Alyssa peeped out of the canvas tarpaulin
covering the lifeboat and surveyed the deck below. The coast was clear.
Clinging on perilously in the buffeting wind and heaving Atlantic swell, she
clambered down and made her way to the small washroom on the starboard side of
the liner. She sneaked inside without being seen, closing the door behind her
with a sigh of relief.
Washing all over from the tiny hand basin was difficult and
uncomfortable, but it was better than nothing. After all, she hadn’t paid for
this trip like the other five-hundred-or-so Jamaicans on board. She was a
stowaway, so poor that she hadn’t even been able to find the special reduced
fare of £50 offered to immigrants seeking a new life in the Mother Country.
When she had finished, Alyssa felt much better and looked at herself in
the mirror with a degree of satisfaction. Staring back at her, she saw a pretty
face framed with long, wavy black hair and perfect white teeth that captivated
everyone whenever she smiled. The slim brown body she had just washed was firm
and curvaceous and her legs were long and shapely. She’d been much admired in
her hometown of Kingston and had been pursued by a whole host of young men
desperate to win her favours, but she’d wanted none of them. They would all
condemn her to a life of childbearing and domestic drudgery, just like her
mother. She was worth more than that. The face she saw in the mirror was her
fortune - that and her gift for cooking the most delicious food imaginable. She
was going to make her way in the world and the city of London, whose streets
she’d often been told were paved with gold, was the place where she would do
it. She felt like a modern-day Dick Whittington - only she would be arriving by
boat instead of by road - but she had the same determined ambition.
Alyssa’s heart lurched as the door opened and someone else came in. This
had never happened before. By confining her excursions from her hiding-place to
the first light of dawn, she’d always managed to avoid meeting anybody. The
newcomer looked equally surprised to see her. She was a middle- aged woman with
bobbed hair that made her face look like a boy. She was wearing an
expensive-looking tracksuit and was obviously taking some early-morning
exercise.
“Oh, hello,” she said in a very upper-class English accent. “What are
you doing up at this ungodly hour?”
Alyssa didn’t answer, not wishing to reveal
anything about herself by talking. Instead, she mimed being sick.
“You poor thing,” said the stranger. “Nothing worse than sea sickness.
Admiral Nelson suffered from it dreadfully, you know. Can’t say it’s ever
bothered me.”
The woman squeezed past Alyssa into the
toilet cubicle.
“I haven’t seen you before,” she continued from behind the closed door.
“I’ve got to know most of the passengers at the sing-songs in the evenings with
that Lord Kitchener chap. Isn’t he marvellous? I just adore calypso…”
The woman opened the door again to find she
was talking to herself. Alyssa had gone.
The ocean liner, the Empire Windrush, was now five days out from the
West Indies and steaming steadily across the empty, windswept wastes of the
mid-Atlantic. Originally a German cruise ship, she had served as a troop
carrier and prison ship during WWII before being captured by the Allies. She
was now used as a passenger vessel bringing civilians, including 60 displaced
Polish refugees, from Australia. En route, the graceful white liner with her
two huge funnels and sloping masts had called at Kingston docks where she had
taken on the contingent of hope-filled Jamaican immigrants taking advantage of
a special cheap fare to start a new life in London. They were due to reach
British soil sometime in June.
Back in her swaying lifeboat, Alyssa nibbled an apple from her rapidly
dwindling supplies of food and water, relishing every mouthful and eating it
all including the pips. She longed for something warm and filling for, although
it was high summer, it was always cold in her precarious hiding-place high
above the deck. Tiring of gazing at the endless expanse of heaving grey water,
she settled down with a weary sigh for another long day of drifting in and out
of sleep. But she had barely closed her eyes when she heard noises above her
and suddenly the tarpaulin cover was yanked aside, dazzling her eyes with
bright sunlight.
“Hello, hello! What ‘ave we ‘ere?” snorted a grinning seaman, reaching
in and grabbing Alyssa’s arm in a vice-like grip. “I thought I saw you
yesterday, scurryin’ abaht like a bleedin’ rabbit. Think you’d better come with
me, lady. Skipper will want a word with you.”
The Captain did not know quite what to do with his stowaway,
particularly one as vibrant and attractive as this. But his problem was solved
by the other passengers. Hearing of Alyssa’s plight, they organised a
collection so that her fifty pound fare could be being paid for her and a
further five pounds put in her pocket as spending money. Alyssa was overwhelmed
by this kindness and thanked everyone personally, shaking their hands and
treating them each to her dazzling smile. By the time she had finished, there
were as many men in love with her as there had been back home in Kingston Town.
