A Distant Shore

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.

“There’s a spare room next to Mike’s. It’s not very big, but you can take it.”

The room was small, but very comfortable. However, I could not sleep without suffering bad dreams in which my own mother and father appeared before me with stern faces, warning me of unfortunate events that were sure to blight my life should I choose to remain among these people. I begged my parents to share with me their knowledge of these ill tidings, but whenever they appeared to be about to bless me with an answer, I would wake from my slumber shaking with consternation. I would look around the strange room and once more have to make the attempt to understand where I was, and remember by what means I had arrived there, and only after I calmed down was I able to re-embrace sleep. But sadly, I would once again find myself tossing and turning, for it appeared that my dreams were permanently cursed with the accusatory faces of my parents, who were clearly racked with anxiety over the plight of their “lost” Gabriel. When the woman came into the room and took my arm, I quickly sprang to my defence. However, I was immediately sorry for I could see that I had alarmed her. She held a cup in her hand, which she set down on the bedside table.

“I’ve brought you this cup of strong coffee.” She paused and turned to look at me. “And it’ll soon be time for your dinner. Dad’ll be home any minute, and Mike’s already awake.” She pointed to a towel that was neatly folded and draped over the armchair near the door. “I’ve put a towel over there for you, and the bathroom’s out the door to the right. Take your time, no rush.”

I watched her leave the room. Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear music, and then it was replaced by the sound of bells, and then I heard a man’s voice reading the news. It was all very confusing. I reached over and enjoyed a mouthful of the strong coffee.

The house in which I live is at the far end of the street, and it is smaller than the other houses. In fact, Mr. Anderson said that it was originally a storage hut, but once they decided that it was necessary for somebody to live on the estate, they quickly adapted the house so that it blended in with the others. Mr. Anderson moved my belongings in yesterday, but there were few items to transport. They hardly occupied the rear seat of his car, and they were mainly clothes and books that I had managed to acquire. However, now that I am parking my own car, or what used to be Mike’s car, outside the house, I feel as though I am truly arriving here for the first time. Strange, because I have been working in this village for many months, helping with the carpentry and installing plumbing. I am familiar with this village, and this area, but now it is to be my home. I am to be the night-watchman, and my job will be to watch over these people.

Inside the bungalow there is little furniture. I do not need much, but what I need Mr. and Mrs. Anderson have given to me. They purchased new pieces for their home in Scotland, and so the bed, the table and four chairs, and the armchair are gifts from my guardian angels. The developers have made sure that I have a fridge and a cooker. I do not have a television set, but I can survive without this luxury. I have a radio and that is enough for me. I sit in the armchair and I think about Mike’s funeral, and wonder how it is that a man who was so friendly can reach the end of his life with so few colleagues to mourn his passing. But this question would not have troubled Mike, for he never concerned himself with what other people thought of him. Or at least, that is what Mike always told me. (“You can’t be controlling what others think.”) I stand and look out of my window at the cloudy skies. It is still bright, and it is therefore too early for me to take my torch and patrol the area. To begin my job. There will be plenty of time for this at a later hour. Now that it has stopped raining I decide to go for a walk in my new village.

At the bottom of the hill I cross over the road. I see the pub, but I have no desire to once again enter into one of these places, so I follow the pathway beside the water. It was Mr. Anderson who encouraged me to take daily exercise, confessing to me that it was the secret to his own good health at his advanced stage of life. He advised me that “Every day you must take some time by yourself and walk,” and so I have tried to follow his guidance. These walks by myself have helped to change my mood for the better. When I first arrived at Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s, I could not sleep, but I now sleep through almost every night like a peaceful child. I discover this water to be a most harmonious place, and it gives me pleasure to notice how the trees bend over the path so that the ground is striped with thin fingers of sunlight. But I know this vision cannot last for much longer, for although it is the English summer, the wind is already combing through the trees and cruelly stripping them of their leaves. In England the weather is difficult, and every day I watch the sun struggling to reach the roof of the sky. It is very sad, but at least today there is a little sunlight. It is my great ambition to once again feel the comfort of the sun on my skin.

