Table of Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter I Doctor Johnson's Watch
Chapter II Made in Wales
Chapter III Northern Lights
Acknowledgements
www.vintage-books.co.uk
FOREIGNERS
Caryl Phillips was born in St. Kitts, West Indies, and brought up in England. He is the author of three books of non-fiction and eight novels. His most recent book, Dancing in the Dark, won the 2006 PEN/Beyond Margins Award, and his previous novel, A Distant Shore, won the 2004 Commonwealth Prize. His other awards include the Martin Luther King Memorial Prize, a Guggenheim fellowship, and the James Tait Black Memorial Prize.He is a fellowof the Royal Society of Literature and currently lives in New York.
ALSO BY CARYL PHILLIPS
Dancing in the Dark
A Distant Shore
A New World Order
The Atlantic Sound
The Nature of Blood
Crossing the River
Cambridge
Higher Ground
The European Tribe
A State of Independence
The Final Passage
CARYL PHILLIPS
Foreigners
Three English Lives
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781407016849
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Vintage 2008
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Caryl Phillips 2007
Caryl Phillips has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Harvill Secker
Vintage
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.vintage-books.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9781407016849
Version 1.0
For Omar and Jamal
I
Doctor Johnson's Watch
It was a cold December morning, and the bitter wind penetrated my black cloak with ease. However, the stubborn sun continued to shine brightly in the sky, although it failed to bestow any warmth on either myself or the two dozen sombre souls gathered outside of Bolt Court. I glanced about my person, realising that I was part of a bizarre congregation that represented both high and low society, but how could we be anything other than a queer assembly of misfits when one considered the personage who was to be buried on this melancholy English morning?
London society was still somewhat amused by the gossip relating to the recently departed Dr Johnson's final exchange with the sour-natured Sir John Hawkins, an apparently abrupt conversation which had taken place only some few short days before the doctor's death. Understanding that his mortal time was limited, the doctor had demanded of his chief executor in that stern, almost impolite, tone that he had perfected, a tenor of voice which unfortunately masked his more cordial nature, 'Where do you intend to bury me?' When the news of the doctor's question reached the ears of the leisured gentle men who recline in the smoke-filled coffee houses which constitute London's informal business world, the question served only to occasion much laughter from both those who knew the gentleman personally, and from those who knew of him by reputation. Indeed, what kind of a question was this? 'Where do you intend to bury me?' Apparently Sir John Hawkins maintained his countenance and answered plainly, 'In Westminster Abbey.' He might well have continued and punctuated his uncharacteristically civil answer with the rather less civil question, 'My good man, where else do you expect to be lain to rest?' According to Hawkins, on receiving this news the great man simply stared back and then, almost as an afterthought, he adjusted his inadequate wig. Although he was evidently drawing close to the terminus of his existence, the slovenly doctor still appeared to be insensible to the squalid spectacle that he presented. However, despite his shabby appearance, Samuel Johnson was undoubtedly the foremost literary scholar of his age, a man whom nobody would dare to deny his rightful place in the abbey next to Geoffrey Chaucer and John Dryden. Eventually, the great gentleman, as though finally understanding that his resting place was indeed to be Westminster Abbey, continued in a less stentorian voice. 'Then,' he whispered, 'if any friends think it worthwhile to give me a stone, let it be placed over me so as to protect my body.' No report was made of Sir John Hawkins' reply, if indeed there was any, to this plaintive, and surprisingly coy, request by the good doctor.
On the Monday after the doctor took his leave from this earthly world, we subdued mourners gathered on the narrow pavement outside of Bolt Court. Our gloomy congregation could not be accommodated within the modest confines of Dr Johnson's house and, I confess, at this time I was not a member of that privileged inner circle who strolled boldly from their carriages and knocked upon the door before waiting confidently for admittance. Sixteen years ago, I was little more than a minor literary wit in London society, but more properly I was regarded as a financial investor, a man of the City. My participation in Dr Johnson's wider circle was unquestioned, but good manners prevented me from attempting to assert a prominence which I had not yet earned. Accordingly, I stood with the less celebrated members of the Literary Club and first stamped my feet, and then rubbed my hands together against the cold, determining that I would remember every last detail of this momentous day so that I might set it down for those who came after me. I was sure that other, more accomplished, pens would eventually make fine prose from the events that were about to unfold, but I remained hopeful that my own modest observations might have some future resonance.
