The Girl From The Sugar Plantation

A gripping and emotional family saga of love and secrets

Sharon Maas

Also by Sharon Maas

The Soldier’s Girl

The Orphan of India

The Lost Daughter of India

Of Marriageable Age

THE QUINT CHRONICLES

The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q

The Secret Life of Winnie Cox

The Sugar Planter’s Daughter

The Girl from the Sugar Plantation

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

The Aftermath

The Soldier’s Girl

Sharon Maas’ newsletter

About the Author

Also by Sharon Maas

Historical Notes

The Orphan of India

The Lost Daughter of India

Of Marriageable Age

The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q

The Secret Life of Winnie Cox

The Sugar Planter’s Daughter

Acknowledgements

Preface

‘I believe that there should be values other than money in a civilised society. I believe that truth, beauty and goodness have a place. Moreover, I believe that if businessmen put money, profit, greed and acquisition among the highest virtues, they cannot be surprised if, for instance, nurses, teachers and ambulance men are inclined to do the same.’

John ‘Jock’ Middleton Campbell, Baron Campbell of Eskan (8 August 1912–26 December 1994)

1

1934, British Guiana, South America

When I was sixteen I made a pact with the devil. He came in the form of a fawning, red-faced and rather plump middle-aged man by the name of Mr Foot; but I was too innocent, too inexperienced in the ways of men, to guess his unsavoury intentions. Oh, I had an inkling, certainly. A twinge of intuition, a sense that his offer came with a price. But I was too excited to care. I ignored the undertones, so obvious in retrospect.

It was a pact born of my need for validation; my need, I suppose, for love: for isn’t love the foundation of all other needs? But I only realised this in hindsight. At the time I craved applause, and that’s what Mr Foot offered. Naive as I was, I had little clue as to what this agreement would eventually involve, but Mr Foot wasn’t to know that; in his eyes I was easy pickings. He made the offer, opened a door and blindly I leapt through it. That door was my escape route: from a prison without walls or bars or boundaries, a prison consisting of infinite skies and endless green fields. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me explain.

I was born with a sugar spoon in my mouth, heiress to one of the great sugar dynasties of British Guiana, a remote colony perched on South America’s eastern shoulder, tucked neatly between Brazil, Venezuela and two other Guianas. A land of great rivers and far-stretching seas, its arms wrapped around you as a mother. We called it BeeGee, a diminutive so much warmer and intimate than the stern formal title, a name spoken like a luscious secret among those of us who knew and loved her.

BeeGee. I miss it so much. The very word conjures up memories of sunshine and flowers, butterflies and birdsong, beautiful white wooden houses on stilts against a backdrop of succulent green. I tend to forget the ugly parts. I tend to forget that it wasn’t like that for us all; that unhappy as I was, still I was born to privilege, that within the dark underbelly of our little dynasty lay great suffering. I tend to forget that my little private prison was child’s play compared to that of so many of my brothers and sisters; that in fact I was one of the lucky ones, despite my perceived misfortune.

Nevertheless, I was miserable. Our particular dynasty was in danger of falling apart, with only me – female and half-blood, the worst combination possible – as the final twitching limb and potential saviour. The stalwart Englishmen who had wrestled our sugar-gold from the earth (or rather, ensured it was wrestled; lowlier beings did the actual work) were all long gone, leaving behind just the two of us: Mama and me.

Promised Land, our crumbling kingdom, was a ten-thousand-acre estate in the county of Berbice on BeeGee’s Corentyne coast, east of the capital city of Georgetown. It was the only home I’ve ever known, the foundation stone of my identity. From my bedroom window on the upper storey of the estate mansion – rebuilt by Mama after the Great Fire of 1921 – I looked out over a veritable ocean of cane, green as far as the eye could see, reaching out to the horizon, to the Atlantic in the distance, green ocean merging into brown ocean. All my life I had absorbed the sights, the sounds, the smells of the sugar year. The flood fallowing, when the ratoons, the baby canes, have been planted, when water from the irrigation canals is let into the fields; the planting, the manuring, the weeding: coolie women in once-bright, now faded saris bent low in the muddy fields. The burning of the cane when the air would be filled with the aroma of scalded cane-juice, rich, evocative, unforgettable. The cane growing higher, higher, above my head, even when I sat on horseback – ten feet tall and more.

Then the harvest; swarms of coolies in the fields with their cutlasses, hacking down the giant cane-stalks; blackened by ash and burnt cane-juice, they would carry their bundles of cane on their backs and load the punts waiting on the navigation canals, swearing and shouting as they worked. Then the punts, pulled by mules, slowly making their way along the gridwork of canals to the factory, perched on the edge of the estate, as far away from the house as possible, a groaning monster devouring those canes, sucking them into its bowels, chewing them and grinding them with huge black metallic teeth and belching great black billows of smoke up through its tall chimneys.

A sugar plantation has a spirit of its own, and Promised Land was part of my identity. I had absorbed that spirit and knew it as intimately as I knew the rooms and hallways of our mansion and the paths through the splendid garden Mama had planted around the house, a riot of colour and birdsong.

