Caribbean: a novel Part 34

The sergeant shuffled the papers on his desk and was about to sign the prepared receipt, when he looked past Boncour and McKay and cried with huge affection: 'Sir Benny! Come in!' and into the office came a most unusual man. He was jet-black, about five feet six, slightly chubby, beautifully relaxed and wreathed in an ingratiating smile.

Nodding graciously when introduced to McKay, the man greeted Boncour and the sergeant as old friends, then said in a low, soft voice with an impeccable English accent: 'Sergeant, I've got to tell you before you go any further, my sister found the wheelbarrow.'

The sergeant laughed: 'I told you she would.' Then turning to McKay, he said: 'This criminal type is Sir Benny Castain.'

McKay, thinking Sir Benny to be one of those calypso singers who favored names like Lord Invader or Emperor Divine, made a tremendous gaffe: 'Have you recorded any of your songs?'

'No, no!' the station sergeant laughed. 'He's a real knight. Sword of the King himself. Our greatest cricketer, batsman and/or bowler.'

'He wouldn't know about cricket,' Sir Benny said apologetically, but Millard corrected him: 'Indeed I do. Don Bradman. Douglas Jardine.'

The three island men gaped, and Sir Benny asked: 'Now, how does an American know those names?'

'At Rutgers University, near New York, there were always West Indians playing cricket in some park. I read about it in a book by Neville Cardus. Part of my course in English.'

'I cannot believe this!' Sir Benny said, and the men sat down while the sergeant recalled the glory of All Saints' cricket: 'Lord Basil Wrentham, him who's to serve as our new Gee-Gee, brought a first-rate English team to the West Indies, 1932 it may have been. Four matches. They won handily in Jamaica, had a better challenge in Trinidad, and won again by a big margin in Barbados. We'd never had a topnotch international match in All Saints, but for that occasion we'd built a new oval, sodded it well, and could offer a first-cla.s.s pitch.

'Great excitement when the ship brought the two teams over from Barbados. The English players, so white-skinned, so gentlemanly, won all hearts as they trooped off the ship behind Lord Basil and Douglas Jardine, both men tall and imperial. Then the great batsmen, Patsy Hendren and Walter Hammond. And the bowlers, Leslie Ames and Bill Voce.' As he uttered each of the revered names, the other two islanders nodded approvingly. 'That really was a great team,' Boncour said, but Sir Benny said quietly: 'You forget the best bowler of them all, got me three times before the game at All Saints, Hedley Verity,' and the others agreed.

The sergeant, eager for this interested American to understand the greatness of Sir Benny, began to recite the details of that memorable four-day match. But as he started, McKay had a happy inspiration: 'Why don't we all go over to the Waterloo and discuss this? Drinks are on me.' The men instantly agreed. Leaving the police station, the sergeant said to McKay: 'Don't forget your watch,' and Boncour nodded: 'It's yours now.'

At the Waterloo, Bart Wrentham greeted them with enthusiasm, bowed to Sir Benny, and asked if he might join them. McKay said: 'Yes, if you'll send out for the kind of picnic we had yesterday,' and he handed Wrentham some pound notes. 'You buy the food,' Bart said. 'I'll treat for the beer,' and shortly he was back with another feast.

'England batted first,' the sergeant resumed. 'Brutal. Scored 352, with the loss of only six wickets.' Turning to McKay, he asked: 'You know what "declaring" means?'

'Yes. If England already has 352 runs, a huge lead, they figure they'll be able to get your team out quickly and then make you follow on-that is, go right back in and do so poorly that your combined score will be less than 352. So with England batting only once, they swamp you and win the match, 352 to something like maybe 207. Great victory.'

'Amazing,' Sir Benny said. 'Never thought to see an American who understands cricket.'

