Small Island (50 page)

Didn’t hear their footsteps on the stairs. Hearing not as keen since India. (Bullets and blasts saw to that.) I would have stood my ground anyway. No harm done. They looked a pitiful sight as they walked in. A pair of sodden minstrels once the gaiety’s past. Decked in seaside colours the pair of them. Their clothes far too flimsy for our climate. Drooping and sagging with the damp. These people belonged in hot climes. It would be a kindness to return them to the backward place they came from.

We all looked at each other for a good while – pondering what next. A loss for words on both sides before the darkie fellow asked me what I was doing in the room.

‘Looking around,’ I told him.

Cheeky blighter tells me that this room – at the top of my house – does in fact belong to him.

‘I beg to differ,’ I said.

He looked puzzled by that. Gazed at me as if I was the foreigner.

‘This is my house.’ I said it carefully so the idiot might follow. But it made no difference.

According to this darkie I could not just come into
his
room. Somehow I needed
his
permission. I think not.

‘I can go anywhere I please in my own house,’ I told him. That started him off.

Rent, he shouted. Said he paid plenty of rent.

‘I’m not interested in what you pay,’ I said. ‘This is my house.’

The conversation was over as far as I was concerned. He, of course, had other ideas. Had the nerve to ask me how I got into the room.

‘None of your business,’ I told him. But I showed him the keys anyway. Left him in no doubt as to who had the upper hand. My house, and I’ve a key to every room. But it seemed to be of little importance to this black chappie. Still told me to get out. Raised his voice. Unnecessary, of course. But I’d learned a sharp lesson already from these people – tutored by his foul-mouthed friend downstairs: there was no reasoning with them. Didn’t want any more rough stuff. But I fought a war to protect home and hearth. Not about to be invaded by stealth.

‘This is my house and I’ll go into whichever room I please,’ I informed him.

It was his privacy he started ranting about next. Said he paid rent therefore he deserved – yes, deserved – privacy.

Cheeky blighter had me lost for words. ‘You deserve . . . you deserve!’ What he deserved was to be thrown on to the street. Him and all the other ungrateful swine. He came towards me then. Eyes bulging like a savage’s. ‘I’ll have the police on you if there is any trouble,’ I had to tell him firmly. Put his palms up to me. Submissive. Telling me that he didn’t want any vexation. Said he was only interested to find out what I wanted. But I’d seen all their tricks out in India. Straightened myself up – I was taller than him, you see. Told him, ‘You’re going to have to leave.’

Four times he asked me why. Standing so close I was having to breathe his air. Nothing for it. Notified him in the end, ‘I’m selling the house.’ And, funny thing, he announced to me that Queenie had never told him this. As if she would. Queenie, he called her. ‘This is my house, not my wife’s,’ I said, ‘Not for her to tell you anything.’ Seemed I had hit a nerve. He really started ranting then. It was Queenie he paid the rent to. It was Queenie who let him stay here. It was Queenie he answered to.

‘I’d thank you to call her Mrs Bligh,’ I said to the cheeky blighter.

He took no notice. Was off again. Wanting to know if Queenie (said it to annoy) also required him to go. I soon shut him up.

‘I’m Queenie’s . . . Mrs Bligh’s husband. It is my house and I wish you to leave.’ I thought that was clear enough but the dimwit asked the same question again. ‘Oh, good God, man,’ I said. ‘Do you understand English? You took advantage of her good nature. But now I’m back we intend to live respectably again. It’s what I fought a war for.’

I thought he was calming down. He took a deep breath. Looked to his feet. Bit his ample lip. Mentioned, almost quietly, that he, too, had fought in the war. I didn’t doubt it. I’d seen colony troops up in Blackpool. Brought over for clerical duties and suchlike. Useful, of course, but hardly fighting men. Apparently all he now required was the chance of a decent life. ‘I dare say,’ I told him. Barely needed to point around the pitiful room but I did. ‘But look at this place – it’s a disgrace.’

The woman started muttering then. Couldn’t understand a word. Just caught something about trying to make the room nice. Nice? I nearly laughed. Those cosy times up here with Ma. A chair in front of a roaring fire. A pot of tea, a muffin each. That was nice. To look at it now made my blood boil.

