Read Online The White Woman on the Green Bicycle by Monique Roffey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Monique Roffey
Ads: Link
talking and joking. Pascale stood with the glass of rum in her hand, breathing a jet of cigarette smoke up to the ceiling.
‘Eh eh, Mummyuh, howyuh goin’?’ She smiled in a half-frozen way.
‘You look well,’ Sabine managed.
The women air-kissed.
‘Hello, Zack, Tabitha,’ Sabine greeted her grandchildren, who swarmed to their mother’s long legs. They stared up at Sabine, unspeaking.
‘Come, come, here,’ Pascale chided them. They clung, climbing all over Pascale as she sat down. Both had milk-chocolate skin. Both snuggled into Pascale’s lap as she talked, a continuous stream of news, questions and laughing at her own jokes. Pascale fingered her children’s wiry curls as she laughed. George sat on one of the bar stools, Sabine on the opposite sofa. They stared at their daughter, as if they’d never seen her before.
‘Hey, Daddy, who you interviewin’ nex?’
‘Brian Lara.’
‘Wow! Can I come, too? Hold de tape recorder for you?’
‘He’s coming back from New Zealand soon. It’s not yet confirmed.’
‘I wonder when he’ll retire.’
‘Oh, sometime in the near future. Perhaps after the World Cup in 2007.’
‘It won’t be the same when he goes. I’ll miss him.’
‘Maybe he’ll never go. He may be indispensable.’
‘He cyan disappear.’
‘The ladies like Lara, eh?’
‘And he likes dem .’
‘Children like Lara, too,’ George grinned.
‘An ol’ people.’
‘The man’s a national hero.’
‘Of course .’
‘That’ll make him hard to interview.’
Look at them. Glowing in each other’s presence. Glowing and laughing like old friends. Just like him, her father’s daughter. Something about the way they sat, stood, held themselves: so similar, both so confident. Pascale drank a lot and smoked and limed and fêted till dawn when she could.
‘Your brother’s coming out in a few days,’ Sabine intervened.
‘Oh, dat go be fun .’ She winked.
‘He’ll be here for two weeks.’ Sabine ignored her sarcasm. ‘You know, I told you months ago. He’s coming for Easter.’
‘He bringin’ any of his snobby friends?’
‘They’re not snobs.’
Pascale exhaled a long jet of smoke. ‘Mum, anyone who hates calypso is a snob.’
‘I hate calypso.’
Pascale laughed.
‘I’m not a snob.’
George snorted. Sabine shot him a look.
‘I don’t know why he comes. He doh really enjoy himself.’
‘Yes, he does .’
‘Oh God, Mummyuh, you blind when it come to him .’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘He damn well tink everyone here chupid.’
‘Well, most people here are stupid.’
Pascal bunched her jaw, pushing her lips out.
‘My son is a very educated man.’
‘So? Sebastian shy and English when he come home. Trinidad too bold fer him. He look down on everyone. He not clever enough is my opinion.’
‘He cares about you very much.’
‘I care for him . He just too damn stiff.’
‘Gracious, some call it.’
‘Bite up, I call it.’
George got up and went to mix himself a fresh drink.
‘Dad, I’ll have another one, too.’ Pascale studied her father’s movements as he crossed the room.
Sabine appraised her grandchildren’s black skin. They were black, truly black. Not suntanned, not olive-skinned. Her grandchildren had Negro blood. African. They stared in the same mistrustful way the Africans did.
‘Anyway,’ Sabine continued, ‘he’s coming out for Easter. Alone.’
Pascale nodded. Sabine knew Pascale liked her brother despite their differences. Sebastian wasn’t stiff at all; he won over his sister like he won over everyone with his charming manner, his civilised ideas. Sebastian with his handsome open face; she had made beautiful children; no one could take that away from her. Tabitha had fallen asleep on the sofa. Zack picked his nose, still staring, like he always did. Sabine poked out her tongue and Zack half-smiled back, unsure.
