by Andrea Levy
Even through the wood of the door I knew the man vex. Cha, I come tired out from work dreaming on rest. But every Jamaican boy (and even those from the small islands) had come to learn the wisdom, all for one and one for all, in this Mother Country. Hortense was huddle up on the floor over a pan on the wretched gas ring. Her young back should not have been folded like a crone’s – it should have been standing haughty and straight at a good cooker. But, come, like watching a right-hand person use their left, when she was cooking, she make every movement a torture to behold.
It look like Winston standing before me at the door. But to make sure I ask, ‘You Winston?’
‘Yes, man, Winston,’ he say smiling.
So I invite him in. One second is all and my suspicion is arouse. I introduce Hortense and him just say, ‘Yeah, man,’ before carrying on with a blast of words that nearly knock me from my feet.
‘The man gon’ throw me out, Gilbert. That fool-fool ras clot say I must go. And by morning or him will call on the police. Police, I say – why him need the law on me? I am abiding as I must. He call me darkie and coon, so I tell him him must show respect. Him say him want respect. His house him shout on me until me ear burn with it.’
‘Wow!’ I tell him. ‘Calm yourself, man. Who you talking of?’
‘The landlady husband who cannot find him way home.’ He sat himself hard on the chair, throwing off the ferocious look Hortense sent him for disgracing up her ear with bad language.
‘Winston?’ I ask again.
‘Yeah, yeah, Winston,’ he say, and I know it is Kenneth.
‘You Kenneth, man.’
‘No, Winston, look.’ He show me the back of his hand as if something there that will prove it.
‘What you doing in Winston’s room? Noreen throw you out again?’
‘No cloud up me story, man. Him gon’ throw me out.’
‘Is Winston he is throwing out,’ I tell him. ‘You should be already gone.’
‘You wan’ hear me story or not? I been working, Gilbert. Keeping warehouse and stores.’
My mind could not believe what me ear was hearing. Was there some Englishman so fool-fool that he look upon Kenneth’s tricky eye and slippery finger, then make the conclusion that this man will make a responsible storeman? Too many things in England surprise me but this news – I fall down hard on a chair with my mouth agape. ‘Wait. You tell me someone employ you to look after their stock?’
‘And, let me tell you, man, me do a good job. Counting and keeping and nobody is takin’ away. The boss a-smilin’. No one mess with me. But today is payday. Me rub me hands. I have all sort of work that hard-come-by money must do. I get it in a little brown bag. Man, this envelope so light it could float off if me hand not on it. Hardly any money in there. It them that rob me and not the other way round. So I go to the office to call on them. “Where me money? Most of me money gone,” I tell them. Gilbert, you have any rum because me nerves have been tried today, man?’
Hortense start banging together every pot she find in the room. This man was troubling her. But Kenneth just look to the noise and say, ‘You lucky you have someone to cook you up something nice there.’
‘Yes,’ one half me heart say, and Hortense grant me a look that shrink me skin. ‘Kenneth, come, nah – I am tired. You have a point for me there, man?’
‘I am Winston.’
‘No, you are not.’
‘Okay. You are right there, man. But Noreen throw me out and a brother is a brother. Now where was I? Oh, yes. You know what they tell me when they look on the skinny packet they give me? Tax. I say t’ief. Him say tax. Gilbert, the day is still light and a white man rob me. What you think?’
‘I think, Kenneth, you pay some tax.’
‘What? No, man, they take me money. They tell me one thing I will get, they give me another. They t’ink me a fool can take me money when me eye is still wide. “Silly West Indian raw from the boat,” they say, “he will not know when him being robbed.”’
‘Man, you tellin’ me you never pay tax before? Kenneth, everyone pay tax.’
‘Everyone? White man too?’
‘Everyone. Is tax. The government take it.’
‘What for?’
‘For running the country.’
‘No,’ he say. ‘They t’ieve me. I tell you them rob me. But, man, you know what?’ He beckoned me to whisper but has to shout over the clatter Hortense is making. ‘Me still have the keys . . .’
‘No, man – I don’t wan’ to hear this!’ I tell him. I stand up to show him the door.
