Small Island (55 page)

‘Finsbury Park,’ Gilbert said.

‘Is it nice?’

‘It need a bit of fixing up.’

‘Has it got furniture?’

‘Not yet, but . . .’

‘Gilbert, why not take the furniture from the room upstairs? If you like. We’ll not be needing it.’

‘No, thank you – it is kind but we will be all right, Queenie.’

‘No, take it, Gilbert. Honest, take it.’

‘I could not take your husband’s furniture,’ he said very deliberate and slow.

‘Look, give us a quid for the lot. Then I’ll have sold it to you.’

Gilbert shifted on his seat. Wouldn’t even glance in the direction of my eye. I’d said the wrong thing, but what? I’d never seen him look so awkward. I wanted to shout out, ‘Let’s just start again – let’s just do that scene again.’ But it was too late. Gilbert and I used to laugh together, what changed all that? The perspiration under my arms was seeping up like a wellspring. ‘Well, you decide, but you’re welcome to it if it would come in handy.’

There was a silence again when I heard the baby stirring. My ears were keen as a bat’s when it came to him. Couldn’t hear the wireless from the other room but if he so much as sniffed I knew about it. Felt it in my skin as if we were still attached. ‘Would you like to see the baby?’ I asked them. ‘Only you haven’t since he was born. He’s a bit less of a fright now. In fact, he’s beautiful. I’ll go and get him.’ I jumped up. I’d no intention of either of them telling me not to bother. But I caught them glancing to each other discreetly with a look of ‘How, in God’s name, can we get away now?’

The little mite was rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He gave a wide gummy yawn before his face started crinkling up ready to yell. Then he saw me watching him and began kicking his legs. I took out the shawl – the one Mother had used to christen me in our bleak local church. I’d kept it wrapped in muslin in a drawer. It had sat in there so long it was hard to rid it of the smell of mothballs. I’d washed it five times. It looked so white now – clean and fresh against his brown skin.

‘Here he is,’ I said, as I handed him, this lacy bundle, over to Hortense. I didn’t give her a chance to tell me she was nervous to hold him. She was flustered, messing around with her gloves, straightening up her coat. She took him, though. But, God, she was awkward with him! Held him out like he was a bolt of cloth she was taking for measuring. ‘Let me help you,’ I said. I had to grab him again in case she dropped him – she looked that unsure. ‘Just bend your arms and cradle him on them,’ I told her. She was so cack-handed I could hardly watch. I was short with her when I said, ‘Have you never held a baby before?’

‘Of course,’ she told me.

I’d affronted her, which wasn’t hard, but it did the trick. She shifted, moving him into the fold of her arms until he was resting snug as a baby should with a woman.

‘He’s a lovely boy,’ I told them both. ‘Good as gold. No bother at all.’

Her face, looking down at him, still carried the pinched lips of someone annoyed. But it soon began to soften. He could do that to anyone. His adorable heart-shaped face, glinting eyes and perfect bow mouth couldn’t be looked at for long without even the coldest soul warming. She leaned her head a little closer to his and said softly, ‘Hello.’ It was a start. She looked up to me to hand him back.

‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘He likes you. Listen, can you hear the noise he’s making? It means he’s happy.’ In truth I was worried he was about to cry. ‘You hold on to him for a bit,’ I said, before realising Gilbert couldn’t see him. ‘Show him to Gilbert. Gilbert, come over here.’ He lifted himself from his seat to look into the shawl. I patted away some of the fabric so he could get a better look. Hortense obliged me by moving the baby round a little.

‘You have name for him?’ Gilbert asked.

‘Michael,’ I said.

Hortense flinched. She looked up at me so quickly she startled the baby. He began to whimper. ‘Oh, careful,’ I said. Her wide eyes were still on me. ‘You all right?’ I asked her.

‘Oh, yes.’ She comforted him nicely back down. She rocked him a little. His whimpering just faded. She made sure he was comfortable again before she said to me, ‘Michael was the name of someone dear to me.’

‘You have a brother call Michael?’ Gilbert asked her.

‘Yes, my brother. He was killed in the war, you see.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry for your brother,’ I said. ‘But it’s a lovely name. I like it very much.’

‘Yes. It is a favourite name of mine,’ she said.

‘Wait, you tell me Gilbert not your favourite name?’ Gilbert said to her. Then returned her weak smile with a little wink.

