The Housing Lark

by Sam Selvon

  ‘Listen man,’ Bat say, getting tired with all this preliminary.

  ‘Let we go up by Paddington station, it have places there, you bound to get one.’

  They went up in a side street near to the station where it have some evil-looking joints where Londoners does go late in the night to make a stroke. Some frowsy-looking things going in, as if they just off a beat on the Bayswater-road, and some coming out, and one of them in a red dress scratching she thing and chewing gum.

  Another set of big argument start up as they stand opposite a hotel with a neon sign. Pat wouldn’t go in with Syl, and all four of them arguing and flinging their hands in the air, and Gallows pushing the wood in Syl face all the time. To make things worse a police car making a rounds and coming up the road.

  ‘Stop leaning on the wall like that, man,’ Syl tell Pat. ‘You don’t see the police coming? You want them to think we is criminals?’

  Pat lean off the wall.

  Bat decide it was time for some progressive action. He haul Syl to one side. ‘Syl,’ he say, ‘you wait here with Gallows. I will go in with Pat and get the room for you. You don’t know how to do these things, man. You getting on so excited you have the girl frighten. Stay here with Gallows and cool off, and leave everything to me.’

  ‘If they wouldn’t give me a place you think they would give you?’

  ‘Is not a matter of that,’ Bat explain patiently, ‘is how you go about it. Look at you, you sweating and kissing the cross and knocking wood like a mad man. If me and Pat go in, I will be diplomatic and fix up for you.’

  ‘All right,’ Syl agree.

  ‘The room might be more than two guineas,’ Bat say. ‘You better give me three to make sure.’

  Syl hand Bat the money. Bat went to Pat and say, winking, ‘Come with me.’

  She went like a lamb with Battersby.

  ‘You see?’ Gallows tell Syl. ‘That is the way to do it.’

  ‘How she could go so easy with Bat, and she wouldn’t come with me?’ Syl say. ‘You think she prefer Bat to me, boy Gallows?’

  ‘No man!’ Gallows say, ‘how she could prefer a old hoghead like Battersby in front of you?’

  ‘I would make stroke papa tonight,’ Syl say, ‘I will tumble she up and down, in front and behind. You-all thought I couldn’t pick up anything, eh? You see for yourself? What you have to say now?’

  ‘She really sharp,’ Gallows say. ‘Here, knock for luck.’

  Syl knock. ‘She not any ordinary girl, you know. I mean you fellars pick up any bird you could find, and praise the lord, but me, I am selective.’

  ‘Did you give she Indian cur-rey?’

  ‘Yes, you-all could laugh, but I hold plenty birds that way already. I take she to that big Indian restaurant in Piccadilly.’

  Gallows yawn. ‘It getting late.’

  ‘Yes, why Bat staying so long?’

  ‘I think I going to take a cruise myself,’ Gallows say.

  ‘No man, wait here with me until they come,’ Syl say.

  ‘What,’ Gallows say, ‘make you think they coming back?’

  ‘Ha-ha,’ Syl say, ‘ha-ha. How you mean?’ But all the same he start to get suspicious. ‘Bat must be only old-talking she for me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you going to do,’ Gallows say, ‘but I cutting out for Marble Arch.’ And Gallows walk off, laughing to himself. ‘Here, catch,’ he say, turning back and throwing the piece of wood for Syl, ‘knock and see if anybody answer!’

  Syl catch the wood and charge in the hotel. The receptionist was a old fellar wearing a dirty shirt and smoking a cigarette that stick on his underlip.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘I looking for my friend,’ Syl say, ‘he come in here with a girl. You give him a room?’

  ‘Nobody came here for rooms, mate.’

  ‘Yes, the two of them come in.’

  ‘Well they ain’t here.’

  ‘I was standing in the front all the time,’ Syl say, getting desperate and kissing the cross, ‘and they ain’t pass back out.’

  The attendant swing a thumb at the back. ‘They must have gone out that way.’

  Syl hold his head and bawl.

