Pilgrims Way Read online

  He nodded, accepting the comfort, and feeling that perhaps he was going on. As they lay dozing in the dark, he surfaced now and then with a snippet of something funny that had happened in his childhood. The last thing she remembered was his halting monotone as he talked about the Test Match, predicting a miserable Saturday for England.

  To his great annoyance, England survived the Saturday comfortably and the hated Boer reached 116 before he was removed. Daud became quite petulant once the score passed 350. Catherine persuaded him to come out for a stroll instead of sitting in the house on such a lovely afternoon.

  ‘I might as well,’ he said, on the verge of saying something cruel about the beloved West Indies team. He took her to the common and showed her the huge bank of nettles which he found so terrifying. They sat in the grove of ash and birch trees, playing at being lovers. He quivered a little when a dog came in sight, but her presence and the joyful way that she dealt with the monster reassured him. None of the boys playing in the park came to throw stones at them, or call them names. After a while, he began to feel safe and he lay on the grass beside her, shutting his eyes.

  ‘This is the warmest summer I remember,’ she said.

  They met Lloyd on their way home. He was so delighted to see them that Daud knew he could not just shake him off. He could not reject so much affection. He came back to the house with them, and Daud invited him in.

  ‘I thought I’d better stay away for a while. After all that business. You know what he’s like,’ Lloyd said, addressing the last remark at Catherine. ‘Karta! Have you met Karta yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said brightly.

  Lloyd struggled to smile. His whole manner spoke so much of strain and anxiety that Daud could not be certain if the smile was to do with what she had said at all.

  ‘He hasn’t been round much,’ Daud said gloomily, discouraging Catherine’s cheerfulness.

  ‘You must come and meet my parents. Both of you! I’ve been asking him for months but he won’t come,’ Lloyd said, enlisting Catherine’s support. ‘You must come! They’re really keen to meet you. Come tomorrow, come for Sunday dinner.’

  ‘No,’ Daud said at once, even though the remark was addressed to Catherine and she was smiling politely as if feeling herself forced to accept the hospitality. He saw her face cringe a little, and saw her look away.

  ‘Come for tea,’ Lloyd said, the plea in his voice unmistakable now.

  She glanced at Daud, daring him to refuse, and he nodded. Lloyd sighed softly and then smiled at Daud. He did not stay long after that, hurrying to leave once he knew that they were planning to go to the cinema that evening. He waited for Daud to see him to the door, and then stood on the pavement, looking past Daud into the house. ‘I’m sorry about all those things I said,’ he said. ‘It’s him. He makes me feel like that.’

  Daud said nothing, but he nodded because he could not bear the look of misery on Lloyd’s face. Large and formless as he was, with that pasty look, he was like a lump of dough, Daud thought. There was nothing he could do for him. He had only felt Lloyd as a burden, and after the baboons and nig-nogs outburst with Karta, there was little more to be said. Go find yourself another golliwog, he thought.

  She was annoyed with him when he went back, but he shrugged off her criticism. He wanted nothing to do with their squabbles, he told her. He could not understand why Lloyd should have pleaded for them to accept. Daud wondered if that was because of Catherine, because she was so obviously English. The other invitations had been lightly tossed at him, and never pursued. The thought had struck him when Lloyd first asked. He asked her, in that pleading voice. Now as he thought about it, he wondered if he would have acquired greater respectability because of Catherine. An au pair with a heavy accent would have suggested cheap sex and nightly orgies perhaps, and he would have appeared as a kind of tormented Florialis to Lloyd’s parents, a fornicating black baboon. Not if he turned up with Catherine, though.

  The thought of going to meet them spoiled his Sunday, he insisted. He had heard enough about Lloyd’s parents to imagine what it would be like to spend an afternoon with them. The father would be a large, muscular gent with curly fair hair. He would possess a huge paw with which he would attempt to crush Daud’s hand, no doubt imagining that it was really his gonads he was turning into jelly. She would be skinny and nervous, having spent a lifetime under the tyranny of this hulk. Lloyd had told him that his parents never said anything of any significance, so he could imagine them fixing him with long, baleful stares, while they sat silently gulping tea.

