George ran after me. ‘Sabine, Sabine, I’m sorry, darling . . . please . . . I thought you’d be excited. Try to see, try to think ahead. It’ll be beautiful here one day.’
I turned and bashed his chest with my handbag, hitting him again and again. Then I slapped him hard across the face.
‘You fool,’ I shouted. ‘I won’t live out here. What do you think I am? You think you can bring me out here on a safari? You think I’m made for this, all this,’ I screamed, pointing up at the dense glowering hills which surrounded the land he had bought. ‘You think I’ve gone native, too, like you. Creole? Eh? You think I like this island as much as you do? No. I’m not living here, ever. Do you understand? You’re a fool, a stupid English fool. It’s time to go anyway, George. Can’t you see that? It’s time for us all to go.’
Later that day, after Venus had left, I drove into Port of Spain to shop. On the way back, I spotted her carrying a heavy bag on her head. She’d been into town, too, and was on her way home. It didn’t occur to me to drive on, that she didn’t want a lift from me, that this was how we had arranged things over the years, everything separate after working hours. I slowed down.
‘Venus,’ I called across. ‘Want a lift?’
She looked askance at first.
‘Come on. Hop in,’ I urged. ‘I’ll take you to the bottom of the hill, if you like.’
Venus gave in, smiling. I could tell the bag was heavy.
‘Tanks, madam.’
And then she was in the passenger seat, me driving her, the two of us outside my home for the first time since we’d met five years before. We drove along in silence. Quickly we came upon the spot where I had agreed to drop her off, but I turned left rather than stopped. When she didn’t complain I accelerated, up Morne Cocoa Road, which once connected the plantations in one valley with other plantations; the road wound and rose steeply.
‘I shall take you home,’ I said, decidedly.
Venus made a wry smile. I took this to mean I could come up. It wasn’t exactly an invitation. I was delighted. Even though I wasn’t a confident driver, I managed those hairpin curves.
‘Stop,’ Venus said suddenly, as I approached a particularly steep bend.
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
I looked across.
Back from the road, surrounded by bush, was a house. Or, more accurately, what was left of a house, an old chattel house, its exterior so ancient it seemed somehow silken, as if settled on by thousands of moths. The roof was made of sun-bleached planks nailed haphazardly. Remnants of heat-soiled fretwork clung to the eaves. Once, there had been sturdy posts for legs. But now the house balanced. On rubble, on broomsticks and bedheads and planks of wood jooked up into its under-work. Beneath the house rose piles of flat river-stones which had been carefully laid on top of each other to make columns. One corner of the house jutted into thin air. A flight of skinny concrete stairs ran from the ground up to the front door. But there was no front door. Instead, a grey and ragged sheet, knotted in the middle, hung as the door. Despite its utter disrepair, its bone-bare exterior, the house had a faint air of contempt. The house gazed down at me.
Venus saw the concern on my face.
‘Madam, six generations borned in dat house,’ she said. ‘Dat house steady as a rock.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
‘Yeah, man.’
I laughed. It was late afternoon, still light.
‘Granny,’ Venus shouted upwards.
I was nervous at the prospect of finally meeting Granny Seraphina. I looked around. Outside the house, on the well-swept dirt floor, a living area had been set up, four battered plastic garden chairs in a circle, a blackened coal-pot near the concrete steps. A cockerel and some chickens pecked about. Other homes crouched in the long grasses near by some were wooden and decrepit, just like Venus’s house, designed to be movable once, years ago. They had become grindingly permanent, part of the hill itself. The neighbourhood was silent and the immense and hovering Paramin mountainside seemed to cause this silence.
The sheet curtain at the door quivered. A thin dark figure appeared on the top step, a toddler clamped to one bony hip. She wore a plain shift dress and her white-wool hair was covered by a red headscarf.
‘Granny,’ Venus called up. ‘Come down and meet Mrs Harwood.’
Granny stiffened, perceptibly, at the sound of my name.
Venus smiled at me. ‘Doh mine Granny.’
I nodded.
