The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (20 page)

‘W’appen?’ she chided. ‘Dis place like a funeral parlour. Eat, nuh. I don’t want to see allyuh ent eatin’ mih cake. Ah bake it
fresh
. I goin’ home.’

‘OK then, Jennifer.’

Jennifer disappeared, steupsing.

Sabine watched George talk, his eyes crinkly. Radioactive with life. The pleasure of knowing him, of being with him all this time. The knowledge of loving him; she could never speak about it. Why had she taken up with George? She didn’t know. She was still deciding if she
liked
him, that was the truth. After all these years, George and her, a mystery; a love affair she had never fully got the measure of. What was he thinking? She understood: George didn’t want to know what they’d seen in the scanner room. It didn’t matter to him.

 

George said he was going for forty winks. He disappeared into the bedroom, slept soundly for hours. Sabine talked with Pascale. They decided the operation should be performed in Trinidad. That he shouldn’t be flown to England; they’d never get him on a plane.

‘Do you want me to stay here?’ Pascale asked.

‘No, I’m fine. I’ll be OK. I’ll speak to your father later.’

Sabine wandered the house, drifting across the back porch. The two tape recorders were still on the table. Should she press play? Listen in? Fifty years. She still wondered about him, about what George got up to when he wasn’t with her. The little black boy: his friend. Their relationship had been full of secrets. Could the surgeons extract the lump? Could they remove the blame he’d harboured all these years?

 

The rains arrived that afternoon. The yellow pouis had been exploding in the hills for weeks and this meant certain rain. And yet, when it came, Sabine was surprised: she’d forgotten about rain. Rain in the late afternoon was rare. It brought on a mixed-up earthy smell. The garden sighed. The Robber Man came to her, from years ago.
Send yuh back in chains
. Just like a slave. And yet she’d remained. Jennifer’s Aunt Venus had mocked her for the articles she’d snipped out.
He a good man
, she’d said about Williams, all those years ago. Now Venus lived in Peckham. Those days of her life, with Lucy and Venus, when the children were small and delicious. Pascale with her afro of bubble-curls, Sebastian all buck-toothed and freckled. When she couldn’t wait to see George at the end of every afternoon, cycling out to greet him on her green bicycle. Riding to the dock. Eating snow cones smothered in condensed milk. Foraging for the long, hard seed pods fallen from the flamboyants: they played pretend fencing matches. The end of the dry season then, too. She’d forgotten everything between those days and the day she saw the malicious tumour in George’s head.

And what if George disappeared? Her husband of half a century. Vanished. Dead. One minute there and then not. What would she do? The thought alone evoked the onset of nerves, a swell of crisis in her stomach. A dead-dull feeling inside her, as if parts of her, her core, her inner stuff, would also cease to generate. Her nails, her hair might dry out. The hum of life would fade inside her. She might cease walking; she could halt mid-sentence, mid-step, even. One day Jennifer would find her just stopped, like a watch, sitting on the floor, or maybe under a tree in the garden. If George died she might stop living, too. That happened to couples who’d lived together as long as they had. One dies and the other fails to continue. It was that simple. Would that happen? She felt sure it would. Weeks later, she would be found sat upright, eyes closed, under a mango tree.

 

Jennifer sat moping in the kitchen. The big dogs stood in the doorway, noses twitching, wanting attention.

‘Jennifer, stop moping.’

‘I ent mopin’.’

‘The silver needs a polish.’

‘I ent polishin’ no silver.’

‘Then go home. You said you would.’

‘Eh, eh, what wrong wid you?’

Sabine huffed and sat down on one of the stools around the kitchen table. She rubbed her eyes. They were dry and red.

‘How’s Talbot?’

‘He walkin’ and feelin’ better in himself.’

‘And those thugs still wearing uniforms.’

‘He keepin’ to himself. He ent looking for trouble.’

‘Don’t have children.’

Jennifer laughed.

‘I need a stiff Scotch.’

‘When de last time you and Mr Harwood take a holiday?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Go, nuh.’

‘Where? Up the islands? More beaches? Nah.’

‘Go to England.’

‘George would never come.’

‘Take a tour. It good for you.’

‘It’s too late.’

‘Howyuh mean?’

