by M. P. Wright
“Thanks, Loretta.” I took her elbow, pulled her towards me and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Git off o’ me, you fool, don’t be doing that kinda ting in front o’ the pickneys. Here, you gonna need these.” Loretta reached in her handbag and pulled out a set of keys, a small Somerset county road map and a folded-up sheet of lined paper. She handed them over without looking at me. “That note has my uncle Benny’s address on it. He and his wife run a garage just outside of Porlock village, down by the fishing port. It’s the only gas station for miles around; you won’t miss it. There’s Pru Mac’s phone number written down on there too; she’s the only person I know has a telephone. You can get a message to me there. Don’t worry, Pru won’t tell a soul ’bout our bidness. I’ll pay a visit to your aunt Pearl and uncle Gabe later, let ’em know I seen you and not to worry. I’ll say that you’ll be out o’ town for a while on a job. Now, get in this motor and bring it out so we can git that other pile o’ rust inside outta sight.”
*
I drove out of Bristol towards Portishead then headed west down the quiet A38 coast road. Carnell’s Mini may have had some poke under the engine and held the road like a dream, but the interior of the car was as cramped as hell. I’d pushed the driver’s seat back as far as it would go just so I could get myself into the damn thing. My legs were tucked tight up under the steering wheel and it felt more like I was sat in a go-cart than a real motor. Truth was sat directly behind me on the back seat; I looked into the rear-view mirror and watched her as she stared out of the side window, her tiny face sombre and expressionless as we journeyed through open countryside closer towards the Somerset coastline. We’d been driving for over an hour and her continuing silence made me feel uneasy. I needed to break the quiet that was overwhelming me.
“Hey, Truth, you wanna hear some music?” Truth looked over at me but didn’t speak. “How ’bout we fire up this transistor, see what station we can find?”
I continued to glance through the mirror at my hushed passenger and caught her briefly nod her head to my question. I reached out my hand towards the walnut dashboard for the radio and clicked it on then fiddled with the tuning dial until I found a station playing some music. Otis Redding’s “My Girl” burst out of the speakers and I cranked up the volume a little.
“Yeah, this is what I mean . . . You know this one, Truth? Oh, this a real fine tune, fo’ sure.”
I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel as I drove, occasionally checking back on the little girl, who had returned to gazing blankly through the window. I still had no idea what she had been through or what was going through her scared little head. The late afternoon sun warmed the inside of the car and I found myself feeling a little less apprehensive about our situation. Perhaps it was catching sight of the ocean every now and then, reminding me of back home on Bim, that had lifted my spirits.
We drove along narrow, winding rural roads for another twenty minutes, the music from the wireless fading in and out, keeping us company. At just after six o’clock, and with no road signs visible, I pulled the Mini onto a grass verge as we came into a sleepy hamlet called Allerford to read my map. I followed the route I was travelling on with the tip of my finger and guessed we had just over two miles until we reached Porlock. I turned off the radio then wound down my driver’s side window fully to let the fresh sea air roll through into the car. The sound of gulls hovering overhead seemed to be welcoming our arrival to a new home, and as I drove the short distance into the little fishing port, the sight of the birds gliding effortlessly in the peaceful evening sunlight took my breath away.
The road that led us down into Porlock was surrounded by the barren, wild moorland of Exmoor. I eventually found a road sign informing me that we were a half-mile away, and took a left into a lane that led into the village. The slender roadway had been carved through a steeply wooded valley and was lined either side by a row of large overhanging chestnut trees. Their lush dark-green canopy blocked out the late sunlight and slowly thinned out, giving way to a steep-sided hedgerow of hawthorn. As I drove into the heart of the fishing port, I reached across to the passenger seat and picked up the piece of paper that Loretta had written her relations’ address on. I pulled up on the narrow gravel road that masqueraded as the village high street and read what my friend had scrawled onto the lined paper notelet.
