At the Country Club whites played, blacks worked. No one asked questions. Neither knew nor cared about each other. Unnatural, but accepted; the rules had been written somewhere long ago, in blood, in sweat. An aloofness existed in the Club’s atmosphere, a Keep your eyes averted code of conduct prevailed. The large Indian community were absent; they neither worked nor played at the Club. An official colour bar existed: no black human was allowed membership. But the black staff, in their own silent way, made us pay for this.
At the poolside, we European women chatted.
‘Where can you buy sausages?’
‘Ha ha. Are you mad? You can’t.’
‘What about bacon?’
‘Try United Grocers, in Frederick Street.’
‘Lettuce? The ones I’ve seen are like weeds.’
‘That’s all there is.’
‘And clothes?’
‘Johnson’s, in town. But you’ll only find two rails.’
‘Shoes?’
‘Bata.’
‘Bata?’ Laughter. ‘Just for sandals and what the locals call washicongs. Plimsolls.’
‘Shirts for my husband?’
‘Aboud’s.’
‘Pots and pans?’
‘Kirpilani’s.’
Over by the other side of the pool the local white French Creoles were as distant as the black staff. Haughty, even. One, in particular, was the queen bee: a tall, dark-haired woman with cactus eyes and aquiline features. She refused to acknowledge me when I smiled in her direction. In Europe she would never be considered white. She was yellow-brown.
‘Who’s she?’ I asked Oona, who’d lived in Trinidad the longest.
‘Dr Baker’s wife. Christobel.’
I was intrigued. ‘I’d like to meet her.’
‘Oh, they’re not friendly.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re not staying. We’re birds of passage. There’s an age-old resentment, too.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they ran things for a short time until the British took over. They can be very snobby, too, worse than the Brits. Some claim they are descended from the French gentry.’
‘Don’t tell me they like it here.’
‘Of course they do. They’re Trinidadian. Been here for donkey’s years.’
‘But they must have been like us at one point.’
‘A hundred odd years ago. Yes. But the French Creole planters set Trinidad up. They’re the native aristocracy. What do you think the Country Club is?’
‘What?’
‘Home of Poleska de Boissière, the snobbiest of the lot. This place was once the hub of French Creole society. Blacks have never been allowed here.’
‘But Christobel isn’t exactly white.’
‘Of course not. But mostly.’
‘Don’t they yearn to go back to Europe?’
‘They’re no longer European. Not even the ones with pure European blood. Besides, they don’t fit, socially, in Europe.’
‘Why not?’
‘Here, they’re high society. They once owned all the estates, those big houses in town. When Christobel opens her mouth in England people stare.’
‘You mean she speaks just like them?’ I pointed to one of the waiters.
‘Yes. More or less.’
George bought a scooter. Every day he rode it to his office down near the docks. He was very dashing in his American Ray-Ban sunglasses and penny loafers. In those days his hair was a mop of russet and his skin was very pale, though he became much more freckled. Even so, he never needed to acclimatise. George found nothing strange about Trinidad, he saw no reason for complaint. He was at ease with his fellow white expatriates as well as the man in the street. He spoke to both with equal courtesy. He often brought home titbits of office gossip, or sometimes local vegetables for me to cook: okra, christophine. I stared at them, not knowing what to do with them, not caring. They shrivelled. I threw them away.
‘Here, darling.’ Once he brought home a present; the present was wrapped, a book. I snatched at the paper while George looked on, blushing.
‘Oh darling.’ But my voice was thin, betraying my displeasure at the sight of the gift. It was a cookbook of local cuisine.
Most of my new friends employed a maid. Even Irit, living in all her chaos. Our flat was so small I thought it unnecessary.
‘Oh, mais oui, you must, dahling,’ Irit advised. ‘Do you think I lift a finger? No, I have enough to do with myself, never mind wash and cook and clean. And besides, a maid is so cheap. You want to be sexy when George comes home, no? You want to be happy, have dinner ready, wear a nice dress?’
‘I’m a lousy cook.’
‘Exactly. These women can cook.’
‘But only local dishes.’
‘Oof! What do you mean “only”? My maid Glory is an artist.’
She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a pot of a creamy mixture.
‘Try this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Breadfruit, dahling. It’s called oildown. No fat whatsoever in it. Breadfruit and pig’s tail. Fresh.’
I tasted it.
‘Délicieux, no?’
‘Oui.’
George and I had been surviving on toast and fish fingers. I hated to iron his shirts.
‘How do I find a maid?’
‘Easy. I will ask Glory and she will send you her friend. Leave it to me.’
I was pleased.
Two days later, there was a knock at the door.
I opened it.
‘Hello, madam, I am Venus.’
The woman in the doorway stood six feet tall at least. Buck teeth. Her hair a riot of pigtails fastened with blue bobbles. Black as the cosmos, the whites of her eyes shining like lamps.
Venus giggled. ‘Venus Gardener. Miss Irit tell meh you need a maid.’
I nodded.
‘I does cook good and clean good, too, Miss. I can mind chilren. Glory mih sista.’
Glory and Venus.