Up ahead I see a group of four boys walking towards me. For a moment I consider turning about-face, but I do not wish to turn my back on them for I know they do not desire to use me well. It is better that I can see them. After all, I recognise them. They are strangely almost hairless, with egg-shaped heads and blue tattoos on their bare arms. They all wear polished boots, which suggests a uniform of some kind, but the rest of their clothes are ill-matched. Sometimes they have visited the estate, and other workmen have been forced to chase them away. I have noticed how they look upon my person, and I know that they have anger towards me. They are blocking my way and laughing. In order to pass by I will have to walk within inches of the water, but this is dangerous and I do not trust them. I stop and politely ask them to “excuse me,” but they continue to stare at me.

“What’s the matter?”

I do not answer their leader’s question, and as if to punish me they decide to offer abuse in my direction. I turn and begin to retrace my steps, for I know that should I stand my ground, or attempt to sway this spiteful rabble with entreaties, my efforts will prove useless. But they follow me, and spit at my back, and they laugh. I continue to walk at the same deliberate pace, knowing that if one among them should attempt to bruise me, then the situation will become very unpleasant. They do not know who I am. I am the son of an elder, a man who decided disputes and punished crimes. I am a man who travelled a very considerable distance south and then returned to the bosom of my doomed family, always moving at night, and eating berries and drinking water from streams. I am a man who has survived, and I would rather die like a free man than suffer my blood to be drawn like a slave’s.

When we reach the pub they turn into the garden and release me. I continue to walk back to the road, and then up the hill to my bungalow. It is becoming dark, and it will soon be time for me to take my torch and go out among these people and attempt to protect them. At the top of the hill I pass the girl who, while I worked on the construction site, always seemed to be staring in my direction. She lives with her mother at the other end of the street to my bungalow. Whenever I see this girl, I have noticed how she looks at me. I am sensitive to the weight of her gaze. The girl reminds me of Denise, and like Denise she too lacks the modesty that I would expect in somebody of her tender years. I walk past the girl and resist the urge to turn and see if she is watching me. I keep walking in the hope that she will soon disappear from my life. I have been fooled already and I do not wish to be fooled again. Once I am inside my house, I stand in the living room and study the street. There is a lamp-post outside my window which bestows light in such a way that it is possible for me to see out, but if I stand back and in shadow I do not think that it is possible for anybody to see in. There are also plastic window blinds, which give me further protection. This pleases me, for although I welcome the opportunity to look out at them, I do not wish these people to be able to look in at me.

Mum embraced the challenge of making my status in England a legal one. Each morning Mr. Anderson departed for work, and he left Mum to wrestle with the difficult problem of my situation. Mum informed me that Mr. Anderson was the manager of a company that builds houses and small factory units, so he would often have to leave at five o’clock in the morning in order that he might assess progress and decide what tasks were to be accomplished on that particular day. Should he find himself working close by, then there was a possibility that he would consider returning for his breakfast and to read the newspaper, and then he would return again to his work. However, Mike did not live his life in this manner. Once Mike had departed for his work I might not see him again for many days, for he often drove his lorry great distances. Mike told me that he had once been married, and that he was the father of a teenage son to whom he sometimes wrote short but loving letters. He attempted to see his son once or twice a year, depending upon where his driving jobs might take him, but he described himself as “cured of marriage.” He liked to laugh when he said this. “Been there, done it,” and then he would once again burst out laughing. He had long ago discovered that to ask any personal questions of his new African friend meant that he was likely to be greeted with silence. The situation with Mum was very different, for she seemed to regard it as her duty to question me, but I learned to be tolerant of her habit and I hoped that she did not take offence at my sometimes evasive answers.

