But I had said none of these things. I had listened in disbelief as he talked proudly about the County Klan Leader – ‘just nineteen years of age, with a very strong following indeed’. He told me that the boy had returned from Vietnam with valuable military skills and a flair for leadership – ‘real zeal and fervour’ were his words. I thought of Pip and Hannah, and realized that they would never be safe in their beds while Erwin was alive. It was my responsibility to look after them.
When I went to buy my road maps, I noticed that every bookshop and petrol station stocked the same distinctive travel guide. I picked up a copy and was horrified to read the title: The Negro Traveler’s Green Book. The book contained a comprehensive list of lodgings and gas stations which would serve Black people. The purpose was to ‘give the Negro traveler information that will keep him from running into difficulties, embarrassments and to make his trip more enjoyable’.
There was no mention of what to do when people of different races set out together.
25
What Hannah Like
what hannah like about the boy is his mind
clever honest kind
what hannah hate about the boy is his fear
fear is slavery but I see it turn to bravery
whenever I am near
what hannah like is the body of the boy
see his muscles hustle
fill my heart with joy
what hannah hate about the boy is he has no mother
and no dad hes sad like hannah
we carry emptiness like one another
what hannah like about the boy is his smile
that smile make everything worthwhile
id run a mile for that sunny smile
what hannah hate about the boy is that he live here
at dead river farm
where there is no key
and no alarm
but he does not flee
and that is also like me
what hannah like about the boy is that he cares
for lilybelle the dog as well
even shares
his love with hannah
what i enjoy about the boy
is that he has stirred something sweet and strong
which i had all along and never knew it
make me squeeze my knees in the night
and lo-o-o-ng for him
i know that boy is right
what i like
is the boy to kiss my lips
and linger
on each finger
dont forget each fingertip
pip
26
Mystery Tour (I)
They set off early one morning at the end of August, and it was a brand-new sensation for Pip and Hannah to be rumbling and bumping and flying along the road, with the sunroof down and their hair streaming behind.
There wasn’t much room in the car – a Spider, Jack called it – so Pip and Hannah squeezed together in the passenger seat, which Pip was more than glad to do. They carried little luggage, except for Pip’s book in his satchel and a couple of bags in the trunk. With every mile they put between them and Dead River, Pip felt more and more relaxed, and when Jack tuned in to the Jazz channel, the world seemed a kinder place to be.
Shortly after dawn, when Pip and Hannah had arrived at the white bungalow, they had found Jack fussing about how Finnegan would manage while they were away. Zachery was certainly not one of life’s natural cat-sitters, and besides, the old man hadn’t stopped grumbling about having to care for Lilybelle while they were gone. In the end Jack had simply piled up a couple of bowls of food and left a window ajar at the back of the bungalow. After all, Finnegan was a very independent kind of cat.
The seats in Jack’s car were set very low, so it felt almost like flying on a magic carpet, just a few inches above the ground. This kind of travelling felt ten times faster than the old brown truck in which Pip had arrived at Dead River, and on top of that, there was the excitement of a mystery destination.
‘Jack, Jack, why won’t you tell us where we’re goin’?’ he pleaded for the hundredth time.
But Jack would say nothing except that it was a surprise, and that Morrow’s Mystery Tour would be something to remember. The only other thing he told them was that it would be a long journey. ‘So we’ll stay in motels for a night or two. Now, just relax and enjoy the ride. You all right, Hannah?’
She nodded, and for a moment she seemed awfully young to Pip. He found himself wondering how often she had ridden in a car – or perhaps this was the very first time.
When they left the town, Jack opened the throttle and the engine roared. All around them lay America in its glory, with mountains and swamps and forests and plains.
‘I’ll tell you this!’ shouted Jack. ‘To an Irishman, your country is a huge and beautiful place! All right, hold tight, everybody . . .’
