Choice of Straws

by E. R. Braithwaite

  Red Tie Birthday 1958

  Fragment of scarlet silk.

  Jaunty trapping.

  Colour of blood and courage

  Ends wind-tossed, flapping.

  In moments of despair,

  Saddened, sorrowing,

  You bid me raise a cheer,

  Reach upward,

  Towering.

  D.B.

  Now that I think of it, once or twice he made remarks which didn’t seem to mean much at the time, and sounded strange coming from him. Like the night we’d gone up to this jazz club in Soho and a couple of fellows with a girl were singing American folk songs with guitars. Freedom songs they called them. About Spades in the States. I looked at Dave, the way he was watching them, and I could guess what he was thinking. The same as me. That, if they were so interested in the Spades and freedom they should be singing those songs somewhere in the Southern States. Little Rock or somewhere like that. Then one of them, a big fellow with a beard and a soft, girlish voice, sang something about an old Spade walking from Jacksonville to New York, on foot all the way, just so that he could have one day of real freedom before he died. And later while we were having a coffee and talking Dave said the words were okay but the fellow spoiled them by singing. Words like that should be spoken, softly, he said, instead of messing them about with his pansy voice and guitar. And I said what was he getting so excited about, after all, it was a song, wasn’t it? And he said sure, it was a song, but some songs were not for singing, that people spoiled the music of the words when they tried to sing them. I mean what kind of a mixed up remark was that?

  Looking through the book I noticed that the earliest poem was written in 1956. Nearly four years he’d been doing it, and not a word to me, and everybody believing we were like two halves of the same thing. Bloody selfish bugger. Christ, we’d done everything together. Same school in the same class throughout, even G.C.E. ‘O’ levels in the same subjects, and the same job on the same day. And I’d thought it was a diary, so even if I’d been a little bit curious I’d not have bothered to look because I’d have known beforehand what was in it anyway.

  I lay there with the book on my chest thinking about Dave, and must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew was Mum shaking me and saying would I come down, that the police were back and wanted to talk to us.

  They were the same two men. They said they found out about the other person in the car, somebody named Spencer. Dr William Spencer, from Leigh-on-Sea. A houseman or something like that at Guy’s hospital. Young, really, only twenty-four. They’d been in touch with his relatives, a mother and sister at Leigh, and with the hospital. So it started again, the questions. And Mum said she didn’t think Dave knew any Dr Spencer, but Baldy said perhaps as Dave and me were always together I might know. I told him I was sure Dave didn’t know any doctor, but suddenly I wasn’t sure, remembering about the poems in the diary. Supposing he did know this Dr Spencer but didn’t ever tell me about him? Supposing after he’d left me at Whitechapel he’d gone off to see this bloke to help him and that was how he was in the car? How the hell did I know? What was I supposed to say?

  Baldy must have guessed that something was bothering me, because he suddenly looked at me and said would I think very carefully, try to remember if Dave ever mentioned knowing a doctor or meeting one. And I said no, he didn’t, that I’d have known if he did. Then he wanted to know what we did, where we went, how we spent our time when we weren’t at work. So I told him about how we liked listening to jazz, and collected records. And some nights we’d go up West to the jazz clubs, or if there was a jazz concert somewhere like at the Festival Hall or the Albert Hall. And Baldy’s pal said he liked jazz too, and asked who were my favour­ites. And I told him I liked Ella and the Count and that fellow Monk and some others. And suddenly Baldy said how about the East End, which clubs did we like in the East End? And right away something clicked and I knew all the sweet, friendly talk was just to catch me with that one. It was so damned childish I could have laughed. I looked him straight in the eye and said we’d never been in the East End, didn’t know they had jazz clubs there.

  The way he and his pal were looking at me I could see they were wondering about my face, sore as hell and sure to come up a real beauty just near my left eye where it hurt most. Let them think what they liked, I couldn’t care less.

