by Alex Wheatle
The following Saturday evening, Hortense proudly wore her new outfit to the dance at Brixton Town Hall.
Hearing the jolting bassline as she approached the venue, Hortense smiled, “but, Cilby! Yuh never tell me dat dey ’ave sound system here.”
“Yes, de Mighty Count Suckle,” Cilbert grinned. “Nuh way as heavy as de Trojan or Downbeat but it sound sweet to me ears.”
The hall was packed with West Indians and once Hortense downed a shot of Jamaican rum, mixed with coke, she happily danced to the sounds of Laurel Aitken, Strangejah Cole, Alton Ellis and Prince Buster. Feeling elated that there was a corner of the Caribbean to cling onto in Brixton, Hortense sang along to every tune she knew and even jived alongside Trinadadians when Count Suckle played calypso tunes from the likes of Lord Marvellous, King Sporty, Duke Invincible and the Earl of Pleasure.
Curried goat and other West Indian dishes were served from a hatchway in a wall. Red Stripe beer was flowing. Flags of Caribbean islands were hanging from the ceiling as Count Suckle’s homemade speaker boxes, the size of wardrobes, boomed out the music. Everybody was dancing with a free abandon, shedding their fears and trepidations of starting new lives in a foreign land.
Watching Hortense as happy as he could remember her, Cilbert felt she was the only one for him. He was no longer troubled by other men admiring his wife. “Jus’ ah few years den we will return,” he whispered to himself. “Me owe dat to her. Lord, cyan she dance.”
Returning home from the dance leg-weary, Hortense climbed tiredly into bed, snuggling up to her husband. Realising what she had taken for granted in Kingston, Hortense buried her face into Cilbert’s chest and silently wept. “Me really enjoy meself, Cilby. But when me hear Jamaican music an’ see me people all aroun’ me, it mek me so sad. Me miss all de people of de government yard. Dey were like family. Over here de white mon is not too friendly. Me boss at work don’t even remember me name. Him jus’ come by, say good marnin an’ him gone.”
Looking at the ceiling, Cilbert had experienced that unwanted feeling at his workplace. He knew nothing about the social and family lives of the white men whom he worked with. Every conversation was about work and nothing more.
Cilbert placed a hand on Hortense’s cheek.
“Cilby, promise me dat after t’ree years of hard work, we will return to Jamaica,” pleaded Hortense, taking hold of Cilbert’s hand. “Mebbe we cyan buil’ ah house to where Miss Martha used to live. An’ we cyan tek our stroll inna Hope Gardens an’ watch de sun drop beyond de mighty mountain. Jus’ like we used to do.”
“Nuh boder yaself, Hortense. Jus’ wait ’til we save ah money,” Cilbert replied. “Of course me waan de same t’ing as yuh. It might be ah liccle more dan t’ree years but we will get der. Me promise yuh dat. Me cyan imagine teking our kidren to sail ’pon boat at Christmas time inna de harbour. Yes, sa! Ah fine ambition dat. An’ we will give teas an’ rum cakes to we guests ’pon ah Sunday afternoon. Yes, sa! Jus’ like how Misser DaCosta used to do.”
“Do yuh regret coming to Englan’, Cilby?”
Cilbert took his time in answering. “Nuh, sa! Even though de people don’t accept we as me t’ought an’ even though some of de white mon at work despise me. An’ me t’ink me ’ave to show dat me much better dan dem fe de bosses to even consider me fe promotion. Dat’s how it go fe ah black mon inna dis land. But when me around London, doing me work, me see so much opportunity, so much chances. Any mon ’ave ah fine chance of meking him money. Could yuh say de same t’ing about Kingston? Nuh, sa. When me return me waan to go back wid some money, start ah business or somet’ing. An’ me won’t go back ’til me achieve dat. De white mon will nuh put me off.”
Hortense sensed the determination in Cilbert’s voice. “We will get der! See if we don’t!”
Chapter Sixteen
South London, England
October 1961
From the second floor room of her home, Jenny, letter in hand, skipped down to the first floor to Hortense’s apartment. She was about to knock for her sister but she heard vexed shouting from within. With her right fist poised two inches from the entrance, she leaned in closer and pressed her ear against a door panel. A half-grin escaped from her lips.
“Cilbert, ya always go out raving wid Lester!” Hortense ranted. “Yuh don’t even tek me to town hall dance nuh more! Wha’ do yuh expect me to do? Sit inna dis small, miserable room an’ look ’pon de four walls? Me don’t ’ave nuh radio to lissen to. Yuh promise to buy me one. An’ when me go upstairs to look fe me sister an’ Jacob me feel dat me start get ’pon dem nerves becah me always complain about yuh. At weekends me spend more time wid Stella dan wid yuh. Me cyan’t tek it nuh more, Cilbert!”
