Echoes From a Distant Land (38 page)

‘
Gaol?
'

‘Posing a public nuisance,' he said. ‘It was a demonstration against the government's lockout at the mines a few years ago. We were locked up together for a couple of weeks because neither of us could post bail. Well, I could have, if I'd been prepared to ask my family. But it wasn't worth the heat, so I decided to sit it out. We were both convicted and released on time already served. You can get to know a lot about a person under close confinement like that. I learned he was a photographer, and I had always been interested in it, so we went from there.'

She finished the first glass of champagne and started on the second while Raph further charmed her with his enthusiasm for the art around them.

‘It's not all about
f
-stops and depth of field. What Alexi has is creativity. He can see the shot in the landscape or the face or the animal. He can extract the essence of that scene and capture it on film.'

‘Can
you
do that?'

He paused before answering. ‘I try.'

‘Do you have a collection like Alexi?' she said, indicating the work on the surrounding walls.

He ran his gaze around the room. ‘Not like this.'

She wanted to ask him to show her what he had, but the
moment passed when he asked if she cared to take a tour of the exhibits.

He led her to the nearest of Alexi's work — a study of windblown trees above a bleak stretch of coastline.

‘Step up to it,' Raph said.

Emerald moved closer to the black and white photograph until it filled her field of vision.

‘Now … step into it,' he added.

She glanced at him. He was watching her closely. It was hard to read his expression, but when he nodded encouragement, she tried to imagine herself in the scene.

She studied the picture with the branches of the tree nearest to the camera straining against the wind. Tiny droplets took flight from the leaves in a spray that flew horizontally across the print. Behind the tree, foam came from the sea, whipped into a froth that scuttled across the sand like startled white rabbits, then up into the dunes, where the grass waved and rippled in a vain attempt to resist the onslaught of the driving rain. She felt suddenly chilled and a shiver ran down her spine. When she turned back to Raph he was smiling.

‘You felt it, didn't you?'

‘It's amazing! I was actually on that hill, in the wind and rain.'

‘Now, look at this one.'

He took her hand and dragged her across the room to a large photo of a black-maned male lion, its face turned full towards the camera.

‘What do you see?' he asked.

‘It looks a little quizzical. How did he get this shot?'

‘Look again,' he insisted. ‘What else do you see?'

She moved closer.

‘It has a scar on its top lip.'

‘Good. What else?'

‘And tiny little flies around its mouth.'

‘Bad breath,' he said, smiling again.

‘Does Alexi make a living from his photography?' she asked.

He pointed to the price on the tag.

‘Oh, I see,' she said. ‘Isn't that rather … expensive?'

‘Not for people like you and your parents.'

Her impulse was again to defend herself, but she quickly realised he hadn't intended the comment as a slight. Since meeting Raph she'd become slightly paranoid about her parents' privileged position.

‘It's the self-promotional game,' he continued. ‘Nobody respects your work if you put a small price on it. Look at all the great masters in art. Many were penniless for most if not all of their lives.'

He paused to take a handful of peanuts from a passing tray.

‘Today's artists have learned to value their work. Mind you, they have to make a start somewhere, which means for a long time they have to find another way to survive. If they're lucky, it would be using some of their skills, like doing weddings and portraits.'

‘Hmm,' she said. ‘So, to be successful as a photographer you have to charge a high price for your work, but you can't charge a high price until you're successful. It sounds rather tricky.'

‘It is. So everyone is out there trying to win some acclaim, or at least be noticed, then they can start to raise the price.

‘How did Alexi get his start?'

‘He found a rich widow,' he said, as he popped a peanut into his mouth.

Emerald stared at him; he wasn't joking. ‘You don't mean …'

‘As a matter of fact,' he went on, ‘that's his benefactor over there in black, with the wide-brimmed hat.'

The woman was in a dress at least a size too small for her grossly overweight body. She also wore too much make-up.

Emerald looked again at Alexi, smiling and in animated conversation with a couple who had apparently just purchased the silhouette of London Bridge.

‘Do they …?' she began, allowing her thoughts to escape and already regretting it.

Raph smiled. ‘I don't think so. Unless it's for old times' sake.'

‘Raph!' she said, shocked. Then had to smile with him.

They'd completed the tour of the gallery. Raph grabbed two
more champagnes before leading Emerald out the door to a seat in the small garden adjoining the pub.

For the best part of an hour they chatted. At times he was the angry Raph, proclaiming the imminent demise of the capitalist system and the privileged classes generally, and Emerald's parents in particular. At other times he was almost lyrical as he talked about his hopes for success in his chosen art form. Then he'd make a joke at his own expense. Emerald laughed a lot.

She was on her third glass of champagne — or was it the fourth? — when Raph noted it was getting late.

The long twilight was ebbing and a pale moon hung overhead. Emerald didn't want the day to end. She'd become enthralled by Raph's wit and wisdom; had marvelled at his wide knowledge and experiences in a world she'd hardly realised existed. She wanted more. She wanted to know what he knew; to know more about his passions and his dislikes.