‘Well, my dear,’ I said, ‘you could try harder.’ I didn’t see it coming, it happened too fast. He pushed me hard on the shoulder. Shouting at me, this bloody darkie, to get out. Nothing for it. Pushed him right back. That bit taller, you see. Sent him reeling. Tried to stay calm. ‘No, it’s you that must get out,’ I informed him. Hotheaded blighters, these dark immigrants. Once they’re woken they’re hard to get back in the bottle. He came back at me. Told me the place was falling down. ‘Rubbish,’ I said. Even Hitler only left it a little shabby. Nothing like the slum these people were hell-bent on. His audacity then astounded. Implied he was a friend of my wife. ‘How dare you?’ I said. ‘A friend? With the likes of you?’ Excitable, these darkies. Worse than the coolies. He started jumping up and down in some blinking war-dance saying something about bloodclots. He was going to bust my head, he said. I should watch my mouth or he would make me into mash. I should be careful what I said next. Shocking behaviour. I was pleased to see Queenie rush through the door, I admit.

‘What’s going on?’ she yelled. She was puffing like a bulldog. ‘What’s all the noise?’

‘I was just telling these – these people they have to leave.’

Wouldn’t even let her catch her breath before he was at her. Demanding to know what was happening. Pleading to a woman. No shame.

‘I’ll thank you to address your questions to me,’ I told him firmly.

‘Shut up,’ Queenie shouted. At me! Took the wind from me, I admit. ‘Let me talk to them,’ she said. Shouldn’t have to hear that from your wife. ‘Now what’s going on up here?’ Especially in front of coloureds.

‘These people have to leave. I won’t have wogs in my house.’

He poked his finger at me then. Told me he’d already warned me to watch my mouth. ‘I’ll say what I like—’ I told him.

But Queenie started to shout. Wants me to be quiet, she said. Put a sock in it. Belt up. Calm down. Good God, where were her loyalties? Taking a darkie’s side over her own husband. He saw it, of course. Jeered at me to listen to my wife. ‘Gilbert, you can shut up too,’ she told him. And not before time.

‘Yes. Get out,’ I said.

Off he went again. As if I had not made the situation absolutely clear. Ranting once more. His room and it’s me who should get out. Pushed me. The blighter. Both women threw themselves between us. But I managed to get an arm out. Gave him a shove. I shouted then, ‘Is this woman your wife or just showing you a good time?’ Caught him better than any punch. All kinds of foul coolie abuse started spitting from him. Darkie woman tried to hold him back. Almost amusing. Except suddenly Queenie gripped her stomach. She was in pain. Face pale and blushing like raspberry ripple. Mouth wide as a cave. She howled fierce as a wild thing. All froze like some ludicrous tableau.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she was whimpering. Bent double with an ‘Oh, God!’ Grabbed out. Caught a handful of the darkie woman.

Concern made me find my voice: ‘What is it, Queenie?’

She was panting, tongue fleshy as steak. Darkie woman tried lowering her on to a chair. She wouldn’t sit, though. Her fist was clenching handfuls of the woman’s coat. Blackie puts out his hand to steady her. ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ I told him. Pushed them both out the way (roughly, I admit). ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’ Managed to take her weight but she was surprisingly heavy. Almost dropped her. He jumped forward, of course, ready to catch. Barely disguised, the lust in his eye. Fingers splayed, he laid both hands on her. ‘Get your filthy hands off my wife,’ I shouted.

She was hysterical, screaming, ‘Get off me!’

Quite.

But it was me she batted away. Force sent me tripping over the trunk. This was absurd.

‘Hortense, you help me,’ Queenie said.

‘Don’t be ludicrous,’ I told her.

Dimwitted darkie girl just pointed at herself. Totally baffled. ‘Me?’

‘You need a doctor, Queenie,’ I said.

I went to help her again but she howled before even my fingertip touched.

‘Hortense. Come on. Help me downstairs. Please.’

I had to push the black again. Lunging forward, he was, to get another feel. He made a fist. Nothing for it – I made two back. Beckoned him on. That bit taller, you see.

‘Stop it,’ Queenie shouted. Straightening up, the darkie woman took her arm. Brown coward dropped his guard. I made a final move to assist Queenie. But she was having none of it. Calm she was. Pleading, ‘Bernard, please, just get away from me.’Then both women staggered from the room like battle casualties.

Fifty-three

Hortense

It was not enough to turn the key in the lock. Mrs Bligh commanded I take a chair to stand on so I might slide along the bolt.

