A Distant Shore

by Caryl Phillips

  The first policeman, the one in uniform, fingers the pencil with increasing frustration. He stares at her, and although he sympathises with her situation there is precious little that he can do. He has said this a number of times, and his body language makes this abundantly clear. And then the senior officer arrives, the one without a uniform, and he sits down beside her. He fails to reintroduce himself, but it is clear that he has been briefed on the situation.

  “I’m sorry, but if your sister doesn’t wish to press charges, then there’s nothing that we can do. I mean, we’re pretty sure we know who he is.”

  The officer pushes a piece of paper in front of her. She sees his sour face, and beneath it all his vital statistics. Details of his date of birth, height, weight, colour of eyes, everything. His address, phone number, it all seems so straightforward.

  “I know it’s difficult to believe, but we just haven’t got a case without your sister’s co-operation.”

  She stares at the officer, but there is effectively nothing further to be said. They both know that Sheila won’t change her mind. When Dorothy left the house this morning her sister was still in bed. Sheila had asked for a cup of hot water, and before she went to fetch it she relit her sister’s candle. All thoughts of the assault seemed to have fled from her mind. In fact, it was difficult for her to know what, if anything, Sheila was thinking about. The officer scrapes back his chair and gets to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, love, but unless you can talk some sense into her, we’ve got to move on. It’s not as if we’re short of work round here.”

  She sits on the upper deck of the bus, and to the left-hand side, so that she can keep an eye out for Imran’s Southern Fried Chicken. The uniformed policeman had told her that it would be the stop after this, and he had warned her to be careful. He’d laughed, “Don’t wear your Rolex,” but wishing to maintain some loyalty to Sheila she’d said nothing in reply. The bus is full of schoolchildren whom she knows should be at school, but who seem determined to make as much noise as possible. Her natural reflex as a teacher is to shout at them and demand that they calm down, but she has to remind herself that soon she will no longer be a teacher. That part of her life will presently be over. And even if she were still a teacher, these are London kids and highly unlikely to take any notice of a little old lady who should be downstairs anyhow. And then she sees Imran’s Southern Fried Chicken and her hand reaches up to the bell. As she steps from the bus the estate unfolds before her like a dark shadow, a vast landscape of council flats, barking dogs and worn-out grass. Filth is strewn everywhere, and a group of kids are playing what seems to be an organised game of football using a tin can instead of a ball. She walks past Bojangles, which she can see is a former Catholic church that has now become the estate disco, and then she passes the cracked and peeling outdoor swimming pool, which looks as though it has never seen any water.

  Pretoria Drive leads to Pretoria Mansions, and she climbs the stinking urine-stained circular staircase to the third floor. Once there, she walks along the balcony and knocks at the door. He answers with a child, a half-caste girl whom she guesses to be about three, clutching one leg. “Yeah, what do you want?” He seems neither puzzled nor concerned as to why this woman has knocked at his door. No doubt he imagines her to be a social worker or a probation officer.

  “I’ve come about my sister,” she says.

  “What about your sister? I don’t know who your sister is.”

  “You attacked and robbed her.” He reaches down and encourages the girl to go back into the flat. Then he steps out onto the third-floor balcony, forcing her to move back. He pulls the door behind him, then slowly, and very deliberately, he looks her up and down.

  “You got a parachute?” She says nothing. “Cos you’re gonna fucking need one if you come round here talking like that.”

  “You can keep the money, I just want her things back, that’s all.” He looks her up and down again.

  “You know, you’ve got some front, but you can just fuck off. If I ever set eyes on you again you’re gonna get hurt, am I making myself clear?” She stares at him and wonders what possible nobility Sheila sees in such savages. He was making himself perfectly clear, standing there sweating his filth and spewing his words. Two steps removed from the jungle.

