Small Island

  I had to get Queenie out of the tea-shop fast. I knew I could not pass these men to get to the door without a punch being thrown from somewhere. Three against one, I still fancied my chances. But Lady Luck is a fickle woman and I did not wish to be humiliated in front of my impressionable companion. She was talking and, let me admit, I did not know what she was saying so busy was I trying to plot our escape. She was not safe from their animosity. Oh, no. GIs as vulgar as these would have no consideration for a white woman whose afternoon is spent with a nigger.

  It was then I saw him in the fading light. Arthur – the wonderful man who had brought me to Queenie’s door – was walking across the road looking, as always, a little lost.

  ‘There is your father-in-law,’ I said.

  She ran from the tea-shop and over to where he stood without even an ‘Excuse me’. There was something indecent about the way Queenie wagged her finger in this grown man’s face while he, head low, kicked at imaginary stones on the ground.

  I stood to leave. And so did the GIs. Paying the waitress I tipped her so handsomely she almost smiled on me. The GIs were blocking the door. I needed a plan. It was too late to don a disguise – they would still know me in a blond wig. All my mind could conjure was squeezing myself through some back-entrance window. ‘Do you have a WC?’ I asked the waitress.

  ‘No, but down the street . . .’ the waitress began. Then, turning to point, she stopped her instructions when she saw the GIs making themselves ready to leave.

  ‘Excuse me, I’ve got eggs here for you three. You can’t go just like that. You’ve ordered.’ She hurried over to them. ‘In this country you have to wait for your order.’ She shooed them back into their seats, and those Mummy-fearing boys grudgingly submitted. ‘It’s just coming, now sit down. We haven’t got food to waste like some. There’s a war on, you know.’ With she, standing over the table of these pitifully cowed men I, with a kiss for Lady Luck, slipped out of the door. All three GIs eyed me through the window as if vermin were escaping. So I gave them a little wave. Come, who were the pantywaists now?

  But still I worried to leave the road quickly. I hurried to Queenie and her father. ‘Gilbert,’ Queenie began saying, ‘Arthur and I were wondering about going to the pictures.’

  Lady Luck was still smiling. Linking my arms through theirs, ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Come, let us go.’ And, with them bamboozled by my enthusiasm, I managed to frogmarch them away.

  Seventeen

  Gilbert

  How Clark Gable make every woman swoon so? Gone With the Wind. Queenie was so thrilled she jump in joy, ‘Oh, Clark Gable’s in it!’ Forgetting all sense she squealed delirious at the thought of being in the the dark with this puff-up American star. How Clark Gable turn every woman’s head so? Foolish young English girls would see a movie star in every GI with the same Yankee-doodle voice. Glamour in US privates named Jed, Buck or Chip, with their easy-come-by gifts and Uncle Sam sweet-talk. Dreamboats in hooligans from Delaware or Arizona with fingernails that still carried soil from home, and eyes that crossed with any attempt at reading. Heart-throbs from men like those in the tea-shop, who dated their very close relatives and knew cattle as their mental equal. Thanks to Mr Gable’s silver tongue, this bunch of ruffians mistakenly became the men of Englishwomen’s dreams. The picture had already started, we had missed the music and the Movietone news. Yet still this Gable star – even with him face six foot high and luminous – could not light up the room enough to guide us as we walked.

  ‘Tickets?’ the uniformed usherette asked. ‘Follow me.’ Even in the dark she was scruffy – her ample bosom having been configured for a larger garment. As if trying to escape her, the gleam from her torch wriggled frantic on the floor before resting on some empty seats. Queenie patiently guided Arthur by the elbow into the row. Him mesmerised as a baby sat before he should, while Queenie nudged him along two more seats. As I went to follow them the usherette tugged at my sleeve. I turned to her and she momentarily dazzled me, flicking the torchlight up on to my face.

  ‘You have to go up the back,’ this woman said, lighting the ground to indicate the path I should take. I had misunderstood. I tapped Queenie to whisper, ‘The usherette say we have to go to the back.’

  The girl shook her head as Queenie backed out from the row. ‘Not her. You. You have to go up the back.’

  ‘But we are all together,’ I said, beckoning Queenie to take her seat again. I followed. But again this usherette caught my arm. Enunciating as if speaking to an imbecile, she said, ‘No, you. You have to go up the back. She and him can stay there.’

