Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

As I walk down the hill I realise that I’ve been foolish because instead of just sitting in the house for three hours staring into mid-air, I could have gone for a walk. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Get some exercise, or do some shopping, but I’ve already failed to make proper use of this day. There is an early autumn chill in the air, and I can tell that winter is just around the corner waiting to pounce. There won’t be many more days like this and so there’s something sinful about having wasted the better part of the morning. At the bottom of the hill I see a few of the villagers, but I ignore them. Especially now, after what they’ve done. I stop at the main road and wait for the traffic to clear. It looks to me like it might take for ever as the cars and lorries are streaming by in both directions. I feel uncomfortable standing helplessly where everybody can see me, and I think about just dashing out into the road and making them stop for me. But I know that I’m just being silly. I’ll have to wait like everybody else.

I am the first one into The Waterman’s Arms. I knew I would be, for it is only a few minutes past eleven. I shut the door behind me and walk the few paces to the bar. There is no sign of the landlord, but I can hear voices. Somebody is around. In fact, somebody has to have drawn back the curtains and unbolted the door. My guess is that the landlord was simply not expecting anybody this early so he’s gone round the back to finish off some chores. Fair enough, I think, I’ll wait. There’s a bell, but I don’t want to sound it off like I’m in a hurry, or annoyed, so I sit on a stool and stare out of the window. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring, but it seems like ages before I hear the landlord’s voice. At first he frightens me, and then I turn and see him smiling at me from behind the bar. He’s caught me by surprise, but I’ve also caught him by surprise for he’s still doing up his tie.

“Well, you’re keen, aren’t you?”

“Good morning.” I hope this will put him in his place. After all, if he’s going to wear a collar and tie, he can at least make the effort to conduct himself as though he’s familiar with the type of behaviour that generally goes with civilised dress. He seems a bit taken aback that I’ve chastised him, but I can see that he’s also keen to pretend that he hasn’t been scolded. No doubt this better suits his ego.

“And it’s a blooming nice morning at that. What’ll you have? Your usual?”

“I’ll have a half-pint of Guinness, please.”

He’s already pulling the half-pint from the pump, but he stops for a moment and looks puzzled. Then he continues. However, it is his own fault for being too familiar. He ought to know his place. He hands me the small glass of Guinness, and I hand him a five-pound note and then smile sweetly when he produces my change.

“There you are, love.”

I’m sure he assumes that I’m going to sit with him at the bar, but I take the money and the drink and I walk to a small table by a window where I turn side-on to him so that when I look up there can be no accidental eye contact. For a few minutes I can hear him tidying up around the bar, but the truth is there isn’t really any tidying up to be done. He’s only just opened up and everything is in order. He’s just embarrassed that I’ve walked away from him, but he can’t pick a fight with a middle-aged lady. I let him stew for a while and then I hear his voice, which is somewhat less assertive than usual.

“I’ll just be out back finishing off a few things.”

I turn and look at him, as though shocked to discover that he is still present. And then I smile, as I might smile at a pupil, just to let him know that he is dismissed now.

I don’t really want the beer. As soon as he goes through to the back I push it away from me. I want to do what I have to do, and then go before anybody else comes in. I stand up and walk over to the small notice board. Aside from a small postcard-size piece of paper asking for volunteers for the village rugby team, there is nothing else pinned up. I take the envelope from my handbag, slip the letter out, open it up, and then I take a drawing pin from the bottom left-hand corner of the rugby notice and pin the abusive letter into place. I’ve “mailed” it back to them. I don’t need it in my house, for it doesn’t belong there. They can have it back.

Once I reach the top of the hill I walk straight past my house and towards Solomon’s bungalow. It is actually getting warm now and so I slip off my jacket. When I get to the bungalow I stop and stare at it. I think about what secrets I might find inside, were I to sneak in and rummage around. The one time that I visited Solomon, I saw nothing which gave me a clue about his past or his present. Besides, that is, the photograph of the Englishman on the mantelpiece. I don’t even know what Solomon liked. Except, of course, his precious car, which still stands in the driveway. I put down my bag, then scrunch my jacket up into a ball. The least I can do for him is to polish it. It’s getting dusty and Solomon would never have let it deteriorate into such a state. And so I start to polish his car, but I try to copy the way that he used to do it. All careful, with small circular movements like you’re gently stirring a bowl of soup.

I suppose it’s when I see them standing in the street and just staring at me that I know something is wrong. I have to ask myself, is it that fascinating watching me trying to keep Solomon’s car clean? Don’t they wash their own cars? Of course they do, and I don’t come and stand and look at them, so I don’t see the point of this communal gawping. Not everybody has come out, but there’s enough of them to make me feel awkward and so I stop. The car is almost spotless anyhow, so it isn’t like I haven’t done a good job or anything. It’s just that I don’t want to be putting on a show, and that’s how I feel. But I also don’t want to stay in Stoneleigh with them any more. I resolve to use the day sensibly and go into town and talk with my parents. I uncrumple my jacket and fold it up and push it into my bag. It is far too dirty to wear, but I don’t want to go back into my house and feel trapped there, so I secrete it in my bag where nobody can see it. I just have to hope that the weather doesn’t change, otherwise I know I’ll get cold.

When I get to the cemetery the boy is nowhere to be seen. I’m surprised because he always seems to be there with his seemingly unstoppable enthusiasm. But today of all days he isn’t around. I spread the jacket out on the grass by Mum and Dad’s grave and then I sit down and begin to talk to them. I tell them everything about Solomon that I can think of. I know Dad has some opinions about coloureds, and that he won’t be totally sympathetic to a lot of what I’m saying about Solomon, but I still want to tell them. Dad doesn’t say much. After a while Mum starts to cry and she asks me what it was about Solomon that made me want to be seen with him. I think for a while, and I then tell her that there was nothing in particular, it was just that Solomon was a proper gentleman. In fact, one of the first gentlemen that I’d ever met, with his smart driving gloves. He really showed Brian up for the slob that he is, but I don’t have a chance to say anything for Mum hasn’t finished. She goes on, but she’s so upset that she can hardly get the words out. Didn’t I understand what people would say about me if I were to be seen with a coloured, and particularly one as dark as this Solomon? She’d not brought me up to be that type of girl. Why, she wants to know, why would I want to do this to them both? There’s no point in looking to Dad for any help, for I’m not going to get any from him. I try again and tell them that Solomon treated me with respect, but they don’t want to hear this for their minds are already made up. Eventually neither of them will speak to me, and so I begin to plead. I just wanted to be happy, I say, and I could tell that Solomon was a man who could have made me happy. Mum continues to weep, but Dad has his one ugly word, and I could have predicted it before he even opened his mouth. Slag. He doesn’t even want to look at me any more, that’s how bad it is. As it starts to get dark, I reckon that I’d better leave them alone. This isn’t going anywhere and I’m starting to get cold. I stand up, pull on my filthy jacket and look around one final time to see if I can spot the boy, but there’s no sign of him.