‘Will you and Gabriel come over for dinner?’ I asked one morning.
‘We’d love to.’ This broke her from her reverie. She smoked on her balcony a lot. Distracted, glacial.
‘I’ve employed a maid. She’s teaching me so much. Her name is Venus. I’m no longer losing weight ‒ we’re eating like horses. I’ll ask her to make something nice.’
Helena looked troubled.
‘How is Gabriel enjoying his job?’ I hedged.
‘Well enough.’
‘George loves what he does. England was so dreary for him. He’s settled right in. The men have something to do.’ This was it, I’d guessed. ‘You must miss working.’
She nodded.
‘What kind of legal work did you do?’
‘I worked for a small private firm. We worked on social welfare, housing, domestic issues for women.’
‘I see. Will you work here?’
‘There’s no such work here.’
‘Couldn’t you work with Gabriel? Or start your own practice?’
Already I was asking too many questions. In trying to make conversation I’d glided, in moments, onto thin ice.
‘I could never work with my husband and we don’t have the capital for me to set up on my own.’
I could tell she was bored and needed cheering up. A refreshing Bentley cocktail would do the trick.
‘I’m going to the Club. Will you come?’
Her eyes blazed and her body stiffened. ‘Which club?’
‘The Country Club. It’s very nice. There’s a pool, a bar. We could walk.’
‘Sabine, I can’t go there.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not the right colour.’
‘What do you mean?’ I exploded, laughing. Then, in a moment, realisation came.
‘They don’t allow coloured people in,’ Helena said, stonily.
‘They mean black people.’
‘I’m of colour. Gabriel is a dark-skinned Indian.’
‘But they don’t mean you.’
Helena looked incredulous.
‘Don’t be silly. Come with me, I’ll get you membership. Half the local French Creoles who go there aren’t exactly white. It’s very flexible.’
‘Even if they did let me join, Sabine, I couldn’t go.’
‘Why not?’
‘Its membership policy is derogatory. Racist.’
I’d never heard the word before. I was shocked.
‘Trust me, they wouldn’t let us join.’
My cheeks flushed. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sabine, it’s no different to anywhere else in the world. The US was just as bad. Haven’t you noticed?’
Helena shot me an impatient half-smile.
‘But n-not everywhere has a colour bar,’ I stuttered.
‘Sabine, everywhere has a colour bar. There are places for you and places for everyone else.’
‘That’s demeaning.’
‘Precisely.’
‘No one can stop us from being friends. I won’t go to the Country Club again.’
‘Or anywhere else?’
‘No.’
‘Sabine, this is my problem, not yours.’
‘I’m hated here.’ I blurted out what I’d been thinking all along. ‘The blacks won’t even look at us. And when they do, it’s with faked feeling, politeness they’re paid for. Except for Venus.’
‘But you pay Venus, too.’
I had somehow overlooked that. But Helena was right. Maybe even Venus didn’t care that much.
‘You know what?’
‘What?’
‘I go to the Country Club to feel safe. It’s a hiding place. It’s the Hiding Club.’
‘Well, I hide here. On the balcony.’
‘Who are we hiding from? Each other?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m ignorant. Will you still come for dinner?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Helena smiled. ‘We’d love to.’
But even so, I still went to the Hiding Club. I hid there, like the rest of those women. I wasn’t proud of myself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE UNIVERSITY OF WOODFORD SQUARE
I never attended university. I escaped school at eighteen, after completing the baccalauréat. In those days I learned by rote, copying everything down to be regurgitated ‒ that was the way we learnt. I then worked as a secretary with an English accounting firm and picked up the language as well as touch-typing, shorthand, that kind of thing. Education was over.
I met George in Antibes, at a party on the seafront. George was a flashy dancer, dipping and twirling all the other women around the dance floor. I’d spotted him earlier ‒ well, you couldn’t miss George with his fierce cobalt eyes and his mop of red hair, which was much too long, almost like a hippie, even though that wasn’t the fashion then. His face was captivating, all angles, his nose long and arched, hawk-like. His jaw was strong and he had a wry smile on his lips, as if in a state of permanent appreciation of all around him. His skin was lightly freckled, just like a boy’s. George was a handsome man back then; an extrovert, a bookish English eccentric. Our eyes met across a bowl of champagne punch and George brought over a glass.
‘I’ve been trying to make you jealous all evening,’ he confessed.
I tried to swallow it ‒ smiling placidly. ‘I’m not the jealous type,’ I said but the words fell flat. I tried to walk away, but George grabbed my elbow and pulled me towards him.
‘Would you like to dance?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
We danced. Out of sheer impishness, I bit George hard, on the shoulder.
‘Ouch!’ he exclaimed.
‘Oh, have I hurt you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
He looked at me, as if I’d thrown down a challenge: who could say the boldest thing, the most direct.
‘Will you have babies with me, then?’
I stared.
He winked.
‘Yes,’ I replied and meant it.
He laughed and we danced for the rest of the night.
