White Teeth (46 page)

“Good mornin', Missus Bowden,” said Mr. Topps, closing the door behind him and peeling off a protective anorak to reveal a cheap blue suit, with a tiny gold cross pendant on the collar. “I trust you is almost of a readiness? We've got to be at the hall on the dot of seven.”

As yet, Ryan had not spotted Irie. He was bent over shaking the mud from his boots. And he did it formidably slowly, just as he spoke, and with his translucent eyelids fluttering like a man in a coma. Irie could only see half of him from where she stood: red bangs, a bent knee, and the shirt cuff of one hand.

But the voice was a visual in itself: Cockney yet refined, a voice that had had much work done upon it—missing key consonants and adding others where they were never meant to be, and all delivered through the nose with only the slightest help from the mouth.

“Fine mornin', Mrs. B., fine mornin'. Somefing to fank the Lord for.”

Hortense seemed terribly nervous about the imminent likelihood that he should raise his head and spot the girl standing by the stove. She kept beckoning Irie forward and then shooing her back, uncertain whether they should meet at all.

“Oh
yes,
Mr. Topps, it is, an' I am ready as ready can be. My hat give me a little trouble, you know, but I just got a pin an—”

“But the Lord ain't interested in the vanities of the flesh, now, is he, Mrs. B.?” said Ryan, slowly and painfully enunciating each word while crouching awkwardly and removing his left boot. “Jehovah is in need of your
soul.
”

“Oh yes, surely dat is de holy troot,” said Hortense anxiously, fingering her plasticated carnations. “But at de same time, surely a Witness lady don' wan' look like a, well, a buguyaga in de house of de Lord.”

Ryan frowned. “My point is, you must avoid interpretin' scripture by yourself, Mrs. Bowden. In future, discuss it wiv myself and my colleagues. Ask us: is pleasant clothing a concern of the Lord's? And myself and my colleagues among the Anointed, will look up the necessary chapter and verse . . .”

Ryan's sentence faded into a general
Erhummmm,
a sound he was prone to making. It began in his arched nostrils and reverberated through his slight, elongated, misshapen limbs like the final shiver of a hanged man.

“I don' know why I do it, Mr. Topps,” said Hortense shaking her head. “Sometime I tink I could be one of dem dat teach, you know? Even though I am a woman . . . I feel like the Lord talk to me in a special way . . . It jus' a bad habit . . . but so much in de church change recently, sometimes me kyan keep up wid all de rules and regulations.”

Ryan looked out through the storm windows. His face was pained. “Nuffin' changes about the word of God, Mrs. B. Only people are mistaken. The best thing you can do for the Truth, is just pray that the Brooklyn Hall will soon deliver us with the final date.
Erhummmm.
”

“Oh yes. Mr. Topps. I do it day and night.”

Ryan clapped his hands together in a pale imitation of enthusiasm. “Now, did I 'ear you say plantain for breakfast, Mrs. B.?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Topps, and dem tomatoes if you will be kind enough to han' dem over to de chef.”

As Hortense had hoped, the passing of the tomatoes coincided with the spotting of Irie.

“Now, dis is my granddarter, Irie Ambrosia Jones. And dis is Mr. Ryan Topps. Say hello, Irie, dear.”

Irie did so, stepping forward nervously and reaching out her hand to shake his. But there was no response from Ryan Topps, and the inequality was only increased when on the sudden he seemed to recognize her; there was a pulse of familiarity as his eyes moved over her, whereas Irie saw nothing, not even a
type,
not even a
genre
of face in his; the monstrosity of him was quite unique, redder than any redhead, more freckled than the freckled, more blue-veined than a lobster.

“She's—she's—Clara's darter,” said Hortense tentatively. “Mr. Topps knew your mudder, long time. But it all right, Mr. Topps, she come to live wid
us
now.”

“Only for a little time,” Irie corrected hurriedly, noting the look of vague horror on Mr. Topps's face. “Just for a few months, maybe, through the winter while I study. I've got exams in June.”

Mr. Topps did not move. Moreover nothing on him moved. Like one of China's terra-cotta army, he seemed poised for battle yet unable to move.

“Clara's darter,” repeated Hortense in a tearful whisper.
“She might have been yours.”