‘I don’t feel like it any more.’

‘I ent ever take a holiday.’

Sabine looked at Jennifer; she was dreamy-eyed. ‘Where would you go?’

‘Germany.’

‘Ugghh. I hate Germans.’

‘To see de Soca Warriors. Take mih family. Chantal and Nathalie-Anne and Talbot. Everyone. Stay in a hotel. Watch all tree games.’

‘Mr Harwood just saw them. He said we’re going to get a beating.’

‘I doh care. It would be great to see dem.’

‘It’s a big thing, I suppose.’

‘It de biggest ting I ever know.’

‘I wish I could afford to send you all. I fear it’s too late for tickets.’

‘Can I bring de kids dong here to watch de games on TV?’

‘Of course.’

‘We can pretend it’s Germany.’

‘Mr Harwood would like that.’

 

Sabine came awake in her dream. Germany: the Trinidad striker Stern John was steaming down the pitch, England players falling and tripping by the wayside as they tackled him. He thundered past, but couldn’t get far enough down the pitch to score. The ground slipped beneath him, shaking, tipping him backwards. She woke with a start, eyes wide open. The bed trembled.

‘Jesus Christ. George!’

She clasped his hand.

‘George, an earthquake.’

The bed bucked. The earth hummed, building to a larger sound, a growl. Dimly, she was aware of groans outside, the trees, the walls of the house creaking, the grass flinching. Menacing sounds, like something was going to snap. The dogs whimpered and whined, clawing at the glass sliding doors, trying to get in. The ground heaved and swelled, a giant ocean wave.

‘She’s moving again!’ Sabine shouted.

George was awake, holding her hand tight. They were pinned to the bed by a force pressing them down.

‘She’s rolling in her sleep.’

‘Christ, it’s a big one. Sabine, don’t try to move.’

‘I can’t.’

A framed photograph crashed to the floor. Perfume bottles leapfrogged across Sabine’s dressing table. The bed swayed, throwing them together so they clutched each other.

‘Stop! Stop!’ Sabine commanded. Every moment was a minute, each second she expected the green woman to stop thrashing her hips. But the shaking didn’t stop. Outside, the rushing of palm fronds.
Wallop.
A tree smashing to the ground. The dogs clawed and barked. There was a sense that the ground would open up, that the house would fall into the jaws of the earth.
Marie, pleine de grâce
, Sabine prayed.
Protégez-nous, gardez-nous.

Then, silence.

They remained clutching each other. Sabine was in tears. George held her in his arms whispering soothing words: how much he loved her, loved her from first sight, how much he’d loved their life together, how everything would be all right.

‘You’re not dying, are you?’ Tears glistened on Sabine’s cheeks.

‘No.’

They lay for several moments on the bed which had lurched a foot from the wall. Perfume bottles lay smashed on the floor; scents of Chanel and Dior hung in a heady cloud. Sabine and George gazed at each other, like they had a thousand times before.

‘I’m still yours,’ Sabine whispered.

The dogs barked and clawed outside.

George kissed her on the cheek and rose. Sabine lay on the bed, closing her eyes, remembering Stern John. This time he belted the ball into the goal. Red everywhere, erupting. Jennifer jumping for joy. The green woman, her lush rounded curves bucking and jolting. She could never compete, never win her husband’s heart back from this bewitching country, not now.

The dogs clambered over George and he couldn’t do anything until he’d fed and reassured them. Inside the house, paintings and pictures had crashed to the floor. Glasses had jumped from shelves, plates had fallen and smashed. Outside, the damage was much worse. A coconut tree had fallen down; its head draped in the pool, the long fronds like hair. The dogs padded round to stare at it. Katinka sniffed and woofed, her fluffy tail up like a flag. The three dogs escorted him on his tour of the garden and its walls and yes, two of the walls had long rambling cracks. In one, the crack was so wide he could insert the tips of his fingers, tracing its length from ground to top. Another tree had fallen down in the front garden, an old lime tree; limes like yellow golf balls were scattered over the lawn. Out behind the walls, electricity cables were down. The heavy-legged vulgar condominiums across the road were still standing, though.

‘Jesus God,’ George uttered, staring at them.

Jennifer’s home.

