Wounded Bird of Paradise

Wounded Bird of Paradise

of related interest Wishing on the Midnight Star My Asperger Brother Nancy Ogaz ISBN 1 84310 757 0

Asparagus Dreams Jessica Peers ISBN 1 84310 164 5

Haze An Asperger Novel Kathy Hoopman

ISBN 1 84310 072 X

Employment for Individuals with Asperger Syndrome or Non-Verbal Learning Disability Stories and Strategies Yvona Fast and others ISBN 1 84310 766 X

How to Find Work that Works for People with Asperger Syndrome The Ultimate Guide for Getting People with Asperger Syndrome into the Workplace (and keeping them there!) Gail Hawkins ISBN 1 84310 151 3

Wounded Bird of Paradise Mary Essinger

Jessica Kingsley Publishers London and Philadelphia

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of a licence issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, England W1T 4LP. Applications for the copyright owner’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the publisher. Warning: The doing of an unauthorised act in relation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution. The right of Mary Essinger to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by Jessica Kingsley Publishers 116 Pentonville Road London N1 9JB, UK and 400 Market Street, Suite 400 Philadelphia, PA 19106, USA www.jkp.com Copyright © Mary Essinger 2004 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Essinger, Mary, 1932Wounded bird of paradise / Mary Essinger. p. cm. ISBN 1-84310-256-0 1. Asperger’s syndrome—Patients—Fiction. 2. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 3. Female friendship—Fiction. 4. Mothers and sons—Fiction. 5. Pen pals—Fiction. 6. Tropics—Fiction. 7. Boys—Fiction. I. Title. PS3605.S68W68 2004 813’.6—dc22 2003026444

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN-13: 978 1 84310 256 4 ISBN-10: 1 84310 256 0 ISBN pdf eBook: 1 84642 013 X Printed and Bound in Great Britain by Athenaeum Press, Gateshead, Tyne and Wear

For David

Acknowledgements Grateful thanks to international expert on plants, Roger Cook, for technical information and for his inspiring suggestions. Also to Graham Benskin of Leicester University Botanic Gardens, to Leicester Writers Club and to Ted Essinger for the splendid title.

Contents Prologue

9

1

Mabelline

11

2

Flower Shop

17

3

Dinner for Two

21

4

Rosa’s Bedroom

25

5

The Boy Carlos

31

6

Storm

35

7

Rosa is Ill

39

8

Carlos Starts Work

43

9

Second Day at Work

49

10

Carlos at Home

53

11

Trouble at Work

57

12

Jemina

61

13

The Tailor’s Shop

67

14

The Nursery Sheds

71

15

Carlos Buys a Tuxedo

75

16

Party

79

17

Mabelline’s Club

87

18

Police Station

91

19

Supervision Order

97

20

In the Café

101

21

Plant Inspection

107

22

Perspectives

113

23

Goats

119

24

Brown’s Hotel

125

25

Goodbye Carlos

131

26

Airport

137

Prologue

T

hrough the stillness came voices, close but sounding far away. Angry voices. Legs running in the darkness under the coloured lights. He lay, face down in the earth, with two men sitting on him and a third with a foot on his neck. Every breath sucked in grains of soil. Better to turn sideways, even if twigs stabbed into his cheek. When he tried to lift his head, the foot on his neck pressed harder. One arm was trapped under his body, the other was bleeding and staining the white sleeve of his jacket. Why were they doing this to him? Straining for breath he shouted, “Let me go!” The foot kicked his shoulder. Waves of anger rose inside blotting out the pain and erupting in a rush of vomit.

9

CHAPTER 1

Mabelline

C

hrist I hate airports. What a waste of time. Crowds of zombies shuffling round in Duty-free, trying on sunglasses and sniffing scent. Queues for coffee at two quid a cup and more queues at Security where they snatch your bag for the X-ray machine. “Steady on the juice, laddie,” I said, “there’s a Diana Ross cassette in there.” Wafts of warm plastic as you step into the twin engine 737 where BA’s reception committee, flying waitresses in daft hats and lipstick smiles, say, “Welcome on board”. I say to the pilot, who looks every day of fifteen, “OK sunshine, I’m the last. Let’s get going.” He says, “Excellent idea madam.” I find my seat and take out a paperback, anything to stop people talking to me. Because if somebody starts talking, and they will, and if they’re boring, which they always are, you’re clobbered for four hours. And we’re talking four non-smoking hours. I didn’t want to come anyway. I’d sooner have been with the crowd from work walking in Yorkshire. We go away together every year on a rambling trip. Cleveland Way this time. I only get three weeks’ holiday at the factory and I was on this stupid jaunt. That’s pen-friends for you. All I’d said in my letter was: “One of these days I’ll come over and see 11

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you.” Now, I should have known better. You don’t put that in a letter because by the time it’d been translated it probably looked as if I was angling for an invite, and I definitely was not. We’ve been writing to each other for over ten years now, ever since she was learning English at college. She writes good letters, they get passed all round the factory, but pen-friends are pen-friends. Visits are another matter. Anyway, there’s no turning back Mabelline, I said to myself in the plane. Mabelline, isn’t that a daft name? Mam saw it in a magazine and thought it was the name of a film star. Turns out that Mabelline is the name of some American eye make-up and I’d been christened with it. And she spelt it wrong. Everybody calls me Mae. When we land it’s the same retarded crowd, this time pushing empty trolleys to the baggage carousel. I knew straight away which case was mine; it’s been in our shed all year, mucky brown cardboard. At least I could pick it out from the Marks and Spencer bags, I didn’t have to read every label as they swirled past. One thing’s for sure, nobody will ever nick mine. Not a sign of her on the street. If she wasn’t there I was supposed to take a taxi straight to the flower shop where she runs her own little business. All they do here, I reckon, is sell flowers and ice cream to tourists. I pushed to the front of the taxi rank pretending I hadn’t seen the queue. It always works. Besides, there were plenty of yellow cabs – obviously another major industry. Then I saw this little woman rushing across the road. She was really slim and dressed all in navy; everybody else was in tee-shirts and casuals. She stood out, people were staring at her. Dark hair, like a big fluffy frame round her face, pink-and-navy striped blouse with a bow at the neck. We used to overlock those blouses in our factory, now it’s all jersey-wear. She wore high heels and navy tights; out of fashion but they looked good on her. I knew who it was even before she waved. She rushed forward, stood on tiptoe and kissed me, both sides. I mean, I wasn’t used to it; it’s a thing foreigners do. My family never kisses except at funerals; no they don’t, not even at funerals.

MABELLINE

13

In the cab neither of us could stop grinning. We hadn’t said a word yet. I think she was shy to speak English. I was struck dumb by her. Her eyes were greyish green, fringe of dark lashes, and her make-up was perfect, mascara and pink lips done with lip-liner. She had small teeth and was so lively that I could not get over her. She was lovely. I just said “Hi”, and she said, “Hello Mae”, only she pronounced it “My” and it sounded exotic and special. We settled in the back of the cab and I looked through the window to stop myself staring at her. The sun was dazzling, bouncing off white buildings, and the palm trees took your eye straight up to the sky. I felt alive, really alive, I couldn’t think properly. Mabelline, I said, don’t kid yourself, it’s not the sunshine or the trees making you feel like this, it’s the woman next to you. She was absolutely lovely. Absolutely bloody lovely. And then she put her hand over mine and every fibre jumped. “I am mortified to be late, your plane is early. I wanted to give you an island greeting.” I fancied the island greeting, whatever it was. When she spoke she tilted her head to one side and looked directly at me as if she was thrilled to bits to see me. Me! All the time there was a smile waiting at the corners of her mouth. Her exact words had not registered, something about being mortified. One thing for sure, she was way out of my league, horticultural degree, bilingual. I don’t remember my reply, some crappy banality. At least I felt smart in the magenta slip-on dress the girls had made me wear instead of my usual brown trousers. They ran the dress up for me the night before. The taxi lurched at a bend throwing her, and a waft of blossoms, closer. “My shop is here, we are arrived,” she announced with excitement. “Yep. We are arrived,” I replied like a jerk. I watched her pay the driver, folding the money into his big hand. I watched her turn to me with a tilt of the head; a strand of hair escaped and she tucked it behind her ear. “I welcome you, dear friend, at last, to my house.” As she reached up to kiss my cheek the tendril fell forward again. Christ, there should be a law. Like an idiot I stood there, not knowing

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WOUNDED BIRD OF PARADISE

what to say. Where were my words? Where was my speech of greeting? In charge of a workforce of fifty back home and here I was with nothing to say, nothing at all. I looked down at my case. It was shabby, it looked poor. There was a shop in a pedestrian street, there were flowers, but you don’t take things in when you first arrive anywhere. She seemed to stiffen at the sight of two men lolling by the counter, a shadow passed over her face. “Something wrong?” I whispered. “No, no, nothing,” and she motioned towards the stairs where I followed her high heels to the guest room. Pink. Pink frill round the dressing table, pink frill round the wicker stool like a pot of WI jam. Vases of flowers everywhere, no ashtrays. Three pink towels folded on the pillow and tied round with ribbon. All too fussy. All too pink. Not my taste. It was marvellous, I loved it. She sat on the bed, hardly denting the cover she was so slight. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” I said. She shook her head. “Was that Paolo in the shop?” I enquired. She’d been writing about an assistant who’d given her trouble. She nodded. “Does he do the job better now?” I asked. “He should not have invited his friend,” she explained, “it is against my rules, much time they waste. We have returned early. He did not expect us. I do not trust him.” Half jokingly I said, bending forward to open my case, “Want me to sack him? I’m an expert.” A look of something like fear spread over her face and she shook her head. I unfolded my new suit and hung it in the cupboard, laying the trousers over the bar and smoothing the cloth as I tried to sound casual. “Is he more than an employee? Is he perhaps a boyfriend?” The sudden laugh transformed her mood and she crossed to the window. “No, he is married and too severe.”

MABELLINE

15

Now she was waving to someone down in the street. “He’s here, my little boy is here. Today my friend has collected him from school. Please, please wait in this room.” The minute she’d gone I looked in the mirror and a new face smiled back at me. A new stupid younger face. Same frizzy, lopsided ginger hair, not auburn, not red, but your actual ginger. Still, at least it matched the blotchy gingery skin round my shoulders and neck. I’d have to be careful in the sun. Strong shoulders. Weight-lifter’s biceps. You’ll do Mabelline. And the face in the mirror smiled back again. I was in love and this is how it felt, unsettling, transformed, dangerous. Sitting on the bed I relived each moment of our meeting, savouring and polishing her every word and gesture. I was in love and ordinary life had blown away. I can’t remember unpacking but just as I’d finished she came back, holding the hand of a child about seven years old. Something was different about him, yes, curly blond hair and blue eyes, every face I’d seen so far had been dark. “Mae, I here present to you my son. Carlos.”

CHAPTER 2

Flower Shop

W

hat a difference a warm climate makes; doors can be left open and you can wear a sleeveless top first thing in the morning. Sunshine was flooding Rosa’s kitchen and lighting up the fridge magnets. Is anything dafter than fridge magnets? The girls at work are dotty about them. On my last birthday I put a notice on my door in the factory, “No Fridge Magnets”. Guess what I got? Rosa’s fridge, that first morning, was covered in magnets. But in this kitchen, small and fragrant, they were OK. I looked round for breakfast. Among all the strange foreign tins and packets on the shelves, the jar of Robinson’s jam was like an old friend. Bowl of flowers on the table, frothy blue things next to her note “Back before one hour”. Tiny writing, crinkly paper. Only eight o’clock and already voices coming from the shop across the passage: Paolo the assistant, and a female customer by the sound of it. I closed the door and saw Rosa’s apron hanging behind it. Little flimsy thing, with a frill all round. Organza. The problems we had with that fabric. No sooner d’you get it under the machine than it slips out. It was never intended for aprons. I stroked the waistband then sniffed it. That lilac blossom perfume she uses. 17

18

WOUNDED BIRD OF PARADISE

After a bowl of cornflakes and a Bensons I stepped into the shop with its smell of damp earth, like death. Buckets of lilies looking important; flowers are big here in more ways than one. I nodded good morning to the woman and then to Paolo, who glanced up from the cardboard box he was unfolding. He wore a polo tee-shirt; you get 80p a dozen for cutting those. He lined the box with newspaper before laying in the bird-of-paradise flowers alternately, heads one end, stalks the other. Then he filled the spaces with crumpled paper before putting the lid on and tying string round it ready for carrying to the airport. Why do people buy them? Who’s got a vase that big? The customer paid, nodded good morning and left. I’m used to men, they come in two varieties, those I like, those I don’t, this one’s a don’t. Instinct never lets me down. If you get a bad feeling about a worker, stick with it. First I walked round pretending to look at the plants then said “Good morning”, in Portuguese. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter with his face in a newspaper. Funny, the woman had paid, but no money went in the till. Maybe they have a different system here. Next, a teenage girl called in to buy scented candles. Again, he took the money, gave change from his pocket, returned to his paper but didn’t ring up the till. This time I spoke English, “Senhor, where’s the money?” “Money?” he said, raising his eyebrows. I’m not messing with this baboon, I thought. “The money from the sale of flowers to the nice lady. Where is it?” I said, miming the transaction. If you’re foreign, people think you’re stupid. Well, stupid people do. He folded his newspaper and stood up, lips pressed into a line. Then he shook his head. “No understand.” I stood facing him across the counter, waiting. That’s all you do, just stand there, eye to eye, they can never take the pressure. He opened his mouth to speak. Here it comes. “Oh, excuse me, I forgot.” Lapse of memory, how original; and pulling some notes from his pocket, he rang the till and made a show of putting them in. What I did next I should not have done. It was not my business because it was

FLOWER SHOP

19

Rosa’s business. I crossed to the open doorway, pointed to the street, turned to Baboon and said “Out”. Shock affects people in different ways. This one flung his arms in the air, muttered something about Senhora and papers then raised his fist at me. I pointed at the street and mouthed the word this time. He grabbed his newspaper, scooped up his cigarettes, sidled out past me without a glance, and left the shop. I closed and locked the door, and stood with my back to it. Christ! Mabelline, what have you done? I don’t know how long I stayed in that position, trembling, rocking to heartbeats. This was not me, frightened, out of control. Pack your bag Mabelline, leave a note and run, clear off home and join the gang walking on the moors. You’ve done culture training; this is a different culture. What d’you know about this country? Nothing. The climate’s cooking your brain. Maybe they do deals about the takings, maybe he had a share in the business. Why did I take it on myself to sack somebody else’s employee? Why? I did it for her, that’s why. Then I heard something. She was there, in the passage between the shop and the kitchen, her back to me, hands over her eyes leaning with her forehead on the wall, sobbing. How long had she been there? What had she seen? I moved forward to stand behind her. “Rosa, I’m really sorry. I’ve done something awful.” She turned to show a tearful face lit up with joy, then she reached up to hold my face between her hands. “You are so wonderful Mae. The angels have sent you to me.” Turns out she’d been trying for months to pluck up courage to sack him. Can you imagine that? Too scared to confront a bloke who’s robbing your till! It happens. It’s a woman thing. With the shop still locked we sat talking over coffee and I agreed to stay longer till she found somebody to replace Paolo. I stayed for three weeks, serving English customers, fetching the kid from school, driving the van round mountain bends, excited by the danger. And each day, alert in every fibre by the closeness of her presence, I was on guard against any glance, any touch, any smile of mine that could

20

WOUNDED BIRD OF PARADISE

betray the depths of my feelings for her. Every night, in my narrow bed, I replayed the lovely turn of her head, the raised brow, the music of her laughter. I worshipped her; not only for her looks, her charm, her energy, but for the amazing and uplifting transformation she had given to my life. I neither sought nor expected any response from her; all she had to do was exist. And here she was, in the same house, breathing behind the same walls. Desires of the night, too shameful for the cold light of day, filled my wakeful hours and morning always came too soon. And with it, the old despair. Did I say three weeks? I never went home.

CHAPTER 3

Dinner for Two

E

very Saturday we shut at one and, while Rosa did the weekend baking, I delivered unsold flowers to three nursing homes and two churches, all without charge. And after shopping for fish, fruit and wine, I’d pick up Carlos from the lido. Routines are good, they keep the demons away. Saturday evenings I’d go to the club or listen to music in my room. Rosa might visit a relative and now and then she’d have a date. But she was hopeless at picking men, at twenty-seven you’d think she’d know a thing or two, but she fell for Mr Wrong every time. Two weeks ago, for instance, a smoothie wearing a cream suit waltzes into the shop and Rosa the businesswoman turns into Rosa the giggling twelve-year-old, putting extra flowers in the bunches and double-bowing the ribbons. Then she stands by the door for Mr Perfect as he leaves. He does a bow and waves at her with arms full of roses. I nearly throw up. “What a lovely gentleman,” she purrs, standing in the middle of the shop with hands clasped under her chin. “He’s married,” I tell her. “Did you see his teeth Mae?” “He’s married,” I say again. 21

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“And such elegant manners.” “Did you hear me?” “And so clever, he’s planning to write a book on orchids.” She believes stuff like that. “How d’you know he’s married?” she said at last. “It’s written on his face: ‘I’m married with four mistresses and twenty-two children’.” “You’re so funny Mae,” she giggles. “Am I? Who were the roses for then?” “His sister.” “Rosa. Sisters never get flowers. He bought five bunches, one for the wife and one for each mistress.” “You’re making all this up Mae.” I tried again. “No man, Rosa, with those teeth is single.” You’d think she’d learn. Pregnant with Carlos at nineteen, first boyfriend and she’s still waiting for him to come back, every morning she kisses his photo. He was a soldier, came over in the troubles, made her pregnant, cleared off. I mean, that’s what soldiers are supposed to do: it’s part of the training. About two weeks later she spent Saturday afternoon setting a table for two in the little patio room. Red candles, red cover and, wait for it, spread with flower petals. Flower petals arranged on the tablecloth. Now, every morning she arranges petals on the doorsteps into the shop, making pink rows along the inside treads. It’s good for business and she enjoys doing it, people comment on it. But what can you do with a woman who lines up flower petals round the sides of a tablecloth, not scattered casually but in rows, small at the centre then graduating to bigger petals as she gets to the corners, where they end in the shape of a bow? I mean, life’s too short. She caught me looking at the petals. “Tell me, Mae dear, are the corners right?” “Waste of good flowers,” I say. “Who’s it for anyway?” She looked straight at me, sparkling smile. “It’s for us, for we two.”

DINNER FOR TWO

23

I stopped breathing and turned away, shaking. All this trouble for me. Why? Then I remembered: it was almost a year since I first came. She keeps a book of birthdays and anniversaries. When I found my voice it sounded hoarse. “What time?” “About eight,” she smiled. I went to my room in a daze. Mabelline, you have one hour to make yourself petalworthy.

*** ME, STANDING IN the doorway, feeling smart in a short-sleeved trouser

suit of grey silk, floaty; light make-up; necklace, thin and gold. In she comes from the kitchen, apron over a dress I hadn’t seen before. “Oh you look so beautiful Mae! New outfit?” I cover my eyes in mock shyness and tell her, “Just an old rag dragged from the cupboard.” Then she whispers, “Are you going somewhere nice?” I was about to reply, “To your table, madam,” when confusion struck. I glanced down at my fingernails, desperate for a moment’s thinking time. “To the club of course,” I lied, “I’m off to the club. A special party. I won’t disturb you when I come back. God, look at the time!” I ran upstairs for my bag and then out into the street to be jostled by the Saturday night crowds in the August evening. Everybody was going somewhere. I found a wall to lean on and lit a Bensons. “It’s for us, for we two,” that’s what she’d said. And I’d been pathetic enough to think she meant me. “It’s for us”, an easy mistake, in both languages, an easy mistake. Mabelline, it could have been worse, just imagine if you’d actually sat at the table before you realised the bloomer. At least Rosa doesn’t know what a jerk you are. Why would she go to all that trouble for you? Flower petals. Grow up. And what should I do now? Where could I go in this get-up, this tourist outfit? Not to the club for sure, I’d be lynched. All at once I

24

WOUNDED BIRD OF PARADISE

wanted to be back home. Walking through barley up to the waist that’s ready for the combine, the corn already dry and smelling of yeast. Afterwards in a pub garden for the evening with the gang. And I missed Radio Four. And I missed a proper roast. I sent the tears packing, lit another Bensons, and followed the crowd downhill to the massive Casino Hotel on the front. Every Saturday they put on a banquet for three hundred people with a floor show and free entry to the gaming rooms. The town was always covered in posters for this shindig and visitors lapped it up. Absolutely not for me. Standing outside I watched them trooping in, couples and little groups. The women with that look of excitement that goes with a suntan and frocks from this year’s catalogue. Not my sort of crowd at all. I walked in, into the marble halls of Poshville where the ceiling was a glass roof somewhere in the sky, and down the carpets of the sloping walkway I strolled with the crowd. Soft music all the way to the dining hall where a waiter took me to a seat among fields of white cloth. “Just a minute, sunshine,” I said. “Table for one, please.” “Madam,” he whispered, “it is banquet service on Saturdays. The tables are set for twenty.” “Sir,” I explained with the special smile I keep for such occasions, “I’ve not paid this daft price to sit with twenty strangers. Table for one please, and an ashtray.” He looked worried. “One moment madam, I fetch the maitre d’.” But this being Poshville the maitre d’ was already at my side bowing, “This way madam. Follow me.” My own table, my own waiter, canapés, smoked salmon, Scottish beef, floor show afterwards with troops of girls singing and dancing. If only Rosa had been with me, how she would have loved it. But the evening was not yet over, not by a long chalk.

