by Mike Gayle
Joyce gave Hubert’s arm a tender squeeze.
“It’s no Jamaica,” she said. “But London’s not half-bad when you see it like this.”
Hubert glanced down at Joyce to find that her eyes were already fixed on him. This was it, he thought, this was the moment. But before he could lean in for a kiss, Big Ben sounded and Joyce glanced up at the world-famous landmark, suddenly worried.
“I hadn’t realized it was so late. I told Mum I’d be back by ten at the latest and if I don’t get a shift on I’ll have no chance of making it.”
Hubert was unable to hide his disappointment.
“Oh, of course, I’ll walk you to your bus.”
“Would you? That’s so kind. I’m sorry to have to dash off like this, especially as we were having such a nice evening.”
As they made their way across the bridge, Hubert wondered where Joyce had told her parents she was going tonight and with whom. Would she have told them about him or not? Were they the sort of people who would mind if they knew about the color of his skin? Perhaps this was why she had suggested a picture house in Blackfriars, so far away from where she lived, to reduce the chance of seeing anyone she knew, to keep their time together a secret. Even if this was true, Hubert didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that she had wanted to be here with him tonight.
The closer they got to the bus stop, the quieter they both became, and Hubert wondered if this was because she, like him, was sad that the night would soon be over. He wished they could start the evening all over again; he would manage his time more carefully so that their perfect moment on the bridge might not have been ruined by the tolling of Big Ben. In his cinematic remake of the evening, Hubert would take her in his arms just like the hero of a film, tell her that time didn’t matter, and then give her a kiss so passionate and full of feeling that she would never forget it.
Joyce unlinked arms with Hubert, bringing him crashing back to reality, and pointed up the road to the oncoming bus.
“This one’s mine. I’ve had a really lovely time, Hubert Bird. Thank you so much.”
Hubert wondered if now was the right time to ask if he could see her again. As he opened his mouth to say the words, Joyce took a step toward him, and looked up into his eyes in a manner that only ever means one thing. To Hubert’s elation, their kiss was everything that he had hoped for in his Technicolor remake and more, full of passion, hope, and longing. It was a kiss that more than answered the question he’d been preparing to utter. It was a kiss that didn’t say goodbye so much as hello.
9
NOW
Hubert and Ashleigh were standing at the entrance to the vet’s.
“Right then,” said Ashleigh. “She’s got all the snacks she’ll need in the basket under her stroller. She went for a wee before we came out so she should be fine until I’m back. And like I said, she’ll be happy enough if you take her for a walk around the park. If she starts making a fuss and tells you that she wants to get out of the stroller and walk, just ignore her, she’ll be okay in there for a little while longer.”
Keen to show Ashleigh he had listened to her every word, Hubert repeated the key details.
“Snacks in basket, doesn’t need bathroom, don’t let her out of pram. Got it.”
Ashleigh knelt down on the ground next to the stroller, pressed her lips urgently against her daughter’s cheek, then glanced earnestly up at Hubert.
“You will look after her, won’t you?”
“Of course, me is a man of my word.”
Ashleigh let out a little sigh, grateful for the reassurance.
“My nan always said I was a good judge of character and I am. Obviously maybe not so much when it comes to boyfriends, but people, regular people, I’m like that.” She pointed a finger directly at Hubert’s heart. “Like a laser. You’re a good man, Hubert Bird, I can just tell. You remind me of my granddad a bit; he was always smartly turned out, just like you. And just like I know my granddad would do everything in his power to keep my baby safe if he was here, I know you will too.”
As he watched Ashleigh disappear inside the vet’s, Hubert felt strangely calm. It was a good thing he was doing. The sort of thing Joyce would’ve done had she been around. And he was sure there would be no problems.
But then he peered down at the girl in the stroller and his stomach gave a sudden almighty lurch. He was in charge of a child! An actual human being in miniature! And not just any child—which would be bad enough—but one that belonged to a next-door neighbor he didn’t know at all.
What if someone snatched the girl while he wasn’t looking? What if she fell ill and needed to be rushed to the hospital? What if she started screaming for her mother and people thought he had kidnapped her? Hubert shuddered at the very thought of all these catastrophic scenarios. He was sorely tempted to rush into the vet’s and hand Layla to her mother.
Assuming that the safest thing he could do was to remain exactly where he was, Hubert positioned himself just to the side of the entrance to the vet’s and waited. Seconds later, however, a passing lorry belched out a huge cloud of black diesel fumes so noxious that he feared for the child’s health.
He peered over the edge of the stroller and addressed Layla.
“Change of plan. Me can’t just stand by and watch you choke on car fumes, so we’re going to the park for some fresh air.”
As Hubert turned the stroller around, it occurred to him that he probably hadn’t pushed such a contraption since the late sixties, when David would have been two or three. This thought alone was enough to make Hubert’s heart ache, but then tiny snippets of memories he’d thought long lost resurfaced. David kicking his sandaled feet in the air as he sat in the stroller. Rose singing nursery rhymes softly to herself as she ambled along by his side. The smoothness of the stroller’s hard plastic handle under his fingertips. The warmth and softness of Joyce’s hand resting on his own.