And then, at precisely twelve o'clock, with the sound of City bells pealing gaily in the distance, the door to Bolt Court was thrown open and out into the daylight emerged the grief-stricken figures of the Revd Mr Strahan and the Revd Mr Butt, both of whom were attired in their sootiest frock coats and whose faces were decorated with a grave aspect. While weak sunlight still conspired to brighten the mood of the day, these two imposing men looked all about themselves before standing to one side. Thereafter, the six stern-faced pall-bearers – viz. Mr Burke, Mr Windham, Sir Charles Bunbury, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr Colman, and Mr Langton – walked gingerly from the house with the burdensome body of the deceased carefully balanced at shoulder height, its weight evenly distributed between them. All eyes were upon these half-dozen men as they prudently inched forward and then deposited the doctor into the hearse, while others who had been gathered inside of the house now spilled out on to the pavement and began distributing themselves into the various coaches that were waiting to transport those afflicted with tenderness a
nd sorrow to the abbey.
The procession departed promptly at a quarter after noon with the hearse and six in front, and the executors – viz. Sir John Hawkins, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and William Scott, LLD – taking up the immediate rear in an attractive coach and four. Behind them were arranged a further eight coaches and four, which provided transportation for the favoured members of the Literary Club and other close friends of the deceased. Behind these eight coaches were two more coaches and four, which contained the pallbearers, and behind them another two coaches and four which would convey a small group of gentlemen who had kindly volunteered to help in any way they could. Closing the procession were no less than thirteen gentlemen's carriages, which spoke to both the affection in which the doctor was held and to his high social status, all the more remarkable when one considers that this most distinguished of men had been born into undeniably modest circumstances.
I understood that I was to have the great honour of riding in one of the eight coaches that had been designated to transport the doctor's inner circle. Not wishing to press my suit, I waited until the last possible moment and was eventually ushered into the rearmost vehicle. Once there I was surprised to find myself sharing the coach with Dr Johnson's faithful negro servant, Francis Barber, and another man who appeared, by his slipshod dress, to be an English servant of some description who had fallen below even this low station of life. The man appeared to be uncomfortable, and he immediately stared out of the window, as though concentrating hard upon some person or object in the distance. I soon surmised that this was probably his way of disguising his embarrassment at having entered a place which made him feel inadequate. Either this, or his seemingly purposeful gawping was enabling him to stifle a grief that might otherwise grow uncontrollable. I soon turned my attention from this nameless fair-skinned lackey and fixed my gaze upon the polished sable exterior of the renowned Francis Barber. I had, of course, previously made the acquaintance of the doctor's negro attendant, most commonly when the negro ushered me into the doctor's house, and then, later in the evening, when he conducted me out of the same establishment. On other occasions the black man might accompany his master on the short journey to a tavern in order that the doctor might dine in the company of a small gathering of his admirers, myself included, and once present the negro would sometimes linger a while before disappearing into the night. However, these few encounters with Francis Barber stimulated precious little in the way of conversation between us, save the normal pleasantries between superior and inferior that one might expect in civilised society. Nevertheless, I had formed a favourable opinion of the sooty fellow as one who remained quietly devoted to his master while exhibiting some occasional exuberance of personality such as one might reasonably anticipate from a member of his race.
There were others whose opinions of the negro were not so generous. Some intimates of the doctor's circle freely expressed their conviction that Francis Barber was, to their minds, a wastrel, a man who considered his master's needs only as an afterthought, and who was wont to freely spend the doctor's money in order that he might improve his own situation. My limited experience with Francis Barber rendered me incapable of passing an informed judgement on this matter, but to my eyes the negro Francis loved his master with virtuous affection and was always protective and loyal to the man under whose roof he had spent the greater part of his life. After all, his master had been a great champion of the negro people, and he had loudly expressed his opinion that slavery could never be considered the natural condition of man. Furthermore, the doctor had consistently thundered that the number of black men who still repined under English cruelty, at home and abroad, remained too great. But dissenting voices could be heard, and chief among the negro-detractors, and Francis Barber in particular, was Sir John Hawkins, the chief executor of the doctor's will. This peacock of a gentleman was known to hold an ungenerous impression of his fellow man, be they black or white, but it particularly galled him that during the doctor's life he was never able to dislodge Francis Barber from his high position in Dr Johnson's affection. And now, no doubt due to Sir John Hawkins' scheming, within three days of his master's decease here was Francis Barber riding in the last of the eight carriages rather than at the head of the procession where he rightfully belonged and, no doubt, where his late master would have insisted that he position himself.
