Authors: Alex Wheatle
With a large wooden brush in her right hand and a comb in the other, Mary Skidmore was seated in an armchair with her seemingly petrified daughter Stella kneeling on the carpet, viced between her mother’s awesome thighs. Her four guests were squeezed up in a three-seater sofa, their politeness overriding their discomfort. Mary noticed Jenny looking at the banner. “Yes, that is where I was born. On the muddy banks of the Blackwater river. A lovely place, lots of space and fresh air. More churches than you could ever count. My maiden name is O’Donahue, and my Jesus, there’s a lot of us. Every time I go back I get introduced to more and more cousins. Truth of the matter is they all jump on my nerves.
Want
this
want
that. That’s all I ever hear. They think I’m rich like Rockefeller.”
Cilbert and Jacob chuckled but they wondered who Rockefeller was. “Do any of yer want any more whiskey?” Mary asked. “I have two more bottles in the cupboard, imported from my own country. Take it now because my offerings don’t occur every day. But I think a woman must receive boarders into her home with generosity. It breeds a certain respect and understanding, don’t yer agree?”
Everyone nodded but Hortense was the only one to say, “yes please,” to Mary’s offer. She stood up and served herself.
“I have to be honest with yer,” resumed Mary, thrusting the comb into Stella’s long auburn curls. “I for one am glad that you people are coming in droves to England. I tell yer why. Before you came, it was the Irish the English treated like shite. Now they treat
you
people like shite. And yer’ll have to suffer that until the smelly Indians come over here in greater numbers – they’ll be treated like shite. I hope the Holy Father forgives me for my thoughts but it’s a relief that my folk don’t get it as bad as we used to. My Sean couldn’t go to a pub without some Proddy English bastard calling him names. My advice to yer is not to frequent pubs. Yer will
not
be made welcome.”
“When did yuh come to Englan’, Miss Mary?” Hortense asked while Cilbert and Jenny were expressing their shock at the way the
conversation was developing.
“Just after the war,” Mary replied. “Bomb sites all over the place. London looked like God himself decided to use his mighty right hand and finger-walk across the place. Yer had to have keen eyes about yer or yer would find yerself falling into a crater. And there was nothing to eat. I don’t know how we survived on that godforsaken ration book.
Three
eggs a week and a tiny side of beef that couldn’t feed a cat, I tell yer.”
“But yuh ’ave done well fe yaself,” said Cilbert, looking around the room.
“Oh, yes. My Sean worked every hour available. When we first come here he worked on the train tracks throughout the night and laboured on building sites during the day. I tell yer, it was us Irish who rebuilt this Proddy country, oh yes, by the sweat of our brow and that’s no lie. And are the English grateful? No bloody chance! They call us Bogtrotters and other names. And I can tell yer this, yer might work alongside them and they be all polite and smiles, but behind yer back? They’ll be calling yer nigger, coon, monkey-face and sambo. Trust my words. The English are two-faced bastards, forgive my blasphemy Holy Father.”
“Wha’ about de local churches?” queried Jacob. “Are der any dat are…? Appropriate fe we?”
Mary laughed a horrible laugh. “Are yer joking with me, Jacob? Proddy churches infest this cursed country. My advice to yer is to sing yer praises at a Catholic church. Yer won’t be made welcome in a Proddy church. No bloody chance! Yer find more integrity in Soho.”
Jacob wasn’t brave enough to tell her that he and his family belonged to the Anglican order, despite Jenny pinching him to do so.
Ignoring Mary’s warning he escorted Jenny on the next Sunday to a church of England service in Camberwell New Street. They were immeadiately impressed by the sheer size of the church and its carved figures and interior decor. They found hymn books on their pews, sat down and looked around them. They were the only blacks in the congregation and Jenny whispered, “Lord help we!
Jacob, dis was ah very bad idea. Me don’t know how yuh convince me to come wid yuh! Everybody staring at we!”
“Calm yaself, sweetheart,” soothed Jacob. “We inna God’s house an’ everybody equal here.”
Feeling like an automaton, being asked to stand up, sit down and sing, Jenny missed the handclapping, verve and excitement of a Kingston church. Even the vicar’s sermon was sober, uneventful and boring, she thought. Kingston ministers were larger than life, fiery and animated, Jenny remembered and even she thought they were sometimes over the top. But this vicar? He should be confined telling his stories to children before they went to bed.
