by Mike Gayle
Hubert tried to read the name of the teacher but struggled to decipher the signature. Did it say Harris or Hughes? He wasn’t sure, but before he could decide for certain the doorbell rang.
Heading to the bay window, Hubert carefully edged aside the net curtains just enough to determine who was at the door. Much to his surprise, he saw that it was Ashleigh and Layla.
It had been a week since that day when he’d helped them out. A week since they had brought light and laughter into a home that had been without either for a very long time. Moreover, it had been just seven days since that moment when it had struck him, like a lightning bolt, that despite his unspoken conviction that he was self-sufficient, he was in fact undeniably lonely.
“I got the job!” screamed Ashleigh excitedly. “Can you believe it? I got the job and it’s all because of you!” Without fanfare she thrust the large Tupperware box she was holding toward him. “Layla and I spent all morning making this to celebrate!”
Hubert peered down through the semitransparent lid and discerned some sort of cake.
“You look after that.” She tapped the top of the box. “And I’ll pop the kettle on, shall I?”
Hubert glanced at the cake, then at Ashleigh, then Layla, who beamed a smile at him. His gut instinct was to shoo them out of the house and close the door behind them, but then he recalled that moment again. The moment it had dawned on him that he wasn’t an island. That, in spite of himself, he missed the company of other human beings. No, he wasn’t really in the mood for cake, company, or conversation, but he had to acknowledge that this was something he needed, even if it wasn’t necessarily what he wanted.
He stood aside to let them both in.
“Tea with two sugars, please,” he said, “and not too much milk.”
While Ashleigh put the kettle on, Layla stroked Puss, who had just come in from the garden. Hubert busied himself fetching plates and napkins from the cupboard and arranging them on the kitchen table. Despite his initial reluctance, he had to admit that it felt good to have company again. He didn’t even mind that Ashleigh talked nonstop. In the time it took her to make a pot of tea and pour it into two mugs, Hubert had learned about the beverage preferences of her entire extended family and their favorite biscuits too.
Hubert gestured to the alarmingly yellow, slightly lopsided Victoria sponge cake on the table between them.
“Well, this looks lovely. You want me to cut it?”
“Go on, then,” said Ashleigh. “Then we can all taste it together at the same time.”
Hubert cut three slices, shared them around, and then on Ashleigh’s count took a bite. He had never tasted anything quite so foul in his life, but politeness prevented him from spitting it out. He glanced at Ashleigh.
“This is horrible, isn’t it?” she said, her mouth full of cake. “Spit it out before it kills you!”
Relieved to have her permission, Hubert did as instructed while she quickly snatched away Layla’s slice before her daughter could take a bite.
“I must have made a mistake with the recipe,” she said sadly. “Put in too much baking powder or left out some ingredient or other. It was meant to be a thank-you, not a death threat. I bet your Joyce could make a Victoria sponge that didn’t taste like… you know… an actual sponge.”
“Not everybody can be good at everything,” said Hubert diplomatically. “When me was a child my mother would always say to me, ‘Hubert, the good Lord gave us all different talents,’ and she was right. You just have to find your thing.”
Ashleigh shrugged, unconvinced.
“I just wanted to do something nice for you, that’s all.”
“And you have. What is it them always say? It’s the thought that counts.”
Layla began to cry, only now mourning the loss of the cake that she had been saved from eating.
“I think she’s hungry, poor thing.”
Ashleigh glanced at the clock on the wall, picked Layla up from the chair, and put her on her lap.
“It’s nearly lunchtime, but I left the kitchen in such a state that I can’t face going back and tidying up on an empty stomach.”
Hubert went to the cupboard and took out his biscuit barrel, which he hadn’t yet gotten around to replenishing after their last visit.
“There’s a couple of rich teas and half a bourbon, if she’s interested.”
Ashleigh fished out a biscuit and handed it to Layla, but then suddenly her eyes widened as if she’d had an idea.
