A Distant Shore (8 page)

Out beyond the viaduct, and through the evening gloom, I can see that night has paused on the horizon. In a minute I’ll get up out of this chair and pull the curtains. Weston is simply not the place that I hoped I might be retiring to. I suppose I knew this yesterday when the policeman and policewoman came to tell me about Solomon as though they were enquiring about an unpaid parking ticket. And then there was poor confused Carla, who was obviously terrified of the boyfriend who’d been doing Lord only knows what with her for the past few months. I listen to the birds singing as the day finally begins to fade behind the viaduct. I turn Solomon lightly over in my mind. Maybe I should visit the small stone church and say some kind of a prayer for my friend? And then one final trip to town to put flowers on Mum and Dad’s grave? And then what? Off to some tropical place to tell Solomon’s family? And then? Back here and live with Sheila by the seaside? If I mention Sheila to Dr. Williams he only gets annoyed, so it’s perhaps best to say nothing further to him on this topic. Maybe Sheila and I can go abroad together. For the first time I want to leave England. To see Spain or Italy. England has changed.

I decide to take Carla’s boyfriend’s letter to the pub. I have to do something because I don’t want it in the house with me for another night. After I’ve had breakfast, I put on my jacket, but then I realise that it’s still too early. So I sit with my jacket all buttoned up, and with my handbag on my lap, and I wait until just before eleven. Then I get up and go out. It is a nice morning. I double-lock the door behind me. Strange really, because I only used to do that when I lived in town, and then only when I was going away for any length of time. Here, at Stoneleigh, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to double-lock. This is a residential area, and I don’t get the idea that we’re in any danger of being broken into. There’s also a night-watchman and so it has never occurred to me to double-lock. But maybe that’s it. We don’t have a night-watchman any more.

As I walk down the hill I realise that I’ve been foolish because instead of just sitting in the house for three hours staring into mid-air, I could have gone for a walk. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Get some exercise, or do some shopping, but I’ve already failed to make proper use of this day. There is an early autumn chill in the air, and I can tell that winter is just around the corner waiting to pounce. There won’t be many more days like this and so there’s something sinful about having wasted the better part of the morning. At the bottom of the hill I see a few of the villagers, but I ignore them. Especially now, after what they’ve done. I stop at the main road and wait for the traffic to clear. It looks to me like it might take for ever as the cars and lorries are streaming by in both directions. I feel uncomfortable standing helplessly where everybody can see me, and I think about just dashing out into the road and making them stop for me. But I know that I’m just being silly. I’ll have to wait like everybody else.

I am the first one into The Waterman’s Arms. I knew I would be, for it is only a few minutes past eleven. I shut the door behind me and walk the few paces to the bar. There is no sign of the landlord, but I can hear voices. Somebody is around. In fact, somebody has to have drawn back the curtains and unbolted the door. My guess is that the landlord was simply not expecting anybody this early so he’s gone round the back to finish off some chores. Fair enough, I think, I’ll wait. There’s a bell, but I don’t want to sound it off like I’m in a hurry, or annoyed, so I sit on a stool and stare out of the window. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring, but it seems like ages before I hear the landlord’s voice. At first he frightens me, and then I turn and see him smiling at me from behind the bar. He’s caught me by surprise, but I’ve also caught him by surprise for he’s still doing up his tie.

“Well, you’re keen, aren’t you?”

“Good morning.” I hope this will put him in his place. After all, if he’s going to wear a collar and tie, he can at least make the effort to conduct himself as though he’s familiar with the type of behaviour that generally goes with civilised dress. He seems a bit taken aback that I’ve chastised him, but I can see that he’s also keen to pretend that he hasn’t been scolded. No doubt this better suits his ego.

“And it’s a blooming nice morning at that. What’ll you have? Your usual?”

“I’ll have a half-pint of Guinness, please.”

He’s already pulling the half-pint from the pump, but he stops for a moment and looks puzzled. Then he continues. However, it is his own fault for being too familiar. He ought to know his place. He hands me the small glass of Guinness, and I hand him a five-pound note and then smile sweetly when he produces my change.

“There you are, love.”