JT, you looking for Goodman’s Garage. Go past a row of thatched cottages, a corner shop then the local pub. The place ain’t no bigger than a postage stamp so it ain’t gonna be rocket science you finding where you need to be. Once you see the church in front of you, drive straight for it, cos Uncle Benny’s place is right opposite. Look after that pickney now and be safe. Love Loretta x
Loretta’s directions to her family’s place, although crude, were spot on; I kept on driving along the quiet street and it wasn’t long before I could see the short spire of the village church ahead of me. As I neared the village green opposite the church, I could see a large red and yellow Shell sign hanging from a white post at the side of a small, grey stone cottage. I pulled into the garage forecourt opposite the yellow petrol-pump livery and switched off the ignition on the Mini. I leant back in my seat and stretched before turning my head to check on Truth.
“How you doin’, Truth?” She looked at me blankly for a moment then returned to staring back out of the passenger window. “This is where Aunt Loretta’s folks live. I’m just gonna see who’s ’bout, let ’em know we’ve arrived. I won’t be a minute, OK?”
Truth stared back at me briefly and shot me another of her sharp nods before gazing back out into space.
I got out and wandered across to a small red-slated building that stood at the rear of the forecourt. Two large glass windows sat either side of a green-painted wood-panelled door. I walked in and the tinkling of a small bell above my head chimed my arrival. Inside smelt of linseed oil and newly hung purple mothballs. Stacked up on shelves were a multitude of different products, ranging from spark plugs to shampoo. A henna-haired old black woman not a day older than one of Scott Joplin’s widows sat behind a counter at the top of the little shop; laid out on the table in front of her were what looked like tarot cards. I nodded across to her and smiled. She returned the gesture by staying stony-faced and eyeing me up like I was just about to rob the place.
“Is Mr Goodman around?”
“He’s out back.” The old witch barked her reply to me in a distinctive Barbadian accent then turned over one of her cards, peered down at it and looked back up at me suspiciously. “Been working on a motor.”
“You mind if I go and look for him?”
“Do as you please . . . Make no difference to me.”
“Thanks.” I lifted my hand in gratitude but the old woman ignored me, seemingly lost in a dark divinatory spell of her own making.
I found a big man I thought was Loretta’s uncle Benny in a workshop directly behind the store, just as the spooky old woman said I would. He was lying on his back on a creeper seat underneath the engine of a Hillman Imp that had been driven up on a set of ramps. I tapped on a glass window panel then called down to him.
“I’m looking for Benjamin Goodman, he ’bout?”
“Why, you owe him money?” the man yelled before shooting out from underneath the motor on the wheeled creeper seat and glaring up at me. The guy was as black as pitch and must have weighed in at two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. “Only folk round here calls me Benjamin are them that are in debit or that nasty fuckin’ Bajan witch I got sitting out on my front porch. You must be Ellington.”
“Yeah, my friends call me JT.” I walked across and shot my hand out.”
“They do, do they . . . Mine call me Benny.” The big man lifted himself off the ground and stood in front of me, weighing me up before taking my hand firmly in his own and shaking it. “Good to meet you, JT, we bin expectin’ you. Loretta called, told us you needed a place to hang ya head, said someting ’bout you having a pickney in tow with you?”
Benny grabbed an oily rag from off his workbench and wiped the dirt from his palms and fingers then threw it back.
“Yeah . . . I got her with me in the car. Her name is Truth.”
“Trute? That’s a helluva strange name for a pickney.” Benjamin laughed and shook his head. “Well, let’s go git the little mite out. Take you both in to meet the wife. I take it you already bin introduced to Madame Pisspot in the shop?”
“If you mean the old woman reading the tarot cards out front, then yeah, we already met. She’s different, I’ll give you that.”
“Different, oh she’s different all right. Crazy as a shithouse rat, that what she is, gives me the damn creeps. The old bastard’s my mother-in-law, name’s Cecile. Silly fucker’s the bane o’ my life, her an’ that mangy black cat o’ hers. Still, you’ll be glad to know she’s good with kids. I keeps her out front like that cos she stops the flies from settlin’ on the sweets on the counter.” Benny winked at me then let out a big belly laugh and slapped me hard in the centre of my back, making every bone feel like it was rattling under my skin.
