by Jacob Ross
I remember when Elaine was ill soon after Mummy left and Mama had to get her to the doctor. She had the three of us with her and I think two or three of our cousins as well.
It was a long walk and Elaine couldn’t manage it. Mama had to carry her most of the way. I think that was the time she had a sore on her leg that just wouldn’t heal. It was probably due to the sickle cell. But Mama wouldn’t have known.
No one knew then.
To get to the clinic we had to cross the river and it was flood time.
The only way Mama could get us across was on her back.
And that’s what she did.
One at a time.
She tied up her skirt – carried one over, and came back for another till we were all on the other side.
You must remember the passport, Julia.
When we came, the three of us came on one passport – and it was mine.
Bet you don’t even remember what it said, do you?
It said: “Miss Sarah Andrea Jenkins aged 8 accompanied by two small children.” Miss Jenkins, that was me. Accompanied by Elaine and you; the small children. Hah.
It didn’t even have your names on it.
You lost your glove on the plane.
All three of us had these little white gloves when we left. Mummy sent them in a parcel from England. D’you remember? Probably the prettiest things we’d ever owned. All lacy. One of yours disappeared down the toilet on the plane and you wouldn’t stop crying for it.
I didn’t know what to do so I went and told the stewardess thinking she could get it back. But of course she couldn’t. We had no idea then, I mean, we’d never seen a flush toilet before. And anyway, that stewardess was supposed to be looking after us. But she didn’t really pay any attention to us. Nobody did. They just made sure that we got on the plane and saw to it that we got off again. Then someone else took us to Immigration where we had to wait for Mummy to pick us up.
She was really late.
You were miserable and cried all the time.
I couldn’t stop worrying. I thought she wasn’t going to come.
And when she did come, even I didn’t recognise her at first. She’d put on so much weight. Elaine didn’t recognise her either, and you… I had to drag you over. You wouldn’t go near her. Then you refused to talk to her. Kept on saying you didn’t know her, and you wanted to go back to Aunty G.
Honestly, Julia, you were so contrary. When she left us in Jamaica you wouldn’t let Mama or anyone else touch you. Just hung on to me crying for your mummy. We come to her and you’re still grabbing on to me and pleading to go back to Aunty. Then you refused to say, “Mummy”, calling her Sister May… as if we were still back home at Mama’s!
But that’s what our cousins and everyone else called her.
Even her own mother used to call her Sister May because she was a Christian. But we shouldn’t have.
Anyone would think you really wanted her to send us back. Weren’t you worried?
I was always fearful that she might. She seemed so powerful.
Even when she’d left Jamaica she had power. She still managed to keep us safe. I mean, those big boys messing with our cousins; even they knew that they mustn’t mess with you, me or Elaine. They knew who our mother was and that she was going to send for us. Everyone knew that we weren’t going to be left forever like the others. And if she couldn’t get us to England with her, then she would come back. I knew it because she told us. Everyone knew. Except you. You forgot before she even left. But those boys knew she’d be back; and there wasn’t one of them brave enough to touch us and then face our mother.
You don’t remember any of this, do you?
I had to keep on telling you, “She is our mother, Julia, and she sent for us, and now that we’re here you have to call her Mummy.”
The Mother
You know, I was never really meant to come here.
I never wanted to leave my children. And it was never part of our plan.
I never wanted to come.
It’s your daddy want to come. And we agreed that he would come and work so we could save more. I wasn’t meant to come. It was never part of our plan.
And then, after the baby die… You couldn’ remember him, for you were just small… your daddy say he couldn’t carry on living at my mother’s yard. He couldn’t live there anymore with the little baby body buried there.
We did plant some Joseph’s coats around it.
You wouldn’t believe how quick they grow up and spread across the little plot.
And even before they start to show, your daddy was already gone.
But I never want to come here; for although the baby die, we still have you three girls.
And I couldn’t leave you. I just couldn’ do that.
You must know I never want to leave you.
I really never wanted to leave you to come here.
It’s not what we planned.
Those first letters that your daddy write, I know he wasn’t happy. He try to make them sound good, but I could feel how he was struggling. He write and say how he’s missing us, and I must come join him because with two of us working we would manage better, and we could save more money to buy the piece of land. But I reply and say I couldn’t leave my children.
I remember one letter in particular. He was almost saying his “good bye” because he couldn’t see how he was going to support himself in England and send enough money back home for us as well with just one wage packet, and he begging me to come and help him.
But I didn’t want to leave unnu.
It was Mama persuade me to come.
When I read the “good bye” letter, she see how upset I was and she say, “You know, Sister May, perhaps you really should go.”
Is she make me leave.
I tell her, “No. I can’t leave my children.”
I wasn’t going to come here. And if it weren’t for Mama, I would never have come.
I ask her, “How I must leave my children and go so far?”
