Forty-nine

Gilbert

‘Winston,’ I say, ‘that you?’

‘Oh, yes, yes – Winston. Let me in, man.’

Even through the wood of the door I knew the man vex. Cha, I come tired out from work dreaming on rest. But every Jamaican boy (and even those from the small islands) had come to learn the wisdom, all for one and one for all, in this Mother Country. Hortense was huddle up on the floor over a pan on the wretched gas ring. Her young back should not have been folded like a crone’s – it should have been standing haughty and straight at a good cooker. But, come, like watching a right-hand person use their left, when she was cooking, she make every movement a torture to behold.

It look like Winston standing before me at the door. But to make sure I ask, ‘You Winston?’

‘Yes, man, Winston,’ he say smiling.

So I invite him in. One second is all and my suspicion is arouse. I introduce Hortense and him just say, ‘Yeah, man,’ before carrying on with a blast of words that nearly knock me from my feet.

‘The man gon’ throw me out, Gilbert. That fool-fool ras clot say I must go. And by morning or him will call on the police. Police, I say – why him need the law on me? I am abiding as I must. He call me darkie and coon, so I tell him him must show respect. Him say him want respect. His house him shout on me until me ear burn with it.’

‘Wow!’ I tell him. ‘Calm yourself, man. Who you talking of?’

‘The landlady husband who cannot find him way home.’ He sat himself hard on the chair, throwing off the ferocious look Hortense sent him for disgracing up her ear with bad language.

‘Winston?’ I ask again.

‘Yeah, yeah, Winston,’ he say, and I know it is Kenneth.

‘You Kenneth, man.’

‘No, Winston, look.’ He show me the back of his hand as if something there that will prove it.

‘What you doing in Winston’s room? Noreen throw you out again?’

‘No cloud up me story, man. Him gon’ throw me out.’

‘Is Winston he is throwing out,’ I tell him. ‘You should be already gone.’

‘You wan’ hear me story or not? I been working, Gilbert. Keeping warehouse and stores.’

My mind could not believe what me ear was hearing. Was there some Englishman so fool-fool that he look upon Kenneth’s tricky eye and slippery finger, then make the conclusion that this man will make a responsible storeman? Too many things in England surprise me but this news – I fall down hard on a chair with my mouth agape. ‘Wait. You tell me someone employ you to look after their stock?’

‘And, let me tell you, man, me do a good job. Counting and keeping and nobody is takin’ away. The boss a-smilin’. No one mess with me. But today is payday. Me rub me hands. I have all sort of work that hard-come-by money must do. I get it in a little brown bag. Man, this envelope so light it could float off if me hand not on it. Hardly any money in there. It them that rob me and not the other way round. So I go to the office to call on them. “Where me money? Most of me money gone,” I tell them. Gilbert, you have any rum because me nerves have been tried today, man?’

Hortense start banging together every pot she find in the room. This man was troubling her. But Kenneth just look to the noise and say, ‘You lucky you have someone to cook you up something nice there.’

‘Yes,’ one half me heart say, and Hortense grant me a look that shrink me skin. ‘Kenneth, come, nah – I am tired. You have a point for me there, man?’

‘I am Winston.’

‘No, you are not.’

‘Okay. You are right there, man. But Noreen throw me out and a brother is a brother. Now where was I? Oh, yes. You know what they tell me when they look on the skinny packet they give me? Tax. I say t’ief. Him say tax. Gilbert, the day is still light and a white man rob me. What you think?’

‘I think, Kenneth, you pay some tax.’

‘What? No, man, they take me money. They tell me one thing I will get, they give me another. They t’ink me a fool can take me money when me eye is still wide. “Silly West Indian raw from the boat,” they say, “he will not know when him being robbed.”’

‘Man, you tellin’ me you never pay tax before? Kenneth, everyone pay tax.’

‘Everyone? White man too?’

‘Everyone. Is tax. The government take it.’

‘What for?’

‘For running the country.’

‘No,’ he say. ‘They t’ieve me. I tell you them rob me. But, man, you know what?’ He beckoned me to whisper but has to shout over the clatter Hortense is making. ‘Me still have the keys . . .’

‘No, man – I don’t wan’ to hear this!’ I tell him. I stand up to show him the door.

‘Wait, man, hush. I not tell you about the fool man downstairs yet. You must listen up – you next.’

I sat back in my seat to rest my chin on my hand.

‘Come, no look so weary, me tellin’ you this for reason, man. You mus’ know what mood is on me as I come through the door of this house. I had just been robbed! I walk through the door and bump into this man. This Queenie’s husband or so him say. I am vex. Maybe I say sorry for knocking him a little. Maybe not. Maybe I tell the man to watch where he is walking. I do not know for I am too concern to remember every little thing I do. Next thing the man is breaking down my door knocking on it so fierce. “You have to leave,” he tell me. “Why?” I say. “The house on fire?” He tell me not to be funny with him. I tell him to go away so I can rest. He hold on to the door and say he need the room. I am polite, Gilbert, I swear on my mummy’s grave. I ask him what he need the room for in such a hurry that he must throw me out. His mouth open a little but nothing come through. I tell him goodnight. And, man, him start to glow red. I never see a human face go that colour. You ever see that, Gilbert, a white man go red? It one strange sight. Suddenly him start screaming he is selling the house. “Now,” I ask him, “you selling the house this minute?” “Tomorrow,” he shout, he want me out tomorrow. This man was so hot I tell him to calm down for his own sake. But he tell me he will not. I do him a favour when I shut the door on him face. One more minute and him would go pop. But him start bangin’ on it again. Shoutin’ through that he will not stand for nonsense. So I open the door and tell him that he must go somewhere else to fornicate. Although, Gilbert, because there is a lady present I am not using the actual word I say. This skinny man start puffing up himself. Him have two fists made. I would kill the man with one blow if I were to punch him. I do him a favour – I push him away. But, man, him so skinny him fall over. I swear I just touch him and him fall down. But I am not a rough man – I make sure he was all right. I stand over him. Wog, darkie, coon – all them words him start use in telling me he want me out. The bad language bring Jean to her door. And for one minute him look on her instead. She look one sight. Eyes rimmed with black and dripping like fingers down her cheek, hair straight up like fright and standing in her underclothes half naked. She start laugh on this puny man sprawled all over the floor. Him get himself up but this time quiet. All is over now, me t’ink. I go back in the room and shut the door.’

Kenneth, finishing his story, look on me for some response. Oh, boy. I lift me head and think to make a joke when I ask him, ‘Is that all?’

My heart take up residence in me boots when he tell me, ‘Well, I may have told him that his wife seem to like the company of black men. Maybe. I cannot remember. Plenty things said in the heat of the situation.’

I know trouble. When it come through the door, it place a hand round a delicate part and squeeze. Man, I had to uncross me leg to release this tension. ‘Why you do that, Kenneth?’

‘Is what I do?’

There was something I recognised on the face of Bernard Bligh. I glimpsed it on that first encounter for only one second, two. But I know it like a foe. Come, I saw it reflected from every mirror on my dear Jamaican island. Staring back on me from my own face. Residing in the white of the eye, the turn of the mouth, the thrust of the chin. A bewildered soul. Too much seen to go back. Too much changed to know which way is forward. I knew with this beleaguered man’s return the days of living quiet in this house had come to an end.