At first, while Mike was driving and Mr. Anderson was at work, I would help Mum around the house. I enjoyed accompanying her to the shops, and I quickly grew to understand the buses and the money. Soon I was watching the television programmes, and to my eyes England was becoming less of a mystery. It no longer surprised me when I heard women using foul and abusive language in the streets, and Mum took the time to explain why she always put butter on her fingers before taking off her rings. However, it did continue to confuse me why so many of the English newspapers displayed little more than pictures of women in their underwear. However, I felt that this was not a subject I could share with Mum, so I attempted to banish this confusion from my mind. My only real regret was the lack of anybody from my own country with whom I might talk. My language was drying up in my mouth, and sometimes, when nobody was around, I would place my language on my tongue and speak some words so that I could be sure that I was still in possession of it. Every week Mum gave me an allowance, and she would always ask me if I needed paper and envelope and stamps to write to my family, but I would look at her and thank her, but say, “No.” I would never say anything more to her than this.

Mum must have secretly said something to Mr. Anderson, for very early one morning I heard a knock on my door. I glanced at the window and could see that it was still dark. I assumed that the knocking must be the work of Mike, and that he must have fallen into some kind of trouble, so I whispered, “Yes.” However, when the door opened it was Mr. Anderson, and he was holding a cup of coffee in one hand. He set down the coffee on the bedside table and ordered me to prepare myself, for I would be coming to work with him this very morning. I was surprised because Mum had told me that while the officials processed my application it might be difficult for me to work properly. However, I did not question Mr. Anderson, and I soon dressed myself and moments later I was sitting beside my benefactor in his van. He said very little as we made our way through the cold dark streets, but once we reached his work he introduced me to a Greek man who he said would show me how everything was done. By the end of the day I had learned something about brick-laying and carpentry. By the end of the week I had also gained experience with plumbing and electricity, and although my hands suffered very much during this initial engagement, I felt as though I might one day have enough knowledge that I might build a house by myself. At the end of the week Mum gave me an allowance, but it was a little greater than was common and I understood that these were my “wages.” I also understood that Mr. Anderson was trying to provide me with a trade, although the rudeness of the other men caused me to occasionally suffer from periods of great misery.

After some months of working on the building site, Mr. Anderson began to teach me to drive. Whenever Mike was available he would relieve Mr. Anderson and assume this responsibility of providing me with driving skills, thus enabling my mentor to sit by the hearth occasionally and enjoy his evening pipe in peace. Mike was always disappointed when, after his “lesson,” it did not excite my curiosity to go with him inside the pub. I did not tell him that my first experience of such a place had left me without any desire to repeat the experience, for I did not wish to cause offence. He said that I would like “his” pub because it contained bright mirrors and brass work, and it was a happy place, but I tried to explain. First, I told Mike that I did not drink, but he said that I was free to choose a Coca-Cola. I then told Mike that I was fearful of being among a forest of tongues, but he chose not to believe me. Soon Mike ceased his many invitations for me to accompany him to the pub, and after our lesson he would deposit me at Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s residence and then venture out by himself. None of us would see Mike for the rest of the night, but I would often hear him staggering about before he finally collapsed in a heap on his bed, or sometimes on the floor. Should I encounter Mike the following day he would always laugh and apologise for any noise that he might have made while “bladdered.” Mike was a lonely man who, I believed, must miss his family. I imagined that his drinking was the reason that he was not together with them, but I never questioned him on this most private of subjects. However, it did, on many occasions, occur to me that I never saw Mike drink when he had to drive his lorry. I soon came to understand that the lorry might well be saving his life, for I knew that this drinking could not be beneficial to his health.

The morning after the people painted the words on the wall of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s house, I sat at the breakfast table with Mum, who kept glancing anxiously out of the window. Mr. Anderson had a hard brush and a plastic bucket of water, and he was scrubbing ferociously with a look on his face that I found frightening. Mum seemed nervous and she would not stop talking.

“I’ll let this pot of tea mash, but meanwhile another round of toast?”

“No, thank you. I am full already.”

