‘I’m not going to live there!’ I gasped, even when the land was cleared.
But George was silent. He nodded, unhearing, staring at the open space.
‘I mean, George, I’ll be alone, with the children. It isn’t safe. This is bush! Bush all around. And me and just one other house?’
But George wasn’t to be swayed, not at this point. Later, he unrolled the blue sketches of the architect’s designs on the kitchen table. The house he wanted to build was impressive, with arches and courtyards and wide porches all around.
‘It’ll be a family home.’ George’s eyes glistened.
‘We already have one ‒ in England.’
‘We can have two.’
‘Oh God ‒ you just want to make your mark.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For ever. Comme la Tour Eiffel. A monument.’
George ignored this comment. I don’t think he understood what I meant. And at that moment I didn’t understand what was happening, how much my fate was bound to his ideas. My husband was in the act of staying. My dreams of leaving, of returning to Europe, were being reconfigured entirely. A team of builders was employed. George visited the site every morning, before work. Every evening he arrived home with news of the foundations being dug, the floors going down. But I remained resolutely indifferent to the building project: it happened without me, without my consent. I never even acknowledged its existence until the day it was finished and, even then, when George announced it was ready, I replied, ‘What is?’
That green woman lying on her side, right in front of our new home, baring her hips invitingly; that broken-up road running past. I cried into my pillows at night, not wanting to leave our tiny home in which, despite it all, I’d grown to find comfort. That little house was a stone’s throw from the Country Club, where I took the children every day to play; it was near all our friends, near town, near the savannah, near everything. I’d been happy there ‒ in the short-term.
The exodus had begun. First, all the bigwigs left, the Governor and his household and political staff, his retainers and civil servants. Then a wider circle removed themselves, those who’d worked in the public services, the police force, the hospitals. By then, George had been promoted to Deputy Director at Forbes-Mason. Most of his staff had packed up and joined the queues on the wharf. But the big bosses in London didn’t want to close down the company and withdraw completely, not yet. We attended leaving party after leaving party.
‘You’re staying? Good luck.’ This from so many of those leaving us behind, compassion and relief in their eyes. So many British couples who had become our friends boarded the liners.
‘I’m not leaving.’ Irit was adamant.
Helena was worse off than me. Over the last seven years I’d watched her dwindle, growing thinner, more fragile. A blank expression had crept into her eyes and she clung to her cigarettes. As a professional woman of East-Indian origin, she hadn’t found a place for herself in Trinidad society, not amongst the wider European or Indian communities. Education was her own particular social stigma.
As the walls of our new home rose, brick by brick, my fantasies of leaving intensified. I dreamt of escaping Trinidad every night; I had visions of gangplanks. I saw myself walking out along one at knifepoint, goaded by pirates. I laughed and ran, jumping into the sea, plunging like a cannonball into the deep. I cried in my sleep. I was magnetised by the wharf. I became obsessed with news of the latest boatload, scouring the Guardian for faces I recognised. Corbeaux infested my dreams, hovering high up in the blue, waiting to pick at my flesh. I lay dead and silvery on the beach; the black birds descended in their dozens, squabbling.
Trinidad was becoming a new country. It was happening before my eyes; this virgin nation was developing a sense of self-awareness, of being part of the world on its own terms. A national anthem was composed. Trinidad and Tobago acquired a coat of arms! A small army was founded. A coastguard. And a national airline. Eric Williams flew around the globe on a tour of diplomacy, letting various nations know that Trinidad and Tobago had joined the world stage. Trinidad was small but rich, beautiful. This was now official. The PNM even had matching ties.
George became more ardent, wanting to please me. He could always be sure of the calming effect of his touch, his hands on me. He spoke words of love into my neck, into my hair. At night he clambered over me, parting my knees. His lips and hands caressed the tender skin along each thigh; he could spend an hour, easily, lost and whispering his love to me. Once, I sat up on my elbows, watching him. He looked up. We gazed long into each other’s eyes. I always saw somewhere, in his face, an image of every man on earth, a virile and benevolent god. A smirk on his lips, like he knew things from another side of life; a smile of self-knowledge. I blinked hard.
