Small Island Read online

  ‘You want me take you home?’ I asked this man. I said it too loud, I know I did, and too slow, as if talking to a child, but somehow it seemed right to shout at this jitterbugging half-wit. But he stayed expressionless. Blinked at me twice. I stepped closer to him with the intention of taking his arm to escort him. He stepped back. This happened a few more times before I gave in and accepted his love of the parallel. I walked and he followed ten paces behind.

  I did not have to look to know that he was still there, his wheezing breaths told me I was being chased. I kept an ear sharp in case the wheezing got worse. By the time we reached the lane to the farmhouse I was walking Jamaican slow – one foot down and the other foot soon come, what the hurry, no rush – so this man could keep up with me.

  I had been in England long enough to know that my complexion at a door can cause – what shall I say? – tension. When I was new to England all the doors looked the same to me. I make a mistake, I knock at the wrong one. Man, this woman come to the door brandishing a hot poker in my face yelling that she wanted no devil in her house. ‘Since when was the devil in the RAF?’ I asked her. Stand back – I had learned that day – stand back, smile and watch out!

  The door to this farmhouse was answered so quickly I was sure we had been seen approaching. The woman who answered the door was Queenie Bligh, although obviously I did not know her name then. All I knew was that a pretty woman looked at me for the count of two seconds with an excited recognition. Two seconds before she realised I was not whom she’d thought I was. Two seconds before she knew I was a stranger. Her first words to me, as she pointed at the man who had followed me, were ‘Where d’you find him?’

  Just that. No ‘Hello, can I help you?’ Or ‘Good day.’ Just ‘Where d’you find him?’ No politeness, no pleasantry. She wasn’t even worried that this once white man’s face was now black.

  ‘He appeared to be following me,’ I told her.

  Her eyes rolled around in their sockets. She was as pretty as a doll – pale hair, very blue eyes, a thin but firm waist and lovely legs.

  I, like all servicemen from my country, was adept at taking in the whole spectacle of a woman without her knowing. Every feature was assessed, categorised and compared in the blink of the unsuspecting eye. For the Jamaican man – expert in this art – it is hard to say whether it is a training or a natural-born gift. This woman was so lovely I wanted to rub my hands together, kiss the crazy man who followed me and thank him heartily for bringing me to this house. But instead I held my arms to my side like a gentleman and told my mouth not to give away any unwholesome intention.

  ‘He followed you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, from a while back. We have been together most of the afternoon. Him just a few paces behind me except for the moment when he threw himself to the ground.’

  ‘Was there a loud noise? Was he shaking?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, to both.’

  ‘Don’t worry – it was nothing you did.’

  ‘My question is, why him follow me in the first place?’

  ‘Oh, I know why he followed you,’ she said. ‘He thinks he knows you. He brought you back for me.’

  I looked again at this man, who had an expression on his face that, if looked at carefully – perhaps with some measuring device – could be construed as a smile. At this point the man passed me, walking into the house with no recognition or gratitude to me at all.

  ‘Does this man speak?’ I asked.

  ‘Did he not say anything to you?’

  I shook my head as she, addressing him over her shoulder, said, ‘Go on, you daft beggar – it’s not him.’ Then looking to me she added, ‘He thinks you’re someone else.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Paul Robeson.’

  ‘Paul Robeson. You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?’ she said, frowning. ‘Anyway, he wouldn’t know Paul Robeson if he fell on him.’

  ‘Madam,’ I told her, ‘if Paul Robeson were to fall on him there would have been no need for you to come to the door, I would have just posted the gentleman underneath.’ This was a very good joke. You see Paul Robeson is substantial and this man was puny. He would be flattened like a hut before a tank. But this woman appeared not to see the amusing side.

  ‘Get washed, Arthur,’ she called to the man, ‘your face’ll frighten people. And get those mucky clothes off.’ And turning to me she said, ‘Well, thank you for bringing him back,’ before moving to close the door.

  So I asked, ‘Excuse me, but is the gentleman all right?’

