by Mike Gayle
“Look, I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey but you’re going to have to go now.”
She rose to her feet, balancing the child on her hip.
“Thank you for your time,” said Hubert, getting to his feet, “but please promise me you’ll at least think about coming today.”
“I can’t. My family would never forgive me. They’ve already been betrayed by one daughter; it would kill them to have it happen a second time.”
“So you’re going to wash your hands of Joyce, your own flesh and blood, just because me got a different color skin to you? Me made of flesh and blood just like you!”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“No, you don’t,” Hubert retorted, “but you go along with them just fine, which in my eyes makes you just as bad.”
Blinking back the hurt and anger that threatened to overwhelm him, Hubert left Peggy’s house, returned to the station, and jumped on the first train to central London. The more distance he put between himself and Bromley, the lighter his mood became, and by the time he reached Brixton he had succeeded in pushing his encounter with Joyce’s sister to the very back of his thoughts. Making his way through the streets of his neighborhood, past English people at the bus queue, West Indians picking through goods at market stalls, Guyanans chatting on street corners, and Jews returning from synagogue, a strange sensation settled over Hubert. In a way he’d never felt until this moment, he realized that this place, with its strange mix of people, its problems and all its faults, was starting to feel a lot like home.
Heading to Gus’s lodgings, Hubert opened the door to see his friend pacing up and down the hallway.
“Smiler, man! Where you been? When I got up this morning and saw you gone, I thought you’d got cold feet and run away on them!”
He decided that he would leave explanations for another day.
“Me just had a few errands to run but they’re done now. Let’s get me looking spick-and-span so me can marry that beautiful girl of my dreams.”
It was just after two thirty when Hubert and Gus arrived at the Lambeth register office, both dressed in their finest suits, slim bow ties, and formal gloves that Joyce had managed to get a discount on from Hamilton’s. Hubert had barely had a chance to sit down in the waiting room before the doors swung open to reveal Lois and his bride-to-be.
Hubert was rendered momentarily speechless. Joyce looked stunning, in a knee-length cream dress that she had made for herself and which was cut in such a way as to disguise her growing baby bump. Her hair had been elaborately arranged and studded with pearls by Lois and the outfit was finished off with a small bouquet of pink carnations, a tribute to their first date, just four short months ago.
“You look… you look beautiful,” said Hubert, finding his voice. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Joyce plucked two carnations from the bunch and placed one carefully in the buttonhole of Hubert’s jacket and then handed one to Lois so that she could do the same for Gus.
She stood back, taking in both the men.
“There,” she said finally, “now you look perfect.”
The photographer, a Hungarian Jew named Mr. Darvas, arrived minutes later from his studios just around the corner. Hiring a photographer had been a large expense, one that Hubert and Joyce could ill afford, but neither had wanted to forgo it. “It’ll be something to show our baby,” said Joyce. “And something to show my family back home,” Hubert had added, hoping that it might go some way toward making up for the fact that there was no way they could have afforded to travel to England to attend the wedding, no matter how much they’d wanted to be there.
Mr. Darvas led them all outside for some formal photos before the ceremony began. Once they were done, they filed back inside just as the dozens of guests from the preceding ceremony were leaving. Hubert found it impossible not to compare the two events: the wedding of the previous couple, attended by so many family and friends, and his own, which only featured him, his bride-to-be, his best friend, and his best friend’s girlfriend. They hadn’t had the money to invite any more people and as it was, none of Joyce’s friends or extended family would’ve come even if they had. As for Hubert, in his short time in England he had come to know only a handful of people, and they were more acquaintances than people you’d invite to a wedding, and so here it was, just the four of them.
He caught Joyce’s eye and wondered whether she was disappointed. But she smiled and, as if reading his thoughts, held out her hand and whispered, “The only thing that matters is that you’re here.”
With so few people in it, the room in which they were married seemed cavernous and impersonal, and without the hymns, prayers, and solemn traditions of a church wedding, the ceremony was over all too quickly. Before they knew it, they were heading outside as man and wife.
Mr. Darvas took several more photographs, formal portraits of the bride and groom, of the best man and bridesmaid, and of every conceivable combination of the quartet. He took so long over it and took so much care with each photograph that Hubert suspected he felt a little sorry for them and their poor show of a wedding party.
When he finished, Hubert thanked the photographer profusely and even invited him to join them at the Italian restaurant they had booked for dinner, but he politely declined. “You children go and enjoy yourselves,” he said, “and I’ll make sure that you have something to remember this special day with.”
At the restaurant, a tiny traditional establishment with red-and-white checked tablecloths and wax-encrusted wine bottles as candleholders, they filled their bellies with creamy pasta, fresh seafood, and red wine. Afterward Gus stood up, removed an envelope from his jacket, and read out a letter from Hubert’s mother that had arrived that very morning. She expressed her regret at not being able to be there in person but wished her son and his new bride all the very best for their future lives together.
