The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (21 page)

 

Floris and Edmund Knags arrived first. They heard the commotion and saw Sabine in her dress, soaking, standing at the side of the pool with the scoop and the dogs barking, trying to get out.

Edmund jumped in, diving to the bottom. He brought George up.

‘My love, my love,’ Sabine sobbed, kneeling at the side of the pool, grabbing for her husband’s body.

Edmund pushed and Sabine pulled and George’s body heaved forward in one movement, falling onto Sabine’s lap. She bent over him, kissing him. ‘No, no, no. Get him a blanket!’

George’s long hair lay like strands of seaweed down his face. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was only asleep. Peaceful. ‘No, no, no,’ Sabine wailed. A blanket arrived and they wrapped him up as best they could. More neighbours turned up in twos and threes and Sabine couldn’t see them through her hurricane of tears. They gaped, appalled, saying,
Oh, Sabine, Sabine
. No one knew quite what to say or do. Sabine wailed and rocked her husband’s wet body.

Quickly, the house was full and the driveway chock-a-block, cars on the driveway, on the grass, on the verge outside the house. Passers-by would assume there was a party going on inside. Sabine sat by the side of the pool with George on her lap, wrapped in a blanket as if to warm him back to life, warm his bones. She wouldn’t move or let anyone take him from her. She sobbed and rocked and choked and kissed his head. ‘My love, my love, my love,’ she cried, and rocked.

 

The house bustled. Phone calls were made to the district officer, the undertaker. Someone telephoned Pascale. Someone else telephoned Sebastian in London. Someone called Dr Sebastian Baker.

Dr Baker came immediately, hurrying up the drive and through the house. He gasped when he saw Sabine and George by the pool. He knelt down next to them and put his hand on Sabine’s bowed head.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said as he kissed Sabine on the forehead. Sabine let him examine George and pronounce him dead, saying his heart had gone, saying he’d do the paperwork, get the certificate ready. He’d have to go back to the office, he’d be back again soon.

Sabine couldn’t see Dr Baker through her grief. She only remembered the dances at the Country Club, all those years ago, how he had held her close, how things were so different then, a different life for her and George. Dr Baker bent closer and held her tight for a few moments but had no words, nothing to say to her.

‘I won’t last long without him,’ Sabine whispered thickly to his ear. ‘I won’t last too much longer here.’

 

Pascale flew through the house and saw her father lying there, wrapped up like a mummy. She ran to Sabine and only then could Sabine let her husband go and stagger to her feet.

‘He’s dead, he’s gone,’ she wailed and the women locked in an embrace, clutching each other tightly. Pascale sobbed and Sabine groaned like an animal. No one knew what to say and so they left the two women by the pool with the large dead man wrapped in a blanket, his long wet hair flowing over his peaceful face. They held each other and talked to him and waited for the undertakers to arrive. The dogs were wet and exhausted, whimpering and lying flat on the grass, not too far from George. They whined, a nervous desperate sound, wanting to know what had happened. Someone went over to comfort them and lead them away to the front garden.

 

Sabine stood on the steps of the red and vanilla church in the pounding sun, sunglasses clamped to her face. Her beautiful son Sebastian had flown back from London the next day. The house was still full of people when he arrived: neighbours, friends, friends of Pascale’s. People had brought food, soups and hops and ham and pelau. Jennifer was shocked; she kept uttering
Oh gorsh
and dropping things. The dogs were quiet. They kept looking into the pool. Sabine hadn’t slept for days. She kept repeating the story of finding George dead in the pool again and again, to anyone who’d listen, as if convincing herself that it had happened. Pascale had gone mute and was staring all the time, staring into her future. How could George be dead? He was much too young; he had more time, surely? She still had so much more to say to him. It wasn’t right. How could George die? That lump in his head ‒ they hadn’t finished arguing.

The hearse appeared. The sombre-faced pall-bearers hovered round the back doors, Sabine’s son amongst them. Sebastian wanted to do it, wanted to carry his father’s body inside the church. The same church where he was baptised, where he wanted to have his own funeral. Sabine and Pascale moved towards the entrance, where they stood waiting for the other mourners; they resembled soft statues, statues of themselves in the process of falling. They tried to hold each other up but their shoulders and knees sagged. They held hands and didn’t speak. Those who came to pay their respects kissed them softly on the cheek, whispering their regrets.

