If I Never Went Home

by Ingrid Persaud

To buy a piece of sugar cake

  And give baby some.

  Some nasty, stinking, drunk man coming back from a fete. Drinking whole night. He should be dead. Is he should be laid out in Chatoo Funeral Parlour. Not Alan. Not her last precious child. But she had Kevin, who was practically his twin in age. Through the window she could see that he was outside today, helping as if he had always been within the fold of the Clark family. Looking at him, she felt a surge of guilt about the Saturday market visit so long ago, and how she had denied him. Her legs weakened and she sat back down again. The memories came flooding back.

  *

  ‘Mistress Clark, how you going?’ asked Marva, the fish lady. ‘You look like you going drop baby any day now.’

  ‘Child, I not due for two more weeks,’ replied Gwen. ‘At least that is what Dr. Sanatan say.’

  ‘What you think it is? I feel is a girl you making,’ said Marva. ‘They say when you belly round so is a girl. If it’s a boy baby it would have poke out more in the front.’

  ‘Well, a girl child go be nice,’ admitted Gwen. ‘Two boys is a handful.’

  ‘And I hear Matthew girlfriend Prudence had she baby Wednesday gone,’ said Marva.

  Gwen’s smile collapsed, and she felt the skin on her face tighten and burn. ‘Is true that little Jezebel get sheself pregnant, but that is not my Matthew doings,’ she declared. ‘That little madam barely sixteen and already she’s the village mattress. I bet she don’t even know who the father is. Trying to put that on my son. Ah, Jesus.’

  ‘So you ain’t going to see the baby?’ Marva persisted.

  Gwen supported her aching lower back with her left arm and shook her head. ‘What I going see it for? That child ain’t nothing to me.’

  But Marva was not giving in. ‘And what about Matthew?’ she asked. ‘He gone and see the baby yet?’

  ‘Why?’ snorted Gwen. ‘Is not he flesh. I tell him don’t go unless you want to end up paying for another man child.’

  ‘How you sure so?’

  Gwen was beginning to tire, but she knew that her every word would soon be repeated up and down the market. A firm denial was required before she could go home to rest her aching back. ‘I ask Matthew and he tell me is not he child,’ she said. ‘He say Prudence worthless. Sleeping with every Tom, Dick and Haripersad. Imagine you only have sixteen years and making baby. The harlot. She should hang she head in shame.’

  Marva threw a cup of water over the kingfish, red snapper and marlin laid out on the wooden tray in front of her. The fish gleamed in the sunlight.

  ‘Don’t get vex with me, I only talking what I hear,’ she said. ‘Town say that the child is the spitting image of Matthew. The baby have he same straight nose. If I was in your shoes, Mistress Clark, I think I would have to go and see with me own two eye before I say for sure that it not my flesh and blood.’

  Marva had gone too far. Gwen felt her body burning with anger. ‘I not setting foot in no low-class house,’ she declared through gritted teeth. ‘If they so sure is Matthew baby then let them bring the baby by we.’

  ‘You know they can’t come by you,’ said Marva calmly. ‘Them is poor poor people. They already shame how Prudence make baby and no father there to see about the child. How they could come by your house?’

  Gwen had stopped listening. She picked up her basket and waddled to the taxi stand. This village slut was not about to ruin Matthew’s life. He was a handsome young man with a good job at Trinbago Life Assurance Company in Port of Spain. Matthew had prospects. That girl had her own family. And of course it might not be Matthew’s child, no matter how straight the baby’s nose.

  The teenaged Prudence christened her baby boy without a father being named. Water was sprinkled on his tiny forehead and Kevin Foster was welcomed into the fold of the church of God. As fate would have it, on the same day Kevin was christened, Gwen gave birth. Despite Marva’s predictions, it was another boy. Ignatius named him Alan, meaning ‘precious’. Gwen was exhausted but relieved. Bitter past experience had told her not to hope until she had seen the little one wriggle, breathe and cry, and she had counted ten perfect tiny toes and ten perfect tiny fingers. After all those dreadful losses Alan was indeed a precious baby.