I’m sure he assumes that I’m going to sit with him at the bar, but I take the money and the drink and I walk to a small table by a window where I turn side-on to him so that when I look up there can be no accidental eye contact. For a few minutes I can hear him tidying up around the bar, but the truth is there isn’t really any tidying up to be done. He’s only just opened up and everything is in order. He’s just embarrassed that I’ve walked away from him, but he can’t pick a fight with a middle-aged lady. I let him stew for a while and then I hear his voice, which is somewhat less assertive than usual.

“I’ll just be out back finishing off a few things.”

I turn and look at him, as though shocked to discover that he is still present. And then I smile, as I might smile at a pupil, just to let him know that he is dismissed now.

I don’t really want the beer. As soon as he goes through to the back I push it away from me. I want to do what I have to do, and then go before anybody else comes in. I stand up and walk over to the small notice board. Aside from a small postcard-size piece of paper asking for volunteers for the village rugby team, there is nothing else pinned up. I take the envelope from my handbag, slip the letter out, open it up, and then I take a drawing pin from the bottom left-hand corner of the rugby notice and pin the abusive letter into place. I’ve “mailed” it back to them. I don’t need it in my house, for it doesn’t belong there. They can have it back.

Once I reach the top of the hill I walk straight past my house and towards Solomon’s bungalow. It is actually getting warm now and so I slip off my jacket. When I get to the bungalow I stop and stare at it. I think about what secrets I might find inside, were I to sneak in and rummage around. The one time that I visited Solomon, I saw nothing which gave me a clue about his past or his present. Besides, that is, the photograph of the Englishman on the mantelpiece. I don’t even know what Solomon liked. Except, of course, his precious car, which still stands in the driveway. I put down my bag, then scrunch my jacket up into a ball. The least I can do for him is to polish it. It’s getting dusty and Solomon would never have let it deteriorate into such a state. And so I start to polish his car, but I try to copy the way that he used to do it. All careful, with small circular movements like you’re gently stirring a bowl of soup.

I suppose it’s when I see them standing in the street and just staring at me that I know something is wrong. I have to ask myself, is it that fascinating watching me trying to keep Solomon’s car clean? Don’t they wash their own cars? Of course they do, and I don’t come and stand and look at them, so I don’t see the point of this communal gawping. Not everybody has come out, but there’s enough of them to make me feel awkward and so I stop. The car is almost spotless anyhow, so it isn’t like I haven’t done a good job or anything. It’s just that I don’t want to be putting on a show, and that’s how I feel. But I also don’t want to stay in Stoneleigh with them any more. I resolve to use the day sensibly and go into town and talk with my parents. I uncrumple my jacket and fold it up and push it into my bag. It is far too dirty to wear, but I don’t want to go back into my house and feel trapped there, so I secrete it in my bag where nobody can see it. I just have to hope that the weather doesn’t change, otherwise I know I’ll get cold.

When I get to the cemetery the boy is nowhere to be seen. I’m surprised because he always seems to be there with his seemingly unstoppable enthusiasm. But today of all days he isn’t around. I spread the jacket out on the grass by Mum and Dad’s grave and then I sit down and begin to talk to them. I tell them everything about Solomon that I can think of. I know Dad has some opinions about coloureds, and that he won’t be totally sympathetic to a lot of what I’m saying about Solomon, but I still want to tell them. Dad doesn’t say much. After a while Mum starts to cry and she asks me what it was about Solomon that made me want to be seen with him. I think for a while, and I then tell her that there was nothing in particular, it was just that Solomon was a proper gentleman. In fact, one of the first gentlemen that I’d ever met, with his smart driving gloves. He really showed Brian up for the slob that he is, but I don’t have a chance to say anything for Mum hasn’t finished. She goes on, but she’s so upset that she can hardly get the words out. Didn’t I understand what people would say about me if I were to be seen with a coloured, and particularly one as dark as this Solomon? She’d not brought me up to be that type of girl. Why, she wants to know, why would I want to do this to them both? There’s no point in looking to Dad for any help, for I’m not going to get any from him. I try again and tell them that Solomon treated me with respect, but they don’t want to hear this for their minds are already made up. Eventually neither of them will speak to me, and so I begin to plead. I just wanted to be happy, I say, and I could tell that Solomon was a man who could have made me happy. Mum continues to weep, but Dad has his one ugly word, and I could have predicted it before he even opened his mouth. Slag. He doesn’t even want to look at me any more, that’s how bad it is. As it starts to get dark, I reckon that I’d better leave them alone. This isn’t going anywhere and I’m starting to get cold. I stand up, pull on my filthy jacket and look around one final time to see if I can spot the boy, but there’s no sign of him.