They zipped down the highway, the little car eating up the miles like a hungry tiger, and by mid-morning they had forgotten their cares, as if Erwin and his ghost-men and the orphanage and all those terrible things had been discarded on the roadside somewhere far, far behind. Hannah and Pip were jiggling to the music and for the first time Pip heard Hannah laugh; it was the sweetest, wildest sound he had ever heard.
He noticed her response to the radio with fascination. The wild girl seemed attuned to every note, especially the powerful voices of female blues singers like Nina Simone and Billie Holiday, and she mimed silently to every lyric, with a look of absolute bliss on her face.
The three travellers rolled on past pine forests and breathtaking waterfalls that leaped from crazy crags. When they stopped to stretch their legs, Jack studied his maps while Hannah and Pip ran along animal tracks, whooping and shrieking with joy.
But Jack would not let the journey hinder their studies – in fact he took the opportunity of having his pupils confined at his side to launch into long discourses on every theme imaginable, from literature to psychology to music and movies, and more than anything, he held forth on politics and issues relating to human rights. Pip was particularly stirred by the powerful story of Rosa Parks, a brave Black woman who had been arrested for refusing to give up her seat to a White man on a segregated bus; he pictured the woman as his own mother, silent and proud in the face of indignity. Pip noticed that, over the months, the manner of Jack’s teaching had changed: he no longer talked to them as if they were kids; now he treated them like students in their own mini university, and if Pip didn’t understand every word, it did not matter – his mind was hungry to expand.
There was only one unusual incident on that first stage of the journey. On an endless stretch of deserted highway Jack told them that a state trooper was following them on a motorcycle. Pip looked in the wing mirror and saw him too, hovering steadily behind, faceless behind white helmet and dark glasses. Jack warned Pip and Hannah that the police in that part of the world were notoriously authoritarian, especially to people of Colour. In fact, Jack said, he had heard that non-White drivers were continually harassed for dubious traffic violations, and the ironic phrase used to describe these offences was ‘driving while Black or Brown’.
For fifteen minutes Jack took the greatest care to control his speed. But the presence of the sinister figure on their tail created a feeling of deep unease – Pip had grown up with the knowledge that the law was not there for people like him and Hannah.
Mile after mile, the cop buzzed like a fly on their tail. At last Jack became so irritated that he slowed the vehicle to a crawl. At this point the cop shot past, stabbing the air with his leather gauntlet to indicate that Jack should pull over.
The officer kicked out the stand on his bike and removed his helmet. Then he slouched arrogantly, chewing gum and waiting for Jack to join him. Jack had told Pip that the police seldom carried guns where he came from, but this fellow had an armoury strapped to his waist – a nightstick, handcuffs and a large revolver, as well as a rifle on the side of the bike.
Hu
ddled side by side in the low-slung seat, Pip and Hannah watched Jack walk towards the man. The cop was built like a bulldog, with a neck as thick as a tree trunk, which made the Irishman appear smaller than ever. In the silent afternoon Pip could hear every word.
‘Y’all new round here?’
‘Just passing through, Officer.’
‘See your licence . . .’
Jack handed over the document. The cop glanced at it and stared at Jack through reflective lenses.
‘Ah been watchin’ fer some taime, an’ it seems yo’ carryin’ aliens in that vehicle.’
‘Aliens?’
‘Them kids ain’t yo’ kids. You got persons o’ Colour in your car an’ that sets me wondrin’ . . .’
‘I’m their tutor . . . their guardian.’
‘Lemme git this straight. You’re a Whaite male – a foreigner too ’less ah’m mistaken – an’ you the guardian o’ these minors? Summat don’t stack up, mister. Jes’ don’t feel raight. Y’ know ah’d be failin’ in my duties if ah didn’t take you in.’
‘Officer, we’ve done nothing wrong and we’re trying to get to—’
‘The town up ahead is a Sundown Town, y’ know that?’
‘A Sundown Town?’
‘Tha’s raight. You know wha’ that means, don’cha?’
