Circles - Chapter 6

 

Chapter 6

 

 

 

Violet sat studying the newspaper. She had just decided on her selection in the last race, when the doorbell rang. Putting aside the paper, she idled to the door.

         “Hello mamma,” he said.

         “Hmmm. So you remembered where I live,” she answered gruffly, managing to hide the joy his appearance had brought her. She closed the door and followed him through the hallway.

        “Make me a cup of tea,” she ordered. “I’ve got to go out soon.” she added and returned to her paper.

        Nothing had changed thought Robert. Laura’s picture still hung in the living room, and the photo of the three of them (himself, Sharon and Laura) was alongside the other pictures of the family.

        He opened the cupboard in the kitchen that he knew so well and took down the coffee and tea bags. He waited for the kettle to boil, then made Violet’s tea the way she liked it; strong with just a little milk. Without thinking he removed the tin of biscuits and placed some on a small plate.

        It had been two years since his last visit. After Sharon’s departure he had stormed angrily out of the house. Even though he had seen his mother and other members of the family regularly since then, he had never returned to the house.

        Everything was as he had left it. Violet had previously made a habit of changing the furniture every year or so, yet not one item that was in the sitting room where they sat with their drinks had been altered.

        Robert looked at his mother. She had aged in the last few years. Her face, which was naturally thin, had now become almost skeletal. The dark skin that had shone in her younger days had now slackened. Skinny wrists were attached to long slender fingers that encircled the teacup.

        He finished his coffee and placed the cup on the table. He suddenly realized that Violet was sixty years old. He had never thought of her age before.

         “Can you write these out for me?” she asked rising from her chair. She placed the newspaper in front of him and pointed to each horse that she had marked out.

         “l0p trebles, 20 x 5p four timers and a 10p e/w accumulator.”

        Then she added after a little thought, “Put 20p win on each of them as well.”

        She picked up the two empty cups and walked to the kitchen. “How much does that come to?” she yelled.

        Robert quickly totted up the figures. “£4.50; £4.95 with the tax,” he shouted back.

        He searched out each horse in the betting guide. Every one was an outsider. Violet hadn’t changed either. She still hoped that one day her small investment would land her an outlandish fortune. Shaking his head, Robert wrote the bet down neatly onto the accompanying slip.

        Violet had returned and was rummaging through the contents of her purse.

         “Blast! I’ve only got £3 in change. Can you?    “

        Before she could end the sentence, Robert had stood up and taken his wallet from his back pocket. He removed a £5 note and offered it to her. She made no protest as she took it.

         “I’ll give it you back the next time you come round.”

        Robert nodded. He knew she meant it. She would accept charity from no one, - especially him.

        Violet slipped on the beige Mac and gathered the contents of her bag.

         “Aren’t you working yet?” she asked

         “Not at the moment.”

         “Still gambling? When are you going to grow up? Look at you. You aren’t a child any more you know. If only you’d used that blasted brain of yours. Stop acting like a kid. Get a job. Look at your sister; you know she’s just finished her exams? She’s an accountant too now. She’s earning good money in London. Think about that!” Her lecture over she picked up the bag. ‘‘I’ve got to go now.

        Robert stood up. “I’ll walk you to the end of the street.”

 

 

 

Robert said goodbye and went on his way. Violet looked sadly at him. If Vernon were alive now, what would he think?

        They had given him the best they could afford. Unlike his brothers and sisters, Robert had been sent to the posh school. He had a good brain, but just refused to use it.

        She thought back to her own youth. He didn’t know how tough she’d had it. When she and Vernon had been back home, they’d worked damn hard to clothe and feed them. All that they had done had been wasted on Robert.

        Memories of years ago, when Vernon was alive and young came rushing to her mind.

 

 

 

Vernon opened the airmail letter. He knew who it was from. Every month he eagerly looked forward to hearing from Sonny. Each letter provided him with a clearer image of England.

        Sonny had been gone for over a year now. He had left his wife and young son behind. Every month he had sent some money for them. At first it hadn’t been a lot, but lately he had been sending a small fortune. He had written to say he would soon have enough to pay for their fare to join him

        As Vernon read the letter, he marvelled at the opportunities England offered. His eyes opened in amazement at his friend’s descriptions of unimaginable wealth. He finished reading, folded the letter and put it away carefully in his pocket. His mind was made up. He would have another chat with Violet later; this time he would not relent until she agreed with his wishes. It was time they too tried to make it in England.

