The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (18 page)

‘I’m fine.’

‘She said you collapsed on the ground.’

‘I slipped.’

‘You were with that little boy from the church choir. George. You go to a football match and don’t tell me. You collapse. What am I to think?’

‘Think what you like.’ He was tired. He wanted to go to bed.

‘Pascale’s coming over.’

‘Well, I’m going to bed.’

He opened the door of the truck and tried to move his legs.

‘George!’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re white as a sheet.’

‘I just need to get some rest.’

Sabine put her head under his arm, helping him out. ‘Oh darling, you can’t walk.’

‘I can.’

His legs were weak. Sabine staggered with him to the kitchen steps and together they zigzagged through the living room and up the stairs to the bedroom, where they fell heavily on the bed.

‘George, I don’t like this at all. I’m calling Dr Baker.’

George closed his eyes. The headache sizzled. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. He lay on the bed, managing to wriggle around so that he lay on his side with his head on the pillow. He wanted to curl up, to sleep for a long time.

Sabine came from the bathroom with a cold flannel, pressing it to his forehead.

‘Oooh,’ he gasped. It felt good. But the flannel warmed in moments, absorbing the heat.

He heard Sabine go downstairs and return, this time with a bowl of ice cubes.

George closed his eyes. His wife’s hands on his head, his wife tutting and fussing over him. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but his tongue was thick. She pressed the cold damp flannel to his forehead and it stuck. She sat next to him on the bed and he could feel the warmth and weight of her, wanting to touch her. After a minute or two she peeled the flannel off, dipping it into the icy water, wringing it and pressing the compress back onto his forehead. He mumbled, half-conscious.

‘What is it, dear?’

‘I
do
care, you know . . . about people.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not a heartless beast.’

‘Don’t worry about this now.’

‘I do care . . . I didn’t know . . . you were quite so unhappy.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘We missed the ship.’

‘Yes.’

‘I never wanted to get on it.’

‘No.’

‘I’m someone here.’

‘Yes.’

‘In England I’d have been as unhappy as you are here.’ He moaned. ‘I’m selfish.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Sabine took the flannel from his forehead, resoaked it and placed it back. George reached for his wife’s hand and clenched it tight.

The next day George sulked out on the porch. He’d refused to see the doctor. That Dr Baker was a quack. Giving Sabine those pills for all those years. He’d punch Sebastian Baker down. He wasn’t going to see him. Lousy charlatan. Ladies’ man. Did Sabine love
him
, too? Who were her other fantasy men? Did she love Dr Baker, want to fuck him, too? No, George Harwood was fine, thank you very much. They could all fuck off. He felt a lot better in himself. The big dogs were stationed near him: his dogs.

‘Good dogs.’ He fondled their ears.

When Pascale arrived she kissed her father on the forehead, sitting down on one of the rattan chairs next to him.

‘So. Mummy tell mih you won’t go to see Dr Baker.’

‘I’m not ill.’

‘If you don’t, I’ll bring him here to see
you
.’

‘You women are making a lot of fuss over nothing.’

‘You chupid old man. You collapsed! Maureen said you were out for several minutes, dead as a Fred. It damn well lucky you ent hit your head. Lucky she was there. You stubborn, yes, an’ if you don’t go and have a check-up, I’ll make you have one. It can be done.’

George looked away.

Pascale lit a cigarette, inhaling a smoky blue plume. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I don’t want you to die.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I need you for ever.’

‘You’re being dramatic. Like your mother.’

‘I need you to tell me the secret of how to stay married for a long time.’

George sighed heavily.

‘Why did you marry Mum?’

George was taken aback. He stared at his feet. ‘Because she was a dish,’ he said finally.

‘The world is full of beautiful women. Why her?’

‘She was for me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mother filled up the frame. I couldn’t see anyone else but her, no one around her or past her.’

‘Did that ever wear off?’

‘No, it got worse.’

‘How?’

‘Well, then love comes. You can fancy lots of other people. But the heart is small and fussy: it knows exactly who it wants. You only have room in it to love one or two people in a lifetime.’

‘Love happens to you.’ Pascale nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘It a tough bastard, isn’t it, Dad?’

‘Ha ha. Yes. And it lasts for years.’

‘The other person’s spirit climbs into you.’ Pascale sighed. ‘You feel so much for them. If they get hurt, you hurt. If you hurt them, you hurt yourself.’

‘Is that how you felt about the man before Jacques?’

Pascale’s eyes filmed. ‘Yes, Daddy.’

 

May. George’s favourite month. May, the time of trees. Pomme-arac trees in season. The branches dangled with bell-shaped, woman-shaped fruit, a lewd magenta in their colour, like a harlot’s lipstick. Beneath the trees lay a fine carpet of magenta stamens, covering rooftops, wall-tops, pavements, lawns. The birds feasted on them and those stupid enough to park under a pomme-arac tree in May found their car splattered with magenta dye. The pink pouis were out, too, like glamour models, tall thin trees with strawberry afros exploding along the savannah, heralding the coming of the rains. The flamboyants were short and squat; black trunks and horizontal sprays of scarlet blossom. These trees were dancers, arms in the air, flashing their ruffed sleeves. In May, the mango trees were heavy with blushing fruit. Breadfruits bulged in an obscene manner. Bougainvillea brawled from balconies and walls. If a stick was thrust into the earth, it would surely flourish, such was the fertility of this humid heat. It shimmied in sheets up from the blistering road. Everywhere the grass was turning to an ashen dust-brown, the earth beneath became dry and crumbled.

