by Priya Basil
The duvet had floated almost perfectly back onto the bed when Innocent’s mum came into the room carrying Ruth.
‘What happened to knocking before you enter?’ Innocent tucked his hands under his armpits. He was wearing boxers and a baggy, torn vest. Sleep was still crusted in the corners of his eyes.
‘You got nothing I haven’t seen before.’ Ivie set Ruth on the bed and gestured to Innocent that he should take hold of her feeding bottle. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She was starting an hour earlier at the nursing home where she worked. ‘Charity will take over when she’s out of the shower.’
‘She better be out in two minutes or I’m gonna be late.’ He got down on his knees and leaned over Ruth, making gargling sounds. She smiled and milk leaked from the little pink corner of her mouth. Innocent used the edge of her bib to wipe away the dribble. His mum watched for a second, her heart trapped by the strange loveliness of her boy-man playing with her baby. Ruth was a happy little accident, born seventeen years after Innocent. Ivie was engaged to marry the girl’s father and they hoped to have enough money for a small wedding by the summer.
Innocent leaned forward on his elbows and nuzzled his nose against Ruth’s forehead. He crooned to her as if he was rapping:
‘Who’s so tiny?
Who’s so sweet?
Who’s got the yummiest little feet?’
He pretended to gobble her up.
‘Hmmm, what a treat!’
Ruth stopped sucking on the teat and smiled again. Her chubby arms and legs wriggled happily, the creamy palms and soles fluttering like silk handkerchiefs being waved in welcome.
Ivie couldn’t leave without giving them both a kiss. As her lips touched Innocent’s head he said, ‘Can I have five pounds, Mum?’
‘What you need more money for?’ Her hands went to her hips, which were a bit too wide for her body. Other than that, she was a slender woman with a long neck and a weakness for hair straightening. At the moment she was sporting a short bob with a fringe, but her hair had been exposed to so many chemicals it was as dry and stiff as wire. ‘You already got your cash for the week.’
‘I just need a bit extra.’ Innocent went on playing with Ruth. He needed to scrape together enough dosh to buy a new railcard somehow. By wangling from his mother and sisters he hoped to be able to afford one today or tomorrow.
Ivie leaned over, trying to look him in the eye. ‘I hope you’re not in any kind of trouble, boy?’
‘Why do you always go assuming the worst? The way you get, Mum . . . makes me want to go running to Lagos.’ His tone was just the right side of hurt to get his mother’s sympathy. Besides, Ivie was in too much of a hurry to spend time probing further.
‘I’ll leave something on the kitchen table.’ Ivie blew a kiss to Ruth and backed out of the room. ‘Make sure you’re back by eight tonight. I’m doing a double-shift and Charity’s working nights this week, so you’ll need to mind Ruth.’
‘What about Adanna?’ He turned from the bed but his mother was already out of the door.
‘She’s got a date,’ Ivie called.
‘I’m just the plug in this family! It’s always me stopping the gap while all you ladies do what you want!’ There was no response to his outcry. He faced Ruth again. Her bottle was almost empty. He caught sight of the time on his clock and yelled to his older sister to get out of the bathroom. Then he pressed his mouth to Ruth’s stomach and blew against it, making the farting sounds she loved.
A minute later Charity appeared in a blue dressing gown with a yellow towel wrapped around her head. He jumped up and pushed past her. ‘I’m gonna miss my train because of you.’
‘Like that really bothers you. What about the times you’re so late you miss the whole day?’ She picked up Ruth and followed him out of the room and down the corridor.
‘Shu’up. What do you know?’ He stopped by the bathroom door. ‘By the way, can I borrow a tenner?’
‘No! You already owe me twenty pounds.’ She had Ruth over one shoulder, rubbing the baby’s back as she tried to burp her.
‘I’ll pay it back, I swear. I need it badly.’
‘Get a job like the rest of us if you’re so desperate.’ She disappeared into the living room so only her voice drifted down the tunnel of the corridor towards Innocent.
