Small Island by Andrea Levy
‘You have a point for me there, man?’ I ask. I was weary waiting for the moment when I might shut the door with a no-thank-you. But something was puzzling me. Slowly it come to me what. The man standing before me was actually speaking sense. I stopped him. ‘Wait,’ I say, ‘you Kenneth?’
‘No, man, me Winston. Come, you no tell the difference yet?’ And he showed me the back of his hand for proof. I look upon nothing there.
‘Why you show me this? What am I to look for here?’ I ask him.
‘Kenneth hand no have these two freckles on the back. See? One here, one there.’ He placed his hand up under my nose pointing to the blemish that none but his mummy could ever see.
Carry on, I tell him. Only one sure way to find out – if he ask me for money he was Kenneth, if he did not he was indeed Winston.
‘I wan’ you come fix up the place, Gilbert. You can come live there with your new wife. Other room we board to people from home. Not Englishwoman rent. Honest rent you can collect up. And then you see the place is kept nice.’
‘Why you need me? Why you no do this yourself?’
‘Me a businessman, Gilbert. Me have me eye on another little place. Me do the same there. But me can’t be everywhere.’
Could I at last see the beam in his twinkling eye? ‘So you wan’ me pay you money?’
‘Gilbert, you help me fix up the place – weekend, evening. But me no pay you nothin’. You look after the place. Still me no pay you nothin’. But you give me small rent. We can agree on this?’ His gaze was firm on me. Not once did him look shamefaced to the shine on his shoe or the dirt in his nails. ‘Cha, why you no trust me, man?’ he ask.
‘So where is your brother?’
‘Come, you no hear? Kenneth gone live in the Midlands.’
‘Why?’
‘A boy in London chase him for money he owe.’
‘You no worried this boy will find you instead?’
‘No. I am the boy chasing him. But, Gilbert, tell me what you think, man. What you say to me proposition?’
‘Why me?’
He sucked on his teeth. ‘I trust you. All the boys I meet since we come, it is only you I trust. You look out for me. You find me this room.’
‘You don’t wan’ me give you money?’
‘Cha, nah, man, me no wan’ your money! Is a little work and a little business. But if you no wan’ . . .’ He began to walk away.
But I caught his sleeve and cried, ‘Oh, Winston! Where you been, man?’ And I hug him up right there at the door, as he primp himself.
‘Cha, mind me suit, man. Just been pressed,’ he say.
No longer welcome in Queenie’s house, Winston was my cavalry. He rode in at my hour of need. (Hour! I was not the only boy to find his time of need was spanning more than just an hour in this Mother Country.) Keen to see the place Winston had for me, I took a little detour in my post office van. (Come, everyone know we silly darkie postmen were always getting lost.) It was a fine house, I could tell as soon as I turned the key and pushed open the door. What a size! Four floors of solid substantial rooms. Ceilings so high my voice echoed in them. The garden stretched far enough for the end to be caught in mist. The flat at the bottom of the house had two bedrooms, a kitchen already with a sink and stove and a bathroom of its own. The sitting room had windows so tall they reached from floor to ceiling. Man, after that one room in Earls Court, I saw before me a palace. But still my heart started pumping from in my boots. Why? How would I persuade Hortense that this house was somewhere she could live? She would certainly look upon it with disappointment. Quizzing me over and over with the words, ‘Just this?’ Frowning on me, convinced that God had placed me on this earth with no other purpose than to drag her down into an English gutter. Come, she had only just been persuaded that I was not the offending father of Queenie’s baby. Winston was not a liar – in need of a bit of fixing up, he said. And, oh, boy! In need of a bit of fixing up it was. Surely she will only see that those windows that spanned from ceiling to floor had old-fashioned shutters dangling crooked and broken on rusty hinges. That each of the solid rooms was gloomy as a bad dream. Peeling dark brown paint, bare floorboards strewn with the rubbish of old newspaper and holes in the plaster so deep the wooden slats of the house construction were revealed. She would definitely notice the nasty smell in the kitchen. Damp from the ground or from a stray cat’s backside – would she be able to tell? Of course she would see the dead pigeon fallen in one of the bedrooms. But only after she had observed that every piece of glass in the windows was cracked. ‘Is this the way the English live?’ she would say to me. The mournful lament sighed on each and everything she would see. And dirt? Just waving her white gloves in the air would see them turn black.
