I don’t really want the beer. As soon as he goes through to the back I push it away from me. I want to do what I have to do, and then go before anybody else comes in. I stand up and walk over to the small notice board. Aside from a small postcard-size piece of paper asking for volunteers for the village rugby team, there is nothing else pinned up. I take the envelope from my handbag, slip the letter out, open it up, and then I take a drawing pin from the bottom left-hand corner of the rugby notice and pin the abusive letter into place. I’ve “mailed” it back to them. I don’t need it in my house, for it doesn’t belong there. They can have it back.
Once I reach the top of the hill I walk straight past my house and towards Solomon’s bungalow. It is actually getting warm now and so I slip off my jacket. When I get to the bungalow I stop and stare at it. I think about what secrets I might find inside, were I to sneak in and rummage around. The one time that I visited Solomon, I saw nothing which gave me a clue about his past or his present. Besides, that is, the photograph of the Englishman on the mantelpiece. I don’t even know what Solomon liked. Except, of course, his precious car, which still stands in the driveway. I put down my bag, then scrunch my jacket up into a ball. The least I can do for him is to polish it. It’s getting dusty and Solomon would never have let it deteriorate into such a state. And so I start to polish his car, but I try to copy the way that he used to do it. All careful, with small circular movements like you’re gently stirring a bowl of soup.
I suppose it’s when I see them standing in the street and just staring at me that I know something is wrong. I have to ask myself, is it that fascinating watching me trying to keep Solomon’s car clean? Don’t they wash their own cars? Of course they do, and I don’t come and stand and look at them, so I don’t see the point of this communal gawping. Not everybody has come out, but there’s enough of them to make me feel awkward and so I stop. The car is almost spotless anyhow, so it isn’t like I haven’t done a good job or anything. It’s just that I don’t want to be putting on a show, and that’s how I feel. But I also don’t want to stay in Stoneleigh with them any more. I resolve to use the day sensibly and go into town and talk with my parents. I uncrumple my jacket and fold it up and push it into my bag. It is far too dirty to wear, but I don’t want to go back into my house and feel trapped there, so I secrete it in my bag where nobody can see it. I just have to hope that the weather doesn’t change, otherwise I know I’ll get cold.
When I get to the cemetery the boy is nowhere to be seen. I’m surprised because he always seems to be there with his seemingly unstoppable enthusiasm. But today of all days he isn’t around. I spread the jacket out on the grass by Mum and Dad’s grave and then I sit down and begin to talk to them. I tell them everything about Solomon that I can think of. I know Dad has some opinions about coloureds, and that he won’t be totally sympathetic to a lot of what I’m saying about Solomon, but I still want to tell them. Dad doesn’t say much. After a while Mum starts to cry and she asks me what it was about Solomon that made me want to be seen with him. I think for a while, and I then tell her that there was nothing in particular, it was just that Solomon was a proper gentleman. In fact, one of the first gentlemen that I’d ever met, with his smart driving gloves. He really showed Brian up for the slob that he is, but I don’t have a chance to say anything for Mum hasn’t finished. She goes on, but she’s so upset that she can hardly get the words out. Didn’t I understand what people would say about me if I were to be seen with a coloured, and particularly one as dark as this Solomon? She’d not brought me up to be that type of girl. Why, she wants to know, why would I want to do this to them both? There’s no point in looking to Dad for any help, for I’m not going to get any from him. I try again and tell them that Solomon treated me with respect, but they don’t want to hear this for their minds are already made up. Eventually neither of them will speak to me, and so I begin to plead. I just wanted to be happy, I say, and I could tell that Solomon was a man who could have made me happy. Mum continues to weep, but Dad has his one ugly word, and I could have predicted it before he even opened his mouth. Slag. He doesn’t even want to look at me any more, that’s how bad it is. As it starts to get dark, I reckon that I’d better leave them alone. This isn’t going anywhere and I’m starting to get cold. I stand up, pull on my filthy jacket and look around one final time to see if I can spot the boy, but there’s no sign of him.
