‘It’s good to see you, Pats,’ I said. ‘How are you doing?’
She surveyed me coolly, as if I was a complete stranger. ‘I have nothing to talk about, Erna,’ she said, ‘not a blessed thing. I guess you must have forgotten our last little catch-up? I don’t want to hear anything else from you and I certainly don’t want any of your advice.’ She got up and opened a cupboard, pulling out a packet of Ritz crackers, which she dipped her hand into. ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘I just want you to leave me the fuck alone.’
Before she could put the crackers in her mouth, I narrowed the gap between us and slapped her hard across her face. Her eyes opened wide in shock as she clamped a hand to her jaw.
‘What the—’ she started to say, but I cut across her.
I could feel my body trembling with adrenaline. ‘You know what, Patsy,’ I said, ‘be a victim. The role suits you very well. I am done with you taking out your crap on me. You can piss off and go and live your victim life somewhere else. I will learn to not give a shit, just like you want!’
I stalked out of the kitchen, grabbed my purse and jacket, and exited the house into the summer sunshine. Without thinking where I was going, I ended up at Streatham Common and walked briskly across it towards its southern boundary. When I reached Norwood Grove I turned round and headed back. The inside of my head hurt. I was as angry with Patsy as she was with me. I left the common and headed for a local café where I sat down and ordered a coffee.
Patsy’s house keys were lying on the mat when I returned to the house. Every last item of her clothing was gone, as was the little sound system I’d spent nearly a week’s wages on. At that moment, I realised that I hadn’t had a chance to tell her about our inheritance, or even talk to her about the state of Grandpa Sippa’s health. But I shrugged my shoulders. Auntie Madge could tell her about the money, if she ever got in contact with her again. I inhaled deeply, and when I released the breath it was one of pure relief.
Chapter 43
Living without Patsy freed me in a way that I couldn’t have imagined, and although not a week went by when I didn’t think of her, I took solace in Auntie Madge’s words about Patsy needing to take responsibility for herself. Now I was able to concentrate on my own life again, which included a growing interest in grassroot politics. When the time between my work and my studies allowed, Jennifer and I attended various women’s groups that were springing up all over London. Often these were situated in squats, and I started to realise that there was a whole way of living that suited me far better than the one inside the cultural bubble I felt I’d been trapped in for so long. And the idea of championing women’s rights was something I was inexorably drawn to. Jennifer and I were determined to make a difference and, while life in London was by no means perfect, I felt more settled than I had done at any time since my arrival. And amidst all these new-found interests, and the many lonely evenings and weekends spent in libraries, at times doing little more than biting my fingernails, I managed to pass my summer exams. I had gone from a village girl with a disrupted education to sustaining myself and being on my way to becoming a Bachelor of the Arts. I felt as though I could move mountains, and to celebrate my exam success Jennifer arranged to take me out. But when I asked her where we were going, she just told me it was a surprise.
When we got off the tube at King’s Cross station, I guessed where she was taking me. ‘We’re going to the Keskidee Centre, aren’t we?’ I said, as we exited the Underground into the rubbish-strewn streets surrounding the station.
‘Oh, you’ve been there before?’ Jennifer asked.
‘Yes, with Fitzroy,’ I said.
Jennifer stopped walking and turned to face me. ‘Shit. Do you want to go somewhere else?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not going to let anything to do with him ruin our evening out!’
‘Good for you,’ Jennifer replied, taking my arm, ‘we’re going to have a wonderful night, I’m sure of it. We’re going to see this Nigerian writer, Buchi Emecheta. I heard about her at New Beacon Books. She’ll be reading from her new novel. It’s called The Bride Price.’
‘I like the sound of that!’ I said.
As we walked arm-in-arm along the gloomy streets that threaded between King’s Cross and Islington, I couldn’t help noticing the prostitutes soliciting for business and the endless stream of punters’ cars cruising up and down looking at them. I shuddered to think that Patsy could have ended up like this and squeezed Jennifer’s arm tighter.