But Hortense was impatient to inspect the place in Finsbury Park. She was eager at the thought of leaving behind our one room in Earls Court. Keen to see the back of Mrs Queenie Bligh and all the confusion that resided there. And that gas-ring – she longed to wave goodbye to that blasted gas-ring. So keen was she, her mind on a higher life, that I was forced to nag ceaseless that she must remember that the place needed fixing up. Dressed in her coat, her green hat upon her head and white gloves, I led her into the first room. Nervous as a man presenting his sweetheart to his fearsome mummy – hear this – I had bought a bunch of flowers. The afternoon before I had placed the winter blooms in a jar on the mantelpiece. I had swept up the scattered newspapers into a pile. Man, I had even buried the pigeon. My feeble mind thought this silly bit of dressing might avert Hortense’s scorn. But now, instead of cheering the place homely, those flowers looked as woebegone as the room. Heedfully, she perused the mantelpiece, the floor, the ceiling and the derelict wooden shutters. At the window she looked out quizzical upon the scene. She rubbed her gloved finger on the pane of glass. Examined it but said nothing as she brushed away the dirt. But, man, I was ready for her. Let her tell me the place is too run-down. Let her ask me why I bring her to this cheerless house. For all the answers were on my lips. Rehearsed and ready to go. There had just been a war. And, yes, this was the way the English live – and many live worse. What! She think she a princess to turn up her nose at such a fine house? She was lucky, I would shout, lucky to have any place to live at all.
My eyes followed her as she paced about the room in a silent shock. When she had finished her harsh inspection, she turned her gaze on me. Her chin was high, her nose was in the air as her lips slowly parted and her breath sighed. ‘Just this?’
There, she had said it as I knew she would. The same discouraged tone as when she first stepped into the room I worked so hard to find in Earls Court. Just this? Soon she would lament, her eyes downcast, ‘Is this the way the English live?’ as she saw before her the gutter I was determined to drag her into. It was one deep breath I took to calm myself.
‘How you mean?’ I said. Cha, this irritating woman began tapping her knuckle on the wall listening to the sound with a sharp ear.
‘I mean,’ she said, ‘is it just this?’
‘Just what exactly?’ I asked. She looked on me puzzled, or was it the sound from the wall causing her concern?
‘Just this?’ She threw out her arms wide. Come, this was an enormous room she needed to throw them wide. It was cold but my forehead trickled with sweat. ‘Just this?’ she said again. I was ready. I was vex. Then she slowly asked me, ‘Just this one room we are to have or are there any other rooms?’
‘How you mean?’ I said.
‘Gilbert, what is wrong with you? This is a simple question. This is a good room but is it the only room we are to have?’
‘Wait, you like the room?’
‘Yes, it is a good room.’
‘It is very run-down,’ I said.
‘We can fix it up.’
‘But look,’ I told her, ‘you no see the paint peeling from the walls? And those windows? Every one is cracked.’
‘These things can be fix up.’
‘It will be a lot of work.’
‘Gilbert, come, you no scared of a little hard work. I can help you.’ She spun round in the room. ‘With a little paint and some carpet.’ She moved to the corner leaning over to spread out her arms and say ‘And a table and chair here,’ before rushing to the fireplace with the suggestion, ‘and two armchairs here in front of an open English fire. You will see – we will make it nice.’
All words froze on my tongue. For before me I suddenly saw quite the most wonderful woman. Proud, haughty – come, let us face it, even insufferable. But still, all I wanted to do was kiss her. Press her to me, right there in the middle of this ramshackle room. Feel her breath, then her lips soft against mine.
‘But what I need to know, Gilbert,’ she was asking, ‘is, is it just this one room or are there any more?’