Sad to say, I soon discerned that in the carriage there was an odour, and a not altogether agreeable one at that. Although I refrained from casting any accusative glances, it was clear that the negro, Francis Barber, was the source of the unpleasantness. Our third companion, who could hardly boast that he was the most hygienic creature in the kingdom, visibly recoiled at the smell and quickly fastened a handkerchief to his face. I soon realised that it was not the clothes of Francis Barber that were unwashed and troubling to the senses, but in all likelihood it was the badly matted wig that was causing the unfortunate aroma. Clearly the negro's wig had lain unattended and unpowdered for quite some time and the negro had most likely hastily snatched it up for the occasion. Despite my discomfort, I was prepared to forgive Francis Barber, for his late master had not provided him with a reliable example. The doctor's own great bushy wig possessed a hedge-like mass which suggested that a comb had never penetrated its interior, and this chaotic mess no doubt served as the negro's model for what was acceptable in a headpiece. Sensing my eyes upon him, the humble negro continued to stare intently at the floor of the carriage, as though reading some secret message that had been laid out there for him. Eventually, he raised his black eyes so that they met my own, and then he spoke in a clear English voice.
'I am sorry that we should meet again in such unfortunate circumstances.'
I smiled, and nodded slightly, as I replied.
'Indeed, the timing is unfortunate, but I am content to once again make your acquaintance.'
This being said, Francis Barber extended his hand and we shook firmly like two merchants sealing a trading deal, but beyond this opening exchange it was unclear where this conversation might ramble. Accordingly, we retreated to silence and joined our third companion in gazing idly out of the window as London occupied herself with the trifles of daily business, as though unaware of the fact that this day held significance that England would evermore be obliged to note. I thought about 'Dictionary Johnson' and the busy society tongues that were wagging with news of the recent autopsy that had been conducted at William Hunter's School of Anatomy, off Shaftesbury Avenue, where it had been discovered that although the doctor's liver, pancreas, and kidney were chronically diseased, the heart remained both large and strong. I would have liked to engage Francis Barber on the subject of this news, and discover his opinion of its significance, but the negro and I spent the remainder of our journey studiously ignoring one another until our procession reached the west door of Westminster Abbey, which it did at a little before one o'clock. Prior to disembarking I peered through the carriage window and was alarmed to see few members of the general public, and little evidence that more would soon be arriving to swell the numbers. But even as I looked on I could hear the fierce voice of England's great lexicographer reminding me that such worries were pure vanity, and that I should be putting my educated mind to better use.
The carriage door was opened by the tall footman, and a sudden rush of fresh air served only to remind me of the malodorous conditions that I had been forced to endure. The third man quickly took his leave, but Francis Barber deferred to myself and, keen to achieve terra firma and the ability to breathe freely, I seized the proffered opportunity and stepped nimbly from the carriage. The six stern-faced prebendaries of the abbey were there to greet us in their surplices and doctors' hoods, and they marshalled the newly arrived congregants into some semblance of order with the two vergers at the head, followed by the Revds Mr Strahan and Mr Butt, and then the body of the deceased on the sturdy shoulders of the six resolute pall-bearers. The rest of us followed, two by two, behind Sir Joshua Reynolds, the designated ch
ief mourner, and his fellow executors, Sir John Hawkins, and Dr Scott. We proceeded slowly into the woefully empty abbey, and made our way to the south cross where the body was carefully placed with the feet opposite the elegant monument to William Shakespeare. Then, to the surprise of nearly all gathered, the Revd Dr Taylor began to perform what was clearly a simple burial service, not the full service that we were expecting. I later discovered that the executors had felt themselves justified in keeping the expense of the interment modest, and of course they intended no disrespect, but the general feeling of those assembled was one of distress that things were passing so quickly and without lights, music, or a little gaiety. It was noticeable that, once the initial shock had penetrated, some mourners glared disapprovingly at the presiding Dr Taylor, for most of those present held him responsible for the hurried manner in which England's greatest literary figure was being given body room in the abbey. Sad to say, the ceremony was as dull as it was rapid, and it was disturbing to realise how strikingly it differed from the extravagant service that had been held for the doctor's lifelong friend David Garrick, who five years earlier had made his rest at the same venue.
During the proceedings I sat across the aisle from Francis Barber, who perched uncomfortably with his head bowed and who appeared to be genuinely consumed with grief. It was noticeable that few chose to sit near to him, but having shared a carriage with the said person I fully understood that the reason for their reluctance had precious little to do with his sooty complexion and everything to do with the human sensation of smell. I looked at this unmoored man, who had undoubtedly lost a champion and a defender, for all of Johnson's circle knew that they should never speak ill of Francis Barber while in the doctor's presence, but the sad negro had lost more than perhaps even he had imagined. He had lost his father and his anchor in this world, and although I understood that these days Francis now possessed some version of a wife and a family, sitting quietly by himself in Westminster Abbey this poor man looked to all intent and purpose as though he was suddenly alone in the world.
Foreigners Page 1