Catherine arrived with her suitcase, the last of her things that she still needed to move from the flat. Her friends had asked her to go in the end. They had tried friendly persuasion to gather her back into the fold, saying not a word against him, but lauding the fun of belonging to the medical harem. They ostracised her, sent her to Coventry and then just waited for her to go. She talked bravely of confronting Piano Keys and forcing him to do the repairs and pay for the decorating. He’s nothing but a slum landlord. I don’t know what you’re scared of. Daud agreed with her, and waited for the day of action.
‘You’re not watching cricket again, are you?’ she asked, huffing and puffing as she manoeuvred the suitcase into the middle of the room. He glanced at her with a look of pain and betrayal. ‘It’s all right, I’m only teasing,’ she said, grinning. ‘But you could at least say hello. Do you know I heard today that they’re rationing water in the West Country? Apparently this is the driest summer since . . . I don’t know when.’
He helped her carry her suitcase upstairs, and then stayed with her while she unpacked. He lay on the bed and watched her with a hungry look. ‘I’m not paying any rent until the windows are fixed,’ she said, ignoring his exaggerated invitation. ‘And the bathroom’s been made decent.’ In the end she walked too near him and he lunged for her. She pushed him off with a practised and merciless shove. He waited patiently, and when the opportunity came for a second attempt he made no mistake. She lay down beside him and then made a face of pain, as if stopping herself from crying.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Did that lot say something to you before you left?’
‘Only Paula,’ she said. ‘And it doesn’t matter anyway.’
‘What did she say?’
She brought her face nearer, kissing him between her words. ‘She said that the reason I was moving in with you is your huge black penis, and when you’ve finished with me nobody will want to touch me. It’s stupid!’
‘Have I?’ he asked.
‘What?’ she asked, beginning to grin.
‘A huge black penis.’
She hooted with derisive laughter, and made a gesture with her fingers denoting a miniscule object. He was insulted. His manly pride was roused.
He talked a lot on the way to Karta’s house, and she wondered if he was nervous. The house looked enormous to her, and from the rubbish round the steps that led up to the front door, she guessed that it would be none too clean. The door was opened by a very plump girl whom Daud introduced as Angela. When they walked into the house she saw that most of the people there were English. That came as such sudden relief that she was surprised at herself. She realised that she had dreaded being surrounded by black men who would despise her, and tell her that she belonged to a cruel and heartless race, as Daud in his bitter moods sometimes did. It had been a shock to discover the hostility in him, the indiscriminate anger. She glanced at him and saw him looking at her, waiting for her to say something. The music was very loud, and she shook her head and shrugged with a gesture of defeat. He said something to her and started to walk away. When she did not follow he came back for her, grinning shyly as he took her arm. They went into the living room, and there the noise was unbearable. They forced their way through the shuffling couples to where the hi-fi was. Daud bent down to scrutinise the machinery and then turned the volume down.
‘What are you trying to do, bro?’ Karta shouted behind him. ‘You’re going to ruin my party with your bourgeois anxieties. How do I look?’ he asked Daud but glanced at Catherine.
‘You look wonderful!’ she said.
He bowed to her and then raised his eyebrows at Daud, waiting for him to pay homage. Daud looked at him for a long time. Karta beamed, turning a little this way and that, like a model. ‘You look like a pimp,’ Daud said at last. Karta threw his head back and laughed. Showing the world how an African laughs with all his sawl, Daud thought.
There were glasses and bottles of wine in the kitchen. It was quieter in there and a group had formed round a short black man of about forty or so. He was wearing a brown felt hat with the brim turned up on one side. A leather chin strap bit into the plump flesh of his cheeks. It was the type of hat beloved by big-game hunters and white settlers. In one hand he carried a swagger stick, and used it now and then to make his point. He was talking morosely, seriously. He glanced in their direction as they appeared, then grinned with pleasure and started to walk towards them.
‘Hello, Sam,’ Daud said as the man came nearer. Sam accepted Daud’s hand eagerly, barely sparing a glance for her. He moved forward and wrapped one arm round Daud’s shoulder, resting his head on Daud’s chest.
