Clover's Child (5 page)

Dot and Sol slotted into a red vinyl-covered bench in one of the four booths and sat opposite each other with their hands on the wipe-clean Formica top. Sol studied the wall with its signed framed photos of Montgomery Clift, and Elvis in a white tuxedo. He decided not to comment on the fact that the signatures were in identical handwriting and had been written in the same pen. Dot opened her purse and pulled out a sixpence. She considered the mini juke box fixed to the wall at the end of the table and ran through the possible options; her finger hovered.

Sol removed his coat and folded it on the banquette beside him. ‘What are our choices? Any Etta?’

Dot smiled at him, glad he’d remembered the song that had been playing when they’d met, unexpectedly thrilled that it wasn’t just her who had made the association.

‘’Fraid not.’

She popped the sixpence into the top slot and jabbed at the rows of letters and numbers until music flowed over them, enveloping them and warming them from the inside out.

‘So how are you liking London?’

‘Well, they know how to throw a party – I was at a function a couple of days ago and you should have seen the juggler! Eggs flying everywhere…’

‘Ha ha. Don’t mention it again. I can’t relive the shame every time I see you.’

‘That sounds like you are planning on seeing me again.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it, today might be a disaster. I mean you’ve already upset me by asking me to give a message to me poor dead nan!’

They smiled at each other, knowing that it was already far from a disaster.

Sol looked at his fingers as he drummed the table top. ‘I apologise once again.’

Dot nodded. ‘Accepted. Carry on.’

‘Well, London seems like a fine place, but to tell you the truth, it isn’t a patch on St Lucia. You know what they say, there’s no place like home.’

‘Is that right?’ She had expected a certain amount of flattery about her country, as she was his hostess.

‘It’s a big adjustment for me. I don’t think it would matter if I was in the most beautiful place on the planet – how can you enjoy anything when it’s so cold?’

‘I guess because we don’t know any different, and besides, it’s not like it’s the Arctic!’

‘I can’t believe there is anywhere colder than here right now.’

Dot shook her head. ‘You’re pitiful.’

He ignored her jibe, but smiled. ‘And in answer to your question, even though it’s too cold to be comfortable, I kind of like what I’ve seen so far. I like it a lot.’

‘Well that’s good.’ Whether intended or not, Dot took it as a compliment. ‘Where is it you’re from again?’

‘St Lucia, West Indies.’

‘St Lucia, West Indies, fancy that.’

‘D’you know where it is?’

Dot snorted through her nose. ‘I have absolutely no idea! Have you always lived there?’

Sol considered his position on the island: had he always lived there? His family history had been drummed into him over the years, how much should he tell her?

‘I was born in the house we live in now and so was my father and his father and so on, as far back as you can think.’

‘Oh, that’s just like me and my mum – we have both lived in our house since we were born.’

Sol smiled. ‘The plot that our house is built on was bought by Mr James Arbuthnott, my ancestor, over one hundred years ago. He made his money in St Lucia and decided to build a home there. He was actually Scottish.’

‘Get away! I didn’t know there were any coloured people in Scotland.’

‘Oh yes, there are lots of coloured people, they are pink.’

‘You know what I mean. Anyway, carry on.’ Dot placed her elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand, rapt by his tale.

‘Well, James shipped the finest materials from the far corners of the globe and built the grandest house in St Lucia – the Jasmine House. I’ve read some of the letters he wrote, describing what it was like when the white-painted wood caught the sunlight in the early hours, how it gave the whole building a pink hue, and then, as the day progressed, the colour changed to yellow then gold. And he wrote about how, when there’s a really magnificent sunset, the whole house glowed the colour of burnt cinnamon. It’s still exactly like that. It’s magical.’

Dot stared, dumbstruck; it was as if he was reading her a story. She loved it.

‘James was born into a rich, successful family, but the amount of wealth he acquired dwarfed even his father’s achievements. He was a forward thinker and saw the value in spices, chartering great clippers that transported his sweet-scented cargo all over the world. It took just two years of hauling spices across the high seas before he made enough money to buy his own ships and then he began chartering his boats to others and taking a cut of whatever cargo they transported. Pretty soon he was the wealthiest man in the islands. He had everything a man could wish for. Everything, that is, except happiness.’

Dot leant forward. ‘Why wasn’t he happy? He had that lovely house!’