‘Do we have to?' she asked, pouting, when he said it was time to go.

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘Bully,' she said and playfully tweaked his ear.

He gave her a quizzical look.

She frowned while trying to see the colour of his eyes in the fading light. He was rather too thin and not as tall as Peter. His mop of blond hair needed a good cut. Probably a shampoo. He wasn't even good-looking, when it really came down to it. But there was an air about him that she found … very interesting.

‘What colour are your eyes?' she asked.

‘I believe they're brown,' he said. ‘And I also believe you're drunk.'

She giggled. ‘Really?' Then she put on a serious face. ‘Do we really have to go?'

‘Yes.'

Looking up at the hotel's second floor, she said, ‘Do you suppose they have rooms here?

Raph's face was in shadow but she knew he wasn't smiling. The silence extended for a long, breathless moment.

‘C'mon,' he said, and took her hand.

Emerald felt a flock of sparrows take flight in her stomach.

‘W-where?' she stammered.

He said nothing, but led her through the garden, into the gallery, and out the front door to the MG.

 

The cool air, the breeze in her hair and the half-hour it took to drive back to Henley had cleared Emerald's head, but she felt a touch queasy in her stomach and considerably humiliated following her conduct back at the Oxford Hounds hotel. She didn't know what was worse: her disgraceful behaviour, or that Raph had not accepted her outrageous offer.

When Raph pulled up outside the cottage, he turned off the motor and they sat in darkness without a word for several minutes.

‘I feel like such an idiot,' she said at last.

He took her hand.

‘Don't worry. In the morning I'll probably feel the same.'

‘I don't know how I …' She felt it hard to express her shame.

‘Champagne can do that,' he said.

She went over the events in her mind again, trying to find a more reassuring excuse than the alcohol. She couldn't think of one.

‘It's not often I have such an ill-timed attack of gallantry,' he said. He was smiling, and she could have hugged him for both bringing her home and apparently regretting it.

‘Would you have … you know … would it have been different if I wasn't … if I hadn't drunk so much champagne?'

‘That would be telling, wouldn't it?'

‘I suppose it would.'

She stared out the window at nothing in particular, hoping he'd say something. ‘Well,' she said eventually. ‘I'd better go in.'

Still he said nothing, so she opened the door, but remained in her seat. Turning to him, she said, ‘Good night, Raph.'

‘Good night, Miss Emerald Eyes.'

Dana loved the theatre. It was one of her most cherished distractions and, since deciding it was better to leave Oswald at home and avoid his constant grumbling complaints, one that she usually enjoyed alone. However, sitting with Emerald in the Bentley as Henry, her driver, expertly navigated the dark streets of South Kensington, she wasn't at all sure she should be attending this particular performance with her daughter.

It had been Emerald's idea, but considering the theme of the play, she was surprised that she chose it.

Dana knew about the play,
Native Son
. She'd discussed it with Oswald after she'd read the reviews. It had done very well in New York and was something of a sensation there as it dealt very frankly with issues of race and privilege. These two themes always left her feeling uncomfortable.

Against her better judgement, she'd agreed to take Emerald in an attempt to ease the tension that had existed between them over recent days. Since her return from the regatta, the girl had been somewhat subdued, but she was still increasingly determined to express her independence. Despite Emerald's apparently excellent behaviour at Henley — Fiona's mother had been delighted with her — Dana remained convinced that she was as yet ill-equipped for the realities of adult life.

 

Henry eased the Bentley into a space at the kerb, and immediately stepped out to open the rear door. He threw a snappy salute as Emerald climbed out, which as usual made her smile.

The theatre entrance was awash with lights. Emerald studied the first-nighters as her mother engaged in conversation with
acquaintances. There was a fascinating flourish of furs, stringed pearls and diamante tiaras, but Emerald was particularly interested in those younger women dressed in more modern fashions.

A tall woman with her red hair piled on top of her head wore a full-length black dress with tight-fitted embroidered sleeves and bodice. A single, short circle of pearls was her only jewellery. In fact, every woman was very elegantly dressed in the latest styles. Her mother had often commented on how uneasy she'd felt wearing attractive clothes during and immediately following the war, but it was obvious from the fashions worn by the women milling outside the theatre that night that those days were long gone.

Emerald was pleased she had chosen her ballerina-length dress in vivid green velvet. It hugged her waist and the button-up bodice accentuated her breasts. Her long black gloves almost reached her bare elbows. She felt quite sophisticated, and wished that Fiona could see her.

Emerald knew her mother was not pleased to be there. She'd overheard Dana saying to her stepfather that she didn't approve of the
themes
in the play. This had piqued Emerald's interest, so when she read the review and learned it was about black people in America, she'd pestered her mother to go.

As the bells calling patrons to their seats rang, she made eye contact with an older man — he must have been thirty-something — who gave her a wink and a smile. Emerald flushed with embarrassment and excitement.

