Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

“Are you sure you don’t want to press charges?”

“Come on, what’s the bloody point?”

She pours the hot water, and then she reaches for an herbal tea bag. And then she remembers. She hands Sheila her hot water, but she places the tea bag on the side. Sheila can make up her own mind. She leaves her sister to contemplate, and she goes upstairs to pack her bag.

She sits in Mr. Jowett’s office, but is somewhat surprised to find that only he is present. Miss Arthurton shuts the door gingerly, careful to make no noise whatsoever. She leaves them alone. And now Mr. Jowett speaks. He places both hands on the desk in front of him, and she wonders if he is aware of the fact that he is striking an awkward, even vaguely ridiculous, pose.

“First of all, I want to thank you for coming all the way back here from London. As it turns out we don’t really have a procedure that is adequate to cover the full nature of Mr. Waverley’s complaints. I did take the matter up with the local education authority, but I’m afraid we now find ourselves at a bit of an impasse.” She stares at him.

“An impasse? I don’t follow you, Mr. Jowett.”

“No, of course not.” He clasps his hands and then brings them both up to his chin. “Well, there is a bit of a problem. You see it looks as though we’ll be offering Mr. Waverley a full-time position among us. His family situation seems to have resolved itself, and we are in dire need of a geography teacher.” He pauses to allow her to speak, but she says nothing. “I think it might be best if you were to leave, don’t you? Mr. Waverley is prepared to let bygones be bygones, and I think I can offer you a decent early retirement package. There will be no question of censure, of course. You’re simply doing what so many of your colleagues are doing these days and taking advantage of this new window on life. I believe they call it the third age.” She looks at Mr. Jowett, who she is sure never dared imagine that he would ever ascend to such professional heights. To be a history master was probably the full extent of his ambitions, but good fortune has enabled him to exercise an unimagined authority. She stands.

“Thank you, Mr. Jowett.” He looks somewhat panicked.

“Well, will you be taking up our offer?”

“I shall let you know.” She turns and begins to walk out before Mr. Jowett can uncouple himself from his desk. There is no point closing his door behind her. The mousy-haired Miss Arthurton, who looks up from her desk, will see to that. But only after she has brought Mr. Jowett a nice cup of tea.

She looks through the window of the bus at the people in the streets below. Her town feels small after London. She had thought this as she rode home in the taxi from the bus station. She literally dropped her bags in the hallway, nudged the mail to one side with the outside of her shoe, and then dashed back out and into the taxi whose meter continued to tick. She had asked the driver to wait so that she would not be late for her appointment with what she imagined would be a panel of stern-faced interrogators. She smiles at her folly and gazes down at the mid-afternoon trickle of shoppers. And then she sees the newly daubed signs on the sloping slate roofs, signs that are meant to be read from the upper deck. In tall white letters somebody has painted GOD IS GOOD, and on the neighbouring roof, CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SINS. If her mother had had her way, such sentiments would have meant something to her but, with some regret in her heart, she has to acknowledge that her father’s opinions in these matters enjoy total dominion. This being the case, she looks at the defaced roofs and finds it surprising that the council doesn’t have rules and regulations against this type of graffiti.

When the bus reaches her stop she gets to her feet and moves quickly down the stairs to the lower deck, and then she steps down and onto the pavement. It is as though she has no control over her decision. She walks straight to the shop and as she opens the door she hears the familiar tinkle of the doorbell. He is alone. Mahmood seems neither shocked nor angry. In fact, he seems curiously shy.

“I just thought I’d come by and say hello. But I’ll go if you want me to. It’s just that I may be away for some time and, well, it just seems silly.” Mahmood puts down the pile of magazines that he is holding.

“You seem very tired. Have you been sleeping?”

“I’m going away, Mahmood. My sister is not very well, and I’ve got to help her.” Mahmood seems puzzled.

“But I did not think the two of you got along.”

“Well, we didn’t. But things change, and there you have it. And how have you been?” He now looks somewhat dejected.

“Oh, so and so.” As he says this he shakes his head from side to side so that it wobbles as though it might, at any minute, fall off.

“Listen, I’m sorry about the awkwardness with Feroza. I won’t come back again, but I just wanted to let you know. About my sister, that is.”

“You can come back in whenever you like. I can control my wife. I am the man of this house. But since the child she is crazy. I cannot allow my wife to smoke and drink. The English they have spoiled her so that she is like them, and happy to sit around and play with the child and expect the wage cheque or the dole cheque.” She looks at Mahmood, and cannot remember having seen him so agitated. But she has often thought that the child in him was put down far too early. “I have been thinking that I should take my chance and drive a mini-cab rather than suffer all this newsagent business by myself. In fact, this England is crazy. I go in the streets and after all these years in this country they tell me, ‘Your mother fucks dogs.’ Why does my mother fuck dogs? They do not know my mother. In my home there is problems. Out on the street there is problems.” Mahmood stops and looks at her. “I am sorry, but today is not a good day. It is a very bad day.”

“I am sorry, Mahmood.” She takes a step towards him. “Things will pick up.”

“You, of all people, must not be sorry. You understand Mahmood.” She looks at her friend and finds herself wishing that she had not come into his shop. Not on this bad day.

“I should go now, Mahmood.” She wants to pamper him, innocently. She wants to feel the warmth of his skin. However, she knows that this would be unwise. She smiles weakly, and then she quickly turns and leaves Mahmood’s shop.

At home she puts the letters, all of them, into a metal pail. She walks to the back door and pulls it open. The door sticks. It has always stuck, but without a man to help she has had to learn to tolerate the door. For a moment she wonders if she should rummage through the letters in case there is one from Geoff Waverley. A permanent job? Does the man have any idea of what he is doing? She thinks not. She strikes the match against the large household box, and then she drops the lighted stick into the pail. She watches as the flames begin to dance now. The smoke will attract some attention, but most of her neighbours will be at work. It will burn quickly. There is no need to unpack, of course. There is no need to even telephone Sheila. In the morning she will place flowers on the graves of her parents, and then take the bus to London. Once there she will telephone Mr. Jowett and accept his offer. Early retirement. And nothing to fill her life with, apart from Sheila. But this is a new blessing. A purpose, and a chance to repair history. She feels fortunate. As though life is now finally beginning. And almost everybody seems happy with her.

When she reaches Brixton she discovers the house to be in darkness. She places her bag on the kitchen table and shouts for Sheila, but her sister does not respond. She goes upstairs and turns on the lights, and then she moves along the hallway to her sister’s bedroom and pushes gently at the door. Her sister is lying in bed, and the room is illuminated by a single lighted candle that burns on top of the chest of drawers. Sheila’s discarded wig lies on the laundry basket like an unloved pet. She tries not to make any noise as she spies on Sheila, who looks both peaceful and exhausted, although it’s apparent that life is slowly leaking out of her. She wonders about the wisdom of having a candle burning in this fashion, but she does not want to blow it out in case her sister has some special reason for the candle being lit. So she closes the door and leaves Sheila at rest. Downstairs she puts on the kettle and makes herself a cup of tea. Then she hears a light knocking at the door and she rushes to open it before the person can knock again. She recognises Derek from the Labour Party meeting, but he is looking at her in a strange fashion, and his eyes are slightly watery, as though he has been crying.