The coffin slid out on a trolley. Everyone waited inside the church. Sabine and Pascale and Jennifer sat in the front pew. Six men carried the coffin. Frank Farfan was one of them. George’s younger brother had flown in, too, three of George’s regular bridge buddies and Sebastian. Sabine fought waves of nausea and remembered the
Cavina
and the day they arrived on the island, those big black birds circling overhead. They could take her now. Pick her bones clean; strip her of her sins, of her bitterness. Eric Williams, on the bandstand that day in Woodford Square so long ago. Tears fell.

The men linked elbows under the coffin for support and carried it slowly up the church steps, stopping where the pews began. The organist began to play and the congregation rose. The singing in the church chilled Sabine’s bones. It was somehow too intimate, too damn intimate. One voice seemed to be leading the choir, clearer and higher than the rest, a crystal voice. This one voice penetrated Sabine, slowed her breath and made her body soften. She dared not look towards the choir stalls; she kept her head bowed, eyes lowered. The coffin was laid on a stand waiting next to their pew. Sabine didn’t look up or around. The singing was getting to her, gnawing at the very edges of her. Sebastian slipped into the pew with them. They all stared upwards, towards Father Andrew who was conducting the service with great reverence. The priest had come to their home every Wednesday night to play bridge with George, too, every Wednesday night for decades.

The boy’s voice entered her. Only then did she let herself gaze across to the choir. Clock stood with one hand over his breast, peering down at George’s coffin. He sang like a bird, pure and high and lucid, like a nightingale alone in a tree. He was singing his heart out. His eyes were big and black and baleful, as if he knew of things others didn’t. Did he know her secrets? Yes, probably. He was George’s friend, after all. The boy sang and her heart rose and fluttered and the boy sang for her, for her only, so that she could remain upright.

 

The next morning, Jennifer was late in. Sebastian was asleep. Katinka had been digging a tunnel into the neighbour’s garden and was covered in dirt. Sabine picked her up, dumping her into the deep scullery sink out the back, dousing her down with water and squirting her with shampoo. Stupid little dog. She scrubbed and lathered the dog up so she looked like a poodle, all white balls of froth. She rinsed and then dried her with an old towel, scattering flea powder on her, watching the fleas jump off. Katinka was a present from George, years ago; George had always been good with presents. Sabine hadn’t slept. It wasn’t possible to sleep, or think clearly. Adrenalin still coursed through her, she could feel it like a river. Adrenalin and caffeine and the hundreds of cigarettes she had smoked in the last few days. Her head pounded and yet somewhere, inside her, she knew she wanted to close her eyes.

A creak sounded at the gates. The dog yapped.

‘Thank God, Jennifer’s here,’ Sabine told her.

Jennifer appeared but didn’t say hello at first. Her face was puffy, eyes red with tears. She assumed Jennifer was still crying over George. Then she realised something else was wrong. Jennifer looked frightened.

‘Jennifer, what’s happened?’

‘Nuttin.’

‘Jennifer. Don’t say that. What’s wrong?’

‘Oh gorsh, nuttin.’

‘Don’t nothing me; I’m not in the mood.’

Jennifer’s eyes were filmed over.

‘Come on, out with it.’

‘Dey treaten Talbot.’

Sabine stared. ‘Who . . . what, who’s threatened Talbot?’

‘One o’ dem police fellas. He see Talbot las night up on de hill. Talbot say dis police fella was lookin’ fer him. Talbot doin’ nuttin. He just walkin’ dong de road, mindin’ himself. De police man stop his jeep and he tell Talbot he go dead him de next time he see him. Next time four eyes meet.’

‘Four eyes meet?’

‘Next time dey meet alone. Eye to eye.’

‘Jennifer, this is serious. One of those police thugs threatened to
kill
your son.’

Jennifer nodded. ‘Talbot ’fraid to go out. He hidin’ all now in de house. He ’fraid, madam. I ’fraid for mih son.’

‘Quite. A policeman has threatened to kill him.’

‘De policeman say an ol’ white man come to de station two weeks ago and vex de Superintendent. Bobby Comacho, dis Superintendent, he know de white man. Mr Comacho give dem hell.’

‘Oh God. Oh no. George. What did he do?’