  Gwen’s labour had been difficult and the doctor insisted she stay in bed for at least a week before facing the world. She had not wanted to jinx the well-being of the baby, so there was little paraphernalia to welcome Alan. With Ignatius at work, and Robin still a young schoolboy, it fell to Matthew to gather basic supplies for his baby brother’s arrival at home. He was dispatched to Nadia’s Mother and Baby Supplies on Frederick Street with a list.

  ‘Matthew, you going take bus or taxi?’ his mother asked.

  ‘As is Saturday, I prefer bus,’ he replied. ‘Them taxi drivers does drive like they mad. I see one the other day overtake three car and only just miss bouncing a maxi-taxi that was speeding coming up the road.’

  ‘You have the list?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘I forget to put Johnson’s Baby Powder. Add that on for me please.’

  She adjusted the wriggling baby in her arms. ‘You coming back home straight?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ said Matthew.

  ‘Well, if you see Ali selling doubles by Independence Square, buy two for me. That man know how to make a doubles. I feeling to eat something so. But hold the pepper. You not supposed to eat pepper when you feeding baby or else the baby stomach go burn him.’

  In later years Gwen would often reflect on that list: two dozen cotton nappies, Vaseline, one pack of wash cloths, five baby vests, a bottle of Limacol and one Johnson’s Baby Powder.

  That shopping list had been Matthew’s death warrant.

  People were anxious to tell her the details. Marva, who knew everything, gave Gwen an account as she had heard it. At the bus station, Matthew had seen Prudence holding her brand-new baby, and next to her the baby’s grandmother. He seemed to panic and tried to hide behind a concrete pillar. But it was too late. They had spotted him. Matthew emerged from behind the pillar, hands in his front pockets, whistling.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, looking beyond them. ‘All you look like you going in town.’

  ‘We only going up the road,’ said Prudence. ‘The baby have his one-month checkup today.’ She hesitated, then looked up at Matthew. ‘You want to see the baby?’ she asked softly. ‘He’s sleeping.’

  She pulled the blanket back a little away from Kevin’s tiny body and moved her arms so he could be seen more clearly. The infant was fast asleep, his tiny hands clenched in fists. Matthew had looked dizzy.

  ‘You not feeling good, boy?’ asked the grandmother. ‘Like you see a ghost? Is just a little baby.’

  ‘I good,’ he said. ‘Yes, man. I good. You make a nice-looking baby, Prudence. He have a name yet?’

  ‘Kevin,’ Prudence said shyly. ‘My father chose it.’

  Matthew had looked unsteady. The baby’s grandmother held his wrist. ‘You don’t look too good,’ she said. ‘You want an orange? Let me peel one give you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Matthew.

  The old lady took a good-sized orange with rough green-and-yellow skin from her string bag and peeled it with a penknife. She cut it in quarters and offered the pieces to Matthew. He sucked them quickly.

  ‘This orange sweet for so,’ said Matthew. ‘You get these in the market?’

  ‘Is from the tree in we yard,’ said the grandmother. ‘You want a next one?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Matthew. ‘I didn’t take tea this morning. Me belly hungry for so.’

  Matthew had barely finished this second orange when their bus pulled into the station and the women left. The last they would have seen of him was when he looked up briefly from the orange and waved.

  By the time Matthew’s bus pulled in fifteen minutes later he had collapsed and was dead. The cause of death remained unknown. But village voices suggested that Prudence’s mother had worked obeah on that orange to kill the man
who had wronged her daughter.

  What took place next was even murkier. Some say Prudence came and offered Kevin to a grief-stricken Gwen, who rejected him outright. Others say Gwen went to the girl’s house, took a long hard look at the baby, and informed the family that the boy was not her grandson and she wanted to hear nothing more about it.