On the way back to the bus station I see a few of them. They are staring as though there’s something the matter with me, but I try to ignore them. Really, they should be ashamed of themselves with their hands out, begging for decent people’s money when there’s no reason at all why they shouldn’t be working and earning their own. I’m retired and I don’t have anything to give to them. And even if I did, why would I? They should go and get a job. I tell this to one of them and he just laughs and shows me his yellow teeth. Like an animal, he is crouched in a doorway. They’re disgusting, dragging themselves and the country down like this. Just behind the bus station I see a large group of them gathered around an oil-drum which they’ve set alight. It has bits of wood sticking out of it, and they are huddled together and vigorously rubbing their hands and stamping their feet. It makes me feel angry just to look at them.
“What you looking at?” says one of them. It’s a woman, which somehow makes it worse. She looks and sounds like a gypsy, with her black hair, and her black eyes, and her grimy black hands. Sheila and I have always been scared of gypsies and Mum had told us to run away if any of them ever spoke to us. They are nasty, and they like to take away people’s children, everybody knows that much. So I don’t say anything back to this woman, but when she spits in my direction I feel my blood beginning to boil. It’s awkward, for I’m not dressed how I want to be dressed. There isn’t much dignity to a crumpled jacket, but I’m not going to let this stop me from speaking my mind. But I don’t know what to say.
The policewoman says that they found Dr. Williams’s phone number on the referral card in my bag. That’s how come Dr. Williams finds himself at the police station, sitting across a table from me, nervously kneading his hands together as though he’s making bread. I still don’t know what I’m doing here, but I suppose that something bad must have happened. I’m just waiting for either Dr. Williams or the policewoman to speak, for I know that one of them will have to explain to me what the gypsy woman did. After all, I’m covered in bruises and I’m still bleeding.
“Are you all right, Dorothy?” Dr. Williams is looking at me, but I can see that he is worried. I stare back at him, but what am I supposed to say? I don’t know if I’m all right. I don’t even know what happened.
“What time is it?”
The doctor looks at his watch and then he arches his eyebrows. “It’s getting late. Nearly eleven.”
“At night?”
Dr. Williams nods and I stare first at him, then at the policewoman, then back at him.
“I don’t think you’re well, Dorothy. Shouting and brawling with homeless people, well, that’s just not you.”
I remember something now. She spat and I spat back, and then the shouting started, and then I struck her, and the police arrived. Maybe this policewoman was one of them, but no matter how long I stare at her I can’t remember if she was there or not. The policewoman looks at Dr. Williams as though asking for his help, but why? I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just looking at her and trying to work something out, but that’s how it seems to go these days. I can’t do anything right at all, can I?
I turn to Dr. Williams. “I don’t want to be in this police station.”
He is smiling at me, but I need something more than this. I’m afraid smiling isn’t good enough any more.
“I don’t want to be in this place! Can’t you hear me? I don’t want to be in this place!”
“Dorothy, I think you need to spend some time convalescing in an environment where you can get better, don’t you?”
“I don’t understand what you’re say
ing.”
I look closely at him, but his words make no sense. I know I’m sick. I still have problems sleeping, but unless there’s been some serious change that he hasn’t told me about, then I should be going home. That’s where I belong. I shouldn’t be at this police station talking about convalescing. Perhaps I’ve got Sheila’s cancer, but I’ve been managing with it all right, haven’t I? My jacket is a bit crumpled, I can see that. In fact, it’s dirty, but it just needs a wash and then everything will be fine, won’t it? It will be all right. I’m all right. It occurs to me that if I just stare at Dr. Williams then I can make him believe me when I say that everything is all right, but he simply looks back at me and the longer I stare, the more I begin to feel like a fool.
