Fitzroy was standing in the doorway.
‘I hope I’m not too early?’ he said.
‘Only half an hour,’ I said.
He looked immediately apologetic. ‘Man, I’m sorry bout that.’ When I didn’t move, he added, ‘Is it okay if I come in?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I said, moving aside to let him enter the front room, simultaneously gripping my Afro pick a little too tightly and feeling very conscious of the curlers covering half my head.
Patsy sniggered from the sofa, where she was watching us over the top of her magazine.
‘Patsy, don’t you have something to do upstairs?’ I said.
‘I was just going to make some tea,’ she said, ‘do you want one, Fitzroy?’ She gave me a smug sideways look and started walking across to the room towards the kitchen.
Fitzroy’s eyes seemed glued to the movement of her backside.
‘Patsy,’ I shouted, ‘go upstairs now!’
She stopped in her tracks and turned towards me. ‘I just wanted to be polite to our guest, but excuse me,’ she said, before walking slowly back across the room and then sashaying up the stairs.
Fitzroy’s eyes followed her until she reached the landing, then he focused back on me.
‘So that’s your sister?’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s my little sister, Patsy. Would you like a cup of tea anyway?’ I said.
‘No, thank you, water’s fine for me,’ he said, sitting down on a dining chair. ‘I try to avoid the colonialists’ favourite beverage.’
I ran to the kitchen, poured him a glass of water and walked back into the front room. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ I smiled, handing the glass to him. ‘I’ve just got to finish getting ready.’
He took a sip from the glass and I could feel his eyes on me as I walked up the stairs.
‘You look lovely, Erna,’ he said to my retreating back.
Fifteen minutes later, I climbed into the passenger seat of Fitzroy’s blue Volvo estate wearing my favourite red dress. He leant across me with a smile, pulled my seatbelt over me and clicked it in place. Then he started the engine and pulled away from the kerb, reggae music thumping from the large speakers in the back.
‘So, where are we going then?’ I said, as we sped northwards down Streatham High Road towards Brixton.
‘The Keskidee Centre in Kings Cross,’ he said, ‘have you heard of it?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s a really cool place, Erna,’ he said, ‘the first black Arts centre in Britain. You’re gonna love it!’
‘And what are we going to see there?’
He looked sideways at me. ‘A new band call Misty in Roots,’ he replied. ‘I take it you like reggae music?’
‘I love it,’ I said.
We parked up in a street somewhere behind King’s Cross Station and walked the rest of the way. The Keskidee Centre was housed in a big old building that looked like it had once been a school or a church, stuck on its own at the corner of the road, at the end of a row of terraced houses. Inside, it was buzzing with people, many wearing traditional African dress and men sporting Rastafarian colours with huge hats covering their dreadlocks. Fitzroy seemed perfectly at home and he introduced me to several of his friends as we made our way towards the back room to see the band. Photographs of black artists, musicians, writers and activists lined the wall.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Fitzroy said.
‘It’s fantastic, Fitzroy,’ I replied. ‘It feels pretty cool to be among so many black people for a change.’
‘What I love about this place, Erna, is that it’s got something for everyone,’ Fitzroy said with a smile.
I looked at him standing there, tall, hawk-nosed and handsome, and I felt something melt inside me. The rest of the evening passed in a joyous whirl of music and conversation and laughter, and before I knew it we were back inside Fitzroy’s car heading home to South London. When we reached my house, Fitzroy climbed out and came round to open the passenger door for me. As we walked to the front door, I experienced the same thumping of heart that I had felt the first time we met.
‘Well, that was a perfect evening,’ I said, pulling out my key from my purse. ‘Thank you, Fitzroy.’
‘The pleasure was all mine, Erna.’
‘Do you—’ I started to say, but he interrupted me.
‘I have to prepare for a tutorial tomorrow, so I better get going,’ he said.
‘But tomorrow’s Saturday!’ I protested.
‘I know that,’ Fitzroy smiled, ‘but my students have their finals coming up and they’ve asked me to help them prepare, so that’s what I’m doing.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said.