  ‘But there are plenty seats for me to sit here.’ I was whispering so as not to disturb the other people’s enjoyment of the film.

  ‘But it’s the rules,’ she said.

  ‘Rules, what rules?’ She had me confused now. The orchestral music from the film was howling as wind does on a runway. Queenie, looking to me, was half in and half out of her seat. The woman behind her told her to sit down. From somewhere I was told to shush. I apologised. Instead of sitting down Queenie once again backed along the row to where I stood with the quarrelsome usherette.

  ‘What’s the problem, Gilbert?’ she asked. So tumultuous was the music she looked to Arthur, fearful he might have thrown himself to the ground.

  ‘He has to go up the back,’ the usherette said.

  ‘But there are seats here,’ Queenie responded.

  ‘I just tell her that – she say it’s the rules.’

  ‘Rules, what rules?’ Queenie asked.

  I quieted her with a hand placed gently on her arm – I would take care of this myself. ‘You sit, Queenie – I soon come.’ Then, turning to this usherette, I asked the same question, ‘What rules?’

  It was then she took her torch to shine its searchlight beam up to the back rows of the picture house. For the briefest moment she ran her light along the faces sitting there. Queenie would not have seen: she would have asked, ‘What? What are you showing me?’ But I saw. As startling as exposing a horde of writhing cockroaches, that light, although searching for only a second, gave me an image that seared indelible into my mind’s eye. It flashed across lines of black faces, illuminating the heedless and impassive features of a large group of black GIs enjoying the film.

  ‘You have to sit with them.’

  ‘Madam,’ I told her, ‘I am not an American. I am with the British RAF.’

  ‘You’re coloured.’

  Queenie was back. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Coloured, he’s coloured.’ She shone the light once more to the back rows, this time holding it there so Queenie, puzzled at first, would gradually come to see. Caught by the beam, some of the men seemed to awaken with the light.

  ‘This is England,’ I said. ‘This is not America. We do not do this in England. I will sit anywhere I please.’

  ‘Well, we do it here. It’s the rules. All niggers—’ She stopped and began again. ‘All coloureds up the back rows.’

  ‘Why?’ Queenie asked.

  ‘Because that’s their seats.’

  ‘No! Why do coloured people have to sit where you say?’

  ‘Our other customers don’t like to sit next to coloureds.’

  ‘Who are these other customers? Yanks?’ I asked.

  ‘They won’t sit next to you.’

  ‘What other customers? Who?’ I was shouting now.

  ‘They don’t like to be all mixed up.’

  ‘Americans?’

  ‘Not just Yanks. Anyone.’

  ‘We’ll sit next to him – he can sit between us,’ Queenie offered. I wanted so to be pleased that this sweet Englishwoman was speaking up for me. But, come, Queenie’s good intentions were entirely missing the point

  ‘In this country I sit where I like.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to go. It’s up the back or nowhere.’

  ‘Madam, there is no Jim Crow in this country.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jim Crow.’
>
  ‘Well, if he’s coloured he’ll have to sit at the back.’

  ‘Segregation, madam, there is no segregation in this country. I will sit wherever I like in this picture house. And those coloured men at the back should have been allowed to sit wherever they so please. This is England, not Alabama.’

  Like air escaping from an overheating machine, the sound of shushing came at us from all around. Along with the impatient ‘Be quiet, some of us want to watch the film.’

  ‘You’ll have my job. I don’t make the rules. Other coloureds don’t make such a fuss. It’s up the back or nothing.’

  And I told her, ‘Madam, I will neither go to the back nor will I leave. My friends and I intend to enjoy the film from this spot.’ My heart thumped so I feared the toe-tapping beat would be told to shush. Cha, nah, man – is bareface cheek! We fighting the persecution of the Jew, yet even in my RAF blue my coloured skin can permit anyone to treat me as less than a man. I turned my back on the usherette, indicated for Queenie to sit and went to take my seat next to her.

  It was an American voice – solid as thunder – coming from a few rows in front that called out to me, ‘Sit where you’re told, boy.’

  I ignored it.

  ‘Hey, nigger, I said sit where the lady tells ya.’

  I sat myself beside Queenie. This GI stood up – his silhouette rising like a mortal tempest before the screen.

  ‘Look, we don’t want any trouble,’ the now tearful usherette pleaded.

