Dottie

by Abdulrazak Gurnah

  3

  One Sunday in June, he told them that he would be leaving for a while. He was sitting in the folding garden chair, which had become his ceremonial seat, between Dottie’s bed and the window, his hands clasped together in his lap.

  ‘For how long?’ Sophie asked, her voice suddenly solemn.

  ‘A month,’ he said. It seemed to Dottie as if he would reach out and touch the stricken Sophie, and his own eyes softened with tenderness as he looked at her. She wondered whether she should leave, and she was gathering the strength to make herself rise when he turned his unsmiling face to look at her. ‘They’re sending me to prison for a month. I got into a fight I should not have bothered with,’ he said.

  ‘A fight about what?’ Dottie asked.

  Patterson shrugged, then managed to look both indifferent and a little irritated. ‘It doesn’t matter what the fight was about. It is only ever about the same thing, the same battle we have been fighting all this time,’ he said calmly. ‘How to keep our freedom and how to keep our dignity. I did not want to talk about that, about the fight – there are too many cruel things in our lives already – but having mentioned it I should say that the man in question was severely punished for his bad manners. I wanted to say something else. You have both been very kind to welcome me in your house. You Dottie, and you Sophie . . . and Hudson Patterson Balfour as well! I want to do something to help. If you will let me.’

  He told them he knew about their plan to buy a place to live. He had heard them talking, and guessed from the way they lived that they were saving up. He said that with a smile, as if he had caught them out in a reckless conspiracy. It was a fine ambition, and would help to free them from bullying landlords, he said. He wanted to help. He was a trader and he had money. If they wanted, he would loan them what they needed, and they could pay him later, when they could afford to.

  ‘Think about it,’ he said, looking from one to the other. ‘When I come out, at Her Majesty’s pleasure, you tell me your decision. If you decide to take the loan, I’ll help you make all the arrangements you need. I want to help because you’ve been kind, and because of the boy . . . and because of Jimmy. You’re my family now.’ He smiled, broadly, a little embarrassed. He would not stay any longer, saying he still had a lot of things to sort out.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ said Sophie, her eyes watering.

  Dottie was stunned by Patterson’s offer and made no reply. She had often wondered what he did, but had never dared to ask him. He ignored the usual polite openings to state his work, and she had been made suspicious by that too. She could imagine him only too clearly barking back an answer to the question she might have asked: I do the only work a black man is allowed to do in this country, I slave for the white man. What a mind she had! Not that trader told her such a great deal. Her mind was racing, furiously adding up sums. Reverend Mosiah had told them, when they went to consult him in the flush of their new resolution, that once they had about three hundred pounds they could go to a building society for a loan. Three hundred pounds! He might as well have said a piece of the moon or the Prime Minister’s collar studs. If Patterson could lend them enough to bring their savings up to three hundred . . . She wanted to race down the stairs after him, tell him that there was no need to wait for a month and could they please have the loan now. Could he afford three hundred pounds? How could they ever pay a loan like that back? That was a lot of money. Perhaps he had not meant that kind of money.

  It was only after the initial excitement had left her, and with her mind only half on the eulogy of Patterson that Sophie was singing, and which Hudson was accompanying with a pleasant high-pitched chanting, that she began to wonder why he would want to do all this at all. At first she tried to stop herself, telling herself not to look a gift horse in the mouth. It would just be a loan and they would pay back every penny. It must be for Hudson, she thought. He was making up for Jimmy’s absence, doing for them the things Jimmy would have done.

  The thought made her smile. Jimmy would not have done this, not in a million years. Jimmy was like any other man, leaving his seed where he could without thought of consequences. Perhaps, she told herself, it was because Patterson was an African. Jimmy was just one of the boys, even though he was thirty if he was a day, but Patterson was still an African, and he acted as if he knew that was something. And she had heard people say that Africans took their families seriously.

