Instead of walking out of the school she strays in the direction of the staffroom. She stands outside the door, but decides against entering. After all, it is mid-period and it is unlikely that there will be anybody in there. So she walks from one classroom to the next, peering in through the windows and then quickly moving on before anybody can see her. And then she comes to his classroom and she sees him standing at the head of the class with his back to the door. Some of the pupils see her staring in at them. Slowly he turns to face her. He manages to maintain his composure. He throws her a little raised eyebrow of acknowledgement, but this is all. She does not move and now all the pupils are looking at her. He is uncomfortable. Has he found somebody else’s shoulder to cry on? Or has his wife left her squash player and decided to come and live in this town too? What, she wonders, has happened to his life? She feels sorry for him. Helpless man. As he finally gives up the dance of concentration and begins to move towards the door, she turns and walks away from his classroom. She hears the door open behind her, but nobody calls her name and she does not hear the sound of feet pounding down the corridor behind her. She walks out of the school in silence, with Geoff Waverley’s eyes on her back.
She sits in her bungalow at the top of the hill in this village that is five miles outside her home town. She counts the weeks. Eight. Two months have passed. It is a new beginning, in a place in which nobody knows her. She saw a drawing of Stoneleigh in the local paper and she bought her bungalow over the phone. Somehow, the phrase “a new development” sounded comforting. Selling her house was surprisingly easy, largely because she was determined to accept the first offer that was made. In the end it was a decent offer and the buyer, a young Asian doctor, was ready to move in immediately. When she eventually took the bus out to Stoneleigh she was not disappointed. The bungalow was neat, with all mod cons, and it was exactly what she had imagined. They have just finished off the houses in the other cul-de-sac, but the area remains something of a muddy field. Still, she is happy. She looks out of her window and sees the man next door who’s washing his car. He keeps it neatly outside his house as though it’s a prized possession. Aside from this man, there is nobody else in sight on this bleak afternoon. Just this lonely man who washes his car with a concentration that suggests that a difficult life is informing the circular motion of his right hand. His every movement would appear to be an attempt to erase a past that he no longer wishes to be reminded of. She looks at him and she understands.
IV
Mr. and Mrs. Anderson stand with me in the rain. The three of us together, and the priest. Sheltering under the trees there are two men who will eventually cover the coffin with dirt. Their two shovels stand straight, exposed to the rain, with their heads buried deep in the soil. I remain brave, and my eyes are dry. This is what my friend would have wished. The priest closes his Bible, and Mum takes a handkerchief from her bag and she blows her nose. A memorable chapter has reached a conclusion. Mr. Anderson hands me the keys to Mike’s car, but he does not say anything. Mum reaches up and touches my face with her fingertips. I was much caressed by this family, and my attachment and gratitude to them are very great. She is a small thin woman, but this gesture feels strong. Mum holds me in her spell. And then she places the palms of her cold hands against my cheeks and pulls my head down towards her. She kisses me at the point where my wet hair meets my wet skin. And then she releases me.
“Come along, Muriel.” Mr. Anderson is eager to escape the rain and he extends his protective arm around Mum’s shoulders. He replaces his shapeless cap on his head and he looks closely at me. I can see that Mr. Anderson is engaged in a struggle to control his many emotions. He is a very alert and active man, but at this time he is weak.
“Take care, lad. You mind yourself.”
The priest and I watch Mr. and Mrs. Anderson walk across the muddy grass towards the concrete path. Once they reach the path Mr. Anderson takes his arm from around Mum’s shoulder and he guides her arm through his own. He pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his blue raincoat and they walk carefully towards Mr. Anderson’s van. The priest clasps my shoulder, zips his Bible into a plastic pouch, and then he moves quickly in the direction of the church. Understanding the priest’s departure to be a signal, the two men beneath the trees throw down their cigarette stubs, pick up their shovels and wearily approach the graveside. They wipe the rain from their eyes. I take a step back, but I am not yet ready to leave Mike. In the distance I witness the illumination of the headlights. An indicator light begins to blink, and then Mr. Anderson’s van passes out of sight. Soon Mr. and Mrs. Anderson will be in Scotland and they will be able to participate in what Mum keeps calling “the rest of their lives.” I feel joy for my benefactors, and I hope that peace, prosperity and happiness will attend them for the remainder of their days.
