I didn’t see anything of Isaac for months after that. Not until after he left a note for me at home and I went to join him downtown at the procession organised by the Trade Union Congress to support the bus workers’ strike. I’d actually been paying attention this time, following it in the newspaper. So I knew about the strike and the operation of buses by strike-breakers; and the union’s appeal for a public bus boycott; and the armed police and special constables; and guards at bus stops and terminuses. All over a one pound, seven shillings and seven pence per week pay rise for drivers and a pound, two shillings and thruppence for conductors. And paid holiday and sick leave. It seemed like a pittance and a travesty. Especially given all the money and resources that was being put into stopping these people from earning a decent wage.
At first I didn’t think I would go. What finally took me there, to Victoria Park that day, was thinking about the families of the strikers; and the relief driver who’d been shot and killed; and the other two stabbed with broken bottles; and worse, the parcel bombs left on buses to explode. It made me remember that bus trip with Isaac coming back from the public library. The look of despondency on the faces of those poor, dejected people and the fact that they couldn’t even travel safely any more.
Isaac was pleased to see me when I arrived to meet him. We started at the park and paraded down King Street and through the busy corporate area. Hundreds of people carrying banners and singing a song that Isaac said was called ‘Workers of Jamaica’, with bystanders cheering us along to show their support, and many more people joining the parade on the way back to Victoria Park. Isaac told me about a public meeting that was planned for that evening at the corner of Windward Road and Water Street and asked if I wanted to go.
We went. The place was packed with people eager to listen to the stream of speakers who stood on the platform telling us about what had transpired between the union and the company because of the company’s refusal to negotiate over the wage increase or agree to the joint labour–management committee the union wanted.
‘A joint committee,’ one man said, ‘so that in future workers cannot be dismissed without knowing the charge against them and having the opportunity to defend themselves through their union.’ It seemed a fair enough request to me.
On the way back to Cross Roads I asked Isaac about the baby. He told me he had given him to his sister to take care of.
‘You still have contact with her?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of what happened. I thought they’d disowned you.’
He quickened his pace. ‘Dis not worth talking ’bout. Di baby is fine. Yu can tell Beverley.’
Why I spent the night with Isaac I don’t know. Maybe it was because I hadn’t actually felt betrayed by him. Because our relationship, such as it was, was founded not on desire or anything like it, but on my longing to understand Jamaica. This island on which I had lived my entire life but about which I seemed to know so very little. Isaac was my way into that, my access door to long conversations deep into the night. Not being comforted in his arms as with Freddie, but locked in the grip of his passion for a fairer Jamaica. Half-wondering as I lay there if he’d laid like this with Beverley. Here in this bed. Somehow I couldn’t see it. No more than I could imagine her taking him to GC’s.
The union appealed to the public not to cause damage or endanger life but it didn’t work. There were more bus bombings and violent action, and letters to the governor threatening destruction of government buildings. So every other day there were headlines in the Gleaner from the chief minister, Mr Bustamante, denouncing communism and criticising the governor for not doing enough to suppress the strike.
‘So what yu think, Fay? Yu agree wid Mr Bustamante dat di communist are everywhere? In the PNP and such?’
‘To tell you the truth, Isaac, I don’t really know what a communist is. Wanting a decent wage or fair treatment doesn’t seem that unreasonable to me. But the violence, that is something else. And as for all the bickering to and fro between the PNP and Labour Party, that seems sort of pointless to me, because the governor is just sitting there in the background watching us tear ourselves apart. And the British are still in charge. So it seems like a waste of time and energy when what we should be doing is all working together for a better future.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said, raising the Red Stripe bottle to his lips.
What Beverley wanted was for us to go down to the Chinese Athletic Club to watch Tyrone play in some ping-pong competition.
‘Ping-pong? Tyrone?’
‘His team been playing in the knockout for months. And now the final is at the athletic club and he wants everybody to come support him.’
‘That place is for kids, Beverley.’
‘Not true. Anyway, it nuh matter. The point is, Tyrone needs you.’
So we went. Sunday afternoon when I would rather have been doing something else. And we sat in the stands and cheered when Tyrone was at the table and when he wasn’t we stood around drinking lemonade waiting for the next round to be completed, with man after man coming to that square of green board and smashing that little white ball to kingdom come. It was boredom beyond belief.
Afterwards, we went to Monty’s for curry goat with Tyrone basking in the glory of victory and Audley talking about how ping-pong was nothing like cricket. Beverley and I just sat in the booth relieved that it was all over.
An event to forget except that three weeks later Mama told me that someone was coming to visit me.
‘Visit me?’
‘You know him. A fine young man you met at the Chinese Athletic Club.’
‘I didn’t meet anyone at the Chinese Athletic Club.’
She threw down her embroidery. ‘Well he is coming. So tidy yourself and be on the veranda at four o’clock.’