  A week after Dorothy came back from Pretoria Mansions, Sheila died. The elderly doctor came to the house twice during the final day, but he said very little. What could he say? Sheila had refused the services of a nurse, and had made it clear that she would not be going near a hospital. There was always a candle burning in her room now, day and night. Redcurrant was her favourite scent, and its pungency permeated the whole house. Conscious almost to the last moment, Sheila lay back, her bald head supported by two pillows, and she stared at her sister. Her skeletal body could no longer summon the energy to maintain conversations, but there was nothing more to be said. At one point Derek telephoned. She took the call downstairs, but having listened to him express his regrets and then wonder if it might be all right for him and Maria to visit, she hung up. She went back upstairs, but Sheila did not ask her who had just called. Sheila never asked anything. Sheila trusted her. An hour later her sister died. She sat with her for a few minutes, and then she blew out the candle and left Sheila in the dark. Downstairs she was momentarily startled by a low gurgling sound that came from the fridge, but she soon regained her wits. She thought of her mum, who always told her eldest child not to search for God in a time of distress because that’s when he’s out of sight and busily taking care of you. “Wait till you’ve dried your eyes, love, then go looking for him. He’ll have more time then.” But her eldest child had never looked for God, and now it was too late.

  She made a cup of tea and then sat down at the table and settled herself. To go back upstairs was out of the question, and so she had little choice now but to wait patiently in the hope that she might soon be released from the night that lay ahead. If only she had her piano to hand, for the patterns of music that she had been trying to stitch together in her mind for so long, they all made sense now. But not just music, for there was also a choral accompaniment of voices. Sitting at her sister’s table she could feel this powerful surge of music coursing through her body. For a moment she panicked and wondered if she should transcribe the patterns, but she immediately calmed down. She would not forget. The music had been a long time coming, and its disparate pieces were now secured by grief. They would never again become unstitched.

  Dorothy sits before Mr. Jowett. During the past month she has suffered the misery of organising her sister’s affairs. Maria and Derek showed up at the brief cremation ceremony, along with others whom she had never met, but who she presumed had some affiliation with the Labour Party. Roger was conspicuous by his absence, but he sent flowers. The day after the cremation she put Sheila’s house on the market, and she found an unwed professional couple who were not in a chain. They didn’t seem to mind that she intended to leave the curtains and the kitchen blinds, but she got a company to clear the rest of the house. It almost broke her heart to see the huge patches that suddenly glared from the walls where furniture had once stood or pictures had been hung. And then Dorothy fled London and returned home, where she discovered that all her utility bills were red, that the streets were claustrophobically small and narrow, and that everything was so much bleaker in the north. She also discovered that she was truly by herself. The terms of her early retirement package had arrived in the mail. She required a signature from Mr. Jowett, and so an appointment was made with Miss Arthurton. And now she sits opposite Mr. Jowett and listens as he idly asks her what her plans might be, given the fact that she has all this time on her hands. As he speaks he hurriedly signs the papers, in triplicate. Might she be travelling abroad? As he asks this question he leans back, and she listens to the sickening creak of his chair. She says nothing and waits for him to hand her the papers. His good humour offends her, but this will be the last time that she will have to see Mr. Jo
wett, so she steels herself for the rest of the ordeal. It does not last long. He hands back the papers, but he still seems keen for a conversation to develop. She takes the papers and climbs to her feet. He extends a hand, which she shakes without enthusiasm, and then she turns and leaves, without closing the door behind her.

  Instead of walking out of the school she strays in the direction of the staffroom. She stands outside the door, but decides against entering. After all, it is mid-period and it is unlikely that there will be anybody in there. So she walks from one classroom to the next, peering in through the windows and then quickly moving on before anybody can see her. And then she comes to his classroom and she sees him standing at the head of the class with his back to the door. Some of the pupils see her staring in at them. Slowly he turns to face her. He manages to maintain his composure. He throws her a little raised eyebrow of acknowledgement, but this is all. She does not move and now all the pupils are looking at her. He is uncomfortable. Has he found somebody else’s shoulder to cry on? Or has his wife left her squash player and decided to come and live in this town too? What, she wonders, has happened to his life? She feels sorry for him. Helpless man. As he finally gives up the dance of concentration and begins to move towards the door, she turns and walks away from his classroom. She hears the door open behind her, but nobody calls her name and she does not hear the sound of feet pounding down the corridor behind her. She walks out of the school in silence, with Geoff Waverley’s eyes on her back.

