The Final Passage

by Caryl Phillips

  He fastened his shirt buttons up to his neck, rolled his cuffs down and buttoned them up, then he quickly slipped on his blue suit jacket. He dragged his chair back across the floor and left it by the table. Michael kissed his son lightly on the forehead and did the same to his wife. He knew they would be asleep by the time he returned.

  For what he imagined to be the last time Michael pulled up outside her parched house. The bleached and peeling walls looked uncomfortable, being nothing more than a set of ill-matching strips that had been nailed together in a seemingly random pattern, but his grandfather's building skills, however limited, had stood the test of time. The door was slightly ajar, an open invitation to either a friend or a member of the family. Michael, his pulse still racing from the journey, eased himself down from off the bike and quickly climbed up the slow step and into the house.

  His grandmother sat facing him. Her legs were hopelessly bowed, her thick varicose veins running up and down their bruised and stubby length. Her face was silent and black, blank, neither eyes nor mouth willing to capitulate to movement or betray emotion. She sat placidly, and in her gnarled hands she held something tight in an obvious attempt to conceal it from Michael who, as yet, could not see what it was. This slightly hostile, but never threatening confrontation was reassuringly familiar to Michael. He closed the door behind him, safe in the knowledge that there could be nothing seriously amiss.

  Slightly to his grandmother's right, and to Michael's left, was a small, rickety-looking chair which he was clearly expected to occupy. He sat and waited. She looked at him, her eyes small, imprecise, grey, like those of dead fish, but he could not look back at her for long without having to turn aside and fix his eyes upon the dusty unswept floor. She said nothing. After a few moments his eyes began to wander, stealthily at first, and then with a greater boldness, passing over the photographs, the piles of old crushed letters, the heavy oak sideboard, the light cane baskets, the heavy iron pots, the broken wireless, all yellowing in their resting places. Then, as the silence deepened, he stole a glance at his grandmother. These days she occupied her house as one would occupy a waiting room. She spoke in a whisper.

  ‘So it's tomorrow you going?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Michael shifted slightly, the low creaking of his chair sounding unpleasant in his ears, but she did not take her eyes from him.

  ‘You thinking of coming back?’

  ‘I think so, but I don't know when.’

  ‘I don't care about when, all I want to know is if you thinking of coming back.’

  He paused then answered, his voice modest.

  ‘I'm thinking of coming back, but I'm not sure if I will.’

  ‘I see.’

  Her Bible was on a small table by her side, something to lean on, and she stole a reassuring glance in its direction. Her austerity was not merely as a result of poverty.

  ‘You been like a son to me since your parents die and I have a lot of hope invested in you, boy. I don't want you to fail.’

  Without taking her eyes from Michael, she slowly stretched her fingers like a crab flexing its legs.

  ‘Take this with you.’

  Carefully balanced between her forefingers and her thumbs was a plain gold band. It looked like a wedding ring. She held out her hands and Michael leaned forward and took it. He looked down at the ring, not knowing whether to slip it on to his finger or just hold it. So he held it, and as he did so he listened; only now did he become conscious of the crickets whose noisy chorus had been with him the whole time. Their multiple voices spat, crackled, whistled, almost daring him to leave the house and come out and join them.

  ‘Go now and don't forget what I tell you. Have yourself a good life and take good care of your girl and child. I say girl for she still young but she can help you to a good life if you treat her right.’ She paused, then with the smallest of movements she nodded, as if trying to warn him of some fast-approaching danger.

  ‘She can help you.’

  Michael felt an uneasy smile twist his lips, but clearly his grandmother had nothing further to say. She closed her eyes to him, then slowly re-formed her hands in the centre of her lap with all the deliberation of a leaf curling at its edges. Michael rose, his shadow rushing before him, and he moved across to the door. Quietly, not wishing to disturb his grandmother, he pulled it to and stood nervously in the moonlight.

