Caroline sent once more for the doctor. She wished to ask him whether, in view of the seriousness of her husband’s malady, his need to rest, his need for quiet so his problem did not return, that perhaps, for his own good, he should be tied down to the bed?
The doctor told her, ‘Madam, your husband is a gentleman, not a lunatic!’ But what he did prescribe was a long visit back home to England, so he might better convalesce away from the source of his unease.
And oh, how Caroline squealed with delight, ‘Of course, why did not I think of that? I must take him to England. I must get him far away from here. Robert, Robert, the doctor has decided that you must go to Youlgreave at once to visit with your family.’
So there sits Caroline Goodwin, quite flush with high spirits, that this was their last evening upon the island for well . . . for well . . . for well, we will see. She longed to behold England again now her Robert was well—now he was so very much improved. And she had not yet had a chance to speak with Robert about it, but there was a man in London—an agent for a titled gentleman who lived in Bristol—that wished to talk to them about the possibility of purchasing the lands and the great house of the plantation named Amity.
But she does not mention that as they sit at the dining table one last time before sailing to England. For she is too busy telling the tale of her last sea voyage. ‘Robert, did I ever tell you that the ship I travelled in to Jamaica bucked and rolled me across that ocean so cruelly that being strapped to a whale’s back would have been no less arduous a journey?’
But we must, for a moment, leave Mr and Mrs Goodwin at the table—come, we have heard that tale before and wait . . . wait . . . I believe she is about to repeat it again! Let us move on quickly through the doorway of the dining room, out into the hallway. For there, stationed behind the door, clasping an oval, silver, dome-lidded serving dish is our July. As she instructs Elias—who stands before her, wiping his nose with one hand while fidgeting to adjust his itchy breeches with the other—she leans forward to speak as close into his ear as the awkward salver within her hands will allow. Her command to him is to place this dish, ‘Before the massa, you hear me, nah? What me just say?’
When Elias shrugged, she kicked him awkwardly. ‘Before the massa, not the missus. What me say?’ As Elias repeated, ‘The massa, the massa, the massa . . .’ she handed the salver into his outstretched arms with the command, ‘And be careful you no drop it.’
Elias walked the twenty paces from the door to the table, quick as a lizard escaping a snake. July, peering upon him through the crack of the door, inhaled a fearful breath, which she did not release until the fool-fool boy had placed the dish upon the table in front of Robert Goodwin. As his massa turned his head to find Elias asking, ‘What is this, boy?’ Elias ran from the room without reply.
As Robert Goodwin was saying, ‘Yes, yes, Caroline, I did hear you the last time you told me of that voyage,’ he placed his hand upon the handle of the salver’s lid. He then lifted it. A thousand black cockroaches, suddenly freed into the light, scurried from out that dish. They swarmed across the table-top like a spill of dirty water to drop pitter-patter from the table on to the wooden floor. Some fell into his lap. Robert Goodwin was too stunned to feel the crawl of them. He sat entranced, staring at a hideous mound of dead and crushed roaches that were piled high upon the salver. He took a while to start yelling. But then he jolted to his feet—hopping and swiping at his lap, his chest, slapping his arms and face, as the pitiful roar of a donkey painfully dying emitted from his mouth. Caroline stood upon her chair to shriek.
While July, silently watching this frenzied scene through the crack in the dining-room door, did hope it would make her smile, did believe it would make her laugh, and was quite vexed to find that it did not.
CHAPTER 33
READER, MUST I NOW show the fuss-fuss that went on as the massa and missus of the plantation named Amity finally took their leave from this Caribbean island? Do you desire to hear the squealing of Caroline Goodwin one last time within this tale, as she directs their belongings loaded up on to the carriage? ‘Byron, be careful, be very careful, boy, that is very valuable . . . Slower, Elias, do not run . . . Robert, where are you? Elias, where is your master? . . .’
Or shall we pass on by to a quieter place? To find our July sitting a little distance from the garden, within the cooling shade of a tree, regarding all this commotion with a glad eye. For come, it was not, ‘Marguerite! Marguerite!’ that was being called.
July had at first asked kindly to be allowed to attend Robert Goodwin upon his sickbed. She meekly appealed to the missus. Following that, she pleaded with her. Finally, she was obliged to drop to her knees to kiss the missus’s slippered toes and beg her. Seven times in all, did July make her requests (or every minute of the night and day for weeks and weeks, if you care to take Caroline Goodwin’s version of July’s remonstrations).
‘He must not see negroes,’ the missus had told her.
And July informed her, ‘But me is not a negro, me is a mulatto.’ Her missus—frowning with deep puzzlement—just replied, ‘Oh who upon this earth cares about that silliness? You are still a negro, and it is negroes who have brought him to this. You will come nowhere near him, Marguerite. He does not wish to see you. He wants you to stay away from him. Do you hear me?’
The missus had then tasked Joseph to guard the only unbolted door into the great house. His sole command was to shoo July—to get her gone, to shout and curse upon her that the massa no want to see her.
Only when resting quiet in that little room under the house could July be anywhere near Robert Goodwin. For she did hear him in his room above her. If her breath was held she did feel him turning fretful within his bed. If she stood upon her tip-toe she would catch his sigh as he stared, bored, through the window. His muffled voice did often drift down to her, but too indistinct to be worth straining for his meaning. But sometimes at night his resonant snore did rattle in to rest beside her.
When, one evening, she sat nursing Emily, softly singing, ‘Mama gon’ rock, mama gon’ hold, little girl-child mine,’ his laughter came tripping through her ceiling. ‘Papa,’ July said to Emily, who was suckling with her one hard tooth. The missus’s footsteps skipping heavy across the room above her were not unusual. Nor was her giggling. July thought nothing of the silence that followed.
She laid Emily into her box, sat upon her bed, and snuffed out her candle to preserve it. It was in that gloom that her ceiling began to creak. And soft moans and breathy sighs and panting began drizzling down upon July’s head. The bed began to bounce above her, rhythmic and strong. Thump, thump. Come, July had felt a tickle of dust gently falling. Then, slap! He enjoyed to spank bare flesh. Ouch! He loved to pinch. Oh! And to bite. Faster and faster, the bed had bumped upon her ceiling. And although July blocked up her ears with her fists, the missus did not think to stifle Robert Goodwin’s mouth when he at last discharged his final cry.