Small Island (11 page)

‘Well, Celia,’ I told her, ‘you must let me meet this man who would take you far away from here.’

Standing, leaning against a wall, casually rifling the pages of a newspaper yet perusing the contents with a concentration that made him oblivious to our approach, was Celia’s airforce man. Her voice cracked with elation as, momentarily holding me back, she whispered, ‘There he is.’ The man lifted his hand and pushed a finger into his ear. His face contorted so with the effort of digging round this cavity that he looked to be killing a buzzing fly in there. It was when he removed his finger, carefully inspected the tip then wiped it down his trouser that I recognised him.

‘Well, hello again,’ this man said – not to Celia but to me.

Celia, confused, almost squeaked, ‘You have met before?’

I heard a plain voice – no lilting baritone – when the man said, ‘This is the woman who likes to put pawpaw on her foot.’

I protested, ‘I do not. I accidentally step in the fruit,’ while Celia’s eyes were fixed on me for an explanation.

But this man just kept on jabbering. ‘You step in it? Let me tell you, Celia, about this woman. But wait, this woman is not the friend you tell me of?’

Celia, nodding, tried to say, ‘We teach at the same—’ before this man was off again.

‘Celia has told me of her good friend and it is you. Cha, man!’ He sucked his teeth, shaking his head. ‘You. So you remember me?’

I made no reply, which did not discourage him.

‘Celia, let me tell you how I meet this woman. It was the day Busta speaking – by the corporation office. You know Busta? Bustemante? Everybody know Busta. So Busta speaking. Suddenly one quarrel break out. Everything that could be pick up is flying through the air. Boy, the confusion, everyone running this way and that. And there in the middle of the mighty battle is this young woman looking like she strolling to church in her best hat. So I rescue her.’

‘He rescued you?’ Celia asked.

‘You did what to me?’ I shouted to this man. ‘I did not need rescuing.’

‘Oh. As I recall the situation something was about to bounce off your pretty head and knock you flat.’

‘He rescued you?’ Celia said once more.

‘Yes, I rescue her. But the look on her face made me worry she gone turn round and bite me.’

‘And what about the pawpaw?’ Celia wanted to know.

‘Celia, I am glad you ask about the pawpaw – because I am sure your friend here does not tell you she likes to wear it on her foot.’

We waited quietly for this man to stop laughing at his joke. Celia had told me much about him but what she could not say was that sometimes when he laughed – lifting his chin and parting his lips, when he slapped his hand on to his leg and shook his head – he looked so like Michael.

‘I have been told you were in the RAF?’ I asked him.

‘This is true, but whisper what else Miss Celia has been telling you about me.’

Celia looked so abashed I thought she would dissolve.

‘You were in England?’

‘I am nervous now. You have a question for me, Miss Mucky Foot?’

‘Are you acquainted with a Michael Roberts?’

‘Who?’

‘Michael Roberts. He was also in the RAF. An air-gunner.’

‘Your sweetheart?’

If he had not grinned like a cheeky boy when he asked this question I might have answered. But he did, so I did not. Then, searching my face as if a story rested there, he became suddenly solemn. ‘There were many Jamaicans in the Royal Air Force but I did not know a Michael Roberts. Can you tell me more about him? Where was he stationed? You say he was an air-gunner, you know his squadron?’

I softly said no, then looked to my feet fearing that if he asked me another unanswerable question I might weep. The embarrassing silence that followed was soon filled with more of his chatter.

‘Well, Celia, now you know all about your crazy friend and her very strange ways you must introduce us.’

‘This is Hortense Roberts,’ Celia said quietly.

‘Oh, so this Michael is your brother?’ And still looking in my face he asked, ‘Celia, you can say something nice about me for your friend?’

She smiled, relaxed once more, saying, ‘Hortense, may I present the man who may or may not have rescued you from something? This is Gilbert Joseph.’

I accompanied Celia on several other occasions as she preened herself ready to meet this man. Oh, how my ears got tired of her repetition.

‘Hortense, one day I will be going to live in England.’

‘I know, Celia Langley, you tell me already!’