He frowned. ‘What are you looking at?’
But I never told.
George sighed. He buried his head between my thighs. He made up for things with his hands and mouth. He often wanted nothing in return for the sexual pleasures he lavished.
‘You are my home,’ he whispered. ‘You are where I reside.’
And yet, my fears nagged. I wrote more letters to Eric Williams; letters I never sent. I wrote in the middle of the night, sweat dripping from my nose, tears in my lashes. I wrote to him about my childhood, asking about his childhood, wondering if we’d had any similar experiences. Anxiety churned my gut. I mumbled as I wrote.
Who do you love? Your little girl? Your dead wife, the second one, not the ones alive? That half-Chinese woman who died so suddenly, so young? She coughed up blood and was gone in days. Who do you think of at night, last thing before you sleep? Who do you care about? Who is your guide? Who consoles you, Mr Williams? I’m anxious to understand my fate. I’m anxious because something is happening to my family. My husband has changed, and you know what? I’m changing, too, leaving myself behind. It’s a strange and uncanny metamorphosis. I cannot fathom what manner of moth or butterfly I’ll become. A beauty or a horror? How much longer will I survive?
Like George, my children loved the island. Both were boisterous and sociable, both spoke with a song in their voice. Pascale’s hair was an afro of matted curls, Sebastian refused to wear shoes.
‘But your feet will grow wide,’ I complained. ‘And then you won’t be able to wear shoes at all.’
I grabbed him and pinned him down, inspecting his toes, his heels which had grown rough. His soles were already calloused.
‘You’ll turn into a goat,’ I warned.
‘Or an agouti!’ he laughed. He liked the idea that he was half boy, half wild animal from up in the hills.
Pascale never let me comb her hair. At the nape of her neck it became clumped, just like a Rastaman’s. Every week, Venus and I would have to catch her to groom her. Once, she saw us coming and ran from us, screaming. Venus tore after her, through the house, shouting, ‘Oh gorsh, Miss Pascale! Shit, man, dis chile crayzee, madam, w’appen to dis chile?’
Pascale had disappeared. We searched high and low calling her name, trying not to sound threatening. Then, we had the same idea.
We entered her bedroom on tiptoe. Venus put her finger to her lips. I nodded. We both knelt down and slowly lifted the bed’s counterpane. Pascale was sitting underneath, her back to the wall, her eyes wide and defiant.
‘Pascale, come out,’ I said as calmly as possible.
She shook her head.
‘Pascale, we won’t hurt you.’
She glared and sulked. ‘No.’
Venus steupsed. ‘Pascale, get yuh ass outside de damned bed right NOW!’
‘Noooo!’ Pascale wailed.
We reached under the bed, each clasped one skinny leg and yanked, dragging her out kicking and screaming. Venus paddled her backside and then we carried her out to the porch. Venus sat on her while she continued to wail, laughing at her protests. ‘Ah go squash yer flat as a pancake, Miss Pascale. Yer want a squash?’
‘Noooo.’ Pascale continued to thrash.<
br />
I went to fetch a bowl of water and the shampoo and a thick afro comb.
Eventually, Pascale squealed herself hoarse and was quiet. Exhausted and hot with tears, she sat as we snipped and untangled the clumps. Venus ran coconut pomade through her hair and cane-rowed it back. Eventually, Pascale was happy with this new hairstyle.
Seven years. I’d smudged. Incrementally, against my will, I was becoming part of things, part of the island. I could no longer take a clear look at Trinidad. I was hemmed in. It was an uneasy relationship, the kind of love which made me on edge all the time. Like an infection, a festering, niggling, burning sensation: an insect bite. I fought more with George. Our lovemaking became fierce.
‘Kill me off,’ I once taunted.
He found this exciting. When he came towards me I slapped him hard across the face.
‘Owww. Why did you do that?’
‘To wake you up.’
‘But I’m not asleep.’