We walked back up to the Mini. I opened up the passenger side door to let Truth out. She peered out of the window and looked up at Benny’s massive frame, her eyes widening to take his bulk in. Benny bent down at the glass, offered a massive grin and waved his huge fingers at her.
“You like dogs, missy? Cos I gotta hound that’s gonna love you fo’ sure. Come on, git yo’self outta the back o’ there and come take a look at the mutt I got back at the house with JT and me.”
Truth looked at Benny, puzzled, then whispered through the window to him, “JT, who’s JT?” They were the first words I’d heard the child utter since the night I’d met her.
Benny looked baffled. He stared back down at Truth and shot his thumb out at my face. “Well, this guy here tells me he’s JT, honey.”
“No . . . That’s Joseph, not JT.”
“Ah . . . Joseph, you mean you use his Sunday name, do ya? Then I tell you what we’ll do. From now on everybody gonna call him Joseph, that way old Benny here won’t be gittin’ himself all confused. I ain’t too hot wid names at the best o’ times, me. Now let’s git you out the back o’ this four-wheel rotisserie befo’ you cook inside o’ there in this heat.” Benny looked over at me and laughed. “These some snazzy wheels you got yo’self here, Joseph. Kinda small, though, for a tall guy like you, ain’t it, brother?”
“It’s on loan from your niece, Loretta. Carnell won it for her in a dice game.”
“Well, that don’t surprise me none. Shit, that fool could gamble . . . and cheat! Stupid as a mule and as loyal as a hound on heat was old Carnell. Damn, I miss that boy.”
Benny turned back to Truth, who was still hesitating to get out of the back seat of the Mini. He curled an enormous index finger at her and beamed a big toothy grin.
“Now, Trute, did I tell you the name o’ that mutt o’ mine? I call him Claude. You can’t miss him, smells like a skunk. He’s as big as a house and gentle as a lamb, so you don’t need to worry none ’bout him. Just don’t try an’ steal his chow, cos that dog, well, he sure does love his food. Let’s go inside o’ home, git ourselves some lemonade, hey?”
Truth nodded her head in agreement. Benny stuck his hand out to her and she timidly took hold of his fingers. She stood next to the big man, looking up into the sky to try and see whether his huge frame reached up into the clouds or not. Benny cupped his hand to his mouth and bellowed across the garage forecourt.
“Claude, hey Claude, come on boy, we got ourselves a couple o’ visitors.”
Claude came bounding out of the back of the cottage that stood at the side of Benny’s garage. Truth let out a scream and drew herself close to my leg as a huge grey Irish wolfhound, a good two and a half feet tall, hurtled towards us. It came to a clambering halt, sat obediently at Benny’s feet and waited for his master’s next instructions. The dog’s ears pricked up when the big man spoke to it.
“Claude, this here’s Trute and her friend Joseph; they gonna be stoppin’ wid us fo’ a while. So you need to be a gentleman. That means no lickin’ anybody to death or pissin’ on any o’ these good folks’ shoes, you hear?” Benny laughed to himself then turned to me, grinning. “You don’t want Claude here takin’ a leak on your brogues; he got himself a fondness for it. Best you take your shoes up to bed wid you at night. Now let’s go find that wife o’ mine, git us a drink.”
I grabbed our bags and followed Benny, Truth and Claude across the forecourt and into the rear garden of our host’s home. I stood at a creaky wooden white-painted gate and admired the ivy and yellow-rose-clad thatched cottage. Benny jabbed at the back door with his toe and called in after his wife.
“Estelle . . . Estelle, where the hell you at, girl?”
An as-yet-faceless Estelle hollered back at her husband, “Mind that language o’ yours, Benny. Cussin’ after me like that ain’t gonna git you far.” Estelle appeared at her kitchen door and smiled down at Truth then called me into her home with a waving gesture.
“This must be Trute and Mr Ellington?”
Benny quickly butted in, correcting his wife; he motioned backwards with his head towards me. “Boy here has to be called Joseph, Estelle. He tells me his friends calls him JT, but Trute here, she don’t approve o’ people callin’ him that. Don’t wanna be upsettin’ our new house guest now, do we?”