“That was the most wonderful surprise,” Joyce said, wiping tears from her eyes. “I can’t wait until I get to meet her.”
Later that evening, as Gus and Lois flirted with each other by candlelight, Hubert and Joyce took the opportunity to enjoy a first dance as husband and wife when a small band consisting of an accordionist and a violinist began playing old Italian folk songs. They were the only people dancing, but they didn’t care, having eyes for only each other.
Halfway through the song, Joyce lifted her head and smiled.
“It’s been such a wonderful day, hasn’t it?”
Hubert kissed her gently on the forehead.
“Me just wish you could have had your family here with you.”
Joyce tilted her gaze to the small bump just visible under her dress and patted it fondly.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” She paused a moment, then her eyes met Hubert’s. “You’re my family now.”
15
NOW
Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
The elderly Indian man standing in the bus queue in front of Hubert turned and faced him.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?”
Hubert wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. Why was the man speaking so loudly? Hubert had only wanted a polite conversation about how warm it was and how they’d said on the radio that morning that it could be the hottest summer for thirty years. Now everyone in the queue behind him would be listening in on every word.
“He was talking about the weather being nice!” shouted the man’s wife into her husband’s ear.
“Yes!” said the man a little too loudly, “it is lovely weather we’re having!”
The man’s wife raised an eyebrow wearily at Hubert and followed up with an apologetic smile.
“I’m afraid my husband’s hearing isn’t quite what it used to be.”
“What did you say?” bellowed the man. “I didn’t quite hear what you said.”
The woman sighed heavily.
“I told the gentleman that your hearing isn’t what it u
sed to be!”
Her voice was as loud as if not louder than before, and to make matters worse she had gestured several times in Hubert’s direction for her husband’s benefit while she was speaking.
“Oh yes!” said the man loudly. “I’m afraid my hearing is not at all what it used to be!”
Hubert smiled politely but couldn’t think of what else to say that wouldn’t result in further embarrassment. Instead he let a silence fall between them, but while he was certain the conversation was over, the Indian couple seemed less convinced and stood looking at him expectantly. With each passing moment the situation became increasingly awkward, and when Hubert heard the hydraulic screech of bus brakes he let out an audible sigh of relief.
“Me thought it was never going to come!” he said jovially, in an attempt to explain away the exuberance of his sigh.
The man pulled a face in Hubert’s direction as the bus doors opened.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that!”
“He said he thought—”
The woman stopped midsentence, then sighed dramatically.
“Oh, forget it, Ragesh!” She smiled apologetically at Hubert as she tugged at her husband’s arm to get him on the bus. “I’m so sorry but at this rate we’ll be here all day! It was lovely talking to you anyway, have a nice day!”
It had been over a fortnight since Hubert had decided that the way to win new friends was to be more open. Still scarred by his failure at the O-60 Club, he had decided that rather than looking for new companions at a club or a society, he would instead try to find some in the real world.
So far he had engaged in conversation a woman staffing the express checkout lane at Marks & Spencer, a man in his GP’s waiting room who was there to get his blood pressure checked, a couple looking for directions to the Glades shopping center, and at least half a dozen people at bus stops (not counting the elderly Indian couple).
All of the people Hubert had approached so far were approximately his age and while, without exception, they had been more than happy to engage in conversation, converting a few moments of idle chitchat into something more substantial had proved impossible. It seemed to Hubert’s mind that no matter how open he tried to be, nothing he did made any difference. People, it seemed, were either too busy, too closed off, too suspicious, or too deaf to make friends.
As Hubert watched the bus he had been pretending to wait for depart, he imagined he was observing his own future happiness disappear along with it. How could he possibly find friends of his own age in the time required, when making new acquaintances was so difficult? He was all out of both ideas and energy but, even so, he knew he couldn’t give up. He had to keep on going, if not for his own sake then for Rose, at least.
To cheer himself up as he walked home, Hubert wondered whether Ashleigh and Layla might pop by today. Their impromptu visits had become something of a feature of Hubert’s week ever since their trip to McDonald’s. Sometimes they would stop in on their way to the shops to ask if there was anything they could get for him. Or they’d simply turn up on the doorstep, perhaps with a packet of biscuits for them all to enjoy with a cup of tea at the kitchen table, or if the weather was fine outside, in the garden.
Hubert liked the fact that even if he wasn’t in a particularly chatty mood, Ashleigh would simply fill the air with talk of her own. He liked the sound of Layla laughing whenever he pulled a funny face or made a rude noise on the back of his hand, but more than anything he liked that in a very short space of time his new neighbors had made life less humdrum. Now instead of huge swaths of his day being predictable down to the last minute, there was an element of surprise. Would the two of them drop by in the morning or in the afternoon? Would Ashleigh inflict more of her baking on him or bring round some of those nice chocolate cakes from Asda she’d brought with her last time?
Hubert noticed that she would often refer to him as her “friend,” to which he would say nothing because he was certain that he wasn’t. Yes, they were “friendly,” and enjoyed one another’s company, but even with the best will in the world Hubert couldn’t imagine introducing Ashleigh, a woman sixty years his junior, to Rose as anything more than a neighbor.