When he showed up he was a near-scrawny Chinaman a little bit shorter than me. Not bad-looking, as it turned out, and well-presented but with his hat in his hand and head bowed like he was docile and already obedient to Mama’s every command. What would I want with a man like that?
‘Miss Cicely, always a pleasure to see you.’
The sight of him kowtowing to her made my stomach turn.
She waved her hand at me. ‘You already know Fay, of course.’
He nodded and smiled. And then he sat and watched Mama pour the tea, Earl Grey, with tinned salmon and cucumber sandwiches cut into triangles, crusts removed, and Victoria sponge cake. Just the same nonsense she did every afternoon.
‘How is business?’
‘Very good, Miss Cicely. Cannot complain.’
As she passed him the cup she said, ‘What use is there in complaining? We have to face each and every day as the good Lord presents it to us.’
I laughed inside. What a ridiculous scene. The three of us sitting there like flowers in an English country garden. So I drank the tea and drifted off into a lazy half-sleep, wondering what I would wear when I met Beverley that evening.
‘Fay would be delighted to accompany you.’
I woke up with a sudden start. ‘Accompany him where?’
They both turned and stared at me in surprise.
‘To the Chinese Benevolent Society garden party.’
‘Garden party? No. I don’t think so.’ I stood up.
‘Fay, the man has come here to ask you out. The least you can do is to show some courtesy.’
‘I’ve never seen this man before in my life.’ I looked down at him sitting there in the wicker armchair. ‘I’m sorry, whatever your name is, but I’m not going to the garden party or anywhere else with you. My mother has misled you. My apologies.’ And I walked inside.
Mama waited until he’d left and then followed me into my bedroom where I was reaching into the wardrobe for the evening’s dress.
‘You think you are so high and mighty that you can insult the man like that?’
‘Who is he anyway? Where did you find him?’
‘Me find him? You are the one who met him.’
‘I did not.’
‘And he had the good manners to bring your father’s wallet back after he lost it in Barry Street. With every last shilling still in it. An honest businessman with his own shop in West Street.’
‘West Street! Are you serious? That is just two stops short of Trench Town.’
She slapped the edge of my skirt. Years earlier it would have been my legs.
‘Don’t you start with me now, madam. As if you can afford to be so fussy. Twenty-three years old and how many men have shown any interest in you? And don’t mention that Isaac person, you hear me. I mean men. Decent, hard-working men.’
She stamped her feet. Actually stamped them like a two-year-old.
‘Think you can talk to me any way you like? Well let me tell you, for all your fancy friends and fancy clothes you are still a woman. And a woman needs a husband and, that being the case, it is better to have one who can provide rather than one with nothing in his pockets but his empty hands. A Chinese shopkeeper is as good a catch as you are going to get. You should be counting your blessings instead of turning up your nose.’
Beverley thought it was a big joke.
‘West Street?’ Laughing and holding on to her stomach as she rolled around the floor in GC’s living room.
‘If you are rude enough he will get the message and give up.’
But no matter how indifferent or offhand I was with him, he kept coming. Week after week laden with ice cream and chocolates for Mama. Sitting on the veranda with her talking about nothing and drinking the weak tea she served with milk so it had absolutely no taste whatsoever. Eating her white-bread sandwiches. A Chinaman eating sandwiches. Papa would have bolted at the very thought of it.
Every now and again she insisted that I join them, and I did. It was easier than arguing with her. Five, ten minutes tops. That’s all I would give it and then I’d go back inside or leave, sometimes for Beverley’s, other times to meet Isaac. Anything rather than sitting there with them listening to their pointless conversation.
Papa told me his name was Yang Pao.
‘You know him?’
‘Not exactly. He shopkeeper, Fay.’
‘Yes, I know about the shop.’
‘Why you so hard on him? What he do upset you?’
I looked at him through the steam rising off his soup, sitting in his usual haunt in Barry Street. The bowl of rice in front of him on the red and white chequered tablecloth. The pieces of boiled chicken at his elbow. The soy sauce in the dish. It reminded me of Mama in the buggy sending Samson to fetch me while Papa ate that exact same meal.
‘She think you too old still live at home. Need home of own. So two of you not cross swords any more.’
‘So that’s it? She just wants me gone?’
‘She think it time I stop keep you.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘No need look like that, Fay. I happy keep you.’ He slurped some soup. ‘But maybe she right ’bout all the cantankerousness in house. Better gone than fighting with her every day.’ He scooped some rice into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. ‘Or if you want own place we look together for rent house.’ Dipping a piece of chicken into the sauce and holding it with his chopsticks over the dish to drain. ‘Unless you want stay with Sissy.’
‘No, I don’t think she would want that.’
The crunch came when Mama told me she had agreed for me to marry Yang Pao.
‘Are you out of your mind? I’m not going to marry him!’
‘You will do as you are told or you will get a begging bowl for the sidewalk at Cross Roads market. I am not putting up with your antics in this house any longer.’ And, so saying, she slammed the bedroom door and walked away.
