Heaven's Promise (5 page)

For the example, if something upsets Papa, and that's usually his son's ambition to turn professional as a footballer and not takeover the family business, then Papa doesn't care one iota whose around to see him let off. In his loud, native language, he screams and curses until he reaches such a crescendo that anyone entering the cafe at that precise moment would probably believe that a murder had just taken place, or some similar disaster, which is when Marissa, his wife and best friend intervenes, and talks him down with all the skill of a diplomat.

Equally, if good fortune comes his way, such as his tea m Napoli winning some big game, then you will no doubt witness Papa singing loudly and urging his wife to dance around the tables and chairs, Papa is of medium height and looks at you with eyes that might have come straight off Bambi thus giving him, despite all his noise and bluff, a real little boy lost look. He has a largish nose, hair that has turned from black to grey and full red cheeks. His longtime companion in life, Marissa, is still something of a stunna. Much to the envy of her friends back in Italia, I should imagine, she has kept her figure whilst in her face, you can clearly see the exceptional beauty that surely must have turned many a head in the streets. Her eyes are jet black and these are set off even further by her delicate porcelain cheeks which accentuate even further their mood of both sadness and joy. She is also a kind, wise woman genuinely interested in all you have to say, often sitting down, if there is no immediate work to be done, for a pow wow that is always warm hearted. As I entered the cafe, she was the first to greet me as I ordered two capos and took my fave seat by the window, a position that allows me, myself and I to gaze upon the Capital's citizens whilst daydreaming away the hour. As soon as she clocked me Marissa knew something was up for I lack Sammy The Foot's immense acting ability and can never create disguises.

After placing the coffees in front of me, she touched my arm, and said, ‘You look a little pale today. Are you feeling alright? Perhaps you have a cold coming.'

‘No, no, no. I'm cool. Everything is fine. I'm just waiting for my friend.'

Marissa looked at me briefly with slight bemusement and moved off to the counter to help Papa prepare the sandwiches for the lunchtime rush, which, it being Saturday, would not be as hectic as the weekday.

Papa's is actually a small joint and looks more like a take away operation than anything else for there are only a few chairs and tables to sit at and it is normally the long queues of bored office workers that stretch out onto the pavement, their glazed eyes reflecting the tedium of their work, that enables the Supinos to make cashola.

I had not waited too long before Brother P. reached and was entering the cafe decked out immaculately in brown brogues, white and brown dog tooth strides, a white button down collar and a green suede jacket. A sight for sore eyes, indeed. He came over and rested his hand lightly on my shoulder and asked, ‘Cool?' before turning and saluting the Supinos and then coming to rest by sitting down in front of me.

‘This earth gets warmer by the day,' he said with a slight nod to outside, ‘and that is not good news. It's too hot for this time of the year. In winter it has to get cold so that things die and can be reborn.'

‘Tell me about it,' I replied. ‘Only a jacket and shirt today.' Brother P. took a sip of his capo and sized me down.

‘So, what's up,' he said stirring his chocolate into the coffee and getting straight to the reason for this hastily convened meet.

‘It's a heavy one,' I warned him, ‘very heavy. I still can't believe what has just gone down.'

Brother P. reached inside his shirt pocket and removed a pack of Du Maurier cigs and with smoke now issuing forth from our mouths and noses, I began my unhappy fable.

‘You know that chick Sandra I've been checking these past few months.'

‘Jill's friend. The one with the legs.'

‘Exactly. She's pregnant.' Brother P. didn't blink.

‘Is it yours?'

‘I don't know. She says it is but I am not with her every minute of the day so what do I know? She could be pulling a fast one but somehow I don't think so. But then who is to say?'

‘Exactly,' said Brother P., he himself being quite averse to partnerships of most shadings except for family and a very few close links, such as myself. He was not one to be checking gals every minute of the day and often referred me, when we hit upon the subject, to a cab driver he had once found himself in deep concentration with some years ago and whose story had truly touched and influenced his own runnings.

