The House on Hummingbird Island Read online

  Benedict came out and Austin stood smartly and saluted. ‘Sir.’

  Benedict nodded casually.

  ‘Are you coming to the dance?’ asked Idie, but she knew he wasn’t.

  ‘No.’ Austin smiled briefly at Benedict. ‘That’s for rather grand officers, like Captain Grace.’ He turned to Idie. ‘I’ll come another time.’

  ‘Yes, do . . .’ said Idie, a little hurt, a little cold. ‘Do come back another time.’

  Benedict, impatient, set down his drink and said to Idie, ‘We’ll be late.’ He turned and went down the steps.

  Austin picked up the bundle tied with string from the balustrade and sprang lightly down.

  Idie stepped forward, arm out. ‘Oh – don’t – where – where’re you going?’

  ‘To Mayella. I’ve something for her.’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘No.’ He nodded, looking directly at Idie and speaking quietly. ‘No, she wouldn’t be here. I’ll go to her house – I’ve things of Sampson’s.’

  ‘Come on, Idie, we mustn’t be late,’ said Benedict.

  Austin went to Daisy and mounted. Idie, fastening her cape, heard Baronet whinny piteously that Daisy should be leaving so soon.

  90

  Idie and Benedict returned through a night sweet with jasmine and honeysuckle. Idie, who’d been for the first time to a society dinner and danced and been admired, took off her shoes and skipped barefoot across the lawn. She stopped short at the foot of the steps, noticing now the single oil lantern still burning, the figure beside it, head bowed. Numbers lifted his head, and Idie saw in the lantern shadows that flickered across his drawn face the news he brought. The blood draining from her, she took Benedict’s arm.

  ‘Benedict,’ she whispered. ‘Benedict –’

  Numbers rose and said, ‘I am so sorry, sir – your father – His Lordship –’

  Benedict reached for the post of the veranda and clutched it. ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘There was no pain. He died as he would have wished, the Racing Post in his hand, Lancelot at his feet.’

  Idie stood in the shadows, a little apart. The hall in which Baronet had eaten scones without a knife and fork because a sensible horse couldn’t be doing with such things, Grancat’s velvet chair, the banisters, the pairs of glasses stacked on his great head like diadems, the binoculars around his neck, everything came flooding back, precise and vivid as if she’d reached across the oceans and the years and touched those things with her fingers.

  Numbers said quietly, ‘There was no one like him.’ He dipped his head and retreated, adding, ‘Take your time. When you’re ready we’ll meet to discuss the practical side of things.’

  Benedict sank into a chair, his head dropped. ‘Oh God.’

  Idie waited, and when Benedict looked up again she saw the hollowed, haunted sockets of his rainshine eyes, the moonlit sunshine of his hair. He looked away into the garden and said, ‘I will never be the man he was.’

  She took his hand. ‘You will. You are so like him.’

  ‘No, I am of different mettle.’ Benedict turned to Idie. ‘Grancat was so certain, so sure . . . war takes away your certainties, you see, and God . . . the house.’ He covered his eyes. ‘I’ll be the one that lets it go, after two hundred years, it will be me, the seventh earl, that sells it off.’

  His fingers shook a little and his nails scratched the arm of the chair and Idie glanced away, remembering Grancat sliding gleefully down the banisters for his hard-boiled egg of a morning, and Lancelot waiting at the foot of them, the Racing Post rolled up in his mouth for he knew his master always checked the form before breakfast.

  91

  Next morning Idie found Benedict somehow changed. He’ll go, Idie thought sadly. He’ll leave so soon, even before he is well he’ll leave, and the last strand of Pomeroy will be lost to me.

  ‘You’ll have to go back now . . . ?’ she asked, pouring his coffee and watching him. He smiled, but he was pale and his eyes were hard and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘I’ll go into town. There’s the passage to book and things to organize. Hop in with me and I’ll drop you off at that place where you work.’

