A Distant Shore (5 page)

Solomon left an hour ago. He suddenly snapped to attention, looked around and understood where he was. He was embarrassed that he had allowed himself to fall asleep, but I chuckled reassuringly as he made his excuses and then hurried away. And now I am alone again. There doesn’t seem to be any point to cooking a dinner for one, so I’ll just have a few more biscuits and another cup of tea. I see Sheila’s letter staring down at me, and again I’m reminded of the time she turned up at my room at university. I handed her a cup of tea and sat next to her on the edge of the bed. I watched as she wiped away her silent tears.

“I’ve run away,” she said.

I couldn’t stop staring at her skinny, unwashed body. Her new chest aside, my poor sister looked like a stick insect, with her dirty clothes hanging off her.

“I need some money and a place to stay. Just for tonight.”

I remember laughing. Nobody could ever accuse Sheila of not getting straight to the point about things.

“So, you want
me
to give you some money?”

“I’ll pay you back, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Sheila, I’m not worried about that. I just want to know how you got yourself into this state in the first place.”

“What do you mean by ‘this state?’ ”

I could see she was angry now. She always bit her lower lip when something or somebody annoyed her; in this case, me.

“There’s no need to get your mad up, Sheila. I’m just saying, you turn up looking like a drowned rat and, I mean, what am I supposed to think?”

“I’m off to London, and I just need a bit of money. I’ve had it with up here.”

“You’ve had it with Mum and Dad, or you’ve had it with the North?”

“Both. You’re such a creep going to university in Manchester so you’re not far away.”

“I’m not a creep. It’s the only place that took me.”

“Well, I’m getting out of here.”

“You’re not off anywhere tonight, are you?”

“I told you I need a place to stay for the night.”

“Sheila, why are you carrying on like this?”

“They think they own me. And you too. But I suppose they do own you, don’t they?”

I felt the sting in her words, but I could also see that she was still upset. I tried to change the tone in my voice.

“Sheila, they just don’t understand. Why can’t you ignore them instead of always having to battle it out? You can always get your own way, but you’ve just got to be clever about it.”

“I can’t be bothered.” A door slammed with this statement. She waited for a moment, and then she looked up at me and spoke quietly. “It’s my life and I don’t see why I should have to play games.”

She spent the night with me, but neither of us really slept. When we weren’t arguing, one of us was reminiscing about something in the past that made us laugh. Like the time that Mum decided to join the local choral association, but wouldn’t accept the fact that she had the worst voice in the world. Or the time I entered the school swimming races, but forgot to tell anybody that I couldn’t swim. I agreed to give her the money to go to London, where she was sure she could get a job, and in the morning she gave me that grin of hers and I waved my sister goodbye and watched her walk out of our lives. Once Sheila reached London, silence reigned between her and “home.” In the first few years after college, I found reasons to go to London occasionally, either by myself or with Brian, and in this way I kept in some kind of contact with Sheila. But I never told Mum or Dad, for fear of upsetting them, and then, without really understanding why, Sheila and I just drifted apart. And now a letter on my mantelpiece. A single letter asking for what?

I make myself a cup of tea, pick up the letter and then sit in the chair by the window that Solomon was sitting in. I look out into the cul-de-sac and can see that the moon is lighting up the street, so that tonight there’s really no need for street lights. There’s no movement behind Solomon’s blinds and I imagine that he must be out on his patrol. I try to imagine the inside of his bungalow and assume that it’s probably as impossibly neat and tidy as he is, but I’ve no way of knowing this. The letter lies ominously in my hands and I understand that at some point I’ll have to open it. I feel myself falling asleep in the chair, caught between the need to get some rest and the desire to discover what has happened to my sister’s life. However, even as my head grows heavy on my shoulders, I can already feel the responsibility of having Sheila back in my life.

In the morning I wake up in the same place with the pages of Sheila’s letter scattered about me like confetti. My neck aches from the awkward way in which I’ve been resting it on the edge of the chair, and I immediately recognise that I’m in some pain. But there is also another feeling, although I’ve no words to describe it. I glance out of the window, half-hoping to find Solomon washing his car, but there is nobody in sight. Then I understand the strange feeling that has come over me. Loneliness. Carla won’t be coming today. I stare at the piano and realise that music lessons won’t help me today, but before I fall into any kind of depression I know what I’ve got to do. I’ve seen enough programmes on the television about this condition, and I’ve read enough articles. I know that I’ve got to go out, and so I decide to take a shower and dress quickly before my mind can absorb any more thoughts.

