No Greater Love - Box Set

by Prowse, Amanda

  Dot stared, dumbstruck; it was as if he was reading her a story. She loved it.

  ‘James was born into a rich, successful family, but the amount of wealth he acquired dwarfed even his father’s achieve­ments. He was a forward thinker and saw the value in spices, chartering great clippers that transported his sweet-scented cargo all over the world. It took just two years of hauling spices across the high seas before he made enough money to buy his own ships and then he began chartering his boats to others and taking a cut of whatever cargo they trans­ported. Pretty soon he was the wealthiest man in the islands. He had everything a man could wish for. Everything, that is, except happiness.’

  Dot leant forward. ‘Why wasn’t he happy? He had that lovely house!’

  ‘It takes more than bricks, mortar and money to make happi­ness. And sadly, Sarah, his young wife, pined for her parents, and for the heathery hills of the Scottish Highlands where she had grown up; she dreamed of the snow. And I can understand that – I dream of sunshine!’

  ‘Don’t start with that again! Tell me about Sarah.’ Dot chewed her thumbnail, as she often did when concentrating.

  ‘Sarah had given birth to two fair-skinned children who also did not thrive in the West Indian heat. Eventually, she couldn’t take it any longer and one day she packed her valise and shep­herded her small children on to a clipper bound for home. The story goes that on that very same day, just as Sarah and her children were setting sail, Mary-Jane walked barefoot up the path of the Jasmine House in search of work.’

  ‘Ooh, who’s Mary-Jane?’

  ‘Mary-Jane was my great-great-grandmother and she was from Africa, brought to the Caribbean as a slave to work on the plantations.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Dot placed her hand over her mouth. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Legend has it that the day Mary-Jane became the mistress of the mighty James Arbuthnott, tropical flowers like hibiscus and lobster claw bloomed in the previously sparse flower beds. The jasmine released its intoxicating scent and birds and wildlife for miles around gathered in the garden paradise, to bask in the love that shone from the two lovers.’

  ‘So she was African and he was Scottish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Blimey, that must have caused a bit of a stir. I mean it would nowadays, let alone a hundred years ago.’

  Sol liked her unfiltered observations, her honesty. ‘It did. The household mocked their union, the locals laughed at the skittish young slip of a girl who liked to run barefoot through the gardens and who thought she could be lady of the big house. They warned Mary-Jane that a black and white union would not last, that the master’s interest in her would wane and she would be left with nothing, not even her reputation. But my great-great-grandmother had one response for all those that scorned her: “It cannot be undone; the genie is out of the bottle!” The two lived in a state of bliss for thirty years, until one day Mary-Jane passed away from the flu, brought to the island aboard one of James’s very own ships. Apparently he then lay down next to the body of his beloved and died of a broken heart; without Mary-Jane in his world there was very little point in it carrying on beating.’

  Dot swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘That’s so sad, but so lovely at the same time.’

  ‘Their children – Abraham, Saul, Clara and Aloysius – mourned their passing but were happy that their parents would exist in death as they had in life, devotedly side by side. Abra­ham was my great-grandfather and he and Saul continued to build on their father’s success, making the Arbuthnott name one that would always be synonymous with the island of St Lucia.’

  ‘That’s like a fairy story.’ Dot put her clasped hands in her lap and sat quietly, humbled by his tale.

  Sol nodded. ‘So, yes, I’ve always lived there, and my family before me, all in the same house! And what about you?’

  Dot perked up and thought about how she might match what she had just heard. She couldn’t. ‘Oh, very similar to you really! I live in the house that my mum grew up in, and my nan lived there all her life, although we’ve never had any serv­ants that I know of, unless there’s one in the cupboard under the stairs that I don’t know about, and it’s a darn sight chillier and we’ve only had an inside loo for the last six years. I think that covers it.’

  ‘You are funny. I’ve never met anyone like you before.’

  ‘Ditto. Is this your first time in England?’

