by Sharon Maas
‘My husband grandfather,’ was the prompt reply. ‘Is he start this album. Is he start collecting stamps. Theodore had a friend, name ‘Wight’, anodder white man. Spelled W-I-G-H-T. See: Wight name, white colour: funny, eh?’ She cackled, and clacked her dentures.
I didn’t think the play on words particularly funny, nor did I see the need to mention the man’s race. Gran’s obsession with white skin, black skin irritated me so much I’d complained to Mum, after church. I told her of the brouhaha we’d had about the white or black pastor: ‘That’s racism, Mum, pure racism.’
She’d tried to explain it to me: it was a backlash of the extreme racism Gran had known growing up at the tail-end of slavery. It was all she knew. That was the way people thought in her day. More specifically, her own father had been a white pastor and he’d been a disaster.
‘So just because of one bad white pastor, she’s saying they’re all bad? That’s rubbish.’
Mum only shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the style of service between black and white churches, English and West Indian churches. It’s just – different. You saw yourself, at Trinity Hall. Somehow, the descendants of slaves are more willing to let loose, let go of themselves, surrender to God. They had nowhere else to turn. No other support. Nothing to hold on to, so they gave themselves to God and God gave the comfort, their only comfort. The more you give, the more joy you get. That’s why the descendants of slaves seem to find devotion so easily. They had nothing, so they gave themselves, and they get everything back. The whole joy. That’s the way it works.’
I didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. She was moving away from racism and into religion, and I’d had enough religion for one day. Really, it was totally embarrassing, my behaviour that morning.
‘But times have changed! Slavery is over! Black people are equal to white, there’s just no difference!’
‘Not for her. Those wounds dug deep. It takes more than time to heal them.’
I still didn’t get it.
‘But her husband was white. I saw the photos!’
Gran’s husband Humphrey was as light-skinned as anyone in England, or so it seemed on the photos. They’d been a handsome couple, the two of them on their wedding day; he tall and stiff in a formal black suit and top hat, she in a lacy, high-collared wedding dress. Both unsmiling: dignified and aloof.
‘Didn’t you see the one with all his brothers?’
I recalled the eight Quint boys. I nodded.
‘Very well then: you see, Humphrey was mixed-race. We called it ‘a touch of the tar-brush’. And we used to say, if you have only one drop of black blood, you’re black. Humphrey’s father was dark-skinned, but even he was not pure black. His father was dark, mixed race, but mostly African. His mother, my Granny, was English, and white. Black hair, blue eyes. Women – men too – tried to marry up to breed out the black. People spoke openly of it. It takes several generations to get that out of a family’s system. I’m glad it’s out of yours.’
‘You’re glad the black blood’s out of my system?’ I was shocked that Mum could say such a thing.
‘No; the acute awareness of variations in skin colour. How much white blood you have, how much black. How many kinks in your hair. How thick the lips, the nose. My generation grew up with that. You’re lucky yours didn’t.’
‘Yeah. You bred it out.’
After all, she’d married a white man as well. It seemed to be the thing to do for the dark-skinned women of my family. And each woman came out a shade lighter; Mum being what she called ‘sapodilla brown,’ a Guyanese expression referring to a brown local fruit I’d never seen, and me being light olive. Now, Gran was going on about this postal clerk, some Edmund Wight, a friend and colleague of our ancestor Theodore Quint.
‘One day, this Edmund Wight sign de stamps heself. And de stamp become famous. De British Guiana Black on Magenta. That’s why I tell you, this album precious. Because Theodore sign them stamps too. This one.’
She tapped it with her fingernail. It was one of the most primitive, ugliest, the most insignificant-looking of the lot, slightly smudged and faded, stuck to a wilting torn off corner of paper. Across it was a postmark, stamped ‘Georgetown’ and ‘April 3rd 1856’
‘See!’ she said, pointing to a scrawl in the right bottom corner of the stamp. ‘T.A.Q. Theodore Anthony Quint. That’s what make it valuable.’
‘Really! How much do you think it’s worth?’
