Island in the Sun Read online

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  She opened a drawer and put the package in it. It pleased him more than it disappointed him that she did not tear back a corner of the package to see the color and to feel the texture.

  On her desk was lying an anthology of modern poetry that he had lent her.

  “What do you make of them?” he asked.

  “A lot. Now you’ve read them to me first. If you hadn’t I’d have missed their rhythm.”

  “Which was your favorite?”

  “I liked several.”

  She picked up the book and turned its pages. “This for instance—” and began to read out loud a poem by Nigel Heseltine.

  That autumn when the partridges called in the stubble

  I waded the wet beet to my knees and angrily fired

  At birds who had no part in my trouble

  And blew them apart and walked all day till I was tired.

  She read it rhythmically. Yes, she’d got its measure. It was extraordinary that she had, she who had scarcely read a line of poetry a month ago; but perhaps it was only natural that she should. Modern poetry was on the wavelength of its day; addressed to its day, saying things for that day. And those who were of that day should be able to pick it up. It was those who had been taught to listen on the wavelength of an earlier day, who had been bred in the tradition of Milton, Wordsworth, Tennyson who could not hear the rhythms of Spender, Day Lewis, Dylan Thomas.

  Margot read on:

  Gnawing in me that drove my feet on, her face in every wall her walk upon the hill, her voice, her tall

  body below the trees. The hot September sun was like a prison

  binding me in parched heat where I trod up and down and never could reach the horizon.

  Her voice was rich and melodious. He had not realized before how good the poem was. She put down the book.

  “I wish you’d show me some of your own poems,” she said. “Read them to me first, as you did these ones, then let me take them away and read them by myself.”

  He hesitated for a moment. He was shy of showing his poems. He had no idea if they were any good. He was confident in his capacity to write. He believed that he would make his mark as a novelist or a critic, but he was uncertain of himself, as a poet. His poems had been published in Oxford magazines, but that might be only because poetry of his kind was in the fashion, and editors liked to play for safety. When Jocelyn Fleury had asked to see them, he had shaken his head. He could not have stood the comments she might have made, about not being “educated up to it.” With Margot it was different. She had the direct vision of a primitive painter; he would like to know what she thought about them. If he heard her read them he might have a better idea as to whether they had any quality.

  “I’ll bring some in tomorrow.”

  There was a pause.

  “When are we going to meet again?” he said.

  “You are the busy one.”

  It was said uncoquettishly. She was never coy. She never flirted. Her directness was one of her chief attractions for him. They had met several times since the Nurses’ Dance, briefly for snatched moments, drives along the coast sandwiched between two engagements, fretted by the knowledge that anyone driving by would recognize his car. He recalled the warning that he had given to young Templeton on the afternoon of that first garden party. It was ironical that he should have been so prescient.

  “It’s maddening, this seeing you and yet not seeing you,” he said.

  “I know.”

  She said it simply.

  That was another of her attractions for him, the feeling that she knew what was in his mind. She did not have to have things explained or veiled. He could not see her alone in Government House. He could not take rooms in town.

  “Don’t your parents ever go out?” he said.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Couldn’t I see you there?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Next time they go out will you let me know?”

  “I will.”

  Her eyes were looking straight into his. He had the breathtaking certainty that she would. There would be no need to pester her with questions. One day she would say “tomorrow.”

  In the meantime when did he see her next? It was four days since he had been alone with her. Tomorrow he would be out all day. The day after seemed a century away. He was thinking fast. The party at G.H. would break up early: he would have to see some of the guests home.

  “Are you going to the pictures tonight?” he asked.

  “Most likely.”

  “Then if you do, lose whoever you’re with as you come out. If I can manage, I’ll be parked behind the Continental. If I’m not there, don’t wait.”

  “O.K.”

  His heart was thudding as he crossed to the Governor’s study.

  “What was the spy like?” asked Templeton.

  “More like a spy, sir, than a journalist.”

  Archer described the meeting.

  “In that case, see if the Archdeacon is free for dinner. Apologize for a last minute invitation.

  5

  Carl Bradshaw’s description of himself as a feature writer was misleading. His function as New York representative was to keep the paper in touch with the big city. He contributed twice a week a signed column of paragraphs and to the Sunday supplement a full page diary, “The Week in New York.” He was a gossip writer rather than a columnist.

  It was work for which he considered himself admirably suited, and it allowed him to lead the kind of life he liked. He was gregarious, he enjoyed the theater; he was interested in personalities. He was spared direct editorial supervision, he had a three room apartment on the river, he was invited to cocktail parties, he entertained at his paper’s expense, he lunched at the Coffee House three days a week. His work gave him a special status. Hostesses liked to think that their activities were being recorded in another city and authors and play-wrights felt they were being given national publicity. He had his own niche in Manhattan’s life. He had held the post now for twenty years, with complete satisfaction to himself. Until a year or so ago he had considered himself an example of the happy man.

