Cynthia was terrified. She had never been close to a black man and now was surrounded by them. Sweating, heaving bodies, manhandling huge crates, cabin chests and traveling trunks. As they brushed past her, she pulled in her corseted figure so they wouldn’t touch. Reaching out, she felt for Reggie’s arm. The humidity, the unrecognizable smells, the chaos, the cacophony of strange languages. The noise of men forcing open crates with steel crowbars, then hammering them shut, was deafening. It was overwhelming.
None of the ladies on the ship had advised her what to wear. Perspiration uncomfortably soaked the armpits and high neck of her dress. It might have appeared un-lady-like, but she should never have worn stockings, and definitely not a corset. She felt as if she were about to faint.
“Reginald, darling, do you think you could get me a bottle of soda water? I’m so terribly thirsty.”
“You’ll need to hang on for a while, Cynthia, my dear. I don’t see any waiters here. We’ll soon be at the British High Commission. Damned inconsiderate of them to keep us waiting like this. Should have been here long ago. They’ve known about our arrival for weeks. For God’s sake, it’s 1921, the bloody war is over. So, what’s the holdup?”
They were standing in the cavernous baggage hall under the giant hanging alphabetical letter H, for Hughes, together with all their luggage and a thousand people.
Suddenly, there was a shout. “You must be Reginald Hughes-Smithson, is that correct?”
An affirmative nod. “Lionel Broadhurst,” the young man said, extending his hand. “Welcome to Lagos. So sorry for the delay, old chap. Had a deuce of a time getting here. Two trucks fought for the same piece of road. Bloody awful mess. Bodies everywhere, and of course, traffic not moving.”
Taking off his Panama hat, he offered his hand again.
“Oh, pardon me, and you must be…I do apologize, but they never gave me your name. You are only listed as wife.”
“Cynthia,” she replied nervously. This entire experience was making her more anxious by the minute.
“Excellent, then if you’ll bring your hand luggage, and what you will need for the next two days, my assistants here, will take care of everything else.” Two burly, but smiling black men, with heavily scarified faces, dressed in smart khaki shirts and shorts, were standing discreetly behind him. “The next time you will see any of these loads will be in Kaduna.” He turned and spoke quietly to the men in a foreign language, which they later learned was Yoruba. Then addressing Cynthia, “Please, let me have your valise, Ma’am. Follow me.”
Ignoring the long line of people, he walked up to a desk, waited until an immigration officer was available, then said imperiously, “British High Commission staff.” Seconds later, they exited into the searing heat and blazing midmorning sun of a busy, Lagos Monday. With the windows down, the chaotic drive across the city in almost unbearable heat and humidity, was a scary experience. Strange smells of smog, choking exhaust fumes, sewage and rotting vegetation assaulted their senses. The traffic’s deafening noise made it practically impossible to converse. Lionel skillfully negotiated a turbulent sea of horn blowing, smoke belching, colorfully painted, overloaded and almost wrecked vehicles, that seemed to have little or no order to it. But none of that seemed to matter. With her eyes half closed behind her sunglasses, Cynthia was just relieved to be out of the customs shed, and enjoying the breeze created by the car’s motion.
Other than being served by a stream of black men wearing formal uniforms, distinctive red jackets, white shirts, black bow ties, and pants, they might have been dining at the Carlton Gentleman’s Club back home. The beautiful chandeliers, long mahogany dining table that seated twelve, with upholstered chairs, and matching furnishings. The line of mounted, stuffed animal heads on one wall. The gallery of somber-looking male portraits along the other. But it was lunch at the High Commission.
“So good to see you again, Reggie. And congratulations on the exams. Jolly well done. Welcome to the District Officer’s group. There’s only a few of us, you know,” and let out a chuckle. “You will love Kaduna and, of course, you will fit right in with your fluent Hausa.” Arnold Telford, was a physically big man with a loud voice, protruding belly and a tight-fitting linen suit that had seen better days. His skin had the yellow, jaundiced tint of somebody who had spent many years in the tropics. He was the acting “chief of station.” His and Lionel’s boss, the Resident of the Lagos Region, had traveled to meet with some important Yoruba chiefs. “There’s so much to do up there,” he bellowed, “but you’ll have a jolly old time. They have a wonderful jockey club, and you’ll get to play lots of polo. You do ride, don’t you?”
Before he could reply, Lionel interjected. “Perhaps we should first give them the details of their itinerary?”
“Excellent thinking. A champion idea, old boy. Why don’t you walk them through it?”
