Small Island (54 page)

‘You no hear me, nah?’ she ask. And I knew I was awake. Come, never before had every part of me been so alert.

‘I not sure,’ I say.

‘What you think I say?’

‘I not sure.’

‘I say, do you want to sleep in the bed with me? Plenty room.’

She moved the covers. I felt the breeze from them as she opened up the bed to me. I moved on the chair – not to get up, mark you, but to make a noise to see if she toying with me. Would she tell me she changed her mind? Or laugh to say it was a joke – a good joke that made her laugh, ha ha? I stuck out a leg ready to catch it back if my dignity required it. But she say, ‘You coming because I am getting cold?’

Now, there was not a man in the world would refuse. And if there was, let me tell you, he was not a Jamaican. I flew from that chair. Not once did my feet meet with the cold floor before they were squeezing down between the two sheets. The rest of my grateful body soon followed, settling itself down into the warmest place on this earth. At that moment if the Caribbean sun had been shining on me, while naked girls fanned me with banana leaves, it could not have felt any more pleasant. For all around me I was caressed by the smell of Hortense. Her soap, her perfume, cha, even her not so sweet sweat. But that startling headiness was not going to make a fool of me. I kept myself turned from her, lying rigid as a stick. Scared if any part of me, rude or innocent, were to touch her she would start to scream. She closed the blanket over me, efficient as a mother. And I felt her foot press lightly against my leg. I moved my leg away. But soon the little cold foot followed.

‘You comfortable?’ she ask. There was no sensible breath left in me to speak. If I were to open my mouth she would hear me panting like a dog. She brought her face up close to the back of my neck. With her breath fluttering over my ear light as a kiss, she say, ‘Tell me, Gilbert, will there be a bell at the door of our new house? And will the bell go ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling?’While her foot – the mucky one – began gently to stroke up and down my leg.

Fifty-seven

Bernard

Queenie kept him in a drawer. Odd way to start a life. The bottom drawer. Largest one of a chest that belonged to Ma (she’d kept laundered linen in it). She’d secreted away baby clothes. I saw her struggling with a chair to fetch them from a suitcase on top of the wardrobe. Everything knitted. Funny thing, I recognised the wool. Watched her knitting it up several times before the war. It had been a cardigan and a jumper before it was booties and a bonnet. She’d even hoarded nappies in preparation. Pulled a pile of them from a trunk under the bed. The big pins had been on the sideboard for all to view. Never crossed my mind to regard them as a clue.

I idled away in Pa’s room. Pleased for the comfort those familiar four walls could bring. Everything about this dreadful homecoming was awry. Nothing of the life that played before me was recognisable. I felt I’d stumbled into someone else’s existence by mistake and was now busy trying to find my part. But how long can a man gape at his own circumstance? Senselessly bat his eyes against the glare from the unusual? Silly thing I know, but I envied Pa. Shock just sent him under. Rendered him speechless and useless. I longed to wake up unable to struggle through, with no choice but to surrender to it. Sit in a chair dribbling with Queenie feeding me, cleaning up the mess. But unfortunately this shell-shock – my shock – was proving to be quite bearable.

I moved around only when I thought she was at rest. Nocturnal, almost. Silly, I know, but I feared the chance meeting. Crossing in the kitchen, passing in the parlour. Not the dismay of seeing her suckling an impostor child. Or the fear that rage would overcome me. Or pity have me weep inappropriately. It was her expectation. Glimpsed in an inquisitive look, a backward glance. She wanted me to replace silence with words. But the truth of it was I was numb. I longed for something to stir me once more to opinion. Anger, hurt, disapproval. It was pitiful. I was blank as a sheet of white paper. No idea what to feel.

Heard him starting to shift as I was on my way to bed. Small whimpers that even I knew heralded a howl. (He cried every night and most of the day.) Opened the door a touch. Queenie was asleep. Deep enough for a muttered snore. She needed it. Just given birth, the doctor told her to rest. He came to look her over. Check the baby was all present and correct. Ordered sleep and double rations. I showed him out. He took me to one side as he left to enquire after the whereabouts of her husband. ‘Before you,’ I told him. That stunned him into staring at me as if I were a freak. A long moment. Then he wittered something he thought comforting about the war. I nodded. Why not? The war. It had been over for three years. But, yes, maybe the threads of that fraying cloth were still in a tangle.

