Madge kissed her teeth with a bit more vim and vigour than usual. ‘Wagwan, Clive?’
Baz had been a bit perplexed the first time she’d heard the Jamaican greeting, but it was common in this part of south-east London and she’d grown used to it. Although she’d been born locally, she’d spent most of her life in Edmonton. Having been back for almost six months now – ever since her granddaughter had started at Goldsmiths, University of London – she’d already learnt to specify that she meant the Edmonton in Canada, not the one in north London, whenever she told anyone where she’d moved from.
Peggy’s lip twitched. ‘Say what you want, Clive.’
Baz was torn between her desire to get on with everyone she met and loyalty to her new friends. For reasons she wasn’t entirely sure of, they despised Clive. He’d always been perfectly lovely to her. She’d never seen him do anything that explained their scorn. Nor had her friends offered up anything that led her to any greater clarity.
And yet they all loathed Clive – this small, slight, sixty-something Chinese-Jamaican man. Baz wasn’t sure, but something about him seemed off today. She had to bite her lip to keep from asking him if everything was all right.
Carole faced him with a grin. ‘Oh, Clive. I’ve been meaning to tell you…’
‘Yes?’
‘You know about the murder of Princess Diana, yes? Of course, everyone thinks it was carried out at the behest of Elton John.’ Carole tapped the side of her head. ‘But I know who’s really behind it. You’ll never guess.’ She fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Well? Go on … guess!’
Clive touched his chest. ‘Er, what?’
Oh dear.
Carole blew out a sharp breath. ‘You’re an idiot.’ With a string of profanity-laced vitriol, she returned to her crochet. Baz was almost certain it was crochet.
Carole was quite happy to prattle on about her imaginary worlds and would tell you all about them. But she didn’t tolerate being questioned. And she hated it if she thought people were humouring her.
Clive leant against Baz’s chair, gently fingering the velvet fabric of the seat back.
She couldn’t take it anymore. However much the women hated him – despite the fact that Madge sometimes slept with him – he was still a human being. And something was clearly weighing on his mind. ‘Is everything all right, Clive?’
Madge pulled a face. ‘Man’s fine. He just wants attention is all.’
Clive straightened up. ‘That’s not true. I come here because the coffee is excellent. And because we’re … friends.’
‘You’re half right.’ Peggy raised her empty mug and waved it at him. ‘If you’re not going to piss off already, make yourself useful and tell Sarah I’ll have another when she’s got a moment.’
Clive twisted his hands. ‘We are friends, aren’t we?’
Madge turned her head to look at Peggy, muttering, ‘Oh, Lordy. Here we go.’
Baz’s heart won out. ‘Clive, you look peaky. I think you’d better sit down.’ Grimacing at the pain that still bit into her when she put too much weight on her right knee, she fetched a chair from a nearby table. A knee injury had led to her retiring from the RCMP a few years early. She dragged it over next to her own, trying to position it so he didn’t block the doorway from the café’s main room. ‘Madge, would you get him a glass of water, please?’
‘Make it a soy latte.’ A flash of Clive’s customary haughty demeanour crossed his face for a moment. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Of course. No problem at all.’ But the look on Madge’s face said she very much did mind.
Clive and Baz both took their respective seats.
Peggy lifted her espresso glass once again. ‘Don’t forget my espresso.’
Madge stopped midway through the entry in the thick wall between the café’s two rooms. Touching the stone surface, she turned to face Peggy with a grin that was probably two-thirds syrup and one-third menace. ‘Of course, my dear. Anyone else need anything while I’m up?’
Carole’s attention briefly returned from wherever it had been as she faced Madge with a grin. ‘Did you know that Gypsy Rose Lee, the American burlesque dancer, was one of Pope Geoff XIV’s spies? She was tasked with identifying any Hittites in the population.’
Baz would’ve thought that was another of Carole’s nonsense contributions but Madge nodded. ‘And a pot of Rosie Lee. Anything for you, Baz? You know, since I’m being put to work.’
Baz felt a pang of guilt for sending her friend on an errand. ‘No, thanks, Madge. I’m fine. But thank you.’ She tried to show her gratitude through her smile.
When Madge headed off on her mission, Baz put a hand on Clive’s arm. ‘Something’s bothering you, isn’t it, Clive?’