  ‘I don’t think so, do you?’ As I had already asked the question I had no reply for her. She went on, ‘He hasn’t been right since the last war. He hates loud noise. I brought him here to get away from those blinking buzz-bombs in London, but you lot make such a racket I’m thinking of taking him back for some peace and quiet.’

  I was not ready to leave such a pretty woman yet. ‘So, if not Paul Robeson who him think I was?’ And, oh, boy, she blushed. She blushed so bad I felt the temperature rise around me.

  ‘Oh, just someone else I knew – like you.’

  ‘An RAF man?’

  ‘A coloured chappie like you.’

  ‘Oh, I can assure you, ma’am, there is no other coloured chappie like me.’

  ‘No. You look like him – a little bit.’

  ‘May I ask which bit that is?’

  ‘No, you may not, but thank you for coming and bringing him back. I’m sure you’ll want to be getting off now.’

  Man, was she wrong!

  ‘Is he your father?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who is now washing his face.’

  ‘No, he’s my father-in-law. I was given him as a wedding present.’

  ‘A wedding present! You’re lucky, your husband a generous man. Where I come from a new wife is usually given a toothless rancorous old mother-in-law.’

  Suddenly this woman laughed. A laugh from nowhere. No smile or build-up titter. Just one minute solemn, the next a honking laugh, the noise of which could make a pig sit up and look for its mummy. My instinct told me to run or stare. I stared. Then holding out her hand, she managed to say, ‘Queenie Bligh. That’s Mrs Queenie Bligh to you.’

  ‘Gilbert Joseph,’ I said, as I shook her hand delicately. ‘That’s Airman Gilbert Joseph to you.’

  And the laugh came again.

  ‘That’s some laugh you have there,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose I better make you a cup of tea seeing as you’ve come all this way.’

  ‘And I finally make you laugh.’

  ‘Oh, you were trying to make me laugh, were you, Airman?’

  ‘Laughter is part of my war effort.’

  ‘Well, I’d better show you some local hospitality, then.’

  ‘What – your husband won’t mind if you entertain me?’

  ‘Now you mention it, hang on a minute. I’ll just go and write to him. He’s in India. Should get a reply within the year. D’you mind waiting?’ She stood aside for me to pass. ‘Come in, then, Airman Gilbert Joseph, before I change my mind.’

  Sixteen

  Gilbert

  At the time I did not worry. Just white American soldiers – GIs out on the town. I might have wondered whether the swagger in their step was drunkenness or just that national arrogance all allies had come to know.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah, you. Don’t you know to salute your superiors?’ As this man’s friend was hanging on to his arm trying to steady himself giggling all the while like a silly schoolgirl, I did not believe this to be a serious question.

  ‘I don’t know you, man.’

  ‘I am your superior,’ he told me. The badge on his arm proclaimed him to be no more than a private in the US Army. Perhaps I should not wipe my boots on him but no more respect than that was required.

  ‘Salute your superior.’

  ‘Fuck you, man,’ I told him, before moving on.

  He called after me, the giggling one,
he shouted, ‘Off the sidewalk, nigger.’

  I turned round to face them again but they were walking away, strutting towards some other sport.

  It was then I heard, ‘Airman’, being called feminine on the breeze. And I knew it was she. But not until she used my name – not until I knew she remembered me as Gilbert – did I turn round to where she stood on the street. With the sun behind her the silhouette of Queenie Bligh’s shapely legs was delivered like a saucy picture show on to her flimsy dress. Oblivious to this intimate display she waved at me like we were old friends. Ugly GIs instantly forgotten. Man, I thought, your luck has just changed!

  ‘Gilbert, have you seen Arthur?’ She hurried towards me on the street, enchantingly breathless.

  ‘Don’t tell me you lose him again.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Gilbert.’

  ‘But you too careless with this man.’ Not since I had asked Auntie May if she had ever been kissed had a face looked on mine with such inscrutable blankness. I had gone too far. Man, I was losing me touch.

  ‘You’re a cheeky beggar,’ she said. But what a relief when in answer her eyes flashed levity instead of the whack round the head I got from Auntie May.

  ‘You need a lead for that man.’

  ‘You’re right, I could string him up by it.’

