‘It’s none of your business, Patsy,’ I said. ‘And by the way, he came to see me. Not you.’
Chapter 37
On the Sunday after my visit to my mother, Patsy and I travelled to Clapham Common to have lunch with Auntie Madge, Uncle Herbie, Clifton, Sonny and the twins. The journey took nearly an hour – we had to change at Denmark Hill and then walk to their house from Clapham Junction – but we barely spoke the whole way. We’d argued fiercely after Fitzroy’s visit, and I was still too angry with her to trust myself to broach the subject of her getting a job. Patsy seemed content to ignore me. In fact, she seemed far more interested in the attention she was getting from men. It was a marked difference in her that concerned me, even though I felt it might mean that she was starting to get over the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her father. Nevertheless, the lack of conversation gave me a chance to think. It occurred to me that living in that dilapidated old house wasn’t doing either of us any good, and that maybe we should move somewhere smaller, but, more importantly, somewhere without the constant reminders of the ugly Satan devil man and our deranged mother.
Auntie Madge and Uncle Herbie lived in an impressively large Victorian house that overlooked the wide, open space of Clapham Common. It was the perfect place for Clifton, Sonny and the twins – they got all the love and attention they needed from their Aunt and Uncle, and they had a huge area to go and explore. But the boys still greeted Patsy and me as if they hadn’t seen us for months, and insisted on dragging me out to the garden to play football with them. However, they soon tired of my pathetic efforts, so I left them to it and went back inside to help Auntie Madge prepare the lunch. On the way to the kitchen, I found Patsy watching television with the twins and Uncle Herbie in the living room, which I was happy about, since it gave me the chance to talk to Auntie Madge on my own.
Auntie Madge was chopping vegetables. She pushed a bag full of muddy potatoes towards me to wash and peel.
‘It was a terrible thing to see your mother so bad on Friday,’ she said. ‘How are you coping with it all, Erna?
‘I don’t know,’ I shrugged, ‘I think I’ve become numb to it, Auntie.’
‘You’ve had a lot of craziness to deal with, that’s for sure,’ she said.
She opened the oven to release a cloud of steam, then shut the door again.
‘Can you peel those potatoes quick now, Erna, I need to get them roasting!’ She placed her cut vegetables in a large pan and then joined me peeling the potatoes. ‘It’s just a crying shame what has happened to my sister,’ she said, ‘she was such a lovely young woman. Never would have harmed a fly. I am sorry to say this about your dead step-father, but something about that marriage started destroying her from the day it took place.’
I looked at her and wondered how much she knew about what had happened. She was an astute woman, so maybe she knew more than she let on.
‘You know what Grandma Melba called him?’ I said.
‘No, chile, what did she call him?’ she said, scooping the peeled potatoes into a colander and rinsing them under the tap.
‘The ugly Satan devil man,’ I replied.
Auntie Madge burst out laughing. ‘Oh my, Miss Melba had a way of seeing right through to the heart of things,’ she said. Then she came and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘I know he was a bad man, Erna,’ she said, ‘and me and Herbie was always sorry to leave you children there in that house with him and Violet in the state she was, but the one time I tried to talk to her about it she damn near bit my head off.’
‘You don’t have to apologise, Auntie,’ I said. ‘You and Uncle Herbie have done more than enough for us, really.’
‘Well, that’s kind of you to say, chile,’ Auntie Madge replied.
She poured the potatoes into a roasting tin, covered them in oil and stuck them in the oven above a huge roasting chicken.
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ I said.
‘Go ahead.’ Auntie Madge seated herself at the kitchen table and indicated that I should sit too, so I pulled out a chair and sat opposite her.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about moving out of the house. It doesn’t feel right, just me and Patsy living there.’
Auntie Madge nodded. ‘That house is not a happy place, Erna. Your mother was never happy there, and sometimes I doubt anyone ever will be.’
‘So, you agree then?’
