No Greater Love - Box Set

by Prowse, Amanda

  ‘I want to see the Hadashaberry Department!’ he declared

  Dot chewed her bottom lip. It was one thing to be out and about with a black man, but to parade him in front of her work colleagues was quite another.

  Sol saw her flicker of uncertainty. ‘Come on! Then I can picture you on the days when you can’t come out and play.’

  ‘You’ll find that’s most days, unless I win the pools!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by “win the pools” – swim­ming pools?’

  Dot laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it!’ It felt too complicated to try and explain.

  Sol and Dot had to stand at the very back of the lift, to make way for a bespectacled lady in a huge fur coat and her large-hatted friend. The stench of several layers of sampled scent sprayed onto their crêpey décolletages hung above them in a toxic cloud. Sol coughed into his bunched-up fist. Dot faced the wall to stem her giggles, but the mirrored confines offered her little shelter.

  The ladies bustled out at Lingerie.

  ‘Phwoosh! What was that? I do not want to buy any of what they were advertising. Man! They’ve burnt the back of my throat.’

  The lift boy placed his gloved hands behind his liveried jacket and tried to remain indifferent; he wasn’t supposed to join in conversations. Sol caught the lad’s smile in the reflection of the shiny brass button panel and said, ‘Although I bet that’s not the worst thing you’ve smelt in here, am I right?’

  The boy turned around; a cockney, like Dot. ‘You’re right, sir, sometimes I wish people would get in reeking of perfume!’ He waved his white gloves in front of his nose.

  Dot could have kissed him; the lad’s easy acceptance of Sol washed away the memory of the misery-guts cabbie. The lift shuddered to a halt on the fourth floor.

  ‘This is it. We are not staying, mind. Just a quick gawp and then out, okay?’

  ‘Okay!’ Sol raised his hands in surrender.

  ‘Ah, Miss Simpson. Not expecting you in today, are we?’ It was almost as if the woman had been standing there waiting for her.

  If there was one person in the whole store that Dot did not want to encounter today it was Miss Blight. She peered up at Dot through pig-like eyes framed by elaborate turquoise glasses. As usual, her generous figure was squeezed into a peplum skirt and a tight twin-set, and her fat stockinged feet were shoehorned into high heels. Dot thought it made her look like she had little trotters. She knew it was a mean thought, but it was easy to be mean about Miss Blight because she was horrible to Dot and anyone else junior to her. She worked in Personnel. Dot and Barb agreed that there was no one in the whole of Selfridges who relished administering punishments and sackings more.

  ‘No, not in officially today, Miss Blight, just… shopping!’

  ‘I see.’

  Dot watched the woman size up her companion and knew that her visit would be floor-wide gossip within the hour.

  ‘Well, we can pick up about this tomorrow. Have a lovely day.’

  Dot wanted to challenge her: pick up about what exactly? But truth be told, she was as afraid of what the topic might be as she was of Miss Blight. Sol strolled around the counters, thankfully oblivious. He looked at the tiny bone-coloured buttons, sorted according to size in a drawer of many com­partments. He twanged elastic, fingered ribbon and flicked through the paper patterns that meant anyone with an average Singer in their parlour and a spool of thread could run up anything from a new oven glove to a wedding dress. He stood marvelling at the bolts of fabric that were stacked in rows according to colour along the far wall.

  Dot stood behind him. ‘I stare at this every day. It reminds me of a rainbow.’

  ‘I can see why.’ Until she had seen a rainbow stretch out to sea as the St Lucian rain competed with the rays of the midday sun, this would be her rainbow. ‘Which colour do you like the best?’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know.’ Dot ran her palm over the damask. ‘I love the dark rose.’ Then her fingers massaged the mid-blue drill. ‘But this reminds me of a clear summer sky.’

  ‘That’s a fine choice, almost the colour of a St Lucian sky. Let’s take some with us!’

  ‘What for?’ Dot was nervous; a decent amount of the fabric would cost a few days’ wages.

  ‘I don’t know – you’re the designer, you tell me!’

  ‘Oh God, don’t start with all that again, ’specially not in here!’

  ‘Oi, Dot!’

