Gilbert’s side of the congregation was made up of his cousin Elwood, who was his best man, and Elwood’s ageing mother. Elwood was the cousin who lost the bees, a tall lolloping man who spent the service swatting away flies from his face with such regularity I thought him waving to me. His mother, an old woman with a face as sour as tamarind, sat poking her son, asking, ‘Who is he marrying?’ through most of the ceremony.

Mr and Mrs Anderson and their two sons made up my wedding guests. But after the service was completed all they wanted to say to me was ‘Where’s Celia?’ No word of congratulations or comment on my attire, just what a shame Celia could not come – she being such a good friend to me. They liked Celia, they told me. They had been looking forward to seeing Celia. And could I tell them again why Celia had not come to my wedding? I did not utter a word, for what business was it of theirs that my erstwhile friend now chose to ignore me? When they had exhausted me with these questions they started on Gilbert, who told them, ‘I have not seen Celia for a long time. Hortense tells me her mother is ill. It is a pity she could not come, I would have liked to see Celia one more time before I left.’

On returning to the Andersons’ house the family insisted on making Gilbert and I a party, no matter how I protested. Mr Anderson perused his records asking, ‘Gilbert, you like Count Basie?’

‘Basie is the best.’

Mrs Anderson brought a mound of chicken from the kitchen and placed it before Rosa, who asked, before devouring, ‘Where is Celia? Such a lovely girl. Where is Celia, Myrtle?’

‘You must ask Hortense. She is her friend.’

Luckily the old woman was not interested in asking anything of me – she was more concerned to begin her nibbling and gnawing. But for once I paid this intolerable situation no mind, realising that I would soon be living in England and able to rise far above these people, higher than any disdain could ever take me. It was of no significance to me that the wedding present from Elwood and his unpleasant mother was a not-quite-full jar of honey. I thanked them, told them it was a pleasure to meet them and wished them good day as they left.

What did it matter to me that the tuneless music was so loud my head throbbed? Or that the man I had married was prancing around the room screeching while the two little Anderson boys stood one on each of his feet, clinging to his legs, calling out for everyone to watch them? I did not care that on eight occasions I had to find an excuse for why I would not dance as everyone else was. Or that Mrs Anderson painfully landed her abundant backside on me after a complicated step and spin from her husband.

‘You like Ellington, Gilbert?’

‘Ellington is the best.’

I only smiled when Mr Anderson, leaning on Gilbert, both of them drunk on rum and giggling like schoolgirls, finally said, ‘Gilbert, you know nothing about jazz, do you?’

‘Well you have me there. No.’ Then, as they toasted each other, Gilbert, now leaning on Mr Anderson, said, ‘And let me tell you one more thing – I caan dance. But, hush, do not tell Hortense. You see how this woman likes a party? She will regret marrying a man who has two left feet.’

So when I said, ‘Gilbert, don’t you have to get ready for your trip tomorrow?’ and everyone looked at me, I was not as embarrassed as I might have been.

Even when Mr Anderson winked at Gilbert, slapped his back and said to me, ‘Of course, Hortense, you want to get your husband on his own on your wedding night.’ And Mrs Anderson clapping her hands squealed with amusement.

Gilbert came to the room with two boys still clinging to his legs. ‘You must go, boys. I have to play with my wife now.’

He tried to peel them off but they clung tighter, rattling with childish laughing. Mrs Anderson had to be called. She came into the room, grabbed the boys and tucked one under each of her arms. ‘Come, we must leave,’ she told them. Looking to me she smiled, saying, ‘Hortense has something she must show Gilbert.’ Then, with both boys howling, she took them from the room.

‘So we are alone,’ Gilbert said.

He had just one small bag. One small bag for someone travelling so far to start a new life in England. ‘Is this all you have?’

He looked to his meagre luggage, then said, ‘And I have you, of course, Hortense.’

I took a breath before asking, ‘You will call for me? You won’t get to England forgetting all about me and leave me here?’

He came closer to me from across the room. He put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Of course not – we have a deal. You are my wife.’

‘There may be women who will turn your head in England.’

‘Hortense,’ he said, holding me firmer, ‘we have a deal. I give you my word I will send for you.’

Then, for the first time, he kissed me gently on my mouth. His breath smelt of rum but his lips were warm and soft against mine. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again he kissed me once more but this time the man poked his wet slippery tongue into my mouth. I choked finding myself sucking on this wriggling organ. I could not breathe. I backed away from him, panting with the effort of catching my breath.

Turning away, I took off my hat to place it delicately in the cupboard. I could have been no more than five seconds but when I turned back Gilbert stood before me as naked as Adam. And between his legs a thing grew. Rising up like a snake charmed – with no aid, with no help – it enlarged before my eyes, rigid as a tree trunk and swelling into the air. I could do nothing but stare.

‘Come to me, Hortense,’ this man said, holding out his arms for me.

I was going nowhere near that thing. ‘What is that?’

‘What this?’ he said, modelling it for me like it was something to be proud of. ‘This is my manhood.’

‘Keep that thing away from me!’ I said.

‘But, Hortense, I am your husband.’ He laughed, before realising I was making no joke. The fleshy sacks that dangled down between his legs, like rotting ackees, wobbled. If a body in its beauty is the work of God, then this hideous predicament between his legs was without doubt the work of the devil.

‘Do not come near me with that thing,’ I screamed.

Gilbert crossed the room in two steps to place his hand over my mouth. ‘Ssh, you want everyone to hear?’

I bit his hand and while he leaped back yelping I, trembling, ran for the door.

‘Hortense, Hortense. Wait, wait, nah.’ He sprang at the door, closing it with a slam. And as he stood panting before me I, terrified, could feel that thing tapping on me as a finger would.

But Gilbert’s hands surrendered into the air and that wretched ugly extremity began deflating, sagging, drooping, until it dangled, flip-flopping like a dead bird in a tree. He held his palms up, ‘Okay, okay, I will not touch you, see,’ then, glancing down, cupped his hands over his disgustingness. ‘It’s gone, it’s gone,’ he said.

He struggled into his trousers hopping round the room like a jackass while saying, ‘Listen, listen to me.’ Buttoning his trousers, he tried to look into my face. ‘Look at me, Hortense, look at me, nah.’ When I finally looked on him he let out a long breath. Calming himself he began, ‘Good, now listen. You listening to me?’ As I turned my face away, he tenderly took my chin and moved it back to him. ‘You sleep in the bed and I will sleep here on the floor. I will not touch you. I promise. Look – I will give you my RAF salute.’ He stepped back saluting his hand to his forehead, smiling, showing me his gold tooth. ‘There, that is a promise from a gentleman. I will sleep on the floor. And tomorrow I will rise early, go to the ship and sail to the Mother Country for us both. Because, oh, boy, Miss Mucky Foot,’ he shook his head slowly back and forth, ‘England will need to be prepared for your arrival.’

Eight

Hortense

‘Tell me, Mrs Joseph, how long you say your husband been in England without you?’