“But Hortense,” Cilbert responded. “Yuh know me saving up fe we own place. Me put money by every week. We cyan’t afford fe both of we to go out sporting.”
“Den why do me affe stay home every weekend? Why cyan’t yuh stay home ’pon Saturday night an’ stare ’pon de damp wall wid me? Yuh still waan rave when winter ah come? Look how yuh ketch sick las’ year. Cough yuh ah cough all de while. Me had to drag yuh to de doctor meself becah yuh don’t waan to tek time off work.”
“Me alright now isn’t it. Me nuh know why ya always boder yaself. Anyway, Lester ’ave many frien’, an’ him fix me up wid some of dem to perform private jobs, y’know, ah liccle wiring here an’ der. De money is building up fe true, Hortense, an’ me bank account start get fat. Me waan to maintain me contacts. Me t’ought yuh did ah waan we to return to Jamaica inna few years time?”
“Yes, me do! But rubbish yuh ah talk about contacts! Yuh jus’ love to look ’pon dem loose girl who ah walk ’round inna dem long boot inna de West End! It seem London change yuh fe de worse! It mek ya eyes bulge out like big rat trying to ketch him breat’ underneat’ tight carpet! Me sick an’ tired of it. An’ as fe dis Lester. Wha’ do him do fe earn him bread? An’ why he waan yuh by him side all de while? Him ah battymon?”
“Hortense, yuh being ridiculous. Lester work here an’ der. Sometimes as ah bouncer. An’ him ’ave many girlfrien’. Him not ah battymon.”
“Me don’t see any of dese girlfrien’ an’ him leading yuh astray. Why don’t he marry one ah dem?”
“Hortense, yuh always complain about everyt’ing. Me work hard all week an’ when weekend come me jus’ waan ah liccle relief. To let me hair down as dem white mon ah say at work. Not’ing wrong wid dat. We stop sporting at de West End an’ spend we time at Ladbroke Grove an’ Notting Hill. Lester ’ave many frien’s der. But don’t worry ya pretty fine head, becah me saving all de while. Soon, when we ’ave enough fe we deposit, we could move outta here an’ live in we own place. Den when de time is right we will sell dat place an’ move back home.”
Cilbert didn’t reveal to anyone his mounting frustration at work where he witnessed lesser skilled white men being promoted above him. His response was to simply work harder and accept all the overtime he was offered.
He couldn’t find the courage to tell Hortense that they might well have to remain in England for longer than five years to accumulate the money they needed for their intended return to Jamaica.
“Yuh forget dat me clean an’ scrub inna de marnin der ah County Hall?” reminded Hortense. “Remember me affe face de English cold before yuh get up inna de marnin. When de grass wet but nuh rain ah fall – marnin dew dis white woman at work call it. It don’t pay much but at least its somet’ing. It help pay fe we food. An’ besides, say we get dis new place dat ya always talk about. Will yuh stay long enough to find out where de kitchen der? Or will yuh be der ’pon street wid dat damn joy bwai, Lester? Looking ’pon dem Jezebel woman who wear skirt dat nah long enough to wrap ’round ah bleeding finger.”
At this moment, Jenny decided to knock upon the door, her conscience battling with her heartfelt boost that Cilbert and Hortense were quarrelling yet again.
“Come in!” shouted Hortense.
Trying to suppress the smirk that was ripplin
g from her mouth, Jenny entered. The room was dominated by a double bed that had layers upon layers of blankets upon it but no pillows; Cilbert had bought a pair but Hortense complained of a sore neck after a night’s use. Beside the bed, a framed black and white photograph of Cilbert and Hortense on their wedding day was propped up upon a small wooden cabinet. An aged mahogany wardrobe, on top of which rested Cilbert’s and Hortense’s bruised suitcases, stood in a corner and Jenny always wondered how on earth Sean and Miss Mary managed to shove it up the stairs and through the door. A chest of drawers was situated near the foot of the bed with a simple wooden chair before it. A second-hand paraffin heater, covered with scrapes and indentations, sat near Hortense’s side of the bed, glowing with a low heat with its strong scent filling the room. Hortense’s toiletries and Cilbert’s shaving equipment filled the dressing table alongside a few imported Jamaican seven-inch vinyl records that Cilbert bought for Hortense from Lester. She had nothing to play them on but Cilbert promised he would purchase a ‘Dansette’ record player for Christmas.
