CHAPTER FIVE
It was a perfect day for walking. The paths were a rustling carpet of golden leaves, and the air hung heavy with the smell of dry bush and bonfires. Sonia and Carl were walking in the direction of the meadows and talking. They spoke at length about Malcolm X's visit to oxford, she being eager to hear the story of how a member of the West African society had been instrumental in organising his visit, and he wanting to know what most English people (not just those at the university) thought about someone like Malcolm X. She found his questions challenging and felt torn between reality and her own idealism.
" I wish that England was less racist than America", he said, "but then, when you have politicians like Enoch Powell saying the things he does, it doesn't really inspire people".
"It is discouraging", Sonia acknowledged, "but people do change, especially the youngest generations, and I have hope in the British".
Carl raised his eyebrows, wondering if she was just being polite, but she seemed not to have noticed his skepticism. Instead, she had begun to talk about some of the encouraging interactions she had experienced with school children and church groups.
As they continued their walk, Sonia noticed Carl had a habit of picking up twigs that he would play with for some minutes before sending them twirling away into the bushes. She liked the way he carried himself - so at ease in his body. It was obvious that he was clever and highly-accomplished and yet in his manner he was humble, never once flaunting his knowledge in the way that she had grown to dislike in men like Charlie and Micheal. Carl also seemed to be more serious and less flirtatious than she remembered from the first meeting. Oxford was a very small place and Carl preferred that Sonia should find out about his family from him.
"I have a small confession for you, Sonia. A small confession". He laughed, tapping her playfully on the shoulder when she stopped dead in his tracks. "I just wanted to say… well, do you remember when you asked me about my interest in Africa? I felt a little embarrassed, in the light of the debate that evening, to admit that I actually do have connections to Africa".
"But why embarrassed?" She asked.
"Because my father and grandfather were in the colonial service". They had stopped on a bridge and were leaning against a wooden railing, peering at the water flowing gently downstream. Two ducks paddled close to the riverbank, leaving room for a punter to glide silently past. And there, as they stood side-by-side, he told her about his father's colonial tours in West Africa. He chose his words carefully, not wanting her to form a bad impression of his family and, as a result, found himself saying more positive things than intended. It was not true that his father had been won over to the idea of African independence, so when Sonia told him he ought to be more proud of him he felt guilty. She mentioned that her father had also worked in the British Administration as a way, he thought, of making him further at ease. Her father had been a court messenger in the 1950's and an interpreter in the native Administration before becoming a policeman. According to Sonia, her father had made many British friends including some district officers, so she wondered whether their fathers must have met. "Perhaps, Carl replied, knowing this was doubtful. His father did not fall into the category of colonial officers who were loved by locals, and now he regretted having misled Sonia into thinking so. Hopefully, she would never have occasion to see the less attractive side of his father. At least he could count on his father to put on a good act. They walked in silence, in single file, for a few moments along the narrowing path. She wanted to ask him more about his family but didn't want to seem rude so they talked, instead, about college and the people they knew. She had not realised how far they had come until she saw they were nearly at The Trout, a country pub a couple miles out of the city where she had been several times before, but always by car, never on foot. Her feet hurt from her new boots and she was weary, but Carl didn't look tired at all, no doubt because of all the sports he played.
"Do you play any?" he asked. When she commented on the fact.
"No, not at all".
"None?"
"None", she confirmed. "Is that bad?".
"Terrible! So come on, let's run. I'll chase you to The Trout".
"Oh no - I can't run!".
"Yes you can". He tugged at her arm. "Last one buys the drinks!"
"Then I'm buying". She laughed watching him crouch like a sprinter, waiting for her to start. She was breathing heavily by the time they got to the pub, and could only nod when Carl offered to relieve her of her coat. He laughed, showing no sign of being short of breath.
"My goodness, you are fit", she muttered, noting the shoulders.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"You heard me, and I'm not repeating it!" She laughed.
"What can I get you, love?" The bartender asked, interrupting.
She ordered a beer, and Carl a pineapple juice. They were looking around for a place to sit when two men passed in front of them and bumped into Carl, spilling the drinks.
