The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (10 page)

‘Go fuck yourself,’ George gasped. A hot dampness spread from the tip of his prick, a sharp ammonia stench spread with it, lacerating the air.

Bobby peered downwards and laughed and his eyes glistened.

‘Poor man,’ he said, releasing his grip. George slid down the wall.

For a moment they stood inches apart. Bobby’s face was serene and his heavy goldfish eyelids flickered, as if at something inconsequential.

‘Get outta here,’ he whispered. ‘Before I have you arrested for botherin’ me.’

 

Outside, in the forecourt, George pulled a strip of aspirin from the top pocket of his shirt, bit two pills from the blisters and swallowed hard. A headache like a hurricane in his head. A ball of pain in the back of his skull. The sun beat down and the church, Our Lady of Lourdes up there on the mound, gazed down.
Repent
, it said.
Nice try
.

Piarco Airport, late afternoon. The Tobago terminal was far too quiet. Grim, Communist-style canvas portraits of Trinidad’s five prime ministers dominated the forecourt: Eric Williams, A.N.R. Robinson, Chambers, Panday, Patrick Manning. Above the exit an ageing Sparrow, Calypso Rose in full flow, her kaftan waving in slow motion with her full-bosomed frame. A frieze of stuffed carnival costumes from the previous year crowded a centre dais.

It was all a bit much considering only a handful of tourists on the big jets to Tobago flew on to Trinidad these days. George liked it so, that this island was uncompromising and hard for tourists to negotiate. Not all welcome smiles and black men in Hawaiian shirts, playing pan by the poolside. No flat crystal beaches, no boutique hotels. Trinidad was oil-rich, didn’t need tourism. Trinidadians openly sniggered at the sunburnt American women who wandered down the pavement in shorts and bikini top. Trinidad was itself; take it or leave it.

George hid in the café, absorbed in
Newsweek
. Sabine was overdoing it, as usual, sunglasses like coasters clamped to her face, hovering near the baggage-hall exit, chain-smoking, pressing a tissue to her damp chin.

George buried his head in the magazine. He wouldn’t be drawn into rows with his son. Not this time. His only son had shunned Trinidad for the metropolis, for brighter lights; fair enough. But Pascale was right, he could be an unbearable know-it-all. George vowed on the letters he’d found to be good. A better man. A better father to his son. Not envious or antagonistic. This visit would be different; this time he’d be thoughtful, careful. He’d watch how much he drank.

‘There he is!’ Sabine gasped.

George got up slowly, folding the magazine.

Sabine rushed forward as the smoked-glass doors slid backwards, revealing a tall man, craggily unshaven, fortysomething, but still youthful. Clear green eyes, honey-olive skin. Dark curls, hair like a girl and still not at all grey. An etching of the younger Sabine, Sabine’s straight nose, her strong arched eyebrows, her open and direct way of looking. All this was underpinned by a cool reserve George knew and understood; this came from his English way of living.

‘Hello, Mum.’ Sebastian enveloped his mother in his arms, hugging her tightly. Sabine melted, her face glistening. George stood back and watched.

‘Dad.’ Sebastian reached forward and the men clashed in an awkward half handshake, half hug, slapping each other on the back.

‘I’ll go and get the car,’ George replied stiffly. He left Sabine to fawn and fuss and headed out towards the car park, apprehension breaking in waves through him. No use fucking pretending. His son brought on a reaction and it was all Sabine’s fault: she made it so difficult, with her wet eyes and her tension. She made
him
tense.

 

George drove the car to the drop-off point, helping his son with his suitcase. Sabine climbed into the back seat.

‘Sebastian, you sit in the front with your father,’ Sabine urged.

‘No, Mum,
you
sit in front. I’m happy in the back.’

‘
No, no, no
,’ she insisted. ‘You men can catch up.’

‘Mum, are you sure?’

George tried to hide his embarrassment and got in. Sebastian slid into the front seat.

Words fled from him, his stomach churned. But he’d try, for once. He tried to think of something to say. ‘Got tickets for the football, yet?’

‘Yes, actually.’ Sebastian smiled, effortless with his charm.

‘Which match?’

‘The Trinidad-England game, of course.’

‘Oh.’

‘And you?’

‘The team are coming for a friendly match against Peru soon. I’ll go and see that.’