'Lord Basil had made a daring gamble on behalf of England's team,' the sergeant said, 'but he stood to win, because our side didn't have great batsmen.' He paused, and everyone looked at Sir Benny, who smiled smugly as he recalled yet again that glorious day. 'But Lord Basil hadn't counted on this fellow here. He was plain Benny Castain then, grandson of a former slave, but a lad with a good education obtained in our schools. I shall never forget him coming out to bat. Not big. Not powerful. Two of our wickets down for a total of only 29, and England with that formidable 352. But Benny dug in, knocked the ball all over the oval, never saw such an innings. Finally clean bowled by Verity yet again, but he had put 139 on the board, and England was nervous, I can tell you that, when our innings ended at 291. Any desire to make us follow on was lost, thanks to Benny.'

Then Bart Wrentham interrupted: 'There were eighteen or more of us colored Wrenthams in the oval next day, and the rest were like me. Immensely proud that a white Wrentham was captain of the all-England team, but also excited that our crowd had put up such a fine showing against the best.'

'Did you think,' McKay asked, 'that All Saints had a chance of winning?'

'Wait, wait! This wasn't an All Saints team. It was players from all our islands. Benny here was the only All Saints man. And having inflamed his home island with his batting, he now took to bowling, and when England's great batsmen came out, Hammond and Hendren and Jardine, they weren't so c.o.c.ky, because they knew they had to put a lot of runs on the board to make their side safe. Had to have maybe 250 more, something like that.'

The sergeant wanted the honor of reporting Sir Benny's immortal bowling that afternoon: 'He had a mix of three, a fast ball, a right-arm chinaman, and a googly, and believe it or not, he put down seven of England's greatest batsmen for a total of only 57 runs. The fourth day of the match ended with the score England 409, West Indies 291, but with a fighting chance to overtake.

'I cannot tell you how we felt that night, here in All Saints. I had to get up five times to pee, and at dawn I was still awake. That day, at eleven in the morning, I think the entire population of All Saints was at the oval or near it. When play started, England had three more batsmen, but this tremendous fellow'-and he patted Sir Benny's knee-'dismissed them for only 21 additional runs. England 430, West Indies 291.'

Now Bart spoke, slowly and reverently, for he was dealing with one of the spiritual climaxes of his island: 'We opened our last innings against the great English bowlers needing 140 to win, and we gasped in anguish when the two V's, Voce and Verity, took five of our wickets for only 41 runs. Defeat loomed, but then Benny took over. Defending his wicket as never before, and punishing every loose ball that was bowled to him, he scored two sixes and thirteen fours. Never had we seen a West Indian punish English bowlers as he did that day, and in the late stages of the game, when it was obvious that we had a fighting chance to win the match, that d.a.m.ned Hedley Verity bowled Benny again. Stunned silence.'

The men paused to recall that tremendous moment in their island's history, then Wrentham said quietly: 'But our other batsmen picked up the challenge ...' Here his voice rose to a roar, and he banged the table with his fist: 'And we won! We had beaten England.' On impulse, both Boncour and the sergeant rose and embraced Sir Benny, the black man who had brought black majesty to their island.

'The part I remember best,' Wrentham said, 'was when the players left the pitch. Lord Basil sought out Benny, threw his long right arm over his shoulder, and walked out of the oval with him.' He stopped, looked at McKay, and said: 'I predict he will be a very popular Gee-Gee.'

Much could be learned about life in a British Crown Colony by observing the social laws governing Lord Wrentham's XI, as the English cricket team was invariably called, since Wrentham had picked his men and a.s.sumed responsibility for their pay, which amounted to about $700 American per man for the entire tour, plus steamboat fare and meals.

Of course, only the professional cricketers received pay, for the team was rigidly divided between gentlemen, that is, amateurs of good family, and players, professionals, who played for a living. The distinction between them was rigid: On the pa.s.sage over, gentlemen sailed first cla.s.s, players second. At clubhouses there was one entrance for gentlemen, another for players. A gentleman was referred to by his initials and last name, such as W. H. B. Wickham, and addressed deferentially as 'sir,' a player would be known and addressed simply by his last name, rarely even with the prefix 'Mr.'

At evening functions the team also divided, gentlemen often attending parties given by county families, the players dining at their hotel, with the senior professional carving the joint and serving the junior man last. But such distinctions were so ingrained that they were taken for granted and caused little rancor.