CHAPTER 4

Rosa’s Bedroom

N

o, the evening was not yet over, not by a long chalk. It was after midnight when I came back from the Casino Hotel, in a taxi, joking with the driver about his curly hair, asking who did the perm. Nice bloke; I lit a Bensons, passed one forward over the seat, and bet him the whole pack he daren’t drive up the pedestrian street to the front door. He won. We sat talking outside the shop. “Are you married?” I said to the back of his head. “Are you offering?” he said through the mirror. “Can you cook?” I asked and when he said no I told him it was all off and he could have his ring back. Quietly in through the front door to the cold eeriness of an empty flower shop, where green leaves turn black in the darkness, to feel the spooky touch of a trailing vine in my hair. The place was silent, no music, no lights, no chatter. I tiptoed past the patio room, nobody there. Where were they? What were they doing? Mabelline, shut your eyes, shut your ears, shut your dirty mind and get upstairs to your room. There was the usual line of light under the door where Carlos slept. Slept, that’s a joke. Eight years old and reading most of the night.

25

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WOUNDED BIRD OF PARADISE

“Oi!” I said in a loud whisper and the line of light disappeared. Spoilt by Rosa, scared of me, great combination for raising a kid. In my room with the radio on, very soft. I was climbing into bed when I heard a sob. I switched off the radio and there was another. Rosa. In a flash I was out of bed and straining to listen. Christ, what was he doing to her? And what should I do about it? Knock on her door? March straight in pretending I thought she was alone? Then something clicked and I dashed down to the kitchen. One glance said everything. Mabelline you idiot. All the food laid out for the meal was still there, sliced peaches turning brown, dried fish on the chopping board. In the patio room the table was untouched, all those petals curling, candles unlit, all that work. Whoever was supposed to be coming to dinner, hadn’t. Bastardo. Outside the door of her bedroom I listened. She was still crying. I tapped quietly, “Rosa, can I come in?” No answer. Turning the handle I pushed it an inch and the blossom scent she used wafted through. “It’s me, Mae,” I said quietly, “I’m coming in.” She was lying on the far side of the large bed with her back to me, facing towards the window where light spilled in from the street through voile curtains. I sat on the edge of the bed and whispered, “Rosa, I’m going to make some hot chocolate for you.” “No,” she sobbed. “But you’ve had nothing to eat. I’ll make something nice for both of us and bring it up on a tray.” “No,” she murmured, “nothing.” I waited, not knowing what to do. The girls at work used to come to me with their troubles, but a grown woman is different. I was cold; I should have worn a robe over my pyjamas. In between her gulps I could just make out what she was saying, “I waited and waited but he didn’t come.” Bastardo, I thought. Both of us, a wasted evening. All for the sake of a bastardo. I leaned across the bed and reached forward to touch the back of her hair.

ROSA’S BEDROOM

27

“What’s wrong with me?” she sobbed. I stroked her face with my knuckles. “Is that a question for the angel to ask the monkey?” She stopped crying. “Well, is it?” I said. “Such beautiful things you say, Mae dear, but your hand is cold, please, come under the covers.” “I’m OK. I’m not a bit cold.” “But you are, come, get into my bed,” she insisted between the aftermath of sobs. Mabelline, go back to your room, right now. Right now. Instead, I slid under the edge of the cover to lie on my back, rigid as a corpse, to feel the slow flooding of warmth from the sheets. Apart from her sobs the only sounds were the ticking clock and the waft of wind that moved the voile curtain of the open window. “He made arrangements and he didn’t come,” she sniffed over and over to herself. Gradually she stopped crying and we spoke to each other in that slow, relaxed way that people do side by side on pillows. “He could have phoned,” she gulped. “Perhaps he got the day wrong,” I suggested. At first she wouldn’t tell me who he was except to say he was a businessman and when I asked what sort of business she said an undertaker, so I told her he hadn’t turned up because she wasn’t dead enough for him. There was a smile in her voice when she said, “Oh Mae, you are so terrible.” “Come on,” I said, “tell me his name and I’ll bury him for you.” When the bed began to move with her giggles I whispered, “Good night dear, I’m going back to my room.” “Oh, no,” she pleaded, “stay with me, just for tonight. I feel so sad.” I lay behind her, as far away as I could, both of us facing towards the window. The minute she fell asleep I would leave. Then she shuffled backwards towards me till I felt her heel against my leg and the curve of her spine through the silk gown. I breathed in her warmth and fragrance. Christ! There should be a law. If I backed away any

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further I’d be on the floor. The top of her head was under my chin and she snuggled in close like a child. Rosa, I pleaded inwardly, don’t do this to me. Then, reaching behind she found my arm and placed it round her waist. “Good night,” she whispered. How could I sleep? I should have left long before now. Under my fingers was the curve of her ribs, rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing, so gently that I hardly felt the movement. I was on fire as I lay there, alert in every fibre, hearing the clock and the rustle of the wafting curtain. Seeming to move of their own accord my fingers slid over the silky fabric to meet the rise of her breast, so small, so perfect. In the instant that she pushed my hand away I realised what I’d done. Leaving her bed and feeling sick with fear and shame I crept to my room through the darkness. As if anybody so perfect as Rosa and so superior to me in every possible way could be anything but repulsed by my crude and shocking advances. You’ve done it now Mabelline, now she’ll know what sort of rubbish you really are. What should I do? Should I wake her to apologise? Could I say I was dreaming? I wanted to pack a bag and run away, anything to stop thinking about the unspeakable thing I had done.

*** the morning is a daft time to start cleaning up, but that’s what I did. In the halflight of the hall lamp and pulling a sweater over pyjamas I set about clearing the patio table of china and glasses, pouring the open wine down the sink, and shaking shrivelled petals from the cloth. Then I cleared away the stale food from the kitchen, scraping fish and olives into the bin till there was no sign of the dinner party that wasn’t. And all the time I was working out how soon I could leave in the morning because I could not face her. A hotel room would do while I sorted everything, then back home to England for good.

TWO-THIRTY IN

ROSA’S BEDROOM

29

In the middle of stacking knives in the drawer I seemed to hear shuffling noises coming from the shop. I listened and heard it again, a noise like papers being moved around the counter. An intruder. What the hell does a burglar want in a flower shop? A cyclamen? Christ, had he picked the wrong night! With my back to the kitchen dresser I felt behind for the wooden handle of the carving knife and slid it from the drawer. Go on Mabelline, you can do it. I slipped my shoes off and crept forward to where I could make out, in the shadows, the bottom step of the stairs. If he made a move there I’d go for him. I sidled round into the passage, shaking all over. There was a light on in the shop. I pointed the knife towards it and stepped forward. Forcing my stiff lips to move I snarled, “Come on out, let’s see your ugly face!” No response. I rushed forward to see – Rosa. It was Rosa, in slippers and a pink bathrobe carrying a wooden box, the one we kept locked in the cupboard under the counter. “Quick, help me, it’s heavy,” she said, teeth chattering from the cold. I put the knife on a plant, lifted the box from her, and she followed as I elbowed a space on the kitchen table and flopped on to a stool. When I felt the blood rushing back into my head I realised how terrified I’d been. As if in a dream I sat there exhausted, watching Rosa. “What are you looking for?” I whispered as, ignoring me, she frantically scrabbled through brown envelopes. “Rosa, you scared me, I thought…” “It’s here,” she said, “the property deeds of the shop,” and she began laying documents on the table. In those few seconds I thought she’d gone mad. Was she selling up and leaving? “Rosa, please, please, wait till morning. Everything looks different in the morning. It’s my fault, I…” She interrupted, “No, I need to do it now. Tomorrow we go to my solicitor to do something I should have done long ago.” “Please, Rosa, don’t do anything until…” “Mae dear, I want you to be my business partner.”

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“Business partner?” I stuttered. “Why?” “Because you are my dear, dear friend. I cannot manage without you and I never want to lose you. And that’s why I’m making you my partner. And now I’ll open a bottle of wine and we’ll have a little drink to seal it.”

*** AFTERWARDS I TOOK the rest of the bottle up to my room and lay till

dawn going over and over the events of the day – the fool I’d been to suppose the dinner party was all for me, the dancing girls at the casino, the shameful business in her bed and the terror of the burglar. But she cared for me and wanted me to stay. Nothing in the world could take that from me, nothing, ever. She was so precious to me. Lying there I called to mind the many women I had known, the special ones and the brief affairs. But how I adored my Rosa, and her loving rejection of my embraces was worth every one of all those others.

CHAPTER 5

The Boy Carlos

S

omething was wrong with that child. Boys are supposed to hang out with other boys, swapping lavatory jokes, kicking apples round the market; but he didn’t seem to know how to be naughty. At school he was clever, top marks in maths and science. He liked learning and making lists. But in other ways he wasn’t clever. We dare not let him carry money to school because he’d give it to anybody who asked. And his friends didn’t last long. Once, he planned a fishing expedition off the pier with two lads from the lido. We bought him the tackle, spinners, rod, bait, and he read everything in the library on fishing and I do mean everything. We watched them setting off, in Nelson Mandela tee-shirts, Carlos, the tallest and best looking as usual. He came back so proudly carrying three cavallas; Rosa cooked them for dinner. For days he talked of nothing but fishing, boring, but at least a change from the usual topic of flowers. Those lads never called for him again and he went fishing alone. He was always alone. And he was easily embarrassed about the silliest things. At breakfast one morning he came in as usual with his questions. “Aunt Mae,” he says, “in England, do you have blue tits?”

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“Only when I’m cold,” I said. I mean, it just came out. Rosa flashed me such a look and Carlos went scarlet, head down in his cornflakes. After he’d gone she said, “Mae, that is no way to speak to my son. You well know he does not like that kind of talk.” I felt terrible. It was only a joke. She didn’t speak to me all morning. We worked in silence in the shop, me trying to concentrate on the accounts, Rosa on the floor tying a wedding order. It was fascinating to watch her twisting wire round African daisies to make coronets for the bridesmaids. There was a heap of flowers laid on tissue, seventeen in each bundle, and everything in odd numbers; odd numbers make for a natural-looking display, otherwise they form into pairs. From a group of seventeen she took each flower in turn, trimmed the stem and wiped it with a cloth. Then she threaded the stems one by one through the wire coronet till the heads formed a circle. Sorting through a pile of greenery she selected just enough leaves to hide the stems. All the time her fingers worked like dancers, pick up, wipe, trim, twist round and tuck under the wires. How did she do it? How did she keep her fingernails so perfect with all that wirework? They were pink and evenly shaped like sugared almonds. Every now and then a strand of hair would fall and she’d tuck it behind her ears. I loved that movement. How could I concentrate on figures while she was out of sorts with me? I kept making mistakes, I’d never seen her so angry, never known her to speak to me like that. How could she keep the world away from him? He was twelve. He knew about tits. All of a sudden her shoulders started to shake. At first I thought she was crying. Then she tittered, quietly at first, then louder till she was laughing out loud. She pushed her work to one side and fell forward, overcome with fits of giggles. “Rosa, what’s the joke?” I said, moving round the counter and looking down at her. “You,” she managed to splutter out. “Me?” “What you said, ‘Only when I’m cold’,” and off she went again.

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She must have known something wasn’t right with him. On one occasion the head of the school sent for her. Apparently Carlos had refused to join in the folk dancing because it meant holding girls’ hands in a ring. And he was being bullied. When Rosa came back she wouldn’t talk about it. I get on well with kids but he wasn’t a normal child. I couldn’t get to him. Take Rosa’s birthday. Every year he gave her the same gift; a china vinegar bottle with a handle. Same present at Christmas. There were seven of them lined up on the kitchen windowsill, all exactly alike. It was ridiculous and time for a change, so, waiting till we were in the middle of his English homework, I asked, “Have you bought Mam a present yet?” He shook his head and went on writing. “She likes the vinegar bottles of course,” I said gently, “but for once you could give her something different.” He looked up. “Why?” “It would be a surprise. You like surprises don’t you?” “Yes.” “Well, so does Mam,” and he went back to his writing. “Well, will you give her a different present this year?” “OK,” he said. “OK” usually meant “leave me alone”, but I leapt in. “Right. Tomorrow after school we’ll go down the market together.” The markets were busy with shoppers scrambling over last-minute fish bargains and I had to watch Carlos because he always walked a few steps away from me. He was thirteen by then and didn’t like being seen with adults. I steered him to a jewellery stall where I’d spotted something. “See that silver bracelet. See the little charm? The hanging fish?” “Esparto,” he said. “OK,” I said, “the hanging esparto. Mam would really like that.” He looked worried. “I can’t afford that as well as the vinegar bottle.” “Remember yesterday, doing your homework? You said you’d like to give her something different this time?”

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He paid for the bracelet, I paid for gift-wrapping and before we reached home I drew him into a doorway. “Now Carlos, tomorrow morning you have to pretend the bracelet was your idea.” “Oh no, Aunt Mae, it was your idea.” He didn’t know how to lie. “Sometimes we have to pretend.” “Why?” “To make people happy, that’s why. She’ll like it because you chose it. Will you say you chose it?” “OK.” Next morning, even before the wrapping was off, Rosa was smiling. “Oh, my clever boy. What a kind and thoughtful son you are!” and she gave a squeal of delight. “Look how it dangles catching the light. Thank you dear.” No kiss of course. Carlos didn’t like to be kissed. “And you picked it out all by yourself.” I rattled the shop keys, “Come on Rosa, time to open the shop, and Carlos, get ready for school.” On and on she went, “I shall wear it all day and all…” I had to stop her. “Carlos, pick up your bag! It’s seven o’clock.” “Just tell me dear,” she said, catching his arm as he turned to go. “What made you decide to give me this beautiful bracelet?” Here it comes. “Aunt Mae told me to.” It can’t be that hard to kill a thirteen-year-old. Boiling in oil, chucking off a cliff. I wonder what garrotting actually means. Later, she came into the shop with a bottle of wine ready to offer a glass to the customers for her birthday. She poured two glasses for us saying, “Mae dear, thank you for trying and for taking him to the shops. You are wonderful with him.” I protested but she said, “Yes you are. He likes you.” I was surprised at that. Resting her glass on the counter she said, “You know, I really missed the vinegar bottle this year,” and we both collapsed in giggles.

CHAPTER 6

Storm

I

f it’s that hard to rip the clothes off a bloke, am I glad I didn’t take it up as a career. Nobody could remember a storm like it. Black clouds, angry and ragged at the edges, hanging round the mountains. Vessels in trouble out at sea and the new sea wall threatened. Knocking and banging all day in the yard. We closed the shop early because Carlos was missing. Christ, I was scared that night: wipers screeching, hailstones pounding the roof of the pick-up van, and nobody but me on the mountain road, splashing water at every bend. I knew those bends but couldn’t see them in the ferocious lashings of wind. The brakes had that skiddy feel and I was scared to drop down a gear in case the car stalled. A freak March storm and the little sod was out on his wanderings. We were used to his lonely excursions. He’d pack a bag and go off, leaving Rosa anxiously wandering round the kitchen. Once when he wasn’t home by midnight we called the police and hospitals and all the time he was in bed. He’d come back earlier, been too scared to face us and sneaked up to his room. But this time it was really worrying. He’d

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set off that morning at jogging pace in summer clothes, heading for the mountains to look for plants. I wiped the steam from the dashboard clock: nearly midnight. The temperature had dropped. It had rained for five hours. I’d had to yell at Rosa to stop her coming with me; there was no need for two of us to drown. Every taxi driver on duty was on the lookout for him, but who needed taxis on a night like this? For once would he have sense enough to head for the road? That was the question. Because, even at fourteen he might be stupid and try the short cuts down the terraces; and if he did that, there’d be slippage and he’d be in real trouble. A tree crashed and I barely missed it. Mabelline, find a place to turn and go back now. Something was ahead. In the gap between the swish of the wipers I made out the sign, “Road Closed”. The barrier looked flimsy, I could crash through. Then, in the headlights, a pale figure wandering downhill, sloshing through water, head down, arms folded over his chest. I pulled up. Struggling to push the door against the wind, I dragged him across the road and into the front seat of the VW. He couldn’t speak and his teeth were knocking together. Have you ever tried to get a sopping shirt off a fool who’s trying to stop you? A guy with knocking teeth? In a van with a gale-force wind buffeting the sides? “Get that bloody top off !” I yelled. It worked. From under the seat I dragged a towel and held it up. “I’m not looking, get the rest off.” Wet clothes cling and it took ages to get a blanket round him. My hands shook as I poured the coffee, holding it to his lips, waiting till he’d finished. Then I turned the starter; it stalled. We needed a new vehicle. I tried again. It started. There was a God after all. Now concentrate Mabelline, let’s get home. Through stiff lips he was trying to say something. For one macabre moment I thought it might be “Thank you”. “Louder!” I shouted. “I can’t hear you!” “W…w…w…what’s in the coffee?”

STORM

37

“Brandy,” I told him. “You mean alcohol?” “No,” I shouted, “diesel oil.” “Tastes good. Who invented diesel oil?” Driving through a storm was a pushover compared to conversation with Carlos. He was waiting for a reply. “I don’t know, guy named Diesel I think.” “Here’s a joke.” Oh please, I thought, not jokes. “Did Mr Cup invent the cup?” You’d think he’d be too knackered wouldn’t you? “What’s this?” I didn’t answer; if only he’d just sit there. “What’s this?” he said again. “Carlos, what’s what?” “This warm thing under the blanket!” he shouted. “That, sunshine,” I said, gripping the steering wheel round a hairpin, “is a hot-water bottle, mankind’s greatest invention.” “Who invented it?” Down below the lights came into view and the town welcomed me like a huge, fat mother. We were nearly there and I was too tired to speak any more. All I wanted was to put the van away and go to bed. Only, when we opened the door Rosa was not there. Two hours later she came in, dazed, exhausted and soaked through.

