Choice of Straws

by Braithwaite, E. R. ;

  Naomi said come on, break it up, and somebody put on a record. I had brought her, and at last I got a dance. She had this way of half closing her eyes, yet you could see them shining with the fun she was having. Funny how she could do things, have a hell of a good time, without getting noisy or acting common, like some birds I’d met.

  We had sandwiches and rolls and things. As soon as the music stopped people began talking and before you knew it we were sitting around on the floor, Michelle with her legs folded under her. I tried it but it made my legs stiff. This fellow Vic something or other began again on that business about South Africa, saying that all the trouble was because of the strange Boer mentality which could not conceive that the blacks were human beings and therefore would never accept them as equals. He said that if the first settlers in South Africa had been anyone else the history of that country would be vastly different. Ron said that was funny because the people who colonized the Rhodesias, the Southern United States and some other places he could mention were not Boers and their attitude to the blacks differed only slightly in degree. And again the talk came back to Britain and the coloureds here.

  One girl said, ‘At any rate any coloured person in Britain can find a job, and the pay is the same for everybody,’ her voice fading away as if she wasn’t quite sure that she knew that what she said was what she wanted to say.

  ‘How many coloured persons do you know?’ Ron asked her.

  ‘Well, some,’ she replied. ‘There are two girls from Jamaica in our office, and everybody likes them.’

  ‘And now Ron makes three,’ he kidded her. He never spoke loudly or became excited, didn’t even seem to be really serious, but there was something about him that made you listen to what he said, perhaps because his voice was so deep and clear and the words came slow and carefully.

  ‘In any case,’ he went on, ‘you probably know three more than most people in Britain. After all, among a population of more than fifty million, there are just about half a million coloured, including Asians, Africans, West Indians and others. But that business about anyone being able to find a job is, to say the least, mere propaganda.’

  ‘Does that include yourself, Ron?’ somebody asked him.

  ‘Whenever I say anything about coloured people, do me a favour and include me in,’ he replied in that slow way of his, and smiling.

  ‘But you’re okay, you’re at RADA and you do things, always getting good parts on radio and TV,’ someone said.

  ‘That’s just the trouble,’ Ron replied. ‘The very way you said that accuses me, as if I should consider myself different from other coloured people, because of RADA.’

  Vic joined in, waving a sausage-roll like an extra finger, with, ‘Mary’s got a point there, about equal pay for the job. After all, that’s what most of the fuss is about, everybody not getting the same treatment. Doesn’t matter if the bloke is an actor or some bus conductor somewhere, or even a road-sweeper, what he wants is equality with other actors or conductors or road-sweepers.’

  ‘You think so?’ from Ron.

  ‘Hell, it’s not what I think, it’s what you see every day in the newspapers and on TV and everywhere.’

  ‘I’m not interested in equality,’ Ron said, then he went on, his voice serious, to talk about not liking even the sound of the word equality, because it had no real meaning for him, or for any other coloured person. Whenever anybody used the word it always indicated that coloured people needed something, some law or act of charity or faith that they could stand on to give them the same social or cultural stature as white people. He said that in his opinion the idea of equality started in America and was part of the great American myth, because all the time the coloured Americans were talking about equality, it kept their attention on the white American, on what he was, on what he had, on what he did. He became their goal, the focus of their hopes, ambitions and thinking. They wanted what he had, nothing more, nothing less. But all the time what was the white American doing? He was not standing still waiting for the coloureds to catch up. He could always think up new ways and means of keeping just ahead of them. So whatever gains the black American made, it didn’t really improve his position because it didn’t make him equal.

  He stopped talking for a while and it was funny how quiet it got as if nobody could think up an argument for him. Perhaps because he’d got so ruddy serious, not smiling or kidding as usual.

  Then he started again. ‘The word I’m really interested in is freedom. That’s a word that nobody can fool with, because it has the same meaning for everyone, black, white and every which who. Any of you ever notice that while most coloured people talk about equality, white people talk about being free, white and twenty-one? But the word free comes first, even before the whiteness. Listening to you tonight I realize that this conversation might well never have happened if Michelle and me weren’t here. You’d most likely have been talking about something else. And the hell of it is that the fault is not yours. It’s ours. We remind you of our inequality. And you remind me of your freedom. Your freedom to come and go, to fail or succeed, to do or not to do, to be decent or to be lousy without having to carry the whole weight of your race on your back.’

  The way Hilary was watching him as if she could eat him up there and then, her hand on his sleeve, owning him and wanting everybody to know it. Couldn’t see Michelle holding me like that, and looking.

  ‘I want to be so free that, like you, I don’t ever have to give a thought to being equal. I want to work and live with you, agreeing or disagreeing, liking or not liking, without having to qualify any of it by your whiteness or my blackness. I want to be like, like, well, the wind, big as big, free as free, reaching out to infinity without ever needing to measure myself against mere people.’

  He suddenly laughed, reaching to pull Hilary’s hair. ‘You know something? The day we coloured really dig the freedom thing, the fireworks will start. Man, we’ll take off right into orbit, the world will be so small for us.’ Everybody was laughing, but not because they thought it funny, more as if they didn’t know what else to do.

