I didn’t have the courage to tell him that I felt sore and confused and had all these questions whirling around my head, like what exactly was the point of sex, apart from to make babies?
‘Are you alright,’ he asked, when I made no response.
‘Yes, I’m fine!’ I lied, pulling the sheet down for a moment. ‘It’s just all rather new for me.’
For the rest of the week, when we were not attending a lecture, or having sex, Sean and I hung out with a group of white socialist types that had coalesced around a scruffy Trotskyite lecturer named Paul, who reeked of the strong French cigarettes he smoked and had the revolting habit of picking his long toenails, which peeped out from his equally scruffy sandals. He seemed oblivious to the wincing disgust of anyone who happened to be in his company. His saving grace was that he was an eloquent and informed debater, and there were many debates over the week on all kinds of subjects. It was the first time that I had come across a bunch of white people who didn’t just skirt around race and the general treatment of women. Trotsky Paul, as Sean and I named him, would usually engineer and facilitate these debates.
He took me aside one afternoon, when we were all sitting under the oak tree, and told me in confidence not to join in with any of the debates on race. ‘We white people need to come to our senses,’ he said in a low voice, so that only I could hear. ‘We need to face up to what colonising other people and destroying their way of life has done to all of us, and stop expecting them to solve the problems which we have created. But I don’t want you rescuing us, Erna,’ he added, with some passion.
During one particularly stirring debate, Trotsky Paul reeled off the names of black activists who spent their lives fighting the cause. ‘Martin Luther King, Michael X, Malcom X, Angela Davis, Rosa Parks, look what happened to them,’ he said, ‘white people have managed to kill or imprison most of them. And for what? Fighting for their human rights. And let’s not forget our very own C L R James,’ he added. ‘Alright, granted he isn’t strictly an activist, but he is a great social commentator and the best cricketing historian who ever lived. That alone makes his name always worth mentioning.’
I was enthralled. Jennifer had first opened my eyes to the reality of racism and the existence of a previously hidden wealth of black culture, but Trotsky Paul took my understanding to a whole new level. There were even occasions when he mentioned the names of black writers that I was hearing for the first time. The few white people that I was friendly with didn’t talk politics, and I had a couple of work colleagues who routinely made disparaging comments about black people. ‘I don’t mean you, Erna, you’re a really nice person,’ was a typical comment. People like Trotsky Paul were an entirely new breed of white people to me. People who were passionate about human rights, whatever their colour and wherever they hailed from. They were talking the same language as black activists and the debates were intense and covered everything from politics to the Arts.
Unfortunately, Sean, as it turned out, was not one of the intellects. His interest was focused on what he called ‘the exotic’. ‘I am fucking a beautiful African princess!’ he cried out one night, in a moment of passion.
After my initial doubts about sex, the floodgates had opened and I couldn’t get enough of it, even though I began to feel weary of Sean beyond the confines of the bedroom. Sean’s other main interest was talking about the boat he claimed to own with his doctor father back in his native Ireland. He went on and on about all things pertaining to boats and sailing, most of which went completely over my head. On our last day on campus, I joked with him about whether he would take me home to meet his parents.
‘Er, sorry, Erna, I don’t think they would understand,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe either of my parents have ever even seen a coloured person in the flesh. My mother would likely have a heart attack, and probably my father too. They’ve seen Kenny Lynch and Shirley Bassey on the telly, but that’s as far as their interest goes, I’m afraid. They just wouldn’t understand and I wouldn’t want them to hurt your feelings, Erna.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied, ‘I hope you enjoyed the conquest.’
‘Ah, come on now, that’s not fair!’ he protested.
‘Oh, please,’ I replied, ‘just listen to yourself.’ I already knew it was over with him, but I still wanted to give him a piece of my mind.