There were other minor refinements, like that between capped and uncapped members. Anyone who had been selected for his nation's test team was awarded a 'cap,' and professionals who were uncapped were unlikely to address directly a gentleman who had a cap. But it was a remarkable tribute to the pragmatic nature of Englishmen that these caste differences never impeded play on the field. Cricket was at the same time both the custodian of social principles and the arena in which men met as equals. A professional bowler who took the wicket of the finest gentleman batsman of the opposing team might well be roundly applauded ... by both teams.

The day came when blacks thronged the streets, shouting: 'The Gee-Gee, he ship in the baie!' and when the vessel from Southampton edged into the dock, McKay was there to watch the arrival of the new governor general, and he observed the present inc.u.mbent, a tall, slim, good-looking regimental officer in his sixties, waiting in the island's only Rolls-Royce, an impressive Silver Ghost. Now the crowd cheered, for at the top of the gangway Lord Basil Wrentham appeared, almost a twin of the man waiting in the Rolls: tall, underweight, austere, with a military bearing and a haughty manner. They must have a factory somewhere in England where they punch out these cookies to impress the colonies, McKay thought.

The new Gee-Gee stood very erect, saluted the ship he was leaving, and came imperially down the gangway, but he did not go to the waiting Rolls; he merely bowed to his predecessor, acknowledged the salutes of the guard, and looked inquisitively about the crowd. Then, having located what he sought, he moved briskly forward, ignoring everyone until he stood face-to-face with Sir Benny Castain. Throwing his arms wide, he embraced the chubby black man as he had done years ago at the end of that resplendent afternoon. 'I guess there must be something extra about cricket that they don't tell you in books,' McKay said aloud as he watched, but he could hardly hear his own words, for the crowd was cheering wildly.

On the third day after Lord Wrentham's arrival, the text of Millard McKay's first article reached All Saints from Detroit, creating a favorable stir. The author, after explaining that in 1763 many thoughtful Englishmen had advocated keeping All Saints and giving Canada away, described the island as it existed today, and he painted a loving, faithful portrait. Anyone familiar with All Saints would have to acknowledge that McKay had spotted the foibles, recognized the merits, and understood the role of a man's skin coloration in determining his social level.

People who had read the abbreviated excerpts that appeared in the All Saints Journal, courtesy of the a.s.sociated Press, nodded approvingly to McKay as he pa.s.sed them in the streets, and since Bristol Town had a population of only six thousand, everyone soon knew who McKay was and what he had said. The pa.s.sage most frequently commented upon was one he had worded carefully, relying upon data provided by Bart Wrentham and Etienne Boncour: All Saints has, according to latest count, a population of 29,779, and if a visitor frequents only the top government offices, called gommint here, he gets the impression that they're all white. If you stay in the shops on the main streets, you think everyone is very lightly colored. And if you move about the back streets and the countryside, you'd swear All Saints was all black, and I mean very black, just out of Africa.

The best estimates this reporter has heard divide the population this way. Whites, including both English and French, about nine hundred. Coloreds about seven thousand. Blacks, the rest, about twenty-two thousand. So this is a black island, but sometimes a whole day pa.s.ses without a visitor being aware of it.

It's the second category that provides confusion, because it contains many attractive, well-dressed, well-educated men and women who in the United States or Canada would pa.s.s for white ... no question about it. But here everyone knows to the nth degree what his neighbors' antecedents are, and one thirty-second of black blood marks a man or woman as colored.

What happens is that when some especially talented All Saints man wants to enter the white world or some beautiful young woman wants to marry into a higher social circle, they emigrate to another island where they can start afresh. Of course, later on, rumor follows them and the truth becomes known, but by then a new status has been achieved.

So All Saints contains a score of delightful newcomers from Barbados, Jamaica and Trinidad who fill lively spots in the island social life, but of whom people whisper. And at the tenuous dividing line between black and colored, there is the same kind of maneuverability, and the visitor is told that sometimes a girl who is now known as colored will go to extreme lengths to prevent her new friends from meeting her sister, who may be many shades darker than she.