‘How are you, brother?’ he asked. His voice was soft but rich with a deep misery. ‘We’re still carrying on the struggle, man.’
‘Yes,’ Daud said in a strangely small voice. It made Catherine wonder if it was dislike or guilt that she heard in it. When she saw the fastidious manner in which he disengaged himself from Sam’s embrace, she knew it was at least partly dislike. Sam turned to her and she smiled. After a moment he smiled back.
‘We don’t want to lose all our brothers,’ he said, turning back to Daud. ‘We’ve seen it happen to the best among us. Keep the faith!’
He turned again to Catherine and smiled at her. There was something premeditated in the smile, she thought, as if he had known she would be there and he had waited for her to come nearer so he could deliver his warning to Daud. He came closer to her and she saw that his face was covered with oily little spots. She thought him revolting, and was afraid that he would want to shake hands with her. He leant towards her and laid his head on her shoulder, an inch or two above her left breast. She felt the heat of his breathing on her, and stepped back calmly, glaring at him. Daud and the little man exchanged silent looks, Sam smiling with eyes full of malice. In the end Daud turned and touched her on the arm, and she glanced in his face to see what the signal meant. Did he want her to smash Sam’s repulsive face into a pulp, to stab his eyes out with the heel of her shoe? They could skewer the ugly bastard over a slow fire and sing freedom songs to him.
‘A revolutionary blow, Sam,’ Daud said.
‘Our boys are dying out there,’ Sam said plaintively. ‘They are killing our children in the streets. Twenty-seven were killed yesterday in Cape Town, and today they’ve locked up everybody again. We don’t want to lose all our brothers.’
Daud touched Catherine’s arm again and started to move away.
‘Wait!’ Sam said, standing in Daud’s way. ‘I didn’t mean anything against her.’ He held Daud’s arm and raised his face in appeal, his smile looking suddenly vulnerable and anxious. Daud stood still, and Catherine could feel by his hand on her that he would hit him. She waited, wanting him to shred his face in rage. ‘It was nothing against her. I’m just telling you that these people are killing us. I didn’t mean her any harm. I did not mean to offend you,’ he said, turning to her, his eyes watering. ‘You know I’m from South Africa. I’ve been in exile here for seven years now. Every day I think NO, I can’t take any more. It would be better to die. I haven’t seen my wife for seven years. I haven’t seen my children . . . Perhaps they’re already dead.’
Suddenly Sam began to cry. ‘They’re killing our children in the streets now,’ he sobbed. ‘They have finished humiliating the parents, now they are destroying our children.’ A woman came from the group and put her arm round Sam’s shoulder, looking to take him away. She was in her thirties, her hair bedraggled and grey, her skin blotched with patches of red. Sam leant against her and followed where he was taken.
‘He was a bit drunk, that’s all,’ Daud said. ‘She’ll look after him. He gets suicidal with all the booze.’
‘Who’s she?’ Catherine asked.
‘Mary. He lives with her. They even have two neglected, dirty little children that nobody cares for. He always turns up at parties and at the pub. He scrounges drinks and then cries. I think he’ll kill himself one day.’
Kar
ta suddenly appeared in the kitchen. ‘Where’s he? I hear that Zulu is making trouble again. I won’t have the bastard ruining my party. I knew I shouldn’t have asked him.’
‘It’s all right,’ Daud said. ‘Mary’s got him.’
‘She’s here,’ Karta said in a whisper. He glanced at Catherine and smiled with embarrassment. ‘Helen,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘Come and meet her.’