  Whatever the truth, the ban had clearly not been total, and Kevin had slowly leaked into their lives. Today, weighed down by grief for Alan, Gwen knew she must accept that Kevin was Matthew’s son and her grandson. Deep down she had known it for decades. It was time to make amends.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I don’t want to see anyone. Not now. Not after the way Aunty Indra carried on in front the whole school. For the past few weeks I’ve stayed home. I get up early and cook food that I’m not eating and go back to bed. If I’m hungry I might have a few salt biscuits. Some days I don’t even bother to change out of my nightie. I mean, what exactly is the point? I don’t have the grades to do A levels and I don’t have the first clue how to get a job. If she talks to me at all, Nanny’s only interested in when I am going to look for a job and start paying rent. She says that if I want to act like a big woman then I can mind myself.

  Aunty Indra doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. Imagine she and Uncle Ricky have banned me from seeing my own cousins because they’re afraid I would be a bad influence on them. Fine. Since I’m not going to any stupid church services either I’m not likely to see them anyway. The family might as well put me on the street because that is how it feels. Mummy, are you watching down on all this? And Daddy, where the hell are you?

  I turned sixteen last week. No cake – not even the fruit cake I don’t like. No gifts. In fact Nanny barely said happy birthday. But now I’m sixteen I wonder if I can get any information about my father from the Registry of Births. I must find my only close blood family left. Sometimes I have this nightmare where I look and look for my Dad and when I finally track him down it is to find that he died the day before. I miss my Mom but mostly I feel angry that she didn’t tell me who he is. What was so shameful? If he’s a married man, so what? That is no big deal these days. Maybe he was mixed up in drugs or something. But my sweet mother would never have had a child with a bad-john. I love my Mom with all my heart. How could she leave me?

  This morning when I was cooking corned beef and rice for Her Majesty she came in the kitchen with the newspaper.

  ‘The papers full of jobs,’ she said. ‘You look at any?’

  I didn’t answer. She can’t even say good morning first.

  ‘I see at least two jobs you could apply for.’

  I have nothing to say to that witch.

  ‘Well, I leaving the papers right here and some bus money. I want you out of the house and looking for a job today. Today. Today. Today. You hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. And when you come back home I want to know where you went and what they say. This damn nonsense of you lounging around whole day like the Queen of Sheba stopping today self.’

  Last time I look we living in an old wood house in St. James, not Buckingham Palace, but it’s not worth answering back. She will use it against me and get Aunty Indra on my case again.

  The Guardian has twenty-seven positions vacant. The first one I had to get a dictionary to understand it. A full time phlebotomist required. That is somebody who opens your veins to let blood. I can barely look when I get a cut so no way I could open up people veins for bloodletting. What kind of people have bloodletting done to them in this day and age? If you ask me that sound like obeah, but I not calling that number so we will never know. A few adverts are for housekeepers with experience and references. There is one needing a live-in carer for an elderly lady in the San Juan area. No mention of experience or references and I get to move out of here. The other two jobs I thought might suit me were for ‘multitasking workers in a café’ near Woodbrook and the receptionist at a rehab centre in Petit Valley. I would look so cool behind a desk with my nails painted.

  I called the live-in carer number first. No answer. Is the middle of the morning so somebody must be home. I tried about five times before a lady answer. Once she hear I’m sixteen she put on one obscene laugh.

  ‘You ever change adult pampers?’

  ‘No.’

  The lady start to laugh again in a really annoying high-pitched voice.

  ‘You strong enough to turn a body that have over two hundred and fifty pounds?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I eh think so either. This not the job for you, dearie, but I sure you will find something else. Jesus helps those who helps themselves.’

  It’s a relief that I don’t actually have to go for an interview. No way I’m changing dirty diapers from some old fat woman. I feel like vomiting just thinking about it. When I get old I hope I die before I have to get someone to change me when I go to the toilet.

  Next call, the receptionist at the rehab centre. A man answered the phone first ring and I asked if he knew about the job.

  ‘Yes, man. We looking for a well-spoken computer-literate young lady for the front office. You ever work as a receptionist?

  ‘No. I just left school. But I did computer studies.’

  ‘How much years you have?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘No, that won’t work. I need somebody who know what they doing.’

  ‘I learn fast.’

