The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (33 page)

Eric Williams was bombastic as Premier Minister. Occasionally, he still delivered lectures in Woodford Square.

‘He has a chip on his goddamn shoulder,’ asserted Christobel Baker, just as Bonny had. All the local whites thought this. Granny was right, they were scared of him. They all despised him. ‘It’s all so personal for him,’ Christobel sneered.

‘He’s got small-man’s syndrome,’ said another.

‘He’s out of his depth.’

‘The son of a postman.’

Mostly, I made my cuttings late at night. In the kitchen. When Venus was asleep. George, too. I retrieved the out-of-date newspapers from the stack in the garage and cut around the stories of the day: Williams and the PNM; Williams and his plans for Federation. His private life, too: Williams and his daughter Erica. He was everywhere, the man-of the-moment. My shoebox files grew to six boxes. I knew it was strange, after all this time, still to be cutting him out. But I found I couldn’t stop.

When Venus mentioned Williams was giving one of his lectures in Woodford Square and that Granny was attending, I decided to go along.

 

I left the children in Venus’s care, quietly slipping out with the excuse of a shopping trip. I parked near by and walked into town, skirting Woodford Square, slipping in at the back of the gathered throng, peering through the railings.

The square was packed and Eric Williams was up there on the bandstand. My stomach churned. He had that effect. My heart thudded in my chest. Yet I was eager to hear what he had to say. It was March, 1961. The sun lashed down on us in that square. I’d brought a large straw hat and kept my head lowered under it. Long sleeves hid my white arms. Whites still didn’t attend these lectures; George, my friends, would have thought me mad, irresponsible to be there. Maybe I was. That day, he was alone at the hustings, no party behind him. And I noticed he’d gained props: heavy dark glasses, a hearing aid.

I clasped the bars of the railings, peering through. Williams was in full flow, a preacher, a man of words addressing his people. There was a relationship between him and the crowd, a form of mass intimacy. I scanned the crowd for Granny and yes, spotted her there, amongst the sea of heads, halfway between where I stood and the bandstand, her white hair covered by the same red headscarf. She gazed upwards, a look of serenity on her face. The whole gathering was in a state of earnest admiration, gazing as one. Thousands? Yes, thousands gazed towards the bandstand; thousands were hanging on Eric Williams’ every word.

‘Massa,’ he was explaining, ‘was a symbol of a bygone era. Massa was usually an absentee European planter who exploited West Indian resources, both human and economic. Massa came for the short-term. Massa pulled out when things got bad and sugar ceased. Massa often left the small islands as undeveloped as he found them. Wealth that should have been ploughed back into the island went everywhere else. All that Massa left behind was his name on the land or sometimes on a beach.’

I squirmed with the shame these words inspired. George and his piece of land. Harwood’s this, Harwood’s that. Would George also want to name pieces of Trinidad? My fingers gripped the railings of the park. Ahead of me, Granny raised her fist and shouted above the others. ‘Yes, man. Down wid de damn blasted colonial Massa!’

‘Massa,’ Williams continued, ‘used the whip liberally to control his workers. Two hundred lashes was
common
. Massa’s economic policy was to grow one crop only: sugar. All else was imported for his table. The African slave kept alive the tradition of agriculture in the West Indies, growing food for his own subsistence. The one-crop policy stunted West Indian society. A Royal Commission in 1897 attacked Massa for making it difficult for the peasant to attain land. Massa ignored the Royal Commission, continued with his one-crop policy until 1930. Massa’s economic domination of the region reduced the population to drudgery, giving them a profound distaste for agricultural endeavours.’

Cheers of recognition. I began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Yet I couldn’t leave the square. Where would I run to? The sun beat down on me, punishing me. Why should I run? I didn’t even care to. Let them tear me apart if they wanted. Williams mesmerised me. He was animated, enjoying himself. Williams spoke with words which sang and lifted hearts. He lacerated and lampooned the old way of things, the old ideas. He moved all those around me. Granny’s fist was raised in the air, a salute to him. Around me, faces gleamed.

But Eric Williams was cool in his suit and tie. He dressed just like my husband. His tone of voice was dry and sarcastic, as clipped as any Englishman’s. Eric Williams lectured on and on and the sun beat down. The crowd swayed as if they might all faint as one.