Pascale leant over and stroked one of the dogs behind the ears. Her eyes drifted. ‘Daddy, you
‘Eh eh, Mummyuh, howyuh goin’?’ She smiled in a half-frozen way.
‘You look well,’ Sabine managed.
The women air-kissed.
‘Hello, Zack, Tabitha,’ Sabine greeted her grandchildren, who swarmed to their mother’s long legs. They stared up at Sabine, unspeaking.
‘Come, come, here,’ Pascale chided them. They clung, climbing all over Pascale as she sat down. Both had milk-chocolate skin. Both snuggled into Pascale’s lap as she talked, a continuous stream of news, questions and laughing at her own jokes. Pascale fingered her children’s wiry curls as she laughed. George sat on one of the bar stools, Sabine on the opposite sofa. They stared at their daughter, as if they’d never seen her before.
‘Hey, Daddy, who you interviewin’ nex?’
‘Brian Lara.’
‘Wow! Can I come, too? Hold de tape recorder for you?’
‘He’s coming back from New Zealand soon. It’s not yet confirmed.’
‘I wonder when he’ll retire.’
‘Oh, sometime in the near future. Perhaps after the World Cup in 2007.’
‘It won’t be the same when he goes. I’ll miss him.’
‘Maybe he’ll never go. He may be indispensable.’
‘He cyan disappear.’
‘The ladies like Lara, eh?’
‘And he likes dem .’
‘Children like Lara, too,’ George grinned.
‘An ol’ people.’
‘The man’s a national hero.’
‘Of course .’
‘That’ll make him hard to interview.’
Look at them. Glowing in each other’s presence. Glowing and laughing like old friends. Just like him, her father’s daughter. Something about the way they sat, stood, held themselves: so similar, both so confident. Pascale drank a lot and smoked and limed and fêted till dawn when she could.
‘Your brother’s coming out in a few days,’ Sabine intervened.
‘Oh, dat go be fun .’ She winked.
‘He’ll be here for two weeks.’ Sabine ignored her sarcasm. ‘You know, I told you months ago. He’s coming for Easter.’
‘He bringin’ any of his snobby friends?’
‘They’re not snobs.’
Pascale exhaled a long jet of smoke. ‘Mum, anyone who hates calypso is a snob.’
‘I hate calypso.’
Pascale laughed.
‘I’m not a snob.’
George snorted. Sabine shot him a look.
‘I don’t know why he comes. He doh really enjoy himself.’
‘Yes, he does .’
‘Oh God, Mummyuh, you blind when it come to him .’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘He damn well tink everyone here chupid.’
‘Well, most people here are stupid.’
Pascal bunched her jaw, pushing her lips out.
‘My son is a very educated man.’
‘So? Sebastian shy and English when he come home. Trinidad too bold fer him. He look down on everyone. He not clever enough is my opinion.’
‘He cares about you very much.’
‘I care for him . He just too damn stiff.’
‘Gracious, some call it.’
‘Bite up, I call it.’
George got up and went to mix himself a fresh drink.
‘Dad, I’ll have another one, too.’ Pascale studied her father’s movements as he crossed the room.
Sabine appraised her grandchildren’s black skin. They were black, truly black. Not suntanned, not olive-skinned. Her grandchildren had Negro blood. African. They stared in the same mistrustful way the Africans did.
‘Anyway,’ Sabine continued, ‘he’s coming out for Easter. Alone.’
Pascale nodded. Sabine knew Pascale liked her brother despite their differences. Sebastian wasn’t stiff at all; he won over his sister like he won over everyone with his charming manner, his civilised ideas. Sebastian with his handsome open face; she had made beautiful children; no one could take that away from her. Tabitha had fallen asleep on the sofa. Zack picked his nose, still staring, like he always did. Sabine poked out her tongue and Zack half-smiled back, unsure.
Pascale leant over and stroked one of the dogs behind the ears. Her eyes drifted. ‘Daddy, you
Similar Books
