‘That’s a pity.’
‘Sebastian is hardly going to mix with them now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh come on, Irit, they’re worlds apart. They were my maid’s sons. Yes, they grew up together, but they have nothing in common now. I mean, what would he say to them?’
‘Hello. How are you?’ Irit joked.
‘We lost touch,’ Sebastian cut in. ‘I’ve lost touch with many of my childhood friends.’
Irit raised her eyebrows and set her chin.
‘Irit, don’t look like that,’ Sabine reprimanded.
‘Besides,’ Sebastian added, ‘they probably wouldn’t be seen dead with a posh white man like me. I did meet up with Clive once. We met for a drink, years ago, in Brixton. He’s become very . . . English.’
‘So have you,’ said Sabine.
‘We’re English in different ways. Clive looks like one of those rap stars ‒ all gold chains and expensive trainers. He looked down on me.’
‘Clive looked down on you?’ Sabine gasped.
‘Yes. Why shouldn’t he? I work regular hours, for someone else. He’s his own boss. Running scams, this and that. I have a girlfriend, on and off. He has a harem of beauties. Drinks champagne every night. I’m sure he thinks I’m boring.’
George laughed.
‘You’re not boring. How dare he?’
‘I imagine my London life is tame compared to Clive’s, Mum.’
‘A great pity,’ drawled Irit. ‘You three were thick as thieves.’
‘He shtill is a thief, by the sound of things,’ George slurred, chuckling. He’d had too much to drink. It felt good. Look at his son, all adored, all loved and marvelled over. Another wave of irritation rose.
‘So. How’s the love life, these days, eh? Who’s the latest unhappy woman?’
‘George!’ Sabine snapped.
‘Only joking.’ He smiled, pleased with himself. His son was a big hit with women ‒ all blondes, all at least ten years younger, none his intellectual equal.
‘Your dolly-birds, who’s the latest? You haven’t brought one out for a while.’
Sebastian half stared, half smiled. ‘No,’ he said, frostily. ‘Not since the last one you pawed and spilled your drink over.’
‘That’s enough,’ Sabine commanded.
‘Oh, let them fight.’ Irit didn’t care at all; she was family. ‘It’s good for them.’
‘She pawed me first.’ George smiled. No one smiled back.
‘George!’
‘That’s unlikely, Dad.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, don’t look like that . . . what was her name, anyway?’
‘Rosie.’
‘I beg your pardon, then. For whatever I said or did, again.’
‘You said, Nice arse.’
‘Did I?’ George smiled, proud. ‘Yes, she did have a lovely arse.’
‘Dad, go to bed.’
Sabine glared. Irit smiled.
George let out a long exasperated breath. Fuck the lot of them. Fuck those prudes. He couldn’t remember any Rosie at all. No face came to him, no smells or words. They were looking at him as if he was past it all.
The next morning Sabine and Sebastian drove towards the savannah.
‘Mum, this is very odd.’
‘What?’
Children, hundreds of children, were causing a jam; young children, primary-school age, in bunches and ribboned pigtails. Holding hands, holding up banners, placards; teachers with them, walking in well-ordered lines, shouting, chanting slogans. Sabine leant forward to read their placards.
STOP CRIME NOW
HEAR US PRIME MINISTER
STOP CRIME
TIME FOR ACTION
JUSTICE FOR SEAN LUKE
‘Who’s Sean Luke?’
‘Oh. There’s been a horrid murder recently,’ Sabine explained. ‘A six-year-old Indian boy. Disappeared one evening, his mother went to the police but they ignored her. His body was found two days later in a sugar cane field, a cane pole rammed straight up his anus and out through his mouth.’
‘How awful.’
‘Yes. All his intestines mangled.’
‘Dear God.’
‘They arrested three older children for the crime. The newspapers and news channels were full of it a few weeks back.’
‘Like the Bulger case.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Kids killing kids, something similar.’
‘Yes, awful. Look, everyone has their headlights on.’
‘What for?’
‘To protest about de crime.’
‘De crime?’