She looked down at the little mite again repeating, ‘Michael,’ softly, twice like she was christening him with it. I wanted to hug her, thank her for caring what he was called. But I couldn’t. I just looked around me like an idiot and wittered something daft about the tea.

Michael started whimpering again. She was ready to hand him back to me. What must she have thought of me springing away from her sprightly as a flea? They both looked perplexed. ‘The tea – I must just help Bernard with the tea.’ And I was gone. Although I didn’t go into the kitchen, I went behind the door and watched her through the crack. She was doing all the right things with him. Swinging him gently in her arms on her lap, while Gilbert, looking down at him, carefully gave him his finger to chew. He said something close into her ear. Whispered it so I couldn’t make it out. She pouted her lips at Michael saying something in baby, then smiled. Gilbert did the same. They looked so right with him.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Bernard asked. He’d caught me spying on them, craning my neck at the crack of the open door.

‘Let me help you with the tray,’ I said. He wouldn’t let it go and we entered the room still tussling over it. Bernard plonked the tray on the table with such a thud the milk spilled from the jug. He went back to his paper without bothering to wipe it up. Grumpy blighter. I poured the tea, asking about sugar and milk. Two sugars for Hortense. Three for Gilbert, which made Bernard tut behind the news. I handed Gilbert his tea. But Hortense had Michael so she couldn’t take hers. I was holding her tea out to her not knowing how I could get it to her mouth. I knew she’d want to hand Michael back to me. She started shifting all awkward in the chair. There was no time left – I had to say it then.

‘Will you take him?’ I asked her.

She was puzzled by what I’d said. ‘I thought,’ she began, ‘that you might hold the baby so I could drink my tea.’

‘Will you take him?’ I said again.

‘But I already have him, Mrs Bligh.’

‘No. You don’t understand, listen.’ I was still holding the blinking cup of tea, the cup rattling on the saucer as my hand shook. I put it on the table and carried on, ‘Will you and Gilbert take him with you when you leave?’

‘Leave where?’ Gilbert said.

‘The house. When you move. Will you take him with you?’

I’d never seen frowns so deep. Both of them staring at me, trying to find some meaning or joke on my face. I knelt down on one knee. Took both of Gilbert’s hands in mine. He pulled them back but I grabbed them again. ‘Gilbert,’ I said. I squeezed his hands. ‘Will you take him with you? Look after him for me. Will you take him and look after him?’

There was a moment of stillness in the room before it fizzled like a live squib, once they realised what I meant. Both at once, questioning, ‘What you saying? . . . What you mean? . . . What you want?’

I pleaded to Hortense, turned to her. I was on both my knees now. ‘Take him and bring him up as if he was your son. Would you, would you, please?’

‘Mrs Bligh . . .’ was all she could get out.

‘Hortense, please. I trust you and Gilbert. I know you. You’re good people.’ I was begging, I know I was, but I didn’t care. She was trying to hand him back to me. I pushed him towards her again. Shoved the little mite back into her arms.

That was when I heard Bernard. ‘Queenie, what in God’s name are you doing?’ He was on his feet standing over me.

‘I want them to take him, Bernard.’

‘He’s your child. What are you saying?’

‘Listen, Bernard. He needs a home. A good home.’

‘He’s got a home.’

What the hell was the stupid man talking about? I just wanted him to shut up. Shut his bloody mouth. What was this to do with him? ‘Don’t speak, Bernard. Do you hear me? Just don’t speak,’ I yelled at him.

‘What are you thinking?’ He was red as a berry, pure anger looking down at me. But I needed to persuade Hortense and Gilbert and he was just getting in the blinking way. He grabbed me. Pulled me up from the floor. And Michael started crying. And Gilbert was on his feet telling Bernard to leave me or else.

I faced Bernard. Took a breath. ‘I need someone to look after him.’

‘You’re his mother.’

‘I know, but I can’t look after him. Bernard, we can’t look after him. Don’t you see?’ I pulled away from him. Gilbert sat and I got back on my knees. Michael was still whining but Hortense was softly shushing him.

And I heard Bernard ask, ‘Why ever not?’

It was so desperately spoken that we all stared at him. So earnestly asked that it should have been funny. Had he really no idea why we, two white people, could not bring up a coloured child? I was winded. I never expected that – Bernard questioning what was so obvious.

‘We can’t look after him,’ was all I could think to say.

‘Why not?’ Bernard asked.