  * * *

  * * *

  Planning to buy a house is one thing, planning to give excursion to Hamdon Court is another. But Battersby was a old hand at this sort of thing. Back home in Trinidad, nearly every weekend Bat chartering a bus and going round by his friends inviting them to excursion in Mayaro, in Los Iros, in Columbus Bay, in Toco and Blanchisseuse. Being as Trinidadians does thirst after fete as pants the hart for crystal streams, he never used to see trouble to get excursionists.

  In Brixton, where the most you could do is cruise in the park or go to the cinema, the news spread like wildfire, and this Sunday morning as the driver park the coach just behind the market by Somerleyton Road, it already had people waiting, as if they fraid they come late and the coach go to Hamdon Court and left them behind.

  ‘Let we have some order man, don’t scramble so to get in the bus, it have room for everybody.’

  Battersby was standing up near the door with the driver, ticking off the members of the party and collecting money as they get in. It look as if the whole of Brixton was going on this excursion to Hamdon Court. Friend invite friend, cousin invite aunt, uncle invite nephew, niece invite godfather, and so this Sunday morning bright and early all of them congregate in this side street behind the railway station. And the girls in all kind of crinoline and crinolette, can can and cotten, bareback and barebreast, and wearing toeless sandals and with ribbons in their hair, and the boys in some hot shirts and light-coloured trousers what they never get a chance to wear since they come to England.

  ‘Let the old folks go in first,’ Battersby say.

  Mother, father, uncle and other elders go in, carrying the children. Some of the children getting big cuff and slap as they prancing about with too much excitement. Battersby grudge seeing so much children because they was paying half-price. By the time the old people get in, the others start to scramble for end seat and back seat and front seat. Battersby give up trying to keep order. And the food and drink—well, it look like they setting off for an expedition to the North Pole or something. All kind of big iron pot with pilau and pigfoot and dumpling, to mention a few delicacies, and one old lady have a bunch of watercress wrap up in a paper, because she say she don’t ever miss her watercress with her Sunday lunch.

  Some of the boys high already, as if they been feting all night and just come to sleep in the coach. The only time they showing any life is when a bottle of grog passing around.

  While all this pandemonium going on, with people forgetting things and saying to hold back the coach while they run home for a cardigan or a thermos flask, what should happen but Mr Poor appear on the scene in a char-a-banc. Whenever a boat-train coming in, especially, you sure to see one of these vehicles park up outside Victoria or Waterloo, to convey friends and relatives to their destinations in the land of hope and glory. And fellars who possess such means of transportation don’t be afraid to make a few quids. In Victoria one night a fellar from Birmingham come down empty, and it look like the people he come to meet didn’t turn up, and he start to go around asking if anybody going up to Birmingham, or in transit, five pounds a head? Sure enough by the time he leave Londontown the char-a-banc full up, and he would of made more money if it wasn’t for so much luggage the immigrants bring with them.

  Well papa, Poor pull up in this big empty char-a-banc just behind the coach, and announce to everybody that he going to Hamdon Court, and that he was prepare to take a dollar a head!

  Hear the classic comment from Charlie Victor, to the English thing he bring with him: ‘That is one of the typical reasons why they can’t get on.’

  Bat wasn’t so delicate. ‘Poor,’ he say, ‘pull that cha
r-a-banc out of here otherwise I will mutilate you.’

  And Poor, pounding the side of the char-a-banc like if he beating somebody: ‘Brit’n is a free country! I could do what I want!’

  Charlie Victor tell the thing: ‘Of course, legally he could get in trouble plying for hire. I do hope things are settled amicably.’

  By this time pandemonium not only existing, it reigning. Some people who in the coach already start to come out, saying they want back their money, they prefer to go with Poor. And Bat have his hands spread out barring them, like how sometimes you see the police holding back a crowd.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Bat saying, ‘nobody getting their money back.’ And turning to Poor: ‘Poor, you should be in jail! You send poor Harry Banjo to jail when it should of been you!’

  ‘That is true,’ a old woman say, and turn back to sit down in the coach.

  But though it had a lot of them who feel that Poor was a traitor, still, a dollar is a dollar anyhow you look at it. Besides, Poor did take the char-a-banc to a garage and get it wash down and polish, and it shining in the morning sun, whereas the coach company, being as how they know it was a spade excursion, perhaps, send a old dent-up coach what look like it barely manage to reach Brixton, and would need a lot of encouragement to start.