  Barb marched over to the two of them and folded her arms across her flat chest. She stood with one hip forward, her foot pointing towards Sol in a ballet-like pose.

  ‘Is this him? The piano bloke, the one from the other night?’

  ‘Yes, Barb, it is.’ Dot sighed. ‘And he’s not deaf – are you?’

  Sol shook his head. ‘No, not yet.’

  Barb stared at Sol as she reached up and with one arm still anchored to her chest, teased the ends of her bunches with her fingers and checked her bobbles. Dot had described him per­fectly, although she had omitted one small detail.

  ‘I didn’t realise he was…’

  ‘So tall?’ Dot offered.

  ‘So… exotic,’ Barb countered.

  The three stood in silence for some seconds. Then Sol coughed.

  ‘Where d’you work then?’ Barb was fascinated.

  ‘I’m in the army.’

  ‘What army’s that then?’

  ‘The British army.’

  ‘But you ain’t British, you don’t sound British!’

  Dot felt her cheeks flame; her mate was thick sometimes; in fact not just sometimes.

  ‘No, that’s true, but I’m from St Lucia and it’s part of the British Empire, we share the same queen.’

  ‘Getaway!’ Barb unfolded her arms and placed them on her hips.

  Sol laughed. ‘No, it’s true and I fight for your queen and your country. Although I don’t plan on doing much fighting over the next year. I’m here as part of the attaché representing the St Lucian defence team.’ He decided not to mention that the only other representative of the St Lucian defence team was his boss and his dad, one and the same.

  ‘Oh I see. Blimey, Dot, he’s certainly got the gift of the gab!’

  ‘And once again, Barb, he can actually hear you.’

  ‘Barb, can you help us? We would like to take some of this material, if possible; this beautiful shade of blue—’

  ‘What d’you want that for?’ Barb screwed up her nose and pulled her confused face.

  Sol looked at Dot, who was wide eyed; he read the almost imperceptible shake of her head. She hadn’t shared her dream with her friend.

  ‘Because sometimes, Barb, you just need something around you that reminds you of a clear summer sky. Don’t you think?’

  Barb roared with laughter. ‘If you say so! Blimey, Dot, what is he, a bloody poet?’

  ‘Barb, he can hear you!’

  ‘All right! No need to shout at me!’ she mumbled as she laid the blue cotton on the cutting desk and lined up the edge with the brass ruler. ‘Where you going now?’

  Dot looked at Sol, a guest in her city. ‘I think we might go for a walk in the park.’

  ‘Sounds good!’ Sol enthused.

  ‘Do you walk very fast as well as run very fast?’

  Sol shook his head, trying to pick up the thread of Barbara’s con­versation. ‘I’m not sure – I can run fast, but I don’t know about walking, why do you ask?’

  ‘My dad said that black people have extra bones and muscles in their legs and that’s why they make such good runners.’

  Barb busied herself with the bolt of fabric while Sol wheezed into a tissue, trying not to offend Dot’s friend.

  Dot couldn’t wait to escape. ‘Oh my God, what is she like?’

  ‘She’s priceless!’

  As they strolled around Hyde Park their conversation flowed without awkward pauses or edits, as though they had shared experience and many years of friendship under their belts. After tea and cake at a Lyons Corner House
, their day was nearly done. It was turning into a crisp London dusk: the light was almost pink and the pavement felt hard and cold beneath their feet. Sol was fascinated by the destinations on the fronts of the chunky crimson buses that trundled around the streets, places familiar to him through movies and liter­ature; Trafalgar Square, Greenwich, the Embankment, High­gate – he could jump on any one of those buses and be taken there. It reminded him how small St Lucia was, twenty-seven miles give or take, top to toe.

  Dot dipped her chin inside her coat; it was getting chilly. ‘Fancy the pictures?’

  ‘Do I fancy what pictures?’

  Dot laughed. ‘The flicks, the movies!’

  ‘Oh! Sure, what’s on?’

  ‘I don’t care! I just don’t want to go home yet.’ She was bold and truthful.

  ‘Well what a coincidence! Neither do I.’

  Dot ran ahead. Sol laughed, her words having echoed his thoughts. Pulling his coat into his chest, he followed in her wake.

