The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (9 page)

‘Yes, he
does
.’

‘Oh God, Mummyuh, you blind when it come to
him
.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘He damn well tink everyone here chupid.’

‘Well, most people here
are
stupid.’

Pascal bunched her jaw, pushing her lips out.

‘My son is a very educated man.’

‘So? Sebastian shy and English when he come home. Trinidad too bold fer him. He look down on everyone. He not clever
enough
is my opinion.’

‘He cares about you very much.’

‘I care for
him
. He just too damn stiff.’

‘Gracious, some call it.’

‘Bite up, I call it.’

George got up and went to mix himself a fresh drink.

‘Dad, I’ll have another one, too.’ Pascale studied her father’s movements as he crossed the room.

Sabine appraised her grandchildren’s black skin. They were black, truly black. Not suntanned, not olive-skinned. Her grandchildren had Negro blood. African. They stared in the same mistrustful way the Africans did.

‘Anyway,’ Sabine continued, ‘he’s coming out for Easter. Alone.’

Pascale nodded. Sabine knew Pascale liked her brother despite their differences. Sebastian wasn’t stiff at all; he won over his sister like he won over everyone with his charming manner, his civilised ideas. Sebastian with his handsome open face; she had made beautiful children; no one could take that away from her. Tabitha had fallen asleep on the sofa. Zack picked his nose, still staring, like he always did. Sabine poked out her tongue and Zack half-smiled back, unsure.

Pascale leant over and stroked one of the dogs behind the ears. Her eyes drifted. ‘Daddy, you OK?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘You lookin’ a bit . . . peaky.’

‘I’ve got a headache.’

‘Want an aspirin?’

‘No. I’ve already taken one.’

Sabine wanted to talk more, but Pascale wasn’t interested. No one wanted to talk about the things she did.

‘So. Brian Lara, eh? I want a signed photograph. And his phone number.’

‘He’s already taken.’

‘So?’

If only Pascale had got away, too, escaped to the London College of Fashion, like she’d once planned. If only she hadn’t married that weak-chinned, jumped-up French Creole midget. As a child, Pascale covered the walls of the house in murals and graffiti, tiny flowers, bumble bees, all three feet from the ground; they scrubbed the walls of her room every other month. Now Pascale was getting fat, she mothered the children full-time, with the help of maids. Her children’s dark skin had been a surprise to them all. They’d come out much darker than their father, who wouldn’t admit he had
any
African in him at all.

 

Pascale left still gushing, tipsy, disappearing like a comet, leaving a trail of conversation-dust in her wake. George staggered to bed, sloshed. Sabine drifted out onto the grass, staring up at the hill above the house, the hip of the green woman, a woman lying on her side, never any doubt about that. A woman trapped in the mud, half sculpted from the sticky oil-clogged bedrock, half made. She was also stuck. Half out, half in. Hip, breast, a long travelling arm. Half her face, half her bushy tangled hair. Usually, she slept heavily and the earth hummed with the timbre of her snores. It could be chilly in the evenings. Cool fresh air, the mountain woman’s breath. Moments of peace, sometimes, out here.

You
, Sabine addressed the hill. All you do is watch. That’s all you’ve ever done. Sit back and observe the disaster going on.

It’s my privilege.

They can’t even fix the
roads
. Lay them down and then dig them up again. In all this time, no proper hurricane. They all veer away.

I don’t bring the winds.

George found my letters to Eric Williams.

Oh.

I’m glad.

Really?

Yes. After all these years. I’m glad. It even feels good. So, there it is. He can think what he likes. Think me mad. Maybe I was. All I know is
you
, you haven’t changed.

No, I don’t change.

I’ve
changed. I hardly recognise my face in the mirror. Another version of myself, of that woman who rode around so carefree on her bicycle. I thought loving George would be enough. But he loves you.

They all love me.

Yes. But you show no concern.

You’re free to go.
Go
.

You know I won’t, so long as he’s here.

Your son is coming soon.

Yes. Sebastian. He’ll make it all better for a short time.

