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.
The 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.
‘I want to see the Hadashaberry Department!’ he declared
Dot chewed her bottom lip. It was one thing to be out and about with a black man, but to parade him in front of her work colleagues was quite another.
Sol saw her flicker of uncertainty. ‘Come on! Then I can picture you on the days when you can’t come out and play.’
‘You’ll find that’s most days, unless I win the pools!’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “win the pools” – swimming pools?’
Dot laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it!’ It felt too complicated to try and explain.
Sol and Dot had to stand at the very back of the lift, to make way for a bespectacled lady in a huge fur coat and her large-hatted friend. The stench of several layers of sampled scent sprayed onto their crêpey décolletages hung above them in a toxic cloud. Sol coughed into his bunched-up fist. Dot faced the wall to stem her giggles, but the mirrored confines offered her little shelter.
The ladies bustled out at Lingerie.
‘Phwoosh! What was that? I do not want to buy any of what they were advertising. Man! They’ve burnt the back of my throat.’
The lift boy placed his gloved hands behind his liveried jacket and tried to remain indifferent; he wasn’t supposed to join in conversations. Sol caught the lad’s smile in the reflection of the shiny brass button panel and said, ‘Although I bet that’s not the worst thing you’ve smelt in here, am I right?’
The boy turned around; a cockney, like Dot. ‘You’re right, sir, sometimes I wish people would get in reeking of perfume!’ He waved his white gloves in front of his nose.
Dot could have kissed him; the lad’s easy acceptance of Sol washed away the memory of the misery-guts cabbie. The lift shuddered to a halt on the fourth floor.
‘This is it. We are not staying, mind. Just a quick gawp and then out, okay?’
‘Okay!’ Sol raised his hands in surrender.
‘Ah, Miss Simpson. Not expecting you in today, are we?’ It was almost as if the woman had been standing there waiting for her.
If there was one person in the whole store that Dot did not want to encounter today it was Miss Blight. She peered up at Dot through pig-like eyes framed by elaborate turquoise glasses. As usual, her generous figure was squeezed into a peplum skirt and a tight twin-set, and her fat stockinged feet were shoehorned into high heels. Dot thought it made her look like she had little trotters. She knew it was a mean thought, but it was easy to be mean about Miss Blight because she was horrible to Dot and anyone else junior to her. She worked in Personnel. Dot and Barb agreed that there was no one in the whole of Selfridges who relished administering punishments and sackings more.
‘No, not in officially today, Miss Blight, just… shopping!’
‘I see.’
Dot watched the woman size up her companion and knew that her visit would be floor-wide gossip within the hour.
‘Well, we can pick up about this tomorrow. Have a lovely day.’
Dot wanted to challenge her: pick up about what exactly? But truth be told, she was as afraid of what the topic might be as she was of Miss Blight. Sol strolled around the counters, thankfully oblivious. He looked at the tiny bone-coloured buttons, sorted according to size in a drawer of many compartments. He twanged elastic, fingered ribbon and flicked through the paper patterns that meant anyone with an average Singer in their parlour and a spool of thread could run up anything from a new oven glove to a wedding dres
s. He stood marvelling at the bolts of fabric that were stacked in rows according to colour along the far wall.
Dot stood behind him. ‘I stare at this every day. It reminds me of a rainbow.’
‘I can see why.’ Until she had seen a rainbow stretch out to sea as the St Lucian rain competed with the rays of the midday sun, this would be her rainbow. ‘Which colour do you like the best?’
‘Ooh, I don’t know.’ Dot ran her palm over the damask. ‘I love the dark rose.’ Then her fingers massaged the mid-blue drill. ‘But this reminds me of a clear summer sky.’
‘That’s a fine choice, almost the colour of a St Lucian sky. Let’s take some with us!’
‘What for?’ Dot was nervous; a decent amount of the fabric would cost a few days’ wages.
‘I don’t know – you’re the designer, you tell me!’
‘Oh God, don’t start with all that again, ’specially not in here!’
‘Oi, Dot!’