"Do you mind?" Sonia said crossly when no-one apologised.
"Maybe the bloody Psychopath ought to look where he's going".
"Maybe you two bloody idiots should learn some manners".
"Just leave them, "Carl whispered, placing a hand gently on Sonia's wrist. She started to protest, but he was restraining her so she just stood, staring in shock.
"It's fine", Carl insisted, quietly brushing pineapple juice and beer off his cardigan, "Here, let me get you another". He reached for the empty glasses.
"No. But thank you". She looked nervously at the bar. "Could we go outside?".
"OK. Come on".
They stood up, and passed close to the bar where the men now sat, beers in hand. Carl stopped and looked one of them straight in the eye. Alarmed, Sonia tugged quickly at his sleeve, but he stood still, staring at the men until they were forced to look away. Outside, a smoky haze had fallen across the meadows and squirrels darted across paths and up into trees. It was mid-afternoon, but the sun had already begun its descent and a cold wind was lifting pocketfuls of leaves and tossing them recklessly into the air.
"Were you afraid?" Carl asked, softly.
"No", she lied. "I felt like punching them".
"Ouch! - not such a gentle butterfly after all! I tell you what", he said, smiling at her. "How about I give you a new name?"
"A what? Why?"
"Something to capture your fighting spirit. How about Bernadette?"
"What's that?"
"it means strong and brave".
"Well I'm not sure that Berna-?"
"Bernadette. I'm not sure that's me."
She looked up and found him smiling.
"Do names really mean what you say they do?" She started laughing. "Or is this how you like to charm girls?"
"Now why would I possibly wish to lie to you, Miss Bernadette? I'm sincere - really sincere".
"Okay". She laughed
"So what is miss Bernadette doing over the Christmas holidays?.
"Nothing, that can't be changed", she said.
"In that case then, come to my grandparents' Christmas party".
"I'd like to be alone over the holidays."
"And even if I begged?"
"Ok, you got me." They both burst into laughter.
The next day, Carl took the train back to London for the holidays. He slept through the journey but woke as the train drew into Paddington and passengers with luggage began bumping their way down the aisles. He waited for the others to get off before retrieving his two cases - dragging down the steps and over the gap onto the platform where his parents were waiting.
They looked older and shorter than Carl remembered, each wearing tan raincoats, which was the first time Carl had known them to wear matching clothing. Father's was open at the front, mother's buttoned to the chin. Mother's hands were clasped around her handbag as though grasping a horse's rein - fingers curled tightly around leather, hands drawn back, close to the waist - while father kept his arms folded over his chest in order to keep glancing at his watch, eager to get home.
Traffic was slow around Paddington, but then it was a quick run through Brixton and Herne hill into leafy Dulwich.
" It's good to be back", Carl said, pretending, for father's sake, not to have noticed mother's nervous chatter or the smell of whisky on her breath.
He knelt to remove the day's letters from the entrance so that mother wouldn't trip, remembering having crouched by the front doors as a child in eager anticipation of father's letters. Usually he wrote in flimsy blue aerograms, but occasionally he remembered to send a white envelope with a row of colourful West African stamps that he had saved for his stamp collection.
Juma and Saratu (their cats) sauntered in, greeting Carl as though he had been gone for just a few hours.
" I've made your favourite - chicken pie!" Mother said, standing by the oven, hands clasped in front of her tweed skirt.
" Carl", father called from the lounge upstairs. " I'll take your suitcase to your room.
"No father, it's fine, I'll handle it".
It was just the three of them in the large, three-storey Georgian house, but already it felt crowded to Carl - crowded and strangely cold. He glanced at his mother standing by the oven, twirling her wedding band round and round, like an anxious schoolgirl. Above the thick gold band sat a slimmer ring pulled up to the knuckle to give room for the latter's rotation. This was her engagement ring: a large opal encircled by sapphires. Carl remembered touching the stones as a child, turning the ring this way and that to catch the many shafts of colour, and, though mother used to complain that opals brought bad luck, Carl never saw her taking it off except when making pastry.
"These are nice", Carl remarked, noticing some roses on the kitchen table.
