The Sugar Planter's Daughter (28 page)

L
osing
that baby broke something within me. It broke my fruitless obsession with having a daughter. It humbled me. I was able to stand back and see how totally I had poured myself into that one desire, making it the focal point of my whole life. How wrong that was! It blinded me to so much. To the five boys I already had, and their needs – yes, I had taken care of them, physically, as best I could, but there was something missing in that care, something essential. And it had blinded me to my husband, who had become basically a means to an end: a little girl.

My little girl's death rocked me to the foundations of my being. That Winnie, who thought day and night of that one goal: well, she cracked open. The initial devastation was complete. It destroyed me as nothing else could, leaving me ravaged as a country after a war, blind and deaf to those who cared for me and wanted to rescue me. I refused to see George; I rejected Mama's ministrations. To tell the truth, at the back of it all I was terrified. I knew very well what could happen. I had seen with my own eyes what the death of a longed-for baby can do to a mother. It had thrown Mama into a deep dark pit and torn her from her living children, and much as I was lost among the ruins of my self, somewhere within me was a spark of sanity, a little flame that warned me against following in her footsteps. And that's when Yoyo came and sat at my hospital bed, and refused to go until I heard her out.

In effect it was Yoyo who saved me from myself – or rather, the truth of Yoyo's story. When the old Winnie cracked open, a new Winnie was there, waiting in the wings. I saw then that I was composed of layers of self. That new Winnie was ready to forgive, to return to the children she had instead of wallowing in sorrow for the one she had lost. My grief would remain with me, but I could not allow it to overtake my life and destroy my family. With Mama's story as a lesson to me, I awoke from ruination to face a new day and a new life.

First of all, I had a marriage to save. In my obsession with Gabriella Rose I had neglected George – not just physically, but emotionally; and that, perhaps, had made him susceptible to Yoyo's charms. His regret, his guilt, was complete – how could I not forgive him? But had George himself not played a part in my neglect of him? George had tried to be the perfect husband and in doing so lost himself – that is, lost the vital spark in himself that had first drawn me to him and fanned my own love. He had become smaller in my eyes and in my heart. Without that charismatic force George was just a doting husband with no spirit of his own.

We needed to start again, from scratch; rebuild our marriage and our family, not from the debris of the present tragedy but from the memory of what we once had. We discussed this far into the night, and in the morning we overslept and, had not the babies woken me with their screams of hunger, George would have been late for work and the older boys late for school.

But we woke up smiling. Everything was new. We had made new decisions and new plans. My obsession with a daughter had disappeared overnight. Yes, we might have more children, but we would love and accept whatever came our way. We would build a house. George would return to his banjo and his calling as a speaker. Yoyo and I would be friends again. With Yoyo and George it was a different story, and that rift would take longer to close, but I would not try to force things. Our broken family would find healing. All would be well. The sun would shine brightly upon us. I was the inveterate optimist and I had faith. Faith in myself, faith in God. We went to church again that Sunday, and took all the boys. We were blessed, and would move forward as a family.

A
ll went well
for three months. Then Mama appeared on our doorstep one evening and announced that she had news for us. We all went into the gallery and sat down. Mama didn't look well. She had started to age; the rings beneath her eyes were puffy and her face had a distinct pallor that showed through the tan. Was she ill? I asked.

‘No,' she replied. ‘I'm not ill. I'm worried.' I reached out and took her hand. George appeared with a tray on which were balanced three glasses of lime juice. He set it down on the little table and handed Mama a glass. She took it and nipped at it.

‘What's the matter, then, Mama?'

‘George, do sit down. This is about you.
Maybe
about you. Yoyo is pregnant.'

I felt it then. The cold shadow of fear; fear that the good life we were rebuilding for ourselves was about to break apart once again, the destruction this time complete. In fact, George and I had spoken of this very possibility. George had shyly told me it was not possible. Now Mama was telling me the opposite.

‘It's not possible!' he said right away, now.

‘How do you know it's George's?' I said. ‘She's married; surely that's enough explanation! Why don't you think it's Clarence's child?'