Nothing surprised Irie about this final, whispered aside; she just added it to the list: Ambrosia Bowden gave birth in an earthquake . . . Captain Charlie Durham was a no-good djam fool bwoy . . . false teeth in a glass
. . . she might have been yours . . .

Halfheartedly, with no expectation of an answer, Irie asked, “What?”

“Oh, nuttin', Irie, dear. Nuttin', nuttin'. Let me start fryin'. I can hear bellies rumblin'. You remember Clara, don't you Mr. Topps? You and she were quite good . . . friends. Mr. Topps?”

For two minutes now Ryan had been fixing Irie with an unwavering stare, his body held absolutely straight, his mouth slightly open. At the question, he seemed to compose himself, closed his mouth, and took his seat at the unlaid table.

“Clara's daughter, is it?
Erhummmm . . .
” He removed what looked like a small policeman's pad from his breast pocket and poised a pen upon it as if this would kickstart his memory.

“You see, many of the episodes, people, and events from my earlier life have been, as it were, severed from myself by the almighty sword that cut me from my past when the Lord Jehovah saw fit to enlighten me with the Truth, and as he has chosen me for a new role I must, as Paul so wisely recommended in his epistle to the Corinfians, put away childish things, allowing earlier incarnations of myself to be enveloped into a great smog in which,” said Ryan Topps, taking only the smallest breath and his cutlery from Hortense, “it appears that your mother, and any memory I might 'ave of her, 'ave disappeared.
Erhummmm.
”

“She never mentioned you either,” said Irie.

“Well, it was all a long time ago now,” said Hortense with forced joviality. “But you did try your best wid 'er, Mr. Topps. She was my miracle child, Clara. I was forty-eight! I taut she was God's child. But Clara was bound for evil . . . she never was a godly girl an' in de end dere was nuttin' to be done.”

“He will send down His vengeance, Mrs. B.,” said Ryan, with more cheerful animation than Irie had yet seen him display. “He will send terrible torture to those who 'ave earned it. Three plantain for me, if you please.”

Hortense set all three plates down and Irie, realizing she hadn't eaten since the previous morning, scraped a mountain of plantain onto her plate.

“Ah! It's hot!”

“Better hot dan lukewarm,” said Hortense grimly, with a meaningful shudder. “Ever so, hamen.”

“Amen,” echoed Ryan, braving the red-hot plantain. “Amen. So. What exactly is it that you are studyin'?” he asked, looking so intently past Irie that it took a moment before she realized he was addressing her.

“Chemistry, biology, and religious studies.” Irie blew on a hot piece of plantain. “I want to be a dentist.”

Ryan perked up. “Religious studies? And do they acquaint you with the only true church?”

Irie shifted in her seat. “Er . . . I guess it's more the big three. Jews, Christians, Muslims. We did a month on Catholicism.”

Ryan grimaced. “And do you have any uvver in-ter-rests?”

Irie considered. “Music. I like music. Concerts, clubs, that kind of thing.”

“Yes,
erhummmm.
I used to go in for all that myself at one time. Until the Good News was delivered unto me. Large gatherings of yoof, of the kind that frequent popular concerts, are commonly breeding grounds for devil worship. A girl of your physical . . . assets might find herself lured into the lascivious arms of a sexualist,” said Ryan, standing up from the table and looking at his watch. “Now that I fink about it, in a certain light you look a lot like your mother. Similar . . . cheekbones.”

Ryan wiped a pearly line of sweat from his forehead. There was a silence in which Hortense stood motionless, clinging nervously to a dishcloth, and Irie had to physically cross the room for a glass of water to remove herself from Mr. Topps's stare.

“Well. That's twenty minutes and counting, Mrs. B. I'll get the gear, shall I?”

“Oh
yes,
Mr. Topps,” said Hortense beaming. But the moment Ryan left the room the beam turned to a scowl.

“Why must you go an' say tings like dat, hmm? You wan' 'im to tink you some devilish heathen gal? Why kyan you say stamp-collecting or some ting? Come on, I gat to clean deez plates—finish up.”

Irie looked at the pile of food left on her plate and guiltily tapped her stomach.

“Cho! Just as I suspeck. Your eyes see more dan your belly can hol'! Give it 'ere.”

Hortense leaned against the sink and began popping bits of plantain into her mouth. “Now, you don' backchat Mr. Topps while you here. You gat study to do an' he gat study too,” said Hortense, lowering her voice. “He's in
consultation
with the Brooklyn gentlemen at de moment
. . . fixing de final date;
no mistakes dis time. You jus' 'ave to look at de trouble goin' on in de world to know we nat far from de appointed day.”