Gran shrugged. All of a sudden she appeared indifferent, as if she’d retreated into an interior cavern and no longer cared.
‘Couple thousand dollars,’ she said. ‘Thirty thousand?’
Sal looked at me. ‘What’s the exchange rate, dollars to pounds?’
I’d learnt over the past week to interpret Gran’s economics. ‘She’s talking about Guyana dollars, not US dollars. In fact, she’s talking about BG dollars, British Guiana dollars, before the devaluation. Mum told me there used to be two BG dollars to one US dollar.’
‘That’s even less in pounds,’ Sal said. ‘But, you know, Mrs Quint …’
‘Call me Gran! Like Inky!’
‘May I call you ‘Nan’? Like my own grandmother?’
Gran beamed at that, and squeezed his hand.
‘I was saying, Nan …’ the word came so easily. I glanced at Gran. Delight shone in her eyes.
‘I think it might be worth more,’ said Sal.
Gran’s eyes gleamed. I thought I saw something crafty in there; an imp, peering through the slits in her wrinkled face. But I could have been mistaken.
‘Like, fifty thousand?’
‘I’ve no idea. Do you want us to find out for you? Inky and I could take the album to a dealer and get an estimate. Maybe we can get a good price for you. You could sell it, and …’
‘Sell it? Sell it? You jokin’or wha? This is an heirloom, boy. An heirloom. You don’t know what an heirloom is?’
Vexation was written all across her face. Sal had fallen in her estimation. She almost grabbed the album from him and slammed it shut.
‘Go away. I got to put dese t’ings away.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
INKY: THE NOUGHTIES
Sal and I walked down to Wong’s. We walked in silence, yet somehow I knew that Sal’s thoughts were aligned with mine. When I’d first seen Gran’s stamp albums I’d dismissed her talk of precious heirlooms as idle imagination. What she’d said today, however, had made some sort of sense. I didn’t know the first thing about philately, but I did know that some stamps were worth fortunes. Not Gran’s, necessarily, but hers were old and just maybe there was some truth to her story. They might be rare. Might someone want them, and pay good money for them? And Mum had debts; Mum had to turn over every penny three or four times. Surely …?
After all, Gran was living in Mum’s house, eating her food. Gran didn’t have a pension. She had nothing, beyond the pittance sent by Norbert and Neville to help cover her maintenance costs – and which did not include rent. Surely it wasn’t fair for Gran to hang on to that album while Mum gave her room, board and personal care? If it was worth anything …
But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the album was just as worthless as it looked. I couldn’t imagine anyone paying a thousand for such junk. I wouldn’t pay even a pound for it. Maybe it was just a far-out fantasy. But then, I’m not a philatelist.
When Sal and I finally spoke, I found out he had the very same fantasy.
‘Even if she’s not going to sell,’ he said, ‘She should have it evaluated. See if you can talk her into that.’
I nodded. It was exactly what I was thinking. It had to be done.
* * *
It wasn’t easy, persuading Gran to hand over the album, to take it out of her possession and to a dealer. Not that she didn’t want to have it assessed; she was as curious as we were. But there just wasn’t a dealer in wheelchair-distance from our home, and Mum and the car wouldn’t be available all week. And so, reluctantly, she placed it in my hands, with t
he admonishment to take good care of it, protect it with my life.
‘Of course,’ I’d promised, and here we were.
We’d found the dealer on the Internet, and met at Victoria Station to take the Tube. It was a little shop wedged between a clothing store and a record shop. I placed my backpack on the counter and unpacked the album under his bored eyes. I guess he was used to people coming here, amateurs with no inkling about stamps, with their old grandfather’s heirloom album.
I felt a bit ridiculous, standing there while he turned the weary pages. The album seemed to have gone through wars; the pages were dissolving round the edges, some of them eaten away by some tropical termite. Originally black, some were partly white with mould. The whole thing smelt of moist, rotting cardboard. It was a wonder that most of the stamps themselves were actually intact, and in much better shape than the paper they were attached to.
The dealer leafed through the whole thing once, then turned back to one of the pages. He took out a magnifying glass and regarded one particular stamp; the right one. I held my breath. He stared at it for a long time, after which he looked up.