‘Madam, who else would it be?’

Sabine exhaled loudly. ‘Oh my dear George. Oh Jennifer, I’m so sorry.’

‘Mr Harwood tell mih he go pay for a lawyer to help Talbot.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. He tell mih not to say anytin to you. Keep it secret.’

‘George said that?’

‘He was goin’ to pay for a lawyer, to defend Talbot.’

‘How? In court?’

‘Das what he say . . . he want to help.’

‘Oh dear Lord. He never told me half of the things he did . . . Mr Harwood had a separate life . . . oh God . . . that stupid man. I mean, oh God, what was he thinking?’

‘I tink he doin’ it for you, madam . . . in a funny way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I ent know exactly, it jus my feelin’ . . . he want to make good.’

‘Oh George!’

‘Talbot ’fraid dese fellas bad, ’fraid dey come back, but Mr Harwood say he go protek him. Now he die and news mus get out. Dese fellas come back fer him, treaten him. How Talbot goin’ to get by now Mr Harwood dead?’

‘Jesus Lord.’

‘Mr Harwood dead. Now Talbot, mih son go dead too.’

‘No!’ Sabine shrieked. ‘I give you my word. No one is going to touch your son. No one.’

Jennifer had tears in her eyes. She steupsed and went towards the kitchen. ‘I goin’ to mek tea.’

Sabine gazed across at the garage wall. The newly polished green bicycle stood against it like a child waiting to be noticed. She had ignored it, purposely, to hurt George, to make a point. It had collected even more carrier bags full of junk since she last inspected it. Stacks of newspapers had been placed over the wicker basket in front. Strange. Like someone had tried to cover the bike again, cover it up. She went over and began to relieve the bike of its cargo, the bags of garage tools which hung from the handlebars, wiping the dust that had gathered. She lifted the newspapers out of the wicker basket and peered inside. In the basket she saw a crumpled brown Hi-Lo bag. She reached down and pulled it out, feeling it was heavy in her hands. She looked inside and saw the smaller parcel, wrapped in waxed paper and instantly knew what it was, what George had been hiding in the basket of her green bicycle.

 

‘Mrs Harwood, you
crazy
. You go make tings
woss
.’ Jennifer followed Sabine to the gate as she wheeled the bike out.

‘Please, please doh go.’

Katinka followed them, smiling, tail up.

‘Jennifer. Yes. I’m going to make things very bad indeed for those bastards down there.’

Sabine opened the gate, swinging one leg as if to mount the bike, hearing a loud crack in her knee. Her leg didn’t reach. It was too short all of a sudden. She’d shrunk over fifty years.

‘Jennifer, come and help me.’

‘No.’

‘Jennifer, come on. Do what you’re told.’

‘Oh gorsh, you go kill yuhself on dat ting.’

‘Come on, help me on.’

‘No.’

‘Please.’

‘Oh gorsh, man.’

Jennifer came forward reluctantly, heaving and pushing, and in a moment Sabine was upright on the bike, her toes barely touching the ground. She glanced at Jennifer as if to say,
How do I look?
and then she was out, on Saddle Road, the main road into town, into Winderflet, cycling full pelt. The wind was in her hair and all the workmen on the vulgar condominiums opposite were looking down and heckling her and laughing and people in cars passing were watching her like she was mad. An old white woman on a green bicycle riding down the road, like she was in France or Italy or somewhere. A seventy-five-year-old white woman, mad as hell and riding down to the police station in Winderflet. Four herons perched on the bridge railings stared at her. The man at the fruit store on the bend in the river stared. The woman selling Caterpillar boots on the oil drums on the verge of the road stared. At the People’s Place parlour a whole block-lime of men with their feet cocked up against the wall stared and smirked. She knew they recognised her. Mr Harwood’s wife,
as crazy as de madassed white man himself
.

 

Sabine cycled past them all, head up, turning right into the police station in a wide fast arc, knowing it would be hit-and-miss when it came to stopping, and she crashed straight into the station’s front steps. The bike clattered to the ground, Sabine leaping from it like a cowgirl from a horse. She walked into the station carrying the brown-paper bag.

Bobby Comacho loitered at the front desk, liming with the officer on duty. His back was to Sabine: a tall solid black man, obviously the man in charge from his uniform, the peaked cap.