Authors: Alex Wheatle
“But yuh affe remember dat dey mek ah whole heap of money from de old sugar plantations,” said Cilbert. “From slavery! Dat’s
wha’ buy dem pretty buildings! Me will
never
mix sugar inna me coffee here.”
“Ah mon who keep looking into de past will never realise de great future before him,” said Jacob.
“Dat’s one of Gran’papa Neville sayings,” revealed Hortense.
Smiling, Jacob nodded. “Yes, Custos very wise.”
Changing buses at Victoria bus station, they crossed Vauxhall bridge looking down at the soiled, brown waters. “Is dat where de London people tek ah doo doo?” grinned Jenny.
“Nuh, Jenny,” chuckled Lester. “Dat de River Thames, broader dan any lake inna Jamaica, long like de tales from ah boring story-teller inna no-name village.”
With the bus inching through the streets of south London, Cilbert was fascinated by the sight of chimneys set upon the roofs of terraced housing. He wondered if these countless places were rows upon rows of small factories and half-expected to see workmen with dirty faces and stained overalls go in and out of them. He was about to ask Lester about these strange buildings but decided against it, not wanting to sound ignorant.
Getting off the bus outside Brixton tube station, they heard the vocal strains of the Everly Brothers’ ‘Cathy’s Clown’ from a roadside cafe. Cockney shouts from the nearby market reminded Cilbert of his early days in Kingston purchasing groceries from Papine. White men went by in flat caps smoking cigarettes. A young boy was selling newspapers. The rattling sound of a train passing by over a bridge seemed to shake the ground. Advertisements were painted upon shop walls and windows. Two tramps sat in a corner at the entrance of the tube station. They caught sight of Cilbert and stretched out their hands, silently asking for money. Cilbert looked upon the vagrants and silently sighed. “De only people to acknowledge we are de damn moochers,” Cilbert whispered to himself.
Jenny was comforted by the sight of more black people, most of them headscarfed women who were waiting at bus stops clutching bags of groceries or bustling through the crowds pulling shopping trolleys. Jenny thought they looked bent and ungraceful, unlike
their Kingston counterparts where the poorest woman carried herself like a queen. Dem as miserable as de white people, she thought. “So dis is Brixton,” she said, looking around her not impressed. “Lester, do de people of Brixton get punishment if dem bus’ ah smile?”
“Nuh, Miss Jenny,” Lester laughed, his over-the-top joviality making up for the grim faces around him. “It’s ah working day. People going about dem business, shopping an’ t’ing. Most of de men der ah work. People relax an’ ready dem smile fe de weekend, an’—”
“So, Lester,” interrupted Cilbert who was smarting at the fact that not one single person bid him good morning. “Yuh gwarn to tek we to where we gwarn live or yuh waan we to stan’ up here so an’ loiter an’ talk pure fart?”
“Alright,” said Lester, maintaining his smile. “Follow me. It is quite ah big house me ah tell yuh. T’ree storeys as dey say inna London. Cilbert, yuh an’ Hortense ’ave yuh own room, an’ Jacob an’ Jenny too. Me pay ya deposit already. Pay me back when yuh cyan. De place clean but it ’ave outside toilet.”
“Ah pit toilet?” Hortense asked. “Me come all de way to England to doo doo inna damn pit toilet? Even in Trenchtown me never do dat.”
“Nuh, Miss Hortense. Jus’ ah liccle shack inna de back yard. Me don’t like outside toilet becah when winter come yuh affe brave de cold jus’ fe ah piss. An’ if yuh waan to shit yuh catch one mighty bitch of ah cold breeze ’pon ya bottom. Me notice some of de white people dem ’ave ah piss pot under dem bed. But me don’t like sniffing me own piss when me trying to ketch sleep. Some of de new places ’ave inside toilets an’ some landlords are ’aving dem built.”
“So wha’ is de landlord like in dis place where we gwarn to live?” asked Jacob.
“Nah too bad,” answered Lester. “Ah Misser Sean Skidmore. An Irishmon. Our people get on wid dem alright. Me ’ave ah friend who live inna de basement, Misser Alfred Timoll. He come from Jamaica, Churchpen near Spanish Town. Him saving up to bring
him wife an’ family over. Alfred tell me him never really see Misser Skidmore. It’s Misser Skidmore’s wife, Mary, who run de place, collecting rent. Her mout’ sometime run away wid her like Kingston taxi mon who cyan’t afford new brakes, but she ’ave ah good heart. She has one daughter, name Stella. One sweet girl. She fourteen.”
