by Andrea Levy
* * *
Celia waited to greet me after teaching practice one afternoon. Standing pretty by the gate of the school in a pale blue and yellow dress, her feet pressed together elegantly, she looked like a flower growing out of the dirt. I was so delighted to look on a familiar face at that school for scoundrels I had grown to despise that I refused to notice the trail of a tear, which ran through the dust on her cheek and collected in the cup of her Cupid’s bow. And she smiled brightly. I had no reason to think she was anything but cheerful as she said eagerly, ‘The men of the RAF are parading in the town. They will be leaving for England soon – we must wave them goodbye.’
It was on a weekend stroll, after I had been at the college for only a few weeks, that Celia and I had come across a place where, if we climbed to the first branches of a citrus tree, we could see over the barracks on the men who were being trained to go to war. At first all we heard were the bellowed commands that soared so loud into the air they were almost visible – by the left . . . quick march . . . attention . . . stand at ease. It was Celia’s notion to lift our skirts and scale the tree. She was hoping to discover, if only by a glimpse, how these instructions were enacted. Our view was from further away than the yelled commands had implied, yet we could clearly see a pattern of parading men manoeuvring as balletic as birds. And even at that distance it was apparent to us that those brave fighting men carried wooden broomsticks over their shoulders instead of guns.
After that, I decided to join in Celia’s war effort by starting to knit the only thing my talent would allow – long plain strips (which were always useful) – while Celia, tiring of socks, added hats to her repertoire. We tipped as much money as we safely could into the collecting tins that sat at the door to the dining hall. A picture, cut from the Daily Gleaner, of the fighter planes our money had helped to buy was pinned to the noticeboard. And every time Celia and I passed we pointed to the part – sometimes a wheel, sometimes a window – we decided our coins had purchased.
Marching in disciplined rows through the streets that afternoon, these men, dressed entirely in thick blue cloth, looked as uniform and steely as machinery. On their heads every one of them wore a strange triangular hat that was tipped at an impossible angle. I followed Celia as she nudged and poked her way through people come to stare. Women mostly, who pushed and jostled us back. Wives, mothers, sisters, aunts lining the street. Some were there just to see the spectacle, while others strained anxiously for a glimpse of a man they loved. But close to this fighting machine was merely composed of line after line of familiar strangers. Fresh young boys who had only just stopped larking in trees. Men with skin as coarse as tanned leather, whose hands were accustomed to breaking soil. Big-bellied men who would miss their plantain and bammy. Straight-backed men whose shoes would shine even through battle. It seemed all the dashing, daring and some of the daft of the island walked there before me.
So many men.
‘Why must so many go?’
I thought I had spoken these words only in my head but Celia, facing me sombrely, replied, ‘You must understand, if this Hitler man wins this war he will bring back slavery. We will all be in chains again. We will work for no pay.’
‘Celia, I work for no pay now,’ I said, thinking of my worthless class.
Perhaps she did not understand my joke, for she did not laugh or even smile. A look of distaste passed carefully across her features. I made no attempt to placate her. I could understand why it was of the greatest importance to her that slavery should not return. Her skin was so dark. But mine was not of that hue – it was the colour of warm honey. No one would think to enchain someone such as I. All the world knows what that rousing anthem declares: ‘Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.’
A woman heavy with child, recognising a man she knew on the march, howled, ‘Franklin, where you goin’?’ And weeping loud she held her arms up to him like a child waiting to be carried along. Her companion wrapped two hands tight round her big belly to keep her from running to him. Franklin, turning his eye to her as he passed, broke his step, tripping forward as if he had been struck, before regaining his soldier’s composure and moving on.
And Celia, looking distressed by the trouble this woman was creating, turned away, asking me, ‘I wonder who has on my socks?’
Pleased at her change of mood I replied, ‘Celia, it is possible that every one of those men and most of the crowd are wearing them.’
