Small Island Page 28

  Thirty-two

  Gilbert

  Perhaps Elwood was right. ‘Stay in Jamaica,’ he had begged me. ‘Stay and fight till you look ’pon what you wan’ see.’ My boyhood friend, what was passing before his eye now in that Caribbean island? Sitting on the veranda, he was watching the Jamaican sun as, lowering, the sky glowed purple orange blue pink. Sucking on soursop, the juice sticky on his chin, the flesh fat between his teeth. The cicadas singing, he raise his legs on to a foot-rest and sigh. In the cooling evening heat his hand flop down to take up a glass of his mummy’s honeyed ginger juice while he calls for his friend Aubrey to join him. And the two men share a joke sitting there resting on the veranda after a long day. Chatting while supping, soon they are shaking laughter into the sweet Jamaican night air.

  And you know what the joke was that they share? Gilbert Joseph. It was I that was their merriment. See me walking in the London street with the rain striking me cold as steel pins. My head bent low, wrapping my arms round me to keep the cold from killing me. With nowhere to go but away from a wretched room and a woman I marry so I might once more sail the seas to glory in indignity and humiliation in the Mother Country. But it is not only I that make them chuckle. All we ex-RAF servicemen who, lordly in our knowledge of England, had looked to those stay-at-home boys to inform them that we knew what to expect from the Mother Country. The lion’s mouth may be open, we told them, but we had counted all its teeth. But, come, let us face it, only now were we ex-servicemen starting to feel its bite.

  Take Eugene. This mild-mannered man was going about his business when an old woman trip on the kerb and fall down in front of him. He rush to her side, his hand out for her to hold. On his lips were soft words spoken. ‘Let me help you up – come, are you hurt?’This nice old English lady took one look at him and scream. She yell so bad the police came running. Eugene was taken away. The charge? Attacking an old lady. In the police cell Eugene sweat himself scrawny before this old woman clear up the matter.

  A devout Christian, Curtis was asked not to return to his local church for his skin was too dark to worship there. The shock rob him of his voice.

  Louis now believed bloodyforeigner to be all one word. For, like bosom pals, he only ever heard those words spoken together.

  And Hortense. Her face was still set haughty. But how long before her chin is cast down? For, fresh from a ship, England had not yet deceived her. But soon it will. All us pitiful West Indian dreamers who sailed with heads bursting with foolishness were a joke to my clever smirking cousin now.

  Regret had its hand clasped to my throat as I walked that London street, my desire smothered and choking. Then I heard someone call after me. I took no notice. A shriek of surprise: what coloured man in England would look to stare when they heard that? But it came again this time with words, ‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ And the clip clop of a woman’s footfall along the pavement. I stopped and, turning slowly, I saw a tiny woman approach me. Out of breath, smiling, she looked up in my face. Not a young woman – forty, fifty, it was hard to tell in the street-lamp glow. But her smile was wholehearted. ‘You dropped this, I think,’ she said. It was a black glove. I was not sure it was mine but beguiled by the gesture I took it from her.

  As I parted my lips to thank her no words came. Trying again I could only mouth the gratitude.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked me.

  A tear was on my face. I could feel its damp, itchy path creeping down to my chin. I wiped it away.

  Watching me, she took her hand and laid it on my arm. ‘Are you all right? You look cold. It’s a cold night.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. The place where her hand was on me was melting with the warmth of that gentle touch.

  ‘Here,’ she rummaged around in her pocket and pulled out a little bag, ‘have one of these.’ The bag was full of sweets. She pushed it towards me, ‘Go on.’ I put my hand in this little bag. The contents was one sticky hard lump. She pulled the bag away again. ‘Oh, they’re all stuck together. Sorry.’ And she started fiddling with the bag – cracking and poking it with her fingers. ‘It’s cough sweets, they always get stuck together. Sorry. But they warm you up.’ Once more she handed me the bag. I took one. ‘Have one for later if you like.’

  ‘No, one is fine,’ I told her.

  ‘Right, I’m going home.’ She put her own hand into the bag, then the sweet into her mouth. It bulged in her cheek. ‘It’s the only place to be tonight,’ she said, with some difficulty owing to the confection. She touched my arm again, saying, ‘And cheer up, it may never happen,’ then clopped off down the road.

