White Teeth (50 page)

She waved to him and he straightened up and waved back. Irie watched him pick up two plastic bags filled with tomatoes and walk in his strange pigeon-footed manner up the garden towards the back kitchen door.

‘An’ he de only man who made a solitary ting grow out dere. Such a crop of tomatoes as you never did see! Irie Ambrosia, stop starin’ and come an’ do up dis dress. Quick before your goggle-eye fall out.’

‘Does he live here?’ whispered Irie in amazement, struggling to join the two sides of Hortense’s dress over her substantial flank. ‘I mean, with you?’

‘Not in de sense
you
meaning,’ sniffed Hortense. ‘He is jus’ a great help to me in my ol’ age. He bin wid me deez six years, God bless ’im and keep ’is soul. Now, pass me dat pin.’

Irie passed her the long hat pin which was sitting on top of a butter dish. Hortense set the plastic carnations straight on her hat and stabbed them fiercely, then brought the pin back up through the felt, leaving two inches of exposed silver sticking up from the hat like a German pickelhaube.

‘Well, don’ look so shock. It a very satisfactory arrangement. Women need a man ’bout de house, udderwise ting an’ ting get messy. Mr Topps and I, we ol’ soldiers fightin’ the battle of de Lord. Some time ago he converted to the Witness church, an’ his rise has been quick an’ sure. I’ve waited fifty years to do someting else in de Kingdom Hall except clean,’ said Hortense sadly, ‘but dey don’ wan’ women interfering with real church bizness. Bot Mr Topps do a great deal, and ’im let me help on occasion. He’s a very good man. But ’im family are nasty-nasty,’ she murmured confidentially. ‘The farder is a terrible man, gambler an’ whoremonger . . . so after a while, I arks him to come and live with me, seein’ how de room empty and Darcus gone. ’Im a very civilized bwoy. Never married, though. Married to de church, yes, suh! An’ ’im call me Mrs Bowden deez six years, never any ting else.’ Hortense sighed ever so slightly. ‘Don’ know de meaning of bein’ improper. De only ting he wan’ in life is to become one of de Anointed. I have de greatest hadmiration for him. He himproved so much. He talk so posh now, you know! And ’im very good wid de pipin’ an’ plummin’ also. How’s your fever?’

‘Not great. Last hook . . . there that’s done.’

Hortense fairly bounced away from her and walked into the hall to open the back door to Ryan.

‘But Gran, why does he live—’

‘Well, you’re going to have to eat up dis marnin’ — feed a fever, starve a col’. Deez tomatoes fried wid plantain and some of las’ night’s fish. I’ll fry it up and den pop it in de microwave.’

‘I thought it was starve a fe—’

‘Good
marnin’
, Mr Topps.’

‘Good mornin’, Missus Bowden,’ said Mr Topps, closing the door behind him and peeling off a protective cagoule to reveal a cheap blue suit, with a tiny gold cross pendant on the collar. ‘I trust you is almost of a readiness? We’ve got to be at the hall on the dot of seven.’

As yet, Ryan had not spotted Irie. He was bent over shaking the mud from his boots. And he did it formidably slowly, just as he spoke, and with his translucent eyelids fluttering like a man in a coma. Irie could only see half of him from where she stood: a red fringe, a bent knee and the shirt cuff of one hand.

But the voice was a visual in itself: cockney yet refined, a voice that had had much work done upon it — missing key consonants and adding others where they were never meant to be, and all delivered through the nose with only the slightest help from the mouth.

‘Fine mornin’, Mrs B., fine mornin’. Somefing to fank the Lord for.’

Hortense seemed terribly nervous about the imminent likelihood that he should raise his head and spot the girl standing by the stove. She kept beckoning Irie forward and then shooing her back, uncertain whether they should meet at all.

‘Oh
yes
, Mr Topps, it is, an’ I am ready as ready can be. My hat give me a little trouble, you know, but I just got a pin an—’

‘But the Lord ain’t interested in the vanities of the flesh, now, is he Mrs B. ?’ said Ryan, slowly and painfully enunciating each word while crouching awkwardly and removing his left boot. ‘Jehovah is in need of your
soul
.’

‘Oh yes, surely dat is de holy troot,’ said Hortense anxiously, fingering her plasticated carnations. ‘But at de same time, surely a Witness lady don’ wan’ look like a, well, a buguyaga in de house of de Lord.’

Ryan frowned. ‘My point is, you must avoid interpretin’ scripture by yourself, Mrs Bowden. In future, discuss it wiv myself and my colleagues. Ask us: is pleasant clothing a concern of the Lord’s? And myself and my colleagues amongst the Anointed, will look up the necessary chapter and verse . . .’