‘It’s not like I haven’t tried!’ He was about to shut the bathroom door when Charity appeared again. She looked slender even under the thick towelling wrap of her gown. ‘No one wants to hire a black guy,’ Innocent went on, hoping she was changing her mind. ‘They see me and they think, there’s trouble. They’ve all got a problem with—’
‘Oh, enough now!’ Charity bent down to pick up Ruth’s muslin cloth, which she’d accidentally dropped earlier. ‘The only place there’s a problem is in your head!’ At Charity’s shoulder Ruth let out a long burp. It sounded like the sort of noise only an old, fat man could produce.
‘You’re going to be sorry you ever said that.’ Innocent slammed the bathroom door shut and from behind it shouted once more, ‘You’ll be sorry!’
Chapter Eight
The train comes to a stop with a jolt and Helen loses her balance, flopping forwards onto the man seated in front of her. It’s only Kerm’s quick reaction, reaching out to grab her shoulders, that prevents her from collapsing onto him fully.
‘Sorry!’ She tries to stand again, but it feels like everybody else in the carriage is pushing up behind her. She remains suspended over Kerm, one hand clutching his arm for support, the other holding onto her phone. Her handbag slides off her shoulder, the strap lodging in the crook of her elbow while the bulk of the bag falls on Kerm’s thigh.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ He shifts as if to get up from his seat.
Helen doesn’t hear the words but understands the action. ‘No! No, I’m fine. Thanks.’ She manages to straighten up, shakes her hair out of her face and thrusts her phone into the pocket of her coat.
‘Are you sure?’ Kerm’s bottom hovers just above the seat. Thick eyebrows rise over his dark brown eyes.
Helen pulls her earphones out as he repeats the question. ‘I’m OK, really.’ She’s not sure why she’s insisting when it would be nicer to sit down. One of her ankles is turned at an odd angle, making it hard to balance. She almost falls again as the train lurches into motion once more.
The man gives her a smile as he settles into the seat again. His grin is boyish: a row of perfect teeth set off charmingly by the chipped tip of one central upper incisor. She studies him as he goes back to reading his newspaper. The corners of his eyes and mouth are untouched by lines. Although his face lacks the seriousness of wrinkles, there is an authority in the hard set of his jaw and a confidence in the tousled mess of his overgrown hair. She can tell he’s tall from the way his head looms higher than all of the other seated passengers. His legs stick out into the aisle on either side of her, like barriers.
Without the protection of her earphones, Helen registers the din around her for the first time. In the conversations she overhears, every word seems to be followed by an exclamation mark: ‘Sandra! That’s! The! Wrong! One!’ She feels weary just listening. Suddenly she can’t wait to be off the train and at her destination. She notices that the train’s slowed down again. She thinks they must be approaching a station, but suddenly they draw to a sharp halt right in the middle of nowhere.
Outside there is only a bland darkness. It is the typical dark of cities: soft at the edges, its purity corrupted by the electric grid, which stretches through every park and down every dead-end street.
Helen looks left and right, as if for an explanation for the stoppage, but there’s no announcement – nothing – and nobody else seems bothered. The school kids banter away as if they have all the time in the world, and the few other passengers Helen can see appear absorbed in their newspapers or mobiles. Meanwhile, she feels like her shoes have been replaced by stilts and that she might topple over any second if someone doesn’t budge and give her a bit mo
re room.
She should have taken the seat when the man offered it to her. She glances at him again and realises that her handbag is still lodged on his thigh. She pulls at the strap and hoists it onto her shoulder, using the chance to try to wangle herself a bit more space. It doesn’t work. Helen sighs and wonders if she could do a good enough job of pretending to faint so he’ll give her his seat. Acting has never been her strength. She’d probably start laughing and give herself away. It might be better to tap on his knee and tell him she’s changed her mind, except he’d probably think she’s a weirdo.
She could brush against him, as if by accident, and then? Helen tells herself to stop being silly. She reaches into her pocket for her phone, but the focus of her mind remains fixed on the seated man. His hands are poised just a few centimetres away from her. She likes the grip of his fingers on the newspaper: strong fingers with neat nails. They look like an artist’s hands. She can picture them holding a brush, splashing paint on large canvases. Part of one sturdy wrist is exposed under the black sleeves of his shirt and jacket. Helen imagines holding hands with him. He seems trustworthy somehow.