Mum could never disguise her disappointment when I politely refused her food. Mike was away driving, and this only made things worse, for it provided her with the opportunity to once again remind me that Mike would always eat everything that she put in front of him. In twenty years of accommodating people, I knew that we were her only two long-term lodgers. Everybody else came and went: businessmen relocating and who were in need of temporary accommodation while looking for a home for their families; executives at conferences; working-men between contracts; or specialists who were required to operate a piece of machinery, or advise on a contract, before returning to the South. Mr. Anderson was able to assist Mum with her business by occasionally providing lodgers with whom he had professional dealings, but Mum told me that her reputation, and being on the council list, ensured that she was never idle. Mum also told me that Mike and I were like the sons that she had never had, but I never encouraged her to develop this thought beyond this one comment.

When Mr. Anderson re-entered his home, he put the bucket and brush down in the corner of the kitchen by the door, dropped an empty dog-food can in the rubbish bin, and then he walked quietly to the sink to wash his hands.

“They had the paint in the dog-food can.”

“Cup of tea, love?” Mum got up from the table and went to the cupboard to get another cup.

“That’d be grand.” Mr. Anderson looked over at me as he dried his hands on the dishcloth. “You doing all right, Solomon?”

I nodded.

“Good.” He came and sat at the table, and Mum placed the cup of tea in front of her husband. “Good.”

Mum now went to the fridge and took out the bacon. Every time she opened the fridge door my heart would leap. I had still not accustomed myself to the fact that inside the door there was milk, fruit, bread and eggs. Everything was free and Mum kept insisting that I should take whatever I wanted. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson appeared to enjoy life in the manner of rich people, but I had learned enough to understand that in England they were ordinary people, and many families were blessed with the good fortune to live as they did.

After Mr. Anderson finished his breakfast we went together to his van to begin the journey to the building site. There was frost on the inside of the glass and I wiped it with the sleeve of my jacket. On this particular morning, without announcing his intention, Mr. Anderson took a different route, and he turned off the road and parked his van in the car park of a country pub. I looked around, but I had little understanding of where we were located, and then I looked across at Mr. Anderson, who was staring away from me and out of the window, as though preparing himself for something that would be difficult. I noticed the cold winter sun finally break through the clouds, and then I saw a reflection of myself in the glass of the car. In this country, I thought, my skin is turning to ash and inside my head is cold like ice. Mum said summer would soon come, but for me it could not come quickly enough. And then Mr. Anderson turned to look at me, and he caught me gazing at my own reflection in the glass.

“Solomon, the first line of defence is prejudice. Once you get past that, there’ll always be a little corner where you can live and be who or what you want to be. But you’ve got to get past that first line, and things are not getting any easier. There’s an awful lot of you, and the system’s already creaking to breaking point. I mean, things are particularly bad if you want to get into one of our hospitals. People are upset.” He looked closely at me now, as though trying to read my thoughts. “You do understand what I’m trying to say to you, don’t you, Solomon?”

I nodded, although I was unsure of what exactly Mr. Anderson was trying to say.

“You see, Solomon, it’s just that this isn’t a very big island and we don’t have that much room. People think that other countries should take you first because we’ve done our bit.” He paused and looked away. “I’m sorry, Solomon, but some folk think these things. That you just want an easy living, or that you have too many children. They think that you don’t really want to work. It’s in their heads and it makes them mad.”

“Who put it there?”

Mr. Anderson turned to look at me, and I could see that he was surprised that I had asked this question. And then his face softened.

“I don’t know, Solomon. I really don’t know.”

We sat together in the car park for many more minutes, but neither of us said anything further, nor did we make eye contact. Mr. Anderson was clearly unsettled by what had happened to his house and he did not know what to do. I now understood that explaining these things to me was a way of explaining them to himself, but the puzzled look on Mr. Anderson’s face suggested that he remained troubled by many questions.

Two days later, Mike returned from a long trip. I sat in my room and I could hear him talking with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. Their voices were low, and I assumed that they were whispering to prevent me from hearing whatever words they were exchanging. In my heart I felt that they were speaking of me, but I could not be sure. And then Mike knocked on my door, and I encouraged him to enter and he sat on the edge of my bed.