CHAPTER 7

Rosa is Ill

C

hrist, what a week that was. Not a minute to myself once she’d caught the infection. Up and down the stairs all day, doling out tablets and linctus, washing her, filing her nails, even cleaning her teeth, waking in the night with the coughing, and bending her over the steam kettle the way the doctor showed me. And the trouble that doctor gave me, laying down the law, ordering her into the infirmary. “She’s not going anywhere,” I told him. I didn’t actually say I’d had nurse training but the factory First Aid certificate impressed him and the Blue Peter badge seemed to clinch it. Downstairs in the shop I’d put a notice saying, “Closed for Easter”: customers would think we’d gone away. When her friends rang I said she was asleep, and if they knocked at the door I told them it was catching; every dirty trick in the book to keep the chatterati out. Once that lot knew Rosa was ill they’d be trailing in with magazines and daft little pots of soup. They’d have taken over the kitchen, she’d have no peace and I wouldn’t get a look in. So it was just the two of us, and Carlos. What a week, what a marvellous week. Like being a mother. I loved every minute of it. But Easter Sunday was special. Me, on her balcony in the morning sun. Me, on a little stool, sewing, leaning against her wicker chair. 39

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Rosa, cushioned and dozing, smelling of blossoms, in that pretty lilac robe with the broderie anglaise and ribbons spilling over. Now and then a cough but better every day, voice still quiet but eyes much brighter. The street below crowded with talk as families, all sedate in brown, made their way to church. Here and there tourists in shorts and white legs, alarmed to find shops closed for the morning, how would they manage? The sound of church bells bouncing off the buildings and echoing through town. Bells are different here; they clang with a nice tinny sound, not like the bossy bells back home. I stopped sewing to listen and Rosa whispered, “Mae dear, were none of those phone calls for me?” “Carlos needs new shorts,” I said quickly, “this side seam’s come apart again.” She wanted to know if Carlos had gone to church and I reminded her that he had not left the house since she became ill. “Mae, dear will you ask him to come up?” “He’s busy,” I told her, “labelling, repotting, double repotting.” Her voice faltered, “He never comes up. He doesn’t want to see me.” “Of course he wants to see you. He misses you, but he’s fourteen; at that age women’s bedrooms are scary.” “But this is his mother’s bedroom,” she sniffed. “Even more scary,” I replied. “I think sometimes he’s not like other boys,” she sobbed. “Rubbish,” I said, folding away the sewing, “that’s the shorts finished, time for your rest.” Lifting the blanket from her knees, I helped her out of the chair and into bed. Once there she laid a hand on my arm as lightly as a child’s and said, “Mae dear, I can never enough thank you for your wonderful care of me.” “Well,” I said, “somebody’s got to do it. Your friends were a waste of time, never came anywhere near.” She looked puzzled and said, “I wonder why none of them rang.” “Well, now you know what sort of people they are.” Mabelline you wicked woman. You’ll go straight to hell. What a picture she made,

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41

dark hair spread on the white pillows, big square pillows edged with local lace. Real sods to iron. Illness is a different state of being and a week later, when the doctor said she should come downstairs for an hour the world began to seem normal again. I’d made lunch on the patio for the three of us, fish mousse, steamed chicken. I told Carlos to arrange a few petals on the cloth, the way she liked it, and to fill her chair with cushions. “And when she comes down,” I said, “you’re to give her a big hug.” He went rigid. “What, what?” “I said you’re to give her a hug.” “No! no!” he spluttered in terror, grasping the chair. “Just kidding,” I said, “but you be attentive to her.” “What do you mean ‘attentive to her’?” “Well, pass her anything she wants,” I explained, “and don’t talk too much.” He looked thoughtful and said, “Shall I go up and change into my best shirt?” Blimey, I thought, initiative. “Carlos that would be a really nice thing to do.” I waited till he came down then went to fetch her. I expected her to be ready, but she’d fallen asleep with her head tilted to one side and an arm stretched out and somehow twisted. There was some sick on the sheet. Why hadn’t she cleaned it up? Why hadn’t she brushed her hair? And why was she looking at the ceiling? On the floor at the foot of the bed the water jug had spilled over. I’ve no idea how long I stood there leaning against the door, staring at the blue jug on the carpet, unable to move. I remember feeling angry at all the outside noise so I ran downstairs and out into the street to stop them. In the street I watched a woman screaming and running from one side to the other. First she crashed into the cafJ table knocking it over then she rushed into the queue at the money exchange shop and all the while she was shouting, “Rosa’s dead, Rosa’s dead.” The chef from the restaurant ran out and grabbed her by the arm. Then another man

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came and they both held her tight, in the middle of a crowd, till she calmed down. The woman was me.

*** death was cardiomyopathy, an inherited condition of over-developed heart muscles. She was thirty-three years old. The doctor told me she could not have had a better nurse.

THE CAUSE OF

CHAPTER 8

Carlos Starts Work

(Three years later)

A

t the end of the interview, the humiliating terrifying interview, the man behind the table said, “Start tomorrow morning, six o’clock sharp.” At that early hour there was little traffic but surely, thought Carlos, the drivers would notice how smart he looked. The new shorts were stiff and rough above his knees but he felt important and tall in the mist floating in from the sea, mixed with the smell of eucalyptus. Normally he enjoyed running uphill but today, fearful of scuffing his shoes on the patterns of white bricks made uneven by roots of trees, he stepped carefully. I’m a man now, I’m a man, he said to himself, I get up when the bell rings, I wash my ears and feet, put on clean clothes and walk out the door to work. He read the words on the main gate: “Paradise Gardens”, but couldn’t go in there; gardeners used the back entrance marked “Tradesmen”. Waiting inside the gate were four boys, about seventeen; his own age. At first Carlos stood apart, then one beckoned him across to stand with them.

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“I’m Carlos,” he announced with enthusiasm and began to shake hands with each one. They glanced at each other fumbling for a free hand. The one who’d beckoned to Carlos took his hand firmly with “Hi”. It was Filipe, a boy Carlos had been at school with. The others didn’t say their names. Carlos felt proud to be part of this group of new workers and grateful that Filipe walked next to him as they were all taken on a tour of Paradise Gardens. On the lowest level an area, named “The Lawns” by previous British owners, was surrounded by palms and eucalyptus, their grey leaves rustling in the slightest movement. Near a walnut tree a striped canopy shaded a trestle table. Senhor Roul, their new employer, pointing to a platform, explained that it was a portable dance floor used the previous night for a retirement party. “We do quite a few parties,” he added. Next came the packing sheds where plants and flowers were dispatched to local hotels, shops and markets. The group gathered at the long bench waiting for the boss to begin. “Our major business is cut flowers, arum lilies, orchids and strelitzia, known the world over as the bird-of-paradise flower. Tourists coming here are nearly all…what the hell are you doing?” Carlos was turning the pages of a catalogue on a side table. “Hey, it’s you I’m talking to.” Snapping the book shut Carlos sidled back to the bench. Somebody was laughing. Senhor Roul continued, “People like to take a box of flowers home. Flowers travel well in the hold of a plane and the blooms are fresher than any that can be bought in Paris or London. What d’ye think are our best sellers?” Under his breath Carlos muttered, “Strelitzia.” “Say it louder, lad, so your mates can hear.” “Strelitzia, Senhor,” he whispered, looking at the ground. Also on the lower level was the cactus garden and Carlos joined the crush peering down onto this miniature desert. The cacti were planted at ground level among sand and rocks, with curved edges where the sand met the winding pathway. A Mexican mamallaria as big as a

CARLOS STARTS WORK

45

pumpkin grew next to a giant opunto. Then came another question: “Which pest lives on cacti?” Although he knew the answer was “mealy bug”, Carlos did not speak. Apart from natural scabbing on ageing specimens there was not a blemish on any plant. Not a spider’s web, not a fly nor even a darting lizard offended the miniature landscape, where everything was bleached and silent. Every configuration of spikes, every colour change of old and new growth commanded his interest. Squatting down to count the lithops that looked like clusters of stones he was interrupted by Filipe: “Come on, everybody’s waiting for you.” Then began the uphill trek. The boss was panting as he pointed out the fields and terraces of flowers and herbs. Carlos closed his eyes to take in scents of lemon verbena and apple mint. By the time the hilltop was reached all the other trainees had been sent off to distant sections of the gardens. Far away were the mountains, down below were houses with the sea beyond. None of this mattered to Carlos. He had been put to work alone in the strelitzia fields and for the first time in his seventeen years he felt a kind of happiness.

*** PLEASED WITH THE morning’s work Carlos slapped his thighs with the

palm of his hands, a childhood habit. “Finished?” shouted Senhor Roul. Carlos, startled, felt his mouth go dry, the way it did when people spoke loudly. “Have you finished?” the boss repeated. “Haven’t you got a tongue?” Carlos wanted to answer but words wouldn’t come so he pointed to a bundle of flowers lying on the ground. At first Senhor Roul looked puzzled then shook his head in disbelief. He tucked the clipboard under his arm and pulled out a red cloth to wipe the sweat from his

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face. With the gesture of an operatic tenor he waved the cloth in the air and addressed the heavens. “Holy Mary! What have I taken on? Twelve blooms he’s cut in five hours. Twelve blooms!” Snatching the pencil from behind his ear he studied the clipboard. “Name?” “Carlos Mendes, Senhor.” “Well Carlos. You are a liar. You told me you were strong. You told me you knew about plants. Get your papers from the office, collect half a day’s wages and don’t come back.” With a shaking arm Carlos reached forward. The boss drew back, as if expecting a blow but Carlos was pointing behind the tool shed towards a display of flowers. They were in bundles of twenty, each bundle tied with twine, all the heads projecting sideways for protection. The stems were cut at an angle just above a leaf fold, every angle identical. At last he spoke, “You?” whispered his employer. “You cut all these?” Carlos nodded. “By yourself ?” again the boy nodded and wondered if he’d done something wrong. Senhor Roul stared at Carlos then at the bundles of flowers. “What I said just now…you know…about leaving. Forget it son. Just forget it. You’re all right. Take an hour off in the shade. And remember to return your empty lunch box to the kitchen.” Carlos liked the gingery smell of sap on his fingers. It took away some of the hunger, for he did not know that Paradise Gardens provided lunch for its workers. With an oily rag he wiped the knife and laid it beside him parallel with the slats of the seat. He looked out at the sea below, sparkling in the midday sun. The waves were like herds of silver-backed animals all rushing along. Outside the tool shed something was lying on the cutting bench. He’d left nothing there. When he stepped forward for a closer look it was a little strawberry cake. He looked all round, this part of the nursery was deserted. If he left it there it would melt in the sun, if he moved it perhaps somebody would come back for it. In the end,

CARLOS STARTS WORK

47

placing it in the palm of his hand, he carried into the shade. Fluted edges of pastry like the petals of a flower framed the tiny strawberries glistening under the scarlet glaze. Unable to stop himself he broke a piece off the edge to taste. The pastry was delicate and crisp, the fruit tangy and lively on his tongue. Hunger took over and he ate the whole tart.

*** of the afternoon he heard, from distant parts of the gardens, the calls and laughter of other workers. Carlos liked company but he did not know if he was allowed to wander. He would have liked to ask about the lunch box and where the kitchen was and whether it was OK to drink from the irrigation taps but mostly he wanted to talk. As he was leaving, he saw four or five of the others sauntering towards the gate and he hurried to catch them up. “Hey,” he called and Filipe, turning, stopped to wait for him. The rest of the group carried on downhill and they gestured to Filipe to rejoin them. “Hey,” Carlos called again. This time nobody turned round and soon he lost sight of them. In any case he had to go back to collect his jacket; he often lost things that way.

AT THE END

The bird-of-paradise is not a friendly flower. The flower head has upright waxy, orange wings. The sepal is a purple spike and the beak pokes forwards into those who come too close.

CHAPTER 9

Second Day at Work

C

arlos was first to arrive at the entrance gates next morning and, as soon as the others came, he spoke to them. “Where’s the kitchen, please?” No answer. He spoke again, this time arranging his lips in a smile, “Where’s the kitchen please?” They looked at one other. Before Filipe could reply the red-haired youth said, “Who d’you think we are? Tourist Information?” and they shuffled away. Carlos puzzled about this all morning. Tourist Information was in the main square, near the bus station. At midday Senhor Raul called on his rounds and, after checking the flowers and adjusting his little wire spectacles, he handed over a plastic box. “Lunch. Tomorrow, get your own.” “I…I…” Carlos stammered. “Spit it out lad.” “I don’t know where the kitchen is.” “Red roof. By the fig trees.” Carlos looked down to where the boss was pointing. “Every morning collect your lunch. Carry your box back on your way home.” Carlos moved away. 49

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“Where are you going?” “To eat.” “Don’t you want your food box?” In the tool shed Carlos wiped the trimming knife, placing it again on the bench parallel with the slats. He’d finished unwrapping the baguette of smoked fish when the Senhor stood in the doorway blocking the view of the sea and asked, “Where d’you learn about flowers?” “In…in a book, Senhor.” “A book?” Gulping the thick bread Carlos handed over a manual on commercial flowers, its corners curled and worn. Senhor Roul glanced at the cover. “You’ve read this?” Carlos nodded. “You can’t learn flower culture from a book.” “Not one book,” Carlos replied, facing the gaitered knees of the Senhor, “I have eighty others.” Crumbs were spilling from his mouth and he was ill at ease with the boss watching. He wanted to eat alone and read, and to sit while an older man was standing disturbed him. In any case he needed to crawl under the bench to get the peach that had rolled away. “Take a full hour off,” his boss ordered, stepping away from the door. Then he pointed to the outside cutting table, “And eat that tart before the lizards do.”

*** A HERRING GULL soared in the silence of late afternoon and butterflies

settled on tips of lavender as Carlos set off to find the kitchen. Jumping from the dry stonewalls of the terraces and leaping over the narrow water channels he wondered how to ask Filipe about the tarts without looking silly. Even if he didn’t get a chance to speak to Filipe he could at least walk home through town with all of them.

SECOND DAY AT WORK

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The red roof had been his landmark but it was out of sight now. Round a bend he reached the fig trees. Then he saw the house. The upper storey had arched windows and a semi-circular veranda behind a white balustrade of wrought iron in a regular flower pattern. Thin iron columns trailed with vines supported the veranda and underneath were stacks of wicker baskets and garden tools, leaning against walls that were once pink. Under broken chairs weeds pushed between the cobbles of the courtyard. Everything was shabby and neglected but the house was pleasing to him. “And what the hell are you staring at?” Two of the new trainees emerged from the shadows stubbing out cigarettes. “This house,” said Carlos. “What you staring at this house for?” It was the red-haired youth. “It’s like the buildings in Gone with the Wind.” They looked at each other. “You’ll be gone with the wind if you say you’ve seen us smoking. You’ve got us in enough trouble already.” Not knowing what to say Carlos held out his box, “Could you please tell me where the kitchen is?” “We don’t know anything do we?” “Follow me Carlos,” it was Filipe and he wanted to know how Carlos was getting on and if it was true that he was allowed to work alone.

*** MATCHING HIS PACE to the others, and with hands in pockets the way

Filipe did, Carlos hurried along with them to the exit gate. He was determined to be sociable and hardly waiting for a break in the conversation he jumped in with, “I’ve got a joke for you. Stop me if you’ve heard it. Two parrots sitting on a perch. One said to the other ‘Can you smell fish?’”

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“Well, go on,” Filipe said after a pause. “That’s it,” said Carlos, “that’s the joke. Perch. Get it?” They laughed, a groaning laugh at the play on words. Carlos slapped his thighs. “I know a lot of jokes,” he said, moving even closer, “There was a sign outside a café…” The red-head interrupted. “We know a joke, don’t we lads? The one about the hundred-stem-an-hour-flower-cutter.” And they ran ahead without him. Reaching a height of one and a quarter metres, strelitzia consists of clumps of greyish green leaves with long stalks arising from an underground stem. Emerging from a horizontal green boat-shaped bract in slow succession, the flowers resemble the crest on a bird’s head.

CHAPTER 10

Carlos at Home

I

gnoring the letter on his doormat Carlos began the evening routine of tending one hundred and thirty-nine plants. He now lived alone in an apartment. On the balcony he separated the trails of creeping pelargonium, asparagus fern, cymbidium and bougainvillea that spilled over the balustrade. Stepping over plants on the floor, he watered and sprayed, returning time and again to smell, with closed eyes, the gardenia. In the sitting room, which had no sitting room, he squeezed between shelf, table and windowsill rearranging pots so that plants that spent all day in the sun were changed with those in shade. Plants growing towards the light were turned to make them grow straight. He watered the pyramid where big pots supported smaller ones, which, in turn, held tiny ones. Every plant had some attention and a few words. “Your turn on the balcony tomorrow.” The nightly knock on the door made him jump. “It’s Aunt Mae. You there Carly?” He mimed her words as she spoke, cringing at the babyish name. She was mother’s friend from the apartment next door.

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Watering can in mid-air he gave his customary response, “Yes, Aunt Mae. Carlos is here.” “Did you see your new friends today?” No reply. “Your washing’s done. I’ll leave it outside the door.” Why did she speak so loudly? “Do I hear ‘Thank you’?” “Thanks.” “There’s a letter from America.” “Yes aunt.” “Good night Carly dear.” “This is Carlos. Over and out,” he intoned through an empty flowerpot. Next he took a loose-leaved book and, reading the numbered stickers on plants, he completed tables of data. Strelitzias had a book of their own, recording leaf measurements and diagrams of the flame-shaped pattern of the leaf and the pale circles appearing along the flames. Before reading his letter he stirred the bowl of strelitzia seeds, black and shiny with orange fluff attached, making them look like tiny buttons. The informality of the greeting was irritating. With a pencil he drew a circle round the words “Hi Carlos” and put three exclamation marks in the margin. Thanks for the info on the Australian ladybird. It’s an excellent predator for mealy bug. I experimented with warm milk as you suggested and the insect was much more lively. Do you think it prefers eggs to larvae? My students say it likes the chase best. I’m delighted to hear of your new job and about time too. Best wishes Bill PS I guess you know about next year’s global symposium on exotics.

CARLOS AT HOME

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He filed the letter in a box with others from the USA. Under the shower Carlos reflected on his second day at work. He should have asked that lad what was meant by, “You’ve got us in enough trouble already.” He should have followed when they rushed away. Perhaps he’d chosen the wrong jokes. The shower had not helped his strange tiredness and unease. And something was wrong with his new electric razor. It hadn’t worked since he washed it under the tap. There was one way to stop the tension. Into his thoughts he brought images of female tourists in shorts and sunglasses. These were girls he passed in the town, their bottoms moving in rhythm with each step of their long legs, smooth and brown as hazelnuts. He opened his front door and picked up the brown paper parcel of washing. He locked the door. He lifted his mother’s photo from the wall. Because the impulse was distressing he tried distractions, such as counting shirts in the drawer and straightening books, but the girls would not go away. On the bed he placed some tissue then he leaned on the pillows. Rhythms and pulses seized his body, backwards and forwards he rowed the waves of the incoming tide. Faster and faster till leaves and flowers floated in the delicious chaos. Now his breathing came deep and violent as he waited for the release that left him exhausted and overwhelmed by shame. The bird-of-paradise flower, a perennial herb of the natural order Scitameae, is native to the southern and eastern parts of the Cape Province and Northern Natal in South Africa, where it grows wild on the banks of rivers.

CHAPTER 11

Trouble at Work

E

ven though work soon became a routine, Carlos dressed quickly every morning and hurried through the town to Paradise Gardens. First to arrive and last to leave, he saw little of Filipe or the other workers. Although the gardens provided lunch he brought food from home to save time and he decided the little cakes of the first days were also provided by the gardens and put them from his mind. Sometimes the only person he spoke to all day was the truck driver collecting flowers in wicker trays and leaving empty ones. Occasionally, visitors wandered by in their sunhats, puffing uphill. They were mainly older people and only the keenest made the climb to the strelitzia field. At first he would hide when he saw them coming but a visitor once asked Carlos how to split roots and since then he found he liked talking about the plants. At lunch times in the shady tool shed, he would make notes on temperature, pollinations, insects, heights of seedlings and moisture levels. One day, on the tool shed floor, he found a pile of pages torn from his reference book. They were screwed up and ripped; the rest of the book was on the ground, a bottle of water spilling over it. With trembling hands he tried to flatten and straighten the pieces laying them out on the bench in page numbers. Smoothing the fine paper with its 57

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columns of tiny print was impossible. He thought it could have been done by an animal. Dogs were not allowed but he had seen a young boxer once or twice. Dazed, he stared out at the distant mountains and the sea. They looked the same as before. The tears that pricked his eyes made him angry. “No, no no,” he groaned repeatedly at his own childish response. Memories of bad times at school crowded his thoughts. He punched the walls of the shed, grazing his knuckles. He kicked the doorpost till tools jumped from their hooks. Senhor Roul rushed in. “Hey, hey, what’s the noise? What’s…” he stared at the scattered paper, picked up the book, shook the water from it and held it out. “What happened?” Carlos turned away. “Who did it?” “P…perhaps a dog.” “I said who did it?” No answer. Senhor Roul glanced at the book’s title. “It’s the world catalogue,” mumbled Carlos. “I can see what it is,” said the boss removing his wire glasses and wiping his face with the red cloth he always carried. He turned away from Carlos looking into the distance. Then he spoke, “I’ve never locked sheds. I’m not starting now. Look after your own things.” After the Senhor left, Carlos crouched on the bench rocking backwards and forwards, head in hands, trying to block out the voice of his mother. She’d been dead for three years but her words were still in his ears, “You must stick up for yourself. Don’t let people tread on you.” How could he stick up for himself if he didn’t know who’d done it? Her words would not go away so he leapt up, grabbed a rake, and carried it over his shoulder down the incline to where the ground needed tilling. He worked the rows with vigour, pushing the small rocks aside and smoothing the dry tilth, stopping now and then to lick his sore knuckles. To the rhythm of each stroke he muttered his anger.

