The White Family (37 page)

(On one of Shirley’s first visits to the Temple, a Malaysian official, ugly and kind with big brown eyes and the Pentecostal badge upon her shoulder, had come and offered to pray with her, and looking in her eyes Shirley saw similar suffering, felt a kindness that came from pain, and she fell, she yielded, she sank down before her, ‘Thank Jesus, thank Jesus, for He is good,’ fell, in truth, partly as a gift to the woman, but once she was down on the ground she felt puzzled – it was hard and uncomfortable; she couldn’t get up.)

And yet it was a wonder, in its way, this scene of transformation, of ecstasy, it was what St John’s could never quite manage, with everyone in fluid, passionate motion as the spirit rippled round the building like wind, blowing some over, raising some up, shivering the outstretched arms like corn, the organ still stirring softly underneath them.

Then Shirley’s eyes fell on the back of the stage where the two church worthies had sat throughout, the middle-aged white men in their spruce light suits, beaming approvingly on Reverend Lack. Their smiles, their posture seemed suddenly wrong, as if they had set themselves apart. She looked again at the praying priest, and his prayer, to her, became false, grotesque, maybe because he was being filmed in close-up and the image flashed all over the church, repeated six times on the TV monitors which hung above them, powerful as crucifixes, surely too big, too loud, too many – she focused again on the two watching white men, leaning back in their chairs, relaxed, smiling, though the stage at their feet was covered with the fallen, a battlefield covered with helpless bodies, nearly all of them black, lying dead still –

So many dead bodies
. Why were those two smiling? How could they sit there, comfortable?

It was only a moment, then the image faded, the Temple around her returned to itself, she knew, she believed it was a good place, if they had a fault it was only being greedy, and even their greed, she supposed, was for God – Sophie was happy, they made people happy –

Why should it seem any different today?

But what she had seen was a vision of hell, and she shivered convulsively, and turned to Elroy. ‘Time to go.’

‘You in a hurry?’

‘I don’t feel well.’

Then he was all concern, whispering something to his mother and shepherding her through the crowd and down the stairs.

In the air he held her and stared into her face. She felt as though he might read her secret, so intent were his pupils, cold and small in daylight.

‘You’re shaking, woman. Is it the spirit?’

‘I think I’m just tired,’ Shirley said. ‘I think I should go home to bed. Going to church twice – it is tiring.’

(Having two men, being full of them.

Seeing such visions of life and death. The bodies lying there, the others watching.)

Melissa, Melissa! She likes my novel! She loved my novel! She couldn’t put it down! A woman of such taste, such discernment –

He was very glad it was the novel she’d read. For some reason he went hot and cold all over at the thought of her seeing
Postmodernism
. Melissa was brisk, Melissa was busy – a busy young woman might think he was mad. But the novel, the novel! His first-born child! She’s only had it for forty-eight hours, and she’s nearly finished it. Nearly finished! Melissa, my love!

But she’s not my love. She’s – a young professional, a working woman, a – flat-dweller, a householder, a tax-payer.

Oh breasts and lashes and lips and booties and scents of vanilla and musk and sweat – tenderness, slenderness, huskiness, oh, soon, soon, Melissa, please –

Oh hell.

I have to be calm and sensible. I have to be a responsible adult. Melissa trusts me. She’s counting on me. She wants me to come into the classroom today. Wednesday morning. At twelve hours’ notice.

A little knock on the door last night, I knew it was her, I could hardly speak –

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Melissa. Are you very busy?’

I remembered the loutish boyfriend, in the hall, and tried not to smile too adoringly. But in only a second, all was resolved – ‘Thank you for saving me, the other night. I was just getting rid of this dreadful man who turns up every so often and tries to borrow money –’

‘Delighted to be of assistance,’ I said.

‘He used to be a boyfriend. I’ve picked some losers … And now, please, you’ve got to save my life –’

One of her colleagues had just phoned to say she was going down with flu. (Melissa used the word ‘colleague’ – so delightful. Two college girls in stripy scarves –)

Professional, professional.

