The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (32 page)

 

George and I made love often, sometimes twice a day. Once, George returned home from work early, full of passion. The children were asleep, Venus was preparing dinner.

‘I’ve been thinking of you,’ he whispered into my neck, as he pulled me into his arms.

In the bedroom he peeled off my clothes, gasping at my still-swollen belly, my milk-laden breasts. I was overripe, vulnerable, fruit exploded and fallen from the branches of my former life. George fed on me, just like an infant, even more love-struck with the mother-wife I’d become than the girl he’d met on the beach-front. He delighted in my body’s changes; he was intoxicated with my new shape and smells. Our lovemaking was full of hope for the future.

In the early hours of the next morning, the room was still dark and the day still unbroken when George moved over me.

‘I know you’re all relying on me,’ he whispered. ‘I know only too well. And you can trust me. I’ll be there for you, all three of you.’ But he sounded lost or somehow sorry for himself.

 

The children learnt to swim before they could walk. We tied a foam bubble around their honey-brown bellies and tossed them in the sea. Both swam like dolphins. The four of us often went to Tobago to swim in the flat transparent waters at Pigeon Point.

‘They’ll be so different from the other children when they return,’ I commented. ‘Like little urchins.’

‘Sea urchins,’ George laughed.

‘We can send Sebastian to your old school.’

‘Indeed,’ he agreed.

I was happy then. I saw us moving back to our house, a wedding present, in Harrow on the Hill. I saw the children living at home with us. They would have dual nationality ‒ born in the Caribbean, but able to get British passports because of George. I saw them integrated and settled back into a more civilised lifestyle. Little did I know that George’s old school took boarders.

 

But we stayed on ‒ signed another contract. Forbes-Mason promoted George to managerial status. George persuaded me: he was so eager about the new position in the company.

‘And our children are so perfect, like you,’ he whispered. ‘You have made me rich. Let me repay you. Let me make something of myself here.’ We fell into a swoon of success: George’s new position, a bigger salary, our beautiful children. I was almost happy in that small house opposite the Country Club. The babies distracted me.

‘I want to show you something,’ George announced one day.

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ll take you there.’

‘But the children . . .’

‘Venus is here.’

I went to get my handbag and sunglasses, rather excited, hoping George had bought me a present.

He drove me down Saddle Road, way down, past St Andrew’s Golf Club and then past Andalusia Estate, where the road became very broken and full of potholes; then even further down into lower Winderflet, following the river, driving towards the turning for Maracas.

‘Are we going to the beach?’

‘No.’

We turned a corner. Ahead of us lay a stretch of badly surfaced road, a wall of mountains to the right, to the left what had once been a cocoa estate, Perseverance Estate, now fallen into ruin. George drove a little further and stopped the car.

‘Why have we stopped?’

‘To look at the view.’

‘What view?’

‘Of our land.’

‘
What
?’

George got out and walked over to my side, spreading his arms out, gesturing across a wide expanse of bush. ‘What do you think?’

I stared.

‘George, what do you mean?’

‘All this is ours.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘No. I paid one dollar per square foot. I’ve bought three plots, all this right along the road.’

I didn’t get out of the car. George got back in and started the engine, driving slowly past his purchase, examining it with pride. I was silent, trying to understand. We’d passed this stretch of bush many times on the way to the beach. I had ignored it; it was meaningless.

‘Don’t you like it?’

I laughed.

‘It’s prime property.’

I glared at the land. Impenetrable scrub; the grasses were neck high. It wouldn’t have been possible to walk on it.

‘What do you think you’re going to do with it?’

‘Build a house.’

‘
What
? You’re
crazy
. Oh no, no, no. Here?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘I’m not living here! In this jungle.’

‘We’ll raze it all, clear it off. You’ll see.’

‘Nobody lives out here, George. I’m not living out here on my own, with you at work all day. Are you mad?’

‘Others will buy. We’re the first.’

‘We already have a home. In England, remember?’

His eyes glazed over.

I understood it then: now that I had babies George thought I was content
for ever
in Trinidad
.

