London, England, December 24, 1965
Felicity laced her fingers into Claude’s and shivered as rain pelted the umbrella he held in his other hand. She pulled Claude into the phone booth with her and pressed her back against his chest. His arms went around her as she fed coins into the slot, dialed the operator, and waited to be connected.
Her mother answered after five rings. “Felicity, what are you calling for?”
“I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas.”
“You could have called tomorrow.”
“I’m going to be busy.”
“Doing what?” Mom’s voice sounded suspicious, ungiving, even beyond the notes of sleepiness.
“I’m singing for a church service tonight, and then tomorrow, I’m having Christmas lunch with some of my friends from the West Indian Students’ Association.”
“A Catholic church?”
“Anglican.” From the silence, Felicity knew that that was almost as bad.
“Is there someone there you’re involved with?” Mom asked. “Brian called me the other day. He wants to know why you aren’t answering his letters. He’s waiting for you, Felicity. You don’t have time to have a relationship over there. You’re there for your studies.”
“I know that.” Hearing the operator’s warning, Felicity held out her hand. Claude placed a coin in her palm and she fed it into the slot.
“I mean it, Felicity! No boys.”
“I just have friends, Mom.” Any hope of introducing the subject of Claude, of thinking that Mom might be happy for her, that she might understand love, that she would ever let it soften her, dripped to the floor with the rain from the umbrella.
“Friends. I don’t know why you have male friends, like that awful Jack. It looks bad.”
“Josiah’s a boy.”
“That’s different and you know it. So what about Brian? Are you going to write to him?”
“Mom, I have to go. I have to get to the church.”
Felicity waited, but all Mom said was, “Bye then. Have a nice Christmas.” She was glad Claude couldn’t hear her.
Felicity hung up. “I wasted money I could have used on the meter,” she said. “I didn’t tell her about you.” Claude pulled her closer and stroked her hair. He stretched a curl and let it snap back.
“You don’t need to tell her yet,” he said. “There’s lots of time for that. I haven’t told my parents either. Maybe it’s best if we just let this be our time, Cinnamon.”
Felicity burrowed her head deeper into his chest. “But, Claude, she hates me.”
“Of course she doesn’t.”
“She never shows it.”
Claude said, “She’s from a country that survived slavery, which broke the original family structures of Africans, and still lives under harsh colonial rule. Bon jay, you don’t show love if everything you love has been taken from you.”
Felicity wriggled free so that she could look up at him. “Aren’t you’re from that country too?”
“And I told you, I was fortunate. My father learned to love himself, and love his land, and only then could he love others. And that’s why my mission is to teach everyone in Grenada to do the same.” He brushed his lips against Felicity’s. “And to love you, Cinnamon. Your mother may not know how to show it, but I do.”
There came a rapping on the door of the phone box. “I say,” shouted a man, “it isn’t enough that you wogs are here in our country, but now you’re tying up a phone box with your filth on Christmas Eve?”
Claude squared his shoulders and clenched his fists.
“Let’s just go.” Felicity pulled Claude out of the box and said “Sorry” to the man who pushed past them. Claude started after him, but Felicity begged, “Claude. My performance. I can’t be late,” and Claude relented, took her hand and began walking with her again.
“White people,” he said. “Most miserable people to ever walk the earth.”
Even though it was Christmas Eve, even though they could see glowing fireplaces and twinkling trees through almost every window they passed, after the service, Claude and Felicity went to the law library. On the way in, they met Neville.
“Brother!” he said. “I was looking for you, to borrow your case briefs. Hello, Felicity.” The three of them headed to their usual corner. Stacks of leather-bound volumes stretched to the ceiling, covered by a thin veneer of dust. Neville slumped in an a chair, hanging his legs over an armrest. “I met a woman yesterday who was complaining about how she can’t get a job as a teacher, even though she has a better degree than anyone they hired,” Neville said. “I’m going to see if I can write some letters to the City Council, get other people to write some too. You in, brother?”
“I have to get this exam under my belt first,” said Claude. “I’ll have to study for the rest of the holidays.”
“Admiralty law,” scoffed Neville. “These whites think they own the sea. What use is that to us?”
Claude looked up from his book. “Bon jay, Neville. Have you forgotten that we come from an island?”
Felicity pulled out her German textbook, but the unfamiliar words stuck together before her eyes. Singing, even though it was only some simple carols, usually filled her with energy, but tonight it had exhausted her, wrung all emotion from her. Shivering in the drafty room, she stuck her hands into the pocket of her coat and felt the cold glass of her pill bottle, almost empty. Dr. Taylor had said that it would take two to three months to become effective, either as a contraceptive or to ease her monthly symptoms. Almost two months later, she and Claude had not had sex.