Ryan’s sentence faded into a general
Erhummmm
, a sound he was prone to making. It began in his arched nostrils and reverberated through his slight, elongated, misshapen limbs like the final shiver of a hanged man.

‘I don’ know why I do it, Mr Topps,’ said Hortense shaking her head. ‘Sometime I tink I could be one of dem dat teach, you know? Even though I am a woman . . . I feel like the Lord talk to me in a special way . . . It jus’ a bad habit . . . but so much in de church change recently, sometimes me kyan keep up wid all de rules and regulations.’

Ryan looked out through the double glazing. His face was pained. ‘Nuffin’ changes about the word of God, Mrs B. Only people are mistaken. The best thing you can do for the Truth, is just pray that the Brooklyn Hall will soon deliver us with the final date.
Erhummmm
.’

‘Oh yes, Mr Topps. I do it day and night.’

Ryan clapped his hands together in a pale imitation of enthusiasm. ‘Now, did I ’ear you say plantain for breakfast, Mrs B. ?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Topps, and dem tomatoes if you will be kind enough to han’ dem over to de chef.’

As Hortense had hoped, the passing of the tomatoes coincided with the spotting of Irie.

‘Now, dis is my granddarter, Irie Ambrosia Jones. And dis is Mr Ryan Topps. Say hello, Irie, dear.’

Irie did so, stepping forward nervously and reaching out her hand to shake his. But there was no response from Ryan Topps, and the inequality was only increased when on the sudden he seemed to recognize her; there was a pulse of familiarity as his eyes moved over her, whereas Irie saw nothing, not even a
type
, not even a
genre
of face in his; the monstrosity of him was quite unique, redder than any red-head, more freckled than the freckled, more blue-veined than a lobster.

‘She’s — she’s — Clara’s darter,’ said Hortense tentatively. ‘Mr Topps knew your mudder, long time. But it all right, Mr Topps, she come to live wid
us
now.’

‘Only for a little time,’ Irie corrected hurriedly, noting the look of vague horror on Mr Topps’s face. ‘Just for a few months maybe, through the winter while I study. I’ve got exams in June.’

Mr Topps did not move. Moreover nothing on him moved. Like one of China’s terracotta army, he seemed poised for battle yet unable to move.

‘Clara’s darter,’ repeated Hortense in a tearful whisper. ‘
She might have been yours
.’

Nothing surprised Irie about this final, whispered aside; she just added it to the list: Ambrosia Bowden gave birth in an earthquake . . . Captain Charlie Durham was a no-good djam fool bwoy . . . false teeth in a glass . . .
she might have been yours
 . . .

Half-heartedly, with no expectation of an answer, Irie asked, ‘What?’

‘Oh, nuttin’, Irie, dear. Nuttin’, nuttin’. Let me start fryin’. I can hear bellies rumblin’. You remember Clara, don’t you Mr Topps? You and she were quite good . . . friends. Mr Topps?’

For two minutes now Ryan had been fixing Irie with an unwavering stare, his body held absolutely straight, his mouth slightly open. At the question, he seemed to compose himself, closed his mouth and took his seat at the unlaid table.

‘Clara’s daughter, is it?
Erhummmm
 . . .’ He removed what looked like a small policeman’s pad from his breast pocket and poised a pen upon it as if this would kickstart his memory.

‘You see, many of the episodes, people and events from my earlier life have been, as it were, severed from myself by the almighty sword that cut me from my past when the Lord Jehovah saw fit to enlighten me with the Truth, and as he has chosen me for a new role I must, as Paul so wisely recommended in his epistle to the Corinfians, put away childish things, allowing earlier incarnations of myself to be enveloped into a great smog in which,’ said Ryan Topps, taking only the smallest breath and his cutlery from Hortense, ‘it appears that your mother, and any memory I might ’ave of her, ’ave disappeared.
Erhummmm
.’

‘She never mentioned you either,’ said Irie.

‘Well, it was all a long time ago now,’ said Hortense with forced joviality. ‘But you did try your best wid ’er, Mr Topps. She was my miracle child, Clara. I was forty-eight! I taut she was God’s child. But Clara was bound for evil . . . she never was a godly girl an’ in de end dere was nuttin’ to be done.’

‘He will send down His vengeance, Mrs B.,’ said Ryan, with more cheerful animation than Irie had yet seen him display. ‘He will send terrible torture to those who ’ave earned it. Three plantain for me, if you please.’

Hortense set all three plates down and Irie, realizing she hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, scraped a mountain of plantain on to her plate.

‘Ah! It’s hot!’

‘Better hot dan lukewarm,’ said Hortense grimly, with a meaningful shudder. ‘Ever so, hamen.’