‘You look so downhearted, Erna. It’s nice to see,’ Fitzroy said. ‘Anyway, I’d like to invite you over to mine for dinner next Friday, if that’s okay for you?’
‘Umm, I’ll have to check my diary,’ I replied.
Fitzroy burst out laughing. ‘Just let me know,’ he said, and then he leant over and kissed me full on the lips.
I stood on the doorstep and watched him climb back into his car, which gave me a few moments to recover myself enough to enter the house and face Patsy. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried: she had already gone to bed.
Chapter 39
In the week following my first date with Fitzroy, I found it difficult to concentrate on my studies or anything at work. Several times, Mrs Partridge reprimanded me for shoddy typing, but I just didn’t care. I was floating in a haze of romantic expectation that I realised was exactly like the feelings described in the Mills and Boon stories I had devoured so avidly when I first arrived in London. Somewhere inside, I knew that it wasn’t exactly a practical feeling, but since it was the first time I’d felt like this, I didn’t want to disrupt it with anything trivial like work. So, I suffered Mrs Partridge in silence and looked forward to Friday night with mounting anticipation. Now and again, I thought about Sean – the skinny white Irish lad who had courted and won me so easily the previous year at summer school – but these thoughts were only fleeting intrusions on my romantic reverie.
The journey from Streatham to Peckham Rye station only took twenty minutes. Nevertheless, Peckham was an area I knew nothing about, having avoided it like the plague due to the fearsome reputation of its local school when I was a pupil at Catford Girls. I had diligently marked the address on my A-to-Z street map, but as I made my way through the unfamiliar streets, I realised that I had no idea what to expect. My imagination had conjured up all sorts of outlandish dwellings for Fitzroy, so I was surprised to discover that his house turned out to be a tiny white-painted cottage with a dark-blue front door, situated almost exactly in the middle of a row of identical buildings that faced a small park. Not knowing what I should bring with me – this being my first ever dinner date – I had bought a bunch of carnations from the flower stall next to Streatham station. When Fitzroy opened the door, he seemed amused that I had brought him flowers. He stepped away from the entrance and waved me into a functional room painted a brilliant white. One wall was covered with built-in shelves, filled with books and journals, with a space in the middle that housed a wooden desk. A neat stack of handwritten papers held down by a paperweight sat on the desk, alongside a blue china jug filled with pens and pencils, and a portable typewriter. Beneath the window was a proper hi-fi, not the old-fashioned kind of record player like the one we’d had at home, but one with a turntable and an amplifier, and either side of them, sitting on the off-white carpet, were two large speakers and hundreds of neatly stacked records. On the far side of the room, in front of a closed-off fireplace, there was a two-seater maroon-coloured leather sofa. A brown corduroy beanbag and a chunky black coffee table completed the furniture.
‘Let me take those,’ Fitzroy said, holding his hand out for the flowers.
I handed them to him and smoothed my dress, wondering whether to sit or follow him into the kitchen, which I could see through the doorway opposite.
I didn’t know what to say. The first thing that came into my mind was rum, but that didn’t seem ladylike.
‘How about some wine?’ he called from inside the kitchen. ‘I’ve got a bottle of red one of my students gave me.’
I had a sudden memory of the foaming Lambrusco that Sean had uncorked that night in his room at Sussex Uni.
‘Yes, that would be lovely, thank you,’ I said.
I gazed at the bookshelves and was proud to recognise several books that I’d read as part of my degree course. At least I wouldn’t be completely out of my depth. But I couldn’t see a single work of fiction.
‘Here you go,’ Fitzroy said, returning from the kitchen and handing me a brimming wine glass. He raised the one he was holding. ‘Here’s to…’ he looked at me quizzically, ‘well, what shall we drink to?’
‘Us,’ I said, clinking my glass against his. I could smell something spicy wafting through the doorway. ‘What are you cooking?’ I said, taking a sip of the wine.
His white teeth gleamed in a broad smile. ‘I’m making run down, sister!’ he said, his Jamaican accent suddenly much more obvious.