‘Tell me something,’ I said.
‘Tell you what?’
‘I don’t know. Have you been to the Keskidee before?’
‘Oh, yes, several times. Mum knows the bloke who founded it, Oscar Abrams. He’s Guyanese, like us, so we feel especially proud of it. The keskidee is a beautiful bird native to Guyana, did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I said, ‘but from now on I shall think of you whenever I hear it.’
‘What, because I’m a beautiful Guyanese bird?’ Jennifer laughed.
‘Exactly!’ I said, poking her in the ribs.
The Keskidee was buzzing when we arrived, much like the time before, and we made our way upstairs towards the room where Buchi Emecheta would be reading. As we edged through the crowd on the first-floor landing, I noticed a striking woman in a flowing green-and-blue tie-dyed dashiki, with numerous colourful bangles on her long slender arms and a canary-yellow scarf tied around her greying locks. I was just about to ask Jennifer if she knew who she was, when the woman approached us.
‘Jennifer, isn’t it?’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Yvette is a friend of mine. I’m Monica,’ she added, ‘Monica Clacken.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember you,’ Jennifer said, shaking her hand. She turned to me and said, ‘And this is my friend Erna. Erna, this is my mum’s friend, Monica.’
‘Very pleased to meet you, Erna,’ Monica smiled, and we shook hands as well.
‘Likewise,’ I said. ‘I love your dress!’
‘Thank you, Erna,’ she said. ‘I think everyone’s going in,’ she added, ‘shall we catch up afterwards?’
‘Yes, I’d like that very much,’ I gushed, feeling suddenly very young and naïve in the presence of this sophisticated woman.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Jennifer hissed as we made our way into the room. ‘You’re blushing like a schoolgirl!’
‘Oh, I just feel a bit out of my depth,’ I said.
Jennifer pulled me round by the arm to face her. ‘Listen to me, Erna,’ she said, ‘you’re just as cultured as anyone else here. You’re Erna Mullings, on her way to having a BA Hons, for fuck’s sake, and don’t you forget it!’
‘Yes, Miss Richards,’ I replied.
The reading was incredible, and the subject matter – the price of virginity, as if it could ever be commodified – seemed extremely pertinent. We left it in high spirits and wandered out on to the landing, waiting for Monica to come out. While we were standing talking, Jennifer looked downstairs and suddenly grabbed my arm and started pulling me towards the far side of the landing.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, shaking her hand off.
‘It’s your sister!’ she hissed.
‘What?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Where?’
‘Downstairs, with a man,’ she replied.
I felt my heart go cold inside my chest. ‘I’ve got to see,’ I said.
I walked back to the top of the stairs and looked down on the crowd in the foyer, and sure enough there was Patsy, looking incredibly chic in a black dress, large hoop earrings and red high heels. Standing next to her, with his arm around her shoulders, was Fitzroy.
For a moment, I thought I might fall down the stairs, so I grabbed hold of the stair rail to steady myself. Then, as I stared down at the glamorous couple, they moved off towards the theatre and disappeared from my view.
Jennifer materialised by my side. ‘Are you okay?’ she said, touching my arm.
I took several lo
ng, deep breaths.
‘I’ll be okay in a minute,’ I said.
Just then Monica appeared in the doorway, scanning the crowd. As soon as she saw us, she walked over, her smile fading when she noticed that I was leaning up against the wall.
‘Are you alright, Erna,’ she said, ‘you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?’
I took another deep breath and stood upright. ‘I have,’ I said. ‘Two of them.’
‘How about we get out of here and go for a drink,’ Monica said, ‘and then you can tell us what just happened.’
I gripped Jennifer’s hand as we followed Monica downstairs. I didn’t know if I could handle facing Patsy and Fitzroy together, but the crowd had already entered the theatre and the foyer was empty. When we got out on to the street Monica crossed the road and headed towards a silver-grey Mercedes convertible. Jennifer and I exchanged a glance as Monica unlocked the car. She pulled the driver’s seat forward and turned to us and said, ‘I’m sorry, one of you will have to squeeze into the back seat, is that okay?’