        The bus ride home was a familiar one. For seven years now, he had made the same journey, twice a day, six days a week. The only time something out of the ordinary happened was after a disaster or on the run up to an election, when opposing groups fought savagely to install a politician who promised to change their lives once in power.

        Vernon commanded a certain degree of respect as a skilled technician. He knew though that there was nothing to keep him with the firm. Parrish Engineering was a family business that employed about fifty people making industrial components. The work was mundane, and offered him little challenge. Any hopes of promotion rested on the death or retirement of his boss, and Vernon knew that old Delbert would not let either happen to him for some time.

        The wages were enough to keep his family in food and clothing, but there was very little to set aside at the end of the week. If he could raise the capital he might have tried to go it alone, but Jamaica was always under economic pressure. Those who had the finances made sure their investments were safe, and put them into overseas ventures. You couldn’t blame them. All it took was another hurricane or disaster to wipe away a year’s hard work in the space of a few hours.

        Through the window Vernon could see the all too common sights of rural Jamaica. Kids were playing noisily, throwing stones at run down shacks with corrugated roofs that passed for houses. Nearly all were clad in oversized rags, hand-me-downs from older relatives.

        Vernon’s powerful frame tightened. He removed his thick spectacles and wiped the sweat from his dark skin. I’ve got to escape he thought. This was no life for his children. He had high ambitions for them.

 

 

 

As the plane slowed to a halt, Vernon looked out the window. Through the light mist he caught his first glimpse of Heathrow. His heart pounded as the adrenalin surged through his body.

        He could sense the apprehension in his wife. They had left their three young children behind under the care of her mother. From now on they were on their own. Success or failure awaited them in this new land, and they both realized it would not be easy. In their own minds they knew how much they depended on, and needed each other.

        Vernon squeezed Violet’s hand gently in reassurance as he looked into her big brown eyes. For a moment he was lost in her captivating looks. The scarf she had wrapped tightly over her head to fend of f the inevitable cold English weather hid her fluffy black hair. Her coffee coloured skin, thin nose and soft pencilled lips were a legacy of her Indian forebears. It was only when Violet became angry or tired and her bottom lip dropped that she took on a more profound Negro appearance.

        As they left the aeroplane, Vernon hesitated at the top of the steps. This was England. He breathed in deeply, wanting to take in all of this new country, his new home.

 

 

 

Vernon dropped tiredly into the armchair, his face set in an angry pout. The promises of jobs, houses and a friendly welcome had all been lies. The jobs that they were asked to accept were menial ones; bus drivers, cleaners, road sweepers or refuse collectors; all the tasks that their own people refused to carry out. The thousands of West Indians were only wanted as cheap labour; a new breed of slave.

        He’d tried to get employment equal to his qualifications. Appointments were made when he gave his qualifications and experience. Unaware of his colour, they had been enthusiastic to meet him. In some places they were quite pleasant, offering him sincere apologies. Others were blatant and as soon as they saw him told him - no blacks; or simply declared the position had been filled.

        After numerous attempts, Vernon reluctantly decided to take a job on the buses. They had to live, and for that they needed money - not just pride.

        Violet had fared no better. She too had taken a job. As one of three black cleaning staff in the hospital, she found they were given all the dirty and unpleasant tasks. Yet she carried them out dutifully. She had to save enough money, either to return home, or to have her family reunited here in England.

        Vernon lit a cigarette and took in the strong flavour of the tobacco. He looked around the small bed-sit that had become their home over the last few months. The room was expensive. A white person would have probably got it for half the price they were paying. But it was useless complaining. They had been fortunate to get it at all. The Jewish landlord was one of the few people in Oxford that offered blacks accommodation. He wasn’t in it to gain their friendship, only to make a tidy sum out of their predicament.

        Violet had done the best she could to give it a homely touch, purchasing items of furniture as she could afford them. She was such a proud woman. She had cleaned everything meticulously, and made it quite comfortable.