‘Winnie, you're so naïve! If it were so easy for Yoyo to have children the normal way, with her husband, don't you think it would have happened long ago? Years ago? You know how much she longs for children.'

Yes, I did know. Even before she married Clarence, Yoyo had told me of the dynasty she intended to found. She had wanted sons, many of them, two or three at least, and a few daughters to break up the male monotony. She had had it all planned – but then, nothing. I had of course never asked why she remained childless, though it had seemed strange to me, knowing how in control of her life she generally was. What Yoyo wanted, Yoyo got, by hook or by crook.

In the twinkling of an eye the edifice of goodwill between myself and Yoyo crumbled. Suspicion and jealousy reared their ugly heads. But then again, if she had seduced George only to get pregnant – why him? Why a black man, who would give her a child she could not pass off as her husband's?

I looked at George. ‘You said it wasn't possible, George! You assured me it couldn't happen!'

George had frozen. He simply sat there staring at Mama as if he hadn't quite grasped the words she'd spoken, hadn't heard my outcry. So I repeated it.

‘George! You said it was not possible! You said…'

I was crying by now, and that seemed to bring him back to earth.

‘It wasn't – I didn't'

‘I don't want to hear the details. I'm just – I'm just…'

I was just crying. Bent double in my chair and weeping. In that moment it all came back to me: my grief over my lost child; my jealousy of Yoyo; my anger at George. All mixed into one huge ball of despair. It hadn't disappeared. It had all just lingered beneath the surface, waiting for a trigger so it could leap back into view.

Mama's hand was on my back, her voice in my ear.

‘Shush, dear. I'm sorry. I put it too dramatically. It's not certain that the child is George's. Yoyo is certain it
isn't
, in fact. There's another contender for a father, aside from Clarence. George is actually unlikely to be the father, according to Yoyo. Let's just hope she's right.'

‘I'm not. I can't be,' George kept muttering. He knelt before me, put his arms round me, but I shook him off.

‘Don't touch me!'

‘Winnie darling'

‘George, leave me with her. It's best you stay out of this. I'll take care of her.'

‘All right.'

I sensed rather than heard George's retreat. I felt sick to my stomach. I had heard Mama's explanation but the words had only flickered through my mind. To me, the possibility that George
could
be the baby's father made him
in fact
the baby's father, and that idea sickened me to the stomach. That there should be a living breathing consequence to George's infidelity! That his stupidity and weakness should emerge from Yoyo's body as wriggling, screaming evidence of his dalliance… it was too much to digest. I didn't care whether or not it was true. It was possible – even if George said it wasn't – and that made it something I could believe. How would I cope? What if the child looked like George? What if – what if it was a
girl?

Mama continued to hold me and comfort me, but it was all rather futile. I was lost in an emotional breakdown that rivalled the one I'd only just recovered from. I heard Mama's words as from a distance. She now seemed determined to convince me that the child was definitely not George's. She told me of Yoyo's prolonged attempts to have a child, her extramarital arrangement – with Clarence's approval – and her monthly visits to Georgetown for exactly that purpose.

‘Yoyo leaves nothing to chance. You know that, Winnie! She even has a chart – her doctor has explained to her the body's rhythm and she knows exactly on what days she is fertile. She was with George
afterwards.
She definitely was pregnant already. There's nothing to worry about. Yoyo has it all planned out. She would never risk having a baby from George – it would be far too obvious, and she always intended to pass it off as Clarence's child. She told me this in confidence. I'm not even supposed to tell you. She wants to have a white child, Winnie. It will be the heir she has longed for, if it's a boy. She can't risk having a coloured baby. People would talk. The child would grow up in scandal, the butt of jokes. It would be a catastrophe! Yoyo knew exactly what she was doing, Winnie. She's happy about the child – would she be happy if she were not absolutely certain it could pass as Clarence's? No. She would be nervous in that case, and she isn't. She's sure. You can't let this come between you and George. You were doing so well! You were so strong – forgiving him. He's making such an effort. I'm so sorry, Winnie. It's all my fault. I was untactful, overdramatic, announcing it like that. Come on, dear. All will be fine.'