‘Yes.’
‘I come back each year. Always think it’s the same place. But it’s not anymore, is it? I sometimes even read about Trinidad in the Guardian in England.’
‘A murder a day.’
‘Isn’t Dad ever scared or worried?’
‘Your father? Nah. No one’s going to hurt him. He’s become a celebrity here, you know.’
Sebastian let out a rueful snort. ‘So I hear.’
‘People love him. The paper likes him. He writes well. He sees nothing wrong. He gives everyone the good news. He’s a Force of Good.’
‘Dad? My old fucker of a father?’
‘Don’t be rude.’
‘Mum, he is an old fucker. Rosie. I made that name up. It was Lucy, actually. He doesn’t even remember which of my girlfriends he’s ogled or made a pass at. Don’t you care?’
‘No.’
‘Haven’t you had affairs?’
‘No.’
‘Not even one? Not even with Uncle Frank?’
Sabine laughed. ‘Actually, Frank did like me . . . he did make a pass at me once. And there was Jules. Remember him? He loved me. What a great friend. And, of course, Sebastian Baker was very dashing.’
‘My namesake. He’s still rather dashing. You were beautiful.’
‘Just like my son and daughter.’
‘I remember you, Mum. On that green bicycle. Remember?’
Sabine exhaled and looked across the road, at the children.
‘Yes.’
‘Bet you were quite a sight. Causing cars to crash.’
Sabine smiled. The children waved their placards and chanted. Babies, babies out there in the hot sun.
‘Eric Williams saw me once, on that bike.’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? Ha ha. Just his type, I bet he fancied you. Did he wind down the window, pinch you on the bum?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘What, then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And . . . he was very short.’
‘And?’
‘Chippy. Chip on his shoulder. You know. Drop of white blood.’
They drove round the savannah to the bank at Ellerslie Plaza, circling the car park several times before finding a space. Thousands more cars on the road now, mostly Japanese nearly-new imports; thousands of cars and the roads still one lane each way. Traffic was always bad and parking was almost impossible anywhere. Sebastian browsed the bookshop while Sabine went to the bank. Inside, twelve people stood in the queue, mostly white or light-skinned. One young female member of staff was helping them. Three half-attended customers sat in a row on some chairs near by. The counter-woman was attractive, chalky red-black skin, her long hair straightened. She spoke in barely audible tones.
Twenty minutes passed. Sabine waited in the queue. But it didn’t move. The young woman disappeared. Other bank staff were deep in conversation behind the partition, not the least bit concerned.
Sabine began to stew. She wanted to scream, run bellowing at the counter. But she waited in line, like all the others. White people standing in a row, waiting patiently in the Republic Bank of Trinidad, for what they could get. White people not daring to complain or protest. One man was served. The line inched forwar
d. Twenty more minutes passed. Sebastian would come in if he got bored. Come in and join the queue. Sabine worked it out: it would take, at twenty minutes per person, four hours to be served. Four hours, once a month, for a lifetime, to pay. Pay for what? For her sins, for the sins of all the white people who ever lived in the Caribbean.
George woke up much later than usual to find a message from Ray on the answer-phone. He called the Guardian straight away.
‘George.’ Ray sounded flustered. ‘Somptin come up. I need someone to do somptin tomorrow.’
‘Oh, good. I’m free.’
‘Tomorrow afternoon. One of mih staff off sick. She cyan make it. It a big ting. I ent know when we go run it. Ders no peg. But we get de chance to interview de man. He flyin’ to New York tomorrow. I was gonna send someone from de office.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Sparrow.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Ever met him?’
‘No.’
‘Well, he not here often. He come and go a lot. He expekin’ a reporter to go to his house in Diego Martin.’
‘What time?’
‘Arong four.’
‘I’ll do it.’
He put down the phone. The big dogs came wagging their tails. He patted them. ‘Good dogs.’ The Mighty Sparrow: the father of the little boy from the village? If so, the boy did have a more refined voice. Sparrow was a Father of the Nation, Godfather of Calypso, PNM supporter turned critic. George made a mental note to ask Sparrow what he thought of the blimp.