I must be entirely professional. Her sick colleague taught the other Year 3 Class, or the other Year 4 Class, I wasn’t listening. In any case, Melissa wondered –

If I could possibly –

If I would consider –

She didn’t want to trouble me –

Yes, just ask me and I’ll agree! Robbing a bank, arson, murder –

(Better not make any jokes about murder. George was looking solemn in the paper-shop this morning. The oik wasn’t there, Shirley’s little brother, maybe everyone round here’s got flu – so he served me himself. Puffing and wheezing. And he said there’d been a murder. Didn’t know the details. Very near here. ‘Probably some mugger.’

‘They haven’t caught anyone?’

‘Don’t know. But the way they dress, all hoods and woolly hats, their own mothers couldn’t tell them apart.’

Naturally George assumed the killer was black. I didn’t have the energy to take it up – In any case, he was probably right.)

Melissa’s request, when it came, was easy. Would I come into school and talk to the children? Her own class and the ill woman’s. She wants me to talk about the history of writing. ‘I know you could make it exciting for them. Some of them just don’t see the point. They’d love to meet a real writer.’

A real writer
. Yes, I am! Not a journalist like Darren. Not an advertising hack. Not just a librarian.
I actually write books
.

They’ve been working on Egypt. Ancient Egypt. She’s told them I’m like an Egyptian scribe –

But I mustn’t look out of date to these children. Don’t want them to be bored before I even start.

Jeans? Orange shirt? Leather jacket?

But five minutes later Thomas caught a glimpse of himself in the harshly-lit bedroom mirror. He tried a smile. It wasn’t any better. The orange shirt-collar made his teeth look gruesome. They were usually fairly white, he thought. (But Shirley hadn’t complained, had she? When he smiled again, he looked all right.)

He poured milk on his cereal, for calcium, and drowned his tea with more of the same. As he ate, he flicked through the
History of Egypt
he’d hastily picked off the library shelves.

I’ll tell them, writers are time-travellers. Sending messages from six thousand years ago –

There was a picture there of Thoth, god of writers. He looked physical, and active, with strong legs and body below the profile of a curious bird – physical, yes. Thomas wanted to be physical. If he did more fucking, would he write better books?

Ring Ring!

He jumped, and ran to the door.

It was Melissa, letting in a gust of fresh air.

‘Hi,’ she said, smiling, laughing. ‘Are you ready to go?’

‘One moment,’ he said, and ran off to clean his teeth.

He returned to see, with a jolt of horror, that she’d picked up a page of
Postmodernism
. She waved it at him cheerfully.

‘I got all excited for a moment – thought it must be your new book. But it’s someone else’s, isn’t it?’ She read out a bit before he could stop her. ‘This is so phony, it’s about The Simpsons. “Hyper-irony, and the meaning of life … Simpsonian hyper-ironism is not a mask for an underlying moral commitment.” Who wrote this stuff? He’s so
up
himself.’

‘Not me,’ Thomas gabbled, and thank God, it wasn’t. ‘It’s just, you know, a silly quote … you see, I got interested in, er … I got interested in the death of, uhn, meaning …’

But she had lost interest: she was smiling at him. ‘You look terrific.’

‘Not too scruffy?’

‘Extremely smart.’

‘I thought I’d better not embarrass you.’

And they stood and smiled, a mile of smiles, till they were embarrassed, in a pleasant way, and Thomas shocked himself by thinking, I shall drop that manuscript in the bin.

The school was a pile of blackened red brick, four storeys high. ‘Hillesden Green Church of England School’ was carved in relief in bold Victorian lettering. The building was solid, rectangular, capacious, with a stalwart look, as if it would survive. (It would probably have to; no money to replace it.) The decorative panels over the front door looked familiar.

‘That’s rather attractive,’ he said, pointing.

‘Yes, isn’t it? Local builder. He did the hospital around the same time … and the Park Keeper’s lodge in the Park, as well. Late nineteenth century. They took pride in these things.’

‘Civic pride. Not any more.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s whatever’s cheapest.’

And inside, the school did look badly run down, full of makeshift materials that hadn’t aged well, yellowing plastic, buckled aluminium, paint in layers like peeling skin.