Granny began a stiff-legged climb down the concrete stairs; it looked somehow theatrical. Her legs were so spindled that she took each step slowly and emphatically, one by one, making us wait, as though she were a dignitary.
‘Sit down,’ Venus offered, and gestured to one of the plastic chairs by way of hospitality.
‘We have Cannings sweet drinks in de cooler. Big Red, Mango Solo. Cokes.’
‘A Coke would be wonderful,’ I said, sitting down.
Venus disappeared round the side of the house.
I sat with my back facing Granny. Sweat sprang in my palms. When she appeared all at once, in front of me, clasping the toddler, I rose to my feet.
‘Hello, Granny, I’ve heard so much about you.’ I fought the urge to curtsy. Granny didn’t put out her hand to shake mine, didn’t even say hello. She simply nodded, presenting herself, as if no further introduction was necessary.
So, this was Granny Seraphina. Her face was small and rounded, a concoction of mahogany curves. Her eyes were hideous, a crystalline yellow-gold, the eyes of a wary jungle cat. The expression in them was stern, derisory. It was impossible to tell her age. Ninety? A hundred and fifty? Granny was no slave ‒ but her parents, yes, certainly. Clive, Venus’s oldest child, a two-year-old, clung to her hip and stared at me with a look akin to Granny’s.
‘Sit down,’ Granny ordered.
I sat again and she sat too, heavily, with the child. I smiled and sweated and tried to meet her gaze. We sat for what seemed like minutes.
‘Venus tell meh you been to de University,’ Granny said, abruptly.
I was amazed that Venus had mentioned this.
‘Yes.’
‘Hmmmmm.’ She nodded, clicking her throat.
‘He’s quite a speaker, isn’t he?’
Granny nodded slowly, as if at something else, as if she wasn’t quite with me.
I was determined to keep up a conversation. ‘Venus tells me you’re now a member of the People’s National Movement.’
Granny smiled, full-toothed. ‘Tink you might join, too?’ Her face broke and she grinned: a trick question.
‘Would the PNM have me?’
Granny’s eyes glowed; they searched my face. ‘Join, nuh, see what happen.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not as devoted as you to their ideas. I’m only a visitor here. Eric Williams will be Prime Minister and we’ll be gone by then, with many others, I imagine.’
Granny cocked her head. Her mouth set into a glum determined grimace. ‘You like it here, in Trinidad? You enjoy your stay?’
I looked around. The shack seemed as if it might tumble down the hill any moment. I felt alone and humbled and wanted to tell the truth.
‘No. I don’t like it here.’
Granny nodded.
‘Trinidad doesn’t like me.’
She seemed pleased with this.
‘Eric Williams doesn’t like me.’
‘No, man. Time fer change.’
‘Yes, Granny. I can see that.’
‘De Doc a smart man. De smartest man in Trinidad.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you met him?’
Granny clicked her throat. She shook her head.
‘I think he’s unique. So does Mr Harwood. A man like him comes along once a century.’
‘Most white people doh tink so. Dey ‘fraid he.’
‘I know.’
‘Jealousy.’
‘Yes. Or nervous.’
/> ‘Dey is nervous, man.’
‘Granny, I’m the same. Make no mistake.’
‘You ’fraid de Doc?’
I nodded.
‘Praise de Lord. Don’t be afraid. Doc Williams de fadder o’ alluh us. Bless Dr Williams.’ Her face lit with reverence. Her yellow eyes rested on me, righteous and placid, as superior as Christobel had been. ‘Eric Williams arrive too late in my life. But he’ ‒ she jiggled the toddler on her knee ‒ ‘he will grow up into a different society. Tings will be different for he. My grandson. Maybe even Clive will be Prime Minister one day.’
I looked at her carefully. ‘Well, he has a good role model.’
But Granny’s face fell as she gazed at the ground, at her feet, at a future full of promise. She was ready for it. And there was something in the way the child Clive regarded me, something so blank and evidently indifferent, which made me feel uneasy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MASSA DAY DONE
Eric Williams was bombastic as Premier Minister. Occasionally, he still delivered lectures in Woodford Square.