‘I’m sorry, the term is unfamiliar—’
‘Oh, the term is unfamiliar, is it? Wal, it’s real simple – a Sundown Town is an all-Whaite neighbourhood. That means decent folks ’preciate law an’ order. People o’ Colour ain’t permitted after dark. That ain’t so hard, is it?’
In his head Pip pleaded with Jack not to argue. He knew this cop had the power to do anything he pleased. Pip felt sure he would love an excuse to pull his gun, and a terrible picture came to him of Jack sprawled bleeding on the roadside.
‘I appreciate your advice, Officer, but I can assure you we have no intention of stopping in your “Sundown Town”. We’ll drive right through and out the other side—’
‘Let’s git somethin’ straight – ah don’ like you; ah don’ like yo’ car; ah don’ like the fact that you got Negro children in yo’ car. Mos’ of all, ah don’ like yer goddam eyes. An’ tha’s why ah’m arrestin’ you right here an’ now.’ He reached for his cuffs.
‘My eyes? You can’t arrest someone because of their eyes – but now that you mention it . . . I’ve got something in my eye, Officer – an insect or something – would you mind just looking for me?’
‘Insect? Yo’ ahs? Wha’ . . . Ah ain’t . . .’
‘Thank you . . . It’s in there somewhere – would you mind if I just raised your sunglasses . . .?’
‘Tha’s a . . . it’s a goddam violation . . . Ah mean, thar’s a law . . .’
‘There’s no law against the wind, is there . . .? You see, my voice is the voice of the wind in the trees . . . I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re feeling a little tired . . . a little drowsy and confused . . . Maybe it’s the heat . . .’
‘Ah . . . ah am taired – how d’you know that, mister? Who the hell are you anyway?’
‘The name’s Jack – Dr Jack Morrow, to use my full moniker. But you won’t remember that . . . People call me the Hypnotist . . . I wonder if you can guess why . . .’
As they pulled away, Pip turned in his seat and was amazed to see the state trooper curled like a child with his thumb in his mouth, sleeping sweetly by his motorcycle at the roadside.
Pip had a thousand questions about what had just taken place, but Jack would not talk about it. He simply cranked up the volume on the radio and pushed his foot to the floor.
Although they had done nothing that day but stare at the countless miles of asphalt and the patchwork countryside, Hannah and Pip felt exhausted by the journey.
In the late afternoon, Jack pulled over at a sign saying: ‘KOZY KABINS MOTEL. Children welcome. Pets allowed.’ They purred up a tree-lined drive, beside neat lawns, towards the reception office. From his low seat, Pip watched happy White families playing tennis or easing away the fatigue of their journey in a glistening turquoise pool. He felt like an interloper. He knew this place was not for him.
As Jack fastened the folding roof of the Spider, Pip said, ‘Jack, we can’t stay here. You know that. Hannah an’ me gonna sleep right here in the car. You go on ahead an’ get a bed . . .’
Jack ignored him. He strode purposefully past the NO COLORED sign and in through the office door. Pip watched the little man’s silhouette inside. There was a brief discussion; then the receptionist reached behind and handed over some keys.
When he returned, Jack was smiling in that mysterious way he had. All he would say was that the gentleman had seemed a little fatigued, but he realized that Pip and Hannah were such important guests that he had given them three of his best rooms at the quiet end of the site. They were the ‘Kwality Kabins’, he was informed.
Carrying his bag, Pip scuttled nervously after Jack and the moment the door was unlocked, he darted furtively inside.
But this place was amazing! This place was a wonderland! These cabins were tiny palaces, with smoothly whirring fans and iceboxes crammed with soda. For half an hour, the children ran back and forth excitedly comparing their rooms. They threw themselves onto the soft beds, inhaling freshly laundered linen; they ran into the en-suite bathrooms and blasted steaming jets of water. Then they found the greatest wonder of all – individual television sets on rotating shelves in front of each bed. And unlike Lilybelle’s snowstorm TV, the children discovered a whizzing world of crazy colours!
