Small Island

by Andrea Levy

  ‘I am a teacher,’ I said, intending to carry on with some further explanation. But I was startled to find myself timorous in this woman’s friendly presence. My voice faltered into a tiny squeak. I took a moment to cough into my hand. Having composed myself I began again. ‘I am a teacher and I understand this is the place at which I should present myself for a position in that particular profession.’ Through this woman’s warm smile I detected a little confusion. Too well bred to say ‘What?’ she looked a quizzical eye on me, which shouted the word just as audibly. I repeated myself clearly but before I had completed the statement the woman asked of me sweetly, ‘Did you say you are a teacher?’

  ‘I am,’ I said. My own smile was causing me some pain behind my ears but still I endeavoured to respond correctly to her generosity. I handed her the two letters of recommendation which I had taken from my bag in anticipation of their requirement. She politely held out her slim hand, took them, then indicated for me to sit. However, instead of studying the letters she merely held them in her hand without even glancing at their contents.

  ‘What are these?’ she asked with a little laugh ruffling up the words.

  ‘These are my letters of recommendation. One you will see is from the headmaster at—’

  Interrupting me, her lips relaxed for just a moment before taking up a smile once more, ‘Where are you from?’ she asked. The letters were still held in mid-air where I had placed them.

  ‘I am from Jamaica,’ I told her.

  She was silent, we both grinning on each other in a genteel way. I thought to bring her attention back to the letters. ‘One of the letters I have given you is from my last post. Written by the headmaster himself. You will see that—’

  But once more she interrupted me: ‘Where?’

  I wondered if it would be impolite to tell this beguiling woman to read the letter in her hand so all her questions might be answered. I concluded it would. ‘At Half Way Tree Parish School,’ I told her.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In Kingston, Jamaica.’

  She leaned back on her chair and instead of opening the letters she began playing with them – flicking the paper against her fingers. ‘And where did you train to be a teacher?’ she asked me.

  Her comely smile belied the rudeness of her tone. And I could not help but note that all gladness had left her eye and remained only at her mouth. ‘I trained at the teacher-training college in Constant Spring, under the tutelage of Miss Morgan.’

  ‘Is that in Jamaica?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was relief that tipped her head to one side while she let out a long breath. I eased myself believing everything was now cleared between us. Until, leaning all her ample charm forward, she told me, ‘Well, I’m afraid you can’t teach here,’ and passed the unopened letters back to me.

  I was sure there had been some misunderstanding, although I was not clear as to where it had occurred. Perhaps I had not made myself as understood as I could. ‘If you would read the letters,’ I said, ‘one will tell you about the three years of training as a teacher I received in Jamaica while the other letter is concerned with the position I held as a teacher at—’

  She did not let me finish. ‘The letters don’t matter,’ she told me. ‘You can’t teach in this country. You’re not qualified to teach here in England.’

  ‘But . . .’ was the only sound that came from me.

  ‘It doesn’t matter that you were a teacher in Jamaica,’ she went on, ‘you will not be allowed to teach here.’ She shook the letters at me. ‘Take these back. They’re of no use.’ When I did not take them from her hand she rattled them harder at me. ‘Take them,’ she said, so loud she almost shouted. Her smile was stale as a gargoyle. My hand shook as it reached out for the letters.

  And all I could utter was ‘But—’

  ‘Miss, I’m afraid there really is no point your sitting there arguing with me.’ And she giggled. The untimely chortle made my mouth gape. ‘It’s not up to me. It’s the decision of the education authority. I can do nothing to change that. And, I’m afraid, neither can you. Now, I don’t mean to hurry you but I have an awful lot to do. So thank you for coming.’

  Every organ I possessed was screaming on this woman, ‘What are you saying to me?’

  She went back about her business. Her face now in its normal repose looked as severe as that of the principal at my college. She picked up a piece of paper, wrote something at the top. She looked to another piece of paper then stopped, aware that I was still there.

  ‘How long is the training in England?’ I asked her.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, pointing a finger at the door.