  She sits in her bungalow at the top of the hill in this village that is five miles outside her home town. She counts the weeks. Eight. Two months have passed. It is a new beginning, in a place in which nobody knows her. She saw a drawing of Stoneleigh in the local paper and she bought her bungalow over the phone. Somehow, the phrase “a new development” sounded comforting. Selling her house was surprisingly easy, largely because she was determined to accept the first offer that was made. In the end it was a decent offer and the buyer, a young Asian doctor, was ready to move in immediately. When she eventually took the bus out to Stoneleigh she was not disappointed. The bungalow was neat, with all mod cons, and it was exactly what she had imagined. They have just finished off the houses in the other cul-de-sac, but the area remains something of a muddy field. Still, she is happy. She looks out of her window and sees the man next door who’s washing his car. He keeps it neatly outside his house as though it’s a prized possession. Aside from this man, there is nobody else in sight on this bleak afternoon. Just this lonely man who washes his car with a concentration that suggests that a difficult life is informing the circular motion of his right hand. His every movement would appear to be an attempt to erase a past that he no longer wishes to be reminded of. She looks at him and she understands.

  IV

  Mr. and Mrs. Anderson stand with me in the rain. The three of us together, and the priest. Sheltering under the trees there are two men who will eventually cover the coffin with dirt. Their two shovels stand straight, exposed to the rain, with their heads buried deep in the soil. I remain brave, and my eyes are dry. This is what my friend would have wished. The priest closes his Bible, and Mum takes a handkerchief from her bag and she blows her nose. A memorable chapter has reached a conclusion. Mr. Anderson hands me the keys to Mike’s car, but he does not say anything. Mum reaches up and touches my face with her fingertips. I was much caressed by this family, and my attachment and gratitude to them are very great. She is a small thin woman, but this gesture feels strong. Mum holds me in her spell. And then she places the palms of her cold hands against my cheeks and pulls my head down towards her. She kisses me at the point where my wet hair meets my wet skin. And then she releases me.

  “Come along, Muriel.” Mr. Anderson is eager to escape the rain and he extends his protective arm around Mum’s shoulders. He replaces his shapeless cap on his head and he looks closely at me. I can see that Mr. Anderson is engaged in a struggle to control his many emotions. He is a very alert and active man, but at this time he is weak.

  “Take care, lad. You mind yourself.”

  The priest and I watch Mr. and Mrs. Anderson walk across the muddy grass towards the concrete path. Once they reach the path Mr. Anderson takes his arm from around Mum’s shoulder and he guides her arm through his own. He pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his blue raincoat and they walk carefully towards Mr. Anderson’s van. The priest clasps my shoulder, zips his Bible into a plastic pouch, and then he moves quickly in the direction of the church. Understanding the priest’s departure to be a signal, the two men beneath the trees throw down their cigarette stubs, pick up their shovels and wearily approach the graveside. They wipe the rain from their eyes. I take a step back, but I am not yet ready to leave Mike. In the distance I witness the illumination of the headlights. An indicator light begins to blink, and then Mr. Anderson’s van passes out of sight. Soon Mr. and Mrs. Anderson will be in Scotland and they will be able to participate in what Mum keeps calling “the rest of their lives.” I feel joy for my benefactors, and I hope that peace, prosperity and happiness will attend them for the remainder of their days.