  How long did I stare at that sweet in my hand? Fool that I am, I took a handkerchief from my pocket to wrap it. I had no intention of eating that precious candy. For it was a salvation to me – not for the sugar but for the act of kindness. The human tenderness with which it was given to me. I had become hungry for the good in people. Beholden to any tender heart. All we boys were in this thankless place. When we find it, we keep it. A simple gesture, a friendly word, a touch, a sticky sweet rescued me as sure as if that Englishwoman had pulled me from drowning in the sea.

  I carried two portions of fish and chips back to the room for Hortense and me. There she was, still sitting on the bed. Her face, even after this time, remained set in an ill-tempered frown. ‘See here, Miss Mucky Foot,’ I said. ‘I have fish and chips for you and me.’ Only her big eyes swivelled to my direction while her arms folded tighter across her chest. I got out two plates, which were neatly stacked in the cupboard. Unwrapping and placing the fish and chips on the plate I tell her, ‘You know what the English do?’ Of course she did not reply but I did not expect her to. ‘They eat this food straight from the newspaper. No plate. Nothing.’ I knew this high-class woman would not be able to keep her face solemn in the presence of such barbarity. Scandalised, she could not stop herself staring on me in disbelief. ‘Yes, from the newspaper! So lesson number one, Miss Mucky Foot. This is a chip.’ I offered the chip to her on a fork. She took it from me and popped it greedy into her mouth. ‘And now lesson number two. Are you listening to me carefully.’ I leaned in towards her to whisper the secret. She had her big eye on me, mesmerised as a gossip. ‘Not everything,’ I tell her, ‘not everything the English do is good.’

  Thirty-three

  Hortense

  Mrs Bligh, or Queenie, the familiar name she desired I use, came to her door, wrapping herself in a dowdy woollen coat. I presumed she had changed her mind about the arranged excursion to the shops, for I believed this dreary coat to be her housecoat. Wishing to allay any anxiety that I might be disappointed by this alteration of plan, I told her, ‘Do not worry yourself on account of I. I shall find my way around the shops with no problem.’

  I was astounded when, closing the door behind her, she said, ‘What? What are you talking about? I’m ready.’ For this dismal garment, which I had taken to be her dressing gown, was her good outside coat. Could the woman not see this coat was not only ugly but too small for her? She determined, wrestled herself in to do up the button. When she was finished this fight, she look on me distasteful, up and down. I was dressed as a woman such as I should be when visiting the shops in England. My coat clean, my gloves freshly washed and a hat upon my head. But Mrs Bligh stare on me as if something was wrong with my apparel, before telling me once more, ‘I’m not worried about what busybodies say. I don’t mind being seen in the street with you.’

  And yet it was she, this young Englishwoman, and not I who was dressed in a scruffy housecoat with no brooch or jewel, no glove or even a pleasant hat to lift the look a little.

  Imagine my astonishment when, reaching the bustling street, every Englishwoman I look on is also attired in a dowdy housecoat. And as if the Almighty had stolen the rainbow from this place not one person was dressed in a colour bright enough to cheer my eye. All was grey. But walking through this drab, my eye began to detect colours that did amaze me. The surprising colours in the countenance of all the English people. In
no book or tutoring that I had acquired did anyone tell me that so many different types of English people could be found. In Jamaica all English people had looked as my tutors at college had appeared. Their hair fair, the colour of baked bread. Their complexion red and ruddy from the sun. It was with great ease that an English person could be distinguished walking along the road from even the most high-class of Jamaican. But here now, in England, so many different complexions were placed before me that my mind became perplexed. This walk to the shops with Mrs Bligh had me looking about in confusion.

  ‘These are shops,’ Mrs Bligh told me.

  I paid it no mind that this woman believed I could not tell that the place before me, with its window of food displayed, was a shop. Because my mind was puzzled by the woman standing beside us. Her hair was black as ink, her complexion not much lighter than my own – the colour of honey. She held the hand of a small boy with the same dark hair. Seeing me gazing on them, the boy nudged his mother and both of them turned blue eyes to stare back on me.

  ‘This shop is called a grocer’s,’ Mrs Bligh told me.