The woman in the newsagent’s shop at the bottom of the hill knows me. In fact, I get the impression that she knows everybody, and their business. She beams at me and I wonder if she reserves this particularly foolish expression for me, or if she uses it for all of us from up the hill. She always breaks off her conversation with whatever customer she’s dealing with so that she can take care of me. Today I buy a newspaper and a few groceries, and this gives her the opportunity to say, “So I take it you’ll not be going into town today then?” I beam back in her direction.

“No, I won’t.”

“Lessons?” she asks. “Has the card in the window brought you any luck?”

I’m sure she knows that only Carla has materialised as a result of the card, and now there’s nobody.

“I’ve had some promising phone calls.” I say this in a manner which lets her know that there’s nothing further to be said on the matter. The other woman stands in the shop and looks at me with a kind of pity. There’s something about her which makes me angry. She has no right to be staring at me in this way, let alone thinking whatever it is that she’s thinking. I take my change and turn from the pair of them. I hear the doorbell tinkle as I walk out, but I also feel their eyes upon my back and I know that as soon as the door closes their conversation will resume. It will be a highly different conversation, one that will, of course, include me as subject matter. I’m pretty sure that I’ve become the sort of person that Weston people feel comfortable talking about.

Once I reach the top of the hill I don’t have any doubt as to what I have to do. I go straight to his bungalow and knock loudly. A somewhat crumpled Solomon opens the door and looks me up and down. He rubs his eyes and blinks vigorously, and then he politely stifles a cough with the back of his hand. It must be strange for him seeing me in the morning, standing on his doorstep with my few bits of shopping. Neither of us says anything, and then he speaks.

“We are not supposed to be going into the town today, are we? I have not forgotten, have I?” He seems embarrassed, but I let out a short laugh to assure him that everything is fine, and there’s no need to worry.

“You haven’t forgotten anything. It’s just that I thought I’d come by to see if you were all right.”

He seems puzzled now. Again he looks me up and down as though trying to work out what has changed about me. He’s looking for evidence of some change, but he won’t see anything. At least I don’t think he will.

“Well,” he says, “you must come in.” He steps to one side. “Or have you already decided the answer to your question?”

“What question?” He catches me by surprise now.

“You can ask your question when you come in.”

I edge past Solomon and into the house, and he closes the door behind me. It’s much darker than I’d expected, but when he switches on the lights I feel a little easier.

“Please put down your shopping and let me take your coat. Coffee? Or would you prefer tea?”

“Whatever’s easiest for you.”

“Please take a seat,” he says, pointing to the living room. “I will be fast.” With this said, he disappears into the kitchen and leaves me by myself. There’s not much in the way of furniture or home comfort to the room. In fact, it’s really quite bare, but I am most taken by the absence of any pictures of his family, although strangely enough there is a framed photograph of a middle-aged Englishman. I’m looking for clues as to who this man is, but there are none. He shouts out from the kitchen.

“Do you take sugar in your coffee?”

“Two, please.” I pause. “I know it’s a bad habit.” He doesn’t reply, which makes me feel anxious. He is, of course, right. I do have a question. Does he realise that he is also one of those people who Weston folk feel comfortable talking about? Does he care? As I look up he comes through with two cups of coffee, both of which he places on a small table.

“Taking sugar is not sinful. You have only yourself to please, is that not so?”

“Well, yes,” I say. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Biscuits?” Clearly he’s remembering yesterday.

“No, thanks. I’m fine. But thanks anyhow.”

He sits now and picks up his coffee and takes a loud sip. Then he puts it back down and turns to look in my direction.

“Perhaps people have been talking to you about me?” he asks.

“No, they haven’t, but I don’t care what people say.”

He smiles, then laughs out loud. Then he stands and walks the three or four paces to a tall wooden chest, pulls out a drawer and claims a sheaf of letters. He shuts the drawer and puts the letters on the coffee table.