‘Wait, man, hush. I not tell you about the fool man downstairs yet. You must listen up – you next.’
I sat back in my seat to rest my chin on my hand.
‘Come, no look so weary, me tellin’ you this for reason, man. You mus’ know what mood is on me as I come through the door of this house. I had just been robbed! I walk through the door and bump into this man. This Queenie’s husband or so him say. I am vex. Maybe I say sorry for knocking him a little. Maybe not. Maybe I tell the man to watch where he is walking. I do not know for I am too concern to remember every little thing I do. Next thing the man is breaking down my door knocking on it so fierce. “You have to leave,” he tell me. “Why?” I say. “The house on fire?” He tell me not to be funny with him. I tell him to go away so I can rest. He hold on to the door and say he need the room. I am polite, Gilbert, I swear on my mummy’s grave. I ask him what he need the room for in such a hurry that he must throw me out. His mouth open a little but nothing come through. I tell him goodnight. And, man, him start to glow red. I never see a human face go that colour. You ever see that, Gilbert, a white man go red? It one strange sight. Suddenly him start screaming he is selling the house. “Now,” I ask him, “you selling the house this minute?” “Tomorrow,” he shout, he want me out tomorrow. This man was so hot I tell him to calm down for his own sake. But he tell me he will not. I do him a favour when I shut the door on him face. One more minute and him would go pop. But him start bangin’ on it again. Shoutin’ through that he will not stand for nonsense. So I open the door and tell him that he must go somewhere else to fornicate. Although, Gilbert, because there is a lady present I am not using the actual word I say. This skinny man start puffing up himself. Him have two fists made. I would kill the man with one blow if I were to punch him. I do him a favour – I push him away. But, man, him so skinny him fall over. I swear I just touch him and him fall down. But I am not a rough man – I make sure he was all right. I stand over him. Wog, darkie, coon – all them words him start use in telling me he want me out. The bad language bring Jean to her door. And for one minute him look on her instead. She look one sight. Eyes rimmed with black and dripping like fingers down her cheek, hair straight up like fright and standing in her underclothes half naked. She start laugh on this puny man sprawled all over the floor. Him get himself up but this time quiet. All is over now, me t’ink. I go back in the room and shut the door.’
Kenneth, finishing his story, look on me for some response. Oh, boy. I lift me head and think to make a joke when I ask him, ‘Is that all?’
My heart take up residence in me boots when he tell me, ‘Well, I may have told him that his wife seem to like the company of black men. Maybe. I cannot remember. Plenty things said in the heat of the situation.’
I know trouble. When it come through the door, it place a hand round a delicate part and squeeze. Man, I had to uncross me leg to release this tension. ‘Why you do that, Kenneth?’
‘Is what I do?’
There was something I recognised on the face of Bernard Bligh. I glimpsed it on that first encounter for only one second, two. But I know it like a foe. Come, I saw it reflected from every mirror on my dear Jamaican island. Staring back on me from my own face. Residing in the white of the eye, the turn of the mouth, the thrust of the chin. A bewildered soul. Too much seen to go back. Too much changed to know which way is forward. I knew with this beleaguered man’s return the days of living qu
iet in this house had come to an end.
‘What you wan’ me do?’ I ask Kenneth.
‘Well, I been doing plenty t’inking on the situation, Gilbert. And I come to this conclusion. We get a few of the boys and give him a good licking. Show him him mus’ not mess with Jamaican boys.’
‘Kenneth, I no lick a man for no reason.’
‘What you chattin’, man? Him call me wog and darkie. Him need lesson in manners. And you next, boy. Mark me word. And you have lovely wife who is cooking up something fine for you. You have obligation.’
‘No rough stuff. Let me speak with Queenie,’ I tell him.
‘Cha, you no ’fraid of some skinny white man?’
‘I sort out everything with Queenie. Come, you go now, man. Me dinner ready.’
Kenneth grin sugar and spice on Hortense. ‘What you cooking there, miss?’ he say. ‘Smellin’ good.’ She scowl one bitter lemon back on him. But he carry on without regard. ‘You a lucky man. What you getting, rice and peas, a little curry goat? Me don’ know if me ’ave food for tonight.’
