HF - 05 - Sunset (34 page)

'Now, my dear Meg, you know I cann
o
t agree to that'

‘
You will agree to that, Walter,' she said. 'I will be nineteen in a couple of months. Then I will be twenty-one in only two years. If you do not give me control of the plantation, now, I will remove all of Hilltop's business from Reynolds and Son on the day I inherit. I will also remove all of my shipping business from Alistair Mottram. I
am
very well aware that you have a financial interest in that firm.'

'But
...
the legality of it.'

'Oh, you will continue to sign the cheques, Walter, and to make the decisions, just as long as you remember that I will tell you when to sign and what decisions to make.'

'Well, really, I don't think I could allow
...'

'Oh, be quiet,' Meg said. 'You know you are going to allow it, and there is an end to the matter. I will now return to Hilltop and see to Richard's breakfast.' She picked up her hat and walked to the door, stopped there. The two men continued to stare at each other. 'There are just two more things I have to say. Firstly, should you have a sudden rush of propriety and tear up that cheque, I will replace it even if I have to sleep with every man in Jamaica, and be sure I will do so most publicly. And secondly, as of this moment Billy and I have separate bedrooms, and should he ever attempt even to open my door again, I will blow out his brains.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE MISTRESS OF HILLTOP

PAUL SIMMONDS added up industriously, his pencil moving up and down the list, his finger every so often raising to flick sweat from his forehead. 'Eight thousand bunches, and from that grove alone.'

Margaret Hilton dried her neck with her handkerchief. The banana trees actually grew taller than the canestalks, and made her feel she was standing in the middle of a forest; But yet the early afternoon sun was intense, seeming to scorch through her pith helmet to burn her brain, making the muslin of her blouse cling to her shoulders, outlining the bones, and rest damply on her chest, leaving the dark circles of her aureoles clearly visibly. Yet Paul Simmonds hardly spared a glance, now. Perhaps he had seen them too often over the past eight years; perhaps he was too old.

But in either event, it did not matter. She was Margaret Hilton. There was no one in the whole world would argue with that fact now, and her banana crop was the most successful in all the West Indies.

'Excellent, Paul. Excellent,' she said. 'You'll bring Marion up to the house for a drink, this evening. I want to hear all about Pansy's new baby.' She turned Candy's head - no longer a skittish young lady, now, but a slow-moving and reliable matron - and walked the mare down the row of carts. Bully, her German wolfhound, got up and padded behind her. The labourers, men and women, raised their hats to her. Only the best worked for Hilltop. The Indians had long been discharged and sent home, save for those few who had
opted to attempt to eke o
ut a living in Kingston's bazaar
s. And the blacks knew that if they worked well they would be paid better wages than anywhere else on the island, while if they worked badly, they would find themselves sacked the next moment. 'Well done,' she said. 'Well done.'

She walked her horse round the slope surrounding the Great House, Bully trotting at Candy's heels They went past the factory, which still stood, its machinery rusted now, but providing a reminder of the greatness of the past, and at the same time a spur to the greatness of the future, a greatness she was determined to achieve She smiled as she remembered the earth tremor of a fortnight before. It had come rumbling out of the mountains, set the chandeliers to swinging and the labourers to shrieking their fear. And even she had supposed that her new grandstand would come tumbling down. But then she had remembered the chimney, had been able to point and say, 'While Hilltop chimney stands, no harm can come to Hilltop.' Perhaps Father had used those same words the day she had been born.

She continued over the pasture, and towards the Racecourse, listening to the growing sounds of hammers and saws, watching the new building take shape. To re-create the Racecourse she had had to tear the old Grandstand down; the wood was far too rotten to be used. But it had been worth it, and the new stand would eclipse the old in every way. While the grass had already been cut and the palings repaired, so that the course itself looked ready to receive its first charge of eager ponies. Well, it would not be long now.

'It coming along nicely, mistress,' said Fellows the foreman, touching his straw hat.