  Perhaps he liked them, wanted to help them. She tried hard but she could not banish the thought that the offer of money was part of a plan, part of the game he was playing with them, and that Sophie was the prize. She knew that he had looked at her too, in a way that made her shudder with excitement and shame that he had guessed her craving for him. She smiled as she thought of the word she had used to describe her feeling for him. She craved him. She wanted him to lie with her, to fondle and love her. And for all that, she knew without knowing much about him that he was a hard, violent man. Would he give them the money and then use them both? Why should he not? If he did, it would only be because Dottie wanted it too. She was not a child like Sophie, besotted with desire for him. The thought made her feel cruel, and she looked at Sophie to see if she had guessed her ill-will.

  Sophie sensed that her sister had resolved the battle with her harrowing thoughts, and quietly, without emphasis, she began to sing ‘Rock of Ages’, always her song of joy and thanksgiving. After a moment Dottie joined her, for the pleasure of singing, and to make her sister smile. They sang together while Hudson stood up in his cradle, staring at them with startled incredulity.

  The next day Dottie went to an estate agent as the Reverend Mosiah had advised her. She resisted Sophie’s pleas that she should seek out the Pastor and ask him to accompany her. The agent she chose was the one next to the builders merchant at the corner of Bedford Hill and Balham High Road. She passed it in the mornings on the way to the bus stop, and had often glanced at the wares displayed in the window. The office looked small and dull, which Dottie thought would be about suitable for her needs. A smiling young woman there asked her a lot of questions, many of which made Dottie feel absurd. Did she want a terrace, semi or detached? A garage? How many bedrooms would she like? Did she have any particular area in mind? Did she have a property to sell? Around how much was she thinking of spending? She answered the questions diffidently, unable to give a proper answer to many of them, and feeling stupid and conceited for even aspiring to as much as some of her answers implied. Three bedrooms! The woman’s smile never faltered, which made Dottie fear that she was laughing at her presumption. She gave Dottie some papers about houses in Brixton, which was what Dottie had asked for, and then sent her to a building society.

  At the building society office in Ravenstone Street – the woman had told her which one to go to and what to say – another young woman asked her more questions and told her she must bring all her savings to them. She asked Dottie what job she did and how much she earned. The answer made the woman pause dramatically in her scribblings and give Dottie a long look. She asked whether Dottie had thought of changing her job.

  Before she left, she was given some forms to complete. On her way home, walking down Station Road and Bedford Hill, she told herself not to mind about feeling stupid, not to take any notice of the tone of voice with which the young women in the offices spoke to her. It was only that she was poor and they could see that. Perhaps she should have waited for Patterson, or should have asked the Pastor to come with her, as Sophie had suggested . . . That was a job that would suit her, she thought. Sitting behind a desk dressed in finery, asking grand questions all day. How many bedrooms would you like? Have you thought of changing your job? It would be best to wait until she had the money that Patterson had promised, then she would go back and wave it under the nose of that woman in the building society. She had wanted to get the house herself, but she would have to wait for help after all.

  4

  One evening later that week, Dottie arrived home late from work.
The summer shifts were in operation again, and there was plenty of over-time. The factory was crowded with casuals, one of whom Dottie had got into an argument with about the Commonwealth, of all things. This man did not want Africans in his precious Commonwealth because they did not share our way of life. West Indian people like Dottie were all right, he told her. They were civilised and were subjects of the Queen. West Indians love the British Empire. They love cricket, and they speak English. They’re civilised, or at least they share our values. It’s those Kolokolo tribesmen from the jungle we should keep out, walking around with their meat hanging out. How can you give a bunch of primitive savages who think it’s smart to eat the dead body of anyone you dislike the same right to make decisions and policy as Australia or Canada, for example? Dottie had felt herself curling up as she listened to the man holding forth, and was ashamed that she could not think of anything devastating to say to him.