‘It takes more than bricks, mortar and money to make happiness. And sadly, Sarah, his young wife, pined for her parents, and for the heathery hills of the Scottish Highlands where she had grown up; she dreamed of the snow. And I can understand that – I dream of sunshine!’

‘Don’t start with that again! Tell me about Sarah.’ Dot chewed her thumbnail, as she often did when concentrating.

‘Sarah had given birth to two fair-skinned children who also did not thrive in the West Indian heat. Eventually, she couldn’t take it any longer and one day she packed her valise and shepherded her small children on to a clipper bound for home. The story goes that on that very same day, just as Sarah and her children were setting sail, Mary-Jane walked barefoot up the path of the Jasmine House in search of work.’

‘Ooh, who’s Mary-Jane?’

‘Mary-Jane was my great-great-grandmother and she
was
from Africa, brought to the Caribbean as a slave to work on the plantations.’

‘Oh my God!’ Dot placed her hand over her mouth. ‘That’s terrible.’

‘Legend has it that the day Mary-Jane became the mistress of the mighty James Arbuthnott, tropical flowers like hibiscus and lobster claw bloomed in the previously sparse flower beds. The jasmine released its intoxicating scent and birds and wildlife for miles around gathered in the garden paradise, to bask in the love that shone from the two lovers.’

‘So she was African and he was Scottish?’

‘Yes.’

‘Blimey, that must have caused a bit of a stir. I mean it would nowadays, let alone a hundred years ago.’

Sol liked her unfiltered observations, her honesty. ‘It did. The household mocked their union, the locals laughed at the skittish young slip of a girl who liked to run barefoot through the gardens and who thought she could be lady of the big house. They warned Mary-Jane that a black and white union would not last, that the master’s interest in her would wane and she would be left with nothing, not even her reputation. But my great-great-grandmother had one response for all those that scorned her: “It cannot be undone; the genie is out of the bottle!” The two lived in a state of bliss for thirty years, until one day Mary-Jane passed away from the flu, brought to the island aboard one of James’s very own ships. Apparently he then lay down next to the body of his beloved and died of a broken heart; without Mary-Jane in his world there was very little point in it carrying on beating.’

Dot swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘That’s so sad, but so lovely at the same time.’

‘Their children – Abraham, Saul, Clara and Aloysius – mourned their passing but were happy that their parents would exist in death as they had in life, devotedly side by side. Abraham was my great-grandfather and he and Saul continued to build on their father’s success, making the Arbuthnott name one that would always be synonymous with the island of St Lucia.’

‘That’s like a fairy story.’ Dot put her clasped hands in her lap and sat quietly, humbled by his tale.

Sol nodded. ‘So, yes, I’ve always lived there, and my family before me, all in the same house! And what about you?’

Dot perked up and thought about how she might match what she had just heard. She couldn’t. ‘Oh, very similar to you really! I live in the house that my mum grew up in, and my nan lived there all her life, although we’ve never had any servants that I know of, unless there’s one in the cupboard under the stairs that I don’t know about, and it’s a darn sight chillier and we’ve only had an inside loo for the last six years. I think that covers it.’

‘You are funny. I’ve never met anyone like you before.’

‘Ditto. Is this your first time in England?’

‘No. I came when I was very small, but I don’t really remember it. We’ve only been here for a few days now and my head is still unsure if it’s morning or night. I’ve only been in the new apartment and now here…’ Sol waved his arm around in the direction of the door. ‘Wherever we are!’

‘We are in Stepney. How bad is your sense of direction?’

Sol laughed. ‘Pretty bad, apparently, which is surprising because as part of my military training, I’ve been shown how to find any location in the world by using nothing more than the sun to navigate by as long as what I am trying to find is below the permanent snow line.’

‘Is that right?’ Dot raised one eyebrow and twisted her lips. It sounded like rubbish.

‘Oh yes, it’s just one of the many skills that I have acquired. I can also catch and skin a rabbit in less than four minutes and I know how to make a waterproof tent out of a poncho.’

Dot looked him in the eye. ‘Well I never. I thank God you are here, Sol, cos the last time I had to catch and skin a rabbit it took me six minutes and my poncho tent was definitely a little bit leaky.’

‘You can mock me, Dot, but you never know when these skills will come in useful.’

