Читать книгу Suspended Sentences - Mark McWatt - Страница 8

[written in March-April, 1967]

Rather than recount at length the events that took place at the Sports club of the Imperial Bank on Friday 9th July, just over a month after independence, I have asked my cousin Mark McWatt to make his story a narrative of that evening’s happenings and this will be the last ‘story’ in the collection. The reasons for my choice of the author and the position of this story will become evident at the end of the book. [I have no idea what Victor meant by this remark: I did not write my assigned ‘story’ until five years after he had disappeared and I often wonder what he imagined I would say in it]. Suffice it to say that the gang of students listed above met at the club to celebrate both the end of A-level exams and the country’s independence which they could not properly celebrate at the actual time because they were busy studying for the exams – and, due in part to an excess of alcohol and high spirits, they vandalized the club, defacing walls and destroying property. Nine members of the gang were charged with wilful damage of the Bank’s property, although the Bank declined to press charges and it appeared as though a number of parents were involved in ‘arranging’ for the court case that followed a week later. [I was surprised to find that Victor had written this last sentence, because he had always insisted that the court case was genuine and our obligations were clear, while most of the rest of us were convinced, even at that time, that the whole thing was a charade cooked up by some parents and their friends in the judiciary and legal profession to throw a scare into us and to teach us a lesson]

On Saturday morning (17th July) we all turned up in the courtroom of Mr. Justice Chanderband [this was, of course, long before he became Sir Ronald and ascended to his sinecure in the Hague], along with Willow, our Literature teacher and Aubrey Chase, a lawyer and cousin of Hilary Sutton. There was also the police sergeant who went to the club on the night of the vandalism and who served as prosecutor. The judge began by making us all recite our names and addresses, including Mac and Smallie, although they had not been charged since they had gone home early, before any damage was done. Then the charges were read and the sergeant was asked by the judge to expand on the actual damage done:

‘This graffiti, the defacement of the upstairs wall... Can you tell the court, Sergeant, exactly what was written – or rather painted?’

‘Yes, Milord,’ and he opened his notebook and read: ‘There was a two-line sentence as follows: ‘Sir Eustace is an anachronism and Lady Dowding is a tight-assed termagant’ (Sir Eustace, as your lordship is no doubt aware, is the English manager of the Imperial Bank); this was followed by a single word, ‘latifundia’ and then another sentence ‘Don’t pick the blue hibiscus’; finally there was a large blue hibiscus painted on the wall.’

‘Anachronism’, ‘termagant’, ‘latifundia’: were these words correctly spelt, Sergeant?’

‘I believe so, Milord.’

‘Not your run-of-the-mill graffiti artists, eh Sergeant? At least this new country can boast of literate vandals...’ and the sergeant chuckled politely.

All of our other misdeeds that night were recounted in detail: the emptying of over forty bottles of whiskey and other spirits from the bar into the swimming pool, the tipping of a large concrete planter, full of soil and red geraniums, into the pool and the tying up and gagging of the barman, Mr. Dornford and the caretaker/watchman, Mr. Ramkisoon. Judge Chanderband had wonderfully expressive eyebrows and with each item related he managed to contort them into an expression of ever-increasing horror and disbelief. After telling us that these were very serious offences, he asked if any of us had anything to say. We all said, in mournful demeanour and suitably contrite tones, that we had had too much to drink, pointing out that Sir Rupert Dowding himself had generously told the barman to give us whatever we wanted to drink. Val, Nickie and Desmond also made the point that we were carried away by the euphoria of having completed our A-level examinations. The judge wore a tired smile through all this and seemed totally unimpressed. Aubrey Chase then spoke on our behalf, pointing out that we had all admitted our guilt and drunkenness and misbehaviour.

‘Although your lordship might want to consider whether it was not even greater misbehaviour – or at least poor judgment – to give a gang of teenagers the freedom of drinking whatever they wanted from the bar... We should consider, too, the fact that the premises were officially closed for renovations at the time: furniture was covered with tarpaulins, the walls were primed, there were pots of paint lying around and there was an atmosphere of chaos and confusion at the club – which is why there was no adult member present that evening who might have restrained these reckless young people...’

