Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

It is night. I prefer it when it's quieter. I have endured the day. I did not talk. I have seen the doctor. I have a private room. I have seen Gerry. There is something about this hospital that reminds me of the barracks at the end. (During the day, I go outside and sit with my back up against a wall. I have discovered a place where I can find what little sun there is. Winter sun. I sit where I can see most of the camp.) Since Gerry's sudden departure, I have stayed in bed. Propped up on my new pillow. I keep thinking that something is about to happen. But nothing has happened. Nothing is going to happen. And so life goes on. And so hope is finally extinguished. (Men and women lining up to taste a thin trickle of water from a pierced pipe.) This is the first time that I have ever been in a hospital. It makes me think about Papa. I can see the silhouettes of trees outside the window. English trees. Gerry's trees. Gerry brought me a chocolate cake. A peculiar gift. But there is nobody with whom to share it. Neither Margot, nor Bella. Only the girl who followed me across the water. I hear the murmur of voices in the corridor, and then I notice a crack of light beneath the door. There is a wide-hipped gully in this mattress. I am slightly uncomfortable. I am also unhappy. Now the light in the corridor is turned off. Objects are muddled in the dark. But I can still see her. The girl who followed me across the water. Perhaps she wants the cake. Gerry's chocolate cake. It is night. I hear the sound of coughing from another room. The other girl, with the swathe of red around her mouth. She is still here. Waiting.

I sit on the train and stare out of the window. Light rain carried on sea air. We are leaving the coast. In the distance, white wisps of smoke rise from chimneys. I try to avoid those who stare at me, for their eyes pollute my confidence. There are two others in this compartment: a man who is preoccupied with his newspaper, and a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, who, when I first sat down, seemed keen to talk to me. She appears, however, to have now decided that it is best to say nothing. I am pleased. My foreign voice will only jump out and assault her. Somewhere lurking at home, by the fireplace, I imagine there is a man who provides her with some reason to live. It is raining heavily now. The drops smash against the window. I have a suitcase. We pass through green fields divided into squares that resemble pocket handkerchiefs. Tidy. Everywhere fenced off from everywhere else. Cows have rushed to shelter in one small corner. And then I see an untended graveyard. Weeds grow wildly. So this is England. And then, some time later, the train pulls into a station. A huge black cavern, full of smoke. And people. The man folds his newspaper neatly and stands. He opens the door and passes out into the corridor without so much as a word to either of us. The woman also stands and reaches up to retrieve her suitcase from the rack above her head. She speaks in a cathedral whisper. 'This is London.' One of her teeth is marked with lipstick. I, too, have a small suitcase. I stand and smile at the woman, desperate that she should say nothing further to me. I reach for my suitcase and avoid eye contact. But once more she speaks. 'Goodbye now.' I have no choice but to look at the woman. Her smile is the smile of a woman who has been sorely disappointed by a lack of conversation.

I stand in the middle of a great rush of human activity. It is difficult to know which way to turn. All around me there is a purposeful haste. Faces are set, minds focused. People swing luggage carelessly, as though clearing a path for themselves. I stand with my suitcase. Gerry's letter said come to England. He said he still wanted to marry me. He could not find Margot, but he said we could make a new life together. And so I boarded a train that furrowed its slow way across Europe towards the English Channel. And now I am in London with Gerry's address and no idea of how to get there. (He could not find Margot, but I will find her. He invited me to come at my leisure, and so come at my leisure I have.) I pick up my suitcase and begin to push my way towards the exit sign. It is evening and the sky is a dirty grey colour. The wind hits me forcefully and I bend into it. To my right, there are a line of people waiting for a taxi. I join the line and glance at the piece of paper in my hand. Gerry's address. I know that everything will be all right once I see Gerry.