Her mum, Sheila, would laugh now if she could read Helen’s thoughts. It’s just like her youngest child to judge someone’s honesty on the shape of his hands. No doubt Helen has good intuition (didn’t she always doubt Danny?), but you can’t rely on gut feelings alone when it comes to men. After all, there are other more telling signs. A woman must learn to look out for those and say goodbye to her instincts. Sure, following instincts might give you a nice feeling, but instincts don’t guarantee you the ‘big three’, as Sheila calls them: a three-storey house, a new car every three years and three holidays a year.
Helen takes a deep breath and tells herself to get a grip. She’s surprised she has any power at all for positive thinking about men after what she found out this afternoon. She grasps at the handrail with her right hand to steady herself and activates her phone with the left. There’s a fresh list of postings on her Facebook page:
Charles Parker needs a second body so he can run a 2-shifts’ lifestyle. Let one sleep at night and the other in the day.
Tobias Felwood has worked out a direct link between his Ladyship’s stress levels and the amount of clothes left lying around the flat . . .
Helen’s eyes dart towards the man sitting opposite her again. She notices that he hasn’t turned a single page of his newspaper. When he blinks, his eyes shut slowly and deliberately, as if there’s some grit in them. She pictures herself blowing gently into his eyes, the way her mum used to when she was little. For a second she thinks he’s winking at her because he closes just one eye, but then he does the same with the other, switching back and forth a couple of times, as if he’s testing his vision.
Then he looks up and catches her staring. She averts her gaze quickly, surprised at the rapid beating of her heart. With her left thumb she starts to type in another Facebook update:
Helen is having crazy thoughts and wondering whether to act on them . . .
All of a sudden, the door between their carriage and the one behind swings open. Three schoolboys with shaved heads and pierced ears start pushing through the crowd. It would be hard to say exactly how old they are. Their bodies have the cultivated swagger of late teenagers trying to pull off a macho manliness. One of them still has cheeks that hint at puppy fat, but they all have eyes that have seen more than they should, and mouths that seem tight with an anger that seems centuries old.
‘Make way. Make way. Niggaz comin’ thru!’ Jostling and shoving the boys edge forward in single file. Other passengers struggle to give them space, but it isn’t easy.
‘Move!’ The lips of the tallest one curl over the word in a snarl. All three keep glancing behind them as though expecting someone to be in hot pursuit.
‘Make way for a nigga,’ the third boy in line shouts. He holds his plastic school bag aloft, like a flag. The three diagonal lines of branding on it might be some kind of secret code to signal that the crowd should part for these guys like the waters of the Red Sea did for Moses in the Bible. Indeed, people oblige, adults and school kids alike. The train passengers fall silent, lean back and huddle closer together, to let the little tornado through.
The boys are near Helen now, in the most packed part of the carriage, and their progress isn’t as quick as they’d like.
‘Come on! Move!’ The tall one at the front elbows a schoolgirl and steps on Helen’s foot as he tries to get past.
‘We can’t move!’ Helen says. ‘There’s nowhere to go.’ Her words are automatic, more a thought that’s spoken by mistake than an attempt to be defiant. But the boys don’t know that. To them, she’s the first person who’s spoken, offered any kind of resistance. And what’s more, she doesn’t look like the type you’d expect to squeak, let alone present any kind of challenge.
‘Shu’up, you fat bitch.’ The tall boy’s fist swings out, accidentally catching Helen’s face above the right cheekbone, near her eye.
Helen stumbles and falls onto Kerm again. There’s darkness, then coloured blobs appear in front of her. She hears someone utter an indignant, ‘Hey!’ which is followed by sniggers, then she feels herself shoved again as another male voice says, ‘Yeah, lose some weight, bitch.’
