“Do you want me to read them, is that it?”
Solomon laughs now, but he doesn’t say anything. I realise that he’s been hurt, and I watch him for a while and then decide that I should leave. As I stand up he also gets to his feet. It’s awkward for both of us, but I don’t think the relationship is in any way broken. Solomon reaches down and picks up an envelope.
“How do you open your letters?” He doesn’t hand me the envelope, he simply lets it dangle between his fingers. I look at him unsure of how I’m supposed to answer his question.
“Well,” I begin. “I just tear open the envelope.”
“Ah,” he says. He smiles now. “Just tear open the envelope. I usually do this too, but for some reason I decided not to with this one.”
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take from all of this, but I continue to listen.
“For some reason I took a knife to it. This was a fine decision, for somebody had sewn razor blades into a sheet of paper and carefully turned the page over so that I would grab the so-called letter and have my fingers sliced off. This is not very kind.”
He laughs slightly and tosses the envelope down onto the pile with the other letters.
“Love letters,” he laughs. “From people who do not want me in this place.” Again he laughs. “I am beginning to take this personally.”
I sit back down and stare at the pile of letters. Solomon sits too, and he asks me if I would like more coffee. I look across at him and nod. “Would you mind?” He takes my cup and saucer and disappears into the kitchen.
“I’m not naïve.” I say this to myself. I whisper it under my breath. I’m not naïve. I’ve got stuck into these arguments in the past. With Mum and Dad, for starters, both of whom disliked coloureds. Dad told me that he regarded coloureds as a challenge to our English identity. He believed that the Welsh were full of sentimental stupidity, that the Scots were helplessly mean and mopish and they should keep to their own side of Hadrian’s Wall, and that the Irish were violent, Catholic drunks. For him, being English was more important than being British, and being English meant no coloureds. He would no more listen to me than would the teachers at school, who also hated coloureds. When people were around, they’d go on about them not really adapting well to our school system, but in private they were always “cheeky little niggers.” I know this is what people think, I’m not naïve, but why the hatred towards Solomon, who doesn’t talk to anybody? Who washes his car. Who hasn’t done anything. What do these people hope to achieve? In fact, who are these people? Are they the same people who write letters to the paper complaining about the new coins being too bulky, and the fact that telephone kiosks are no longer red? Do I know these people? Do I sit on the bus with them? I look up and Solomon has returned from the kitchen. He’s watching me looking at the pile of letters.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as he sets down my coffee and takes up the seat opposite me.
“You are sorry for what?” he asks. “I do not understand. You did not write any of these letters, did you?” He flashes me a smile. I don’t know if it’s appropriate to laugh, or if my laughter will somehow be interpreted as being disrespectful. But Solomon saves me. “Do not worry,” he says. “I know you did not write any of these letters. I am only making a joke.”
“But I’m sorry and I’m ashamed.”
“Well,” says Solomon. “I too am ashamed.”
“But what have you got to be ashamed about? You shouldn’t be ashamed of anything.”
“Why not? Sometimes the behaviour of my fellow human beings makes me ashamed.” He pauses. “And I too am not without guilt. Who among us is?”
I look at Solomon as he bites into a biscuit. He looks up and catches my eye.
“Please,” he says, “you must not apologise for these people. Most of them sign their names. They want me to know who they are.”
“But what do they want?”
“They want me to go away.”
“But why?”
Solomon sits back in the chair now. He seems nervous, but behind his uncertainty there is hurt.
“I do not know. They just want me to go. That is all.”
“But go where? I don’t understand.”
“Away.” Solomon looks tired. It’s still early in the morning, but there’s an aspect of defeat about his demeanour. “Just away, that is all.” He pauses and then he slowly shakes his head.
In the evening I decide to go to the pub for a second time. The landlord is friendly and he remembers me. He doesn’t, however, remember what I drink and so he asks me what I’d like. I tell him a half of Guinness, but I’m never sure if I really should be drinking and undergoing Dr. Williams’s tests at the same time. As he begins to pour, I make a promise that I’ll limit myself to the one drink.
“We don’t see many of you folk down here.”
I’m not sure if I’m being criticised, or if this is a situation with which the landlord is comfortable.
“A lot of people work long hours. Two jobs some of them, I think.”
“Yes,” he says as he takes a plastic knife and smooths off the top of the Guinness. “I expect they need to make some brass to pay off their fancy mortgages.” He laughs to let me know that this is his idea of wit. I smile to let him know that I’m not offended.
I hand him the exact money, and then I sit in the corner of the pub so that I can look out over the canal. In the garden, and seated around the wooden picnic tables, are the young hooligans, all of whom are drinking beer and gazing lovingly at their cluster of motorbikes as though worried that people might not realise that they’re the ones who own them. There’s only myself and the landlord in the pub, and an elderly man who watches over a pint in the corner opposite me. When I sat he nodded in silent acknowledgement, and I gave him the briefest of nods in return. It was, however, already clear that this would be the full extent of our intercourse.
I stare out of the window at the dark leaves of an old oak tree. Through its branches I can see the enlarged sun finally sinking in the west. I haven’t given it much thought, and perhaps this is my failing, but Solomon is the only coloured person in the village. In the town there are plenty of dark faces, but in this village he’s alone. And maybe he feels alone. Perhaps I should have invited him to come to the pub? It would have been easy to have said, “Can we get together this evening? Maybe go for a walk by the canal, and then pop into the pub for a drink. Would you like to do this, Solomon?” But I didn’t make any effort. Even tonight, as I was leaving the house to come out, I could have stopped by and asked him if he’d like to join me for a drink, but I didn’t. The landlord is washing glasses behind the bar. I have Solomon’s number on a piece of paper in my bag. I could ask the landlord if he has a public phone, and then call Solomon and suggest that he comes down and joins me in the pub, except that it would look like an afterthought and he might be insulted. I don’t want Solomon to become a problem in my life, but today I get the feeling that this is what he’s becoming and it’s making me feel awkward. I lift the glass to my mouth and take another sip. I decide that I’ll mind this drink until I see the sun disappear beyond the canal, and then while there’s still some light in the sky I’ll walk back up the hill to Stoneleigh. By the time I get to the top of the hill it will be dusk and I should be able to walk home without being seen.
I wait by the bus stop and worry that I might have got the time wrong. After a long night without sleep, I have made my decision and this morning I will act upon it. But I’m the only person standing here. Across the main road there are those villagers who are going into town. They talk to each other with casual ease, picking up conversations as though they have simply been set on the back burner for a few minutes. I stand by myself, going in the wrong direction, with a small suitcase by my side. I feel like I’m running away. In fact, I’m temporarily avoiding a man I don’t really know. I’m leaving my home for a few days. A day? I don’t know. But I’m alone at a bus stop waiting for a bus to come into view, and for the life of me I can’t work out if I’m doing the right thing. A girl is waving at me. It’s Carla, who’s seated in a white van that’s sitting outside the newsagent’s. A boy in a leather jacket, and with one of those army crew cuts, comes out of the shop and gets behind the wheel. Carla turns from me to the boy. They say something to each other, and then the boy leans past Carla, looks at me, and then the hairless boy starts the van’s engine. They pull off in the direction of town, and as they do so Carla waves me a final greeting. No doubt somewhere, down beneath the boy’s waistline, desire is already leaping like a trout, but who am I to warn Carla of the ways of men? Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think Carla feels sorry for me. However, she shouldn’t, for I’m quite resilient. People, especially young people, are always picking things up and dropping them again. Especially feelings. But I imagine Carla will find this out for herself in the fullness of time.