The White Woman on the Green Bicycle (45 page)

Stupidity is also an ingredient of revolution. Eric Williams, the most unpopular man on the island, expected the nation’s troops, most from poor black families, to put down a popular uprising.

At the regiment base in Teteron Bay posters of Stokely Carmichael and Malcolm X were pinned on the barracks’ walls. The young officers saw the Black Power protesters as brothers and so they mutinied. They refused orders to clamp down. Instead, they arrested their commanding officer, locking him up with all other higher officers, those who didn’t flee. They broke into their ammo bunker, rallying the six-hundred-strong regiment. Chaos broke out in Camp Ogden, too, the army base in Port of Spain. This news came over the radio.

‘George, now I’m frightened.’

‘Don’t worry. We’re going.’

We had nothing to eat. I piled what we had left on the kitchen table. Half a box of Cornflakes, two bananas, some stale Crix crackers, a jar of pickles.

‘I’ll go to Chen’s,’ George offered.

‘I’m coming with you like it or not.’

We left Pascale with Lucy, promising to be quick.

Very few cars were on the road in Winderflet. The world looked the same, except noiseless, lifeless. The rum shops, the parlours were all closed, boarded-up. The school lay silent; the petrol station had been abandoned. The T-junction at the petrol station ‒ usually so chaotic with people clogging up the kerb, hands out, route taxis stopping to pick them up or just have a conversation ‒ was deserted. No vendors selling kingfish by the roadside, no fat women ambling down the pavement holding their umbrellas high. Our Lady of Lourdes peered down on an abducted parish.

‘Something has died,’ I muttered.

‘Stop it, Sabine. It will all spring back to life.’

‘I’m glad it happened, at last. The old way of things, all that will go.’

‘We’ll see.’

I looked at my husband thoughtfully. He knew Williams, too, knew the course of things in a man’s world. They knew things I didn’t.

We drove on past the reservoir, past Andalusia, towards Chen’s, arriving to find metal gates drawn across the entrance, shopping trolleys overturned out front.

‘Let’s try Hi-Lo.’ George accelerated.

Hi-Lo was also closed.

‘I don’t think we should go any further, George.’

‘It’s now or never,’ he urged. ‘We’ll need food for the next couple of days. Let’s push on.’

We passed Boissiere village, also silent, motionless. We drove round the savannah, past the entrance to Belmont, glancing down Jernington Avenue, the road leading in. The road was scarred black in places, debris scattered, broken glass, banners erected, graffiti sprayed on walls. On the savannah, pink and yellow pouis blossom like blood, strange carnival-coloured blood, all over the ground. The trees were magnificent, above it all. Flamboyants, immortelles, African tulips, yellow flames: out in force, cheering with the rioters. The air stank of chaos, of petrol and smouldering tyres.

‘I know somewhere that might be open,’ George muttered, turning towards the top end of Port of Spain. Both of us were in a stupor, drawn to the horror. I knew why George had ventured this close. I kept quiet, morbidly absorbed, wanting to see what it was like too, especially the Forbes-Mason offices.

We crawled down Edward Street, heading for the dock. A black pall of smoke hung over it, the shape of Trinidad. The air had turned acrid. I covered my nose and mouth. I wanted to push on as much as George. The Red House loomed, surrounded by riot police in tin hats like those the English air wardens wore in the Blitz, rifles cocked. They eyed us. Two came forward.

‘George, look out. Turn left!’ I commanded.

George turned quickly, avoiding the men, and in a minute we came upon Woodford Square. The square was eerily empty, heavily guarded. More men with those ludicrous tin hats stood around not knowing quite what had happened or what to do. There were heavy padlocked chains on the gates. The square was still cloudy with tear gas. The bandstand was empty, chairs overturned in the rush to escape.

‘How could he?’ I gasped.

My eyes smarted. Tears fell. Cycling into the crowd on my green bicycle. Hundreds gathered to listen to Eric Williams announce a new era, the crowd spellbound. Balisiers held up like crosses, hands stretched out towards him. Lifting me. Lifting the entire nation. Tears fell for those cleared off by Williams that very morning. The protesters who’d rallied there, fists raised.
Power to the people
. I whispered a prayer for Geddes Granger.

More inept riot police loomed ‒ buffoons! More frightened of us than the other way round, aiming their rifles at us. We sailed past. More chains, Woodford Square was wrapped up in chains. Silent, ruined.