  ‘Such a pretty woman could never do such a thing.’

  There was the trace of a blush at her neck as she said, ‘Don’t try me.’

  ‘So how you lose him this time?’

  ‘Same as always.’

  I having met Queenie and her father-in-law on only one occasion, ‘same as always’ meant little to me. But the familiarity of that phrase was so sweet I made no further enquiry. ‘He will come back.’

  ‘He tries my patience.’

  ‘He’ll probably bring you someone for tea.’ Queenie looked so dismayed I had to say, ‘That was a joke.’

  ‘If it was, Gilbert, I would have laughed. Ruddy little sod.’

  ‘Who me?’

  ‘Not you – him.’ Her face relaxed, anxious to adorable in one move.

  ‘Well, seeing how your father-in-law has brought us together again, can I offer you a cup of tea?’

  ‘You got one in your pocket?’

  ‘No, but I would be honoured to escort you to the tea-shop.’

  ‘It was a joke, Gilbert.’

  ‘A joke? But, Mrs Bligh, if it had been a joke I am sure I would have laughed.’

  I swear I could still feel the fingertip touch of Queenie’s hand on my arm from that afternoon when we first met. Sitting at the table in her mother’s kitchen she had served me with a cup of milky tea. I had gratefully taken it from her hand but declined to add the sugar she offered even though, as everyone is aware, tea is disgusting without it. She had then presented me with a large delicious-looking hunk of crusty pork pie. Despite my mouth watering so that my drooling was visible as a dog before a bone, I refused this repast. Why? Because of Sergeant Baxter. It was this man who taught me, and all his colony troops, that owing to shortages and rationing in Britain if invited for food into someone’s home the polite response was to say no, thank you – perhaps with the excuse that you had eaten already. ‘They can’t go giving the likes of you all their precious food,’ this sergeant reasoned. ‘So act like you don’t need it.’

  ‘No, thank you. I have already eaten,’ I had said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Queenie asked me.

  ‘Tell me of pork pie?’ I then asked. ‘Is it an English delicacy?’

  There came that laugh from nowhere – an alarming sound, which suddenly filled every corner of the dull and dour room with dazzle. ‘Well, I think we’re the only ones daft enough to eat it, if that’s what you mean?’

  I hoped my envious eyes were not protruding too obviously as I watched her take the first mouthful of her slice. But as she chewed, this pretty woman began to smile. It was then that she had gently laid her hand on my arm. Looking mischievous wide blue eyes into mine, she’d said, ‘A word of advice, Airman Gilbert. Never be polite in a butcher’s house. You eat as much as you like.’ Oh, she was so charming that afternoon. With Sergeant Baxter ignored, I just had to surrender.

  For the sake of Queenie, if I had seen them before we stepped into the little tea-shop I might have made an excuse for moving no further inside. But I had just finished seating Queenie into a chair and was half-way into my own when they became apparent to me. Three white American GIs. As I took my seat, Queenie joking loudly to me said, ‘You’re a gentleman, Airman.’ She slipped off her cardigan, placing it on the back of the chair. The three GIs noticed us, as I knew they would. One nudged the other’s arm, nodding towards our table while another stared directly on me with a blinkless gaze that did not falter. Queenie, with her back to them had no reason to feel their curiosity. Oblivious she began reading the menu, ‘I bet that scrambled egg’s not real egg,’ while I, knowing fear can animate a face, returned to them an expressionless stare.

  Everyone fighting a war hates. All must conjure a list of demons. The enemy. Top of most British Tommies’ list would be the army that hated them most – the Nazis. They were, of course, men who would smile to see a Tommy’s head blown into mush. But from that first uneasy hospitality at the American base in Virginia to this cocky hatred that was charging across the room to yell in the face of a coloured man whose audacity was to sit with a white woman, I was learning to despise the white American GI above all other. They were the army that hated me most! Out of place in the genteel atmosphere of this dreary tea-shop these three aggrieved GIs twitched with hostile excitement, like snipers clearing their aim at a sitting target. Surrounded by grey-haired old ladies – cups tinkling like bells as uncertain hands placed them on saucers, the clip of cutlery on floral plates, a gentle gurgle of pouring tea, a little slurping, a hushed conversation – these poor GIs were in murderous mood watching a nigger sitting with his head still high. If the defeat of hatred is the purpose of war, then come, let us face it: I and all other coloured servicemen were fighting this war on another front.

