The morning after the people painted the words on the wall of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s house, I sat at the breakfast table with Mum, who kept glancing anxiously out of the window. Mr. Anderson had a hard brush and a plastic bucket of water, and he was scrubbing ferociously with a look on his face that I found frightening. Mum seemed nervous and she would not stop talking.
“I’ll let this pot of tea mash, but meanwhile another round of toast?”
“No, thank you. I am full already.”
Mum could never disguise her disappointment when I politely refused her food. Mike was away driving, and this only made things worse, for it provided her with the opportunity to once again remind me that Mike would always eat everything that she put in front of him. In twenty years of accommodating people, I knew that we were her only two long-term lodgers. Everybody else came and went: businessmen relocating and who were in need of temporary accommodation while looking for a home for their families; executives at conferences; working-men between contracts; or specialists who were required to operate a piece of machinery, or advise on a contract, before returning to the South. Mr. Anderson was able to assist Mum with her business by occasionally providing lodgers with whom he had professional dealings, but Mum told me that her reputation, and being on the council list, ensured that she was never idle. Mum also told me that Mike and I were like the sons that she had never had, but I never encouraged her to develop this thought beyond this one comment.
When Mr. Anderson re-entered his home, he put the bucket and brush down in the corner of the kitchen by the door, dropped an empty dog-food can in the rubbish bin, and then he walked quietly to the sink to wash his hands.
“They had the paint in the dog-food can.”
“Cup of tea, love?” Mum got up from the table and went to the cupboard to get another cup.
“That’d be grand.” Mr. Anderson looked over at me as he dried his hands on the dishcloth. “You doing all right, Solomon?”
I nodded.
“Good.” He came and sat at the table, and Mum placed the cup of tea in front of her husband. “Good.”
Mum now went to the fridge and took out the bacon. Every time she opened the fridge door my heart would leap. I had still not accustomed myself to the fact that inside the door there was milk, fruit, bread and eggs. Everything was free and Mum kept insisting that I should take whatever I wanted. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson appeared to enjoy life in the manner of rich people, but I had learned enough to understand that in England they were ordinary people, and many families were blessed with the good fortune to live as they did.
After Mr. Anderson finished his breakfast we went together to his van to begin the journey to the building site. There was frost on the inside of the glass and I wiped it with the sleeve of my jacket. On this particular morning, without announcing his intention, Mr. Anderson took a different route, and he turned off the road and parked his van in the car park of a country pub. I looked around, but I had little understanding of where we were located, and then I looked across at Mr. Anderson, who was staring away from me and out of the window, as though preparing himself for something that would be difficult. I noticed the cold winter sun finally break through the clouds, and then I saw a reflection of myself in the glass of the car. In this country, I thought, my skin is turning to ash and inside my head is cold like ice. Mum said summer would soon come, but for me it could not come quickly enough. And then Mr. Anderson turned to look at me, and he caught me gazing at my own reflection in the glass.
“Solomon, the first line of defence is prejudice. Once you get past that, there’ll always be a little corner where you can live and be who or what you want to be. But you’ve got to get past that first line, and things are not getting any easier. There’s an awful lot of you, and the system’s already creaking to breaking point. I mean, things are particularly bad if you want to get into one of our hospitals. People are upset.” He looked closely at me now, as though trying to read my thoughts. “You do understand what I’m trying to say to you, don’t you, Solomon?”
I nodded, although I was unsure of what exactly Mr. Anderson was trying to say.
“You see, Solomon, it’s just that this isn’t a very big island and we don’t have that much room. People think that other countries should take you first because we’ve done our bit.” He paused and looked away. “I’m sorry, Solomon, but some folk think these things. That you just want an easy living, or that you have too many children. They think that you don’t really want to work. It’s in their heads and it makes them mad.”
“Who put it there?”
Mr. Anderson turned to look at me, and I could see that he was surprised that I had asked this question. And then his face softened.
“I don’t know, Solomon. I really don’t know.”
We sat together in the car park for many more minutes, but neither of us said anything further, nor did we make eye contact. Mr. Anderson was clearly unsettled by what had happened to his house and he did not know what to do. I now understood that explaining these things to me was a way of explaining them to himself, but the puzzled look on Mr. Anderson’s face suggested that he remained troubled by many questions.
Two days later, Mike returned from a long trip. I sat in my room and I could hear him talking with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. Their voices were low, and I assumed that they were whispering to prevent me from hearing whatever words they were exchanging. In my heart I felt that they were speaking of me, but I could not be sure. And then Mike knocked on my door, and I encouraged him to enter and he sat on the edge of my bed.
“How’s it going, Solomon?”
I smiled, but I said nothing. For a moment all I could hear was the creaking of the bed, and I worried that perhaps Mike had lost his nerve. But then he coughed.
“Look, Mum told me what happened, but you’ve got to understand that some people bring things on themselves, you know. I mean, these days particularly the Indian types.” Mike stopped and sighed, and then he looked at me. “I’m an old traditionalist, Solomon. I want fish and chips, not curry and chips. I’m not prejudiced, but we’ll soon be living in a foreign country unless somebody puts an end to all this immigration. These Indians, they still make their women trail after them, and they have their mosques and temples, and their butcher shops where they kill animals in the basement and do whatever they do with the blood. I mean, they’re peasants. They come from the countryside and most of them have never seen a flush toilet or a light switch. It’s too much for them. And for us. There ought to be some training or they should go back. It’s these kinds of people that cause others to have bad attitudes and to do things like they’ve done to Mum’s wall. I’m not saying they’re right, because they’re not. But I drive around a lot, and I see how people feel, more than what the old folks does. It’s everywhere.” Mike stopped talking and he stared at me, but with a worried look on his face. “You see, you’re in a different situation, Solomon. You’re escaping oppression and that’s different. We’ve got procedures for that. I mean, you’re working. You’re no scrounger. But they don’t know that, and so that’s what happens.” Mike paused. “You do know what I’m saying, don’t you, Solomon?” I looked at Mike and nodded. I knew what he was saying. I understood him.
