Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys [24]
‘The man who owns Consolation Estate is a hermit,’ she was saying. ‘He never sees anyone – hardly ever speaks, they say.’
‘A hermit neighbour suits me. Very well indeed.’
‘There are four hermits in this island,’ she said. ‘Four real ones. Others pretend but they leave when the rainy season comes. Or else they are drunk all the time. That’s when sad things happen.’
‘So this place is as lonely as it feels?’ I asked her.
‘Yes it is lonely. Are you happy here?’
‘Who wouldn’t be?’
‘I love it more than anywhere in the world. As if it were a person. More than a person.’
‘But you don’t know the world,’ I teased her.
‘No, only here, and Jamaica of course. Coulibri, Spanish Town. I don’t know the other islands at all. Is the world more beautiful, then?’
And how to answer that? ‘It’s different,’ I said.
She told me that for a long time they had not known what was happening at Granbois. ‘When Mr Mason came’ (she always called her stepfather Mr Mason) ‘the forest was swallowing it up.’ The overseer drank, the house was dilapidated, all the furniture had been stolen, then Baptiste was discovered. A butler. In St Kitts. But born in this island and willing to come back. ‘He’s a very good overseer,’ she’d say, and I’d agree, keeping my opinion of Baptiste, Christophine and all the others to myself. ‘Baptiste says … Christophine wants …’
She trusted them and I did not. But I could hardly say so. Not yet.
We did not see a eat deal of them. The kitchen and the swarming kitchen life were some way off. As for the money which she handed out so carelessly, not counting it, not knowing how much she gave, or the unfamiliar faces that appeared then disappeared, though never without a large meal eaten and a shot of rum I discovered – sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles – if she asked no questions how could I?
The house was swept and dusted very earl, usually before I woke. Hilda brought coffee and there were always two roses on the tray. Sometimes she’d smile a sweet childish smile, sometimes she would giggle very loudly and rudely, bang the tray down and run away.
‘Stupid little girl,’ I’d say.
‘No, no. She is shy. The girls here are very shy.’
After breakfast at noon there’d be silence till the evening meal which was served much later than in England. Christophine’s whims and fancies, I was sure. Then we were left alone. Sometimes a sidelong look or a sly knowing glance disturbed me, but it was never for long. ‘Not now,’ I would think. ‘Not yet.’
It was often raining when I woke during the night, a light capricious shower, dancing playful rain, or hushed muted, growing louder, more persistent, more powerful, an inexorable sound. But always music, a music I had never heard before.
Then I would look at her for long minutes by candlelight, wonder why she seemed sad asleep, and curse the fever or the caution that had made me so blind, so feeble, so hesitating. I’d remember her effort to escape. (No, I am sorry, I do not wish to marry you.) Had she given way to that man Richard’s arguments, threats probably, I wouldn’t trust far, or to my half-serious blandishments and promises? In any case she had given way, but coldly, unwillingly, trying to protect herself with silence and a blank face. Poor weapons, and they had not served her well or lasted long. If I had forgotten caution, she has forgotten silence and coldness.
Shall I wake her up and listen to the things she says, whispers, in darkness. Not by day.
‘I never wished to live before I knew you. I always thought it would be better if I died. Such a long time to wait before it’s over.’
‘And did you ever tell anyone this?’
‘There was no one to tell, no one to listen. Oh you can’t imagine Coulibri.’
‘But after Coulibri?’
‘After Coulibri it was too late. I did not change.’
All day she’d be like any other girl, smile at herself in her looking-glass (do you like this scent?), try to teach me her songs, for they haunted me.