  ‘It’s not your Commonwealth,’ she said to him. ‘Why should they follow your way of life? Or worship your Queen?’ Because we pay for the blooming thing, don’t we? he said. ‘And I’m not West Indian,’ Dottie shouted. Where are you from? the man asked, apparently untouched by Dottie’s annoyance. I could’ve sworn . . . Go on then, tell me. I’ve been to most places with the services. ‘England,’ Dottie said, and at least got a laugh against the man.

  She arrived home still angry with herself for not having put up a better defence. Perhaps the woman in the building society office was right. It was time she looked for another job. She had stayed at the factory for all the years because she was afraid of having to start again, of having to make new friends, if that was what they were. There were more black women working there now, and she had got to know some of them and sat with them at lunch-time. Mike Butler was also still around, with his cheery sermons and his unprovoked, conspiratorial winks. It was the work and the place that were depressing her, repeatedly making her ask herself if this was all she was capable of, if for ever she would remain a plaything of whatever it was that organised lives such as hers. On the bus home, she had almost come to the decision to take herself in hand and clear out of that place. Her dream of going back to school would have to wait now that Hudson had come, but she could do better than packing powdered soup in foil packs or sorting prawns for the freezer bins.

  When she got to the house she found Sophie lying on her bed in the gloom, while Hudson had crawled near the open window. He was crouching on all fours and was picking tiny ants off the floor and eating them. He looked up at Dottie and immediately started to grumble. She picked him up and hugged him, murmuring to him. She went to Sophie and peered down at her. Her eyes were shut, and at first she thought Sophie was sleeping. She shook her gently, and the lack of response made her fear that something worse had happened. She put Hudson down, more violently than she had intended, and bent urgently over her sister, ignoring Hudson’s angry howls. She shook her and called out to her. Sophie groaned but did not open her eyes.

  ‘What happened, girl? Are you all right? Sophie!’

  She opened the door and stood at the landing, uncertain what to do. She should call a doctor, but she did not know one. Neither of them had ever been to a doctor. The hospital had said Sophie should take Hudson for vaccinations, but she had not. She heard a door open upstairs. Sophie groaned and Dottie hurried back inside, snatching up the crying Hudson as she walked past him. She crouched beside Sophie’s bed, talking to her and shaking her. She heard the Polish woman at the open door of their room. When Dottie turned round, she recoiled at first, running a few steps in the direction of the stairs. After a moment she came back, and in the evening gloom Dottie saw her grinning. She laughed softly and nodded her head several times.

  ‘Dead,’ she said tentatively, unsure of the word. She ran her index finger across her throat and rolled her eyes, gurgling a last breath. ‘Dead,’ she said more firmly, pointing at Sophie. Then she performed a heavy-footed jig, holding her arms out beside her to mimic someone fat.

  ‘Mad white bitch!’ Dottie said. She let Hudson go, and he slid to the floor with a cry, unable to believe that life could expose him to such cruel treatment. Dottie caught the woman halfway up the stairs, held on to her grimy coat and turned her round. She slapped her face with all the strength she could summon, letting her loathing for the life they all led find expression in the pain she could inflict. She butted the woman’s head against the wall, and then hurled her away with a cry. The woman was blubbering with fear, tears running down her face. She cringed and crawled backwards up the stairs. Dottie followed after her and drew her leg back to kick her, as she could – anywhere she could – but she could not, and stepped back with an anguished sigh, already overcome with shame. ‘Now you go on up there and laugh up your arse hole,’ she blustered.

  She found Sophie awake when she got back down. Her eyes were open but she had no idea what was happening around her. Hudson was lying on the floor beside his cot, sucking his thumb and snivelling, overcome with self-pity. Dottie went through all the obvious remedies she knew of. She wrapped Sophie in several blankets, but Sophie threw them off, complaining she was too hot. She made her a drink of honey and lemon but Sophie said the lemon was too strong. She chopped up the tripe that she had bought for their supper and boiled it to make stock, but Sophie complained that the smell made her sick. Sophie sobbed intermittently through the night, and even sobbed as she fed Hudson, who watched his tearful mother out of the corner of his eyes as he sucked at her breast.