She will live there. She will do that. England, England, England was all she ever talked of. She wore me out with it. But I knew that when the day came she would think nothing of leaving her friend alone at that wretched parish school as she sailed the ocean in the arms of her big-talk man. And Gilbert Joseph took pleasure at my presence for no other reason than his big ideas received a larger audience than when it was just Celia alone.

On this day he walked between us through the park looking like a man who had recently purchased the moon and the stars. ‘You see how every man envy me. Them saying there is one fortunate man. Two pretty women. Him must have plenty something I have not got.’ He laughed, of course, then opened his elbows for us to slip our arms through. Celia held him this way but I did not.

‘Go on, Hortense,’ he urged. ‘You want them think I lose me touch already?’

And he talked. He talked tirelessly, beginning sometimes with a question to Celia and myself as if a discussion might take place. ‘Let me ask you this one question,’ he would say. But he required no reply from either of us. No encouragement was necessary – he simply answered the enquiry himself and carried on. I was breathless just listening to this man. And all his talk, all his chatter was on just that one subject.

‘Let me ask you this one question – you ever see a picture of the House of Parliament in London? It is a sight, let me tell you. When you stand there before it, it looks to all the world like a fairytale castle. You think dragons will breathe fire on you soon. You must see this place.’

Celia had to drop her hand from his crooked elbow when the passion of his story required him to wave his arms for effect. ‘And Nelson’s Column. You heard of Nelson’s Column? One man so renowned they stick him so high-high in the air, your neck get stiff looking for him. You can hardly see him. Sometimes when the fog come, him vanish completely – only the pigeons can know him still there.’

As we walked through the dappled shade of a tree he bent to pick a discarded leaf from the ground. Holding it in the flat of his palm he became quiet. As he looked thoughtful at it in his hand his voice – unexpectedly gentle, almost melodious – described how in England the trees lose their leaves before the winter months. Every leaf on every tree turns first red and then golden. With the wind or the passing of time these dazzling leaves fall from the trees covering the parks, the gardens, the pavements with a blanket of gold. ‘And you can walk through these autumn leaves. Everywhere. Children kick them up into the air, or pick up handfuls and throw them into the wind. Everybody does it. Everyone delighting in the leaves that float around them like golden rain.’ He lifted his palm, which held the browning leaf, closer to Celia, saying, ‘Imagine this everywhere.’

‘Oh, I would like to see that,’ Celia said.

At which Gilbert, throwing his leaf to the breeze, stretched his arms open to her saying, ‘Then come now with me to England, Celia.’

Celia’s eyes widened like a playful puppy’s. ‘Shall I go, Hortense?’ She giggled.

He took her hands in his. ‘We leave on the next boat.’

‘And what about my class?’

‘Your friend here can teach your class for you,’ Gilbert joked. ‘Hortense will take care of everything – won’t you, Hortense? She will write to us of the hurricanes and the earthquakes and the shortages of rice on this small island, while we sip tea and search for Nelson on his column. Will you come, Celia?’

Celia’s eyes were dazzled by that blanket of gold. ‘I shall go,’ she said.

And Gilbert said, ‘Good.’

All seemed to be decided between them so I felt it important for me to ask, ‘But what about your mother, Celia? Am I to look after her too?’

The playful light in her eyes was suddenly extinguished. She stood as still as stone.

‘Bring your mother. We will row with her on the Thames.’ Gilbert laughed before he noticed Celia’s eyes steadily gazing on my face. ‘Or leave her,’ he said slowly, looking first at Celia and then at me. ‘What is wrong with your mother?’ he asked.

‘Celia’s mother is not at all well,’ I told him. He looked a quizzical eye on me. And I looked to Celia so she might explain to this man the nature of her mother’s ailment. But she did not. Instead she dropped her head to gaze on her feet. So it was left for I to tell this man about her mother and the incident with the airmen on parade. Some parts of the story became a little confused in my mind. When was it that her wig dropped off? How many airmen did it take to hold her back? How far did we chase her before she tripped on one of her dresses? I appealed to Celia to help me with clarification but she refused to look in my face. It was kindly that I concluded the tale by telling Gilbert that the reason Celia’s mother could not accompany them to England was because she was unfortunately quite mad. I looked between them in the silence that followed the tale.