Claude looked over at her. “How’s the German going?”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Claude smiled. “That’s better than ‘I hate German’.”
He didn’t want her. He really was only a friend, like she had told her mother. He said he loved her, but it was only the brotherly kind of love, because she was unlovable in any other way.
“That woman, that teacher?” said Neville. “Brother, the backside on her. You should see it. If I give her some help, I hope she gives me some loving.”
“Neville!” said Claude. “Sleeping with clients isn’t ethical.”
“We’re not lawyers yet,” said Neville. “So those rules don’t apply.”
Felicity bent her head over her German book.
“Cinnamon?” Claude slipped out of his seat and spoke into her ear. “Are you all right? Back hurting again?”
“I’m just tired, Claude.” It was up to him to let her know he was interested. She wasn’t going to embarrass herself.
“Well, let’s get you home, then.” Claude went back to his seat and began packing up. “See you tomorrow, Neville.”
“Have fun taking her home,” Neville said with a wink. “Before you leave, can I copy the ratio decidendi for Armory and Delamirie?”
It was raining on Christmas morning when Claude rang Felicity’s doorbell. As they waited in the Tube station, she reached into her pocket for the wrapped box she had placed there when she woke and passed it to him. “Merry Christmas,” she said. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep. She had lain awake all night lamenting Claude’s lack of interest.
“Thank you, Cinnamon.” Claude eased off the wrapping paper and opened the box to look at the cufflinks she had picked out. “Oh, these are lovely. I can wear them when I’m called to the Bar.” He gave her a quick kiss on the lips and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. “I got you something too.” He handed over something that was clearly a book wrapped in brown paper. Disappointment rose in Felicity, but she smiled and took it from him. A book. Something you gave a friend. She unwrapped it and opened it to read the title The Autobiography of Malcolm X.
Hope rushed in. They had discussed Malcolm X on the day they met. That day must be special to Claude, too.
“It just came out,” Claude said. “I got a copy too, so we can read it together.” She turned it over in her hands. “Open it,” he said. She opened the cover to read, To Cinnamon, my love, that you may always remember the fighter that is within you.
“Check the back cover,” he said, grinning. She did, and found a silver chain taped there, with a heart-shaped pendant dangling from it. She had miscalculated. He must feel something for her after all.
She thought that absolutely nothing could dampen her mood, but when they arrived at Alison’s place, things began to go downhill. The afternoon started well enough, with Alison greeting them warmly and seating them at the long table with glasses of champagne.
“So, Felicity,” said Gerald. “Did Claude get you anything nice for Christmas?”
“He did,” Felicity said proudly. “The Autobiography of Malcolm X and a necklace.”
“Do you even read?” Marlene looked up from her plate, her eyes malevolent slits.
“Of course she does,” said Claude. “We’re going to read it together and then talk about it.”
“Oh,” said Marlene. “I didn’t know you two did any talking.” She and Alison snickered. Claude put his hand over Felicity’s. Felicity took a big gulp of champagne.
The conversation around the table turned to hair. Alison announced that going natural had been a big challenge, but she was now loving the change.
“It’s not too bad for me,” Felicity said, eager to join the conversation. “I just put gel in and let it dry on its own. I’ve worn it curly before.”
Marlene turned on her. “Oh, have you?” she said. Then she looked at Claude. “Claude, get your child out of my sight or I will not be responsible for what I do, so help me, God.”
Claude stood. “Marlene,” he said, “Felicity is my guest, and you will be civil.” He turned to Alison. “Alison, Felicity and I will eat in the kitchen.” He put a hand on Felicity’s back and steered her to the door before picking up both of their plates.
“I’ll join you, brother.” Neville picked up his plate. “Can we smoke in there, Alison?”
Claude closed the door to the kitchen before addressing Felicity. “Sorry about that. Marlene and I were together before I met you. I think she’s still upset about how it ended.”
“You were together?” All the conversations Felicity had had with Claude and this had never come up. Felicity sensed that Marlene had feelings for Claude, but she could not have guessed that he had ever reciprocated.
Neville fumbled in his pocket for a joint. “Marlene and Claude were glued together just like you and Claude.”
“Shut up,” Claude said. “We never were, and you know it, Neville. Felicity, come here.” She shook her head and stood where she was. Claude sank down into a chair as Neville lit the joint.
