And she is back looking round the room, her mouth gaping like a simpleton’s.

‘You watching me? See when you come to cook you have to turn it . . .’ I stop. She looked so quizzical I wonder if I am talking in foreign tones. ‘You can cook, can’t you?’ I asked.

‘I was taught to cook in domestic science at college,’ she tell me.

‘It not science we need, it food. Man, you telling me you caan cook . . .’

She stood up. ‘Where is the lavatory? I presume there is a lavatory?’

‘Downstairs,’ I tell her, and she is stepping over the trunk to leave the room so quick she is a blur before my eye.

I am making the tea in the little pot when I hear, ‘A dump it may be, ducky, but you ain’t weeing in here. What’s the matter with you lot? Does this look like a ruddy toilet?’

I am chasing down the stairs now. Jean, the woman in the room underneath, does not like to be disturbed at this time of night before she is about to go out for work. She is standing in her doorway wearing only a pink slip and underwear. Half her head has hair rollers, the other half, in the process of being combed, has the brush stuck in it like a hatchet.

Hortense is asking, in slow deliberate English usually reserved for the deaf, ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find the toilet?’

Jean, frowning, says, ‘What? What? This is not the toilet.’ Then seeing me, ‘Thank bloody God! Gilbert, can you help me? This one thinks I’m a bloody toilet.’ Then suddenly Jean laughs, a cackle like pebbles falling down a washing-board. Placing her hand on Hortense’s shoulder she leans in close to her, all the while sniffing like she is smelling something. ‘Bloody hell – she’s so fresh off the boat, I can smell the sea.’ Hortense still smiling wide-eyed polite then feels Jean’s door shut in her face.

It was with a frantic whisper that Hortense shouted at me: ‘You tell me the toilet is downstairs. This is downstairs.’ The frown that pinched her eyebrows was from a little girl confused.

I touched her arm. She pulled away. ‘Okay – I am a disease not to be caught,’ I say, stepping away from her. ‘Just follow me.’ I take her to the toilet, which is at the bottom of the house opposite the front door. ‘You can find your way back?’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ she tell me. ‘I make a simple mistake but I am not a fool.’

Puffing noisy as a pipe organ I hear her returning from way down the stairs. She was breathless but still she find air enough to chide me. ‘You mean to tell me that every time I must go to the lavatory I must walk first down then up all those stairs?’

Now, I know plenty boys would have told her to stick her skinny backside out the window if she no like it, but I tell her, ‘No, you can use this.’ And I stoop down to feel under the bed for the potty. Cha, nah, man, I was so pleased to have a solution that I pick up the pot without any thought. Only after I place it under her nose did I ask myself, Gilbert, why the hell you no empty it before Hortense come? The contents is slopping over the side and spilling on to her dainty-foot shoes.

She jump like a flea. ‘Disgusting – you are disgusting,’ she cry. ‘This place is disgusting. How you bring me here?’

Now I am having to calm her, to raise a finger to my lip to shush her. ‘I caan believe you bring me to a place like this. You tell me you have somewhere to live. You wan’ me live like this?’ She is waving her arms so her white gloves could bring a plane safely into land. And I am still holding this pot saying, ‘Listen, Hortense. Hush now. I sorry.’ But the thing spilling more as I am trying to compose her.

‘Get away from me,’ she say. ‘I caan believe you bring me here. You live like an animal . . .’

There is no room to put the pot back down and I am making it worse following her round slopping this stuff everywhere. So I throw the contents down the sink. Oh, why the two cups still in the basin – surely I had already washed them for our nice cup of English tea? For one blessed moment she was silent. You know, I heard a clock strike and a woman giggle in the street before she began, almost tranquil: ‘Wait. You tell me you wash your cup in the same place you throw your doings.’

‘No, no, I don’t,’ I say, ‘I take it down to the toilet but—’

She is not listening. She rage at me, ‘You wash in filth! This place is disgusting. I caan believe you bring me all this way to live like this. You make me come here to live like an animal?’

Man, this woman is a barb under my skin – she irritate me so I lose me temper. I tell her, ‘Yes, and you know what else, little Miss Stick-up-your-nose-in-the-air, you will have to wash your plate, your vegetable and your backside in that basin too. This room is where you will sleep, eat, cook, dress and write your mummy to tell her how the Mother Country is so fine. And, little Miss High-class, one thing about England you don’t know yet because you just come off a boat. You are lucky.’

Before

Three

Hortense

The sound of my father’s name could still hush a room long after he had left Savannah-La-Mar. Every generation in our district knew of my father and his work overseas as a government man. His picture was pinned to parish walls – cut from the newspapers of America, Canada and England. My father was a man of class. A man of character. A man of intelligence. Noble in a way that made him a legend. ‘Lovell Roberts,’ they whispered. ‘Have you heard about Lovell Roberts?’

When you are the child of someone such as he, there are things that are expected that may not be expected of someone of a more lowly persuasion. And so it was with I.

I was born to a woman called Alberta. It was she who suckled me until I was strong enough to drink from the cow. I recall a warm smell of boiling milk. Being rocked in the sun with a gentle song and ‘me sprigadee’ whispered until my eyes could do nothing but close. I remember a skirt flapping in the breeze and bare black feet skipping over stones. I do not recall the colour of her eyes, the shape of her lips or the feel of her skin. Alberta was a country girl who could neither read nor write nor perform even the rudiments of her times tables. I was born to her out of wedlock – it would be wrong to say otherwise. But it was she who gave birth to me in a wooden hut. And it was she who bought me shoes for the journey I was to take holding the hand of her mother, Miss Jewel.

I grew to look as my father did. My complexion was as light as his; the colour of warm honey. It was not the bitter chocolate hue of Alberta and her mother. With such a countenance there was a chance of a golden life for I. What, after all, could Alberta give? Bare black feet skipping over stones. If I was given to my father’s cousins for upbringing, I could learn to read and write and perform all my times tables. And more. I could become a lady worthy of my father, wherever he might be.

Mr Philip Roberts was almost as important a man as my father. Short with a round belly plump from plantain and his beloved dumplings. He had a house that sat in its own green acres of land, which was befitting of his status as the wholesaler for the grocers of the district. All produce came through his hands. So trusted was he that low-class people from all around would call at his door to settle any fuss in the neighbourhood. He was not the law but he was authority, and his face drooped two fleshy jowls with the weight of that responsibility.

Martha Roberts was known throughout the district for her pale grey eyes, a rarity on a face that everyone agreed should not have been so dark. Two inches taller than Mr Philip, her frame, over the years, had obligingly hunched shorter so as to spare her husband that indignity. She had given birth to three children: two girls and a boy. Her hair turned overnight from black to startling white when her dearest daughters died – together, only days apart – from measles. Mr Philip and Miss Ma, as I was allowed to call my father’s cousins, were then left with only one child to nurture. Their precious son, Michael.