Choice of Straws

  Somebody passed around a pretty strong punch in paper cups, and some little sausage rolls. The singing stopped and the talk began while we ate. About music and musicians, jazzmen, some of whom I’d never heard about. Mostly Americans. Coloured. And about their struggle in the United States, and the effect of their struggles on the music they made. And about the atomic bomb. And work. And where was Youth heading? And the importance of expressing one’s personality and identity. You could tell they were educated types, I mean, the way they spoke and so sure of what they were saying. So I kept my mouth shut and just listened. Even Ruth would put in her tuppence worth now and then, as clever as any of the others. And Ron, the Spade. He had this deep, nimbly voice, and spoke slowly, carefully, as if somewhere in his mind he tested each word to make sure it was suitable to do the job of explaining the thoughts growing deep inside him. If you didn’t see him you wouldn’t figure that voice was coming from a Spade. Sounded just like that fellow who did the mystery voice on the BBC. Ruth said he was a student at RADA and I asked her what that was and she said a college where you learned acting and other things for the theatre. I just sat there sipping punch and letting the talk wash over me like tide on some warm beach where you didn’t have to bother about anything. And wondering what old Dave would say if he could see me now, chumming it up with a ruddy Spade.

  Michelle. So that was her name. I’d figured she’d have a name different from other girls. And the way her mother had pronounced it, making it sound foreign. Wonder what it would be like if she were beside me now, leaning close like Ruth. Don’t suppose she’d condescend to sit on any floor eating sausage rolls. Wonder what she’d say when her mother told her she’d invited me to tea. She’d sounded friendly, that Mrs Spencer.

  I’d missed the first part of whatever Ron was saying, then noticed that the others were quiet, listening to him.

  ‘ … and the Youth Employment Officer made a long speech to us about the wonderful opportunities awaiting us in industry and the civil service, because Britain was in urgent need of qualified technical personnel and the sky was the limit for anyone with drive, ambition and ability. You know the usual kind of drivel they shoot at you the last year at school. Well, there were two of us. Jackie Roberts and me. We’d gone up to Hale School at the same time. When the bloke had finished his speech he asked if any of us had any questions. And Jack stood up and said “Sir, do these prospects and opportunities you’ve described apply equally to us?” Meaning him and me, the only two coloured fellows in the class. You should have seen that bloke’s face. He stammered something about when he spoke he was thinking of the English students, but, providing we attained the necessary standards he did not think we should experience any difficulty being placed. Funny thing is, though I was born here, my folks both came from Barbados, but Jackie’s grandfather was born in Cardiff, and his father’s been practising medicine in Hampstead ever since he qualified.’

  The discussion warmed up. A redheaded fellow named Petty said it was the same attitude at the root of all the racial friction in the U.S.A. Native sons who didn’t belong. You should have heard Ruth carrying on about everybody being the same under their skins. I wondered, How the hell would she know, she’d never had a different skin. Then one of the girls, a pretty little blonde with plenty of shape, called Hilary, said that Britain’s youth had a responsibility to reshape the attitudes they had inherited so that the next generation would have a better chance to live in harmony with other people. I mean, a sweet little mouth coming all that stuff. I wouldn’t mind if she tried out a little of that harmony on me, provided she didn’t do any reshaping on herself.

  Then they got back on to the theatre and the flicks, and somebody talked about a Spade actor named Sydney Poitier. And Ron said that in the States and Britain the Arts provided an oasis where anyone could find shade and sustenance without reference to colour or creed, but why should it be the only place, because after all, only a very few people wanted to become actors or musicians or dancers. And it didn’t make him feel any better to be able to move along easily, when he saw how badly other coloureds were treated. Then somebody said it wasn’t all as simple as that, and look at the lousy parts most coloured actors were always given, flunkeys and servants and things. And I’m right there thinking if they knew the first thing about me they’d have me out of there in a jiff.