On and on she rambled. I listened with only one ear, lost as I was in the ocean of grief washing over me. I let her talk, never responding; only crying. Drowning in my tears, allowing Mama's words to go in one ear and out the other.

Eventually, Mama grew tired of me. Suddenly she seized my shoulders and jolted me, so that my head flung back and my eyes opened wide, startled. She shook me, once, twice, so that my head wobbled.

‘Winnie, snap out of it. That's enough. All you're doing now is wallowing in self-pity, indulging yourself with all this emotional nonsense. Wake up, daughter! Pull yourself together! I told you there's hardly a chance at all that George is the father – why don't you listen? Oh! I could slap you!'

And she did! She slapped me hard on the right cheek and then on the left, and that is what woke me out of my stupor.

‘Oh!' I said, and placed my hands on my stinging cheeks.

‘Yes, oh, indeed! Now, girl, stop being a baby yourself. Get up and go and find George. Tell him exactly what I told you. That poor boy is probably just as worried as you but he doesn't allow himself the luxury of a breakdown. Go and support him. That's what wives and husbands do for each other. That's marriage. Just go. I'm sick and tired of you.'

Mama's words worked like a bucket of cold water on fighting dogs. They brought me right back to my senses, and to reality. I saw that she was right. Mama, no-nonsense Mama, had once more worked her magic. I sniffed, and she produced a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes and my cheeks and said thank you.

Then I rose to my feet and went off in search of George.

I
t was
, perhaps, the happiest period in Yoyo's life since my return to BG. She was good at pregnancy; some women bloom, and she was one of them. Her skin glowed, her hair gleamed, her eyes shone; but most of all, she smiled. Yoyo's smile, when it was genuine, could light up a room. And I believed that at last she had truly found peace. Kind to everyone, and never cross –
This,
I thought to myself,
this is the real Yoyo.

Though I could not approve of the
way
she had chosen to accomplish motherhood, I had to concede that under the circumstances it was perhaps the
only
way, and as long as Clarence agreed, then why not? After all, Clarence had his own share of extramarital flings, though obviously he could not keep the offspring from those for himself. The mother, after all, has priority – one of the few advantages a woman has in this lopsided world, in which everything else is heavily weighted in favour of men.

Yoyo's serenity helped to banish my last doubts as to the paternity of the child. Yoyo had, she let me know bit by bit over time, planned this down to the last detail – down to the colour of the potential father's eyes, his height, his hair. Her friend Margaret – and, it seemed, Margaret's husband – had played a major role in selecting the victim, approaching him, cautiously suggesting the role he was required to play. The successful candidate was a man called Richard – I never learned his surname – who worked as a minor clerk at Bookers Shipping and who, as required, bore the requisite shallow resemblance to Clarence. He was single, modest and discreet, a few years younger than Yoyo, and more than willing to fulfil the duties required of him. Which man wouldn't – Yoyo was a beauty, a woman who turned heads. With her handed to him on a platter, Richard complied admirably.

‘How long has this been going on?' I asked.

‘Just over a year,' said Yoyo. ‘He's my second attempt. The first one – well, the less said of him, the better.'

‘And it's taken you this long to get pregnant?' This was my last little remnant of worry raising its suspicious head. But Yoyo shook her head.

‘Sadly, no. I've been expecting before. Twice before. Both times I had a miscarriage.'

‘Oh! Maybe you got that from me – I had three miscarriages before Edward John's birth.'

‘Really? Then it must be that. That's why I waited before I announced this pregnancy. I was so afraid I'd lose this baby, too. And look at me now!'

Yoyo was joyously pregnant, her bulging belly taut and big, like an oversized watermelon about to burst open. I laughed, and placed my hands on it. ‘I can feel it kicking!' I said. ‘Isn't that the most perfect feeling in the world?'

‘Him,' corrected Yoyo. ‘He's kicking. Only a boy would be kicking around so much. Oh Mama! I can hardly wait!'

‘Have you chosen a name for him yet?'

‘Yes – Ralph, Clarence's middle name. And Archibald, after Papa.'