He responded by laying his own hand over hers and gripping it with a ferocity that almost brought a tear to her eye. He blinked rapidly. ‘He’s gone!’
Cookie pulled himself out from under the low table on his elbows then stood up to his full height. He was large for a German shepherd but still not quite eye level with the seated Clive. Stretching his neck out, Cookie sniffed Clive before sitting down on the man’s feet.
Clive buried his fingers in the dog’s thick fur. He bent over Cookie’s face and began to cry. Peggy glanced at Baz with an eyebrow arched.
‘He’s gone,’ he repeated, though it was more of a wail this time.
‘What do you mean? Who’s gone?’ Baz gently stroked his back.
Madge returned with a glass of water. She paused in front of Clive and held it out. ‘Drink. You’ll feel better.’
Clive looked up, tears still streaming down his age-spotted face. ‘I said soy latte.’
Madge scowled as she returned to her chair. ‘Good coffee isn’t instant. Sarah will bring it when it’s ready.’
Clive sniffed. ‘Thank you. You’re all very kind.’ He drank most of the water before setting the glass on the table with a noisy clink.
Cookie crawled partway back under the table, only his large back end sticking out.
Madge and Peggy shared one of their glances then Peggy looked at Baz and made a rolling gesture. Get him talking, Baz assumed.
Tears flowed freely down Clive’s cheeks and his sobs were loud enough for everyone in the café to hear.
Baz’s hand seemed to lift of its own volition. She hoped Peggy wasn’t offended by the gesture.
Peggy rolled her eyes and then returned her focus to her laptop. Discovering that her crotchety, sarcastic lesbian friend was actually Trent Heston, a beloved author of sweet gay romance novels, had been a bit of a shock. Baz couldn’t wait to tell her ex-husband that she knew his favourite author.
That is, she hoped to get back to a place of easy friendship with Hari where they could swap stories and trade gossip – though, as with any divorce, it would be a while before the hurt on both sides had healed.
Madge had retrieved her knitting project from her chair when she sat down and was hard at work. Or at least she seemed to be giving her best impression of doing so. Now that Baz was more familiar with her new friends, she could see that Madge’s hands were moving more hesitantly than usual. She stopped to undo the last few stitches.
After a few minutes, Sarah walked in, carrying a tray of drinks. When she saw who was with them, she raised a questioning eyebrow at her mother. Madge responded with a subtle lift of her hand to indicate everything was fine.
Baz picked up Clive’s coffee. ‘Would you like sugar?’
‘No.’ Clive brushed his tears away with his sleeve. ‘Thank you, Barbara. You’re so kind.’ He lifted the coffee to his lips and drank, then set it back on the table.
‘Well?’ Peggy’s voice sounded strident even by what Baz had come to expect from her acerbic friend. ‘Are you going to tell us what’s brought on these theatrics?’
Clive sniffed. ‘I’m trying to.’
‘And for heaven’s sake, man, speak plainly,’ added Madge.
‘It’s Eddie.’ Clive plucked a serviette from the table and dabbed at his eyes. ‘He’s gone.’
Madge kissed her teeth. ‘Who is Eddie and where has he gone?’
Baz touched Clive’s arm gently. ‘Do you mean he broke up with you?’ Despite his dalliances with Madge, she was reasonably sure he also liked men. Perhaps this Eddie had simply broken his heart.
‘No, it’s not like that.’ Clive picked his coffee back up. ‘Eddie is one of my flatmates. Blue rang me this morning as he hadn’t shown up to rehearsal. She wanted to know if I’d seen him – and if not, could I fill in.’
Peggy drummed short, painted fingernails on the arm of her chair. ‘I don’t suppose asking you to tell this story in a manner that is both concise and coherent would achieve anything, would it?’ She bent forwards, picked her espresso up off the table, and tossed it back.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ Clive set his mug on the table then sat up and took a deep breath. ‘I live in a shared house with a bunch of people. One of the ones just off Edward Street, you know? There are six of us. It’s nice. I mean, it’s all right. Anyhow, Eddie and I both sometimes perform as part of Royal Tea. Have you seen any of our shows?’ He looked up hopefully and smiled at the women.
Baz was curious what kind of performers they were. Musicians, maybe. Perhaps it was some sort of am-dram. Madge pulled her glasses down her nose and scowled at Clive.
Peggy made another rolling gesture. ‘Skip to the end.’