“I won't be any trouble,” said Irie, approaching the washing-up as a gesture of goodwill. “He just seems a little . . . weird.”

“De ones who are chosen by the Lord always seem peculiar to de heathen. Mr. Topps is jus' misunderstood. 'Im mean a lot to me. Me never have nobody before. Your mudder don' like to tell you since she got all hitey-titey, but de Bowden family have had it hard long time. I was barn during an eart-quake. Almost kill fore I was barn. An' den when me a fully grown woman, my own darter run from me. Me never see my only grandpickney. I only have de Lord, all dem years. Mr. Topps de first human man who look pon me and take pity an' care. Your mudder was a fool to let 'im go, true sir!”

Irie gave it one last try. “What? What does that mean?”

“Oh, nuttin, nuttin, dear Lord . . . I and I talking all over de place dis marnin . . . Oh Mr. Topps,
dere
you are. We not going to be late now, are we?”

Mr. Topps, who had just reentered the room, was fully adorned in leather from head to toe, a huge motorcycle helmet on his head, a small red light attached to his left ankle and a small white light strapped to his right. He flipped up the visor.

“No, we're all right, by the grace of God. Where's your helmet, Mrs. B.?”

“Oh, I've started keepin' it in the oven. Keeps it warm and toasty on de col' marnins. Irie Ambrosia, fetch it for me please.”

Sure enough, on the middle shelf of the oven, preheated to low, sat Hortense's helmet. Irie scooped it out and carefully fitted it over her grandmother's plasticated carnations.

“You ride a motorbike,” said Irie, by way of conversation.

But Mr. Topps seemed defensive. “A GS Vespa. Nuffink fancy. I did fink about givin' it away at one point. It represented a life I'd raaver forget, if you get my meaning. A motorbike is a sexual magnet, an' God forgive me, but I misused it in that fashion. I was all set on gettin' rid of it. But then Mrs. B. convinced me that what wiv all my public speaking, I need somefing quick to get around on. An' Mrs. B. don't want to be messin' about with buses and trains at her age, do you, Mrs. B.?”

“No, indeed. He got me dis little buggy—”

“
Side
car,” corrected Ryan tetchily. “It's called a sidecar. Minetto Motorcycle combination, 1973 model.”

“Yes, of course, a
sidecar,
an' it is comfortable as a bed. We go everywhere in it, Mr. Topps an' I.”

Hortense took down her overcoat from a hook on the door, and reached in the pockets for two Velcro reflector bands, which she strapped round each arm.

“Now, Irie, I've got a great deal of bizness to be gettin' on with today, so you're going to have to cook for yourself, because I kyan tell what time we'll be home. But don' worry. Me soon come.”

“No problem.”

Hortense sucked her teeth. “
No problem.
Dat's what her name mean in patois:
Irie,
no problem. Now, what kind of a name is dat to . . . ?”

Mr. Topps didn't answer. He was already out on the pavement, revving up the Vespa.

“First I have to keep her from those Chalfens,” growls Clara over the phone, her voice a resonant
tremolando
of anger and fear. “And now
you
people again.”

On the other end, her mother takes the washing out of the machine and listens silently through the cordless that is tucked between ear and weary shoulder, biding her time.

“Hortense, I don't want you filling her head with a whole load of nonsense. You hear me? Your mother was fool to it, and then you were fool to it, but the buck stopped with me and it ain't going no further. If Irie comes home spouting any of that claptrap, you can forget about the Second Comin' 'cos you'll be dead by the time it arrives.”

Big words. But how fragile is Clara's atheism! Like one of those tiny glass doves Hortense keeps in the living-room cabinet—a breath would knock it over. Talking of which, Clara still holds hers when passing churches the same way adolescent vegetarians scurry by butchers; she avoids Kilburn on a Saturday for fear of streetside preachers on their upturned apple crates. Hortense senses Clara's terror. Coolly cramming in another load of whites and measuring out the liquid with a thrifty woman's eye, she is short and decided: “Don' you worry about Irie Ambrosia. She in a good place now. She'll tell you herself.” As if she had ascended with the heavenly host rather than entombed herself below ground in the borough of Lambeth with Ryan Topps.