  Lloyd invited them into the house shyly, almost humbly. His greetings and his questions tumbled over each other, revealing his delight that they had come. ‘Come and meet my parents,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Daud was astonished by the affluence of the house. The outside gave no indication of the richness of the carpets and of the furnishings, the luxury of the papered walls and the polished banister. Yet Lloyd had chosen to leave this comfort to come and spend his evenings at Daud’s dirty hovel. It was disappointing to discover that the appetite could tire of such luxury and seek instead the disagreeable discomforts of his kind of squalor. Lloyd probably felt guilty about the carpets, he thought, or had a secret ambition to undertake abject tasks.

  They were met at the door of the living room by a short, stumpy-looking man. His squat, meaty head was grizzled and lined even under the closely cropped grey hair. His eyes passed quickly over Daud and settled on Catherine. He stepped forward and took her hand, smiling at her with a brashness that was not going to be denied. ‘You must be Lloyd’s friend,’ he said to Daud, still holding on to her hand. ‘Come in, come in, come in.’

  He propelled Daud into the living room, giving him a firm push in the back. Daud found himself faced by a slim, dark-haired woman, striding towards him with obvious delight. She shook his hand with unexpected force, saying something welcoming to him. The handshake reminded him of his first Englishman. He had been only a boy then, rewarded for his diligent pursuit of excellence by a school prize that was to be presented to him by the Director of Education. There was some disagreement among his teachers about whether the Englishman’s name was Mr Hens or Mr Hams or Mr Hands. After this brief meeting, Daud knew he could only be Mr Hands. He had learnt his lesson from that, and now shook hands with Englishmen with circumspection and force. It was high time, he reflected, that he applied this simple survival skill to his encounters with English women as well. She motioned him into a chair, and he sank into it with muttered gratitude.

  ‘I’m Mrs Marsh,’ she said, speaking gently and watching him warily, as if she expected him to despise her. ‘And this is Mr Marsh. Lloyd, of course, you know.’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Mr Marsh loudly, enunciating each syllable. He guided Catherine to the sofa and sat beside her. She had repossessed her hand but it was clear already that matters would not be that easy. He leant towards her as he spoke. ‘And what do they call you, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘Her name’s Catherine, Dad,’ Lloyd called out, standing awkwardly by the door and watching his father.

  ‘What? Why are you standing there?’ snapped Mr Marsh.

  ‘Come and sit down, Lloyd. Come and sit by your friend,’ Mrs Marsh advised, settling herself nearby.

  ‘And what do you do with yourself, Catherine?’ Mr Marsh asked.

  ‘She’s a nurse, Dad. Don’t you remember Lloyd telling us,’ Mrs Marsh cheerfully reminded him, not appearing to notice how his hand came to land on Catherine’s thigh. ‘And Dudley works at the hospital too.’

  ‘Daud. My name is Daud,’ he said, looking on as Catherine removed Mr Marsh’s hand from her thigh.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘How silly of me! English people are terrible with names, aren’t they?’

  Her wariness surprised him, but when he became used to it he saw it as a kind of nervous alertness. She leant back in her chair, taking herself out of the picture. When she saw him watching her she smiled
. It was a friendly, surprised smile: Oh, you are interested in me.

  ‘What country are you from?’ she asked.

  When he was in the mood, he enjoyed this question. He would have a captive audience to whom he could recite a fantastic and fabricated history with complete freedom. Sometimes he mined for gold in the Ruwenzori, working a stake in the city of She. Oh yes, it exists all right. At times he was a princeling, a provincial khan, fated to inherit his father’s twenty wives. On occasions he claimed descent from Bajun pirates, and could describe in detail the initiation rites of his people, or whip off his shirt to demonstrate the scars left on him. He was distracted though by Catherine’s plight, and attended to her in case she needed help.

  ‘Tanzania,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, how nice! I bet it’s a wonderful country. What comes from there? It must be lovely and warm,’ Mrs Marsh said with a vivacity that was clearly false, that was an attempt to disguise her nervousness. None the less Daud thought he detected an undercurrent of enthusiasm and warmth in her voice.

  ‘Have you been to Africa?’ he asked, misled by the tone with which she spoke.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said with a disappointed voice. ‘But Dad . . . Mr Marsh has.’