Our courtship was very swift. We won each other, you could say. We were each other’s prize. People liked us, we were one of those couples; other people enjoyed having us around. Parties were gayer when we were there. Others basked in our happiness, envied our devotion. We brought out the potential in each other. George, in those days, gave me the experience of being at my best; moments, hours, days, a long period of complete happiness.
I’d loved a man before George. I’d lived through the Second World War as a young girl and I’d seen a thing or two. I was confident in myself. But never, oh never, had I been stopped in my tracks.
One day, soon after we arrived, I rode my green bicycle down into Port of Spain. It was late afternoon, so the sun’s smile had faded from the sky. George’s office stood near the wharf and I’d wanted to surprise him; maybe we could go for a walk along the dock.
I flew round the savannah that day, the breeze catching my hair, and noticed that Venus was right about the looks. Glances. Smirks from people in the street. As if I was an oddity, or a crazy person. You is famus, Miss. I rode down into Frederick Street. The tarmac was still hot, the road dusty and almost deserted. Usually the streets of downtown Port of Spain were raucous, a cacophony of street vendors hawking cotton candy, snow-cone vendors weaving through the streets, ringing their hand bells, cars honking them out the way. Madmen in rags often directed traffic. Taxi drivers stopped to chit-chat.
That afternoon, Frederick Street was silent. Momentarily, I was unsure. Had I come down the right street? I wobbled, looking for landmarks, a shop I knew, and then the jail loomed up on the right. Yes. This was the right street.
I saw crowds up ahead. Lots of black people milling about. Something was going on. But this wasn’t market day or the market street. I didn’t think to turn back. Curiosity pushed me onwards.
Then, I was afraid. There were thr
ongs. Thousands? Thousands of people up ahead.
In moments, I had wheeled into the thick of a mammoth crowd. All black people, all gazing into Woodford Square, the big green park in the middle of town, off Frederick Street. The park was usually a genteel setting, benches and a bandstand and a fountain, neat and well ordered, just like the kind you might see in parts of London. That afternoon it was jam-packed. People perched in trees, clung to the spiked railings, others dangled from street lamps, from rooftops. Some of the onlookers waved balisiers, heliconia. Big brash crab-claw-like flowers, monsters in the already monstrous gardens of Trinidad. These plants collected water. Snakes hid in them. A strong odour of musk, of bodies steaming. The crowd spilled onto the road and I couldn’t get through, round or past. I trailed my toes on the ground, so I could walk the bike.
‘Father, father,’ a woman shouted.
Others looked towards the bandstand. There was an atmosphere of rapture.
I was suddenly afraid to catch an eye, to look directly into any one face. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Was this a military operation? Some general speaking, maybe a British dignitary?
The crowd erupted, clapping, answering a voice amplified through a microphone.
I was stuck, conscious of my shorts and T-shirt, my blonde hair, my white skin. Faces in the crowd glistened in the heat. Everyone was turned towards the square, like during Sunday mass when the priest is blessing the host.
‘What’s going on?’ I dared to ask an old woman.
‘Dr Williams is speaking.’
‘Dr Williams?’
I’d forgotten what Venus had said about him. I’d forgotten everything in the heat.
‘Who’s he?’
‘Our leader. Eric Williams.’
I stared. Every person in the square was magnetised, all ears pricked, listening. I was heat-dizzy. I wanted to sit down, go home. But there were too many people. I spotted some railings which weren’t clogged, wheeling my bicycle towards the gap. I peeped through.
Hundreds of people, the town’s people, were crushed around the elevated bandstand in the centre of the park. The bandstand doubled as a hustings, decorated with those menacing balisiers. A row of people sat on it, behind a table; they were also listening to the person speaking, hands folded on their laps.
Then, I saw him: a small besuited black man with thick spectacles. He was standing on the bandstand, in the middle, fronting the group. Surely, he wasn’t the man they were listening to? His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, ever so casual. Two microphones stood in front of him, pointing downwards to his mouth. Yes, this was the man they were all listening to. This was Eric Williams.
‘We have the honour,’ Eric Williams proclaimed and my shoulders shivered, ‘to put such a party at your service. We stand or fall by our programme, a comprehensive social security programme for the general welfare of the people of Trinidad and Tobago.’
A roar from the crowd. Hands reached up to him.
‘Father, father,’ they chanted. Some people held up balisiers like crosses, waving them. Eric Williams gazed out onto the crowd, nodding, a discerning smile spread across his face.
‘Nor are we an ordinary party in the accepted narrow sense of the word,’ he continued. ‘We are, rather, a rally, a convention ‒ of all and for all!’
‘Yessss,’ murmured the crowd.
‘A mobilisation,’ Eric Williams proclaimed, ‘of all the forces in the community, cutting across race and religion, class and colour. Hence our name, the People’s National Movement!’
Clapping burst out like thunder. The ground shook. Others were stunned, as I was, staring. Nothing like this had ever happened in downtown Port of Spain.
‘Hence our programme, the People’s Charter!’
‘Yessss!’ The crowd gasped.