  ‘Nigger, do as you’re told,’ the GI shouted.

  ‘And you can put a sock in it,’ Queenie replied, standing up. Her fierce finger wagging.

  ‘Nigger, move.’

  ‘And you can shut up with your nigger,’ Queenie said, ‘I prefer them to you any day.’

  A woman’s voice called, ‘You tell ’em, love – ruddy loud-mouth Yanks.’ I did not have to look, I could feel the edgy stirring in the back of the picture house as someone shouted, ‘Shut up, whitey. We ain’t taking that no more.’

  The air trembled with the muttered grumblings from the rest of the audience while a white GI yelled, ‘Stand up, nigger.’ From the back came a harmony of voices shouting, ‘Who you calling nigger? Who you calling nigger?’

  ‘Jigaboo suit you better?’ another voice called from the front.

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ came the volley of reply.

  The usherette fled, calling, ‘I’ll have to get the manager – we don’t want trouble,’ while Queenie, still ranting at these white men, said, ‘You can sit down, what’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Shut up, nigger-lover,’ the man answered.

  ‘Please sit down, Queenie,’ I tried, but she had long ceased to hear me.

  ‘Any time over, you lot,’ she shouted.

  And again a female voice said, ‘Tell ’em, love.’

  Two GIs from the front began to shift along their row, forcing others to stand to let them out. I was ready for them.

  A woman called to the GIs, ‘Hey, leave him alone. Big bullies, the lot of you.’

  There was chuckling from the back. ‘Man, the woman gonna whop ya.’

  Another white GI stood up to tell me, ‘Just move, boy, and we can all get back to watching the movie.’

  ‘Stay, man, stay,’ came a chant from the rear.

  ‘Where’s the blinking manager? I’ve not paid to watch this.’ Many people were on their feet now – I could no longer see the screen. Until, without warning, the film went off and the lights came up.

  As if painted by a master, this technicolour tableau of a room simply froze. Why? Because everyone saw. Rows of black GIs at the back. Rows of white GIs at the front. And a rump of civilians in their dowdy clothes sitting guileless in the middle. Now there were a few women sitting with the white GIs and some uniforms in with the civilians but, as sure as Napoleon and Wellington before Waterloo, that usherette had drawn us up a battlefield. And every GI was now on his feet.

  Black shouting: ‘Who you calling nigger? We ain’t taking that from you no more.’

  White screaming: ‘Fucking uppity niggers. Shut your mouths.’

  ‘You gonna make us, whitey?’

  ‘Fucking right we’ll make ya.’

  While the locals, with the trepidation of picnickers before a stampede of bulls, looked one way then the other. The manager came running on to the stage arms waving like a drowning man. Trying to be heard above the din he yelled, ‘Everyone is to leave the theatre. Please leave this theatre in an orderly fashion now.’ Adding when no one seemed to be listening, ‘We’ll have no trouble here – the authorities have been notified.’

  A white GI galloped over seats towards the back. He tripped and fell into a row pushing two women who, domino effect, stumbled. Two black GIs jumped the rows to reach where the man lay. Women crying, ‘Get off,’ mixed with the savage hollering of male battle cries. As the fool manager enquired if everyone might just ‘Please calm down and leave by the exits at the back.’

  Queenie put her hand in mine, nails clasping tight as talons. She held Arthur the same way – him baffled, looked to be wondering if he was still watching a film.

  ‘Come on, come on, you want it, nigger?’ A black man was running from four whites while several more black men chased them. The ground tremored under their big boots. I found myself envious – man, I was ready to bash someone today! Only when I tried to release Queenie’s aching grasp a little did I recognise that this woman was not seeking my protection. No, Queenie Bligh believed herself to be safeguarding me. Over on the far side a white GI had a black man by the scruff, yanking this bent-double man round, beating upwards into his face; the two men growled, zealous as warriors. A woman set about this brawl, her handbag flailing. Soon both these burly army men were ducking her blows. Until she found herself tripping and falling as three more GIs – one black, two white – waded in. Man, how her friend screamed! People came running, ‘Get off her! Get off!’ till all were caught up in this thrashing.

  For the rest of us panic was pulling us along – an irresistible tide dragging everyone to the doors. Even black and white GIs struggled through the opening together in a brief moment of wholly unwanted integration. I lost Queenie in this crush, my hand torn from her grasp.