‘Stop the car,’ I commanded. George stopped. I got out and slammed the door, stalking back the way we came, down the broken tarmac.

George ran after me. ‘Sabine, Sabine, I’m sorry, darling . . . please . . . I thought you’d be excited. Try to see, try to think ahead. It’ll be beautiful here one day.’

I turned and bashed his chest with my handbag, hitting him again and again. Then I slapped him hard across the face.

‘You fool,’ I shouted. ‘I won’t live out here. What do you think I am? You think you can bring me out here on a
safari?
You think I’m made for this, all
this
,’ I screamed, pointing up at the dense glowering hills which surrounded the land he had bought. ‘You think I’ve gone native, too, like you. Creole? Eh? You think I like this island as much as you do? No. I’m not living here,
ever
. Do you understand? You’re a fool, a stupid English fool. It’s time to go anyway, George. Can’t you see that? It’s time for us all to go.’

 

Later that day, after Venus had left, I drove into Port of Spain to shop. On the way back, I spotted her carrying a heavy bag on her head. She’d been into town, too, and was on her way home. It didn’t occur to me to drive on, that she didn’t want a lift from me, that this was how we had arranged things over the years, everything separate after working hours. I slowed down.

‘Venus,’ I called across. ‘Want a lift?’

She looked askance at first.

‘Come on. Hop in,’ I urged. ‘I’ll take you to the bottom of the hill, if you like.’

Venus gave in, smiling. I could tell the bag was heavy.

‘Tanks, madam.’

And then she was in the passenger seat, me driving her, the two of us outside my home for the first time since we’d met five years before. We drove along in silence. Quickly we came upon the spot where I had agreed to drop her off, but I turned left rather than stopped. When she didn’t complain I accelerated, up Morne Cocoa Road, which once connected the plantations in one valley with other plantations; the road wound and rose steeply.

‘I shall take you home,’ I said, decidedly.

Venus made a wry smile. I took this to mean I could come up. It wasn’t exactly an invitation. I was delighted. Even though I wasn’t a confident driver, I managed those hairpin curves.

‘Stop,’ Venus said suddenly, as I approached a particularly steep bend.

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

I looked across.

Back from the road, surrounded by bush, was a house. Or, more accurately, what was left of a house, an old chattel house, its exterior so ancient it seemed somehow silken, as if settled on by thousands of moths. The roof was made of sun-bleached planks nailed haphazardly. Remnants of heat-soiled fretwork clung to the eaves. Once, there had been sturdy posts for legs. But now the house balanced. On rubble, on broomsticks and bedheads and planks of wood jooked up into its under-work. Beneath the house rose piles of flat river-stones which had been carefully laid on top of each other to make columns. One corner of the house jutted into thin air. A flight of skinny concrete stairs ran from the ground up to the front door. But there was no front door. Instead, a grey and ragged sheet, knotted in the middle, hung as the door. Despite its utter disrepair, its bone-bare exterior, the house had a faint air of contempt. The house gazed down at me.

Venus saw the concern on my face.

‘Madam, six generations borned in dat house,’ she said. ‘Dat house steady as a
rock
.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘Yeah, man.’

I laughed. It was late afternoon, still light.

‘Granny,’ Venus shouted upwards.

I was nervous at the prospect of finally meeting Granny Seraphina. I looked around. Outside the house, on the well-swept dirt floor, a living area had been set up, four battered plastic garden chairs in a circle, a blackened coal-pot near the concrete steps. A cockerel and some chickens pecked about. Other homes crouched in the long grasses near by some were wooden and decrepit, just like Venus’s house, designed to be movable once, years ago. They had become grindingly permanent, part of the hill itself. The neighbourhood was silent and the immense and hovering Paramin mountainside seemed to cause this silence.

The sheet curtain at the door quivered. A thin dark figure appeared on the top step, a toddler clamped to one bony hip. She wore a plain shift dress and her white-wool hair was covered by a red headscarf.

‘Granny,’ Venus called up. ‘Come down and meet Mrs Harwood.’

Granny stiffened, perceptibly, at the sound of my name.