‘Where is Winston?’ I ask. ‘Him know yet you get him thrown out of his room?’
‘Me goin’ sort this out. A few of the boys . . .’
‘No, Kenneth! No trouble. I tell you already I will speak with Queenie. You don’t even live here, man. You forget Queenie throw you out months ago?’
He breathe in loud, smelling the aroma every West Indian boy had come to love in this country – free food. ‘Smell so good. You have a little left for me?’
Hortense sent him a look that would have made a sensitive man disappear in a puff of smoke. However, Kenneth take this as a good sign. He lift himself from the chair to stand over Hortense. But it only took a little while of staring over her shoulder on the cooking food before he quickly say, ‘Now me come t’ink, I jus’ remember I arrange to meet a few of the boys.’ He was out the door and slamming it after him so fast you would think Hortense was chasing him to taste something off her spoon.
Not long before I know why. Hortense hand me one pile of mess on a plate. Not one thing did I recognise to start nyam. I nearly follow after Kenneth calling for him to wait. But Hortense was looking on me ready to berate me for ungratefulness. So I examine the food and tell her, ‘Lovely.’
‘He is uncouth, that man. How you let him in the room?’ she say.
I think there was rice but I don’t think it was boiled. It was crunching on my teeth as I say, ‘He tell me him Winston.’
‘I doubt this Winston is any better?’ she say.
‘You have not met Winston.’
‘If the brother is anything to go by, I do not desire to.’
‘Kenneth is not so bad.’
‘How you say that? The man is rough and uncouth. You hear his language?’
‘Him vex.’
‘He is the sort of ruffian make me ashamed to come from the same island.’
‘Cha, he is not so bad. Him just trying to get on in England.’
‘Huh,’ she say.
Something so chewy in the food I wonder if it is gum. We both chomping silent like cows in a field. Come, it was a pretty silence so why I say, ‘But there is no need to fret?’
‘About what?’ she say.
‘About what Kenneth has just tell us.’
‘The man is a buffoon.’
‘Maybe. But no worry yourself about being thrown from this place.’
Her fork stop half-way to her mouth. The little smile that formed on her lip gradually turned to a nasty smirk. ‘I paid him no mind,’ she tell me.
‘Good,’ I say but she had not finished yet.
‘You forget,’ she begin, ‘that I will soon have employment in a good school as a teacher. Do not fret on my account. The man downstairs would do me a great service if he were to throw me from this run-down place. A room such as this is not befitting for a teacher such as I.’
The fork finally make it to her mouth. And I stare hard on this insufferable creature as she gaze to the ceiling chewing dainty on the nasty food.
Fifty
Hortense
Gilbert Joseph looked wide-eyed on me to exclaim, ‘Wait, is that your wedding dress you have on there?’
So I tell him, ‘At last I have an occasion that warrants such a fine dress.’
The silly carefree countenance slipped from his face with such force it bump on to the floor. He make me feel sorry for the words. His bottom lip protruding with their harshness. His eye displaying sorrow. I thought to apologise for that quick tongue. But then he start cussing – sucking on his teeth, and cha, cha, cha on me like a ruffian. So I paid him no mind.
Ah, even the sun was shining. Only a weak light but enough to raise my spirits higher than this stupid man’s worry. My two letters of recommendation each contained words that would open up the doors of any school to me. Despite the slow start at the school for scoundrels in Half Way Tree, my headmaster had seen fit to call my teaching skills proficient. Looking for the meaning of the word in the English dictionary, I was honoured to see he thought me expert. Miss Morgan, the formidable principal at my college, declared me highly capable. And a highly capable expert I felt. This was the day I was going to present myself for a position as a teacher at the offices of the education authority and no pained-face, fool-fool man was going to imperil my elation.
Gilbert’s explanation for how I might travel to this place called Islington took him more than an hour. The man insisted I take a note, then proceeded to deliver his instruction in one babble of turn-left-turn-right-no-wait-go-straight-on. The only lull in this breathless litany occurred when he asked, ‘You write this down?’ I am not a writing machine. Was it little wonder that when the man finally finish the only note I had written on the paper was the word ‘bus’?