She smiled at this joke and, locking her arm through mine, she leaned in close to whisper, ‘Hortense, let me give you a secret. When I am older, I will be leaving Jamaica and I will be going to live in England. I will have a big house with a bell at the front door and I will ring the bell, ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling.’ Her black hair caught by the sun shimmered golden strands in the light. ‘I will ring the bell in this house when I am in England. That is what will happen to me when I am older.’
It was another commotion that brought Celia’s dreaming to a halt. A woman’s voice rising louder than the marching feet, more clamorous than the chattering crowd. One and all turned to follow the approaching cry – even airmen’s eyes swivelled to where the noise was emanating from. It became clear to me that this woman’s voice was shouting the name ‘Celia’. Everyone who was not called Celia strained to look at the caller. The only motionless person was Celia herself who stood lifeless as a cadaver.
Walking towards Celia was a tall, dark-black-skinned yet elegant woman. Her back straight, her head high, she carried the imperious air of a proud white lady. As she came closer the crowd parted, some almost jumping out of her way, some looking on her with pity, because it was obvious that this graceful woman was wearing two dresses. One dress had black skirts flowing along the ground and sleeves buttoned to the wrist. With just this dress she would have received only the comment that she was a little old-fashioned. But over the top she wore what looked from a distance to be a pretty blouse, but was revealed as a lacy pink frock made for a small girl. The short puffed sleeves were pulled up achingly taut over the sleeves of the other dress, while the tiny bodice stretched and gaped across her adult frame. She raised her hand, waving a white handkerchief, and shouting, ‘Celia,’ so vociferously it sounded to be coming from a deity not from the mouth of a mortal such as she. I looked to Celia for an explanation as to why this strange woman was trying to attract her attention.
But Celia’s eyes were tight shut, her lips mumbling, ‘Oh, no,’ and a fresh tear was running down her face to her Cupid’s bow.
This woman was now upon Celia, chattering noisily as if she had been at her side all afternoon. ‘Celia, you will see . . . he will be along soon. You must just wait, me dear, and I will show you him. You will see . . . you will see.’
She waved her handkerchief in front of her nose. ‘Oh, this heat . . . this heat, I will never get used to this heat.’ Her perfume was so sickly pungent that I coughed with the taste of it in my throat. Her hair, which at first impression looked a distinguished grey, transpired to be a brown wig soiled with dust. Slipping slightly to one side this wig revealed a patch of the matted black hair it was trying to conceal. Oblivious to the spectacle she created she stood fanning herself as haughty as nobility. Yet there was no spirit in her eyes: they remained as expressionless and unengaged as the simulated gaze of a doll.
Celia gently took this woman’s arm and leaning close to her ear she said, ‘Mamma, hush.’
Even though this woman was chattering loudly, ‘Now where is that man? . . . Where has he gone? . . . He is always missing,’ she stopped as suddenly as if a control had been turned to off.
I did not need to ask if this curious woman was Celia’s mother, it was there to see. Dark skin on a once-pretty face and lips that carried the same pronounced Cupid’s bow. Celia avoided my eyes as she spoke closely and carefully to her mother: ‘Mamma, you should not have followed me here. We must go home now. I will take you back. They will be worried for you.’
Her mother, heeding Celia as if in a
trance, let her gently guide her by her elbow away from the crowd. Until without warning she came to life once more. ‘He is here, Celia. He is here! Look.’
The crowd responded readily to her cry – some watching her antics while others, more curious, looked to where she was indicating. Celia’s soft hand on her mother’s arm became a grim-faced knuckle-clenched grasp, which her mother wrestled violently away from. Unfortunately the procession of airmen momentarily stopped and Celia’s mother ran to one airman and, pointing him out like a dress in the window of a shop, called, ‘Celia, this is your daddy. I told you he would come.’ The airman had obviously never seen this woman before. This young boy – younger even than Celia – glanced around confused while his compatriots jeered.