This harsh, but accurate, summary of how one's skin color determined status was alleviated by McKay's rhapsodic description of the island's rich natural beauties, including croton, and an affectionate account of Sir Benny Castain's old cricketing relationship with the newly appointed governor general. The article ended: 'So if you're contemplating a vacation on some Caribbean island this winter, try All Saints. It could be close to the best.'

Both Etienne Boncour and Bart Wrentham were pleased with McKay's report and told him so. Bart said gruffly: 'Flattering but not excessively groveling,' and Boncour a.s.sured him: 'Gommint is delighted. When the Gee-Gee read it he said: "Well, we're off to a good start," but Major Leckey warned him: "He wrote that before you got here. Let's wait. He's an American and we've been burned by them before." '

There was a cryptic English couple staying at the Belgrave who took a more circ.u.mspect view of both McKay and his article. The Ponsfords, a married pair in their late fifties from one of the fashionable suburbs of London, had sailed to All Saints on the same ship that brought Lord Wrentham and his daughter Delia. Being rigorously proper, they did not impose upon His Lordship while aboard ship, but upon landing in All Saints they immediately hired a taxi, rode to Government House, and signed the book. In due course Major Leckey had called to invite them to afternoon tea, where they told Lord Wrentham and his daughter that they had shared the steamer with them but had not wanted to intrude upon their privacy. The courtesy was appreciated, and Major Leckey himself a.s.sumed responsibility for delivering their other letters of introduction to the proper authorities, so that within a few days the Ponsfords were moving within what was called 'the cream of All Saints,' that restricted circle of Britons from good families who ran the island. After his five weeks on the island, McKay had met none of that group.

The Ponsfords knew who McKay was and what he had written, but they would never approach him during his working day, for they had not been introduced. McKay could not decipher who they were or what business they were engaged in, for they kept rigidly to themselves, and it was not until Boncour was taking lunch at the Belgrave and saw the Ponsfords at their table and McKay at his that a meeting came about. Boncour made bold to tell the Ponsfords: 'I think you might enjoy meeting that chap over there,' and they allowed Boncour to bring McKay to their table. Having made the introduction, Boncour returned to his lunch, and Millard was left with a rather chilly pair who had not liked what they deemed the flippancy of his Detroit articles and said so.

'I could see no justification,' Mr. Ponsford said with august condescension, 'why one would feel obligated to stress the dark side of the island.'

McKay was astonished. 'I didn't think I did,' and Mrs. Ponsford, a well-preserved and neatly coiffed woman with an aquiline nose that seemed always on the point of sniffing, explained: 'You are harping on the fact that All Saints is mostly black.'

'But it is!' McKay said, with obvious desire to stress the truth. 'Just look about you.'

'If it is,' Mr. Ponsford said in his bank-manager manner, 'it's unfortunate and should not be broadcast to the world. Excellent men and women with the best intentions govern this island, and they deserve every support we can give them.'

'There is nothing finer, I told my husband the other day, than to see a distinguished man like Lord Basil riding through the streets in his Rolls-Royce, symbol of all that's good and right in the British Empire.'

McKay, suppressing a smile, said to himself: I've got to remember that one, and thought: People make fun of Americans abroad, and I guess we can be pretty bad, but it takes an English couple like this insufferable pair to be really obnoxious. However, aware that he might have to share the dining room with them for several weeks, he turned to Mrs. Ponsford and asked: 'Then what about the colored who fill so many of the spots here in Bristol Town? Dare I speak about them?'

'In time, as they educate themselves and move upward in the social scale,' Mr. Ponsford said magisterially, 'they'll become more and more like white people. They've already earned three places on the Executive Council.'

'Will their skins become lighter as this progression upward is made?' McKay asked with no touch of sarcasm, and Mrs. Ponsford said: 'Isn't that how it's already happening? I was told just yesterday that of the three mulatto men on the council each was three-quarters white.'

'You'd expect nothing less,' her husband said, but the pair were interrupted before they could explain further their interpretation of All Saints life by a handsome young Englishman in a trim off-white suit which displayed his slim, athletic bearing. He had neatly trimmed blond hair and the professional smile of one accustomed to greeting people.