‘Papa will like that,' I said. ‘I assume you've written to him with the good news?'

‘Indeed I have, and he has written back. He is ecstatic – at last a grandson he can be proud of!'

That was rather a dig, and I reprimanded her.

‘Winnie's sons are perfectly good children and your father should be ashamed of himself. They are his grandchildren just as much as this one. He has every reason to be proud of them!'

‘But he isn't, is he?' she replied, gaily and matter-of-factly. ‘Papa never wanted George as his son-in-law and being in prison hasn't changed that. Why mince words? Papa wanted an heir and he's going to get one – through me. Seeing as Kathleen has only produced daughters, like you!'

She was technically right, and so I held my tongue, but that truth hurt – the truth that Archie rejected completely Winnie's children, solely on the basis of their mixed race. It didn't seem fair. But it was a fact, and so I let it be.

A
nd then the
night of her confinement was upon us. The maid came knocking at my door in the middle of the night, and I was up in a trice.

‘Is Miss Yoyo, ma'am!' she said, eyes wide with panic. ‘She water break! De baby comin'!'

‘Very well, Mabel. No need for panic. Woman have been having children for thousands of years. Now run along, find Poole, and tell him to drive to the village and fetch Nurse Prema.'

Nurse Prema was the Indian nurse-midwife who had moved to the village from Georgetown three years ago, and now ministered to all the births on the plantation, be they labourer birth or European, black, brown or white. I for my part rushed to Yoyo's room and then, establishing that she was comfortable, to the servants' quarters to wake Cooky, whom I instructed to boil water. It was going to be a long night.

But, it turned out, it wasn't. Yoyo, now that she had held on to a baby to full term, proved to be as much a natural at giving birth as she had been at pregnancy. Hardly had she let out her first protracted scream than the baby slipped out and into Nurse Prema's competent hands. A strident wail filled the room, and the requisite tears my eyes.

‘A girl!' cried Nurse Prema as she cut the cord.

‘Oh! A girl!' Yoyo sounded stunned and just a little disappointed. ‘I was so sure – oh, but never mind! Come. Give her to me!'

She held out her hands to receive the baby. Nurse Prema and I exchanged a knowledgeable glance. This wasn't going to be easy. Nurse Prema took the baby, wrapped now in a white sheet that brought out all the more the dark
teint
of her skin, and placed her in Yoyo's waiting arms.

Yoyo's smile vanished in an instant. She frowned.

‘Oh, but…' She folded away the sheet to regard the baby in her full naked glory. ‘But – how could – I didn't…'

And then the cry came: ‘She's black!'

‘She's perfect,' I said. ‘She's just perfect.'

‘Very healthy child,' said Nurse Prema by way of encouragement. ‘Good lungs!'

The little bronze baby lay on the bed in front of Yoyo, naked, wriggling and screaming. I longed to take her in my arms, but this was Yoyo's child, Yoyo's task.

She didn't fulfil it. Instead, she turned away.

‘Take it away,' she said, pointing to the baby. ‘I don't want it. I don't care what you do with it. Just get rid of it. Give it to George.'

I
tried
. I really tried. Immediately after birth is not the time to make wise decisions.

‘Yoyo,' I said, ‘wait a few days. I know it's a shock, and a disappointment. But when you get used to the idea, maybe'

‘No!' she burst out. ‘I know what I'm doing! Take that child away! I don't want it! I can't bear that screaming!'

She put her hands over her ears and pressed, her face an ugly grimace.

I handed the child to Nurse Prema, who simply said, ‘I will take care of her. Some mothers need time.' She bundled the baby into her arms, kissed the tiny head and headed for the door.

‘How could this happen!' Yoyo wept. ‘How could it!'

Nurse Prema, the baby in her arms, turned round.

‘Ma'am – you have intimate relations with a coloured man?'

‘Yes, yes…but'

‘Then that's the reason. Nature in't picky.'

‘But we stopped – he stopped – didn't finish…'

Nurse Prema chuckled. ‘You mean,
coitus interruptus?
It never worked. You know how many ladies – and they husbands too – I had to warn, because they think not finishing goin' to stop a baby from gettin' born?'