‘He has a chip on his goddamn shoulder,’ asserted Christobel Baker, just as Bonny had. All the local whites thought this. Granny was right, they were scared of him. They all despised him. ‘It’s all so personal for him,’ Christobel sneered.
‘He’s got small-man’s syndrome,’ said another.
‘He’s out of his depth.’
‘The son of a postman.’
Mostly, I made my cuttings late at night. In the kitchen. When Venus was asleep. George, too. I retrieved the out-of-date newspapers from the stack in the garage and cut around the stories of the day: Williams and the PNM; Williams and his plans for Federation. His private life, too: Williams and his daughter Erica. He was everywhere, the man-of the-moment. My shoebox files grew to six boxes. I knew it was strange, after all this time, still to be cutting him out. But I found I couldn’t stop.
When Venus mentioned Williams was giving one of his lectures in Woodford Square and that Granny was attending, I decided to go along.
I left the children in Venus’s care, quietly slipping out with the excuse of a shopping trip. I parked near by and walked into town, skirting Woodford Square, slipping in at the back of the gathered throng, peering through the railings.
The square was packed and Eric Williams was up there on the bandstand. My stomach churned. He had that effect. My heart thudded in my chest. Yet I was eager to hear what he had to say. It was March, 1961. The sun lashed down on us in that square. I’d brought a large straw hat and kept my head lowered under it. Long sleeves hid my white arms. Whites still didn’t attend these lectures; George, my friends, would have thought me mad, irresponsible to be there. Maybe I was. That day, he was alone at the hustings, no party behind him. And I noticed he’d gained props: heavy dark glasses, a hearing aid.
I clasped the bars of the railings, peering through. Williams was in full flow, a preacher, a man of words addressing his people. There was a relationship between him and the crowd, a form of mass intimacy. I scanned the crowd for Granny and yes, spotted her there, amongst the sea of heads, halfway between where I stood and the bandstand, her white hair covered by the same red headscarf. She gazed upwards, a look of serenity on her face. The whole gathering was in a state of earnest admiration, gazing as one. Thousands? Yes, thousands gazed towards the bandstand; thousands were hanging on Eric Williams’ every word.
‘Massa,’ he was explaining, ‘was a symbol of a bygone era. Massa was usually an absentee European planter who exploited West Indian resources, both human and economic. Massa came for the short-term. Massa pulled out when things got bad and sugar ceased. Massa often left the small islands as undeveloped as he found them. Wealth that should have been ploughed back into the island went everywhere else. All that Massa left behind was his name on the land or sometimes on a beach.’
I squirmed with the shame these words inspired. George and his piece of land. Harwood’s this, Harwood’s that. Would George also want to name pieces of Trinidad? My fingers gripped the railings of the park. Ahead of me, Granny raised her fist and shouted above the others. ‘Yes, man. Down wid de damn blasted colonial Massa!’
‘Massa,’ Williams continued, ‘used the whip liberally to control his workers. Two hundred lashes was common. Massa’s economic policy was to grow one crop only: sugar. All else was imported for his table. The African slave kept alive the tradition of agriculture in the West Indies, growing food for his own subsistence. The one-crop policy stunted West Indian society. A Royal Commission in 1897 attacked Massa for making it difficult for the peasant to attain land. Massa ignored the Royal Commission, continued with his one-crop policy until 1930. Massa’s economic domination of the region reduced the population to drudgery, giving them a profound distaste for agricultural endeavours.’
Cheers of recognition. I began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Yet I couldn’t leave the square. Where would I run to? The sun beat down on me, punishing me. Why should I run? I didn’t even care to. Let them tear me apart if they wanted. Williams mesmerised me. He was animated, enjoying himself. Williams spoke with words which sang and lifted hearts. He lacerated and lampooned the old way of things, the old ideas. He moved all those around me. Granny’s fist was raised in the air, a salute to him. Around me, faces gleamed.
