Transfer

By Apple Gidley

Transfer traces the lives of those on Anna’s Fancy, the Clausen estate on Saint Croix in the Danish West Indies, handed down through three generations. An historical novel and the sequel to Fireburn (OC Publishing 2017), Transfer sees Niels Clausen, the illegitimate child of a Danish landowner and his bl

• Language: English
• Publisher: OC Publishing
• Release date: Mar 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999015626

Apple Gidley

A nomadic life has seen Anglo-Australian Apple Gidley live in twelve countries as diverse as Papua New Guinea and Scotland, which is chronicled in her memoir, Expat Life Slice by Slice (Summertime Publishing, 2012). She lives on St Croix with her husband and deaf cat, Bonnie.Gidley's roles have been varied - editor, intercultural trainer for multi-national corporations, British Honorary Consul to Equatorial Guinea, amongst others. She has two historical novels, Fireburn and Transfer, released by OC Publishing in 2017 and 2019, which are set on St Croix, in what was the Danish West Indies and is now the US Virgin Islands. Her next novel, Have You Eaten Rice Today? takes place in 1950s Malaya and modern-day England and Australia and will be published by Vine Leaves Press in September 2022.She is currently working on a contemporary novel, and researching her next historical book.Gidley writes a regular blog, A Broad View, and leads The Writers' Circle of St Croix.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

May 1890

Saint Croix

Anna

Tears like dewdrops misted the garden in front of Anna, the glorious riot of tropical plants obscured in a swirling grey nothingness. Her fingers clicked a ragged tune that thrummed with her heartbeat. Waves of nausea and pain throbbed in her head. She had not slept.

The great house at Anna’s Fancy, the plantation on Saint Croix that had been in the Clausen family for three generations, was already in mourning. Anna’s eyes, shimmering like jungle pools, were red-rimmed. She could not, in her misery, summon a smile even when Isabel’s voice floated along the gallery, its honey-coloured ballast bricks washed a pale mauve in the early morning gloom.

Good morning, my dear. I know the beach is your solitude and your solace, but may I join you? Isabel Gomez asked, nodding to the gap in the tangled wall of sea grape forest edging the garden. She, like her hostess, wore a loose day dress, but her hair, tied in a turban much like Emiline, the estate cook, added a regal air despite the casualness of her attire. Dark rings shadowed her brown eyes, a sign she too had not slept, adding a mysteriousness to her sensuous face framed by wavy, black tendrils. Anna thought her friend had never looked so exquisite.

Of course, Isabel. My thoughts are far too solemn. Come, let us slide away before the day must be confronted.

The friends threaded their way through the sea grapes, ducking to avoid branches whose round, red-veined leaves were a gentle pat on their faces. The sea was calm; waves frilled over the reef a hundred yards offshore before chasing translucent crabs up the sand, a pale ribbon in the dawn light. The women neared the end of the bay where sand gave way to rocks, and pristine white shells gleamed starkly amongst black pebbles smoothed by the rhythm of the ocean.

They sat on a large flattened slab, quiet as the swollen ocean and grey sky awakened through quivers of purple, lilac and pink before a vivid cerulean brought definition to the trees along the ridge to the east. Out to sea a schooner, the square rigging filled by the trade winds, rounded the headland making its stately way to who knew where.

Anna’s sorrows, reflections and hopes, much laughter and some decisions, had all been made to the accompaniment of the waves frothing ashore at this beach. Tears after her father’s death and the misery of her marriage to Carl Pedersen were balanced by the delight of Sam’s love and the happiness her adopted son, Niels, had brought.

She broke the silence. Is it not beautiful, Isabel? This view, this place? But today even it cannot lift my soul. What are we to do?

What we always do, my dear. We will manage. We have weathered much worse. You, the violence of Carl’s fists, then the snide condemnation of a love unacceptable in many minds. But Niels and Javier’s last image of us must be untroubled. They are the ones possibly facing difficult times. Our loneliness will be tempered by busy lives and the familiar. Theirs will be wholly alien, and they will not have each other.

You are right, of course. But that does not stop little pieces of my heart slicing my very being. To think I once asked you if one could love a child not of one’s own blood as much as one born to you! I was very foolish.

