The Housing Lark

by Sam Selvon

  Was no holding back Sylvester in the summer, for one. He gone mad to see so much woman about the place now that the curtain of winter coats was raised, and you could always find him behind some shapely bird. The old sun only have to break through the grey clouds and then is trouble in town! And with these new kinds of fabric what they inventing, some of them so sheer that if you know anything about the refraction of light, you could position yourself in such a way that you take advantage of the sunlight, and my boy Sylvester would swear that most of the children he see ain’t have a stitch on underneath. Syl was a master of refractions, like Fitz was a professor of womanology. He would go up the road and find a good spot. He would glance up at the sun to see how the rays pitching, if they sideways or horizontal or vertical, and he might shift a step or two to get a proper stance of vantage. And as the children coming up the road, one by one Syl would give them an inspection and a comment, and he have a neck what could swivel right round without moving his body.

  You could say what you like about the old Brit’n, but when summer come he that have eyes to see let him see. As the trees take leaf and the blossoms come up from the earth, so Sylvester shake off the chill and fog of the winter months, and set forth to amble the streets and feast his eyes on the contours and curves that proudly display themselves, flouncing backsides and bobbing tits swinging from left to right, and don’t talk about legs.

  This occupation is number one priority for Sylvester in the summer, you can’t take his mind off the subject at all. If you standing with him discussing the plight of the natives of South Africa, and a chick chance to pass by, right away you have to start talking to yourself, because Syl ain’t with you at all. Syl out of this world, mesmerised by a tight bottom or a pair of legs. A kind of dreamy look does come in his eyes, a happy look, a pregnant look, if you know what I mean. And right away the topic change.

  ‘Oh God old man, you see that thing? You notice the walk?’ And you in for a rhapsody about the women of London. If the birds know the appreciation that Syl does give them, I don’t doubt a lot might flout the law and parade in bikinis for his benefit.

  This is Syl coming up from the underground: from the time he left the train, his eyes making a quick scan to look for something to appreciate, and by the time he get in the lift he done make a selection. The lift go up, the selection move off, and right away old Syl bringing up the rear. It don’t matter where the selection going, east, west, north or south, up the road or down the road. Whatever was Syl’s original destination forgotten long ago, whither thou goest I will go.

  And so, in front, you have this thing in a tight fitting skirt, so tight she seeing trouble to walk, she have to make some small steps, and the high heel shoes going clop clop on the pavement. The bottom outlined in all its magnificence, contained in the v of the panties. And the movement of it, the rhythm and flow from right to left, have Syl so bamboozle that if this woman walking until she drop dead, you could be sure that Syl going to stumble over the body. If a fight going on in the street, if people falling down with some mysterious plague all around him, if a friend hail out, if a man beating Syl mother to death across the road—all of that can’t detract from the attention Syl paying to the object in front of him.

  More than once it happen that a thing swing a corner and get out of range, and yet Syl keep on walking in a straight line, looking at the mirage in front of him, until he realise that the reality disappear. But that is no worry—it have bags of things going in the opposite direction, and as Syl study the refraction situation, it ain’t long before a bouncing pair of tits appear on the horizon.

  That is part of the operation—to see, from afar, a likely figure to trail back up the road, and draw quick comparisons with other passing temptations. You could imagine Syl like the lookout man on top the mast of a whaler, with his hand across his forehead to shade his eyes from the sun, and a school of whales appear: ‘There she blows! And there, and there, and there!’

  To make matters worse, around this time the girls start wearing them sexy cancan petticoats. Syl gone mad.

  ‘You could imagine what you would see if you was a dwarf,’ he tell Alfy one day when the two of them was cruising.

  ‘You does only get your kicks eye-gaming,’ Alfy tell him.

  ‘Who say so?’ Syl say, and he pull out a notebook from his pocket. In the book have the names of a lot of them Continental domestics what come to work in England. Frieda, Maria, Hildegarde, Marcelin, and a set of them, and though Syl ain’t fussy about spelling, everyone of them names spell correct, with grave and acute accent to boot. Next to the names he have their off-days, and the hours when he could risk phoning the house where they working.