‘Winston.’ Celia’s mother examined his face. ‘Don’t you know me?’ The airman would have shaken his head, would have said, ‘Oh, no, madam, no,’ but, before he could reply, Celia’s mother threw her arms round his chest constricting him with a hug that could have taken the breath from a bear. He looked to be choking and unsure whether to hit this madwoman or surrender to her clasp.
Celia approached and her mother fearing she would lose her prize held tighter to the poor man. ‘Mamma,’ Celia said, leaning close to her mother, ‘leave him.’ But her plea fell on to an ear that was deaf to it. Raising her voice sharply to a level I had never heard, Celia said, ‘Mamma,’ once more. Some in the crowd began to see this as a comical situation – an airman off to fight for the Mother Country terrorised by a lunatic woman attached to his chest. But Celia was shamed. Humiliation flowed through every grimace and frown as she started to pull her mother from the man, her mother kicking and batting her away, all the time saying, ‘Winston, don’t you know me? Is Evelyn.’
Another airman broke rank to help with this struggle. Then another and another. Three uniformed men were trying to remove this wriggling woman, while restricting their hands to touch her only on those parts that would not offend her modesty. The little pink dress she wore ripped this way and that as she strained to keep her grip. Her wig slipped over her eyes then fell to the ground. I retrieved it from under a large boot, while Celia, in what looked to be a well-practised manner, began peeling her mother’s arm from around this beleaguered man.
All the time his fellow airmen taunted him, ‘What you do to her, man? You look too young. You one for the ladies?’ And a sergeant paced up to see the commotion, which was holding up the march. Finally, in a composed desperation, this young man said quietly to the top of Celia’s mother’s head, ‘My name is not Winston, ma’am. I am Douglas.’ As quickly as she grabbed him she had let him go. And scattering the crowd as she ran, this vagabond, fluttering pink and black, disappeared.
It was in contravention of most of the college rules for a pupil to be seen in town dragging an hysterical woman (who was wearing two dresses) from around the chest of a marching airman. In public, no eating, no running, no singing, no spitting and no loud chatter was allowed. As teachers in training our behaviour outside the walls of the college was expected to be as exemplary as if we were still under the watchful gaze of the principal. It was true that I had eaten no food and that Celia and I did not sing during this ordeal. But we had run after her mother. We had shouted for her to wait, to come back, to stop. We had held up traffic as we struggled to pull her from a bus and I had spat on to the road when the dusty wig I was holding was accidentally pushed into my mouth in a scuffle. This list of in-town rules – no eating, no running, no singing, no spitting and no loud chatter – was recited like an incantation by the principal every day at assembly. So when I was summoned to Miss Morgan’s study I feared that news of this fracas had reached her ears. For Ivy May had heard the tale – her smiling on me as she passed saying, ‘Hortense, I see you meet Celia’s mother, then,’ before going on her way, giggling. So I had my excuse. It was Celia! It was she who met me from the school. It was she who led me to the parade. It was she who, having spent a morning with her crazy mother, left the door open that allowed her to follow. And it was she who insisted we get her mother back to the house of her aunt before returning to the college. All these misdeeds were the fault of Celia Langley. It was she who, like a devil at my shoulder, had led me from the path of righteousness.
For fifteen minutes I paced outside the principal’s study assuming Celia would soon arrive to walk up and down with me. But she was not by my side when ‘Enter’ was called. I took comfort in her absence – she would not be present to hear me cite her name as reason for every rule I had transgressed. She could not gawp on me like I was committing some betrayal or contradict me by saying she had not asked me to follow and that I did so because I was inquisitive about her deranged mother.
The desk at which the principal sat was not big enough for her. Like an adult at a school desk made for a child I was afraid when she lifted herself from it that it would be stuck to her front like an apron. What desk could accommodate the majesty of this Welshwoman?
‘Hortense Roberts?’ the principal asked.