TROUBLE AT WORK

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The catalogue came from California. It was expensive and difficult to replace. At last, exhausted from the work and with the taste of blood and soil in his mouth he leant on the rake. Something red was moving on the track – a flowered skirt swinging from side to side. A girl, head in the air, glancing round but taking no interest in the garden. It was unusual to see young visitors and she was alone, he was sure she was not a tourist. By the time he reached the track she’d disappeared. Under the irrigation tap he rinsed his fingers flicking drops of water on the bleached stones and waiting for the dark blotches to vanish in the sun. Inside the shed he gathered up the balls of paper and laid them, one by one, in the wastebasket. The rest of the catalogue had dried out and with the covers hardly closing over the buckled pages, Carlos set off for home with the book under his arm. Filipe was waiting by the gate. “What’s going off ?” “Nothing.” “Come on,” said Filipe, “must be something. Roul’s in a lousy temper. He says the top field is now out of bounds to everybody. What’s gone wrong?” “Nothing.” He wanted to tell Filipe about the book. Perhaps if they went together for a drink in one of the bars, he’d tell him. But he was unsure how to arrange it and what to do if his friend said no. Busy with these thoughts they’d crossed the main boulevard before Carlos realised what had happened. Suddenly he grabbed Filipe by the arm. “Stop, stop. Not this side. Let’s go back.” “Why?” Filipe asked, rubbing his arm. “The time-share salesgirls. Can’t you see them?” Down the hill five girls were waiting on the pavement, stopping tourists as they strolled past. “It’s our lucky day,” Filipe joked. “But they’ll talk to us. They’ll…you know, bother us.”

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“Carlos, they’re gorgeous. Let’s have fun.” Again Carlos grabbed Filipe’s arm. “Quick. Let’s go. Here’s one coming to speak to us.” “Excuse me sir, are you visitors?” Filipe bowed low, “Madam, we are millionaires from Panama. Kindly show us your brochure.” With fingers flying she flicked over the pages, smiling up at Filipe. “Would that be with the pool sir, or do you share with your friend?” Turning away Carlos ran to the traffic lights already flashing their green warning to wait. He dashed across, a white car edged forward. Running behind it into the path of a van he collided with the wing mirror, dropping his book. To honking horns and the screech of brakes he stopped, picked up the book and rushed to the other side. “Bloody lunatic! Crazy man!” yelled the van driver, hurling a cigarette end through the window as he accelerated away. People were looking at Carlos; he hid in a doorway bending forward to catch his breath. On the other side of the road he could still see Filipe talking to the girl in a white suit while others crowded round with their brochures and sunglasses. Soon they were all laughing together and leaning over the railings that looked down on the sea. Each flower is made up of three upright orange sepals and three highly modified vivid blue petals. Two of the petals are joined together in a structure resembling an arrowhead with the third petal forming a nectary at the base of the flower.

CHAPTER 12

Jemina

T

he next afternoon, stripping leaves from old plants, Carlos heard, close by, the bark of a dog. Every muscle stiffened. It was important not to show fear and not to give eye contact so he kept still while a boxer dog snuffled past searching the undergrowth. Then a voice shouted: “Here Pepe, here!” The dog, with a stick in its mouth, bounded over to the track. A girl stood waiting. The secateurs fell from his hand as he gaped at her. She was unlike anyone he’d seen before. Everything about her was dainty, the thin arms, the little sandals. Like many local girls this year she was wearing the traditional flower-sellers’ dress of the island. Scarlet waistcoat with laced front over a white blouse and a striped skirt reaching almost to her ankles. After taking the stick from the animal she looked directly at Carlos. She stood there, poised, with the mountains behind, black hair falling to narrow shoulders. Her eyes, under the fringe that wafted a little in the breeze, were dark and gleaming in their frame of lashes. There was a stillness about her, a calmness and, although she was not smiling, her face was kind. He thought she was about his own age or younger. He wanted her to stand there forever. 61

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“Hi Carlos.” Her words were so unexpected he almost fell over. Then she turned and, throwing the stick forward, skipped away down the track, her skirt swinging. Open-mouthed, he watched her go. It was difficult to think properly. How did she know his name? Who was she? Where was she going? Impelled to follow he set off down the track, keeping out of sight but catching glimpses of the skirt as it swayed from side to side. The dog ran ahead but it must have left the path because she disappeared after it. Then he heard screams, a high-pitched series of squeals. He rushed forward leaping the bushes, flying to her rescue, terrified at what he might see. She was in a clearing, holding the stick high above her head. The dog was leaping up and down trying to reach it, the stumpy tail pumping furiously, the air echoed to her screams. In a sudden lurch it pressed its front paws on the girl’s shoulders and they both fell to the ground. Her squeals changed to peals of laughter, stopping Carlos in his tracks. She was hugging and stroking the panting animal, hair spilling over the velvet folds of its neck. He crouched low, out of sight, catching his breath and horrified by the thought that he might have reached her before realising it was all a game. She was merely playing. What would she have thought of him? Waiting until after she had moved off between the young fig trees he made his way back uphill. He must find out her name. Then if she came again and said “Hi Carlos”, he could answer.

*** AT THE APPROACH of Senhor Roul his pulse raced with anxiety at the

misleading question he’d dared to rehearse. But the Senhor spoke first and Carlos momentarily forgot his lines. “Your book. It’s on order.”

JEMINA

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“The book, Senhor?” “The encyclopaedia.” “Oh.” “New copy for you, the office will see to it.” And he turned to go. “Senhor.” “What?” he said impatiently. Carlos trembled as he spoke, “Senhor. I must report a dog. A dog named Pepe.” “That’s OK. Belongs to my niece.” “Your niece, Senhor?” “Jemina.” “Jemina?” Carlos repeated. “She’s at the hotel school. She made that cake for you.” He watched his employer cycling away past the lavender bushes. As soon as he was out of sight Carlos began searching in the tool shed drawer, pushing aside old knives, hinges and dried up insects till he found what he was looking for, a tin mirror. He always knew he was good looking because his mother had always told him so. “Who’s my handsome boy then? One day,” she’d say, “the girls will come running to kiss your shoes.” Only they never had. Polishing the mirror with the hem of his shirt he studied his face; the fair hair, close cut to disguise the curls, the curls he hated. The more he’d tried to pull them straight the more they sprang back in coils. The hairline finished in a peak on the brow. Eyebrows straight across, pale blue eyes that children sometimes stared at: most islanders had brown eyes. Arranging his mouth into a smile that showed the even teeth he spoke aloud to his reflection, “She made the cake for me. She said my name. She likes me.” Now that he had a girlfriend he resolved to look smart all the time. Extra care with shaving, any cuts must be wiped clean or covered with a plaster. Fresh clothes every day, girls liked that. With a girlfriend there were many things to worry about. Outside the shed he lingered before setting off for home. The familiar surroundings looked strange that late afternoon. Between the

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orange sepals of a flower a chaffinch played hide and seek. The little piping sound of “Peter, Peter, Peter”, rested on the wafting scents of lavender. Unusually for April was a black swift swooping high till, with a sudden turn, it dived down to skim the tool shed. Over and over Senhor’s words sang in his ears: “She made that cake for you.” She had seen him, liked him, and made cakes for him with her small hands.

*** AFTER THAT FIRST meeting the thought of

seeing her again filled his days and he kept a look out for her all the time, staying on late, long after everyone had left, in case she came by. Why had he mentioned the dog to Senhor? Perhaps he’d told his niece not to bring Pepe into the grounds again. Perhaps Jemina was angry because he’d told Senhor about Pepe. Perhaps she would never come again. It was sometimes hard to concentrate on his planting records, he often found he’d written the same list twice; that’s because he was trying to decide what to say next time he saw her. Girls were difficult to talk to; perhaps she’d do the talking and he could stand and look interested. After every dirty job he rinsed his hands under the tap, fearful that she would find him with loam on his fingers, or sap, or brown streaks from the stripping work.

*** Friday the office was about to close when he went down to collect his weekly wages. His was the last packet in the

ON THE FOLLOWING

JEMINA

65

tray and while he was trying to check the tax and bonus figures Rui, the accounts clerk, said, “Have you seen the noticeboard?” “It’s on the packing shed wall,” Carlos replied, stuffing the wage packet into his shorts. “I mean, have you read it?” “No.” “How will you know what’s going on if you never come down to see the noticeboard?” said Rui, fixing the shutters outside the wooden hut. Rui was in a wheelchair. “I’ll do that for you,” Carlos said, wrenching the shutter from Rui with such force that it would have fallen from the ledge if Rui hadn’t rescued it. “Thank you, but I can manage: that’s my job,” explained Rui, adding quickly, “next Saturday there’s a party here, on the Lawns with a band, fado singing, dancing, everything. Only I’ll give the dancing a miss for once.” “Oh,” Carlos grinned, “I get it.” He liked the jokes Rui made about his own disability. “Will you be coming?” After thinking about it Carlos asked a question, “Will the trainees be there?” “Of course,” Rui nodded as he began the locking up. Carlos liked the idea of a party but he wanted to keep his distance from the two boys who were not at all friendly to him. He was not afraid of them, he told himself, but he would rather go fishing next Saturday. There was a joke that Carlos and Rui always shared on Fridays and as soon as Rui finished locking up Carlos began it, saying, “Right. I’m off Rui, see you on Monday.” “OK. Have a great weekend and leave the girls alone.” Carlos chuckled. “Girls won’t leave me alone!” he called over his shoulder as he made his way to the gate. But this time was different, Rui called him back. “Hang on Carlos, I’m stupid,” and he unlocked the door, wheeled himself inside and brought out a little box, “there’s something for you here, Jemina left it

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for you.” In the box, under the cellophane, was an oval-shaped biscuit covered in chocolate with cherries and nuts arranged on top. “For me,” whispered Carlos, “did she say it was for me?” “ ‘Give this to Carlos’, she said, ‘tell him it’s called a Florentine’,” replied Rui. He stood for some time staring at the present she’d sent him. This was the third cake and this time it was different. The other two had been left near his work area; this time she’d actually said it was for him. The first thing he must do was thank her but how could he do that if he never saw her? He would write a letter, yes, a letter, and leave it for her. He’d think about the words over the weekend and leave it at the office on Monday. The gift of the cake gave him a warm feeling inside and he wished he didn’t have the worry of the letter. With the box tightly in his grasp he made his way through the grounds to the gate. It was Pepe he saw first, being pulled along quickly by Jemina towards the car-park. They were some distance ahead and Carlos did not want Pepe to see him. Then the dog stopped at a pile of baskets and Jemina, turning to pull him away, saw Carlos. “Hi Carlos,” she called, “I can’t stop, I’m in a hurry. Are you coming to the party next week?” “Er…yes, I’m coming,” he answered quickly. “Great, I’ll see you there,” she called back. Carlos, rooted to the spot, watched till she disappeared between the palms along the car-park path and then he waited longer to go over in his mind the amazing happening of the last minute. She would meet him there, at the party, it was all arranged. She wanted to go with him. She wanted to be his girlfriend. He felt like running home through the town but he didn’t want to drop the cake and, in any case, his laces were undone. The exotic-looking flower was named Strelitzia reginae in honour of Queen Charlotte, the duchess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, wife of England’s George the Third.

CHAPTER 13

The Tailor’s Shop

R

unning home a few days later Carlos took a different route to avoid the May parade. It was nearly closing time in town and shopkeepers were removing the baskets, leather bags and embroidery souvenirs that crowded their doorways. Some shops had tables outside with wine and glasses for free tastings. Carlos rushed past a men’s outfitters and then stopped so quickly he almost collided with a wine table. He retraced his steps. There, in the window of the outfitters was a white tuxedo. Whenever Carlos pictured himself looking smart he’d be wearing a white tuxedo like Cary Grant in the old films he used to watch in the little arts cinema with his mother. He stood facing the shop in such a position that his reflection was wearing the jacket. He saw himself in it at the party, shoulder tilted forward, carrying wine in a stemmed glass. He would buy it. The shop door was open and Carlos stepped inside to where a man was sitting at a table reading a paperback. “How much is the tuxedo?” No reply. “I want to buy the tuxedo.” Still no answer, so Carlos bent forward to speak in his ear. “The white tuxedo, Senhor, how much is it?” 67

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Without looking up from the book the man replied, “Not for sale.” “But it’s in the window,” said Carlos. “So is my cat,” the man replied. Carlos thought for a moment before saying, “I don’t need a cat.” The man took a piece of ribbon from the drawer and laid it carefully along the page to keep his place before standing up. Round his neck a tape measure hung down over a yellow waistcoat and the traditional loose white shirt of the island. He began to tidy up the swatches of cloth, pins and cutting shears that littered the table. Finally he looked directly at Carlos. “The tuxedo is for display only. And please stand still or you’ll knock into the stock.” “Sorry, sorry,” said Carlos, “I want to buy it.” “We do not sell tuxedos. I can take your order for a custom-made, draped, lightweight…” “I need a tuxedo,” Carlos repeated clenching his fists in eagerness. “D’you know how long that garment has been in the window?” the man said, straightening a rack of ties. “Twelve years. It’s a landmark you see, a beacon. People say ‘Try that shop with the white tuxedo in the window’.” “But how much is it?” said Carlos who thought the tailor should be pleased to sell something twelve years old. “Will you excuse me, time to lock up,” and, leaving Carlos in the shop, he stepped outside to wind up the sunblind. When he came in again he said, “I thought you’d be gone.” Carlos did not know what to reply. “It is not today’s style,” the man said. “That’s all right, I don’t mind that,” said Carlos. “In any case,” said the tailor, “it may not fit.” “It’ll fit,” replied Carlos. “Oh. Will it? Homo sapiens, young man, comes in forty-nine sizes. All standard. And each size varying according to health, climate and season of the year.”

THE TAILOR’S SHOP

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Carlos nodded with interest. The tailor stood and looked at him, then, moving aside a display of braces, he took off his shoes and climbed into the shop window. “Before you leave, I’ll let you try it on, that’s all. The window needs cleaning out, anyway.” Unbuttoning the jacket he lifted it from the tailor’s dummy and stepped down from the window. With a brush he flicked dust from the shoulders. Then he helped Carlos into the tuxedo, raising the reveres and smoothing down the back. In the mirror Carlos saw himself transformed. He felt the shock of the silky lining against his bare arm, the rough firmness of cuffs on his wrist, the architecture of the lapels. He turned his head to feel the power of the padded shoulders and to take in the musty smell of old cloth. In the mirror was an elegant stranger. Even his face looked different. I’m Cary Grant, he said to himself. “It’s made for you.” “Made for me, Senhor?” Carlos queried. “The fit is immaculate, as if constructed to your measurements.” “How much?” Instead of answering, the tailor stepped back for a better view of Carlos. Then he glanced at the empty window. Scratching the side of his face he said, “It’s time I changed that display.” Then he looked at the ceiling for a while before saying, all in one breath, “Thirty thousand escudos, my lowest price, not negotiable.” “OK,” Carlos nodded quickly. “Is it for a fancy-dress affair?” “No.” “A civic reception perhaps?” “No.” “You’ll need black trousers of course and…” Carlos had learned how to deal with sales pressure and said, “No thanks. I’ll come back tomorrow when I’ve been to the bank.” When the man told him he could leave a deposit of two hundred escudos Carlos took a note from his trouser pocket, waited for the receipt, then started to leave the shop still wearing the tuxedo.

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“Where’re you going?” “I’m going home.” “You must leave the jacket here until the transaction is completed,” said the tailor. Carlos felt his mouth go dry. Swallowing hard he shouted, “You can’t trick me, nobody tricks me into paying for nothing.” “It’s merely a deposit, when the rest of the money is paid you take the tuxedo and…” Carlos shouted, “Senhor, I don’t pay unless I get the coat.” He was shaking so much he could hardly undo the buttons to take it off. “Nobody tricks me, d’you hear me? Nobody.” And with a wide gesture he accidentally knocked over the display of ties spilling their silky colours across the floor. The man backed away behind the counter, grabbing the note and holding it out. “Pick up your money,” he said calmly, “and take off the coat. Goodbye.” In spite of his confusion Carlos took up the note and laid the coat carefully on the chair before rushing out onto the pavement opposite. He was still standing there shaking, when the man came out, glanced at him and proceeded to lock up the shop. The aril of each seed is removed before sowing and soaked for 48 hours in an aqueous solution of glucose at a concentration of 1000ppm active constituent.

CHAPTER 14

The Nursery Sheds

A

ll day at work in the nursery shed Carlos thought about the tuxedo. There must be another place in town that sold jackets, a place that didn’t rip you off. He was pricking out seedlings from trays and resetting them, with a wooden skewer, into small pots. This was not a job to rush. Each one had to be held by the cotyledon, the primary leaf embryo – not a true leaf but the protective shield and source of nourishment – till seedlings grew. Handled in this way the warm leaf mould nourishing the silky root hairs stayed undisturbed. The pots were in rows running the length of the shed. Bending forward to check the soil by smell Carlos noticed something strange. The plants were in straight lines but if he moved his head from side to side the rows broke up. When he kept still the parallel lines re-formed. He walked to the opposite end of the nursery; the effect was the same. “Something wrong?” barked Senhor Roul leaning his bike against a post, breathless, not from pedalling, but from pushing it uphill. After turning his head to snatch off the wire glasses he wiped his face with the red cloth nudging up the brim of his straw hat and exposing the paler forehead.

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“No, nothing wrong, Senhor,” Carlos replied, trying not to look at the lines of plants. “I want a word with you,” announced the boss and Carlos put down the skewer and stood to attention. “See this shutter?” Senhor said striding across the nursery. “It’s to be kept rolled up.” On two sides of the sheds were adjustable shutters made of wicker weave and, except for rare low temperatures, these were supposed to be kept in the raised position. “Every night when I come by this side is closed,” and he grasped the handle and wound it up, grumbling with effort. “Yes, Senhor.” “Never mind ‘Yes Senhor’; why do you close it?” and with the side of his fist he banged the table. “Look at me when I speak to you. I’ve more to do last thing than wind up shutters. That’s your job. I trust you to do it.” Carlos did not know what to say. His lips stiffened. He was always puzzled at the way his boss questioned him about the work. They were simple questions like the acidity of the growing medium. Anyone would know the answer. And anyone would know why the shutter had to be kept down. “I asked you why you close it.” “To…to keep the wind out, Senhor.” “To keep the wind out! To keep the wind out! Breeze toughens plants, right?” “Yes, Senhor.” “I want that shutter open. All the time. Are you listening?” Carlos nodded. Senhor Roul crossed the shed to snatch the weekly record charts from the bulldog clips on the wall. Carlos followed. “Senhor it’s the…” “Spit it out, spit it out.” “Closing the shutters prevents pollution, Senhor.” “Pollution?” “Carried on the east wind from the Sahara, Senhor.”

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“That wind never did any harm,” he replied. Carlos pointed to some second stage plants. “The scorch marks…on the leaf edge, pollution, Senhor, wafted with the red sand.” The boss stared at Carlos then strode along the benches stopping every so often to pick up a plant and examine it closely. He returned to where Carlos stood waiting. “That scorching is nothing, nothing at all.” “Yes, Senhor.” “Well off you go, it’s time.” But Carlos lingered as he gathered up his tools because there was a question to be asked and he was so intent on framing the words that he did not notice his employer was lowering all the shutters. Realising that the boy was still there Senhor Roul yelled: “Now what?” “Senhor…” “I’ve not got all night. Spit it out.” “Senhor, what’s a deposit?” Except for commercial production Strelitzia reginae is usually propagated by dividing the plants or using suckers produced at the base.