  ‘What do you think, Michelle?’ someone asked her. They were all calling her Michelle. With all the talking she’d said nothing, but had changed her position to allow more room for the dancers, and stood now over against the wall near Ron.

  ‘I’d rather just listen,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, come on, tell us.’

  ‘Plead the Fifth Amendment,’ Ron joked.

  I didn’t get what he meant, but she smiled at him, then said, ‘Actually I think all this talk is a waste of time, because it means no more than that, just talk. It rather amuses me to hear the way some of you condemn South Africa and the United States about their racial policies, because there’s no way of knowing what your own behaviour would be if you lived there.’ She paused, smiled crookedly at some stirring memory. ‘One of my father’s friends, a dentist from Dorking, emigrated to South Africa with his family, to set up a practice. Since going there he wrote only one letter to us, and in it he said that from what he’d seen of the way Africans lived, he didn’t blame the South African Government for introducing apartheid. Some of you talk and talk, but I don’t know how you would behave if you were in a place where every advantage and comfort was available to you because of your white skin, and you were encouraged to believe that you could continue to enjoy those advantages only if the black Africans were kept firmly in an inferior position.’

  She turned to smile at Ron, a little smile as if they shared some special little secret, then her face became serious again. I felt proud, listening to her, but suddenly a bit scared. I wished Ron wasn’t there.

  ‘I was born here and I understand what Ron means about not belonging. But telling you about it doesn’t mean anything, because I don’t suppose you can understand. You’re sympathetic, and you’d really like to understand what we’re talking about, but it’s not possible unless
you were able to change skins with us.

  ‘I shouldn’t be talking like this. My mother says I’m still too emotional about it. But, you see, I know that when you look at me you see that I’m coloured, and immediately you expect me to think and feel and behave in some special way which you imagine to be natural for coloured people. What you don’t see is that I’m English or British or whatever you like to call it. Both my parents were born here in London, and so was I. I don’t know any more about what life is like in the West Indies than you do. When I hear a West Indian speak the first thing I notice is the unfamiliar accent, and I find myself wondering how it would be to live away from London, in those strange islands, among those strange people.

  ‘It’s very frustrating. When I’ve been in Scandinavia, or Italy, or Germany I’ve enjoyed it tremendously, but after a while I’ve longed to get back home. Here. In London. Just as any of you would do. And yet I know you expect me to be different from you. Isn’t that why you asked me to tell you what I think?’

  She raised her shoulder in a gentle shrug as if she’d said all she wanted to say, and was a bit sorry she’d bothered. Ron was smiling at her as if she was something special he’d found and wanted to get his hands on. I didn’t give a tuppenny damn about all that talk, all I wanted was that he didn’t get any ideas about her. As far as I was concerned, to hell with all that talk about coloured people. None of them meant a damn thing to me. Except her. Looking at her now, I felt my insides tighten up, with the loveliness of her, brighter, nicer than any of the other girls in the room. Perhaps Ruth was right. Perhaps I was in love with her.

  They changed the record for a slow one, Sinatra singing You and the Night and the Music, and I took her arm to dance with her before anyone else asked her. We were dancing and somebody turned the lights low and I put my face against hers and she didn’t draw it away.

  I don’t think I danced once with Ruth, and it was only when it was time for me to go that I thought about her, then I felt a bit uncomfortable, as if I’d somehow let her down. She was dancing with a fellow and I waited till they were finished and told her I’d have to leave to see Michelle home. Funny, but you can never tell about girls. She didn’t act angry or anything, just said okay and would I give her a ring soon, and I said sure.

  On the way to the station Michelle and I argued about me seeing her home, because of how I’d get back to Upminster from Leigh, and she wouldn’t let me go all the way to Leigh. Said the best thing was for her to ring the private car hire number in South­end to have a car meet her train and take her to Leigh, and she would be okay. We could ride home together on the District Line to Barking.

  Then she said, ‘You know, Jack, you don’t have to worry about me. I travelled around a lot with my parents when Daddy was alive. We spent nearly six weeks visiting my aunt in Chicago three years ago, and then eight days in Washington where Daddy had to attend a Congress, and I still think England is the only place where I always feel safe. You know what I sometimes used to do when we lived in Hampstead? Go for long walks by myself on misty, foggy nights. Just for fun, then go home and have a nice hot bath and a Martini. Just because even in the fog and rain and dark there’s no feeling of menace. Do you know what I’m talking about? In spite of all the things that bother me because of people’s attitude to the colour of my skin, in spite of the anger which often comes welling up inside me, I always feel safe. Oh, perhaps what I’m saying makes very little sense to you. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to the States. It’s frightening at nights.’ Talking softly aloud to herself as if remembering.