When the theatre lights died, the curtains parted to reveal a squalid room occupied by a family of four black people: a young man, Bigger Thomas, his mother, younger brother and sister.

It soon became clear that the family depended upon Bigger for their survival, and this responsibility weighed heavily upon him. He won a job in a wealthy white family's home, and was uncomfortable not knowing how to behave in that unfamiliar environment. He became even more confused when the family showed him kindness. With Raph's comments about class ringing in her ears, Emerald was only too aware of the vast cultural and social void between Bigger and his employer.

A series of accidents ended with Bigger fleeing, indirectly responsible for a young white woman's death. The accidental crime, however, made him feel
real
. He saw newspaper headlines about himself and his feeling of relevance grew. He overheard conversations about him and his crimes. The whites were full of fear and hatred and the blacks were furious that he had given their oppressors ammunition.

His deliberate crimes were far more brutal than his accidental one.

Bigger Thomas is caught in the final scene and, as the curtain falls, he dies a ghastly death in the electric chair.

As the theatre rose to its feet in applause, Emerald remained seated, stunned.

 

Emerald again sat in silence during the journey home.
Native Son
had a profound effect on her and she needed time to digest it. She also needed time to unravel the odd feelings it stirred in her.

The white employer was wealthy and privileged — much like her family. As a member of the Middlebridge dynasty she was one of the upper class. The similarities between her life and some of those in the play disturbed her. She had never questioned why she was so comfortable while so many were not. She vaguely understood that some people actually had no place to live and sometimes went hungry. Until seeing the play, the possible consequences of such deprivation had not occurred to her.

When Henry pulled up at the front door to let them out, Dana asked Emerald if she would care to join her in the kitchen for a cup of cocoa.

As Emerald waited for the cocoa to heat on the gas stove, the character of Bigger Thomas wouldn't leave her. She couldn't get his utter hopelessness from her mind. The Thomas family were decent people. Poor, but honest. Could the play be a true representation of how black people live in America? she wondered. And if so, could it also be the case in England? And what about Africa itself?

When Emerald was much younger, and had learned that she was born in Africa, she had been curious, but even at that age she knew her mother was reluctant to discuss those times. Perhaps her lack of interest in Africa later had been a result of Dana's attitude. The play had certainly reawoken her curiosity.

‘Mother,' Emerald said. ‘How long were you in Africa with Papa Edward?'

After a moment's hesitation, her mother said: ‘Six years.'

‘And I suppose you had plenty of black servants?'

‘A few.'

‘What are the black people like in South Africa?'

‘It was not South Africa, Emerald,' she said. ‘You were born in Kenya — quite a bit further north.'

‘But what are they like?'

‘They were nothing like the characters in
Native Son
, if that's what you're wondering.'

‘Did they live with you?'

‘Yes … No, they lived in their own houses …
bandas
.'

‘Next to your house?'

‘On the property. Emerald, what's all this about?'

‘Just wondering. I imagine you got to know them quite well.'

Dana paused for a moment. ‘I think so,' she said.

‘Do you ever wonder how they are? I mean, if they are still there, after all these years.'

‘Oh, I don't know. I suppose I do — once in a while.'

‘Have you ever thought about going back again?'

Dana took her cocoa to the sink, and sipped it with her back to Emerald. ‘No.'

‘Perhaps we should,' Emerald said.

Her mother put her cup on the table. ‘It's late,' she said at last. ‘Time for bed.'

 

Dana could hear Oswald's snoring through the door to his adjoining bedroom. She slipped off her dress and hung it in her
wardrobe, then took a seat on the Georgian chair to remove her silk stockings.

She was exhausted, and remained seated in the dim light of her dressing room, thinking about Emerald's questions. The girl had clearly found the play confronting.

Dana certainly had. Memories of her life in Africa now gathered at the edge of her mind; pressing upon her, demanding recognition; threatening to render her sleepless and regretful.

She got to her feet and completed her undressing, then slipped on her nightdress.

The moon threw enough light through the bay windows for her to find her way across the room and into bed. She lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Shadows formed there, moving under the influence of the breeze that played among the lacy curtains. Her imagination made dark shapes of them. Half asleep, she saw Jonathan and Benard working in the stable. And Ndorobo the syce and expert game tracker. It was quite by accident that she had discovered Ndorobo was not his name: he was Dorapata, of the Ndorobo tribe. In her ignorance, she'd confused the two, but he had never corrected her. Emerald had asked if she knew her African staff — obviously not as well as she should have.

Other memories beckoned and she could no longer deny them. She could see her black baby boy in her arms, blowing spit bubbles through his puckered lips; she felt him hungrily drawing her milk from her, squirming and wriggling with pleasure.

Emerald had asked if she ever thought of the people she'd left behind in Kenya. She'd answered, ‘Once in a while.' The truth was that her last minutes with her son, before she laid him in another's arms and sent him out to an unknown place with unknown people for an unknown future, had been with her every day since.