  They went to look for a doctor the next day, walking around the streets of Balham until they saw a surgery. Dottie expected the doctor to tell them that it was typhoid. The newspapers were full of the typhoid epidemic that was sweeping across the country. There had been so many cases of the fever, hundreds of them in Scotland, caused by eating contaminated corned beef. Some of the victims had died, and hospitals were full of patients stricken by it. Sophie admitted to eating left-over corned beef at work the previous day, and Dottie was convinced that that would turn out to be her sister’s illness. She expected the doctor to lecture them for bringing the dreadful disease to his surgery. It was one of their kind of diseases, she knew that. Typhoid, cholera, malaria, blackwater fever, blood and pus and vomit and remorseless agues. That was their contribution to human civilisation. She had read in the paper that some people were saying that there might be a connection between the thousands of migrants from India and Pakistan who had entered the country in the last year and the epidemic of typhoid that had hit the country.

  She was also afraid that the doctor would be angry with them for neglecting the hospital’s instructions about Hudson, and for not having Sophie examined after she left hospital. Perhaps Hudson would get typhoid too, from sucking at Sophie’s breast. And even though he would not say so, the doctor would blame them for the military coups that were sweeping across Africa, for the corrupt governments that ruled in Asia and for the thriftless manner in which people in poor countries were using up the world’s resources, resources intended for the proper enjoyment of their betters. Altogether, Dottie went into the surgery looking penitent and cowed, expecting the doctor to speak firmly to them while his eyes flashed with hostility. The doctor was a large, red-faced man. He looked momentarily surprised to find two women and a child facing him. He told them that Sophie had suffered a heart attack, that her veins were diseased and that she had to be careful or it would happen again. He wrote quickly on a piece of paper. ‘Do you work, Miss Balfour?’ he asked, glancing up but looking away from them.

  ‘She works in Waterloo,’ said Dottie, her mind still reeling from the doctor’s news. Heart! Sophie was not even twenty-one years old yet. She spoke for Sophie because in her eyes her sister had suddenly become an invalid on the very threshold of . . . God forbid. ‘In the kitchens,’ she said.

  ‘Oh dear,’ the doctor said, reaching for another pad. ‘I’m afraid that won’t do. You see, your body can’t take that kind of strain. You’ll have to find another job, something less
strenuous, less on your feet. I want you to take two weeks off, then come and see me. And I want you to lose weight. This is very important. It won’t be easy but you must do it. I’ll give you a diet sheet, telling you which kinds of food to eat and which kinds to avoid. Do you understand me? You must reduce your weight. I’ll arrange for you to go to the hospital for tests.’

  Sophie did not keep the appointment he arranged for her. She went back to work as soon as she felt strong enough, long before the fortnight was over. She was afraid the supervisor would sack her otherwise. She had been getting at her again, she said. Dottie begged her, telling her that her health was the most important thing of all, more important than life itself. What was the point of living a half-life, ill all the time, when she could get better by following the doctor’s instructions? But Sophie sat in a tense silence, saying nothing for a long time, looking down at her feet. ‘I want a house for Hudson,’ she said at last. ‘It’s for him I live. What other reason is there for putting up with this oppression? How are we going to buy a house unless I go back to work? I’ll take care, Sis, and the Lord will keep an eye on us. I’ll follow all the diet and pills that doctor man gave us. I’ll lose weight and I’ll get better. I feel all right, true to God, Sis, but we must get the house for Hudson.’

  Sophie could not lose weight. Even after she went back to work, although she easily got tired and came home looking sick and grey, she did not get any thinner. She followed her diet at home, but could not resist the tit-bits with resonant names that were sent down to the eaters-of-left-overs. Her milk began to turn sour, to Hudson’s disgust. He would go to her, howling with hunger, only to turn away from the swollen breast with a cry of rage as soon as the liquid began to flow. The doctor shrugged and advised the bottle.