“No, we don’t want any upset, that’s fo’ sure. Joseph it is then.” Estelle put out her hand towards me and smiled. “Good evening, Joseph, pleased to meet you. Come on inside now, make yo’self at home.”
I left our bags by the door and followed Benny and Truth into the kitchen. Estelle ushered us in and stood with her back against a wooden worktop. She was a large-bosomed, heavy-set Bajan woman with light Creole skin and hazel eyes that seemed to twinkle back at you when she spoke. Her brown hair was streaked with grey flecks and it was tied above her head in a neat bun. She looked over at her husband; her once friendly and warming face had turned to thunder when she caught sight of Claude. “Benny, git that mangy dog outta my kitchen befo’ I kick it out, you hear me?”
Benny immediately turned to his faithful wolfhound and pointed his finger into the next room. “Claude, you go take yo’ ass onto that bed o’ yours, boy.” The dog did as it was told and slunk off.
Estelle pulled out a couple of chairs from underneath the dining table “Here, you two, come and have a seat, I’ll get us someting to drink. Benny, get those bags off o’ the porch and take ’em upstairs.”
The big man, as obedient as the dog he owned, did as he was told and went to collect our luggage. I watched as he dipped his head so as not to hit it on the low, black-beamed ceiling.
When Benny returned with our bags he motioned with his head towards the kitchen cupboard. “Estelle, git me a couple o’ bottles o’ light ale outta that there larder for me and the boy. Joseph, I’ll be back in a minute, you and Trute make yo’self at home.”
I sat down and looked at Truth, who was gazing all around the kitchen, her eyes seemingly unable to take everything in. A tall oak Welsh dresser, its shelves filled with ceramic mugs and glasswear, sat next to a huge white stone sink. The steam from the hot water inside the sink rose up and fogged up the windows above it with thick condensation. Copper pans, sieves, wooden spoons and practically every other kind of utensil hung from hooks from the ceiling, and a large black range stood on the back wall of the kitchen. The cooking aromas coming from inside the oven made me feel like I was twelve years old and sitting at my mother’s kitchen table back home again.
Estelle fetched two bottles of beer from the larder, lifted the caps off with a bottle opener and brought them and a couple of glass pint pots over on a tray. She sat the drinks in front of me then filled two cups with lemonade from a jug and placed one of the beakers in front of Truth.
“Here you go, Trute, you must be parched in this heat, child. Go on now, drink up.”
Truth looked at me as if I needed to g
ive her permission to drink. I nodded over to her that it was OK to go ahead, and she began to drink, slurping noisily at the lemonade. I was about to thank Estelle for the drinks when Benny came back into the room, his booming voice make everybody jump in surprise.
“Is that beer on the table, Estelle? Good girl, damn yes it is. I tell you, Joseph, my mout’ is as dry as a nun’s doodah.”
“Benny, what did I tell you ’bout cussin’ like that, we have a child in the house.”
“Aw, damn it, Estelle. ‘Doodah’ ain’t no cuss word. Shit . . . I coulda said c—”
Estelle leant across the table and snapped at her husband. “One more foul word out you and you don’t git fed tonight . . . You hear me?”
“Oh, I hear you straight. No more o’ them bad words, fo’ sure. Not outta my mout’.” Benny picked up a bottle of beer and handed it over to me. “Here, git this down you, boy, you looks like you in need of a drink.” Benny grabbed a glass and pushed it towards me then filled his pint pot with ale and sank half of it in a couple of swift gulps. “Hey, Estelle, someting smells real fine. What we got on the menu tonight, honey? I could eat a horse.” Benny winked at Truth and chuckled to himself.
Estelle, her back to us, stood at the sink filling up the kettle. “We got pork chops and potatoes and greens. Everything you just love fillin’ your face with.”
Benny slammed his hands together. “That’s what I like to hear. Pork chops, oh I love pork chops. They got plenty o’ fat on ’em, Estelle? Cos you know I like my chops with plenty o’ fat on ’em.”
“They got enough fat on ’em to keep your greedy gut more than happy. Now less o’ your mout’ and go show Trute where the bathroom is, let her wash her hands befo’ supper.”