'This is Major Leckey,' Mrs. Ponsford said approvingly. 'The governor general's invaluable factotum. This is Mr. McKay, who wrote about your island for the newspaper back in the States.'

The next moment would be forever etched on Millard's mind: Major Leckey, who had known from the moment of McKay's arrival who and what he was but who felt honor-bound to ignore him until he presented his credentials properly, turned his head slightly away from looking at the Ponsfords, and gave the American interloper a brief, icy smile of semirecognition. Then, without offering to shake hands, he resumed conversation with the English couple, whom he had come to escort to an afternoon affair at Government House. In a flash they were gone, all three of them, and no one bothered to excuse himself to McKay.

He met Leckey again the next day at Boncour's jewelry store, and since Etienne was occupied with a woman tourist from England, the two men had to stand awkwardly almost side by side, but again the major studiously refused to recognize him. Only when another customer b.u.mped into them, did they have to acknowledge each other. Major Leckey gave McKay a withered smile, to which McKay responded with the slightest possible nod, involving no shoulder movement. McKay felt that warfare between them had been declared.

It did not enflame at that moment, because Leckey had come to the shop on a more important matter. 'I was told,' he said to Boncour, in crisp and somewhat superior tones, as if he were slumming, 'that the Honorable Delia would be awaiting me here.'

'She's not been in,' Boncour said, and McKay, whose senses were sharp, thought he detected in Boncour's manner an unusual level of excitement when speaking about the Gee-Gee's daughter. Then he saw why, for into the shop came a young woman of twenty-two who absolutely filled it with her radiance. She wore one of those flimsy lace and tulle dresses in which the starch of the latter held in fine form the soft fabric of the former. The lace was stark-white, the tulle had a touch of yellow, and their colors blended to make a gentle symphony that matched the cool beauty of the young woman who wore them.

She had a head of golden hair that was not completely tamed-obviously she did not want it whipped into set patterns-and it formed a kind of frame for a face that was larger than one might have expected, larger in each dimension and wonderfully composed, so that she seemed always to be smiling in quiet amus.e.m.e.nt at the follies of the world about her. She had large eyes which sparkled, a generous mouth and a way of tilting her impressive head that made her seem about to speak in a kindly manner to anyone at whom she looked. She was so much the acme of the young English gentlewoman of her period that one could not avoid asking two questions: 'Why isn't she married?' and 'Why in the world did her father bring her to a place like All Saints?'

'Yes! Miss Wrentham,' Boncour cried as he hurried forward to attend her. 'I have three to show you,' and he was about to bring forth a tray of small bejeweled items when Major Leckey interrupted: 'Delia, I'm most sorry, but your father's waiting, and he sent me to fetch you.' With that, making no apologies to either Boncour or McKay, he whisked her out of the shop and into his waiting chauffeured car.

When she was gone, leaving an echoing void behind, McKay whistled to break the tension: 'I never thought that daughters of Gee-Gees looked like that,' and for a few moments the two men discussed her appearance and her manner. Boncour said: 'She came in unannounced last week, as nice a customer as we ever meet. No frills, no demands, just sensible questions about some small items for what she called a charm bracelet.'

'And what's that?'

'Started in France, I think. A silver or gold bracelet in links, and into each you attach ...' Turning slightly, he called: 'Irene, show him those pictures.' A pretty girl with very light skin brought from the rear a London magazine in which there were photographs of charm bracelets, lovely delicate things if the attached items were kept small enough, rather gauche if they were too big or lacking in style. But after looking briefly at the bracelets, McKay leafed ahead and whistled: 'Hey, look at this!' and the girl who had fetched the magazine said: 'Yes indeed! No wonder Lord Basil hurried her out here.'

The story, provocatively ill.u.s.trated, told of the Honorable Delia Wrentham's escapade with an older married man and implied former misbehavior with several young Oxford and Cambridge chaps. The young lady who had brought the magazine from the rear of the store seemed to be an expert on the Honorable Delia, and said saucily without being asked: 'Her father whisked her out here not a minute too soon. You ask me, he accepted the appointment to this sorry little post so's he'd have a place to cool her off.'

