Unable to speak with anyone, Leila decided to walk back in the rain. To have asked for a bus ticket would have been too much. Though she knew the way, it was getting dark. Leila slitted her eyes so that all she could see were the wipers of the passing cars slashing back and forth through the pounding rain, and their lights reflecting in the puddles. She lowered her head and walked, but eventually she could walk no further. On the other side of the road was a small church, but strung out between her and the church door were line upon line of cars. Leila waited and shivered in the rain. When the line broke she dashed across the road and pushed at the heavy oak. It creaked open and she shut it behind her.
Inside was silent and almost totally still, dark but candlelit. Leila crossed herself and walked down the centre aisle, past the straight, tortured benches, towards the organ pipes. She knelt in the front pew, bowed her head and prayed hard, clasping her hands tightly together as if trying to squeeze out the rain water from between her sodden palms. Why? Her mother had done nobody any wrong. She had done nobody any harm. She had come to England. She had tried. Didn't these people understand? Didn't they understand that she barely knew her mother, that everything up until now had been a preparation for knowing, not the knowing itself. Her mother was almost a stranger, and even after four months in England Leila had never given up hope that she might still get to know her. Finally, Leila had no words except ‘please’.
The priest stood in the darkness at the back of the church. He watched her. Then he sat. He listened to her uttering her one word over and over again, and he wanted to come up and put a hand on her shoulder, but she was just a child. He knew she would get over it, whatever it was.
The young English girl from next door was trying to feed Calvin when a swollen-eyed Leila arrived home.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked.
Leila managed a smile. She took Calvin from her and looked into his face. He was not hungry, but the girl was not to know.
‘Michael hasn't been back so I suppose he must be at work still.’ Leila did not answer so the girl got up to leave.
‘It's getting late so I'd best be on my way. My mum's been round twice wondering where you'd got to and she said if you weren't back by ten she'd phone the hospital.’
The girl was leaving when Leila spoke up. ‘I'll see her tomorrow.’
The girl stared at Leila. ‘Alright?’
‘Alright,’ confirmed Leila under her breath. ‘Alright.’
Leila sat heavily and looked at Calvin. Then she heard the girl slam the front door and she remembered her friend's voice.
‘For it's when a man don't even call his child by its own name that you got problems, you hear me. When he starts to call the child, “it”, or “that”, or “thing”, then I going start to worry about how Bradeth feeling about me, till then I not too worried for if I say he going marry to me then I don't care what my Aunt Toosie say, he going marry to me.’
From the direction of her mother's bedroom they had both heard a low firing of coughs. Millie had looked anxiously at Leila, who had shrugged her shoulders as if helpless to do anything.
‘You think Michael going want to marry to you?’ asked Millie.
Leila spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb her mother.
‘I don't know.’
‘Don't know, my arse. You don't think about nothing else all day long, and you treat him like it's him alone can make the sun go up in the morning and the moon come out at night.’
‘No, I don't.’
‘Don't what!’ interrupted Millie. ‘Your mother have you living like a princess all your life and as soon as she get sick you gone wild: first Arthur, then Michael, you think people don't talk? Well?’
Leila picked up Calvin and slowly made her way upstairs. She opened the door to the bedroom which these days was like opening the door to a fridge. Tonight she did not notice. She undressed in the dark and climbed into bed alone. Where Michael was and what he might be doing did not concern her; he had told her this many times, but tonight she felt it in herself. Leila leaned over and lifted Calvin from his cot. She took him into the bed with her. He, like her, lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. She, like him, chose not to cry. Not tonight.
* * *
THE PASSAGE
On the fifteenth day the wind died and Leila saw land; the high and irregular cliffs of England through the cold grey mist of the English channel. She clasped together the collar of her light cotton dress and shivered. Overhead a thin fleet of clouds cast a bleak shadow across the deck, and the sluggish water swelled gently, then slackened. Leila stood at the front of the ship with six or seven more. Nobody spoke. It was still early and they waited, as if trapped in a glass case, while the other voyagers were still getting up, or feeling sick, or sleeping.
The thin white strip of cliff grew vertically as an hour passed and the ship edged its way towards land. Then the word spread and the group multiplied to a crowd and Leila felt herself being pushed.
She turned and walked away towards the rear of the ship, stepping over luggage and prostrate bodies as she did so. It was like a Saturday market on deck, for some had dashed up to see England, though still tired. As they could not be bothered to go back downstairs they simply lay down where they had stood, and they now dozed. The funnels above continued to cough smoke; Leila leaned over the railings and looked at the sea bursting into foam in the ship's wake. She realized just how far they had come and felt thankful it would not be long now, even though her heart felt heavy and apprehensive, fearful that she had been reading too much hope into her mother's letters. Unable to share her distress with anyone, she had therefore lived out this passage in more mental than physical discomfort, knowing the world she had left behind no longer held anything of interest for her save Millie and Bradeth. The world she was choosing to inhabit might hold even less if she could not share it fully with her mother. She straightened up and looked out at the sea. She began to hum idly, trying to drain her mind.