  Benedict was studiously casual, but his right eye flickered and his cup rattled in the saucer as he lifted

  His eyes were on her and he seemed about to say something that would not quite come out. In the trap she watched him again and thought she might distract him with happy things and talked to him of Bathsheba, the people and things in it and of all she’d come to love. But Benedict wasn’t listening so Idie grew silent.

  When they drew up at Boscobelle he said, ‘Idie, I’d like to ask you, well, the fact of it is, to come back with me to Pomeroy. Together, you and I. Would you . . . ?’

  ‘I – I –’ She glanced backwards as though Bathsheba and all that was in it might appear there on the road to Boscobelle.

  ‘This place will take care of itself; we’ll put someone in charge of it, to run the plantation and so on.’

  Idie was silent, confused with surprise and joy and also with anxiety for what she must tell him about herself.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything now –’

  She smiled and dismounted. Benedict flicked the reins and drove off. Idie watched him go, thinking, He does not know what I will be, does not know what my mother was.

  92

  Edith was attacking a vigorous-looking plant. Idie glanced at its tall stem and cream trumpet flowers and was somehow glad that Edith was digging the thing up. She went to Virgil and took his arm and walked him along the path, her mind on Benedict and Pomeroy.

  Wife of Benedict, mistress of Pomeroy. Benedict is not well. I can help him, look after him, but only until such a day as my reason is taken away from me.

  She was still in the garden with Virgil when she heard a voice.

  ‘Henbane, Mother, beware. That way lies delirium and madness.’

  Idie started at that easy, smiling voice of Austin’s. She turned and saw him bend to inspect his mother’s work, then take the fork from her and dig a deep and systematic circle.

  Delirium and madness.

  Why must he talk of such things in front of her? But Austin continued in his airy way. ‘Consider the lilies, Mother. The plants are well enough alone. Dedicate yourself to poetry. Digging is not for you.’

  Edith looked at her son and, smiling, snatched the fork back from him and held out some shears.

  ‘No, Mother, no shearing for me today; I’m going to ask if Miss Idie Grace will allow me to walk with her.’

  Idie looked at him and thought how he’d been her only friend; the only friend she’d had had left her when she’d been ill and scared and lonely; had gone when she’d begged him not to.

  ‘I’ve no choice you see, Mother, since you’ve commandeered her for your own purposes, but to come here if I’m to see her at all.’ He stood between his mother and Idie and added, looking directly at Idie, ‘She has been TAKEN OVER, by an English captain-cousin several times removed, and by you.’

  How like Austin it was to wear hurt and pain so lightly. He was telling her that he knew, and she was thankful for his grace and generosity and able then to look at him then and smile.

  Austin took Idie’s arm and together they walked in silence for a while, and there was something so tall and strong and upright in him that made Idie feel he knew the heart of her and was standing in judgement over her. She said, a little acid, ‘Was Phibbah’s jam up to scratch?’

  Austin let go of her arm. ‘You’ve lost none of your sweetness, Idie Grace.’

  She retorted, ‘You left me, Austin.’

  Austin’s voice was low but burning. ‘Did you ever write to me? Did you say goodbye or wish me luck? Did you ever think that I was young and scared and going far away?’

  They waited. After a while Idie asked, in a small voice, ‘Did you find Mayella?’

  ‘I did.’

  He said no more than that, so Idie asked
, ‘Austin, Sampson didn’t do it, did he – what they say he did – he wouldn’t –’

  Austin was silent and Idie persisted. ‘Did the English officers not understand the men from here?’

  ‘They did, some of them did, and grew awfully fond of them; others just never tried.’

  ‘His name isn’t on the cenotaph.’

  ‘It is an injustice. I will get his name put on there. I have promised I will do that, to myself and to Mayella.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Idie. ‘Mayella will be so pleased, and Reuben and Phibbah.’

  He waited, watching her awhile, then said, ‘The doctor and my father, they saw it all. You’re right, Sampson never answered back. He was angry, yes, but never insubordinate.’

  She nodded and he watched her still, then sighed and they set off again in silence.

