The Sugar Planter's Daughter Read Free Page B

Europe.
    Eventually Mama and I drew apart and looked into each other’s faces. I knew my cheeks were wet with tears, and so were Mama’s; but now she laughed and kissed me on both cheeks and then on the tip of my nose, exactly the way she always used to when I was a child. She had not changed.
    â€˜Winnie! My darling Winnie!’ she said, and then she looked around, behind me.
    â€˜Where’s Yoyo?’ she said.
    â€˜At Promised Land,’ I said. ‘She’s waiting for you there. But Mama, this is George – my fiancé!’
    And I grabbed his hand again and pulled him forward. He was holding his hat clasped to his stomach with his left hand, and I let go of his right so that he could greet Mama.
    Mama frowned, and hesitated ever so slightly before taking his hand.
    â€˜This is – George?’
    â€˜Yes, Mama. We have been waiting for your arrival – we shall be married next week!’
    Mama looked George up and down, still frowning, not taking his hand. The moment hung in space. I could tell by George’s expression that he was wilting inside – he still harboured this unfounded fear that all white people looked down at him. But I knew Mama wasn’t like that. I had not told her George was black because I knew she would not care. And in the next moment she proved me right. Her lips spread in a wonderful smile and she extended her hand and said, ‘I’m delighted to meet you, George!’

    P oole , our chauffeur, dropped George off outside his home in Albouystown. This was the house which was to be my home when we married. Seeing it, I understood at once why he had been so reluctant to bring me home. He was ashamed. It was just a one-storey cottage, and it would be small for the four of us. But I was used to one-storey cottages; it was no smaller than Aunty Dolly’s. When I was a silly girl of sixteen I had run away from home to be with George, but fortunately Aunty Dolly had plucked me from my fluffy dreams, taken me into her home, talked sense into me and forced me to grow up. I adored her.
    Now, I squeezed George’s hand and smiled at him before he got out of the car, to show him I wasn’t shocked. But his eyes told me he was ashamed all the same.
    Just as he had been ashamed to introduce me to his parents. But I had insisted, and at last I had met them, just last Sunday. His mother was a thin, ramrod-backed lady, and she greeted me unsmilingly, with a mixture of shyness and hauteur. His father was just as thin; tall and loose-limbed, just like George, and elegant in his black suit and bow tie. We met on the promenade, and walked up and down conversing while the brass band played in the roundhouse. A stilted, disjointed conversation, led by me; I asked questions, the answers to which I already knew:
    â€˜Where do you work, Mr Quint?’
    â€˜At the post office, ma’am.’
    â€˜Oh! So, just like George!’
    â€˜Yes, ma’am.’
    â€˜How many children do you have, Mrs Quint?’
    â€˜Just the three, ma’am.’
    â€˜George, and…?’
    â€˜Two daughters, ma’am.’
    â€˜Do they live at home?’
    â€˜No, ma’am.’
    â€˜I do like your hat, Mrs Quint. It’s very pretty.’
    â€˜Thank you. ma’am.’
    And so on. The ma’am would have to go; I would talk to George about it later.
    And now, in the car, conversation between Mama and George was almost a repeat, and just as stilted. It was as if George had understood nothing:
    â€˜So George, where do you work?’
    â€˜At the post office, ma’am.’
    â€˜How many brothers and sisters do you have?’
    â€˜Just two sisters, ma’am.’
    It was like a reflex, this deference to white skin; ingrained misplaced politeness, and it would have to stop.
    Once George had left the car the atmosphere changed between Mama and me. She sighed deeply and removed her hat, reached for my hand and squeezed it.