  ‘Must I go back to a college?’

  ‘Really, miss, I have just explained everything to you. You do speak English? Have you not understood me? It’s quite simple. There is no point you asking me anything else. Now, please, I have a lot to do. Thank you.’

  And she smiled on me – again! What fancy feigning. I could not stand up. My legs were too weak under me. I sat for a little to redeem my composure. At last finding strength to pull myself up, I told this woman, ‘I will come back again when I am qualified to teach in this country.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you do that. Goodbye.’

  As I stood she rolled her eyes with the other women in the room. But I paid them no mind. I fixed my hat straight on my head and adjusted my gloves. ‘Thank you and good day,’ I called to them all, as I opened the door to leave. Each woman returned that pantomime greeting as if I had meant it. I opened the door and walked through. Suddenly everything was dark. I was staring on a ladder, a mop and a broom. I put out my hand and touched shelves stacked with bundles of paper. For one moment I wondered how I would find my way out through this confusion. Only when my foot kicked against a bucket did I realise I had walked into a cupboard. I had stepped in with all the confidence I could grasp, while the women watched me.

  All three were giggling when I emerged from the dark of the closet. One behind a hand, another with a sheet of paper lifted up so I might not see. The older woman was, of course, smiling but pity encircled the look. ‘It’s that door,’ she said, pointing her spiky finger at the other wooden opening. I thanked her, bade them all good day once more and passed through the correct exit, untroubled by the sound of their rising laughter.

  Fifty-one

  Gilbert

  It was in bewilderment that Hortense walked from the place. Clutching her bag, her head held high. Four strident steps she took before she stop to look about her. Dismayed, she stand, fingers trembling at her mouth. She change direction for two steps. Then stop once more. She look up the street one way, then down the street the other. A paper drop from her hand on to the ground. She stoop to pick it up. Then bump against a big man who call at her, ‘Oi, watch where you’re going.’ And the paper slip from her again. She chase it. Struggling with the clasp from her handbag she stuff the paper in before she start anew. Four paces this way then two paces the other.

  I call out to her, she see me. All at once this woman finally know which way she is going. Anywhere that is away from me. Tripping along the road I try to keep a steady course beside her.

  ‘How you get on?’ I asked. She dodged round me to walk on. ‘They tell you you have a job?’ She feigned a deaf ear. And, man, she is walking faster than any Jamaican ever walk except when they run. I have to call after her, ‘Hortense,’ for I was out of puff. ‘What they say to you?’ Still this woman has no word for me. Cha. I am following on behind her like a lame dog. ‘Wait, nah,’ I called. She quicken her pace. So, as Auntie Corinne taught me when chasing a chicken round the yard, I make a jump to grab this woman. Two hands I use to seize her then swing her round to face me. ‘Wait,’ I said. Stiff as a rod of iron, her neck twisted misshapen to turn her eye from me. ‘So what they say?’ I asked. Suddenly she look on me, her nose go up in the air and, man, I am ready to duck. Aah, I knew that look.

  ‘Why you ask me all these question? What
business is it of yours?’

  What little wind was left in me she cause to expel. Come, this was a good question. Why was I asking anything of this wretched shrew? I was ready to walk away. Plenty boys would by now be chasing the next pair of pretty legs that passed their eye, not wasting their time listening on a lashing tongue. So why I bother to say, ‘You are my wife,’ only for her to look on me like this was one pained regret?

  ‘Leave me alone. I can look after myself. I was doing it for many years before you came along . . .’

  So what was it? A quickening breath? A too-defiant shrugging shoulder? The gentle pout of her lip? Who can say? But something beg me stay. ‘Hortense, no more cuss me. Tell me what ’appen.’

  She purse her lip tight. Cha, I could do nothing but shake her. Not hard, for I am not a brute. But I rattle on her bone. It was the teardrop that splash on my lip, warm with salt, that cause me stop. She was crying. Steady as a rainpipe, the crystal water ran from her eye. She start contorting again to hide her face from me. A woman passing by begin staring on us. But it was not concern for Hortense’s welfare, she was just ready to walk a wide circle around we two.