‘Your husband will be locked from his home,’ I informed her.

But my protestations only caused her to say, ‘Good.’

In truth my concern was not with locking him out but incarcerating myself with this writhing woman. I was fearful, for pain was twisting her face ugly. I pleaded to her, ‘We must call a doctor. Please let me call your husband to bring the doctor.’

But she was insistent – only if I followed her instruction could her pain be eased.

‘Can you help me to the bedroom?’

‘Mrs Bligh, please, let me get some assistance.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake – just do as I say, Hortense.’

Two arms she wrapped round my neck in a mighty embrace. I struggled to stay on both feet as I walked her into the required room. She landed hard on the bed. Only briefly did relief spread on her face before she cried out again. I thought to join her – howl up the house until we both were delivered from this misery.

‘Mrs Bligh, I am worried for you, please.’

In response she gave a faint smile. If she had not, I might have slipped to my knees to beg for her to release me. But she took my hand, enclosed all my fingers and said, ‘I know what’s wrong with me.’ She then squeezed them all together as if trying to extract their juice. This time it was not only she who yelled with pain. Releasing my crippled hand she struggled along the bed like a beast. Not only panting but on her hands and knees. She began unbuttoning her cardigan. Shrugging it off with difficulty. Her blouse she almost ripped from her chest, losing several buttons. She wriggled as I helped her pull off her skirt. Her pink slip was wrenched tight across her. She drew it up to her chest, the strain on the seams popping blisters of white flesh through several little openings. I thought to avert my eye for this woman would soon be naked. But to my surprise I saw that, far from revealing her exposed skin, she was bound around the middle with a length of bandage. As she unlocked the knot on the bandage I feared for the injury it would expose. For had her husband not shown himself to be a violent man? The oozing gash from the flick of a knife. The pus-y indents of a vicious bite.

‘Please let me get the doctor. Your wound may need new dressing.’ Although not of a delicate disposition, still I worried I might faint. But she paid me no mind. With care she unravelled this cloth. I turned my eye so it might just peek. But there was no cut, no blood, no gash. Like bread dough rising in a tin, as she unwound, her stomach steadily swelled in front of me.

‘Mrs Bligh, are you with child?’

Once the bandage was fully discarded it was plain as a drink of water. Her bulbous belly puffed, relieved that it was now freed from its bind. She lay back on the bed commanding me with a pointing finger to fetch the cushions and pillows to prop her up. As she did, another contraction was upon her. And this belly bucked and rolled as the child inside fought for release. ‘Oh, God, I think it’s coming!’

How had she kept such an ample secret wrapped so tightly to her?

‘Please let me get the doctor, Mrs Bligh. You must go to the hospital.’

‘No, there’s no time. I’ve been having these pains since yesterday. They’re worse now. I know it’s coming.’ Once again the pain was scorching her face crimson. It was not in my experience, giving birth. I had watched chickens, of course, laying their eggs, but none of them had ever required my assistance. I held on to her hand patting it gently, my mind fretting on what else should be done while willing my eye to keep back its fearful tears.

Her pain subsiding, she spoke through a panting breath, ‘Don’t worry, I know what to do.’ She struggled with a little giggle, ‘It’ll be like
Gone With the Wind
. You know the scene . . .’ before a contraction blurred the words into screeching. I knew the scene very well and I did not care for the comparison. What doubt was there that she was the prosperous white woman? So, come, did she think me that fool slave girl? Dancing in panic at the foot of her bed? Cha! I am an educated woman. I knew that this birth would happen. ‘Cross your legs and see to your knitting, Mrs Bligh,’ I could tell her, but that baby would soon drop from her. All I would have to do is catch.
Gone With the Wind
! I closed my mouth from its gaping determined to show this impertinent woman what it means to be raised in Jamaica in reach of the foremost hands of a Miss Jewel. I took off my coat and hat. And one after the other put a roll on my sleeve. ‘Come, Hortense,’ I said, ‘better go boil some water.’

Her husband was yelling the words, ‘Queenie, open this door – what’s going on? I demand to know,’ and the accompanying banging became so regular its beats no longer startled me but became the rhythm I worked by. Placing the kettle on the stove, collecting towels and sheets from a drawer, soaking a cooling cloth and carrying through a bowl of fresh water were all performed to this man’s bluster.