‘Excuse me a minute,’ he said, ‘I want to make a phone call.’
Without waiting for a response, he slipped into a back room. After about five minutes, he returned. He looked as bored as ever. He gave us a perfunctory nod before pulling the album back over the counter and giving the ugly little stamp an even closer inspection.
‘Where did you say you found this album?’
‘It‘s my grandmother’s,’ I said. ‘She arrived from Guyana about a week ago. It belonged to her husband.’
‘Ah. I see. Well, it is of some interest and I might be able to sell one or two of the stamps to collectors. I’ll give you ten pounds for it.’
‘No, sorry. It’s not for sale.’
‘One hundred pounds.’ The new offer shot from him without hesitation.
‘It’s not for sale,’ I repeated, and drew the album to me. I closed it and picked it up to return it to my backpack. The dealer placed a hand on the album. Grasping fingers closed around it, tried to ease it from my hand.
‘Why don’t you just leave it with me,’ he coaxed, ‘I know someone who might be interested. He might make a better offer, but he has to see it himself first.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, no.’ I gently pulled the album out of his grip and slid it into my backpack. ‘Thank you for your interest,’ I said, and turned to leave. But the dealer wasn’t letting me go. He lifted the counter flap, hurried through it and planted himself in front of me, blocking the entrance.
‘Here’s my card!’ he told me, thrusting a red embossed business card my way. ‘And would you give me your grandmother’s telephone number? I’ll speak to my contact and perhaps we can make a deal. Maybe I can persuade your Nan to sell.’
Sal and I looked at each other, and we both nodded slightly.
‘All right,’ I said, and told him our home number. He wrote it down.
Back out in the street, Sal and I both burst out laughing. He opened his arms and I fell into them. We danced a little jig together, in the middle of the pavement.
‘I told you so!’ he said. ‘I had a feeling. I bet you anything he calls with another offer.’
I laughed. ‘Bet taken. How much?’
‘I say he’s going to offer up to five grand. He’ll start with a thousand, and go up. I bet you ten quid. And you?’
‘You know me – I like to think positive!’ I said, ‘The top offer’ll be over that. Something between five and ten grand.’
‘And will she sell, if it’s a high enough offer? I bet another ten, that she’ll eventually sell.’
I stopped laughing, stopped dancing. Reality pulled me back to earth.
‘She won’t. It’s an heirloom.’
* * *
When I got home I found Gran already excited; the laptop had arrived, donated by Neville. She had already unpacked it, and, using the simple illustrated first instructions, plugged it in and switched it on. Now she wanted me to show her how to use it. I had already initiated her into some of the wonders of the Internet the week before, and she couldn’t wait to go surfing herself.
‘Gran, I’ve no time now,’ I said. ‘This evening. I’ve got to go to work.’
‘Pah! This evenin’ you ain’t gon’ have no time either.’
‘I will. I promise. And don’t you want to hear what the stamp dealer said?’
I took the album out of my backpack and handed it to her.
‘Just one minute.’ She disappeared into her room with it and closed the door. I took off my shoes, hung up my jacket. There was a pile of letters on the floor next to the front door. I picked them up, leafed through them; one was for me, from one of the universities I planned to apply to. Mum’s mail was familiar: the usual letters from the bank, Marks and Spencer, British Home Stores. All demanding money. She’d cut up all her credit cards and store cards but the debts were still there, dating back to our time with Dad. One letter had a handwritten address; I’d seen these letters before; they came fairly regularly, all with the same handwriting. The writing looked vaguely familiar, but it was hard to be sure, as Mum’s address was neatly printed. I wondered causally who it was she still exchanged personal snail mail letters with, and put the whole lot on the bottom stair for her to take up when she came home.
I knew what she’d do with most of them: throw them unopened into the filing cabinet and lock the door, waiting for her next salary. She paid off the backlog bit by bit each month, but she’d never, ever be on top. And she preferred not to open letters of demand until she had the means to pay. It was her ostrich-head-in-the-sand method. Now, I went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. Gran reappeared in the doorway.