“Hubert… grab your coat,” she said. “We’re going to McDonald’s.”
Hubert hesitated. His immediate reaction to Ashleigh’s suggestion was to politely decline. After all, what was the point? She’d already thanked him more than enough for helping her out. And anyway, he had never been a fan of fast food. He had a faint recollection of Rose and David asking to be taken to a Wimpy Bar back in the seventies, but he and Joyce hadn’t liked the idea of it. She and Hubert preferred their food slow, unprocessed, and tasty, which was why the fast-food revolution of the past thirty years had passed him by.
“Fine,” he said, reasoning that if he didn’t let his neighbor pay him back this way, she might very well attempt to bake another cake. “Just give me a minute to get ready.”
The journey into Bromley flew by with Ashleigh talking nonstop: about her new job, about the perils of baking and how the day before yesterday she’d gotten lost for three hours after taking the wrong bus home from town.
“Still,” she concluded as they finally reached their destination, “like my nan used to say, ‘Sometimes the best way to get to know a new place is to get lost in it.’”
Hubert followed Ashleigh into the busy restaurant and the three of them squeezed into what looked like the last empty booth and made themselves comfortable. He looked around him. It was too busy, too noisy, and worse still the seats were hard.
“So, what do you fancy?”
Hubert shrugged.
“Me don’t mind.”
Ashleigh rolled her eyes. This was clearly the wrong answer.
“What do you mean you don’t mind, Hubert? You can literally have anything you want!”
Although Hubert doubted he could literally have whatever he wanted, it was difficult to make any sort of choice given that he didn’t know exactly what they served.
“Do they have a menu?”
Ashleigh laughed.
“Have you never been to a McDonald’s before? They don’t really do menus as such. Not like ones you’d get at a restaurant.”
“Then how you know what to have?”
“It’s all on boards at the front above the checkout and those big computer things over there,” she said, pointing to the tall touch screens on the other side of the restaurant.
“Me see,” said Hubert, wishing that he’d stuck with rich tea biscuits. “Can’t me just have what you’re having?”
“No, I want you to have something you like. I told you this is my treat, my way of saying thank you. Now, I know this is difficult for you because you’ve never been here before, so let’s start with the basics: beef, chicken, or fish?”
“Beef,” said Hubert.
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. That means you’ll be having a burger. Now, what sort of burger do you think you’d like? They do plain burgers, burgers with cheese, burgers with an extra burger, and burgers with cheese and bacon. If you’re feeling really hungry they do bigger burgers, double bigger burgers, or bigger burgers on a brioche bun, which, I won’t lie to you, aren’t my favorite.”
The range of options made Hubert’s head swim.
“The one with cheese and bacon. Me like the sound of that.”
“Brilliant. And to drink? They do lattes, flat whites, hot chocolates, espressos, ice coolers, frappés, tea, milkshakes, fruit smoothies, Coke, Sprite, Fanta, fruit juice, still water, or sparkling.”
“Just a cuppa, please.”
“Are you sure? Their vanilla milkshakes are proper lush-like, I promise. Imag
ine drinking half a tub of nearly melted ice cream. It’s a bit like that.”
Hubert didn’t really like the sound of drinking half-melted ice cream, but he reasoned he didn’t have to drink it if he didn’t like it and could always have a brew when he got home.
“Okay,” he said. “Me try one of them.”
“Great, so that’s a Chicken Legend, fries, and a banana milkshake for me, a chicken nugget Happy Meal and an orange Fruit Shoot for Layla, and a bacon double cheeseburger with fries and a vanilla milkshake for you.”
While Ashleigh queued for the food, Hubert and Layla amused themselves playing an extended game of peek-a-boo, which, it turned out, Hubert was rather good at. Every time he hid his face and then revealed it Layla was in fits of giggles, which attracted the attention of some children stationed at a bank of iPads across from them. Soon these children were laughing at Hubert’s antics too and only stopped when a harassed-looking Ashleigh returned with their food.