“What are these?” I ask.

“Letters. Perhaps from the same people who have been talking.”

“What do you mean?” I put down my cup of coffee now. “I’m not following you.”

“Some people like to write to me.” Solomon laughs. He picks up his coffee again, which I take as a cue to pick up my own.

“What do they write to you about?”

I feel embarrassed, as though I am somehow responsible for these people, whoever they are. Solomon can see the predicament I’m in, so again he stands up.

“I am going for more coffee. Would you like some?” I shake my head. Solomon points to the pile of letters. “This is England. What kind of a place did I come to? Can you tell me that?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you like it here?” asks Solomon, his voice suddenly impassioned.

I look at Solomon, but I really don’t understand. I feel as though he’s blaming me for something.

“I really don’t know anything else, do I? I mean, this is where I’m from, and I’ve not got anything to compare it to. Except France. I once went there on a day trip. I suppose that seems a bit pathetic to you, doesn’t it?” Solomon shakes his head.

“No, but I am asking you, what do you think of this place?”

“It’s where I’m from.”

He points again to the pile of letters. “Then maybe you should not read the letters.” Solomon disappears into the kitchen and I hear the clatter of dishes, and water being noisily poured into a kettle. Solomon sounds angry, but I don’t know what to do, so I simply stare at the letters.

After a few moments the noises stop, and then Solomon comes out of the kitchen and he sits opposite me. He seems calmer, and his eyes are softer, but I notice that his hands are shaking slightly. He carefully moves the cup up to his lips and then he replaces it on the saucer. When he’s driving he holds on tightly to the wheel. He’s in control and I feel safe with him, but sitting in this house he seems curiously vulnerable. He glances at the letters and I feel as though I have to say something.

“Do you want me to read them, is that it?”

Solomon laughs now, but he doesn’t say anything. I realise that he’s been hurt, and I watch him for a while and then decide that I should leave. As I stand up he also gets to his feet. It’s awkward for both of us, but I don’t think the relationship is in any way broken. Solomon reaches down and picks up an envelope.

“How do you open your letters?” He doesn’t hand me the envelope, he simply lets it dangle between his fingers. I look at him unsure of how I’m supposed to answer his question.

“Well,” I begin. “I just tear open the envelope.”

“Ah,” he says. He smiles now. “Just tear open the envelope. I usually do this too, but for some reason I decided not to with this one.”

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take from all of this, but I continue to listen.

“For some reason I took a knife to it. This was a fine decision, for somebody had sewn razor blades into a sheet of paper and carefully turned the page over so that I would grab the so-called letter and have my fingers sliced off. This is not very kind.”

He laughs slightly and tosses the envelope down onto the pile with the other letters.

“Love letters,” he laughs. “From people who do not want me in this place.” Again he laughs. “I am beginning to take this personally.”

I sit back down and stare at the pile of letters. Solomon sits too, and he asks me if I would like more coffee. I look across at him and nod. “Would you mind?” He takes my cup and saucer and disappears into the kitchen.

“I’m not naïve.” I say this to myself. I whisper it under my breath. I’m not naïve. I’ve got stuck into these arguments in the past. With Mum and Dad, for starters, both of whom disliked coloureds. Dad told me that he regarded coloureds as a challenge to our English identity. He believed that the Welsh were full of sentimental stupidity, that the Scots were helplessly mean and mopish and they should keep to their own side of Hadrian’s Wall, and that the Irish were violent, Catholic drunks. For him, being English was more important than being British, and being English meant no coloureds. He would no more listen to me than would the teachers at school, who also hated coloureds. When people were around, they’d go on about them not really adapting well to our school system, but in private they were always “cheeky little niggers.” I know this is what people think, I’m not naïve, but why the hatred towards Solomon, who doesn’t talk to anybody? Who washes his car. Who hasn’t done anything. What do these people hope to achieve? In fact, who are these people? Are they the same people who write letters to the paper complaining about the new coins being too bulky, and the fact that telephone kiosks are no longer red? Do I know these people? Do I sit on the bus with them? I look up and Solomon has returned from the kitchen. He’s watching me looking at the pile of letters.