Clover's Child (7 page)

‘Sounds good!’ Sol enthused.

‘Do you walk very fast as well as run very fast?’

Sol shook his head, trying to pick up the thread of Barbara’s conversation. ‘I’m not sure – I can run fast, but I don’t know about walking, why do you ask?’

‘My dad said that black people have extra bones and muscles in their legs and that’s why they make such good runners.’

Barb busied herself with the bolt of fabric while Sol wheezed into a tissue, trying not to offend Dot’s friend.

Dot couldn’t wait to escape. ‘Oh my God, what is she like?’

‘She’s priceless!’

As they strolled around Hyde Park their conversation flowed without awkward pauses or edits, as though they had shared experience and many years of friendship under their belts. After tea and cake at a Lyons Corner House, their day was nearly done. It was turning into a crisp London dusk: the light was almost pink and the pavement felt hard and cold beneath their feet. Sol was fascinated by the destinations on the fronts of the chunky crimson buses that trundled around the streets, places familiar to him through movies and literature; Trafalgar Square, Greenwich, the Embankment, Highgate – he could jump on any one of those buses and be taken there. It reminded him how small St Lucia was, twenty-seven miles give or take, top to toe.

Dot dipped her chin inside her coat; it was getting chilly. ‘Fancy the pictures?’

‘Do I fancy what pictures?’

Dot laughed. ‘The flicks, the movies!’

‘Oh! Sure, what’s on?’

‘I don’t care! I just don’t want to go home yet.’ She was bold and truthful.

‘Well what a coincidence! Neither do I.’

Dot ran ahead. Sol laughed, her words having echoed his thoughts. Pulling his coat into his chest, he followed in her wake.

By the time they’d emerged from the Curzon and had made their way east to Limehouse It was nearly ten o’clock. Ropemakers Fields was dark and for this Dot was grateful; she didn’t want there to be any chance of Sol seeing Mrs Harrison’s hateful sign, were he to venture that far up the street. A thin mist of rain fogged the air and made the cobbles shine in the lamplight. Curtains were pulled and the only light came from the gaps in nets or mis-pulled drapes, where the dazzle of a light bulb glinted on the damp pavement. Sol ran his hand over the bonnet of the pale blue Austin Seven Mini, the only car on the street; it belonged to the clever boy at Number 29 who was off to university to study something to do with science, according to Mrs Harrison. He peeked inside at the leather seats and tried to picture it bounding along the rugged, sand-filled tracks that led to Soufrière, down on the south-west coast of St Lucia.

Sol walked Dot to the end of her road, as per her request, no further. He tried not to show too much interest in the narrow little houses all squashed together along the pavement. Not to mention the faintly sulphurous odour in the air. It looked poor, it smelled poor and it wasn’t what he had expected. Not Caribbean living-on-the-streets poor, but certainly not what he imagined he would find in the capital city of England.

He pictured the Jasmine House sitting high on the hill above Rodney Bay, with its view of the Pitons in the distance. He visualised the eponymous night-flowering jasmine that clung to the wrap-around veranda, filling the evening and early-morning air with its pungent scent. He recalled the way the smell drifted up through the windows, snaking through the freshly painted white shutters and permeating any fabric that hung in the breeze. The French muslin around the frames of the mahogany four-poster beds constantly held the delicate perfume and the mere brush of a finger was enough to release the fragrance into the room. He was beginning to realise the level of luxury and privilege that he had grown up with.

‘Thank you for today, for showing me around, for everything.’ He kicked his heel against the edge of the pavement.

‘No, thank
you
! It’s been great! And thank you for my material. I shall give it a lot of thought and try and make something worthy of it, something that will always remind me of today.’

‘That’s good. It was a day wrapped in clover…’

Dot smiled at the reference to their song. ‘Yes it was.’

‘Hey, I think I know what I should call you. I think I’ll call you Clover. A Dot is something so small and insignificant – that’s not a name for someone like you.’

Dot smiled again; she had never felt anything other than small and insignificant. Clover… it sounded lovely.

‘Clovers are lucky for some, you know. And it’s from our favourite song.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been lucky for anyone!’ Dot beamed, more at the fact that he had said ‘our favourite song’, as though they were connected. She forgot playing it cool and was now grinning up at him, holding the brown paper bag of sky-blue drill close to her chest.