“It’s absolutely rammed in here,” she said, setting down the tray and sharing out the various containers and boxes on it.
Hubert opened his cardboard container and stared at the burger within. He was unsure of what exactly to make of it, and even less certain when he asked Ashleigh where his knife and fork were, only for her to laugh.
She gestured toward the food.
“You use your hands, Hubert. Like a sandwich.”
Gripping it carefully in two hands, he lifted the burger to his lips and took a tentative bite. Given that his expectations were low, he was pleasantly surprised, as he was with the meal as a whole. The meat was tasty, the things she insisted on calling fries even though they were clearly chips were hot and salty, and just as she’d described, the milkshake was like drinking half-melted ice cream, only better.
He contemplated his burger.
“What you call this thing again?”
“A bacon double cheeseburger. Why, don’t you like it?”
“Like it?” Hubert grinned. “Me love it! Tastiest food me have in a long while.”
As he finished off his fries and pretended to listen to Ashleigh tell a long and involved story that was about either an overweight German shepherd or possibly a dog and its overweight German owner, Hubert’s thoughts turned to his last conversation with Rose. It pained him that he was still having to lie to her, but with no friends to speak of and his failed attempt to visit the O-60 Club still fresh in his mind, he was at a loss as to what to do next. August was now just over three months away, which was really no time at all.
As he considered the young woman sitting opposite, an idea struck him. Here was Ashleigh miles away from home, having plucked herself out of trouble and now busily making a fresh start. Unlike Hubert, Ashleigh was willing to try new things, talk to new people, and go to new places. In short, she was open to life and all its possibilities in a way he himself hadn’t been in a very long time. If he was to have any hope of making new friends, he was going to have to take a page out of his neighbor’s book. He was going to have to be more open. He was going to have to be more Ashleigh.
14
THEN
September 1958
Since arriving in England, Hubert had felt out of place in a whole host of locations in the mother country, everywhere from the streets around Mayfair to the pubs of east London and beyond. But as he stepped off the 9:20 from London Victoria that Saturday morning, all previous experiences paled in comparison to how he felt standing on platform two of Bromley South Station.
He felt like a character from one of the Westerns he enjoyed seeing at the pictures—not the hero, cowboy, or sheriff, but rather the stranger in town. The man who walks into a bar full of life, music, and chatter, only for the whole room to fall into a complete and uneasy silence the moment they notice his presence. As he made his way to the exit, he could feel eyes on him from every direction. Hubert didn’t let the stares and whispers put him off. He was a man with a mission, a very clear mission, and he didn’t have time to mess around or allow himself to be diverted. He was here to talk Joyce’s family round, to get them to see sense before it was too late, because if they didn’t, in a few short hours they would miss their one and only opportunity to see her getting married to the man she loved.
It had been a tough few weeks since Joyce had arrived on his doorstep with her suitcase. That first night she had spent cradled in his arms sobbing, neither of them sure what to do next. But then as a second night followed, and a third, and Hubert’s Polish landlady began to make grumbling noises about her lodgings not being “that kind of establishment,” new plans had to be made. The following day, having persuaded the landlady to let Joyce stay, Hubert moved back in with Gus, sleeping top-to-tail in his lumpy old bed again.
As the days wore on, Hubert and Joyce tried their best to carry on as normal, going to work and pretending that they barely knew each other, even though they were both keenly aware that Joyce’s pregnancy couldn’t be kept a secret forever. An unmarried pregnant woman working in the haberdashery department of a prestigious store like Hamilton’s would be outrageous enough, but the fact that the father was Hubert, a Black man fresh from the West Indies, would be unconscionable.