  Recently, however, he had become aware that the satisfaction which he was giving to a certain section of the editorial staff of the Baltimore Evening Star was incomplete. It had been suggested that he might widen the range of his contributions. Why so little about the United Nations: it was questioned whether the efforts of seaboard society hostesses to maintain their prewar traditions of hospitality under the present strain of income tax were quite as interesting as the struggle of their children to adapt themselves to “this brave New World.” Scott Fitzgerald’s heroines had been grandmothers now for quite a while.

  Carl Bradshaw knew what they were thinking—that he was old-fashioned, out of date, no longer in the swim. It was a criticism that made him petulant. How could he at his time of life start to make new friends? He could not drop his old ones, there were only fourteen meals in a week. And where were the new “pipelines”? The children of his friends? It had been one thing to take them to the zoo when they were ten-year-olds; but to pick up those threads now—he corrected himself, to try to pick them up; how hopeless. They were now mothers-of-families; they classed him with their mother’s friends, they thought of him as a nice old fogey; they had friends of their own; the last thing they wanted was to have their homes littered with their parents’ friends, who’d carry gossip “home to mother.” He considered that he had shown admirable tact, admirable good sense in not attempting to exploit them. He would have made himself ridiculous. At the same time he had become acutely conscious of the mounting irritation in Baltimore. His present assignment might not be the sack, but it was the embroidered bag. This was a last chance, he told himself, as he dressed for the Governor’s dinner party.

  He was in a resolute, determined mood. He knew what failure would involve: not destitution; nothing as dramatic as that; he had been prudent, h
e had invested wisely the money that he had saved. He was in a position to resign from the paper if they made him an offer which would insult his pride. But what would his life be without his work: no more seats for openings, no more lunch parties “on the house”: no more opportunities of doing things for people; no more being solicited for this or the other project. What would he be able to contribute to the talk round the octagonal table at the Coffee House? New York was a place where people worked: you were graded by the social status that your work accorded you. Apart from your work you were a nobody. In London it was different, so he had been told; there it wasn’t so much what you did, as who you were. A retired man would be listened to with deference at the Athenaeum. But not in New York. His life would not be worth living if he lost his New York post.

  He was not going to lose it if he could help. Romer might have sent him down here as a prelude to retirement, but it was still within his power to send back an article, a series of articles, that would show those young fools in Baltimore that he knew a story when he saw one. He no more believed that Romer had sent him down on an assignment than His Excellency believed he was on a rest cure.

  6

  It was the first time that Bradshaw had dined at Government House in a British colony. He was impressed. These Englishmen had something. They had lost their Empire, their coinage was debased, their mines were obsolete, their navy was minute, yet they still behaved as though they owned the universe. Lord Templeton’s descent of the wide curving staircase was like a film scene. Only Hollywood would have botched it. They would have given him some elaborate decoration, a sash across his shirt front; Hollywood would have missed the dignity of that slow descent with one man in a plain white uniform with four rows of medal ribbons concentrating in his person the “might, majesty, dominion and power” of a far-flung empire.

  Archer had put him at the extreme right of the line; he was the first to be welcomed by the Governor.

  “It is a great pleasure and a real privilege,” he said, “to welcome you, Mr. Bradshaw, to our island. We hope you will be happy among us, and we hope that you will go back to your work in your own country refreshed and restored by your rest cure here.”

  Bradshaw winced at the words “rest cure.” So Romer had told him that. It was like the letter that Claudius had sent by Gildenstein; it was as good as though Romer had said “this man is of no concern to us any longer, but I shall be grateful if you will pay him the deference due to a member of our staff.” Romer had not taken the precaution of telling Bradshaw how he had worded his cable and with what intent.

  7

  Carl Bradshaw had one great merit as a gossip writer. He was a good listener. As a young man with his way to make he had earned a reputation as a raconteur. As he dressed for dinner he would think out epigrams and plan how he could lead the conversation so as to employ them. He liked to think that next day half the guests would be saying at other tables, “That young fellow Carl Bradshaw was at Molly Winn’s last night. He’s an engaging scamp!” He had pictured other hostesses making mental notes, “Carl Bradshaw. I must remember to put that name upon my list.” It had worked very well when he was twenty-five.

  In the early forties, however, he had changed his technique. He had read a story by Osbert Sitwell called The Machine Runs Down. He had recognized that there are few bores more tiresome than the middle-aged raconteur. No one has an unlimited repertoire of stories, and as the years went by, he had come to find it increasingly difficult to remember in which company he had told which story; so he stopped telling stories and encouraged other people to talk about themselves. The easiest way to being considered a good talker is to make it easy for others to talk well. Nowadays, after a dinner party he had attended he pictured the other guests saying the next day, “I had such an interesting talk last night at Molly’s with Carl Bradshaw. He’s so wise, so understanding.”

  He glanced at the place card of the lady next to him. He had been introduced to her, but the A.D.C. had in the English manner dropped his voice at the end of the sentence. Thank heaven the young man’s script was legible. He read the name—Mrs. Norman. She was an attractive looking woman in the middle forties; brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin; in a few years time she would be plump; the kind of woman with whom he felt most at ease.