Later when I saw Papa I told him there was no way I would marry Yang Pao.
‘Is OK. He not rich now but one day he make plenty money and get better business arrangement and move uptown. You see. Everything work out and your mama she keep happy.’
When I told Isaac he just sat there in the bed smoking a cigarette like it had nothing to do with him. Not that I thought Isaac was planning to marry me or that I would ever have considered marrying him. But I did expect some kind of reaction, even if all he wanted to do was ask me how I felt about it. But no. All he said was, ‘Do whatever yu want.’ His callousness took my breath away. For a moment. And then I thought, well maybe I had that coming.
Sissy told me she’d heard of Yang Pao. It wasn’t good. That’s all she said. No details. ‘But then, who on dis island not up to something? He not as bad as some. Nowhere near as bad. I can say dat much fah him. And he look after his mother.’
How Sissy knew about Mama’s plan for me to marry him?
‘Yu father tell me.’
‘Really? Yu see much a him?’
‘The man paid my wages for thirteen long years. And every now and again he drop by. Anything wrong wid dat?’
‘No. I just surprised, that is all.’
‘Well yu can stop yu surprising and think ’bout what yu going do. Yu going marry dis man or what?’
We had just finished listening to the military band playing in Victoria Park.
‘Yu want an ice cream?’ And then I remembered. ‘Or maybe not.’
‘Yu mean di sugar? Yu think I going fret over what going kill me? And then I start worry myself and get the pressure. No, man. Dat is not di way I intend to go.’
‘So how yu going go, Sissy?’
‘Sitting in my rocking chair smoking my pipe.’ And then she smiled and laughed out loud.
In Sissy’s opinion, she didn’t see how I could get out of it. The marriage.
‘Because in truth yu need a roof over yu head. And money to put food on di table. And I cyan see Miss Cicely letting Mr Henry stick him hand in him pocket fah dat. Not after all di trouble she go to fi get yu outta di house. No sir. Dat not going happen dis side a hell. And as fah earning a living. Well, yu know I love yu like me own so yu won’t mind me saying. Yu not trained fah anything. So as far as getting a job concerned, that don’t seem likely.’
‘Maybe I could work fah you.’
She shot me a disapproving glance. ‘I tell yu before. I don’t want yu coming over deh. I will help yu all I can, yu know that. But not over Franklyn Town.’
We continued to walk away from the bandstand. ‘What about Stanley?” she asked. ‘Maybe yu could go fi England. Plenty people looking that way. Windrush and all.’
‘Wid all dat rain and cold and fog?’
‘Maybe, but deh say di streets dem paved wid gold. Dat is what deh say. And dat di English got wide-open arms and a warm fish-and-chip welcome.’
What Stanley had written to me?
The English resent us being here. That is the truth. And as far as finding a decent job or room to rent with more than a cold water tap, you can forget about it. The host nation not feeling that hospitable. According to them we are a social parasite. Welfare scroungers who are stressing their services to breaking point. Even though it’s us that’s keeping everything running in the hospitals and post office and London transport.
And then Sissy said, ‘Or the bakra. Freddie what’s-his-name. What about him? Yu hear anything a him?’
Freddie’s letter?
I think I already told you about my mother dying last year. A brain tumour. She went so fast. Within weeks of her diagnosis. The thing that’s been absolutely astounding is how badly my father has taken it. Not just mentally and emotionally but physically. All he does now is sit and read the newspaper. Raising himself occasionally to let the dog in or out. His body has practically collapsed in on itself so now he is but a shell of the man he used to be. He’s in a pathetic state and wants me to marry the daughter of an old friend of his. Catherine. And since I’m not doing anything else (with my personal life) then why not? Why not make a tired old man happy? Especially after all the disappointment and disgrace I caused him.
And then, as a postscript, he had written: But I’ll never dance with her the way I danced with you.
‘Because,’ Sissy said, ‘yu cyan go get on di boat just like dat. Yu have to have somebody sponsor yu. And have a job to go to. Like maybe training as a nurse. Yu ever think a dat?’
Me a nurse? I couldn’t see it somehow. I wouldn’t have had the bedside manners.
* * *
‘The thing is, Beverley, I need money and I need somewhere to live.’
‘Didn’t your papa say he would keep you?’
‘Yes, but I can’t go on like that for ever. I have to do something.’
‘But we not trained to do anything, Fay.’ She laughed. ‘Apart from have a good time.’
Two days later, Beverley had her big solution. Join the army.
‘The British army?’
‘It’s three years, Fay. They will train us to do something and they will pay us. So we can get ourselves a place.’
‘You would leave all this?’ I surveyed the splendour in GC’s living room.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m tired of the vegetables anyway.’ And then after a short pause she said, ‘Besides, things aren’t how they used to be. There’s a distinct chill in the air these days.’
So we went and filled out their forms and took their tests and submitted to their medical examinations. And we became privates in the Women’s Royal Army Corps. Ancillary Territorial Service.