‘Oh, my Lord,’ I said, ‘food of the gods!’
An hour later, while Fitzroy cleared the plates from the tiny kitchen table, I went upstairs to find the bathroom. This really was a two-up, two-down cottage, but I liked it very much. It had a homely feel. I gazed at my face in the bathroom mirror. The wine had gone to my head and I felt a bit giddy.
‘Well, Erna,’ I said to myself, ‘you better slow yourself down, girl, or you’re going to make a mess of this evening.’
Fitzroy had been a charming host so far, but I still felt jittery, as if this was my first time all over again. I splashed cold water on my face and dried it with the rough blue towel that hung behind the door. It had a heavy perfumed smell that I couldn’t place, and for a moment I wondered what on earth I was doing. Then I adjusted my dress and walked back downstairs to the sound of Bob Marley singing ‘Stir It Up’. Fitzroy was sitting on the sofa with his feet resting on the bean bag, nodding his head in time with the music. He stood up when I entered the room, took hold of my hand and started dancing with me. Then he pulled me closer and I closed my eyes. I felt his lips against mine.
Fitzroy’s bedroom overlooked the road and was lit only by the street lamp opposite. We tumbled on to the bed in a tangle of limbs and clothes. I let my hands run over his warm, hard-muscled body while he kissed me from my neck down to my navel. He ran a finger down my cheek and then kissed me on the lips, gently at first and then he thrust his tongue deep into my mouth. I tasted the flavours of run down and wine. Our movements, synchronised to the beat of the music vibrating through the floor, sped up, and then Fitzroy entered me. I let out a gasp of half-pleasure, half-shock. He was much larger than Sean had been, and far more self-assured. As Fitzroy drove into me, I felt like I was sinking into a whirlpool of deliciously satiated lust. Maybe it wasn’t fair on Sean, but this was what I had been dreaming of throughout my teenage years. When I came back to myself, Fitzroy was panting beside me and both of our bodies were covered in sweat. He turned to look at me, his eyes and teeth glinting in the faint light.
‘You’re mine now, Erna,’ he smiled. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to fall immediately asleep.
I gazed at his handsome profile, wondering what exactly that comment meant, and whether I liked the implication of it, or not. But before I could make up my mind, I too closed my eyes and succumbed to the warm embrace of the bed.
I woke to the morning light streaming through the window. I could feel Fitzroy’s long body beside me. I closed my eyes and listened to the deep rhythm of his breathing. All sorts of thoughts flitted through my head, but foremost was the desire to call Jennifer and tell her everything that had happened since I last saw her.
I felt Fitzroy stir and looked sideways at him. He smiled, then yawned and stretched his arms wide, before rolling over and kissing me full on the lips. Then he sat up and climbed out of the bed.
‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ he said, ‘want some?’
‘Yes, please.’ I smiled, leaning up on one elbow.
As he left, I lay back in the bed and gazed at the white ceiling. There was a small tan-coloured damp patch that reminded me of the outline of my island. I could hear Fitzroy rattling about downstairs and then the thump of reggae, followed by the enticing smell of coffee. A few minutes later, he appeared in the doorway holding two white mugs. He placed one of the mugs on the bedside table next to me and then walked round the bed and climbed back in holding the other one.
‘What would you like to do this morning?’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘I was thinking maybe we could go to Brixton market.’
‘Oh, so no students to teach then?’ I said archly.
‘No, no students today,’ he laughed.
‘Well, yes, then. I’d like that very much.’
He put his mug down and reached over and kissed me long and hard. When he’d finished he looked into my eyes. ‘I man am grateful to be your first, Erna,’ he said. ‘It is a blessing.’
I sat upright in the bed and stared at him. ‘What makes you think that?’ I said.
His brow furrowed. ‘What?’ he asked, sitting upright and staring back at me.
‘I mean, you’re not my first.’
‘Who took you, then?’ he said, almost angrily.
‘That’s none of your business,’ I replied, feeling angry and confused at the same time.