La Pompey was in the garden when Sabine and Sebastian returned home, riding around the driveway on Sabine’s green Raleigh bicycle.
‘God . . . look, Mum. Isn’t that your old—’
‘Bicycle. Yes. What has your father done now?’
La Pompey was laughing, playing the fool. The sight of the bicycle made Sabine dizzy. She groaned in an exaggerated manner. Jennifer and George stood watching La Pompey, laughing, too. The bike shone like new. Even the bell was fixed. La Pompey rang it, amused at the tinny tinkling. Katinka, Sabine’s little fluff-pot, sat atop a knoll in the garden, glaring with disapproval.
‘Eh, eh, she back.’ Jennifer’s face filled with glee.
Sabine got out of the car and advanced cautiously, scooping up the little dog. ‘Good girl,’ she whispered in the dog’s ear.
‘Mrs Harwood, come an’ try it, nuh. Ah fix it up real nice,’ La Pompey invited, whizzing past.
George gave her his Sorry face.
‘George, what have you done?’
‘Jennifer found it. Under some junk in the garage. We polished it up.’
‘You expect me to ride that thing again?’
‘I thought you’d be pleased to see it.’ George looked delighted.
La Pompey laughed. ‘Yeah, man. Try it, nuh.’
Jennifer cackled, blushing through her black skin. ‘Mrs Harwood, give it a try, nuh. I cyan believe you ride it once.’
Everyone turned to look at Sabine.
Sabine backed away, holding onto her dog. ‘Are you crazy? Jennifer, give it to Chantal.’
‘How she go ride it up dat hill?’ Jennifer retorted.
Sabine stared at George: he was blushing, heat in his face. Was he hurt?
‘Well, give it away to your friend who runs the charity shop at the church. Take it away. I can’t believe we still have it lying around. Give it away, for God’s sake.’
Sabine looked at their expectant faces, all of a sudden crowded-in. Memories flooded up. Eric Williams in his flashy American car, sailing past. The look he gave her, through the window, questions in his eyes. She felt faint, woozy, the wind in her hair.
La Pompey stopped his clowning, perplexed.
‘She doh want it?’
Sebastian frowned. ‘No.’
‘She’ll ride it,’ Jennifer assured. ‘She just take a turn.’
‘Maybe she’ll try it tomorrow,’ La Pompey reasoned. ‘When nobody arong. She mus feel shy to ride it now. Mr Harwood, you mus encourage her. Why you look so sad?’
Sabine wasn’t particularly looking forward to dinner; she wore black to match the mood which had descended since the bike had been cleaned. Pascale and her husband arrived early, Pascale looking like she was dressed for a carnival fête, as usual, in an Indian-style shirt dress, slit to the thighs, high-heeled mules, a candy-pink gloss on her lips, her eyelashes luxurious, like hummingbird’s wings.
‘Ayyy, brudder, howyuh goin’,’ Pascale gushed, loosening up her accent so she spoke like she was from the bush. She kissed Sebastian noisily on the cheek, her eyes aflame.
‘I’m very chipper. You look awfully lovely.’
Pascale laughed.
Her husband Jacques, like a twit, hovered behind her, waving a curt hello. He stood at least a foot shorter than Pascale. Why had her daughter married a short man? And Pascale so tall, legs like a show-girl. Jacques was almost blind, his pale eyes peering through tinted round spectacles. He looked sick, like he lived off bird seed. The bald patch on the back of his head was exactly the same size as the goatee on his chin. The man barely spoke; he had nothing to say. He was the runt of his large rich French Creole family. Sabine had once overheard other French Creoles gossiping, referring to him as Bobo.
‘Drink?’ Sebastian suggested.
‘Of course.’ Pascale pulled out a bar stool and perched on it, wrapping one long leg over the other. Jacques hovered behind her. Pascale bit her cigarette and examined her handsome brother.
‘So, how long yuh here?’
‘Just a couple of weeks.’
‘One o’ your flyin’ visits?’
