Small Island

  ‘Much,’ was all I could reply. Should have been a relief, I know. A return from the dead. But I had to admit there was release in imminent mortality – it had me transient, a bystander. Now unexpectedly to have my life back. Laundered fresh by a war. Ready to start again. To be thrown back among them. Suddenly to realise this war-torn England before me was now my welcome home. Good God!

  Maxi’s family moved away. The yellowing curtains were gone. The house empty. The neighbours were useless, looking at me suspiciously. Why was I interested in where they had gone? Who was I to them? I had to walk away. I didn’t make a decision to go back to London, just found myself on a train. If it was sleepwalking, I soon woke up at the corner of our street. Hard to believe this had been my home for most of my life. Nothing was familiar. Had it always looked so exhausted? So friable? Buildings decaying and run down. Rotting sashes. Cracked plaster. Obscene gaps where houses once stood. I came a few more times, each visit less startling than the last.

  I hoped to be discovered (I admit). Pa running to greet. Queenie laughing with relieved joy. Got closer and closer. But still approached as a stranger.

  It was the darkie woman I saw first. What a sight! On our street. Never seen that before. I was dumbfounded to see that the white woman she accompanied was Queenie. What was going on? I was standing over them before I knew it. Then back in our parlour before I’d considered.

  ‘Has something happened to Pa?’ I had to ask Queenie again.

  ‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you come straight back?’ Her terrified eyes demanded the more urgent answer.

  ‘Lost my mind a little,’ I said.

  ‘How d’you mean? Did you lose your memory?’

  ‘Yes. Something like that.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘On the south coast.’

  ‘In England?’

  ‘Brighton.’

  ‘Brighton!’ She screamed this. ‘Blinking heck. Brighton! What were you doing in ruddy Brighton?’

  ‘You haven’t said about Pa. Has something happened?’

  ‘I want an answer first, Bernard. I’ve a right to know. I’m your wife. I thought you were dead. It’s been years. And you just turn up and say, “Brighton!” Were you having a blinking holiday with a bucket and spade? Why Brighton?’

  She’d changed the sideboard in the parlour. This one used to be in a room upstairs. Ma had it taken out. Quite rightly thought it far too big for this room. Pa’s chair was no longer by the fire.

  ‘Queenie, please, tell me if there is something to tell.’

  She sat down again, wringing her hands. The noise of dry skin rubbing pricked up the hairs on the back of my neck. ‘Your father’s dead,’ she said, a little too promptly.

  I’d known, of course. Soon as I walked into the house. I could feel him gone.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Oh. Is that all you can say? Oh?’

  That’s what war had done to me. Made death a reasonable thing. But she was quite hysterical.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how he died? Haven’t you got any questions? He was shot you know. Here – through the jaw. His head looked like butcher’s meat.’ A crueller man might have told her to get a grip. To come to her senses. To shut up, even. ‘Shot by Yanks. A Yank shot him. But it was all hushed away. No one was even asked why they did it. No trial. Nothing. His brain all over the pavement. And they just cleaned it up, gave me the pieces and carried on as if nothing had happened.’

  The bones in her neck were standing out like scaffolding. She was screeching at me. Then there was a loud knocking on the door. I thought the person would break it down. I answered it to find a black man standing there. He looked straight past me, calling, ‘Queenie, Queenie, you all right?’Then the cheeky blighter looked at me and said, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘“Who are you?” is more the question,’ I told him firmly.

  He took no notice. ‘Queenie,’ he called again, before attempting to push me from his way. I blocked the door. Tried to close it. But he held it open.

  ‘Who the bloody hell are you? This is my house,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t get me vex, man,’ he said. ‘I mus’ see Queenie is all right.’

  Queenie soon popped up behind me. More composed. ‘It’s all right, Gilbert,’ she said to this darkie.

  ‘Who is this man?’ I asked her.

  ‘A lodger,’ she told me.

  ‘Used to coming in, is he?’ I said, while this black man babbled on.

  ‘Who are you? What’s all the commotion?’

  ‘This is my husband, Gilbert. It’s Bernard.’