Walking along Coldharbour Lane, they felt hemmed in by the terraced housing which was built on both sides. They could see tower blocks in the distance. Hortense walked by studying the street’s dwellings and she wondered why there was no bantering and jesting between neighbours. Almost every front door was closed, she observed. She spotted a woman scrubbing her front doorsteps and another who was cleaning her windows. Neither of them returned Hortense’s smile. Hortense wondered if any of the people living here bred chickens in their back yards or pushed vendor carts to a market.
Jacob found the street cleaner than any Kingston road he had seen but he had only watched three men pass by on bicycles. Mebbe most of de people here cyan afford motor cars, he concluded. Watching a woman who was walking a dog, Jacob had to pause and look again. “Dat is very strange,” he remarked. “Yuh ever see anybody walking ah dog wid some kinda rope attached to its neck?”
“Mebbe she’s teking it to market,” guessed Hortense. “Me don’t sight nuh goat yet so mebbe de English nyam curried dahg? Dat mus’ be it. Dey fat up de dahg an’ den sell it. Mebbe dey cook it wid jerk, coriander an’ pepper?”
“Dat is nastiness,” remarked Jenny as Lester caught a fit of the giggles. “Me wonder wha’ else dem nyam?”
“De English mus’ be like de Bajee people dem,” said Cilbert. “Yuh know Bajees, dem nyam anyt’ing including roast monkey an’ fried mongoose.”
Jenny still felt that everything seemed so grey and she felt a cold dampness seeping into her bones. To Jenny, the cloud above still seemed to be inert, as if Massa God was warning her of her desires.
Nuh sun shall sign ’pon ah sinner’s heart
, she recalled her father-in-law
telling her. The London temperature on this day was seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. Two white men were passing by on the other side of the street wearing only T-shirts and drainpipe trousers. They only offered a furtive glance at the Jamaicans.
“Me don’t know how dem white people coulda wear T-shirt an’ marina?” Jenny remarked. “Don’t dey know de sun nah shine bright an’ warm like inna normal country? An’ wha’ kinda hairstyle is dat?”
“Every young white bwai waan to look like Cliff Richard,” said Lester. “An yuh better get used to de cold. De first winter time me was here, me woulda gladly swapped getting up inna de marnin inna de God-cursed cold to sit beside Old Screwface an’ him fire of hell. De snow did look so pretty when me see it fe de first time one marnin. But to step in it! Me never feel me toes again ’til nex’ summer! Me did bawl an’ bawl becah me waan to go home. An’ when de wind blow inna de winter, it pass straight t’rough yuh. Believe me! It’s ah wonder dat me heart never freeze over. One t’ing yuh affe do is buy plenty, plenty warm clothes an’ prepare fe winter.”
Hortense and Jenny both expressed their alarm. Coldharbour Lane was aptly named as far as they were concerned. Cilbert, not paying attention to the conversation, was confused by an advertisement upon a street wall.
Take Courage
, the advert advised in big red letters. Not realising Courage was a brand of beer, Cilbert guessed it was something to do with the church.
Passing Milkwood Road that ran parallel to a railway line and had rows of terraced housing stretching into the distance, they walked fearfully under a low bridge that advertised cigarettes and turned right into Herne Hill Road. The houses here were impressively tall and owned small front lawns, fronted by shaggy hedges. A few head-scarfed women wearing aprons were tending to their front gardens. Windows were open and Hortense spotted a number of people looking out of them. An old man, sitting in a white plastic chair in his front garden, was reading his newspaper. Delivery notes were left on doorsteps for milkmen and visitors were invited to wipe their feet upon rubber and bristled door-mats. Concrete steps
led down to basements and concaved metal rubbish bins only added to Jenny’s feeling of greyness. Jacob spotted more cyclists careering down the hill, one of them wore a white uniform and cap and in his bicycle basket he carried loaves of bread. A slow-moving milk float went the other way, its engine whining as the driver negotiated the incline.
“Dis country mus’ be rich,” Jacob said. “Vendors cyan afford dem own transport. Miss Laura would love one of dem. An’ did yuh see de bread vendor ’pon ah bicycle? He was even wearing ah pretty uniform.”
“Dis is it,” smiled Lester, hoping the new arrivals would be impressed. “Ah nice place to live. In fact, ah very nice place.”
Confidently rapping the letterbox three times, Lester adjusted his hat and readied his smile. Hortense and Jenny both stood behind their husbands as if they were expecting Old Screwface to answer. Instead, a thick-set middle-aged woman emerged. She was wearing a stained apron and a ‘why did you have to interrupt my chores’ look. Jenny noticed a gold cross, attached to a rope chain, nestling upon her generous cleavage as Cilbert reckoned she could be a fair challenge to the professional arm-wrestlers who hustled the bars around Kingston harbour.