  Above him the trees rustled; he listened as a stray dog barked timidly. Trapped by a thousand chains the bad dogs howled back, long and deep. Then it was quiet again, just the crickets, the leaves and the wind; even the sea seemed stilled and worried, deliberately secretive. Michael dug into his jacket pocket and fumbled for the gold band. He slipped it on to the third finger of his right hand. It fitted perfectly and would remain there.

  A cloud quickened and for a brief instant it veiled the moon. Michael climbed on his bike and rode up towards Island Road, where he turned, keeping the vast desert of water to his right. He had decided to take his time and ride right through the island, looking, remembering, wondering. By drawing this circle he would make a perfect ending of it.

  The ring was still on his finger when Leila woke him up.

  ‘Millie's here,’ she said, pushing his bulk with the flat of her hand, ‘and we need to take the things out of the bedroom and pack.’

  Michael opened his eyes. His wife looked tired even at this early hour of the day. She left him and he dressed slowly. Sleep still scratched in the corner of his eyes and his tongue felt heavy and coated.

  He moved into the front room and picked up his son, who was crying loudly and trying to keep the sun out of his face. In the corner of the room the old fan hummed as it turned to face first one wall, then swung back through its motorized curve to face the next. Leila and Millie, their backsides upended, their bodies jacknifed, rummaged noiselessly through the boxes and baskets scattered around their feet like discarded fruit.

  ‘So what happen; you both deaf or what?’

  Leila stood and stretched, one hand supporting the base of her spine. She took their child from Michael, sat and pressed his damp mouth to an already erect nipple. Millie turned, her dark face bright.

  ‘So you can't say “morning”?’ asked Millie, an eyebrow raised like a question mark.

  ‘Yes, I can say “morning”,’ said Michael, as he moved past his wife and child towards the open door.

  ‘I have to rush or I going be late.’

  ‘Late for what?’ asked Millie. ‘The whole day not big enough for the both of you to drink?’

  Millie straightened up. Her dress hung crooked, for her shoulders were not wide enough to hold both straps. Michael ignored the question and left. Before starting up the bike he pulled his sunglasses out from the top pocket of his shirt and put them on. He made some minor adjustments so they sat still on his nose. Then he was ready.

  Bradeth was pacing the dust outside the Day to Dawn bar.

  ‘What time you call this?’

  ‘Time you put a comb across your head,’ said Michael, ‘for your hair all bush up like the top of Monkey Hill.’ Bradeth sucked his teeth.

  ‘I say what time you call this?’

  ‘I don't know, man.’

  ‘Well, it's time you were here long time is what time it is.’

  ‘Hush nuh, man, and buy me a beer. I mean you standing there drinking like you is the only one in the world allowed to work up a thirst.’

  ‘So what happen you forget how to order a beer?’

  ‘I don't forget, I just don't have the money, man. You not going help out a partner?’

  ‘Hush, I already buy a crate and put it inside out of the sun.’

  ‘Well fetch it nuh, man. Then we can sit here and drink, for I feeling like a bottle or two.’ Bradeth sucked his teeth again.

  He turned and ambled into the bar as Michael took up his seat for the day. Then he staggered out with the crate and let it crash to the ground. He opened a bottle and grinned coyly.

  ‘M
ichael, you want one?’

  ‘Yes man, I want one.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Bad, bad.’

  Bradeth tossed the bottle at him, beer slopping out of the top. ‘Well, now you have one.’

  Michael drank greedily.

  ‘How it taste?’

  ‘Nice, man,’ said Michael. ‘Nice.’

  The late morning sun streamed into the house. Millie stopped and looked closely at Leila who was perspiring like a cane-cutter.

  ‘You feeling alright?’

  Leila did not answer.

  ‘You should rest up a minute.’

  Leila peered over her friend's shoulder and out through the almost permanently open door. Across the road the naked children bathed under the rusty stand-pipe which dribbled water on to their boneless limbs. They splashed and played as best they could. It was already a clear hot day.

  ‘What happen if you get sick on the ship, or boat, or whatever it is you going on?’

  Leila wiped her forehead.

  ‘I'm just tired, that's all. It'll be alright.’