The driver, revealed his age as around the 50 mark whilst in the process of talking with obvious love and affectation about his 12 year old daughter. Putting two against two, Brother P. came up with four and wondered out aloud why the man had waited so long to sow seed.

‘Ah,' said the driver, ‘don't get me wrong. I have loved women all my life. To me they are the finest race on this earth I have always thought this and so I have also ran around with a lot of them. Much better fun than hanging out at the bar with the men, I can say. I had a great time but as I went into my 20s and especially into my 30s, everyone started getting on my case about getting married. You must get married, they said, life is not complete without it. If you're worried that you cannot carry on as before, you can always take a mistress. Everyone else does in Trinidad.

‘They didn't seem to realise that the reason for my big reluctance was very simple. I hadn't met anyone. I liked very much all the women I hung out with but I never loved them in the way that you must love someone if you are to spend the rest of your days with them. Now, of course, that got everybody's goat up. Family, friends, even the local priest, all of them like a chorus line in my ear singing, you have to marry, you have to marry.

‘I just took my time because I knew that one day I would meet someone and if I didn't what was the point of complaining? That was my roll of the dice. Simple as that. Sure enough, two weeks after my 40th birthday, I met a Spanish lady and the minute I saw her and she me, that was it. Six months later we were married and now I have four children, I have given up all my ladies and I have never been happier.'

Brother P. loved that story because it told him one vital thing‘ never compromise your instincts. Believe in them and they will always see you through. This then was his outlook on it all and so, when it came to female company, the Brother P. moved in mysterious circles and silence and although I was one of the few to be privy to his dealings on this front, I always felt that he kept something back from me and never came through with the full melody.

‘I really don't know what to do about this one,' I told the Brother P., draining off the capo and horrified at the tone of pleading I heard in my voice. ‘I can't become a father. It's ridiculous.'

‘If you don't mind me saying, the first thing to do is not worry yourself up until you have ascertained it's your kiddiwink. As you say, you don't know. Otherwise, you'll sink into that spliff and Nina Simone on the turntable all day long and worry yourself to death when there's no need.'

‘I know a chick,' Brother P, continued, ‘who has had dealings with Sandra before. I'll see what the score is. She maybe bluffing or testing you out. You going to meet her soon?'

‘Monday. Bloody Monday.'

‘Then before you see her we'll try and sort out what the plot really is. Okay?'

‘Sure.'

Then Brother P. dropped the clanger. ‘There's no way you want this baby, right?'

‘Easy, P.'

‘I'm serious. It might be good for you,' he said with a slight raising of the eyebrows.

‘Oh, you think so, do you,' I challenged. ‘I've just started at The Unity and I need to keep that job down. Once I've shelled out for my expenses there's not exactly a lot left and so what do you suggest I do. Get a nine to five and come home to a woman I hardly know every night?'

‘You don't have to do that. Just have the child. You stay in your place. The kiddiwink goes to Sandra's and you go visit every so often.'

‘Yeah, alright P. That simple. Right?'

‘Most things in life are simple. Except people always have to complicate. We've spoken about this before. 2,000 years on this planet and we still haven't figured out how to wash, clothe and feed everyone. Same with you. It's not the disaster you think it is. There is always a way around things, the trick is to find that way. But it exists and if you think it doesn't then that only means you haven't seen it.'

‘Look Mr. Fix It, I have already told you on many an occasion that when I bring kiddwinks of my own into this world I fully intend it to be with the woman I am staying with for the rest of my life. It may have escaped your attention but I am hardly head over with the ever so lovely Miss Sandra. Seen? I am not your cousin.'

As you can check, sometimes my tongue slips a bit nasty as it had just done with that reference to one of Brother P.'s family numbers, a truly mad second cousin who, in his infinite wisdom had purchased, from God knows where, one of those old style crowns that you always see the dead Kings and Queens of England sporting in history book pictures.

