The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (24 page)

Every morning I waited on the balcony for the postman. The Bergerac Flats, a neat row, six on top of six, ours on the top floor, number twelve. One morning my neighbour was waiting, too. I liked the look of her. Intelligent green eyes, a still and candid regret in them that she couldn’t hide. She had dusk-brown skin, a mixture, of Indian and something else, and a poised demeanour; a subtle and aloof manner which made me want to win her favour. She smoked, too, like me. Even in the morning, in her silky blue kimono, she appeared fashionable. I’d noticed her husband, a sprightly, always-smiling, dark-skinned Indian man, bounding up and down the staircase, taking the stairs in twos. We’d exchanged brief hellos.

‘Anything for us?’ I called down to the postman.

‘No, ma’am.’

I sulked. No post for her either.

Until then, George had been my only companion.

‘We’ve just arrived,’ I ventured.

A wan smile. ‘Me too.’

Her accent was American!

‘We’re from England. Well, I’m French, but we came from the UK. My husband has a contract to work for a shipping agent, Forbes-Mason. They service the cruise boats.’

‘I’m from Philadelphia.’

Her face was fully made-up even though it was so early in the morning. Painted-on eyebrows, rouged lips. Her hair was reddish from henna, combed back in a chic Hollywood style.

‘My husband is Trinidadian.’

‘I see. What does he do?’

‘We’re both lawyers.’

I was stunned. She saw this. A resigned expression came into her eyes.

‘I’m Sabine.’

‘Helena Chowdry.’

‘We’ve signed up for three years.’

She nodded.

‘I am finding it all very interesting.’

Helena looked at me carefully with those discreet green eyes. I didn’t mind. I was starved of company. ‘I’ve lost ten pounds. The heat! I am melting.’

She smiled, but only the corners of her mouth turned upwards.

‘How do you keep looking so glamorous?’ I gushed. ‘I’ve given up.’ I wiped the perspiration from my face.

But Helena, like George, was cool-skinned. ‘Oh, I know, it’s
terrible
,’ she drawled.

I babbled on and gradually Helena thawed. Even so, I extracted little from her: they were newly married, too, her husband’s name was Gabriel. He’d studied law in England. They were settling in Trinidad: no contract, no end date. Helena was proud, guarded in her manner. I didn’t understand why, not then.

 

In one of the flats below lived Irit, a Hungarian Jewess. Her thick Hungarian accent was luxurious. Irit
oohed
and
ahed
and
dahhhlinged
and rolled her ‘r’s. She even spoke a little French.

‘Sabine dahhhling,’ she purred. ‘
Viens ici
, come for a
petit
cocktail,
oui
?
Où est
that husband of yours? Out on his
petit vélo
? What does he expect you to do? Ride on the back? Like some English beatnik? Eh?
Viens
. I am making some rum punch.’

Irit’s flat was chaotic, full of paintings and books and headless dressmaker’s mannequins pinned up with satin or chiffon. It reeked of garlic and heady Guerlain perfume. Pets were forbidden, but Irit had smuggled in Mao, a violet Persian cat with a rude plume of a tail. She was married to John, a much older Englishman, who’d helped her escape Hungary during the war. John was besotted with her and she was devoted to him. Irit was ravishing with her rich-chocolate hair, cut short; her angular cheekbones. Her eyes were only ever half open and peered up through long inky lashes.

 

My green Raleigh bicycle saved me. Without it I was stuck. I rode it everywhere in my shorts and halter-neck top. It gave me freedom. I rode it through Boissiere village and then round the savannah. I loved to ride past the big mansions there, the former estate houses of the cocoa barons. Most stood empty, one was a school, Queen’s Royal College. The house on the corner looked like a Rhineland castle, another like an eccentric gunboat, all spires and cupolas and oval windows. One was like a wedding cake made of coral. Another looked like a French chateau. All mimicked bygone European architecture; all seemed ludicrous rather than stately. A castle on the savannah? A chateau surrounded by coconut trees? The owners had arrived, grown rich and then constructed eternal landmarks in an effort to reassure themselves that they were still European. These houses gave me a sense of comfort; like me, they were hopelessly at odds with their environment. I often rode to the savannah just to gaze through their high gates, to conjure up the families who once sat at their dining tables. Little did I know that my daughter would one day marry the descendant of one of these families.