 

Late morning, George strolled with the big dogs along his strip of Trinidad. A Carib in his hand, his hair blowing over to one side. La Blanchisseuse ‒ the washerwoman ‒ the name of this part of Trinidad’s northern coast. The women of the village once washed their clothes in the river near by and this coastline was named after them. Early morning and the sea ebbed and flowed in tame, measured swells; the white sand under the waves illuminated the water to a brilliant duck-egg blue. Tiny iridescent fish marauded through it, chased by larger silver fish, careet. November to March the sea was rough, heavy rollers breaking onto the shore. Today it was a lido out there between the shore and the black rock poking its snout from the water. In the rock a pool had formed, full of grunts and boxfish and feathery algae. A crowd of hoary pelicans sat about on the flat part and, when they took flight, in threes and fours, gliding with aerodynamic grace inches from the sea’s surface, the dogs leapt into the waves, paddling after them, woofing.

The beach, his beach, constituted a narrow strip of the coast. He owned, from the high-water mark-up, one acre of land between the beach and the road. Up here, past the busy tourist beach of Maracas, the road narrowed and the hills of the densely forested northern range gathered, protecting the coast. The remote village had emerged after the 1783 Cedula, higgledy-piggledy, by the sea, when the Spanish were settling new French Creole immigrants. Some of the colourful wooden creole homes still existed, perched precariously on the black rugged cliffs, above the waves, the spume floating up into their kitchens. Gulls hovered at the windows. The gardens were studded with conch shells. A thin beaten-up road ran past, no shops, no fresh water most of the time. In recent years the coast had turned into prime real estate with gargantuan Miami-style condos and homes blocking the view of the sea. A cluster of canary-yellow apartments were now selling for a million dollars each.

George had never built a beach house. He visited his plot once or twice a month to gaze out to sea, to walk the dogs, skinny-dip when the sea was calm, paddle about. A narrow sand-spit stretched from one end of the beach out to a craggy rock sprouting with cactus and sea-almond and manchineel trees. Harwood’s Spit, he called it. At low tide he could walk to the island along the strip of sand, observe the frigate birds diving and swooping, stealing what the smaller birds had caught, or watch the terns swinging on air-thermals. The spit’s water was transparent, it was like standing in a pool of gin. Translucent crabs skittered about on the sandy floor. Tiny fish pecked his toes.

Those letters ‒ was he upset? Hell, yes. At first it had been a shock, a dull weird fact unearthed. But now he was furious and an impotent seventy-five years old.
George isn’t here tonight, God knows where he is. I wonder about you all the time, your little girl. I know how you feel now that you’ve lost your wife. I know what that’s like. I wonder if we’ll meet again. Goodnight.

If only he’d known
then
. Eric Williams ‒ of all people! Jesus Christ. Williams had died a broken man. He had fucked up. George was like her, though, he could admit that; the same as Sabine, a cheat. He had cheated on Sabine all along, from that very first day, the day they arrived, stepping off the
Cavina
. It had been immediate, a strong physical attraction. He had fallen, and that was that. Head over heels, with the sounds and smells, with the smiles and shapes, with all the bewitching qualities of another woman called Trinidad.

 

George drove his truck into the forecourt of Winderflet Police Station. Everyone knew his crud-heap truck, the state of it. Can’t hide in a small place, can’t sin in a village, can’t fart without anyone hearing it and knowing what you had for lunch. Superintendent Bobby Comacho visited Winderflet once a month and George happened to know Bobby came, primarily, to visit his mistress. Bobby dropped round to see the boys at the station after sex, after lunch. He liked to have coffee at the station around four. George walked in to find him right there, sitting at the front desk, relaxed and happy, chatting to the officer in charge.

‘Hey, Bobby.’ George grinned.

Bobby turned. He recognised George instantly and stared with malice. Bobby was a fat man, eyes like a goldfish, sweat patches under his armpits. On his feet he wore caramel-coloured plasticated slide-on shoes, at least size fifteen. He had the balls of a moose, George had heard.

Bobby looked George up and down. ‘What you doin’ here?’ he growled.

‘Been reading the papers recently?’

‘Dat why you following me arong?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go home nuh, Mr Harwood. Go home to your fat ugly lady wife.’ Bobby laughed loudly. ‘When de last time you screw she, eh? You done brushin’ every odder ting rong here. And you comin’ in aksin’ if ah read de goddamn newspaper?’

George stood his ground.
Dear Mr Williams
danced inside his skull.