“I have your tickets and will drive you to the railway station at Iddo, tonight. Your train leaves at 8:00 PM. It’s called the Limited, but trust me, there is nothing special about it. Your journey, barring any accidents, like cows on the tracks or a water tower not working, will be about sixteen hours. You are due to arrive in Kaduna at 12:00 PM. Don’t worry about getting to your house. Whoever is meeting you will have checked your arrival time beforehand by telegraphing down the line for confirmation. I have booked you first class, of course, and your compartment has bench seats which become bunk beds with two more that can be pulled down above them. Although it normally accommodates four people, it is reserved for just the two of you. There is a WC and washbasin with hot water at the end of the carriage. Do not drink the water or use it to brush your teeth. But you already know about that. There will be a restaurant car serving European food, which is normally quite good, and a saloon with a full bar with upholstered seats where you can order a drink and relax. Of course, these amenities are only for first-class passengers, which might include a few Nigerians, usually heads of government departments or railway officials. Your boxes and luggage will already be on board, and in Kaduna, staff from the Regional Office will arrange for everything to be taken to your house.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Reggie replied. “Thanks for setting all this up, old boy.”
“My pleasure, dear chap. We are all in this together.”
Even though the sun had set, the heat was still oppressive. Not a breath of air moved. After fighting their way through the jostling crowds to their compartment, and a final handshake to Lionel, they both sat down and looked at each other. They had hardly spoken since their time in the baggage hall.
At twenty-six, Reggie had already spent summers in Nigeria doing fieldwork for his degree and gaining experience for his future profession, working for the British Foreign Office as a District Officer. Tall, dark-eyed, athletic-looking and with the right political connections, his future was guaranteed. With an interest in academics rather than sports, he had a gift for learning languages, and in Nigeria, fluency with Hausa, was a must.
He’d unexpectedly met Cynthia Lothian Phillips, daughter of Sir Edmund, a member of the House of Lords and of the Foreign Affairs Committee, at a graduation ball arranged by his gentlemen’s club. Stunningly beautiful, her jet-black hair, contrasted with her opalescent skin. Wearing an extravagant gown her father had insisted on, half the room had paused mid-sentence. She had long ago learned the patterns of men’s attention, and that night she wore that awareness like a second veil.
But as she turned from one congratulatory handshake to another, her gaze landed on a figure who wasn’t looking at her at all. Reginal Hughes Smithson stood near the edge of the dance floor, hands loosely clasped behind his back, listening intently to an older professor. Quiet. Reserved. A little awkward in his evening jacket, as though he would rather be back among his books than under these chandeliers.
Something in his stillness drew her more powerfully than all the admiring stares. While other men projected confidence, bravado, or desire, Reginal radiated something entirely different—depth, thoughtfulness, a mind always half turned inward. She found her breath catching before she could mask it. For the first time that evening, she realized she was the one staring.
Three weeks later they were engaged and two weeks after that, they were married, just four days before sailing for Lagos and Nigeria.
“How are you feeling my, dear? It’s been a long day.”
Looking at him, Cynthia’s eyes blazed. “Well, since you ask, I’m frustrated, irritable, sad, mad and angry with you. And among other things, I’m struggling with a headache. You have ignored me all day. Not once did you seriously enquire about me. And don’t ask me about the cad at the High Commission. Full of himself and his own usurped importance. Is this how it’s going to be for the next two years? I understood that being the wife of a District Officer would have its restrictions, and that I would be entering a man’s world, but to be totally ignored! As if I had no personal needs. I felt I did not exist. And you joined in their game like a natural. I will support you in all that you do. I will help you succeed and achieve full status as a District Officer. But Reginald, I am here. And you cannot just take me for granted. I’m not just a wallflower like many of the wives out here, I presume. I am educated. I am a liberated woman. Remember, we both graduated from Oxford!”
There was a long pause.
“That’s a lot to take in, Cynthia. I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. You are so caught up in who you are, what you want to achieve, where you want to end up professionally. Your need to impress. But I’m your wife!”
“Then what would like me to do?”
“You can take me to dinner, and we will see if it lives up to the standards your new friends enthused about. But before we do that, I would like you to please bring down my valise.”
He stumbled as he retrieved it, then placed it on the seat. The train had given a sudden jerk. To the sound of hissing steam and spinning wheels, it began chugging its way out of the station and into the Nigerian night. Reaching up, Reggie slid open two small and narrow windows above the larger one, which allowed in the cool air as the locomotive gathered up speed.
“If you would draw the blinds on the window, Reginald, and the one on the door, I am going to change for dinner.
“What! What are you saying, Cynthia?”
“I am going to get out of these damn clothes.”
“But what if somebody were to come in?”
“Then it’s your duty to prevent them.”
After taking up a position with his back to the door, he watched unbelievingly as she slipped out of her dress and then began undoing her corset.