‘That’ll be fun.’

‘Big story here.’

‘I bet. And will you interview the Dutch coach, what’s-his-name, Beenhakker?’

‘Of course,’ George lied.

‘How was the food on the flight?’ Sabine interrupted.

‘Fine, Mum.’

‘And what about Tony Blair?’

‘What about him?’

‘How much longer will he last?’

‘Not too much longer, Mum.’

‘And what about that George Brown?’

‘
Gordon
Brown.’

‘Yes, him. What’s he like?’

‘I’ve never met him!’

‘I know, my son.’ Sabine laughed at herself and pulled his hair, pinching his cheek.

‘Oww.’

‘Did you sleep?’

‘No.’

‘And what’s the weather like in London?’

‘Raining.’

‘We could do with some rain here, the heat!
Phhuut!
The hottest dry season in years. Hot like hell.’

‘It’s always the same here, Mum.’

‘No, it’s not. It gets hotter every year.’

‘Global warming, I guess.’

‘Yes. Anyway. Jennifer made you your favourite meal. Callaloo, crab-backs.’

‘How is she?’

George squeezed the steering wheel, not wanting to go there quite yet.

‘Awful. Her son was beaten by the police. Almost killed.’

‘Who? Talbot?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s terrible. Is he OK?’

‘No. He was beaten black and blue. Like a dog, up the top of Paramin Hill. For a mobile phone. Some argument.’

‘We took it to the papers,’ George added.

‘Is Talbot stealing phones?’

‘Oh God. Who knows? We don’t know exactly what happened. But the bloody police beat up whoever they want these days.’

George stared out towards the blackness of night sky. Great. Not even out of the car park yet. They drove along in silence for a few moments.

‘
Pardonnes-moi
,’ Sabine said, from the back seat.

‘That’s OK, Mum.’

‘Jennifer made you your favourite meal.’

‘Yes, you said. That’s kind of her.’

‘Welcome home,
mon fils
,’ Sabine said, her voice sarcastic. ‘Welcome to Paradise.’

 

At home, George badly needed a drink.
Dear Mr Williams
thrummed against the walls of his skull
.
His hands shook as he forced himself to pour half his usual measure of rum. The big dogs were unsure of Sebastian, sniffing and circling him. Katinka, the little one, ran away.

‘George, put the outside lights on,’ Sabine instructed. With his half-rum, George disappeared to switch on the lights which showed off the pool and back-lit the garden.
Put the lights on
.
Lord Muck has come
.

He returned, dutifully, hovering on the edge of the living room.

‘My son, would you like a drinkie?’ Sabine asked, her face gleaming. ‘A beer, a rum, a glass of wine?’

‘A Carib would be great.’

A David Rudder CD was playing, too loud. Sabine poured herself a glass of wine, a steady stream of chatter slipping from her. It was embarrassing. George bit his tongue, pretending he’d forgotten something, reversing, walking round the back garden into the kitchen, where he perched on the table, contemplating Jennifer’s pot of callaloo. Lights, music. He peered into his glass. It was miserably half empty. The dogs appeared, wanting to talk to him, wet-nosed, wagging their tails. They didn’t cheer him up.

Dear God. Sebastian, the two of them. Their son with his impeccable manners, his impeccable morals; their son who was kind and patient with Sabine.
George has become selfish, greedy, buying all this land, naming it all after himself, Harwood’s this and that.
He’d bought land in Trinidad for next to nothing, years ago, so what? Then there was the oil boom in Trinidad ‒ was that his fault? Land prices went through the roof. He was a rich man and hadn’t worked hard for it. So what? Was that what this letter-writing business was all about? Her grand sulk: letters to the Prime Minister.
My husband is just like all the others, greedy. A lush. He drinks and lords it up.
That was her line, that was what she said in at least one letter.
George is mad
. His glass was empty.

A car honked at the gate.

‘Thank Christ.’ He went outside to see who it was, recognising the car. ‘You’re a saviour!’ he shouted, clapping his hands.

‘Is this a bad time?’ Irit called out, driving through. ‘I’m just stopping to drop something off for your wife.’

‘Not at all.’ George bent into the window to kiss her cheek. Irit. His favourite person.

‘Come and have a drink. Your godson has just arrived.’