  ‘Would you like something to eat with your cup of tea?’ I asked Queenie, louder than was required.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

  ‘Now, that is one long tortuous way of saying yes,’ I commented. ‘Why English people say all this “don’t mind” business when a simple yes will do? Is it to confuse we Jamaicans?’

  ‘You know, I’ve never thought about it. It’s just something you say. I’ve always said it. Don’t mind if I do. But now you mention it . . .’

  Queenie was unaware that our polite conversation caused these GIs to flex their fists. One of them whispered an urgent word into his friend’s ear. Another, smoking a cigarette, lips pinched, holding it with his finger and thumb like a shrunken Bogart – blew his smoke in our direction.

  I don’t know why the fusty waitress posed with a pad and pencil. This woman, looking anywhere but at us, said, ‘That’s off,’ to the teacake, the toast, the muffin, the crumpet, the drop scone.

  ‘What, they all turn bad?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said, lazily raising her eyebrows. ‘They’re finished. We haven’t got them.’

  ‘I always thought when something was off it gone bad.’

  ‘Well, I dare say. But here we say it’s off. Off the menu.’

  ‘But it is written here.’

  ‘Yes, but it is off.’

  I looked to Queenie who was giggling into her hand. ‘So, Queenie, would you like tea?’

  ‘I don’t mind if I do, Gilbert,’ she said, and the poor old ladies jumped as she began to laugh.

  Meanwhile those GIs were concentrating on us like we were an exam they must pass.

  ‘We’ve got rock buns,’ the waitress said.

  One of them had tight black curly hair – man, this white boy should never dig too deep in his past: who knows what strangeness could be uncovered?

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said. ‘Then may I have two rock buns as well, please.’


  She wrote this down on her pad while telling me, ‘There’s only one left.’

  ‘One then, for the lady, thank you.’

  The third GI was an ugly brute – look like the Lord above had put him face on in the dark: nose flattened to one side, eyes sitting too close. A boxer, maybe.

  Queenie was talking about her father-in-law. ‘We’re going back to London. We’ll take our chances. You see, he’s getting on Father’s nerves. You know, the way he is, Father can’t stand it, says he acts like a girl.’

  The rock bun landed on her plate with such an almighty thud – hear this – I thought the GIs had thrown a grenade. Queenie picked it up and turned it in the air, leaning forward to me to whisper loudly, ‘This has seen better days.’ And one of the GIs rose from his seat only to be restrained by one of his buddies.

  I beckoned Queenie to lean even closer towards me. I could feel her hair on my chin, her breath warm on my cheek as I said, ‘Dare we taste it?’ Sitting back I looked directly on the three. Man, they were snorting like beasts, looking around this cage for justice. Two MPs strolled by the window and the ugly brute motioned their presence to the other two. More furtive discussion passed between them as we calmly sipped our tea.

  ‘Rock by name, rock by nature,’ Queenie said, trying to break the cake into edible pieces.

  ‘Tell me, this rock bun, is it an English delicacy?’

  ‘Well, I’m daft enough to eat it. Excuse me, but there’s a war on,’ she said, as she dipped the bun into her tea to soften it. Then this beautiful blonde-haired woman held up the bun across the table for me to take a bite. And all the time Queenie had no idea that every move she made, every gesture towards me, every friendly word and now this – allowing a black man to bite food from her hand – was reddening the necks and boiling the blood of those GIs. The hothead GI had to be restrained again. I was captivated by the impotent rage in their eyes. What sport!

  ‘Are you all right, Gilbert? What are you looking at?’ she asked, glancing around. But to her, of course, there was nothing menacing that she could see in this room.

  I placed my hand on her arm to say, ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ When the ugly brute, sure I was watching his threatening move, slowly drew his hand in a line across his throat.