  She must tell Austin that Benedict had asked for her hand, so she turned to him brightly and asked, ‘Did you see anything of Benedict out there?’

  Looking straight ahead, Austin nodded.

  ‘Did he make a good officer, Austin? He was always brave and quick and reckless.’

  He turned to her. The sun fingered her face and her hair fell loosely from her cap and full about her shoulders and Austin said, very suddenly, ‘Don’t throw yourself away on him.’

  Idie was too taken aback to say anything for a second or two. When she answered it was with an eruption of rage and fury. ‘How dare you? How dare you say such a thing?’

  ‘Idie—’

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘Idie – don’t you see –’

  ‘What? WHAT should I see?’

  ‘Sampson – it was Benedict who gave the order.’

  A fist twisted in the pit of Idie’s stomach.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she whispered, trembling. ‘No, no, no – no, he didn’t . . . You’re lying.’

  Sampson who’d gone away to fight for his motherland, Sampson who’d been made to clean latrines, Sampson who’d stood outside the chapel when Gladstone died and said to Mayella, ‘Next time I here is for I marry you.’ Sampson shot by firing squad at the order of her own cousin.

  They stood there, facing each other, Austin and Idie, a flood of hitherto unheeded signs trickling into Idie’s head and swimming there and turning her to water; Mayella’s absence, her sourness about the removal of the monkeys from the house, Reuben’s reticence.

  But Benedict was Grancat’s son.

  Live and let live. Each to their own.

  Grancat, for all his prejudice about all the bits of the world that were not Pomeroy, never tolerated injustice of any kind.

  Nelson had been at Kantara. She’d find Nelson and ask him.

  She untied her pinafore, tore off her cap, left them on the gatepost and ran off down the street.

  93

  She asked around for him in the docks at Georgetown. A man looked up from his work and gestured and Idie saw Nelson at work among a group of men where the ships were careened on the sand. He was singing and working and was the last of the men to look up. He mopped his brow and pulled on his shirt and he and Idie walked aside together in silence.

  ‘What happened?’

  He looked at her and said nothing.

  ‘Tell me, Nelson.’

  He understood and answered, ‘Mayella’s young man, Sampson, he were never violent in his life. He were a brave and gentle boy.’

  ‘Who gave the order?’

  Nelson’s head was bowed.

  ‘Who gave the order?’

  She waited.

  ‘Tell me, Nelson.’

  Nelson lifted his head and his voice was measured and certain.

  ‘Captain Grace.’

  ‘Benedict,’ Idie breathed. ‘Dear God, Benedict . . .’

  Bile rose in her throat and she turned and ran, stumbling across the sand.

  94

  At Bathsheba she found Reuben.

  ‘The captain came back early, mistress. He dressed and went out and said to tell you he come back later when the races finished.’

  The races.

  In disgust, Idie turned and walked to the stables. She opened the door of Baronet’s box and led him across through the gardens to the veranda and into the hall. She went to the kitchen and called for Gypsy and Delilah. She took Homer from the loggia and put him on the balustrade, removed Millie from Celia’s sewing basket, wheeled the toucans out of the kitchen and then she went to the garden and waited, pacing to and fro, hour after hour, her stomach turning over to think of Sampson, of so good and gentle a man, put against a wall at dawn and shot, by the order of her own cousin. It was late when Benedict returned, driven in a smart new motorcar from town, but Idie was standing at the top of the steps, waiting. Benedict came to the foot of them, and raised a hand to his neck to loosen his tie.

  ‘Leave this instant.’

  Benedict paused, confused.

  ‘Idie –’

  He saw the packed trunk beside her, the white sleeve of a dress shirt straggling from it, and his voice tailed away.

  ‘Idie—’

  ‘Leave now, Benedict. Leave and may you carry with you, from this day to the grave, the name of noble Sampson Sealy. And take this too.’ She flung the necklace at him. He caught it casually by a clasp and laughed a short, sour laugh. The necklace dangled from his forefinger, trapping the moonlight like a strand of tears

  ‘I sold the biggest stones.’