Sensing every eye upon her, Jenny refused to sing. Instead she studied the way white women were dressed. Most of them were sporting bright-coloured pencil skirts with matching, single-breasted hip-length jackets. Crowned by bonnets and hats of all shapes and sizes, Jenny felt a little better for she was similarly dressed in a sky-blue skirt and jacket with white blouse. She had to admire Jacob, garbed in his blue suit and pointed black shoes, who sang his heart out and spoke out loud every prayer
Departing the church after what Jenny and Jacob thought was a very short service – they were used to three or four hour services in Kingston – they thought it would be polite to offer their greeting to the vicar who was standing at the exit of the church. Shaking the hands of his regular flock, the vicar blatantly ignored the presence of Jacob and Jenny who were waiting in front of him.
Ushering his furious wife away, Jacob heard Jenny vent her outrage once they had returned home.
“Me cyan’t believe it!” stormed Jenny. “Me will never set foot der again! How cyan ah mon of God ignore people who come to him? He made we stan’ up in front of him like damn idiots. Me shoulda cuss him backside! Sometimes me wish me ’ave me sister’s mout’. Miss Mary was right! Jacob, yuh better set up ya own church quick!”
Jacob decided to conduct his own services in his own room. His first congregation consisted of seven people, including his workmate Buju and his wife. News spread quickly in the local
Caribbean community and weeks later Jacob had to ask his followers for funds to enable him to hire a local hall; Mary Skidmore let it be known in plain words what she felt about ‘a whole loada black Proddy worshippers trooping up her stairs’. The altar was an old school table that Jacob had acquired and his flock could only sing from two hymn books, but the verve and gusto they brought to praising their Lord soothed Jacob’s soul. The only blot he felt on his heart was the absence of Cilbert. He didn’t even rebuke Hortense when on one occasion he spotted her reading a letter when she was supposed to be studying the Bible.
The letter was from Miss Martha and Hortense grinned when she read it.
Dear Hotty,
Thrilled I was to learn that you have reached London safe and sound, and forgive me for my delayed reply to your letter – it was only two weeks ago that my husband and I returned from Germany. Germany was tedious to say the least. Full of miserable people who stare at the ground beneath them, so unlike Jamaican people. I’m afraid I’ll soon be on the way to Hong Kong which is my husband’s next post of duty. I’m looking forward to it though – the Orient and all that mystery.
Before we left for Germany I spent my days tending to my garden and reading books. Not much to do here in Berkshire – my neighbours only talk of horses and farms – and I do miss the Jamaican sun. But my husband allows me to travel to London for the weekends. I book myself in a small hotel in Kensington and go to a West End theatre or a dance show. Not sure I should be telling you this but it will surely make you giggle! At one of these shows I met a black man who offered to buy me a drink. He’s a dancer! Edwin is his name and he comes from Guyana – such lithe limbs! Taking your advice about grabbing your heaven on earth, I took him back to my hotel! Can you believe that? It was so devilishly exciting and on a few occasions I didn’t even bother attending a show. I would just meet Edwin outside the hotel and there we would stay all weekend. It
doesn’t bother me at all that I am paying for everything.
So now I venture to Hong Kong with a little sadness in my heart – I can’t imagine there are any black men there! But, Hotty, the memory of Edwin and his taut body can sustain me while I’m away and who knows? Edwin might be there when I return to England.
Now I have become a demon in the kitchen, cooking varieties of dishes that my husband adores. So I thank you for that. And give my love to the rest of your family, especially Cilbert. May you all fare well in my country. When I return we’ll have to share a bottle of imported overproof rum some sunny afternoon (I don’t care too much for the watered-down rum that is available in England but have no fear! My husband still has his contacts in Jamaica). And when we finally meet again we can laugh like we used to.
Your friend
Martha.
Reading Martha’s letter again and again, Cilbert wondered what was so funny about it as he watched Hortense collapsing in sudden giggles.
Working all the overtime available to him, Cilbert initially declined Lester’s invitations to taste the London nightlife.
He couldn’t shift the memory of visiting a local pub and having to wait forty-five minutes before he was served. The barman didn’t acknowledge Cilbert’s presence, so lifting up and dropping a glass astray upon the counter, Cilbert displayed a pound note held aloft in his hand. “Rum an’ coke,” he ordered.
The barman snatched the money from Cilbert’s grasp offering no reply and when he served the drink, he slammed it upon the counter. Holding out his hand for the change, Cilbert had to bite his lip when he saw the barman dropping his change upon the bar three foot away from him. Cilbert downed his drink in three gulps, presented the barman with a stern eye-pass, collected his change
and then stormed out.