  ‘It'll be alright,’ mimicked Millie. It'll be alright when you done kill your arse dead.’

  Leila turned and withdrew to the bedroom. Millie sighed deeply, then followed her.

  A few minutes later they came back into the front room for a break. There was no need to rush for it would soon be done. Millie poured them some iced water from a pitcher, and Leila looked closely at her. Then Millie caught her friend's eyes, and Leila flushed with embarrassment. She felt she had to say something.

  ‘I'm sure that my mother's going to die by the time we get there. I know it's not a nice thing to say but I'm sure of it.’

  ‘Don't talk so stupid,’ said Millie. ‘I done tell you already that English medicine is good. There don't going be nothing the matter with she.’ Outside a mango dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Neither of them moved. Then Millie continued, ‘Anyhow, as far as I'm concerned it's not only your mother's health you got to worry about in England for I hear the white women do anything to get their hands on a piece of coloured man.’ Millie paused. ‘Don't look so surprised, for I sure you know what I telling you, but that don't be to say that you going have any trouble with Michael. It's just to say that I not prepared to take the risk of that happening between me and Bradeth.’

  ‘So you not planning on ever coming out there?’

  Millie sucked her teeth. I already done tell you so.’

  ‘But what about Bradeth?’

  ‘What about him? You know I sure he and Michael thinking up some cock and bull plan about all of us going out there together but he must think I stupid.’

  ‘You mean you don't ever want to leave the island?’

  Millie raised her voice now. ‘It's not a crime, is it? I tell you so on Sunday. I don't have to leave.’

  ‘Well, no . . .’

  ‘Then I expect I maybe going come and see you on holiday one time but it's here I belong. You maybe don't see it but me, I love this island with every bone in my body. It's small and poor, and all the rest of the things that you and Michael probably think is wrong with it, but for all of that I still love it. It's my home and home is where you feel a welcome.’ She paused. ‘Anyhow, I have too much responsibilities to be travelling.’

  ‘The shop?’

  ‘And Shere, and Bradeth, and I soon going be having a next baby.’

  Leila's mouth dropped open. ‘Millie, when . . . ?’

  ‘About five or six months’ time. If it's a boy I call him Bradeth Junior, but if it's another girl I going call she Leila just in case I does never see you again.’

  Leila fell into Millie's arms and they hugged each other tightly, like sisters, but in truth they felt closer than that.

  Michael ran his forefinger across his close-shaven upper lip and wondered whether or not to grow a moustache. Such a style might be the fashion in England, but then again it might not be. He would just have to wait and see.

  Across the road a short, lobster-like man, his gait more shuffle than walk, pushed his wooden box cart of shaved ices down towards the market place, trying to pick up some late afternoon trade. The crippled cart, the two wheels different in size, kicked up a light dust. They watched as he passed out of sight.

  Michael's voice rose, his tongue heavy with drink. ‘I bet you never coming to England.’ He spat into the gutter, then tucked one leg clumsily under the other.

  ‘I coming, you just hold on and see, man.’

  Bradeth laughed but his eyes were unmoving. Michael looked at him and noticed, then they were quiet. He would miss Bradeth, perhaps more than he had realized.

  They finished their drinks and tossed both bottles on to the already well-established pile of empties. They clattered against each other in a drunken duet.

  ‘You want a next bottle?’ asked Bradeth, gesturing to an empty crate. He tried hard not to smile, but his face was alive with mischief. Michael sucked his teeth in fake annoyance.

  Bradeth stood, flicked a mosquito from his face, then rocked forward on to the balls of his feet. No matter what time of day it was his body always seemed larger than his shadow. He went into the bar, dragged another crate out into the street and together they slowly drank their way through it. Then they slept, and the drink hummed wildly in their blood, and the occasional car slipped respectfully by.

  Bradeth woke with a jolt, a chill slithering through his body. He peered incredulously down the street like a man unsure of his fate.

  ‘What time it is?’

  ‘About time you stopped asking that question,’ said Michael, his arms folded, his eyes closed.

