The White Woman on the Green Bicycle

by Monique Roffey

  Those letters ‒ was he upset? Hell, yes. At first it had been a shock, a dull weird fact unearthed. But now he was furious and an impotent seventy-five years old. George isn’t here tonight, God knows where he is. I wonder about you all the time, your little girl. I know how you feel now that you’ve lost your wife. I know what that’s like. I wonder if we’ll meet again. Goodnight.

  If only he’d known then. Eric Williams ‒ of all people! Jesus Christ. Williams had died a broken man. He had fucked up. George was like her, though, he could admit that; the same as Sabine, a cheat. He had cheated on Sabine all along, from that very first day, the day they arrived, stepping off the Cavina. It had been immediate, a strong physical attraction. He had fallen, and that was that. Head over heels, with the sounds and smells, with the smiles and shapes, with all the bewitching qualities of another woman called Trinidad.

  George drove his truck into the forecourt of Winderflet Police Station. Everyone knew his crud-heap truck, the state of it. Can’t hide in a small place, can’t sin in a village, can’t fart without anyone hearing it and knowing what you had for lunch. Superintendent Bobby Comacho visited Winderflet once a month and George happened to know Bobby came, primarily, to visit his mistress. Bobby dropped round to see the boys at the station after sex, after lunch. He liked to have coffee at the station around four. George walked in to find him right there, sitting at the front desk, relaxed and happy, chatting to the officer in charge.

  ‘Hey, Bobby.’ George grinned.

  Bobby turned. He recognised George instantly and stared with malice. Bobby was a fat man, eyes like a goldfish, sweat patches under his armpits. On his feet he wore caramel-coloured plasticated slide-on shoes, at least size fifteen. He had the balls of a moose, George had heard.

  Bobby looked George up and down. ‘What you doin’ here?’ he growled.

  ‘Been reading the papers recently?’

  ‘Dat why you following me arong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go home nuh, Mr Harwood. Go home to your fat ugly lady wife.’ Bobby laughed loudly. ‘When de last time you screw she, eh? You done brushin’ every odder ting rong here. And you comin’ in aksin’ if ah read de goddamn newspaper?’

  George stood his ground. Dear Mr Williams danced inside his skull.

  ‘A friend of mine was badly beaten recently.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Bobby’s eyes were blank, his manner icy.

  ‘Yes. He says four policemen took him to the top of Paramin Hill. Only last week. Beat the crap out of him.’

  Bobby raised his eyebrows. ‘Dat a very serious allegation.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which policemen?’

  ‘My friend could identify them. Says they came from Winderflet.’

  ‘Oho . . . an’ who, apart from your friend, see dis happen? Eh?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘No one see dis serious ting happen apart from dat lying lazy good-for-nuttin Talbot up der on de hill?’

  ‘I didn’t say it was Talbot.’ George smiled with relish. ‘But now you mention it, yes, I mean Talbot. Four broken ribs. A broken nose. He was in the St Clair medical centre for days.’

  ‘Dat son of an ass have plenty enemies.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ George snapped. ‘Talbot isn’t a criminal. He’s a young man, a poor illiterate young man; he’s too stupid to have enemies. He stuck his neck out and complained. One of your thugs took his mobile phone. He wanted it back. And he got it back all right.’

  Bobby rose from the chair, standing to his full height of six foot four, peering down at George. ‘And you run straight to de goddamn newspapers, widout checkin’ your facts, print one setta nonsense?’

  ‘I didn’t write the story. I’m sure the news boys tried to check the story out, talk to someone here. No one is ever here, though.’

  Bobby’s face hardened. That look came at him, from out of the centuries, blatant, powerful. Bobby, a giant black man glaring like he could kill, just with his eyes.

  ‘Talbot not so innocent,’ he breathed. ‘He a damn fockin’ tief. Bad as de resta dem. He mixin’ with some of de badjohns up der on de hill. We catch him in all kinda business. He runnin’ errands, he drivin’ car for dem ruffians. We watchin’ him all now and you come here tellin’ me how to do my job, eh? You wid your hoity-toity English accent, expekin’ me to jump to your attention, eh? Catch me off guard?’ Bobby steupsed long and loud, looking about.