‘Of course. Too many ghosts. Anyway, on a more practical note, your uncle Herbie and I have been discussing renting out the house, so your timing is perfect. That way the mortgage payments can be kept up and we can bank something for your mother, when, God willing, she returns to us. Whatever is left can go towards helping with the children’s care.’
So that was settled then. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The rest of our conversation was social, talking about friends and family and memories of our island. The good mood continued over lunch and even Patsy came out of her shell and joined in. On the journey home Patsy continued to be charming and chatty, so I decided to broach the subject of moving home with her. I needn’t have worried, she agreed with alacrity, and also agreed that I should do the looking and said she would be happy with whatever I found.
I blocked out the following four weekends, so I could visit all manner of properties in the local area: Bromley, Penge, Forest Hill, even venturing as far as Dulwich, which was considered very hoity toity by the denizens of Catford. A number of white landlords, upon opening their doors, closed them again as soon as they saw that I was black. A few did so without uttering a single word, while others stated that the room was no longer available. This was often minutes after I had made a call from a local phone box, using my poshest accent and had been assured that the room was free. One bloated middle-aged man took the time to tell me exactly why he would not be letting a room to me: ‘We don’t let rooms to your sort,’ he snarled. ‘I suggest you go and look in Brixton. Plenty of your kind hanging around down there. Or, better still, you could go back where you came from.’ The man’s words resounded in my head as I travelled back home that night. I wanted to cry. I must have visited more than twenty addresses without being offered a single suitable room.
When a second cousin suggested that we could stay with her and her husband in exchange for baby-sitting at the weekends, it seemed that my prayers had been answered. However, when I visited the house, while my cousin was making tea in the kitchen, her husband suggested that we girls could keep him company with a bit of loving when his wife wasn’t around.
As soon as I got home, I called Jennifer. It was her mother who answered the phone. She told me that Jennifer was out, but she had a way of sensing problems and, with little encouragement, I poured my heart out to her instead. She listened without interruption.
‘It’s okay, Erna,’ she said, when I managed to draw breath, ‘there is a reason for everything and an answer to most things. And, as it happens, you may have called at just the right time. I might be able to help you girls out.’
‘Oh, thank you so much, Mrs Richards,’ I replied. ‘I’m very grateful for anything you can do to help!’
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ she advised, ‘I’m not offering any guarantees.’
Mrs Richards explained that some friends of hers were planning to move to Saint Lucia for at least three years and were looking for someone responsible to take care of their house in Streatham on a long-term basis, so the rent would be negligible and the house would remain furnished. ‘Is this something you think you and your sister could manage?’ she said.
‘Definitely, Mrs Richards. I’m very… I mean, my sister Patsy and I are both very responsible.’
Mrs Richards assured me that she would speak to her friends and that she would put in a good word for us, but no guarantees, she reiterated.
Three days later, I got a call from Jennifer to say that her mum had arranged for us to go to Streatham to meet the couple the following weekend. I thought that Patsy would be overjoyed at the idea of moving out of our gl
oomy house of ghosts, but she seemed indifferent, and when the weekend came she disappeared into the boys’ room, which she had made her own after they had moved out. I decided that on balance it was probably better that I went on my own anyway.
Number forty-two Payton Street, Streatham, was a neat, modern house with a white painted exterior and a flat asphalt roof, one of seven that were wedged in the middle of a terrace of three-storey Victorian houses. Mrs Richards’ black Morris Minor was parked directly outside the front of the house and Jennifer hopped from the passenger seat as soon as she saw me. I was dressed in a sober outfit of grey skirt, white shirt and grey jacket that I felt made me look very adult and responsible. It must have done the trick, for the couple, Mr and Mrs Campbell, who were as neat and tidy as their house, offered me the tenancy almost immediately. I explained that my sister had to work on Saturdays – a lie that caused me some anguish, but one that I felt was necessary in the circumstances. I walked out with a set of keys in my hand and the bubbling excitement of knowing that, at last, my life seemed to be taking a turn for the better.