I left the campus with all kinds of emotions. I was secretly pleased that I had slept with a white man, but angry that I wasn’t good enough to meet his parents. I was worried that I had let the entire black race down by allowing a white man to take my virginity, but, at the same time, I was pleased that I was no longer a virgin. And I was left with an interesting question: would sex be different with a black man? I made up my mind that no one would know of my escapade; certainly not my sister – about whom I felt a huge pang of guilt for even enjoying sex – and definitely not Jennifer, whom I knew would not approve in the slightest that I had allowed a white imperialist to steal away my most precious commodity.
Chapter 34
I got off the train at Catford station and walked home feeling about as carefree as I had felt since arriving in England. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon and I was mulling over the week’s successes: not only had I navigated my first romance, but I felt like I’d learnt so much about myself, and maybe even my place in the world. I was looking forward, with confidence, to the day that I could say that I had a degree in English Literature, with honours. Nevertheless, the moment I turned into our street my heart sank and the reality of life at home came flooding back. But even that couldn’t prepare me for what I would encounter when I entered the house.
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
I put my suitcase down and called out, ‘Is anybody home?’ but there was no answer. I flicked through the mail on the hall table, picked out a letter that was addressed to me, and walked towards the stairs. As I passed the front room, I thought I heard a stifled sob. I looked through the open door and then stopped and stared in disbelief. Patsy was kneeling over her father’s prostrate body. He was lying in front of the sofa, as if he had fallen off and been unable to climb back up. He was deathly grey and some kind of foam was leaking from his mouth.
‘I’m pretty sure he’s dead,’ Patsy said, before I could say anything. Her voice was icy.
‘Oh my God, Pats, what happened?’ I cried out as I hurried to her side.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I found him like this.’
‘But when?’ I asked, reaching out and taking her arm.
She allowed me to help her upright. I could feel her shaking.
‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she said.
That’s when I noticed the syringe sticking out of his stomach, where his shirt had ridden up.
‘Have you called for an ambulance?’ I asked her firmly.
She shook her head numbly.
I ran back into the hall and dialled 999 and explained to the operator that I’d found my step-father unconscious on the floor, and that I thought he might be dead. Then I hung up and ran next door and held my finger on the doorbell until Mrs Kelly opened the door.
‘Goodness gracious, what on earth is it?’ she cried.
‘It’s my step-father, Mrs Kelly,’ I said, ‘I think he’s dead.’
‘Wait there!’ she commanded.
She disappeared inside and returned moments later with a cardigan over her dress. She motioned for me to follow her and we ran back inside our house. Patsy was still standing looking at her father’s body when we entered the room.
‘Goodness me!’ Mrs Kelly exclaimed when she saw him lying there. She knelt down beside him and felt for a pulse in his neck.
I could hardly breathe. I had the strangest sensation of two conflicting emotions – shock and elation – fighting inside me for precedence.
Mrs Kelly looked up at Patsy and me and shook her head. ‘He’s gone, dears,’ she said. ‘Have you called for an ambulance?’
I nodded.
�
��I better call Doctor Jarvis as well,’ she said, and she darted into the hall.
I could hear her panicked voice informing the receptionist of what had happened, as the sudden wail of a siren filled the street. Seconds later the ambulance came to a halt outside. Mrs Kelly let them in, telling the two black-uniformed men the little that she knew.
While they attended to my step-father, Mrs Kelly ushered Patsy and me into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
‘A cup of hot, sweet tea is what you need,’ she said.
We stood in awkward silence in the kitchen. I didn’t know where to look. Then I heard one of the ambulance men talking to someone in the hall. Mrs Kelly poked her head out of the kitchen door.
‘It’s Doctor Jarvis,’ she said, turning back to us. ‘Do you know him yourself, girls?’
Patsy stayed silent and I shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen a doctor.’
‘Well, he’s a good one. Your father certainly knew him. I bumped into him at the surgery several times.’
‘Step-father,’ I replied.
Mrs Kelly stared at me for a moment, then the kettle sang. While she busied herself making a pot of tea, Patsy slumped into one of the chairs by the table. I sat down next to her.
‘Everything’s going to be alright,’ I whispered.
She looked at me with wide round eyes. ‘Is it?’ she said.