But her good fortune did not end there. At the musical gathering that evening,
the fresh-faced woman with the bobbed haircut came up and introduced herself.
“Hello again,” she said, her voice sounding even more plummy than
before. “I’m Lady Tomilson. But please call me Stella. Everyone else does. I
have to say, I really admire your spunk, my dear. It takes great guts to endure
the hardship of being a stowaway. I’d like to get to know you better. In fact,
come to think of it, I’d like to take you under my wing.”
In the days that followed, Alyssa spent a lot of time with Stella
Tomilson, sitting at the bar and listening to her new friend talking with great
enthusiasm about every subject under the sun. Stella was an intellectual, an
academic thinker and writer, who had moved in the highest literary circles
during the Thirties before involving herself in the fight against fascism. She
was also incredibly wealthy, the only granddaughter of Sir Andrew Tomilson
whose family had made a vast fortune out of the railway boom in Victorian
times. Not that she considered her money of any importance other than the fact
that it allowed her to do whatever she pleased, especially pursuing worthy
causes. And she felt Alyssa was definitely a worthy cause. This young woman was
obviously brave and ambitious, qualities that Stella greatly admired and
exhibited herself in her unconventional, fast-moving lifestyle. She was
determined to help this penniless girl and make sure her dreams came true in
her newly-adopted country.
The Windrush docked at Tilbury on June 22, 1948. It was a hot summer’s
day and the excited immigrants felt very much at home as they struggled down
the crowded gangplanks with their battered suitcases, pausing to have their
pictures taken as they arrived in England. Stella and Alyssa were amongst the
last to leave the ship. As some harassed-looking British officials led the
noisy chattering crowd away towards Clapham air-raid shelter, their makeshift
home for the next few days, the two women climbed into a waiting car and were
driven to Stella’s elegant town house in Chelsea. That evening, lying in a
comfortable bed with a bell to ring if she wanted anything brought to her,
Alyssa could not believe her good fortune. She’d gone from rags to riches
overnight. Everything she’d been told about the Mother Country was true. The
streets of London were paved with gold.
* * *
* *
About a week after Alyssa’s arrival, Stella announced her intention of
closing the house for six months and going to live with one of her lovers in
Paris.
“Don’t you worry, my dear,” she added, laying a reassuring hand on
Alyssa’s arm. “You’re not being thrown out on the street. I’ve found you a job.
My friends Lady Tara and Lord Richard Scott are looking for someone to help
them round the house – you know, bit of cooking and cleaning, that sort of
thing. I think you’ll fit the bill admirably. In fact, I’ll take you there
tomorrow and introduce you. They live in a splendid house in Knightsbridge. And
they’re lovely people.”
That evening, when Stella was attending a literary party at the Savoy,
Alyssa wrote to her mother for the first time since arriving in England …
Dear Madda,
Wha an adventcha mi havin’!
Mi arrive in London Town safe and sound
lass week. Mi had an excitin’ journey acrosss de wata. Everyone was very kind
to mi. Mi now stayin’ wit a wonderful English fren’ who ah luk afta mi well.
Shi hab even find mi wuk.
It ah summa dehyah and de weada is hot (but nutten like it is at home.)
Mi miss Jamaica aredi, but dere ah nuff apachuniti dehyah that mi cannot fail
to du well. Mi miss yuh most of aal, madda – and aal de rest of de fambily,
specially Seanna. Mi nah recall gwan noweh witout mi lickkle sista.
Mi will writ to yuh again in ah few weeks’ time and tell yuh how mi is
gettin’ on. Yuh mustn’t fret bout mi. Mi goin’ to liv inna big posh house weh
mi will be given food and clothes and be paid for mi wuk. Comin’ to England is
ah dream com true. Mi wish yuh were dehyah to share it aal wit mi.
Wit all mi luv,
Yuh Alyssa.
Lord Richard greeted Alyssa with a genuine smile of welcome. He was
reading the paper in the sitting room and jumped up as she entered, clearly
surprised and delighted to have such an attractive visitor. His wife, a small
woman with a sharp face who wore formal tailored suits every day of the week
and a tweed one on Sunday, showed no such obvious pleasure. As soon as she got
the chance, she bundled Stella into the drawing room and rounded on her
furiously.