  The officer in charge nodded in passive agreement. The room pulsated with a garlicky odour: Bobby’s breath, Bobby’s lunch.

  ‘You some chupid ignorant white man. Dat Talbot had it comin’ to him. He dare complain? He up der laughin’ at us all now. He have you runnin’ circles. You asshole. How long you live in Trinidad?’

  ‘Long enough,’ George spat. ‘I’ve lived here long enough. Seen enough. You’re a disgrace. Your badge is a child’s toy. Your hat is a clown’s hat. You’re ridiculous. Justice? Serve and protect? Serve yourself. That’s your game, just like Mr Manning. You’re pathetic. Tiny-minded. So what if Talbot is in with the wrong sort. Your men have no right to bludgeon him. No right. You and those thugs. Your police force. He could’ve died up there on the hill. Those men should be had up in court.’

  Bobby glared, incensed. He squared up to George and peered down into his face. He held his large hands high, as if proving to George that he had hands, letting George have a good look. He spread his long strong fingers into a fan in front of George’s nose, smiling, before slipping them under George’s armpits, squeezing his ribcage tight. He grabbed George hard, lifting him up against the wall, his toes barely touching the ground. ‘Why ent you fock off, eh?’

  George felt the blood rush to his head. No words could come out.

  Bobby looked like he was vividly alive, glowing with blood-lust. George fought the urge to urinate, copiously.

  ‘Eh? Mr Harwood. SIR. Why ent you leave long time? Wid de rest of dem? Eh? Leave we to run tings. Eh?’

  George stared. He heard a dangerous interior sound, the porous creak of his ribs. His breath was short inside his lungs; he could hardly breathe. The garlic odour swam up into his nostrils. Bobby’s eyes were dilated, his lips swollen and parted.

  ‘You tink allyuh white man done any better? Eh? When allyuh run tings, you ent beat de black man? Eh? Allyuh superior? Better? Whiter? I sick an’ tired hearing all dis about black cops. You can kiss my black ass. Kiss my friggin’ black balls, too, kiss de friggin’ grong I walk on.’

  He stared hard into George’s eyes, like any moment he might kiss him savagely or rip out his vocal cords. George tried to struggle, but it was no use. He was decrepit, old and frail, and his body had gone slack.

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ George gasped. A hot dampness spread from the tip of his prick, a sharp ammonia stench spread with it, lacerating the air.

  Bobby peered downwards and laughed and his eyes glistened.

  ‘Poor man,’ he said, releasing his grip. George slid down the wall.

  For a moment they stood inches apart. Bobby’s face was serene and his heavy goldfish eyelids flickered, as if at something inconsequential.

  ‘Get outta here,’ he whispered. ‘Before I have you arrested for botherin’ me.’

  Outside, in the forecourt, George pulled a strip of aspirin from the top pocket of his shirt, bit two pills from the blisters and swallowed hard. A headache like a hurricane in his head. A ball of pain in the back of his skull. The sun beat down and the church, Our Lady of Lourdes up there on the mound, gazed down. Repent, it said. Nice try.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SEBASTIAN

  Piarco Airport, late afternoon. The Tobago terminal was far too quiet. Grim, Communist-style canvas portraits of Trinidad’s five prime ministers dominated the forecourt: Eric Williams, A.N.R. Robinson, Chambers, Panday, Patrick Manning. Above the exit an ageing Sparrow, Calypso Rose in full flow, her kaftan waving in slow motion with her full-bosomed frame. A frieze of stuffed carnival costumes from the previou
s year crowded a centre dais.

  It was all a bit much considering only a handful of tourists on the big jets to Tobago flew on to Trinidad these days. George liked it so, that this island was uncompromising and hard for tourists to negotiate. Not all welcome smiles and black men in Hawaiian shirts, playing pan by the poolside. No flat crystal beaches, no boutique hotels. Trinidad was oil-rich, didn’t need tourism. Trinidadians openly sniggered at the sunburnt American women who wandered down the pavement in shorts and bikini top. Trinidad was itself; take it or leave it.

  George hid in the café, absorbed in Newsweek. Sabine was overdoing it, as usual, sunglasses like coasters clamped to her face, hovering near the baggage-hall exit, chain-smoking, pressing a tissue to her damp chin.