 

Still more police advanced, waving their rifles, instructing us to vacate the area. George complied, screeching away from the Red House, across two streets, cutting down towards the dock, towards Forbes-Mason.

‘I just need to see it with my own eyes,’ he said.

I nodded,
wanting
George to see the worst. We drove towards the black clouds. The streets were empty, shops with their guts smouldering, plate-glass fronting smashed everywhere, cars with windows beaten in. Menace hung in the air. Nerves fizzed in my gut. I clutched George’s hand. We rounded the corner into Independence Square. Riot police stood everywhere, on edge. Police vehicles, the fire brigade. Smoke, a fire still burning in one shop.

Further up, on the left, Forbes-Mason, gutted and hacked.

‘Dear God,’ George murmured.

There was glass all over the pavement. We drove abreast of the block, peering in. The floor was black with soot and ashes. The chairs and desks were charred, overturned. In-trays and telephones and Rolodexes and ring binders blackened, broken, flung across the floor. Paper, reams of blackened paper. Magazines, Manila folders pulled from shelves, hurled across the room. Petrol fumes, like a bee swarm, hung over it all.

George stared across me, shaking his head.

Three armed policemen walked towards us.

‘Come on, George, let’s go.’

George was sombre, as though he had been personally attacked. We accelerated, turning straight across the square, down Chacon Street and then out, out of it all. And there, beside the Queen’s Wharf, like a massive swan: the
Southern Cross
, milk white, spotless, glistening in the white heat. The cruise ship towered above the dock, its tiers of decks like folded wings, the glittering windows of the bridge a tiara nestling on its brow. A fantasy vessel banked alongside the smooth flat wharf. It was moored, the gangplank up. Even so, riot police were guarding it.

‘George . . .’

‘We’ll be on it.’

‘Thank God.’

‘I’ll arrange it when we get home.’

We sped past and away from Port of Spain. Out in the Gulf of Paria, way out, I spotted the smeary outlines of grey ships approaching, a small fleet. Pelicans sat regarding them, too, with the lack of interest they show everything. Eric Williams: surely this was the end of him. We drove up through Woodbrook and then past the cricket oval, missing Long Circular Road where Camp Ogden was ablaze, the firemen unable to put the fire out due to low water-pressure.

Trinidad. Even in revolution it was a farce. Mutiny. Antique tin hats for those who
would
defend the state. A trickle of water to douse the fires of discontent and half the government hiding at the Hilton.

 

We found a small supermarket open on the way back, its shelves mostly bare. We managed to buy bread and condensed milk, some cheese, a dozen eggs, four tins of baked beans. Plantain too, a bottle of rum, a bag of pomme-aracs. We arrived home to find Lucy making up a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, sprinkling it with Angostura bitters. She’d carried in a bag of oranges on her head.

Lucy was silent, her eyes welling, glossy and black.

‘Lucy, how are things in the valley?’ I asked.

‘Quiet, Miss. This stupidness only happenin’ in town.’

‘It’s not stupidness, Lucy. They’ve burnt down Mr Harwood’s office, burnt it to the ground. He can’t go back there now. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow. On a big ship. We’re all packed. Miss Irit is coming to live here.’

Lucy stood like a statue over by the sink, motionless. Mountainous.

‘Lucy, don’t cry.’

She wiped tears from her eyes with her apron.

‘I go lose mih job, Miss, lose Miss Pascale. I go lose you and Mr Harwood, and Venus. It not easy to fin’ a work at my age, Miss.’

‘Lucy!’ I went over and hugged her. ‘I’ll pay your wages for the next six months. I’ll tell Miss Irit you’re here, too, to look after the house with her. You’ll be a team. You’ll like her.’

‘OK, Miss.’

‘I’ll write and ring when we get to England. Pascale will write, too, and we’ll send you photos and keep in touch with you and Venus. Have you heard from her?’

‘No, Miss.’

Her good eye was roving, trying to keep up with events.

‘Lucy, we have to go. People like us, we’re not wanted here. We’re part of the problem. Trinidad is changing. It must change.’

‘Oh gorsh . . .’ She sighed heavily.

‘All those tonics you’ve given me, eh? I’ve been unhappy for a long time, always because of the way things are. You’ve helped me, but Trinidad’s problems won’t be fixed with one of your tonics.’

‘No, Miss.’

