Our inquisitive group was impelled, slipping and tripping, backwards. I could no longer see her but I called out to Queenie as an MP, his baton thrusting hard into my chest, his face pressing close to mine, hot breath breaching my cheek delivered the words, ‘Get away from her, nigger.’ Only now did I experience the searing pain of this fight – and not from the grazing on my face or the wrench in my shoulder. Arthur Bligh had become another casualty of war – but come, tell me, someone . . . which war?

Eighteen

Gilbert

A group of boys jumped lively from the dock into the sea. Gangly arms and legs black against the fine blue sky they soared for a moment like an explosion of starfish. They dived to catch the coins thrown for them from the side of the ship by the first-class passengers. A uniformed band from the First Jamaican Battalion played we returning West Indian RAF volunteers down the gangplank and on to the dock. Who knows what tune they were performing for a thief of a breeze carried this welcome off into less deserving ears. Some of the men wept to feel home under their feet at last. The Blue Mountains folding on the horizon, Kingston dappling in sun and shade. Heads turned, drinking in the curiosity of this well-known vista now unfamiliar to them. Standing to attention for the last time the governor, dressed in his colourful finery, wished us all well. He promised us two months’ pay and our discharge papers, then thanked us for our valuable military service. We were demobilised.

I carried home with me the tatty yellowing cuttings from the newspaper. ‘London Man Killed in US Army Incident’, the headline proclaimed. Letters in the paper asked how many of these ructions the British people were meant to suffer before the US military authorities took their boys in hand. It was a big story – thought a terrible accident. Picture of a distressed Queenie – mistakenly considered the victim’s daughter. Another of Arthur: composed, pipe in hand, this old photograph showed a young English gentleman. At fifty-four I had thought him an old man. Arthur Bligh, it was reported, had been unfortunate to receive a bullet fired with the intention of quelling a vicious brawl. According to several newspapers, GIs about to be posted overseas were angry when the film show they were watching broke down. On evacuating the picture house a fight had ensued. The MP, carrying out his duty, fired a warning shot into the air. The second shot aimed likewise at no one was accidentally diverted when the MP stumbled. It hit Arthur in the head – to be precise in the left jaw – killing him instantly. The funeral was attended by immediate family and a representative from the US Army. An obituary stated that a son, Bernard, was in the forces overseas under the SEAC command. There was no more word about what happened to the MP; there was no reporting of a trial. A letter appearing in a newspaper hinted at the segregation and bad treatment black GIs received from their fellow countrymen. It went on to congratulate we British for being more civilised.

I was posted the day after the incident – moved to Cornwall that verynext morning. Then Scotland. Then Filey. Then Cornwall again. I had written to Queenie – several letters, each one taking me care to compose. How was she recovering? Was she well? Might I not be allowed to visit with her? No replies came. If, in my wildest imaginings, I believed that the military authorities ever puzzled over this West Indian RAF volunteer, then I would conclude that my postings were intended to keep me as far from Queenie Bligh as was possible.

I had waited two years since the war’s end for a ship that could carry me back to the island of Jamaica for a hero’s return. Standing through victory parades in England, countless men had slapped my back, joyfully telling me that I could go home now. No more shivering with winter cold – my teeth would have no reason to chatter. Let me forget the dreadful sausage and boiling potatoes. The barracks and the Naafi. And, no, thank you, I do not want another cup of tea. Bring me back sun and lazy, hazy heat – curry goat, spice-up chicken, and pepper-pot soup. Let me meet pretty black-skinned women, round and shapely, ready to take my arm with pride. Let me look upon faces who knew me as a small boy. Come, let me suck me teeth again among kin.

But instead of being joyous at this demob I looked around me quizzical as a jilted lover. So, that was it. Now what? With alarm I became aware that the island of Jamaica was no universe: it ran only a few miles before it fell into the sea. In that moment, standing tall on Kingston harbour, I was shocked by the awful realisation that, man, we Jamaicans are all small islanders too!

As if Mummy had been shaking out her apron strings I found that all my sisters had been scattered, four of them married and journeying to America before the wedding flowers had even lost their bloom. The three with no rings on their fingers had found Canada beguiling – one nursing, one teaching and one a hopeful who-knows. In Chicago Lester was a big man in construction. Excited as a child before Christmas, Mummy was eager to make plain that Lester had no reason to return to this small island. For despite the young boys who came hurrying from all over the district – eager to set their eye on me, a real soldier, returning from war, to have me bark fierce commands that they, enthusiastic, struggled to obey while parading round with their makeshift guns – Mummy and Auntie May looked pity on me for the misfortune of finding myself once more back in their yard.

The shortages of war and money for celebration took a monstrous bite out of their business. Mummy and Auntie May no longer spent their days on cakes but had now turned their talents to the decorating of their hats. These hats were being readied for a journey that would see them visiting all their exiled offspring in America and Canada. Flowers and fruits, bows, feathers and net were expertly attached to plain and old hats so these two blessed women might attend christenings, church services, graduations, house parties or weddings in full hatted dignity. Cheerful, they declared that this lovingly prepared-for trip around North America was a mission that could take them a long, long, long time. While Daddy, frail and old, rocking on the veranda, sipping a sorrel drink laced so potent it could kill a bull, dozed drunkenly, unaware he was about to be abandoned.

‘So what, you no study the law yet, man? Me think you come back a judge.’ Despite his words it was obvious Elwood was pleased to have his boyhood friend home. ‘You no tell me the Mother Country no keep their word? Cha, nah, man, you wan’ me believe the English are liars?’ He laughed so hearty at his own joke, I observed that he had lost several teeth since I last looked down his mocking mouth.

Now, what taunt would my cousin have found if I had told him what had occurred when I had endeavoured to study the law while in England? The Colonial Office had rehabilitation courses designed to see us West Indian RAF volunteers prepared for Civvy Street. Man, I know a chance when it is before me and here was one ripe for picking. Come – the law was on the list. I did not place it there, they did – up there among accountancy and medicine. I made my application. But, let me tell you, so many heads shook I began to think all at the Colonial Office had a nervous tic. Tongues tutted that this common aircraftman should have ideas so high above his station. ‘The law!’ Their eyes laughed as they looked this Jamaican dreamer up and down. My cousin Elwood’s wicked giggling would have done him a mischief if I told him what they offered me instead. Bread-baking. A good profession, plenty jobs. Cha! Bread-baking! How could I tell Elwood this tale without this returning RAF man appearing a complete jackass?

‘You come back at the right time, man,’ Elwood told me. ‘You stop run round to those fool-fool English – we gon’ lick them. Nothin’ gon’ stop us now.’