  ‘Watch at that,’ he tell Alfy, slapping the book, ‘I have more things than you ever dream of.’

  ‘How you get all of them, boy?’ Alfy say.

  But Alfy only ask that to crank up the old Syl, because he know how Syl does tackle.

  Hear Syl line, when he approach a bird as she window-shopping in Oxford street: ‘Would you like a cur-rey? Have you ever had a good Indian cur-rey?’

  It have men who have some set ideas, and nothing could change them. Syl pick up this idea that white girls like to eat curry, and he always with this opening chord whenever he on the prowl: ‘Cur-rey? What about a good Indian cur-rey?’ as if he in some Oriental market offering the spices and the perfumes of the East.

  And every now and then he looking around for a piece of wood to touch, and pulling out a silver chain what have a cross on it and kissing it, because this is the time when he does feel to do that, as if he get excited or something, or maybe he trying out some kind of obeah that somebody in the West Indies tell him about.

  When Syl stand up in Piccadilly in the summer, you could see as if he only wishing he could scoop up all them girls in his arms at one time, so that none shall escape. He does stand up like a man bewildered, watching a backside to the left, a pair of tits to the right, a blonde in the front and a brunette what pass, and as if he wish he had tentacles like a octopus and could just stretch out and haul the things in, or else tell them to wait so if he don’t make a stroke with one he could fall back on another.

  And after all that preamble, you thinking now that Syl must be like a magnet to the birds. But don’t let all that fool you. Syl was a grand-charger, he was one of them fellars, the way they talk, they make you feel that if a thing only glance in their direction, another man don’t stand a chance. Like a doctor who could quote all the bones in a skeleton by some fancy Latin names, and could tell you about protoplasm and beriberi and what to do if you suffering from any kind of sickness while he himself always have some evil cough or backache or earache or something, so Syl was.

  And the boys hold him down one evening and prove it by Marble Arch. All of them was up there one evening cruising, and as usual Syl start up this talk about woman, and the things he stroke, and how he have to crack fresh eggs in a glass of brandy every morning and drink it to keep up his energy.

  Alfy say: ‘Wait. Wait a minute Syl. We going to decide this business right now.’ And he take a piece of paper and pencil and draw the private organs of a woman.

  ‘What is that, Syl?’ Alfy ask him.

  Syl look at it and scratch his head. ‘Is a horse?’ he ask Alfy.

  Alfy say no, it ain’t a horse.

  ‘Is the Tower of London?’ Syl ask Alfy.

  Alfy say no, it ain’t the Tower of London. ‘Think hard,’ Alfy say, ‘maybe you ain’t see one for a long time. Or maybe you never see one in your life before.’

  ‘It remind me of something, but I can’t think,’ Syl say. ‘You know what it is, Nobby?’

  Nobby say yes, he know.

  Even Gallows had a peep and say that though he ain’t had the luck to connect up with one for a good time now, he recognise what it is that Alfy draw.

  ‘Well I don’t know what it is,’ Syl say in di
sgust. ‘It remind me of something back home. Is a dry coconut?’

  ‘Everybody listen to this man,’ Alfy say. ‘To hear him talk about woman, you would feel he is a past master, that it ain’t have a skirt he ain’t lift up already. Syl,’ he turn to Syl, and shake his finger at him, ‘from now on, the truth is prove. We always suspect you for a talker. Now we know.’

  Syl begin to get excited and make the sign of the cross. ‘Touch wood,’ he say, looking around for a tree or something. ‘What it is you draw there?’

  ‘You wouldn’t recognise it if it was red, yellow or blue,’ Alfy say.

  Gallows shake his head. ‘You should always look where you going,’ he tell Syl.

  ‘I see this man already tackling a thing,’ Alfy say, while the others killing themselves with laugh. Hear him,’ and he begin to imitate Syl: ‘Cur-rey? How would you like a good Indian cur-rey?’