  “I want you to tell me everything about everybody here,” he said. “But first of all I want you to tell me all about yourself.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  She had been born here, she said. Her father had a cocoa and sugar estate on the leeward side. Her husband was a Barbadian, in Barclay’s Bank. “That’s him over there.” She indicated a tall thin balding sandy-colored man across the table. He had come to Santa Marta as junior cashier. “He was twenty-five and I was seventeen. He came here for three years as an apprentice; he’s been here ever since. That’s all there is to it.”

  “It sounds a very satisfactory story.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “Have you any children?”

  “Two daughters. The younger one’s married to Maxwell Fleury, the son of the man next to the Archdeacon.”

  “Indeed, that’s interesting.”

  In the briefing that he had been given by his chief, he had been advised to concentrate on Fleury. He was impressed by his appearance. Fleury had an air of dignity and indifference. He would be, Bradshaw reflected, suave, affable, but reserved. I’ll probably learn more about Fleury from his daughter-in-law’s mother than from himself. He might do worse than concentrate on her.

  “Is your husband manager of the bank?” he asked.

  “Among other things. He’s several irons in the fire. He runs my father’s estate, in all but name. Daddy’s getting past it now. He’s also one of the directors of the St. James Hotel. It’s actually too much for him. I’d like him to give up the bank and concentrate on the hotel; I believe there are tourist possibilities here if the right men worked on it in the right way; what do you think, Mr. Bradshaw?”

  “I’ve only been here a few hours.”

  “I know; but you got a bird’s eye view of the island coming in to it on the plane. You saw the beaches, you saw …”

  As she dilated on the special and varied attractions of Santa Marta, Bradshaw followed his own thoughts. All these islands wanted to cash in on the tourist trade; the rewards were so great and certain islands had cashed in so handsomely. Jamaica, Bermuda, the Virgin Islands. The trouble was to get things started. It was not only that Americans wanted “States side comfort,” hot running water and chilled orange juice; they wanted to meet other Americans when they traveled; on their return they wanted to be able to talk about places that their friends had heard about: to compare notes with Frank and Mary. If you could get six American tourists to Santa Marta, you could get sixty. But how to get those six?

  “What do you think Mr. Bradshaw?”

  As she talked an idea had struck him.

  “I’d advise you to concentrate on a summer season,” he advised. “Between January and March you’re in competition with luxury resorts, and luxury hotels. You’re trying to attract a plush clientele and the rich go where the rich are. In July and August you can aim at a different, simpler clientele. The plush people are in Maine or Newport or the South of France, but there is a large group of school teachers, students, parents whose children have gone to camp, who want a holiday in the sun. The climate in those months is very good down here: it’s not too hot. The only bad months are Septemter through November. Why don’t you concentrate on trying to get American tourists in the summer?”

  As he talked, his own plan began to rise in his estimation. Santa Marta might get in on the ground floor.

  “A summer in the West Indies may be a thing of the future,” he continued. “Fifty years ago no one thought of the South of France in August. Now the winter season is almost dead.” He spoke with conviction. It sounded feasible. He could see that it had appealed to Mrs. Norman.

  “You must tell this to J
im,” she said. “You must come round one evening for a cocktail.”

  It was exactly what he had wanted. She might prove a useful “pipeline.” He looked across the table at Fleury: as he did so he was aware of the Archdeacon looking at him. It was almost a stare. His own eyes met it. The Archdeacon held his glance, then with a half smile as it were of recognition, looked away. It was for Bradshaw a dramatic instant.

  The party as Archer had prophesied broke up early.

  “I’m sure,” the Governor said, “that our guest from Baltimore needs a full night’s sleep. And I’m sure he’ll soon learn to adjust himself to our early hours.”

  He walked beside Bradshaw into the hall.

  “You’re here for a rest, but at the same time as a journalist you’ll want to see as much of the island as you can. I’m only too anxious to help you; if there’s anything you’re in doubt about, get in touch with Archer. There’s one thing I’d particularly advise you not to miss—a case that’s coming on in the Courts next week; about a planter whose cattle strayed onto the neighbor’s land. It’ll give you a picture of our Island life.”

  On the other side of him the Archdeacon waited. “We’ve had no chance of a real talk this evening. I wonder if you could take a dish of tea with me one afternoon. You could—delightful. Would Thursday suit you? I shall look forward to it. In the meantime may I give you a lift back to your hotel.”

  Bradshaw was about to accept but Archer interposed.

  “No, Father, that’s right out of your way. I’ve got our car waiting. Really, I insist. I’d enjoy the drive.”

  His eye had been on the clock for the last twenty minutes. It was half-past ten. The cinema would be out at quarter to. It was essential that he should leave when the others did. Otherwise the old man would keep him talking.

  He turned to the Governor. “Will you be wanting me again this evening, sir?”

  “No, no, my boy. That’s everything.”