Barb marched over to the two of them and folded her arms across her flat chest. She stood with one hip forward, her foot pointing towards Sol in a ballet-like pose.
‘Is this him? The piano bloke, the one from the other night?’
‘Yes, Barb, it is.’ Dot sighed. ‘And he’s not deaf – are you?’
Sol shook his head. ‘No, not yet.’
Barb stared at Sol as she reached up and with one arm still anchored to her chest, teased the ends of her bunches with her fingers and checked her bobbles. Dot had described him perfectly, although she had omitted one small detail.
‘I didn’t realise he was…’
‘So tall?’ Dot offered.
‘So… exotic,’ Barb countered.
The three stood in silence for some seconds. Then Sol coughed.
‘Where d’you work then?’ Barb was fascinated.
‘I’m in the army.’
‘What army’s that then?’
‘The British army.’
‘But you ain’t British, you don’t sound British!’
Dot felt her cheeks flame; her mate was thick sometimes; in fact not just sometimes.
‘No, that’s true, but I’m from St Lucia and it’s part of the British Empire, we share the same queen.’
‘Getaway!’ Barb unfolded her arms and placed them on her hips.
Sol laughed. ‘No, it’s true and I fight for your queen and your country. Although I don’t plan on doing much fighting over the next year. I’m here as part of the attaché representing the St Lucian defence team.’ He decided not to mention that the only other representative of the St Lucian defence team was his boss and his dad, one and the same.
‘Oh I see. Blimey, Dot, he’s certainly got the gift of the gab!’
‘And once again, Barb, he can actually hear you.’
‘Barb, can you help us? We would like to take some of this material, if possible; this beautiful shade of blue—’
‘What d’you want that for?’ Barb screwed up her nose and pulled her confused face.
Sol looked at Dot, who was wide eyed; he read the almost imperceptible shake of her head. She hadn’t shared her dream with her friend.
‘Because sometimes, Barb, you just need something around you that reminds you of a clear summer sky. Don’t you think?’
Barb roared with laughter. ‘If you say so! Blimey, Dot, what is he, a bloody poet?’
‘Barb, he can hear you!’
‘All right! No need to shout at me!’ she mumbled as she laid the blue cotton on the cutting desk and lined up the edge with the brass ruler. ‘Where you going now?’
Dot looked at Sol, a guest in her city. ‘I think we might go for a walk in the park.’
‘Sounds good!’ Sol enthused.
‘Do you walk very fast as well as run very fast?’
Sol shook his head, trying to pick up the thread of Barbara’s conversation. ‘I’m not sure – I can run fast, but I don’t know about walking, why do you ask?’
‘My dad said that black people have extra bones and muscles in their legs and that’s why they make such good runners.’
Barb busied herself with the bolt of fabric while Sol wheezed into a tissue, trying not to offend Dot’s friend.
Dot couldn’t wait to escape. ‘Oh my God, what is she like?’
‘She’s priceless!’
As they strolled around Hyde Park their conversation flowed without awkward pauses or edits, as though they had shared experience and many years of friendship under their belts. After tea and cake at a Lyons Corner House, their day was nearly done. It was turning into a crisp London dusk: the light was almost pink and the pavement felt hard and cold beneath their feet. Sol was fascinated by the destinations on the fronts of the chunky crimson buses that trundled around the streets, places familiar to him through movies and literature; Trafalgar Square, Greenwich, the Embankment, Highgate – he could jump on any one of those buses and be taken there. It reminded him how small St Lucia was, twenty-seven miles give or take, top to toe.
Dot dipped her chin inside her coat; it was getting chilly. ‘Fancy the pictures?’
‘Do I fancy what pictures?’
Dot laughed. ‘The flicks, the movies!’
‘Oh! Sure, what’s on?’
‘I don’t care! I just don’t want to go home yet.’ She was bold and truthful.
‘Well what a coincidence! Neither do I.’
Dot ran ahead. Sol laughed, her words having echoed his thoughts. Pulling his coat into his chest, he followed in her wake.