Sol leant forward conspiratorially. ‘I hate this end-of-date moment. In fact I’ve been dreading it since we first met this morning.’

‘Oh, I see; a date was it? And there was me thinking I was helping you out with a bit of sightseeing.’

Sol looked bashful. ‘It’s difficult for us boys, y’know; we’re supposed to take the lead, but I never know whether to lean in for a quick kiss or shake hands. It feels like there are so many ways that I could get it wrong and I don’t want to ruin my chances.’

‘I’d say your chances are pretty good.’ Dot gave him a sideways glance.

‘You see, girl, some might interpret that as an invitation to lean in.’ Sol placed his hand on her waist and drew her towards him.

‘Some might be right,’ she whispered.

He moved his hands to the nape of her neck, pushing until his fingers were entwined in her hair, letting the silky strands slip through his fingers. Holding her head fast, he brought his face down to meet hers and hovered over her mouth. She reached upwards on tiptoes and touched her lips against his. The two smiled and touched their noses together.

‘I’ll see you soon?’ He ran his thumb over her jaw. She could only nod. A gurgle of excitement and pure joy blocked her throat, making speech impossible.

‘Clover…’ Sol called out from down the street as she fumbled to get the key into the lock.

‘What?’ She beamed.

‘Nothing, I just like saying your name.’

‘Daft apeth.’ Although in truth she didn’t think it was daft at all, she thought it was bloody wonderful!

Dot shut the front door behind her and rested her back against the glass. Her heart raced.

‘That you, Dot?’ Joan called from the back room. ‘Howdja get on, love? I was getting a bit worried. Your dad’s gone up already, so keep it down. You’re later than I thought you might be. D’yfancy a cuppa? Dee’s coloured you in a picture of a bowl of fruit, it’s on your bed. Have you eaten? You weren’t with him the whole time, were you, love? Did you meet up with Barb?’

Dot breathed deeply, trying to calm her pulse. She touched her fingers to her mouth and pushed at the slight swell of her lower lip. It was as if she could still feel the warmth where his beautiful mouth had touched hers. Her mother could not have guessed that in the preceding five minutes her daughter and the universe in which she existed had been altered. Joan was speaking, but it was a background hum, the details of which Dot could not decipher. Her head was filled with the lilting lyrics
My lonely days are over/And life is like a song
and imprinted behind her eyelids was the image of his face, his liquid brown eyes, his perfect teeth and that sweet, gentle kiss.

3

Two days later, Dot let the fire-door slam behind her and stepped onto the busy West End pavement. She had only done a half day, but it was enough, considering how little sleep she was getting. The last couple of nights she had fallen onto her feather mattress physically exhausted. But her mind surfed on a sea of ‘maybes’ and her body twitched and twisted until the early hours, which made sleep impossible. There was one reason for these distractions – Sol. Sol.

She looped the lime-green chiffon scarf about her neck and tied it into a large bow, enough to lift her drab, mud-coloured mac and American Tan tights.

‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

‘What?’

She turned to face the voice, the same voice that had disturbed her sleep and haunted her dreams ever since she first heard it. Her heart thudded and soared, not with shock but excitement. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck with relief.
At last/My love has come along
…

Over the last couple of days, Dot had felt a constant, overwhelming desire to be in his company; any situation or chore that kept them apart was simply a waste of her time. She wished the tone of her reply hadn’t been quite so sharp. Of course she had heard and understood him the first time, but she needed to hear the words again. Her imagination was so vivid when it came to Sol, she needed to reassure herself that he was real, needed to seek out any hint that he might feel the same.

‘I said, I’ve been thinking about you. In fact I’ve been thinking about you constantly since we met. I can’t eat – which as anyone that knows me would tell you, is most unusual – and I can’t sleep and it’s all your fault.’

‘Is that so?’ Dot ran her tongue over her teeth, checking for any cerise lipstick that might have adhered there.

‘Yep. And to tell you the truth, Lady Clover, it’s proving to be a bit of a distraction. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything: I can’t work, my paperwork is full of errors, I don’t hear what is said to me because I am not thinking straight and I don’t know what to do. I’ve considered playing it cool, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that when you turn me to jelly, which is not cool at all. So I’ve decided the best option is to come clean, forget cool and be honest.’