After a few minutes Leila felt cold so she left the deck and made her way down the narrow, dimly lit staircase. At the bottom of the steps she walked along the iron rectangle which was the corridor, and at the end of it she passed into the cabin which had been her home for the last two weeks. Michael lay asleep, as he had done for most of the journey, but now his face seemed to have lost its feverish pallor. He appeared to be dreaming peaceably, rather than hallucinating or fighting off illness, and his feet stared out brazenly from beneath the bottom of the grey blanket. Leila shut the door.
The noises in the cabin disturbed her, but it was only the dull rumble of the engine and the loose hum of the glass in the porthole. She covered Michael's feet before reaching up to the top bunk and retrieving Calvin. Then she peeled back the thin straps from her shoulders and exposed an oversized nipple. Her son had to be fed; she did not know when she would get another chance. As she held him up to her breast she squatted slightly so she could look out of the porthole.
Calvin did not want any more milk. She patted her son on the back, encouraging him to belch. Michael woke up. He watched, as if he had never witnessed such behaviour, then he swung himself out of bed and stooped down beside her. He looked long and hard but said nothing. Leila did not ask him what he was thinking. She laid Calvin back on the top bunk and started to pack their things. Michael, who was dressed only in shorts and vest, stood up and unhooked his clothes from behind the door. The cabin was so small he barely needed to move to reach them. As they prepared themselves in silence Leila sighed.
Most of the journey had been spent nursing husband and son, continually fetching food from the kitchens, bringing Michael a small tin bowl in which to wash, assisting him in his frequent journeys to the toilet, washing Calvin's clothes and then having to sit up on deck with the damp washing as the cold wind whipped through the ship. She was frightened to leave the washing in case anyone tried to walk off with the nappies; for two weeks it had been a full-time job. It was often late at night by the time both hus
band and son finally fell asleep, and it was only then that she had some time to herself.
Usually she would go back out on deck and think of her mother, whom she hoped would be well enough to meet them. But it was at this point that her thoughts became too painful and she tried to make her mind stop working. She would look around at the sad brown gazes of her fellow emigrants, men and women who lined up before her like the cast of some tragic opera. There was the old man who sat as if close to tears, his large jocular chin glued to the palm of his hand, his crooked elbow to his knee, his eyes staring out into the distance as if unable to reconcile the conflict of where he had come from with where he was going to. A little to his left lay slumped the woman with the wicker baskets, her hair scraped up on top of her head as if with the sharp edge of a trowel, her dress so short that it rode up over her swollen black frame every time she moved. When she laughed the flabby tops of her thighs were totally exposed and some still turned to look, though, by now thoroughly familiar with the scene, they merely wondered what it was she laughed at. And the drunk occupied the canvas chair. He never left it and he never smiled. The bristles on his face looked so hard that Leila imagined you would cut your hand if you were brave enough to go across and touch him. They were flecked, like guano in colour, and beside him lay the empty rum bottle that would soon, and mysteriously, be replaced by a full one. This deck looked like a slum street, the suitcases houses, and Leila would turn away and stare at the white spits of foam in the distance in order not to get too depressed.
It was nearly 12 now and she had finished packing. Their one suitcase lay on the bottom bunk. For some inexplicable reason there seemed to be more to get into the case than there had been when she and Millie had packed it two weeks earlier. It puzzled her. Calvin, now freshly changed and washed, lay gurgling to himself.
Then Michael came back. He had been up on deck with the rest of the passengers, their jackets, skirts, dresses, ties, all rippling in the stiff but friendly breeze.
‘You ready?’ he asked, all signs of his previous illness having vanished. Leila nodded and picked up Calvin as Michael reached for the suitcase.
‘People up there queuing to get off the boat already so we better take up a place.’
Michael left the room without looking backwards, but Leila stood for a moment and thought. She had grown attached to this coffin-like cabin, for it was a final reminder of home. She broke it, knowing that any weakness now could only be bad preparation for what might follow.
On deck Michael had already struck up conversation with a group of men, three of them in panama hats and double-breasted suits, the fourth in trilby and blazer and Oxford bags. As Leila listened their conversation became loud, fast, furious and exclusive.
‘Me? Know anything about England? Look man, I been reading about the place since I five.’
‘So what you been reading?’
‘Yes, man, what books you read? You read History of the English People by Winston Churchill?’
‘I read that one.’
‘Me an' all.’
‘Yes, man, I sure everybody read it. It's a standard.’
‘A classic.’
‘It's a classic too but I wants to know if you does read it as yet.’
‘Twice.’
‘Twice what, my arse?’
‘Twice straight through but if it's a text you looking for you should read Encyclopedia Britannica.’
‘Which volume?’
‘All of them.’
‘I read them.’
‘All of them?’
‘Sure, man.’
‘Me an' all.’
‘So what it do tell you about England?’
‘Everything.’
‘And more.’
‘Much more.’
‘Industrial Revolution.’
‘It's right. It's a big thing in England, man. I can see you is a scholar for true.’
‘I tell you it's a classic text as well. Churchill don't be nobody's fool, boy.’
‘So who lead it, then?’