Claude sighed. “We met through the Association, just like you and me, and we were together about a year, but when my classes started again this autumn, I ended it, and she was really upset.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Claude sighed again. “What’s the point of dwelling on the past, Felicity? I ended it because we weren’t compatible. You see how vicious her tongue is. She isn’t sweet like you.”
“I get mad too,” Felicity said, the champagne rising to her head.
“Yes, but not like her.” Claude implored, “Please, Cinnamon, come.”
Felicity couldn’t stand to be so far from his liquid brown eyes. She moved closer. “Eat some more,” Claude said. “The food is delicious.” When Felicity shook her head, he said, “All right. Enough.” He put his plate down on the table and stood up, grasped her around the waist and pulled her back to sit on his lap. Felicity thrilled at the marvel of his closeness. Claude shoveled a heaping forkful of rice into his mouth, then prepared another one. “Open up,” he said, nudging her lips with the fork. Felicity did, and he pushed the rice in.
Neville laughed. “She’s like your baby,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke.
“She is my baby.” Claude squeezed Felicity’s shoulder. “Save some of that for us,” he said, nodding towards the joint.
Alison came out of the dining room. “Everything all right in here?” she asked. “Anyone need anything?”
“Everything’s fine,” they chorused, and she withdrew.
Neville said, “What about what Felicity said? About her hair?”
“What about it?” Claude asked.
“Haven’t you done any teaching?” Neville shook his head, put out the joint on the side of his plate, and took a bite of chicken. “Felicity, you know you have lighter skin than us?”
“She’s not blind, Neville.”
“There are lots of divisions amongst Black people,” Neville said. “It started during slavery. The white men raped our woman and the people that resulted were treated better than the darker ones. Sometimes their fathers freed them. Or they got more prestigious jobs — they got to work in the domestic sphere while the darker ones did manual labour. So, some darker-skinned people resent lighter-skinned people like you.”
“But why is that my fault?” Felicity said. A burst of laughter came from the dining room. “I’m not a slave. And I grew up in Canada. I was dark-skinned, compared to everyone else. I got picked on for being dark, not light.” She looked at Claude for validation, but he frowned. And then she thought of Salvation Baptist. How when she got all the solos in the church choir, some of the other girls would whisper furiously to each other and Felicity would hear snatches … thinks she’s cute … Just because she has good hair. Her church friend Abby holding her arm out alongside Felicity’s and saying, My mom says if I stay out of the sun, I might look closer to how you look. Aunt Rose’s mother telling Mom, The way that one looks, you’re going to have to lock her up. And then the kids in Grenada. Your father must be white because you’re red. Red almost dead.” Laughing as she cried.
Neville said, “Don’t you notice how all the men look at you, Felicity? No one except for Claude has looked at Marlene.”
“What do you mean, all the men?” Felicity asked, swallowing the piece of curried goat Claude fed her.
“Look at how Gerald looks at you,” Neville said. “Or Lester.”
It had never occurred to Felicity before that darker women, women like Marlene, saw her the same way she saw blondes like Sheila. The thought of being preferred, of being someone’s ideal, stopped her world for a moment.
Claude jumped in, “You have to learn to shake off your Western imperialist thinking, Felicity.”
Neville said, “That’s going to be hard, when you spend your time singing opera. What are you doing for our movement? For the revolution?”
Claude retreated. “That’s not fair, Neville. She’s going to sing for the hurricane relief concert.”
Neville retorted, “You know that’s not enough.”
Felicity could think of nothing to say. Her eyes watered. Then Claude said, “Fuck, Neville, it’s Christmas. We can worry about that another time. Gimme that.” He reached for the joint, lit it, took a drag, and passed it to Felicity’s waiting hand. He sighed. “I’m going to have to hide away for a few days after Christmas to study for that exam and write those essays.”
“What essays?” Neville asked as he took the joint from Felicity.
“Remedies and jurisprudence.”
“Did you do any research? We could meet up and compare what we have,” said Neville.
The door opened again, and Alison said, “You want to come back in here now? We need Neville to explain something. How does Marx’s theory of the lumpen interact with race? What do we do about all the lumpen when the revolution comes?”
Neville looked at Claude, and Claude said, “They are vulnerable to counter-revolutionary forces. So we educate them.”
Neville strode towards the dining room, his hands and lips already moving in anticipation of the lecture he would deliver.
“I don’t want to go back in there if Marlene’s staying,” Felicity said to Claude. It was a test of his loyalty.
“Anything you want, Cinnamon,” Claude said, squeezing her fingers. “I can take you home now.” Felicity thrilled to his touch. He had passed the test.