On the street corner a middle-aged woman, painted to appear as if young, modelled with a lamp-post. She looked dirty. Leila thought she probably smelled even worse. A child, a coloured boy, who needed a good bath and a meal, stared at the bus and wiped his nose across the back of his sleeve. This is not yet winter, thought Leila, and the boy has a cold. The bus moved off and passed another of the women, this one leaning up against a parked car and filing her nails, happy to leave the lamp-posts vacant. Leila looked away and began to try and calculate the number of times she had made this journey to the hospital.
It was four months since she first made the journey. On that day she had followed Michael down the steps, off the bus and just the few paces into the etherized sterility of the hospital foyer which greeted them with a determined blast of hot air. Neither of them had quite known where they were. Leila had felt anxious as she looked around at the clean floors and walls. The patients who wandered or waited in the corridors looked to her like discarded tailor's dummies. Michael would not meet her eyes. He seemed unconcerned, so she took Calvin from him in order to comfort herself.
‘It must be down here,’ he said, as if Leila were stupid not to know her way around this English hospital.
As they marched smoothly through the corridors their shoes echoed. The journey seemed endless, but eventually they stopped in front of a pair of solid doors, each punctuated by a small round window. A young nurse with sloppy hips and a crooked smile paddled towards them. She ushered them through the doors and into the ward as if she knew exactly who it was they had come to visit.
Leila's mother had large flashes of grey in her hair. Though her eyes were closed it was clear that she was not sleeping. Leila sat on the bed and pulled her mother's arms out from underneath the sheet. She held both her cold hands in hers. Her mother opened her eyes but she said nothing. She closed them again as if not sure who it was she was looking at. Then Leila began to cry and Michael stepped forward and placed his arm dutifully around his wife's shoulders. Leila said nothing. He made a quick gesture towards the door with his head but she ignored him. Eventually Michael lowered his mouth to his wife's ear and told her he would soon be back.
‘I'm going for a walk,’ he said, almost as an afterthought.
Like a child awakening from a deep sleep Leila's mother stretched, then curled up again, then opened her eyes and looked all about her as if making sure of where she was. She propped herself up as best she could and began talking to her daughter as if a long conversation had been interrupted by a discreet trip to the lavatory.
‘So you finding England cold?’ Her voice was slow, more tired than unhurried.
‘I think I'll survive,’ said Leila, her face widening into a smile.
‘Good.’ Her mother paused. ‘And how is your husband?’
‘Things are fine,’ said Leila.
Her mother laughed quietly.
‘You don't change at all, do you? Still the diplomat.’ She paused, this time to catch her breath. ‘Who call the boy Calvin?’ She felt her grandson's cheek with the back of her hand.
‘I did,’ said Leila nervously.
‘It's a nice name. A nice name for the boy.’ They both looked at Calvin, then Leila spoke.
‘How are you feeling these days?’
‘I'm feeling alright. A little tired but I can't complain.’
Every time her mother breathed there was a high asthmatic whistle. Leila knew she was lying.
‘Did they say when you can come out?’
Her mother smiled. ‘Soon, not long now.’ Again she had lied.
‘Well, when you do you must come and live with us. We're going to look for a place big enough for all of us.’
Her mother managed a small laugh. Then she squeezed her daughter's hand.
‘Leila, child, London is not my home.’
Leila looked away but her mother continued to stare at her.
‘And I don't want you to forget that either.’
Leila fought back the tears in her eyes. She had always felt a child could never understand the illogicality of a parent's love until the child was a parent itself. But sadly, though Leila now felt she understood her mother a little better, her mother did not seem to have changed in her feelings towards her. That she loved her she did not doubt, but, as always, Leila wished there was something more, something that would make her mother more like a friend. As it was they just sat and stared at each other. The pain of illness, the pain of marriage, the pain of a journey across the world and the happiness of a small baby for them both to share, nothing seemed to be able to bring them together and this first exchange had been more interview than conversation.
But Leila was not to know that her mother had never wanted a child. In fact she had never wanted a man, for when she saw her first penis hanging with arrogance before her, its owner at least fifty years older than her, a great-uncle, she knew deep in her heart that the coupling of man and woman would hold no fascination for her.
Eventually, as the old man conjured a stiffness into himself and climbed on her, grunting loudly as he did so, all she could think of was that as long as he did not die on top of her she promised herself and God that she would go to church every Sunday. But luckily, almost as soon as he had forced his way into her body, all the tension rushed from his loins and, too old to be embarrassed, he simply climbed down, wiped himself off on the loose tail of his shirt, and left 10 cents by the gas lamp for her to buy some ice cream.
And every week he managed to drag Leila's mother into his house on the pretext of some errand, and every week she would rearrange her clothes and pick up her ten cents and skip past him out into the street as if nothing had happened, although she was as yet too young to know that older eyes followed her and knew differently. But then he died, not on top of her as she had always feared, but of a final and sudden bronchial attack as he prepared to unbutton his trousers. Leila's mother was able to run out into the street and scream, knowing full well that he was fully clothed and nothing had taken place. And of course everybody felt sorry for her, as she hoped they would, but the main thing was that his penis was hidden, that was all she could think about. He did not die with his penis hanging out.