They were standing in the hallway. She was a tall, dark-haired woman with a bright smile. Her face was a little round, adding to the impression of joy and mirth. She was on the verge of forty, Daud guessed, with an appearance of maternal patience and wisdom, although Karta had not mentioned children. She looked nothing like the way Karta had painted her. She was wearing large, dark-framed glasses that made her look severe but only in a playful way, as if she was really only dressing up. The man beside her was also tall, big and bloated rather than fat, but he looked strong. Daud smiled to himself, imagining Karta pinned against the wall by that brute. He looked a rugged, tough hombre, he thought. Karta was flustered as he introduced them. Daud saw Helen smile, and saw the look of undisguised loathing that the man gave Karta. His heart trembled a little as he began to foresee trouble. The potter’s name was Matthew, and as he shook hands with Catherine his eyes went unashamedly to her breasts, and came to rest there. He did not look for a response from her, was neither wary nor cunning. There was not even hunger or interest in his look. In a way, she thought, the man seemed at sea, all at a loss, not because he was afraid or uncertain, but because he was not where he should have been. ‘Where’s the booze, love?’ he asked Catherine.
She pointed over her shoulder, and Matthew smiled briefly before slipping out of the circle to get a drink. Helen smiled too as she watched him go. She turned to Karta and looked at him with undisguised invitation. ‘It’s a lovely place,’ she said. ‘I remember living in a house just like this when I started working. It’s the smell that’s most familiar.’
She glanced at Catherine and Daud, a moment longer than was polite, as if she was placing them in a scheme of things. There was no hostility in her eyes. On the contrary, her interest was warm, wanting to be allowed entry into the intimate aura they carried. When she smiled again, she radiated an easy and unaffected affection. ‘I’d love to dance,’ she said to Karta. ‘If you don’t think I’d look too ridiculous dancing to that music at my age.’
Catherine and Daud were still standing in the hallway when Matthew returned with a drink and a plate of food. Pieces of bread dropped out of his mouth as he ate, leaning against the wall. They excused themselves and went out for some air. They stood on the steps outside, leaning against the railings. She leant closer to him, wedging herself between his open legs. When he spoke, she felt his voice rattle the timbers of her body. A group of young people walked past on the road and turned to stare at them. She heard them say things to each other, then heard their stifled sniggers and carelessly suppressed snorts. They were amused at the sight of an English scrubber and her wog student friend, she thought. But he was talking again, his voice lowered so as not to be overheard. Later, when she thought of the night, she remembered the slight chill in the air, the music heaving and groaning behind them, and the sound of his voice rumbling inside her.
They went back inside for more wine. Matthew was still standing on his own in the hallway, although the party was alive now and people were passing him by. A circle of food crumbs had formed around him. He answered their greeting without enthusiasm.
‘I hope there’s still some wine left in there,’ Daud said, making conversation.
‘Loads,’ he replied, lifting up his glass in a mock toast.
Catherine waited in the hallway while Daud fought his way to the kitchen. She regretted it as soon as he had gone. Matthew leant towards her the instant they were alone. ‘Do you sleep with him?’ he asked, his eyes on her breasts. ‘What contraceptive do you use?’
She looked at him in disbelief and started to move away. He levered himself off the wall as if he would follow her. Beside her appeared a slim black man who asked her to dance. She accepted without hesitation, and only when she was in his arms dancing with him did she begin to reflect on the man who held her. He was peering at her face, smiling as if trying to please. There was desperation in the way he held her, and it made her feel squalid. He grinned unremittingly but without conviction. She wondered, now that she had become alert to such things, what history he had brought with him, what he might be thinking of her.
She felt his arms wrapped around her in that loud, darkened room and she was powerless to resist his embrace. He squeezed her body into his, pressing his pubic bone into the softness of her thigh. A claw-like hand crawled up her back and rested on her exposed neck. She made to free herself but he pressed her head down on his shoulder, wanting her to abandon herself to him. With sudden, disgusted strength she pushed him away. He did not let go but moved back far enough to show her his face. It was a mixture of incomprehension and hurt, but underneath that was a wily look. Then, as if he intended to parody the words, looking her full in the eye and smiling, his eyes gleaming with a kind of anxiety, he whispered I love you. She pushed him off, ignoring his look of dumbfoundment. She saw Daud standing at the doorway, and as she stormed towards him she felt the man following her. Daud’s attention was elsewhere. She had stood beside him for some seconds before he saw her. The man came striding to Daud, his hand outstretched. I am sorry, my brother. I did not know she was with you, he said.
