The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (41 page)

 

Later that evening, Lucy came to me, finding me in bed.

‘Madam, drink this.’

I drank her cooling tonics frequently. Most were innocent enough, no more than soluble aspirins. They tasted quite pleasant, too, and brought relief. This tonic looked different, darker, shreds of bark spiralling in it.

‘What’s this?’

‘Drink it. It good for you.’

I sniffed and tasted it. ‘Oooh.’ I grimaced. ‘That’s
gosh
.’ I sipped again, then looked at her squarely, balancing the glass on my knee.

Lucy always looked sad. Her sadness was like mine and this made me feel comforted.

‘Lucy, what happened?’

Lucy’s brown eyes were molten soft. She wasn’t sure what she should say to me. The slope of her shoulders, the sag of her breasts, even her face was lopsided with grief. Her still eye bored through me. ‘My daughter die, madam.’

‘Oh Lucy, I’m so sorry.’

She nodded, as if to confirm the fact to herself.

‘What happened?’

‘Nobody does know. De doctors don’t even know. She get sick. Some kind of brain fever.’

‘How awful.’

‘Yes, madam. She died in the car, on the way to the hospital.’

‘No!’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Why?’

‘It all very sudden.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Years ago, madam. She was a woman, she was twenty-two years old.’

A tear spilled down one of Lucy’s cheeks.

‘You weren’t able to help her with your medicine?’

‘I try. But nothing help her. There was nothing I know of to save her.’

I gazed into the tonic Lucy had prepared for me. ‘Can you save me?’

‘No, madam.’

‘Sometimes I feel like I’m dying, too.’

‘I can see that.’

‘I’m homesick, you see. Can you give me something for it?’

‘Yes, madam. Drink what I give you.’

‘The Africans who came to the Caribbean on the ships, they were homesick, too.’

‘Yes.’

‘They never got back either, did they?’

‘Some go back in spirit.’

‘How?’

‘They drink a broth. A poison.’

I looked at her, hopeful. ‘Could you mix me up such a broth?’

‘No, madam.’

‘I’m sorry, Lucy.’ I hung my head.

She left. I sipped her tonic and was soon asleep, dreaming of Sebastian and Pascale. They were waving at me from a spit of sand. Sebastian held a small clay urn in his hands. He opened it and began to scatter something from it. Ashes. Ashes fluttered down like birds, caught on the wind. Some fell and floated on the sea. I stood across a bay from them, on another sand-spit, ankle-deep in water. Some of the ashes floated on the surface, towards me. They made a dappled pattern. Large black flakes:
who were they scattering
? I didn’t know. The ashes floated towards me, in on a tide, slipping between my feet. I danced backwards to avoid them, knowing then. It was George. George’s ashes, wet and sodden and clinging to my shins.

It became more and more common to see black- and brown-skinned members at the Country Club, including Eric Williams and various hangers-on. They liked to swan about, drinking cocktails and laughing loudly at the bar. Mostly I avoided them.

One lunchtime, I was there at the Club alone. Sebastian was away at school in England and Pascale was attending primary school near by. I had taken to spending lunches and early afternoons alone at the Club, sunbathing near the fountain. I read and smoked and watched the iguanas scuttle across the grass. Or I swam lengths in the Olympic-sized swimming pool, sometimes up to forty. I was known to the staff and so when a waiter came over with a tray, I was surprised. I hadn’t yet ordered a drink.

‘Hello, Martin,’ I said to the handsome young black man in a pristine white shirt.

Martin seemed a little nervous as he approached and when he lowered the tray I saw a white envelope. Martin and I looked at each other with mute and mutual curiosity. I raised my eyebrows and he pulled his lips down, miming a serious face. I opened the envelope and read the short note.

‘Where is he?’ I whispered, shocked, peering behind Martin.

‘At de bar, madam.’

‘Jesus God.’

Martin smiled, delighted to be the messenger.

I read the note again, lips moving.

I looked up towards the covered bar area. Yes, I could just make out a familiar figure sitting there. Suit and tie, dark glasses, hearing aid. A teenage girl was with him. His daughter, Erica?

