by Alex Wheatle
Cilbert looked and the cigarette in his mouth almost dropped from his lips. An image of Miss Martha relaxing upon her verandah came to his mind and he shook his head, blinked and gazed again at the cleaner. “Mebbe she doing some kinda punishment,” he guessed.
Watching people going about their business, Jacob remarked, “so much fe ah greeting! People jus’ walk by yuh an’ say not’ing! Nuh manners! All me see is de same resentful faces me see inna Sout’ampton.”
“It’s jus’ ya imagination,” returned Cilbert who forced a smile.
“Yes,” Lester agreed. “Everybody catching dem train or going ’pon business. Sometimes inna London people don’t ’ave nuh time to stop an’ greet people.”
“Dat is still bad manners!” asserted Jenny. “Even in Trenchtown people say good marnin. Me don’t know how we cyan live wid ah people so cold. Mebbe dis was ah bad idea.”
Lester led the new arrivals to the bus station and the sheer weight and noise of traffic seemed to unnerve them. They felt everybody was watching their every move. Hortense held on tight to Cilbert’s hand and even Jenny surprised Jacob by gripping on tight to his left hand.
Declining Lester’s offer of a trip on the underground, they took a bus to Victoria. “Lester, we jus’ reach an’ yuh waan to tek we underground?” rebuked Hortense. “Me don’t know how de English live but underground is fe de dead an’ where de shit ah drop. Above ground is fe de living!”
Lester couldn’t help but laugh and Hortense’s jesting seemed to relax the obvious fear and tension they were all feeling.
Seated upon the top deck, Cilbert, Jacob, Hortense and Jenny enjoyed their view, not knowing which window to look out of. They all felt a lot safer upon the top deck of a bus than walking the streets. Passing Marble Arch and travelling down Park Lane, they gazed in amazement at the plush hotels and the strangely dressed men who stood outside them. “Is dat where de Queen live?” Hortense wanted to know. “An’ yuh ’ave to dress like an uptown clown jus’ to open door fe people? Yuh could tek der hatwear or whatever dey call it an’ give it to de shanty people dem fe furniture. Everyt’ing so big. An’ Duke Reid coulda hold ah lawn dance in some of dem car. Even de roads wide like Mr DaCosta field back inna Claremont. An de buildings! Me don’t know how people cyan live so high. Mebbe dem ah learn how fe speak wid de birds. Mebbe dey t’ink dey cyan fly.”
Lester pointed out the perimeter wall of Buckingham Palace and Jenny asked, “if yuh climb de wall do dey put yuh inside de Tower of London? As ah girl chile me did read about de torture inna dat wicked place. Everyt’ing so big an’ frightening here! Even de roundabout we jus’ pass is like ah park! Yuh could raise cows ’pon dat land an’ grow scallion.”
“Dat is true,” concurred Jacob, feeling overwhelmed. “It kinda mek yuh feel so small. So insignificant. De first time I go to Kingston it really open me eyes. But dis place! How cyan black people live up to it? It mek yuh t’ink wha’ cyan we offer dis land. Wha’ is our role? How cyan we mek de English feel dat we ’ave somet’ing to offer?”
“By working hard,” answered Cilbert. “After all, it’s only buildings. If Jamaica had plenty money den we would ’ave buildings dat yuh see around we.”
“Me disagree wid yuh, Cilbert,” cut in Hortense. “Jacob right. Everyt’ing here do mek yuh feel like ah cockroach looking ’pon herd of stampeding elephants. Me eyes so full of wonder dat me cyan’t blink.”
“But yuh affe remember dat dey mek ah whole heap of money from de old sugar plantations,” said Cilbert. “From slavery! Dat’s wha’ buy dem pretty buildings! Me will never mix sugar inna me coffee here.”
“Ah mon who keep looking into de past will never realise de great future before him,” said Jacob.
“Dat’s one of Gran’papa Neville sayings,” revealed Hortense.
Smiling, Jacob nodded. “Yes, Custos very wise.”
Changing buses at Victoria bus station, they crossed Vauxhall bridge looking down at the soiled, brown waters. “Is dat where de London people tek ah doo doo?” grinned Jenny.
“Nuh, Jenny,” chuckled Lester. “Dat de River Thames, broader dan any lake inna Jamaica, long like de tales from ah boring story-teller inna no-name village.”
With the bus inching through the streets of south London, Cilbert was fascinated by the sight of chimneys set upon the roofs of terraced housing. He wondered if these countless places were rows upon rows of small factories and half-expected to see workmen with dirty faces and stained overalls go in and out of them. He was about to ask Lester about these strange buildings but decided against it, not wanting to sound ignorant.