I stepped into the room on tiptoe. No need to wake her. Just to check nothing untoward was happening. The drawer was on two chairs near the bed. I looked in. His mouth was moving cautiously into a downward grimace. Something was making him sad. And there it was for all to see on his face. No artifice, just glum. Downturned U of his mouth clear as a cartoonist’s sketch. I thought my presence might quiet him. But the whimpering was getting louder. Queenie stirred. I was ready to run. His lips, puckering, were about to yell. I put my hand down. Held it gently to his stomach. (Saw a woman do it once to her child.) His belly was as warm as a hot-water bottle. I rubbed it a little, and his expression changed. Not so sad now. His mouth relaxed. No need to cry. He opened his eyes, searching for me to come into view. His dark skin fresh as a polished shoe. Flat nose. Nostrils, tiny pips. Lips elegant, as if recently drawn. Little fists tightly clenched swinging in front of his mouth. Feet kicking under the blanket. Happy to have me there. His tongue tasting his lips. Gave him my little finger to hold. He grabbed it tight. Tiny black fingers wrapping around. Sound grip. Then quite a pull to get it to his open mouth. Was soon sucking on my finger. Clamping his gums around, soggy, wet. And warm. He sucked like it was nectar. Quite content. Actually, he was a dear little thing.

He was fighting sleep. His eyes closing only to open with a start. Trying to find me again. His suck easing on my finger, I took it away. Back came that guileless grimace – those stuttered whimpers. ‘All right,’ I told him. My voice seemed to calm him. Eyes focused on the noise. ‘There, there,’ I whispered. I thought of a song. Ma used to sing one. Lost in some nostalgia but she must have sung it to me. My voice cracking, off-key. No singer. But even so his eyes closed almost as soon as I began. ‘Lullaby and goodnight, may sweet slumbers be with you.’ Couldn’t remember all the words. La-la-la’d where I had to. But his eyes closed. Two lines under a furrowed brow. The vacuum of his suck gone, I took my finger away. Covered him over again. Job done. I turned to leave.

Queenie was sitting up in bed, staring at me, her mouth agape with astonishment. The little chap stirred again. I leaned down to him, breathing baby-talk. There, there, sleepy-time. Utter nonsense. But no doubt my voice was soothing. Silly thing, but with Queenie listening I suddenly said, ‘I was in prison, you know.’

Her voice unmodulated seemed to shout: ‘What? When?’

I hushed her with a finger to my lip. Didn’t want him wide awake. His eyes were fluttering closed again. Soft murmur of a fledgling snore coming from him. He looked so like Queenie. Her son, no doubt – despite his skin. Spoke the words softly to him. Bare facts. No need of embellishment. But the sorry tale none the less of why I couldn’t come home. The missing gun. The court-martial. His clenched fists gradually relaxed as sleep overcame him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before now? Write or something? Anything?’ she asked.

Had to shush her once more. Too loud. And I hadn’t finished. His eyes fluttered open again. ‘Oh, no, he’s awake,’ I whispered, before telling the honest truth of my stay in Brighton. In the quiet I could hear her every breath. Each one laden with queries too puzzling to ask. And I could feel her shock. Its brightness laid my face bare.

‘Bernard, you should have told me this before.’

‘No, I couldn’t,’ I said.

‘Why ever not?’

I let the question hang. That much, I knew, should have been obvious beyond words. The little chap started stirring. Soon kicking against his covers again. Hands back against his open mouth. And I said, ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry.’There was just enough light coming from the hall to catch her face in its beam. She never looked prettier. Plump and rosy from mothering. I always knew it: she was far too good for me.

‘You should have told me all this before, Bernard. You should have said before.’

‘It’s all over. All done.’The little chap’s mouth was open wanting something to eat. I gave him back my finger. But he wasn’t having any of it. Must have heard his mother’s voice. Mouth started turning down. A yell any minute. ‘I think my finger won’t do any more,’ I said. She went to get out of the bed. But I beckoned her stay. Leaned down, bundled the little chap into my arms. Picked him out of the drawer. Remarkably stout. Queenie was ready. Her arms open. Anxious.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been a better husband to you,’ I said. And I passed her someone else’s son. She took him. Snuffling her face into his. ‘I’ll leave you,’ I told her.

And as I walked from the room she called out, ‘Thank you, Bernard.’

