Possession (Roche, February 1923)/Part 1/Chapter 5
The canoe had veen varnished; the tennis court was in process of preparation. Mrs. Machin grumbled because he took the men from their work to help him with his play. One morning in the latter part of June, she marched over to him, as he was directing the rolling of the lawn by Gunn and Newbigging, and said:
"Them fellas will just have to leave off that foolery to-day, and help get the Indians' shack ready. They've sent word that they'll be here tomorrow, and they'll be mad if they find the roof not mended. They was nearly flooded out before they left last year. Of course, if you don't care, Mr. Vale, what sort of accommodation you give the poor things, it don't matter to me." She folded her arms across her stomach and stared into the lake.
"I didn't know they were coming," said Vale, meekly. "Is that the little house in the orchard?"
"Yes. How did ye s'pose the fruit got picked? The strawberries is tame but they won't hop off the vines into the baskets themselves, I can tell ye. With this hot sun there'll be a pickin' ready in a day or two."
"Very well. I'll let them off in a few minutes." And he persisted for a time in the rolling, while Mrs. Machin stood by, impatient and contemptuous. He would not let her domineer over him before the men, for he had seen them grinning on more than one occasion, when he had been worsted by her.
Derek had scarcely noticed the small shack in the far end of the orchard. It was so dilapidated, so weatherbeaten that he had supposed it to be but an unused outhouse.
Now he stood dismayed at the squalor of the hovel. It had been thrown together of odds and ends of boards; the roof had been covered with tar paper, now flapping loosely; the one small window showed the bare interior. The mud floor was still wet from spring rains, the walls were lined with bunks half filled with evil-smelling straw. Under a lean-to outside he saw a cooking stove red with rust, and, beneath the trees, a long table with benches on either side.
"This is horrible," he said. "Do you mean to say they sleep here?"
"Indeed they do," said Mrs. Machin, "and it's better than they get lots of places. I know of farms where they just live in the barns and sleep in the mow."
"Just the same," put in Windmill, "the Government is putting a stop to that sort of thing. If an inspector comes round and finds them all sleeping in one room you're liable to get into trouble."
"How many are there?"
"About fifteen. Old Solomon Sharroe, his wife, two daughters and their husbands, some younger boys and girls, and Jammery. He's quite above the rest of them."
"We must get another room fixed up for those women. I won't stand their living like animals."
"Your uncle never minded," said Mrs. Machin.
"Well, he should have been ashamed of himself."
"Look here," said Windmill, "there's a pile of timber down by the barn. I believe we could run up an extra room for the women in no time."
"And I shall drive to Brancepeth," said Vale, "and buy a couple of bedsteads and a chest of drawers."
Mrs. Machin's disgust was so deep that she could not abide to listen to their plans. Calling Phœbe, she stalked gloomily down the orchard path, wondering audibly how long Grimstone would endure under such mismanagement.
The men, delighted by a change of work, threw themselves heartily into the building of the additional room. By evening of the next day, it was not only built but the bedsteads, the chest of drawers, and a small looking-glass had been arranged inside. However, Derek held it as only a makeshift, and determined that before the next fruit season, he would have a proper cottage where the Indians could dispose themselves decently. He was eager to meet them and see their pleasure in the new comforts he had provided.
He rose early the next morning after the shack had been completed, and, after breakfast, strolled through the orchard to take a final look at it. He thought it would look rather jolly when a spiral of blue smoke curled from the rusty stove-pipe. He opened the cupboard door and looked complacently at the gaudy new set of dishes he had bought at Brancepeth. A sound of children's voices made him start. He saw what seemed a long procession of dusky people coming up the orchard path. Four little girls danced ahead while the men and women approached slowly, laden with burdens and infants. A boy of ten came last, carrying on his back an idiot boy a couple of years younger.
The women chattered cheerfully in Indian, as they came up, and stared in a friendly, amused way at Derek and the addition to the shack.
"I s'pose you're Mr. Vale," said a tall old man coming up to Derek. "Mrs. Machin, she told us we'd find you up hereabouts. I'm Solomon Sharroe, an' all these folks is my family. We been pickin' fur your uncle a good many years. You like livin' here?"
"Yes," said Vale, "and I'm very glad to see you. The strawberries need your attention, I think."
"We get something to eat now, and then me and the other men start in. The women will want the rest of the day fur gittin' settled." His dark eyes rested indulgently on the group of women and girls, who were already lighting a fire in the stove and unpacking bread, bacon, and bottles of pickles from a basket.
There was a grave dignity about the old man that pleased Derek. His rugged, bronze face, high, deeply lined forehead surmounted by a thatch of thick iron-grey hair gave no evidence of racial degeneration. The women, too, were attractive, plump, round-faced, with soft, quick movements and shy, sidelong glances at him. The young men had disappeared inside the shack, but one of them now came out and Solomon motioned him to approach.
"This is Jammery," he announced with a wave of his dark hand on which shone a silver ring. Jammery held out his hand.
"How do you do, Mr. Vale," he said in a soft voice.
Vale took the proffered hand. It was small, very smooth, and limp. He returned his own to his pocket after the contact.
"Are you a son or son-in-law?" he asked, the old man having been called away by his wife.
"Neither." Jammery stroked his slender, black mustache. "I'm no relation to these people. I've just thrown my lot in with theirs for a while. I'm not much of an Indian."
"No, I see that." He was indeed, only olive in complexion. "You speak English well."