‘Sure, I will,’ Jennifer said, climbing in.
I walked around the car and got in the passenger side.
‘I thought we could go to this little place around the corner from my house,’ Monica said, starting the car with a roar.
‘Where do you live then?’ I asked, wondering where on earth she was taking us.
‘Notting Hill,’ she replied as she manoeuvered out of the parking space.
‘Um,’ I started, despite feeling Jennifer kick me through the seat, ‘I’m just a bit worried how we’ll get back, we live in South London, you see, and…’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Monica said, ‘you can stay at mine.’
It seemed Monica’s word was final, so I sat back and enjoyed the luxury of driving through London with the top down in the most expensive car I’d ever been in, the warm summer breeze blowing through my hair. Twenty minutes later we parked up in a tree-lined square of Georgian houses that, though they looked rather dilapidated, still clung to their former grandeur. In the middle of the square was what appeared to be a small private park fenced off by black railings.
‘Welcome to Powis Square,’ Monica said, as she let Jennifer out. ‘That’s my house over there,’ she added, pointing to a four-storey stucco-fronted house with a large white portico. ‘But first, I promised you girls a drink.’
Just around the corner from the square was a terrace of similar – though even more dilapidated – buildings, the ground floors of which were turned into shops. The fourth one along had the words Globe Café & Restaurant written in red above its white-painted front. Although the place appeared to be shut, Monica strode to a battered black side-door and knocked loudly. The door opened and a stocky black man in a green tracksuit top and jeans peered around it. He took one look at Monica, nodded and stood aside to let us in.
We followed her down a narrow stairwell to the smokiest room I had ever been in. It was filled with people of all colours, drinking, talking, playing games and listening to calypso. Monica ordered three glasses of rum and coke with lime from the tiny bar and we found a table next to a group of men playing dominoes. Once we’d sat down, Monica raised her glass and we followed suit, clinking them together.
‘So,’ Monica said, taking a sip from her drink, ‘tell me about those ghosts.’
I looked at Jennifer, trying to decide whether I wanted to talk about my sister and Fitzroy.
Monica watched me and, noting my confusion, raised her glass again. ‘Mi seh crick,’ she said, in a broad Jamaican accent.
‘Mi seh crack!’ I replied, and we both started laughing.
‘What’s the joke?’ Jennifer said, looking bemused.
‘You’re from Jamaica?’ I said to Monica.
‘Born and bred,’ Monica replied. ‘I still have a house there, high up in the hills above Kingston.’
‘Oh, I’d love to go back,’ I said. ‘Especially as my Grandpa is so old now, I want to see him before he dies.’ It was out of my mouth before I’d thought about it, but it was true. I was desperate to see Grandpa Sippa.
‘Well, you must come and stay with me,’ Monica said. ‘I’m going back there soon, why don’t you come?’
‘Go on, Erna,’ Jennifer urged, ‘it will do you the world of good to go home.’
The music changed to up-beat ska and the men on the table next to us slapped their dominoes down with ferocity. I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from me.
‘This place is the heart of the carnival,’ Monica was saying to Jennifer, ‘you must come this year if you haven’t been before.’
I looked at the two women sitting opposite me: my best friend and my newest friend. How lucky I am, I thought. And then it dawned on me.
‘Babylon Big Ben!’ I cried out, banging the table so hard the glasses shook.
Monica and Jennifer turned to me in surprise.
‘She must have started seeing him way back then,’ I said. ‘No wonder she was acting the way she did. She was feeling guilty!’
Suddenly it all made sense. Patsy had been flirting with Fitzroy from the moment he’d turned up on our doorstep, and clearly the poor bastard couldn’t resist. Who could? My darling sister was stunning. I was in such a good mood I felt minded to forgive her. I gulped the remains of my drink and stood up. ‘Who’s for another round?’ I said.
My friends drained their glasses and nodded in unison.
