‘You want me take you home?’ I asked this man. I said it too loud, I know I did, and too slow, as if talking to a child, but somehow it seemed right to shout at this jitterbugging half-wit. But he stayed expressionless. Blinked at me twice. I stepped closer to him with the intention of taking his arm to escort him. He stepped back. This happened a few more times before I gave in and accepted his love of the parallel. I walked and he followed ten paces behind.

I did not have to look to know that he was still there, his wheezing breaths told me I was being chased. I kept an ear sharp in case the wheezing got worse. By the time we reached the lane to the farmhouse I was walking Jamaican slow – one foot down and the other foot soon come, what the hurry, no rush – so this man could keep up with me.

I had been in England long enough to know that my complexion at a door can cause – what shall I say? – tension. When I was new to England all the doors looked the same to me. I make a mistake, I knock at the wrong one. Man, this woman come to the door brandishing a hot poker in my face yelling that she wanted no devil in her house. ‘Since when was the devil in the RAF?’ I asked her. Stand back – I had learned that day – stand back, smile and watch out!

The door to this farmhouse was answered so quickly I was sure we had been seen approaching. The woman who answered the door was Queenie Bligh, although obviously I did not know her name then. All I knew was that a pretty woman looked at me for the count of two seconds with an excited recognition. Two seconds before she realised I was not whom she’d thought I was. Two seconds before she knew I was a stranger. Her first words to me, as she pointed at the man who had followed me, were ‘Where d’you find him?’

Just that. No ‘Hello, can I help you?’ Or ‘Good day.’ Just ‘Where d’you find him?’ No politeness, no pleasantry. She wasn’t even worried that this once white man’s face was now black.

‘He appeared to be following me,’ I told her.

Her eyes rolled around in their sockets. She was as pretty as a doll – pale hair, very blue eyes, a thin but firm waist and lovely legs.

I, like all servicemen from my country, was adept at taking in the whole spectacle of a woman without her knowing. Every feature was assessed, categorised and compared in the blink of the unsuspecting eye. For the Jamaican man – expert in this art – it is hard to say whether it is a training or a natural-born gift. This woman was so lovely I wanted to rub my hands together, kiss the crazy man who followed me and thank him heartily for bringing me to this house. But instead I held my arms to my side like a gentleman and told my mouth not to give away any unwholesome intention.

‘He followed you?’ she asked.

‘Yes, from a while back. We have been together most of the afternoon. Him just a few paces behind me except for the moment when he threw himself to the ground.’

‘Was there a loud noise? Was he shaking?’

‘Yes, ma’am, to both.’

‘Don’t worry – it was nothing you did.’

‘My question is, why him follow me in the first place?’

‘Oh, I know why he followed you,’ she said. ‘He thinks he knows you. He brought you back for me.’

I looked again at this man, who had an expression on his face that, if looked at carefully – perhaps with some measuring device – could be construed as a smile. At this point the man passed me, walking into the house with no recognition or gratitude to me at all.

‘Does this man speak?’ I asked.

‘Did he not say anything to you?’

I shook my head as she, addressing him over her shoulder, said, ‘Go on, you daft beggar – it’s not him.’ Then looking to me she added, ‘He thinks you’re someone else.’

‘Don’t tell me, Paul Robeson.’

‘Paul Robeson. You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?’ she said, frowning. ‘Anyway, he wouldn’t know Paul Robeson if he fell on him.’

‘Madam,’ I told her, ‘if Paul Robeson were to fall on him there would have been no need for you to come to the door, I would have just posted the gentleman underneath.’ This was a very good joke. You see Paul Robeson is substantial and this man was puny. He would be flattened like a hut before a tank. But this woman appeared not to see the amusing side.

‘Get washed, Arthur,’ she called to the man, ‘your face’ll frighten people. And get those mucky clothes off.’ And turning to me she said, ‘Well, thank you for bringing him back,’ before moving to close the door.

So I asked, ‘Excuse me, but is the gentleman all right?’

‘I don’t think so, do you?’ As I had already asked the question I had no reply for her. She went on, ‘He hasn’t been right since the last war. He hates loud noise. I brought him here to get away from those blinking buzz-bombs in London, but you lot make such a racket I’m thinking of taking him back for some peace and quiet.’

I was not ready to leave such a pretty woman yet. ‘So, if not Paul Robeson who him think I was?’ And, oh, boy, she blushed. She blushed so bad I felt the temperature rise around me.

‘Oh, just someone else I knew – like you.’

‘An RAF man?’

‘A coloured chappie like you.’

‘Oh, I can assure you, ma’am, there is no other coloured chappie like me.’

‘No. You look like him – a little bit.’

‘May I ask which bit that is?’

‘No, you may not, but thank you for coming and bringing him back. I’m sure you’ll want to be getting off now.’

Man, was she wrong!

‘Is he your father?’

‘Who?’

‘The man who is now washing his face.’

‘No, he’s my father-in-law. I was given him as a wedding present.’

‘A wedding present! You’re lucky, your husband a generous man. Where I come from a new wife is usually given a toothless rancorous old mother-in-law.’

Suddenly this woman laughed. A laugh from nowhere. No smile or build-up titter. Just one minute solemn, the next a honking laugh, the noise of which could make a pig sit up and look for its mummy. My instinct told me to run or stare. I stared. Then holding out her hand, she managed to say, ‘Queenie Bligh. That’s Mrs Queenie Bligh to you.’

‘Gilbert Joseph,’ I said, as I shook her hand delicately. ‘That’s Airman Gilbert Joseph to you.’

And the laugh came again.

‘That’s some laugh you have there,’ I said.

‘I suppose I better make you a cup of tea seeing as you’ve come all this way.’

‘And I finally make you laugh.’

‘Oh, you were trying to make me laugh, were you, Airman?’

‘Laughter is part of my war effort.’

‘Well, I’d better show you some local hospitality, then.’

‘What – your husband won’t mind if you entertain me?’

‘Now you mention it, hang on a minute. I’ll just go and write to him. He’s in India. Should get a reply within the year. D’you mind waiting?’ She stood aside for me to pass. ‘Come in, then, Airman Gilbert Joseph, before I change my mind.’

Sixteen

Gilbert

At the time I did not worry. Just white American soldiers – GIs out on the town. I might have wondered whether the swagger in their step was drunkenness or just that national arrogance all allies had come to know.

‘Hey, you!’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah, you. Don’t you know to salute your superiors?’ As this man’s friend was hanging on to his arm trying to steady himself giggling all the while like a silly schoolgirl, I did not believe this to be a serious question.

‘I don’t know you, man.’

‘I am your superior,’ he told me. The badge on his arm proclaimed him to be no more than a private in the US Army. Perhaps I should not wipe my boots on him but no more respect than that was required.

‘Salute your superior.’

‘Fuck you, man,’ I told him, before moving on.

He called after me, the giggling one, he shouted, ‘Off the sidewalk, nigger.’

I turned round to face them again but they were walking away, strutting towards some other sport.