On the way back to the bus station I see a few of them. They are staring as though there’s something the matter with me, but I try to ignore them. Really, they should be ashamed of themselves with their hands out, begging for decent people’s money when there’s no reason at all why they shouldn’t be working and earning their own. I’m retired and I don’t have anything to give to them. And even if I did, why would I? They should go and get a job. I tell this to one of them and he just laughs and shows me his yellow teeth. Like an animal, he is crouched in a doorway. They’re disgusting, dragging themselves and the country down like this. Just behind the bus station I see a large group of them gathered around an oil-drum which they’ve set alight. It has bits of wood sticking out of it, and they are huddled together and vigorously rubbing their hands and stamping their feet. It makes me feel angry just to look at them.

“What you looking at?” says one of them. It’s a woman, which somehow makes it worse. She looks and sounds like a gypsy, with her black hair, and her black eyes, and her grimy black hands. Sheila and I have always been scared of gypsies and Mum had told us to run away if any of them ever spoke to us. They are nasty, and they like to take away people’s children, everybody knows that much. So I don’t say anything back to this woman, but when she spits in my direction I feel my blood beginning to boil. It’s awkward, for I’m not dressed how I want to be dressed. There isn’t much dignity to a crumpled jacket, but I’m not going to let this stop me from speaking my mind. But I don’t know what to say.

The policewoman says that they found Dr. Williams’s phone number on the referral card in my bag. That’s how come Dr. Williams finds himself at the police station, sitting across a table from me, nervously kneading his hands together as though he’s making bread. I still don’t know what I’m doing here, but I suppose that something bad must have happened. I’m just waiting for either Dr. Williams or the policewoman to speak, for I know that one of them will have to explain to me what the gypsy woman did. After all, I’m covered in bruises and I’m still bleeding.

“Are you all right, Dorothy?” Dr. Williams is looking at me, but I can see that he is worried. I stare back at him, but what am I supposed to say? I don’t know if I’m all right. I don’t even know what happened.

“What time is it?”

The doctor looks at his watch and then he arches his eyebrows. “It’s getting late. Nearly eleven.”

“At night?”

Dr. Williams nods and I stare first at him, then at the policewoman, then back at him.

“I don’t think you’re well, Dorothy. Shouting and brawling with homeless people, well, that’s just not you.”

I remember something now. She spat and I spat back, and then the shouting started, and then I struck her, and the police arrived. Maybe this policewoman was one of them, but no matter how long I stare at her I can’t remember if she was there or not. The policewoman looks at Dr. Williams as though asking for his help, but why? I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just looking at her and trying to work something out, but that’s how it seems to go these days. I can’t do anything right at all, can I?

I turn to Dr. Williams. “I don’t want to be in this police station.”

He is smiling at me, but I need something more than this. I’m afraid smiling isn’t good enough any more.

“I don’t want to be in this place! Can’t you hear me? I don’t want to be in this place!”

“Dorothy, I think you need to spend some time convalescing in an environment where you can get better, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

I look closely at him, but his words make no sense. I know I’m sick. I still have problems sleeping, but unless there’s been some serious change that he hasn’t told me about, then I should be going home. That’s where I belong. I shouldn’t be at this police station talking about convalescing. Perhaps I’ve got Sheila’s cancer, but I’ve been managing with it all right, haven’t I? My jacket is a bit crumpled, I can see that. In fact, it’s dirty, but it just needs a wash and then everything will be fine, won’t it? It will be all right. I’m all right. It occurs to me that if I just stare at Dr. Williams then I can make him believe me when I say that everything is all right, but he simply looks back at me and the longer I stare, the more I begin to feel like a fool.