First glancing at Cilbert, who was smoking a cigarette while looking out the window, Jenny closed her eyes for a second and dreamed it was her waking up every morning with him. He was only wearing baggy grey slacks held up with braces criss-crossing his naked, v-shaped back and his brown pork-pie hat. To Jenny he seemed to exude a raw sexual aggression.
Sitting on the bed, Hortense was wrapped in her dressing gown, her feet clad in thick, men’s socks. Jenny sensed an anger in her eyes and a hint of vulnerability. Mebbe dey jus’ cyan’t live togeder, Jenny thought.
“Mama write we ah letter,” revealed Jenny. “Papa sick again. Somet’ing wrong wid him belly. It ah swell up. Him cyan’t hardly walk. Gran’papa mek ah broth an’ ah poultice fe him but it don’t work.”
Jenny glanced at Cilbert who was still pulling on his cigarette and still absently looking to the greyness outside. Hortense displayed no emotion.
“Me was talking to Jacob dis marnin,” Jenny continued. “An’ if we keep on saving good fe de nex’ few weeks, me will go back ah Jamaica to see Papa. Me don’t know ya money situation, Hortense, but me would ah really love it if yuh cyan come back wid me. Mebbe fe two weeks. Me will tek ah plane. Papa is sick.”
“Me cyan’t go,” said Hortense, her expression unchanging.
“Why?”
“Becah me belly fat. Me pregnant.”
Hortense turned to look at Cilbert and for a moment he froze on the spot, his cigarette poised an inch from his mouth. He then turned around, his eyes expressing shock but a smile forming within his cheeks. “Ya sure, Hortense?”
“Of course me sure! De doctor confirm it yesterday. Me t’ree mont’s pregnant. Yuh don’t notice dat me ’ave ah recent craving fe fried chicken an’ digestive biscuits?”
“But. But. Hortense! Me t’ought dat we agree dat we will ’ave children when we get we own place?”
“Well, me pregnant,” asserted Hortense. “Yuh t’ink me did it by meself? Wha’ yuh expect when de both of we get peckish every night-time? Me suppose it too late fe yuh to change dem wort’less condoms dat yuh ah use. Cilbert, yuh gwarn to be ah daddy so yuh better live wid it.”
Cilbert killed his cigarette in an ashtray resting on the window sill then sat beside Hortense on the bed. He cupped her cheeks with his palms and kissed her on the forehead, a huge smile spreading across his face. “He will be de most fine, bes’ dressed baby in town! Yes, sa! He will ’ave everyt’ing him waan. Me swear to dis! When him grow up he could be ah doctor, teacher or even Prime Minister! Yes, sa! Me son will mek him mark in dis land. Nuh labouring or blue collar work fe him an’ nuhbody will stop him promotion.”
“Wha’ mek yuh so sure dat de baby will be ah bwai?” Hortense laughed, relief and joy flushing through her.
“Me jus’ know,” insisted Cilbert, placing his right hand upon Hortense’s stomach. “Me gwarn work even harder to provide fe him. Mek sure him ah grow up inna nice place. When him start school he will wear de cleanest white shirt an’ de shiniest shoes. Yes, sa! An’ he will carry him books inna one ah dem black satchel dat de uptown white bwai dem ah carry.”
Observing Cilbert’s delight, Jenny could see the pure love he had for his sister. She couldn’t share his joy. “Me suppose congratulations is in order,” she said automatically.
Unable to keep still because of his excitement, Cilbert made for the door. “Me affe tell Jacob, Miss Mary an’ everybody else. We will celebrate tonight! Yes, sa. Me sure de bank manager won’t bawl if me dip into me savings fe tonight. Soon come.”
Jenny could only admire Cilbert’s exuberance. “Hortense, yuh really an’ truly mek him day. Me never seen ah happier mon.” Accepting her own words, Jenny’s stomach churned in desolation.
“Me did not waan to tell him becah me thought he’d be vex,” revealed Hortense. “Fe ah second me was worried but Cilby’s face turned to joy. Yes, Jenny, yuh gwarn to be an auntie fe ah second time.”
“Mebbe yuh should come to Jamaica wid me,” said Jenny. “Yuh need to eat some good food fe de baby an’ mek Papa find some good herbs fe yuh so de baby grow nice an’ strong inside yuh.”
“Nuh, Jenny. De air trip might mek de pickney inside me sick. Nuh, sa, me will nah chance dat. An’, Jenny, yuh cyan’t go an’ leave me now. Me need yuh. Nah worry yaself, Papa will be alright. Papa strong like de mountain side where him born an’ grow. Now yuh affe be by me side. Yuh t’ink me coulda go anywhere if ya belly was fat? Nuh, sa! Me would look after yuh.”