Getting off the bus outside Brixton tube station, they heard the vocal strains of the Everly Brothers’ ‘Cathy’s Clown’ from a roadside cafe. Cockney shouts from the nearby market reminded Cilbert of his early days in Kingston purchasing groceries from Papine. White men went by in flat caps smoking cigarettes. A young boy was selling newspapers. The rattling sound of a train passing by over a bridge seemed to shake the ground. Advertisements were painted upon shop walls and windows. Two tramps sat in a corner at the entrance of the tube station. They caught sight of Cilbert and stretched out their hands, silently asking for money. Cilbert looked upon the vagrants and silently sighed. “De only people to acknowledge we are de damn moochers,” Cilbert whispered to himself.
Jenny was comforted by the sight of more black people, most of them headscarfed women who were waiting at bus stops clutching bags of groceries or bustling through the crowds pulling shopping trolleys. Jenny thought they looked bent and ungraceful, unlike their Kingston counterparts where the poorest woman carried herself like a queen. Dem as miserable as de white people, she thought. “So dis is Brixton,” she said, looking around her not impressed. “Lester, do de people of Brixton get punishment if dem bus’ ah smile?”
“Nuh, Miss Jenny,” Lester laughed, his over-the-top joviality making up for the grim faces around him. “It’s ah working day. People going about dem business, shopping an’ t’ing. Most of de men der ah work. People relax an’ ready dem smile fe de weekend, an’—”
“So, Lester,” interrupted Cilbert who was smarting at the fact that not one single person bid him good morning. “Yuh gwarn to tek we to where we gwarn live or yuh waan we to stan’ up here so an’ loiter an’ talk pure fart?”
“Alright,” said Lester, maintaining his smile. “Follow me. It is quite ah big house me ah tell yuh. T’ree storeys as dey say inna London. Cilbert, yuh an’ Hortense ’ave yuh own room, an’ Jacob an’ Jenny too. Me pay ya deposit already. Pay me back when yuh cyan. De place clean but it ’ave outside toilet.”
“Ah pit toilet?” Hortense asked. “Me come all de way to England to doo doo inna damn pit toilet? Even in Trenchtown me never do dat.”
“Nuh, Miss Hortense. Jus’ ah liccle shack inna de back yard. Me don’t like outside toilet becah when winter come yuh affe brave de cold jus’ fe ah piss. An’ if yuh waan to shit yuh catch one mighty bitch of ah cold breeze ’pon ya bottom. Me notice some of de white people dem ’ave ah piss pot under dem bed. But me don’t like sniffing me own piss when me trying to ketch sleep. Some of de new places ’ave inside toilets an’ some landlords are ’aving dem built.”
“So wha’ is de landlord like in dis place where we gwarn to live?” asked Jacob.
“Nah too bad,” answered Lester. “Ah Misser Sean Skidmore. An Irishmon. Our people get on wid dem alright. Me ’ave ah friend who live inna de basement, Misser Alfred Timoll. He come from Jamaica, Churchpen near Spanish Town. Him saving up to bring him wife an’ family over. Alfred tell me him never really see Misser Skidmore. It’s Misser Skidmore’s wife, Mary, who run de place, collecting rent. Her mout’ sometime run away wid her like Kingston taxi mon who cyan’t afford new brakes, but she ’ave ah good heart. She has one daughter, name Stella. One sweet girl. She fourteen.”
Walking along Coldharbour Lane, they felt hemmed in by the terraced housing which was built on both sides. They could see tower blocks in the di
stance. Hortense walked by studying the street’s dwellings and she wondered why there was no bantering and jesting between neighbours. Almost every front door was closed, she observed. She spotted a woman scrubbing her front doorsteps and another who was cleaning her windows. Neither of them returned Hortense’s smile. Hortense wondered if any of the people living here bred chickens in their back yards or pushed vendor carts to a market.
Jacob found the street cleaner than any Kingston road he had seen but he had only watched three men pass by on bicycles. Mebbe most of de people here cyan afford motor cars, he concluded. Watching a woman who was walking a dog, Jacob had to pause and look again. “Dat is very strange,” he remarked. “Yuh ever see anybody walking ah dog wid some kinda rope attached to its neck?”
“Mebbe she’s teking it to market,” guessed Hortense. “Me don’t sight nuh goat yet so mebbe de English nyam curried dahg? Dat mus’ be it. Dey fat up de dahg an’ den sell it. Mebbe dey cook it wid jerk, coriander an’ pepper?”