“Love of the afternoon to yer, Lester,” Mary Skidmore greeted. “Tell me why is it yer dress every day like yer going to yer wedding?” Mary looked over Lester’s left shoulder. “And yer must be the new arrivals from Jamaica. Well, welcome to Proddy England. I don’t have no time for any chit-chat and how yer do’s because I’m in the back yard beating my rugs. Lester, yer know where the kitchen is so go and make these good people a pot of tea. There are biscuits in the cupboard but don’t take the chocolate ones. They’re for Sean and Sean loves his chocolate fingers.”
Mary about-turned, left the door open and marched along the hallway, her heavy feet almost leaving imprints in the thin brown carpet.
“Well, let’s go in,” invited Lester, inwardly fuming at Mary’s curt welcome.
Hanging from a turquoise-painted wall was a black and white framed photograph of one of the Irish Easter Rebellion leaders, Patrick Pearse. None of the Jamaicans had any idea who he was or what he did, but judging by the mahogany polished frame, they guessed he was someone of great importance to Mary and Sean.
Opposite the staring eyes of Patrick Pearse, Jenny was impressed by a framed photograph of the Pope’s praying hands. Cilbert sneered at it.
They passed a white-painted door on the left hand side that had a wooden cross nailed to it. Jenny assumed it was where Mary and her family lived. Sensing the recently applied polish emitting from the staircase, they were awed by the high ceiling with its elaborate, gloss-painted beading. The staircase itself was dimly lit and had images of Christ lining the wall on the way up. “An’ me t’ought it was jus’ we Jamaicans who are mad wid religion,” Cilbert whispered.
“Nuh, Cilbert,” Jacob smiled. “De Lord has touched people all over de world.”
“De kitchen is jus’ straight ahead,” said Lester. “Me, Jacob an’ Cilbert will carry ya luggage to ya rooms. We’ll soon come.”
Not willing to make the first move, Jenny stood rooted to the spot. Hortense, her tiredness defeating her need to display extravagant politeness, brushed passed her sister, walked down two steps and took a chair beside a square kitchen table. She could see Mary out of a kitchen window, thrashing the life out of a rug upon a washing line. She seemed not to care about the dust that was dancing around her. “She well sturdy,” observed Hortense. “Dat Miss Mary coulda tek de horns of ah mad bull.”
Spotting a dull silver kettle resting upon the cooker, Hortense stood up and filled it with water. Mimicking Miss Martha, Hortense turned to Jenny. “Afternoon tea?”
“Yes please,” answered Jenny, thinking that the refrigerator behind her was large enough to house a shanty town family. “Jus’ de one lump.”
“It’s ah shame we don’t ’ave any bush to place inna de tea,” regretted Hortense. “Me surely need it to help me relax. Mek me sleep good. De journey from de ship really tek ah lot outta me. An’ did yuh see how many people ketch sick ’pon de ship? Me wonder if yuh cyan get bush inna Englan’? Mebbe not becah de sun decide to run away from dis country.”
“Hortense! Don’t speak of such t’ings. We don’t know if bush is illegal here. It’s banned inna Jamaica so me guess it mus’ be banned inna Englan’.”
“Banned? Why could somet’ing be banned dat cyan provide yuh
wid ah liccle restbite an’ mek yuh relax? Back inna Kingston even Miss Martha’s friends did ah love it. Me used to find bush butts inna de ashtray ah marnin time an’ when Miss Martha used to hold dinner party, yuh could nah even see ya way inna de front room.”
Looking around at her surroundings, Jenny remarked, “Hortense, don’t yuh feel strange? Me never been inside ah house dat so quiet. Inna Trenchtown yuh could hear everyt’ing dat ah gwarn. But here? It kinda spooky. Nuh radio playing, nuh children bawling, nuhbody playing ah game of domino wid all de cuss cuss. Nuhbody banging ’pon ya door selling dem wares. It
too
quiet and dis place mek me feel nervous.”
“Oh, Jenny, stop ya fussing! Like Lester say everyone at work. We’ll be alright. Yuh wait an’ see.”
Hortense’s reassuring smile didn’t reach her eyes.
The kettle was whistling by the time Cilbert, Lester and Jacob had returned. Lester found the mugs in a cupboard and everyone took seats around the Formica-covered kitchen table; a bowl containing fruits was placed in the middle – Jenny thought they didn’t look fresh. They could all hear the repetitive
thwacks
from Mary Skidmore’s carpet beater and they all read the Italic-written message hanging from a wall in a shoe-box size frame above the sink.