        Vernon stubbed out the cigarette. The thought of Violet scrubbing floors on her knees upset him.  He had brought her around the other side of the world, away from her children, for her to be treated like a dog. They had left a world of poverty in search of wealth, but this country seemed to thrive on stripping people of their dignity. They were better off back home he thought. His dream was turning into a nightmare. He held his face in his massive hands and silently wept.

 

 

 

Vernon  quickly contacted Sonny. The images he had conjured up when he’d read each line of his friend’s letters had quickly been dispelled. In those letters Sonny had described so many good things. Vernon had expected to find him working, living in a nice house and with lots of money.

        Now it was plain to see that it had all been lies. Sonny lived in a squalid room and worked as a dustman. Every penny he earned that didn’t go on food or rent had been sent home to his wife.

        When Vernon had first seen Sonny, it had taken him a while to recognize the thin, sad man. Even when he had looked closely in his face it was hard to imagine that this was the same boisterous, energetic man he had known for years. His powerful body was quickly wasting away.

        It was his eyes though that told Vernon everything. His eyes begged for understanding. At first Vernon couldn’t comprehend what had happened, but after a while he realized it was an all too common look among many West Indians. They sought no pity. They despaired at the conditions they found themselves in, the dislike they faced from the whites; yet they had to go on. They had no alternative; life back home was no better. They were beaten, but would not accept defeat.

        Vernon strengthened his friendship with Sonny, the old fraternity helping to fight the way forward. Whenever possible, Sonny would eat with Violet and himself. Not only did it cheer them up to have a friendly face, but it was also cheaper. On the nights that Violet had to work, they would go drinking together.

        Tonight was to be a special night. Vernon was out to celebrate what he knew would be the turning point of his life.

        After his unsuccessful attempts to obtain employment in his chosen profession, he had taken a job as a bus driver. At first he had suffered slights and insults from his white colleagues. Gradually though they had relented and started speaking to him. They explained that they had no personal animosity, but were just trying to protect their jobs.

        Vernon took umbrage to this, yet remained tight-lipped. Why were West Indians a threat? If the jobs could not be filled, then how could they be accused of stealing jobs? Nevertheless, he never voiced his opinions. It was useless trying to point this out to these ignorant white bigots. He never told them of how many white people held key positions in his own country, or that the whites in the West Indies controlled almost all the wealth.

        Surprisingly, a few men (and even one woman) had been openly friendly towards him. He accepted their friendship, but declined the several invitations to join them socially. He knew that until the attitude of the majority changed, any such events would be disastrous and embarrassing to all concerned. It was better to keep to his own kind until it was safe.

        Vernon hadn’t given up trying to get a job in the engineering field. Despite the disappointment he felt every time he was turned down after each interview, he had continued filling out application forms and attending more interviews.

        Today though, he had finally hit pay dirt! Austin Morris had accepted him in an engineering post. The letter had confirmed his appointment at a starting salary double what he was earning on the buses.

        Vernon had cried when he’d read the letter. Violet, too excited to say anything, had slipped out to the shops, and before she had left for work, had cooked him a large meal of ackee, salt fish and rice. It was his favourite; it was an expensive way of thanking him for all his efforts. Soon they would have enough money to send for the children. They would be a family again.

 

 

 

As Vernon neared the pub, he saw Sonny amongst the group of young blacks gathered outside. The Red Admiral was a seedy pub. Whites had abandoned it long ago. When West Indians had arrived in Oxford, they had found themselves unwelcome in pubs frequented by whites. The landlord of The Red Admiral had taken their money readily. He had welcomed the sudden uplift they had given his ailing business. Pretty quickly word had spreadthrough the black community and The Red Admiral had become ‘a black man’s pub.’ It was a haven where they could meet and vent their frustrations without scornful, peeping eyes. At The Red Admiral, they could enjoy a welcome break from the pressure they faced in this cold land.

         “What you want fe drink?” Vernon asked as they neared the bar.

         “Get me a Guinness man,” Sonny replied, rubbing the warmth back into his hands.

         “We out fe celebrate man. You no want a rum?”

         “Hmmm. If you spen’ all you money tonight ‘pon rum, you gwan need you new job. Violet will kill you!” Sonny teased.

         “Bwoy if we can’t be happy tonight, we might as well pack up and go back home,” Vernon laughed and gave theorder to George the barman.