"I've made you a cake". Mother pointed to a linen tea cloth covering her work. "Lemon pound", she added, turning away to fill the kettle. The sound of running water drowned Carl's "Thank you", as well as the whine of cats. "Silly things!" Carl muttered as he fetched them milk and dribbled it onto their saucers. He tried holding them back with a foot but some of the milk landed on their faces and they shook their tiny heads, scattering milk droplets across the linoleum. Carl smiled as he placed the empty milk bottle on the work surface and watched for a moment before going to his room.
His suitcase was waiting next to his bed. Carl smiled and walked to the window, overlooking Bellamy Boy's School playing fields. Scattered across the fields, patches of frosty grass resembling clumps of silver tinsel remained untouched by the winter's sun. Home - the headmaster's house in Dulwich. This at least had been home prior to Oxford, but there had been so many houses before. First they lived in Nigeria, he and mum had come back to England while father remained abroad. It had been better, Carl mused, when it was just he and mother in the days before the drinking started. He turned from the garden and ran his fingers along the edges of the floral curtains. This was a young boy's bedroom and he missed the room in Oxford with its serious books, newspapers, and ashtrays. But then he remembered Sonia's Christmas present and took it out of the bag. It was a wrist watch. He had promised not to open it before Christmas, but he couldn't resist these sorts of things, and what a lovely present! Now he wanted to find her something and he remembered the photographer's shop on Upper Street. He would get her a print of Louis Armstrong or Sonny Rollins or, failing that, he could always look for a first edition of THE HOUSE AT POOH CORNER. Sonia had introduced him to some of her favourite writers so it might be nice to do the same, provided he didn't think Pooh was too childish. Carl was still thinking of presents when he heard his mother calling and hurried downstairs.
They were sitting at the dining table when father peered suspiciously at his food and announced that the pie looked soggy in the middle.
"Mum, it's fine", Carl insisted, trying to stop her from scooping up the servings and running back to the kitchen, but it was too late.
"So what does Oxford think of Harold Wilson?" Father asked. " I don't know", Carl shrugged. Father was stabbing peas with his fork and popping them into his mouth in a way that reminded him of a greedy child. He hated the fact that his father so easily irritated him. Had it been anyone else, he would have spoken eagerly of the new Prime Minister but he knew that father scorned Wilson and the Labour Party. In any case, why couldn't he think of other things to discuss?.
" There's so much more than Wilson, Dad. There's racism in the Midlands, apartheid in south Africa, American civil rights - that's what Oxford talks about".
"Is everything okay?" Mother reappeared with a burnt-looking pie.
"Yes mum". Carl nooded, thinking that if his father didn't like his pie this time he might scream, but he didn't say anything and mother started talking about preparations for the Christmas party, wanting to know who Carl was inviting.
"Better not be anti-apartheid people", father grumbled.
"What do you mean?" Carl asked, sharply.
"Because I invited my mining friends".
"You what?" Carl looked to his mother for support.
"Oh Carl", Mother pleaded.
"But they're horrible men, those mining idiots! They own all the bloody mines in South Africa and make packets of money out of their workers. How can you invite them? Do you know how many blacks die in the Kimberly mines every month?"
"Carl, I think you're being silly," father snapped.
"Silly?"
"It's not nearly as bad as the press are saying, so don't be taken in just because you're filled with the rush from Oxford. And, frankly, if you look at the mess in the rest of Africa, South Africa is doing very well in comparison".
"Yes, thanks to all the blacks doing the work and being bloody exploited".
Carl let his fork drop noisily to the plate, and pushed his chair back. "Look, I'm sorry Mum, I can't take this".
He walked upstairs angrily and slammed his door shut. How dare he! He had always known of father's white South Africa friends, but how could he invite them to a family party? What would Sonia think? Oh sorry, here are my father's racist South Africa chums, you don't mind do you? He sat up and considered for a moment telling Sonia not to come but realised this would be what his father would want and he wasn't going to do that. In any case, it was mother he wanted to introduce to her, not father. But then what if mother got drunk?
"Bloody hell!" He muttered.