‘What’s your mother’s name?’
‘Maria. Like de Virgin. She live in St Lucia long time.’
‘Oh. Well ‒ my name is Mrs Harwood. Do come in.’
Venus stooped to enter. In our small flat she was a giantess. I didn’t know what to do or say, if I should offer her a Coke. I had never employed a servant before. Venus wore an A-line skirt and flip-flops, a thin cream shirt, all as a kind of ready-established uniform. It was clear that she had never done this before either. Her face strained to contain a well of natural mirth; her facial muscles twitched, wanting to grin from ear to ear. She was struggling hard to control this inclination.
‘I need a cook and someone to iron my husband’s shirts. Maybe do a little cleaning, too. But, as you can see, this flat is minuscule.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘What can you cook?’
‘Callaloo, macaroni pie, curry crab. Plantain. Anytin. I learn from mih granny.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Seraphina.’
‘Good heavens.’
She giggled. ‘Yes, Miss. Granny a heavenly woman. I de younges. Only gyals in de family. No bruddah.’
‘How old are you, Venus?’
‘Twenteh.’
Five years younger than me. But she could have been any age. Eighteen, thirty-five.
‘Do you live far?’
‘Just up so, in Paramin. I walk here. I does like to tek a walk. It good fuh de blood system. Good to keep slim.’
‘I ride my bicycle.’
‘I see you, Miss. Everybody know you already.’
‘Who?’
‘Everybody. I tell dem I go fine a job with de white lady on de green bicycle. Nobody believe meh. But is true. I see you ride pas’ every day. With de basket in front.’
I blushed.
‘You is famus, Miss.’
An impish expression crossed Venus’s face. At any moment she’d giggle again and this was infectious. I didn’t know what to th
ink of this information: that I was being watched. So, these people did look up. On the sly. I’d never noticed anyone looking at me on my bicycle. I hadn’t felt uncomfortable, yet. Within minutes I liked Venus: positively liked her. She was the first black person to speak more than two words to me, the first black person to make me feel welcome. Perhaps she would make me understand things better.
‘Can you come three mornings a week?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Then come tomorrow, at eight o’clock. Dress as you are. I pay what Miss Irit pays. I will give you lunch, too.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’
One afternoon, I cycled round the savannah, marvelling at the trees. The yellow pouis were just coming into bloom, the dry season arriving. On my bike in shorts and plimsolls, with the sun beating down, I soon found myself down in Frederick Street and then weaving into Charlotte Street, before cycling abreast of an open-air market.
There were people everywhere, hawking their wares on the streets: sugar cane and green bananas, fish and mountains of yams and sweet potatoes. The market resembled a mass of bees swarming, the air thick with the smell of forest honey and coconut oil and human sweat. The sun shone and polished the black bodies. At last, life ‒ I had been so cut off in that tiny flat. I knew I was missing out, missing this: the thrum of the population, out here, in the street. I sailed by, a white ghost in their midst. My heart beat hard in my chest; many of the traders looked up and stared, silent and curious. Instinctively, I knew it would be wrong to stop, let alone roam in the market without a guide. My face flushed with the embarrassment of not knowing the rules. I smiled and broke into perspiration.
Then, something caught my attention: a white man standing on a street corner. A white man holding a shopping basket in one hand; in the other, he held the hand of a black woman. She was smartly dressed, not one of the market women. A white man with a black woman, walking down the road, clearly together, buying vegetables. I stared. Another white person amidst all the black people. What seemed impossible, was then, fleetingly, possible. The sight disturbed me, stirred my imagination. I almost rode straight into a lamp post. I cycled on, past the market, dizzy, dizzy with the idea that these two people could be together, might even be in love with each other.
Very quickly, Venus became my closest companion, my educator. I had so much to learn from her, and yet so much went unspoken between us. Venus was a secret. She gave easily and concealed everything. But often I felt I asked the wrong questions. I had no idea of Venus, of who she was or where she lived, of her ambitions. She talked to me and didn’t; it was a given that we spoke only on one level: of the shopping, the cooking, the house, the life of women. Her silence, when she chose to be silent, was impregnable. I left her to her silences. She divulged what she wanted, taught me what she thought I ought to know.
It was Venus who got me cooking. She introduced George and me to creole cuisine, which she called blue food: sweet potato, eddoes, cassava, yams.
‘Good old-fashioned stodge,’ George called it.
Venus brewed up drinks, too ‒ a red cordial a bit like cranberry juice: sorrel. Another, from the bark of a tree: mauby, a green liquorice-type medicine we choked back. In months, our diets had changed for ever. Venus devised our menus. Instead of reading the cookbook, I hung around the kitchen.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, peering over her shoulder. She was stripping down the stalks of some large leaves.
‘It dasheen bush.’
‘What’s that?’
‘For callaloo.’
‘Can’t you just chop them up and put them in the soup?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You hadda take out dis vein furs.’
‘Why?’
‘It trouble de throat. Make it itch.’ Her eyes shone.
I stared. Venus nodded and smiled, suppressing her amusement.