‘Here you are, dears,’ said Mrs Kelly, placing two mugs of steaming tea on the table in front of us. ‘Drink that down. It’ll help you with the shock.’
As we sipped the hot, sweet liquid, Doctor Jarvis entered the kitchen.
‘Oh, hello, Mrs Kelly,’ he said. Then he turned to me and Patsy. ‘Hello, girls, are either of you related to Mr Williamson?’
‘I’m his step-daughter,’ I said, ‘and Patsy is his daughter.’
‘Well, now I know this is a very difficult for you,’ he said, ‘but I need to ask you some questions.’ He looked at us carefully before continuing. He had a kindly face and I guessed he must’ve done this kind of thing many times before. ‘From a brief examination of his body, it looks like Mr Williamson died within the last hour, or so. Were either of you with Mr Williamson at any time during the last hour?’ he asked.
I looked at Patsy who was looking at the floor. Reluctantly she lifted her head and stared at the doctor.
‘I was,’ she said.
‘Okay, Patsy. Now, this isn’t about blame, or anything, and no one is in trouble here, but I just need to establish a few facts.’
Suddenly I was reminded of all the crime dramas that Patsy watched and a strange feeling came over me when I looked at her.
‘I was on my way to the bathroom, when I heard these weird noises coming from the front room,’ she said. ‘So I looked in and saw him sliding off the sofa. He was sweating tons and shaking all over and this white foamy stuff was coming out of his mouth. He tried to say something, but I couldn’t hear what it was. He was looking straight at me. His eyes were strange. Like he was begging me to do something. Then I noticed the syringe on the floor and I realised he must’ve been trying to inject himself. So, I picked it up and stuck it in his stomach.’ Patsy looked at the doctor pleadingly. ‘That’s where he injects himself, and Mum always says we have to be ready in case something like this happens. I was just trying to help!’
‘It’s okay, Patsy,’ Doctor Jarvis said. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. That would normally be exactly the right thing to do if someone had missed their insulin injection. Approximately what time was this?’
Patsy looked at me. ‘About five minutes before Erna came home,’ she said.
‘And when was that?’ Doctor Jarvis asked me.
‘About fifteen minutes ago, I guess,’ I said. I felt like I needed to defend Patsy’s actions. ‘I could see Patsy was in shock. I called the ambulance right away,’ I added, looking at Mrs Kelly for confirmation.
‘That’s right,’ Mrs Kelly confirmed. ‘Erna ran round to mine right after.’
Doctor Jarvis looked at his watch.
‘Okay, that puts the time of death at around 2.45pm,’ he said. ‘Thank you for being so helpful, both of you. I know how hard this must be for you.’
At that moment we heard the sound of our mother’s voice. I ran out of the kitchen, followed by Mrs Kelly and the doctor, just in time to see Mother disappear into the front room. In the hallway, the twins, Sonny and Clifton were standing frozen to the spot, looking lost.
‘Patsy,’ I shouted, ‘come and look after the boys!’ Then I ran into the front room to find Mother sitting on the sofa, looking down at her dead husband.
She was rocking back and forth and howling like an injured animal.
‘Do try and calm down, madam,’ one of the ambulance men was saying.
‘Calm down!’ she bellowed. ‘Does this look to you like a calm situation?’ Mother turned and looked at me. Her eyes were wild.
Patsy had crept into the room and was standing beside me. Clifton and Sonny hung back in the doorway.
‘My husband is dead, and I bet on my mother’s life that those two devils are responsible!’ Mother screamed, pointing at Patsy and me.
‘Now, now, Mrs Williamson,’ Mrs Kelly said. ‘You’re in shock, dear. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me and the girls can make you a cup of tea?’
‘Oh, so you want them to kill me too, do you?’ mother replied. ‘I don’t want those witches to make me anything, certainly not something they can easily poison me with!’
Doctor Jarvis moved past Mrs Kelly and sat down on the sofa next to my mother.