  George buried his head in the magazine. He wouldn’t be drawn into rows with his son. Not this time. His only son had shunned Trinidad for the metropolis, for brighter lights; fair enough. But Pascale was right, he could be an unbearable know-it-all. George vowed on the letters he’d found to be good. A better man. A better father to his son. Not envious or antagonistic. This visit would be different; this time he’d be thoughtful, careful. He’d watch how much he drank.

  ‘There he is!’ Sabine gasped.

  George got up slowly, folding the magazine.

  Sabine rushed forward as the smoked-glass doors slid backwards, revealing a tall man, craggily unshaven, fortysomething, but still youthful. Clear green eyes, honey-olive skin. Dark curls, hair like a girl and still not at all grey. An etching of the younger Sabine, Sabine’s straight nose, her strong arched eyebrows, her open and direct way of looking. All this was underpinned by a cool reserve George knew and understood; this came from his English way of living.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’ Sebastian enveloped his mother in his arms, hugging her tightly. Sabine melted, her face glistening. George stood back and watched.

  ‘Dad.’ Sebastian reached forward and the men clashed in an awkward half handshake, half hug, slapping each other on the back.

  ‘I’ll go and get the car,’ George replied stiffly. He left Sabine to fawn and fuss and headed out towards the car park, apprehension breaking in waves through him. No use fucking pretending. His son brought on a reaction and it was all Sabine’s fault: she made it so difficult, with her wet eyes and her tension. She made him tense.

  George drove the car to the drop-off point, helping his son with his suitcase. Sabine climbed into the back seat.

  ‘Sebastian, you sit in the front with your father,’ Sabine urged.

  ‘No, Mum, you sit in front. I’m happy in the back.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ she insisted. ‘You men can catch up.’

  ‘Mum, are you sure?’

  George tried to hide his embarrassment and got in. Sebastian slid into the front seat.

  Words fled from him, his stomach churned. But he’d try, for once. He tried to think of something to say. ‘Got tickets for the football, yet?’

  ‘Yes, actually.’ Sebastian smiled, effortless with his charm.

  ‘Which match?’

  ‘The Trinidad-England game, of course.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘The team are coming for a friendly match against Peru soon. I’ll go and see that.’

  ‘That’ll be fun.’

  ‘Big story here.’

  ‘I bet. And will you interview the Dutch coach, what’s-his-name, Beenhakker?’

  ‘Of course,’ George lied.

  ‘How was the food on the flight?’ Sabine interrupted.

  ‘Fine, Mum.’

  ‘And what about Tony Blair?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘How much longer will he last?’

  ‘Not too much longer, Mum.’

  ‘And what about that George Brown?’

  ‘Gordon Brown.’

  ‘Yes, him. What’s he like?’

  ‘I’ve never met him!’

  ‘I know, my son.’ Sabine laughed at herself and pulled his hair, pinching his cheek.

  ‘Oww.’

  ‘Did you sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what’s the weather like in London?’

  ‘Raining.’

  ‘We could do with some rain here, the heat! Phhuut! The hottest dry season in years. Hot like hell.’

  ‘It’s always the same here, Mum.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It gets hotter every year.’

  ‘Global warming, I guess.’

  ‘Yes. Anyway. Jennifer made you your favourite meal. Callaloo, crab-backs.’

  ‘How is she?’

  George squeezed the steering wheel, not wanting to go there quite yet.

  ‘Awful. Her son was beaten by the police. Almost killed.’

  ‘Who? Talbot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Is he OK?’

  ‘No. He was beaten black and blue. Like a dog, up the top of Paramin Hill. For a mobile phone. Some argument.’

  ‘We took it to the papers,’ George added.

  ‘Is Talbot stealing phones?’

  ‘Oh God. Who knows? We don’t know exactly what happened. But the bloody police beat up whoever they want these days.’

  George stared out towards the blackness of night sky. Great. Not even out of the car park yet. They drove along in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Pardonnes-moi,’ Sabine said, from the back seat.

  ‘That’s OK, Mum.’

  ‘Jennifer made you your favourite meal.’