No, Anna. Just inexperienced. You had never known the joy, and heartache, of children. Fabiana switches between anger and despair at both her brother and her friend leaving Saint Croix at the same time. At fifteen she refuses to accept she cannot travel with Javier to Spain.

She is almost the same age I was when my mother dragged me from the island, said Anna. I fear these next years will be difficult for her, and you.

Perhaps we should spare a thought for Felipe and Sam, Isabel said, with a crooked smile. They will be bearing the brunt of our sadness and ill humour.

Again, you are right, Isabel. Come, we must push tears aside. Emiline has planned a farewell breakfast such as the boys have never seen. All their favourite things. How fortunate it is mango season - they will not taste that again until their return to the West Indies. And who knows when that will be. Emiline has taught Ivy how to make toto cake. We had not the heart to tell her coconuts do not grow in England. How glad I am she and Timothy are travelling with the boys. If only as far as Spain in Javier’s case.

Ivy has come a long way hasn’t she, your maid from England? Isabel said, brushing sand from her hem as they ducked under low-hanging branches and were again on the scythed lawn leading to the plantation house.

Indeed she has. Although she is filled with dread at the thought of meeting Timothy’s family, despite his mother’s warm letters over the years. Ivy still struggles to realise, despite the class into which she was born, she is anyone’s equal and is a great deal better educated than many. A learning for which she has worked very hard. Anna shielded her eyes and searched for Sam’s tall shape through the open salon doors. Instead she saw Felipe, Isabel’s husband and the estate’s agent, his slighter build a silhouette against the now glinting stone and coral walls.

I imagine the children will be last to emerge, Isabel said, her gaze following Anna’s. When will we stop calling them that?

Fabiana

Wapen your eye? You be by dem deh bees ’gin? Emiline asked, looking up from eggs she was whisking, the fork an angry staccato against the metal bowl. Your muddah she be vex.

No, Fabiana said. Her head down, she threw herself into Emiline’s chair, ignoring the cook’s indignant look. Mingo say me no go dere after I get stung las’ time.

Good you listen someone. Here, you chop dis. Onion make your eye water plenty. Make reason for red.

The sounds of breakfast being prepared were somehow soothing. Fabiana could almost imagine this was just another day in Emiline’s kitchen. Somewhere she had escaped to many times over the years when she was tired of trailing after Javier and Niels, or fed up with their teasing. She would sit sketching the cook or Isa, the scullery maid, until potatoes or yams or some other task was pushed her way and she was told to make herself useful.

Her hazel eyes pooled again. How could the boys desert her? Fabiana conveniently forgot the numerous times she had longed for them to be gone so she would be the centre of attention. That did not seem such a good option now. There would be no more assumptions from her mother, or Anna, the trio were all together looking out for each other. Who would she ride with? Anna maybe. She still delighted in galloping along the beach and taking the horses for a swim. Although Mama, studiously ignoring Anna’s laugh, had started suggesting Fabiana was too old for such reckless behaviours.

It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she go to Spain? She was old enough.

No rain, no rainbow, you know! Emiline’s voice leached through Fabiana’s misery. Dem deh boys be back soon come.

No deh won’t, Fabiana said. Dem deh got years of study. Why not me? I could be a doctor. Or a lawyer.

Dat what you wan’? Be doctor man. Emiline gave a soft cackle. Chile, you no like see blood.

Fine. A lawyer then. Fabiana’s speech switched from patois to standard English.

"Now for now you soun’ like pikny. You wipe de eye. Make face smile. Dem deh boys go ship wid happy face in dem deh heart. You hear?"

Yes.

Chuh! You say yes what?

Yes, Emiline.

Ivy

Oh my Gawd. Ivy’s language in times of stress reverted to her East London roots. I don’t know oo’s more anxious, she said, slapping the strap of their cabin trunk before turning to her husband. Me, Anna, Isabel, Emiline? And Fabiana is a bundle of tears tied up in a handkerchief.

Once our farewells are over and we are aboard, all will calm down. It’s a pity we can’t sail directly to Southampton, but it’s only a couple of days’ wait in Saint Thomas. The boys will then be taken with exploring the steamship and of course their studies will continue. At least until Madeira, Timothy said, then added, I shall purchase a bottle for my papa.