‘He daughter here from school in England,’ Martin explained. ‘He bring her here sometime. He like to be with her.’

‘Martin. Good God. He’s invited me up for a drink.’

Martin’s face creased into a toothy grin.

I laughed to cover my fear. ‘Are you surprised?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit. What shall I do?’

Martin looked up towards where Williams sat, head down in a newspaper.

‘Go up, nuh. De man woh bite.’

‘I can’t. I’m too nervous and I hate him.’

‘He not so bad, Miss. He come many times. He good to us.’

‘You
still
trust him?’

Martin’s face fell to a slack uncaring expression. He shrugged.

I was wearing a bikini and I was covered in suntan oil and still damp from a swim. I peered upwards at the besuited blind-deaf figure and a murderous hatred stirred through me. Did he remember me from the Hilton? Did he connect me with Irit, with my husband?

‘How does he think he knows me?’

‘He aks meh if you is Mrs Harwood, madam.’

‘Did he, now?’

‘Yeah, de lady who ride de green bicycle down Port of Spain.’

I stared at Martin, stunned.

Martin’s eyes danced and he stifled a laugh. ‘You does ride a bike one time, madam?’

‘Yes.’ I felt sad all of a sudden. ‘Yes, years ago. When I first arrived.’

Martin looked impressed. He shook his head.

I noticed Williams’ daughter had gone down to the pool and was standing at the edge, about to dive in. Williams had dropped his newspaper and was waiting to watch.

‘He’s here
alone?
No bodyguards, no entourage?’

‘He alone, madam.’

His daughter was thin and leggy, pretty. She executed a neat precise dive into the pool.

I sighed. ‘Tell the Prime Minister I’ll be up in a moment. I’m just going to change into some clothes.’

 

‘Your daughter is a strong swimmer,’ I said to Eric Williams as I approached. As it turned out, I had only brought a flimsy polka-dotted wrap dress with me, so I wore that, purposely leaving some bosom exposed. My short blonde hair was still wet and combed back off my face. My skin was somehow nuder for the recent swim and the sun cream. I wore flip-flops and I was tanned a honey-brown. On behalf of Granny I didn’t extend my hand or offer any form of deference to who he was. I sat down in the wicker armchair opposite him and made myself comfortable. Martin glided to our table.

‘A Bentley, please.’ I smiled and Martin nodded.

‘Another rum and soda for me,’ Williams said, modifying his accent towards the Trinidadian of the educated classes. Around us heads were turned away but I was aware of ears pricked, of people taking notice.

‘Is she here on holiday?’

‘Yes.’

‘At school, in England?’

‘Yes.’

‘My eldest, my son, is in Kent. He went back a few days ago.’

I couldn’t see Williams’ eyes through his dark sunglasses. I was conscious that he was cool, though. He studied me as I talked. His manner was attentive, courteous, as though storing private ideas. He was much more composed than I was.

‘Has she her father’s brains, too?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And her mother’s looks?’

He exhaled a violet plume of smoke and nodded thoughtfully.

Everyone knew of Williams’ second marriage to Soy Moyou. Soy was the love of his life: young, glamorous, half Chinese. She died of tuberculosis two years after they were married. Erica was their only child.

‘Her mother wasn’t just lovely to look at ‒ as you are. She was a very bright woman.’

I blushed, despite myself.

Eric Williams shot me a wry considered smile, catching me off-guard.

‘I used to be . . . so self-contained before we met, you know? Some people can have that effect on you. They can make you
need
more than just the self.’

I nodded, a little ashamed. I wanted to flirt, to be in control again, but my throat had dried up. I was struck dumb by his aura of power and by this candid approach. He was working me.
Power, ma soeur
. I remembered Irit’s words. But he was still assessing me from behind those dark lenses, gauging my reactions.

‘Yes.’ I steadied my gaze. ‘I’ve always felt like that, about my husband, George.’

‘Then he’s a lucky man.’

‘How long has it been since your wife died?’