This beautiful woman commanded nothing but the best. Never again would I think to oblige her to settle for just this. Pretty in her hat and white gloves I would make this life around her good enough to fit that fine apparel. Lift her up so high until that one room in Earls Court became as distant a memory as if glimpsed in a dream. It was with love that I smiled at her. ‘Oh, no, Miss Mucky Foot,’ I said. ‘There are many, many more rooms than just this one. Come, if you take my hand I will show you them all.’
I had got used to folding myself up on to the armchair to go to bed. My limbs had become collapsible. There was no winged creature that could tuck and bend itself away as neatly as I. I might have been crumpled as a moth from its cocoon every morning, but with the light, blood soon pumped through me to make me a man again. And under my big blanket I was snug as a bug. Like every night before, I turned out the light and wished Hortense pleasant dreams. But on this night, when all was dark and quiet, I heard her softly spoken voice say, ‘Gilbert.’
Cha! What was it now? I thought. The mice, the tap dripping, the smell of gas? ‘I tired, Hortense – let it wait till morning, nah?’
‘Gilbert.’
I made the noises of sleep with the hint of a feigned snore.
‘Gilbert, you wan’ come into this bed?’
I did not answer. Why? Come, I believed that I had gone to sleep and was now dreaming those words. I was convinced if I were to speak she would awake and chastise me for disturbing her with my talk.
‘Gilbert,’ she say again, louder this time.
It was with great trepidation that I timid say, ‘Yes, Hortense?’
‘You no hear me, nah?’ she ask. And I knew I was awake. Come, never before had every part of me been so alert.
‘I not sure,’ I say.
‘What you think I say?’
‘I not sure.’
‘I say, do you want to sleep in the bed with me? Plenty room.’
She moved the covers. I felt the breeze from them as she opened up the bed to me. I moved on the chair – not to get up, mark you, but to make a noise to see if she toying with me. Would she tell me she changed her mind? Or laugh to say it was a joke – a good joke that made her laugh, ha ha? I stuck out a leg ready to catch it back if my dignity required it. But she say, ‘You coming because I am getting cold?’
Now, there was not a man in the world would refuse. And if there was, let me tell you, he was not a Jamaican. I flew from that chair. Not once did my feet meet with the cold floor before they were squeezing down between the two sheets. The rest of my grateful body soon followed, settling itself down into the warmest place on this earth. At that moment if the Caribbean sun had been shining on me, while naked girls fanned me with banana leaves, it could not have felt any more pleasant. For all around me I was caressed by the smell of Hortense. Her soap, her perfume, cha, even her not so sweet sweat. But that startling headiness was not going to make a fool of me. I kept myself turned from her, lying rigid as a stick. Scared if any part of me, rude or innocent, were to touch her she would start to scream. She closed the blanket over me, efficient as a mother. And I felt her foot press lightly against my leg. I moved my leg away. But soon the little cold foot followed.
‘You comfortable?’ she ask. There was no sensible breath left in me to speak. If I were to open my mouth she would hear me panting like a dog. She brought her face up close to the back of my neck. With her breath fluttering over my ear light as a kiss, she say, ‘Tell me, Gilbert, will there be a bell at the door of our new house? And will the bell go ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling?’While her foot – the mucky one – began gently to stroke up and down my leg.
Fifty-seven
Bernard
Queenie kept him in a drawer. Odd way to start a life. The bottom drawer. Largest one of a chest that belonged to Ma (she’d kept laundered linen in it). She’d secreted away baby clothes. I saw her struggling with a chair to fetch them from a suitcase on top of the wardrobe. Everything knitted. Funny thing, I recognised the wool. Watched her knitting it up several times before the war. It had been a cardigan and a jumper before it was booties and a bonnet. She’d even hoarded nappies in preparation. Pulled a pile of them from a trunk under the bed. The big pins had been on the sideboard for all to view. Never crossed my mind to regard them as a clue.