  Then Mum said why were they asking all those questions, what did it have to do with Dave being in an accident? And Baldy told her that they were trying to discover what had happened, because only the one car was involved and on a straight stretch of road there didn’t seem to be any reason for the accident. So anything we could tell him might help them. He knew it must be painful for Mum and Dad, so what he’d suggest was that he and I had a chat together, so as not to bother them, and I could bring him up to date on Dave. Smiling his sweet policeman’s smile all the time. But Mum said no, it was no bother, so go ahead and ask his questions.

  Then Baldy’s pal said could he see my knife? I told him I didn’t have one, never owned one. And he said he thought Dave and me always got the same things, so if it was a Christmas or birthday present we might each have got one. Or perhaps we’d bought them ourselves. Watching him I wondered just how clever he thought he was. If he wanted to play this silly game it was fine with me. So I told him Dave said he’d bought it off an American, just the one knife. He liked it because it was a lovely thing, especially the handle, the way it was made with alternating layers of ivory and silver, and the blade, double-edged, balanced. And Baldy asked where Dave had met the American. I told him I didn’t know, which was quite true. It was the Saturday we’d gone with the works team to play cricket against a team at Dagenham, and I’d got hit with a ball on my elbow. Painful as hell, so I’d stayed in that night. Dave went off by himself but came back early, bringing the knife. We used to make up stories about the man who’d made it, a real craftsman he must have been. And the scabbard, hand-sewn and polished. We guessed it must have been made for a Spanish or Mexican prince, because of the design, with probably a sword to match. Dave had had the little shield specially put on the knife just near the hilt, so that he could have his name on it.

  Baldy’s pal said that he knew someone who collected old knives and daggers, but they were always kept as decorations, fastened on the wall. And why was Dave carrying the knife? Did we ever get into arguments with anyone when we went to jazz clubs or places like that? Did Dave always carry it about with him or only when he went off by himself? I told him I’d got so accustomed to seeing Dave with the thing that I couldn’t remember when he wore it. Sometimes he’d have it and sometimes not.

  Then Dad wanted to know why all the fuss and questions about the knife. They’d already been told it was Dave’s, with his name and address on it. And Baldy explained, with his smile, that he realized it must be painful for us, but they had to check everything that might help them to establish the victims’ identities without any possibility of doubt. He said they hoped to have the autopsy report later that afternoon and they’d ring us immediately, that Dad would be needed to come down and make a formal identification.

  I went with them to the door to see them off, and there at her gate, inquisitive as ever, was Old Spotty Frock, her eyes boring into the car as it went past her. I didn’t have much appetite, and I suppose neither did Dad nor Mum, but we went through the motions of eating lunch, and afterwards I helped Mum wash up. Usually Dave and I helped with the dishes at lunchtime Saturdays and Sundays, laughing and kidding with her, and talking to each other over her head, she was so small. This time she just washed up and passed the things to me, not saying a word, and when it was all done I went upstairs. The house felt strange; no jokes, no laughing, nothing.

  Just for something to do I got out all my shoes and began brushing and polishing them. And thinking. About how something you did, just on the spur of the moment, could change your w
hole life. It wasn’t as if we’d planned the thing the way it happened. We really meant to go up West to hear some jazz, then all of a sudden, at Aldgate East, we’d had this idea to get off the train. Just supposing we’d gone a couple of stations further, or even got off earlier, at Whitechapel or Mile End, for instance, we’d never have seen that Spade and none of this would have happened. Mum came in and sat on the edge of Dave’s bed.

  ‘Whatever happens from now on, Son, you know nothing.’ Her face was white, the eyes red as if she’d been crying. ‘You hear me, no matter who asks you, you know nothing. Just forget what you told me and your Dad. As far as anyone else is concerned, you never left this house last night, not since you came in from work. Whatever the police might dig up has nothing to do with us. I’ve lost one son through those damned people and I’m not going to lose another.’ And she got up and went out.

  Chapter

  Four

  BALDY PHONED SOON AFTER four o’clock and said they’d be sending a car for Dad and to meet him at the mortuary. Mum said I should go with Dad so I got myself dressed. This time two policemen in uniform came and Dad and I went with them. We arrived at this place and one of the policemen led us into an office, white and antiseptic smelling, like a hospital waiting-room. Baldy and his pal were standing over by a window talking with someone wearing a long white overall coat. They nodded at us, but went on talking. The policeman told us to sit in chairs near one wall. Baldy and the attendant went off down a corridor opposite the main door, and in a few minutes Baldy came back alone with a flat glass ashtray, Dave’s ring in the centre of it, clean and shining like a jeweller’s showpiece. Just as well I’d come along with Dad. He took one look and went grey.

