Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

“Sheila told me you’d be back today. I called earlier. I was wondering if we might go out for a drink?” She looks at this man in astonishment.

“A drink?”

“I mean so we can talk privately.” She thinks for a moment, and then she opens the door a little wider.

“Sheila’s asleep. If you want to talk privately, then we can do so here.” He hesitates for a moment, and then he realises that he has to make a decision.

“All right then. If you’re sure that this is fine by you.” She stands back to let him pass, and then she shuts the door behind him. He takes a seat at the kitchen table and she crosses the room and takes a cup from the cupboard over the sink.

“Tea?” He nods.

“Yes, please. Nothing in it.” She quickly makes the tea, places it before him, and then she sits opposite him. She picks up her bag and removes it from the table.

“Now then, is there something the matter?” Derek takes a sip of his tea and looks directly at her.

“I suppose there’s no easy way to say this, but it’s to do with Maria.”

“She’s not coming back, is she?”

“Well, it’s not that straightforward. Maria is outside in the car.” She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can ask any questions he continues. “Maria and I are, well, I suppose the easiest way of putting it is, an item.” She stares at Derek.

“You mean Maria has left Sheila for you?” He nods. “And does Sheila know this?”

“No, of course not, but I didn’t want to keep you in the dark.”

“I see, but you don’t mind keeping Sheila in the dark, is that it?”

“Well, that’s just the point. We’re both worried about what effect it will have on Sheila’s health if she finds out.”

“So you want it to be our little secret?”

Derek says nothing. He paws his mug of tea as though he is about to drink it, but then he gently pushes it away.

“I’m sorry, I’d better go.”

“Yes, you’d better. Especially if she’s outside in the car. We wouldn’t want her to get lonely, would we?”

Derek stands. “I can see you’re upset and I don’t blame you. But these things happen.”

She laughs. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”

She and Derek stare at each other, but she decides to say nothing more, not wanting the responsibility of further curdling this man’s already inadequate sense of himself. Derek lowers his shameful eyes and turns to leave, and she follows him to the door. He waits before opening it, and then he turns to face her.

“For what it’s worth, Maria is devastated by this situation.”

“You mean the Maria who is sitting outside in the car, right now?”

Derek opens the door and she closes it behind him without bothering to glance out into the street. She begins to wash the cups and the teapot, and having done so she puts everything back into the cupboard and then she sits in a spotless kitchen. The moonlight is streaming in through the kitchen window and again she remembers her father’s funeral, and Sheila’s wilful absence, but as the years have passed by she has found it increasingly difficult to blame her sister for her absence. After all, her sister’s pain is connected to her own guilt with a bond that neither of them can untie, and all that she now hopes for is the belated opportunity to repair the damage that has been wrought between them. Perhaps Sheila could move back north, and maybe buy a place by the seaside. They might walk together on the beach, and occasionally contemplate taking trips together. They might even go abroad. These are pleasant thoughts that will help her to survive another night in London in her sister’s lonely home. She turns off the kitchen light and then slowly climbs the stairs. Before going to her own room she checks on Sheila, but her sister is still sleeping peacefully. This time she decides to go in and blow out the candle.

The first policeman, the one in uniform, fingers the pencil with increasing frustration. He stares at her, and although he sympathises with her situation there is precious little that he can do. He has said this a number of times, and his body language makes this abundantly clear. And then the senior officer arrives, the one without a uniform, and he sits down beside her. He fails to reintroduce himself, but it is clear that he has been briefed on the situation.

“I’m sorry, but if your sister doesn’t wish to press charges, then there’s nothing that we can do. I mean, we’re pretty sure we know who he is.”

The officer pushes a piece of paper in front of her. She sees his sour face, and beneath it all his vital statistics. Details of his date of birth, height, weight, colour of eyes, everything. His address, phone number, it all seems so straightforward.

“I know it’s difficult to believe, but we just haven’t got a case without your sister’s co-operation.”

She stares at the officer, but there is effectively nothing further to be said. They both know that Sheila won’t change her mind. When Dorothy left the house this morning her sister was still in bed. Sheila had asked for a cup of hot water, and before she went to fetch it she relit her sister’s candle. All thoughts of the assault seemed to have fled from her mind. In fact, it was difficult for her to know what, if anything, Sheila was thinking about. The officer scrapes back his chair and gets to his feet.

“I’m sorry, love, but unless you can talk some sense into her, we’ve got to move on. It’s not as if we’re short of work round here.”

She sits on the upper deck of the bus, and to the left-hand side, so that she can keep an eye out for Imran’s Southern Fried Chicken. The uniformed policeman had told her that it would be the stop after this, and he had warned her to be careful. He’d laughed, “Don’t wear your Rolex,” but wishing to maintain some loyalty to Sheila she’d said nothing in reply. The bus is full of schoolchildren whom she knows should be at school, but who seem determined to make as much noise as possible. Her natural reflex as a teacher is to shout at them and demand that they calm down, but she has to remind herself that soon she will no longer be a teacher. That part of her life will presently be over. And even if she were still a teacher, these are London kids and highly unlikely to take any notice of a little old lady who should be downstairs anyhow. And then she sees Imran’s Southern Fried Chicken and her hand reaches up to the bell. As she steps from the bus the estate unfolds before her like a dark shadow, a vast landscape of council flats, barking dogs and worn-out grass. Filth is strewn everywhere, and a group of kids are playing what seems to be an organised game of football using a tin can instead of a ball. She walks past Bojangles, which she can see is a former Catholic church that has now become the estate disco, and then she passes the cracked and peeling outdoor swimming pool, which looks as though it has never seen any water.

Pretoria Drive leads to Pretoria Mansions, and she climbs the stinking urine-stained circular staircase to the third floor. Once there, she walks along the balcony and knocks at the door. He answers with a child, a half-caste girl whom she guesses to be about three, clutching one leg. “Yeah, what do you want?” He seems neither puzzled nor concerned as to why this woman has knocked at his door. No doubt he imagines her to be a social worker or a probation officer.

“I’ve come about my sister,” she says.

“What about your sister? I don’t know who your sister is.”

“You attacked and robbed her.” He reaches down and encourages the girl to go back into the flat. Then he steps out onto the third-floor balcony, forcing her to move back. He pulls the door behind him, then slowly, and very deliberately, he looks her up and down.