'Indeed it is, Fellows. I am very pleased with you. But we must still make haste; the meeting is advertised for August.'

'Oh, yes'm, Mistress Hilton. It going be ready long before that time.'

'See that it is.' A touch on the rein, and Candy obediently turned, and waited as the children approached, chasing in front of Prudence, who waddled ineffectively behind, waving the parasol. Bully gave a brief bark of pleasure, and Meg smiled at them. Now there was memory, of herself and Alan McAvoy chasing out to the Grandstand after school. But these were brother and sister. Richard was eight, Aline a year younger; Meg had named her after Edward Warner's wife, reaching back into the family history to find a woman worthy of comparison with the great Marguerite. Aline Warner had been captured by the
Caribs, had suffered nameless indignities, and yet had survived, until she could be rescued by her warrior husband. Those had been the days, and then had been the men, and the women.

Now, of them all, there was only her left. And the two children. She dismounted, waited for them, hugged Richard first, then swept Aline from the ground. Tommy's child? It had to be. She was certain, in her own mind. 'Sweethearts,' she said. 'What did you learn today ?'

'Six times,' Richard said, seriously. 'It is very difficult'

'But tomorrow,' Aline said, importantly, 'Miss Simmonds says we are going to learn seven times, and that is even more difficult'

'Oh, it is,' Meg agreed. 'How do you think the stand is coming along?'

'First rate,' Richard said. Definitely Alan's son. Life was a very serious business to Richard Hilton. 'Absolutely first rate.'

'Can I climb up, Mama? Can I climb up?' Aline jumped up and down. Definitely her daughter. And Tommy's of course.
Oh, what a sport you are, Meg.
She wondered if Lord Claymond, now happily married and with children of his own, still remembered that. She wondered if he had ever told his wife about his visit to Jamaica. 'No, you cannot climb up,' she said. 'You will fall off and break a leg. But when it is finished, why, there will be a seat for you at the very top.'

'Oh, will there, Mama? Will there?' She continued to jump up and down with excitement 'If you're good.'

Prudence had by now caught them up, gasping. 'Man, Miss Meg, but these children too wearing, and that is a fact'

'You'll walk home beside Prudence, and take Bully with you,' Meg said. 'I'll see you at supper.' The sound of drumming hooves had her turning to the fence, to watch the colt come chasing by, nostrils flaring, tail flowing, jockey crouched low over the rein. She smiled. Her secret And living up to all his early promise.

She remounted, waved at the children, turned her horse once again towards the banana groves.

Her heart began to pound. Was that obvious to the homeward bound gang of labourers ? Or did they just put it down to heat flush? But surely they knew. Everyone knew, where she went, what she did, at sunset Everyone in Kingston surely knew. Even Billy, surely knew. And not one of them dared say anything about it She was Margaret Hilton.

Did Alan McAvoy know? What a strange thought And an irrelevant one. Alan McAvoy had no more existence for Margaret Hilton. He had left the shipping line and quite disappeared from her ken. And if Helen, hunched in her cottage somewhere in England, ever told him some of the rumours which had swept Jamaica, which had, Meg was quite sure, led to Harry McAvoy's early retirement, what did h
e do, what could he do, save th
ink, she might have been mine, had I had the sense to keep my mouth shut, to see life her way.

She asked no more. Her way. They said she was an arrogant, domineering bitch. Well, then, she would continue to be an arrogant, domineering bitch. But more than that, she would be a successful bitch. She would be Margaret Hilton. There was not a woman in Jamaica would not change places with her, if they could. If they could dare.

She rode beneath the trees, and was shaded from the dying sun. She did not hurry. She never hurried. Life waited on her. Besides, it heightened anticipation, lengthened pleasure. When she rode out here, she always pretended she would do more, would cross the river and ride into the mountains, and seek him out. She never would, of course. To do that would be to submit herself to his laws, and she had no intention of ever submitting herself to anyone's laws again, not even Cleave's.