“You didn’t tell me she was a nigger!” she hissed.
“It wasn’t relevant,” replied Stella,
calmly. “And don’t use the word ‘nigger.’ It’s very offensive.”
“I’ll use whatever words I like in my own house!” snapped Lady Tara, her
cheeks flushing angrily. She wasn’t used to being criticised or made to feel in
the wrong. “Just tell her to go back to whatever primitive place she came
from.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Stella, looking through the door and
noticing with satisfaction how well Alyssa and Sir Richard were getting on
together. “On the phone, you told me you
were in desperately in need of someone to work for you. You can’t change your
mind now just because of the colour of her skin.”
“Of course I can…” protested Lady Tara, stopping short when she noticed
the look of growing fury on her friend’s face.
“We’ve been friends since Roedean, Tara,” whispered Stella, moving in
close so their faces were only inches apart, “but I never realised just how
prejudiced you really are. Your attitudes sicken me. If you’re not careful, I
won’t have anything more to do with you.”
“All right, all right,” agreed Lady Tara, suddenly panic-stricken at the
thought of losing her well-connected friend. “I’ll give the girl a try. But
she’ll have to learn to speak the King’s English. When I met her at the door, I
couldn’t understand a word she said.”
“She speaks Patois, a Jamaican version of English,” explained Stella. “I
love it. It’s so colourful and expressive. You’ll get used to it.”
Two days later, Alyssa bade a tearful farewell to Stella, the woman
who’d shown her such kindness, and took up her position in the Scott’s
household. Her spirits dropped when she was shown to her tiny attic bedroom,
but lifted again when she entered the enormous kitchen with cupboards stocked
with food despite the continuing rationing and an inviting scrubbed pine work
table in the centre.
“Mi in cooking heaven,” she said to herself, looking around excitedly -
only to have her dreams dashed again when Mrs Morgan appeared. She was the
Scott’s cook, a dour Welsh woman with her hair in a bun and a face that looked
as if she’d just been sucking a lemon. When Alyssa explained that she hoped to
do some of the cooking and introduce the family to the delights of West Indian
food, Mrs Morgan just laughed in her face.
“We’ll have no foreign muck served up from my kitchen, thank you very
much,” she said.
As summer gave way to autumn, Alyssa found herself working long hours
for very little pay. She had no specific role in the household. She was just a
general dogsbody, at everyone’s beck and call, expected to do anything that was
required at any time. So she found herself clearing out the grates and laying
the fires, cleaning the silver, dusting and polishing the rooms, making the
beds and scrubbing the toilets. This was a far cry from what she felt she was
worth, but she got on with the work in the hope that she would one day be given
the chance to show what she could do. The only bright spot in her endless days
were her frequent encounters with Lord Richard. He had an uncanny knack of
knowing where she was and would appear unexpectedly; always looking delighted
to see her. Sometimes, when his wife wasn’t around, he made Alyssa take a break
and sat with her, enjoying her amusing speech and bathing in her radiant smile.
Despite being several years older than her, Alyssa found him very attractive.
He was tall and slim and physically fit – he still played polo with Lord
Cowdray down in Midhurst. He had a kind face with no moustache or beard and
huge hands that, when she first noticed them, Alyssa imagined being pressed
around her and holding her tight. Most alluring of all was a mysterious air of
sadness that hung about him. Alyssa sensed that all was not well in his
marriage and something in her longed to put it right. She knew full well that
any sort of relationship with her employer would spell disaster for all
concerned, but that did not stop her lying in her small uncomfortable bed in
the attic and fantasising about making this kind and loving man happy again.
One morning, Alyssa was asked to go and do some shopping. This was one
of the rare occasions she had been out of the house since she’d arrived and she
was looking forward to some time on her own and to seeing more of London.
Walking to a street market in the Pimlico Road in the mellow October sunshine,
she was shocked to find she had to queue for everything she wanted and that
people beside in the queue seemed to find her presence offensive. Some just
moved away with disapproving scowls. Others were overtly hostile.
“We don’t want ‘er sort ‘ere,” said one woman with an old scarf tied
round her head, talking to her friend in a deliberately loud voice so Alyssa
could hear.
“Nah,” agreed the other, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“Looks like she’s just got orf the banana boat.”
