Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

The corporation buried them today. Christmas Eve. Some had private services, but most went at the same time. They were all there, the dignitaries. The Lord Mayor, representatives of the Civil Defence Services, clergy from all denominations. I stood in the snow. It had snowed for nearly two weeks now. I thought of her standing looking up at the skies as Jerry dropped his bombs. The best cinema show in the world. I imagined that’s how it must have looked to her. Standing out there in the cold night air, with all that noise, and the red glow of the fires lighting up her neighbourhood. I could picture the child-like pleasure on her face. And then the service was over and we began to leave the cemetery. I remember thinking that it didn’t feel like Christmas. And that it was so cold that I would have to ask the fuel controller for extra coal.

I read in the Star that the King and Queen visited the town yesterday. They stayed three hours and visited bombed-out houses and talked to folk. All I could think about was the smell of the chemical lavatories and cesspools in people’s back gardens. I hope the corporation did something about them. There’s nothing anybody can do about the snow. It’s not stopped for weeks.

Len, of course, had refused to come to the funeral. She never did like me, he said. But that wasn’t the point. As far as I was concerned, it was a matter of respect. Who said that she had to like you? She tolerated you. That was a lot for her. Believe me. But Len still wouldn’t come to the funeral. When I got back from the funeral he laughed at me. He lowered his newspaper. She died because you left her down there on her own and went off with me, he said. I walked out of the room. I decided that on the first Sunday of every month I would take the bus into town. I would play daughter. This morning was Sunday. Despite the cold I had no choice. There’s one bus in the morning and one that comes back at night. They’ve cut to a skeleton schedule, having decided to commandeer the buses to serve as emergency ambulances. This being the case, I knew right off that I would have to spend the whole day there. It didn’t take long at the graveside. It was very much a matter of Hello, Mother, how are you? Hope you’ve found Dad again. And if you’ve found him I hope you’re happy. Happier than I am, at any rate. I can’t rightly see how you couldn’t be. You’d have to be a miserable bugger to be unhappier than I am. Now that she was with her maker I had the feeling that she was listening to me. Which is more than she ever did when she had some breath in her body. I left, then decided that I should buy her some flowers. I bought them at the hospital next door. Handy that, having a hospital right next door. I suppose some might look upon it as being a bit creepy, but I didn’t think so. After I’d bought the flowers I walked back into the cemetery and laid them on the grave. I stood back. I wondered if it was possible to place them in such a way that people would understand that they were meant for my mother and not for the other two people who shared this communal grave with her. An infant. Didn’t last a day. Its mother had no money. Probably no bloke either. And an old man. Truly old. Lived sadly past his time until there was nobody left. Probably wore out his memories like a gramophone record that’s been played too often. I tried to place the flowers so that Mother would know. But did it really matter? After all, nobody had brought flowers for the other two. Let them all share them, I thought. And then I went for a walk in the park. I sat by the lake and stared unashamedly into space for the rest of the afternoon. People used to come and feed the ducks. But nobody’s got bread to spare any more. The ducks have to eat whatever it is they used to eat before people were generous. Then the weather turned bad again. It began to snow. The branches of the trees were already bowed under a thick crust of ice. So I went to the pictures to get out of the cold. I found it difficult to find a cinema without a House Full sign. Other people must have had the same idea before me. Lonely people. Single people have no shame about going to the cinema. Why should they? It’s dark. Nobody can see them. Nobody cares. But these days, I hate the films. Short government instructional films on how to win the war. They treat you like a fool. What to do. How to do it. How to save. What to save. And then a feature about how classless England is now that we’re all pulling together to win the war. Classless my arse. A toffee-nosed bugger’s still a toffee-nosed bugger to me. And then the lights came on and we all filed out. Outside it was getting a bit dark. I waited at the bus stop. There were a few people I recognized in the queue. They nodded, then wrapped up warm and kept themselves to themselves. Like me, they’re likely to have been visiting family or friends. Except in their case I imagined their lot were still alive. The bus takes about an hour or so to reach the village. Longer these days. As we laboured up the hill, the tyres spat gravel and ice behind them. We’re its last but one stop. We clambered off and tried to avoid giving each other a final nod. And we succeeded quite well. Very well, in fact.

Everyone at the factory’s going off for the summer. Most of them are going to Scarborough, but some are travelling across the way to Blackpool. They’ve all got a real beano in mind. But me, well, I’ll not be going anywhere. I know that she won’t let me. She’ll just tell me it’s a waste of money and that will be the end of it. There won’t be any discussion, that will be it. Like when she made me leave school four years ago. I told her that Dad would have wanted me to get my school certificate, and maybe even one day go to college. She just stared at me and said, How do you know? She spoke to me as if he were nothing to do with me. I didn’t say anything else. As a child, I soon learned that it was best to say as little as possible to her. But whenever I picked up a book to read she would finger her Bible and look askance at me. She once hit me because she said I read too much. Apparently, there was no need to read so much. It was wilful disobedience on my part. She didn’t seem to understand that this was my way of hiding from her. Everything was seen as some kind of betrayal of her. I was always a disappointment. So I had to leave school and go to work. After all, I couldn’t expect her to support me any longer. How did I imagine she’d managed up until now? And so I left school. I’ve learned, over the last four years, to ignore her. To try not to hear her bleating, self-important voice. And I’ve continued to lock myself up in books. And now everyone’s talking about going off for the summer. But they haven’t asked me to go with them. They haven’t even asked me if I’m going somewhere else. They’re not interested. I expect they imagine they’ll get the same frightened answer that they got when they once asked me to a dance. I’m sorry, I stuttered. I expect they think I’m coy because I’m not much to look at. She doesn’t go anywhere because she’s ugly. Well, it’s true, but it’s not the whole story. It’s not even the half of it. I’m just happier with books. They don’t shout at me, or accuse me of anything. They don’t even know that I’m not much to look at.

I’ve got an extra job tearing tickets at the Lyceum Theatre (‘Yorkshire shows for Yorkshire folk’). Something to keep me out of her house for a bit longer each day. Once people are in, I get to see the show. But it’s not much of a show. In fact, it’s the pantomime, Mother Goose, but at least I’m getting to know a new world, and meeting people from a different background. That’s how I met Herbert. He’s an actor. He talks to me about Shakespeare. He seemed surprised that I’d read some of Shakespeare’s plays, and some poets like Wordsworth and Coleridge and so on. Herbert has begun explaining to me about the difference between comedy and tragedy. We talk a lot about these things. He laughed when I told him I hated my name because there were no Shakespearean characters called Joyce. We usually have a drink before the show. He’s trying to get me to like gin. I’m always trying to get the glass back on to its wet spot on the bar. And then, last night, Christmas Eve, I agreed to go out with him and the rest of the cast after the play had finished. There’s always places that will stay open for actors. Everybody seems to love actors. We all toasted Christmas as the clock struck twelve. Then later, having walked me home, Herbert kissed me goodnight outside the house and said how much he loved me. All I could think of to say was, I’m eighteen. He just smiled and kissed me again.