I thought my argument would be with Gilbert or Hortense. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Because I don’t know how to comb his hair, Bernard,’ I said.

‘But that’s ridiculous. We’ll work something out.’

‘Bernard, what are you saying?’

‘We’ll bring him up.’

‘Oh, yeah? And what will we tell him when he asks? That we left him too long in the sun one day and he went black?’

‘There’s been a war, all sorts of things happened. Adopted, that’s what we’ll say. An orphan. Quite simple.’

Bernard had no right to be so sensible. So just. So caring. Words. He’d found them but he had no business to try to use them now to persuade. Make me think I could be wrong. Because I wasn’t – I knew I wasn’t. Crikey, I’ve never even seen a hummingbird! Not even in a book. Who’ll tell Michael what one is like?

‘He’s coloured, Bernard.’ I was crying. Drinking fat salty tears. ‘And . . . and he’s not your son.’ That shut him up. Flung him back in his seat with the blow. ‘You might think you can do it now,’ I told him, ‘while he’s a little baby saying nothing. But what about when he grows up? A big, strapping coloured lad. And people snigger at you in the street and ask you all sorts of awkward questions. Are you going to fight for him? All those neighbours . . . those proper decent neighbours out in the suburbs, are you going to tell them to mind their own business? Are you going to punch other dads ’cause their kids called him names? Are you going to be proud of him? Glad that he’s your son?’

‘Adopted, that’s what we can say,’ he said, so softly. This was blinking daft.

‘Bernard. One day he’ll do something naughty and you’ll look at him and think, The little black bastard, because you’ll be angry. And he’ll see it in your eyes. You’ll be angry with him not only for that. But because the neighbours never invited you round. Because they whispered about you as you went by. Because they never thought you were as good as them. Because they thought you and your family were odd. And all because you had a coloured child.’ He was going to say something else. Opened his mouth but nothing came out. ‘It would kill you, Bernard,’ I said. ‘Have you thought about all that? Because I have. I’ve done nothing but think about it. And you know what? I haven’t got the guts for it. I thought I would. I should have but I haven’t got the spine. Not for that fight. I admit it, I can’t face it, and I’m his blessed mother.’

At last I could turn back to Gilbert and Hortense. ‘I’d have to give him away, you see,’ I told them. ‘To an orphanage.’ I took Gilbert’s hand again. This time he let me. ‘And they don’t want them, you know – the coloured ones.’ I needed to stop crying – I had to explain carefully. I gulped on the tears. ‘In the newspaper they said they were going to send all the half-caste babies that had been born since the war – sons, daughters of coloured GIs mostly – they were going to send them to live in America.’ I giggled, but God knows why. ‘Gilbert, can you imagine? You remember, don’t you? The Americans. They’d want Michael to go up to the back of the picture house.’

Bernard turned himself away from us. And I knew why. It was the sight of me on my knees in front of these darkies. He sighed, or at least it sounded like it.

‘If I gave him to an orphanage,’ I carried on, ‘I’d never know about him. Never. And he wouldn’t know how much I loved him. And how all I wanted was to be a good mother to him.’They were just staring at me. I must have looked – no, I was – pathetic. ‘You might let me know how he was getting on. You might write to me and tell me. I know it’s a lot to ask.’

Gilbert’s troubled eyes were asking all sorts of questions.

‘I can give you money, if that’s the problem,’ I said.

‘No,’ Gilbert snapped. ‘Don’t sell your baby, Queenie.’

‘No, no, you’re right. I just want him to be with people who’ll understand. Can’t you see? His own kind. But I’ll do it any way you want to. Any way. But you have to say you’ll take him.’ Michael started to cry. I pressed both my hands together. ‘You know I’m begging. But it’s not for my sake. Honest to God, it’s not for me. I know you could give him a better life than I ever could. Don’t do it for me – please, do it for him. That’s what I’m on my knees for – my darling little baby’s life.’

Fifty-nine

Hortense

I never dreamed England would be like this. Come, in what crazed reverie would a white Englishwoman be kneeling before me yearning for me to take her black child? There was no dream I could conceive so fanciful. Yet there was Mrs Bligh kneeling before Gilbert and I, her pretty blue eyes dissolving beneath a wash of tears, while glaring on we two Jamaicans, waiting anxious to see if we would lift our thumb or drop it. Could we take her newly-born son and call him our own? Not even Celia Langley, with her nose in the air and her head in a cloud, would have imagined something so preposterous of this Mother Country.