Alyssa maintained her dignity by saying
nothing and trying to ignore the abuse, but inside she was seething. This
wasn’t what she’d been promised back home in Jamaica. At school she’d been
taught that all citizens of the Commonwealth were welcome in the Motherland.
Clearly, it wasn’t true. Black immigrants like her were feared and despised by
the ordinary people of London who regarded them as little more than natives
from a National Geographic magazine.
One afternoon, shortly before Christmas, Mrs Morgan felt unwell and took
to her bed with a feverish cold. Alyssa went to tell her employers.
“I believe you can cook,” said Lady Tara, looking up from the letter she
was writing with barely-concealed disinterest. “So get on with it, will you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Alyssa, deliberately hesitating for a moment.
“What now?” sighed Lady Tara, wearily.
“Yuh food, is not mi,” explained Alyssa, mixing her newly-gained English
skills with her native Patois. “Jamaican food, dat di best ever mek.”
“She says she can’t cook English food, but she’s brilliant at Caribbean
cooking,” put in Sir Richard.
“I understood what she said,” snapped Lady Tara. “I suppose it’ll have
to do.” Then she returned to her writing.
“I’m sure it’ll be splendid, my dear,” said Sir Richard, crossing the
room and patting Alyssa her reassuringly on the shoulder.
The meal was both a disaster and a triumph. Alyssa made good use of Mrs
Morgan’s store of rarely-used spices to cook Chicken Jerk which she served on a
bed of plain boiled rice. Lady Tara took one mouthful and spat it all out,
clutching her throat and downing several glasses of water.
“N-N-Never again,” she spluttered, storming out of the room. “I shall
get a hamper in from Fortnum and Mason and we can live on cold cuts until Mrs
Morgan recovers.”
Sir Richard, on the other hand, remained at
the table and finished his supper with relish before taking a generous second
helping. Afterwards, he rang the bell to summon Alyssa.
“I was right,” he said, looking at her with eyes full of admiration.
“That was truly splendid. You must cook again when the time is right. Maybe
you’d like to join me and we could have dinner together.”
For several weeks past, Alyssa had been noticing the cold. It seemed to
get worse with each passing day. This was something else that she had not been
told about at home. There, warm weather and outdoor living were a way of life.
Here in cold, dark mid-winter Britain, sunshine was just a distant memory of
summer and autumn. The early mornings were the worst of all. Having to get out
of bed at 5am and get dressed in her freezing attic made her feel physically
sick. Sometimes, her teeth chattered so loudly she was frightened she would
chip them. No matter how many layers of clothes she wore under her uniform, she
could never get warm. She longed for the tropical climate of Jamaica with its
endless sunny days and breath-taking sunsets when the whole sky turned orange
and pink as if pots of luminous paint had been thrown right across it. In
London, everything was always grey or smothered with choking yellowish smog.
When Alyssa asked to be moved to a bedroom with a grate and a chimney,
Lady Tara shook her head and told her to go for a walk.
“Nothing like exercise for getting your circulation going and warming
you up, my dear,” she said, sitting beside the blazing fire in the sitting-room.
“Why don’t you take a turn along the Embankment? I always find the view of the
Thames most uplifting.”
Then she took her purse out of her
pearl-covered handbag and handed Alyssa a few coppers.
“Get the bus back if you wander too far or get tired,” she added.
So, one frosty Sunday morning in early February, Alyssa set off on foot
for a sightseeing tour of the capital. She would have preferred to stay in bed
on her day off, but once Lady Tara got an idea in her head, she would not let
it go. Alyssa’s breath formed white clouds in front of her as she strode south
towards the river. It was a silent walk as well as a cold and lonely one.
Wherever she went, she passed bomb sites and half-collapsed buildings where
nobody went because of the danger. The idea that the streets of London were
paved with gold had long since faded from her mind. They were paved with dust
and rubble…and hatred.
Wherever she went, Alyssa was met with the same overt hostility. When
she sat on one end of a park bench to eat her packed lunch, the woman on the
other end got up and moved to another seat. When she asked for a cup of tea at
a street stall, the man inside wearing a greasy striped apron made monkey
noises as he served her. And a group of street youths kicking a football about
down a dirty alley shouted:
“Go home, darkie. You’re not welcome here!”
as she walked past. By the time she reached
the Houses of Parliament and heard Big Ben striking the hour – images of
England she had been taught to respect and love – she no longer cared what she
saw. Catching the bus with her few precious pennies, she sat upstairs with the
coughing smokers and let the tears pour down her cheeks in silent misery.