  Now and then I look at the time because it’s such a nuisance if you miss the last Underground to Upminster. Means having to get to Fenchurch Street and wait around for hours to get a steam train, or else get a train from Liverpool Street to Romford, then get a taxi from Romford all the way to Upminster. After all I’m not made of loot. Ruth caught me at it and put her hand over my wrist-watch, and after a while we’re holding hands. Not only us. Ron has his arm around that blonde Hilary. Ruth says she’s pretty bright and designs fabrics. Petty, the ginger bloke, is leaning against Ruth’s friend Naomi, you know, as if they’re good friends. Naomi is the one who has the flat.

  Someone put on a record and soon everybody’s dancing and I look again at the time and it’s half-eleven and I tell Ruth I’d better be going and she says, joking, what’s the rush, is Mother waiting to tuck her little Dave in. And though I know she’s kidding, something starts up inside me, remembering that nowadays Mum doesn’t give a damn whether I’m late in or not.

  Ruth walked to the station with me and on the way I remembered. So I told her that my name wasn’t really Dave, it was Jack. And she stops still in the street, asking, ‘Why did you want to say it was Dave?’ Her voice was angry. So I tell her it was just a joke, you know, you meet a girl and you figure you’d never see her again in your life, so a little kidding wouldn’t hurt, I mean, no harm done.

  ‘But I’m already thinking of you as Dave,’ she said. ‘How am I going to suddenly think of you as Jack?’ I mean, what’s she making all the fuss about. It’s not as if we’d been friends for years.

  Then suddenly she cheers up. ‘You know, you’re an odd fellow. Fancy doing a thing like that. How do I know your name is really Jack and you’re not still kidding me?’

  So I show her my ring with the initials and explain about Jack being for Jackson and L.B. for Lee Bennett. So we chat a bit and she tells me most of the people I’d met lived near by and the party would be going on for hours yet. She’d be spending the night at the flat with Naomi, and was hoping to team up with her permanently as soon as she’d talked her mother into it. Willesden was a long way to and from her job each day, and if anything was happening in town she always had to leave early to get trains home, and it was awful. Listening to her I was thinking I’d have to find myself somewhere too. She said she hoped next time I wouldn’t have to rush off so early, and outside South Ken station we kissed. Holding her close, feeling the soft, willing warmth of her and the excitement of her sweet mouth. And suddenly who am I thinking of? Michelle. So I said cheerio to Ruth and I’d ring her soon, and rush into the station. A good thing people can’t see inside your mind and know what you’re thinking.

  At home I get into my pyjamas and lie in bed reading Dave’s book. It had become like a habit now, each night. Like listening to him say things I didn’t even know he’d ever thought about. Sometimes I’d read aloud, but softly, hearing the voice and trying to imagine it coming out of Dave’s mouth. If our Dad and Mum heard they’d think I was becoming a nutcase or something. Hell, they’d never hear, with the ruddy door shut tight. How did Dave know all those things?

  Anyway, there were some things he didn’t know. About Spades, for instance. Bet he’d never been to a do like tonight, with a fellow like Ron. Or talked to someone like Michelle. And that bird on the Underground with those others. Funny how I’d never noticed any Spades before except those fellows who worked on the buses or the Underground. I mean, you saw them but you never looked at them. Not really. Not like how you looked at somebody else, even for a minute, wondering what their name was or what sort of job they did or anything.
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  Going round with Dave I’d see Spades, lots of them, but all that happened was that, well, it sort of registered that there was a black face, but I didn’t want to look at it, to see if it was young or old or handsome or ugly or happy or sad. Even when we’d knocked some fellow about I merely saw his blackness, not any feature. Christ, come to think of it, if next day I’d seen one of the fellows we’d knocked about the night before, I’d never have recognized him. Odd the way that, since Dave went, I’m seeing them popping up all over the place, looking and sounding like anybody else. Suppose if things hadn’t happened the way they did I’d never have met Michelle. Sure if that bugger Dave had seen her he might even have made a play for her. I wouldn’t have had a ruddy chance. And that Ron, talking about what had happened at his Grammar School. Wonder if there were lots more like him, going to Grammar schools and Techs and things, even to University. Him and Michelle.