‘You led me on, Erna!’ he exclaimed.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I replied. ‘I did nothing of the sort!’
He looked at me, almost with sadness and shook his head. ‘Jamaican girls,’ he said, sucking his teeth. ‘I should have known!’
‘God, you sound just like Sean!’ I said.
‘Sean? Who’s Sean?’ he said. ‘The man who took you first?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘A self-centred bloody Irishman!’
Fiztroy’s eyes were wide in shock. ‘A white man?’ he said, climbing out of the bed and facing me. ‘You mean to say I’m following a white man?’
‘Yes, a white man,’ I replied. ‘For God’s sake, Fitzroy, does it really matter?’
‘I think you better leave, Erna,’ he said.
I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing, but when I looked at him standing there, his body stiff and his eyes hard in his face, I realised he was deadly serious. I jumped out of the bed and pulled my clothes on while he stood and watched me. Part of me wanted to sob, but another part of me, the proud granddaughter of Miss Melba, refused to give him the satisfaction. I looked at him one more time, searching his eyes for a hint of compassion, but there was nothing; it was as if he had turned to stone. I opened the door and ran downstairs, picked up my purse from the coffee table and fled.
Chapter 40
It was already a hot day when I walked through the front door of our house in Payton Street an hour later. My body was sticky with sweat and I longed for a bath and some kind of oblivion, but the phone was ringing and there was no sign of Patsy, so I guessed she must still be in bed. With a sigh, I sat down on one of the dining chairs and lifted the handset to my ear.
‘Hello?’ I said wearily.
‘Erna, it’s me,’ I heard the voice say.
There was a noise from the stairs and I looked up to see Patsy in a white t-shirt, rubbing her eyes. ‘Who is it?’ she said.
‘Auntie Madge,’ I replied, turning back to the receiver. ‘What is it, Auntie?’
I thought I could hear a catch in her voice. ‘Erna,’ she said, ‘I don’t know how to break it to you darlin’, but it’s your mother.’
‘What? What about my mother?’ I asked. I stared at Patsy who was looking at me expectantly.
‘Lord, it’s a terrible, terrible thing,’ Auntie Madge said.
I could hear that she was crying now a
nd tears sprang from my eyes involuntarily too.
‘What happened?’ I asked her.
‘I’m so sorry to tell you this, Erna,’ Auntie Madge replied, ‘but last night Miss Violet took her own life.’
I put the phone down on the table. Patsy was standing next to me now. I gazed up at her pretty face and she burst into tears. I stood up and we hugged each other tight. Then Patsy buried her head in my chest.
‘It’s Mum, isn’t it?’ she said.
I nodded and felt her body convulse. Through my tears, I gazed at the red roses that had withered in the vase and wondered why I hadn’t thrown them away yet. I must do that now, I thought. I’d often wondered about this situation and how I would feel. Would I be upset? Would I miss her? The answer that always came back was a vehement ‘no’. But at no point had I ever wished death on my mother. The realisation that we would never have an opportunity to resolve our differences hit me hard, and I found myself weeping like the child who wept for the loss of her beloved grandmother only a few years before. Now, I had no grandmother and no one to call mother either.
That afternoon, Patsy and I made our way to our Auntie Madge’s house. A number of other family members had already arrived to console us, as well as to start making plans with Auntie Madge and Uncle Herbie about Mother’s funeral.
When we arrived, there was little reaction from the children – none of them seemed able to comprehend the enormity of what had taken place. The twins greeted us and went straight back to whatever game they were playing, and Clifton just said, ‘We know, Erna,’ before hugging me and Patsy in turn.
All thoughts of my night with Fitzroy were buried beneath the turmoil that had followed, and right now all I felt was numb. But I knew I couldn’t break down; I had to be practical, for my siblings’ sake, if not my own. I looked at Auntie Madge’s kind face and drew my strength from her.
‘Girls, come and help me sort out some dishes for the food,’ Auntie Madge said, ‘there’s plenty of mouths to feed.’
The Day I Fell Off My Island Page 26