‘And what’s that?’ I asked. At the end of the callaloo-making process she took a tiny crinkled-up red pepper and popped it into the mix.
‘Doh ever let dat buss,’ she advised.
‘Why not?’
‘Den de whole ting spoil. You cyan eat nuttin at all if de pepper buss.’
‘Really?’
She steupsed, as if it was such common knowledge it was hardly worth mentioning.
‘No man can eat dat pepper when it buss, boy.’
From Venus I learnt the necessity of seasoning: how to spice the poor cuts of meat, often the only cuts available. Venus taught me what to do with dried salt fish, how to souse pig’s trotters, how to make root vegetable fritters.
We gossiped, too, tentative with each other at first. We had a mutual curiosity. Even though I knew she carefully selected and edited what she said, I was grateful for what she allowed. I looked forward to her stories of Granny Seraphina and Glory and was shocked to learn she lived without running water or electricity. I couldn’t imagine her home up in the hills of Paramin. It could be cold up there at night, Venus told me. Cold?
‘So how do you bathe, if there’s no water?’ I asked.
‘From de stanpipe by de road. I does pour a bucket ovuh mih head. Tek a showa every mornin.’
‘But you’re so tall!’
‘Ah does use many buckets, madam.’
‘And Granny Seraphina?’
‘She a natural lady, she tek only rain bath or sea bath. Or she bade in de river.’
‘Where?’
‘When we does tek she to see she friend in sout.’
‘But what about every day?’
‘Granny proud. She doh like to bade in de road.’
‘I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t like to either.’
Venus nodded. ‘Granny a big women, she have big brain, yes.’
‘Like Mr Harwood?’
Venus snorted.
‘Like who then?’
‘Like Eric Williams.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Granny’s boyfriend.’ She laughed.
‘Granny has a boyfriend?’
‘Yeah, man. She love de Doc.’
‘What does this Dr Williams do?’
‘He already a famus man, Miss. Granny love him. He have a big brain, too. He go save de contry.’
‘Then maybe Granny would like Mr Harwood, no? He has a big brain.’
Venus erupted into laughter at the idea. But I didn’t mind; watching Venus laugh brought me pleasure and made me laugh, too, even though sometimes I wasn’t sure why. When Venus laughed her eyes lit up, her black skin glowed phosphorescent. Why didn’t she hate me as the others did? What made her happy to be my friend? Because we were of similar age? Because we were girlish, foolish, secretive together, compulsively talkative ‒ maybe. Venus and I were not long past our teens, women in the making.
George joined a cricket team. The team was mostly light-skinned men, many fellow expats. They played for hours on the savannah on a Sunday or travelled south to play in San Fernando. He adored playing against the local island teams because, of course, they played much better than those who’d taught them. One afternoon I went to watch him play on the savannah in Port of Spain.
Those green sloping hills were all around, the sky blazing a Holy Virgin’s blue. Far off, above the eastern slums, corbeaux spiralled. The grass was pale and crisp. Men dressed in white, men both dark-skinned and light. My husband amongst them, his skin sizzling, his too-long auburn hair hanging like a flag. Most wore hats to ward off the sun. The air was heavy with itself, so full of moisture it caused a slowdown of movement, of the senses. I sat with the other wives under the pouis trees. I watched George as he walked out to bat.
The bowler was tall, straight-backed and coal-skinned. He and George nodded, only just perceptibly, at each other. They took their places at either end of the pitch. For a moment they almost bowed. Then the bowler turned his back and walked slowly in the opposite direction: ten, maybe twenty paces further away from the designated spot. A fast bowler, someone muttered. My stomach trem
bled. A murmur went up amongst the spectators. But George stood eager and braced.
‘Poor man,’ said one wife.
‘Dear God,’ said another.
The bowler began his run, slow and loping at first, his steps somehow halting in the air, his feet light when they touched the ground. They went invisible as he quickened his pace. His arm flew back and his whole body arced with the curl of his right arm. The ball was released while the bowler was still airborne. The throw was like a javelin hurled, like an act of war being committed.
‘Oooooh,’ came the gasp from those watching. People stood up from their chairs.
George turned the right side of his body to meet the ball and smashed with all his might, sending it far into the centre of the park. Smack.
‘Yesss!’ came a roar of relief from the onlookers.
A fielder tore after it. Two others followed. Mayhem erupted on the pitch.
Blind in the heat-haze, I clapped as George made four, five, six, seven runs. Moisture ran down my face, trickled between my breasts. The men in white blurred before my eyes.
‘Well played,’ said a wife.
I sat down in my chair and fanned my face. ‘Well played,’ I whispered, breathless. I knew nothing of cricket, hadn’t even known George was so interested before we arrived. But I saw his reason for loving the game that day, playing it there, of all places on earth, on the savannah in Trinidad.
Trinidad had its own rules. I spent those first months learning them fast. One afternoon, I spotted Helena on her balcony. We’d developed a strange balcony-only friendship, chatting most days while we waited for the postman. Now that George and I employed Venus I felt more confident as a hostess. I wanted George to meet Helena and her husband, was sure that they’d get on.
The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Page 18