‘Amen,’ echoed Ryan, braving the red-hot plantain. ‘Amen. So. What exactly is it that you are studyin’?’ he asked, looking so intently past Irie that it took a moment before she realized he was addressing her.

‘Chemistry, biology and religious studies.’ Irie blew on a hot piece of plantain. ‘I want to be a dentist.’

Ryan perked up. ‘Religious studies? And do they acquaint you with the only true church?’

Irie shifted in her seat. ‘Er . . . I guess it’s more the big three. Jews, Christians, Muslims. We did a month on Catholicism.’

Ryan grimaced. ‘And do you have any uvver in-ter-rests?’

Irie considered. ‘Music. I like music. Concerts, clubs, that kind of thing.’

‘Yes,
erhummmm
. I used to go in for all that myself at one time. Until the Good News was delivered unto me. Large gatherings of yoof, of the kind that frequent popular concerts, are commonly breeding grounds for devil worship. A girl of your physical . . . assets might find herself lured into the lascivious arms of a sexualist,’ said Ryan, standing up from the table and looking at his watch. ‘Now that I fink about it, in a certain light you look a lot like your mother. Similar . . . cheekbones.’

Ryan wiped a pearly line of sweat from his forehead. There was a silence in which Hortense stood motionless, clinging nervously to a dishcloth, and Irie had to physically cross the room for a glass of water to remove herself from Mr Topps’s stare.

‘Well. That’s twenty minutes and counting, Mrs B. I’ll get the gear, shall I?’

‘Oh
yes
, Mr Topps,’ said Hortense beaming. But the moment Ryan left the room the beam turned to a scowl.

‘Why must you go an’ say tings like dat, hmm? You wan’ ’im to tink you some devilish heathen gal? Why kyan you say stamp-collecting or some ting? Come on, I gat to clean deez plates — finish up.’

Irie looked at the pile of food left on her plate and guiltily tapped her stomach.

‘Cho! Just as I suspeck. Your eyes see more dan your belly can hol’! Give it ’ere.’

Hortense leant against the sink and began popping bits of plantain into her mouth. ‘Now, you don’ backchat Mr Topps while you here. You gat study to do an’ he gat study too,’ said Hortense, lowering her voice. ‘He’s in
consultation
with the Brooklyn gentlemen at de moment . . .
fixing de final date
; no mistakes dis time. You jus’ ’ave to look at de trouble goin’ on in de world to know we nat far from de appointed day.’

‘I won’t be any trouble,’ said Irie, approaching the washing-up as a gesture of goodwill. ‘He just seems a little . . . weird.’

‘De ones who are chosen by the Lord always seem peculiar to de heathen. Mr Topps is jus’ misunderstood. ’Im mean a lot to me. Me never have nobody before. Your mudder don’ like to tell you since she got all hitey-titey, but de Bowden family have had it hard long time. I was barn during an eart-quake. Almost kill fore I was barn. An’ den when me a fully grown woman, my own darter run from me. Me never see my only grandpickney. I only have de Lord, all dem years. Mr Topps de first human man who look pon me and take pity an’ care. Your mudder was a fool to let ’im go, true sir!’

Irie gave it one last try. ‘What? What does that mean?’

‘Oh, nuttin, nuttin, dear Lord . . . I and I talking all over de place dis marnin . . . Oh Mr Topps,
dere
you are. We not going to be late now, are we?’

Mr Topps, who had just re-entered the room, was fully adorned in leather from head to toe, a huge motorcycle helmet on his head, a small red light attached to his left ankle and a small white light strapped to his right. He flipped up the visor.

‘No, we’re all right, by the grace of God. Where’s your helmet, Mrs B. ?’

‘Oh, I’ve started keepin’ it in the oven. Keeps it warm and toasty on de col’ marnins. Irie Ambrosia, fetch it for me please.’

Sure enough, on the middle shelf preheated to gas mark 2 sat Hortense’s helmet. Irie scooped it out and carefully fitted it over her grandmother’s plasticated carnations.

‘You ride a motorbike,’ said Irie, by way of conversation.

But Mr Topps seemed defensive. ‘A GS Vespa. Nuffink fancy. I did fink about givin’ it away at one point. It represented a life I’d raaver forget, if you get my meaning. A motorbike is a sexual magnet, an’ God forgive me, but I misused it in that fashion. I was all set on gettin’ rid of it. But then Mrs B. convinced me that what wiv all my public speaking, I need somefing quick to get around on. An’ Mrs B. don’t want to be messin’ about with buses and trains at her age, do you Mrs B. ?’

‘No, indeed. He got me dis little buggy—’