Nobody looked at her, spoke to her or tried to comfort her. Only the conductor
gave her a brief smile. She recognised him as one of the fellow passengers from
the Windrush. Like many of the others who had found work on the buses and
trains, he was doing a job the English working class didn’t want to do. In
barely six months, the hopes and dreams of all those excited and eager faces
had come crashing down around their ears.
That night, Alyssa wrote another letter to her mother. It was very
different from the first…
Dear Madda,
Oh, how mi miss yuh! Mi want to
cum home. Mi nah like it dehyah in dis cold country weh de people nah smile.
Dis is a lonely place.
Everyting we ear is a lie. De Madda Country nah welcum wi. Wi nah equal
citizens of de Commonwealth. Wi are outsiders, despised fe havin’ black skins,
and wi are only needed to du dutty wuk fe which wi are paid next-to-noting. Wi
are second-class citizens and always will be. Tell Seanna and anyone else
who tink of followin’ in mi footsteps
not to cum dehyah England. England is a bad place.
As soon as mi save up nough funds, mi will cum home. Till then, tink of
mi when yuh yam yuh ackee and saltfish
fe breakfast. Mi be bak to cook it fah yuh soon.
Wit mi fondest luv to yuh all,
Alyssa.
* * *
* *
Stella returned from Paris earlier than expected. She’d been invited to
become the chief fundraiser for a new Homeless Charity set up for people who’d
lost everything as a result of the recent massive devaluation of the pound. So,
one morning in May when the leaves on the plane trees were just beginning to
show, she called at the Scott’s and persuaded Sir Richard to make a sizeable
donation. When Alyssa walked into the room, she greeted her with great
enthusiasm, but was in too much of a hurry to talk to her personally and learn
of her troubles. With a cheery wave, she swept off to find Lady Tara and gave
her a ticket for a garden party being attended by young Princess Margaret.
Unfortunately, her sister Princess Elizabeth wouldn’t be there because she’d
just given birth to her first-born child, Charles. Lady Tara was in seventh
heaven at the prospect of mixing with royalty and was in a good mood for days
after, even going as far as giving Alyssa some money and telling her to buy a
new dress.
Late one evening, when Alyssa was taking her weekly bath, Lord Richard
walked in on her – whether by accident or design, she didn’t know. She was
about to step out of the water and was reaching for the towel when he burst in
and stood there, looking transfixed. Her first instinct was to grab the towel
and wrap it round her, but something in her stopped her from acting modestly.
Instead she just stood in front of him, completely naked, with the bathwater
glistening on her perfect smooth skin. Watching him staring at her pert
breasts, her flat stomach and the neatly-trimmed bush of black curly hair below
it, she allowed a knowing smile to play across her face before turning to reach
for the towel and show him her perfect bottom. He was obviously racked with
desire and she was tempted to make love to him there and then, but she felt it
wasn’t the time or the place. So, to torment him further, she went right up
close to him, kissed one finger and touched it on his nose and then turned him
round to push him gently out of the door. The whole incident left her
breathless and aching for fulfilment, but she knew she could wait. She’d
revealed her consent to his obvious attraction and there was now an unspoken
promise between them. It would only be a matter of time before something
happened. That was enough for now.
Clothes rationing had recently finished. So, with the money Lady Tara
had given her, Alyssa was able to buy herself a dress from the market. It was
bright red with a figure-hugging cut and short hemline, quite different from
the long dresses and narrow pencil skirts on display in the Knightsbridge shop
windows. This time, she did not receive the same amount of abuse from the
stallholders. There were one or two other black faces shopping at the market now
and there was also a West Indian stall selling belts and wallets. More
immigrants had arrived in the year since the Windrush and the people of London
were gradually starting to get used them. Alyssa was grateful for that. She
knew hatred could never be the way. Life had to be lived in friendship and
love. And love was now the only thing that was keeping her in England.
At another stall, she bought herself a pair of red high-heeled shoes to
match her new dress. They were very expensive and she had to spend all the
money she’d saved up for her return ticket to Jamaica. But she no longer cared.