‘What you mean who lead it? It's not fucking Russian revolution we talking about.’
‘I know that, man, but I mean who is in charge of it.’
‘You hear him, you hear him! He wants to know who is in charge of the Industrial Revolution.’
‘Well, somebody must be in charge if it's that big.’
‘You talking shit, boy.’
‘Why?’
‘Coz it's shit talk.’
‘I think the king lead it.’
‘But it's not the same thing.’
‘Anyway, if I does remember my history lessons right it's a queen ruling then.’
‘So it's queen who leading the revolution?’
‘If you like.’
‘So where you study history lessons, man?’
‘London University external student.’
‘Well, no wonder you know so much about it, then.’
‘Yes, man, no wonder. You must come half-English already.’
‘Me arse.’
Leila listened to them, but she watched the drama unfolding around her. The crew in their blue woollen hats were preparing to dock. On the decks of the smaller boats the owners took a break from their summer repairs. They stood up and watched as the emigrant ship slid smoothly past the beacons, the sea wall and the lighthouse. Then the ship's engines were cut, almost as a mark of respect, and Leila watched as they took their place among the cranes and cargo. A colony of white faces stared up at them. The men finished their conversation.
‘Me, I don't never see so many white people in my life.’
‘Well, I suppose they don't ever see so many coloured people either.’
‘It's true,’ said a wise man, ‘but we all the same flag, the same empire’.
For the first time in two weeks the ship shuddered to a halt.
Leila looked at England, but everything seemed bleak. She quickly realized she would have to learn a new word; overcast. There were no green mountains, there were no colourful women with baskets on their heads selling peanuts or bananas or mangoes, there were no trees, no white houses on the hills, no hills, no wooden houses by the shoreline, and the sea was not blue and there was no beach, and there were no clouds, just one big cloud, and they had arrived.
The walkway was pushed into place and jammed up against the side of the ship. Gathering up their luggage, they began, one by one, to disembark in front of the television and newsreel cameras. Leila watched as she participated. A windswept plank down to the shore, somebody's hat blowing away, babies wrapped up like Christmas gifts and clinging desperately to mothers, women with dark mournful eyes, headscarves and petticoats of fiery pink peering out from beneath their knee-length dresses; more men in panama, hats and leather trilbys, some in colourful sleeveless sweaters, white shirts, handkerchiefs large and clean and prominent. She followed Michael, and the man in front of them knelt and kissed the ground. They both stepped around him and followed the rest of the passengers into the customs hall.
Like everybody else, they had nothing to declare except their accents. Leila dug deep in her bag and pulled clear their joint British passport. It was brand new. It was stamped in silence, the customs officer just glancing up once to make sure the faces in the passport matched those standing before him. Then they passed out into the next hall where relatives and friends were gathered. They were all coloured. The white people on the quayside must have been local people just watching. Still, thought Leila, it was the same back home when a big ship came in.
They moved through this hall and followed a sign which said, ‘Trains’. Leila searched for their rail vouchers while Michael looked up ahead. There was a gate, and slowly they began to move towards it as the noise of escaping steam grew louder and more frightening. Calvin began to cry. It was as if, hidden away and out of sight, some huge snarling monster was about to pounce, but Leila comforted him and he stopped crying. When they reached the gate Michael took the vouchers from his wife an
d passed them to the man, who pointed unnecessarily towards the solitary train.
Leila gazed through the cold window of the train. She watched as her warm breath misted up the glass. The fields had little in them save a few sheep here and there. Some cows stood silent and still, like statues. Where was the food they grew to feed themselves? As they plunged further inland, she wondered how it was that people managed to live so far away from the sea. Leila looked across at Michael, but he was already fast asleep. She turned her attention back to the window. Then, just as she was acclimatizing herself to the tall electricity pylons which spoiled the view, the train plunged into a black tunnel. Then a thick road cut along the fringes of the fields. The cars, tens of them, rushed madly along, all different colours and different sizes. Then the chimneys began to multiply, and the greenness disappeared, and they were in a town, and Leila could no longer keep her eyes open.
When she awoke she could see that they must have passed through the town, but the new fields seemed bigger and less shapely. She could sense too that soon the chimneys would be upon them again. Outside it began to rain. It was a sort of half-rain which left whole drops of water compressed against the window. Leila watched them silently running into each other. A few minutes later the world turned grey and black, the sky took on an ashen hue, and Leila thought it looked like a hurricane was going to blow up. Again she glanced across at Michael but he seemed calm, as did Calvin, whom she held in her arms. They both, father and son, dozed lightly and peacefully.
The houses and the streets and the cars seemed to be going on for ever. The huge jug-shaped towers, and the great posters advertising coffee and cereal and cigarettes, and the broken, crumbling lips of the chimneys, all of this caught Leila's eyes. Already she was used to the red double decker buses, but she worried slightly for she could see no end to this town which fought off the freedom of the fields and the low hills. Then the train began to slow down. It jolted to a halt and Michael woke up. Leila looked through the window at the sign which read, ‘Victoria Station’. She knew now they were in London.
The Final Passage Page 13