CHAPTER 15

Carlos Buys a Tuxedo

A

unt Mae looked after his savings, just for the time being. It gave her something to do. The money came from his grandmother and if he needed any he only had to say so. Aunt Mae never asked what it was for; she immediately withdrew it and gave it to him in an envelope. One day soon he’d take over the account again himself but, well, he was at work in banking hours and in any case he didn’t want Aunt Mae reminding him of the time he’d lent money to a boy at the swimming club. Three boys in fact, a lot of money. But they would have paid him back. It was on a Saturday morning, two days after he’d seen the jacket in the tailor’s window, that Carlos stood outside the shop with thirty thousand escudos in a sports bag, only the tuxedo was no longer there. Through the open doorway there was no sign of the white jacket. He could see the tailor sitting reading. The tuxedo had been sold to someone else, perhaps one of the other workers had bought it ready for the party. By right it belonged to Carlos; he had seen it first, he alone had cleverly persuaded the tailor to sell it. For two days he’d carried the image of himself at the party in the white tuxedo. In his hand was the money. He was accustomed to disappointment but this surge of anxiety mixed with fear was unbearable. 75

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Perhaps there was another tailor on the island. He took one step inside the dimly lit shop with its earthy smell of woollen cloth. Conscious of his bad behaviour two nights before he whispered, “Excuse me, Senhor. Good morning.” It was a different book this time propped against a box of wax chalks. Elbows on the counter the reader held open the book with one long-fingered hand while, with the other, he coiled and uncoiled the tape measure hanging round his neck. Carlos stepped closer trying to see if he was near the end of a page. Briefly the tailor glanced up. “Sorry Senhor,” Carlos whispered, “I’ll wait till you’ve finished.” Still reading, the man indicated, with a wave, a chair next to the wall. Carlos placed the sports bag on the floor beside him. The shop’s black-and-white cat jumped onto his knee and Carlos automatically stroked its ears. He looked round the cluttered shop. No tuxedo. The party was that evening and every shop on the island would soon be closed for the weekend. He would wait five minutes and then creep out. From time to time voices of passing shoppers floated through the open doorway. Close enough to brush his cheek and smelling of must, brown paper patterns hung from a stand, tied together with yellowed string through holes. Scrawled over each pattern piece were numbers and letters, some fading with age. Squashed against the patterns was a tailor’s dummy with a half-made linen jacket; tacking stitches and pins separated each section. A label hanging from the sleeve said, “Patcholi. Wedding September”. In the window where the tuxedo had stood, was an azalea plant on a three-legged wicker stand. The buds had matured too soon and had already fallen. He wanted a closer look at the plant but the cat was now well settled. Trying not to disturb it Carlos stood up slowly and bent forward with one arm holding the sleeping animal in position. Keeping an eye on the reading tailor he edged sideways round the hanging patterns. He was just contemplating stepping up into the window when the man spoke. “Well done.”

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Carlos quickly regained his seat, the cat still deeply asleep. “You didn’t knock anything over this time,” said the man through thin lips as he continued with his reading. Carlos thought the tailor was a little strange. “I came with the money, Senhor. I’m sorry about…” “About what?” came the reply. “Thursday night. I didn’t…I didn’t know about deposits.” Licking his dry lips he asked quietly, “Has it gone?” Looking up at last, but still seated, the tailor held out a one-metre stick used for measuring cloth and pointed to a cardboard box tied up with string on the chair next to Carlos. “There, there it is.” “Oh,” said Carlos, “it’s sold then?” He gently laid the sleeping cat on the counter, picked up his bag and prepared to leave. The man leaned back in his tilting chair, running his hand through wispy black hair. “Young man,” he began, articulating every sound, “in that box, brushed, pressed and with tissue paper supporting every fold in military campaign style is the white tuxedo that you appeared to desire two days ago. Are you still eager to purchase? Yes or no?” “You mean…” Carlos began. “All ready for you.” “How did you know I’d be back?” No reply. Carlos laid the sports bag on the table. With trembling hands he unzipped it, took out the envelope and pushed it across the counter. “Thirty thousand escudos, Senhor.” Feeling the excitement of a new possession he picked up the box by the plaited handle and began to stammer his thanks, “Senhor…” “Goodbye,” the man interrupted, pushing the envelope in the drawer and returning to his book. “You…you haven’t counted the money, Senhor,” but the man waved him away.

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Negotiating the doorway with the parcel and the sports bag he whispered urgently, “The Azalea indica needs water, Senhor.” “Goodbye young man.” “And,” added Carlos before hurrying away with his prize, “some chilated iron.” When a pollinator, usually a sunbird, lands on the arrowhead of a strelitzia in search of nectar, the anthers are levered clear of the flower and deposit pollen on the breast of the bird. When the bird flies to another plant, this pollen is transferred to the stigma of the new flower.

CHAPTER 16

Party

C

ary Grant stands in a doorway, both hands pressing against the frame, hair dark and sleek each side of the white parting, expression quizzical as if he’s wondering how to answer a question. This photograph, a still from a Hitchcock film, used to hang in his mother’s flower shop, and Cary Grant’s white tuxedo and black tie were part of the childhood days of Carlos and imprinted on his mind. Now Carlos had propped the picture over his sink where he was trying to copy the hairstyle. The more he wetted his hair the darker it looked but the curls would not stay flattened until he rubbed in some olive oil. Even then, by the time he’d washed his hands several times the curls were lifting quite a bit. Keys, money, comb, handkerchief, he was almost ready. One final inspection of the plants and he could leave. An agave cactus, top heavy and falling over, stood in the sink waiting to be repotted. One last check of the cooker, taps, iron, a glance in the mirror and he could set off, except for another check of the cooker and he’d forgotten to switch the radio off. The radio was behind the spidery fronds of three Chlorophytum plants and, by the time he reached through, Freddie Mercury had finished singing.

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Outside Aunt Mae’s apartment he hesitated, went to knock, changed his mind and moved away. He wanted her to see him looking smart but she would ask him in and then he’d be late. At the top of the stairs he turned back to tap on her open door. Posing there, hand in pocket, he even felt like Cary Grant. She stood in the doorway waving her cigarette, Carlos could tell she was impressed. “Well, don’t we look terrific?” Pleased, but discomfited by the compliment, he muttered, “I’ll bring the laundry round tomorrow.” “Blimey, all hand stitched,” she said peering closely and lifting the lapels as he backed away from her fingers. “Do I remind you of anybody?” asked Carlos. Aunt Mae rubbed her forehead sending grey smoke into ginger hair. “Now let me see. There used to be a dishy Hollywood star, best set of gnashers in the business, black-and-white films, now what was his name?” “Cary Grant? Was it Cary Grant?” Carlos asked, inching forward. “That’s it, that’s the one. Step inside Mr Grant, I’ll give you the once over.” He didn’t like to refuse but if he went in he wouldn’t know how to leave and then he’d be late. Why had he knocked in the first place? “Thanks but I gotta go,” he said, backing away. Aunt Mae twisted round and leant backwards to where she could see her clock. “Did you say the party starts at eight, sunshine?” Carlos nodded. “But it’s only half-past six. You can’t set off now. Good people go late. Anyway, you’ve got to change your trousers yet.” “What? What’s wrong with these?” he said looking down. “You’re not wearing those?” “What’s wrong? The jeans have been pressed.” “Well, they… What about your grey linens, or the navy casuals, they’d be…”

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Why did she interfere? The jeans were fine, clean on, why didn’t she leave him alone? What did she know about looking smart? She was old, forty-nine. “They’re OK,” he insisted, knuckles tightening. “Carlos, stop shouting, they are not OK, at least come in while I mend that hem.” “No!” he shouted and his words echoed through the apartments as he made for the stairs. “No,” he shouted again, “I gotta go, these are good.” But Aunt Mae was behind him, with one hand she grabbed his sleeve and spun him round, with the other she jabbed the air with her cigarette and hissed: “Raising your voice at Aunt Mae is not allowed.” “OK, OK,” and he tried to pull away. Why did she spoil things? “Carlos,” she hissed again, still holding his arm, “what is not allowed? Answer me.” He didn’t want to say it but he’d have to. Looking down he mumbled, “Raising my voice at Aunt Mae.” This time she spoke softly. “Off you go then. Enjoy the party,” and he hurried down, taking the stairs two at a time. Once outside he prepared himself to walk through the town, on this special evening, looking like Cary Grant, but first he smoothed the sleeve of his tuxedo where she had held him back, and by smoothing the sleeve he smoothed her away. Climbing up past the big hotels in the June evening he rehearsed in his mind the way to greet Jemina. First he would stand next to her, not too close. She would be impressed by the jacket, and then, bending forward slightly he’d say “Good evening”, or would “Good evening Jemina” be even better? If she spoke first he could change “Good evening” and reply to whatever she said. It was a worry, not knowing beforehand what she might say so he must try to greet her first. Two people walked past and when they turned back to look at him Carlos realised he’d been speaking aloud. It was just a habit, but Aunt Mae said it was a bad habit and only lunatics did it. He’d be glad when

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she went back to England for good. She was always talking about it. Perhaps he hadn’t been speaking out loud after all. Perhaps it was the tuxedo that made people stare. Yes, it definitely was the tuxedo because even the car drivers were looking at him and they were too far away to hear speech. At first he felt uncomfortable with all the attention but soon began to enjoy their admiration; he would have to get used to it, Cary Grant did. There was plenty of time to practise his greeting as he waited for an hour outside the gate of Paradise Gardens. After saying “Good evening” his next words would be: “May I get you a drink?” She’d say “Yes, please Carlos”, and he’d go to the table or wherever the wine was served. Something he’d not considered was the seating. Where would they sit? What if all the chairs were occupied? Maybe he could find two chairs first, even before he did the greeting. As soon as the gate opened he would look for two seats. On the other side of the gate he could hear the band rehearsing dance music with the five-stringed vajado, the folk instrument that made Carlos want to tap his knees in time to the beat. Of course he wouldn’t be dancing tonight. He needed lessons before he did proper dancing. A bike pulled up with squeaky brakes. It was Filipe. “Carlos, why are you waiting here?” “For the party. The gate’s not open yet.” “We go in at the front. We use the front gate for parties, not the workers’ gate.” Carlos was worried as he followed Filipe down the road to the front entrance. He’d wasted a lot of time waiting in the wrong place. Jemina would already be there. Inside the grounds people were standing in groups, swaying to the music, laughing, holding glasses and tall cups. Lanterns hung on the trees and on the wooden struts round the food table draped in red cloth and laden with wicker platters of fruit and cheeses. Swirls of smoke from the chefs’ tables carried the smell of onions and salt fish. Jemina was nowhere to be seen.

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Then he became aware that he was not alone, five or six trainees were crowding round. The red-haired one was there with his friend but the others were strangers to Carlos. They were incorrectly dressed for a party, the red-head wore a football sweater and no one wore a jacket of any kind. Each carried a bottle of Kita, a light fizzy beer, and the friend pointed his bottle towards Carlos. “Oh, what a very superior garment Carlos. Do you plan to buy the business?” “No,” Carlos said, worrying in case the beer spilled over the top of the bottle. “Note the cut of that sleeve,” said another. “We wish we’d come in our tailor-mades, don’t we lads?” Carlos didn’t want them to be envious of his jacket and he was about to explain that it was actually not tailor-made when he caught sight of Jemina wearing a shiny orange dress, on the other side. She was looking round for him. “Excuse me,” he said, pushing forward and waving across to her. She must have seen him, even in the gathering dusk, because the whole area was well lit but she neither returned his wave nor seemed to notice him. Of course. It was the tuxedo. That’s why she hadn’t recognised him. Leaving the group, he tried to hurry through the crowd round the edge of the platform to make his way to where she stood, but it was too difficult. He thought of taking a short cut across the empty dance floor but thinking it may not be allowed he crossed behind the band. When he looked up after picking his way over trailing wires and flexes, Jemina had gone. Perhaps she was looking for him. He should have waited; she must have seen him after all. Then he spotted her, talking to somebody, a tall man with a lined face. The man stood looking down at Jemina and she was laughing and shaking her head as if to say “No”. Suddenly she turned from the man and ran off into the trees, with the man following. Carlos hurried to the place where Jemina had been. The evening was not right. Nothing was happening the way it should. Perhaps,

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after all, she had not seen him. And he was late coming to the party. Girls didn’t like that. That’s not how it was done. It was his own fault for waiting at the wrong entrance. Now Jemina had had to put up with the company of an older man. If only he could find her he would explain and she’d understand. The night sky was black but under the trees where Jemina had run were pools of light, colouring the lavender bushes that filled the evening air with scent. Carlos stepped over them as he peered round, wondering which path she’d taken. For a moment he stood in the silence listening to the music, made soft and mellow by distance, when he heard a squeal followed by screams. At first he was too shocked to move and then, with mouth dry and heart pumping, he rushed towards the direction of her shouts. She was in a clearing; he saw the orange dress running from one tree to another, hiding. The man appeared and she ran away again, passing not far from Carlos and still shouting. The man dashed past and Carlos, driven by fury, chased after him and threw himself at the man’s legs, grabbing him round the knees from behind. With a thud and shout the man crashed forward and Carlos fell on top. The man reached round and tried to shake him off but Carlos grabbed his arm and twisted it back till the man yelled for help. Two people dragged Carlos away, pulling him along the path by his legs. When he tried to get up they sat on him. Raising his head he was puzzled at first to see Jemina kneeling next to the man and stroking his face, but he decided that girls were soft and silly and full of pity. There were shouts of “Get the police”, “Stop the music”, “Ring the hospital”. Waves of nausea engulfed him and everything went still and blurred. Through the stillness came voices, close but sounding far away. Angry voices. Legs were running in the darkness under the coloured lights. He lay, face down in the earth, with two men sitting on him and a third with a foot on his neck. Every breath sucked in grains of soil.

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Better to turn sideways, even if twigs stabbed into his cheek. When he tried to lift his head, the foot on his neck pressed harder. One arm was trapped under his body, the other was bleeding and staining the white sleeve of his jacket. Why were they doing this to him? Straining for breath he shouted, “Let me go!” The foot kicked his shoulder. Waves of anger rose inside blotting out the pain and erupting in a rush of vomit. The fruit of the bird-of-paradise is a leathery capsule containing numerous small seeds, each with an orange aril (an outgrowth from the seed similar to the red sheath around yew seeds) and an oil body, possibly to attract birds.

CHAPTER 17

Mabelline’s Club

S

aturday nights I go down the Anglo-American club. Everybody knows what sort of club it is. Everybody knows, nobody tells. This is a religious country; churches fill up on Sundays like Harrods at sale time. Sometimes the club charters a week’s flight home. Not for me. I can’t wait to leave the island but a short visit’s not the same. It’s half a life without Rosa, no it’s not, it’s not even half a life. Carlos is in permanent work and once he’s eighteen I’m going back for good. It’s the winters I miss most, frosty mornings, chucking bread at garden sparrows. And winter weekends, walking the Peak District in snow drifts, half blinded by glistening snow crystals, pearls of frost on your scarf, flask of coffee in a barn and not a tourist in sight. I don’t belong on this island now and I want to go home. At times it’s like a pain, right here, under the ribcage. Anyway, the shop’s sold and the money’s in trust for Carlos ready for when his common sense kicks in, if it ever does. I rent two apartments, one for me, one next door for him. He thinks he’s independent but when he’s out I nip round and clean up. Never notices a thing. What else do you wanna know? Oh yes, work. I run my own delivery service; luggage and boxes of flowers to the airport, seven blooms to the box. I’m sick of the sight of bird-of-paradise flowers, I 87

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like snowdrops. On my van in two languages it says, “Mabelline can take it”. Good, innit? Anyway, back to the Anglo-American club. I was organising a snooker tournament for the crowd when Nick in the bar said a police officer wanted me at the door, I thought my van was in the way but he said Carlos was being questioned at the station and would I go down because he was still a juvenile. I said to the officer, “Look here, he’s not much good as a witness,” but he interrupted and said, “He’s not a witness, he’s a suspect.” “Impossible, wrong guy,” I spluttered into my rum cocktail. He shook his head. I wanted to know what Carlos was supposed to have done but he told me that information was deliberately kept from escort officers. Mabelline, keep calm, it’s all a mistake, just get in the patrol car and enjoy the ride. “Seat belts please, madam.” It was only five months since the island had joined the European Community and already we were tied up in seat belts. I finally managed the damn straps and pulled out a Bensons. “Sorry,” and he pointed to a “No Smoking” sign. What was happening to this country? It used to be civilised; you could smoke anywhere. I looked at his profile. Young chap, twenty-two, twenty-three, fresh face, nice hands, wedding ring glinting each time we passed a streetlight. He saw me looking and said, “You used to work in Rosa’s shop, didn’t you?” Oh Christ, after three years I still stop breathing at the sound of her name. You’d think they’d have stopped by now. The shop had to go in the end. “Where’s Rosa?” “How’s Rosa?” You can’t deal with that day after day. That, and the English customers making me homesick. “You know,” he said, “Rosa, in the flower shop, you used to work there.” I didn’t answer and I didn’t like strangers talking about her. And I didn’t want to talk at all. “Mm,” I muttered, trying to shut him up.

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Then he said with a sort of pride, “Rosa did the flowers for our wedding.” “Are we nearly there?” I asked. “She did all the weddings,” he went on, “my wife reckons the girls used to book Rosa’s flowers before they booked the priest.” At the station the walls of the reception room were covered with posters of grinning tourists. “Look left before crossing.” “Full licence required for hire cars.” Big display of flowers on the desk; wonder where they get them? I knew the place because I have to go in to sign the alien papers once a year but now there was a female officer at the desk, another EU innovation. She wore a short-sleeved blue blouse. Unbelievable complexion, completely flawless with a sort of bloom on the cheeks and all natural. I said, “OK miss, I’m here. Where is he? What’s the charge?” She spoke in a little-girl voice, “He’s in interview at the moment, madam. Please take a seat.” “Perhaps my Portuguese is not too good,” I explained with my best smile, “I’ll try again. What is he being interviewed for?” She waited a long time before deciding to break the rules and whisper, “I think it’s some trouble at a party.” “Thanks,” I said patting her hand before finding a seat. Christ, Carlos, I thought, what could you have done? He didn’t have enough imagination to get involved in anything criminal and he had no idea how to speak up for himself, he trusted everybody. Victim, yes, every time. Criminal, never. It was a hot night, even with the door open, and I was sticking to the plastic chair with fear. After a while I looked round. There was something familiar about the man sitting opposite, head in his hands, staring at the floor: it was Senhor Roul. The only other people there were three lads mucking about at the back of the room, tapping each other and laughing. The ringleader had red hair. “Will you be quiet please,” the woman PC called from time to time. The red-head clapped his hand over his mouth each time she spoke then burst into splutters. When the other two giggled he wagged a

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finger at them mocking her in a high-pitched voice, “Will you be quiet please?” I strode across the room to stand in front of him. For a minute he stopped chewing. “Glasses might suit you,” I said, “Me? What d’ye mean? I don’t need glasses.” “OK,” I told him, “see that blue chair by the wall?” “‘Course I can see it.” “Prove it, step over there and sit on it.” He opened his mouth to protest. I moved even closer, two inches from his stupid face, eye to eye, pointing to the chair. He slouched over and sat down, looking at the ceiling. There was no more banter after that. The woman PC beckoned me to the desk to ask quietly: “What’s the secret?” “Isolate the ringleader,” I whispered, leaning over the desk, “and try not to be so pretty.”

