They were quiet in. the classroom. I wanted to say something, but no words came. Jacqueline Bender rose.
“Sir, I don’t think you understood just now. We have nothing against Seales. We like him, honest we do, but if us girls was seen going to his home, you can’t imagine the things people would say. We’d be accused of all sorts of things.” She sat, evidently overcome by this long speech.
“Thank you for making that so clear, Miss Bender. Does the same thing apply to the boys as well?”
They were not defiant now, but their eyes were averted.
“I’ll take them.” Pamela stood up, tall and proudly regal.”
“Why should you, Miss Dare? Aren’t you afraid of what might be said of you?”
“No, Sir, gossips don’t worry me. After all, I’ve known Larry, I mean Seales, since in the Infants.”
“Thank you, Miss Dare. The funeral is at ten o’clock. I’ll take my usual train and perhaps I’ll see you there. Thank you.”
I left it at that, pleased and encouraged by her words, and we returned to our lessons.
That evening I told Gillian of the boy’s mother’s death but made no mention of the other thing. I wanted to try and forget it as quickly as possible.
On Saturday morning I caught an early bus from Brentwood. I sat on the top deck in the rearmost seat, disinclined to see or be seen, to speak or be spoken to; withdrawn and wishing only to be as far removed from white people as I possibly could be. I had given all I could to those children, even part of myself, but it had been of no use. In the final analysis they had trotted out the same hoary excuse so familiar to their fathers and grandfathers: “We have nothing against him personally, but … ” How well I knew it now! If he’d been pimp or pansy, moron or murderer, it would not have mattered, providing he was white; his outstanding gentleness, courtesy and intelligence could not offset the greatest sin of all, the sin of being black.
They had been glib at the Students’ Council, and bright and persuasive. It had sounded great coming from them, that talk of common heritage and inalienable rights; glib and easy, until they were required to do something to back up all the talk, and then the façade had cracked and crumbled because it was as phoney as themselves. Crucify him because he’s black; lynch him because he’s black; ostracize him because he’s black; a little change, a little shift in geographical position and they’d be using the very words they’d now so vociferously condemned.
The whir and rattle of the bus was a rhythmic percussion syncopating the anger in my heart into a steady, throbbing hate, until I felt rather light-headed. I disembarked outside the London Hospital and walked toward Commercial Road and Priddle Street where the Seales lived. As I turned into the narrow roadway I could see the drearily ornate hearse parked there, and the small group of curiosity-seekers who somehow always materialize to gape open-mouthed on the misery of others. And then I stopped, feeling suddenly washed clean, whole and alive again. Tears were in my eyes, unashamedly, for there, standing in a close, separate group on the pavement outside Seales’ door was my class, my children, all or nearly all of them, smart and self-conscious in their best clothes. Oh God, forgive me for the hateful thoughts, because I love them, these brutal, disarming bastards, I love them …
I hurried over to join them, to be again with them, a part of them. They welcomed me silently, pride and something else shining in their eyes as they gathered close around me. I felt something soft pressed into my hand; and as I looked round into the clear, shining eyes of Pamela Dare, I dried my own eyes with the tiny handkerchief.
Chapter
Twenty-one
THESE LAST DAYS OF term were for me the happiest I had known since leaving the R.A F. My life was full of my work and Gillian. We grew closer together each day, our interests and delights broadened and enhanced by being shared. I met her parents as arranged. They were evidently both very nice people faced with an unexpected and difficult situation, and doing their best to be as “civilized” as possible about it. They had reared their daughter to be independent in thought and behavior, and made no attempt now to influence her. Besides, they loved her deeply and were primarily concerned for her happiness. I suppose I was rather on the defensive with them, watchful for any sign of enmity or patronage. They too were somewhat ill-at-ease.
Supporters of racial prejudice are fond of posing the query: “Would you allow your daughter to marry a Negro?” I have spoken to many English parents who, feeling safe against such a contingency, have unhesitatingly asserted their willingness to allow their offspring to marry whom they choose, and the very glibness of their assertions has caused me to doubt. Now I was placing these people in a position where they must both ask themselves and answer the question. They were well established and reasonably prosperous, with the associations and responsibilities attendant upon their social position; theirs was no easy decision, and in my heart I was very sympathetic.
Before meeting Gillian I had not thought of marrying a white woman, nor had I wished to. I had met them socially and even knew a few very intimately, but had never entertained the least thought of marrying them. Not because I had anything against any of them; they were very nice, intelligent, companionable people; but because of the deep prejudice I knew existed against mixed marriages. Then out of the blue I met Gillian, and all my carefully reasoned arguments faded like mist before the sun. From the very first she fitted so easily, so completely into my life that I would not have cared if she had been blue or green. We both believed we were complementary one to the other and would strenuously have resisted any interference from anyone. We both agreed that her parents, like my own, deserved the courtesy of full information. So, here I was, willingly submitting to their scrutiny though alert for any sign of interference.