‘A friend of mine was badly beaten recently.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Bobby’s eyes were blank, his manner icy.

‘Yes. He says four policemen took him to the top of Paramin Hill. Only last week. Beat the crap out of him.’

Bobby raised his eyebrows. ‘Dat a very serious allegation.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which policemen?’

‘My friend could identify them. Says they came from Winderflet.’

‘Oho . . . an’
who
, apart from your friend, see dis happen? Eh?’

‘No one.’

‘No one see dis serious ting happen apart from dat lying lazy good-for-nuttin Talbot up der on de hill?’

‘I didn’t say it was Talbot.’ George smiled with relish. ‘But now you mention it, yes, I mean Talbot. Four broken ribs. A broken nose. He was in the St Clair medical centre for days.’

‘Dat son of an ass have plenty enemies.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ George snapped. ‘Talbot isn’t a
criminal
. He’s a young man, a poor illiterate young man; he’s too stupid to have enemies. He stuck his neck out and complained. One of your thugs took his mobile phone. He wanted it back. And he got it back all right.’

Bobby rose from the chair, standing to his full height of six foot four, peering down at George. ‘And you run straight to de goddamn newspapers, widout checkin’ your facts, print one setta nonsense?’

‘I didn’t write the story. I’m sure the news boys tried to check the story out, talk to someone here. No one is ever here, though.’

Bobby’s face hardened. That look came at him, from out of the centuries, blatant, powerful. Bobby, a giant black man glaring like he could kill, just with his eyes.

‘Talbot not so innocent,’ he breathed. ‘He a damn
fockin
’ tief. Bad as de resta dem. He mixin’ with some of de badjohns up der on de hill. We catch him in all kinda business. He runnin’ errands, he drivin’ car for dem ruffians. We watchin’ him all now and you come here tellin’ me how to do my job,
eh
? You wid your hoity-toity English accent, expekin’ me to jump to your attention, eh? Catch me off guard?’ Bobby steupsed long and loud, looking about.

The officer in charge nodded in passive agreement. The room pulsated with a garlicky odour: Bobby’s breath, Bobby’s lunch.

‘You some chupid ignorant white man. Dat Talbot had it
comin
’ to him. He dare complain? He up der laughin’ at us all now. He have you runnin’ circles. You asshole. How long you live in Trinidad?’

‘Long enough,’ George spat. ‘I’ve lived here long enough. Seen enough. You’re a disgrace. Your badge is a child’s toy. Your hat is a clown’s hat. You’re ridiculous. Justice? Serve and protect? Serve yourself. That’s your game, just like Mr Manning. You’re pathetic. Tiny-minded. So what if Talbot is in with the wrong sort. Your men have no right to
bludgeon
him. No right. You and those thugs. Your police force. He could’ve died up there on the hill. Those men should be had up in
court
.’

Bobby glared, incensed. He squared up to George and peered down into his face. He held his large hands high, as if proving to George that he had hands, letting George have a good look. He spread his long strong fingers into a fan in front of George’s nose, smiling, before slipping them under George’s armpits, squeezing his ribcage tight. He grabbed George hard, lifting him up against the wall, his toes barely touching the ground. ‘Why ent you
fock off,
eh?’

George felt the blood rush to his head. No words could come out.

Bobby looked like he was vividly alive, glowing with blood-lust. George fought the urge to urinate, copiously.

‘Eh? Mr Harwood. SIR. Why ent you leave long time? Wid de rest of dem? Eh? Leave we to run tings. Eh?’

George stared. He heard a dangerous interior sound, the porous creak of his ribs. His breath was short inside his lungs; he could hardly breathe. The garlic odour swam up into his nostrils. Bobby’s eyes were dilated, his lips swollen and parted.

‘You tink allyuh white man done any
better
? Eh? When allyuh run tings, you ent beat de black man? Eh? Allyuh superior? Better? Whiter? I sick an’ tired hearing all dis about black cops. You can kiss my black ass. Kiss my friggin’ black balls, too, kiss de friggin’ grong I walk on.’

He stared hard into George’s eyes, like any moment he might kiss him savagely or rip out his vocal cords. George tried to struggle, but it was no use. He was decrepit, old and frail, and his body had gone slack.