Apparently I am convalescing. They always keep a light on somewhere. In the corridor, or on the other side of the room. I confess, I can’t sleep properly. I’ve told them this, but they said that if the tablets and the hot milk don’t help, then they can always give me the needle. But I’m not sure that they really listen to me. When I went to the seaside I didn’t sleep. It took just over an hour to get there, and as we entered the town I saw a big field with maybe a hundred caravans set down on top of thick concrete slabs. In the corner of the field there stood a row of rusting tin sheds that I presumed to be the toilets and showers. Kids were drinking from standpipes, and recent rain had turned the whole place into a huge sea of mud. Once I got off the bus there was nowhere to go, so I lugged my suitcase into the bus-station café and found a seat in the far corner. I noticed a sticky mess of honey on the table where it had not been properly wiped off, so I was careful not to put my elbows up. A pregnant young girl came across and stood with pocketed hands. Before I could say anything she announced, “We’re all out of buns, but we’ve got cellophane-wrapped fruit cake and sandwiches.” I just wanted tea, and when it finally arrived it did so with a clatter. I sat in the bus station for a while and had one cup of tea after another and watched the pregnant girl, who was clearly stupid with confidence. She ashed her cigarette into a tea cup that was similar to the one that I was drinking out of, and then she started to gyrate to imaginary pop music as she stacked the saucers on top of the side plates. I felt my arms fold up across my chest, like the sleeves of a shirt after it’s been ironed, and I stared at the creature.
Eventually it got dark, and little Miss Know-it-all made it clear that she needed to close up the café. She gave a deliberate yawn in response to my question, and then pointed me towards a small hotel that overlooked the promenade. It had one of those signs outside that advertised the name of the hotel, then beneath it there were two hooks where they could hang a sign that said “vacancies” or one that said “no vacancies.” I was lucky, for the sign said they had “vacancies,” but judging by the dismal state of the place, I imagined that on most days they would have vacancies. The woman asked me if I’d like dinner in my room or in the dining room with the other guests, but I saved her any bother by letting her know that I didn’t want dinner, full stop. I wasn’t nasty about it or anything, but I felt that I had to make myself clear so there would be no confusion on her part. She asked me if I wanted a hot water bottle, as mine was an attic room and it could get a bit nippy, but I let her know that there would be no need for a hot water bottle. Fatigue had begun to cloud my mind like a thick fog, and I didn’t want to be disturbed.
The room smelled of mice and unwashed clothes. There was a single bed, a severe upright wardrobe, a pine dresser, and in the corner a metal chair over which a white towel was draped. There was also a paraffin heater, but it didn’t look like anyone had used that in a while. The bed felt warm and clammy, as though somebody had recently crawled out of it, and so I reached for the towel, which was as rough as sandpaper. I spread it on top of the brown bedspread, and then listened. I heard feet pass my door and then fade away down the corridor. A door opened and then closed with a powerful echo, and I turned and glanced in the mirror on the dresser. I was tired, and I looked terrible, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep in a single bed. For most of my adult life I’d associated them with not being grown-up, and they always made me feel like I’d stepped back into an era that I remember being anxious to leave behind. I kicked off my shoes, and then lay on the towel and looked up through the unadorned skylight. There was no bedside lamp or radio, and I now understood that I would have to survive till morning staring at the black night through this skylight window.
Dawn broke without emergency. I had been presented with the gift of the whole night to think everything through. I wanted Solomon to understand that he wasn’t going to be able to just take me for granted. I wanted to be able to tell him about my adventures with my sister, and then I would wait a few weeks and disappear again. Lonely Solomon. I wanted to keep him on his toes until he realised for himself that he really didn’t like it if I wasn’t around all of the time. Then he would want me. I swung my legs down off the side of the single bed and felt the damp chill of the floor. I remembered something else about single beds that I didn’t like. They reminded me of when Sheila turned up at university with her rucksack. After I’d cancelled my music practice for that evening, I sat back on the edge of my bed with her and we both cradled our cups of tea in our hands. And then she told me. I knew I should have made more effort to help her instead of just staring at her, but it wasn’t easy to hear what she had to say. I kept trying to get the conversation back onto more pleasant things like Mum’s embarrassing attempts at singing, but Sheila would have none of it. She kept asking me why I wouldn’t believe her, and why did I think that she would lie about something like that? “You know he used to take me to the allotments with him. I mean, what’s the matter with you? Why can’t you believe me?” The problem, of course, was that I did believe her. I knew she was right when she said that the fact that it had stopped now didn’t make it any better, but underneath it all the real question that I wanted answered was how come I escaped his attention? Did he love her more than me? I knew that he loved me more than he loved Mum, but why take Sheila down to the allotments with him? Of all people, why our Sheila? I tried again to change the subject, but Sheila still wasn’t having any of it. She wanted to make sure that I’d heard her, and I had. I eventually slipped my arm around my sister’s shoulders, but her weeping had now given way to silence. Trying to change the subject was stupid, and I’d not said the right things. I’d failed her, and we both knew that something had changed between us. In those few moments, sitting on the edge of my single bed, a part of my sister simply disappeared from view. The rest of her life had not been very satisfactory. Including our brief time together in London. After nearly thirty years we tried once more to be together, but it was too late. Following that night in my dormitory room, Sheila couldn’t talk to me again, and her grief was not something that I could simply penetrate by sympathy. We were civil with each other, but I’d lost her that night, with her rucksack standing by the door. After Sheila died I wrote to myself and pretended it was her doing the writing. It was all I had left of her. My imaginary Sheila who likes me and still needs my help. But my cowardice had lost me my real sister. My poor, grieving Sheila. Daddy’s little pet.