‘Two weeks is all I can get off work.’
‘An’ how many times yuh had yuh “favourite meal”?’ She winked.
‘Just once.’
‘Only?’
Sabine kept her cool. ‘Pascale, don’t be mean, come and say hello.’ The women brushed cheeks. Sabine barely glanced at Jacques.
‘Where’s your father?’ Sabine asked.
‘Daddyyy!’ Pascale called.
‘He’s outside tendin’ de barbeque.’
‘Daddyyyy!’ Pascale yelled again, from her bar stool.
George staggered in, his hands blackened with charcoal, his hair a shock of crisp wild curls. His glass was empty.
‘Oh, there you are!’ He went to kiss Pascale.
‘Not with dose hands!’ Pascale squirmed.
‘George, go and do something to your hair, your clothes.’ Sabine tutted.
Jacques stood like a short stone pillar, unhearing, unmoving.
‘Jacques, how are you,’ Sabine asked, enunciating her words.
‘Ohh gorsh, nuh, doh frighten de man,’ Pascale said.
‘I’m just saying hello,’ Sabine retorted.
Jacques smiled.
‘He’s fine.’
‘Well, he doesn’t look it. He looks like he’s been stuffed.’ Sebastian burst out laughing.
‘Mummyuh!’ Pascale bellowed.
‘Well, he does.’
Jacques didn’t react.
‘Good gracious, woman!’ Pascale raged. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Because I felt like it.’
‘Are you drunk?’ Pascale shot at her.
George turned round and went straight back out to his barbeque. Sabine made a sarcastic smile: no, she wasn’t drunk. Yet.
‘How would you like me to say what I damn blasted well feel?’ Pascale stared her mother down.
‘Please, Pascale, don’t. Mum’s tired,’ Sebastian intervened. ‘Come on now. Make friends. Mum doesn’t mean to be rude. Do you, Mum?’
‘Oh, what do you know about Mum? You’re never here. All she do is mope an’ wait for your emails. And den we all have to hear about them. Mum, you’re stuffed. You look dead. Sometimes, man, only your eyes move.’
‘Pascale, how did you get so coarse?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You were such an intelligent child.’
‘When de las time you look at yourself in de mirror?’
‘I’m seventy-five.’
‘And I cyan remember you happy. I only know you to be sorry for yerself and above everytin. How dare you take your unhappiness out on Jacques. You apologise.’
‘I will not.’
Jacques shrugged. He looked like he was trying to vanish.
‘Right, we’re going!’ Pascale snapped. ‘Sebastian, call me if you’d like to go to the beach or down the islands. It would be nice to catch up. Tanks for de drink, eh?’ She winked at Sebastian but her eyes were glossed.
‘Oh Pascale, you’re making a fuss. Please don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Jacques.’
‘No, ol’ woman. You behave like odder people ent have feelins. We gone. Tell Daddy we couldn’t stay for dinner. Goodbye.’ Pascale was quivering, pushing Jacques in front of her across the rug.
Sabine winced.
‘Oh, Mum,’ Sebastian said, shaking his head.
‘What?’
The sound of their car starting up, headlights flashing, sweeping the drive, the dogs barking them out.
‘What have I said wrong? Why should I apologise? I hate that midget.’
Sabine escaped to the front lawn, to smoke, to stare up at the hills.
‘Mum?’
She turned. Her son stood there.
‘Talking to the hill again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know there’s a word for talking to hills?’
‘No,’ she chuckled.
‘Starts with talking to plants. Then trees. Then, you know, hills, mountains . . .’
‘Then what?’
‘The hill starts talking back. Then you’re in trouble.’
‘Oh, she talks back. Not always, but sometimes.’
‘She?’
‘The woman, up there. All around. Can’t you see her?’
Sebastian looked up.
‘Yes, now you mention it.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘You OK, Mum?’
‘Yes, of course. Was I very horrible to Jacques?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sorry.’
‘I know.’
‘Pascale will become an alcoholic like the rest of us if she’s not careful.’
The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Page 8