Kerm barely has time to grasp what’s going on. He’s thinking that somebody has to stop these idiots. He himself can’t see a thing or move a limb. He’s buried in a flowery, vanilla-spiced scent as the woman tumbles onto him. The wool of her sweater tickles his nose, her elbow digs into the side of his neck, her bag hits his head and her phone slips, like a smooth brick, into his crotch. His newspaper and left hand are crushed against his chest. The woman is quite heavy. The sudden impact of her body against his leaves Kerm winded, but still alert enough to call out in dismay at her attackers.
Nobody else resists as the boys pass roughly by. The show of violence has made the boys appear all the more frightening. The tall one sucks in his cheeks and curls his upper lip. If anyone had dared to look into his face they would have seen defiance shining in his eyes: And? What you gonna do about it?
All the adults are suddenly very busy staring out of the train windows or checking their watches. They pull in their stomachs and hold their breath, trying to take up as little room as possible until the boys have passed. Some of the school children seem a little shocked and taken aback, but most watch what’s happened with neutral expressions. A few even laugh. At the top of the carriage the boys find that the door to the next section of the train is jammed. The tall one pushes against it. He swears and tries again, but it doesn’t budge. His friends have a go, but they have no luck either. They look at each other and they’re all thinking the same thing: Fuck!
Chapter Nine
Kerm helps Helen get off him, holding her forearms and gently pushing her upright. If the incident hadn’t been so horrible he might have jokingly asked if he had ‘runway’ written on his forehead, because it’s the second time she’s landed on him. But he saw how the blow was dealt and he knows that as the shock wears off, pain will take its place.
With adrenalin pumping through his own body, Kerm manages, somehow, to slide out of his seat and settle the woman into his place.
‘I’m sorry.’ He keeps apologising as though it’s his fault. He should have made her take his seat before. He should have just got up and forced her to sit down. ‘I’m really sorry.’
Helen shakes her head at the man fussing over her, as if the simple turn of her head can erase his regret. Her lips tremble. She’s dizzy. It feels like someone’s lit a fire under her right cheekbone. She blinks rapidly, trying to stop herself from crying. She feels like sobbing, falling into someone’s arms and wailing, Why do these things always happen to me?
Helen was the one who was jumped on by a man on a motorbike one night during her school French exchange trip to Marseilles. She’s the one whom two freckle-faced youths followed across Wandsworth Common in broad daylight, repeatedly kicking their foot
ball at her legs. If those incidents weren’t enough, she’s also the one who, just last year, had a loaf of French bread snatched from her hand near a market in Paris, only to find herself whipped on the bottom moments later by the very same baguette. She was hit so hard the stick of bread broke in half. On top of all that, let’s not forget, she’s the one who’s been plagued for months by upsetting late-night phone calls from her disgusting brother-in-law.
Helen’s made it her mission not to let anybody she knows take advantage of her, but it seems as though total strangers do so pretty regularly. She remains hunched over in the seat. Her elbows are wedged into her waist, her fingers pressed against her temples.
‘Excuse me?’ Kerm crouches down to get the woman’s attention.
Helen lifts her head. Her cheeks are wet and her nose is running.
Kerm reaches into his pocket for a tissue, knowing he probably doesn’t have one. For a doctor, he’s remarkably unprepared for emergencies. Even at home he keeps little medicine, apart from a bottle of aspirin.
The woman seated to Helen’s left squeezes her arm, hands her a tissue and murmurs something about hooligans. The awkward silence that filled the carriage as the boys powered through has been replaced by a low but lively hum. There’s still a faint air of embarrassment amongst those near to Helen, but on the whole people are getting back to normal. They shuffle their newspapers and tut impatiently at the train’s lack of progress and the driver’s lack of explanation.
‘How’s that eye doing?’ asks Kerm, leaning in to take a closer look. Helen’s right eyelid has already puffed up a bit. In ten to fifteen minutes bruising will start to show. Already, he can tell, she’s taking care not to blink. Her hazel eyes, streaked with gold and green, are fixed on him.
Kerm goes into doctor-mode and extends a hand. His index finger presses gently along the top of her eyebrow and moves down to her cheekbone. If there were paint on his fingertip the action would have left a line of coloured dots along the right side of Helen’s face.