There followed a swift volley of lovers who taught Leila's mother what it felt like to be kissed on the toes and the fingers, who taught her what it felt like to have a man's mouth around her breast and his fingers snaking in and out of the cracks in her body. But after they had gone she always felt used, like a canvas upon which an artist has toyed in light pencil. She felt as though her lovers were playing; that they gained their real satisfaction elsewhere.
But then, as the final man sliced into her body, a young man of almost her own age, she was overcome with the horror of the fact that in less than six months' time her first child, not his child, a child that belonged to all of them and none of them, would be breaking its way out of her body. In her panic she came timidly, just once, but her man's penis did not notice and his body raced on as if late for the inter-island boat.
Leila was born the day war was declared in Europe; there was no real significance in this, except Leila's mother might have forgotten the day of her birth had it not been celebrated elsewhere for different reasons. She was too small, very light, and she did not cry. These were the only three things her mother could remember about her. Of her feelings about herself that day she remembered much more, especially the pain. She had looked down and seen the beach-ball of a head, far too large for her body, and realized that the child was making a cave of her vagina.
But as Leila grew up her mother learned to love her more each day, not because she would be her only child, not even because she was her constant and only companion, but because of Leila's sharp intelligence, which always made her think twice as quickly as any adult had ever made her. It was as if Leila had shot some urgency and direction back into her life. The three men from whom she demanded money, accusing them all of being the father and threatening to expose them as molesters
if they even so much as looked at Leila, these white men eyed their daughter from afar and happily paid the money safe in the knowledge that they had a real relationship with the island that would live on after they left. Leila's mother barely spoke to them: she took their money and put it in the bank. She hoped that she would have no need to spend it so that her daughter might one day have it. And the day she pulled Leila towards her and hoisted the child's bare foot into her lap, so that her daughter lost her balance and had to grab on to her, this was the day, thank the Lord, she knew she had successfully completed the first part of her task. In the years to come her daughter would thank her for this, more than she would the money.
She pulled the white sock over Leila's toes and unrolled it, tube-like, up the full length of her skinny leg. Then she did the same with the other sock and turned her daughter around so that she could take a good look at her. The previous night she had slept very little, worried as to whether she should walk with Leila to the edge of the road and wait for her to catch the school bus with the other children, or whether she should, on this her first day, let her go on her own. She stared at the back of her daughter's head, wondering if the child could tell what her mother was thinking. She knew children, especially bright children like Leila, possessed an unknown power feared by most adults. Then her child slipped her grip and turned around to face her, with eyes large and searching. In the distance they both heard the bus.
‘You better go now,’ said her mother, ‘and look after yourself.’
Leila felt as though her mother were about to push her under a car. She stood in disbelief, not understanding why she was not coming with her.
‘Leila, you didn't hear what I said, girl? Go.’
Her mother's words sounded as though they had been placed in her mouth by another person, and Leila was sure it was a game. It was only this that prevented her from crying. But, though she did not cry, she also chose not to leave the house, and her mother eventually had no choice but to raise her hand and beat her until she left.
It was many years before her mother would beat her again, for the second and only other time. As with the first beating Leila did not understand why it was she was being punished. Her mother had stood above her on the beach and reached down and slapped her hard across the face. Then they had walked home together, Leila in front, her mother two steps behind. When they reached St Patrick's her mother made her shower in the street, under the rusty stand-pipe, naked and fourteen. The tears that lined her face outnumbered the thin streams of water that arched around her shoulders and down her back. Some of the children were still playing but they did not laugh, they just watched. Leila felt that this was worse than if they had laughed. They formed a loose semi-circle and witnessed an emotional execution.
All she had done was go and lie down beside the people and see what it was like. They were friendly, or at least the man was, the woman was asleep, or pretending to be asleep. He passed over some of the sweet-smelling oil for her to rub all over her body. She still had on her school uniform so he encouraged her to take off the tie and hoist up her skirt a little. Perhaps she should undo the first few buttons on her blouse. After all, it's the skin that we want to burn, not the clothes. Leila had laughed and kicked off her shoes. She wiped what remained of the oil into her hands, but it would not go away, so she wiped it on the outside of her schoolbag. Then she lay back with her two friends, her hands behind her head, and looked up as directly into the sun as she dared. The man asked her name, and where she was from, and where she went to school, but the woman said nothing. He never told Leila anything about himself, but Leila did not ask. She preferred to sink into the silences rather than try and blot them out with her own childish voice. Then one silence fell deeper than the rest, and Leila realized that he, like his wife or girlfriend, had tumbled into sleep and she lay alone, smelling odd and feeling rather foolish. Then her mother obscured the sun and the day exploded in Leila's face.
