Ryder’s death was not an accident. Gossip appeared in the newspaper – a picture of Mrs Ryder’s grieving face with Michael caught in the flashlight’s glare. And everywhere I walked the whispered name of Michael Roberts became as familiar as birdsong.
It was three days before I finally returned home from the schoolhouse. The man who came and sat at the dinner table was Mr Philip. Still short, still with a round belly plump from plantain and his beloved dumplings. But he had no Bible. His empty hands shook as they hung above his knife and fork. His water glass wobbled and spilt its contents, the liquid dribbling down his chin, which remained unwiped. Miss Ma sat down and placed her napkin neatly in her lap. But there was no grace spoken even though we looked on Mr Philip to start the prayer. There was no thanking of the Lord. And there was no Michael. No Michael staring on me from across the table. No Michael attempting to catch my eye.
As usual Miss Jewel came in the room with a bowl steaming with rice. But after she had placed it on the table she laid her two hands on my shoulders and held them there for all to see before returning to her work. I could still feel the warmth of her touch long after Miss Ma had stopped staring her open-mouthed surprise at the two of us. It was then that, for the first time in my living days, I dared speak at that table. ‘Where is Michael?’ I asked. Mr Philip raised two weary eyes to look on me before lifting himself from his chair. Leaving his plate of food untouched he withdrew from the room.
Miss Ma did not look in my eye when she said, ‘Michael has gone.’
‘Gone?’ I said.
‘Yes, Michael has gone.’
‘Gone?’ I shouted.
‘Hush, child, this is still the table.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’ I had no reason to talk calmly.
‘England,’ Miss Ma said, casually lifting an empty fork to her mouth.
‘England!’ I rose from the table. ‘England?’ I screamed.
‘Child, hush yourself or you will feel my hand. Sit. Sit and eat.’
I sat down again to ask quietly, ‘England?’
‘Of course England,’ she said, as if he had not travelled an ocean but just walked into town. ‘Michael has been planning to go to England from a long time ago.’
‘When did he go to England?’
‘This morning – if it is any business of yours.’
‘He did not tell me.’
‘You think he tells you everything? It should be obvious that my son does not tell you all his business. He is a man.’ She went on: ‘He has gone to England with the purpose of joining the Royal Air Force.’ I could do nothing but watch her lips as they formed words that made no sense to me. ‘They need men like my son. Men of courage and good breeding. There is to be a war over there. The Mother Country is calling men like my son to be heroes whose families will be proud of them.’
‘But for how long has he gone?’
Again, she lifted the empty fork to her mouth, then realising I could see she was eating no food she laid the fork down and dabbed at her cheeks with a napkin. But she gave me no answer.
I heard the gentle drip, drip, on to my plate before I felt the tears on my cheeks. Was my last view of Michael Roberts to have been that shadow on a wall? Or the snatched flashlight picture in the newspaper? Michael was gone? No matter how hard I dug my fingernails into my hand this time I could not stop myself from weeping.
Four
Hortense
I never knew that electric light could be used so extravagantly. At home just one bulb came and went with the whim of the weather. One single bulb that attracted every buzzing, flying, irritating insect from the district to flutter mesmerised in its timid glow (and also Eugene, a feeble-minded man who would trek miles from the fields in his bare feet to stand gaping in our yard until the light was turned on). The two-storey college building was illuminated by lamps that could have made a blind man cover his eyes. Cars attracted by the brightness arrived at the
It was three days before I finally returned home from the schoolhouse. The man who came and sat at the dinner table was Mr Philip. Still short, still with a round belly plump from plantain and his beloved dumplings. But he had no Bible. His empty hands shook as they hung above his knife and fork. His water glass wobbled and spilt its contents, the liquid dribbling down his chin, which remained unwiped. Miss Ma sat down and placed her napkin neatly in her lap. But there was no grace spoken even though we looked on Mr Philip to start the prayer. There was no thanking of the Lord. And there was no Michael. No Michael staring on me from across the table. No Michael attempting to catch my eye.
As usual Miss Jewel came in the room with a bowl steaming with rice. But after she had placed it on the table she laid her two hands on my shoulders and held them there for all to see before returning to her work. I could still feel the warmth of her touch long after Miss Ma had stopped staring her open-mouthed surprise at the two of us. It was then that, for the first time in my living days, I dared speak at that table. ‘Where is Michael?’ I asked. Mr Philip raised two weary eyes to look on me before lifting himself from his chair. Leaving his plate of food untouched he withdrew from the room.
Miss Ma did not look in my eye when she said, ‘Michael has gone.’
‘Gone?’ I said.
‘Yes, Michael has gone.’
‘Gone?’ I shouted.
‘Hush, child, this is still the table.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’ I had no reason to talk calmly.
‘England,’ Miss Ma said, casually lifting an empty fork to her mouth.
‘England!’ I rose from the table. ‘England?’ I screamed.
‘Child, hush yourself or you will feel my hand. Sit. Sit and eat.’
I sat down again to ask quietly, ‘England?’
‘Of course England,’ she said, as if he had not travelled an ocean but just walked into town. ‘Michael has been planning to go to England from a long time ago.’
‘When did he go to England?’
‘This morning – if it is any business of yours.’
‘He did not tell me.’
‘You think he tells you everything? It should be obvious that my son does not tell you all his business. He is a man.’ She went on: ‘He has gone to England with the purpose of joining the Royal Air Force.’ I could do nothing but watch her lips as they formed words that made no sense to me. ‘They need men like my son. Men of courage and good breeding. There is to be a war over there. The Mother Country is calling men like my son to be heroes whose families will be proud of them.’
‘But for how long has he gone?’
Again, she lifted the empty fork to her mouth, then realising I could see she was eating no food she laid the fork down and dabbed at her cheeks with a napkin. But she gave me no answer.
I heard the gentle drip, drip, on to my plate before I felt the tears on my cheeks. Was my last view of Michael Roberts to have been that shadow on a wall? Or the snatched flashlight picture in the newspaper? Michael was gone? No matter how hard I dug my fingernails into my hand this time I could not stop myself from weeping.
Four
Hortense
I never knew that electric light could be used so extravagantly. At home just one bulb came and went with the whim of the weather. One single bulb that attracted every buzzing, flying, irritating insect from the district to flutter mesmerised in its timid glow (and also Eugene, a feeble-minded man who would trek miles from the fields in his bare feet to stand gaping in our yard until the light was turned on). The two-storey college building was illuminated by lamps that could have made a blind man cover his eyes. Cars attracted by the brightness arrived at the
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