‘I’d thank you to call her Mrs Bligh,’ I said to the cheeky blighter.

He took no notice. Was off again. Wanting to know if Queenie (said it to annoy) also required him to go. I soon shut him up.

‘I’m Queenie’s . . . Mrs Bligh’s husband. It is my house and I wish you to leave.’ I thought that was clear enough but the dimwit asked the same question again. ‘Oh, good God, man,’ I said. ‘Do you understand English? You took advantage of her good nature. But now I’m back we intend to live respectably again. It’s what I fought a war for.’

I thought he was calming down. He took a deep breath. Looked to his feet. Bit his ample lip. Mentioned, almost quietly, that he, too, had fought in the war. I didn’t doubt it. I’d seen colony troops up in Blackpool. Brought over for clerical duties and suchlike. Useful, of course, but hardly fighting men. Apparently all he now required was the chance of a decent life. ‘I dare say,’ I told him. Barely needed to point around the pitiful room but I did. ‘But look at this place – it’s a disgrace.’

The woman started muttering then. Couldn’t understand a word. Just caught something about trying to make the room nice. Nice? I nearly laughed. Those cosy times up here with Ma. A chair in front of a roaring fire. A pot of tea, a muffin each. That was nice. To look at it now made my blood boil.

‘Well, my dear,’ I said, ‘you could try harder.’ I didn’t see it coming, it happened too fast. He pushed me hard on the shoulder. Shouting at me, this bloody darkie, to get out. Nothing for it. Pushed him right back. That bit taller, you see. Sent him reeling. Tried to stay calm. ‘No, it’s you that must get out,’ I informed him. Hotheaded blighters, these dark immigrants. Once they’re woken they’re hard to get back in the bottle. He came back at me. Told me the place was falling down. ‘Rubbish,’ I said. Even Hitler only left it a little shabby. Nothing like the slum these people were hell-bent on. His audacity then astounded. Implied he was a friend of my wife. ‘How dare you?’ I said. ‘A friend? With the likes of you?’ Excitable, these darkies. Worse than the coolies. He started jumping up and down in some blinking war-dance saying something about bloodclots. He was going to bust my head, he said. I should watch my mouth or he would make me into mash. I should be careful what I said next. Shocking behaviour. I was pleased to see Queenie rush through the door, I admit.

‘What’s going on?’ she yelled. She was puffing like a bulldog. ‘What’s all the noise?’

‘I was just telling these – these people they have to leave.’

Wouldn’t even let her catch her breath before he was at her. Demanding to know what was happening. Pleading to a woman. No shame.

‘I’ll thank you to address your questions to me,’ I told him firmly.

‘Shut up,’ Queenie shouted. At me! Took the wind from me, I admit. ‘Let me talk to them,’ she said. Shouldn’t have to hear that from your wife. ‘Now what’s going on up here?’ Especially in front of coloureds.

‘These people have to leave. I won’t have wogs in my house.’

He poked his finger at me then. Told me he’d already warned me to watch my mouth. ‘I’ll say what I like—’ I told him.

But Queenie started to shout. Wants me to be quiet, she said. Put a sock in it. Belt up. Calm down. Good God, where were her loyalties? Taking a darkie’s side over her own husband. He saw it, of course. Jeered at me to listen to my wife. ‘Gilbert, you can shut up too,’ she told him. And not before time.

‘Yes. Get out,’ I said.

Off he went again. As if I had not made the situation absolutely clear. Ranting once more. His room and it’s me who should get out. Pushed me. The blighter. Both women threw themselves between us. But I managed to get an arm out. Gave him a shove. I shouted then, ‘Is this woman your wife or just showing you a good time?’ Caught him better than any punch. All kinds of foul coolie abuse started spitting from him. Darkie woman tried to hold him back. Almost amusing. Except suddenly Queenie gripped her stomach. She was in pain. Face pale and blushing like raspberry ripple. Mouth wide as a cave. She howled fierce as a wild thing. All froze like some ludicrous tableau.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she was whimpering. Bent double with an ‘Oh, God!’ Grabbed out. Caught a handful of the darkie woman.

Concern made me find my voice: ‘What is it, Queenie?’

She was panting, tongue fleshy as steak. Darkie woman tried lowering her on to a chair. She wouldn’t sit, though. Her fist was clenching handfuls of the woman’s coat. Blackie puts out his hand to steady her. ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ I told him. Pushed them both out the way (roughly, I admit). ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’ Managed to take her weight but she was surprisingly heavy. Almost dropped her. He jumped forward, of course, ready to catch. Barely disguised, the lust in his eye. Fingers splayed, he laid both hands on her. ‘Get your filthy hands off my wife,’ I shouted.

She was hysterical, screaming, ‘Get off me!’

Quite.

But it was me she batted away. Force sent me tripping over the trunk. This was absurd.

‘Hortense, you help me,’ Queenie said.

‘Don’t be ludicrous,’ I told her.

Dimwitted darkie girl just pointed at herself. Totally baffled. ‘Me?’

‘You need a doctor, Queenie,’ I said.

I went to help her again but she howled before even my fingertip touched.

‘Hortense. Come on. Help me downstairs. Please.’

I had to push the black again. Lunging forward, he was, to get another feel. He made a fist. Nothing for it – I made two back. Beckoned him on. That bit taller, you see.

‘Stop it,’ Queenie shouted. Straightening up, the darkie woman took her arm. Brown coward dropped his guard. I made a final move to assist Queenie. But she was having none of it. Calm she was. Pleading, ‘Bernard, please, just get away from me.’Then both women staggered from the room like battle casualties.

Fifty-three

Hortense

It was not enough to turn the key in the lock. Mrs Bligh commanded I take a chair to stand on so I might slide along the bolt.

‘Your husband will be locked from his home,’ I informed her.

But my protestations only caused her to say, ‘Good.’

In truth my concern was not with locking him out but incarcerating myself with this writhing woman. I was fearful, for pain was twisting her face ugly. I pleaded to her, ‘We must call a doctor. Please let me call your husband to bring the doctor.’

But she was insistent – only if I followed her instruction could her pain be eased.

‘Can you help me to the bedroom?’

‘Mrs Bligh, please, let me get some assistance.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake – just do as I say, Hortense.’

Two arms she wrapped round my neck in a mighty embrace. I struggled to stay on both feet as I walked her into the required room. She landed hard on the bed. Only briefly did relief spread on her face before she cried out again. I thought to join her – howl up the house until we both were delivered from this misery.

‘Mrs Bligh, I am worried for you, please.’

In response she gave a faint smile. If she had not, I might have slipped to my knees to beg for her to release me. But she took my hand, enclosed all my fingers and said, ‘I know what’s wrong with me.’ She then squeezed them all together as if trying to extract their juice. This time it was not only she who yelled with pain. Releasing my crippled hand she struggled along the bed like a beast. Not only panting but on her hands and knees. She began unbuttoning her cardigan. Shrugging it off with difficulty. Her blouse she almost ripped from her chest, losing several buttons. She wriggled as I helped her pull off her skirt. Her pink slip was wrenched tight across her. She drew it up to her chest, the strain on the seams popping blisters of white flesh through several little openings. I thought to avert my eye for this woman would soon be naked. But to my surprise I saw that, far from revealing her exposed skin, she was bound around the middle with a length of bandage. As she unlocked the knot on the bandage I feared for the injury it would expose. For had her husband not shown himself to be a violent man? The oozing gash from the flick of a knife. The pus-y indents of a vicious bite.