“How’s it going, Solomon?”

I smiled, but I said nothing. For a moment all I could hear was the creaking of the bed, and I worried that perhaps Mike had lost his nerve. But then he coughed.

“Look, Mum told me what happened, but you’ve got to understand that some people bring things on themselves, you know. I mean, these days particularly the Indian types.” Mike stopped and sighed, and then he looked at me. “I’m an old traditionalist, Solomon. I want fish and chips, not curry and chips. I’m not prejudiced, but we’ll soon be living in a foreign country unless somebody puts an end to all this immigration. These Indians, they still make their women trail after them, and they have their mosques and temples, and their butcher shops where they kill animals in the basement and do whatever they do with the blood. I mean, they’re peasants. They come from the countryside and most of them have never seen a flush toilet or a light switch. It’s too much for them. And for us. There ought to be some training or they should go back. It’s these kinds of people that cause others to have bad attitudes and to do things like they’ve done to Mum’s wall. I’m not saying they’re right, because they’re not. But I drive around a lot, and I see how people feel, more than what the old folks does. It’s everywhere.” Mike stopped talking and he stared at me, but with a worried look on his face. “You see, you’re in a different situation, Solomon. You’re escaping oppression and that’s different. We’ve got procedures for that. I mean, you’re working. You’re no scrounger. But they don’t know that, and so that’s what happens.” Mike paused. “You do know what I’m saying, don’t you, Solomon?” I looked at Mike and nodded. I knew what he was saying. I understood him.

When my papers finally came through, and the letter arrived informing me that I could legally stay in Britain, Mum insisted that they take me out to a local fish restaurant to celebrate. Mike was away and so it was just the three of us, but I could sense that Mr. Anderson was not altogether comfortable. He looked blankly at the menu and then he eventually told Mum to order for him. Mum could not have been happier and, although she tried not to show it, she was proud of me and regarded my “legal” status as her own personal triumph. I had never before seen her take any alcohol, but with this meal she drank a glass of red wine. Mr. Anderson waited until he had finished his food before he turned to me and asked what I thought I might do now that I had, as he put it, “choice.” I did not know. Nearly one whole year had passed since Mike had brought me to their home, and in that time I had acquired many building skills. I was blessed to be in England, but this life bore no relationship to the one I had known in my own country, and as a consequence I felt as though my new family knew only one small part of me. In truth, only one half of me was alive and functioning. I had tried to talk to the few West Indian people I saw standing on the streets outside Sonja’s Caribbean Takeaway with their dreadlocks and their cans of beer, but they were not friendly and they would often look the other way or shout at me and behave like drunken people. And I had long ago learned that there was little point in attempting conversation with the Indians or Pakistanis, for they were worse than some of the English people. I sat in the fish restaurant and looked at Mr. and Mrs. Anderson and told them that I did not know what I would do now that I had “choice.” Become less lonely? That was all I hoped for. But then it suddenly occurred to me what Mr. Anderson might be suggesting, and I felt stupid. Now that I was legal, they wanted me to leave their home and find somewhere else to live. Their task was complete. Perhaps they had discovered another person to live with them? I could not be sure, but I felt as though Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were letting me go, and so I decided that as soon as I could find a respectful moment I would share with my benefactors the news that it was time for Solomon to move on and that sadly I would now have to leave their blessed home.

I have been here for a month and the villagers are becoming familiar with me. Each evening they see me with my torch, and some among them even speak to me. They rarely say more than “Evening,” but this is enough. It is a beginning. And then this morning I received a letter. I do not usually receive letters. I am looking at it now, on the table in front of me. It is a letter from somebody who is not my friend, but they have signed their name as though I ought to know who they are. The words are ugly and I am unsure what I have done to offend this person, but after the unfortunate incident at Mr. Anderson’s house, and after listening to Mike, I know that this type of person exists. Some of these people worked for Mr. Anderson on the building site, and the boys I met down by the water, they suffer from this mental condition. Unfortunately, the letter loudly proclaims that such people reside in my immediate vicinity. I hold the letter and then turn it over in my hands. I am not afraid of this communication, but it is difficult for me to know what to do. To discard the offending article would probably be the wise decision, but I wish to keep it although I am not sure why. Perhaps to show that I am not afraid. This seems to me to be a fine reason, and so I replace the letter on the table and decide that I will look at it every day. I am not afraid.