‘But it was late in the month – too late! I thought…'

‘That method don't work either. You didn't use a French letter?'

‘No, no, I thought, I thought…'

The thing is, Yoyo hadn't thought. She had seized the opportunity, and trapped poor George. She had thought she was safe because of the timing, and afterwards she had thought she was safe because he had not finished, as she always discreetly put it. But we all know that nature has a mind of its own. A woman might do all she can to conceive, but if nature says no, well, it's no. And she might do all she can to prevent conception, but if nature says yes, well, she's in big trouble if the man's not her husband. Not even French letters are perfectly safe; many a woman has told that tale. Yoyo took a big gamble and she lost. And this poor child would have to pay the price.

‘Have a rest,' said Nurse Prema now, ‘have a rest and when you feel better you will love this sweet li'l baby. Such a pretty baby! Soch a lovely li'l thing!' and she kissed the baby's head again and left the room.

But I knew my Yoyo. Stubborn as an ass. She would not change her mind. Yet still, I had to try.

‘Yoyo, darling,' I said later, after she had rested. ‘You have a little daughter. You are strong. Since when have you been afraid of scandal? Yes, people will talk but you are your own mistress. I'm sure Clarence will'

‘Mama, didn't you hear me? I said I don't want this child. You must give her to George. He's obviously the father. I don't know how it happened, some kind of a twisted miracle, because – well, surely it wasn't possible, considering how… But look at her! Black as sin! Give her to George. Didn't they want a daughter?'

‘Yes. But'

‘There you are, then. A daughter for Winnie and George and they didn't even have to work for it. No pregnancy, no labour, no nothing. I did it all for them. It's my present to them. Tell them that.'

Yoyo has the sensitivity of a turtle, and that's an insult to the turtle. Can't she see how utterly impossible her proposition is? Winnie and George have recovered so nicely from the dramas and scandals of last year. They have rallied their forces, strengthened their marriage. Winnie has forgiven George; their new home is almost finished. Their family is complete, Winnie having found a new commitment to her boys. When I went down to spend Christmas with them she confided in me:

‘Mama, my obsession with having a daughter blinded me to the boys. I neglected them. Not physically, of course; I looked after them as well as ever. But
emotionally.
I refused to really
see
them, to feel them, to comprehend them, take them into my heart and truly love them.'

It's as if George's infidelity and all the pain it caused has made her see her own blind spots. Cracked open the armour of her obsession, so that she can be herself again, find the loving-kindness that is her true nature. But most of all, it's the change in George that has healed them.

George has found a new lease of life in his music, his singing. What a voice that man has! I always thought I was an excellent musician, but my talent seems technical, acquired, stilted in comparison to George's. When he sings shudders run up and down my spine, my heart swells, I want to cry.

I'm not a very religious person – I converted to Christianity just to please my husband's family, and my initial enthusiasm has grown cold over the decades. But when that man sings – oh, I'm a believer all over again. He moves me to the marrow of my bones. To the core of my being. And that's his effect on everyone.

But he keeps it private. George could easily make a career out of singing if he wanted to. But he doesn't want to. He sings for private groups alone; every Saturday he is invited to this or that home and sings for that family and their friends. He will not accept money. He sings for the poor of Albouystown and the rich of Cummingsburg and Kingston alike.

And it is George's singing more than anything that has saved their marriage. It had grown dull; George had lost his fire, as had Winnie, mired as they both were in the responsibilities of raising a family of five rambunctious boys in cramped quarters. George's singing has brought life into their lives and now they sing together as a family every evening. It calms the boys, who are now each learning an instrument. Humphrey has a violin, and he is good at it – Winnie finds the time to teach him. Gordon and Will have recorders; Will is better than Gordon. The toddlers have their drums and bang away as toddlers do – with full enthusiasm. This is a happy family. The wound has been healed. The birth of this child was always going to crack it open again; and now Yoyo wants me to give the child to them? She is out of her mind.

The empathy of a turtle.