  ‘Tanzania! That’s one of these socialist one-party democracies, isn’t it?’ Mr Marsh asked, turning slightly to face Daud.

  It was a pity the grizzly fart had started with such a good one, Daud thought. What can you say about socialist, one-party democracies? They were an abomination, anathema, thinly disguised dictatorships, intended to allow the abuse of freedom within the state, the resort of the intolerant and the chronically authoritarian. He could not think of a single good thing that he could say to defend socialist, one-party democracies. For national unity he read national bullying. Their enthusiasts described them as traditional forms of government. Whose traditions? If some greasy King had managed to gain ascendancy over his own people, and molested and harassed them for some bizarre ambition he harboured, was that a reason to follow in his bloody footsteps? No, there was nothing to be done with socialist, one-party democracies. He was glad that Mr Marsh had turned his attention to him, though, and given Catherine a rest. Daud smiled at the squat bugger, hoping he would come charging out with something else that he could crash right out of the ground for six.

  ‘Yes, Andrew was in Africa during the War, and he even had some African friends,’ Mrs Marsh told Daud. He caught the nervous, sympathetic look again. She was afraid he might have understood the anger in Mr Marsh’s remark, he thought.

  ‘What was the name of the place where you were, Dad?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘The White Man’s Grave,’ Mr Marsh said, smiling at Daud. ‘I can remember what it used to be called, although God knows what it’s called now. There was a time when you could look at a map and recognise the places. Now it’s Tanzania, Ruritania, Krakatoa or any other pretentious name they can dream up. It was a different Africa in those days,’ Mr Marsh said, turning back to Catherine and leering at her. ‘It was probably the only time in its history when Africa had a bit of order.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Lloyd glanced at Daud to let him know that Mr Marsh could not really be serious.

  ‘Well, ask him,’ he said, talking to Catherine, but pointing at Daud. ‘Nothing but starvation and chaos. Ask him! Ask your friend why he doesn’t go back there.’

  Mrs Marsh sighed. ‘Oh, Andrew, it’s not as simple as that,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t mean any offence,’ Mr Marsh said, looking at his wife. ‘I don’t believe in all that colour bar nonsense, you know that. And I hope what I’m saying will be taken in the spirit it’s meant.’

  ‘Of course, Dad,’ Lloyd said in the embarrassing silence.

  ‘I have nothing against you personally,’ Mr Marsh said, turning to Daud. ‘After all we invited you to our house. But there are just too many of your people here now, and we don’t want the chaos of all those places to be brought to us here. We’ve done enough for your people already.’

  Daud listened patiently to their display of insular meanness and arrogance. Catherine made a face, asking if he wanted to leave. He shook his head. Lloyd was sitting silently nearby, and Daud wondered why he had wanted him to come and see this. In the end Mrs Marsh rose to get the tea, and called Catherine to help her. By this time Catherine was fuming with anger at Mr Marsh’s fumbles, and as she left the room she glanced at him with loathing.

  ‘You should’ve thought of all this before,’ Daud said. ‘Before you set off on your civilising mission.’ He did not have to do this, he told himself. He was just performing a social duty, educating the world at large in the benefits of cultural exchanges. To be as blissfully unaware of his ridiculousness as this man was a quality only builders of empires possessed. It was the same with those Chinese and Roman Kings who had disregarded the most obvious hints of their impending destruction. They had pranced and preened, and could not believe what pathetically vulnerable figures they cut in front of their barbarian enemies. They were so convinced of their superiority that they could not take the danger seriously.

  Mr Marsh looked at Daud for a moment, as if wondering whether to reply. He turned to Lloyd and talked to him about the shop instead. Mrs Marsh came back in with a tray of tea things while Catherine followed with the cakes and biscuits. She came to sit on the floor beside Daud, avoiding Mr Marsh and refusing his most fervent pleas that she should return to the sofa.

  ‘She wants to be by her young man, Andrew,’ Mrs Marsh said sharply, silencing the bully.

  ‘It must cause you problems sometimes,’ he said, looking at Catherine. ‘Do people say things to you about him . . . Dudley? I think it’s worst of all for the children. Something seems to happen to the children when you mix the blood. They seem to take on only the worst qualities of both races. It isn’t fair to them really.’