To go back now would be to leave her smouldering affair with Sir Richard
unconsummated and that was unthinkable. She knew, if she left without giving
vent to the passion that was threatening to consume her, she would regret it
for the rest of her life.
Lady Tara’s garden party coincided with Mrs Morgan’s annual summer
holiday to Wales.
“We’re going to be late back, so Stella’s asked me to stay with her tonight,”
said Lady Tara, looking in the hall mirror and touching up her hair. “Will you
be all right on your own?”
“I’ll be fine, dear,” replied Sir Richard, smiling patiently as he
waited for her to go. “Alyssa here will look after me, I’m sure.”
As soon as the front door had closed and
the taxi had driven away, Sir Richard and his Jamaican maid rushed into each
other’s arms and kissed passionately for the first time. The kiss went on and
on, their tongues exploring each other hungrily, and Alyssa could tell he
wanted to take her to bed there and then. But she broke away, wagging one
finger coquettishly.
“Mi cook food,” she said. “Dat di best eva mek.”
Alyssa’s plan was to seduce her lover with a delicious West Indian
feast. This required goats’ meat which she knew she wouldn’t find locally. So
she’d already taken the liberty of using Mrs Morgan’s household account at
nearby Harrods to order some in. The grey, tough-looking meat sat on the pine
table in the kitchen wrapped in grease-proof paper, waiting to be transformed
into curried goat with rice and peas, Jamaica’s national dish. It would be
followed by soft moist fruit cake. This took Alyssa all afternoon to prepare,
giving her very little time to get ready herself. After a quick wash, she slipped
on her red dress and shoes and stopped to admire herself in the mirror. There
was no doubt about it - she looked stunning! The bright material contrasted
perfectly with her dark skin. Tonight was going to be the night.
After sharing the delicious food and two bottles of red wine in the
empty silent house, the love-light was shining from Alyssa’s eyes like a
beacon. But Sir Richard seemed troubled and Alyssa began to wish she’d gone
ahead and allowed him to make love to her earlier in the day. He kept returning
to Lady Tara, talking about his wife with a mixture of fondness and contempt.
“We can’t have any children, you know,” he suddenly blurted out, pouring
himself another glass of wine. “Tara had two miscarriages. She’s barren now.”
Seeing the tears welling up in his eyes,
Alyssa took his big hands in hers and held them lovingly, despite the
resentment she felt that he was talking about his wife at an intimate moment
like this.
“Now she’s barren,” he continued, sounding quite desperate, “she doesn’t
want anything to do with me. She won’t let me near her. We haven’t…well, you
know… for over three years now.”
Alyssa’s response was to cup his face in
her hands and kiss him tenderly on the lips. He reacted with hungry passion,
but then to her great surprise he broke away and jumped up, looking upset and
confused.
“Shouldn’t do this,” he gasped, choking with emotion.
Then he left the room without saying
another word.
Alyssa sat at the dining room table, staring at the empty dishes with a
sense of total disbelief. What had gone wrong? He’d seemed so keen earlier. She
was certain he felt the same all-consuming desire for her that she did for him,
so what was stopping him? Guilt? Fear? Shame? For a moment, she was tempted to
follow him and confront him with these questions, but she suspected he was in
such a state he wouldn’t know what to answer. He was best left alone. But, as
she got up and started to clear away the dishes, Alyssa felt heartbroken and
angry at the tragic waste of this God-given opportunity.
That night, as she lay in her attic unable to sleep, she heard footsteps
approaching up the narrow stairs. They were followed by a polite knock on the
door and the smell of expensive eau de cologne. Without saying a word, Sir
Richard turned on the dim light and held out one hand, leading her back
downstairs and across the landing to the main guest room. It was illuminated by
hundreds of candles. They glowed and flickered on the window sill, the dressing
table and all around the deep four-poster bed. It was unbelievably romantic and
Alyssa felt her throat tighten with excitement. In an instant, all the passion
she’d been struggling to contain for so many months surged back and threatened
to overwhelm her. She threw aside her flimsy nightdress and began to undo the
buttons of Sir Richard’s shirt.
The night that followed was one Alyssa would never forget. They made
love several times and, on each occasion, her climax was longer and more
intense than the last. Sir Richard was a skilled lover who put her pleasure
before his own. This was a new experience for her. Now twenty seven years old,
she had been with several men back in Jamaica but, with the exception of one
married man who had some experience, they had not known how to satisfy her.