We lunched together and chatted about inconsequential places and things. They asked about myself and my parents, my education and war service, of my plans for the future and the possibilities of fulfilling them. I believe they were satisfied with my answers, yet something was missing, some necessary catalyst to bring us together into closer harmony.
Later, while we were all having a cigarette in the lounge before a cheerful fire, Mr. Blanchard began to about South America. Before the war he had, in the course of his business, visited some of the republics and even some of the off-shore islands. He mentioned Aruba.
I knew Aruba quite well, for after graduating from University I had worked there for a short while as a technologist for the Standard Oil Company in the San Nicholas Refinery, and soon we were involved in a pleasant discussion about the island, its people, and its economic importance in the world of oil, due very largely to the large natural harbor at San Nicholas and its nearness to the huge oilfields of mainland Maracaibo.
“What’s that odd language the natives use?” he asked.
“Papiamento. It’s a patois composed of Dutch, Spanish and the indigenous Indian dialect. Before I left it had even assumed a rather strong American flavor.”
“Do you speak it?” Blanchard wanted to know.
“Tolerably well. With a knowledge of Spanish the rest comes easily.”
“I remember seeing some of the natives in Oranjestad, riding those little donkeys of theirs,” continued Mr. Blanchard.
“Burros.”
“Yes, burros.”
“Quiet, dignified people, those Arubans.”
Small talk, anything to keep us away from discussing Gillian and me.
“That’s a fine club they built at Lago Heights,” I said.
“Yes, I played a lot of basketball there, and volleyball.”
“That’s a real man’s game.”
“It’s a man’s town. Men everywhere and more men.” Suddenly he laughed, amused, remembering. “Hija del Dia,” he said.
I stared at him and breathed a short prayer of thanks for my dark skin that hid the blushes warming my face.
�
�Don’t you remember it?” he pursued.
His wife and Gillian exchanged glances. I stammered “Oh, yes,” trying with my eyes to signal him off the subject.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve told them about it.”
Good grief, these English people were full of surprises! How did one describe such subjects to nice people?
“Did you ever see inside?” He was amused at my embarrassment.
“Not me, I gave it wide berth.”
“God, those queues!” He was rocking with laughter, remembering: at ease now, forgetting to weigh, to assess, to scrutinize. This was the catalyst we had needed—these shared memories of Aruba and the Club and the queues.
They were the longest queues I have ever seen and the most memorable. Queues of men, old men and young men, white men and dark men, men in clean crisp linen and men soiled from work on a long eight-hour shift, chatting or silent, but all patiently waiting their turn to get into the big, bright painted building to pay the high prices demanded for the island’s most rationed commodity, Women.
To someone like myself, fresh from the comfort and plenty of normal American life, Aruba’s hardships were exciting and easily to be borne, for they were mainly of short duration. Up-to-date American planning provided well-stocked stores where fruit, vegetables, meat and other perishables could be obtained, fresh and crisp out of huge refrigerators. Nothing grew on the island except cactus, and these were gigantic, with thorns four to five inches long, as if Nature were indulging in one of her occasional jokes by encouraging these useless things when even grass successfully resisted the most devoted attention. Even fresh water was brought to the island by tanker fleet to supplement the output of the ageing plant which converted seawater into a flat, brackish all-purpose liquid.
But the real shortage was Women. The Refinery was built, managed, and developed by Americans and provided employment for tens of thousands of white and colored men from the U.S.A., the Caribbean Islands and the South American mainland, together with many able-bodied indigenous Arubans. All day and all night these thousands were on the move to and from the Refinery gates in an unending three-shift cycle; they crowded the wops, restaurants, bodegas and cafés.
But the sight of a woman was rare, for there was then no prepared accommodation for the wives of the men who flocked to the well-paid jobs from as far south as Montevideo, and who were housed cheek by jowl in hastily fabricated ranges of tiny cubicles, sharing communal dining halls and toilet facilities. A far-sighted and practical Aruban Government permitted (possibly even designed) a certain degree of easement to the situation. Prostitutes, some of them very young and innocent looking, were allowed to visit the island from various mainland seaports and inland towns, on a two-week return ticket, and to ply their trade under somewhat close medical supervision. The women arrived by the twice-monthly inter-island steamer, which soon became known as “The Meat Boat.” Most of them were housed in the big garish building not far from the refinery’s main gates, with its huge sign Hija del Dia, “Daughter of the Day,” and soon after the word went around, “the meat boat’s in,” the queues of men would begin to form outside its doors, jocularly speeding the tired departees, and eagerly welcoming the replacements.
I looked at Mr. Blanchard, trying to picture him there. As if divining my thoughts he smiled, and said:
“I never went in either. I was there for two days doing some business for the British-Dutch Shell people at Oranjestad; a friend drove me out to the Lago Club for drinks and I saw them. God, what a life! I’ll never forget those queues.”