‘You sleepwalk through the day. You don’t care to see what’s going on, all you care about is that damn house in the bush.’
‘I love you, Sabine.’
I slapped him again. It felt good.
‘Please don’t do that.’ His eyes were sorrowful and innocent. He didn’t know how to please me outside the bedroom.
Eric Williams wrote and published a book, The History of the People of Trinidad and Tobago. It was available in all the bookshops in Port of Spain. George brought home a copy and sniffed at it. Famously, Williams wrote it in a month, wanting it to be used by common citizens, by students. He bequeathed it to Trinidad as a kind of first book of information. But Granny Seraphina couldn’t read.
I hadn’t seen Granny since the time of the water shortage. I thought about her often, though. I understood she didn’t want a close connection, not like I had with Venus. One day, I made an excuse to visit Venus in the hope of speaking to Granny. I was in luck. Granny was sweeping the yard, a studious expression on her face. She was bent over, sweeping, sweeping the already bald dirt ground outside the shack with a palm broom cocoyea. I’d parked further down the hill and appeared on foot. But she was so deep in thought I had to cough loudly to announce myself. She looked up from her broom and froze, as though she’d clapped eyes on a ghost.
‘Hello, Granny,’ I said politely. ‘Venus forgot Clive’s sandals. I thought I’d drop them by.’
Granny looked vexed. Whatever she’d been thinking about was still dwelling.
I wanted to say something, to get to the point of my visit. I wanted to ask her most recent opinion about Eric Williams, about all this nation-building, the new jets, the Party tie. But there seemed to be no way of making small talk with Granny.
She glared. Maybe she already knew why I’d come.
‘“I will let down my bucket here with you in the British West Indies,”’ she said in a calm voice, enunciating each word precisely.
A chill ran through me. I knew those words and who had said them.
‘I der when he say dat. I der, man.’ She steupsed, looking down at her bare feet.
‘I know, Granny, I know. Granny, things will change. Soon. I know they will.’
Granny nodded with her mouth pulled down, as if she knew that, too.
‘Ah already wait a long time.’
‘I know.’
‘Seven years pass.’ She steupsed.
‘Yes. I think . . . We need a hurricane.’
She stared me down.
‘To blow everything away. You know. Demolish all that has passed.’
Granny clicked her throat and contemplated the idea. ‘Yeah, man.’ She nodded slowly. ‘A hurricane in trute.’
‘But we don’t get them in Trinidad, do we?’
Granny shook her head. ‘No, man, wind pass furder up.’
Trinidad gained independence ‒ and slowly, steadily, red rust encased my green bicycle. It stood propped against the wall in the garage. I didn’t have the heart to give it away. Every day I saw it and ignored it. The basket filled with old magazines, plastic bags full of old tools hung from the handlebars. I piled worn-out sheets on top of it, bags of outgrown children’s clothes. It came to look like a Chinese junk, as if it had just arrived from long and lengthy travels across seas, continents.
We moved in June 1963. Two lorries parked up outside the smaller house. Four removal men packed up our life and moved us out to the bush, to live next to that mad French Creole out on the beach road.
Venus came with us, leaving Granny Seraphina to look after her sons during the week. George had included servant’s quarters into his grand design, a spacious, well-ventilated room next to the kitchen. Venus had her own door and key so she could come and go as she pleased, an ensuite bathroom. She was delighted. Venus lived with us, slept near us behind those high walls. George bought two Great Dane puppies as guard dogs and overnight we were an outpost there in the bush: a store-room, a pantry, and water tanks on the roof. The children ran about whooping like Red Indians. Our new home had wrought iron bars on the windows for security. I stood and peered through them, restless as a panther in a cage at a zoo. I often counted them: one, two, three. But then they would merge into many bars. I began to see thousands of them. Everyone could see our new home on the way to the beach; everyone mentioned it, discussing it at parties.
‘Who’s built out there?’
‘George and Sabine.’
‘Good grief. Poor woman.’
‘He’s mad.’