Three weeks later, having tidied up our mother’s house the best we could, we handed the keys to Auntie Madge. It was a glorious May afternoon and I took it as a sign that our move was blessed by the gods. Sweating in the heat, Uncle Herbie managed to pack everything we owned into his Austin Cambridge estate, and with Patsy sitting on my lap in the front seat, he drove us to our new house.
When I walked through the door for the second time, I felt instantly at home.
Patsy dropped her suitcase on the wooden floor with a squeal of pleasure. ‘But this is fantastic, sis!’ she cried.
I followed her, laughing, into the kitchen.
She turned and looked at me with shining eyes. ‘Everything’s so clean and new!’
‘I told you!’ I shouted after her as she ran upstairs.
‘Well, she seems happy, at least,’ Uncle Herbie grunted, as he heaved a large box full of my books through the door.
I ran over and gave him a hug.
‘Thank you for doing this, Uncle Herbie,’ I said, ‘we’re so grateful.
He stretched upright and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, smiling.
I ran upstairs to find Patsy in the back bedroom, looking out of the window at the tiny garden.
‘This is my room,’ she stated.
‘Okay then,’ I laughed, ‘just as long as you’re happy, Pats!’
She walked towards me with a serious expression on her face. ‘Erna, I’ve been so horrible to you,’ she said. ‘I hope you can forgive me?’
‘Of course I can,’ I said, reaching out and pulling her towards me, ‘after all you’ve been through.’
Half an hour later all our possessions were piled in the front room. I waved Uncle Herbie off from the front door and called out to Patsy who was somewhere upstairs: ‘I’m going to take a quick walk down our new high street, Pats. Fancy joining me? We can unpack later.’
‘I’d rather stay here,’ she called back. ‘You go ahead.’
It was so hot outside that the tarmac was melting. I took a right turn at the end of the street on to Streatham High Road. It was heaving with people and traffic, but I luxuriated in the feeling that there was no one here who knew me, or my family. I walked past an African food store and a beauty parlour selling cosmetics just for black women. I peered inside to see two women in colourful turbans fanning themselves against the heat. On the opposite side of the road, there was a small florist’s next to the railway station. I’d developed a love of flowers from Grandma Melba, who had always placed freshly cut heliconia or oleander or hibiscus on the Hall table every Sunday. As I crossed the busy road, I recalled the time that I’d spent almost a pound of my salary on a bunch of pale pink roses with a stem of gypsophila and some ferns, which I’d placed in the middle of the dining table. When Mother had arrived home, she’d taken one look at the flowers and declared haughtily, ‘I don’t want anything dead in my house!’ And with that she had picked up the vase and thrown it, along with the flowers, into the bin. Now I had a home of my own and I could do whatever I wanted. I bought a beautiful bunch of red roses and skipped back towards the house, so joyful was the feeling of liberation. On the corner of Payton Street there was a phone box. I hesitated for a moment, concerned that Patsy might be wondering where I’d got to, and then decided that there was no time like the present. I stepped inside the red, glass-panelled cubicle, and pulled out my purse. Inside its back zipped pocket was Fitzroy’s card. I looked at the number, took a deep breath, and called him.
‘Nice flowers,’ Patsy said on my return, ‘and no Mum to chuck them in the bin. Mind you, more fool me for hoping you had really gone to get us some fried chicken!’
I walked into the kitchen and searched for a suitable vase.
‘We’re going to have to start doing our own cooking, Pats,’ I shouted, ‘take-aways will have to be for special treats. We can do this if we work together.’
I cut the stems of the roses and placed them in the glass vase that I found in the cupboard next to the sink. I half-filled the vase with water and then walked back into the front room and placed the flowers on the dining table.
‘By the way, did the Job Centre people ever come back to you, Pats?’
She was lounging on the sofa, and half sat up, resting the open glossy magazine across her chest. ‘Nope,’ Patsy said. ‘But I will be sure to tell you when they do.’