  ‘That’s Dave’s,’ I told Baldy, lifting my right hand to show him the matching one. He nodded, then said we could go in now to make the identification. I looked at Dad but he wouldn’t look at me, just sat there squeezing his hands together.

  ‘I’ll go in alone,’ I told Baldy.

  ‘What about Mr Bennett?’

  ‘Does he have to?’

  ‘Not necessarily. In any case it’s merely a formality now. The teeth formation, the ring, and the remains of the belt and scabbard found around the waist were enough.’

  Dad said nothing. The attendant said I should follow him. Then Baldy moved in front of me as I heard the main door open and in came this girl. Baldy must have spotted her coming through the window. The way he was standing all I could see were her feet. Small, in plain black high-heeled shoes, the ankles sharp under the nylons, shaping nicely upwards.

  I went off behind the attendant as she spoke, her voice low, clear, the way some of those students speak at the coffee bars and jazz clubs up West.

  The attendant led me down the corridor with its heavy smell of disinfectant and cleanliness, into a large, chilly room with no windows, the bright overhead lights reflecting off the dazzling white tiled floor. One whole wall was like a huge filing cabinet, neatly squared off, with numbers. He walked right up and pulled a handle and this drawer came sliding out. He nodded to me to come closer.

  In spite of what Baldy and his pal had told us about Dave being badly burnt, I’d somehow imagined he’d still look like Dave, expected to see the same face, even if he was dead. The thing in that drawer was ugly, faceless and sickmaking. Black. Nothing human about it. Nothing like Dave. Just a horrible black mass with the whiteness of teeth showing through where the lips had burned away. I felt my stomach heave but I swallowed hard, keeping it down. The attendant put his hand on my shoulder, pushing me to one side, then shoved the drawer back in. Even after the drawer was closed the smell of meat, like a butcher’s shop, was thick in my nose. I asked the attendant where the toilet was; I couldn’t hold it down much longer. Afterwards I washed my face and stood for a few minutes at the open window in the washroom next to the toilet. Dave, Dave. And all because of those bloody Spades. I’d make them pay, the murdering black bastards.

  I walked out of there back into the waiting-room. Baldy was sitting at a table writing something. Dad was where I’d left him, but now he was talking with the girl. Her back was towards me, but the shoes and ankles were the same. She sat straight up in the hard chair, coarse black hair curled inward at the top of the high collar of her dark grey dress, pulled tight at the waist with a wide-shiny black belt. Nice shape. Nice legs, the way they were crossed. Dad saw me coming and said something to her and she turned her head to look. Christ Almighty! A Spade. A bloody Spade sitting there chatting with our Dad while Dave was in there, and all because of them. I felt like spitting in her face.

  I said to Dad, ‘Let’s push off.’

  He was saying to her, ‘This is my son, Jack. The other, Dave, was his twin.’

  I don’t know what she saw in my face, and I didn’t very much care, but right away her face began to close, the way the lights go low in the cinema just before the film starts. She stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ she said, looking somewhere over my shoulder, then, turning to Dad, she said good-bye to him and walked past me to Baldy who’d stood up and was watching me. He and she went off down the corridor. I looked at Dad. His face was red as if he was working up to another angry session, one big hand grinding itself into the palm of the other.

  ‘That young lady’s brother was in the car with our Dave.’ He said it as if he was accusing me of something. Well, how was I to know that? All that Baldy had said was that the car belonged to a Dr Spencer, but nobody had said who he was or where he came from. Maybe that Baldy had known all the time that Dr Spencer was a Spade. So, that was his sister! Well, tough ruddy luck.

  ‘We’d better be going, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll wait till she comes out, just to see she’s all right,’ he answered, his voice still angry.

  ‘The police will see she’s okay,’ I told him, but it didn’t do any good.