On Sunday afternoon after lunch we all sat down to discuss the matter which was uppermost in all our minds. Gillian’s parents were very frank in expressing their opinion. Mr. Blanchard said:
“I’m going to hand it to you straight, Ricky. When we first heard that Gillian was seeing you, her mother and I talked about it, but we decided not to interfere, hoping that it was just one of those things and would blow over.
“When Gillian wrote that she was bringing you down here, we realized that it was more serious than we had imagined. We know our daughter, Rick, and we felt sure that this must be important to her; after meeting you it is not difficult to understand why.” He got up and lit his pipe, then sat on the arm of Gillian’s chair. “We would, even now, prefer that Gillian had fallen in love with someone of her own color; it would have made everything so much easier for her as well as for us. Before this I would have unhesitatingly asserted that I was without prejudice, racial or otherwise, but now that it has reached me to become a personal, intimate issue, I know that I would do anything in my power to break this up, if I thought it would do any good. It’s not just the two of you, Rick, that have to be considered. You might have children; what happens to them? They’ll belong nowhere, and nobody will want them.”
I had listened to him patiently and respectfully, because he was an older man and even more because he was Gillian’s father. But there he was, so big and sure of himself, mouthing the same old excuses, the same old arguments, hitting below the belt. I had heard it all before.
“I don’t think the children would be anyone’s business but our own, Mr. Blanchard,” I retorted, as calmly as I could. “If Gillian and I marry, I hope we have children and those children will belong to us and we will want them.”
I looked at Gillian, wishing her with me in this, hoping I was truly speaking for both of us; she smiled at me, with her eyes and her lips and her heart, encouraging me.
“You need not worry about us, Sir, or about our children. I don’t suppose you were able to offer Mrs. Blanchard any guarantees that her children would be strong, healthy or without physical deformity. We, too, will take our chance, though I appreciate how very inconvenient it might be for you to have colored grandchildren.”
He blushed at this remark, but was determined to be as civilized as possible, and raised his hand to silence any further retort.
“No need to become too heated, young man, you have made your point. Don’t forget that Gillian is our daughter, and marrying you will not change that.”
I sat down and waited for him to continue.
“I’m saying these things to you quite dispassionately, as her father; other people will think and say them, probably in very unpleasant terms. I want you two young people to understand thoroughly the very difficult step you are taking.” He suddenly smiled at me and went on: “We like you. Rick, and hope this works out for both of your sakes. But we think it would be wise if you waited a while, say about six months at least, before taking any further action; that should give you time to get accustomed to being together and meeting people together.
“And remember,” he said, rising, “if you’re joining this family we might as well be friends.” With that he extended his hand and I shook it.
“Thank you, Sir,” I said.
Chapter
Twenty-two
SHORTLY AFTER MY MEETING with Gillian’s parents the class had a visit from the district Youth Employment Officer, who spoke to them of the opportunities open to them in the local industries, mainly clothing and furniture factories, which generally absorbed the majority of those leaving school. To a great extent his efforts at recruitment had been anticipated by mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles who, already employed in those industries, were desirous of having their children with the same firm. Some of the class sought and obtained employment farther afield, as juniors in offices. Seales was accepted for apprenticeship training with a large electrical engineering firm in Middlesex; Fernman landed a job as messenger at Cable and Wireless Ltd. Tich Jackson was promised a job as a page in a big London hotel; Potter was accepted in some capacity at Covent Garden market; Denham had made up his mind to be his own boss and his father agreed to set him up in business as a barrow-boy. Pamela and Barbara were to be trainees with a West End firm of bespoke dressmakers, and Pamela’s mother felt sure that her girl
could eventually be taught modelling because of her fine figure and upright, easy carriage. They were all dispersing like feathers to the four winds.
At first they had spoken eagerly and impatiently of leaving school, earning money, buying clothes, going places; but now, as their remaining days dwindled away, they became subdued, even frightened at the prospect of fixed hours and supervised work. But not afraid of life. They were hesitant about taking the first step, the initial plunge into the stream, but they were not afraid of the stream itself. They felt sure that they had learned to swim; they were strong, fearless and full of cheerful enthusiasm, all of which would help them to keep afloat. They might need to adapt their strokes, control their breathing, or alter course in the face of currents or obstructions, but they were not afraid.
I got to know them even better than before; they were in a hurry to say all that was to be said while there was still time, and during the last week there was not a single absence.
One girl even asked to be allowed to bring her baby sister to school with her, while the mother attended hospital for dental treatment. The baby lay peacefully in her carry-cot, her gurgling a pleasant diversion in the classroom.
We talked. No formal lessons were possible in this atmosphere of excitement, so we talked, especially about the relationship between peoples. I listened to their views and was surprised and delighted at some of the things they said.
They had been reared in a neighborhood as multiracial as anywhere in Britain, yet it had been of no significance to them. Some of them lived in the same street, the same block of flats, as Indians or Negroes, without ever even speaking to them, in obedience to the parental taboo. Others had known and grown up with colored children through the Infant and Junior stages, but when the tensions and pretensions of puberty had intervened the relationship had ended.
To Sir With Love Page 18