  By the time they’d emerged from the Curzon and had made their way east to Limehouse It was nearly ten o’clock. Rope­makers Fields was dark and for this Dot was grateful; she didn’t want there to be any chance of Sol seeing Mrs Harrison’s hateful sign, were he to venture that far up the street. A thin mist of rain fogged the air and made the cobbles shine in the lamplight. Curtains were pulled and the only light came from the gaps in nets or mis-pulled drapes, where the dazzle of a light bulb glinted on the damp pavement. Sol ran his hand over the bonnet of the pale blue Austin Seven Mini, the only car on the street; it belonged to the clever boy at Number 29 who was off to university to study something to do with sci­ence, according to Mrs Harrison. He peeked inside at the leather seats and tried to picture it bound­ing along the rugged, sand-filled tracks that led to Soufrière, down on the south-west coast of St Lucia.

  Sol walked Dot to the end of her road, as per her request, no further. He tried not to show too much interest in the narrow little houses all squashed together along the pavement. Not to mention the faintly sulphurous odour in the air. It looked poor, it smelled poor and it wasn’t what he had expected. Not Carib­bean living-on-the-streets poor, but cer­tainly not what he imagined he would find in the capital city of England.

  He pictured the Jasmine House sitting high on the hill above Rodney Bay, with its view of the Pitons in the distance. He visualised the eponymous night-flowering jasmine that clung to the wrap-around veranda, filling the evening and early-morning air with its pungent scent. He recalled the way the smell drifted up through the windows, snaking through the freshly painted white shutters and permeating any fabric that hung in the breeze. The French muslin around the frames of the mahogany four-poster beds constantly held the delicate perfume and the mere brush of a finger was enough to release the fragrance into the room. He was beginning to realise the level of luxury and privilege that he had grown up with.

  ‘Thank you for today, for showing me around, for every­thing.’ He kicked his heel against the edge of the pavement.

  ‘No, thank you! It’s been great! And thank you for my mater­ial. I shall give it a lot of thought and try and make some­thing worthy of it, something that will always remind me of today.’

  ‘That’s good. It was a day wrapped in clover…’

  Dot smiled at the reference to their song. ‘Yes it was.’

  ‘Hey, I think I know what I should call you. I think I’ll call you Clover. A Dot is something so small and insignificant – that’s not a name for someone like you.’

  Dot smiled again; she had never felt anything other than small and insignificant. Clover… it sounded lovely.

  ‘Clovers are lucky for some, you know. And it’s from our favourite song.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been lucky for anyone!’ Dot beamed, more at the fact that he had said ‘our favourite song’, as though they were connected. She forgot playing it cool and was now grinning up at him, holding the brown paper bag of sky-blue drill close to her chest.

  Sol leant forward conspiratorially. ‘I hate this end-of-date moment. In fact I’ve been dreading it since we first met this morning.’

  ‘Oh, I see; a date was it? And there was me thinking I was helping you out with a bit of sightseeing.’

  Sol looked bashful. ‘It’s difficult for us boys, y’know; we’re supposed to take the lead, but I never know whether to lean in for a quick kiss or shake hands. It feels like there are so many ways that I could get it wrong and I don’t want to ruin my chances.’

  ‘I’d say your chances are pretty good.’ Dot gave him a side­ways glance.

  ‘You see, girl, some might interpret that as an invitation to lean in.’ Sol placed his hand on her waist and drew her towards him.

  ‘Some might be right,’ she whispered.

  He moved his hands to the nape of her neck, pushing until his fingers were entwined in her hair, letting the silky strands slip through his fingers. Holding her head fast, he brought his face down to meet hers and hovered over her mouth. She reached upwards on tiptoes and touched her lips against his. The two smiled and touched their noses together.

  ‘I’ll see you soon?’ He ran his thumb over her jaw. She could only nod. A gurgle of excitement and pure joy blocked her throat, making speech impossible.

  ‘Clover…’ Sol called out from down the street as she fum­bled to get the key into the lock.

  ‘What?’ She beamed.

  ‘Nothing, I just like saying your name.’

  ‘Daft apeth.’ Although in truth she didn’t think it was daft at all, she thought it was bloody wonderful!