‘Massa,’ Williams continued, ‘had the monopoly of political power ‒ this was why he could do all these things. He used his power shamelessly for his own private needs. Massa’s economy was distinguished by a scandalous waste of labour: forty house slaves was common in Jamaican planter homes. Demeaning work, total contempt for the human personality. Massa developed a philosophy, a rationale for this barbarous system. He thought that the workers, both African and Indian, were inferior beings.’

Murmurs, nods of agreement. I dared not raise my head.

‘Unfit for self-government, unequal to their superior master, permanently destined to a status of perpetual subordination, unable to ever achieve equality with Massa.’

Eric Williams was calm, self-assured. Desire stirred in me, fantasy. Everything would be different in Trinidad when he was made Prime Minister. He waved his clenched fists, breathing fire. Fire in his belly. Fire was what they all wanted. Fire gave fire.

‘It was there in all the laws which governed the West Indies for generations. Those laws denied equality on grounds of colour. Those laws forbade non-Europeans to enter certain occupations and professions, whether it was the occupation of jeweller or the profession of lawyer. Those laws forbade intermarriage. They equated political power and the vote with ownership of land. Consciously or unconsciously, directly or indirectly, those laws attempted to ensure that the non-European would never be anything but a worker in the social scale . . .’

I couldn’t believe my ears. Heat had been breathed into my entire being. He had that ability. Heat from his words, from his very body, spread into others. The crowd was inflamed. Williams said things George never even mentioned. Williams was right and George was wrong. George was selective in his intelligence. Williams lectured on and on in the hot sun. History. Revolution. The revision of history. He preached freedom of the mind, breathed hope, a new sense of opportunity into the souls of those listening.

‘Massa day
done
!’ Eric Williams declared, pounding the lectern. ‘Sahib day done! Yes, suh, Boss day done!’

Wild applause.

Granny cheered and waved her fists.

‘Massa stood for degradation of West Indian labour.’ Williams was unstoppable.

‘Massa stood for colonialism.’ The crowd waved balisiers, hands reached out; some were on the verge of falling unconscious.

‘Massa believed in the inequality of races.’

‘Yes,’ the crowd chanted.

‘Massa was determined not to educate his society. Massa was quite right. To educate is to emancipate.’

I left quietly, hands clutched to my chest. I didn’t want Granny to see me there; I wanted to go away, far away from the likes of Granny, from the mass of people gathered in the square. I sweated profusely, from the heat of the sun, from the heat of Williams’ words. His words lit me, as they had lit the whole crowd. I floated on unsteady legs. Bombs had detonated in my head. I shook. I fanned myself. I was sad and sorry for myself all at once. Williams’ words tolled heavily in me.
Massa day done
. It was all over. Trinidad had found its Saviour. I was happy, relieved. We would go. I would speak to George.

I don’t know how I managed to find my car again in that white heat, how I found my way home.

 

Williams clarified my instincts and explained my inclinations. I vowed to be a better friend to Venus, I vowed to be better educated. Massa’s time was over. George was Massa. So was I. That evening I told George I had sneaked into Woodford Square. I repeated to George what Williams had said.

‘George, it’s time,’ I pleaded. ‘We really have to disappear.’ But George was glass-eyed and distant.

‘Yes, dear, we will go. Soon. I promise.’

 

My green bicycle was no longer my only mode of transport. Mostly it leant against the wall in the garage, growing specks of rust. One day I wheeled it out into the sun to scour it with a wire brush.

‘Madam, long time you ride dat ting,’ Venus commented.

‘I don’t need it so much any more.’

‘You ’fraid.’

I blushed. ‘Don’t be silly.’

‘You used to ride it jus for relaxation.’

‘I was younger then.’

‘You young still.’

‘I’ve had children.’

‘It would tek off de extra baby weight.’

She was right. But the bike made me feel awkward. I couldn’t even imagine riding it down into town any more.

‘You were fonny on dat bike.’

‘How so?’

‘A white girl dress so casual, who ent care who look at she. Many wouldn’t do dat.’

‘Why?’