  ‘Look, man, I'm serious,’ said Bradeth, trying to get to his feet. ‘It's darkness already, so we better be getting along.’ Michael opened his eyes and rubbed some life into them.

  ‘Maybe you talking right for once,’ he said, as he reassembled his crumpled body using Bradeth's arm to lever himself upright. They stood together, the only two figures in view, and they looked aimlessly about themselves.

  ‘Well, then, we going on your bike?’

  Michael licked a finger, bent over and started to rub some dirt from his trouser knee.

  ‘What bike?’ he asked, almost losing his balance as he rubbed vigorously.

  ‘What you mean “what bike?” Your arse must be really drunk, boy, for it's your bike I see standing over there or you blind or what?’

  Michael walked over to it, looked, then walked back to his friend.

  ‘Your head mash up?’ asked Bradeth. Michael laughed.

  ‘It don't look like my bike to me,’ he said, digging his hands into his trouser pocket. He pulled out two keys on a plain silver ring and forced them into Bradeth's hand. ‘Look like your bike to me.’

  Bradeth stared back and forth from his open palm, the keys sitting neatly in its centre, to the bike, and back again to his palm. Then he turned and looked at Michael.

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Course I mean it. I don't joke about your bike. We can walk down there and you can pick it up later.’

  Michael slipped his arm around Bradeth's shoulder and they began to trip gently in the general direction of the harbour. Behind them hobbled a stray dog, its feet blistered by the heat of the day, its head low with exhaustion. Michael laughed hard and pulled his friend close. Bradeth doubled his laughter and they veered crazily down the road towards England.

  As they neared the harbour and the hour of midnight, they heard late voices in a side street, then the hollow thud of a soft ball hitting an oil-drum wicket. The young boys whooped and hollered, then argued, then accepted the decision of the invisible umpire, democracy. The next man in, a stick-like boy in stained shorts, otherwise naked apart from the heat and dust of the day, scratched a crease into the earth with his hopeless bat.

  * * *

  ENGLAND

  Outside a thick mist wrapped itself around the street. Leila bit her bottom lip and trembled like a needle on a gauge. She took the
long curve and walked with head bent, shoulders sloping, towards the bus stop. She clung to a small cluster of bright flowers. As she passed by, the children stopped playing, seemingly more out of habit than curiosity. She remembered that this was a school holiday and they had nothing else to do while their parents were at work. At the end of the street she joined a short queue of six or seven people, all of them West Indians, and waited for the bus. Across the road a lorry hurtled by, throwing up bits of rubbish and paper high in the air.

  She sat in the front seat on the top deck of the bus, looking down at the people and the life in the street below. She noticed that in some areas there were many coloured people and in other areas there were very few. She noticed that coloured people did not drive big cars or wear suits or carry briefcases, that they seemed to look sad and cold. She noticed that the eyes of the white people on the posters never left her no matter how quickly she glanced at them. The rivers that the bus lurched over were like dirty brown lines, full of empty bottles and cigarette ends, cardboard boxes and greying suds of pollution. Leila knew that this was normal. She would have to try harder to get used to such things if she was going to make anything of her life here.

  The bus turned another corner and Leila stared out of the window. She worried about her mother, whom she was going to visit. She looked at the snaking, endless streets which were full of people carrying umbrellas, weaving in and out of one another's paths, so hurried, private English faces with newspapers and rubbish curled around their feet like dead vines. Then the bus splashed to a halt at a new set of traffic lights, and Leila noticed that the lettering got smaller and more hurried, as if the artist was running out of paint and time.

  ‘IF YOU WANT A NIGGER NEIGHBOUR VOTE LABOUR.’

  They turned right into a road where the children played happily among broken bottles and bricks. Between the identical houses she could see not even the smallest fraction of an inch. Then the bus stopped to wait for a lorry to pull out and Leila looked down a side street. Two little girls, their faces blackened with grime and filth, bounced merrily upon an old mattress. For a moment they forgot their other friends and lost themselves in simple pleasure.