They won’t meet the boat, will they? Ivy asked, panic fluttering anew in her chest. They’ll see me all bothered from the voyage.

Hush, my love, Timothy replied. I wrote saying we would spend a week or so getting acclimatised in London before travelling to Exeter. We will need new clothing, despite it being summer when we arrive. I’m sure we’ll both feel a chill to our bones after so long in tropical climes. Imagine our poor young friends. European weather will indeed be a shock for Niels and Javier. Now, Ivy, I want to check one last time that Mr Rasmussen is entirely comfortable with his duties. And I must say goodbye to King James - that wise old man has taught me much about tropical flora. I shall miss him.

Ivy watched her husband stride down the path to the schoolhouse. She sucked in a wave of sadness. Nine years married. Nine years of hoping. Perhaps a change of climate would help. And having a baby in England would be safer. Island fever took too many infants.

Pinning red strands escaping from her bun she looked around the little home, once lived in by the overseer then turned into the schoolmaster’s house. She would miss it. All her own, though it felt empty without Nana’s blue and white jug and washbowl. That had been packed, Ivy unable to imagine years without seeing its comforting presence in her bedroom.

Life would be very different in London, returning as the de facto mistress. At least Mrs Simmons had retired. Facing the woman who had once harried her to clean silver or peel potatoes at Anna’s house behind Marble Arch could have been awkward. It would be fun though to visit the elderly woman at her cottage in Brighton. A smile curled at the memory of the first and last time she’d been to the seaside town. With Jimmy, her brother, all those years ago.

Her smile broadened. Fancy him being first mate already. She hoped it wouldn’t be long before he was back in England too. She’d need a bit of moral support. It was going to be strange. Introduced into society, no longer a lady’s maid but a gent’s wife. And a gent about to address the Royal Society. She was that proud of Timothy. All his scrabbling around in the bush and along beaches drawing plants and scribbling notes was about to get recognition.

CHAPTER 2

Travelling

Niels

The sea churned, a tarnished pewter rippled with white as the wake spumed and gulls circled and screamed overhead. No matter how hard he strained, Niels could no longer see Javier waving from the dock. Madeira now a lumpy blur on the horizon. Sadness, held deep down since their departure from Saint Croix, threatened to strangle his dry throat. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. With Javier at his side, both boys had managed to avoid the loneliness and apprehension of leaving all they knew. Niels was at least fortunate to have Ivy and Timothy at his side as he faced the unknown. A black boy in England.

Javier, his childhood friend, the colour of raw sugar and as thin as a cane, wasn’t concerned about standing out in Cordoba, his final destination. A city well used to darker skinned people. His anxiety, he had confessed, grew from the vague recollection of a great-uncle met six years ago, and with whom he would live as he finished his education. Or start it, as he had joked with Niels, when the two had talked of a world outside the West Indies.

Niels, telling himself the salt tingling his lips came from the ocean spray and not his eyes, straightened his shoulders and, taking one last look at the distant island, turned away to return to his cabin. The letter Anna had thrust into his hand as he boarded the inter-island schooner, Vigilant, and which she had made him promise not to open until Madeira was in the far distance, was waiting to be read.

My darling boy, and even though you are almost a man you will always be my darling boy, I imagine you are feeling a little forlorn now Javier has left the ship. Strangeness is going to be your new companion - perhaps for many months. My only comfort as we all scurry around preparing for your departure is that Ivy and Timothy will be by your side in London. To guide and support. You must though remember life will be different for Ivy too. It will take her a little time to adapt to her changed status - and, as everywhere, there will be small-minded people who will know she was once a lady’s maid and will do their utmost to disparage her.

I know on your rides with Sam that he has spoken to you of, in his words, black things, of your African heritage and of things many of us wish to forget - I speak of course of slavery - but that you must know, and understand, in order to move ahead and find your own place in the world.

So now I must speak of white things. I have never sweetened your life, Niels. I tried to protect you from slurs or prejudices certainly, but truth and openness have always been our avenue. Of the possibility, no, probability of bigotry, which, as you know, is borne of ignorance.