‘White women ’fraid black men look at dem.’

‘People
stare
now. They never used to.’

‘Madam, tings different.’ There was a look of caution in her eyes.

‘I thought I was imagining it.’

‘No, madam, maybe bes you don’t ride down tong dese days. Maybe it bes you ride it rong close by us.’

I scrubbed and scrubbed until the bike shone. Venus’s words nagged at me. What did she mean? What would happen if I rode my bike into town? Before I knew what I was doing, I had opened the front gate, mounted the bike and cycled out into the road.

‘Bye-bye, Venus! I won’t be long,’ I shouted over the hibiscus hedge. ‘Look after the children.’

Venus came to the kitchen window, mouth open, shaking her head. ‘Madam, you mad! You watch yuhself.’

I tinkled the bell on the handlebars, pedalling slowly down the road, past the Country Club and down into Boissiere village, alert, watching out for those who might be watching me. Years had passed since I’d ridden my green bicycle into town. Years since I’d cycled to meet George at the docks, since my arrival. I was a different woman now, a mother, less innocent.

I rode down into Frederick Street in the midday sun. The streets were bustling, everybody on their lunch hour. Pigtailed brown-skinned schoolchildren in white knee socks and uniforms strolled along in groups. An old man, dreadlocks in his beard, leant on his cane as he promenaded down the hot pavement. I weaved in and out of traffic, down to Marine Square, to the cathedral there, right down to the dock, where I dismounted. I bought a snow cone from a vendor, wheeling the bike towards the lighthouse, all the while adjusting to the stark assessing gaze of those around me. It bored holes through my back. Worse, far worse than the sun. I kept moving, nervous, eating the sweet red cherry ice. People stared but I couldn’t stare back. It wasn’t dangerous or menacing; somehow it was worse, an ancient consideration. Or had they all been listening to Eric Williams in Woodford Square? Were they his students? Had his message settled in their hearts? Yes. I imagined them all waving balisiers. No one would physically harm me, no, nothing like that. This was covert, a group operating as one.

‘Ayyy,’ a man called from across the road. ‘Come here, white meat. Lemme taste a piece, see if white taste different. Come here, nuh, lousy white pig.’

 

We mixed with the Bakers on and off at cocktail parties and dances. Christobel dwarfed me physically. Socially, too; her status was as good as aristocracy. Sebastian Baker’s eyes fired up whenever he saw me and I played up to it. He’d delivered both my babies and I was comfortable around him, had an unspoken and natural intimacy with him.

‘Come and dance with me, Sabine,’ he said one night at a Country Club fête. He pulled me onto the tightly-packed dance floor. I wore a low-cut dress, a well-boned bra. I flattened myself against him and he groaned with pleasure. I laughed and let him enjoy the feeling of my young body pressed to his. He was light on his feet, an excellent dancer. We salsaed into the centre of the crowd.

‘How are your children, Sabine?’

‘Happy.’

‘And beautiful?’

‘Very.’

‘Like their mother, then.’

One hand was cupped to my buttocks as he gazed into my face and ample cleavage. Our thighs were locked. A little tipsier and God knows I’d have reached up and kissed him in full view of George and Christobel. He smiled, guessing my desire. I let him pull me closer and could feel he was aroused. We danced well together, slowly, moving as one. I was happy to enjoy another woman’s husband, who, up close, smelled of limes and whisky and brilliantine and the heat of the evening.

‘You look ravishing this evening,’ he whispered into my ear.

I pressed myself closer.

When we left the dance floor we were drenched in sweat, mostly other people’s. Christobel had watched us and her face, as we approached, was bleak. She shot Sebastian a look of pure hatred.

‘You minx,’ George chided, dancing me back into the crowd, where I fell into his body, fell into step with him, in love with him again. I loved everything about George. His long slim hands, his boyish face, his eyes, so full of casual mirth. I loved his freckles, the strange rust shadow of stubble which appeared when he hadn’t shaved for a few days. George’s face glowed. It was that of an innocent, yet George was far too clever to be innocent. He gazed down at me with love-swollen eyes and this melted me. I loved George and no one else.

George spun me around, pulling me close. ‘I’m your slave,’ he whispered.