“Dat is nastiness,” remarked Jenny as Lester caught a fit of the giggles. “Me wonder wha’ else dem nyam?”
“De English mus’ be like de Bajee people dem,” said Cilbert. “Yuh know Bajees, dem nyam anyt’ing including roast monkey an’ fried mongoose.”
Jenny still felt that everything seemed so grey and she felt a cold dampness seeping into her bones. To Jenny, the cloud above still seemed to be inert, as if Massa God was warning her of her desires. Nuh sun shall sign ’pon ah sinner’s heart, she recalled her father-in-law telling her. The London temperature on this day was seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. Two white men were passing by on the other side of the street wearing only T-shirts and drainpipe trousers. They only offered a furtive glance at the Jamaicans.
“Me don’t know how dem white people coulda wear T-shirt an’ marina?” Jenny remarked. “Don’t dey know de sun nah shine bright an’ warm like inna normal country? An’ wha’ kinda hairstyle is dat?”
“Every young white bwai waan to look like Cliff Richard,” said Lester. “An yuh better get used to de cold. De first winter time me was here, me woulda gladly swapped getting up inna de marnin inna de God-cursed cold to sit beside Old Screwface an’ him fire of hell. De snow did look so pretty when me see it fe de first time one marnin. But to step in it! Me never feel me toes again ’til nex’ summer! Me did bawl an’ bawl becah me waan to go home. An’ when de wind blow inna de winter, it pass straight t’rough yuh. Believe me! It’s ah wonder dat me heart never freeze over. One t’ing yuh affe do is buy plenty, plenty warm clothes an’ prepare fe winter.”
Hortense and Jenny both expressed their alarm. Coldharbour Lane was aptly named as far as they were concerned. Cilbert, not paying attention to the conversation, was confused by an advertisement upon a street wall. Take Courage, the advert advised in big red letters. Not realising Courage was a brand of beer, Cilbert guessed it was something to do with the church.
Passing Milkwood Road that ran parallel to a railway line and had rows of terraced housing stretching into the distance, they walked fearfully under a low bridge that advertised cigarettes and turned right into Herne Hill Road. The houses here were impressively tall and owned small front lawns, fronted by shaggy hedges. A few head-scarfed women wearing aprons were tending to their front gardens. Windows were open and Hortense spotted a number of people looking out of them. An old man, sitting in a white plastic chair in his front garden, was reading his newspaper. Delivery notes were left on doorsteps for milkmen and visitors were invited to wipe their feet upon rubber and bristled door-mats. Concrete steps led down to basements and concaved metal rubbish bins only added to Jenny’s feeling of greyness. Jacob spotted more cyclists careering down the hill, one of them wore a white uniform and cap and in his bicycle basket he carried loaves of bread. A slow-moving milk float went the other way, its engine whining as the driver negotiated the incline.
“Dis country mus’ be rich,” Jacob said. “Vendors cyan afford dem own transport. Miss Laura would love one of dem. An’ did yuh see de bread vendor ’pon ah bicycle? He was even wearing ah pretty uniform.”
“Dis is it,” smiled Lester, hoping the new arrivals would be impressed. “Ah nice place to live. In fact, ah very nice place.”
Chapter Fifteen
Confidently rapping the letterbox three times, Lester adjusted his hat and readied his smile. Hortense and Jenny both stood behind their husbands as if they were expecting Old Screwface to answer. Instead, a thick-set middle-aged woman emerged. She was wearing a stained apron and a ‘why did you have to interrupt my chores’ look. Jenny noticed a gold cross, attached to a rope chain, nestling upon her generous cleavage as Cilbert reckoned she could be a fair challenge to the professional arm-wrestlers who hustled the bars around Kingston harbour.
“Love of the afternoon to yer, Lester,” Mary Skidmore greeted. “Tell me why is it yer dress every day like yer going to yer wedding?” Mary looked over Lester’s left shoulder. “And yer must be the new arrivals from Jamaica. Well, welcome to Proddy England. I don’t have no time for any chit-chat and how yer do’s because I’m in the back yard beating my rugs. Lester, yer know where the kitchen is so go and make these good people a pot of tea. There are biscuits in the cupboard but don’t take the chocolate ones. They’re for Sean and Sean loves his chocolate fingers.”
Mary about-turned, left the door open and marched along the hallway, her heavy feet almost leaving imprints in the thin brown carpet.