Something of a Royalist, he had locked away the crown in his wardrobe, intending, when the time was right to place this gleaming item on the head of his blushing and beautiful bride. For years the crown gathered dust as the would-be King searched the land for his intended until one day the cheerful news rang out from his yard. Cousin Ernie had found his Princess. The Crown would be used. Happy as the man who has discovered oil, the crowning, or should I say the wedding, took place one bright Saturday afternoon in Chelsea although Cousin Ernie, by all accounts, looked extremely tense and unhappy come his great day. Putting his demeanour down to nerves, everyone was in great mood as the ceremony took place and Ernie crowned his princess amidst much happiness. All and sundry then retired to the reception room for speeches, champagne and the whole caboodle.

It was there they heard the bride, a blushing beauty if ever there was one, make a speech to the effect that yes, this was indeed the happiest day of her life and that in Ernie she had found everything that she was searching for, and she was sure they would be so happy, and thank you all very much for coming. The best man then rose and launched into one about the old days, him and Ernie meeting up and hitting it off, moving to Britain and looking out for each other as they struggled to make ends meet, and the less said about that incident with a bottle of rum and a copper the better, and, now here he was, all married up with a wonderful woman and why, it even brought tears to his eyes, and with a slap on the back, they all rose to toast bride and groom. After that, Cousin Ernie then stood up with a very serious expression on his face. It was he said a very special occasion and his heart had indeed been moved by all these folk coming out today, but it was with special gratitude that he looked upon both his best man and his wife, if only because a week ago he found out that they had been sleeping with each other behind his back for the last month. Uproar and recrimination quickly ensued with the two families, who had been warm and nice together all day, starting to exchange punches and insults, with tables being turned over, plates, cups and glasses smashing to the floor, until one of the younger boys pulled out a knife and everyone went screaming out into the street. When asked why, after this horrific discovery, he had gone ahead with the marriage, Cousin Ernie simply replied, ‘to get my own back. She's still legally my wife.' Then he kicked his crown across the floor and walked out a broken man. That night the wife told him she was pregnant. By him. They would stay together. They would have to. For the children. Which is all very honourable, no doubt about it, but I was not about to go the same way with Miss Sandra, no sir, and that's what I was trying to tell the Brother P.

‘It's funny about children,' Brother P. observed, going off on one of his tangents as he is wont to do when his HQ warms up, and now staring out of the window.

‘The odd one out at my school was this kid who lived in the local children's home. Nowadays, I bet it's the kid with the P&M still together whose the strange one.'

Papa's voice suddenly boomed out from behind the counter. ‘Eh boys, you want some more coffee? A little cake and a sandwich maybe. Both of you should eat more. You're like two scarecrows. One day I'll put you in a field so you can scare the birds away, eh Marissa?'

‘Leave them alone. They're not doing any harm.'

‘You want another capo?' Brother P. offered.

I shook my head in a manner that was meant to show how unconcerned I was but it must have come out as a miserable defeated gesture for Brother P. said, ‘You'll have to let time clear the clouds for you on this one. There's no other way... anything could happen. You just don't know.'

‘Yeah?' I replied, totally unconvinced that any good could ever come of the situation unfolding before me, ‘that's exactly what's bugging me out. Let's pay and split.'

The two of us rose and went to hand over cashola to the boss. ‘I'll get these,' Brother P. offered, digging deep into his pocket. ‘Papa,' he said, ‘how much I owe?'

‘Two pounds but as it's you, then let's just say two pounds.'

‘How, by the way, is your team Napoli? Prospering?'

Above Papa and the Gaggia machine a huge poster of that chunky ball of muscle and pure skills known as Maradona, stared indolently down at us, the right hand clutching a ball to his hip (the same one he used to push the ball into the England net back in '86 and left a nation gasping about cheating foreigners, everyone conveniently forgetting his tremendous second goal, 15 minutes later, when he picked the ball up on the half way line, left four defenders choking on his dust and scored), the face full of arrogance.