In the morning Leila had prepared herself for school, dreading the moment she would have to leave her room and take breakfast. When she appeared her mother greeted her as normal and pretended that nothing had happened, but this only served to make Leila feel more nervous. Then, as she picked up her bag ready to leave, she smelled the oil she had wiped on it and the odour nearly made her vomit. Her mother gently touched the side of Leila's face with her hand, and kissed her on the forehead. As Leila turned to go she held her back.
‘Don't never let me catch you lying with white people again or as God's my witness I'll take a stick to you and beat you till the life leaves your body.’
Leila stared at her, but this only spurred her mother on further.
‘You think you can trust them? You can't. And if you think the white woman was sleeping you were wrong. White women never sleep with both eyes closed if a coloured woman is around, and they never see a coloured man without something moving inside of them. Still, you going live to find that out.’
The bus passed a third woman, this one by a lamp-post, then stopped. After the bell had rung out it started again. Leila stood up, pleased that her journey would soon be at an end. She was ambivalent about the value of these daily visits to her mother. Nearly every day for four months, Sundays apart, Leila had finally calculated that this must be her 106th visit and still neither their conversation nor her mother's health improved. Even before she got to the hospital the endless views of decay and poverty only made her feel more depressed. She often wondered why London Transport did not put dark glass in the windows of the buses on some routes, like the glass she saw in ambulances. Her route to the hospital was one of those that would benefit.
The nurse was waiting outside the ward for Leila to appear. For the first ten minutes the doctor had waited with her, but he had to go and attend to some of the other patients. The nurse tried to remain calm but she moved nervously, as though she needed to use the toilet.
Leila walked toward her, holding her small cluster of bright flowers.
‘Getting colder,’ began Leila.
The nurse smiled, but Leila could see. She pushed past the woman and ran the full length of the ward. She stopped at her mother's bedside, as if momentarily unsure, then she pressed the flowers up to her face. The bed was empty, the new sheets still folded, the mattress exposed. On this her 106th visit to the hospital her mother had died. The previous day she must have been dying. Leila felt stricken with guilt that she had not acted upon what she had seen.
Her mother had managed to smile but she had been disturbed in her mind. In her body she had been more frail than drowsy.
‘Michael beat you yet, girl?’ she had asked, as if asking for a glass of water.
Leila had almost let go of her hand, but her mother grabbed at it and tried to crush it.
‘He beating you?’
‘No,’ said Leila, her surprise impossible to disguise.
‘Well, don't sound so shocked, for I'm sure you realize that men beat women. But no man ever beat me.’ She paused, then went on.
‘Once a man get so mad with me over some fruit he said I stole that he chase me through the whole length of the village. It was a hot day, not like today, and you could hear pan beating for miles. Eventually I fall over and I can't run no more, I looked up and he's standing over me as if to say, ‘I've got you now so don't run.’ But I can't run no more anyhow so he didn't have nothing to worry about. Then he tried to beat me with a long piece of cane but I didn't cry out or nothing. I just got up, though I don't know where I found the strength, and I took the stick and I broke it in half, you hear me?’ Leila nodded. ‘And then I had to walk back on my own and it's the longest walk I ever made, past Frances Gumb's place, round the bend and into the village where everyone is standing and staring at me, all of them thinking how he must have beat me bad. Me, I just kept my head high, girl, and I walked on till I heard somebody laugh and then a next person crack out and suddenly everybody is laughing at me and I start to feel the water in my eyes but I can't run away. So I just
kept walking and I know that no man is ever going to beat me, for it's not the licks that hurt, it's the people that know about it, and are letting you know they know, even though they don't know a damn thing.’
Yesterday Leila had smiled weakly, as if it was nothing to do with her, a good story well told, and her mother had smiled back at her in a different fashion. Then she closed her eyes, slowly, as if drawing long curtains in an already darkened room.
The doctor touched Leila's arm.
‘It's alright, Mrs Preston.’
He spoke with the studied concern of a professional. Leila pushed the flowers hard into her face and she stared at the empty bed. Then she smelled the doctor's breath. It did not smell good. It smelled stale, and his voice sounded hard, like heavy feet on gravel. Her forty-one-year-old mother was dead, and she looked up into his face, wanting to see if his mind was panicking or if this was just another skilled part of a skilled job.
Leila pulled away from him as he began to talk about the funeral arrangements. She felt sorry for him. He shrugged his apologetic shoulders and nervously tapped his fountain pen against his wrist-watch. She left the hospital and walked out into the cold afternoon air, still holding the crushed flowers. She drifted away from everybody; it made no sense.
Five, maybe six stops from home, Leila leaped up and pushed her way to the back of the bus and down the stairs. She jumped off and began to jostle her way through the busy pedestrians. Then she ran, as fast as she could, and grabbed the woman by the shoulders and spun her around; then she fell down and began to sob. People stopped and looked, but the woman simply leaned forward and stretched out her hand to help her. Leila looked up at her. It was not her mother, but the coloured woman whose hand she took looked like she too was going to cry.
The Final Passage Page 12