I idled away in Pa’s room. Pleased for the comfort those familiar four walls could bring. Everything about this dreadful homecoming was awry. Nothing of the life that played before me was recognisable. I felt I’d stumbled into someone else’s existence by mistake and was now busy trying to find my part. But how long can a man gape at his own circumstance? Senselessly bat his eyes against the glare from the unusual? Silly thing I know, but I envied Pa. Shock just sent him under. Rendered him speechless and useless. I longed to wake up unable to struggle through, with no choice but to surrender to it. Sit in a chair dribbling with Queenie feeding me, cleaning up the mess. But unfortunately this shell-shock – my shock – was proving to be quite bearable.
I moved around only when I thought she was at rest. Nocturnal, almost. Silly, I know, but I feared the chance meeting. Crossing in the kitchen, passing in the parlour. Not the dismay of seeing her suckling an impostor child. Or the fear that rage would overcome me. Or pity have me weep inappropriately. It was her expectation. Glimpsed in an inquisitive look, a backward glance. She wanted me to replace silence with words. But the truth of it was I was numb. I longed for something to stir me once more to opinion. Anger, hurt, disapproval. It was pitiful. I was blank as a sheet of white paper. No idea what to feel.
Heard him starting to shift as I was on my way to bed. Small whimpers that even I knew heralded a howl. (He cried every night and most of the day.) Opened the door a touch. Queenie was asleep. Deep enough for a muttered snore. She needed it. Just given birth, the doctor told her to rest. He came to look her over. Check the baby was all present and correct. Ordered sleep and double rations. I showed him out. He took me to one side as he left to enquire after the whereabouts of her husband. ‘Before you,’ I told him. That stunned him into staring at me as if I were a freak. A long moment. Then he wittered something he thought comforting about the war. I nodded. Why not? The war. It had been over for three years. But, yes, maybe the threads of that fraying cloth were still in a tangle.
I stepped into the room on tiptoe. No need to wake her. Just to check nothing untoward was happening. The drawer was on two chairs near the bed. I looked in. His mouth was moving cautiously into a downward grimace. Something was making him sad. And there it was for all to see on his face. No artifice, just glum. Downturned U of his mouth clear as a cartoonist’s sketch. I thought my presence might quiet him. But the whimpering was getting louder. Queenie stirred. I was ready to run. His lips, puckering, were about to yell. I put my hand down. Held it gently to his stomach. (Saw a woman do it once to her child.) His belly was as warm as a hot-water bottle. I rubbed it a little, and his expression changed. Not so sad now. His mouth relaxed. No need to cry. He opened his eyes, searching for me to come into view. His dark skin fresh as a polished shoe. Flat nose. Nostrils, tiny pips. Lips elegant, as if recently drawn. Little fists tightly clenched swinging in front of his mouth. Feet kicking under the bl
He was fighting sleep. His eyes closing only to open with a start. Trying to find me again. His suck easing on my finger, I took it away. Back came that guileless grimace – those stuttered whimpers. ‘All right,’ I told him. My voice seemed to calm him. Eyes focused on the noise. ‘There, there,’ I whispered. I thought of a song. Ma used to sing one. Lost in some nostalgia but she must have sung it to me. My voice cracking, off-key. No singer. But even so his eyes closed almost as soon as I began. ‘Lullaby and goodnight, may sweet slumbers be with you.’ Couldn’t remember all the words. La-la-la’d where I had to. But his eyes closed. Two lines under a furrowed brow. The vacuum of his suck gone, I took my finger away. Covered him over again. Job done. I turned to leave.
Queenie was sitting up in bed, staring at me, her mouth agape with astonishment. The little chap stirred again. I leaned down to him, breathing baby-talk. There, there, sleepy-time. Utter nonsense. But no doubt my voice was soothing. Silly thing, but with Queenie listening I suddenly said, ‘I was in prison, you know.’
Her voice unmodulated seemed to shout: ‘What? When?’
I hushed her with a finger to my lip. Didn’t want him wide awake. His eyes were fluttering closed again. Soft murmur of a fledgling snore coming from him. He looked so like Queenie. Her son, no doubt – despite his skin. Spoke the words softly to him. Bare facts. No need of embellishment. But the sorry tale none the less of why I couldn’t come home. The missing gun. The court-martial. His clenched fists gradually relaxed as sleep overcame him.