But suddenly Pip was shocked back to reality – as he charged towards Hannah’s cabin, he ran headlong into a heavily freckled young woman of about seventeen. ‘Pardon me, miss,’ he said.
The snub-nosed girl barely glanced at him. ‘Boy, my daddy needs fresh towels right this instant, y’hear?’
After she had gone they retreated to the safety of Pip’s room, where they lay side by side on the bed, chins resting on arms, wide-eyed in front of frenetic cartoons. A little later, when Jack returned from the on-site diner, carrying pizzas and apple pies, he found the children exactly as he had left them, mesmerised by the TV.
Later that evening, when Pip was alone, he took the first hot shower of his life, then collapsed into a luxurious sleep. He woke once, bewildered by the neon glow of the ‘Kwality Kabins’ sign outside and the chattering of television sets from all around. His door opened quietly and Hannah slipped inside. She crept across to where he lay; her lovely face bright with excitement about the whole adventure.
All she did was smile at him in the half-light. All she did was kiss him gently on his forehead before melting into the night.
Then Pip slept peacefully until dawn.
27
I Have a Dream
I planned an early night myself. There was nothing on the television except the usual race riots and civil unrest. I watched in utter dismay as people of Colour were beaten by batons and snarled at by police dogs. I saw powerful firehoses turned on sobbing Black schoolchildren and I wondered what kind of a world we were living in.
I was about to switch the damned thing off, when the Brylcreemed news anchor started talking about an extraordinary event that had taken place that very day in Washington DC. I began to realize that, as Pip and Hannah and I had been bowling blissfully along the highway, history had been happening in the capital of this great and troubled land.
Now I sat upright in my bed and stared in wonder at this event they were calling ‘The March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom’. On this hot, heaving, historic day of 28th August 1963, a quarter of a million people of every race, creed and colour had streamed out of buses and coaches to follow marching bands towards the Lincoln Memorial.
Now sleep seemed a distant thing as I watched this march for equality. I saw a colossal crowd chanting and waving banners and flags – the young, the poor and the educated; even representatives of Native Americans Indians were there. I watched the weathered fac
es of old Coloured folk, who had suffered lifetimes of indignity and oppression. These were the people who had been used and abused to build this mighty industrial nation, and now, like Rosa Parks on the segregated bus, the day had dawned when they were saying, ‘Enough!’
As hundreds of policemen waited nervously at the sidelines, I waited for the whole thing to erupt into violence. But it never did. Perhaps the slow train of change was coming at last.
A stage had been assembled in front of the great marble statue of Abraham Lincoln – the president who had overseen the abolishment of slavery one hundred years before. The steps to the memorial bristled with microphones and cameras and I saw many celebrities waiting to speak – all my heroes were there: Marlon Brando, Sammy Davis Jr, Sidney Poitier, Joan Baez . . . I swear to you I saw Bob Dylan himself, fresh-faced, with a mop of unruly hair and guitar in hand.
But the final speaker was in a different league. The final speaker was none other than the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr himself and I cannot describe the effect that electric speech had upon me. Visibly shaking with emotion, the great man gave a sermon like I have never heard before – a poem almost, that summoned up the poor Black children of America who had suffered so long, for no reason other than the colour of their skins. He evoked the mountains, plains and rivers of that great country – the hills of prejudice, which would be laid low by the mighty voice of Justice.
I had the weird impression that the fellow was speaking directly to me – to Jack Morrow from Dublin, Ireland. Wide-awake in my Kozy Kabin, as hot tears of hope sprang from my eyes.
Then Dr King raised his hands to the heavens like the great preacher he was – ‘I have a dream,’ he proclaimed, ‘that a day will come in which the children and grand– children of slaves will sit together with the children and grandchildren of slave owners at the table of Equality’.
Shaking his finger with rapture and rage, his words vibrated through the booming speakers, across Washington and out into the world . . . Oh, my brothers and sisters, I have a dream!
The Hypnotist Page 14