By the time they’d emerged from the Curzon and had made their way east to Limehouse It was nearly ten o’clock. Ropemakers Fields was dark and for this Dot was grateful; she didn’t want there to be any chance of Sol seeing Mrs Harrison’s hateful sign, were he to venture that far up the street. A thin mist of rain fogged the air and made the cobbles shine in the lamplight. Curtains were pulled and the only light came from the gaps in nets or mis-pulled drapes, where the dazzle of a light bulb glinted on the damp pavement. Sol ran his hand over the bonnet of the pale blue Austin Seven Mini, the only car on the street; it belonged to the clever boy at Number 29 who was off to university to study something to do with science, according to Mrs Harrison. He peeked inside at the leather seats and tried to picture it bounding along the rugged, sand-filled tracks that led to Soufrière, down on the south-west coast of St Lucia.
Sol walked Dot to the end of her road, as per her request, no further. He tried not to show too much interest in the narrow little houses all squashed together along the pavement. Not to mention the faintly sulphurous odour in the air. It looked poor, it smelled poor and it wasn’t what he had expected. Not Caribbean living-on-the-streets poor, but certainly not what he imagined he would find in the capital city of England.
He pictured the Jasmine House sitting high on the hill above Rodney Bay, with its view of the Pitons in the distance. He visualised the eponymous night-flowering jasmine that clung to the wrap-around veranda, filling the evening and early-morning air with its pungent scent. He recalled the way the smell drifted up through the windows, snaking through the freshly painted white shutters and permeating any fabric that hung in the breeze. The French muslin around the frames of the mahogany four-poster beds constantly held the delicate perfume and the mere brush of a finger was enough to release the fragrance into the room. He was beginning to realise the level of luxury and privilege that he had grown up with.
‘Thank you for today, for showing me around, for everything.’ He kicked his heel against the edge of the pavement.
‘No, thank you! It’s been great! And thank you for my material. I shall give it a lot of thought and try and make something worthy of it, something that will always remind me of today.’
‘That’s good. It was a day wrapped in clover…’
Dot smiled at the reference to their song. ‘Yes it was.’
‘Hey, I think I know what I should call you. I think I’ll call you Clover. A Dot is something so small and insignificant – that’s not a na
me for someone like you.’
Dot smiled again; she had never felt anything other than small and insignificant. Clover… it sounded lovely.
‘Clovers are lucky for some, you know. And it’s from our favourite song.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been lucky for anyone!’ Dot beamed, more at the fact that he had said ‘our favourite song’, as though they were connected. She forgot playing it cool and was now grinning up at him, holding the brown paper bag of sky-blue drill close to her chest.
Sol leant forward conspiratorially. ‘I hate this end-of-date moment. In fact I’ve been dreading it since we first met this morning.’
‘Oh, I see; a date was it? And there was me thinking I was helping you out with a bit of sightseeing.’
Sol looked bashful. ‘It’s difficult for us boys, y’know; we’re supposed to take the lead, but I never know whether to lean in for a quick kiss or shake hands. It feels like there are so many ways that I could get it wrong and I don’t want to ruin my chances.’
‘I’d say your chances are pretty good.’ Dot gave him a sideways glance.
‘You see, girl, some might interpret that as an invitation to lean in.’ Sol placed his hand on her waist and drew her towards him.
‘Some might be right,’ she whispered.
He moved his hands to the nape of her neck, pushing until his fingers were entwined in her hair, letting the silky strands slip through his fingers. Holding her head fast, he brought his face down to meet hers and hovered over her mouth. She reached upwards on tiptoes and touched her lips against his. The two smiled and touched their noses together.
‘I’ll see you soon?’ He ran his thumb over her jaw. She could only nod. A gurgle of excitement and pure joy blocked her throat, making speech impossible.
‘Clover…’ Sol called out from down the street as she fumbled to get the key into the lock.
‘What?’ She beamed.
‘Nothing, I just like saying your name.’
‘Daft apeth.’ Although in truth she didn’t think it was daft at all, she thought it was bloody wonderful!
Dot shut the front door behind her and rested her back against the glass. Her heart raced.
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