  ‘No. I came when I was very small, but I don’t really remem­ber it. We’ve only been here for a few days now and my head is still unsure if it’s morning or night. I’ve only been in the new apartment and now here…’ Sol waved his arm around in the direction of the door. ‘Wherever we are!’

  ‘We are in Stepney. How bad is your sense of direction?’

  Sol laughed. ‘Pretty bad, apparently, which is surprising because as part of my military training, I’ve been shown how to find any location in the world by using nothing more than the sun to navigate by as long as what I am trying to find is below the permanent snow line.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Dot raised one eyebrow and twisted her lips. It sounded like rubbish.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s just one of the many skills that I have acquired. I can also catch and skin a rabbit in less than four minutes and I know how to make a waterproof tent out of a poncho.’

  Dot looked him in the eye. ‘Well I never. I thank God you are here, Sol, cos the last time I had to catch and skin a rabbit it took me six minutes and my poncho tent was definitely a little bit leaky.’

  ‘You can mock me, Dot, but you never know when these skills will come in useful.’

  ‘Actually, mister, I think I do. Around here your skills are bloody useless!’

  Sol was speechless. He had grown up within the privileged walls of the Jasmine House, on an island where his name was known by everyone he encountered. Patience his nanny and Vida his mother had run back and forth to make sure his every wish was indulged. Even at the military academy, his father’s name had ensured preferential treatment – and came with its own set of expectations. To this East End girl sitting in front of him, his surname meant nothing at all, which felt both alien and exciting. He laughed loudly, flashing his perfect teeth in Dot’s direction.

  ‘Why did you have military training anyway?’

  ‘I’m a soldier.’

  ‘Really? A proper soldier?’

  ‘And you think I insulted you? Of course I’m a proper sol­dier!’ He shook his head.

  ‘Oh yeah? What you doing over here then? Don’t think there’s much soldiering going on here – you’re about twenty years too late, mate.’

  ‘It’s a covert mission, I’d love to tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

  ‘Charming!’

  Sol laughed into his coffee. Dot thought she’d better clarify. ‘I’ve never known a soldier before, not a nowadays soldier, only the blokes who fought in the war and are out now. There’s a lot of them wandering around, poor souls. Breaks my heart to see the ones that came back loopy, the ones that got landed with the Japs, they was wicked buggers.’

  ‘War makes people wicked.’

  ‘Reckon you’re right. It was certainly wicked round our way. Whole families wiped out, fires that burnt for days. Me nan worked in a munitions factory in Clerkenwell and one night during her shift there was a raid; when she came up from the shelter to walk back to Limehouse she couldn’t find her way home. Everything was flattened or burning, all the landmarks, buildings, everything that she used to navigate home by, every­thing she had grown up with had gone. There were people trapped under the rubble and fire crews running from one to the next. She used to tell me about it and I was terrified just listening. The East End was hit pretty bad.’

  ‘I saw pictures, heard about it, it must have been terrible.’ Sol nodded sympathetically. ‘So I’m your first nowadays soldier…’

  ‘Yes and you’re the first black person I’ve spoken to. I’ve seen one or two, but not to chat with. I’ve never known anyon
e black before.’ She lowered her lids; was it okay to say that? She decided not to divulge that she had felt scared of black people before meeting him, having heard only tales of can­nibalism and witch-doctoring.

  ‘Your first black person, eh? Well, I definitely have the advan­tage as I have met quite a few.’

  ‘Do you know other white people?’

  Sol laughed. ‘Yes of course. Most of my friends from the military academy are white and lots of my parents’ friends and my father’s colleagues. In St Lucia it’s different.’

  ‘So, in St Lucia, is everyone black just like over here every­one is white?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dot smiled. ‘I can’t imagine that.’

  He clapped his hands together and changed the subject. He preferred the ribbing that had gone on earlier to this explora­tion of race and colour. ‘Right, what are our plans for today?’

  ‘Mmm, I’m not sure whether to do a runner and watch you try and find your way home, or take you up West for an adventure.’