‘Fourteen years. She died soon after our daughter was born.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Erica is my joy. She keeps me alive, especially on bad days. To have more than just the same old job,’ he joked, swirling his rum.

‘Once, if you’ll forgive me, you were passionate about the job.’

‘Yes.’

‘I saw you speak. Twice, in fact. In Woodford Square.’

He looked genuinely taken aback. ‘What?’

‘Massa day done. I heard you say that. Four years ago.’

Williams moved around in his chair. Touché. I was pleased with myself; now
he
was off guard. I smiled. ‘Now we drink at lunchtime in Poleska de Boissière’s old home. A relative of yours, maybe?’

I could tell he didn’t want me to speak like this. Not yet. But what had he expected? To gaze at my shapely figure again, to amuse himself while he was alone at the bar? Had he just wanted a female companion for an hour?

Eric Williams lifted his dark glasses. He propped them on his head, staring at me. His eyes were a bold coloured-in brown; the whites were shiny, like polished ivory, like the eyes of a man half his age. Clear and wide and open.

‘You telling me
I
Massa now?’ His accent dropped, he spoke like the man from those university-of-the-street days.

‘Your words. You just said that.’

‘Everyone say dat.’

‘Would your wife . . . would Soy have said that about you, too?’

Williams stared and half laughed at my impertinence.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I muttered.

‘Soy wanted nothing of politics. She never wanted me to go into politics full-time at all, not like this. If she was still alive I would never have got so involved. She didn’t want that. It would all be different.’

‘Who else, then, if not you?’

Williams shrugged. ‘There are other people. Robinson. Others.’

‘I’ve been here ten years. We arrived the day you launched the PNM. I’ve found this country . . . tiring. It’s got the better of me, too.’

‘Too? You think it’s got the better of
me?
’

‘Yes.’

‘No running water for your maid who lives up de hill?’

‘Isn’t that the least of it?’

‘You come up here to take another potshot?’

‘I was invited.’

He nodded.

‘Who criticises you, Mr Williams?’

‘Dey all like to criticise; gossip is rife.’

‘And you kill them all off, your opponents. Isn’t that right?’

Williams gazed at my breasts. I let him look. I could have opened my dress, let him feast his eyes. I was suddenly turned on, and furious.

‘You give your husband this . . . criticism?’

‘It’s good for him.’

‘Why don’t you leave? Trinidad is none of your business. You and your type, you and your husband. Why are you still here?’

‘My husband has become a Trinidadian. He owns land now, and you have let him buy it. He doesn’t care what the politicians do. He loves Trinidad the way you do. He loves it here. He’ll die here.’

Williams snorted. ‘White men. White men like George Harwood. They all take, take, take. All the second-raters, those who aren’t good enough to survive in England, they come out to the West Indies and swan about. Buy land, build. Set up shop. They come and stay, ruin their second-rate minds. Is that what you want? To be married to such a man? A man who’ll ruin you, too?’

I glared.

‘He wasn’t such a man when he arrived. George has changed.’

‘Is this all personal enough for you now?’ Williams smiled.

I stood up, trembling.

‘
Think
. The oldest of twelve, your father in the post office. Oxford, teaching at Howard in the States. All those books, all that time you’ve had to think, all the time in the world to think up new ideas for Trinidad, to make a difference. Kick those fat horses out. But now all you want is
this
‒ this life, the old way. You never really wanted to change things too much. You can’t be bothered. All too much hard work, even though it doesn’t really work for the people of Trinidad. You keep things ticking along. The Catholic Church has fought you and won. Your cronies are a bunch of thugs. You listen to gossip and you haven’t managed to change much. You were brilliant once, just like George. Now you sit and drink rum at the Country Club, a place which once barred black men like you from even setting through the door. The Country Club should be blown up. Those bastards, those second-raters you talk about ‒ they
made you
.’

Williams’ face was set in a look of half fury and half disbelief. I sensed a grim mood sweep over him, that I had overstepped the mark.

I looked at my watch.

‘I must go,’ I said. ‘I have to pick my little girl up from school. Goodbye, Mr Williams. I hope you enjoy the rest of your daughter’s visit.’