Mama get vex and tell me that it’s because I don’t trust her with my children. For if I have trust in her, then I would do what my sisters did and leave the three of you there with her and join my husband in England.
But it wasn’t that.
No. It wasn’t that. It’s just that I couldn’ bear to not have you all with me.
It’s really Mama make me come.
And then when I come here, I couldn’t rest.
I could not rest until I had you all with me.
I couldn’t rest.
And you know, the day I book your tickets, your daddy never know.
Even though he and I share a bed the night, in the morning I leave the house after he already gone to work… and I book the flight.
I tell him when he come home that evening.
When I tell him, he throw his hands up and say, “Lord! Woman yu mad? Where yu goin put them?”
Yu see, is just one room we have. And by that time we already have George, and Rosie was baby… and all four of us living in one little room in Sparkbrook.
I was off shift next morning and I leave the house early and start looking. I tell you that day I walk, I walk, I walk so till…
English people not letting to me. And finding two rooms instead of one… I could find nothing. And I tell you, is when my foot swell up and I ready to drop, I walking back home I bump into Brother Wilkins on the Stratford Road.
You remember Brother Wilkins? He did have a daughter name Jacqueline. You must remember her from Sunday school. Well anyway, he say that he have two rooms in his house and it wasn’t far, so I walk with him round there. I ask him how the rooms come to be empty and he say that the family that had the rooms before had children, and their children and his daughter didn’t get on. He show me around and it was really a nice house. It had three floors. The two rooms were on the first floor. Nice big rooms. My heart glad that I see him that day.
But then I meet the daughter… Oh… she was
a brat.
I could see why the other family had to move.
I couldn’t bring you all up here to that house.
I just wanted a place where my children could live and not be teased.
I did see an advertisement for a house for sale on Goldney Road. But we never have money to buy house. I never really give it any mind. Remember your daddy only come to save up to buy land in Jamaica so we were not thinking of buying house in England. I have to beg to persuade him to come look at this house with me.
We had to scrimp to find the deposit. But by the Grace of God we manage it. And we have somewhere to put you.
It was almost three years yu know since I leave you girls in Jamaica with Mama.
On the Sunday night I soak up my pillow with tears and I decide I’m not going to cry any more nights for unnu. I just going to have my children with me.
I book your tickets on the Monday morning and you all were coming on the Saturday. So… we didn’t have much time.
Not even a full week we have.
But we found Goldney Road.
And we managed to find the deposit.
God is good.
Elaine, Second Born
Ooh Julia, I like this. It’s like one of those tinted photos of us from the sixties.
Hang on a minute… I need my glasses for this.
Oh my life… it’s… it’s us. That is us. It is us, isn’t it?
There we are, me, you…
How come Sarah’s not there?
We were a threesome then. In those days.
Where are we though…?
Oh I know… I do know. It’s the dining room at the old house in Goldney Road.
I really loved those curtains.
And the wallpaper with the apples and the grapes. D’you remember when Daddy hung that paper? I remember that. And he had no idea how wallpaper should be hung. None of us knew that he should match up the pictures at the edges, did we? …That the fruit should be matched so you don’t see the separate strips across the wall like that.
It stayed up for years that wallpaper.
Can’t believe you remember all this… How much time did you spend painting this? Must have taken you ages.
Why?
Why would you want to paint this? I can’t believe it.
We’re wearing our judging clothes. Did anyone else call them that? I think we must have been the only ones who called them that.
And Daddy singing and swinging the little ones on his leg.
Look how Rosie’s holding on.
Wasn’t she a lovely? She was a beautiful baby.
And little George waiting his turn – with his hands in his little pockets. Oaoaorh sooo cute… There are some photos somewhere of him standing just like this. So lovely.
Shame we never had any baby photos of us…
You’ve really captured the likeness of everyone.
He used to let them sit on his foot and hold on to his leg.
This is sooo funny. It’s really weird… remembering all this stuff.
Why’ve you painted this? It’s odd. Really weird.
Why do you even think about this stuff, Julia?
I don’t know why you do it.
You need to forget it! That’s what I did.
I never think about those things.
I really don’t.
I can’t believe you even remember it.
Just look at you standing there. Looking at them.
So like you.
I don’t know why it meant so much to you. You really wanted to have a go didn’t you? You wanted to join in.
I remember… I was pulling on your skirt to make you sit back down but you just stood there… watching.
Waiting.
Hhhuh.
And then you actually asked for a go.
I wouldn’t have even asked. I’d never ask them for anything.
I mean, what’s the point?
I knew you wouldn’t get a turn.
We never got turns at anything.
The trouble is, Julia…
You really wanted to be like them, didn’t you?
You wanted to be one of the little ones.
I’ve always thought that. You wanted to be like them.
Even Sarah used to say that you should really be one of them because you were quite young when we came here and you weren’t that much older than them. You were really small. Still a baby really. She thought you should be treated the same.