        They took their drinks and joined the noisy group playing dominoes.

         “Wha’ happen Vernon?” a voice called out.

        Vernon nodded to Garfield the tall Barbadian and noted the men who were betting their money on a card game.

         “How much you a play for?” he asked.

         “There’s £15 in the kitty,” Garfield replied confidently.

        Vernon continued watching as the pot increased. When the winner finally hauled in the money, over £35 had been won. At least someone else had reason to celebrate.

        Suddenly, chanting began outside. The pub fell into an uneasy silence. Tension filled the air as people broke of f their conversations in mid sentence.

        When the first bottle hurtled through the window, Albert the landlord ran from the bar to the telephone in the back room.

         “S**t,” he cursed as he heard several more windows break. Frantically, he dialled the number he had now committed to memory. “Police!” he barked as the connection was made.

        Quickly, the men inside vacated their seats and made their way to the door. At the card table, the short Trinidadian hurriedly stuffed the notes he had won into his pockets.

        Outside, a group of about fifty young whites had gathered opposite The Red Admiral.

         “N*****s out! N*****s out!” they shouted, their voices filled with hate.

        In an instant the mob charged across the road rushing into the blacks as they emerged from the pub.

        Vernon had just reached the door when the surge occurred. A blond haired white youth was almost on him. Vernon aimed quickly and let loose with a powerful right. The man stopped in his tracks. Vernon followed up with a vicious barrage, blow after blow raining in on his opponent. He heard the crack as the man’s nose broke and blood gushed out. Finally the man dropped, his face a bloody, pulpy mess.

        Vernon had no time to relax. He saw three whites kicking a brother who had gone down in the melee. He sped forward and pushed one off. A punch landed on the side of his face, but the blow had little effect on his squat muscular frame. Ignoring the punch, he spun and kicked at his attacker. He found his target and saw the man buckle. He followed up quickly with several solid jabs before the man fell.

        Five more whites sprang forward. Vernon looked around him and was relieved to find that several other blacks had joined him. He prepared himself for the onslaught. Something glittered in one of their hands as he made a move towards them.

        Instantly he froze. He knew automatically it was a knife.

        Vernon was unaware of Sonny alongside until his friend leapt forward to confront the pack. Before Sonny realized his error, the knife had neatly pierced his abdomen. He looked into the hateful eyes of his attacker who was smiling smugly. Sonny tried to take another step when the pain hit him. He screamed as the bright red blood pumped from his belly, robbing him of precious oxygen. His feet gave way, and he collapsed to the floor.

        The loud wailing of sirens and flashing blue lights signalled the arrival of the police. Mayhem broke out as the groups scattered to evade capture, unconcerned but for their own freedom.

        Vernon watched helplessly. Sonny’s body seemed paralysed. He approached his wounded pal.

         “They cut me Vernon,” he cried in disbelief as the tears ran down his face.

         “Don’t worry man. You gonna be alright,” he reassured.

         “It hurts like raas,” Sonny whispered, “It hurts bad,” It seemed to take a great deal of effort to finish the sentence. Vernon motioned for Sonny to remain silent. The pained look on his face worsened. Vernon looked around, but there was no ambulance to be seen.

         “Quick get an ambulance! “he shouted anxiously.

        A crowd gathered round. Vernon held his friend in his arms, his clothes now covered in dark red blood.

         “What we ever did to them Vern?” he asked softly.

        A policeman forced his way through the small crowd and bent down. When he saw the state of the black man, he knewhe would not recover; nevertheless he called for an ambulance.

        It didn’t take long before the ambulance arrived. Hurriedly Sonny was rushed aboard.

         “They’ll look after him. No need for you to go along,” the policeman said trying to stop Vernon from entering the vehicle.

         “I’m going with him. He ain’t got nobody else. . I ain’t letting him go alone!” Vernon argued and pushed past the copper.

        On the way to the hospital Sonny died.

        Nobody had been arrested for his murder. It had been Vernon’s task to inform Sonny’s young wife and to arrange for the return of his body. From that day on, Vernon decided he would never trust a white man.

Reviews

[A LaDy NaMeD D]

Wow i'm glad to see some look into Robert's backround, and the hardships his parents had to go through to make sure their kids lived a life they didn't.