Fifty-eight

Queenie

They were leaving. Gilbert had told Bernard. In a commotion, of course, on the stairs. A near fight that had Gilbert yelling for Bernard to stick his house where the sun don’t shine. ‘The top lodgers have found somewhere else to live,’ was how soberly Bernard relayed the information to me.

‘I know,’ I told him. ‘I heard, and so did the rest of the street.’

Pleased he was, though. Bernard wanted me and him to move to the suburbs. A nice house, semi-detached with a rose garden out the front and a small lawn at the back. ‘Manageable’ was the word he used. Not like this house with its memories, its prospect haunting his every thought. He was wanting a new start. Didn’t they all, those fighting men? I mean, they’d won. They deserved something out of it, surely. What else was the victory for? Bernard was never half so interesting as when he was at his war. He thought I’d find his story – of the prison and all that happened to him out east – shocking. But no. I just wanted to laugh. Shout loud and congratulate him on failing to be dull for once in his life. I know two wrongs will never make a right but at least now we could stand up straight in each other’s company. Even if it was caught in the clinch of two skeletons in a cupboard. Oh, Bernard Bligh, who’d have thought? But when he said it, about the new start, he wasn’t looking at the baby, he had his back turned to him and he spoke it in a whisper.

Giggling together they were, Hortense and Gilbert, as they walked up the front steps to the door. I’d been listening out for them for hours, wanting to catch them before they started up the stairs. I was in the hallway before they’d shut the front door behind them. They were both startled by me at first but then their smiles faded, leaving their eyes saying, ‘Oh, bother, she’s caught us again.’ My presence did that to them now. There was a time when Gilbert would smile on seeing my face – a cheeky grin that always left me feeling special. But not any more. Our eyes had not spoken since I don’t know when.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked. You’d have thought that I’d just bade them come watch me dance naked, they were that stunned. They looked at one another like I was playing some sort of trick. They no longer trusted me. Why not? What the blinking heck had changed all that? They were silent, neither of them wanting to answer in case the other got angry because of a wrong reply.

‘Just for a minute,’ I had to say. (I could have said, ‘I won’t bite.’ I should have said, ‘Weren’t we friends once?’) ‘Just for a cup of tea and I’ve got cake. I know you’re moving, I just thought it would be nice.’ And I meant it when I added, ‘For old times’ sake.’

Gilbert’s shoulders relaxed when he realised, no, it wasn’t a booby-trap just a cup of tea. ‘Okay,’ he said, but Hortense could barely hide her scowl.

Bernard took one look at them and said, ‘What’s all this?’ I’d wanted him to be out. Hoped he would be, gone on an errand or to see Mr Todd. Anywhere but there – sitting at the table reading the paper.

Gilbert started puffing himself up, ‘Your wife invite us in,’ he said.

Bernard was poised, searching for a cutting quip. The two of them like stags about to lock horns again.

‘Oh, stop it, please, you two. Bernard, I’ve invited them in for a cup of tea.’

And his look said, Why, in heaven’s name, would a woman like me want to do that?

‘I don’t want them leaving without saying thank you,’ I told him.

Bernard tittered doubtfully before going back to his paper. He was a bloody thundercloud sitting in the corner. This wasn’t how I wanted it. He was making it awkward.

‘We can go, Queenie,’ Gilbert said.

‘No, sit, sit.’

Both of them perched so tentatively on the settee, the cushions would hardly have known they were there. They were ready to run. I couldn’t leave them alone in the room with Bernard and that mute anger. They’d have scarpered or a fight would have broken out. And, oh, God, I didn’t want that.

‘Bernard, could you make a pot of tea, please? And bring us all a slice of cake,’ I said. The poor man was too shocked to protest. His mouth open, eyes blinking, dumbfounded, he was left with no good reason why he could not. When he left the room – scraping his chair back, folding his paper with a flourish – it was a blessed relief, like the sun coming out.

I was surprised to find myself tongue-tied, staring across the room at them. Desperate to say something right. ‘I haven’t thanked you,’ I began, ‘for, you know . . . helping me.’ I’d said it to Hortense: her face was as stiff as an aristocrat’s. She lifted her hand waving it at me a little. It was either saying, ‘No, really, it was nothing,’ or ‘Please, don’t bloody remind me, missus’ – it was that hard to tell. There was silence after that before I asked, ‘Where are you moving to?’