“Mi ah wutless gyal,” she would always say to
her mother after her latest conquest.
Her new lover, on the other hand, had great
sexual stamina and knew how to arouse her and keep her aroused. When, at last,
they collapsed into each other’s arms to sleep, Alyssa felt a sense of peace
and contentment that she’d never known before. It was almost mystical. After
months of painful alienation, this one night of sexual love made her feel
completely at one with the world.
* * *
* *
Alyssa suspected she was pregnant long before she went to the new
National Health Service maternity clinic and had it confirmed by the doctor. It
came as no surprise. Since their first passionate encounter that evening, she
and her lover had taken every opportunity they could find to express their
pounding desire for one another, often avoiding discovery by a matter of
seconds. Alyssa had loved Sir Richard from the first moment she’d set her eyes
on him. Now she was confident that he loved her too and would stand by her with
regard to the baby. After all, she was giving him what his wife could not. She
would tell him when the time was right.
Lady Tara became suspicious that something was going on one morning when
Alyssa was serving coffee. She caught a look between them that she didn’t
understand. Sitting alone in the study afterwards, pretending to read a book,
she recalled various other things that she’d noticed recently but had chosen to
ignore. Her husband seemed much happier than usual. Why was that? Their lives
were no different from usual. Also, he’d taken to asking what she was doing on
a daily basis, pretending to be interested in her whirl of social engagements.
This was also something new and she suspected he was trying to discover when
she would be out. Most damning of all were some hotel receipts she found in his
jacket pocket. He’d told her he was playing polo on these occasions – but they
all coincided with Alyssa’s days off.
One morning, seeing her husband joking affectionately with their maid in
a dark corner of the hall, Lady Tara decided to put her suspicions to the test.
Announcing she was going out for the morning, she slammed the front door shut
and waited a while before returning to the house via the basement. With a sick feeling
in the pit of her stomach, she followed the sound of whispering and laughter to
the guest room where she found the couple romping on the bed. She stood in the
doorway for several moments before they noticed her.
“At least you had the decency not to desecrate our marriage bed,” she
said, coldly.
Sir Richard jumped up and hurried after his
wife, closely followed by Alyssa who’d put on his dressing gown. It was too big
for her and gaped open, revealing her breasts. They all met up at the top of
the grand staircase.
“You whore!” spat Lady Tara, glaring furiously at Alyssa. “I knew it was
a mistake to let you into this house.”
“Don’t take it out on her…” began Sir Richard.
“That’s right, you defend the sneaky black bitch,” seethed his wife, her
face contorted with fury. “I suppose you’re going to tell me now that this
isn’t some sordid little lust-filled fling but a meaningful love affair between
the two of you.”
“Dat is right!” exclaimed Alyssa in her best English.
“Shut up, you,” snarled Lady Tara, turning on her husband. “Is this
right, Richard? Do you love this nigger?”
Sir Richard didn’t reply, leaving both
women in a state of agonising suspense.
“Answer me,” screamed his wife, pummelling his chest with her fists. “Do
you love this servant girl?”
“I do,” he answered, quietly.
“An’ mi luv him,” added Alyssa, patting her stomach. “Mi be baby
maddda.”
“What?” gasped Lady Tara, her eyes growing as wide as saucers. “You’re
pregnant? Is this true, Richard?”
“First I’ve heard of it,” he murmured, his face going ashen as he
realised the full impact of what he was hearing.
“Mi was gawan tell yuh soon,” said Alyssa, glaring defiantly at her
rival. “Dis half eediat wife of yuh mak mi now.”
There was a long silence in which all three
stood contemplating the enormity of the situation in which they’d found
themselves. Then suddenly, as she realised she stood to lose everything, Lady
Tara flew into a furious rage and, screaming like a banshee, she grabbed hold
of Alyssa’s hair, swung her round and threw her down the stairs. Screaming with
pain and fear, Alyssa tumbled headlong down the wide staircase, hitting the
wall at the bottom and lying still. Sir Richard rushed down after her in a
frenzy of concern, demonstrating beyond any doubt his passionate feelings for
her. His wife just stood at the top of the stairs like Lady Macbeth, looking
down with utter contempt and not a trace of remorse.
Battered and bruised but otherwise unhurt, Alyssa came to her senses and
clung onto Sir Richard for support.