  That shut him up. Eyes popping out of his head like a golliwog’s. Stared me up and down. Stepped back to get a better look. Scratched his head, saying, ‘Well, well . . .’ Then the cheeky blighter put his hand out for me to shake.

  I just shut the bloody door on him.

  Forty-seven

  Queenie

  Of course I had to ask Bernard if he was staying. He needn’t have looked at me like that. A balloon deflating, slowly sagging on the wall after a party. I wasn’t throwing him out. How could I? It was his house. I hadn’t forgotten that. Blinking place yawned in my face every morning.

  ‘I’ll make you up a bed in the spare room . . . in Arthur’s old room,’ I told him.

  Every day in the paper there were stories of the dead’s return. Loved ones who’d already been mourned turning up on the doorstep after years. Not so loved, most of them, by the time they’d found their way home.

  ‘I was rather hoping to sleep in our bed,’ he said.

  And I said, ‘All right.’

  He smiled at me then. Took another sip of his tea. The cup trembled as he put it to his lips.

  ‘I’ll sleep in Arthur’s room. You take your old bed,’ I told him.

  ‘Queenie . . .’ he started, urgent. But I was out of the door to fetch sheets for me and a towel for him from the cupboard.

  My dressing-table mirror soon caught me. Hundreds and hundreds of terrified Queenies. Scared stiff every one of them. Shrieking silently, what the bloody hell happens now? He came in behind me.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ I said.

  ‘I was just wondering . . .’

  ‘Yes, what . . . what? What is it, Bernard?’ I was trying not to shout.

  ‘. . . if I can be of any help. With the bed?’

  ‘No, I’ll just be minute. Go and finish your tea.’

  Wounded dogs walked with more joy. And my eye caught them again – the Queenies, all wondering now whether Bernard didn’t deserve a better homecoming than this. A kiss and a cuddle like Gable and Leigh. ‘Hop it,’ I told them. None of their blinking business.

  With every awkward silence I’d offered him tea. And he’d taken it. How many cups did we have? Twenty, thirty, or near as. I was out of milk and preciously low on sugar. He was just as finicky as before he left. Lifting the sugar into the tea like it was gold. Stirring enough to wear a hole in the bottom of the cup. Tapping the spoon to dislodge the stray drops like a clanger on a bell. And then, of course, blowing on the tea before he drank it. I thought he’d take it hot like a man after being in the RAF for so long. But he slurped, the noise going through me like a fork scratching on a plate.

  His hair was grey at the temples. Thinning. And, hard to imagine, he was skinnier, the hollows in his cheeks outlining the skull underneath. He still did that queer thing with his nose, twisting it like a rabbit before ramming his white hankie up one nostril then the other. And the crumbs from his biscuit powdered his lips for far too long before he licked them off.

  He stared for hours at the newspaper cuttings of Arthur’s death. Reading them one by one. Running his finger along the words. I said nothing as I sat watching him. He pointed at the one with the dreadful picture of me. A mad woman desperate for someone to throttle. ‘I was very upset. It was the most terrible thing ever happened,’ I told him.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said.

  I waited. He’ll be wan
ting to ask me questions, I thought. Was there a funeral? Where was he buried? Did he say anything before he died? Was he happy, was he sad? But Bernard said nothing. Just carefully went through the clippings with that vein on the side of his head pulsing like he was chewing.

  ‘He’s buried up in Mansfield,’ I told him.

  He nodded.

  He should have asked, ‘Why the bloody hell Mansfield? Why not the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea?’ but he didn’t. Didn’t even ask what we were doing up at the Buxton farm.

  ‘I managed to get a stone,’ I said.

  He nodded again.

  And I thought, Time for more tea, Queenie.

  I’d had the grandfather clock put in Arthur’s old room. First thing you saw when you opened the door. Looked like a phantom in the dark. I hadn’t been in the room for a long time. Just flitted round with a duster on a sunny day when I thought I ought. It was musty with damp. I went to open the window, but the sash had warped and wouldn’t budge. Next thing I know, Bernard’s behind me again. ‘Let me help you with that,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a knack.’

