‘What you wan’ me do?’ I ask Kenneth.

‘Well, I been doing plenty t’inking on the situation, Gilbert. And I come to this conclusion. We get a few of the boys and give him a good licking. Show him him mus’ not mess with Jamaican boys.’

‘Kenneth, I no lick a man for no reason.’

‘What you chattin’, man? Him call me wog and darkie. Him need lesson in manners. And you next, boy. Mark me word. And you have lovely wife who is cooking up something fine for you. You have obligation.’

‘No rough stuff. Let me speak with Queenie,’ I tell him.

‘Cha, you no ’fraid of some skinny white man?’

‘I sort out everything with Queenie. Come, you go now, man. Me dinner ready.’

Kenneth grin sugar and spice on Hortense. ‘What you cooking there, miss?’ he say. ‘Smellin’ good.’ She scowl one bitter lemon back on him. But he carry on without regard. ‘You a lucky man. What you getting, rice and peas, a little curry goat? Me don’ know if me ’ave food for tonight.’

‘Where is Winston?’ I ask. ‘Him know yet you get him thrown out of his room?’

‘Me goin’ sort this out. A few of the boys . . .’

‘No, Kenneth! No trouble. I tell you already I will speak with Queenie. You don’t even live here, man. You forget Queenie throw you out months ago?’

He breathe in loud, smelling the aroma every West Indian boy had come to love in this country – free food. ‘Smell so good. You have a little left for me?’

Hortense sent him a look that would have made a sensitive man disappear in a puff of smoke. However, Kenneth take this as a good sign. He lift himself from the chair to stand over Hortense. But it only took a little while of staring over her shoulder on the cooking food before he quickly say, ‘Now me come t’ink, I jus’ remember I arrange to meet a few of the boys.’ He was out the door and slamming it after him so fast you would think Hortense was chasing him to taste something off her spoon.

Not long before I know why. Hortense hand me one pile of mess on a plate. Not one thing did I recognise to start nyam. I nearly follow after Kenneth calling for him to wait. But Hortense was looking on me ready to berate me for ungratefulness. So I examine the food and tell her, ‘Lovely.’

‘He is uncouth, that man. How you let him in the room?’ she say.

I think there was rice but I don’t think it was boiled. It was crunching on my teeth as I say, ‘He tell me him Winston.’

‘I doubt this Winston is any better?’ she say.

‘You have not met Winston.’

‘If the brother is anything to go by, I do not desire to.’

‘Kenneth is not so bad.’

‘How you say that? The man is rough and uncouth. You hear his language?’

‘Him vex.’

‘He is the sort of ruffian make me ashamed to come from the same island.’

‘Cha, he is not so bad. Him just trying to get on in England.’

‘Huh,’ she say.

Something so chewy in the food I wonder if it is gum. We both chomping silent like cows in a field. Come, it was a pretty silence so why I say, ‘But there is no need to fret?’

‘About what?’ she say.

‘About what Kenneth has just tell us.’

‘The man is a buffoon.’

‘Maybe. But no worry yourself about being thrown from this place.’

Her fork stop half-way to her mouth. The little smile that formed on her lip gradually turned to a nasty smirk. ‘I paid him no mind,’ she tell me.

‘Good,’ I say but she had not finished yet.

‘You forget,’ she begin, ‘that I will soon have employment in a good school as a teacher. Do not fret on my account. The man downstairs would do me a great service if he were to throw me from this run-down place. A room such as this is not befitting for a teacher such as I.’

The fork finally make it to her mouth. And I stare hard on this insufferable creature as she gaze to the ceiling chewing dainty on the nasty food.

Fifty

Hortense

Gilbert Joseph looked wide-eyed on me to exclaim, ‘Wait, is that your wedding dress you have on there?’

So I tell him, ‘At last I have an occasion that warrants such a fine dress.’

The silly carefree countenance slipped from his face with such force it bump on to the floor. He make me feel sorry for the words. His bottom lip protruding with their harshness. His eye displaying sorrow. I thought to apologise for that quick tongue. But then he start cussing – sucking on his teeth, and cha, cha, cha on me like a ruffian. So I paid him no mind.

Ah, even the sun was shining. Only a weak light but enough to raise my spirits higher than this stupid man’s worry. My two letters of recommendation each contained words that would open up the doors of any school to me. Despite the slow start at the school for scoundrels in Half Way Tree, my headmaster had seen fit to call my teaching skills proficient. Looking for the meaning of the word in the English dictionary, I was honoured to see he thought me expert. Miss Morgan, the formidable principal at my college, declared me highly capable. And a highly capable expert I felt. This was the day I was going to present myself for a position as a teacher at the offices of the education authority and no pained-face, fool-fool man was going to imperil my elation.

Gilbert’s explanation for how I might travel to this place called Islington took him more than an hour. The man insisted I take a note, then proceeded to deliver his instruction in one babble of turn-left-turn-right-no-wait-go-straight-on. The only lull in this breathless litany occurred when he asked, ‘You write this down?’ I am not a writing machine. Was it little wonder that when the man finally finish the only note I had written on the paper was the word ‘bus’?

‘This the only thing you write?’ he said.

‘You speak too fast,’ I told him.

It was with one long agitated breath that he blew the words into my face, ‘Come. I will go with you.’

Anyone hearing Gilbert Joseph speak would know without hesitation that this man was not English. No matter that he is dressed in his best suit, his hair greased, his fingernails clean, he talked (and walked) in a rough Jamaican way. Whereas I, since arriving in this country, had determined to speak in an English manner. It was of no use to imitate the way of speaking of those about me, for too many people I encountered spoke as a Cockney would. All fine diction lost in a low-class slurring garble. No. To speak English properly as the high-class, I resolved to listen to the language at its finest. Every day my wireless was tuned to the most exemplary English in the known world. The BBC. The Light Programme – Woman’s Hour, Mrs Dale’s Diary, Music While You Work, and of course the news. I listened. I repeated. And I listened once more. To prove practice makes perfect, on two occasions a shopkeeper had brought me the item requested without repetition from me. With thanks to that impeccable English evidenced on my wireless, I was understood easily.

But Gilbert was still sucking on his teeth. Every two bells the man said ‘cha’ and could not, no matter how I tried, stop himself exclaiming, ‘Nah, man,’ with every utterance. I worried that the refined and educated people at the education authority might look aghast at me if Gilbert Joseph were anywhere near. But I have to confess: ‘Hortense, “bus” is not enough instruction to see you delivered safely.’ So I agreed. ‘Okay,’ I told him. ‘You may accompany me.’

It was a fine establishment. Brick-brown and ageing with all the dignity of learning. The building stately imposed itself on the rundown street with as imperial a demeanour as Miss Morgan in front of we girls. With trepidation my heart beat like fluttering wings. Gilbert walking in front of me placed his hand on the shining brass of the door.

‘You can leave me now,’ I told him.

‘What, you no wan’ me come in?’The man look on me in that same pained manner.

‘No, thank you, I will be fine.’