“Tak mi to Stella now,” she said, staggering up and wincing from the
pain of her fall. She felt desperately worried about the baby inside her, but
at the same time elated that everything was now out in the open and her lover
appeared to be siding with her. “Mi need rest.”
Lady Tara watched in silent hatred as her
husband ushered Alyssa into a taxi and went with her to Chelsea to explain the
situation.
Despite
her own bohemian lifestyle, Stella was shocked at the immoral behaviour of her
protégé.
“I take a pretty dim view of all this, you know,” she lectured, as
Alyssa sat on her red leather Chesterfield settee nursing her bruised shoulder.
“When I took you under my wing, I jolly well didn’t expect you to steal my best
friend’s husband.”
“Mi not tak him,” replied Alyssa. “Him mi luv.”
“I very much doubt that,” said Stella. “Think of the scandal if he divorces
his wife for you, a servant girl and a black one to boot. Then becoming the
father of a half-caste child. He’d be shunned by polite society.”
“Him do it. Him mi luv,” repeated Alyssa.
“I think you’d be much better off going home to have the baby,” urged
Stella. “I’ll pay your fare and all the other expenses.”
“No!” shouted Alyssa, jumping up and arguing with her friend for the
first time ever. “Mi wait. Him cum.”
Alyssa did not lose the baby as a result of the fall. She stayed at
Stella’s, her stomach growing bigger all the time. But they were endless days
as she waited for Sir Richard to get in touch. Stella was incredibly patient
with her, respecting her conviction that she was genuinely loved, but
suspecting the opposite as time went on with no contact of any kind. In the
end, Stella set a deadline of early September when Alyssa would be seven months
pregnant. That would just about give her time to return to Jamaica before the
child was due. Alyssa agreed to this proposal. If he was going to betray her
despite all the things he’d promised, then he didn’t deserve to see the baby he
so desperately craved.
One August afternoon, when the sun blazed down on the London streets
like it did on old Kingston Town, there was a thunderous knock on Stella’s
front door. Alyssa knew who it was before she even opened it. Sir Richard stood
on the doorstep holding a huge bunch of flowers which he dropped down the steps
as she threw himself into his arms and kissed him passionately all over his
face. Later, seated in Stella’s elegant drawing room sipping Earl Grey tea, he
explained that his lawyers had advised him not to contact Alyssa while the
terms of his divorce were being settled. He had kept the house, using all his
savings and investments to buy his wife out. She had gone to live with her
sister in Bath, far away from the capital where the gossip and scandal were
less likely to cause her embarrassment. Stella felt a degree of pity for her
lifelong friend, but remembering her hatred for Alyssa and seeing the obvious
happiness of this unlikely couple together, she could understand why it had all
happened. Stella was too much of a liberal and a free-thinker to stand in the
way of such love.
The next two months were the happiest of Alyssa’s life. Sir Richard
hired a new maid to take her place and she became mistress of the household,
waited on hand and foot from morning till night. Not that she craved this
attention. Sir Richard insisted on it. Having sacrificed everything for an
heir, he wanted to make sure this baby would have the best possible start in
life and allowed Alyssa to do nothing for herself. She didn’t argue. She just
sat around, relishing her good fortune. Two years ago, she was hiding out in a
lifeboat swaying precariously above the icy Atlantic. Now she was living in a
big London house with a man who loved her deeply and a much-wanted child on the
way. Her dreams had finally come true. And none of it would have happened had
she not stowed away on the Windrush.
Toby Jack Scott was born by caesarean section in a private clinic in
Harley Street in early October – a seven pound baby boy with dusky brown skin
and a patch of wavy black hair like his mother’s. It was a moment of the purest
joy… followed almost immediately by the deepest tragedy. As the proud father
cradled the tiny bundle in his arms and watched him yawn wearily, Alyssa
suddenly haemorrhaged internally and lost so much blood before a transfusion
could be arranged that she died where she lay, never having regained
consciousness from the anaesthetic and see her child. Fate, that had seemed so
much on her side, now turned against her and all was lost.
Without the woman he loved, Sir Richard
lost everything too – but his desperate grief was tempered by his new-found
fatherhood. He had Toby Jack to live for now and this saved him from despair.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy to be a single parent bringing up a mixed-raced
child in the prejudiced circles of upper-class England. But he had to try. He
owed it to Alyssa. She had dreamed of success and happiness by coming to
England. He’d make sure their son would find it for her.
Copyright 2017