CHAPTER 18

Police Station

C

arlos could not understand why the police officer went everywhere with him, hurrying by his side along the hospital corridor and staying in the cubicle while a doctor cleaned the wound on his wrist where the bone showed through. When he’d finished, the doctor asked if it hurt and Carlos shook his head because it seemed ungrateful to say yes after it had been bandaged so carefully. Then Carlos had to sign a paper saying he was satisfied with the treatment and after that he was rushed back along the corridor by the officer, their footsteps echoing through the silent building. Carlos was tired and had difficulty keeping up and when he asked, breathlessly, what had happened to his jacket the officer stopped to write the question down in his notebook but gave no answer. Everything was happening so quickly and in a such a confusing way that Carlos was glad when he was put in the back of the police car to be driven home through the dark and deserted streets. But he wasn’t taken home, he was driven to the police station instead, where he had to fill in a form. He couldn’t understand the first question and asked, “What does ‘Grievous Bodily Harm’ mean?” “That’s the charge, that’s the offence you are charged with. Just sign here that you understand it.” 91

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Carlos, tapping the end of the pen on the table looked round, scanning the walls. “Don’t you realise you’re under arrest?” “Yes,” whispered Carlos, “but it’s a mistake. When can I go home?” Each time he spoke his words were written down. “You have to attend the interview first.” “What interview?” “For questioning regarding the charge. First you make a statement then you go to the interview.” The statement didn’t take long and then Carlos had to wait in another room with wooden panelling. A policewoman sat at a table by the door and she gestured to Carlos to sit down at the desk in the middle of the room where there was some recording equipment and a jug of water. Carlos sat looking at the water and the policewoman said, “You can take a drink any time you need one.” He grabbed the jug and poured some in the plastic cup spilling a few drops on the table. He looked round wondering how to clean it up but the woman came over to wipe it with a tissue. “Thank you,” said Carlos as she went back to her table. “Oh, and thank you for telling me I could drink the water.” After a while the door pushed open and a tall man in a suit strode in carrying some papers and looking cross and impatient. He stood in front of Carlos and snapped: “Name?” “Carlos Mendes.” “Stand up.” Carlos jumped to attention. “Listen carefully while I read your statement back to you.” Carlos tried to explain that it had already been read out to him but the man ignored him. “‘On the evening of June 15th I was at a party in Paradise Gardens and a man I had not seen before chased my girlfriend, Jemina, into the trees, trying to catch her to do her harm. She was crying and shouting so I ran to help. I caught up with the man and held on to his legs till he

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fell to the ground. Then some men I knew grabbed me and held me down till the police came.’ Are these your words?” “Yes.” “Yes, Senhor.” “Yes, Senhor.” “Did anybody tell you what to say or what to write?” “No, Senhor.” “You can sit now,” said the detective moving behind to a position where Carlos could not see his face. “You say in your statement that you didn’t know who the man was?” “No, Senhor,” said Carlos, “but he is a very bad man.” “Just answer questions, don’t add words. You say the woman you call Jemina is your girlfriend and you arranged to meet her at the party?” “Yes, Senhor.” “Tell me about this arrangement. Did you ask her to go to the party with you?” “No, Senhor.” “Well, if there’s an arrangement somebody usually says something to somebody,” said the detective raising his voice. “She said ‘I’ll see you there’.” “Where were you when Jemina said that?” “She called across to me on her way to the car-park.” “And that was the whole invitation from her to the party?” “Yes, Senhor.” “How long has she been your girlfriend?” “Since she made cakes for me, Senhor.” “Tell me about the cakes.” Carlos began to explain about the cakes but the man interrupted coming to stand in front of him and asking, “What age do you think I am?” “I don’t know, Senhor.” “Guess,” he ordered.

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Carlos, looking at the thin moustache and dark thick hair mumbled: “About twenty-six.” “Nearly,” said the detective moving behind again. “I’m forty-two. Is something wrong with you?” “I hurt my wrist, Senhor.” “That’s not what I mean. Do you have trouble guessing the correct age of people?” “No, Senhor.” “How old is Jemina?” “Seventeen or eighteen.” “And you say she is your girlfriend?” “Yes, Senhor.” “Do you sleep with her?” Carlos knew he had not heard the question properly, he glanced across at the policewoman but she was writing. “Senhor, what, what was the question?” “I asked did you sleep with her?” Carlos leapt up from the chair, pushed the table, knocked the water cup over and, turning round to his questioner, shook his fist and spluttered: “Such filthy dirty talk, such…” Instantly the detective forced him back on to the chair, pressing down on his shoulders till it hurt and shouting in his ear, “You sit when I say sit, you stand when I say stand, and you answer questions when I ask them. Is that clear?” Carlos nodded, frightened by the tone of voice, the pressure on his shoulders and still outraged by the question. He answered in a whisper: “Yes, Senhor.” “You are already in big trouble, young man.” There was a pause then he said more quietly, “I’m leaving you to calm down. The woman constable will take over. Answer her questions and stay seated.” Angry and trembling Carlos reached forward for the empty water cup holding it tight against his chest with both hands. In this way he

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was able to stop himself from crying. As the detective left the room another officer came in to stand next to the policewoman. After a while the policewoman came over to the desk, touched his arm, and said: “Is your wrist still uncomfortable?” Carlos shook his head. “You must answer his questions, even if you don’t like them. His job is to help you, to give you a chance to explain truthfully what happened. You can’t just say nothing. Do you understand?” “I think so,” said Carlos, his voice wavering as he added, “it was a disgusting thing to say, a terrible and disgusting…” She interrupted with “Can I ask you something now?” Carlos nodded. “Did the two of you go out together for a walk or anything?” “No.” “Did you chat together at the gardens?” “No.” “Have you ever spoken to Jemina?” “No, not really…” She moved closer, removing the cup from the grasp of his hands before going back to her table. The only sound in the room was her scribbling and it seemed a long time till the door was flung open and the detective returned to stand directly in front of Carlos. “Stand up,” he began, “and listen carefully while I give you important information.” Carlos stood as the officer read from notes. “Senhora Jemina da Costa is thirty-two years old and…” “No, no, that’s wrong,” protested Carlos. In a flash the man raised his hand to quieten him. “If you interrupt again I’ll keep you here all week.” Carlos nodded. “She studies patisserie at the hotel school. Sometimes she brings cakes to distribute among all the trainees at her uncle’s gardens. Senhora da Costa is married with two young children.”

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Carlos opened his mouth to say something and instantly the hand was raised again. He swallowed hard. “She attended the party with her husband Luis da Costa. They were running together among the trees playing chasing games. You attacked him, breaking his arm.” Carlos felt his head swimming. “Now,” said the questioner, “now you may speak.” Hand pollination is necessary to produce seed, but this seldom works. For germination and initial growth, the seeds need bottom heat of at least 21°C. Some new stocks of seed-raised plants can reach flowering size in two to three years, but individual specimens may take up to ten years.

CHAPTER 19

Supervision Order

I

could have told them he was crackers. Only nobody asked me. They asked the school, his boss, workmates, even Grandma in Lisbon, but nobody asked me. After all, he’s not my responsibility is he? Who am I? Some foreigner. What should I know about him? I’m nobody. Just the woman who’s looked after him since his mother died. Just an old foreign dyke, a non-catholic old foreign dyke, with nothing else to do but clean his lavatory when he’s gone to work. The social report mentioned possible Asperger Syndrome, whatever that is. It also said he has a passive, gentle manner but with poor social skills, minimal empathy with peers, easily frustrated, hyper-sensitive and given to occasional uncontrollable rages. In other words – crackers. He got away with it. What sort of country lets you get away with breaking a bloke’s arm? I’m sorry for him, of course; but some sharp punishment might have taught him a lesson. Then again I doubt it. I can’t see him changing; he never learns from experience. If you’re crackers, you’re crackers. They dropped all the charges – one-year juvenile supervision order. Now here’s the funny bit. They knew whose name to put on the super97

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vision order to guarantee he’d stay out of trouble for twelve months. They knew who to ask to take him down the station every Saturday night at eight o’clock to report to the duty officer. I was the one designated to give up my Saturday fun at the club. Fun! That’s a laugh. Two brandies and talking dirty with the boys over the pool table, followed by disco jigging and hard-core flirting with the girls. For me, instead of all this social whirl it was a wander through town for the next twelve months with Carlos five paces behind so he could pretend I wasn’t with him. The invisible aunt Mae. When the supervision order first dropped through my letterbox I was that mad I rushed straight round to the station and demanded to see the superintendent. Looking pleased to see me, that young policewoman on the desk explained he was at a conference. “That’s all right,” I said, “I’ll sit and have a Bensons.” “He may be some time.” “I’m going nowhere. I’ll smoke the packet.” “You don’t understand,” she whispered, “it’s a full-day regional conference, off duty.” I laid the papers on the desk, folded my arms and smiled at her. She disappeared and then came back with the super. Safari suit, very smart, like an ice-cream salesman. They don’t look so important out of uniform do they? “Some irregularity, madam?” he said. Now that word “madam” irritates. Always sounds like an insult. “You’ll have to scrap it,” I told him, pointing to the papers, “it’s wrong.” “Oh, I’m sorry madam. I’ll order an immediate scrutiny. We are normally meticulous with documentation.” He glanced through it. “What exactly is the error?” I tapped the paper. “See my name, there. ‘Mabelline’?” “Yes.” “Well it has two ells, not one. Two, one standing next to the other. Alter it, send a new copy and I might sign it.”

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Without waiting for his reaction I left and set off to walk back the long way round, by the coastal path. It was nine in the morning and the mist was still lying on the water. Dazzled, I stopped to put sunglasses on. People back home in the Midlands go mad for a sight of the sea; half the time here I don’t even notice it. Up the coast the early jets were taking off. Four hours and they’d be home. Funny how I’ve started to think of it as “home”. I’ve always called it “back in England”. It’s June there now. Smell of grass clippings in all the gardens. Buttercups in green meadows. It’s years since I stood in a field of cows and watched swallows dipping in the long evenings. Somebody shouted, “Hang on a minute!” It was the policewoman, nicely flushed from hurrying. “I…er…wanted to say something.” “Well, go on, there’s no charge.” “You got me in trouble back there.” “What, me?” I said. “How on earth did I do that, WPC 144?” “Making me fetch him out of the conference.” “So?” “I was ticked off for it.” “He’s just a bloke,” I said, “an ordinary bloke, he passes wind like the rest of us.” She looked away and started to giggle, then burst out laughing covering her face with both hands. The uniform suited her, blue shirt, matched her eyes, sleeves rolled up, open collar. Blonde hair tied back in blue ribbon. No rings, perhaps they weren’t allowed. I told her I was sorry for what I’d done at the station but she said he’d soon forget it and she’d better get back to work. When I asked if her boyfriend minded her being in the law she said, “I don’t have boyfriends.” Steady on Mabelline, that remark doesn’t mean a damn thing. “Will you be there Saturday nights,” I asked, “when I report in with the arm breaker?” “No, juveniles use a different entrance.” She turned to leave and then changed her mind. “Er…did you mean it the other night?” “What other night?”

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“You know,” she said, looking down, “when you were in the waiting room, that night with those lads? Did you mean what you said?” “What did I say?” “You said, ‘Try not to look so pretty’.” “’Course I meant it,” I said. “You’re the best-looking copper I’ve ever seen.” It was only my joke but she was flustered, she didn’t know where to look or what to do. She was blushing, eyes looking down then out to sea, mouth open, half smiling. Speaking to her shoes she stammered, “I…I have to go back,” and she turned away half running down the path; one glimpse of her blue blouse and she was gone, leaving me standing there, stunned. Mabelline, she likes you, it’s in her eyes, she likes you. I began to feel alive again. What an amazing affair we had. I worshipped her. The magical shopping trip to Paris, walking in the Alps, hotel dinners for two. What tender nights embraced us. What wonderful secrecy; the excitement, the quiet understanding. What an amazing affair. But it was only in my head and all over by the time I reached home from the police station. She was too young. It was wrong. I’d seen it often at the club, older women with young femmes. It was exploitive, predatory and not right. So, instead of the affair with Policewoman 144, I made myself a pot of tea.

CHAPTER 20

In the Café

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here was not much work on the island. Aunt Mae was always making suggestions about jobs, speaking to Carlos from behind his closed door. Bar work was well paid, she said, and so was hotel porter, mini-bus driver, even swimming-pool cleaner, but Carlos knew he could not do them. Even if he got used to the awful smell of beer in a bar he couldn’t talk to customers and add up money at the same time. On work practice from school he’d once worked as a hotel porter but was so nervous of using the lift that sweat had dripped on his uniform and he’d had to leave. On the island were two other commercial growers and when his supervision order expired he would send letters enquiring about working there. Carlos watched from his balcony as a heavy shower gave way to sunshine. First the sky lightened and gulls screeched, then shopkeepers wheeled their goods and displays on to the street again. Waiters wiped puddles from tables and chairs outside the bar opposite; the one he thought of as Coral’s place. The terracotta tiles of the roofs dried off in patches changing colour as he watched. Then the street below, narrow and free of traffic, amazingly began to fill with people. They swarmed out of shop doorways, currency exchange centres and taxi offices, the noise of their chatter drifting up to his open windows. 101

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Tables at Coral’s were filling up, one woman placing a newspaper on her seat before she sat on it. Then the moisture-laden air bathed his balcony and, closing his eyes, he captured for a moment a warm humid atmosphere like a glasshouse full of aquatic plants. Although the café-bar was directly opposite he had never been there because he did not like to sit alone, people might stare. They would wonder why he was without company and might even pity him. Although Aunt Mae had assured him that nobody knew who he was, his name had been in the local papers and he did not go out in daylight. Looking down on the café, he envied the groups with their busy talk as they passed things to each other over the tables. One man was alone reading a newspaper and Carlos wished he had the courage to do the same. Or just to visit the place with a friend. His chance came that very afternoon.n Somebody knocked on the door, light and tentative. At first, Carlos thought nobody was there, but standing back a little was Filipe, on a workday, but wearing a tie. Carlos had not seen him since the trouble and his lips went dry. Filipe held out a hand. “Hi Carlos. I was passing and thought I’d say hello.” Even as he returned the handshake Carlos knew his fingers were shaking. He was not used to visitors but he wanted to be hospitable. “Please, please come in.” Filipe did not move but said, “Can you spare time for a cup of coffee with me?” “Sure, step inside. I have coffee.” “How about one across the road in the café ?” Filipe asked. Carlos hesitated. “Will you…will you order from the waiter?”

***

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FROM WHERE THEY sat in Coral’s he could look up at his own balcony,

the one with trails of greenery. He was down here at last, part of the crowd, men in suits with serious faces, leaving coins on a plate, mothers with children, foreigners his own age, showing off their purchases. He was here among them, here with a friend. After a while he became aware that Filipe was speaking to him saying, “I’m not working Carlos, we’ve been laid off.” “Laid off ?” “We’ve lost our jobs for two months, perhaps longer.” At first Carlos felt a rush of fear, wondering if it had anything to do with the trouble at the party, trouble that he now realised was all his own fault. “Trainees are laid off first and some of the older men are on short time.” Carlos wasn’t sure what short time meant but it sounded bad. He asked why. “Plant virus.” Lowering his coffee carefully on the saucer he leaned forward, “Plant virus at Paradise Gardens?” Filipe frowned, “It could spread over the whole island.” “What is it? When did it start? What does it look like? What’s the smell? Did he use pesticide? Which plants are affected?” “Only strelitzia.” “Not my strelitzia?” “Sh,” said Filipe moving in closer, “Not so loud, everybody’s listening. It started a month ago. Mature plants began to droop, tuber rot and a foul smell.” Carlos tapped the table. Flashing through his mind were the seeds that took five weeks to germinate, tender seedlings he’d pricked out, rows of pale shoots he’d nursed to strong plants ready for the fields. He gripped the table and held his breath before the next question. “This virus, is it, is it in the nursery sheds?” Filipe shook his head. “No, only in the fields.” Carlos raised his hand in excitement, “No problem. Fungus. It’s fungus.”

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“Listen Carlos, there is a problem. Senhor wants to know what sort of fungus and…” “Basidiomycete of course.” “Whoa,” said Filipe, “let me write it down,” and he began to write on the paper serviette. “You can’t do that!” hissed Carlos looking round the café, “That’s your serviette!” “OK forget it, just forget it,” and, sliding the cups to one side, Filipe opened his briefcase and took out some papers. The waiter was going round looking in the cups and filling them up if they were empty. Carlos wondered if they had to pay extra. “This is the lab report,” explained Filipe, “from the National Federation. Came from the mainland this morning. Senhor sent me to find you and ask you to read it.” A rush of confusion overwhelmed Carlos. Why would Senhor send the report to him? What would he know that the growers’ lab didn’t know? Perhaps it was a trick to get back at him for the trouble at the party. “No, Filipe, you’re wrong. No sir. Senhor wants nothing to do with me again, ever. He said so,” and he pushed the papers away. “He thinks you can identify the disease.” “I don’t know anything.” Again Filipe slid the papers in front of Carlos saying, “Here, at least you can read it.” Carlos banged the table. “I don’t work there.” “Soon,” said Filipe, “none of us will be working there.” From the moment he began to read the report Carlos became a different person. He sat upright in his seat, squared his shoulders and, with a flick of his hand, dismissed the waiter hovering with more coffee. First he scanned through a description of the symptoms while muttering aloud the words on the page: “A mushy wet rot of roots, stolons, crowns and flower stems of bird-of-paradise plants rapidly killing host tissues at ground level and quickly reducing whole plants to a putrid mass.”

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Filipe cut in with, “Is that Basid…Whatever you said before?” “Please, let me read it,” interrupted Carlos, moving his coffee on to a table nearby and ignoring the man sitting there. Then, using Filipe’s spoon to focus on each word he read to the end. Finally he turned the last pages over, searching for the summary and conclusion which would identify the pathogen. “Where’s the last page?” he asked Filipe, “The outcome of the analysis, where is it?” “I don’t know. That’s all there is. Now you’ve read it Senhor wants you to come to the gardens to see the diseased plants.” But Carlos had not heard. He was going back over the pages, staring into space from time to time and rubbing his knees. “Are you coming with me?” Filipe asked. “Coming where?” “To the gardens to see the plants of course.” “No, no sir. Those gardens are out of bounds to me.” “You don’t understand Carlos. This island runs on those flowers. Venice needs the Grand Canal, we need the birdie flower. I’m supposed to take you with me now.” The morning had turned fearful. Carlos stared wildly round the café. “Look,” said Filipe, “just a quick visit, that’s all.” Carlos held Filipe by the arm. “But don’t you see? Senhor will be there.” “No, he won’t,” replied Filipe getting up. “He won’t be there, because he’s here. Outside in the van, waiting for us.” Other strelitzias include the 10m tall Strelitzia nicolai, named after the Russian emperor Nicholas I, with its striking blue-and-white flowers. This species is a native of the coastal regions of Natal and the eastern Cape Province. Another variety is the very rare Strelitzia alba from the south coast of Cape Province with its snowy, white flowers.