  ‘I know,’ I told him. He gave it three thumps then pulled it down. The air ran round the room, sharp as lemon. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right in here?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Really. You take the other bed. I’ll be fine.’

  He went over to the grandfather clock next. Looked at his watch then back to the clock face. ‘It hasn’t been wound . . . not since,’ I said, then wished I hadn’t. Blow me, if he didn’t open the case and start winding it up. Fussing with this and that. ‘There’s no need,’ I said quickly. But it was too late. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Thought he was doing me a favour, I know he did.

  ‘There,’ he said, satisfied.

  It was only polite to say thank you.

  ‘Well, if you’ve got everything you need, Bernard, I’ll be turning in now.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, but he didn’t move. Stood there studying the room in a sort of wonder – his mouth gaping – like he’d never been in there before.

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ I said. I went to the door to show him the way out. He came towards me and stopped still. A goodnight kiss, that’s what he was wanting. A peck from a chicken’s beak. But neither of us had the courage. Both said, ‘Sleep well,’ instead.

  I locked the door after he’d gone. Turned the old key, rusty and stiff, in the lock. Gently, quietly tried the handle to make sure it had worked. When, ruddy hell, that blinking grandfather clock started to chime.

  Early morning and he was out on the doorstep with Mr Todd. Their voices were muffled by distance – I couldn’t make out what they were saying. But surprise and pleasure had Mr Todd’s voice squeaking high as a girl’s. And every few minutes they’d titter like the best gossips. It was a good while before they went quieter. Hushing down to a low mumbling that didn’t want to be overheard. That cautious whispering prattled on for quite some time.

  He’d moved a few things in the parlour. A china dog from the sideboard to the mantelpiece where it always used to be. An armchair shifted a few feet back in front of the fire. He was flushed coming in from outside. His shirtsleeves rolled up. The top button casually undone. He walked almost jauntily into the room, slapping his arms against the cold.

  ‘Took me a while to find the teapot,’ he told me. ‘Not where it usually is.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I did, thank you. You?’

  He looked up – told the ceiling, ‘It was very good to be back in my own bed.’

  He’d made toast. Near as skipped to the kitchen to fetch it. He’d never done that before. The skipping, I mean. Brought it in on a silver rack. Triangles neatly laid in a row.

  ‘Where did you get that toast rack from?’

  ‘Oh, it was my mother’s.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘In the sideboard.’ I didn’t say it – ‘No, it blinking wasn’t’ – but I wanted to.

  At the table he pulled the chair out for me to sit down. Settled in after me, tucking a napkin under his chin like we were in the finest restaurant. Passed me the toast. I’d taken one mouthful when he asked, ‘So, how many lodgers do we have?’

  ‘We’ – he said ‘we’. I put the toast on the plate. Picked up my napkin to dab the corners of my mouth. Might as well play along, I thought. ‘Let’s see. There’s Winston and Jean in the middle landings and Gilbert and his wife at the top.’There was a genteel silence so I filled it with, ‘Gilbert’s wife has only just arrived.’ A frown formed on his forehead gradual as shifting sand. And I knew what the next question would be.

  ‘Are they all coloured?’

  ‘No, Jean’s not. She’s a nurse.’

  ‘That’s not what Mr Todd called her.’

  ‘I dare say.’

  He slapped his palm on the table, quite startled me, and said, ‘A prostitute and coloureds. What were you thinking of, Queenie?’

  I didn’t want to shout, not again. ‘Listen to me, Bernard. I had to get lodgers. I had no idea where you were. There was no one going to look after me. I had to bring people in.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that, Queenie, but did they have to be coloured? Couldn’t you have got decent lodgers for the house? Respectable people?’

  ‘They pay the rent. And on time. Gilbert was in the RAF during the war.’

  He wasn’t impressed.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you, Bernard, but this house is no palace. It got really run down during the war. I couldn’t fix it up, and I had no one to turn to. They were willing to pay good money to stay in those dingy rooms. I had little choice. I mean, where were you? You haven’t told me that yet!’