Hubert hadn’t been to this park since he and Joyce stopped taking their daily strolls. Every day when his wife had suggested it he’d say something like “There’s nothing in the park for me,” or “Why go to the park when we’ve got a perfectly good garden sitting empty at home?” But secretly he had enjoyed these walks with his wife. He loved the fact that she knew the Latin names of flowers and trees. He adored the depth and breadth of the conversations they would have about subjects like religion and politics, music and film, that rarely got an airing whenever they were sat on the sofa at home. But most of all Hubert liked to walk in the park with Joyce because it made his heart swell with pride that everyone would know he belonged to her and she belonged to him, and in marrying her he had won the jackpot of life.
As a tribute to those days, Hubert decided he and Layla would follow exactly the same route around the park he and Joyce used to enjoy. That way, as long as they didn’t dawdle too much, they could take in all the vibrant colors of the flowerbeds, enjoy the antics of the ducks and geese on the pond, and still make it back to the vet’s long before Ashleigh’s interview was over. Hubert relayed his plans to Layla as best he could, but her only response was to point intently at a nearby pigeon and laugh, and so, reasoning that she had no objections, he began to walk.
He’d barely managed to take a few steps, however, when a woman passing by in the opposite direction stopped him. Although Hubert wasn’t very good at judging this sort of thing, he guessed she was probably in her midseventies. She had short, softly waved white hair and a lovely smile and was wearing perhaps a touch too much makeup. She wore a long, floaty beige skirt and a cream floral blouse. Her feet were clad in white open-toed sandals and her hand rested on a pink floral-patterned canvas shopping trolley.
“What a gorgeous child!”
Hubert shifted his gaze from the woman to Layla and pondered his charge. She was, he conceded, fairly cute for a small child.
“Thank you,” he replied.
The woman continued to gaze adoringly at Layla.
“You must be so proud! I
s this your… your grandchild?”
Hubert considered the question. Would anything good come from going into the details of what was undoubtedly an odd situation with a complete stranger? He decided it wouldn’t.
“Great-granddaughter,” he said succinctly.
“Oh, how wonderful! And how old is she?”
Hubert regarded Layla carefully and had to resist the temptation to shrug. He had no idea what the correct answer to this question was.
“Five,” he said tentatively.
The woman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Hubert immediately corrected himself.
“Me mean fiveteen months…she’s fifteen months old.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up again.
“My, she’s very big for a fifteen-month-old, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“That’s Caribbean genes for you,” countered Hubert. “Our children, you see, grow up that much faster.”
There was an awkward moment as he watched the woman carefully taking in Layla’s blond hair and blue eyes, but thankfully she said nothing more on the matter.
“Well,” said the woman, “she certainly is a sweetie.” She bent down until she was level with Layla’s eyeline. “Absolutely gorgeous, aren’t you?”
Layla pointed at another pigeon and giggled impishly while the woman prepared to continue on her way.
“Anyway, I suppose I’d better leave you two to get on with your stroll. Enjoy your time in the fresh air!”
As Hubert continued walking, he couldn’t help smiling to himself.
“What a difference sixty years makes,” he thought, reflecting briefly on the countless acts of prejudice he’d suffered across his lifetime. “Me, an eighty-two-year-old West Indian man walk round with a blond-haired, blue-eyed child in a pram and not a one blinks an eye.”
The moment Ashleigh spotted Hubert and Layla she let out a scream of delight so loud that people walking across the street turned to stare. Unaccustomed to such displays of emotion, Hubert saw that she was crying again. Before he could ask what was wrong, she bent down, undid the buckle on the stroller, and, whisking her daughter out of the chair, smothered her in kisses.
“Is everything… all right?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “Honestly I am. It’s just that…” She became tearful again. “It’s just that when I came out and saw you and Layla waiting for me, happy as anything… well… I don’t know… I’m just so grateful, that’s all.”
“So you’re not crying because the interview went badly?”
“Badly? It literally couldn’t have gone any better! They absolutely loved me, they did! I know that sounds big-headed but like I said, I’m good at reading people. They said they had a couple more applicants to see, so you never know, but I’m hopeful. Really hopeful!”
“Good,” said Hubert. “Me glad it went well.”
Ashleigh smiled at Layla.
“Did you have a good time with Granddad Hubert?”
Choosing to ignore Ashleigh’s reference to him as Granddad, Hubert said, “We had a lovely stroll around the park. No swings, though; she stayed in the pram the whole time.”
“Layla loves that park. It’s her favorite place in the whole world at the moment.”
As they walked and talked, Ashleigh told Hubert all about a park her granddad used to take her to back home in Wales. As she spoke, he tuned out her chatter and reflected on just how truly odd this past hour of his life had been. While it was Hubert’s constant wish that Joyce were still around, more than ever he wanted to open his front door, give her a kiss and a cuddle, and tell her all about his morning of madness.
At Hubert’s front gate they came to a halt. Ashleigh lowered Layla to the ground and smiled at Hubert.
“I had a good feeling about you. From the moment I saw you I thought to myself, ‘Me and him are going to be mates.’”