‘Patsy,’ I said, heatedly, ‘surely any work is better than the dole, unless you’re aspiring to be the next Grace Jones?’ Despite myself, her attitude had triggered me, which I immediately regretted.
Anger flashed across her pretty brown face, causing it to contort and redden. ‘What do you want me do? It’s like everyone wants me to have some kind of shit job! Is that how much you think of me, Erna? I know I don’t have an education, like you, but that doesn’t mean I want to shovel shit.’
‘I don’t mean anything like that, Pats. I’m just trying to say there are jobs out there that you could do until such time as you’re ready to do something else. It’s not fair that I’m out working every day, while you stay at home and read magazines. It’s not fair that I’ve been carrying us both, Pats. Can you not see that?’
‘Where exactly are the jobs out there?’ she replied. ‘Go on! Give me some examples. Actually, don’t bother. I know the kind of job that I’m probably qualified for. Prostitution! Is that what you want me to do?’
I was deeply shocked, but I tried to remain calm. ‘I was thinking more that the Job Centre people could point you in the right direction. They can properly go through things with you and help you to see what kind of work would best suit you.’
‘Erna!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve been to the Job Centre, not once, not twice, I’ve been there countless times, and each time they say the same thing, that they can easily find me a job cleaning offices or something. I am not doing that. Never!’
‘Well, that’s plain out of order, Patsy, and whoever said that should be reported. But at the same time, you need to have some idea of what work you want to do, or better still, you could go to college and learn a skill,’ I said.
‘Not your “go to college and learn a skill” mantra again,’ Patsy replied with a roll of her eyes. ‘You know what, I’m tired of waiting for you to come home and behave like Miss La-de-dah. It’s not like you’ve had to put up with the shit that I have. All you do is boss me about and go on and on about the poxy degree you’re doing.’
‘That’s not fair. I got my job without having any previous experience, and the same with getting on my degree course. Anyway, you can’t use the past as an excuse for the rest of your life. And, like I said, I just can’t afford to keep paying for everything on my own.’
‘I don’t remember asking to live with you,’ Patsy said spitefully. ‘It was you who invited me to share this house. You knew I had no job and no money.’
‘Look, I’m not trying to pick
a fight with you, Pats.’
‘Well, you could have fooled me,’ she shouted. ‘Please! I don’t want you spending any more of your precious money on me. I should have known that living with you would be a bad idea.’ And with that she flounced upstairs to her new bedroom.
I picked up the copy of Vogue that she’d discarded. It was the same one she’d been reading when I’d come home from the hospital after visiting mother almost two months ago. Grace Jones’ chiselled face stared back at me from the front cover. Maybe Patsy could do this modelling thing, after all, I thought. She was certainly tall and good looking enough. I placed the magazine on the dining table and stared at the gorgeous red roses. But how quickly everything good seems to slip away, I thought.
Chapter 38
I was mindful of Patsy’s flirtatious attitude towards Fitzroy when he’d shown up unexpectedly at our old house, so I was determined to be ready to leave the moment he arrived to take me out. It was the first Friday evening after we’d moved into Payton Street. Patsy was flicking through the latest copy of Woman’s Own magazine downstairs and I was working on my hair upstairs in my bedroom when the doorbell rang. I looked at my alarm clock. Fitzroy was half an hour early.
‘Suppose no one else is going to get that,’ Patsy complained from downstairs. ‘It’s for you!’ she shouted moments later.
‘I know it is!’ I shouted back.
I couldn’t believe my best-laid plans had fallen apart already. I wasn’t even dressed and I still had big yellow sponge curlers in my hair to make sure it was nice and bouncy for my first date. I pulled my kimono together and ran downstairs, giving Patsy a push as I moved towards the door.
‘Serves you right,’ she laughed, as she caught sight of my face.
The Day I Fell Off My Island Page 25