  ‘Oh, an adventure sounds good!’

  ‘What would you do at home on a day off?’

  ‘Home, St Lucia?’

  ‘Yep.’ She nodded. St Lucia… a name so exotic for a place she couldn’t point to on a map, another world that was warm and full of black people.

  ‘Well, whatever was planned, it would start with a good breakfast and then I can guarantee that a large portion of my day would involve the beach – I would either be running on it or swimming in the sea.’ Sol closed his eyes and imagined diving, as he often did, head first into the shallow breakers of the turquoise Caribbean Sea at Reduit Beach. He was surprised at the image that leapt into his mind, of him diving into the crystal water with Dot by his side.

  ‘I’ve never seen the sea.’ Dot looked down at her lap, embarrassed.

  ‘Really? Never?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nope, never.’

  ‘How old are you, Dot?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Well in St Lucia you would be about eighteen years too late getting into the water, it’s part of us.’

  She smirked at him. ‘Closest I’ve got to it is watching the ships come into Limehouse Docks, they sometimes smell like the sea. I often sit on the dock with my mate and look at them, big Russian ships with “Odessa” stamped on the side and piles of timber stacked on them that goes straight into the Montague L. Meyer timber yards. I like watching the barges pulling up to the big ships with lightermen running back and forth like busy little ants. It fascinates me that those massive metal mon­sters have skimmed over the waves from all over the world and ended up within a mile of my little house. It’s amazing that, isn’t it?’

  Sol nodded, yes it was amazing. He decided not to tell her that his father was not only a military man but also the owner of one of the largest shipping companies in the world.

  Dot continued. ‘I like to hear the crew of the ships talking in their own language, sometimes I make out it’s me that’s abroad and not them, I know that sounds daft. I wonder what they make of the stevedores in their woolly hats who natter away in cockney banter; they must think it’s all very strange.’

  ‘Where would you go if you could go abroad right now?’

  ‘What, right this minute?’

  ‘Yes, right this minute, anywhere in the world.’

  ‘Would I be back in time for me tea, or should I pack sandwiches?’

  ‘You won’t be back in time for tea, but your sandwiches would probably spoil, you can eat out!’

  Dot grinned and once again cupped her chin with her hand, her elbow propped on the table, and tried to imagine a world untethered by the boundaries of her immediate neigh­bourhood, or her family, where she could go anywhere and eat out when she got there.

  ‘Ooh blimey, I dunno. Paris probably; I’d like to look at all the fashion, watch the river and drink wine and sit in a cafe, I’d love that. And America, obviously. I’d love to go to Holly­wood and see all the film stars and then I’d get the bus from Hollywood to New York to see the statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building, although not on a day when King Kong’s swinging around on it. I’d eat a hamburger and go to a drive-in movie and sit next to a cowboy! Yep, America – I think I’d love it!’

  Sol smiled. For him the novelty of foreign travel had almost worn off, having been hauled all over the world since he was six months old.

  Dot continued. ‘I may not have seen the sea, but I’ve heard it, inside a conch shell. My grandad worked in the docks all his life and he gave me one. I held it up to my ear and I could hear the sea swooshing around in there, it was brilliant! I had it for years, but me dad stubbed his toe on it once too often and it got chucked out ages ago. Funny, I haven’t thought about it till now.’

  ‘You know, Dot, that shell might have come from the beach where I swim. We eat conch and often the large shells end up as borders around the flower beds in our gardens.’

  He glanced up at Dot’s wide-eyed expression.

  ‘Don’t think I fancy that much,’ she said. ‘The swimming bit sounds all right, but I’m more of a cod-and-chips girl, with plenty of salt and vinegar. Besides, I don’t think we’ve got plates big enough to hold a bloody massive conch.’

  Sol smiled yet again; this girl was unlike any other he had met. He liked the way she looked at the world.