God Is The Unseen Guest At Every Meal
.
God Listens To Every Conversation. God Reads Your Every Thought
. Jenny momentarily flinched but soon regained her composure.
“As soon as yuh settle in an’ find yaself employment me waan to tek yuh to de West End,” offered Lester to Cilbert, showing off. “Yes, sa. Tek in de sights an’ sounds of London town. Yuh ’ave plenty, plenty clubs. Some of dem dey refuse ah black mon entry but der are clubs like de Flamingo an’ Roaring Twenties dat love ah black mon’s presence. Jacob, yuh cyan come too. Dey even ’ave sound system here. Dis mon from Jamaica dat call himself Count Suckle…”
“Me husband is ah mon of de Lord,” interrupted Jenny. “He
never
go sporting an’ dem kind ah t’ing. We come over here to work hard an’ live good, may Massa God bless we.”
“Jenny, me cyan speak fe meself,” protested Jacob.
Hortense hunted in the other cupboards for the biscuits and once she found them, shared them out. She then fell into her seat, suddenly feeling her exhaustion.
“So me guess yuh nuh waan to walk aroun’ Brixton wid me,” laughed Cilbert.
“Yuh mad?” returned Hortense. “Jus’ tek me to me bed.”
“Yes, I agree,” said Jacob. “Come Jenny, mek I show yuh to our new room.”
“Yuh cyan’t wait ’til me finish me biscuit dem an’ me mug ah tea?”
Cilbert pulled Hortense to her feet and with a massive effort, lifted her into his arms. Unsteadily, he moved along the hallway as Hortense giggled. “Cilby, yuh mek it so
obvious
. Yuh waan to christen me inna me new home, isn’t it? Yuh sure ya back cyan tek de strain?”
“Cilbert,” Lester called as Jenny was inwardly raging with jealousy. “Me will come fe yuh inna de marnin. Me ’ave to tek yuh an’ Jacob to de labour exchange to register. Den to sign up wid de doctor so don’t sleep in too late. Mek sure yuh bring ya papers.”
“Alright, sa,” answered Cilbert, his cheeks still warming to Hortense’s teasing. “T’ank yuh fe everyt’ing.”
Lester then left, leaving Jacob and Jenny in the kitchen. Jenny filled the kettle with more water, placed it on the cooker and grabbed a handful of shortcake biscuits. The dimly lit staircase still unnerved her and she didn’t want to hear Cilbert and Hortense making love, even though they were in separate bedrooms. The very thought of it dismayed her.
Calling at nine o’clock the next morning, Lester found he wasn’t only escorting Cilbert and Jacob to the labour exchange but Jenny and Hortense as well. Before noon, Cilbert found employment in the maintenance of outside telephone lines. Jacob accepted work as a labourer on a building site, Hortense gained a job as an early morning cleaner at County Hall and Jenny a position preparing tarts and pastries in a Lyons tea house; she had to pass a thorough medical check and a maths and English test.
During her third day in her new job, from her position in the
kitchen, Jenny spotted that the waitresses were overwhelmed with orders. Showing initiative, she picked up a tray laden with Chelsea buns, a pot of tea and serviettes and intended to carry it out to the customer. Before she reached the dining area, Jenny’s manager, a slim, hollow-cheeked white man in his mid-thirties, stepped in front of her.
“Where do you think you’re going with that?” he asked.
“De waitresses overcome, Misser Dawkins,” Jenny explained. “So me t’ought to meself dat me should bring de tray to de people who waan it instead of dem complaining.”
Mr Dawkins was not impressed and leant his face towards Jenny so that his lips were only a few inches away from her forehead. “I pay you to remain in the kitchen! And remain in the kitchen you will! Now
get
back! I employ the waitresses to carry the trays in.”
Her mouth primed to reply, Jenny managed to control her fury but when she arrived home, she wasted no time in telling Jacob and everyone else what had occurred. Sitting at the kitchen table, grimacing as he ate his roast beef, brussel sprouts and boiled potatoes, Cilbert could relate to Jenny’s anger. On his first three working days, he had been ordered to service the phone lines in man-holes and other unsavoury locations, a dirty, grimy task. He had asked his boss why was he singled out to perform ‘dese dutty tasks’, and Cilbert’s supervisor answered, “why do you think we need guys like you coming over here for work. You will get better opportunities when you prove yourself.”