The children, however, looked in tip-top condition. They were leaving the playground in jostling lines. He was surprised by how many of the children were black, a mixture of Afro-Caribbean and Asian. Surely there were more black than white. ‘You have a lot of children from the ethnic minorities,’ he whispered to Melissa, who looked away. (What was wrong with ‘ethnic’? He thought it was OK. But then, the words were always changing. Was it ‘minorities’ that annoyed her?) ‘Such pretty girls,’ he tried again, and this time she nodded at him, and smiled. There were tiny Asian girls with thick waterfalls of hair, West Indian girls with heads like flowers, covered with bobbing stamens of beads, all crowding in through the door from the playground, bright-eyed, bright-skinned, arms around each other.

Though most of the teachers he saw were white. Nearly all women; it must be the pay … None of them, of course, was as lovely as Melissa. He followed her reverently into the hall where her own giggling troupe was assembled, waiting.

‘Thirty-three children,’ she said to Thomas. ‘That’s three too many. Even thirty is big. And the classes keep growing.’

‘Really?’ he said. He wasn’t listening. He was thinking to himself, if I’m a hit with her class, she’ll think I’m good with children – Women love men who are good with children.

Melissa was starting to sound heated. ‘Rich people send their kids to private schools, with ten or a dozen in a class, max –’

A new Melissa. Flushed, scornful.

‘That’s awful,’ he said. (She was beautiful.) ‘That colour really suits you,’ he whispered. They were walking upstairs, following the dancing heads of the children, who kept turning round, staring at him.

‘I’m trying to tell you something,’ she said.

‘Oh. Yes. Sorry,’ he gabbled.

‘Most of the teachers do their best. But everyone hates us. The government, the papers –’

He looked at her amazed, trotting beside him, sweet Melissa become fiery and forceful, green eyes staring straight ahead of her. ‘I don’t hate you,’ he said, truthfully.

‘Hillesden is a poor area. It matters what we do. Schools matter.’

‘I know you’re right,’ he mumbled, embarrassed. ‘Of course you’re right. Schools, hospitals’. He knew he had to do better than that. If she wanted indignant, he’d give her indignant –

But Melissa had to brush her anger aside, to walk into the classroom and take another lesson, to think of the children’s immediate needs. ‘Sorry to go on about it,’ she said suddenly, ‘It’s just that our school is so desperate for money,’ then, ‘Quietly, children,’ as she opened the door, and to Thomas, in a last private aside, ‘I get so
frustrated
.’

And then she blushed. And the children poured through, and pushed them apart.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, coming into her classroom,
beautiful, beautiful,
yes, and
frustrated
…

She’d made a palace from a room like a jail. A shoal of coloured fish swung from the roof, all shapes and sizes, catching the sunlight, and the walls were a mosaic of brilliant paintings that all but obliterated their dull yellow. Close up, he saw they were strips of hieroglyphics, long fish-shaped eyes, crouched figures, bird-heads, and a gallery of half-human gods. By the long narrow window, larger than the others, Thoth, god of writers, presided serenely, the head of an ibis on a muscular torso.

‘Settle down,’ she called. ‘Settle down, children. This is Mr Lovell. He’s a published writer –’

‘Is he famous?’ a girl asked.

She hesitated. ‘Yes.’

He began to demur; Melissa quelled him with a look.

(This way they’ll listen. Of course I’m famous.)

‘When we’ve done the register, children, 4P are going to join us, and Mr Lovell will talk about writing.’

It was very impressive, her control over the class. She strode about her classroom like a captain on deck, cheerful, confident, not missing anything, straightening a tie, removing some sweets, comforting a little girl who was crying because she’d forgotten to bring back her homework.

He tried to look modestly down at the floor and not watch the curves of her slender back, bent over her register to make a mark. But she was so good at this, and he was so proud. The children’s eyes followed her as if she was God.

‘Samuel. Are you listening?’

‘Yes, Miss Simons.’

‘Adil?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Beena?’

‘Yes, miss …’

And so it went on; thirty-three names, thirty-three children welcomed, calmed, and then the other class came in, and it was Thomas’s turn to take the baton.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Thomas Lovell. Some of you will know me from the library. Do you write stories? Who would like to be a writer?’

And so they were away, and the time began to fly, the eager little faces turned up towards him, their hands growing up like mushroom stalks, nearly all thirsty, curious. It seemed they had never met a writer before. They stared at him as if he were an alien life form, especially once he told them he had been on TV.