It was a rainswept September night when Lester led Cilbert to a basement in Wardour Street in the heart of the West End. Standing at the entrance of the club was a twenty stone bouncer wearing a black jacket, bow tie and a sour expression. He recognised Lester but offered Cilbert a lingering look as the rain dripped from his hat onto his broad nose. Inside, the large single room was dimly lit and had a low ceiling. The fog of smoke stung Cilbert’s eyes. Through the haze, he saw a small low stage with four rows of bolted down old cinema seats in front of it. A black jazz combo were preparing to play and Cilbert thought the drummer looked so cool in his black suit and sunglasses and gangster-style hat. The pianist was swigging from a bottle of beer as he tinkled the ivories with his other hand. The six foot five bassist’s cloth cap seemed to cover his eyes and the saxophonist, dressed in a purple suit and white shoes, was tenderly wiping the mouthpiece of his instrument with a handkerchief.
Awestruck, Cilbert looked around. Men wearing mohair suits and stylish stetsons were huddled in groups of threes and fours. Seven black men dressed in American Air Force uniforms, complete with caps, were drinking and laughing in a corner. Women wearing tight, slinky sleeveless dresses and bright red lipstick sashayed by. Nobody was without a cigarette. At the back of the club, beyond the standing area, was the bar.
“Welcome to de Flamingo club,” grinned Lester. “Come, mek me buy yuh ah drink.”
No alcohol or spirits were on display and Lester ordered, “give me two Coca-Cola wid ah liccle somet’ing.”
The generously-bosomed barmaid half-filled two glasses with coke and then she bent down beneath the counter and topped off the drinks with a hidden stash of Scotch. Cilbert looked down at her cleavage. Lester, winking at the barmaid, then paid her and said to Cilbert, “me ’ave ah liccle business to tend to. Jus’ relax an’ enjoy de vibe – nuff women fe yuh to look ’pon!”
Lester walked over to the American servicemen and Cilbert watched him sell cannabis to them in matchbox-sized polythene
bags. Feeling nervous and excited at the same time, Cilbert took a seat on the back row, lit a cigarette and waited for the jazz musicians to play.
Half an hour later, the club was packed and Cilbert was tapping his feet and bopping his head to the sounds of cool, mellow jazz. The crowd behind him jived and hollered their approval as the sweet scent of marijuana blended with the stuffy air. As the saxophonist was performing a solo, gyrating his hips while standing on a chair, Cilbert felt the touch of a woman’s palms covering his eyes. Expecting that his flirtatious glances had been acted upon from one of the many women whom he had admired at the club, Cilbert turned around sharply, readying a wide grin.
“So wha’ brings yuh here,” cooed Almyna, sexily dressed in a tight, strapless red dress and white pointed shoes. Her burgundy lipstick glistened under the stage lights and Cilbert could smell her perfume. Her big eyes were emphasised with mascara and her pearl necklace glowed upon her caramel skin.
“Almyna!” Cilbert managed, his surprise obvious. “Yuh look. Yuh look very nice.”
“Of course,” Almyna purred. “Yuh expect anyt’ing less of me?”
“Nuh, nuh, Almyna. So yuh come here often?”
“Yuh cyan say dat,” answered Almyna, sitting on Cilbert’s lap.
“An’ ya husband is not wid yuh?” asked Cilbert, scanning the crowd.
“An’ ya wife is
not
wid yuh!”
Smiling away his anxiety, Cilbert groped for his cigarettes. “Me frien’ Lester tek me out fe de night. To show me de bright lights. Piccadilly Circus is really somet’ing! Me never see somet’ing quite as tall as Nelson’s column. An’ Chinee Town was quite ah revelation too!”
“An’ finally him bring yuh to de right place.”
“So, Almyna, who yuh come wid?”
“Two of me girlfrien’ an’ ah gentlemon.” Almyna pointed to the bar. “Me husband is away in America ’pon business an’ wha’ he don’t know cyan’t boder him. Wha’s ah young lady supposed to do inna foreign land? Sit down inna me yard all alone an’ look ’pon de wall?”
Lighting his cigarette, Cilbert couldn’t help but feel aroused by Almyna’s every movement. “De band good, mon,” Cilbert remarked, looking at the musicians and trying to deny his attraction for Almyna.