  ‘I said we’ll wait till she comes out.’ He stood up. ‘But if you’re in such an almighty hurry there’s nothing to stop you going.’

  Well, why the hell not, I thought, and went outside. Even if her brother was a doctor, they were still Spades, and if it weren’t for them Dave would be alive now, so why should I stand about waiting for her? The two policemen were sitting in the front of the car and one of them leaned over the front seat to open a door for me, but I told him I would be walking, but to wait for my dad. Felt like being alone a while to sort things out in my mind. Later on I’d catch a bus home. People were coming and going everywhere, riding in cars or on bicycles, people walking carrying shopping bags or pushing prams, talking with each other, smiling, smoke rising from chimneys, the brown leaves trembling on the trees waiting for the next sharp wind to put them out of their misery. Vapour trails high up against the blue of the sky. A long crocodile of schoolgirls laughing and chattering. Not a damned soul knowing or caring what had happened. Couldn’t any of them feel that something had changed since yesterday? What was the use of all the working and studying and knowing things, if you could just suddenly not be there any more and hardly anyone would notice? This time yesterday Dave and me were standing side by side at the lathes, eyes behind our safety goggles, together in the pleasure of working accurately, machining the castings down to the same fine tolerance. Even Old Man McGowan used to say we were good, and he was not in the habit of scattering praise around. Where was it all now, the skill in the fingers, the thoughts in his head, even those he kept to himself like a ruddy miser, hidden in his book? The more I tried to think of things and sort them out the more knotted and jumbled they seemed to get.

  I bought myself an evening paper, merely to have something to read, and decided to have a coffee. No need to rush home. The little café was none too clean, but the coffee was good, bitter and strong, from one of those Espresso machines. One thing was sure, the name Espresso didn’t mean high speed, the way the coffee took its time dripping into the cup, too tired to reach
more than three-quarters full. Strong and black. Black like that thing in the box which they said was Dave. Black like a ruddy Spade. If her brother was burned like Dave she’d really have something to see. What the heck did our Dad expect me to do? Talk to her? And looking at me like that. Well, let him try again. Just let him try.

  Thinking about him I could feel where my face still hurt. To get my mind off things I started to read the newspaper. I nearly missed it near the bottom of the centre page. Not much. It said that the police were enquiring into the murder of Carlton Thomas, a West Indian aged twenty-four whose body was discovered late the night before near some condemned buildings in Willingdon Terrace, Stepney. They wanted anyone who had heard or seen anything that might help the police in their enquiries to come forward. That’s all.

  I read it twice and it didn’t mean a damned thing to me. Odd that, because I always used to imagine that if somebody murdered someone else, they’d be scared out of their wits wandering around just waiting for the police to pick them up. But it was as if I was reading about somebody else. All I knew was that if it hadn’t been for that black bastard our Dave and me would probably be at work today, happy as always. So to hell with the damned Spade. I caught a bus home.

  Voices in the sitting-room, one of them different, so I went in. She was sitting in the armchair opposite Mum and Dad, who were on the sofa. First thing I noticed was the long legs, crossed at the knee but stretched out the way you see them do it in films. She looked up at me, then away, and went on talking as if I didn’t exist. I wondered what the hell our Dad thought he was playing at. Bringing her inside our house. The tea trolley with the used things was near Mum, who had that stiff look on her face she gets when she doesn’t care too much for someone. Our Dad looked at ease, even smiling a bit at whatever it was she’d been saying. Mum asked if I would like a cup of tea, and the way she said it was as if she wanted to have something to do, something different from making conversation with that Spade, but I said no, I’d had some coffee on the way. I was on the point of pushing off upstairs to my room when I took another look at her, the big grey eyes watching me as if I was dirt, and I thought to myself, no, she might get the idea I was scared of her. So I sat down. Near Dad on the sofa, right opposite her. I’d take a real close look at her. Dad had asked if I’d ever met one of them or talked with one. Well, here was one served up right in our ruddy front room, though I couldn’t figure what the hell our Dad was playing at, bringing her home. Probably thought he’d show me how good he was, with no prejudice to the Spades, backing up the things he’d said earlier. Him and his bleeding heart of love.