Shrugging off his supervisor’s comments, Cilbert wasted no time in setting up a bank account. He promised himself to start saving for a place of his own as soon as he received his first wages. Also, the image of the Rover car pricked his mind.
By the end of his first week at work, Cilbert was simmering with frustration. Colleagues at the depot had difficulty understanding his accent and subsequently, everyone ignored him, save a Trinadadian man called Delgado.
“You have to talk slower,” advised Delgado on Cilbert’s sixth morning. “Your voice sound strange to them. Anyway, the manager’s put you with me for your next month. You will discover
that most phone lines in this country are underground, unlike the Caribbean where it’s all overhead. But the wiring principles are the same so you should be alright. They will respect you if you show that you can do the work.”
“Me don’t mind so much dat white mon nuh understand me,” replied Cilbert. “It’s de monkey noises dem mek an’ de funny looks. If dem carry on dem way see me don’t tek me longest screwdriver an’ stab ah white mon tongue!”
“Cilbert, over here you have to cool yaself,” soothed Delgado. “You don’t want to get sacked. Just ignore them. They’ll soon get bored of winding you up. When I first came here they started on me, but now they leave me alone. Just laugh with them.”
“Alright, Delgado. But me don’t know if me ’ave de patience.”
Working on a building site with many other West Indians, Jacob didn’t have the same problems as Cilbert found on his first week. On his first day he made endless cups of teas and mixed cement. He kept his own counsel. Upon his second day, asked on what he did for a living back in Jamaica, Jacob revealed that he was a minister of the church. Immediately, Jacob’s stock rose to his fellow West Indians and they sat around him during dinner breaks, asking him of news of Jamaica and if he would consider blessing their homes and christening their children.
By the end of his second week, Jacob had been promoted to a position of an electrician’s mate. He worked under the stewardship of a Jamaican nicknamed Buju – Buju being the Jamaican slang for a large breadfruit.
“If yuh is ah preacher mon,” Buju asked one morning. “Why yuh here ’pon building site? Where is ya church?”
“Me don’t ’ave one yet,” Jacob answered. “But me will. Me promise yuh dat.”
“An’ me will attend ya service,” replied Buju. “Me hear of ah West Indian church inna nort’ London but dat too far fe me an’ me wife. Der is not’ing around here fe we so if yuh start church yuh should find nuff follower.”
Buju had advised Jacob to enrol at night school and he began studying for a City and Guilds electrician’s certificate at a college
on Brixton Hill. He had trouble deciphering the tutor’s broad Scouse accent and felt intimidated by his fellow white students. Pointing to Jacob seated at the back of the class, a white guy quipped, “that’s what happens to you when you get an electric shock.”
“An’ those who laugh wid yuh will suffer ya mighty ignorance,” retorted Jacob, standing up defending himself.
Aided by Cilbert’s counsel and experience that he offered in the evenings following dinner, and Buju advising him at work, Jacob learned his new trade swiftly.
Disliking English cuisine and unable to find Jamaican foodstuffs in Brixton market, Jenny was introduced to a Jamaican man, Mr Campbell, who lived in Camberwell. Mr Campbell, who never revealed how he managed to obtain Caribbean food, pulled up in his large white van every Monday evening outside Jenny’s home and supplied yams, green banana, canned callaloo, tinned ackee, rice, red kidney beans, plantain, ardough bread, ginger, peppers and salt fish. It wasn’t much of a variety, Jenny thought, and she would have committed a crime just to sink her teeth into the amber-coloured flesh of a ripe mango, but her family felt that much closer to home whenever they ate their meals. It sure beat the roast beef, corned beef, spam meat, roast potatoes, carrots and tasteless cabbage that they consumed in their first week. Curious as to what was frying in her kitchen, even Mary Skidmore chanced a taste of fried dumpling and plantain one Saturday morning. She hated it but her daughter Stella asked Hortense for more.
Three weeks after their arrival and having paid their first rent, Mary Skidmore invited Cilbert, Jacob, Hortense and Jenny for a Sunday evening’s drink in her living room. She had opened all the windows but the breezes that came through couldn’t shift the lingering aroma of polish. Framed pictures of a long-haired, blue-eyed Christ decorated the walls alongside black and white photographs of rusty-haired relatives. A radiogram was placed in one corner and a mahogany-coloured piano, untold scratches upon its surface, stood by a wall. An open music book, gripped by its metal support, was propped on top of the piano alongside a
Catholic prayer pamphlet. Hanging above the mantelpiece was a velvet banner, a souvenir of the Irish town, Fermoy.