This morning I officially started my job on the estate and, as is the case with most of the good fortune that has been visited upon me, I have Mr. and Mrs. Anderson to thank for the blessing of this appointment. But now they have departed and I am on my own, standing by Mike’s grave with his car keys in my hand. It is appropriate that rain is falling from the skies, and that I do not possess an umbrella. The disappointing conditions remind me of when I first encountered Mike, standing in the rain, wondering if anybody was going to pay me the compliment of rescuing this stranger. I told my saviour that my name was Solomon and that I was not from the Caribbean, and he nodded and began to enjoy some laughter. Mike did not appear to be like the other English people that I had encountered, but I did not say anything to him about this fortuitous fact. I simply allowed Mike to talk and I listened. Whenever he asked me a question I was always polite and careful about the manner in which I responded. I told him that I was from Africa. That I had come to England by myself. That I had been residing here in England for some weeks. I told him that I did not possess a trade or a job, and Mike listened to me. I did not tell him that I was a soldier. That I had killed many men in battle. I did not tell him that I used to be known as Hawk. Mike shared with me the news that Ireland was his mother country, and that when he first arrived in England he too was not in possession of a trade, but now he drives lorries a very great distance. But only in England. What Mike desired was to experience the extremely long driving jobs that might take him all over Europe, and he lived in the hope that he might one day realise his dream. I looked out of the window and allowed Mike to concentrate on his driving skills. The rain was pouring down out of the black English sky. So he too came from another country? This was difficult for me to understand. At home it was relatively simple to distinguish a man of a different tribe or region, but among these people I was lost. Mike resumed his conversation, and I continued to listen, but my lack of knowledge of the ways of the English caused me to be fearful. I worried about my book, for when I last examined it some pages were disfigured with black mould. I understood that the book was probably once again wet and I imagined that the mould may well have returned, but this time with more vigour. I closed my eyes and trapped my fear inside myself. This was an inappropriate time for me to inspect my belongings.
After many minutes of darkness, Mike began to slow down his lorry. I opened my eyes and watched him turn off the wet road and into an area that was brightly lit in the manner of a small city. I stared at the lights, and at the great number of cars and lorries that were parked in this city. Mike turned off the engine of his vehicle and then he looked at me.
“Fancy a quick bite?” Mike did not wait for me to reply. Immediately he opened the door and fled into the rain, leaving me little choice but to do the same. I ran after him and towards a building where we found shelter. I told Mike that I did not possess money for food or drink, but he slapped me on the back and announced that he would take care of everything and that I should go and sit among the English people. For a moment I did not go anywhere. I stared at him, for I remained frightened. What was this man going to do to me? What did he want? Mike looked puzzled, and then he pointed.
“It’s all right, Solomon. You can go and sit. I’ll get the stuff.”
I sat at a filthy plastic table and watched as Mike picked up a tray and joined a long line of exhausted men. Those seated at neighbouring tables stared at me with great fascination, and even though I looked away I could feel the weight of their eyes. I prepared myself. Should there be trouble then I would fight, and I wondered if perhaps Mike would join me. He was a large man, although somewhat overweight, but he would make a strong ally.
The food made my stomach turn and I was convinced that I was going to embarrass myself. Mike appeared to have an infinite capacity for food, and in order that I should not make him feel uncomfortable I made a great effort. I took another bite of the hamburger, but this food was not suited to my stomach.
“Do you eat meat? I should have asked you.” Mike now seemed worried that he might bear some responsibility for my discomfort, but I assured him that I accepted meat and I took yet another bite of the hamburger. I looked out of the window and could see that a great deal of traffic continued to flow in and out of this small city, and I listened to Mike drinking his mug of tea. He was enjoying loud mouthfuls and then blowing on the tea to cool it down. My head was hurting, and I knew that I could neither finish the hamburger nor take the tea. Perhaps Mike sensed this too, for he was now quiet. I decided to excuse myself and visit the toilet. This would give Mike the chance to leave me, if this was what he wished to do.
In the toilet I was sick, but once I had emptied my stomach I felt much improved. At the sink I discovered that the water supply was both hot and cold, and it appeared to me that there was no end to this supply of both hot and cold water. I washed out my mouth and then I looked at myself in the mirror. A tired man’s face stared back at me. This was not the face of a thirty-year-old man. England had changed me, but was this not the very reason that I had come to England? I desired change. When I returned to the plastic table, I discovered that Mike had taken my tea.
“I hope you don’t mind, but it didn’t look like you wanted it.”
I did not mind at all, and I also understood that Mike had taken the tea to spare me the indignity of having to waste the drink. He appeared to be worried, but I reassured him that I was happy for him to satisfy himself.
We restarted our journey and to my shame I was immediately conquered by sleep. When I opened my eyes the rains had ceased and the first rays of dawn were visible to the east of the busy road. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand and looked quickly all about myself.
“Have a good sleep?” Mike started to laugh now. “Looks like you’ve been through the wars. You were out like a light.”
I apologised to him for my rudeness, but this only caused him once again to laugh. And then he asked me if I knew where I wished to be set down, but I had not yet thought of a place.
“Do you have anywhere to stay? Anybody that you’re supposed to meet?”