CHAPTER 21

Plant Inspection

O

utside the rear of the café an old man, with hair falling over wire spectacles held together with strips of plaster, was leaning on a pick-up truck smoking a cheroot. Without the straw hat his former employer looked strange to Carlos, who was trying to avoid eye contact. Senhor Roul ushered the two boys into the front; Filipe took the centre seat between Senhor Roul and Carlos, who was already planning how to get out. Why had he allowed Filipe to talk him into coming? All he had to do was pretend he’d left something in the café, ask Senhor to stop, and then he could jump down. But that would mean having to speak and, in any case, pretending gave him stomach-ache. No one spoke during the journey through the town, past the balloon-sellers and up the hill by the sea. No one spoke in the truck with its smell of leather and sacks and cigars. Except for the party it was the first time Carlos had entered through the front gate. The sign that said “Visitors are welcome to wander freely in Paradise Gardens” was no longer there. Lining the drive were containers of azalea plants, brown with neglect. It was a working day in the busy season of April but there were no workers. The truck pulled up; Carlos jumped down and began to study the ground at his feet. 107

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Senhor Roul came round the front and, ignoring Carlos, barked at Filipe, “Take him up, you know what to do.” The scent of verbena and apple mint lightened his spirits but, as he reached the top of the slope and the strelitzia fields, Carlos grabbed Filipe by the arm and hissed, “What’s that stink?” “Well it’s not Chanel!” quipped Filipe. “Oh no,” said Carlos, “Chanel wouldn’t smell like this.” Pulling the front of his tee-shirt over his nose he rushed with the fork to the nearest strelitzia plants. The normally steel-like stems had collapsed in a tangle of blackened, leaves, which left a trail of slime on the fork as Carlos tried to separate the fallen plants. He leaped from row to row, leaves sticking to his trousers with every stride. His own plantings were reduced to a carpet of rubbish. Turning away in despair he faced the distant sea but the ruined crop filled his mind and the sense of outrage and helplessness was total. The rush of tears, which normally brought feelings of shame and humiliation, now were comforting and he let them fall. From behind came Filipe’s voice, “How about fishing later, high tide?” “Leave me alone,” snapped Carlos. “Come on professor, there’s a day’s pay for this,” and he directed Carlos to a bench laid out for a plant inspection. “Everything’s here for you, soil samples, lens, probes, rubber gloves, facemask. Senhor says if you need anything just ask. Take as long as you like. Here’s the lab report. I’ll be back soon.” Newspaper was spread in layers along a trestle table where three mature plants were laid, labelled with the date of lifting. The stench rising from them had a rancid, farmyard quality that made Carlos retch. The flower heads hung limply over the edge. Without the soil that clothed them the roots lay naked to the sun. The normally plump, waxy tubers were shrivelling and dissolving into an evil-smelling pulp. Stroking on the rubber gloves Carlos took up a probe and set to work. The fungus was creeping over the plants’ tissues in a delicate film of threads fanning out like spokes from a wheel. Here and there minute

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white buds were developing on the spokes while, nearer the hub of the infection, they were the size of mustard seeds and turning a yellowish brown. Carlos leaned forward peering through the hand lens and began to talk to himself as he double-checked through the lab report. In the clarity of concentration that fired every corner of his mind he did not notice Filipe and a stranger approaching until they were standing next to the bench. “Carlos, this is Senhor Silva Alves, a mycologist from the Growers Federation.” The visitor moved forward to shake hands. Filipe spoke again, “Carlos, this is Senhor Alves from…” “Yes,” he replied, without looking up. The visitor glanced at Filipe who merely shrugged his shoulders. Senhor Alves, a small man in a grey suit, stepped round the table to where Carlos was making notes. “Young man,” he began, “Senhor Roul asked me to come up here to explain the report to you. The least you can do is afford me some attention.” Senhor Alves gave up waiting for a response. “First of all,” he began again, picking up the lab report, “let me explain about Southern Blight. It’s known as Southern Blight in the USA where it’s mainly confined to the southern states but the technical term…” “Sclerotium rolfsii,” cut in Carlos, slicing through a leaf vein and moving away from Senhor Alves to examine other leaves. “Er…yes.” “And it could be one parent of the hybrid,” Carlos added. “Hybrid? That is not our conclusion. You could not have read the report properly,” the visitor said, picking up the papers, “our climate is hardly conducive…” Again Carlos cut in, “Paragraph two says continuously damp and warm conditions are not compatible with…” “Quite right young man,” came the reply, “it would be overcome by another fungus, a more competitive one, the type known as…”

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“Saprophytic,” said Carlos, his interest in the conversation growing. “Exactly, saprophytic,” echoed the visitor, “and it would need to escape periodically to drier conditions.” “A need to aestivate,” Carlos contributed. “Er…yes. Sclerotium rolfsii is implicated,” explained the Senhor, “but of course that is no evidence whatever of a hybrid, none whatever.” Carlos now paused in his examination of the leaves to give more attention to Senhor Alves, who seemed quite knowledgeable, and anxious to develop the discussion, Carlos said, “Another parent could be Sclerotium hydrophilum which has a nupharmyces state.” “Oh dear, oh dear,” laughed the visitor, “what have you been reading? We do live in fairyland don’t we? Now hydrophylum is an aquatic. ‘Hydra’ is Greek for water, ‘philum’ means loving. Hence ‘water-loving’.” “Precisely,” acknowledged Carlos, “and it gave all that leaf-spotting trouble to the Victorian water lily at Kew.” “Right,” said Senhor Alves and, after a pause, “How d’ye know that?” “Mr Slater told me.” “Slater of Kew Gardens? You know him?” “Oh no, Senhor. I don’t know him. We write to each other sometimes,” added Carlos, pulling a leaf apart. “Well we mustn’t get sidetracked, must we?” and Senhor Alves removed his jacket before continuing, “An aquatic fungus is not implicated and therefore irrelevant.” “Not if it came into contact with the Sclerotium rolfsii, Senhor.” “Facts are the nuts and bolts of science young man. Sclerotium hydrophilum only survives in water.” Carlos now stood, feet apart, slapping his thighs with pleasure before informing the visitor that its sclerotia would float on the surface. “Precisely,” said Senhor Alves, “and sclerotia of Sclerotium rolfsii sink if placed in water so there is not the remotest chance of these two making contact. No contact, no spontaneous occurrence, no hybrid.”

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“The levadas could play a role in the contact,” explained Carlos, “and a hybrid of the two could produce a powerful pathogen. Like the one we’re trying to identify here.” “The laboratory draws conclusions from evidence, not science fiction,” announced the visitor, turning his attention to the lab report, which was still in his hand. “Here, what’s going on? Paragraph five point two has been crossed out.” “I did it, Senhor,” Carlos said, glancing at the oblique pencil line. “You can’t do that!” “Sorry, Senhor, but it was wrong.” “Wrong?” “The section on cysts is wrong,” said Carlos. Senhor Alves stabbed the report. “You have no right at all to cross anything through.” He turned to Carlos wagging his finger at him. “Copies of this analysis have been distributed all over the island.” “They’re all wrong,” explained Carlos peeling off the rubber gloves. “They look like cysts of a soil pest but they are sclerotia, the reproductive resting bodies of the hybrid.” Senhor Alves looked at Carlos, then at the papers in his hand. He turned away rubbing his forehead. “Young man, there’s a crisis in the industry and I have no time to stand here theorising over some hybrid of your invention.” He picked up his jacket to leave. “Oh no, Senhor,” said Carlos holding on to the jacket sleeve, “there really exists a hybrid exactly corresponding to these symptoms and with these two parents.” The senior mycologist from the Growers Federation turned to face Carlos. “Hybrid with these symptoms? What’s your reference?” Carlos let go of the jacket and spoke quietly, embarrassed by the inadequacy of his reply. “I’ve read it somewhere, Senhor.”

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At that moment Filipe arrived carrying a wicker basket covered with a white cloth. “From the kitchen, Senhor Alves,” he announced, out of breath from the long uphill climb. “The lunch you ordered.” Elbowing papers to one side Filipe put down the basket and uncovered bread, smoked fish and wine. He took out a wrapped baguette and a can of Coke. “That’s for you Carlos.” Filipe turned to the visitor, “Excuse me if I don’t stay, Senhor; can’t stand the smell.” “This smell,” Carlos puzzled, struggling to open the can, “it’s animal, something like…” “Mice,” called Filipe over his shoulder as he turned to go. “Everybody hates that stink.” Carlos rushed after him, spilling the Coke and grabbing his arm. “What’s that you said?” “I said, everybody hates it.” “No, before that.” “Mice, that’s the smell.” Carlos stared hard at Filipe before releasing the grip on his arm. He put the Coke on the ground and picked up a stone, passing it from hand to hand before looking into the distance and saying to himself, “Australia 1976.” Summoning to mind a technical report was not difficult and he could normally picture whole spreads of data with ease but the information he was trying to recall was not recent. Gesturing with the stone towards Senhor Alves in time with his words Carlos said, “In my room somewhere is a report on a rare hybrid fungus with a smell like mice.” Strelitzia reginae is grown in the south block of the Temperate House at Kew Gardens, London. Also grown here are Strelitzia parvifolia with small lanceolate (tapering at both ends) leaf-blades; “Kirstenbosch Gold”, a superbly yellow-flowered form, and Strelitzia juncea, an interesting species with reed-like leaves from a limited area on the eastern Cape coast.

CHAPTER 22

Perspectives

A

s Carlos let himself in, Aunt Mae’s cat was waiting to be stroked and trying, as usual, to sneak in. The cat was his friend but she could not be let in, not since she’d upset the seed trays. On his knees in the middle of the room, Carlos glanced at the book titles along the skirting board. Then his eye swept over the spines of horticultural magazines piled on three chairs. Even as he checked the index card of his correspondence box he knew the journal containing the paper he needed was nowhere in the apartment. Later, still wide awake in the middle of the night, Carlos remembered where it was. The paper was not lost after all, and he knew exactly where to find it.

*** WHY DIDN’T SHE open the door? She must have heard the knocks. He

tried again. Perhaps she was going deaf, people went deaf when they were old. Then he heard her voice, cross as usual, wanting to know who was there. He told her. Bolts slid open, echoing through the apartments and, standing in her hallway, in the half light, one hand 113

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clasping the lapels of her coat, was Aunt Mae. Floosie, her cat, rubbed against his legs and Carlos instinctively picked her up to stroke her. “Come in Carly,” his aunt whispered, angrily. She wanted to know if he was in trouble. “Yes, big trouble, I need the papers.” He needed them so much his head was hurting. Stepping inside he looked at her blotched and wrinkled face, hair falling over her eyes; eyes with dark circles underneath. Her mouth looked strange and small as if she was ill. Telling him to sit down she went to the bedroom and, thinking she’d gone to search for his papers, Carlos followed, trying not to look at the crumpled bed. He buried his nose in Floosie’s fur to mask the warm smell of the room. He couldn’t understand why she was messing about in the sink and not looking for papers at all. She’d been his mother’s friend and taken care of him so he had to show politeness. Lowering Floosie on to the rug he whispered, “Just give me the papers, please, Aunt Mae, the ones you are saving for me and I’ll go. Then you can have a nice sleep.” She sat on the bed not even listening properly and began to make excuses saying the papers had disintegrated and stuff like that. Carlos turned away, tears of frustration pricking his eyes. She’d let him down. She’d promised to store his things carefully, that’s why he’d given them to her. She didn’t care. Palpitations pounded inside. Shaking his clenched fists he yelled, “I need to find them, I need them. Where are they?” Aunt Mae looked scared and he was sorry, but then she said something silly, something that showed she had no intelligence whatever. She told him she’d go with him to the library next morning to get duplicates. “Aunt Mae,” he began quietly, “libraries don’t stock Australian journals.” She opened her mouth, which didn’t look strange any more, and stared at him, “Journals? You didn’t say journals. You said papers.” “Journals mostly consist of research papers,” Carlos explained.

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“Well I’ve got your boxes full of those things.” “Where, where?” “Through there,” she said, waving towards the sitting room, “under the sofa…” Even before she’d finished speaking Carlos was on his knees dragging three cartons out into the light. He studied the labels and untied the string from the second box, ripping the lid away to sort through the pile of horticultural journals. “Got it. Australasian Journal of Plant Pathology.” He grabbed the copy, stuffing the rest back in the box, and headed for the door but she barred his way, insisting that he put the boxes back. Fearful of letting go of the precious find he pushed the boxes under the sofa with one foot. Aunt Mae was waiting at the door with the cat in her arms and as he rushed out she nagged him about not saying thank you. Feeling sorry for her, and on an impulse, he dashed back to kiss her on the cheek, the way he’d seen people do it in the street with relatives and people like that.

*** FOUR O’CLOCK IN the morning is a bloody funny time for visitors and

the knock was not a sorry-to-trouble-you tap, it was bang, bang, bang. Taking my time getting out of bed, I slung a coat round my shoulders, picked up a saucepan and waited for a pause in the banging before yelling out, “Whoever’s on the other side of this door better have a damn good reason for being there!” “Yes,” came the reply, “it is a good reason Aunt Mae.” My God, it was Carlos and me with no front teeth in. He’s scared of anything like that, bathroom things, knickers on the line, any reminders of the body under the frock, specially the ageing body. To Carlos every woman over twenty-four is a hideous grotesque staying alive for no apparent reason.

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“Come in Carly,” I whispered, unbolting the door. He doesn’t like to be called Carly. That’s why I do it. “Now, what’s the trouble?” “I need the papers,” he said. There he stood, middle of the night, in check pyjamas buttoned up all wrong, like a deranged convict. I told him to sit down and went to put my teeth in. All the time he followed behind, going on about some papers he’d given me to look after. When we moved in here there was no room for all his books so I stored a few boxes for him. “Carly,” I said, leaning over the sink with my back to him, struggling with the top bridge, “do you know what time it is?” “I’ll go and look at my clock,” he said, “but first I need the papers. Where are they?” “It can wait till morning,” I told him, as gently as I could manage with a headache and a lunatic in the bedroom. When he’s in this mood you have to go along with him. After all what has he got? No job, no friends, no sense. He still went on. I’d had enough. I sat on the bed while he stood there, staring down at me. “For a start, lower your voice and listen. Paper doesn’t keep, it goes yellow, then disintegrates, like me.” “You promised to look after them.” “Did I indeed?” I told him. “Well there are no papers here. Off you go, good night, sleep well,” and I tried to push past him to the door, but he stood there, firm and solid. Here we go. With clenched fists and words pushed between gnashing teeth he hissed, “You promised.” This could go on all night. How could I get rid of him? “Tomorrow,” I said quietly, “we’ll go to the library, get a duplicate and…” He cut me off and went on about journals. Even for Carlos this wasn’t making sense. Then it clicked.

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“Come with me,” I said, led him into the front room and pointed under the settee where I’d kept his boxes. In a flash he was scrabbling about underneath. He must have found what he was looking for because he straightened up smiling. I soon put a stop to that, “Hang on a minute young man, are you leaving a weak woman to push that lot back?” “Sorry, Aunt Mae,” he said and without letting go of the journal he managed to push those heavy boxes back. I picked up Floosie and opened the door for him. Now I could go back to bed. “Don’t wake everybody up,” I whispered, “and one of these days you’ll give your aunt a kiss and say thank you.” As usual he wasn’t listening but then he rushed back, banged into me with his head knocking Floosie out of my arms and sending me off balance. When he’d gone I stood in the doorway for a long time, dazed. Mabelline, it’s your big day, light up a Bensons and pour yourself a sherry, girl. I do believe that was Carlos giving his aunt a little peck on the cheek.

CHAPTER 23

Goats

C

arlos could not understand why Filipe was being so awkward. At school Filipe had been his friend, warning away the bullies who snatched his books and helping Carlos when his sports bag was stolen. But he wasn’t helping now, he was rushing ahead to work and not agreeing to the plan that Carlos had worked on all night. “Just one animal then, just one,” Carlos pleaded, hurrying to catch up. Filipe shook his head. “Why not? Just tell me why not?” Still no answer. Waiting till he’d caught up with Filipe, Carlos tried to make things more clear. “All you have to do is explain to Senhor that we need one, then we can collect it from your farmhouse.” They had reached the top of the road when Filipe stopped by the wall and turned to face Carlos. “I’m not saying your plan’s stupid, I’m not saying it won’t work, but it’s too difficult. Do you hear me?” “Just one goat,” said Carlos grabbing Filipe by the arm, “and don’t look away when I’m speaking to you. Don’t look away.” 119

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Pulling his arm free before pushing Carlos away, Filipe hissed, “We are being stared at. Get off. That hurt. If you shout at me I won’t help you at all.” Carlos moved away to lean over the wall and stare at the sea. What could he do? Who could he turn to? After a while Filipe asked quietly, “What do you know about goats, Carlos?” “They smell.” “No, only the males smell.” “They eat anything.” “Only if it tastes good.” “They will eat the poisoned plants.” Carlos began, remembering the paper he’d been reading all night. “If you can bring a goat here it will clear the field of sclerotia, it will eat everything, and it will even lick the soil, it will…” Filipe interrupted, “OK, how do I get goats to the strelitzia field?” “Just one,” said Carlos, “just one to start with.” “It’s a herd animal, they don’t go anywhere alone. They don’t eat alone.” Carlos did not know what to say. “They would have to be herded,” Filipe explained, “two miles in two hours.” “OK,” Carlos said. “They browse all the way.” “Browse?” “Keep stopping to nibble tips of plants, trying everything. They must be coaxed along.” “OK,” said Carlos, warming to the idea. “Early morning or evening. Out of the hot sun.” “Right. We’ll do it.” “Carlos,” sighed Filipe, “I’ve just been explaining the difficulties, we cannot do it. Let’s forget it. Come on. At least it’s another day’s pay.”

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They continued in silence as the noisy traffic sped towards them into town. Carlos could feel tears of frustration pricking his eyes, a familiar and fearful sensation as if the world was against him and he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. Filipe spoke. “When we get to work I’ll explain to Senhor that you’re still working on the problem, I won’t mention goats. We could collect a few dead plants, wrap them carefully and get somebody to drive us to my house. We’ll drop the plants in the goat paddock and see what happens. Will that suit you?” Carlos lifted is head in wonder at the cleverness of his amazing friend. Why hadn’t he thought of such a plan himself ? They were almost at the gates of Paradise Gardens before Carlos felt able to speak. “OK,” he said.

*** goats hurrying along the tracks over the hills towards Paradise Gardens that August evening, Anglo-Nubian goats with droopy ears longer than their soulful faces with Roman noses curved in profile. Underneath, their coats were the colour of mushrooms and cream and their expression was childlike and trusting. At first he’d been fearful in case they attacked him but Carlos soon learned how to hold the long willow cane and how to make the animals move on each time they stopped to browse or tear and pull at roots. He learned how to tap the ground with the thin flexible end of the willow. “Keep an eye on Magda,” Filipe ordered, “she’s the leader. The other four will do what she does. Keep her in order and keep her moving.” “Prod the back legs like this,” said Filipe showing Carlos how to flick a goat’s leg, “that’s enough to keep them going.” “What if it hurts?” asked Carlos.

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“It tickles, that’s all,” laughed Filipe touching Carlos on the legs. “See, it doesn’t hurt.” Carlos jumped away. He did not like to be teased and made fun of, but he would not let the incident spoil the afternoon. Great care was needed on the part of the journey through terraced vineyards where Senhor had arranged permission for them to take a short cut through private land. Along this stretch the goats were not allowed to linger to nibble the vines nor drink from the owner’s levadas. Carlos enjoyed walking with the animals and was sorry when the trees of Paradise Gardens came into view. He liked the rattle of the neck bells, and the bleating that sounded like babies’ cries and he liked the evening song of blackbirds. He liked the stillness of the clouds and, above all, the company of his friend. Finally they entered Paradise Gardens, not from the road but from a hilltop track directly into the flower fields. Once inside Carlos was amazed to see the goats, even after such a long trek, raise their heads to sniff the air then run along the path to the field where the flattened and diseased plants lay festering and reeking in the gathering twilight. Immediately the goats set to work on them, not even stopping to drink from the buckets of water placed there. Vigorously and side by side they nibbled and chewed among the debris, even flinging stalks aside to lick the soil beneath. Every now and then they knelt, still chewing, before moving further along the rows, sometimes licking the sticky, blackened, mess from each other’s coats. Looking on was the head gardener and Senhor, who still had not spoken directly to Carlos. Two other men were fencing off the field with willow canes and rope because the herd was to stay overnight and Filipe’s father had given instructions that they were not to be tethered. “No man nor beast is tethered on my fields.” Carlos stood transfixed, next to Filipe, watching the goats. “You’re a genius,” Filipe whispered, patting him on the shoulder, “a genius.”

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This time Carlos did not move away. He had not heard Filipe nor noticed the pat on the shoulder. Ever since that morning’s journey in the truck he had been sick with anxiety, his stomach churning. Then came the unwrapping of the putrid stalks before they were flung into the goat compound where the beautiful, wonderful animals had devoured them in seconds and then the long walk over the hills. And now, before his eyes, the field was being strip-grazed and cleared as the fence was repositioned, row by row, all in the space of one day. He did not care about the four days’ pay. He did not mind that the Senhor ignored him. All that mattered was that the terrible disease that had ruined his plants, his own strelitzia, was being eliminated. The fungal colony S. odor-muris, with its white radiating fungal threads and developing and maturing sclerotia, can be completely eradicated by the traditional method of feeding it to goats, which appear to thrive on the protein.