  Dot had never taken a taxi up West before; she didn’t know any­one that took taxis. She felt a combination of joy, excite­ment and guilt – if they’d taken the bus or the Tube, they would arrive just as soundly, and the money they’d save could be used for any number of useful things.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking how different the world looks when you see it from a little higher and though the glass of a taxi window.’ This was partly true. Dot often travelled underground and if she caught the bus, the windows were more often than not a steamed-up fug of breath and cigarette smoke, meaning you caught the outline of buildings and the flicker of lights but not the detail, the context. She would often wipe the steam from the glass, but the build-up of filth on the outside of the pane still obscured the view.

  ‘That’s where I was born!’ Dot pointed at the greying facade of the East End Maternity Hospital as they tootled by. ‘My mum used to tell me that they’d put up a special plaque saying “Dot Simpson was born here”. I believed her for years and I used to tell all me classmates, they must of thought I was a right idiot! Can you imagine? I’m surprised I didn’t get a good thump.’

  Sol pictured the streets, squares, libraries and schools that were named after his forefathers. It was his turn to feel ill at ease. ‘They’ll be the ones feeling like idiots when you are known all over for your fashion designs.’

  ‘Oh Gawd, you’ve got to stop with all that, it makes me feel really embarrassed.’

  ‘I don’t see why it should; you’ve got to chase your dreams.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. I sometimes think it’s easier to keep things simple and avoid the disappointment.’

  ‘That’s not true. Not trying is true defeat and you don’t strike me as a defeatist.’

  Dot averted her gaze, partly because she didn’t want to explain just how hard it was for a girl like her to break out of Ropemakers Fields, and partly because she wasn’t sure exactly what defeatist meant, though she knew she didn’t like the sound of it much.

  She remembered how when she was little, about seven, her dad had tucked her in one night and had told her that they were going to stay in a caravan that summer and that she would be able to paddle in the water, ride on a donkey and eat candy­floss every single day. She had waited and waited, think­ing about what it would be like to dig the sand and get in the sea, and she could almost feel the sugary crunch of the pink wisps on her tongue. Then her dad lost his job, went on the sick, and summer came and went and Dot never did get to go in a caravan. She didn’t try to explain to Sol that it was sometimes better not to raise your hopes too high.

  T
he taxi pulled up in front of the store. Sol jumped out, shivered, crossed his arms and rubbed the tops of his shoulders with his opposite palms, and reached for his wallet to pay the cabbie. Before Dot got out, the driver scooted the glass screen along and turned to face her, ensuring she could hear him loud and clear. ‘I bet you haven’t taken him home to meet yer dad, have ya, love?’ His mouth was set in an ugly sneer.

  ‘What?’ Dot blinked, hoping she had misheard. What did it have to do with him? But there was no time for further discus­sion. Sol had paid the man, and given him a generous tip, and was holding the door open for her. Her heart lurched. The ignorant pig had managed to take the edge off her lovely day.

  ‘Wow! I can see why you love it, very grand indeed!’ Sol shielded his eyes and stepped back on the pavement the better to admire Selfridges’ imposing facade. ‘Look at the flags on the roof, they’re amazing!’

  The two laughed as they hesitated at the revolving door, unsure whether they should go in together or separately. Sol stood back and stretched out his arm; Dot swept past him and into the store, careful not to leave a fingerprint on the shiny brass door plate, knowing that they were a bugger to clean. It was a novelty for Dot to be using the main public entrance on Oxford Street and not the staff door around the side.

  They lingered over the glass-topped perfume counters and brass and wooden cabinets that held everything from pomade to cologne. Slick-haired, suited gents from the City, wearing bowler hats and carrying black umbrellas, ambled along the walkways, their arms linked with corseted, lipsticked ladies, each preoccupied with the array of goodies and trinkets on display. Sol admired a hand-crafted shaving set of pure badger bristle whose sturdy ivory handles were carved in grooves to resemble colonnades; the whole thing sat in a natty walnut case whose tiny brass hinges were intriguing. He noticed Dot’s eyes widen at the price tag and placed it back on the shelf.