Read Online The White Woman on the Green Bicycle by Monique Roffey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Monique Roffey
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OK?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You lookin’ a bit . . . peaky.’
‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘Want an aspirin?’
‘No. I’ve already taken one.’
Sabine wanted to talk more, but Pascale wasn’t interested. No one wanted to talk about the things she did.
‘So. Brian Lara, eh? I want a signed photograph. And his phone number.’
‘He’s already taken.’
‘So?’
If only Pascale had got away, too, escaped to the London College of Fashion, like she’d once planned. If only she hadn’t married that weak-chinned, jumped-up French Creole midget. As a child, Pascale covered the walls of the house in murals and graffiti, tiny flowers, bumble bees, all three feet from the ground; they scrubbed the walls of her room every other month. Now Pascale was getting fat, she mothered the children full-time, with the help of maids. Her children’s dark skin had been a surprise to them all. They’d come out much darker than their father, who wouldn’t admit he had any African in him at all.
Pascale left still gushing, tipsy, disappearing like a comet, leaving a trail of conversation-dust in her wake. George staggered to bed, sloshed. Sabine drifted out onto the grass, staring up at the hill above the house, the hip of the green woman, a woman lying on her side, never any doubt about that. A woman trapped in the mud, half sculpted from the sticky oil-clogged bedrock, half made. She was also stuck. Half out, half in. Hip, breast, a long travelling arm. Half her face, half her bushy tangled hair. Usually, she slept heavily and the earth hummed with the timbre of her snores. It could be chilly in the evenings. Cool fresh air, the mountain woman’s breath. Moments of peace, sometimes, out here.
You , Sabine addressed the hill. All you do is watch. That’s all you’ve ever done. Sit back and observe the disaster going on.
It’s my privilege.
They can’t even fix the roads . Lay them down and then dig them up again. In all this time, no proper hurricane. They all veer away.
I don’t bring the winds.
George found my letters to Eric Williams.
Oh.
I’m glad.
Really?
Yes. After all these years. I’m glad. It even feels good. So, there it is. He can think what he likes. Think me mad. Maybe I was. All I know is you , you haven’t changed.
No, I don’t change.
I’ve changed. I hardly recognise my face in the mirror. Another version of myself, of that woman who rode around so carefree on her bicycle. I thought loving George would be enough. But he loves you.
They all love me.
Yes. But you show no concern.
You’re free to go. Go .
You know I won’t, so long as he’s here.
Your son is coming soon.
Yes. Sebastian. He’ll make it all better for a short time.
Late morning, George strolled with the big dogs along his strip of Trinidad. A Carib in his hand, his hair blowing over to one side. La Blanchisseuse ‒ the washerwoman ‒ the name of this part of Trinidad’s northern coast. The women of the village once washed their clothes in the river near by and this coastline was named after them. Early morning and the sea ebbed and flowed in tame, measured swells; the white sand under the waves illuminated the water to a brilliant duck-egg blue. Tiny iridescent fish marauded through it, chased by larger silver fish, careet. November to March the sea was rough, heavy rollers breaking onto the shore. Today it was a lido out there between the shore and the black rock poking its snout from the water. In the rock a pool had formed, full of grunts and boxfish and feathery algae. A crowd of hoary pelicans sat about on the flat part and, when they took flight, in threes and fours, gliding with aerodynamic grace inches from the sea’s surface, the dogs leapt into the waves, paddling after them, woofing.
The beach, his beach, constituted a narrow strip of the coast. He owned, from the high-water mark-up, one acre of land between the beach and the road. Up here, past the busy tourist beach of Maracas, the road
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You lookin’ a bit . . . peaky.’
‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘Want an aspirin?’
‘No. I’ve already taken one.’
Sabine wanted to talk more, but Pascale wasn’t interested. No one wanted to talk about the things she did.
‘So. Brian Lara, eh? I want a signed photograph. And his phone number.’
‘He’s already taken.’
‘So?’
If only Pascale had got away, too, escaped to the London College of Fashion, like she’d once planned. If only she hadn’t married that weak-chinned, jumped-up French Creole midget. As a child, Pascale covered the walls of the house in murals and graffiti, tiny flowers, bumble bees, all three feet from the ground; they scrubbed the walls of her room every other month. Now Pascale was getting fat, she mothered the children full-time, with the help of maids. Her children’s dark skin had been a surprise to them all. They’d come out much darker than their father, who wouldn’t admit he had any African in him at all.
Pascale left still gushing, tipsy, disappearing like a comet, leaving a trail of conversation-dust in her wake. George staggered to bed, sloshed. Sabine drifted out onto the grass, staring up at the hill above the house, the hip of the green woman, a woman lying on her side, never any doubt about that. A woman trapped in the mud, half sculpted from the sticky oil-clogged bedrock, half made. She was also stuck. Half out, half in. Hip, breast, a long travelling arm. Half her face, half her bushy tangled hair. Usually, she slept heavily and the earth hummed with the timbre of her snores. It could be chilly in the evenings. Cool fresh air, the mountain woman’s breath. Moments of peace, sometimes, out here.
You , Sabine addressed the hill. All you do is watch. That’s all you’ve ever done. Sit back and observe the disaster going on.
It’s my privilege.
They can’t even fix the roads . Lay them down and then dig them up again. In all this time, no proper hurricane. They all veer away.
I don’t bring the winds.
George found my letters to Eric Williams.
Oh.
I’m glad.
Really?
Yes. After all these years. I’m glad. It even feels good. So, there it is. He can think what he likes. Think me mad. Maybe I was. All I know is you , you haven’t changed.
No, I don’t change.
I’ve changed. I hardly recognise my face in the mirror. Another version of myself, of that woman who rode around so carefree on her bicycle. I thought loving George would be enough. But he loves you.
They all love me.
Yes. But you show no concern.
You’re free to go. Go .
You know I won’t, so long as he’s here.
Your son is coming soon.
Yes. Sebastian. He’ll make it all better for a short time.
Late morning, George strolled with the big dogs along his strip of Trinidad. A Carib in his hand, his hair blowing over to one side. La Blanchisseuse ‒ the washerwoman ‒ the name of this part of Trinidad’s northern coast. The women of the village once washed their clothes in the river near by and this coastline was named after them. Early morning and the sea ebbed and flowed in tame, measured swells; the white sand under the waves illuminated the water to a brilliant duck-egg blue. Tiny iridescent fish marauded through it, chased by larger silver fish, careet. November to March the sea was rough, heavy rollers breaking onto the shore. Today it was a lido out there between the shore and the black rock poking its snout from the water. In the rock a pool had formed, full of grunts and boxfish and feathery algae. A crowd of hoary pelicans sat about on the flat part and, when they took flight, in threes and fours, gliding with aerodynamic grace inches from the sea’s surface, the dogs leapt into the waves, paddling after them, woofing.
The beach, his beach, constituted a narrow strip of the coast. He owned, from the high-water mark-up, one acre of land between the beach and the road. Up here, past the busy tourist beach of Maracas, the road
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