Reaching home, Hubert filled the kettle to make a cup of tea, but no sooner had he taken out his mug than the doorbell rang. Smiling, Hubert took out an extra mug and a plastic cup in preparation for his guests. However, when he opened the front door he was surprised to find a courier holding a large cardboard box.
“Er… please… Could you… take in package for neighbors at… number fifty-six?”
Hubert didn’t much like the people at number fifty-six. Despite the fact there were only two of them, they had three cars and were always leaving at least one parked outside his home. Even so, he decided he would take in the package for them anyway because it seemed like the kind of thing a person might do if they were trying to be more open.
As the courier fiddled with the electronic pad he needed signed, Hubert carefully considered the man before him. He appeared to be Eastern European, or something like that. He was young too, early twenties at most, with olive skin and dark brown eyes. He looked tired, Hubert noted, really tired, and wore several days’ worth of stubble on his chin. The hair sticking out from underneath his baseball cap was plastered to his skin with sweat.
Hubert signed the pad and then glanced past the man to gauge the weather. It had been warm when he’d been out earlier but in a short space of time all traces of cloud had disappeared and now it was like a furnace.
“Hot out there today, isn’t it?”
“Van is like… how you say… a sauna in this weather.”
“And me bet you have a lot of them parcel to deliver.”
The courier nodded in agreement.
“I start at five this morning and won’t be done until after six tonight.”
Hubert tutted his disapproval and wondered how it had taken him until now to make the connection between “the Eastern Europeans” certain newspapers loved to complain about and his own situation all those years ago. It was the same story, only with a different cast of characters. People from one land coming to another because of the lack of opportunities in their own, working all the hours in the sort of backbreaking jobs the natives didn’t want to do. Day after day facing all manner of hostilities, wondering if they’d made a mistake leaving home.
“Damn people working you to the bone like that! It’s not right. You know what you need? A drink.”
The young man raised an eyebrow and so Hubert qualified his offer.
“What me mean is you need a soft drink, although I bet if you weren’t driving you could murder a nice cold beer.”
“Drink would be nice but I have no time. I am running late already. Maybe I get drink later.”
Hubert became incensed on the man’s behalf.
“You is a human being, not a damn parcel delivery machine! Come in and let me fix you a drink.”
The young man appeared grateful and puzzled in equal measure.
“Thank you, very kind, but I must—”
“What happen if you dehydrate so much that you fall unconscious at the wheel?” interrupted Hubert. “You kill yourself and a whole heap of people just because of one tiny drink? Me can’t have that on me conscience! No, you let me give you a drink, and then you can get on your way.”
The young man thought for a moment and then nodded as though something else had occurred to him.
“Okay, thank you. I will have very quick drink. But first, please, please can I use toilet? I needing pee for an hour now and am about to burst!”
Hubert ushered the young man inside, pointed him in the direction of the bathroom upstairs, and then went to the kitchen to prepare him a drink. Taking out a pint glass from the cupboard, he half filled it with ice cubes, topped it up with pineapple juice, and handed it to the parcel courier when he appeared at the kitchen door.
The young man received it gratefully and promptly drained the glass in seve
ral large gulps.
“Thank you, Mr.…”
“Bird,” said Hubert, refilling the man’s glass. “Hubert Bird. And what’s your name?”
“Emils,” replied the young man. “Emils Skuja.”
Leaning against the sink with a mug of tea, Hubert asked Emils where he was from.
“I come from Aglona in Latvia. Is very beautiful. Is famous for basilica. You know it?”
Hubert shook his head.
“Geography has never been my strong point.”
Emils smiled.
“I very glad for satnav! London is so big. Is easy to get lost here.”
Hubert chuckled. “Me been here sixty years now and me still get lost sometimes. Tell me, how long have you been in this country?”
“Eight months. I come for work.”
“That’s why me come too,” said Hubert. “Things tough back at home?”
“My father, he drank too much,” said Emils. “He died when I was fifteen. My mother, she is cleaning houses to get money but she doesn’t get paid very much. Also she looks after my little brother Maksims, who is not well. My big sister Dagnija, she tries to help but she is married with three little kids, so it is hard for her. So I come to England to send money home to help my family. My brother’s medical bills are very big. I have to work many jobs to help out. I work for parcel courier in day, sometimes barman at night, and every other weekend I am kitchen porter at big country hotel near Sevenoaks. By the time I pay for rent, tax, and petrol and send money home, I have not very much left.”
“So you just work, work, work, all the time?”
“Mostly, yes. But when I have free time I bake. Cakes, biscuits, bread, mostly Latvian recipe but I start to do more English. I share house and kitchen is not very well…”—he searched around for the right word—“maintained. The cooker is old and sometimes does not work. But I make do. Last week I make coffee and walnut cake. My housemates say it was best they had ever eaten.”