‘Actually, mister, I think I do. Around here your skills are bloody useless!’

Sol was speechless. He had grown up within the privileged walls of the Jasmine House, on an island where his name was known by everyone he encountered. Patience his nanny and Vida his mother had run back and forth to make sure his every wish was indulged. Even at the military academy, his father’s name had ensured preferential treatment – and came with its own set of expectations. To this East End girl sitting in front of him, his surname meant nothing at all, which felt both alien and exciting. He laughed loudly, flashing his perfect teeth in Dot’s direction.

‘Why did you have military training anyway?’

‘I’m a soldier.’

‘Really? A proper soldier?’

‘And you think I insulted
you
? Of course I’m a proper soldier!’ He shook his head.

‘Oh yeah? What you doing over here then? Don’t think there’s much soldiering going on here – you’re about twenty years too late, mate.’

‘It’s a covert mission, I’d love to tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

‘Charming!’

Sol laughed into his coffee. Dot thought she’d better clarify. ‘I’ve never known a soldier before, not a nowadays soldier, only the blokes who fought in the war and are out now. There’s a lot of them wandering around, poor souls. Breaks my heart to see the ones that came back loopy, the ones that got landed with the Japs, they was wicked buggers.’

‘War makes people wicked.’

‘Reckon you’re right. It was certainly wicked round our way. Whole families wiped out, fires that burnt for days. Me nan worked in a munitions factory in Clerkenwell and one night during her shift there was a raid; when she came up from the shelter to walk back to Limehouse she couldn’t find her way home. Everything was flattened or burning, all the landmarks, buildings, everything that she used to navigate home by, everything she had grown up with had gone. There were people trapped under the rubble and fire crews running from one to the next. She used to tell me about it and I was terrified just listening. The East End was hit pretty bad.’

‘I saw pictures, heard about it, it must have been terrible.’ Sol nodded sympathetically. ‘So I’m your first nowadays soldier…’

‘Yes and you’re the first black person I’ve spoken to. I’ve seen one or two, but not to chat with. I’ve never known anyone black before.’ She lowered her lids; was it okay to say that? She decided not to divulge that she had felt scared of black people before meeting him, having heard only tales of cannibalism and witch-doctoring.

‘Your first black person, eh? Well, I definitely have the advantage as I have met quite a few.’

‘Do you know other white people?’

Sol laughed. ‘Yes of course. Most of my friends from the military academy are white and lots of my parents’ friends and my father’s colleagues. In St Lucia it’s different.’

‘So, in St Lucia, is everyone black just like over here everyone is white?’

‘Yes.’

Dot smiled. ‘I can’t imagine that.’

He clapped his hands together and changed the subject. He preferred the ribbing that had gone on earlier to this exploration of race and colour. ‘Right, what are our plans for today?’

‘Mmm, I’m not sure whether to do a runner and watch you try and find your way home, or take you up West for an adventure.’

‘Oh, an adventure sounds good!’

‘What would you do at home on a day off?’

‘Home, St Lucia?’

‘Yep.’ She nodded. St Lucia… a name so exotic for a place she couldn’t point to on a map, another world that was warm and full of black people.

‘Well, whatever was planned, it would start with a good breakfast and then I can guarantee that a large portion of my day would involve the beach – I would either be running on it or swimming in the sea.’ Sol closed his eyes and imagined diving, as he often did, head first into the shallow breakers of the turquoise Caribbean Sea at Reduit Beach. He was surprised at the image that leapt into his mind, of him diving into the crystal water with Dot by his side.

‘I’ve never seen the sea.’ Dot looked down at her lap, embarrassed.

‘Really? Never?’

She shook her head. ‘Nope, never.’

‘How old are you, Dot?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Well in St Lucia you would be about eighteen years too late getting into the water, it’s part of us.’

She smirked at him. ‘Closest I’ve got to it is watching the ships come into Limehouse Docks, they sometimes smell like the sea. I often sit on the dock with my mate and look at them, big Russian ships with “Odessa” stamped on the side and piles of timber stacked on them that goes straight into the Montague L. Meyer timber yards. I like watching the barges pulling up to the big ships with lightermen running back and forth like busy little ants. It fascinates me that those massive metal monsters have skimmed over the waves from all over the world and ended up within a mile of my little house. It’s amazing that, isn’t it?’