‘So what he say then?’
‘He wants to buy it. He offered a hundred pounds. But he’s going to call you to offer more. Sal thinks the next offer will be a thousand.’
Gran’s eyes lit up. ‘How much is that in BG dollar? Le’ me think …’ She did some swift calculations, and came up with the answer.
‘He got to be joking. What I tell you, fifty thousand, no less. A small fortune!’
I looked at Sal and rolled my eyes. OK, I knew that £1000 was too little, but it was Gran who had to be joking. But then I remembered. Fifty thousand BG dollars. Put that into pounds, and what did you get? About ten grand, the amount of my bet with Sal. Maybe I’d win the bet, if Gran was right. Next to Mum’s debts, though, ten grand was peanuts. But every little helps, as they say.
* * *
I kept my promise. After dinner – I didn’t have to cook yet, as Marion had left some pre-cooked meals in the freezer – I gave Gran a half-hour lesson on Internet surfing and word-processing, but then the phone rang, interrupting us. It was for her. And I could tell by her side of the conversation that Sal had been right.
‘A t’ousand? A t’ousand pound? You makin’ joke or what? My dear young man, dis is a Family Heirloom. You know what family mean? You know what heirloom mean?’
She listened to him for a moment, and then the words we were to hear so often in the next few weeks:
‘Haul yuh tail.’ She hung up with a flourish and looked up at us, grinning in wicked satisfaction.
* * *
After that, Gran was tired. I helped her prepare for bed – Mum was working late tonight – and then returned to the computer. I wanted to do a little research of my own. I entered a few words into Google, waited for the screen to open.
One mouse-click later, I had what I was looking for. I read a few paragraphs. I gasped aloud. At that very moment the phone rang. It was Sal.
‘I was just about to call you,’ I hollered. ‘I’ve been on the Internet, and …’
‘I know,’ said Sal. ‘I just went there myself.’
* * *
By the time Mum came home I had turned into a caged wildcat, pacing the house restlessly. The moment she walked in the door, I pounced on her. ‘Read that!’
I yelled, shoving some printouts into her hand.
‘I’m starving,’ she replied. ‘Let me at least eat my dinner first!’
‘No, no way you’re eating. Read it NOW!’
I dragged her into the living room and plonked her down into the couch, just beneath the reading lamp. She rolled her eyes and read a few paragraphs with mild interest. That’s when she looked up. I saw the light in her eyes, and knew that she no longer thought of food. I had finally caught her.
‘T. A. Q … is that …?’
‘Yes. Our great-great-great-many-times-great grandfather, Theodore.’
It was amazing. I still couldn’t believe it. I had thrashed out the story with Sal for over an hour, and I still couldn’t believe it. I was beside myself with excitement. I wanted to call up everyone I knew and tell them, shout it from the treetops. But I couldn’t. How could I? Telling the world, here and now, would spoil everything. What I did know was that our lives had changed forever.
Back in the mid-nineteenth century, 1856 to be exact, the stock of stamps in the colony of British Guiana sold out before the new shipment had arrived from England. The Postmaster, a Mr Dalton, needed stamps in a hurry and so he asked a local printer to produce an emergency issue of one-cent and four-cent stamps. They did so.
Dalton was not at all pleased with the result. The stamps looked so primitive; they were so easy to forge. Dalton devised a solution: before selling each stamp, the postal clerks should sign it with his own initials as a security measure. The clerks signed them ‘E.D.W.’, ‘P.M.D.’ and ‘T.A.Q.’
Of that signed emergency issue, only one stamp supposedly survived. It bore the initials ‘E.D.W.’, for E.D. Wight. Its journey to the present day took it from British Guiana through Scotland, London, France to, finally, the USA. It was last sold at auction in 1980 to a John E. DuPont of Philadelphia for $935,000, and had remained in a vault ever since. It was the rarest stamp in the world.
‘And now there’s a second,’ I said. ‘Ours. Signed T.A.Q. For Theodore Something beginning-with-A-Quint. Every bit as unique as the DuPont one.’