‘I see. And how long ago is it exactly, since we met and your beauty sleep was disrupted?’

Sol looked at his watch. ‘Well I’m not exactly sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say seven days, seventeen hours, twelve minutes and eighteen seconds, no nineteen, no twenty—’

‘I get it, Sol, just over a week ago.’ She smiled.

‘Yes, just over a week. But, seriously, you have not left my head for one second since that moment. Not one.’

Dot felt her gut twist with excitement and happiness.
Imagine!
His head filled with her.

‘And what about you?’ he pushed, looking at his shoes, his voice quieter now. ‘Have you been thinking about me?’

Dot placed her small hands in her pockets and looked down at the pavement. It was easier not to make eye contact – anything rather than acknowledge the weight of his question. ‘Only when I’m awake.’

Her voice was quite small, but Sol heard the lie nonetheless. He grinned. ‘It’s as I thought, Clover, the genie is out of the bottle!’

‘What does
that
mean?’

He leant forward and she had to match his stance to hear his words, which were uttered in barely more than a whisper. ‘It means that sometimes the universe conspires and we are merely pawns that have no option but to go with the situation that forces far bigger than us have decreed. And it’s not a matter of what we
want
, but whether we have the strength or desire to fight against it.’

Dot sniffed. ‘Well, I understood about half of that, I think.’

Dot Simpson had witnessed her mum and dad amiably bumbling along, laughing through the hard times and ploughing on even though sometimes life must have felt like wading through treacle. She’d watched her mum prepare a thousand meals while her dad read a thousand newspaper stories. Their life was like a treadmill of chores and, for her mum, work, with little time or money for fun. Love was the glue that held them together; she would often find them dancing or kissing when they thought no one was looking. But the way Dot felt right now, like a light had been switched on in a dark room, and with her heart aching during the hours they spent apart, she doubted they had ever felt like that. The way she felt about Sol was exciting and confusing in equal measure.

‘Sol?’

‘Yes?’

‘I think it is what I want.’

Sol grinned and squeezed her hand. ‘How about that stroll then?’

Dot nodded and linked her arm through his.

* * *

Dot sat at the table in the back room and tried not to comment as Dee swung her little legs in rhythm, kicking Dot’s shins from the opposite chair. Dot pushed the boiled ham and pease pudding around her plate, loading up her fork, but not actually lifting any to her mouth.

‘You gonna eat that, Dot or just play with it?’

‘What?’

‘Yer dinner!’ snapped Joan. ‘You’ve been shoving it around the plate since you sat down. If you don’t want it, give it to your dad or wrap the ham up for tomorrow and I’ll make sandwiches.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘No, I gathered that, love. Not sickening for something are you?’

‘No, Mum. Just tired, I think.’

‘It’s all that gallivanting off with God knows who,’ Reg grumbled. ‘Coming in at all hours. You need a coupla early nights, girl.’

‘No, I’m all right, Dad. In fact, I’m enjoying meself for once and ten o’clock isn’t exactly all hours.’

‘Oh Gawd, here we go – violins, please – what a terrible life you’ve had! Cooped up here with us wicked parents. Enjoying yourself? I should be so bloody lucky!’ Reg forked his daughter’s unwanted pease pudding onto his plate.

Joan ignored her husband.

‘Ooh, I meant to say, I saw Sol, that black fella today, Dot.’

‘Oh?’ She tried to sound nonchalant, aware that a scarlet stain of embarrassment had crept along her neck and over her scalp.

‘Who’s Sol when he’s at home?’ Reg asked.

‘You know, the young darkie bloke that lives in the top flat with his parents; they’ve come over from God knows where. I told you, Reg, the ones we had the do for a few weeks back.’

Reg nodded and filled his mouth, which was now only an inch or so from the plate in front of him.

‘Anyways,’ Joan continued, ‘he looked proper smart, in a suit, shiny shoes and everything. He was getting into a flash car; don’t know where he was off.’

Dot drew a deep breath as she rehearsed the words inside her head. It had to be said sooner or later and it might as well be now. She decided to keep it casual.
‘He was off to meet me, actually…’