 

One friend led to two, three, four. All in the same boat, all women, all from other countries, mostly Europe. All stranded. We swapped our histories and tips on how to get by. Oona was Irish, Myra was Scottish, Leila was Russian. Jews, Catholics, Protestants, a mixed community; all young, all marooned, our husbands there for the opportunity. The last exploiters? Yes. I can admit this now. I measured myself against these women, determined not to complain too much. They seemed to complain an awful lot. Even so, I welcomed their camaraderie.

 

We met at the Country Club, which was a short walk from the flat. A Samaan tree spread itself like a cloud outside the front door, its shaggy beard caught up with orchids, dangling to the manicured lawn. The Club spoke of British colonial order, of former French flamboyance and grandeur. Marble sweeping stairs and wide teak verandas. Fountains and a pool and an enormous dance floor. We went every afternoon, when the sun sank, to sip Bentley cocktails. Or we lunched on flying fish and breadfruit chips under cover of the bar area. We used the pool. Every Saturday, the Club hosted a dance and we wore full evening wear, dancing all night.

Uniformed black staff glided about behind us, again in the background of these adventures. Their wordlessness made me feel self-conscious. The staff never spoke unless asked a question; silence, of course, an ingenious form of resistance.

Once, when a waiter brought over a cocktail, I decided to try my luck at conversation: ‘Thank you so much. I’m Sabine,’ I smiled.

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Do you live far from here?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘I understand it will be carnival soon.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Carnival here is famous, I’m told.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Do you like carnival?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

There was no possibility of a real conversation. But these people weren’t wordless, quite the opposite. I often saw them chattering to each other. Like the girl at the checkout at Chen’s, they just didn’t like to speak to
us
. Besides, I often couldn’t understand their language.
Eh, eh, oho
.
Mash it up. Watch meh, nuh
.
Oh Gooood, Oh Gyaaad
. They sucked their teeth when cross. This even had a word:
steupse
. There were many new words to learn, some African, some Africanised French:
Bobbol
, meaning scandal.
Mamaguy
, to make fun of. A
langniappe
was a child born after a long gap.
Tantie
this and
Tantie
that. Every older woman was a
Tantie
someone; the word was a form of the French for aunt. French was my first language and I spoke English fluently; I was a good mimic and had a keen ear for an accent. But the black people I had come across spoke their mixture-language so quickly and so quietly it was almost a whispering.

 

At the Country Club whites played, blacks worked. No one asked questions. Neither knew nor cared about each other. Unnatural, but accepted; the rules had been written somewhere long ago, in blood, in sweat. An aloofness existed in the Club’s atmosphere, a
Keep your eyes averted
code of conduct prevailed. The large Indian community were absent; they neither worked nor played at the Club. An official colour bar existed: no black human was allowed membership. But the black staff, in their own silent way, made us pay for this.

At the poolside, we European women chatted.

‘Where can you buy sausages?’

‘Ha ha. Are you mad? You can’t.’

‘What about bacon?’

‘Try United Grocers, in Frederick Street.’

‘Lettuce? The ones I’ve seen are like weeds.’

‘That’s all there is.’

‘And clothes?’

‘Johnson’s, in town. But you’ll only find two rails.’

‘Shoes?’

‘Bata.’

‘Bata?’ Laughter. ‘Just for sandals and what the locals call
washicongs.
Plimsolls.’

‘Shirts for my husband?’

‘Aboud’s.’

‘Pots and pans?’

‘Kirpilani’s.’

Over by the other side of the pool the local white French Creoles were as distant as the black staff. Haughty, even. One, in particular, was the queen bee: a tall, dark-haired woman with cactus eyes and aquiline features. She refused to acknowledge me when I smiled in her direction. In Europe she would never be considered white. She was yellow-brown.

‘Who’s
she
?’ I asked Oona, who’d lived in Trinidad the longest.

‘Dr Baker’s wife. Christobel.’

I was intrigued. ‘I’d like to meet her.’