On Saint Croix we are used to the mix of skin colours - you do not stand out, and I know we have spoken of this before, but I do not think you fully realise the enormity of what you are undertaking. You will be stared at. Sadly not, for the most part, because you are a good-looking young man but because you are black. Maybe not as dark as some, but you will still be classified as black. And that to many means Africa. A continent even the most uneducated has heard of though has little knowledge of, and therefore is a place to be feared. A place of wild animals and wilder peoples. The West Indies are known only for their piracy, sugar and rum. Who populates them offers little interest to the average Englishman.

And then, my darling, you will begin to speak. Not, as expected, as a servant. You will shame many, unintentionally I know, with your knowledge and your manner. Neither will your facility with languages endear you to some. You will be an upstart in many people’s eyes. A boy - a man - above his station.

I write harshly, Niels, because you must understand that all we have spoken about - and Sam, Timothy, and everyone at Anna’s Fancy in their own way, and of course the Gomezes - will mean nothing if you allow yourself to be angered by what may be ahead of you, by the intolerance and ignorance of people of whom you expect better.

Sometimes you will be surprised. By a simple kindness, maybe from a stall-holder at Covent Garden market or a carriage driver. But there will be stares. And quite likely comments of an uncomplimentary nature, sometimes hostility - even in a metropolis such as London where there are many thousands of black men and women. The countryside will be worse.

And now that I have frightened you, my darling boy, made your loneliness even greater, I will build you up. Remember Henley’s Book of Verses, the poetry book Timothy’s father sent him? Now remember the unnamed one. We talked about it when we walked along the beach some months ago. The sentiments are something from which we can all learn, particularly the second verse:

In fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

And a stanza later it ends, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. Henley is far more eloquent than I, and maybe stoicism is not always the answer, but don’t ever let people belittle you, Niels, or vice versa.

I know you will rise above intractability and that any discrimination you may encounter will only make you stronger. I wish I could shield you, but you are out in this big and, sometimes, ugly world and I know you will find your way. You are destined to do great things, my darling - I feel it, though have no idea what they might be. You are a bigger person than I ever dreamed, ever hoped, when you first came to Anna’s Fancy. Then I just longed for you to forget the horror of your mother’s death, and to speak again.

You have been in my heart and mind every day since Fireburn brought you to live with me, Niels, and there you will remain.

With love,

Anna

P.S. Sam didn’t think I should write this and he is usually correct, but I believe this time he is not. Kindly tell him so when you write! A

Niels folded the letter, taking care to follow the creases on the onionskin paper. The postscript made him smile, much needed after reading Anna’s words. Trust her not to shy away from unpleasantness. They had talked but never in this brutal a manner. Anna invariably gave people the benefit of the doubt - well not always - Niels smiled again, remembering her handling of some of the less effective, less tolerant landowners or overseers. Brusque was too kind a word to describe her disdain for them.

He pushed away from the cramped desk and paced the confines of the cabin, somewhat larger now Javier’s belongings were no longer scattered around. For such a tidy-minded person he had been the most untidy of cabin mates. But he would be sorely missed. Growing up together, though Javier had lived in Frederiksted, had given the boys an intuitive understanding of each other’s thoughts - sometimes muddied by the interference of Javier’s little sister, Fabiana.

Niels looked at the postcard of the three of them, taken earlier in the year at a polo match - a game all three loved though one in which Fabiana no longer took part, much to her chagrin. They had been corralled by Isabel to stand in front of the photographer hiding under his black hood, and were laughing at something Anna had said - no doubt along the lines of them being ruffians.

She was right about one thing. He would miss their friendship sorely. He and Javier had talked about meeting in Paris, to improve their French, they had assured their respective parents, something Niels considered Sam and Anna to be. But when that would be was an open question.

Firstly, getting to grips with English society, or maybe just England. The picture Anna had painted was not encouraging. He and Ivy could compare notes on the tolerance or maybe intolerance for crossing boundaries - both class and colour.

Niels tugged a finely woven paisley scarf Anna had found - he never failed to be surprised by what came out from crates stored under the Anna’s Fancy great house - and wandered out on deck again. He needed fresh air and walking around the steamship would give him plenty. Most passengers were below decks preparing for the inevitable turbulence of the Bay of Biscay. Not something he understood. Don’t look down, he remembered Anna saying when he’d first started sailing and had complained of a queasy stomach. Much better to keep your eyes firmly on the horizon.