Jammery gave a shrug. "I can scarcely speak Indian at all. But I know what they say."
"I suppose Jammery was originally Jean-Marie."
He shrugged again. "No idea," he said. "It's my first, last, and middle name. The only one I've got."
Derek looked him over curiously, wondering what wild and picturesque past had gone to the making of this handsome, unscrupulous-looking little fellow. "Well," he said, "if you need anything let me know. I want you to be as comfortable as possible."
"Thank you," said Jammery. "Lots of the fruit-growers don't care how we live so long as they get plenty of work out of us. They don't treat us as well as their animals."
A new life and activity took possession of Grimstone. It seemed to Vale that in whatever direction he looked he saw one of the dark tribe of pickers. The men and older women set stolidly to work in the strawberry beds; the two young boys ran continually from the barn to the shack carrying armfuls of straw or tin pails of water; when he went to the kitchen the round faces of two twelve-year-old girls were pressed against the screen door. "Phœbe," one of them was calling, "kin we git a point of milk?" Seeing Vale she smiled broadly.
"What is your name, youngster?" he asked.
"Beulah. This here's my niece, my oldest sister's girl. Ain't she white?" This with candid pride. "The Government gent he wouldn't give her no allowance last time—she was so white."
The girl's skin was indeed white, but she preserved a stoical Indian calm while being discussed. Laughing-eyed Beulah chattered on: "Will you come and see our gorden? It's terr'ble pretty. We'll git the point of milk when we come back. The gorden's on the shore, won't you come? Gosh! you've got pretty hair."
Derek suffered himself to be led by Beulah and her solemn niece, Alma, to the shore. He had no idea what a gorden was, but he liked children, especially dark-eyed little girls. They made him feel weakly good-humored, almost helpless. On the sand three younger girls were bending over a miniature garden, made of bits of water-weeds and flowering grass and intersected by paved walks of broken glass and coloured stones. Derek was amazed at the nice care with which the pattern was laid, and the dainty gestures of the small brown hands as they placed a pebble or were clapped together in delight. He sat down on the sand beside them and began to build a wall around the "gorden." The children pressed about him and ran to fetch little shells to ornament the top of the wall. He caught the smallest in his hands and rolled her on the sands. "Oh, you are a fonny man!" they shrieked. They found a long grey quill from a gull's wing and stuck it in his hair, chuckling, "Now you are an Indian, like us."
Even when darkness came they were not to be ignored. A shaft of light struck through the orchard from a lantern hung by the door of the shack, and a great blaze danced up from the shore where they made a bonfire at the water's edge.
Vale, sitting with his pipe on the porch, could see flames leaping above the crest of the bluff, and he began to feel nervous lest the flying sparks should do damage. Mrs. Machin had driven into Mistwell or she would have gone down to them, he knew. By the screams and shrill laughter he felt sure that the young women and girls were in bathing and had made the fire to warm and dry themselves.
Half-amused, more than a little annoyed, he crossed the lawn, quietly passed through the gate and hid himself in the clump of stunted cedars that overlooked the shore. His nostrils were tickled by a pungent odor that quenched the sweetness of the locust flowers. Ruddy tongues licked about a heap of driftwood and cast their fierce reflection on the water next the shore. In this molten pool five little girls, three young women, and a boy of fourteen were bathing. The boy, like a bronze imp, chased one after another of his naked sisters, the captured one being roughly splashed, and then held under water despite her cries. Their smooth, brown bodies caught the glow from the fire like copper urns; Derek could see even the jewel-like glitter of their eyes. He watched them smiling, forgetting his annoyance.
The boy, soon tiring of his easy prey, swam outward into the darkness. One of the girls raised her arms to her head to fasten the long wet hair that had fallen about her shoulders. Derek's heart gave a sudden leap; a hot thrill of pleasure stirred, like a pain, in his breast. She seemed to rise, a dark water-lily on its stem, a flower of unearthly beauty, springing from the water, fed by the flames, filling the night air with the perfume of her desire. At her side the dark head of the smallest child lay on the water between its outstretched arms like an olive-tinted bud. It was a moonless night and the sky hung low, dark as a bowl of wine.
All the bathers were motionless now, or nearly so. Yes, they were water-lilies, resting languorously in this secret place, their petals drawn together, holding the sweetness of the night.
He gazed at them each in turn, but found none so lovely as she whose slender arms still curved above her head.
She left the water and came slowly to the fire; picking up a cloth she began languidly to dry her breast. Her sisters followed her, and, as they crouched together, their interlacing limbs made intricate linear designs against the sombre glow of the subsiding fire.
When they had drawn on their dresses they ascended the steps in the bank, talking softly in Indian. Their mood of noisy gaiety seemed to have passed; their faces were pensive, even sad. They were so near for a moment that he might have touched them. He longed to put out his hand and draw that supple, sweetest one, in among the cedars, hold her in his arms, and tell her how beautiful she was.
Their feet made a little rustling in the grass; the gate creaked and they were gone.
The boy, returning to the shore, and finding himself deserted, began carefully to extinguish the fire. With sand and stones he smothered it, and, running up the steps, passed Derek, loudly whistling.
Once more the perfume of the locust flowers drenched the air; with it mingled the sharp, sweet smell of the cedars, and the faint odor of burnt wood. The waves commenced a sudden, crisp lapping on the shore, as though the business of the night had just begun. All about his feet he saw the dim, white heads of mushrooms.
"I must have some of those for my breakfast," he thought.
He re-lit his pipe and sauntered to the house.