In the meantime, they set to work making good on Hubert’s proposal as soon as they could, booking an appointment at the register office and having their banns published. The only good news was that as Joyce was twenty-one and therefore of age, she didn’t require her parents’ permission to get married, which was, as she said, just as well. There had been no mistaking the sadness in her eyes as she said it, and it was then that Hubert made up his mind that he would make every effort to convince her family to see sense and change their minds. That night he tried to write a letter to her parents but gave up after several attempts, plagued as he was by the memory of the vile things Joyce had told him they had said about her. In the end he decided that of all Joyce’s family, the one most likely to come around was her sister, Peggy, who had at least responded to letters his fiancée had sent. He hadn’t said a word to anyone about it, but this was why he was here in Bromley on his wedding day instead of getting ready for the celebrations with Gus, his best man. He was here because he loved Joyce and knew just how much family meant to her, and he couldn’t bear the thought of this, her special day, being ruined by their absence.
Outside the station, Hubert got his bearings, checked his map, and started walking in the direction of Peggy’s address, which he’d secretly copied from one of the letters he had posted for Joyce.
It was a glorious day, a perfect day for a wedding, and aside from the constant stares of strangers and abuse yelled from the open window of a passing car, Hubert’s journey was pleasant enough. In less than fifteen minutes he had arrived at his destination, 16 St. Peter’s Avenue.
As he knocked on the door it occurred to Hubert that he hadn’t really thought his plan through. While Peggy herself might have been the most amenable member of Joyce’s family, that didn’t mean she would be pleased to see him on her doorstep, or indeed that her husband wouldn’t take it upon himself to administer a beating on behalf of the wider family. As he heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway, he braced himself for whatever was to come and whispered a prayer of thanks for the fact that he’d had the foresight not to wear his wedding suit.
The door opened to reveal a woman who was unmistakably Joyce’s sister, albeit older and thicker-set. She stood blinking at him for a moment, not speaking, and in that instant Hubert knew that she was aware of exactly who he was.
“Come in, before the neighbors see you.” She quickly scanned the street in both directions. “The last thing I need is tongues wagging about you on my doorstep.”
Hubert did as he was instructed and, taking off his trilby, followed her into the sparsely furnished back room, where a toddler was playing with some wooden blocks on the floor, while a baby lay fast asleep in a pram.
She sat down in an armchair next to the range, over which hung a wooden rack of drying washi
ng.
“Whatever it is you want, you’ll have to be quick. My Bill will be back home soon and let me tell you now he won’t take very kindly to you being in his house.”
Hubert took a seat in the armchair opposite her, even though he hadn’t been invited to do so.
“It’s about… it’s about Joyce—”
She snorted scornfully.
“You don’t say.”
“Look, me know—” He stopped and made an effort to modify his grammar, hoping it might persuade Peggy that they had more in common than she believed. “I know you don’t approve of me, but I’ve come all the way here today to appeal to your better nature and I’m begging you, pleading with you, please come and see your sister get married. You mean the world to Joyce, she told me so, and I know it would break her heart not to have you there.”
“Break her heart?” Her voice was raised. “What about mine? What about our mum and dad’s? What about our brothers’? Do you think our hearts aren’t breaking too?”
The baby stirred and, getting to her feet, Peggy took hold of the handle and gently pushed the pram back and forth until the child settled again.
“We love each other,” said Hubert as Peggy returned to her seat. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Well, let’s see how far that love gets you when people are spitting at Joyce and her baby in the street.”
“There will always be ignorant people in this world but I will protect Joyce and our child till my dying breath.”
“And what about when you’re at work? What about those early days when a young mother needs her family? She’s got no one now because of you. She’s on her own. Did you think about that?” She started to cry then, quietly at first, but with increasing intensity with each passing moment.
Hubert sat forward in his chair, desperate to comfort this poor woman, who was clearly suffering, but aware all the same that to touch her would only inflame matters. The toddler, seeing his mother upset, began to cry too, which was enough to break the spell, to bring her to her senses, and as she soothed her child she too calmed down.