  Daud shook his head sharply, as if to clear it of hallucination. He glanced at Catherine, telling her it was time to leave.

  ‘Oh, has Lloyd told you about joining the Army?’ Mrs Marsh asked, looking stricken and ashamed.

  ‘I’ve been telling him for years that that’s what he should do,’ Mr Marsh said. ‘Make a man out of him.’

  Daud glanced at Lloyd. His head was lowered but as he sensed Daud’s scrutiny, he looked up. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled, a rueful admission of defeat. Daud looked away, not wanting to add to his misery. Mr Marsh was talking about regiments and medicals, but Daud had heard enough. He guessed that this was the reason for the invitation to tea. Lloyd had wanted him to know but did not want to have to tell him himself. Perhaps also, although Daud was less certain of this, Lloyd had wanted to show him that he had had no choice.

  They made little ceremony about leaving, rising to go after another exchange of glances. Mr Marsh attached himself to Catherine again, holding her hand as they stood by the door, and then following her down the front steps.

  ‘Don’t get hurt,’ Daud said, shaking hands with Lloyd.

  ‘Not like the other day! Did he tell you about how he fell off the bus? Silly boy,’ said Mrs Marsh.

  Mr Marsh shouted out some pleasantry as they began to walk away, but Daud did not hear it. He thought Lloyd would walk with them down the road, but his mother had her arm on his shoulder and he stayed with her.

  18

  ‘It was the woman I felt sorry for,’ Catherine said, making a disgusted face. ‘And Lloyd . . . having that man for a father.’

  ‘I told you we shouldn’t go,’ he crowed. ‘It was a nice house though. No mice in the walls and no mould in the cupboard.’

  ‘I don’t know how you could’ve just sat there, listening to those obnoxious things,’ she said. ‘We should’ve left as soon as he started.’

  He shrugged. ‘I was imagining that Bossy and I had come upon bugger Marsh in the fastness of Prison Island. He might have been shipwrecked, certainly immured in a fortress of stakes, muttering to himself and looking for somebody to bully. Like Robinson Crusoe. While I was listening
to him, I imagined Bossy and me interrogating him. He probably would’ve been difficult and we would have been forced to get rough with him, beat him up a little, pull his long, wispy beard. That kind of thing . . .’

  That night he had another dream. He saw himself walking the streets, turning to look at whatever pleased him. Opposite the cathedral gates he saw a man waving a banner announcing the end of the world. His grey hair was shiny with dirt, tired eyes open but unseeing. Then the eyes fixed on Daud, the face took his father’s shape and turned wicked. Instantaneously, Daud found himself in Bishop Street, reading a letter from his mother. He saw her speaking the words as she laboriously wrote them out. She was sitting beside his father’s bed, waving the flies away. An Indian doctor, crooning love songs to her, was writing a prescription. The radio was blaring music. Try as he might he could not see his father’s face, just a shape covered with flies. It became important to see him, and he became frantic as he tried to fight his way to him before he died.

  He woke up in tears, his heart soaring with dread. He curled up in her arms while she comforted him, rebuking him for the pain he caused himself. ‘I fear news of his death,’ he said. ‘There’s no avoiding him going, but I know that when he goes he will still be angry with me. I keep dreaming of his death.’

  She stayed the rest of the week with him. When they had the same duty, they walked to work together, cutting across the common. The days continued warm and dry, starting talk of drought and crisis. The grass on the common was turning golden and bare patches were beginning to appear. One evening she came back from work and went and stood outside, looking at the rock-strewn garden. She started to clean it up, talking of planting flowers or perhaps some vegetables. He was reluctant at first, inclined to scoff and mock, but then his mind was fired by the idea of fresh hot peppers and homegrown lettuce, perhaps even some okra. After a few hours of moving boulders and broken paving-stones they gave up. They showered and went out for a curry. He kept her abreast of developments in the Test Match, and it was to her that he admitted, holding her hand and swearing her to secrecy, that perhaps Tony Greig was not quite such a creep as he had at first thought. Although that in itself was not saying such a great deal . . . England still lost, as was only right and proper, but the Boer had come out of the match with fair scores.