As I drive past the bus stop, I see her. I often see her standing by herself at the bus stop. She lives in the house next to me, but she is a private woman. She is very beautiful for her years. A decent woman, who I feel could help the younger women of this country learn how to groom themselves properly. She carries her head high as though she is proud of who she is, and I admire her dignity. Sometimes I secretly watch her from my living room as she sits and stares out of her window. She appears lonely. Mike saved me from the rain like a Good Samaritan, and although it is not truly raining, for only a helpless drizzle wets my windscreen, I feel that it is my duty to stop at the bus stop and rescue this woman. I continue to drive away from the bus stop, but resolve that the next time that I see this woman, I will stop for her. Sadly, I have to confess I have made this promise in the past and I have failed to find the courage to honour it. But I now know that whatever the price I will rescue this woman.

I spend one hour in the town, choosing my shopping for the week. I am happy, for the weather is now becoming very pleasant. In this country, summer comes in the night. A man can go to bed in winter, and when he wakes up nature is once again singing and his skin is warm. I think of this miracle and I am happy. However, for most of my hour in town I am thinking of a plan that will enable me to meet this woman. The truth is, I need to meet more village people. The letter said that these people do not want me in their village, but they do not know me. Perhaps it is my responsibility to get to know them? If I am to make my new life in this village, then it is possible that I have to do more than just sit alone inside my bungalow, or go for the occasional drive in my car. But, after the unpleasantness by the water, I do not like to walk abroad during the day. At night I am obliged to go out, for it is my job, but when I travel at night with a torch it is a different matter, for I imagine that I command respect. I am official.

When I return to the village, I park my car outside the small medical centre at the bottom of the hill. Mr. Anderson informed me that such places are always in need of drivers. He said this to me when he gave me the news that Mike’s car would soon be mine. “It could be a godsend for getting to know people.” Only now do I fully understand his words. The waiting room is empty, but I can see the young nurse sitting behind her desk, for the door to her office is wide open. She looks up and puts down her pen.

“Can I help you, love?”

I do not know if I should enter, or if I should wait and talk to her from where I am standing. I decide to take a few steps forward and risk entering into her office. She points to a seat, and I am relieved that I appear not to have caused her any offence.

“Sit down, if you like. It’s the end of the day and I doubt if I’ll be seeing anybody else.”

I look at this dark-haired woman and realise that she probably imagines me to be a patient.

“I have come to volunteer my services. As a driver.”

“Oh, good. We can always use drivers. I take it you’ve got your own vehicle, have you?”

I point outside, although it occurs to me that from where the young woman is sitting she cannot see my car. “Yes, I have my own car.”

“I see. Good.” She is happy now and she pushes a pad and a pen across the desk. “You just write down your name and phone number. What we do is whenever a patient needs a lift into town, then we get them to give you a call to see if you’re free.”

I begin to write down my details. As I do so, she continues to talk.

“That way you’re not bothered by having to chase people up. And don’t be afraid to say ‘no’ if you’re busy. You’re a volunteer, not a taxi driver. They have to understand that you’ve got your own life to be getting on with.”

I push the pad and pen back in her direction and I stand. I hold out my hand for her to shake, but hers is a limp handshake.