Both Niels and Javier had appreciated Timothy’s efforts on the Atlantic crossing to keep their minds on their studies, and his ability to make the most mundane interesting. But what had truly triggered their imaginations was learning about the steamship now rocking beneath his feet. The captain, a doughty Scot, had taken great pride in telling them the RMS Orinoco was the first Royal Mail Steam Packet Company ship to be built with a steel hull as opposed to the heavier iron, though the steamer still had three masts to help her on her way. They had even been taken on a tour of the engine rooms, where lascars from Bengal toiled in the coal-stoked heat.

Although the steamer could carry 250 first-class passengers, it was not full, perhaps due to the time of the year. The threat of hurricanes put many off from sailing between June and November. The second-class berths, only 26, were fully occupied though. A couple of faces Niels recognized from Christiansted - white women beaten by the tropics, rejected by their men, or past their date of usefulness in whorehouses. Women who had scrimped to find a passage back to all that was familiar. Or at least, all that had been. He wondered how they would fit back into their previous lives.

Ivy

Tucked under a blanket in a deckchair and out of the wind, Ivy watched her husband pace up and down the aft deck. His hands were clutched behind his back, his usual stance when teaching, and she imagined he was again thinking of his speech to the Royal Society. Doubtless tweaking his prose. He had been inspired by a tour they had made of gardens of the quinta belonging to a friend of his father.

Ivy had just been glad to get off the ship and feel solid land beneath her feet, though even that seemed to rock. A couple of days’ respite before facing the Bay of Biscay. She loathed the sea. Calm or rough weather made no difference. Her stomach heaved to its own rhythm the minute she set foot on a boat. And, God help her, she would have to make one more trip. But that would be her last. She would quite happily die on Saint Croix.

Distracted for a moment from ocean voyages and meeting Timothy’s parents, her thoughts turned to Niels. His lanky frame had seemed to crumple as he watched Javier disappear into the sea mist that clung to his hair like seed pearls. How would he manage without his friend’s support? And, though she didn’t think he realised it yet, he would miss Fabiana too.

Her hand flew to her hat. A laugh escaped with the red curls flying free as the wind picked up. Perspective. That’s what she needed. The reality for Niels was going to be far harder than anything she had to face. Or had faced. Arriving in Saint Croix thirteen years earlier when colours and smells had overloaded her senses and heat had threatened to choke her - particularly waiting for the Christmas winds or at crop over, when the sugar cane was cut and processed - was nothing compared to what awaited the lad.

Emiline, the wiry and initially irascible cook, had unnerved her, but Ivy’d held her ground and they’d found their way to not just respect but friendship. That’s what Niels had to do. But on a larger scale. Timothy was very matter-of-fact about what lay ahead, she just had to follow his lead. Together they would try to ease the young man’s way.

It was the least she could do for Anna, and Sam of course. But the truth was she loved the boy too. Niels might be the closest she got to rearing a child. The dull ache of disappointment tugged her belly again, but she pushed it aside. That’s enough of that, Ivy Luscombe. You might not be a housekeeper anymore, but you’ve still got a job to do, and you’re the luckiest ex-maid alive.

A hand touched her shoulder and Ivy looked up into her husband’s face, compassion etched in every line - many more than when they’d first met. But she too was showing signs of a tropical sun.

Come, Ivy my dear, we must find Niels. He doesn’t need too much time for rumination. We’ll play a hand of euchre before dinner - it will be more cutthroat now it is two against one. If that does not take his mind, or yours, off what lies ahead, nothing will.

It will take more than cards, Timothy, to take my mind off the Bay of Biscay.

Its shallow waters combined with regular storms make it a bad stretch to cross. Fortunately, it doesn’t last long.

Long enough. And I don’t care what the reason, I hate it. It’s alright for you seafaring Devonians, the ocean is in your blood. Not us Londoners, Ivy said, tucking her hand into the crook of Timothy’s arm as they returned to their salon. You’re all pirates!