  Suppose lots and lots of them were born here, what would happen? I mean like the Spades in the States. They called them American Negroes, or Negro Americans, in those magazines like Downbeat and Weekend. What would they call fellows like Ron and that Jackie he talked about? British Negroes? English Negroes? Negro Britons? Negro Englishmen? Didn’t sound right somehow. Oh, well, bugger the lot of them. Let them sort it out for themselves.

  A gentle knock on the door and Mum came in and sat on the side of my bed. I get this funny feeling that something’s wrong.

  ‘What’s up, Mum?’ I’m getting ready to sit up, but she stops me.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. Heard you come in and get into bed, but saw your light was still on, so I thought you’d be reading. There was a phone message for you tonight. To ring Miss Spencer early tomorrow.’

  She sat looking at me, as if expecting some kind of explanation. I say nothing, thinking that perhaps I was wrong and although the door was closed she still listened for me coming in. Made me feel good, that did.

  ‘She wanted to speak to you but I told her you were out. Why does she want to talk to you?’ So that was why Mum had been listening for me. To find out about Miss Spencer. Michelle.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Mum. Something or other I suppose.’ I suddenly thought that perhaps she’d rung to tell me not to come tomorrow. Probably made a fuss with her mother for inviting me and now wanted to put me off with some ruddy excuse.

  ‘Have you been seeing her, Son?’

  ‘No, Mum, not since the inquest.’

  ‘Then why would she be telephoning you?’

  ‘Look, Mum, how would I know?’ I mean, she’s going on and on about it and I don’t even know what’s happening.

  ‘Son, you know I never interfere where your friends are concerned, but I don’t want to see you get mixed up with any of those people. We’ve had enough trouble with them as it is. If it hadn’t been for them your brother would be right here, now. Well, what’s happened has happened but I don’t want to see you getting involved with any of them.’

  ‘Look, Mum, I’m not involved with anybody. What are you on about? I don’t even know why she telephoned.’

  ‘Their ways are not our ways,’ she went on. ‘We’ll never know what happened between that Dr Spencer and our Dave, but that’s no reason for you to get mixed up with them. Had it not been for them my son wouldn’t be in his grave tonight.’ The way she spoke I wondered what she’d said to Miss Spencer. Christ, she must have gone and really mucked it up for me.

  ‘What did you say to her, Mum?’

  ‘All I said was that you were out.’ Yes, I could guess how she said it, too.

  ‘Okay, Mum, I’ll ring her tomorrow.’

  She stood up, looking down at me, then went out, closing the door behind her.

  Hell, I wasn’t a ruddy kid any more. Ordering me about. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. And that guff about the Spades being responsible for Dave not being here. Who does she think started the whole thing? Talking about getting involved. You can’t get involved with someone you can’t get near to. From the way Mum had talked to her I guess she was just waiting to tell me sorry but they’d forgotten they were doing something else and couldn’t have me to tea. Oh, well, to hell with her. She wasn’t the only ruddy pebble on the beach. Lots of birds all over the place if I wanted one. But if she thought I’d give her the chance to snub me, she had another think coming. I’d phone and before she opened her mouth to make any ruddy excuse I’d say I was sorry but something else had come up and I couldn’t make it after all. That would fix the stuck-up bitch.

  After breakfast I waited till Mum was upstairs fixing the beds, then I made the call. Her mother answered the phone, her voice was nice and friendly, and then I could hear her calling, ‘Michelle, it’s Mr Bennett asking for you.’ Then she was on.

  ‘Good morning. Sorry I’m out of breath. I was out on the porch.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Waiting to hear her begin whatever excuse she’d cooked up, then I’d chip in and say my piece.

  ‘About this afternoon. Do you know how to get here?’

  I felt myself sweating. ‘Well, I saw the address in the phone book and I figured I’d come down to Leigh and ask around.’