  Syl take off growling from the gathering. A few nights later he pick up a Irish thing and bring she round to 13A, where the boys was having a session of rummy. To tell you the truth, it wasn’t a bad bird. Excitement so strong in Syl that first thing he knock on the table for luck and make the sign of the cross, and the girl looking at Syl as if she spellbound. It may be she tag along with my boy to find out why he does behave like that. But anyway, Syl making introductions to everybody, as much as if to say, You-all thought I couldn’t hold a bird, well look at bird papa tonight!

  And Pat smiling at the boys as if butter won’t melt in she mouth. Battersby haul Syl to one side and whisper, ‘Which part you get that piece of skin, Syl?’

  ‘Just up the road by the market,’ Syl say, as if he accustom to picking up things all the time.

  ‘You going to take she for a good Indian currey?’ Bat ask.

  ‘I am in a jam, man,’ Syl say, ‘I ain’t have no place to take she. What you think, boy? You think she all right? You think I could sleep with she tonight?’ And Syl knock a chair and make the sign.

  ‘You could stay here, man,’ Bat say, ‘that bed big enough for three of we.’

  Syl pull out a bottle of South African sherry what he had in his jacket pocket, but Bat tell him to keep it until the boys thin out.

  It didn’t look like they would thin out, because while he and Syl talking Gallows and Nobby and Alfy carrying on a big conversation with Pat, asking she which part she come from, and if she like London, and how she hurt her ankle (because she had it bandage), and Pat saying she come from Ireland, that she don’t like London, and that she fall off a bicycle and hurt her foot.

  ‘Okay boys, the session finish,’ Bat cut in abruptly. ‘Mark down who owe who and we go finish off the games tomorrow night.’ And he wink at them. Alfy and Nobby take that as a signal to go, that Bat was up to something and didn’t want them around to cripple his style. But Gallows remain when the two of them left.

  Gallows say, ‘Man, all-you have a bottle of sherry there, you think I didn’t see?’

  ‘Well you might as well make yourself useful and open it up,’ Bat say, knowing how hard it was to get rid of Gallows.

  Gallows find glasses and open the bottle of sherry. Syl sit down on the arm of the chair near to Pat, coaxing she to have a drink. He ask she if she playing shy, and she hang her head. All this show of innocence steaming up Bat, and he figuring out a way to make a stroke himself. As for Syl, he restless like a racehorse at the starting line. He getting up and sitting down, walking around the room, knocking anything make of wood, and whenever he get the chance he asking either Bat or Gallows if they think the thing nice, and if she would spend the night with him.

  Pat begin to say it getting late and she have to catch the last train up in town, but old Syl telling she to take it easy and relax, and he trying to cuddle she, but she pushing him off.

  ‘If is anything, we could always sleep here,’ Syl say.

  Pat look round the basement as if she seeing it for the first time. ‘I can’t sleep here,’ she say.

  ‘It have plenty hotels up in town,’ Bat say, giving she plenty of rope.

  ‘You think I could get a room, boy?’ Syl ask.

  ‘Sure,’ Bat say, ‘it have plenty in Bayswater, where I uses to live. I come with you.’

  By this time the sherry finish because Gallows, seeing the other two fellars monopolising Pat, make himself comfortable with the bottle.

  So they left the basement. ‘You coming too, Gallows?’ Bat ask.

  ‘I might as well keep company,’ Gallows say.

  ‘I hope you have your own fare,’ Bat say.

  Meantime Pat asking Syl: ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I will get a room, don’t worry,’ Syl say. It look like my boy want to knock wood bad, and it chance to have some plane trees across the road. Syl run across and knock a trunk and come back rubbing his face and saying Jesus Christ.

  ‘I am not staying in a room together with you,’ Pat say.

  ‘What happen to this girl at all?’ Syl turn to Bat.

  A big argument start up in the road. Pat have she hands folded and she cool as a cucumber, and it look like she make up her mind that whatever happen she ain’t going to bed down with my boy for the night. And old Syl like if he in a kind of panic, he turning his back to kiss the cross on the chain and all the time he asking Bat: ‘So what you think, so what you think,’ like a recurring decimal.

  ‘Let we get up in town first, man,’ Bat say, ‘and then we will decide.’