I sit in the dark with my hands embracing a cup of coffee. I feel safe in my bungalow. The letter is still here, but I feel safe. First, I will complete this cup of coffee and then I will begin my patrol. I venture out with my torch in the early evening, just when the sky begins to darken. Later, when the sky is black, I will go out for a second time. Usually this is around midnight, after people have returned home from their drinking and when the village is becoming peaceful for the night. The moonlight catches the photograph of Mike that sits on my mantelpiece. If he were alive today, Mike would have an alternative to the pub, or staying in with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. He could always come here and keep me company. We could talk about Mike’s experiences growing up in Ireland, and how his father begged him not to fight against the English, and how he first came to England on the Holyhead ferry, and how he found himself trapped into marriage against his will. My friend repeated these stories many times, but I liked to hear the sound of his voice. And, of course, listening to the sound of my friend’s voice meant that I did not have to answer any questions about myself. I look at Mike’s friendly grin and I feel sadness beginning to flood my body.

The phone call in the middle of the night roused me from a deep sleep. And then I heard Mum scream, and then I listened to Mr. Anderson trying to calm Mum down, but I dared not rise from my bed. It was Mr. Anderson who knocked on the door and who came in and sat down on the solitary chair. With a heavy heart, Mr. Anderson conveyed to me the news that Mike had been involved in a road accident and that he would no longer be among us. My body felt cold, and I looked away from Mr. Anderson. Of all the people to die in a road accident, Mike seemed the least likely. Mike was an extremely fine master of roadsmanship. And for this tragedy to occur during his first European trip was too cruel. Mike had been very excited about taking his lorry to Germany and “going into Europe.” I could also see that Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were very happy, and not only for Mike. After forty years, Mr. Anderson was leaving the contracting business and they were both retiring to run a small hotel in Scotland, which was the part of the world where Mum had originated. And now that I was “legal,” Mr. Anderson had secured for me a position as a night-watchman. He had spared me the anxiety of having to invent a reason why I would be leaving their home. And then the difficult phone call in the middle of the night robbed us of our great joy, and for days afterwards my dreams became unpleasant.

I remembered walking north, to the left of the sun’s rising. It was not possible for me to remain loyal to the cleared paths, and so my secret journey took many weeks. Eventually I reached my family’s house, but soon afterwards the bloodthirsty government troops arrived. My father pushed his only son into a cupboard and begged me to remain quiet, no matter what happened. He stumbled over his words and his breath was ripe with the stench of alcohol. “Gabriel, if one man must survive, it must be you.” There was no time for me to argue, and to do so would have been disrespectful. As the government troops kicked at the door to our family house, I entered the cupboard and my sad father closed the leaves of wood in my face. I watched without fear. I watched with ice in my heart. I remembered my mother lying on a floor in my now far-off country with blood pouring from her wounds. I remembered my father and my sisters being shot like animals. My dreams contained my history. Night and day I tried not to think of these things any more. I tried not to think of these people any more. I wanted to set these people free so that they might become people in another man’s story. I wanted to stop dreaming of them at night, or thinking about them in the day, but after Mike’s death I was very disturbed and I could escape neither myself, nor my country, nor my family. For three full days and three full nights before the funeral I was a miserable man. A coward. But I could not return to my country, for there was nothing for me to return to. I possessed no family. Each time I opened my eyes I heard Mum crying. I was a coward who had trained himself to forget. I accepted from people. From Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. I was no longer “Hawk.” I was no longer my mother’s Gabriel. It was Solomon who learned of Mike’s death. It was Solomon who was lying in a warm bed in a strange room among these kind people. It was Solomon. I was Solomon.

The funeral was difficult, for not only did I bid farewell to Mike, I was also forced to sever my links with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. After Mr. Anderson presented me with the keys to Mike’s car, he handed me a piece of folded paper with their new address and telephone number in Scotland. He did not instruct me to make sure that I visited. He was simply setting me free. To visit or not visit would be my decision. This was Mr. Anderson’s way. Mum was too distraught to say anything, and even the prospect of a return to her beloved Scotland could not raise her spirits. As the sky wept, she also wept. After they left I walked back to their house feeling the weight of Mike’s car keys in my pocket. Mike was a good driver, and I later learned that the accident had not been his fault. A car had lost control and crossed the centre of the road. Mike had swerved to avoid the car and turned his lorry over. All of this happened in Kent, so Mike never did leave the country. Before the funeral, Mr. Anderson gave me a framed photograph of Mike. That same night, I placed the photograph of Mike on the mantelpiece of my new bungalow. I put Mike’s car keys next to the photograph. Mike was in general mild, affable, generous, benevolent and just; he was to me a friend. Thank you, Mike, I said. I looked around. You have given Solomon a new home. In England.