  He swayed a little on his legs and she saw that he’d been drinking.

  ‘No one’ll have you, will they? You think I don’t know, don’t you? But I do. Your grandmother the gardener’s wife, your mother a madwoman, her sister a simpleton.’

  Idie was all steel and strength then. She lifted her chin and watched him walk alone down the drive with his trunk.

  95

  Phibbah found Idie still on the veranda in the early morning. She saw the girl’s tear-stained cheeks, dishevelled hair. Idie cringed from her and hid her face. Sampson was Phibbah’s grandson, he was Reuben’s brother, had been beloved of Mayella. How could she face Phibbah? What could she say to Mayella, who’d lost her grandfather on Idie’s account and Sampson too. Their blood was on Idie’s hands.

  Phibbah returned, bringing coffee and a plate of fruit. She unwound Idie’s arms and gently lifted her head and tidied her hair. She placed her cool, dry hand on Idie’s cheek, keeping it there as Idie’s tears ran over it.

  Then she took her handwriting book from her pocket and placed it on Idie’s lap and waited. Mayella came out from the kitchen just then, and Idie started and half rose in fear, but Mayella gently pushed her back into her chair and bent and planted a kiss on her forehead.

  Mayella saw the book on Idie’s lap and glanced at Phibbah. Phibbah opened it and poked a bony finger at the page. Idie attempted to smile and said, ‘Not today, no lessons today . . .’

  Phibbah jabbed her finger at the page again and Idie summoned another smile because the script was so neat and ran from edge to edge across the page.

  I’ve done some good here at least . . .

  Phibbah lifted the book and held it up in front of Idie and jabbed the page again.

  ‘Read it, mistress. All the words in it they are for you,’ said Mayella.

  Then, finally, Idie understood and lifted the book and read.

  96

  I, Phibbah, eighty-one years of age, who cannot speak, have found a tongue only with my letters.

  I now tell you, Mistress Grace, everything that I have seen, everything that I know. I tell you about your mother.

  Idie gasped and looked up, but she was alone.

  Your grandfather, Master Arnold, loved Honey Quarterly. Honey, God rest her sweet soul, she was the wife of Enoch and she was the only woman Enoch ever loved but also the only woman your grandfather loved in all his days. When she died, Master Arnold took her other son, the son by Enoch Quarterly, Carlisle, into this house so he be taught alongside his own son, your father, Cecil Grace. That was how Enoch kne
w Arnold Grace was a good man. That was also how Carlisle came to think he so mighty fine and that how the kindness of your family it grow only as poison in Carlisle because Carlisle think now he’s so fine this place must go to him.

  Your father he never minded about anything. He was not one thing nor the other, neither black nor white, but he never cared about anything except your mother. Her name was Lily. He married Miss Lily Rhodes and she come here to Bathsheba with her sister for Miss Celia must be looked after. Your mother was beautiful as an orchid and a hummingbird together and kind as the breeze that come about this house and she loved your father, but she loved you more. Is always so for women. She planted these fustic trees, these moonflower trees, silk cotton tree and all. She always say there is no place on earth so beautiful as here, no child so sweet as you, no man so good as Cecil.

  Carlisle see you come, Miss Idie, into this world and he see then there no chance of this house being for him and the anger grow in him.

  Your mother she never liked Carlisle, but your father see it his duty to look after him as they half-brothers. Your mother start to get ill with visions. She screaming sometimes, scared sometimes, she scared even of the sun and the light. She forgetting sometime who she is, forgetting even she have a child. She go outside only when it growing dark. That why the shutters were always closed and the house kept dark. She go to swim only when it get dark. Your father start to drink, for knowing he was losing her, and Carlisle he pour the drink always to help your father on his way, and when your father die Lily come to me one morning and you were in her arms and she weeping like a child and she say, ‘Tell Nelson to come. My Idie is not safe here. I do not trust that man Carlisle and my daughter must be safe.’

  Nelson come and Mistress Lily give him a warm coat and a piece of paper and she say, ‘Tell them her name is Idie Grace.’