CHAPTER 3

June 1890

England

Ivy

Bundled into the serviceable coat not worn since she left England, and surprisingly not riddled with moth holes or degraded by humidity, Ivy watched the commotion on Southampton Docks. Docks, anywhere it seemed, were the same. A multitude of men hustling, shouting, pushing carts or laden down with trunks balanced across broad shoulders. The difference here was the damp cold already seeping into her bones, the amount of clothing worn and, biggest of all, the colour of the stevedores and dockers, who were predominantly white. Though she saw some of those unloading the ships’ holds were Bengali lascars.

Well-dressed men in check suits and tall hats, some waving a cane in the air, called or pointed to where baggage was to be deposited - beside a cart to be hauled away to a hotel or the train station, or sometimes into a Clarence if the journey was to end in nearby countryside. Ivy’s lips twitched. In the old days she would’ve called it a ‘growler’. Only rich folk called the carriage a Clarence, but watching one, the horses easily parting the crowds, she decided growler still best described the sound the metal wheels made on cobblestones.

She turned to find Timothy and Niels approaching. Her husband, looking purposeful, carried a folio case, and Niels, a valise. Neither she nor Timothy wanted Niels to be faced with questions as to his right to be in England; they were concerned the sight of a young black man travelling with a white couple might raise questions, or conjecture.

Nothing had been left to chance, and should an officious agent demand a Certificate of Alien be submitted to the local Justice of the Peace to be forwarded to the Aliens Office in London, Timothy had the required paperwork, including a letter from Governor Arendrup of the Danish West Indies, attesting to Niels’ character. In the folio case too were papers signed by old Doctor Taarland showing Carl Pedersen, Anna’s deceased husband, to be Niels’ biological father and certifying his mother had died as a result of Fireburn, the worker rebellion in 1878, and that the child had been adopted by Anna the same year.

Ivy tensed as they walked down the gangplank and approached a dock official in a dark suit. She looked the part of a lady, her old coat gussied up with an artfully draped scarf, but would she be looked down on once she spoke? Seen as an upstart, married above her station? She felt Timothy’s reassuring hand touch the small of her back. Glancing at Niels she saw he too was apprehensive. Though his shoulders were back and his head up, his eyes were dark and wary, taking all in around him. Moving aside she urged Timothy ahead, then, slipping her gloved hand around Niels’ elbow, she stepped back onto British soil with the man-child for whom she was responsible, her look daring censure from anyone.

Come, Niels, she said. Together we will face England.

Niels

Niels had grown up seeing schooners, steamships, the occasional Royal Naval ironclad, and, less frequently, ships from the Danish Navy. As he had grown older and rode into Christiansted or Frederiksted with Sam, or hitched a ride on a dray, he would watch ships arrive in safe harbour and wonder about the places they had visited. So, whilst travelling on the RMS Orinoco had been interesting, it had not surprised him.

Seeing a train however, the snorting mechanical beast that would take them to London, stunned him. Two large yellow lights glared, like the ogre’s eyes in one of the Italian fairy tales Anna used to read him. Smoke belched from the stack and sent odiferous fumes across West Bay where it merged with louring clouds. Niels could see the watermark where sea lapped the southern edge of the platform at high tide. The chaos of Southampton wharf seemed to have transferred to the railway platform with men directing porters shoving carts or loading trunks, and women with grizzling children waiting to board. Activity on the platform reached a crescendo as the stationmaster blew his whistle then shouted, All aboard. This train departs in three minutes.

Come, my boy, Timothy said with a smile, drawing Niels away from the engine and handing Ivy into the carriage. Our cabin luggage is stowed and the rest will be sent on tomorrow. Next stop, London.

The green hills, rolling for miles in every direction, were dotted with sheep and cattle huddled under trees Niels could not name. Unlike Saint Croix where sugar cane, though not grown as much now, and palms, genip and mahogany waved their stalks, fronds and branches in the trade breezes like familiar friends. There was nothing gentle about the rain lashing the train, frenzied rivulets streaming down the windows as it chugged through the Hampshire countryside. If this was summer, the thought of winter was not enticing.

He glanced across at Ivy and smiled. The swaying carriage and nervous exhaustion had sent her to sleep, her head resting on Timothy’s shoulder.

There will be more excitement when we reach London. It’s good she rests now, his tutor and friend said.

Niels’ attention returned to the passing countryside until he asked, "Why are burial grounds so close to the train tracks? It is most discouraging