Miss Bristow.

'Still-'

'Nineteen seventeen. The light could not have been worse.'

'It worries me.'

'Splendid. The story is a success.'

'I'm sure it is,' said Philippa. 'Miss Bristow, would you like another drink?' Miss Bristow said she would appreciate a small one. Philippa said, 'It seems racial.'

'It is not about race. It is about condition.'

Philippa said, 'I hate to say this, but I think you should take it out.'

Miss Bristow said, 'It is true from start to finish. It is a memory. "But they did not know that they were dying, like Romans becoming Italians" - the last line says it all. You are not interested, you do not want to know. Why won't you see?'

'You were so young then,' said Philippa. 'You might have been wrong.'

Miss Bristow said, 'I was about your age.'

Philippa had not heard the sarcasm.

'But things are different now. You said so yourself.'

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'Did I say that?' Miss Bristow saw the faces - the dream skull, the one on the moving bus. And from a bus, on the street, six of them carrying placards, as savage seeming as long ago. She was not imagining those ghastly faces, the teeth, the red eyes, the dreadlocks. She said, 'I have seen them.'

And saw them now. The drink had come. She did not sip. She gulped from the glass, and spilled some.

Philippa said, 'I feel terrible about this. Roger was fantastically sweet. Roger-'

In the restaurant, as in the dream and through the window, bony cheeks, dirty hair, and dusty bitten fingers. They were there, left and right, at the watery offside of her field of vision surrounding the men she saw; in shadow. They had swarmed like rats from the island and now they were here, lurking; they had gained entrance to this restaurant.

Miss Bristow said, 'Perhaps you are right.' She turned and no longer saw the ones in the corner. But there were others. 'Perhaps.' They returned in their rags, but still she said, 'You are right' and 'Yes, yes,' hoping the words would drive them away. Her agreement was merely ritual, like the effect of this glass: it made the fright worse but enabled her to bear it.

The young waiter hurried to Miss Bristow's side, as if instructed, and said, 'The same again, madam?'

The Imperial Icehouse

Of all the grand buildings on my island, the grandest by far was The Imperial Icehouse - white pillars and a shapely roof topped by ornate lettering on a gilded sign. Unlike the warehouses and the shops on the same street, it had no smell. It was whiter than the church, and though you would not mistake it for a church, the fresh paint and elongated windows - and the gold piping on the scrollwork of the sign - gave it at once a look of holiness and purpose. I cannot think of human endeavor without that building coming to mind, shimmering in my memory as it did on the island, the heat distorting it like its reflection in water.

The icehouse did more than cater to the comforts of the islanders. It provided ice for the fisherman's catch and the farmer's delicate produce. A famous Victorian novelist visited us in 1859 and remarked on it, describing it as 'a drinking shop.' It was certainly that, but it was more. It was 'well attended' he said. He was merely passing through, a traveler interested in recording our eccentricities. He could not have known that The Imperial Icehouse was our chief claim to civilization. Ice in that climate! It was shipped to the island whole, and preserved. It was our achievement and our boast.

Then one day, decades later, four men came to town for a wagonload of ice. Three were black and had pretty names; the fourth was a white planter called Mr Hand. He had made the trip with his Negroes because it was high summer and he wanted cold drinks. His plan was to carry away a ton of ice and store it in his estate upcountry. He was a new man on the island and had the strengths and weaknesses peculiar to all new arrivals. He was hardworking and generous; he talked a good deal about progress; he wore his eagerness on his face. He looked stunned and happy and energetic. He did not listen or conceal. On this the most British of the islands it was a satisfaction to newcomers to see the Victoria Statue on Victoria Street, and the horses in Hyde Park, and Nelson in Trafalgar Square. Mr Hand saw no reason why he should not drink here as he had done in England.

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He had taken over Martlet's estate, which had been up for sale ever since Martlet's death. That again revealed Mr Hand as a newcomer, considering what had happened to old Martlet. And the estate was as far from town as it was possible to be on this island: Mr Hand, a bachelor, must have needed consolation and encouragement.

He had, against all good advice, taken over the Martlet Negroes, and three of these accompanied him on that trip to town for the ice. Mr Hand closed the deal at the icehouse by having a drink, and he sent a bucket of beer out to his men. They were called John Paul, Macacque, and Jacket. He had another drink, and another, and sent out more beer for those men who kept in the shade. It was not unlawful for Negro estate workers to drink in the daytime, but it was not the custom either. Even if he had known, Mr Hand probably would not have cared.

The Negroes drank, conversing in whispers, shadows in shadow, accepting what they were offered, and waiting to be summoned to load the ice.

They had arrived in the coolness of early morning, but the drinking meant delay: by noon the wagon was still empty, the four horses still tethered to a tree, the Negroes sitting with their backs to the icehouse and their long legs stretched out. Perhaps the racket from inside told them there would be no hurry. In any case, they expected to leave at dusk, for not even the rankest newcomer would risk hauling ice across the island in the midafternoon heat.

Just as they had begun to doze, they were called. Mr Hand stood and swayed on the verandah. He was ready, he yelled. He had to repeat it before his words were understood. Some other men came out of the icehouse and argued with him. Mr Hand took them over to the wagon and showed them the sheets of canvas he had brought. He urged the men to watch as the Negroes swung the big wagon to the back door; and he supervised the loading, distributing sawdust between the great blocks of ice as if cementing for good the foundations of an imperial building.

For an hour or more the Negroes labored, two men to a cake, and Mr Hand joked to them about it: Had they known water to be so heavy? An enormous block was winched from the door. John Paul, who was the leader of the three, withdrew an ice pick from his shirt and began to work its stiletto point on that block. There was a shout from Mr Hand - again, the unexpected voice - and

THE IMPERIAL ICEHOUSE

John Paul stood and patiently wiped the ice pick on his arm. When the block was loaded, the wheels were at a slant and the floor of the wagon had squashed the springs to such an extent that the planks rested on the axle trees. Mr Hand continued to trowel the sawdust and separate the cakes with canvas until at last all the ice was loaded and the four horses hitched.

The news of the loading had reached the men drinking in the icehouse. A noisy crowd gathered on the verandah to watch the tipping wagon creak down Regent Street, Mr Hand holding the reins, Macacque and Jacket tugging the bridles of the forward horses, John Paul sauntering at the rear. Their progress was slow, and even before they disappeared past the tile kiln at the far end of the street many of the icehouse men had left the verandah to seek the cool bar.

Past the Wallace estate, and Villeneuve's dairy, the milestone at the flour mill; children had followed, but they too dropped back because of the heat. Others had watched from doorways, attracted by the size of the load and the rumble and wobble of the wheels in the rutted lanes. Now, no one followed.

There were no more houses. They had begun to climb the first range of hills. In this heat, on the exposed road, the birds were tiny and silent, and the flowers had no aroma. There was only a sawing of locusts and a smell of dust. From time to time, Jacket glimpsed the straining horse he held and looked over at Macacque, who frowned at the higher hills beyond.

The hills loomed; no one saw the hole in the road, only the toppling horses, the one behind Jacket rearing from a broken trace and free of one strap swinging himself and snapping another. Empty, the wagon had seemed secure; but this weight, and the shock of the sudden hole, made it shudder feebly and look as if it might burst. Jacket calmed the horse and quickly roped him. The others steadied the wagon.

Mr Hand, asleep on his seat, had tumbled to his knees. He woke and swore at the men, then at the horses, and he cursed the broken straps. But he had more straps in the chest he had brought, and he was so absorbed in the repair he did not leave the road. He mended the traces - spurning the men's help - in the middle of the North Road, squinting in the sunshine.