  Dot shut the front door behind her and rested her back against the glass. Her heart raced.

  ‘That you, Dot?’ Joan called from the back room. ‘Howdja get on, love? I was getting a bit worried. Your dad’s gone up already, so keep it down. You’re later than I thought you might be. D’yfancy a cuppa? Dee’s coloured you in a picture of a bowl of fruit, it’s on your bed. Have you eaten? You weren’t with him the whole time, were you, love? Did you meet up with Barb?’

  Dot breathed deeply, trying to calm her pulse. She touched her fingers to her mouth and pushed at the slight swell of her lower lip. It was as if she could still feel the warmth where his beautiful mouth had touched hers. Her mother could not have guessed that in the preceding five minutes her daughter and the universe in which she existed had been altered. Joan was speak­ing, but it was a background hum, the details of which Dot could not decipher. Her head was filled with the lilting lyrics My lonely days are over/And life is like a song and imprinted behind her eyelids was the image of his face, his liquid brown eyes, his perfect teeth and that sweet, gentle kiss.

  3

  Two days later, Dot let the fire-door slam behind her and stepped onto the busy West End pavement. She had only done a half day, but it was enough, considering how little sleep she was getting. The last couple of nights she had fallen onto her feather mattress physically exhausted. But her mind surfed on a sea of ‘maybes’ and her body twitched and twisted until the early hours, which made sleep impossible. There was one reason for these distractions – Sol. Sol.

  She looped the lime-green chiffon scarf about her neck and tied it into a large bow, enough to lift her drab, mud-coloured mac and American Tan tights.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

  ‘What?’

  She turned to face the voice, the same voice that had dis­turbed her sleep and haunted her dreams ever since she first heard it. Her heart thudded and soared, not with shock but excitement. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck with relief. At last/My love has come along…

  Over the last couple of days, Dot had felt a constant, over­whelming desire to be in his company; any situation or chore that kept them apart was simply a waste of her time. She wished the tone of her reply hadn’t been quite so sharp. Of course she had heard and understood him the first time, but she needed to hear the words again. Her imagination was so vivid when it came to Sol, she needed to rea
ssure herself that he was real, needed to seek out any hint that he might feel the same.

  ‘I said, I’ve been thinking about you. In fact I’ve been think­ing about you constantly since we met. I can’t eat – which as anyone that knows me would tell you, is most unusual – and I can’t sleep and it’s all your fault.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Dot ran her tongue over her teeth, checking for any cerise lipstick that might have adhered there.

  ‘Yep. And to tell you the truth, Lady Clover, it’s proving to be a bit of a distraction. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything: I can’t work, my paperwork is full of errors, I don’t hear what is said to me because I am not thinking straight and I don’t know what to do. I’ve considered playing it cool, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that when you turn me to jelly, which is not cool at all. So I’ve decided the best option is to come clean, forget cool and be honest.’

  ‘I see. And how long ago is it exactly, since we met and your beauty sleep was disrupted?’

  Sol looked at his watch. ‘Well I’m not exactly sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say seven days, seventeen hours, twelve minutes and eighteen seconds, no nineteen, no twenty—’

  ‘I get it, Sol, just over a week ago.’ She smiled.

  ‘Yes, just over a week. But, seriously, you have not left my head for one second since that moment. Not one.’

  Dot felt her gut twist with excitement and happiness. Imagine! His head filled with her.

  ‘And what about you?’ he pushed, looking at his shoes, his voice quieter now. ‘Have you been thinking about me?’

  Dot placed her small hands in her pockets and looked down at the pavement. It was easier not to make eye contact – any­thing rather than acknowledge the weight of his question. ‘Only when I’m awake.’

  Her voice was quite small, but Sol heard the lie nonetheless. He grinned. ‘It’s as I thought, Clover, the genie is out of the bottle!’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  He leant forward and she had to match his stance to hear his words, which were uttered in barely more than a whisper. ‘It means that sometimes the universe conspires and we are merely pawns that have no option but to go with the situation that forces far bigger than us have decreed. And it’s not a matter of what we want, but whether we have the strength or desire to fight against it.’