McKay's jaw dropped. He had not expected a colored clerk to speak so freely and so boldly, but a moment's reflection set him straight: h.e.l.l, it's girls like these salesladies who set the patterns. They are the islands. And he asked the girl a chain of questions, learning from her that the Honorable Delia was one of the lights of the London social whirl, 'a d.a.m.ned fine la.s.s, if you ask me, and a great help to her widowed father, who overlooks her sporting behavior. He adores her, the stories say. And one look at her tells why.'

In the days that followed, everything on All Saints seemed to focus on Sir Basil and his lively daughter. Talk at the Waterloo centered on little else, and at the Belgrave the American McKay was discovering a topic about which the Ponsfords were eager to talk: the history of the English Wrenthams and especially the doings of the Earl of Gore and his immediate family. Mrs. Ponsford said: 'Very distinguished. They go back a long distance in our history. Famous for producing beautiful daughters.'

'The Gee-Gee's Delia must be one of the best,' McKay said, and both Ponsfords agreed.

Once the ice was broken, McKay found the couple to be rather interesting, solid middle-cla.s.s Englishmen who adored their betters. They are stuffy, he told himself. I suppose they were trained that way, but once you discount it, they're not bad. However, he still wondered what they were doing in All Saints, but they surrendered no clues.

He was beginning to like them because they were willing, at meals which he took at their table increasingly, to talk about the Wrenthams: 'Actually, we knew Lord Basil's father, before he inherited the earldom. Fine, outgoing man, very good on a horse.'

'What was he like?'

'Understand, when he became the earl we didn't see him anymore. We're not members of those exalted circles.'

McKay, eager to penetrate the cloak of reticence in which the couple had clothed themselves, asked with the double impertinence of both an American and a newspaperman: 'What did you do ... in private life ... before you retired?'

Mr. Ponsford flinched at such a direct question; one did not ask questions like that in English society, but his increasing respect for McKay's sincerity and honesty encouraged him to respond: 'Marine insurance, in a small company ...' to which his wife added with obvious pride: 'But by the time he retired ... of course, he didn't need to retire, actually, because by then he owned the company, and a larger one in Liverpool.'

'What do you make of the Gee-Gee's daughter?'

'She's a darling,' Mrs. Ponsford said, but her husband was more cautious: 'That one gives her father real headaches,' and there the opening conversation about Delia ended, because Major Leckey appeared in gray tropical dress and topee to lead an excursion of the Ponsfords, the Gee-Gee and his daughter to a picnic at Cap Galant. When McKay heard this, he started to inform the Ponsfords that he had been picnicking at Cap Galant ... But before he could finish, Leckey moved them off, for to him McKay without letters of introduction was still a non-person.

In the next days McKay interrogated the Ponsfords, Bart and Etienne about the Honorable Delia, and acquired a bit of information. Bart told him: 'Lord Wrentham, the real one that is, heir to the earldom, was said to be quite upset by his niece's behavior. Delia wouldn't listen to Lady Gore, and only a sharp rebuke from His Lordship himself caused her to break off with a German colonel she had taken a liking to. She's twenty-two, you know. Has a mind of her own.'

A man at a nearby table said: 'The affair with the German colonel is supposed to have come close to tragedy,' and McKay asked, his voice betraying his surprise at such a statement: 'What kind of tragedy could a girl her age stumble into?'

The man volunteered no explanation, so taking his leave, McKay said: 'I want the jeweler to engrave my initials on the Rolex he sold me the other day,' and he walked to Boncour's shop, only to find that by the happiest coincidence Delia herself was there to finish the business she had started when Major Leckey had so imperiously dragged her away on her earlier visit.

'Hullo,' she said breezily as McKay looked over her shoulder at the items she had selected for her charm bracelet. 'I'm Delia Wrentham and you're ... I know who you are. You wrote that article about us.'

She had pretty well selected the little charms she wanted when the door to the shop slammed open, Major Leckey strode in, took her by the arm, and led her away without speaking a word to anyone. McKay, looking at Boncour when this happened, saw that he flushed as if he had been struck, and Millard could make nothing of the incident until the talkative salesgirl who had shown him the magazine whispered, when Boncour was attending to another customer: 'She comes in here all the time.'