My memory is getting stronger. I think that’s a part of convalescing. If so, then it’s a good part for I don’t want to forget things. The people in this place give me tablets and hot milk, but although they don’t help me to sleep, they help me to remember. I checked out of the depressing hotel and spent my second day by the sea sitting on a bench on the promenade. The water was being lashed and torn, and it leaped upwards in great buffalo-headed waves. What I really desired was a steady, comforting beat, with the surf printing its pattern like lace against the sand, but instead I had been presented with an angry summer sea. The wind was making a clown of my scarf, and it kept blowing strands of grey hair across my face. Regular as clockwork I had to take the loose hairs and pull them back from my eyes, but there was not much to see. A cargo ship far out on the horizon, and just beneath the pr
omenade an energetic dog acrobatically fielding a Frisbee that its bored owner was dispatching with increasing impatience. I kept wondering what he’d be doing right now, whether he’d be knocking at the door to make sure that I was all right, or just peering from behind his blinds and wondering where I’d got to. By the time the afternoon came it was starting to get a little chilly, so I picked up my suitcase and began to make my way to the bus station. I thought about killing some more time by popping into a pub, but the only one that I saw had a garden out front whose grass was worn bald, no doubt by yobbo powwows, and wooden tables that were covered with empty pint glasses and overflowing ashtrays. I pressed on, and I waited in the station until a bus was leaving for Weston. Once on board I sat near the front so I could look over the driver’s shoulder. Across the aisle a blowsy woman proceeded to annoy me, for she slapped sand from her unshod feet onto the floor of the bus, where she no doubt imagined that somebody less important than her would clean it up. I decided not to get off at Weston, and instead I went straight through to town and saw Dr. Williams, which was a waste of time. But the truth was I just wanted to take up a bit more time so that Solomon would miss me even more. However, an hour or so later, when I finally got back to the village, I knew that something was wrong. When I saw the policeman and the policewoman standing at the door I felt my stomach lurch. I told them to come in, and they took off their hats as they did so. Then they told me.
II
Gabriel wipes the blood from his friend’s eyes. An hour earlier Said had fallen from the bottom bunk and onto the hard concrete floor, and although Gabriel had immediately jumped down and made an effort to haul Said back into bed, he soon realised that his friend should not be moved. Said had hit his head as he fell, and Gabriel continues to mop the petals of blood from the floor with a paper tissue. Said does not seem to notice the blood, and he lacks the energy to wipe the vomit from his mouth. For much of the past hour Gabriel has been kneeling beside this man, and hoping that Said might talk to him. When not kneeling beside him, Gabriel has been holding on to the bars of the cell and begging the night warder to call for a doctor. But the night warder continues to watch television with his boots up on the desk, his legs crossed casually at his ankles and the flickering glow of the screen illuminating his face. Suddenly Gabriel looks up as the man in the next cell once more kicks the wall.
A Distant Shore Page 7