  I nodded. It had groceries in the window, what else could it be? But I was waiting for this blue-eye-yet-black-hair woman to speak. Was she English, or foreign?

  ‘Come on, let’s go in,’ Mrs Bligh said to me.

  As the dark woman and her son had gone in before us I was happy to follow. The dark woman perusing the counter asked the shopkeeper, ‘Have you got cheese today?’ Impeccable English, rounded and haughty. My mouth could do nothing but gape. I had never seen an Englishwoman so dark before. At home her countenance would leave many elderly Jamaican men looking about them abashed.

  Mrs Bligh, seeing my gaping mouth, said, ‘In a grocery shop, you can get milk, biscuits, sugar, cornflakes, eggs, that sort of thing. Do you need eggs? Bacon? A lot of it’s still on ration but most things are here. So remember that, it’s a grocery shop.’

  Now the man serving this dark woman had hair that was red. His face was speckled as a bird’s egg with tiny red freckles. Scottish. I believed him to be Scottish. For in Jamaica it is only Scottish people that are so red. But no, he too was English.

  ‘What can I do you for?’ he asked me directly. A red Englishman!

  ‘He wants to know if you’d like anything,’ Mrs Bligh told me.

  I obliged her concern by making a purchase. ‘A tin of condensed milk, please,’ I asked him.

  But this red man stared back at me as if I had not uttered the words. No light of comprehension sparkled in his eye. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  Condensed milk, I said, five times, and still he looked on me bewildered. Why no one in this country understand my English? At college my diction was admired by all. I had to point at the wretched tin of condensed milk, which resided just behind his head.

  ‘Oh, condensed milk,’ he told me, as if I had not been saying it all along.

  Tired of this silly dance of miscomprehension, I did not bother to ask for the loaf of bread – I just point to the bread on the counter. The man enclose his big hand over the loaf, his freckled fingers spreading across it. I stared on him. Was I to eat this bread now this man had touch it up? With his other hand he wiped his nose as he held out the bread for me to take. I did not take it, for I was waiting on him to place the bread into a bag to wrap it.

  ‘There you are,’ he said to me, pushing the loaf forward enough for me to see a thin black line of dirt arching under each fingernail. It was Mrs Bligh who came and took the bread from him. Her dirty hand having pinch up my loaf as well, she placed it into my shopping bag.

  Then she tell me loud for all to hear, ‘This is bread.’

  She think me a fool that does not know what is bread? But my mind could not believe what my eye had seen. That English people would buy their bread in this way. This man was patting on his red head and wiping his hand down his filthy white coat. Cha, why he no lick the bread first before giving it to me to eat?

  I whispered into the ear of Mrs Bligh, ‘He has not wrapped the bread.’

  But she paid me no mind, so busy was she joining this shopkeeper in rolling their eyes to the heavens as I paid my money over.

  Mrs Bligh was a punctilious teacher. The shop with meat in the window she tell me is a butcher. The one with pretty pink cakes is the baker. And each time she tell me she want me to repeat the word. Instead I tell her, ‘I know, we have these shops in Jamaica.’ She nod. She say good. Then seeing a shop selling fish she tell me this is the fishmonger.

  But when we reach the shop selling cloth, it was I that had to ask of her, ‘Is this where you buy your material?’ For all the cloth seemed to be spread about the floor. There was little room to tread. Bolts and bolts of cloth thrown this way and that all about the place. Some of it dirty. Some of it ragged and fraying. And two old women looked to be crawling on their hands and knees through this mess of cloth while the assistant just daydream behind a counter. How the English treat their good material like this? In Jamaica, I told Mrs Bligh, all the cloth is displayed neatly in rows for you to peruse the design, the colour. When you have chosen you point to the bolt that the assistant will then take up for measuring. She understood what I was telling her but still she look surprise on me, saying, ‘Oh, do you have drapers where you come from?’

  Three basins! Mrs Bligh shout for all to hear in the hardware shop, why I want three basins? So I tell her softly, one to wash the vegetables, one for the cups and plates and one for washing. No, she tell me, I only need one. ‘One will do you – just rinse it out.’ How can an Englishwoman expect me to wash myself in the same place where I must clean up the vegetables? It was disgusting to me. Surely it was distasteful to this Englishwoman? I stared dumbfounded. But one was all the shopkeeper delivered me even though I had requested three. But I paid it no mind. I thought to make note of the position of this hardware shop so I might return when this busybody woman had removed her nose from my business. But my eye was diverted by the countenance of a woman pushing a child in a pram.