  She laughed, still a little breathless, but gay, then said that many of their friends had difficulty finding the place at first, and would I take down the directions so they wouldn’t have to send out a search party for me. She sounded just like those classy birds you see talking on the phone in the flicks to their boy friends. She held the line while I found pencil and paper, then told me. Our Dad came into the room while I was talking, looked around and walked out. After I’d written what she’d told me, I wanted to talk some more but couldn’t think of anything to say. Then she said:

  ‘Well, we’ll expect you at five or thereabouts, Mr Bennett.’

  ‘Jack,’ I told her.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The name is Jack, short for Jackson.’

  ‘Oh, well, see you at five.’ And she hung up.

  Our Dad must have heard the bell tinkle when I hung up. He came back.

  ‘Mrs Spencer and her daughter are very nice people, Son,’ he said. I waited to see what he was getting at. Maybe he and Mum had been talking about me.

  ‘I expect they’re going through a pretty difficult time just now, what with one thing and another. Mrs Spencer was really broken up over her son’s death.’ He stood there rubbing his chin, making that funny noise because he hadn’t shaved yet, looking at me in that odd tone of voice. Anybody’d think I was planning to murder somebody or something, the way he and Mum were on to me.

  Then he started to say something else but stopped, as if he’d changed his mind. He walked to the door, then said, ‘Want to give me a hand over at the allotment?’

  It was good to be out in the warm sun, the earth smelling clean with each spadeful turned, hands sticky from pulling beans and cutting rhubarb, hearing the birds chirping and the distant rush of traffic along the main road behind the far line of trees. Times like this when Dave was here we’d be nattering with our Dad and fooling around, kidding as we worked, happy in the nearness. Afterwards we’d step in at the Greyhound and have a shandy with our Dad on the way home to lunch. Now it was nearly the same, except we worked quietly, without saying anything. But it was okay.

  Sometimes I looked over at our Dad, noticing the way his big hands did quick, tender things, feeling the strength and friendliness in him. Funny with our Dad, even as kids he didn’t really like telling us off. Even those times when we’d do something wrong and Mum would tell him when he got in from work and he’d have to tan our behinds, he’d come up to our room afterwards and tell us some funny story about what he’d been doing on the building site, or give us some sweets he’d brought for us. Best of all was Sunday mornings when he’d take us to the allotment and we’d play cowboys under the trees, while he worked. I mean, he was okay.

  ‘I’m going to have
tea with Mrs Spencer and her daughter this afternoon.’ I said it before I even realized I was going to tell him.

  He straightened up and turned to look at me, his eyes not smiling.

  ‘Mrs Spencer asked me to come,’ I said.

  ‘Is that why the girl rang last night?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. What I mean is her mother had already asked me, but Miss Spencer rang to tell me how to get there.’

  ‘How come Mrs Spencer invited you, in the first place?’

  ‘Well, you know at the inquest? Talking with her daughter I’d said I’d give her a ring some time, you know, just to say hello and see how things were with them. So yesterday I rang, Mrs Spencer answered and said would I like to come to tea.’

  Suddenly he smiled, but not as if he was amused or anything. More like if he was tired trying to figure something out. A sort of weary smile.

  ‘You know, Son, I just don’t understand you. I mean, the Spencers are coloured people, just like the others, aren’t they?’

  I knew what he meant. I didn’t say anything to that. After all, what could I argue, seeing that he knew about everything that had happened. He sighed, shaking his head, and went back to what he’d been doing.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  I’D SEEN HOW SOME of them lived when Dave and me went around, up Brixton and Notting Hill and places like that. Those big old houses with the paint peeling off them, and all those Spades standing about outside, and the way I’d heard people talk, they liked living lots together in one room. Going up to Leigh on the train I figured that, however it was, it wouldn’t kill me for one visit. After all, I only wanted to get near enough to her to sort of find out how things were, you know, if I could make it with her. The way she dressed and talked they couldn’t be too badly off. Probably lived in a little flat or something.