Judge Chanderband gave poor Aubrey a withering look and proceeded to tear his arguments to shreds, pointing out that those charged were all adults, and highly intelligent and educated adults at that, and must take full responsibility for their behaviour since the same would be expected of a bunch of vagrants off the street whose entire lives might be ‘chaos and confusion’. Sir Rupert’s generosity might have been misguided, but could never be blamed for the criminal acts committed by this group of delinquents who certainly knew that what they were doing was wrong... If, my dear Mr. Chase, that kind of crippled argument is the best you can do in defence of these boys, I suggest that it would be better if you said nothing... I understand that there’s a teacher who would like to say something on their behalf?...’ [As I recall it, both judge Chanderband and Aubrey Chase were laughing during this entire exchange, and that contributed to our perception that the entire proceedings were not to be taken seriously]

At this point Willow spoke, supposedly on our behalf, but he began by tearing into us, saying how disappointed he and the other masters were in us and that he felt it as a personal failure. He outlined our past academic achievements as well as the expectations the school had of each of us in the exams, concluding in each case with a version of the following: ‘Of course all that’s now up in the air; it’s anybody’s guess what he will achieve in the exams if he is capable of deviating so widely from the kind of behaviour we had every right to expect of him...’ In fact it was a brilliant performance: he seemed at various points angry, deeply disappointed, shocked and saddened almost to the point of tears by what we had done, while saying at the same time what we were capable of doing and how great a contribution we could have been expected to make to our newly independent country, if only we had not spoiled everything that night by ‘behaving worse than a class of unsupervised second-formers.’ Then, having stolen much of the judge’s thunder, he even managed to suggest what might be imposed on us by way of punishment.

‘I do not plead for them to be excused or pardoned. What they did deserves punishment, and I’m sure, My Lord, that you will not hesitate to impose it; for my part, whatever you do decide on in the way of punishment, I would wish, if possible to add to that the kind of punishment that will force them to realize some of the potential that they seem to have abandoned or negated in one night of drunken recklessness. I know what they are capable of: they are all bright, creative individuals with wonderful imaginations and, instead of defiling their new country by their actions, I’d like to see them being forced to help build it up in an important area, such as it’s creative literature. I’d make each of them write a short story for or about their country and will not consider their debt to their country discharged until the collection of stories (which I feel could be a wonderful collection if they take it seriously) is published and available to their fellow Guyanese...’

Well, we were all in deep shock. [No argument here, Willow’s performance was the one genuine moment of the ‘trial’ and we were all amazed and filled with shame and remorse by what he said; I’ve often thought that those who hastened to write their stories, did so for the English master and not for the judge or the so called court sentence.] The Judge then tried to crush us with sarcasm and anger, but his fulminations were negated by the fact that we were still reeling from Willow’s tirade and, in any case, judge Chanderband just couldn’t match, in our minds, the sense of our unjust defilement of the confidence placed in us by our English master. He ‘sentenced’ us each to two weeks in prison and suspended the sentences for two years on condition that we keep the peace and avoid further trouble and that we each write a short story within that time that could be collected and published in an anthology of nine Guyanese short stories. He said that I, as head boy and leader of the gang, must undertake to collect and edit the stories. [Actually he tried to get Willow to do it, but the teacher insisted that the entire project should be undertaken by the students themselves and it was he who suggested that Victor be made responsible for collecting and editing the stories.] Willow said it should be eleven and not nine short stories, since Mac and Smallie were members of gang and it was ‘accidental’ that they were absent when the mischief took place. The judge replied that he had no objection to the two extra stories, although he could not impose this on the other two as part of a sentence.

That is the origin of this project, therefore, and of my responsibility as editor. Thus far only two stories have been submitted and I am working on my own... [I now think that Victor needed to believe, or to pretend to believe, in the sentences in order to continue collecting the stories; to several of us it was clear that there was no genuine court case, and Hilary told us that Aubrey Chase admitted as much, a few months after. Besides, Nunc overheard his mother telling someone on the phone: ‘Anyway, my dear, we got Ronnie Chanderband to put the fear of God into them in what they think is a real court case – suspended sentences and all...’ When it became my task to extract the remaining stories and revisions from members of the gang after all the years, I did not pretend that it was in order to fulfil a long forgotten sentence, but rather to honour the memory of our leader Victor Nunes, now presumed dead, and to make some contribution to the literature of Guyana, a country which most of us have abandoned and which seems in worse shape now than it was at independence.]

Victor Nunes/Mark McWatt