“Well, let’s go in,” invited Lester, inwardly fuming at Mary’s curt welcome.
Hanging from a turquoise-painted wall was a black and white framed photograph of one of the Irish Easter Rebellion leaders, Patrick Pearse. None of the Jamaicans had any idea who he was or what he did, but judging by the mahogany polished frame, they guessed he was someone of great importance to Mary and Sean.
Opposite the staring eyes of Patrick Pearse, Jenny was impressed by a framed photograph of the Pope’s praying hands. Cilbert sneered at it.
They passed a white-painted door on the left hand side that had a wooden cross nailed to it. Jenny assumed it was where Mary and her family lived. Sensing the recently applied polish emitting from the staircase, they were awed by the high ceiling with its elaborate, gloss-painted beading. The staircase itself was dimly lit and had images of Christ lining the wall on the way up. “An’ me t’ought it was jus’ we Jamaicans who are mad wid religion,” Cilbert whispered.
“Nuh, Cilbert,” Jacob smiled. “De Lord has touched people all over de world.”
“De kitchen is jus’ straight ahead,” said Lester. “Me, Jacob an’ Cilbert will carry ya luggage to ya rooms. We’ll soon come.”
Not willing to make the first move, Jenny stood rooted to the spot. Hortense, her tiredness defeating her need to display extravagant politeness, brushed passed her sister, walked down two steps and took a chair beside a square kitchen table. She could see Mary out of a kitchen window, thrashing the life out of a rug upon a washing line. She seemed not to care about the dust that was dancing around her. “She well sturdy,” observed Hortense. “Dat Miss Mary coulda tek de horns of ah mad bull.”
Spotting a dull silver kettle resting upon the cooker, Hortense stood up and filled it with water. Mimicking Miss Martha, Hortense turned to Jenny. “Afternoon tea?”
“Yes please,” answered Jenny, thinking that the refrigerator behind her was large enough to house a shanty town family. “Jus’ de one lump.”
“It’s ah shame we don’t ’ave any bush to place inna de tea,” regretted Hortense. “Me surely need it to help me relax. Mek me sleep good. De journey from de ship really tek ah lot outta me. An’ did yuh see how many people ketch sick ’pon de ship? Me wonder if yuh cyan get bush inna Englan’? Mebbe not becah de sun decide to run away from dis country.”
“Hortense! Don’t speak of such t’ings. We don’t know if bush is illegal here. It’s banned inna Jamaica so me guess it mus’ be banned inna Englan’.”
“Banned? Why could somet’ing be
banned dat cyan provide yuh wid ah liccle restbite an’ mek yuh relax? Back inna Kingston even Miss Martha’s friends did ah love it. Me used to find bush butts inna de ashtray ah marnin time an’ when Miss Martha used to hold dinner party, yuh could nah even see ya way inna de front room.”
Looking around at her surroundings, Jenny remarked, “Hortense, don’t yuh feel strange? Me never been inside ah house dat so quiet. Inna Trenchtown yuh could hear everyt’ing dat ah gwarn. But here? It kinda spooky. Nuh radio playing, nuh children bawling, nuhbody playing ah game of domino wid all de cuss cuss. Nuhbody banging ’pon ya door selling dem wares. It too quiet and dis place mek me feel nervous.”
“Oh, Jenny, stop ya fussing! Like Lester say everyone at work. We’ll be alright. Yuh wait an’ see.”
Hortense’s reassuring smile didn’t reach her eyes.
The kettle was whistling by the time Cilbert, Lester and Jacob had returned. Lester found the mugs in a cupboard and everyone took seats around the Formica-covered kitchen table; a bowl containing fruits was placed in the middle – Jenny thought they didn’t look fresh. They could all hear the repetitive thwacks from Mary Skidmore’s carpet beater and they all read the Italic-written message hanging from a wall in a shoe-box size frame above the sink. God Is The Unseen Guest At Every Meal. God Listens To Every Conversation. God Reads Your Every Thought. Jenny momentarily flinched but soon regained her composure.
“As soon as yuh settle in an’ find yaself employment me waan to tek yuh to de West End,” offered Lester to Cilbert, showing off. “Yes, sa. Tek in de sights an’ sounds of London town. Yuh ’ave plenty, plenty clubs. Some of dem dey refuse ah black mon entry but der are clubs like de Flamingo an’ Roaring Twenties dat love ah black mon’s presence. Jacob, yuh cyan come too. Dey even ’ave sound system here. Dis mon from Jamaica dat call himself Count Suckle…”
