Read Online And Justice There Is None by Deborah Crombie - Free Book Online
Authors: Deborah Crombie
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The father was an upholsterer, she’d learned that much, and the family came from Trinidad, in the West Indies. They kept themselves to themselves, but sometimes on the warm evenings she could smell their cooking, so different from the food her own family ate
.
The summer days were warm and long, the air filled with the smell of the moldering rubbish that piled up on the pavements, and the rats grew fatter than the neighborhood cats. She took to gazing outher window, elbows on the sill, making up stories to herself about the Thomases and a rather pimply boy across the street called Eddie Langley. Everyone else she knew had to share a bedroom with brothers and sisters or grandparents, sometimes even aunts and uncles, but that only made her feel lonelier. Her mother hadn’t been able to have any more children because of some sort of female problem that was never properly explained, and her grandparents had died in Poland during the war
.
She felt connectionless, as if her little family had failed to pass some basic but secret test. She began to imagine that she was adopted, that somewhere she had another family, not Polish, not Jewish, and much more glamorous than the family in which fate had chosen to place her. Taking refuge in the library, she devoured biographies of film stars and long romantic novels with invariably tragic endings. In that way the summer passed, and it was not until the start of school in the autumn that she thought much about Betty Thomas again
.
The previous year the old school on Portobello Road had been reorganized as boys only and renamed Isaac Newton. Girls were shunted out of the neighborhood to the comprehensive in Holland Park, and she and Betty Thomas were placed in the same class
.
It seemed only natural that the girls should fall in together on the long walk home that first day, silently at first, then in desultory conversation
.
“She’s all right, don’t you think, the new teacher?” Betty offered in her soft voice. “But the subjects, we did them two years ago in Trinidad.”
“What’s it like there? Trinidad.”
“Warm. Like this, but more so, all the time. But a lot of the folks are poor, and my daddy, he thought he could do better here. Now he says we shoulda stayed at home.”
“Do you want to go back?”
Betty shrugged. “Not for me to say.”
“There are some nice things here,” she said, feeling a bit defensive. “And school will be easy for you if you’ve already done the subjects.” It was a clear day, just hot enough to make the pleated woolen uniformskirt itchy on bare thighs, and as they walked on she began to perspire. “It’s not fair, the boys getting to stay at the old school. And my mother wouldn’t give me bus fare, said she wouldn’t waste the money when I had two good feet.”
“My mother said I mus’ be havin’ a fever to even think such a thing.” Betty rolled her eyes in imitation, and both girls giggled
.
Emboldened, she asked, “Why won’t you ever talk to me at home?”
“Your family don’t like coloreds living next door. Though my daddy, he says the Polish Jews are better than some.”
“It’s not that they don’t like it,” she said, torn between embarrassment and a desire to defend her parents. “It’s just that they’re afraid of trouble, like what happened over in Elgin Crescent last year. But I don’t really see what that has to do with us.”
Betty gave her a skeptical glance. “You don’t mind if the other kids in the neighborhood won’t talk to you?”
Shrugging, she answered, “I’m used to being alone. And besides, I’d rather talk to you.”
They walked in silence for a bit, then Betty stopped and looked full at her, as if she’d come to a decision. “When I saw you, that first day, I thought you looked like the painting of an angel they had in our old church, in Trinidad.”
“Me? An angel?” No one had ever said anything like that about her before. Her oval face was ordinary; her
.
The father was an upholsterer, she’d learned that much, and the family came from Trinidad, in the West Indies. They kept themselves to themselves, but sometimes on the warm evenings she could smell their cooking, so different from the food her own family ate
.
The summer days were warm and long, the air filled with the smell of the moldering rubbish that piled up on the pavements, and the rats grew fatter than the neighborhood cats. She took to gazing outher window, elbows on the sill, making up stories to herself about the Thomases and a rather pimply boy across the street called Eddie Langley. Everyone else she knew had to share a bedroom with brothers and sisters or grandparents, sometimes even aunts and uncles, but that only made her feel lonelier. Her mother hadn’t been able to have any more children because of some sort of female problem that was never properly explained, and her grandparents had died in Poland during the war
.
She felt connectionless, as if her little family had failed to pass some basic but secret test. She began to imagine that she was adopted, that somewhere she had another family, not Polish, not Jewish, and much more glamorous than the family in which fate had chosen to place her. Taking refuge in the library, she devoured biographies of film stars and long romantic novels with invariably tragic endings. In that way the summer passed, and it was not until the start of school in the autumn that she thought much about Betty Thomas again
.
The previous year the old school on Portobello Road had been reorganized as boys only and renamed Isaac Newton. Girls were shunted out of the neighborhood to the comprehensive in Holland Park, and she and Betty Thomas were placed in the same class
.
It seemed only natural that the girls should fall in together on the long walk home that first day, silently at first, then in desultory conversation
.
“She’s all right, don’t you think, the new teacher?” Betty offered in her soft voice. “But the subjects, we did them two years ago in Trinidad.”
“What’s it like there? Trinidad.”
“Warm. Like this, but more so, all the time. But a lot of the folks are poor, and my daddy, he thought he could do better here. Now he says we shoulda stayed at home.”
“Do you want to go back?”
Betty shrugged. “Not for me to say.”
“There are some nice things here,” she said, feeling a bit defensive. “And school will be easy for you if you’ve already done the subjects.” It was a clear day, just hot enough to make the pleated woolen uniformskirt itchy on bare thighs, and as they walked on she began to perspire. “It’s not fair, the boys getting to stay at the old school. And my mother wouldn’t give me bus fare, said she wouldn’t waste the money when I had two good feet.”
“My mother said I mus’ be havin’ a fever to even think such a thing.” Betty rolled her eyes in imitation, and both girls giggled
.
Emboldened, she asked, “Why won’t you ever talk to me at home?”
“Your family don’t like coloreds living next door. Though my daddy, he says the Polish Jews are better than some.”
“It’s not that they don’t like it,” she said, torn between embarrassment and a desire to defend her parents. “It’s just that they’re afraid of trouble, like what happened over in Elgin Crescent last year. But I don’t really see what that has to do with us.”
Betty gave her a skeptical glance. “You don’t mind if the other kids in the neighborhood won’t talk to you?”
Shrugging, she answered, “I’m used to being alone. And besides, I’d rather talk to you.”
They walked in silence for a bit, then Betty stopped and looked full at her, as if she’d come to a decision. “When I saw you, that first day, I thought you looked like the painting of an angel they had in our old church, in Trinidad.”
“Me? An angel?” No one had ever said anything like that about her before. Her oval face was ordinary; her
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