  ‘What happen?’ I asked her.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  So I tell her, ‘Nothing is a smile, Hortense. You no cry over nothing.’

  And the woman scream, ‘Nothing,’ at me again.

  Man, let her burn. Come, this was probably the first time the woman’s cheek ever felt a tear. She was insufferable! I walked away. Two paces. Then a hesitant third before I turned to look back on her. She was snivelling and trying with all her will not to wipe her nose on her good white glove.

  I thought to smile when I hear it: Hortense reeling wounded after a sharp slap from the Mother Country’s hand. Man, I was ready to tell her, ‘Pride comes before a fall.’ To leap around her rubbing me hands while singing, ‘Now you see . . . I tell you so . . . you listening now.’

  But her breath rose in desperate gasps as she mumbling repeated over, ‘They say I can’t teach.’

  Come, no pitiful cry from a child awoken rude from a dream could have melted a hard heart any surer.

  I guided her to a seat in a little square, she followed me obedient. So did a little scruffy boy whose wide eye perused us all the way. Softly delivered in my ear, Hortense informed me that she was required to train all over again to teach English children. And I remembered the last time I saw Charlie Denton. My old RAF chum grinning on me because he was happy he said, oh, he was tickled pink that he had become a teacher of history. Now, let me tell you, this man once argue silly with me that Wellington had won the battle of Trafalgar Square. And yet there was he, one year’s training, and they say he can stand before a classroom of wriggling boys to teach them his nonsense. Hortense should have yelled in righteous pain not whimper in my ear. And still the goofy boy was staring on us. ‘Shoo,’ I told him. He poked out his tongue and wiggled his big ear at me, then ran away. But other eyes soon took his place. An old man was so beguiled by Hortense that, gaping on us, he leaned his stick into a drain and nearly trip over. A curly-haired woman crossed her eyes giddy with the effort of gawping. A fat man pointed, while another with a dog tutted and shook his head. Come, let me tell you, I wanted to tempt these busybodies closer. Beckon them to step forward and take a better look. For then I might catch my hand around one of their scrawny white necks and squeeze. No one will watch us weep in this country.

  ‘What you all see?’ I shouted on them. ‘Go on, shoo.’

  Hortense’s hat had slipped forlorn on her head, just a little, but enough to show this haughty Jamaican woman looking comical. I straightened it for her. She composed herself, dabbing her eye with the tip of her white-fingered glove. I got out my handkerchief so she might wipe her face. However, this item was not as clean as it might have been. For several days I had been meaning to wash it but . . . Hortense held it high between her finger and thumb to pass it back to me. As she took out her own handkerchief from her bag, I saw the pretty white cloth had Sunday embroidered on it. ‘You have the wrong day there,’ I told her. Then, oh, boy, she blew her nose into that poor cloth with the force of a hurricane, before telling me quietly, ‘I walk into a cupboard.’

  ‘Why you do that?’ I asked her.

  ‘I thought it was the door to leave by.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  ‘But it was a cupboard and the women all laugh on me.’

  My mind conjured the scene but instead of laughing hearty on the joke of this proud woman’s humiliation, my heart snapped in two. ‘And tell me,’ I said, ‘what was this cupboard like?’

  Her expression flashed ‘What is this fool man saying?’ but she answered, ‘There was a bucket and perhaps a mop.’

  ‘Ah. Now, that was a broom cupboard. I have walked into many broom cupboards.’ Reddened and moistened with tears, her eyes gazed upon me. And I believe this was the first time they looked on me without scorn. Two breaths I skipped before I could carry on. ‘It true! I walk into broom cupboard, stationery cupboard . . .’

  ‘This one had paper in also.’

  ‘Interesting cupboard,’ I told her. ‘You say it have broom and paper.’ And then it happen.

  She smiled.