‘We repudiate imperialism, colonialism and racialism in every shape or form. We want self-government NOW for Trinidad and Tobago, in internal affairs, through a reform-based constitution.’
Another roar from the crowd. My skin was electric. I was nervous and sick to the stomach; it was like the nervousness of being aroused, of that kind of love. Charisma, oh, the trick of it. The lure of it. Somehow, also, I was miserable, scared and miserable and elated all at once. This man spoke words like poetry, tender and precise; the crowd was moved by the force of his conviction. Was he a doctor? Some kind of businessman? A lawyer? He appeared smart: white shirt, red tie, a black suit. Forty or so. He stood with one foot heel to toe with the next. He looked relaxed. Relaxed. Eric Williams was a political animal in his natural habitat, up there in front of thousands. Explaining his vision for the future. This Eric Williams beamed down at his people, speaking slowly and deliberately, all the time in the world on his side.
‘People, we are here together. Let us unite, let us take our time, take back the future . . . shall we?’
His voice was jovial, rich, educated. He made jokes here and there at the expense of his opposition and of the colonial government. The crowd laughed, moving minutely together. Williams gossiped, too, as if letting the crowd into secrets high up in the order of things, as if sharing classified information.
I couldn’t leave, couldn’t tear my eyes from him. I was stuck, immobile. Wanting more, just like the crowd.
‘Father, father,’ people wailed.
The air was charged. Here he was, the man come down from the university, sharing his wisdom.
Eric Williams laid out his plans: a British Caribbean Federation, eradication of colonial political corruption, elimination of racial discrimination, promotion of education.
The crowd nodded, awestruck. They had never been given a man like this, not just for them; never heard these kind of words spoken, not for them.
Eric Williams spoke with clarity and confidence. His party, sitting behind him, were mixed in race. One was even a woman, bookish-looking in her horn-rimmed spectacles, her skin light brown. What was going on in Trinidad? George, my friends at the Country Club, had never mentioned this Dr Williams.
People around me started to notice my presence.
‘Go away, white girl,’ a man rasped.
‘Massa here,’ another shouted.
I edged the bike through a thinner part of the crowd, towards the next street, mounting quickly.
I pedalled fast, down to the dock. Everywhere the streets were deserted. The whole of town was in Woodford Square, listening to this messiah, his ideas for the future of Trinidad. Eric Williams’ words rang in my ears. Repudiate imperialism, colonialism. I felt like I was new, like I had been shaken.
Forbes-Mason was three blocks away. As I arrived George was leaving. He was surprised to see me; then he noticed my reddened eyes. He tried to hug me but I didn’t want to be hugged.
‘Darling, what on earth have you been doing?’
‘Did you know about this man?’
‘Who?’
‘Dr Williams.’
George’s face dropped. ‘Of course. You can’t miss him. Haven’t you been reading the newspaper?’
‘No. I haven’t. There’s a mass of people in town, a huge gathering. In Woodford Square. All listening to him.’
‘Yes, I know. There’ve been rallies. He was there last week, too. He’s there quite often. Causes quite a stir.’
‘And you never told me about him?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘I’m not a child. I’m not stupid! They want to get rid of us. We’re not wanted here any more. They hate us. We came too late, George. Three years. We won’t last that long. This is the end of things.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s OK,’ he soothed. ‘The British want to leave. They’ve been planning self-government for years. Their plans for a federation will go ahead. It’s all been discussed. We will go. This man, Eric Williams, he’ll be their first leader.’
‘The British want to leave?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you said the British were going to stay for at least three y
ears.’
‘They will; this isn’t all going to happen quickly.’
‘The British no longer care?’
‘The war left them in debt. These islands are like rocks around their neck.’
‘What will happen?’
‘Nothing. The people will inherit what we leave them. They can do what they like with it. It’ll be peaceful here.’
‘They won’t kill us?’
George laughed.
‘George, I want to leave.’
‘We will.’
‘I mean now.’
‘Look, we’re quite safe. We’ve only just got here.’
‘Then why am I shaking?’
‘You’ve had a shock.’
‘That man was quite something. They all loved him. Was he a slave?’
‘Of course not! There’s no slavery any more.’
‘They killed all the whites in Haiti. I know that.’
‘Two hundred years ago.’
‘They stuck white babies on spikes. Raped the women.’
‘Dear God! You’re mad. This isn’t Haiti. You’re talking rubbish.’
‘But we’re just as hated.’
‘You could see it another way.’
‘How?’
‘This was bound to happen. You should be pleased.’
‘Pleased?’
‘This is exciting. Eric Williams is quite an orator ‒ exceptional, in fact. We should be glad they have him and not some half-educated hooligan. Or a man who’s decided to call himself a prophet, with a light in his eyes. He’s not some crazy. He’s using democracy, calling for a new order. We should be thankful it isn’t worse.’
I was exhausted, my face caked with dust.
‘I hate this place,’ I rasped.
But George wasn’t thrown. ‘Come on, let’s go home,’ he said, caressing my hair.
I was twitchy until Venus arrived the next morning. I pounced before she had a chance to put on her apron.
The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Page 19