You really did want to be one of them, didn’t you?
But you weren’t born here were you?
You were one of us.
One of the bigger ones.
Rosie, One of the Little Ones
Julia, I just peeped my head round the door of your studio. I hope you don’t mind… but that painting, I had to go in and take a closer look. I was on my way upstairs to see what the kids were up to, but honestly, Julia… it just drew me in.
Gave me goose bumps it did. Really made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
It’s beautiful. All that detail. Tch, you’re so clever, you are.
Everything about the old dining room at Goldney Road, you’ve got it all, to a tee. Even the wallpaper… That wallpaper was up forever.
All these years I never even thought about that time. Then suddenly… Honestly, it jumped me right back to it. I mean, I found myself holding on for dear life to Daddy’s leg and felt the great whoop of rising up through the air, head thrown back and looking up at him. Like staring into the eyes of God. He seemed so far away. I used to think I was flying… And the song just poured out of my mouth. Do you remember it…?
Oh my God, after all this time… and that funny little song… there it was in my head… Daddy’s song – every word, just came back to me. You probably heard me singing it…
Here on our rock-away horse we go,
Johnny and I, to a land we know,
Far away in the sunset gold,
A lovelier land than can be told.
Where all the flowers go niddlety nod,
Nod, nod, niddlety nod.
Where all the flowers go niddlety nod,
And all the birds sing by-low
Lullaby, lullaby, by-low.
One minute I was singing and then I burst out laughing as though I really was rising through the air. And swinging… Honestly… I was, right in that room, and I was almost hysterical. I really was that tiny child again. It was utter joy. And then before I realised it, I was crying my eyes out… I mean, properly sobbing, Julia.
I had to sit down … and great idea putting the old sofa there by the way; I dropped into it; and you were right, you can’t have too many cushions… So, I’m all cushioned up with the sound of Daddy’s voice. Didn’t he have a lovely voice, Julia? It was so soft… really gentle. Pure velvet. I could actually hear him, It’s as if I was being cradled, like he was rocking me… I felt so warm… and Julia, you’re not gonna believe this…
I fell asleep.
DINESH ALLIRAJAH
EASY ON THE ROSE’S
The first thing Donna noticed about working at The Raven was that the floor stuck to her feet. It became a bedtime ritual to peel off fag-butts and scraps of beer-mat from the soles of her shoes. The next thing she noticed was that punters stuck to her as well.
Fifteen years ago, two weeks after moving back to the old house, she’d stopped by the local pub for a lime and soda and an application form. The owner of a tiepin, which read “Gavin”, introduced himself as the man in charge. He was younger than Donna but his Bar and Ents management CV, he told her, was as long as her arm, and he’d looked at her arm as he said it.
The pub, as it stood now, had another six months in it, Gavin said, and then it’d be closed for a refit. The Raven would re-open as an eatery specialising in Valentine’s and Christmas menus, and the old regulars, if they hadn’t already vanished while the place was closed, would all be gone as soon as the smoking ban kicked in. Now, at the end of each day, Gav
in said, they needed a wrecking ball to get rid of them.
When she began work, Donna would prompt one of the regulars into a conversation about something else that had disappeared or was on the way out: mugs of ale, proper music, the welfare state, human rights, smoking next year, this place soon enough, or us lot – whichever they got to first.
She carried their voices back to the house where they blended with those on the rolling news channels throughout the night. This was her routine for her first six weeks at The Raven until Sal took occupancy of the stool nearest the cigarette machine.
Sal had appeared in a moulting camel overcoat with a burnout velvet shawl around her narrow shoulders in defiance of the May sunshine outside. On the stool, she looked like a warbler on a reed. Fragile, the coat and shawl seemed to be all that kept her in one piece.
She delved into her coat for her pack of Berkeley’s and a lighter. Face powder drifted from her in tiny clouds, smelling of Yardley’s April Violet. Donna recognised it as the scent on the folded-up bedclothes in the airing cupboard at her house.
“Who is this nut?” Gavin murmured in Donna’s ear.
He brushed past, fiddling with the Bluetooth headset attached to his left ear, and arrived in front of the old woman just as she breathed a cloud across the bar. Gavin fanned the air in front of his face. “Yes, love?”
She spoke as she moved, in puffs of vapour. “Well, first of all…” There was a huge drag on the cigarette, from which the crinkle of the paper cylinder could be heard across the pub. “Good afternoon, dear.” Another drag. More ash dropped to the floor. “Now, what I would very much like you to do is to fetch me a gimlet, would you?”
Gavin was already at the optics. He placed a single gin on the bar in front of her.
“And what’s this, dear?”
Gavin directed his response to the gallery of regulars at the other end of the bar. “That’s a gin, my love, just like you asked for.”
“I’m perfectly aware that it’s a gin, young man, but are you aware that I asked for a gim-let?”
“A… gimlet?”
“Yes, dear.”