‘The land was almost free.’
‘On her own out there. She’ll go mad.’
George loved his castle. He even baptised it Casa Familia. He commissioned a wrought-iron insignia, securing it out front, next to the postbox. He saw us as pioneers. He thought we’d grow to live in and love the hacienda in the bush. But I couldn’t love it. I stared up at those massive hills, counting the trees in them just like I’d counted those trees from the deck of the Cavina. Millions, millions of trees in the hills above the house, countless varieties. In them, her hefty green shoulders, her giant head, cocked to one side, the holes of her eyes, her wild and bushy hair. By day she watched us and at night she came alive; all that lived up there in the green woman fed and mated and cried. Frogs croaked a call and response, crickets trumpeted.
George loved his swimming pool most of all. He swam in it every day, cleaned it with loving care, scooping the vermilion immortelle blossoms from its surface in the dry season, scattering all the right chemicals into it. He tested the water, vacuumed the pool’s floor. He sat beside the pool for hours, on a sun lounger, reading, his white skin grilling like sirloin steak, drinking rum after rum. Jules, our neighbour, came over to welcome us but mainly to see if our home was any fancier than his, if we’d be any disturbance. Jules, dear Jules. He was fifty or so, kind-faced, grey wiry hair, wiry moustache. His skin, like so many of the local whites’, looked diseased, had become a mosaic of brown flecks of melanin. He survived mostly off a small family inheritance. He was researching a family biography, he explained. His French family had fled from Haiti; they were once ancien régime, very grand, very much a part of things in the West Indies. Jules spoke a little French and I took to him immediately; he became my companion and ally out there in the bush.
George still went out to work every day on his scooter. George, so likeable and alert. When the big cruise ships came in, amongst other duties as Deputy Director he had the job of entertaining the more prominent passengers, those the company wanted to impress. Sometimes these were businessmen, once even a famous movie star.
‘Darling, can you meet me at the Country Club?’ he said on the phone, quite breathless, one day.
‘When?’
‘In an hour.’
‘I’m not sure if I can.’
‘It’s important. We have an actor on the boat. Here with his wife.’
‘Oh God. Do I have to?’
‘Please.’
‘OK. OK.’
‘Wear a nice dress.’
I
struggled into a green low-cut cocktail dress and powdered my face, half resentful. I drove to the Club to find some commotion outside, the car park jam-packed. The valet took the car and I was ushered in through the throng. I found George sitting at the bar. His face visibly shone when he caught sight of me. He rose and I kissed him on the cheek.
‘This is my wife,’ he said proudly to the man sitting beside him, who I recognised instantly. It was Cary Grant.
George’s job took up more of his time, became more exciting. Meanwhile, I rattled about in that house. We didn’t have enough furniture to fill such a large space. It was three times larger than the one we’d left behind, with smooth terrazzo porches all around. A huge parquet living-room floor George had intended for all the great fêtes we would host. Our four armchairs were scrawny in the living room. Our tiny television set, our one coffee table, our sideboard, all like doll’s furniture in a museum.
‘Go out and spend.’ George waved his chequebook at me. ‘Go and spend my money, woman.’
And so I hunted around for all we needed for our new existence. Irit helped me. Rugs and lamps and paintings and sofas and patio furniture and two of those peacock-backed chairs Irit had in her boutique. Even a big fish tank on a stand, full of coral and angel fish. Irit wasn’t the least bit envious of our new home. She and John still lived at the tiny Bergerac Flats with their chaos and their violet Persian cat. She grew richer by the day, but her lifestyle never changed.
‘Who go clean all dem frou-frou tings you have now, madam,’ Venus pointed out one day. ‘Not me,’ she asserted. ‘I ent polishin’ no fish!’
Until then Venus had managed to hold herself in. But she was right; I was filling our home with mad things. Crystal, vases, all manner of cooking equipment for the kitchen, a soup tureen, a parsley grinder, a fish kettle. And all the while I stared through those bars, hundreds of them.
The White Woman on the Green Bicycle Page 26