Irit accepted a rum, was bamboozled into dinner. Dear, lovely, glorious Irit. Irit wrapped in the scent of sandalwood, her knuckles decorated with moonstone, topaz, and tourmaline rings. Irit, one of their first friends in Trinidad. She’d kept herself radiant all these years, had stayed out of the sun’s death-gaze. Her Hungarian accent hadn’t softened, her love of Trinidad had never waned.

George relaxed. He poured himself another rum. He felt himself again. Dinner was noisy, cheerful, full of gossip, thanks to Irit. They sat out on the back porch, eating callaloo and stuffed crab-backs, fried plantain, a crème brûlée, coconut ice cream, a box of Bendicks mint chocolates that Sebastian brought from England. George was overwhelmed with a sulky-resentful feeling: Sebastian, damn it, still had those sceptical eyes, watching everything. Judging them all. Who did he think he was? James Fucking Bond?

‘Sebastian, my handsome man, have you any news of Venus?’ Irit asked.

‘No, I haven’t seen her for a few years.’

‘You never visit her?’

‘No, not really.’

‘She lives in London, no?’

‘Peckham.’ Sebastian nodded.

‘She’s an old woman now, you know,’ Sabine explained. ‘Like me. A grandmother. Why would he go to visit her?’

‘To
visit
her!’ Irit laughed.

Sebastian shifted in his seat.

‘You don’t see her sons?’

‘In London? No.’

‘Really? I remember you three, like little badjohns. Your best friends. Always climbing trees, jumping off walls. Gave your mother and Venus such trouble.’ She laughed.

Sebastian nodded, remembering. ‘I know.’

‘They were clever little boys. What do they do now in London?’

‘Bernard has a job with London Underground,’ Sabine chipped in. ‘That was the last I heard. The other one, Clive, got into trouble with the police.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Sebastian is hardly going to mix with them
now
.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh come on, Irit, they’re worlds apart. They were my
maid’s sons
. Yes, they grew up together, but they have nothing in common now. I mean, what would he say to them?’

‘Hello. How are you?’ Irit joked.

‘We lost touch,’ Sebastian cut in. ‘I’ve lost touch with many of my childhood friends.’

Irit raised her eyebrows and set her chin.

‘Irit, don’t look like that,’ Sabine reprimanded.

‘Besides,’ Sebastian added, ‘they probably wouldn’t be seen dead with a posh white man like me. I did meet up with Clive once. We met for a drink, years ago, in Brixton. He’s become very . . . English.’

‘So have you,’ said Sabine.

‘We’re English in different ways. Clive looks like one of those rap stars ‒ all gold chains and expensive trainers. He looked down on me.’

‘Clive looked down on
you
?’ Sabine gasped.

‘Yes. Why shouldn’t he? I work regular hours, for someone else. He’s his own boss. Running scams, this and that. I have a girlfriend, on and off. He has a harem of beauties. Drinks champagne every night. I’m sure he thinks I’m boring.’

George laughed.

‘You’re not
boring.
How dare he?’

‘I imagine my London life is tame compared to Clive’s, Mum.’

‘A great pity,’ drawled Irit. ‘You three were thick as thieves.’

‘He shtill is a thief, by the sound of things,’ George slurred, chuckling. He’d had too much to drink. It felt good. Look at his son, all adored, all loved and marvelled over. Another wave of irritation rose.

‘So. How’s the love life, these days, eh? Who’s the latest unhappy woman?’

‘George!’ Sabine snapped.

‘Only joking.’ He smiled, pleased with himself. His son was a big hit with women ‒ all blondes, all at least ten years younger, none his intellectual equal.

‘Your dolly-birds, who’s the latest? You haven’t brought one out for a while.’

Sebastian half stared, half smiled. ‘No,’ he said, frostily. ‘Not since the last one you pawed and spilled your drink over.’

‘That’s enough,’ Sabine commanded.

‘Oh, let them fight.’ Irit didn’t care at all; she was family. ‘It’s good for them.’

‘She pawed me first.’ George smiled. No one smiled back.

‘George!’

‘That’s unlikely, Dad.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, don’t look like that . . . what was her name, anyway?’

‘Rosie.’

‘I beg your pardon, then. For whatever I said or did, again.’

‘You said,
Nice arse
.’