In May, black people were sensible and took umbrellas when walking outside, holding them high. White people drove around in air-conditioned cars. They ran between their cars and shops. They feared what might come. Sometimes, at night, Sabine woke George up.

‘Can you hear that?’

‘No, what?’

‘The green woman, she’s restless. She’s going to roll over.’

‘Good. Maybe she’ll squash those condominiums across the road.’

Hurricanes brewed far out. May, the month before the official storm warnings. May, the dry season finale, trumpets blowing, confetti showering from the trees. The air clapped and cheered. By the end of the month the murder toll had reached a hundred and sixty.

 

The next day, Jennifer was shifty. Sabine had gone out to play bridge. Jennifer avoided George, which was unusual. Was it the court case? Was she unhappy about keeping it from Sabine? Had more police cars appeared? Just as it was time for her to go, she appeared on the porch. Her face was pinched, her eyes bleak. She held a Hi-Lo brown-paper bag in her hand, crumpled up.

‘Have you baked another cake? Hidden it from the dog?’ he joked.

But Jennifer’s face was grave. Very grave. He didn’t like it.

‘Jennifer, what’s wrong? You look very awkward. What’s wrong? What is it?’

Jennifer crossed the porch and came very close. She never stood so close. She stared at him in a sombre, caring way. He had the feeling she was going to say something unthinkable.

‘Jennifer?’

She thrust the paper bag into his hands. It was heavy, something metal inside.

‘What the . . .?’

Jennifer’s eyes were huge. ‘Talbot keep it under de bed, Mr Harwood. I doh know where he get it. But he have it long time. It when he get mix up. He keep it. He woh trow it away, he cyan get rid of it. I doh wan it in de house. It go make more trouble fer us. You keep it, Mr Harwood. Give it to de lawyer man. Keep it safe and away from us.’

Jennifer’s eyes were wet and imploring.

‘Yes, of course.’

He looked inside the paper bag. In it was a heavy bundle in waxed paper and he knew what it was before he began to unwrap it, shaking his head, knowing deep down that a gun was the last thing he wanted in his house, not now. This was bad. Where would he hide it? Where? And then it came to him.

‘Of course, Jennifer. I’ll keep it safe.’

Ray rang later in the day. ‘Eh, eh, ah have news for you, George.’ He sounded tense.

‘Oh no, am I in trouble?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Manning’s office ring us. He plannin’ to delay local elections. Dey offerin’ us an interview. Furs time dey do dis, man. He rarely give press interviews. Dis a big ting. He aks for you specifically. He like de way you write. Tink yousa poet.’

George whistled. ‘Has he
read
my last two interviews?’

‘Ah assumin’ so. De boys here vexed. Dey all want a pop at him. He only want to talk to you.’

‘He wants
me
? A white man?’

‘Yeah, man. Will you do it?’

‘How much will you pay me?’

‘Name your price.’

‘Don’t be stupid. I’d do it for free. Of course I’ll do it. When does he want me?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Where?’

‘At Whitehall.’

‘Oh. House of Bobo.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

 

Sabine was furious. ‘You’re not going anywhere to interview
anyone
.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You mustn’t exert yourself.’

‘I’ll be sitting in a chair, talking to the Prime Minister.’

‘You’re not well enough. What if you black out?’

‘I won’t.’

‘What if you do?’

‘I won’t.’

‘You can’t drive there. I’ll have to drop you.’

‘Sabine, I’m fine.’

She shot him a look of reproach.

‘I’m going to interview the Prime Minister of Trinidad. Now’s your chance. What would you like to ask?’

‘Ask him this: How much does he treasure his balls?’

‘Mr Manning, do you treasure your balls?’

‘Inform him your wife wants to cut them off.’

‘I’ll put it on my list.’

‘Good.’

‘How’s your head?’

‘Fine,’ he lied.

Patrick Augustus Mervyn Manning wanted to use him, George knew that. Despite his last two interviews, in which he’d railed, asked tough questions about the blimp, Manning thought he was harmless. The Prime Minister wanted a PR job. Silly white fool in love with Trinidad. He’d never written an unkind word about anyone. But George already knew Patrick Manning, knew him intimately. Selfish bastard; not a political animal. Manning thought economics, he thought of money. He’d heard the talk. People said Manning had worshipped Eric Williams, was in awe of him. People said that whenever Manning was in a tight spot he asked himself
: What would Williams have done?

 

George arrived early at Whitehall, a gaudy wedding cake of a mansion made of Bajan coral. It was one of the cocoa-baron homes around the savannah, once the family home of his gormless son-in-law, Jacques: Bobo the Clown.

The dead-eyed security guards at the mansion gate didn’t like the look of George’s rusted truck.

‘Who are you?’ They fingered their batons.

‘Press.’ George flashed his pass.

The guards were troll-like. They wore tiny woollen toques atop their bulbous heads, itchy woollen jumpers and commando-style boots. One wielded a machine gun. Grudgingly, they beckoned him through.

George parked in a space under the shade of an illustrious Samaan tree. From the glovebox he retrieved a flask of Vat 19 and a packet of Panadol Extra, knocking back two pills with two swigs of rum. He knocked back a third swig for good luck, a fourth for courage. Then a fifth, larger swig. Instantly, he felt much happier. He wiped his lips, checking himself in the rear-view mirror: his hair was still stuck down with Grecian 2000. His eyes blazed, fire in them. Handsome fucker, still.

George walked back to the entrance, the trees on the savannah saluting him with puffs of smoke: violet, lemon, snowy white. A guard led him up the steps, into a vestibule of polished teak. He sat down, twiddling his thumbs.

‘Mr Harwood?’

A young woman appeared in a suit and high clicking heels. ‘Come this way, please.’