Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

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Wednesday 19th May … This morning witnessed the final delivery of 3 canoes of firewood. Have little now to wait here for. Paid with the last of the cloth according to promise. Returned across the bar with the yawl, and prayed a while in the factory chapel. Stood beneath the white-washed walls of the factory, waiting for the yawl to return and carry me back over the bar. Approached by a quiet fellow. Bought 2 strong man-boys, and a proud girl. I believe my trade for this voyage has reached its conclusion.

Thursday 20th May At 2 a.m. weighed with a light breeze at West. Made but little headway because of the great swell. Sounded several times. At dawn buried a man slave (No. 62) who had died of a pleurisy. At noon discovered myself indisposed of a small fever, and my eyes grown very weak. Mr Allen assures me that I am (by God’s blessing) sure to recover. The purchase of a relatively modest 210 slaves may yet ensure my continued mortality. In the evening, by the favour of Providence, discovered a conspiracy among the men slaves to rise upon us. Near 30 of them had broke their irons. Secured the men’s irons again and punished the ringleaders. Should they have made their attempts upon the coast, when we had a half-dozen out of the ship, I cannot imagine the consequences. They appeared gloomy and sullen, their heads full of mischief. Before midnight buried 3 more women slaves (Nos 71, 104, 109). Know not what they died of, for they have not been properly alive since they first came on board…

Friday 21st May … During the night a hard wind came on so quick, with heavy rain. Occasioned a lofty sea, of which I was much afraid, for I do not remember ever meeting anything equal to it since using the sea. At dawn brought the ill-humoured slaves upon deck, but the air is so sharp they cannot endure, neither to wash nor to dance. They huddle together, and sing their melancholy lamentations. We have lost sight of Africa…

They arrived today. First I heard the distant rambling of their tracks, and then the roaring of engines as they laboured up the hill. I stepped out of the shop and stared. The trucks were lined up by the gate. A few had already squeezed through and chipped the gate-posts as they did so. Those that waited kept their engines running, wasting petrol. Then men began to tumble from the trucks. They stretched and looked around. Then, one by one, they began to saunter down the drive. They looked sad, like little lost boys. Some of the villagers couldn’t contain themselves. They began to whisper to each other, and they pointed. I suppose we were all shocked, for we had nothing to prepare us for this. Soon all the trucks were empty and the last of the men were vanishing down the drive, nervously smoking their cigarettes, holding them between finger and thumb. I wanted to warn them, but in no time at all they were gone. It was too late. We prepared to drift back to our daily occupations. Mid-afternoon. Summer. The weather was glorious, and everybody’s garden was a riot of bluebells and daisies. Once the men had vanished, eyes turned upon me. I was now the object of curiosity. The uninvited outsider. There was nobody with whom I might whisper. I stared back at their accusing eyes and then stepped back into the shop.

Every fortnight he came down to town to buy for his shop. I was the clerk in the warehouse office, charged with keeping the books right and putting a smile on my face when anyone came in. And then he came in, but this time with words that had hitherto been stuck at the back of his throat. He dealt them carefully. I’ve been coming in here for some time now. Yes, I know. You’re not wed are you? I shook my head. I was wondering if you’d care to come out for a drink with me? If I’d care to? He wasn’t much to look at. But he didn’t look like he would hurt. Me, at least. And so I said yes, and found myself in the snug of the Brown Fox with him and his words. Craftily dealt, asking me all about myself, interested only — at this stage — in steering me towards subjects which he no doubt imagined would make him appear to be a fascinating chap. It made him a listener and me a talker, but it did not make for fascination. At some point I told him. I live with my mother, I said. In 1926 she fled to the bosom of Christ. She’d lost her husband, then she lost her job in the General Strike. Luckily, God took her up. What I mean is, God took her up to do good works for Him. On this earth. She hasn’t done much since, except God’s work. He nodded and threw me a smile. This man who in all likelihood had seldom seen the inside of a church. Perhaps this was what I liked about him. The fact that I could see his ignorance. Read him like a book. Another drink? Why not? If he’s buying. I thought of my mother. She’ll be pretending she’s missing me now. I know her. She’ll be looking at the clock and shaking her head. Wanting to know what I think I’m playing at stopping out past eight o’clock. Mother, I’m twenty-one years old. She’d perfected a look of such contempt. I got it that night, and for weeks afterwards, whenever I came back from the pub. But she never asked any questions. It was as if she didn’t want to ask in case that meant that she cared. That much I understood about her. That she did care, but she didn’t want me to know this. She was angry with me. Always angry. He started coming down twice a week. One night, in the Brown Fox, I said yes. But I let him know that I’d rather do it in an office than in a church. I told him that I thought we were both wrong for a church. All that ceremony. What do you think? He agreed, and so I finished my half-pint and made ready to leave. I noticed that these days he didn’t spend much time asking me about myself. It was always him now. He told me there were not many lasses up in his village. And being thirty now he’d have to hurry up. He laughed too loudly. As he waited with me by the bus stop, we tried the first experiment of a kiss. I should have known then.

When she realized that I was serious about getting wed to Len she stopped talking to me. I stood before her, but she wouldn’t look up. She toyed with her embroidery, passing the antimacassar between her clammy hands, pulling it first one way and then the next. I told her that she would stretch it out of shape, but she wasn’t listening to me. She sat impassively, and digested the information that I would soon be gone. She was trying to comprehend the fact that somebody actually wanted me. That in spite of my history I might actually be interesting, if not exactly exciting, to somebody. She’d told me many times that she didn’t trust men. They’ll just abandon you in the most callous fashion. And hadn’t she been right? They’re here, and then they’re gone. Jesus. Now there was somebody you could trust. When the Lord said come unto me, He didn’t mean until the pubs were open, or until He found some other woman. The Lord accepted you with open arms and embraced you. She beckoned me to sit. This house, I thought. I wanted to scream. At least I can get out of this two-up, two-down dump. She put aside her embroidery. Are you sure about this man? Of course I wasn’t sure. I’d only known him seven weeks. She looked at me, as though trying to warn me about something. But then, having lost a husband in the Great War, she probably had the right to warn me. I assured her, if there’s a war, he’ll not be going away. He’s got a black lung from being down the pit. If there’s a war he’s going nowhere. She stared at me. I looked across at my father’s picture, which sat on top of the wooden mantelpiece. I had no memory of him, being just a baby when he died. She had never explained anything to me about this man in a silly felt hat, standing beneath a chestnut tree and staring directly into the lens of the camera. A confident, happy man. A man I feel sure would never have tolerated a woman such as my mother. But perhaps she was different then. Occasionally I’ve found my dad on a bronze plaque, near the Town Hall, but his name is scattered among the names of hundreds of others. This is merely a place to find him, but not to discover him. When she dies, I’ll take it. The photograph might help me to discover him. This is what I think. And then I hear her voice. If you must leave, then do so. I assume that this is her blessing. But she goes on. At least you’re not getting wed to a soldier. You should never do that. You’ll be left on your own. Then again she’s quiet. Just when I’m thinking, that wasn’t too bad, she nettles me. Men are at their best in pursuit. I thought I should tell you. But I expect you’ve found that out already.