  Poor instigating: ‘Look at that coach! You all not frighten to travel in it? Is so you treating OUR PEOPLE Bat? If it can’t start I will give you a push!’

  The English driver say, ‘Get out of it,’ and turn to Bat. ‘If everybody’s here let’s go.’

  To tell truth, it look like if everybody really there. The coach full up, and it still had people standing up outside.

  ‘Only one coach coming Mr. Battersby?’ a woman ask.

  ‘Yes,’ Bat say, ‘but there’s plenty of standing room inside.’

  As things turn out, it had more people than the coach could hold, and Bat couldn’t stop them from going with Poor. By the time the char-a-banc full up, Poor ready to pull out first and racing the engine to make style. Bat was just getting in to close the door of the coach when a woman push her head out the window and shout across to the char-a-banc: ‘That you there Mavis girl? Come over in the coach, man!’

  ‘I can’t!’ Mavis shout back, ‘we going to start!’

  ‘Hold the coach up,’ the woman tell Bat, getting up, ‘I thought Mavis wasn’t coming again. I want to go with she.’ And she went over to the other vehicle.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Bat say, slamming the door. ‘Hold tight. Let’s go.’

  Poor take off in front with the engine racing, leaving a set of exhaust smoke behind.

  By the time the coach pull out from behind the market, like if fete start up right away. Fellars begin beating bottle and spoon and singing calypso, others beating the woodwork and the upholstery to keep time, people as if they just seeing one another for the first time and finding out that they sitting down far apart and wanting to change seat, some children begin to cry and say that they hungry, three bottles of rum start to make rounds as if they ain’t have no owner, as if the Aladdin geni produce them for the excursionists! And man, woman and child knocking back liquor, bottles of pop opening up all over the coach, a woman open up a pot of pilau and start dishing out food, and a man give a little boy ONE clout behind his head and the boy start bawling and crying, ‘Ma, man, look Pa hit me!’ A banjo and two mouth-organ come in sight, a girl say she feeling hot and threatening to take off she blouse, and a mother encouraging her child: ‘Go on Elouisa! Say that recitation that the English people teach you in school! Go on, don’t play shy’ And she turn to her neighbour and say, ‘Just wait, she could really say poultry good, is only shy she playing shy.’ The neighbour say, ‘Albert not good at poultry, but if you see him twist! Albert? Where he gone to? ALBERT!’ And Elouisa stand up in the gangway biting her finger and looking down and swinging from side to side, like how little girls do when they shy, and my boy Albert, as if he sense a partner, begin to twist in front of she.

  And of course, I shouldn’t have to tell you that photo take-outer Alfy is in front of the coach trying to balance and control his Zeiss and capture the spirit of the moment on film.

  Battersby push his hand out and make contact with a bottle of rum in the air. He cock his head back and pour the rum in a stream in his mouth without his lips touching the bottle. As if his head and his hand catch cramp in that position, and luckily Nobby haul the bottle away.

  ‘Ah,’ Bat say, ‘I was longing to wet my throat.’

  ‘Wet your throat!’ Nobby repeat. ‘I thought you was bathing!’

  ‘Anyway,’ Bat say, wiping his mouth with his hand, ‘praise God we on the way at last. I thought we would never leave the market-place.’

  ‘You should of bust a crank handle in Poor’s head,’ Fitz say.