  I felt sure Hortense had teeth that sharpened to a point like a row of nails. But they did not. They were small, dainty-white with a little gap in the front two. Come, could it be true that I had never before seen her smile? I thought carefully of what I should say next – for I feared a rogue word might chase away that astonishing vision. ‘How long you say you stay in this cupboard?’ I asked. And, oh, boy, that smile take on a voice – she giggle.

  ‘Enough time for me to know that I am not dead but I am merely in a cupboard.’

  ‘Long time, then.’

  She laughed and I swear the sky, louring above our heads, opened on a sharp beam of sunlight. ‘Enough time for them to think me a fool.’

  ‘Ah, well, that is not so long, then.’ Man, I had gone too far. No sooner were those rascal words said than I wanted to scoop them back up and stuff them in me big mouth. Like an apparition all trace of mirth vanished.

  ‘Are you teasing me, Gilbert Joseph?’ she said. I was ready to throw myself to the ground and have her walk across me. But the cloud passed. Playful, she hit my arm.

  ‘What you do when you come from the cupboard?’ I carefully carried on.

  ‘I left the room.’

  ‘You say anything to the women who were laughing on you?’

  ‘What was there to say?’

  ‘You must tell them that was an interesting cupboard.’

  ‘You are fool.’

  ‘It is what I would have said.’

  ‘That is because you are a fool. No. I should have told them that their cupboard was a disgrace.’

  ‘Yes. Good.’

  ‘Because it was. It needed to be tidied. I bang me foot on a bucket.’

  ‘Wait. Cha! You tell me you hurt your foot because these people cannot keep their cupboards in a tidy manner? You should tell them that you are used to clean cupboards where you come from.’

  ‘But I am.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt you there, Miss Mucky Foot.’

  Her face was so pretty wearing merry, I wanted to kiss it. But no, no, no, no. Don’t get carried away, man. One thaw is not the summer. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, for I had an idea that might prolong this glad weather, ‘you wan’ see the King?’

  While Hortense looked out from the top of the bus at the city around her, I gazed at her. So roused was she at every site the bus passed even her well-bred composure could not keep her voice from squealing: ‘Look, this is Piccadilly Circus. I have seen it in books. The statue is called Eros.’ Gleeful, her head spun with the effort of seeing. And everything her glad eye rested upon she pointed out to me. ‘Gilbert, can you see? That is the Houses of Parliament and the big clock is called Big Ben.’ Although I had seen all these sights many times before, I too spun my head to feign elation. So
pleased was she with her view from the top of the bus, she held her hands as if on a steering-wheel, saying, ‘You can pretend you are the driver of the bus from here.’ However, excitement for that particular experience I could not affect. The driver of a bus – oh, God! – with my luck, one day I probably would be.

  A cheeky pigeon in Trafalgar Square deposited his business on the sleeve of her coat. ‘You have your handkerchief?’ she asked me.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ I said, ‘but what happen to your Sunday cloth?’

  ‘But mine is a good handkerchief and yours is filthy rag,’ she told me. She have me there. Wiping off the muck she shrieked as two more birds landed on her head. ‘Get them off me – I don’t like them.’ She ran a small circle flapping her hands to scare the birds from her head.

  ‘So now you need my help?’

  ‘Gilbert, please.’

  I brushed them from her. ‘What you think of Nelson?’

  ‘He has too many birds,’ she said.

  Reverent as the devout before an altar, she gasped, astonished at Buckingham Palace. ‘It is magnificent,’ she said. A small girl carrying a doll touched Hortense’s arm then ran away. No sooner was she gone than a small boy followed. Feeling his touch, Hortense looked around. ‘Yes?’ she asked the little boy.

  He stared up into her face with that same expression she had used for the royal palace. ‘You’re black,’ he told her before running off. Hortense, all at once aware of people around her, straightened her hat and pulled at her gloves.

  ‘You like the palace?’ I asked her.

  Stiff and composed she replied, ‘I have seen it in books.’

  ‘People always stare on us, Hortense,’ I told her.