But Eric Williams was cool in his suit and tie. He dressed just like my husband. His tone of voice was dry and sarcastic, as clipped as any Englishman’s. Eric Williams lectured on and on and the sun beat down. The crowd swayed as if they might all faint as one.
‘Massa,’ Williams continued, ‘had the monopoly of political power ‒ this was why he could do all these things. He used his power shamelessly for his own private needs. Massa’s economy was distinguished by a scandalous waste of labour: forty house slaves was common in Jamaican planter homes. Demeaning work, total contempt for the human personality. Massa developed a philosophy, a rationale for this barbarous system. He thought that the workers, both African and Indian, were inferior beings.’
Murmurs, nods of agreement. I dared not raise my head.
‘Unfit for self-government, unequal to their superior master, permanently destined to a status of perpetual subordination, unable to ever achieve equality with Massa.’
Eric Williams was calm, self-assured. Desire stirred in me, fantasy. Everything would be different in Trinidad when he was made Prime Minister. He waved his clenched fists, breathing fire. Fire in his belly. Fire was what they all wanted. Fire gave fire.
‘It was there in all the laws which governed the West Indies for generations. Those laws denied equality on grounds of colour. Those laws forbade non-Europeans to enter certain occupations and professions, whether it was the occupation of jeweller or the profession of lawyer. Those laws forbade intermarriage. They equated political power and the vote with ownership of land. Consciously or unconsciously, directly or indirectly, those laws attempted to ensure that the non-European would never be anything but a worker in the social scale . . .’
I couldn’t believe my ears. Heat had been breathed into my entire being. He had that ability. Heat from his words, from his very body, spread into others. The crowd was inflamed. Williams said things George never even mentioned. Williams was right and George was wrong. George was selective in his intelligence. Williams lectured on and on in the hot sun. History. Revolution. The revision of history. He preached freedom of the mind, breathed hope, a new sense of opportunity into the souls of those listening.
‘Massa day done!’ Eric Williams declared, pounding the lectern. ‘Sahib day done! Yes, suh, Boss day done!’
Wild applause.
Granny cheered and waved her fists.
‘Massa stood for degradation of West Indian labour.’ Williams was unstoppable.
‘Massa stood for colonialism.’ The crowd waved balisiers, hands reached out; some were on the verge of falling unconscious.
‘Massa believed in the inequality of races.’
‘Yes,’ the crowd chanted.
‘Massa was determined not to educate his society. Massa was quite right. To educate is to emancipate.’
I left quietly, hands clutched to my chest. I didn’t want Granny to see me there; I wanted to go away, far away from the likes of Granny, from the mass of people gathered in the square. I sweated profusely, from the heat of the sun, from the heat of Williams’ words. His words lit me, as they had lit the whole crowd. I floated on unsteady legs. Bombs had detonated in my head. I shook. I fanned myself. I was sad and sorry for myself all at once. Williams’ words tolled heavily in me. Massa day done. It was all over. Trinidad had found its Saviour. I was happy, relieved. We would go. I would speak to George.
I don’t know how I managed to find my car again in that white heat, how I found my way home.
Williams clarified my instincts and explained my inclinations. I vowed to be a better friend to Venus, I vowed to be better educated. Massa’s time was over. George was Massa. So was I. That evening I told George I had sneaked into Woodford Square. I repeated to George what Williams had said.
‘George, it’s time,’ I pleaded. ‘We really have to disappear.’ But George was glass-eyed and distant.
‘Yes, dear, we will go. Soon. I promise.’
My green bicycle was no longer my only mode of transport. Mostly it leant against the wall in the garage, growing specks of rust. One day I wheeled it out into the sun to scour it with a wire brush.
‘Madam, long time you ride dat ting,’ Venus commented.
‘I don’t need it so much any more.’
‘You ’fraid.’
I blushed. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You used to ride it jus for relaxation.’
‘I was younger then.’
‘You young still.’
‘I’ve had children.’
‘It would tek off de extra baby weight.’
She was right. But the bike made me feel awkward. I couldn’t even imagine riding it down into town any more.
The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Page 24