  Never in my days had I seen such a white woman. The hair curled upon her head put me in mind of confection – white and frothy as foam. Her complexion so light, beside it paper would look soiled. Eyebrows, eyelashes, even her lips appeared to have no colour passing through them. So pale was she her blood must be milk. I could not keep my surprise within my breast. ‘That woman is so white,’ all at once came gushing from me. ‘Is she English?’ I had to ask Mrs Bligh.

  ‘Stop staring, it’s rude,’ Mrs Bligh whispered to me urgent. Then, looking to the woman with a sly eye, she told me, ‘Yes, of course she is.’

  ‘But she is so fair.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she told me.

  Beside her Mrs Bligh’s complexion appeared swarthy. From the pram that this unearthly woman was pushing, a small blond child sat forward. His finger, a little chubby dart, pointed straight at me. He attracted his mother’s notice by yelling, ‘Look! She’s black. Look, Mum, black woman.’

  The white woman then turned a glassy gaze on me. Who was the most astounded? For we both stared, certain we were viewing an apparition before us. She nearly pushed the pram into a lamp-post before leaning forward to admonish the pointing child. ‘Don’t point, Georgey. She’s not black – she’s coloured.’

  While from the other side of the road came shouting. Loud, uncouth and raucous. ‘Golliwog, golliwog.’ It was three young men. Holding up a wall they yelled through the funnel of their hands, ‘Oi, sambo.’

  ‘Take no notice,’ Mrs Bligh said.

  ‘Are they talking to me?’ I asked her.

  ‘Just keep walking, Hortense.’ But I wanted to see these men’s faces. What sort of English person could call out so coarse?

  ‘Yeah, you, darkie. We’re talking to you.’ They moved away from the wall to stand at the edge of the kerb, waving their arms like buffoons.

  Mrs Bligh was very agitated – she pulling on my sleeve as I called back to them, ‘You are rude!’ A half-eaten bread roll flew from th
e hand of one of them and hit Mrs Bligh on the shoulder of her ugly coat.

  ‘Just keep walking, hurry, please,’ Mrs Bligh pleaded. A little patch of oil was now staining the coat.

  ‘Look, they have dirtied up your sleeve.’ I tried to brush it but Mrs Bligh grabbed me in so firm a grip I could do nothing but follow.

  We were nearly at Nevern Street – about to pass round the corner. Mrs Bligh, after regaining some composure she had lost to the ruffians, was instructing me on what she assured me was good manners. I, as a visitor to this country, should step off the pavement into the road if an English person wishes to pass and there is not sufficient room on the pavement for us both.

  Not believing what my ear was hearing I asked, ‘I, a woman, should step into the busy road?’ She nodded. So I enquired of her, ‘And if there is a puddle should I lie down in it?’ She was, I believe, considering the efficacy of this suggestion when, looking up along Nevern Street, she suddenly stopped. The breath she took was so sharp it struck her chest and staggered her back. For a moment she was lifeless, the pink draining from her cheeks as if she had bled it away. Perusing the street my eye could conceive of nothing that might give so cruel a reaction. Except there was a man with his back towards us standing at the door of the house. Mrs Bligh slowly began to raise a pointing finger. But the effort of this gesture caused her to fall hard against me. I caught her but this woman was surprisingly heavy. My arms could not hold her. I had no choice but to lower her gently down on to the ground. The man now turning round was screwing up his eyes, looking to where Mrs Bligh was sitting upright on the pavement mumbling softly, over and over, ‘Bernard? Bernard?’

  Thirty-four

  Queenie

  I’d have recognised it anywhere, the back of Bernard’s neck. Bony and scrawny like the back of a heel with his ears sticking out. Seeing me there on the pavement he came towards me. A hat. A white collar. A gaberdine mac – every button done up and the belt too. He lifted his hat when he reached me, formal, courteous, as if this was a casual meeting. And I was collapsed, sitting on the pavement because my husband whom I hadn’t seen for near five years had just approached me. And I said, ‘Bernard. You’ve been away a long time.’