George ran to his truck, driving out the gate in moments, speeding along the empty road. Everywhere trees were down and cracks had split the road. Tarmac pushed up in unstitched scars; telegraph poles were leaning, wires slack. He accelerated. Talbot, Chantal, the little baby girl, he hoped no one was hurt, that no one was asleep inside when the quake hit. Pelting down the road, he took the turn by the gas station, the tyres screeching. La Pompey stood in the forecourt, the only person about. He laughed as he saw George’s truck burning rubber and waved a fistful of red dollar notes. George floored the accelerator, roaring up the steep sharp bends of Paramin. No cars coming down. No one around. People were still indoors, too frightened to venture out. Tremors often followed. Up and up and up and then right, then up again, until he was upon the bend where her house had stood for a hundred years or more, since slave days over. Up here the slaves came to recover from those times, grow yams and cassava, spend their days in blissful contemplation of the clouds, watch the grass flourish, their children grow fat.

 

The house laughed at him. Jennifer sat on the top step. She laughed, too, when she saw him appear, so worried. Baby Nathalie-Anne sucked her thumb, sitting on her grandmother’s lap. Talbot appeared at the door and stared.

‘What yuh doin’ up here, Mr Harwood?’ Jennifer’s face lit up, triumphant. ‘I tellyuh already. Nuttin go lick dong dis house. No hurricane. No earthquake. Nuttin. It steady as a
rock
.’

In the kitchen Sabine soaked raisins in rum. She’d sprinkle them over coconut ice cream for dessert, some fresh pineapple, too. Incredible that the quake hadn’t tumbled the shack down Paramin Hill. Imagine that, forty or so shacks thrown into that great open valley; imagine the disaster if a really monstrous quake hit. One day, one day, it just might. Imagine the tenacity in those wooden limbs, those posts laid down as temporary. Slaves like chattel, like cows. Granny Seraphina. Bless her soul. What will she do with George? George never liked Granny much, afraid of those sour yellow eyes. Poor Granny. Poor George.

Kersplash.
The sound came from outside, of George diving into the pool.

The dogs woofed, running round.

The doctors had told him to swim, but
not
to dive. Silly, silly fool. The operation was at the weekend. Eight hours it would take to remove the tumour. That morning George had talked of taking a holiday, after he recuperated, a trip to London or Paris.

The raisins kept for weeks. Irit had taught Sabine how to do them. Excellent sprinkled into fruit salads, cakes. Always a jar of rum and raisins in the fridge. Good with almost anything.

She stopped.

‘George?’

A knowing, right there, between her shoulder blades. The garden was too quiet. None of the usual splashing.

‘George?’

‘George,’ she said louder, wiping her hands on her dress. ‘Are you there?’

She put down the jar of rum and raisins, striding from the kitchen, through the house, calling his name, seeing the dogs behaving oddly, their tails lowered, cowering, nervous round the pool. Then she was running and shouting, ‘
George!
’ He wasn’t in the pool. Where, where was he? Was he in the garden? Had he stepped out? Was he tinkering with his barbeque? Could he have gone round to the back door?

‘George!’

The dogs whimpered and then she was struck, immobile, yards from the pool, feet nailed to the ground. The dogs could see, they knew. Sabine willed herself forward, walking towards the pool.

George was there, at the bottom. His hands were outstretched in a V, in the diving position, as if he’d died mid-air, as if he’d dived and died and fallen to the bottom of the pool. Sabine couldn’t hear herself screaming. Then she was in the pool, trying to reach George at the bottom, holding her nose and diving and trying to reach him and coming up for air and screaming and then the big dogs, out of fear and excitement, jumped into the pool, paddling round in circles and barking. Katinka jumped in, too, snapping at the water. The keskidees flew out in a party, swooping and squawking and dive-bombing the dogs, who barked louder and struggled for the sides, unable to get out. Sabine managed to haul herself out, her dress sodden. She screamed and bellowed for help and jumped in again, holding her nose, this time reaching the bottom, enough to grasp a handful of George’s hair and move him a little before she burst up for air. She hoisted herself out again, finding the pool scoop, trying to poke at him, dig up under him and raise him up, all the while screaming and the dogs barking and paddling round in circles and then at last the neighbours knew something terrible was happening. They came running.