CHAPTER 24

Brown’s Hotel

B

astardo, the scheming bastardo! I was striding in fury back home from Brown’s along the coastal road. Mabelline, you should have seen it coming a mile away. Who the hell is going to invite you to Brown’s, one of the top hotels in the world, without wanting something in return? Why do you suppose the boss of Paradise Gardens asked you out for tea? What would he want to see you about? A modelling contract? Nomination for president? Old fashioned four o’clock sex? You know the prices at that place, for sandwiches the size of penny stamps and thin tea. And I’d had to buy a frock. Well, I couldn’t go there in my work shorts, could I; and my sewing machine was packed ready for shipping. The frock was rubbish of course, no lining in the facings. As usual I was there too early, with time to stand outside watching the top set arrive. That hotel is so posh the doorman in green uniform and top hat rushes forward and opens your car door even before you’ve pulled up; dangerous, I’d say. Inside the entrance everything was dark wood and smelling of luxury. Sepia photos of the famous. George Bernard Shaw learning to tango in the garden, and a young Prince Rainier and Princess Grace smiling over a balcony. 125

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On the terrace were silk-upholstered wicker chairs set for tea at round tables. I picked one next to a palm tree overlooking the sea where I could watch people coming in. Rosa used to say a well-set table was a work of art and she would have loved the hanging white linen and white china. It felt terrific just sitting there. I barely knew Senhor Roul. Paradise Gardens does its own deliveries and I’d only ever seen him in a battered straw hat and gardening gaiters so I hardly recognised him all cleaned up in a linen jacket, hurrying across the black and white tiled floor. We shook hands, “Good afternoon Miss Mason.” I told him to call me Mabelline like it said on my van. He moved his chair so it was not directly opposite mine. I liked that. We got on fine at first. He wanted to know which part of the UK I was from. Said he’d visited Peterborough once, for a flower show. He poured the tea. Nice hands. Broad fingers, work hands. I can’t stand blokes with poncy fingernails. Everybody seemed to know him; customers, waiters, even the manager came across to say hello. I’m glad I wore the frock. It didn’t take long to eat the food on its three-tier stand, then we settled down to smoke. I tried one of his cheroots and waited. “I’ll come straight to the point,” he said. “Your nephew…” I interrupted. “He’s not my nephew, he’s no relation…” But he stopped me and said, “Very well, Carlos.” “Carlos, the arm breaker,” I said. “Never mind that,” he butted in, “young people make mistakes. That’s a year ago now. My niece and her husband have left for the mainland to work in a hotel as they’d always planned.” I waited some more. “I understand you’ve taken care of him since…” “Since when?” I snapped. I’m aware it’s silly but I don’t like strangers saying her name. “Since he was left alone.” Nicely said, Senhor, I thought. “You must know that Carlos is unusually talented with flowers. He knows more about strelitzia than many experts.”

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Then he asked if I’d heard about the plant disease and I said there’d been rumours but no grower was going to shout it out. I kept looking round, hoping more cakes would arrive. “The federation is impressed with his work, did you know that?” I shook my head as he continued, “He must have told you about the goats he brought in…” “Goats?” I said, alarmed. “What’s he been up to this time?” “Didn’t he tell you about the goats he brought in that completely stripped my fields of a plant fungus? Didn’t he tell you how the federation is linking up with the island’s goat breeders to…” “Senhor, Carlos doesn’t talk about his work, he’s not like other people. He lives inside his head.” Senhor Roul nodded before saying, “And a truly remarkable head it is.” We sat in silence, then, for something to do I started reading the menu and he reached across and put his hand on my arm, “Forget the tea menu, how about a glass of Madeira and some chicken rolls?” A mind reader. I told him I was pleased Carlos was working again. “My gain,” he said, “he’s a first-class worker.” “Well, I’m grateful, thank you. Now I can resettle in England with an easy mind.” He leaned forward. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” The wine arrived and little rolls on a silver dish. “I don’t know how to put this,” he said, offering me one. “Just put,” I replied, wishing he’d stop talking for a minute so I could eat it. “I wondered if you’d like to come and work for me.” Mabelline, I said to myself, I’m here in a frock, sipping wine at Brown’s and the boss of Paradise Gardens is offering me a job. “Thanks,” I said, holding the glass steady and trying to look grateful. “I’m going home for good in four days.” “Think about it Mabelline. Stay on the island, take over my deliveries.” “OK I’ll think about it. No.”

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He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’d like you to just delay your return for a year or two.” I could not believe what I was hearing. I looked round the terrace at tourists posing under the archways with waiters and popping menus in their bags for souvenirs. Mabelline, forget the rolls, get up and go. “Thanks for the tea,” I said, wiping the corners of my mouth and dropping the serviette on the table. “I have packing to do.” He brushed a crumb from his cuff and said, “Perhaps I’m not explaining myself properly.” I sat down again. “You’re doing a terrific job. You’re asking me, almost a stranger, to drop all my plans and come to work for you at Paradise Gardens. Have I got the gist?” “Not completely. I remember how you dealt with my lads that night in the station. As well as the deliveries I could do with somebody like you to manage them. We could work out a proper training scheme. What about that?” “Senhor, it’s out of the question.” “If you think the work with the lads would be too difficult…” “Difficult? I could do that job with both eyes tied behind my back but I don’t want to.” “There’s something else,” he said, looking straight at me, “at the moment Carlos is on a two-week contract with Paradise Gardens. He could have a good job, a permanent job. I might even take him to a conference next winter. His work with me has been the making of him.” “What’s all this to do with me, Senhor? He’s eighteen. I’ve waited four years to go home. Four long years.” “Let me explain,” he said, “I like the boy, but I don’t want the responsibility of him. If you were there it would be a different matter. Besides, the jobs of other workers depend on Carlos being there to see us through this time of disease.” Wheels began turning in my tiny brain. He turned to look straight at me. “Let me make myself clear. I’m offering you top rates of pay. If you don’t spend part of the week on my

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premises and go along with what I’ve offered he’ll have no job at all. I will not employ him.” I stood up and so did he. It’s never a good idea for a man of short stature to suddenly stand. “This is an excellent offer Mabelline,” he began, till I stopped him with, “Miss Mason to you.” He wasn’t listening. “I’m amazed at your ingratitude,” he said. “And I’m amazed at your bloody cheek.” “Nice language for a lady, but you Brits have a reputation for foul language.” “But not, Senhor, for blackmail.” He reddened. “I expected more concern for a young man’s future.” “My concern is for my future,” I said, louder than I should. “Something wrong madam?” whispered the manager, appearing from nowhere and all done up in a morning suit in the middle of the afternoon. “Yes. There is something wrong,” I said picking up my bag, “you didn’t bring any mustard,” and, without looking back, I walked out.

CHAPTER 25

Goodbye Carlos

I

t was late afternoon on the day before Aunt Mae was due to leave for England and Carlos was feeling anxious as he ran uphill towards the town’s Botanic Gardens. He’d been worrying ever since she’d mentioned, some weeks ago, that they could perhaps go out together on her last night. He’d tried not to think about it. Perhaps she’d been joking, you could never tell with Aunt Mae. Why couldn’t people just leave without making a big scene? Supposing she came round to say goodbye and she wanted to…but it was too awful even to think about…having to kiss her face. He’d thought of a plan. He would stay out until dusk then go home very quietly to water all his plants. She never came round at watering time. Although the Botanic Gardens were closing for the night, Carlos was waved through the main gate into the driveway where a notice said the strelitzia sections were closed as a precaution against a suspected fungal disease on the island. He was well known here; ever since schooldays he’d spent most of his free time helping the gardeners. He ran towards the terrace where small sets of flowering plants were growing in a patchwork pattern of yellow and violet. Coming to 131

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a halt at a white bench he rubbed his calves and took ten deep breaths like it said in his sports book. For some time he sat looking over the town. In the distance to the right he could see the hills where the goats had been herded two weeks before, and straight ahead was the harbour where a Panamanian cruise ship was newly docked. Down below, out of sight, were the shops and streets of the old town. The day had been exceptionally hot and the few visitors remaining in the gardens were lingering in the coolness. The smell of nightscented stock and lavender drifted up from the terrace below and if he’d remembered to bring water he could have stayed even longer; he was cross with himself when he forgot things. Finally, as the sun was setting, he left by the gardeners’ gate and made his way home. Taking special care to be very quiet he let himself in and immediately the smell of tobacco hit him. There was Aunt Mae, in the dusk on his balcony squatting on a little stool, squashed between the gardenia and the Erva branca. She came towards him, “Hi Carlos, I’ll only be a minute. I’ve brought the list.” “List?” he called from the kitchen over the noise of the running tap. He carried a cup of water into the sitting room. “What list?” She held out a piece of yellow card. “Things you need to know for when I’ve gone, things we’ve been talking about all week.” “That’s OK,” he called, taking his cup back, “I’ll be fine.” She stood in the doorway. “Let’s go through it together.” “No need, no need, I know what I have to do.” Why didn’t she leave? Daily watering was long overdue, especially the sets, they couldn’t wait. She never came at watering time, why had she come tonight? “OK big boy, remind me will you? Remind me of the jobs you agreed to take care of.” He looked at the ground. “Be sensible, Carlos, and listen. Senhora Dimas will do your washing; put it outside your door on Monday mornings in the bags I gave you. Pyjamas, tops, sheets, pillow cases but not pillows and no

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sweaters, just washable things. You’ll get it all back clean and ironed each Thursday. She needs the money; I‘ll pay her from England. Next. My boxes will be collected in two days. The men have a key but you’re not working now so you can let them in. Ask for the key when they’ve finished, listen for them coming. Floosie is already with the Gomez family; I know you’ll remember to stroke her whenever you see her, she’ll be missing me and she likes you. Finally, collect your allowance every month from the bank after the seventeenth. Are you listening?” All the time she was talking Carlos was going backwards and forwards carrying water for plants, stopping every now and then to make notes at the table. It was not polite to be watering with a visitor but they were all going dry and needed routine. “Of course I’m listening.” “OK,” said Aunt Mae stubbing out her cigarette in the saucer of a murriao. “It’s quiz time. Which day of the week is the washing collected?” He was puzzled by a reddish circle round the base of the cinnaria. Thrips perhaps? But it was too late in the year for thrips. After rubbing the circle with his thumb he made notes under the column headed “Insects”. “Carlos, I know you’re busy,” said Aunt Mae, “but tell me this. If I had not called round tonight would you have knocked on my door? Answer me, I’m waiting.” “What? Your door – er – no,” and he stepped on to the balcony for a final inspection of the red ring. Now she was speaking loud, she was cross. “If a friend is leaving and going to be away a long time you say goodbye, and shake hands and wish them well. That’s what grown-up people do. Don’t you know that?” “Er – of course,” he answered pulling dead leaves from a plant. “Any fool knows that.” “Well, I’m going away and I’m a friend.” Carlos thought it was a silly thing to say, calling herself a friend.

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“Remember that and remember on Mum’s birthday to put special flowers…” Carlos interrupted her and through gritted teeth he spat, “I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t want to talk about it.” His mother’s grave was his business and nothing to do with her. Now he felt the knot in his chest that came when people annoyed him. He stood in the middle of the room gripping the watering can with both hands waiting for her to go. From the pocket of her ridiculous shorts that showed too much unclothed leg she took a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it. Oh God, that meant she would stay for ages. Screwing her eye against the smoke she said, “Which day of the week will your washing be collected?” He threw the watering can far into the kitchen where it spilled over the tiles and, moving to stand directly in front of her, he spluttered his words, shouting, “You’re always on at me! I’m not stupid, I’m not one year old. Everybody thinks I’m a child. I can manage, I can manage, I don’t need ordering around. Why can’t everybody leave me alone? You make me so mad!” Taking a roll of masking tape from her trouser pocket she prepared to attach the list of tasks to the kitchen door. Carlos watched as she held the card up to the door, tore off a strip of tape with her teeth and fixed it along the top of the card. He felt bad, he knew he had offended her because she had stopped speaking and he tried to think of something to say to make things right again. Standing behind her he said, “I’ll listen for the baggage men and I’ll ask for the key back.” Aunt Mae made a pleat in the end of the roll of tape and put it back in her pocket, saying, “If it isn’t too much trouble.” “Nothing’s too much trouble for you Aunt Mae.” “Goodbye Carlos,” and she left the apartment. As soon as she’d gone he flopped on the kitchen stool feeling hot tears pricking his eyes. Just then Aunt Mae returned.

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“Carlos, what did you say just now before I Ieft?” “Er, I think I said goodbye,” he answered, setting about the wet floor with a cloth. “No, no, before that, about the luggage when I said, ‘if it’s not too much trouble’.” Carlos lifted the sopping floor cloth into the sink and squashed it to let water run out, all the time trying to think what he’d said. Then he remembered: “I said ‘nothing’s too much trouble for you Aunt Mae’.” She turned to go, “I thought that’s what you said. Just wanted to be sure. Goodbye Carlos, you’re a wonderful young man and I will miss you.” He was glad she’d gone because now he could make a sandwich for himself. Strelitzia is one of the world’s most well-known plants. Because of their ubiquity in Los Angeles they are almost an emblem of the city. In a vase, and set against their huge leaves resembling leaves of the banana tree, the bird-of-paradise flower with its flamboyant colouring, makes a spectacular floral statement.

CHAPTER 26

Airport

M

e at the airport for the midday flight, feeling smart in new cotton trousers and striped top. Matching cinnamon jacket over my arm – it’ll be cooler in England – and round my neck a pair of new rambling boots. No luggage to check in because everything was coming by freight but I still had to queue for a boarding pass. I felt terrific and excited as a child, smiling at everybody, but everybody looked bored. I reckon airports are designed to keep people waiting for hours in order to calm them down. The longer you wait, the slower your mind works. But not me. I was alive, standing there with a stupid grin wanting to shout, “Look at me, I’m going home.” Of course I know England won’t be the same, bigger lorries, smaller Mars bars. My nephews are meeting me at Birmingham, all four of them. I said I didn’t need anybody but Terry insisted and when the others knew he was coming they decided to make it a party. Families. There’s a family in the parallel queue, Mother leaning on the baggage trolley and Dad looking at nothing. A little lad in a red tee-shirt is having a great time running round and round the trolley and deaf to Dad’s instruction to “Stand still, can’t you?” I point a menacing finger at the kid. He runs behind Dad’s sunburnt legs and 137

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puts his tongue out at me, I do the same. He looks surprised. Then I do my party piece monster face, all cross-eyed and twisted till he screams, “Dad, Dad, look at that lady,” but that lady is instantly engrossed in the overhead screens. My nephews will be too grown up now for Auntie’s monster faces. The woman in front wearing gold shoes and scarlet nails is arguing at the check-in about a box of flowers. She wants to put it in the cabin, and the gorgeous sweetie behind the desk is having a hard time saying no. We’ll be here all morning so I step forward to speak to Gold Shoes. “Excuse me madam. I lecture in horticulture.” She looks impressed. “Your box of cymbidium will travel better in the hold.” “Really?” “Oh yes, they require a constant supply of oxygen at low temperature.” “Thank you very much,” she simpers with a flash of scarlet fingers, “there’s nothing like advice from an expert. Check these in with the luggage please,” she orders, placing the box on top of her case. Then it’s my turn and the sweetie at the desk looks up from my passport. “You’re Mabelline, aren’t you? I’ve seen your delivery van around, Mabelline can take it, it says on it, I didn’t know you were a lecturer.” “Nor did I,” and her smile is pure sunshine. In four hours I’ll be home. Weeks of planning, suddenly the day arrives and here I am. The rambling club’s laid on a walk for me tomorrow; some of the old faces will be there but lots of new ones as well. I might meet somebody; you never know what’s round the corner, apart from the old despair. In the fields there’ll be cows, chewing easy. A great stillness comes over English countryside in August with yellow barley fields that smell like a brewery and prick your socks. And in the evenings there’ll be swallows dipping into the canal and rabbits nibbling on roadside verges. It’s nine years since I had a rabbit stew.

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There’s plenty of time for a walk outside and a Bensons so I make my way through the crowds looking for somewhere quiet to put my boots down and light up. Then it happened. Some brain dead lunatic had left a holdall in the middle of the pavement and down I go; a full length sprawl, all in a second. “I’m all right, I’m all right. Clear off,” I shout to two fussing women as I struggle to my feet and look round for my boots and bag that had gone flying. My elbows are painful and grazed and when I try to kick that damn bag out of the way my knees hurt; they must have taken the brunt. Nearby a man is sitting on a bench looking up at the sky. “This yours?” I say, picking up the scruffy holdall. No answer. “Excuse me, is this bag yours?” I say again. He turns, looks down at the bag then up at me and, in a vague kind of way, mumbles, “Yes.” He’s about forty years old, blue shirt buttoned up wrong and, except for ink stains round the ball points in his top pocket, it was clean. “Did you see me fall over this bag?” I ask, brushing dust off my trousers. No answer as he makes notes on a clipboard. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” He stops writing to stare at me with a puzzled expression. “Do you know what a walkway is?” He shakes his head and carries on writing. Perhaps he’s deaf. I speak louder. “A walkway, you stupid person, is a place where people can walk unobstructed by stupid people leaving bags in the way for them to fall over and break their legs.” “I’m very sorry,” he stammers, looking up briefly from the columns of sprawled figures separated by red lines. Then I make the mistake of asking what he was writing and he speaks non-stop explaining the figures as if I wasn’t there. Every day, apparently, he makes notes of take-off times and compares them with timetable times. I was dying

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for a Bensons and when he stopped for breath I said, “Very interesting indeed but I’d better go, watch out for my plane. It leaves at 14.04.” “ZTF?” he asked. “That’ll be it I expect. I’ll wave to you.” He looks puzzled at this and says, “No, don’t wave. You’ll be too high, I won’t see you.” “Of course not, silly me. Well I’m off now, but be sure to keep this bag under the bench all the time because while you’re busy checking flights somebody could run off with your papers. Will you remember that?” He takes time to consider this before stammering, “OK.” Another Carlos. There’s still time before take-off and I turn a corner to lean on a wall ready to light up. It was then I noticed the little park across the road with bougainvillea hanging like red skirts over the low, white wall. Christ, this was the exact place where Rosa had run across to me that first morning, nine years ago, in the navy suit with the pink striped blouse and her lovely, lovely smile. What was I doing at this spot? I always avoid this side of the terminal when I’m delivering. I didn’t want to be here. Christ, I could smell her lilac blossom perfume and feel the touch of her lips on my face when she had stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek and say “Hello Mae”. Some moments are always with you, not in memory, but present, always. I lean against a wall and let her flood my heart. Something peculiar is happening. My head feels woolly and, when I try to move, my feet turn to stone. She’s there, Rosa, crossing the road towards me, only she isn’t moving forward, she’s coming towards me but not moving forward. From far away comes the sound of taxi doors slamming and engines running, but they are not far away, they are near me, on the street. “I’m here. I’m here Rosa, waiting for you.” “What’s that you said, miss?” I stare at the stranger. I must have been speaking aloud.

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How long I stood there I don’t know. Mabelline, get hold of yourself, pick up your boots, walk past the plane spotter without a word and go back into the airport. Shift yourself. My feet were heavy and slow as I followed the wall round to the entrance. Each time I turned to look back she was still there, crossing the road. You’re tired Mabelline, you’ve had a fall, imagination plays tricks. Once inside the terminal things become more normal. “Last call for passengers on flight 432 for Birmingham. Please proceed to gate number 6.” They always say that don’t they? Then you stand in line for another hour. It didn’t take long to pass through security with no one there but me, with one bag and a pair of boots. I went the wrong way to start with but they ushered me through. “Last call for passenger M. Mason. Please proceed immediately to gate number 6.” It’s a long walk to the gate but there was time to nip in the Ladies. The woman in the mirror there, frizzy ginger hair, blotchy skin on the neck, stares at me as if I’m a stranger. Holding on to the taps I steadied myself. The voice echoes weirdly through the empty toilet block, “Last call for passenger M. Mason.” The departure lounge is deserted as I head for the gate. “You’ve missed it,” a man in uniform calls from the passport desk. “What?” “You’ve missed your flight. You could have run. They waited for you. You can collect an insurance notice at information. Lucky you had no luggage, it takes hours to unload.” “What?” “We don’t carry baggage without passengers. Security.” Through the window, the huge plane edges away from its mooring, ponderous and slow; passengers gaze out, one face at each oval window.

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By the time I reached the street the 747 was climbing to its slow turn, over the sea and I watched till it was a silver dot and then a thread of broken vapour. For some time I lingered outside the airport listening to the noisy bustle of coaches, cars and yellow cabs, before retracing my steps into the departure lounge. The place was much less busy and the girl I’d spoken to at the desk that morning was still there. Moving close I read her badge; she looked puzzled to see me. “Mind if I ask you something personal Amy?” “Sure, go ahead.” “Do you like hiking?” “Of course, doesn’t everybody?” “When you go hiking,” I said, “what size boots do you wear?” “About 42, why?” Lifting the boots from my neck I placed them on her desk, “Present for you, brand new.” “Thank you Mabelline, they’re super; but don’t you need them?” “Nair,” I said turning to go, “not my colour.” I walked out of the airport and set off to walk back uphill. I couldn’t leave. Perhaps next year. So that’s that. That’s my story. Well, what were you expecting? A happy ending?