I felt momentarily ashamed, so I simply shook my head.
“Well, we’ll soon be near my lodgings. I can probably get you a bed for a day or so, then after that you can think about getting yourself sorted.”
I thanked him, and then I tried to imagine what he must be thinking of me. I was a grown man without a roof to cover my head, and I was travelling aimlessly and without a clear destination in my mind. This was shameful, for I was not a man who was used to being dependent upon other people. This pitiful situation made me feel quite miserable.
Mike stopped his lorry outside the final house on a quiet street that was lined with tall trees. The day was just beginning and I observed neatly dressed English children making their way to school. I was worried, for there was no reason why Mike’s comrades should accept this stranger into their lives. Mike knew nothing about me, and it appeared to me incorrect that he should be working so hard for this African. I followed him out of the lorry and down the short path of broken stones towards the large house. He did not reach into his pocket for a key, or knock on the door, he simply opened it. And then he shouted out, “Hello!” and he bent down to unlace his boots. I too began to unlace my useless shoes, but I was ashamed at their odorous condition. The necessary habit of decency was a part of my father’s teachings, and before England I was accustomed to many purifications and washings. To enter another man’s house in my unwashed state was to present myself as a poor ambassador for my people.
“Anybody at home?” Mike bellowed his question and it hurt my ears.
I walked with him down the carpeted corridor and into a kitchen where an elderly man was seated at a wooden table reading a newspaper. Before him there was a half-finished bowl of cereal. Standing by the sink, both hands fully submerged in soapy water, there was a small woman.
“I’ve brought a friend. He seems a bit down on his luck and I thought we might help him. Mum, Dad, this is Solomon.”
They both looked at me, and the woman smiled. The man pointed with his head towards a seat at the table.
“Well, sit down. We’ll get you some breakfast, then find you somewhere to put your stuff.” The man returned to reading his newspaper. It was a very large newspaper, and I noticed that he seemed to be experiencing some difficulty folding the paper into a proper shape. Curiously enough, this problem was occupying him more than the strangeness of a foreign person having crossed his threshold.
I sat down and looked around, and then almost immediately the woman placed a bowl of cereal before me and encouraged me to eat. My stomach received the cereal with joy, and as I ate Mike also took more food. And then the man put down his newspaper and climbed to his feet and announced that he must leave for work. Soon after this man’s sudden departure, Mike yawned and announced that he was in need of slumber. He squeezed my shoulder, then disappeared, leaving just the woman and myself in the kitchen. As the woman continued to wash dishes, she posed many questions about me, and where I was from, and what I desired to do with myself now that I was in England. Although my natural instinct was to trust nobody, there was something about this small elderly woman that made me feel safe. And so I told her about the pain of leaving my country, and the uncomfortable journey to England, and the difficulties of travelling on the boat. I told her that my greatest problem with England was that sometimes the weather was very cool, but now that I was in England I possessed a great desire to learn. To be educated. I told her that at home things are very, very bad. That the war has left people afraid, and they have nothing, and nobody wishes to remain there, but in England there is peace. In my country there is no peace, and the many griefs of the people do not appear to be wearing away. I told her nothing of Felix, or Amma, or my Uncle Joshua, or Bright; I told her nothing of how my heart bled at these partings; I told her nothing of the temptation of the poor girl, who was one of the most abandoned of her species, and who presented the opportunity to debase myself and simply gratify a passion of nature; I told her nothing of Said, or prison, where I was never condemned to make recompense, for I was innocent of any crime; I told her nothing of Katherine, who had helped me to overcome some of the fear that arose from my ignorance of the ways of English people. I told her nothing of Hawk. I told her nothing of Gabriel. I told her my name was Solomon and that I needed to acquire papers so that I could work and remain in England. I told her that I had no other country. The woman wiped her hands on a towel, and then she prepared a pot of tea. She sat down next to me, and for some moments she lost herself in contemplation. When she returned to my company she poured two cups of tea.
“You’ll have to be processed, Solomon, and it will have to be done properly. Dad and I have never done this, but we know people who can help. In the meantime you can stay here. I think you’re eligible for vouchers.”
I told her that I had no money, but she laughed and told me that the vouchers were a form of money. She informed me that there was a method whereby a person might exchange them for food or other supplies. Incredibly enough, this did not mark the conclusion of her glad tidings. She told me that a local council would pay for my board and lodgings, and that it was possible that her husband might assist me, should I decide to search for some manner of unofficial work. I looked at the woman and attempted to fathom her motives. Would she and her husband receive some special reward? If so, then I would not begrudge them their bounty, for my sole desire was to be safe in England. If these were bad people, then I would undoubtedly discover my fate at some later stage, but at this moment I was too overcome with fatigue to think any further, and the woman could see this. She stood up.