I don’t know what time we left the Globe, in fact I couldn’t recall returning to Monica’s house, but I woke in a seductively comfortable bed in an unfamiliar room. Morning light was seeping through thick curtains and my head was pounding. I sat up and noted a sleeping form under the covers of the single bed next to mine, which I assumed must be Jennifer’s.
I climbed out of the bed and pulled my dress over my head, then went over to the window and opened the curtains a crack. The window was barred and beyond it was a low white-washed wall topped by trailing plants in earthenware pots. Past them I could just make out the street through black railings, so I guessed I was in the basement of Monica’s house.
Outside the bedroom door, I found a small bathroom where I doused my face under the cold tap and then drank from it. Feeling somewhat refreshed I decided to explore further. A few yards along the corridor it turned sharp left where a staircase began and beyond that was a door that led to the back garden. The door was open and sunlight was streaming through it, so I followed my nose and emerged blinking into a large back garden. Monica was sitting at a round wrought-iron table reading The Guardian. There was a jug of orange juice on the table, surrounded by plates, glasses, a butter dish, pots of jam and slices of toast in a silver-coloured toast rack.
‘Good morning,’ Monica said, putting the paper down. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘A bit groggy,’ I said, ‘but I’ll live.’
‘Sit down and have some breakfast with me,’ Monica said, pouring some orange juice into a heavy glass tumbler.
I sat on the wooden chair next to hers and lifted the glass to my lips. The juice was cool and freshly squeezed and tasted heavenly. Birds were chirping busily in the shrubbery that lined the elegant lawn. It was a far cry from my family home in Catford.
‘Do you remember our conversation last night?’ Monica asked lightly, but I could see straight away that it was important to her.
‘No, not really,’ I replied, ‘it’s all a bit blurred.’
‘You were talking about why some families hurt the children they’ve gone to all the trouble of bringing to this country,’ she said.
‘Oh, was I?’ I reached over and buttered a slice of toast and took a bite.
Monica smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘this sounds a bit like an interrogation! We can talk about it another time.’
Another time? That must mean she wants to see me again, I thought. The thought pleased me. ‘No, it’s okay,’ I said, ‘it’s a subject close to my heart.’
‘Yes, mine too.�
� She smiled, and took a deep breath before continuing, ‘There were thirteen of us, seven girls and six boys. The six youngest were born here, while the rest of us were left on the island, shared out between two sets of grandparents. I was three when my parents left. My grandmother used to show me a picture of this delicate looking woman. “This is your mother,” she would tell me. But I didn’t remember her, or my father. Then, when I was eleven, they sent for me. Leaving the island and coming here was such a wrench, I didn’t think I’d ever get over it.’
I nodded at the familiarity of her story. ‘But you did,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘I did.’
‘And you seem to have done very well for yourself,’ I added, with a wry smile, looking round at the grand house behind me.
‘I married badly, but I divorced well,’ she laughed. She finished her glass of orange juice and then topped up hers and mine from the jug. ‘Here’s a question for you Erna,’ she continued, ‘if I were to ask you whether there was anything the people around you could have done at the time to prepare you for coming to England that might have made the whole process easier for you, what would you say?’
I picked up my glass and swished the juice around.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘maybe just someone talking to me about it might have helped. I mean, it was a fait accompli. I had no say in it whatsoever and everyone around me just accepted it: I was going to England and that was that! Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad. I can remember feeling excited, as well as being completely freaked out about it, but that was just about the prospect of seeing my sister and brothers again. The truth is, I was terrified about leaving the island and…’ I paused as I relived the moment in my head, the sheer horror of it all ‘…and coming here was like a nightmare that never seemed to end. I don’t believe my mother or my step-father were ready to start living with three children that they hardly knew, and then, when I turned up, it just made everything even worse.’ I swallowed my drink and looked at Monica. ‘You know, it was so extreme, it felt like my whole world had been pulled out from underneath me.’
The Day I Fell Off My Island Page 29