‘This the only thing you write?’ he said.
‘You speak too fast,’ I told him.
It was with one long agitated breath that he blew the words into my face, ‘Come. I will go with you.’
Anyone hearing Gilbert Joseph speak would know without hesitation that this man was not English. No matter that he is dressed in his best suit, his hair greased, his fingernails clean, he talked (and walked) in a rough Jamaican way. Whereas I, since arriving in this country, had determined to speak in an English manner. It was of no use to imitate the way of speaking of those about me, for too many people I encountered spoke as a Cockney would. All fine diction lost in a low-class slurring garble. No. To speak English properly as the high-class, I resolved to listen to the language at its finest. Every day my wireless was tuned to the most exemplary English in the known world. The BBC. The Light Programme – Woman’s Hour, Mrs Dale’s Diary, Music While You Work, and of course the news. I listened. I repeated. And I listened once more. To prove practice makes perfect, on two occasions a shopkeeper had brought me the item requested without repetition from me. With thanks to that impeccable English evidenced on my wireless, I was understood easily.
But Gilbert was still sucking on his teeth. Every two bells the man said ‘cha’ and could not, no matter how I tried, stop himself exclaiming, ‘Nah, man,’ with every utterance. I worried that the refined and educated people at the education authority might look aghast at me if Gilbert Joseph were anywhere near. But I have to confess: ‘Hortense, “bus” is not enough instruction to see you delivered safely.’ So I agreed. ‘Okay,’ I told him. ‘You may accompany me.’
It was a fine establishment. Brick-brown and ageing with all the dignity of learning. The building stately imposed itself on the rundown street with as imperial a demeanour as Miss Morgan in front of we girls. With trepidation my heart beat like fluttering wings. Gilbert walking in front of me placed his hand on the shining brass of the door.
‘You can leave me now,’ I told him.
‘What, you no wan’ me come in?’The man look on me in that same pained manner.
‘No, thank you, I will be fine.’
‘I wait here for you, then.’
‘The
re is no need for you to darken up the place. I can find my way now.’
‘What is there to find? I get you here.’ He was trying my patience. So I told him politely that perchance the education authority would want to show me the school at which I would be working. It might take some time and I did not want to disrupt his day further. The man look on me for a long while. Then, quietly, he said, ‘Hortense, this is not the way England work.’ I then informed him that a teacher such as I was not someone to be treated in the same way as a person in a low-class job. He just shake his head on me and say, ‘You won’t listen to me, will you? I wait for you.’ There was no persuasion could dislodge this man from the step. I could see his shape sucking on a cigarette through the glass of the door as I approached a gentleman at a desk. He made no attempt to keep himself hidden. Catching my eye while I waited for the gentleman to finish what he was reading, Gilbert raised his thumb to me grinning like a buffoon. This wretched man was lowering my tone.
I was heartened when the gentleman at the desk understood my request with only one asking. Straight away he answered me. Unfortunately he began his directions to the correct office in the same manner as Gilbert. Left-right-left-right-up-down-and-around. Not one pause for consideration. When he had finished he returned to perusing his newspaper. I was left with little choice but to ask, ‘Excuse me, could you perchance repeat the instruction?’
The gentleman tutted then rolled his eye before yelling loud as a street caller, ‘Seymour.’ One gangly boy appeared. I had to avert my eye from him, for this young man’s face was so angry with raw pimples and pustules he looked to have been wrestling a cat.
‘Take her up to Inquiries,’ the gentleman at the desk commanded.
‘Thank you for your help,’ I said, but he had already returned to his reading and I had to run to keep up with this red meat-face boy.
Three women sitting neatly at desks perused me as I came through the door. In a puppet dance all three quickly glanced to each other then returned to staring on me.
‘Good day,’ I said.
Two dropped their heads returning to their business as if I had not spoken, leaving just an older woman to ask, ‘Yes, do you want something?’ This woman smiled on me – her countenance gleaming with so much joy that I could do nothing but return the welcome. Her beaming smile was so wide I had trouble stretching my own lips to match the delight. She bathed me in this greeting for several moments before breath sufficient enough for a reply returned to me.