Clive nodded. ‘Eddie sometimes works at a pub over in Woolwich. Not every day, but when they ask him. He doesn’t work the bar, of course; he’s a cleaner. I do it too sometimes. But Eddie missed two shifts last week already. And this morning, we were supposed to do our big shop.’
He for a breath. ‘There’s a cash and carry down in Charlton. We go together once a month to stock up. They have an excellent selection of Asian specialties as well as basic household supplies. We always go right after breakfast. Breakfast and then we catch the bus. The 177. Takes us right there.’
Peggy ran a wrinkled hand through her faded pink hair. ‘Good God, man. We don’t need a guide to the bus routes of south-east London. He’s bunked off work and skipped out on a shopping trip. So what?’
Clive made a defensive gesture – though it turned into more of a pathetic wave. ‘I haven’t seen him since Sunday night. I went to the show. It was down in Catford last week. Did you see it?’
Madge scowled. ‘For pity’s sake! We’re talking about one man who left the area – it’s not as though there’s a serial killer on the loose.’
‘You think…’ Clive blanched and Baz worried he might faint. ‘You think he’s been murdered?’
‘When did I say that?’ Madge kissed her teeth. ‘I said nothing of the sort.’
Looking up from her computer, Peggy said, ‘I’m still trying to figure out why you’ve confused us for the plod.’
‘Filth!’ shouted Carole without looking up from her handiwork.
Clive brushed a non-existent piece of lint off his trousers. ‘Yes. Well. The thing is, you see…’
Peggy slammed her hands down on the arms of her chair. ‘If you don’t get to a point soon, Clive, it won’t matter as we’ll all be dead.’
He visibly bristled at Peggy’s words – or perhaps at the snappish tone. ‘I’m getting to it. You see, Eddie is … well, his status in this country is tenuous. He applied for asylum several years ago. His claim was denied on the basis of a technicality. He was going to appeal but some of his documents were missing.’
‘Mmm hmm. And you think the police won’t take his disappearance seriously.’ Madge frowned at her knitting.
Baz touched Clive’s knee. ‘The police have a responsibility to protect people regardless of their immigration status.’
Madge studied Baz. Peggy gave her a pointed look. Carole didn’t look up but chuckled as she worked – though it was anyone’s guess as to whether she was laughing at Baz’s words or at something that existed in her mind only.
‘My dear, you are lovely and kind.’ Clive tittered, placing a hand to his chest. ‘But you have a great deal more faith in the police than most people around here do.’
Madge breathed in slowly, like she was choosing her words with care. ‘We all know the problems with the Met. I won’t deny them. However, we also know there are good people working there, trying to drive change from within.’
She was incredibly proud of her grandson Peter, a local beat cop. ‘If Eddie is really missing, then I agree with Baz that this is a matter for the police.’
‘Hang on.’ Clive sat bolt upright. ‘What do you mean “if he really is missing”? You think I’m making this up? I can’t believe you of all people don’t trust me.’ He got to his feet. ‘I think I made a mistake coming here.’
Madge gripped Clive’s arm. ‘Oh, sit down. That’s not what I meant.’ Clive perched on the very edge of his chair.
Crossing her arms over her ample bosom, she added, ‘I’m not suggesting you invented this story – only that…’ She leant back, rounding her shoulders. ‘These people, the ones let down by our immigration system… Lord knows there are enough of them. Their lives are precarious – their connections to society tenuous. Sometimes they just … leave.’
Clive took a breath and opened his mouth but Madge raised a hand. ‘Maybe he got wind of a raid in the works or he heard of a better job opportunity somewhere else. Perhaps he met someone or… I don’t know. My point is that when people are unable to put down roots, it makes them feel less connected. It can prevent them from forming strong connections in the community.’ She paused. ‘And sometimes they just leave.’
Clive crossed his arms over his chest. ‘He didn’t leave. He wouldn’t do that. Something happened to him.’
Madge shrugged. ‘If you’re sure of that, then you need to go to the police.’
Baz nodded.
A muscle in Clive’s jaw twitched. ‘I can’t be the one to do that.’ He stood back up again. ‘I thought you ladies could help Eddie. Clearly, I was wrong.’
Leaning forwards in her seat, Peggy said, ‘For pity’s sake, Clive. If I wanted cryptic clues, I’d do the crossword. Explain what you mean. Clearly.’
