Page 230 of The Sun Sister

‘Eight and five.’

‘Thirteen,’ Stella answered without hesitation.

‘I’m impressed,’ Walter smiled. ‘I think I’ll have to make those questions harder, won’t I?’

Twenty minutes later, Walter raised his hands as Stella begged him to test her further.

‘I’m all out of questions, honey, but you’re real good at answering them. Exceptionally good,’ he said, casting a glance at Cecily. ‘Now then, both of you run along. I’m expecting a visitor any second.’

‘I like Walter,’ said Stella as they walked towards the kitchen to find Lankenua, who was huddled by the stove. ‘At least I like him better than Mrs Huntley-Morgan,’ Stella shrugged as she eyed the chocolate cake sitting on the kitchen table. ‘But I like that best,’ she giggled, pointing to it.

‘How are you feeling, Lankenua?’

‘Okay,’ Lankenua nodded. ‘When we go home, Missus Cecily?’

‘In a few weeks,’ Cecily replied as she turned to Mary. ‘Do you think you could bring some coffee up to my room? I’m out again at five and I should change.’

‘Of course, Miss Cecily.’

Up in her room, Cecily stood in front of the mirror, trying to decide what she should wear for the Vassar reunion. She remembered Rosalind had never been one for fashion, so Cecily decided on a plain black cocktail dress. Draining her coffee, she asked Mary to call for Archer to bring the car out front. During the drive there, Cecily felt nervous; she still had no idea why Rosalind would think to invite her. She lived in Brooklyn – an address that she’d learnt from Priscilla was recently becoming popular with the younger set. Dorothea had commented that it was full of Irish, their families still there after building the Brooklyn Bridge.

‘This neighbourhood’s gotta lot of beautiful old brownstones,’ Archer said as they drove through the streets. ‘It’s been run-down for a while, but people like your friend are movin’ here ’cos they get a lotta house for their dollar. New York’s always changing, ain’t it, Miss Cecily?’

The car pulled up in front of a neat brownstone set in a row of far shabbier houses and Cecily stepped out.

‘I shouldn’t be much longer than an hour,’ she said to Archer, then walked up the steps to the front door.

‘Cecily! How wonderful you could make it.’ Rosalind, whose dark hair was cut in a sleek bob similar to Mamie’s, smiled at her as she led her into a pleasant sitting room filled with young women, many of them wearing pants. Cecily felt hideously old-fashioned and overdressed.

‘Beer or sherry?’ Rosalind asked as she steered her over to a drinks cart.

‘Oh, sherry, please. Will I know anybody here?’

‘Of course you will. Apart from the odd exception, they were all in our year at Vassar. So, the New York gossip machine tells me you’ve been living in Africa?’ Rosalind said. ‘We can’t wait to hear all about it, can we, Beatrix?’

A Negro woman with a pair of wide, warm eyes appraised Cecily.

‘No, we can’t, given that’s where our forefathers were from, Rosalind.’

Cecily looked at the two women in confusion.

‘Don’t worry, Cecily,’ Rosalind chuckled. ‘Most people don’t recognise me for the Negro I really am. There was obviously a rogue white man way back when, but my heart is as black as Beatrix’s. Vassar didn’t know until after I’d received my degree – you know what they’re like there, Cecily. If they had their way, we’d be sweeping the floors, not sitting in lecture halls with folks like you. It’s changing slowly, mind you. They were embarrassed into taking Beatrix in 1940, as other colleges had a far bigger coloured quota. So say hello to our first official Negro Vassar graduate.’

‘And I hope that I will be the first of many,’ Beatrix smiled. ‘I’m at Yale Medical School right now, and the challenge there isn’t just the colour of my skin, but the fact that I’m a woman. Double whammy, eh, Rosalind?’

‘You bet,’ said Rosalind, indicating a quieter corner at the back of the room. ‘Now, Cecily, come and tell us all about Africa. It’s Kenya you live in, isn’t it?’

At first, Cecily performed her usual party piece about safaris, lions and deadly snakes, but Rosalind soon stopped her.

‘Tell me, in a colonial country, do the Negroes have rights? Are there activist parties?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘So even though Kenya is a predominately black society, Negroes – in their own country – are still ruled by a few white men in uniform?’ asked Beatrix.

‘Yes, that’s how it is, I’m afraid. Although I know that since the war, when many of them signed up to fight for king and country—’

‘Their country, but not their king,’ Beatrix interrupted.