While Daud listened to the man’s protestations of ignorance, she looked away, trying not to attend to what was being said. She found the mutual masculine reassurance irritating. Daud should tell him that it was to her he should abject himself, not to him. Nothing would be gained by making a scene, she told herself. As her eyes wandered the room she found it quite easy to allow the sound of the music to drown out the man’s voice. Karta and Helen were still dancing. They were clinging to each other, oblivious to all around them, while their bodies swayed and their feet shuffled as a formal acknowledgment of what they were doing. Their mouths were together in a kind of endless kiss, their arms wrapped round each other. Looked at quickly they seemed like one, a grotesque beast without shape or grace.
Catherine glanced behind her, and saw that Matthew was still standing in the hallway. He was talking to a dishevelled-looking couple who seemed to know him well. His plate had been replenished, and the crumbs of food around him had increased. She glanced at the dancers again but they seemed without care, without fear. At last the music stopped, and after a moment Karta disengaged himself to look towards the hi-fi. Helen held on to him as he went to put another record on. Catherine saw that his face was wet with sweat, and in his eyes was a distracted look. Helen seemed the same, flushed and elated, her mouth open. Daud said hello as they walked past them, and Karta glanced round and raised an arm in greeting. She thought he had lost control of himself. She looked over her shoulder again at Matthew but he was still in the hallway, tipping and spitting crumbs of food on the floor.
The party was beginning to break up into groups. Daud wanted to leave but he did not want to seem dull and boring. Voices were raised everywhere they went now, passions were aroused and people were leaning towards each other as if anxious to be closer. They danced in the noisy living room for a while but stood mostly outside, talking and drinking wine.
‘Let’s go,’ Catherine said soon after one. ‘I think we’ve done enough for this party.’
When they said goodbye, Karta held him in a tight embrace for several seconds. Let’s not lose touch, he said.
‘Are you all right? Be careful!’ Daud said.
‘Yeah yeah,’ said Karta.
‘I mean . . . with what’s happening in there . . .’
‘I know what you mean,’ Karta said quickly. ‘It’s been good knowing you, bro. Let’s make sure we stay in touch.’
Daud looked at Karta in silence and then nodded. ‘Be careful!’
20
/> The streets were silent at that hour. So civilised, he said. She asked him about Karta, and he hesitated for a moment and then began to talk about things they had done. His voice was full of pleasure at the memories. He noticed that the gate of St Hilda’s Church was open, and because she was with him and he was feeling happy, he did what he would not otherwise have done. ‘Let’s walk through the churchyard,’ he said, holding her arm as she made to walk on. ‘We’ll come out nearer home.’
‘Not on your life,’ she said, shaking his hand off. ‘Not this time of night!’
‘Coward!’
‘I don’t care. I’m not walking through that graveyard. Do you know that cemetery’s been in use since the fourteenth century? There could be all kinds of things crawling about in there.’ She could see the idea interested him, and she groaned.
‘The fourteenth century! I didn’t think you lot buried your dead then. I thought you just put a stake through their hearts and threw them into the nearest cellar. I’ll tell you what, I know some spells,’ he said, intoxicated by the hour, and perhaps by the cheap red wine that Karta had provided. ‘This is foolproof, potent juju I’m talking about! We could go in there and find some Plantagenet knight, bring him back to life and question him. Or we might stumble over a pilgrim who did not make it back and talk over old times with him. Best of all, we could discover an old slaver who thought to escape our vengeance by getting himself buried here. We could raise him and torture him . . . All right,’ he said in the end, deflated by her look of patient boredom. ‘I’ll go in for a quick wander, you wait by the wall there.’
She watched him go through the gate, disappearing in the moonshadow for a moment. He stopped on the other side, standing in the moonlight with the dark stone mass of the church behind him. The shadow of the lich-gate roof fell between them like a barrier. He raised his arms in the air, turned his face to the moon and spoke: ‘Watch over me in this iniquitous den. Raise dem up, Mother Hygiene, that I may question and torture the poxy monsters. Raise me their knights and maidens, but most of all give me a slaver that I may bend him to my will.’
Pilgrims Way Page 24