  They catch a bus and went up to town. When they get down by Bayswater where have all them hotels and boarding places, Gallows suggest that they best hads let Pat go in and ask if they have any room, ‘because if Syl go they mightn’t give him even if they have.’

  ‘How much hotel is around here?’ Syl start to check up on how much money he have.

  ‘This is a posh area, only aristo-cats live here,’ Bat say, ‘but if you lucky you get one for two guineas.’

  Bat was doing all he could to off-put my boy so he himself could try and make a connection with Pat.

  ‘Come on then, Pat, you coming?’ Syl hold Pat hand and pull. The two of them went across the road to a hotel, but they stand up by the entrance and arguing. Then Syl breeze in alone.

  Bat and Gallows stand on the other side of the road looking.

  ‘That man crazy,’ Bat say, ‘he can’t see the girl don’t want to sleep with him? What he believe at all?’

  ‘And Syl wouldn’t even know how to sleep with she,’ Gallows say, ‘it take a hotboy like you, eh?’

  ‘Look how she stand up there alone waiting,’ Bat say. ‘It look bad. Call she.’

  Gallows call with his hand and Pat come back.

  ‘What is he trying to do?’ Pat ask, as if she haven’t the faintest.

  ‘Well you see,’ Bat say, feeling out the situation, ‘he gone to get a room for you.’

  ‘And where is he going to sleep?’

  ‘With you.’

  ‘Oh no.’ The way she say that, Syl would throw in the sponge if he did hear.

  By this time he come flying out from the hotel, muttering Jesus Christ and rubbing his face. Hear him: ‘No rooms, man, no rooms. Which part again we could try?’

  ‘It have some other hotels in the next street.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  In the next street had a posh-looking hotel, and it had some people going in. Like they just come from theatre or something, with fur coat and bow tie and evening suit.

  ‘Man what you trying to do at all?’ Syl ask Bat. ‘That place look exclusive.’

  ‘You can’t put a decent girl like Pat in any old dump,’ Bat say. ‘Go on man, they can’t bite you.’

  Syl would of tried the Savoy that night, he was so thirsty, and anxious to show the boys that he know what he talking about when it come to women.

  He went in, but is either they dish him up quick o
r else he begin to suspect Bat with Pat and didn’t want to leave them alone too long, because he come back in a hurry.

  After that they start combing all over the Water for a hotel, but as if a hoodoo on old Syl, or else the gods favouring Battersby. Syl only flying in and flying out, and sweating and smoking, and kissing the cross every chance he get, and now and then pulling Bat to one side and saying, ‘So what you think, boy? You think she will sleep with me? You think I stand a chance?’

  Meanwhile, when they was passing a shop, Gallows break a piece of wood off an old box from a pile of rubbish, and every time Syl dashing in a hotel, Gallows holding the piece of wood out for him to knock for luck.

  By this time they reach down by Westbourne Grove and it had a taxi rank there, and Bat tell Syl to try the drivers, that they does know of places. But when Syl went, they must of bused him, because he come back cursing and calling them bastards. He try to cuddle Pat and she turn away.

  ‘I bet I slap you up here tonight!’ Syl say. ‘I bet I start to get on ignorant!’

  Poor Pat just stay quiet.

  Bat say, ‘Man Syl, you surprise me man. You shouldn’t tell the girl a thing like that. You letting me down. You from good family, man.’

  ‘I apologise,’ Syl say, kissing the cross. ‘Sorry man. But it look like you bring me in a place where I can’t get any rooms.’

  ‘You can’t say that, look how much hotels you try. But I know three fellars from Barbados living by Tottenham Court-road. They have three bed.’

  ‘You think I could get one?’

  ‘They will give you all three,’ Bat say. ‘They only have to see Pat and they would clear out and give you the whole place.’

  ‘I am not sleeping with you,’ Pat say, ‘don’t you understand English?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Syl say, looking around desperately. Gallows hold out the piece of wood and he knock it. ‘I will sleep alone on the floor, and you have the bed to yourself. What happen, you don’t trust me?’