  Right down in the back of the bus, Charlie Victor sitting sedately with the piece of skin what he bring to the excursion. It have a lot of fellars in town who go about as if they don’t want to have anything to do with West Indians. They talk with their English friends about the waves of immigration, and deplore the conditions immigrants live in, and say tut-tut when any of the boys get in trouble. As if they don’t want to be known as immigrants themselves, they talk about coming from the South American continent, or the Latin countries, and make it quite clear that they themselves like a race apart from the hustlers and dreamers who come over to Brit’n looking for work. But in truth and in fact, loneliness does bust these fellars arse. They long for old-talk with the boys, they long to reminisce and hear the old dialect, or to go liming in the West End just floating around looking at the things passing by. Charlie Victor in Brixton had a way of making it clear that though the gods will it for him to be one of OUR PEOPLE, he was in a class by himself. Nothing give Charlie greater kicks than to stroll through the market during the day and hear all them housewives call out: ‘Morning Mr Victor!’ while he nod and give a little smile. This time so he have his eye on all them yam and green banana and pig tail and pig foot what for sale on the stalls, and his mouth watering. If in fact one of the housewives say: ‘Mr Victor, why you don’t come and eat a food next Sunday please God?’ nothing would of please him more. Because the English house what he staying in near the Oval, all he getting there is mash potato and watery cabbage and some thin slice of meat what you could see through, and bags of tea—a big tea-brewing machine like what you see in them cafe always going in the kitchen. My boy looking thin and poorly and off-colour, as it were. He get so Anglicised that he even eating a currant bun and drinking a cup of tea for lunch! So though in fact he fooling himself that he just like any English citizen, loneliness busting his arse every day. That’s why when he hear about the excursion he grab the chance to mingle with OUR PEOPLE, to hear the old-talk and to see how in spite of all the miseries and hardships they could still laugh skiff-skiff and have a good time. So he pick up this blue-foot what living in the same house as him, name Maisie, and decide to come.

  Hear him as he paying Battersby before going in the coach: ‘I heard about your efforts to raise money to buy a house and I must say it is commendable. In fact I thought of patronising the excursion and helping the cause.’

  ‘Every little bit helps,’ Bat say, eyeing the thing with Charlie.

  ‘Quite so,’ Charlie say. ‘Here, have an extra ten bob. And do feel free to call on me for advice at any time. You know I am in the Housing Business.’

  ‘Too many cooks spoil the soup,’ Bat say, watching Maisie backside as the skirt tighten as she going in the coach.

  Now, sitting down in the back with the thing, Charlie getting in the mood, and his foot keeping time with the calypsoes. When the bottle of rum pass around for the first time, he shake his head, but you could see him watching it like a lost man in a desert who sight a mirage.

  ‘Why ain’t you had one?’ Maisie say. In point of fact Maisie herself ready to let down her hair, but s
he waiting for Charlie to make a start.

  ‘They’re all putting their mouths to the bottle,’ Charlie say disapprovingly.

  But when another bottle start up, the temptation was too great. Charlie swipe it in mid-air, and hold it between his legs and make a quick dab with his handkerchief over the neck. It look like he catch the cramp from Battersby: Maisie had was to pull the bottle away from him to get a drink.

  ‘Let me show you how to kill an empty bottle,’ Charlie say.

  ‘It isn’t empty yet,’ Maisie say.

  Charlie take care of that and put the bottle upright on the ground. He light a match and drop it in, and quickly press his hand over the mouth. As the match out and the bottle begin to cloud up, he pull his hand away quick from the bottle and it make a little vhoom! noise.

  By the time the coach reach Hamdon Court, you would think the party went out for the day and now coming home to roost in the palace. They finish off three bottle of rum and a crate of beer, and empty bottles rolling all over the floor and clinking. Two pot of peas and rice finish, the children’s clothes have chocolate smudge and mineral water stain, and one little girl trip and fall over a pan of stew and splatter it about on all who near. People hiccuping and belging, some of the elders dozing. In point of fact, if all of them did get together and went in the park, or if to say the coach did really break down and they couldn’t reach, it won’t of made any difference.

  Nevertheless, as the coach pull up and they see the char-a-banc waiting, as if the party throw in second gear as they dismount, the men making a beeline for the nearest Gents, and the women dittoing for the Ladies.

  ‘Rmember we leaving at six o’clock,’ Battersby shout out. ‘The coach going to be waiting in the parking area, and if anybody late that is their lookout.’

  Meet Fitz and the family as they hop off. The first picc’n, Willemeena, is the one that trip over the pan of stew, and the splattering make a sort of design on her dress, so it don’t look too bad. Her hair plait. How Teena manage to do it is a mystery. But it plait, and it have a blue ribbon on each plait. Next come Henry the First. He have a bruise on his knee, and his clothes all dusty—Teena hitting out the dust and at the same time registering some blows for the slow way he coming out. Then Teena herself, all prim up in a cotton frock with sunflowers. She had a hair-do for the occasion and the hair iron out smooth and shiny.