The taxi driver does not say anything to me. We seem to have been driving for a long time, perhaps too long, but it is difficult for me to judge. These streets flow carelessly, one into the other. I want London to be a different place. A happier, brighter place. I am hungry. The driver stops outside a house that is joined to the houses on both sides of it. Some children play in the street. Young, dirty children dressed in tatters. I reach into my bag and pass the driver a note. 'Thanks, love.' There is no change, but I cannot argue for I do not know if he has cheated me. He looks at me with an invitation to leave his taxi. To leave his city. To leave his country. I will leave. I step down from the taxi and close the door. The children stop playing. They look at me and my suitcase. Number thirty-one. I see the door. A woman walks by, her scarf flaming in the wind. It is a small house. Gerry did not promise me a large house. He did not promise me anything on a grand scale. He did not, in fact, promise. But I have fallen and landed in a place where, despite the lack of promises, I have come to expect. I walk the three paces to the door and knock lightly. Gerry? There is no fence, no garden, nothing. This house opens right on to the street. I do not like this. It is not safe. And then the door opens. A woman with short blonde hair. A child clings to the hem of her skirt and looks up at me. She holds a wooden baking spoon in her hand. Behind her, I see two apples on a small table. I have caught her at an unfortunate moment. I have to speak This is the wrong house. 'Gerry?' I ask She takes her time. She looks down to my feet and then up again. 'He's out.' She pauses. 'What do you want?'

I believe the suitcase caused her to behave coldly towards me. It is one thing seeing a strange woman on your doorstep. It is another thing seeing a strange woman with a suitcase. Such a person has come to stay. I imagine these hospital people think I have come to stay. At their hospital. I fainted. I have no memory. And now they tell me I am unable to function. (This afternoon, you'll see the doctor. Then they'll get you a private room.) They cut up my lunch for me. (Cottage pie and vegetables. Green beans. Sauce. Bread and butter.) Into the smallest, silliest pieces. They lay my knife and fork to sleep next to each other. I prefer not to eat. Food that is carved for a child. I am twenty-one. I look out of the window at the trees. I look out of the window at the grass. I love nature. England, through this window, is green and happy. Should I explain to them that I came only because Gerry asked me to come? (But last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned words.) I still have the letter. I can show it to them. He asked me to come to England and marry him, and so I came. But he gave me hope where none existed. (This afternoon, you'll see the doctor. Then they'll get you a private room.) I wanted nothing more than to be the source of happiness for somebody. Is that too much to ask? A sudden burst of rain sends my mind spinning. I still dream.

Margot and I sat together in the park and watched the small children playing on the grass with their parents. It was late afternoon and the light was beginning to fade. Beyond the children, and behind a tall screen of trees, was the lake, whose surface was being gently combed by the wind. Gliding across it slowly, and with wilful deliberation, were two rowing boats that seemed determined to be swallowed by the encroaching gloom. I looked again at my sister, who seemed to have rushed into womanhood and left me behind. The way she spoke, the manner in which she walked, even the manner in which she sat next to me, made me feel awkward. (These days, she sat with her legs crossed, one on top of the other.) We had always shared everything — toys, books and secrets — but now she was different. She told me things that I didn't know, which made me realize that there were other things that she knew which I didn't know. She had secrets. Then one of the small children, a girl with a yellow bow as big as a bat tied to the top of her hair, fell over and began to cry. Her mother came rushing towards her, and gathered her up and into her arms, and the child immediately stopped crying. Margot smiled. How many babies do you want, Eva? She asked me this question without turning to look at me. I followed her eyes to the drama on the grass, and then looked beyond this scene and through the screen of trees to the lake. There was only one rowing boat left, and it was now limping its way towards the small wooden jetty. Two children, I said. One boy and one girl. Margot nudged me and began to laugh. You're so conventional. I want to have three children. Three boys. Or three girls. Or four, maybe. And once more, without realizing it, Margot had managed to make me feel stupid. I knew she didn't do this on purpose, but it took all my strength to stop myself crying. I wanted to tell her that I had thought about having children. That I knew that a child does not choose his name, or his parents. That when he enters the world, he finds either a place of love or a place of hate. I knew that children are either a result of longing or a mistake. That they need to be given space to live. Margot, I have thought about these things. But I said nothing. We sat together and watched as the mothers led their children away. And then, in the distance, as the final boat nudged up against the jetty, and the park became enveloped in darkness, I saw the man take the older children and walk them to a large ditch, where one by one they were thrown into the fire. I listened to their wailing above the crackling of the flames. Having dispatched the last child, he walked back to where the infants were huddled with their mothers. One by one, he picked them up by the legs and smashed them against a brick wall. The pulped corpse of the infant was then pushed back into the mother's arms to prevent unnecessary littering. I saw Margot standing with three dead babies in her arms, the blood flowing freely from their crushed heads. They were boys. Dead boys. Margot! I cried. Margot! But she did not hear me. She stood with her three dead children and refused to answer me.