When McKay's second article reached the islands, it made him a hero, for in it he had written with delicate charm of the social life on All Saints, with a most ingratiating portrait of the new Gee-Gee and his style. The Honorable Delia came off as a gift to any island she chose to occupy, and her father was presented as incredibly straight and stuffy by American or Canadian standards, but just about what the island needed according to British custom. McKay also offered ingratiating pen portraits of The Club, The Tennis, the Waterloo and Tonton's, inviting each reader to decide at what level he would fit should he visit the island.

Some English cynics asked: 'How dare he write about The Club and The Tennis, seeing he's never been invited to either?' but they had to acknowledge that he had a right to describe the Waterloo and Tonton's, since he hung out at the former and had twice patronized the latter with Sir Benny Castain. The Ponsfords asked sharply: 'How'd you know about The Club?' to which they'd already been invited on several occasions, and he gave the reporter's favorite explanation: 'I'm a good listener.'

'You must go there one day,' they said sincerely, and he replied: 'I'd like that.'

The second article attracted such favorable attention at Government House that it became preposterous for Major Leckey to ignore its author any longer. But the long-overdue invitation came not from Leckey but from a more surprising source: 'h.e.l.lo, is this the American writer McKay? Good. Governor General here. I've been reading your reports, McKay. Jolly fine. We appreciate what you say about our island, warts and all. I'm giving a different kind of reception Thursday at six. Could you find it possible to join us? Good, good. An invitation will be forthcoming.'

The Gee-Gee was no fool. His long a.s.sociation with reporters who covered cricket matches and those who dealt in politics had taught him how valuable a newspaper story could sometimes be, and he suspected that his forthcoming reception would be worth an entire article in McKay's paper.

On a lovely Thursday night in early March 1938, Lord Basil Wrentham, the governor general of All Saints, the British island in the Caribbean, invited to his home for a gala celebration all the other Wrenthams on the island. Thirty-nine had been found who could come, men like Black Bart Wrentham, the owner of the Waterloo, women like Nancy Wrentham, who served as head night nurse in the charity ward at the hospital. They came in all kinds of dress, had all shades of coloring. Only two were white, a husband and wife who ran a farm near Anse du Soir, and well over half were decidedly dark, running to nearly black, so diluted had the n.o.ble Wrentham blood become.

But they were a sterling group, men and women whose ancestors had experienced the full triumph and tragedy of this island. Four had been in jail, and Major Leckey had made this known to the Gee-Gee, who said: 'They aren't in jail now.' The food served was a little more solid than usual, the drinks much weaker, but the same band played as for the all-white receptions and the floral decorations were just as carefully positioned about the big rooms. Lord Basil met everyone, greeted each as his cousin, and made the evening a true reunion.

Half a dozen members from each of the other All Saints social groups had also been invited: white business leaders, Sir Benny Castain, light-colored merchants and politicos like Etienne Boncour. The Gee-Gee took special pains to introduce McKay in the various rooms, telling his guests: 'We're honored to have this distinguished American writer visiting our island and sharing with his readers some of the truths about us.' As they pa.s.sed from one room to another he whispered: 'I'm having a small supper at The Club after we break and I'd be delighted if you could join us.'

The evening should have been an unqualified success, for even Major Leckey, knowing that he must follow the Gee-Gee's lead, came up to welcome McKay as if they were established friends. But as he and McKay walked together, almost arm in arm, toward another room, they came upon an alcove and froze. There the Honorable Delia was embracing the jeweler Etienne Boncour with an almost animal pa.s.sion.

In that one instant each pair saw the other, their eyes meeting, their voices unable to form words. Then Leckey gripped McKay's arm and hurried him along to another room. Neither spoke. Neither would ever refer to the incident. But each knew that what they had seen carried a terrible significance: for Major Leckey because the scene struck at the very fabric of the social order in All Saints; for Millard McKay because he was a practiced newsman, but also because he had himself fallen in love with Delia Wrentham.