‘I’ll miss you.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

 

It was a day of goodbyes. The phone rang constantly. Jules came over at midday, already drunk. Freddie and his wife came over, too. Other neighbours heard we were leaving and rang the doorbell. They brought rum and Scotch, buljol and Crix. A fraught, chain-smoking lime started up round the bar. Trinidadians are impressive this way: they can lime under any conditions. Ol’ talk, make jokes. Soon we’d migrated to the swimming pool, drunk on nerves as much as alcohol, recounting stories about Molotov cocktails and offices set on fire. Freddie’s textile shop on Duke Street had been badly hit, too.

‘Dey say Williams in a
state
. Dis hit him hard,’ said Jules.

‘But
of course
,’ Freddie replied. ‘He hated by everyone now. De poor blacks and de business community. Dis a disaster for de country. Set us back ten years. We back where we started. Damn, blasted Africans.’

George was bleary-eyed, utterly overcome. ‘I met Williams once, you know, at the Hilton. I liked him. Very bright man. Sabine has always . . . found him interesting, haven’t you, darling?’

Heat rose in my cheeks.

‘She attended his lectures in Woodford Square, didn’t you, darling ?’

‘Jesus Christ, you went der?’ said Freddie. ‘Yous one madwoman.’

‘Woodford Square, man,’ said Jules, sozzled. ‘Alla dat lecture bullshit. Williams can kiss my ass.’

I went quiet. I didn’t like that George had exposed my secret. That I had seen him talk. George didn’t know, he hadn’t witnessed the man in full flow. I was there. Granny too. Even though he didn’t merit sympathy I couldn’t help but feel sad.
Williams in a state
. I was disconcerted by this news. It’s a woman’s curse to love bad and foolish men, even when they fuck up so miserably.

I slept heavily that night. I dreamt of corbeaux, spiralling in the sky above our home. They picked at me, but no flesh came off my bones. One by one they flew away, leaving me whole. In the morning, more news came over the radio: Granger had been captured that morning, while eating black pudding and fried eggs in a snack bar in Couva. The coastguards were escorting him to Nelson’s Island, another rock-like prison island in the Gulf of Paria; it would be hot there, the rock would be arid, barren of water. The government was locked in negotiations with the army. Port of Spain was still patrolled by riot police.

‘The ship is still there, isn’t it?’ I asked, nervous.

‘Yes, of course. It leaves tomorrow.’

 

I decided to take Venus some ice. I hadn’t seen her for days but knew she had been hiding in her home up the hill. I was worried. I thought about Granny: up to no good. Bless Granny, bless her soul and let her get on with it, with the business of burning down town. She wanted me gone, dead and buried and gone. What had Granny been up to?

I didn’t tell George. He’d never let me go up there alone, not then. But Venus was stuck, too, she might need provisions. I could give her a lift to Chen’s when it opened, or bring her and the children home. I stopped and parked the car several yards from the old creole house.

‘Venus,’ I said aloud before realising she couldn’t hear me from the road.

‘Venus!’ I called her name as I approached, my voice thin and somehow ludicrous, a false voice. ‘Venus,’ I called again, noticing a face at the window of a house near by, another face at an open door.

‘Venus!’ I called. Damn. I’d left the ice in the car, in a cooler.

‘Venus.’ I was closer to the house. The gate was closed. Granny Seraphina appeared on the top step. Her hair was unleashed, sprays of grey and white flames. She nodded minutely.

‘Granny, I came to see Venus. Are you all OK?’

The old woman stared past me, down the road.

I turned slowly, trying to see what she could. Nothing at first. No sound and this struck fear into me; no sound. The afternoon was still, mute with heat. I turned back to look at Granny again but she continued to stare past me. Like a cat stares into the night, hearing sounds in the shadows, except she stared into the sheets of heat, down the empty road.

‘Granny,’ I whispered.

Then, the faint clatter of voices. Brown figures danced into view; a crowd of people, twenty or so, appeared at the bottom of the hill. They had come from the main road, from down by the petrol station; they were excited and talking loudly and fast, fists and voices raised, all returning from the savannah. Sticks held aloft. In the heat they were slow, far off. But my limbs were heavy and sluggish. I saw men and women and children advancing up the road, melting together. They were coming towards me and had sealed off the road behind them. I wanted to get on the other side of that tall flimsy gate into Granny’s yard. I shot Granny a pleading look.