  He started chewing again before softly saying, ‘Well, they’ll have to go now I’m back.’ My toast was like sandpaper. I didn’t have the saliva to swallow the parched bread. ‘Mr Todd is moving, you know,’ Bernard went on.

  ‘Is he?’ I said. It wasn’t a surprise to me and would be no loss either.

  ‘He and his sister have found a little house in Orpington.’ I didn’t doubt it. I tried more butter on the toast but it still wouldn’t go down. ‘Says the street has gone to the dogs. What with all these coloureds swamping the place. Hardly like our own country any more.’ He poured the tea – handed me a cup, which rattled in the saucer.

  ‘Blames me for that, I expect,’ I said.

  The shaking cup was momentarily silent. ‘I’ve been doing some thinking,’ he went on. ‘We should move out. Get rid of all these coolies . . . the lodgers, I mean. Let them find somewhere more suitable for their type anyway. Sell the place. Move somewhere more select. Kent, maybe. I’ve heard just outside Ashford’s nice.’ He was quite jaunty again. Bold even, bouncing on his chair a little. When suddenly he said the strangest thing: ‘Thought I might start a rabbit farm.’

  I hadn’t heard him right, I was sure of it. ‘A what?’

  ‘A rabbit farm. We’d only need two rabbits to start. A male and a female.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Rabbits. You know what they breed like?’

  ‘Have you gone mad, Bernard?’

  ‘Like rabbits.’ And I swear he chuckled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a joke. Don’t you see? They breed like rabbits, rabbits.’

  ‘What are you going on about?’

  ‘Breeding rabbits on a farm. We can start it together. I’ll do all the business side. You look after the stock. It will be something new, I know. A lot of work, I don’t doubt that. But everything will soon be back to how it was. Just like it used to be. We can start again with rabbits.’

  Every single silly word he uttered sucked the air from the room as sure as if he’d siphoned it. He didn’t leave so much as a puff for me to breathe. I gulped – grabbing at my throat.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said.

  The toast was going down the wrong way but it
wasn’t that. No, I was sure I was being smothered.

  Forty-eight

  Bernard

  Funny dream. Odd.

  I’m in bed with Queenie at home. She’s lying next to me. Sleeping. Peaceful. Tucked up warm. Suddenly I hear a plane. One plane. Single engine. A drone. Sounds a bit like a bluebottle (a very big but slow bluebottle). I watch the course of the plane above my head. Follow the sound. Pass my eyes over the ceiling of our bedroom. Across the crack that looks like the bow in the Thames. Past the bit where a chunk of plaster fell off when we had a very close one. Over the ceiling rose with the bare bulb, which starts swaying from the vibration. Somehow I know it is a Jap plane. A Japanese fighter pilot flying over Earls Court. Probably a Zero. It could never have happened, I know, but this was a dream.

  The noise of the kite suddenly stops. And I’m aware he’s coming for me. The bedroom door starts opening slowly. But I can’t move. Paralysed. Even my eyeballs are stuck – fixed on watching the door moving inch by inch. Then he’s there. The Jap. I see his head first, then the whole of him framed in the open door. And he’s just like they were in the cartoons. Little. Big glasses. Squinting eyes, buck teeth, ears like two jug handles. He’s wearing a grey peaked cap – they all used to. This one looks comical but I know there’s nothing funny about a Jap. Fishy thing is, he’s smiling at me. Friendly.

  I want to shoot him. Stick one in him. Jump him. Smash his face into the ground. But he’s still smiling and I start to think, Oh, well, maybe he’s not so bad. Until I see his sword flash. Light cracking off it in a spark. I knew we were in danger. But suddenly Queenie sits up in bed, turns to the door, looks the Jap straight in the eye and says, ‘Hello.’ Just like that. Hello. Like she’s talking to a neighbour. Hello. As if she’d known him all her life. ‘Hello. Come in.’ And that was when I woke up.

  Forty-nine

  Gilbert

  ‘Winston,’ I say, ‘that you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes – Winston. Let me in, man.’