  ‘Darling, don’t take this the wrong way, but you will need training up and I too busy for that. I’m sorry. Good luck, you hear? Don’t take on all this talk about recession. It have people hiring out there.’

  I put down the phone. How am I going to get trained if no one will give me a job?

  The advert for ‘multitasking workers in a café’ was sounding better after the last two calls. A man who answered the phone sounded like he was running a marathon. He explained that he was expanding and wanted two more staff. Since the morning start he already had ten calls inquiring about the jobs, so he plan to see everybody tomorrow and I should come for ten o’clock.

  ‘If you afraid of hard work don’t bother coming for no interview.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of hard work.’

  ‘Good, because you can’t stand up only looking pretty-pretty. You will have to be taking orders, washing wares, mopping the floor and prepping the meals.’

  ‘I could do all that.’

  ‘You ever work in a café before?’

  ‘This will be my first job.’

  ‘Well, we all have to start somewhere. See you tomorrow.’

  The first problem was finding the café. I thought I knew town but I never saw this part before. The café was pushed up behind a construction site and packed with dusty-looking workers in big boots and hard hats eating at small metal tables. The manager, Mr. Morris, was a tall black man with his hair in a white net. He took one look at me and said he didn’t think I was right for the job.

  ‘How old you say you is?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘You think you could manage the men in here? They could get real crude sometimes. A good-looking chick like you with your tight jeans and make-up might can’t take the hassle.’

  ‘Please. I need a job. I will manage.’

  He sighed. He steups. He looked to the heavens.

  ‘All right. I know I going to regret this, but I’m giving you a chance. You could start now?’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yes. Right now.’

  ‘Thank you sir, Mr. Morris. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Okay. All you have to do today is take the orders and pass them on to Gerry here.’

  ‘I could do that in my sleep.’

  He handed me an orange apron with ‘Men At Work Café’ printed in green.

  My first customer slammed a ten-dollar note on the counter.

  ‘Sweetness, a portion.’

  ‘A portion of what?’

  ‘A portion,’ he said with a steups.<
br />
  Mr. Morris looked at me and sighed. ‘The man want a portion of chips.’ He turned to the customer. ‘That’s all you want?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I wrote down the order.

  ‘Man, give me a cold Coke too. Your drinks them cold?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘One Coke.’

  I wrote it down and passed the note to Gerry who seemed to be already stuffing chips in a bag.

  Another customer was raising his voice at me. ‘Sister. Look me here. A man hungry.’

  ‘Yes, please?’

  ‘Two egg and bread and a mauby drink.’

  The men began piling through the door. It had started off with a queue but that broke down in no time.

  ‘Reds.’

  I didn’t look up.

  ‘Reds.’

  I watch him hard. ‘My name is not Reds.’

  ‘So what you name then?’

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘Bread with egg and cheese and an orange Fanta.’

  ‘Okay. Coming now.’

  The man turned to my new boss.

  ‘Morris, I glad you finally get a nice red girl for me to look at in here.’

  The customer turned to me. ‘You is family to Morris?’

  ‘No.’

  He turned back to Morris who was busying at the cash register.

  ‘Well Morris, if you don’t mind I going to have to carry this lovely lady for an ice cream later.’

  ‘Behave yourself,’ said Morris. ‘She’s only sixteen.’

  ‘Sixteen.’ He licked his lips. ‘Cool. You can’t make a jail for that.’

  I gave him a hard stare. ‘Look, I don’t want to go for no ice cream with you.’

  ‘Well, hear she. Like reds feel she too good for me.’

  Morris touched my arm. ‘Don’t bother with him.’

  ‘All right then, sweet sixteen. I go check you out tomorrow.’

  In fairness I have to say that most of the customers didn’t trouble me. They were tired hungry men who wanted food and to get on with their day. Once the rush was over I had to help wash up, dry the wares, and wipe down the tables. The afternoon was less busy but still a steady line of people taking a little shelter from the hot sun with a cold drink and maybe a currants roll or a slice of sponge cake. All the staff get to have a cold drink and a sandwich that they take whenever they can. There’s no set break times and you don’t ever really stop because there is always something that needs doing.