Venus smiled at me. ‘Doh mine Granny.’

I nodded.

Granny began a stiff-legged climb down the concrete stairs; it looked somehow theatrical. Her legs were so spindled that she took each step slowly and emphatically, one by one, making us wait, as though she were a dignitary.

‘Sit down,’ Venus offered, and gestured to one of the plastic chairs by way of hospitality.

‘We have Cannings sweet drinks in de cooler. Big Red, Mango Solo. Cokes.’

‘A Coke would be wonderful,’ I said, sitting down.

Venus disappeared round the side of the house.

I sat with my back facing Granny. Sweat sprang in my palms. When she appeared all at once, in front of me, clasping the toddler, I rose to my feet.

‘Hello, Granny, I’ve heard so much about you.’ I fought the urge to curtsy. Granny didn’t put out her hand to shake mine, didn’t even say hello. She simply nodded, presenting herself, as if no further introduction was necessary.

So, this was Granny Seraphina. Her face was small and rounded, a concoction of mahogany curves. Her eyes were hideous, a crystalline yellow-gold, the eyes of a wary jungle cat. The expression in them was stern, derisory. It was impossible to tell her age. Ninety? A hundred and fifty? Granny was no slave ‒ but her parents, yes, certainly. Clive, Venus’s oldest child, a two-year-old, clung to her hip and stared at me with a look akin to Granny’s.

‘Sit down,’ Granny ordered.

I sat again and she sat too, heavily, with the child. I smiled and sweated and tried to meet her gaze. We sat for what seemed like minutes.

‘Venus tell meh you been to de University,’ Granny said, abruptly.

I was amazed that Venus had mentioned this.

‘Yes.’

‘Hmmmmm.’ She nodded, clicking her throat.

‘He’s quite a speaker, isn’t he?’

Granny nodded slowly, as if at something else, as if she wasn’t quite with me.

I was determined to keep up a conversation. ‘Venus tells me you’re now a member of the People’s National Movement.’

Granny smiled, full-toothed. ‘Tink you might join, too?’ Her face broke and she grinned: a trick question.

‘Would the PNM have me?’

Granny’s eyes glowed; they searched my face. ‘Join, nuh, see what happen.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not as devoted as you to their ideas. I’m only a visitor here. Eric Williams will be Prime Minister and we’ll be gone by then, with many others, I imagine.’

Granny cocked her head. Her mouth set into a glum determined grimace. ‘You like it here, in Trinidad? You enjoy your stay?’

I looked around. The shack seemed as if it might tumble down the hill any moment. I felt alone and humbled and wanted to tell the truth.

‘No. I don’t like it here.’

Granny nodded.

‘Trinidad doesn’t like me.’

She seemed pleased with this.

‘Eric Williams doesn’t like me.’

‘No, man. Time fer change.’

‘Yes, Granny. I can see that.’

‘De Doc a smart man. De smartest man in Trinidad.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you met him?’

Granny clicked her throat. She shook her head.

‘I think he’s unique. So does Mr Harwood. A man like him comes along once a century.’

‘Most white people doh tink so. Dey ‘fraid he.’

‘I know.’

‘Jealousy.’

‘Yes. Or nervous.’

‘Dey is nervous, man.’

‘Granny, I’m the same. Make no mistake.’

‘You ’fraid de Doc?’

I nodded.

‘Praise de Lord. Don’t be afraid. Doc Williams de fadder o’ alluh us. Bless Dr Williams.’ Her face lit with reverence. Her yellow eyes rested on me, righteous and placid, as superior as Christobel had been. ‘Eric Williams arrive too late in my life. But he’ ‒ she jiggled the toddler on her knee ‒ ‘he will grow up into a different society. Tings will be different for he. My grandson. Maybe even Clive will be Prime Minister one day.’

I looked at her carefully. ‘Well, he has a good role model.’

But Granny’s face fell as she gazed at the ground, at her feet, at a future full of promise. She was ready for it. And there was something in the way the child Clive regarded me, something so blank and evidently indifferent, which made me feel uneasy.