Zadie Smith - White Teeth

‘Dat is Mr Topps,’ said Hortense, hurrying across the kitchen in a dark maroon dress, the eyes and hooks undone, and a hat in her hand with plastic flowers askew. ‘He has been such a help to me since Darcus died. He soothes away my vexation and calms my mind.’

She waved to him and he straightened up and waved back. Irie watched him pick up two plastic bags filled with tomatoes and walk in his strange pigeon-footed manner up the garden towards the back kitchen door.

‘An’ he de only man who made a solitary ting grow out dere. Such a crop of tomatoes as you never did see! Irie Ambrosia, stop starin’ and come an’ do up dis dress. Quick before your goggle-eye fall out.’

‘Does he live here?’ whispered Irie in amazement, struggling to join the two sides of Hortense’s dress over her substantial flank. ‘I mean, with you?’

‘Not in de sense you meaning,’ sniffed Hortense. ‘He is jus’ a great help to me in my ol’ age. He bin wid me deez six years, God bless ’im and keep ’is soul. Now, pass me dat pin.’

Irie passed her the long hat pin which was sitting on top of a butter dish. Hortense set the plastic carnations straight on her hat and stabbed them fiercely, then brought the pin back up through the felt, leaving two inches of exposed silver sticking up from the hat like a German pickelhaube.

‘Well, don’ look so shock. It a very satisfactory arrangement. Women need a man ’bout de house, udderwise ting an’ ting get messy. Mr Topps and I, we ol’ soldiers fightin’ the battle of de Lord. Some time ago he converted to the Witness church, an’ his rise has been quick an’ sure. I’ve waited fifty years to do someting else in de Kingdom Hall except clean,’ said Hortense sadly, ‘but dey don’ wan’ women interfering with real church bizness. Bot Mr Topps do a great deal, and ’im let me help on occasion. He’s a very good man. But ’im family are nasty-nasty,’ she murmured confidentially. ‘The farder is a terrible man, gambler an’ whoremonger… so after a while, I arks him to come and live with me, seein’ how de room empty and Darcus gone. ’Im a very civilized bwoy. Never married, though. Married to de church, yes, suh! An’ ’im call me Mrs Bowden deez six years, never any ting else.’ Hortense sighed ever so slightly. ‘Don’ know de meaning of bein’ improper. De only ting he wan’ in life is to become one of de Anointed. I have de greatest hadmiration for him. He himproved so much. He talk so posh now, you know! And ’im very good wid de pipin’ an’ plummin’ also. How’s your fever?’

‘Not great. Last hook… there that’s done.’

Hortense fairly bounced away from her and walked into the hall to open the back door to Ryan.

‘But Gran, why does he live-’

‘Well, you’re going to have to eat up dis marnin’ – feed a fever, starve a col’. Deez tomatoes fried wid plantain and some of las’ night’s fish. I’ll fry it up and den pop it in de microwave.’

‘I thought it was starve a fe-’

‘Good marnin’ , Mr Topps.’

‘Good mornin’, Missus Bowden,’ said Mr Topps, closing the door behind him and peeling off a protective cagoule to reveal a cheap blue suit, with a tiny gold cross pendant on the collar. ‘I trust you is almost of a readiness? We’ve got to be at the hall on the dot of seven.’

As yet, Ryan had not spotted Irie. He was bent over shaking the mud from his boots. And he did it formidably slowly, just as he spoke, and with his translucent eyelids fluttering like a man in a coma. Irie could only see half of him from where she stood: a red fringe, a bent knee and the shirt cuff of one hand.

But the voice was a visual in itself: cockney yet refined, a voice that had had much work done upon it – missing key consonants and adding others where they were never meant to be, and all delivered through the nose with only the slightest help from the mouth.

‘Fine mornin’, Mrs B., fine mornin’. Somefing to fank the Lord for.’

Hortense seemed terribly nervous about the imminent likelihood that he should raise his head and spot the girl standing by the stove. She kept beckoning Irie forward and then shooing her back, uncertain whether they should meet at all.

‘Oh yes , Mr Topps, it is, an’ I am ready as ready can be. My hat give me a little trouble, you know, but I just got a pin an-’

‘But the Lord ain’t interested in the vanities of the flesh, now, is he Mrs B.?’ said Ryan, slowly and painfully enunciating each word while crouching awkwardly and removing his left boot. ‘Jehovah is in need of your soul .’

‘Oh yes, surely dat is de holy troot,’ said Hortense anxiously, fingering her plasticated carnations. ‘But at de same time, surely a Witness lady don’ wan’ look like a, well, a buguyaga in de house of de Lord.’

Ryan frowned. ‘My point is, you must avoid interpretin’ scripture by yourself, Mrs Bowden. In future, discuss it wiv myself and my colleagues. Ask us: is pleasant clothing a concern of the Lord’s? And myself and my colleagues amongst the Anointed, will look up the necessary chapter and verse…’

Ryan’s sentence faded into a general Erhummmm , a sound he was prone to making. It began in his arched nostrils and reverberated through his slight, elongated, misshapen limbs like the final shiver of a hanged man.

‘I don’ know why I do it, Mr Topps,’ said Hortense shaking her head. ‘Sometime I tink I could be one of dem dat teach, you know? Even though I am a woman… I feel like the Lord talk to me in a special way… It jus’ a bad habit… but so much in de church change recently, sometimes me kyan keep up wid all de rules and regulations.’

Ryan looked out through the double glazing. His face was pained. ‘Nuffin’ changes about the word of God, Mrs B. Only people are mistaken. The best thing you can do for the Truth, is just pray that the Brooklyn Hall will soon deliver us with the final date. Erhummmm .’

‘Oh yes, Mr Topps. I do it day and night.’

Ryan clapped his hands together in a pale imitation of enthusiasm. ‘Now, did I ’ear you say plantain for breakfast, Mrs B.?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Topps, and dem tomatoes if you will be kind enough to han’ dem over to de chef.’

As Hortense had hoped, the passing of the tomatoes coincided with the spotting of Irie.

‘Now, dis is my granddarter, Irie Ambrosia Jones. And dis is Mr Ryan Topps. Say hello, Irie, dear.’

Irie did so, stepping forward nervously and reaching out her hand to shake his. But there was no response from Ryan Topps, and the inequality was only increased when on the sudden he seemed to recognize her; there was a pulse of familiarity as his eyes moved over her, whereas Irie saw nothing, not even a type , not even a genre of face in his; the monstrosity of him was quite unique, redder than any red-head, more freckled than the freckled, more blue-veined than a lobster.

‘She’s – she’s – Clara’s darter,’ said Hortense tentatively. ‘Mr Topps knew your mudder, long time. But it all right, Mr Topps, she come to live wid us now.’

‘Only for a little time,’ Irie corrected hurriedly, noting the look of vague horror on Mr Topps’s face. ‘Just for a few months maybe, through the winter while I study. I’ve got exams in June.’

Mr Topps did not move. Moreover nothing on him moved. Like one of China’s terracotta army, he seemed poised for battle yet unable to move.

‘Clara’s darter,’ repeated Hortense in a tearful whisper. ‘ She might have been yours .’

Nothing surprised Irie about this final, whispered aside; she just added it to the list: Ambrosia Bowden gave birth in an earthquake… Captain Charlie Durham was a no-good djam fool bwoy… false teeth in a glass… she might have been yours …