‘Oh, they’re not friendly.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re not staying. We’re birds of passage. There’s an age-old resentment, too.’

‘Why?’

‘Well,
they
ran things for a short time until the British took over. They can be very snobby, too, worse than the Brits. Some claim they are descended from the French gentry.’

‘Don’t tell me they
like
it here.’

‘Of course they do. They’re Trinidadian. Been here for donkey’s years.’

‘But they must have been like us at one point.’

‘A hundred odd years ago. Yes. But the French Creole planters set Trinidad up. They’re the native aristocracy. What do you think the Country Club is?’

‘What?’

‘Home of Poleska de Boissière, the snobbiest of the lot. This place was once the hub of French Creole society. Blacks have
never
been allowed here.’

‘But Christobel isn’t exactly white.’

‘Of course not. But mostly.’

‘Don’t they yearn to go back to Europe?’

‘They’re no longer European. Not even the ones with pure European blood. Besides, they don’t fit, socially, in Europe.’

‘Why not?’

‘Here, they’re high society. They once owned all the estates, those big houses in town. When Christobel opens her mouth in England people stare.’

‘You mean she speaks just like
them
?’ I pointed to one of the waiters.

‘Yes. More or less.’

 

George bought a scooter. Every day he rode it to his office down near the docks. He was very dashing in his American Ray-Ban sunglasses and penny loafers. In those days his hair was a mop of russet and his skin was very pale, though he became much more freckled. Even so, he never needed to acclimatise. George found nothing strange about Trinidad, he saw no reason for complaint. He was at ease with his fellow white expatriates as well as the man in the street. He spoke to both with equal courtesy. He often brought home titbits of office gossip, or sometimes local vegetables for me to cook: okra, christophine. I stared at them, not knowing what to do with them, not caring. They shrivelled. I threw them away.

‘Here, darling.’ Once he brought home a present; the present was wrapped, a book. I snatched at the paper while George looked on, blushing.

‘Oh darling.’ But my voice was thin, betraying my displeasure at the sight of the gift. It was a cookbook of local cuisine.

 

Most of my new friends employed a maid. Even Irit, living in all her chaos. Our flat was so small I thought it unnecessary.

‘Oh,
mais oui
, you
must,
dahling,’ Irit advised. ‘Do you think I lift a finger? No, I have enough to do with myself, never mind wash and cook and clean. And besides, a maid is so cheap. You want to be sexy when George comes home, no? You want to be happy, have dinner ready, wear a nice dress?’

‘I’m a lousy cook.’

‘Exactly. These women can cook.’

‘But only local dishes.’

‘Oof! What do you mean “only”? My maid Glory is an artist.’

She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a pot of a creamy mixture.

‘Try this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Breadfruit, dahling. It’s called oildown. No fat whatsoever in it. Breadfruit and pig’s tail. Fresh.’

I tasted it.

‘
Délicieux
, no?’

‘
Oui
.’

George and I had been surviving on toast and fish fingers. I hated to iron his shirts.

‘How do I find a maid?’

‘Easy. I will ask Glory and she will send you her friend. Leave it to me.’

I was pleased.

Two days later, there was a knock at the door.

I opened it.

‘Hello, madam, I am Venus.’

The woman in the doorway stood six feet tall at least. Buck teeth. Her hair a riot of pigtails fastened with blue bobbles. Black as the cosmos, the whites of her eyes shining like lamps.

Venus giggled. ‘Venus Gardener. Miss Irit tell meh you need a maid.’

I nodded.

‘I does cook good and clean good, too, Miss. I can mind chilren. Glory mih sista.’

Glory and Venus.

‘What’s your mother’s name?’

‘Maria. Like de Virgin. She live in St Lucia long time.’

‘Oh. Well ‒ my name is Mrs Harwood. Do come in.’

Venus stooped to enter. In our small flat she was a giantess. I didn’t know what to do or say, if I should offer her a Coke. I had never employed a servant before. Venus wore an A-line skirt and flip-flops, a thin cream shirt, all as a kind of ready-established uniform. It was clear that she had never done this before either. Her face strained to contain a well of natural mirth; her facial muscles twitched, wanting to grin from ear to ear. She was struggling hard to control this inclination.