The man next to me will not speak with me. He is an elderly man and his body exudes an unfortunate odour. He does not know how to take care of himself. We drive on in silence and I concentrate upon the traffic. I ignore him. I have no desire to torment conversation out of this reluctant man. I have bought gloves, for occasionally the steering wheel is cold. It is also my hope that the gloves will make the whole business seem more professional. But the man continues to stare resentfully out of the window and he refuses to meet my eyes. I park in the hospital car park, and as he leaves my car he slams the door. He offers no thanks. He says nothing. Yesterday I visited the nurse and informed her that not one person had telephoned me. She appeared somewhat embarrassed, and then she told me that if I came this morning at ten o’clock, then a Mr. Simons would be ready for me to transport him to the hospital. She confided that this man did not possess a telephone, as though this was something that Mr. Simons ought to be ashamed of. I lingered for a moment, for I wondered if there was something further that she wished to say to me. But the truth was there was something that I wished to say to her.

“The lady next door to me. I do not know her name.” I saw the puzzled crease on the nurse’s brow, and so I described the lady’s appearance. The nurse continued to appear confused, and so I shared with her the lady’s address.

“Oh, I know who you mean.” She paused. “You know, I think she actually likes the bus.”

I could not think of anything else to say to this woman.

I look at the gleaming new hospital building. In my country if a man goes to the hospital, then he must bring his own blankets and bandages, and some money to persuade the doctor to attend to him. I understand that in England they do things in a different manner. I run my tongue across my teeth, but they do not feel clean. I miss being able to use a chewing stick, for the toothbrush and toothpaste are a strange invention and they leave an unpleasant feeling in my mouth. When I see Mr. Simons walking towards me, I steal a look at the clock on the dashboard and can see that only ten minutes have passed. Mr. Simons is holding a white paper bag, and I assume that he must have collected some medicine. I lean over and push open the door for him and he gets in. As I drive off he looks across at me.

“Going straight back, right?”

“I will take you back.”

He grunts, as though he wishes to let me know that indeed this is what he desires. None of the letters are signed “Mr. Simons,” although I can imagine that this man feels the same as my letter-writers. There are now seven letters, including the one with the razor blades. Last night somebody introduced dog mess through my letterbox. They must have employed a small shovel, for it lay curled in a neat pile. When I awoke this morning, the sight of it caused my stomach to move and I rushed to the bathroom. These people are unwell, for decent people do not conduct themselves in this way. Writing to me with their filth is one thing, but this is savage. They regard me as their enemy, this much I understand, but their behaviour is unclean. But truly, none of this is the fault of Mr. Simons.

I leave Mr. Simons at the bottom of the hill and drive slowly in the direction of my home. At the top of the hill I pass the girl, who hurries by as though she is late for the bus. I look at her in the rear-view mirror, but she chooses not to turn around. My car is dusty, and I decide that tomorrow I will bathe it. I turn the key in the door and immediately I can smell the detergent that I used to scrub the door-mat this morning. I used the whole bottle. I close the door behind me and a part of me is relieved to find neither more dog mess nor another letter. I can see her sitting in the window. She is at home. Why Mr. Simons and not this woman? I would appreciate somebody to talk with and this is a respectable woman. This is a woman to whom I might tell my story. If I do not share my story, then I have only this one year to my life. I am a one-year-old man who walks with heavy steps. I am a man burdened with hidden history. I look in the mirror and straighten my shirt collar and then I adjust my tie. I leave my bungalow and walk across the neatly trimmed grass towards her house. I knock on her door. She is a respectable woman and perhaps the nurse is wrong. Perhaps this woman does not love the bus. Perhaps her love for the bus is merely temporary. I knock again.