“Nuh worry yaself, Hortense. Of course me will look after yuh. Jus’ like me always do. Me will visit Papa after ya pickney born. Mebbe yuh cyan come wid me den? Gran’papa would love to see de baby, especially it if ah bwai an’ he will bless him fe true.”
“Ya right about dat. Yes, me will go wid yuh. Yuh know, Jenny, if me ’ave ah bwai me sure him will look like David. Mebbe Massa God is replacing de love me los’?”
Struggling to break out into a smile, Jenny replied, “yes, me sure dat is de Most High’s plan.”
“Mebbe He’s nah such ah cruel God as Papa used to say,” Hortense remarked.
“One birt’ don’t mek up fe everyt’ing Him done to we, Hortense.”
“Oh, Jenny! Stop ya fussing! Outta me an’ yuh, yuh is supposed to be de religious one.”
Six months later. Wheeling home a shopping trolley along Coldharbour Lane, Hortense felt a kick from within her stomach and although she suffered a sharp, brief pain, she paused, rubbed her abdomen and smiled pleasurably. “Yes, sa! Yuh ’ave nuff energy. Yuh don’t affe remind me dat ya der.”
It was almost noon on a crisp, spring day. The English sun was weak, Hortense thought, but at least it now showered brightness, expelling the cold memories of damp, foggy mornings and murky, rainswept nights. She had noticed that the wintered, naked trees were now dressing themselves and the grass was now of a richer green. She grinned at children who went by on bikes, enjoying their Easter holidays. Once fearful of greeting people in the street, Hortense now waved and offered welcoming smiles to the grocer who was laying out his fruit outside his shop and Kathleen, the white woman who worked in the launderette. All seemed right with the world.
Reaching home, she made her way to the kitchen to put away her shopping; there were now a few outlets in Brixton market that sold Caribbean food – Hortense was especially pleased at the availability of sweet potato, snapper fish and cornmeal. “Anybody home? Miss Mary, Stella? Anybody waan ah cup ah tea? Me would nah walk upon de concrete, me would nah walk upon de ground, me find meself ah liccle pony, an’ ride aroun’ de town.”
Hortense stretched to place canned foods inside the top cupboard. “An de cows in de meadow go moo moo moo an’ de sheep in de pastures go baa baa baa, an’ de rooster, ah liccle rooster. Aaaaggghhh!” She suffered an excruciating pain from her stomach. The tin of corn she held in her right hand fell from her grasp to the floor. Hortense bent over, holding her stomach, gritting her teeth. Then another shooting pain wr
acked her in agony. It felt like a knife slicing her innards from within. She screamed a harrowing scream, the tissues of her neck stretching to the limit and the rest of her body stiffened, like a ballerina’s calf muscle. “CILBERRRT!”
Rushing out of their apartment, Mary Skidmore and Stella found Hortense writhing in distress upon the kitchen floor. The shopping trolley had been knocked over and two tins of baked beans were rolling towards the cupboards underneath the sink. “CILBERRRT!”
“Stella, go and call an ambulance,” instructed Mary, wrapping her arms around Hortense’s back and raising her from the floor. “Now, Hortense, try and take deep breaths, don’t panic. Even the Proddy Queen of England has to go through this so don’t get yerself in a frenzy.”
Tears falling down her cheeks, Hortense clung onto Mary’s cardigan. “Me waan. Aaaarrggghh! Me. Me waan me husband, Miss Mary. Cyan yuh call his depot fe me? Please, Miss Mary.”
“Of course I will, my love. But we have to get yer to hospital, Hortense. The baby inside yer wants to take a look outside. The Lord has blessed yer baby with impatience – it’s probably a boy.”
“AAAAAGGGGHHHH,” Hortense screamed again as another bolt of pure pain reverberated inside her.
The ambulance arrived twenty minutes later and as Hortense was wheelchaired into the emergency vehicle, Stella was standing outside her front door clutching a plastic bag full of Hortense’s undergarments and night clothes. Stella presented the bag to her mother. “No, Stella,” Mary declined. “Yer go with her.”
“Why me, Mum? I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“I have things to do, Stella. Phone Hortense’s family for one and try and get hold of that workaholic husband of hers. Now, go on with yer! Just offer yer hand to grip onto when she has to push. Hopefully, the entire bloody process will put yer off sex. When yer get there phone me to tell me how things are going. May the Holy Father bless her.”