‘Present, Miss Morgan,’ I said stupidly, as if answering the roll-call. It was as she looked up at me that I noticed both her eyes were not, as I had always believed, blue. One and a half eyes were blue. The left eye was half blue and half light brown. It was my sharp intake of breath that made her enquire if I was quite well. ‘Yes, thank you, Miss Morgan, quite well,’ I replied, keeping my gaze away from the peculiar eye.
‘Hortense Roberts,’ she repeated, in a manner that made me ready my excuse. It was Celia, Celia, Celia, I was about to plead. But instead of the anticipated chastisement the principal showed me a letter. ‘This is for you. I am afraid it has been opened as it was actually addressed to the principal. But it’s certainly meant more for you than for myself. Please – read the letter.’
It was from Miss Ma. The letter began with an elaborate five-line apology for taking up the time of such a busy and distinguished person as the principal. ‘However,’ it went on, ‘I and my husband, Mr Philip Roberts, would be in your debt if at your own convenience and in a manner you deem fitting, you could perchance relay a message to Miss Hortense Roberts, whom I believe is a trainee teacher still in the first year at your establishment.’ I recognised the careful script with its flourish that looped at the top of the h and curved at the base of the g. ‘The message concerns a Mr Michael Roberts, who is our eldest and only son and with whom the aforementioned Miss Hortense Roberts is acquainted.’ Precious news of Michael! My legs nearly buckled under me at reading his name. I had heard nothing of him since his departure for England. And here on these small, folded pieces of white paper his life was lifting before me anew. He had been sent at first to Canada to train for the RAF. And, typical of Michael, was awarded the highest marks and sent to England without delay to join a squadron as an air-gunner.
‘Sit down if you feel the need,’ the principal told me. And I did. It was a rare privilege to sit on this padded seat designed for dignitaries. This chair, having been sent all the way from England on a ship, seemed a befitting throne to read news about Michael.
The letter carried on:
Our son, Michael Roberts, was dispatched with his squadron on an operation the consequence of which was to find him perambulating in the skies above the country of France with the enemy residing below. Mr Roberts and I have recently been in receipt of a missive from the War Office in London, England. This authority has informed us that while our son, Michael Roberts, was performing his duty for the Mother Country, the aeroplane on which he was travelling was unaccountably lost.
The meticulous script began to deteriorate, its poise transforming into a childlike scribble with the words: ‘Mr Roberts and I have been informed by the War Office in the said London, England, that we should at this stage in the proceedings consider our son, Michael Roberts, to be officially missing in action.’
The strange eyes of the principal were on me when I looked up from the letter. ‘Thank you, Miss Morgan,’ I said.
‘You were
acquainted with this young man?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘We grew up together.’
She nodded in the sage way I had come to know well. ‘I am pleased to see you are taking this news in a befitting manner. It does not do to get too emotional on these occasions. True grief is silent.’
‘Oh, Miss Morgan,’ I said, ‘any news of Michael Roberts is a joy to my ear.’
Coughing genteelly into her hand she shuffled a sheet of paper from one side of the desk to the other. ‘I don’t think that you have altogether understood the significance of this letter. The young man . . .’ she said, shuffling the paper back to the other side.
‘Michael Roberts,’ I said.
‘Michael Roberts, yes. This young man has been officially reported as missing.’ She spoke slowly, emphasising each word with a small jab of her index finger pressed against her thumb.
‘Oh, he will soon turn up,’ I assured her. ‘I know Michael. He is always off doing some mischief.’
Closing her eyes, she leaned her head forward on to her two hands, which were clasped together as if in prayer. ‘Miss Roberts, there is a war on. When the family of a serviceman is told that their relative is missing in action, the intention is to prepare them for the news that the young man may be dead.’
‘The letter says nothing of him being dead,’ I said, but foreboding was trembling my hands.
‘God willing he is not dead. But prepare yourself and take comfort in the fact that many people, of whom I am one, believe that no matter what their colour, no matter what their creed, men who are fighting to protect the people of Great Britain from the threat of invasion by Germans are gallant heroes – be they alive or dead.’