Maggie Gee - The White Family

Yet he still hadn’t got a good view of his face.

Stopping and starting, they walked into the shade of the deeper cover around the toilets.

Then the man disappeared into the dark of the doorway. A pitch-black slit. You could see nothing inside. There was a smell of urine, strong, choking. The usual notice about Police Surveillance propped across the same smashed pane of glass. The place his dad could never sort out. The place Dad said was a disgrace, an eyesore –

Dirk stopped for a second. He caressed the knife. He had carried it since he was eighteen years old. It was part of his father’s army kit. He had borrowed it — stolen it. Five years ago. There had been a row when Dad found it was missing. Dirk didn’t give in. He had lied in Dad’s face. And Dad lost his rag and got him by the throat and shook him till he could hardly stand, ‘I’ll get the truth out of you, you little bastard —’ ‘I never saw it. Mum must have had it — She probably chucked it in the bin.’ And Dad’s face fell, and he let him go.

He ran his finger over the blade.

Then pressed until the pain kissed him.

His heart was fast, thumping, tightening, jumping in his chest like a living thing.

The nigger had gone into the place Dirk hated.

Time to be brave. Time to be a man .

One hand on his jacket, Dirk followed him in, into the sharp foul stink of the dark.

Dirk could hear him somewhere, but he was blind. He stood there, choking, peering round him, terrified of what was to happen. What had to happen. Pumping, pumping. The dreadful pumping of his heart.

But something soft brushed against his shoulder and he leapt round, swearing, knife in hand, and saw him clearly; he was black, pitch-black, African black, as black as the toilets, and his face had a horrible soft sort of look, like he was a girl, like he was in love, and fucking hell, he was touching his cock, I don’t believe it, his great black cock –

And Dirk felt a terrible excitement, something he wanted, something he needed, and ‘ Fuck you, fuck you,’ he panted, he moaned, and he felt his cock swell inside his trousers, and he slipped the knife gently out of his jacket and hit the bastard in the middle of his chest, the blade sliding in surprisingly easily, sticking it, jerking it, forcing it in, holding it there, screaming with panic, ‘ Fuck you, fuck you ,’ for the body was too heavy, too big for him, he would bring Dirk down, and Dirk only let go when the blood pumped out, drenching, spurting, so much, so hot, was he human, then, must they both fucking drown —?

The man slid down the wall. He looked at Dirk. His mouth was half-open. His eyes were very white. He reached out a hand. The palm was pale.

Sobbing, vomiting, Dirk turned and ran.

It was nine forty-five on Sunday morning.

The two bodies lay there together.

It was nine forty-five when Shirley woke up. For a little while she lay almost still, side by side with Elroy, staring up at the ceiling, then moved very slightly to feel his warmth, stretching luxuriously, silently. One of his arms was on top of the blanket; she slid hers against it. Smooth warm skin. White on black. But she didn’t want to wake him. She got up quietly, pulled on a wrap.

The events of the day before were dream-like. She needed time on her own to think.

They were going to St John’s at eleven o’clock. That meant leaving around ten thirty. Plenty of time. Shirley felt happy. She wandered downstairs and poured herself some milk, a large beaker, and sat down to drink it. She could see herself in a mirror on the wall. Pink and cream. Flushed with contentment. Her pupils very large and black.

She wriggled in her chair. Two in one night.

She hadn’t heard Elroy come downstairs, barefoot, so she jumped slightly as he touched her shoulder, caressed her neck and the base of her skull underneath the curls which he liked so much.

‘Hi Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Hi Curly-head.’ Because of his one white grandmother, her curls weren’t such a lot looser than his, but he liked their blondness against her pale skin.

She felt caught out with her secret thoughts. ‘Elroy, love. I was going to bring you coffee —’

‘And I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.’

‘You’ve never brought me breakfast in bed!’

‘Well a lot of things round here never happen before.’

A few more than you know about, she thought, but she kissed him lovingly, enjoyed his soft lips.

And in the middle of the kiss, as their mouths opened, as she felt the damp heat, she suddenly remembered her father was dying.

A stone. A cold stone. A heavy little stone.

‘Sit on my lap,’ he said to her, and she got up, docile, and the pain melted, at least for the moment, she sat on his lap, lowered her head and kissed his chest, naked under his open robe, firm and black and beautiful. ‘You made me come,’ she whispered. ‘I loved the way you made me come.’

‘Can’t say I didn’t try before,’ he said, but he was smiling, blowing in her hair, nibbling a curl between his teeth. ‘Time for another go this morning? Maybe not — we have to get to church —’

‘There’s plenty of time,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m going back upstairs. I’ll be waiting for you. And all I need is a cup of tea.’

‘Shirley, love. I been thinking. The Temple give me a hard time about marrying, and you give me a hard time by not agreeing. But you know, I don’t feel sinful with you. Because our souls join. Our souls join already. It says in the Bible, “My soul hunger for you; my body long for you.”

She smiled at him. ‘Too much Bible, Elroy.’

Sometimes she felt he kept the Bible for her, because they’d met in church, on her first visit to the Temple, and perhaps he thought she was better than she was … Idealized her. Which was nice, but tiring.

Certainly he thought she was better than she was, Shirley reflected, thinking of last night. And she almost ran upstairs to the bedroom, springing like a girl from step to step, feeling the joy of her breasts pulling, their weight bouncing slightly as she moved.

Perhaps it’s because I nearly died …

Maybe I’ve become a different person.

She’d thought that nothing would ever change. Especially the family. The White family. Dad was so proud of their name: the Whites. It was the Whites this, and the Whites that — ‘The Whites don’t have debts … The Whites never beg … The Whites don’t lie … The Whites have their pride … The White family sticks together …’ (But we didn’t, did we? I lost my daughter.)

And later Dad was always pushing me away because he couldn’t stand Kojo or Elroy. That force of hatred like a wall. You could never break it down, you could never climb over –

Then suddenly Dad is at death’s door and all the family are back together and Darren comes flying in from New York and Thomas Lovell appears from nowhere –

And here I lie, a scarlet woman, with sperm from two different men inside me.

But the stone came back, falling through her body. Hardest to bear was simple pity. Dad looked so small, so weak, so — human. Would they let her mother be with him, in the hospital? Or — would he come home? Her heart began to hammer. Would she have to help Mum look after him?

I ought, she thought. He looked after us. He came home every night. He paid the bills … He did his duty, by his lights.

Rubbish, she told herself, don’t be so soft. Look at the harm that man has done. Mum is his slave, but I don’t have to be. Look at his sons. What good are they?

She remembered Darren at Kojo’s funeral. He’d had a few drinks and talked too much. ‘Isn’t it frightful, I have no black friends. I wish I had. You’re very lucky.’