“I doubt I will be using this again,” she commented. “At least I hope not. You have no idea how uncomfortable it has been for me today.” Sitting down, she removed her stockings, giving a sigh of relief as she rolled them up and placed them with the rest of her clothes.
His eyes opened wide as she shamelessly removed all her underwear, throwing it on the seat, and stood naked before him. She was beautiful. The train swayed, and as she reached upwards to hold on to the rack to steady herself, for a split second she was suspended. In that one moment, all he wanted to do was make love to her.
Taking her time, she searched in a toilet bag, retrieved her Eau de Cologne, sprayed a handkerchief and wiped her armpits and throat. After putting on a bandeau bra and satin panty shorts, she selected a flapper dress that matched her hair. Then, fixing her makeup with the help of a hand mirror, put on her cloche hat, turned to Reggie and smiled.
“Short of taking a bath, this will have to do. But I’m already feeling so much better. Shall we go and see what’s for dinner?”
“You look amazing,” he murmured, still shocked by what he had just heard and witnessed. “And I apologize now, but I am going like this. I’ll change into something more suitable tomorrow. “
Reggie was quiet during the meal, which was excellent, and accompanied by glasses of French wine. Cynthia repeated how uncomfortable she had been all day and especially with the humidity.
“I had no idea. I was not prepared for this.”
“Then you will enjoy Kaduna,” he explained. “It's six hundred miles to the north. Lagos in on the coast and is always humid. As we travel, the climate will change dramatically. We are in January. It will be extremely hot and dry for the next four months.” Then he paused wondering if he should share reality with her, but decided against it. The Harmattan wind was blowing, bringing in dust from the Sahara Desert, and the sun shining through it, would resemble a blood red orange. The heat would dry out everything, making her skin feel like brown paper, the covers of books would split, leather shoes would curl up, wooden furniture joints would loosen. Fine sand would invade everywhere and everything. Now the height of the dry season, daytime temperatures would soar well above one hundred degrees. Getting used to just two seasons a year would take time. But better he save this information until they were installed in their new home.
They were the only passengers in the saloon. “Do you fancy a snifter?” Reggie asked. “A Cointreau would be perfect, darling.” Reggie ordered a Drambuie for himself.
“Your earlier comments bothered me,” Reggie said, reaching out and taking hold of her hand. “You understand I’m here as a District Officer Cadet, and it will be two years at least before I can take the full D.O. exam. It’s important that we figure out how to make all of this work. I don’t want you to feel as if you are a token wife. We are both entering a colonial system that is well established with all its quirks, traditions and idiosyncrasies. But it’s the life I have chosen. I think it will be important for us to find some kind of employment for you, even part time, so that attending afternoon tea, knitting or card circles don’t become your only outlet.”
Coming around behind him, she kissed the top of his head. “Agreed. We will make this work, my love.”
Returning to their compartment, they were surprised to see that both the top bunk and seat underneath had been turned into beds complete with sheets, blankets, and pillows.
“I’ll take the top bunk,” Reggie said. “I’m ready to crash. Will you be OK on the bottom?”
“Just now, I think I could sleep on a washing line.”
After turning off the lights, he could not find the switch for the dim, single light in the center of the ceiling, but thought nothing of it. They were both so tired, sleep would come easily. But at the very first station once the train had come to a complete stop, insects swarmed in through the open window.
“Oh, my God,” Cynthia yelled, coming out of a deep sleep, feeling them on her face, waving her arms around and trying to swat them away. “Reginald, do something quickly.”
Jumping down from his bunk, he quickly assessed what was happening and closed the open window. “It’s alright, my dear. They are harmless and have just been attracted by the light. Perhaps if we open the door, they will move towards the brighter lights in the corridor.”
They sat, one on each side of the sliding door, he in pajamas, she wearing a long silk nightdress, ready to close it should any passenger approach. The strategy worked, at least for the most part. Some insects still remained, buzzing around the ceiling.
With the windows now closed and the train stationary, the heat in the compartment was intense, even with the sliding door open. Reggie suggested she try to sleep, but afraid to do so, Cynthia asked him to sit on the edge of her bunk and to swat any bothering insects.
He waited until the train started gathering speed, then opened the windows again to catch the cool midnight air. As he watched Cynthia fall asleep, he realized that he would have to remain awake. When the train stopped at each station, he would need to get up, close the windows, wait until it moved again, then re-open them. It would be a long night.
About the author
Michael Barrington, has published 13 novels and over 60 short stories in the USA & UK. His upcoming novel, Colorblind recounts the 1943 racist Battle of Bamber Bridge in England, a shootout on the main street between Black US soldiers and white officers and MPs. He blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)
No comments:
Post a Comment