  Ejected into the not-quite-dark light of a cold evening, everyone in the street looked to be wondering how in the devil they find themselves outside. I was pushed. Struggling to keep my balance, fist ready to whack the culprit, I turned and found a little woman – reaching only to my waist, I swear. ‘This is your fault,’ she said. ‘You’re nothing but trouble.’ She pushed me again.

  ‘Madam!’ I blew with as much authority as my size could muster – if she pushed me again how was I to stop a very small, feisty woman humiliating me?

  ‘It’s you that started this.’

  ‘Madam,’ I began, but she was gone, rattling through the crowd like a laxative. Man, it was hatred raged in these men’s eyes not anger! Tell me, if you build a bonfire from the driest tinder, is it the stray spark you blame when the flames start to lick?

  But, oh, boy, what a strange battle this was. The pavement held women putting on headscarves, pulling at small boys to stay close, looking around for friends calling out, ‘Vera, over here, come on, love, let’s go.’ Others moaning in huddled groups, ‘It’s a bloody disgrace . . . You don’t see our boys behaving like that . . . Should save their energy for the Germans . . . War’s not won yet and never will be with this lot.’ While straggling down the centre of the road groups of GIs – strictly segregated black and white – stood shrieking taunts at one another. ‘Come on, nigger you want it, come on . . . Kill the goddam son-of-a-bitch . . . This ain’t Mississippi, you gonna have to come shut my mouth . . .’ The black GIs, outnumbered a little by whites, sounded to be short of insulting names. How could the harmless ‘whitey’ heat the blood and jangle the nerves as the established ‘nigger’, ‘jigaboo’, ‘sambo’, and ‘jungle boy’ did? ‘You wan’ it, nigger? You gonna get it . . . Fuckin
g son-of-a-bitch you’re a dead man . . .’ These US comrades buttoned into the same green uniform for a fight against foreign aggression were about to start their own uncivil war.

  Perhaps it was the sobering cold in the night air or maybe the locals observing this Yankee feud. Who knows what ferment had been raging inside the picture house but out here it was clear the passion for this fight was gone. These hothead men were now throwing punches that reached no one. Lashing out only into the no man’s land between them. Sticks and stones flew, parting the group where they fell, but only vicious words hit their mark. A white man was grabbed. Struggling fierce as if caught in a crocodile’s jaw he freed himself to run back behind his lines. Receiving a kick on the backside and taunts of ‘We kick your ass. We kick your ass, white man.’ The black men laughed. This clash was becoming no more than a venomous ballet. On both sides men had begun to walk away. A small boy even ran between the groups. ‘Any gum, chum?’ he said, thinking only, GIs and chewing-gum. I, looking around for Queenie and Arthur, thought to offer to escort them home.

  But then the whistles started. Sharp as needles, an orchestra of whistle, whistle, whistle ripped at the air. Galloping horses, I thought it to be galloping horses so many boots ran on the stony ground as the American Military Police, their white caps bubbling like foam, gushed on to the street. Surprise caught many men open-mouthed – stunned motionless. Batons raised, these fearsome MPs assailed the group of black GIs. Defenceless skulls cracked like nutshells as panicked black men had nowhere to go but stagger towards the furious boots, fists and elbows of the white GIs. Oxygen to a dying flame, these MPs soon had this fight blazing again like an inferno.

  Someone jumped on my back. The wet stone ground rose to smack my head as this sack-of-coal weight toppled me. The blow to my ear rang like church bells. A powerful hand gripped rigid at the back of my neck ground my face on to the stone floor. My cheek scraping raw against wet grit, I struggled as I had never struggled before. This was no Elwood playing rough on me – no one would soon jump up, laugh and declare it my turn. Rage lent me the force to free myself. Lurching over, I took a belt full in the mouth but still I toppled this man from me. Losing his balance, the ugly white GI fell backward – spite buckling up his face. My whack to his head landed so hard his eyes crossed comical with the blow before we two, rolling now, embraced as intimate as lovers. Tearing away I aimed a punch for the soft of his belly – hitting the solid of his ribs instead. Striking once more his belly sank like a cushion as air expelled from him with the force of a fart. Him, still not beaten, lunged to bite my ear. That piercing pain lifted me straight to my feet. Shoving him back down I kicked where he clutched his stomach and stamped on his foot.