‘You’re upset, Mrs Williamson,’ he said. His manner was gentle. ‘I fully understand how difficult this must be for you, but no one killed your husband. It looks, to all intents and purposes, that Mr Williamson died of natural causes. But it will be up to the coroner to decide the exact cause of death.’
Mother practically knocked the doctor off the sofa as she leapt to her feet and pushed the ambulance man away from the ugly Satan devil man’s body.
‘Jehovah God, what have I done to deserve this life? What is to become of me now, Philbert?’ she ranted, shaking her husband’s body as if she could get an answer from him.
Doctor Jarvis looked helplessly at Mrs Kelly, who took the cue and reached out and placed a hand on Mother’s shoulder. ‘Now, now, dear,’ she said, ‘we’ve got to let the ambulance men and the doctor do their job.’
Mother went limp and allowed Mrs Kelly to help her to her feet.
Doctor Jarvis adjusted his jacket and stood up. ‘I’m very sorry, but we do need your assistance to complete a few bits of paperwork, Mrs Williamson, and then we will need to take your husband to the hospital mortuary.’ He added, ‘You’re welcome to accompany him, if you like.’
‘Why,’ mother replied, ‘are you planning to bring him back from the dead?’
Despite her deranged state, with Mrs Kelly’s help, the doctor and the ambulance men managed to persuade Mother to do what was needed, and, with her tacit permission, Mrs Kelly took the twins and the boys next door, leaving Patsy and me alone in the house for the first time since I’d arrived back from Brighton. We instinctively avoided the living room and retreated to our bedroom. Patsy went and stood by the window and stared out at the garden. I wanted to hug her – she seemed so frail – but something in her posture told me that she wasn’t ready for touch. After a moment, I sat down on the bed.
‘What were you doing at home alone with him, Pats?’ I said.
She turned and looked at me. ‘Bunking off school. I didn’t expect him to be here.’
‘Are you going to tell me what happened, then?’
‘What do you mean?’ She scowled.
‘I mean, not that story you told the doctor.’
Patsy eyed me carefully. ‘Are you saying I killed him, Erna?’
I shook my head. ‘No! But how did he get into that state in the first place?’
‘I don’t know,’ Patsy shouted. ‘He was like that when I got home!’
‘It’s okay, I believe you,’ I said. ‘Come on, sit down here next to me.’
I patted the bed and Patsy sat down beside me.
‘I’m glad he’s dead though,’ she whispered, ‘aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I replied. ‘It looks like our prayers have been answered and you won’t have to suffer any more, Pats.’
Patsy nodded slowly. I took her hands in mine, and then, for the first time in ages, we hugged. Moments later, Patsy began to sob and my tears began to flow too. I held her thin body tight and sent a silent prayer of thanks to Grandma Melba.
Chapter 35
Things began to change quickly after my step-father’s death. Mother seemed lost without him to anchor her in reality – no matter how awful that reality had been. When she finally returned from the hospital that night, she single-handedly dragged the vile orange and brown carpet from the living room and dumped it in the street. Then she set about scrubbing the entire room with bleach. It was well after midnight before the banging and shifting finally stopped.
The following morning, she collected the boys and the twins from Mrs Kelly, but she left it to Patsy and me to organise them all going to school. When I returned home from work that evening, I found her sitting in the kitchen staring vacantly into space. I hoped that this was only a temporary condition, and that she would eventually snap out of it, and maybe even begin to enjoy her life again, after years of suffering. Sadly, I soon discovered that my hopes were utterly unrealistic.
Mother never returned to work after that fateful day, and, what was even more shocking, she gave up going to church. In fact, she mostly stopped living. She became this shadowy figure who spent her days wandering aimlessly around the house, wearing a worn-out housecoat over an old, stained nightdress. The only variation to this routine was bizarre: every Saturday, without fail, she would somehow manage to get herself washed and dressed and go shopping. She would then cook for the younger children, although she herself barely ate. She filled her days by humming her church songs, mumbling under her breath and occasionally reading psalms out loud. On the rare occasion that she was forced to speak to Patsy or me, she would preface every comment with something disparaging.
The Day I Fell Off My Island Page 23