  ‘Yes, you said. That’s kind of her.’

  ‘Welcome home, mon fils,’ Sabine said, her voice sarcastic. ‘Welcome to Paradise.’

  At home, George badly needed a drink. Dear Mr Williams thrummed against the walls of his skull. His hands shook as he forced himself to pour half his usual measure of rum. The big dogs were unsure of Sebastian, sniffing and circling him. Katinka, the little one, ran away.

  ‘George, put the outside lights on,’ Sabine instructed. With his half-rum, George disappeared to switch on the lights which showed off the pool and back-lit the garden. Put the lights on. Lord Muck has come.

  He returned, dutifully, hovering on the edge of the living room.

  ‘My son, would you like a drinkie?’ Sabine asked, her face gleaming. ‘A beer, a rum, a glass of wine?’

  ‘A Carib would be great.’

  A David Rudder CD was playing, too loud. Sabine poured herself a glass of wine, a steady stream of chatter slipping from her. It was embarrassing. George bit his tongue, pretending he’d forgotten something, reversing, walking round the back garden into the kitchen, where he perched on the table, contemplating Jennifer’s pot of callaloo. Lights, music. He peered into his glass. It was miserably half empty. The dogs appeared, wanting to talk to him, wet-nosed, wagging their tails. They didn’t cheer him up.

  Dear God. Sebastian, the two of them. Their son with his impeccable manners, his impeccable morals; their son who was kind and patient with Sabine. George has become selfish, greedy, buying all this land, naming it all after himself, Harwood’s this and that. He’d bought land in Trinidad for next to nothing, years ago, so what? Then there was the oil boom in Trinidad ‒ was that his fault? Land prices went through the roof. He was a rich man and hadn’t worked hard for it. So what? Was that what this letter-writing business was all about? Her grand sulk: letters to the Prime Minister. My husband is just like all the others, greedy. A lush. He drinks and lords it up. That was her line, that was what she said in at least one letter. George is mad. His glass was empty.

  A car honked at the gate.

  ‘Thank Christ.’ He went outside to see who it was, recognising the car. ‘You’re a saviour!’ he shouted, clapping his hands.

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ Irit called out, driving through. ‘I’m just stopping to drop something off for your wife.’

  ‘Not at all.’ George bent into the window to kiss her cheek. Irit. His favourite person.

  ‘Come and have a drink. Your godson has just arr
ived.’

  Irit accepted a rum, was bamboozled into dinner. Dear, lovely, glorious Irit. Irit wrapped in the scent of sandalwood, her knuckles decorated with moonstone, topaz, and tourmaline rings. Irit, one of their first friends in Trinidad. She’d kept herself radiant all these years, had stayed out of the sun’s death-gaze. Her Hungarian accent hadn’t softened, her love of Trinidad had never waned.

  George relaxed. He poured himself another rum. He felt himself again. Dinner was noisy, cheerful, full of gossip, thanks to Irit. They sat out on the back porch, eating callaloo and stuffed crab-backs, fried plantain, a crème brûlée, coconut ice cream, a box of Bendicks mint chocolates that Sebastian brought from England. George was overwhelmed with a sulky-resentful feeling: Sebastian, damn it, still had those sceptical eyes, watching everything. Judging them all. Who did he think he was? James Fucking Bond?

  ‘Sebastian, my handsome man, have you any news of Venus?’ Irit asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen her for a few years.’

  ‘You never visit her?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘She lives in London, no?’

  ‘Peckham.’ Sebastian nodded.

  ‘She’s an old woman now, you know,’ Sabine explained. ‘Like me. A grandmother. Why would he go to visit her?’

  ‘To visit her!’ Irit laughed.

  Sebastian shifted in his seat.

  ‘You don’t see her sons?’

  ‘In London? No.’

  ‘Really? I remember you three, like little badjohns. Your best friends. Always climbing trees, jumping off walls. Gave your mother and Venus such trouble.’ She laughed.

  Sebastian nodded, remembering. ‘I know.’

  ‘They were clever little boys. What do they do now in London?’

  ‘Bernard has a job with London Underground,’ Sabine chipped in. ‘That was the last I heard. The other one, Clive, got into trouble with the police.’