When my papers finally came through, and the letter arrived informing me that I could legally stay in Britain, Mum insisted that they take me out to a local fish restaurant to celebrate. Mike was away and so it was just the three of us, but I could sense that Mr. Anderson was not altogether comfortable. He looked blankly at the menu and then he eventually told Mum to order for him. Mum could not have been happier and, although she tried not to show it, she was proud of me and regarded my “legal” status as her own personal triumph. I had never before seen her take any alcohol, but with this meal she drank a glass of red wine. Mr. Anderson waited until he had finished his food before he turned to me and asked what I thought I might do now that I had, as he put it, “choice.” I did not know. Nearly one whole year had passed since Mike had brought me to their home, and in that time I had acquired many building skills. I was blessed to be in England, but this life bore no relationship to the one I had known in my own country, and as a consequence I felt as though my new family knew only one small part of me. In truth, only one half of me was alive and functioning. I had tried to talk to the few West Indian people I saw standing on the streets outside Sonja’s Caribbean Takeaway with their dreadlocks and their cans of beer, but they were not friendly and they would often look the other way or shout at me and behave like drunken people. And I had long ago learned that there was little point in attempting conversation with the Indians or Pakistanis, for they were worse than some of the English people. I sat in the fish restaurant and looked at Mr. and Mrs. Anderson and told them that I did not know what I would do now that I had “choice.” Become less lonely? That was all I hoped for. But then it suddenly occurred to me what Mr. Anderson might be suggesting, and I felt stupid. Now that I was legal, they wanted me to leave their home and find somewhere else to live. Their task was complete. Perhaps they had discovered another person to live with them? I could not be sure, but I felt as though Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were letting me go, and so I decided that as soon as I could find a respectful moment I would share with my benefactors the news that it was time for Solomon to move on and that sadly I would now have to leave their blessed home.
I have been here for a month and the villagers are becoming familiar with me. Each evening they see me with my torch, and some among them even speak to me. They rarely say more than “Evening,” but this is enough. It is a beginning. And then this morning I received a letter. I do not usually receive letters. I am looking at it now, on the table in front of me. It is a letter from somebody who is not my friend, but they have signed their name as though I ought to know who they are. The words are ugly and I am unsure what I have done to offend this person, but after the unfortunate incident at Mr. Anderson’s house, and after listening to Mike, I know that this type of person exists. Some of these people worked for Mr. Anderson on the building site, and the boys I met down by the water, they suffer from this mental condition. Unfortunately, the letter loudly proclaims that such people reside in my immediate vicinity. I hold the letter and then turn it over in my hands. I am not afraid of this communication, but it is difficult for me to know what to do. To discard the offending article would probably be the wise decision, but I wish to keep it although I am not sure why. Perhaps to show that I am not afraid. This seems to me to be a fine reason, and so I replace the letter on the table and decide that I will look at it every day. I am not afraid.
As I drive past the bus stop, I see her. I often see her standing by herself at the bus stop. She lives in the house next to me, but she is a private woman. She is very beautiful for her years. A decent woman, who I feel could help the younger women of this country learn how to groom themselves properly. She carries her head high as though she is proud of who she is, and I admire her dignity. Sometimes I secretly watch her from my living room as she sits and stares out of her window. She appears lonely. Mike saved me from the rain like a Good Samaritan, and although it is not truly raining, for only a helpless drizzle wets my windscreen, I feel that it is my duty to stop at the bus stop and rescue this woman. I continue to drive away from the bus stop, but resolve that the next time that I see this woman, I will stop for her. Sadly, I have to confess I have made this promise in the past and I have failed to find the courage to honour it. But I now know that whatever the price I will rescue this woman.
I spend one hour in the town, choosing my shopping for the week. I am happy, for the weather is now becoming very pleasant. In this country, summer comes in the night. A man can go to bed in winter, and when he wakes up nature is once again singing and his skin is warm. I think of this miracle and I am happy. However, for most of my hour in town I am thinking of a plan that will enable me to meet this woman. The truth is, I need to meet more village people. The letter said that these people do not want me in their village, but they do not know me. Perhaps it is my responsibility to get to know them? If I am to make my new life in this village, then it is possible that I have to do more than just sit alone inside my bungalow, or go for the occasional drive in my car. But, after the unpleasantness by the water, I do not like to walk abroad during the day. At night I am obliged to go out, for it is my job, but when I travel at night with a torch it is a different matter, for I imagine that I command respect. I am official.
When I return to the village, I park my car outside the small medical centre at the bottom of the hill. Mr. Anderson informed me that such places are always in need of drivers. He said this to me when he gave me the news that Mike’s car would soon be mine. “It could be a godsend for getting to know people.” Only now do I fully understand his words. The waiting room is empty, but I can see the young nurse sitting behind her desk, for the door to her office is wide open. She looks up and puts down her pen.
“Can I help you, love?”
I do not know if I should enter, or if I should wait and talk to her from where I am standing. I decide to take a few steps forward and risk entering into her office. She points to a seat, and I am relieved that I appear not to have caused her any offence.
“Sit down, if you like. It’s the end of the day and I doubt if I’ll be seeing anybody else.”
I look at this dark-haired woman and realise that she probably imagines me to be a patient.
“I have come to volunteer my services. As a driver.”
“Oh, good. We can always use drivers. I take it you’ve got your own vehicle, have you?”