  We were standing close together on the platform at South Ken, and without even planning it, I held her arm and turned her to me and kissed her. It was so wonderful I felt like crying. We didn’t say much on the way to Barking. I felt excited but in a different way from what I’d always been expecting or planning. I wanted to stay close to her, to be with her, and yet it wasn’t just to make it with her. I mean, I wasn’t figuring how to sleep with her or anything. At Barking, while waiting for the Southend train I didn’t try to kiss her again, for although we were standing close together, her head was turned away from me, as if she was occupied with thoughts in which I couldn’t share. When her train came in she seemed to rouse herself, said, ‘Bye, Jack,’ and climbed aboard.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  I HARDLY SLEPT THAT night, but lay thinking, trying to sort myself out. I’d never felt this way about a girl before. A date now and then and a kiss or a little playing around, but nothing to worry about. The birds expected you to try for a kiss, and sometimes back of the flicks you’d try to get your hand up there and they’d giggle and perhaps tell you off, but if you didn’t try something they’d tell their friends you were slow or daft. Even with Ruth it was wonderful, both times, but I didn’t feel this way about her. I mean, we were good friends. I liked her a lot, and wouldn’t want to upset her or anything, but I just didn’t feel this way. Mostly I was wondering what to do. I couldn’t tell anyone about it, yet I wanted someone to know, besides me. I couldn’t tell Mum or our Dad. If Dave was here we could have talked about it. But nobody else. Not even Ruth. I mean you couldn’t start spouting off to one girl about another, especially after what had happened between Ruth and me.

  I got to thinking about Ron and the way he’d been looking at Michelle, but anyway that didn’t matter because he was going with Hilary. But just thinking of how they seemed to hit it off right away, smiling secretly at each other. Well, not to worry. But suppose he became interested and made a play for her. Would she prefer him because he was coloured like her? Not only that, but he was educated and talked in the same way, and he wasn’t bad looking, even with that scraggy beard. Hilary didn’t mind about the beard. She was a nice little piece, that Hilary, with her long blonde hair always shining.

  Yes, perhaps I was in love with her. Those nights Dave and me would lie in the dark talking about falling in love with some beautiful girl whose dad had loads of money. Sometimes Dave saying he’d never get married and all that talk about love was a lot of mush and what was love anyway. And talking about old man Chalmers in the machine shop who was always on about women, and he’d once said that love lasted only as long as your pecker could stay upright. Dave said the old boy was only talking that way because he’d gone off women, and not surprising if you saw Mrs Chalmers. We’d seen them together in Romford High Road one Saturday morning. She was as tall as him but thin and flat as a board, with a face wrinkled up like a prune, as if she had too much skin. Funny how you could just lie there and feel that kiss all over again, her lips cool and soft and gentle.

  I was a bit late home from work on Monday evening. Missed my bus to the station and after that everything was red lights all the way. From the moment I walked into the house I could feel the tension. Our Dad and Mum were in the kitchen, she getting dinner ready, and he sitting at the table reading the papers. I said hello, but only our Dad answered me. I went up and washed, then came back down. Usually he and me had a little natter while we waited for dinner. He passed over the sports pages without saying a word and I thought, What’s up? Not a word from anybody until dinner was ready; Mum served it up and I’d just got the first spoonful in my mouth when she started.

  ‘Mr Hardy told me he saw you Saturday night.’ The way she said it, her voice tight, hard and accusing. For a moment I didn’t remember who the hell Mr Hardy was anyway. Oh yes, the butcher. I didn’t know where he’d seen me, or what he’d seen me doing, so I waited. From the sound of Mum’s voice the least it could be was that I’d been raping some little girl somewhere. Dad went on eating, his eyes on the food in front of him. I was hungry as hell, but it suddenly tasted like mud in my mouth.

  ‘He and his wife got on the train at Charing Cross, and they saw you.’

  Nothing from me. The mouthful wouldn’t move, felt like I’d choke.

  ‘You and that nigger.’

  Sometimes the fellows at
the works would call one another all kinds of names. Even dirty names. But it didn’t mean a thing. The way Mum said that word nigger, it cut into me, she made it sound so dirty. I let the food out on the fork and put it on the plate, pushing the whole thing away from me. I could see she was full to overflowing with it, and I didn’t want to hear, the way the hate was boiling up inside me. I mean, I love my Mum, but what right did she have to say something like that? I stood up and she yelled at me.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

  I didn’t answer. Couldn’t, the way I was choked up. I moved my chair away and went upstairs, sat on my bed to settle myself. I heard her coming up the stairs and wished I could have locked the door to keep her out, but the lock never worked. It had been painted over years ago. She barged in, her face livid, and started in on me about not eating my dinner after she’d slaved all evening over a hot stove fixing it. I told her I didn’t want any dinner, so she switched to the other thing, about since the day that nigger had come into the house there had been nothing but trouble. On and on. Not stopping. The niggers were the cause of Dave’s death, and she couldn’t understand how I could even stand to look at them, least of all going around with them. Every time she said the word nigger I felt I wanted to hit her. The more she went on the worse she became, yelling all kinds of things at me like someone I’d never seen before.

  ‘Do your nigger friends know about you, what you used to do? You told them about the people you used to beat up? About the fellow in Stepney? Eh? They know that the police are after you? You think that stuck-up nigger bitch would even look at you if she knew what you are?’