‘Well.’ Clive’s eyes darted over to Madge. ‘I’m one of those people.’
Narrowing her eyes, Madge stopped knitting. ‘What on earth are you talking about, you infuriating man? You’re Windrush, just like me – are you not?’
Baz felt her breath catch in her throat. ‘Surely you have every right to be here?’
She’d been learning about the Windrush Generation. After the Second World War, the British government gave all Commonwealth citizens the right to live and work in the UK. They later rescinded that right – but people already here were grandfathered in.
To think that she – who had lived forty years of her life away from the UK – had an inalienable right to be here, yet Clive, who had been here since childhood, may not… It really was despicable.
Clive pursed his lips. ‘Yes … and no. It’s complicated.’ He breathed out through his nose. ‘I came here as a boy. All entirely legal. Went to school here. Completely above board. About twenty years ago, I lost my passport.’
Peggy made a puzzled face. ‘So what?’
Clive offered a helpless sort of gesture. ‘This was in the days before everything was recorded electronically, of course. Or rather, new passports were being tracked digitally, but they hadn’t yet completed the digitisation of old ones. They couldn’t find any record of my residency or citizenship.’
Madge furrowed her brow. ‘And Jamaica?’
Clive laughed bitterly. ‘It took a few years of chasing, but eventually the Jamaican authorities were able to provide me with a copy of my passport – last issued when I was nine. But, of course, all it shows is that I’m a citizen of Jamaica. There’s no record of my travels or that I’d moved to the UK. In fact, it took quite a bit of effort to prove to the Jamaican authorities that I wasn’t dead. They wouldn’t take my word for it, you see.’
‘What?’ Baz wrinkled her nose. ‘How is that possible? Surely they’ve got some record of you – some proof of your life here.’
Peggy and Madge both scoffed.
Clive studied Baz, his head tilted. ‘I’ve been in south-east London most of my life – Brixton, Thamesmead, Peckham, Eltham. And a year ago I moved to Deptford. There’s plenty of proof of my presence here. But there’s no proof of my right to be here. When I moved to Deptford, it was because the Home Office found my last place. They were going to deport me. I got word of the raid and bailed before they could lock me up.’ He shrugged.
‘That’s so unfair. I’m sorry.’ Baz’s jaw was so tight her words may not have been coherent.
Clive nodded at Baz then turned back to Peggy and Madge. ‘You see now. I can’t go to the police.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t believe they’ll help. And if they do find Eddie, they’ll just put him on a plane to Albania. Please, no police.’ He grabbed Baz’s hand and looked her in the eye. ‘Promise me you won’t tell the police.’
Bile rose in Baz’s throat. ‘I don’t know.’
Peggy raised a hand. ‘How about this? We’ll take a look into it – speak to a few people and see what we can dig up. If we find anything suspicious, then we’ll go to the police.’
Clive opened his mouth to speak but Peggy cut him off. ‘I don’t like you, Clive. Never have; never will. But that doesn’t mean I want to see you deported. I wish you no harm. I’d be perfectly happy for you to live a perfectly happy life, so long as it didn’t involve me. You and your friend don’t deserve the harm the government is doing.’
‘Mmm hmm.’ Madge nodded. ‘We’ll see what we can find out. If – if – we get wind of any foul play, we’ll discuss it with you before we go to the police. Assuming there’s anything to go to the police with, that is. I still think it’s more likely he just left the area of his own volition.’
Clive flapped his hands. ‘Thank you, thank you.’ He got up and ran to Madge. She swatted him away, so he turned to embrace Baz. Despite her misgivings, she hugged him back. Just because her friends didn’t like him didn’t mean she would be cruel to him. After a moment, he took a step towards Peggy.
Baz feared Peggy would throttle the man. But Cookie pulled himself out from under the table with a speed and grace that astonished Baz. He barked once – just once – but the authority in it was enough to make Clive apologise profusely.
Clive raised his hands, palms out, and backed away. ‘You should come to the show tomorrow. Two o’clock at the community centre down in central Lewisham. I’ll arrange tickets for you. You can meet everyone. Some of the regular guests too. And I’ll talk to Blue – maybe we can chat afterwards.’
Madge nodded once. ‘We’ll be there.’
‘Thank you.’ Clive pursed his lips and made to leave, then paused. ‘And thank you for the coffee.’