  This morning I officially started my job on the estate and, as is the case with most of the good fortune that has been visited upon me, I have Mr. and Mrs. Anderson to thank for the blessing of this appointment. But now they have departed and I am on my own, standing by Mike’s grave with his car keys in my hand. It is appropriate that rain is falling from the skies, and that I do not possess an umbrella. The disappointing conditions remind me of when I first encountered Mike, standing in the rain, wondering if anybody was going to pay me the compliment of rescuing this stranger. I told my saviour that my name was Solomon and that I was not from the Caribbean, and he nodded and began to enjoy some laughter. Mike did not appear to be like the other English people that I had encountered, but I did not say anything to him about this fortuitous fact. I simply allowed Mike to talk and I listened. Whenever he asked me a question I was always polite and careful about the manner in which I responded. I told him that I was from Africa. That I had come to England by myself. That I had been residing here in England for some weeks. I told him that I did not possess a trade or a job, and Mike listened to me. I did not tell him that I was a soldier. That I had killed many men in battle. I did not tell him that I used to be known as Hawk. Mike shared with me the news that Ireland was his mother country, and that when he first arrived in England he too was not in possession of a trade, but now he drives lorries a very great distance. But only in England. What Mike desired was to experience the extremely long driving jobs that might take him all over Europe, and he lived in the hope that he might one day realise his dream. I looked out of the window and allowed Mike to concentrate on his driving skills. The rain was pouring down out of the black English sky. So he too came from another country? This was difficult for me to understand. At home it was relatively simple to distinguish a man of a different tribe or region, but among these people I was lost. Mike resumed his conversation, and I continued to listen, but my lack of knowledge of the ways of the English caused me to be fearful. I worried about my book, for when I last examined it some pages were disfigured with black mould. I understood that the book was probably once again wet and I imagined that the mould may well have returned, but this time with more vigour. I closed my eyes and trapped my fear inside myself. This was an inappropriate time for me to inspect my belongings.

  After many minutes of darkness, Mike began to slow down his lorry. I opened my eyes and watched him turn off the wet road and into an area that was brightly lit in the manner of a small city. I stared at the lights, and at the great number of cars and lorries that were parked in this city. Mike turned off the engine of his vehicle and then he looked at me.

  “Fancy a quick bite?” Mike did not wait for me to reply. Immediately he opened the door and fled into the rain, leaving me little choice but to do the same. I ran after him and towards a building where we found shelter. I told Mike that I did not possess money for food
or drink, but he slapped me on the back and announced that he would take care of everything and that I should go and sit among the English people. For a moment I did not go anywhere. I stared at him, for I remained frightened. What was this man going to do to me? What did he want? Mike looked puzzled, and then he pointed.

  “It’s all right, Solomon. You can go and sit. I’ll get the stuff.”

  I sat at a filthy plastic table and watched as Mike picked up a tray and joined a long line of exhausted men. Those seated at neighbouring tables stared at me with great fascination, and even though I looked away I could feel the weight of their eyes. I prepared myself. Should there be trouble then I would fight, and I wondered if perhaps Mike would join me. He was a large man, although somewhat overweight, but he would make a strong ally.

  The food made my stomach turn and I was convinced that I was going to embarrass myself. Mike appeared to have an infinite capacity for food, and in order that I should not make him feel uncomfortable I made a great effort. I took another bite of the hamburger, but this food was not suited to my stomach.

  “Do you eat meat? I should have asked you.” Mike now seemed worried that he might bear some responsibility for my discomfort, but I assured him that I accepted meat and I took yet another bite of the hamburger. I looked out of the window and could see that a great deal of traffic continued to flow in and out of this small city, and I listened to Mike drinking his mug of tea. He was enjoying loud mouthfuls and then blowing on the tea to cool it down. My head was hurting, and I knew that I could neither finish the hamburger nor take the tea. Perhaps Mike sensed this too, for he was now quiet. I decided to excuse myself and visit the toilet. This would give Mike the chance to leave me, if this was what he wished to do.