Hubert didn’t like to remind her that up until that afternoon he’d only said a handful of words to her, most of which had been offered in a bid to get rid of her. So instead he raised his hat in a farewell gesture and turned to leave, but as he opened the gate he felt something brush past his legs. Looking down, he saw that it was Layla toddling up the garden path toward his front door.
“Come on, missy!” chided Ashleigh. “Let’s leave Granddad Hubert in peace now. He’s done more than enough for us today.”
Ignoring her mother’s request, Layla sat down on Hubert’s doorstep, folding her arms in a gesture of defiance.
Ashleigh called after her, more sternly this time.
“Layla! Back in your buggy now, please. Let’s leave Granddad Hubert alone.”
Perplexed, Hubert continued to his front door and, much to his bewilderment, as he opened the door Layla stood up, stepped confidently inside the house, and without looking back began waddling down the hallway.
“I’m so sorry,” said Ashleigh, coming down the path. “I don’t know what gets into her sometimes.”
In turn, Hubert carefully considered the child inside his house, her mother, and the situation as a whole, and found himself coming to an unexpected conclusion. In fact, it was so unexpected that for a moment he wondered if all the excitement of the day was making him somewhat delirious.
“Well,” he said, “it looks like she wants to come in… so me suppose you’d better come in too.”
10
THEN
May 1958
So, where your parents think you are this time?”
“Seeing a show with some girls from work,” replied Joyce. “But Mum gave me a funny look before I left the house, like she knew I was seeing a boy but was just keeping quiet because of Dad.”
They were hiding from prying eyes in the shop doorway of a tobacconist round the corner from Victoria Station.
“It could’ve just been your new outfit,” said Hubert, who had himself noted over the past few weeks how Joyce had gradually been changing her look, moving away from conservative floral dresses and skirts to the more fashionable cropped trousers and fitted tops. Tonight she was wearing a houndstooth checked coat over a fluffy cream sweater with black cigarette pants and flat patent leather shoes. Her hair was different too; instead of being tied up in her usual ponytail or bun it was swept back from her face with a cream-colored bandeau. She was cool and fashionable, more swinging Soho than suburban London.
Joyce checked her reflection in the shop window.
“Do you like it? I saw a girl wearing something similar in the store the other day and I thought it would be perfect for tonight because I want to make a good impression.”
Emboldened by the privacy the shop doorway offered, Hubert encircled her in an embrace and pulled her toward him. “The only person you need to make a good impression on is me,” he said, grinning, “and you did that the moment me laid eyes on you!”
Joyce gave him a peck on the lips and surveyed him adoringly.
“I just want your friends to like me.”
“Don’t worry about them. They’ll love you, you’ll see. Now let’s tidy ourselves up and get going, otherwise we’ll be late.”
It had been six weeks since Hubert and Joyce had shared their first kiss, and since that day the relationship had gone from strength to strength. While careful to keep their distance at work, the two made the most of every opportunity they had to spend time alone together during the working week, whether it was forgoing lunch in the canteen in favor of a shared sandwich on a park bench, or a quick after-work cup of tea in an anonymous café in the back end of nowhere. On the weekends they went to what was fast becoming “their” picture house to see whatever was playing, followed by coffee and cake in a tearoom or, if the weather was half-decent, a walk in St. James’s Park. To them it didn’t really matter what they did, because as long as they were in each other’s company they were happy.
Of all the dark clouds that loomed on their horizon, however, the darkest and most significant was the matter of Joyce’s parents. “I think my dad would have a heart attac
k if he ever found out about us,” she said to him one day as they sat eating lunch in a tiny neglected square a few streets behind Hamilton’s. “And if he didn’t, Mum certainly would. They’re always going on about ‘darkies this’ and ‘darkies that’ as if West Indians are to blame for everything that’s wrong in the world. It drives me up the wall so much, I almost want to scream at them: ‘I’m seeing one of those “darkies” you keep talking about and let me tell you, he’s the sweetest, kindest bloke you’ll ever meet and more of a gentleman than any of the English boys I’ve ever stepped out with!’”
Walking side by side past groups of young couples heading out for a night of dancing, older wealthier types making their way to dinner at one of the swanky hotels or restaurants, toothless old men singing with their hats held out, hoping for a penny for a cup of tea, and families loaded down with shopping bags, waiting for buses to take them home, Hubert and Joyce picked their way through the bustling streets to the underground. Here they bought two tickets from the seller at the booth, before they descended to their chosen platform on the Victoria Line. Boarding the first southbound train that came along, they got off at Brixton, and it was here and only here that they finally relaxed enough to hold hands as they made their way to their destination for the evening, the Princess Club on Acre Lane.
The Princess Club was a former private members club that had struggled to stay open after the war. Desperate to make ends meet, the owners had become one of the first in the area to not only welcome West Indians as customers but also employ them as staff, and because of this, it had quickly become a mainstay for the immigrant community. Gus had been going to the club ever since his arrival in London and had been on at Hubert to join him for months, but Hubert had always been either too busy or too broke to go. So when Hubert told Gus he would like his friend to meet Joyce, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.