And yet…

I might be a princess, but I was a deeply flawed one, a princess unworthy of the throne. Not in Mama’s eyes, but in the eyes of the outside world, and they never missed a chance to let me know how imperfect I was. Not blatantly, you understand; but with subtle half-glances, frowns, awkward silences when I appeared, they placed an invisible glass wall between them and me to let me know my place. I never needed it spelled out in so many words; I had eyes. The hierarchy was plain to see, the layers that dictated and defined your place in society, ordained, it seemed by God. Black the bottom, white the top and a multitude of shades in between, with me floating precariously somewhere in the middle. Half-blood. Mixed-breed. Brown. The collective noun was ‘coloured’. A status of its own, containing within itself a wealth of unstated derogatory adjectives.

While adults managed to conceal their contempt beneath a thin veneer of civility, children were not so subtle, nor so polite; children speak out the truth as learned from their parents and called me those names to my face: mongrel, mule, monkey and worse.

Up here in the Corentyne, far away from the incestuous and intricately layered social hierarchy that is Georgetown society, Mama had etched out a status for me. I was her daughter, adopted or not, and that spoke volumes. Mama, as the only female plantation owner in the colony, as a member of the board of the Sugar Producers’ Association, was highly respected. She had a sharp tongue and feared no man. Indeed, men feared her. Everyone did. Mama always got her way; that’s what they all said. Many hated her, even; but she was inviolable. I, on the other hand, was an open target: a child, a girl, a lightning rod. A pariah.

My status as princess pertained only within the narrow confines of our own plantation; beyond the plantation, beyond the Corentyne, I was nothing.

And so I fled. I fled from the sense of wretchedness and nothingness, from the sense that I did not belong, the knowledge that not all the plantations in the colony could rectify the error of my blood. I fled into the arms of music.

For more than all of this, more than the Atlantic reaching to the horizon, the endless fields of green, that vast Corentyne sky, as wide as it was high, everywhere space and more space, more than the air I breathed and the sun on my back and the birds and the flowers, it was music that gave wings to my soul. It was the piano I loved. My fingers longed to dance along the keys of a piano, fashioning such wings, wings of music, wings to let me soar. Most of all, music brought healing to that deep wound invisible to all but myself.

And that’s where Mr Foot came in. Mr Foot held out a hand of opportunity, and I grasped it as a drowning man grasps at a floating branch.

It all began at the traditional Christmas ball at Promised Land. The usual crowd, the Bees and the Crawfords and the Wrights and the Feet (as everyone called Mr and Mrs Foot), from the neighbouring estates of Albion and Dieu Merci, Port Mourant, Rose Hall and Waterloo, Sophia’s Lot and Monkey Jump, had gathered at our house. After dinner came the entertainment, and I played the piano accompaniment to the usual Christmas carols: ‘Joy to the World’, ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, ‘Silent Night’ and the rest, and even a little solo at the end. The applause was enthusiastic and, for once, I earned words of praise from those thin-lipped, pale-faced denizens of the plantocracy.

I dare say much of the tribute I earned was to flatter Mama, whom, her being a member of the board of the Sugar Producers’ Association, everyone wanted to sweeten. Yet, I hoped behind the applause also lay genuine appreciation. Because I was good. I knew I was good, and I say this without vanity.

I first learned to play at the age of five, when Oma Ruth was still living with Aunt Winnie in Georgetown. Mama and I had been in town, staying at the Park Hotel – Mama had some business with the Sugar Producers’ Association that would keep her there for a month, and she left me with Aunt Winnie and Oma Ruth during the day. That’s when Oma taught me to play.

‘She’s a natural,’ Oma had said, and that was the beginning of it all. ‘She must have piano lessons when you go home!’ Oma insisted, and though Mama wasn’t keen on the idea – Mama always joked she didn’t have a single musical bone in her body – I begged and cajoled and, in the end, she arranged for me to visit a teacher once a week in New Amsterdam. I’d always been able to wrap Mama around my little finger, and the next thing I begged for was a piano of my own. From the day the piano was delivered I was a child obsessed. I practised for hours on end, before school in the morning, after school in the afternoon. When I was fourteen my piano teacher said, ‘I can’t teach her any more. She’s better than me.’ And that was the end of that.

It was frustrating, as I knew there was still room for improvement, but BeeGee was a barren desert when it came to musical education; Georgetown was bad enough, but out here in the country? There was no one to teach me, and all I could do was play and play and play. ‘You’re worse than your grandmother,’ Mama would complain, and I took that as a compliment.

That Christmas concert was the start of it all; the first time I’d played in public, the first time Mr Foot, the administrative manager of Albion plantation, heard me play. Afterwards he drew me aside for a private word. Even that was an extraordinary occurrence; white people, adults, never spoke to me beyond the cursory obligatory murmurings of polite society: How do you do? Merry Christmas! What a pretty dress! I was flattered from the start.