‘I’m sorry to hear that about your mother,’ Gilbert said.

Celia lifted her head to him with a tiny smile for the briefest moment only.

And I said, ‘Yes, I am also sorry for her.’

But she did not smile that thank-you look to me.

The ensuing silence had Gilbert scratching his head in an embarrassed manner when suddenly he said, ‘Shall I see if I can get some ice-cream?’ The man had disappeared before I could tell him that I was not fond of that icy cold stuff.

I was just about to say something nice to Celia, I forget what but something condoling, when she lifted her face to me. There was menace in her eye. Her ample lips were pulled taut into the line of a vicious glower. I did not see it coming – her fist. It came up from behind her and whacked me full in the head. So hard was the blow I nearly fell off my feet as I stumbled dizzy back. When my eyes could once again focus it was to discern my friend Celia walking haughty away from me at great speed.

‘Celia,’ I tried to call after her, but that wretched girl had smacked all voice from me.

Seven

Hortense

An intended marriage requires three weeks for the banns to be published. We had just enough time. Three weeks with only one day to spare before the ship sailed for England. The minister sitting us on a pew in the small parish church proceeded to remind us, with an expression as solemn as a Sunday sermon, that marriage was a sanctity. Witnessed by God, it was not to be entered into idly or ill-advisedly.

Gilbert nodded like a half-wit as the minister went on. He threw his head back, looking to the church roof, when asked the question, ‘How long have you and your wife-to-be known each other?’ Tapping the side of his face with his fingers, mumbling, ‘Now let me see . . .’ he lingered so long with this deliberation that the minister resumed his sermon without receiving an answer. As the minister talked of the joy of seeing two young people embarking on a cherished life together after a period of unprecedented upheaval, Gilbert, satisfied with his trickery, looked furtively to me and winked.

* * *

‘Married!’ Mrs Anderson yelled. ‘But how long have you two known each other?’

‘Oh, now, let me see . . . Five days,’ Gilbert said.

‘It will be three weeks and five days by the time we are married,’ I explained.

‘And three weeks and six days will have passed when I sail to England to see the place is nice for the arrival of my new wife,’ Gilbert added.

There was complete silence at the table – even the old woman ceased sucking her chicken bone to stare on us. Suddenly Mrs Anderson pushed back her chair, leaped from her seat and wrapped her arms round me before moving on to Gilbert whom she hugged so tight his head almost disappeared into the crease of her bust.

‘So you like jazz, Gilbert?’ was all Mr Anderson wanted to know.

Returning to England was more than an ambition for Gilbert Joseph. It was a mission, a calling, even a duty. This man was so restless he could not stay still. Always in motion he was agitated, impatient – like a petulant boy waiting his turn at cricket. He told me opportunity ripened in England as abundant as fruit on Jamaican trees. And he was going to be the man to pluck it.

‘Your brother still there?’ he asked.

‘My brother?’

‘This Michael you ask me of – your brother – he still in England?’

‘Perhaps he is,’ I told him.

‘Well, you must let me know his address and I can look him up for you.’

But this big-ideas man had no money. He had spent all his money, he confided to me, on bees.

‘On bees?’ I asked.

He had some crazy notion about honey producing money. His cousin in St Mary convinced him that keeping bees was foolproof. All he had to do was give this cousin the money to buy hives, jars and printed labels and soon the money from the honey would send Gilbert winging to England.

‘But,’ he told me, ‘this cousin of mine lost the bees.’

‘How you lose bees?’ I asked.

His reply? ‘It is not easy, but it can be done.’

This small setback had left him undeterred. He had another money-making idea. Postcards. Tourists, he told me, who were now flocking to this island for sun and rum need postcards – pictures, scenes of the many wonders of Jamaica to send back to their family at home. He would swiftly be posted to England on the money he made. He sold two. Both to Jamaicans who tearfully remembered the places in the pictures from their youth. The money he made clinked in his pocket. But he was not downcast. He had another plan, he said.