So then, she pretended he would one day come back to the river, to look for her. He had never done so. Perhaps he also was not prepared to submit to another's laws. And after eleven years she was not even sure she wanted to see him again. She remembered a boy, and he would now be a man. But the knowledge that he was
there,
in the mountains, was as evocative as the sound of the drums, filling whatever emotional needs she lacked. But Margaret Hilton had very little time to spare for emotional needs.

Candy climbed the slope, walked down the far side, stopped. She had been here too often to require instruction.

Meg dismounted, and the mare went down to the water's edge to drink. Meg lay on her belly beside her, lapped the water into her mouth, felt her hair trailing in the slow-moving current. This act of obeisance to the river god was necessary. It restored her youth, made her once again the sixteen-year-old girl who had lain here, a mass of conflicting emotions, that evening eleven years ago. That girl for whom all life was about to begin.

Her thirst abated, she rose to her knees, unbuttoned her blouse, slowly and thoughtfully. The blouse lay on the ground, and she cupped her own breasts, still large, still full, after feeding two children, just beginning to sag. Still eager to respond.

She stood up, released the waistband of her riding skirt, allowed it to settle to the ground. She walked up and down, wearing only her stockings and her boots, throwing her long legs in front of each other, enjoying the cooling breeze which drifted down from the mountains, caressed her overheated flesh, raised nipples and goose pimples, ruffled her hair.

She sat down, nestling her bottom into the earth, enjoying the sensation of becoming coated with dust in that most intimate part of her body, slowly pulled off her boots, rolled down her stockings. She lay down for a moment, and then rolled over, to complete the utterly wicked feeling of being naked in the dirt. Then she rose to her knees and then her feet, and waded into the water slowly, feeling it rise from ankle to knee, from knee to thigh, from thigh to groin, from groin to navel, from navel to breast. The embrace was physical, because out here the river flowed hard, and she had to brace herself to stop herself being knocked over and swept downstream.

There was a rustle in the bushes, and she turned her head, heart starting to pound. But it was only Candy.

'But is true,' Prudence said. 'They saying that Mistress Holroyd too too sick.' She drew the brush through Meg's hair, slowly and lovingly. She adored Meg's hair, would play with it and dress it by the hour.

Well, Meg thought, gazing at herself in the mirror, she enjoyed having it brushed and dressed by the hour. Besides, Prudence was the source of all Kingston's gossip.

'Sick with what?'

'Well, nobody knowing for sure, Miss Meg. Not even the doctor knowing for sure. They saying she got plenty pain in she belly, and she just wasting away.'

'My God,' Meg remarked. 'It sounds like cholera.'

'Oh, no, no, Miss Meg. Nothing like that. The doctor must be making sure about that, or he would be locking her up. Anyway, she maid telling me that she ain't passing-passing like they does do when they got cholera. But is a fact she is sick.'

'Happens to us all,' Meg said thoughtfully, and continued staring at that oval face, those finely etched features, those high eyebrows, those large, pale blue eyes, and that so firm mouth. What
did
she look like when in the grip of a passion ? It was a great longing of hers, to see that face collapsing into ecstasy, to see the strength draining away in continuous paroxysms of delight. Not a wish likely to be gratified, she thought. The first change
‘
see in this face will be when I too am seized by some illness, or just by old age. My God, there was a gloomy thought.

'So what happening is,' Prudence continued, 'they thinking she going die. You know what I am saying? I am saying she just done talk sheself to death. That is what she must be done. You can' spend your entire life talking-talking and not expect to get wear out.'

'It's a thought,' Meg agreed, and wondered why Prudence had never talked herself to death.

Prudence sighed, and began coiling the plaits on top of Meg's head. She did this every evening, after the mistress had returned from her mysterious ride and had had her hot bath. Because the mistress liked to dress for dinner every night, whether or not the master was home. He only came home for weekends, anyway, since Meg had decided it would be best for him to return to his father's law practice and leave the plantation entirely alone.