‘Miss Smedley-Cox,’ said Mr Foot, ‘What a magnificent performance! Such a talented young lady – as talented as you are beautiful. You know, while you were playing I had an idea. I wonder if…’

He hesitated. And then, with much hemming and hawing, he continued:

‘I was wondering if you would like to play at the reception at the Georgetown Club in a month’s time? It’s being held as a welcome party for the young lad who is coming to be trained in estate management – the heir to the Campbell throne, if you will. It will be quite a big do – everyone will be there – and I’ve been scratching my head trying to pull together the entertainment. It’s going to be a splendid evening, and to have you play for us, as enthrallingly as you did just now – why, I’m sure we’d all be delighted.’

‘You – you want me to play? At the Georgetown Club?’

I could not believe my ears. I had never set foot in the Georgetown Club, the Buckingham Palace of the colony. Everyone knew it was barred to coloureds. Mama, of course, was a regular there; due to her position on the Sugar Producers’ Association, she often had to attend this function or that, and somehow to date she had managed to circumvent my exclusion with a modicum of dignity. Even she was not willing to break such a time-honoured taboo, not even to pamper my pride.

But to play there? To actually play at the exclusive Georgetown Club? To play for a real English audience beyond the paltry groups of neighbours and estate staff? To play in public, to be heard and, hopefully, appreciated and applauded by the planter aristocracy, the Booker snobs, the white upper class? I couldn’t believe it. I gaped and stuttered, and Mr Foot coughed and continued.

‘I’ll have to ask the SPA’s permission, of course; but seeing as your mother is on the board, and knowing of her persuasiveness – she brings such a feminine touch to all our meetings! – I have no doubt that it will be approved. After all, you aren’t coming as a guest, exactly—’

At the word ‘guest’ he turned lobster-red and hesitated, and I understood. As part of the entertainment I would be an employee at the function, not an invitee, and so convention could be sustained. My status there would be clear, as clear as that of the coloured maids who would be serving the sandwiches and the black barman who would be mixing the cocktails and pouring the rum punch. The only difference was that I would not be in a starched maid’s uniform.

I understood, and he understood that I understood. I was to know my place. I was not an invitee; I was not to mingle, talk to the guests, behave in any way that would compromise myself – or him. I was to come, play and go.

‘You will be paid accordingly, of course,’ he added. ‘Quite deservedly. Of course, there are other musicians – there’s a rather good calypso fellow coming, Doctor Jangles, and we have a steel band lined up as well. Just to give it all a local touch. You know, the exotic element.’

He paused at this point.

‘You do understand, don’t you, that this is as a special favour from me? You do understand that it’s a great’ – he coughed ‘ – privilege for you to be invited. An unusual – ah – kindness. There are several other more experienced pianists in Georgetown, after all. And that I hope – er – would be delighted – well. No need to be indelicate. We do have an understanding, don’t we, my dear?’ And he looked at me, and winked. It was that wink I chose to ignore.

Though young, I was not a complete newcomer to the ways of men. I had already endured my portion of advances and intentions, advances that would certainly have been scandalous had I been of higher status; that is, white like them, like Mama. On more than one occasion I had been pinched; once, a young man had swept me behind a curtain and tried to kiss me. I had shoved him away. Men perfected the art of placing hands on knees beneath the dining table, or playing with feet, or, when they danced with me, of letting fingers wander where they shouldn’t. That wink should have been easy to interpret, and at some unseen level I did understand. But I was not listening at that level, I was listening only to the fever of unrealised ambition. Ignoring the wink, I nodded vigorously and I’m sure my eyes must have radiated all kinds of acquiescence, as did my eager smile.

Encouraged, Mr Foot continued:

‘As I was saying we do have the usual local entertainers but it would be rather wonderful to have some European music as well. I’m sure young Mr Campbell would appreciate it. And you, Miss Cox – well, you really are – for your age – the best such musician the colony has to offer. A very gifted young lady, and so beautiful as well, your golden skin, that magnificent mane of yours…’

He actually reached out, now, to touch my hair. Our housemaid Katie had done it for me and had managed to tame it so much that it cascaded over my shoulders and down my back in a tumble of curls and ringlets while my crown remained demure, kept obediently in place by a complicated arrangement of plaits and pleats and velvet ribbons. My hair was the bane of my existence. It refused to be restrained in any way. It kinked and curled and flew away when I would prefer it to fall neatly into place. It tangled and teased, refusing to bend to my will. If it were not for Katie I don’t know what I would have done – cut it all off, most probably, and run around like a darkie boy with a close-cropped cap. That would certainly have suited me. But I did have Katie, and she did have magical hands where hair was concerned.

I drew back from Mr Foot’s eagerly grasping hand, but not from him. I was interested; of course I was! I knew just one thing: this was my big chance. My debut. Yes, I would play for them; I would stun them with the beauty of music. Because my hands too were magical, on the keys of a piano.

‘Mr Foot,’ I said, ‘I should be delighted to play at the Georgetown Club!’

With those words I sealed our little pact.

‘What about your mother?’ he asked, rather nervously. ‘You’ll need her cooperation. Her permission.’

‘Don’t worry about Mama,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt. ‘I’ll persuade her.’