The supper at The Club was a tense business-Delia, Leckey and McKay had to share the same table for twelve, with Lord Basil at the head, yet they could barely look at one another. Etienne Boncour, as a man of color, was ineligible to dine at The Club, of course, even if the Gee-Gee's daughter was infatuated with him.

Several of the older guests stopped by to congratulate McKay on his second article: 'Much better than the first with all that white and black nonsense.' One husband and wife asked: 'Is The Club pretty much as you imagined it?' McKay ignored the barb and smiled: 'It's a haven. A wonderful, tropical haven,' and he pointed to the luxurious flowers.

He went to bed that night impressed by Lord Wrentham's imaginative gesture in bringing his island relatives together, but disturbed by his daughter's brazen lovemaking with Boncour. As he twisted back and forth, unable to sleep, he began to see the affair as any ordinary newsman would: She's a spoiled b.i.t.c.h. Been kicking up her heels all over Europe. Got in the habit, so when she hits an end of the world, like All Saints, she simply has to look around for any man who is remotely eligible. h.e.l.l, it could be anyone. This won't last long. She'll move on to another man in a short while, just like she did in England. And with that, he fell asleep without having given a thought as to how he was going to report this heartwarming reunion of the island Wrenthams.

Four days later, as he was finishing a lonely lunch, the Ponsfords came in for their own very late meal, and after taking a seat at a table somewhat removed from McKay's, Mrs. Ponsford slipped quietly over to speak with her American friend: 'Make no gesture. Say nothing. But Delia Wrentham is going to drive by that front door shortly in a Government House car. You're to be waiting.'

His heart thumping, he walked nonchalantly from the dining room, stood behind some shrubs where he would not be noticed, and waited for this bewitching woman. What could be the meaning of her summons? Why would the granddaughter of an earl seek him out? He had not even begun to frame the possibilities when a small English MG pulled up and he ran out to hop in.

'I need your help,' she said tersely as the car leaped forward.

To McKay's surprise, she headed for the southeast corner of Bristol Town and the famous mountain road that first climbed up in a series of very tight turns, then dropped down in a chain of frightening hairpins downhill to the oceanfront town of Ely. Delia drove the straight-ahead portions connecting the seven turns at high speed, then, as the next hairpin approached, she slammed on the brakes and screamed half-sideways round the corner. McKay, sitting in what was for him the wrong side of the front seat, was terrified.

It was, he later said, 'the worst ten miles I've ever ridden,' but when he became accustomed to it, he had time, especially during the straightaways to think: This is great! I'm heading to an unknown destination with a t.i.tled Englishwoman, and a knockout! High adventure for a Detroit newspaperman educated at Rutgers, and he laughed at himself for feeling like a freshman.

Finally he asked, 'Where are we going?' and she said: 'You'll see.' He did not venture even a guess as to what was happening.

He had half expected her to stop in Ely, a town he had wanted to see for its snug harbor on the Atlantic, but she roared through its narrow streets, rousting chickens and terrifying citizens. 'Slow down, killer!' he cried. 'This is a town.' But she ignored him, exiting by a narrow southern trail that ran along the cliffs overlooking the ocean.

After a breathtaking ride they reached the top of a long descent at the foot of which lay the colorful and isolated town of York, a big village, really, strung out along the two sides of Marigot Baie, a starkly handsome indentation from the Atlantic. He had read that in hurricane season York sometimes absorbed a good deal of punishment, for great waves came storming into the enclosed baie and tumbled helter-skelter onto the roads and houses at lower levels. But a few days of sunshine usually dried out the damage and York resumed its quiet ways.

'What are we doing in York?' McKay asked, but Delia merely fluffed out her hair with her right hand, then patted him on the knee with her left and a.s.sured him: 'You'll see.'

She was adorable, there was no other word McKay could think of as she sped them to the south arm of the baie where the island road ended. Darting impatiently from one cul-de-sac to the next, she found herself hitting dead ends repeatedly, and was forced at last to halt the car, summon a black peasant to her window, and ask almost petulantly: 'Where's the road to Cap d'Enfer?' and he explained what she already knew: 'There be no road, ma'am, just a path.'

'I know,' she snapped. 'But where is the path?'