A Cupboard Full of Coats Read online

  I brought her breakfast in bed. Tea and toast with scrambled eggs, arranged on a tray beside a love heart I’d cut out and coloured in myself to cheer her up. With him gone, I didn’t have to knock. Still I entered her room on tiptoe, so as not to wake her. But on that score, I needn’t have worried at all.

  She was lying under the bedspread, on her side, eyes open, staring at nothing, and I wondered if she’d managed to get any sleep at all that night, because she looked wrecked.

  She smiled and sat up, trying to act like everything was still cool, but it wasn’t and I knew it. She was treating me like a baby, like I wasn’t old enough for her to tell me stuff, so young and stupid in fact that if she pretended hard enough, I wouldn’t be able to guess there was anything wrong at all. And it struck me as weird really, because not only did I feel older, but it felt as though everything was reversed and somehow I’d become the mum and she was now the child.

  ‘Aren’t you going to school?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just revision. It’s okay. I won’t miss anything.’

  Normally there’d have been no way she would have let me skip school for no good reason. But I think she was too tired to make an issue of it. She must have known there was no way on earth I was going to go to school and just act like it was some regular, random day. How could I leave her alone in the state she was in?

  She didn’t eat much. In truth, I’d done a bit of a bodge-job. I’d been concentrating so hard on stirring the eggs that I forgot the toast under the grill and it had burned. By the time I scraped off the black bits it was cold and somehow, all the black bits managed to get into the butter, which didn’t melt into the toast like it was supposed to, but just sat on top looking filthy. She was kind of humouring me with the few nibbles she had, but she didn’t fancy it and I could hardly blame her. She drank most of the tea though, and smiled at me between sips, and picking up the heart, she looked at it, blinking fast, and touched my face and kissed me and said thanks.

  Her eyes kept welling and spilling, despite the smiles. It felt like her heart was broken and the knowledge broke mine. I wanted her back to normal but I didn’t know how to make that happen. I looked at the pathetic heart I had made. It had been childish of me to think a scrap of paper could change everything in a flash. How could it be possible for a tiny piece of paper to accomplish a massive thing like that? That day I learned a new kind of fear.

  I ran her a bath and she lay in it for over an hour, hardly moving. I had to encourage her to get out and then all she wanted to do was just lie down and rest, like she hadn’t already rested for most of the day. When I went to check on her at lunchtime to see if she wanted me to make her something else to eat she was fast asleep and, I had to admit it, I was relieved.

  While she slept I cleaned up downstairs. I moved quickly, trying to keep ahead of the fear that dogged me. Not of Berris, but of her, how she was. It was like someone had shaken everything out of her, every ounce of hope, every decent memory, everything good she’d kept stored inside, and left in its place a sack, one that could still be shifted from place to place, propped up, made to lie flat, but no matter how hard I searched, was empty inside. It did my head in to see her like that, really did it in. What would happen if she stayed like that for good? Was it possible for someone to never recover from something like this? It was sick and it was selfish, but still I wondered, if she didn’t recover, what would happen to me?

  I took out some food and made dinner. I’d been watching my mother cook for years, marinating, seasoning, frying, boiling, stewing. In a baptism of fire, I went from scrambled eggs on toast to rice and peas and chicken. I discovered that what I had taken for granted, fine meals beautifully presented and tasting like heaven, was actually an art form my mother had perfected. It was tough, not just the chicken and the rice, but the whole process. Watching and doing were two different things. That was the second thing I learned that day.

  I underestimated the time it took the red peas to cook and even though I’d boiled them for about an hour before I put the rice in, they were hard, rubbery edged with crunchy centres; and the rice was way overcooked, soggy as pudding. I turned the fire up under the pot to dry it out a bit and it burned at the bottom, leaving a distinctly smoky flavour, not yummy-smoked like sizzling bacon, more like the singe of overheated iron combs on hair.

  But the chicken looked okay. I’d taken it out of the freezer and defrosted it under the running tap before seasoning it and putting it in the oven to roast. It looked a lot better than the gravy, which was pitch black from an overdose of gravy browning, and tasted well weird, more like a chemistry experiment gone wrong than anything I’d ever come across before on a dinner plate.

  When it was ready, I carried her dinner up to her on a tray. I was relieved to see not only that she had gotten up but she was also dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed, painting her toenails. She broke into a smile when she saw the plate, which was good, though the laughter that followed was like the right sign in the wrong place. I went to get my own plate of food and we ate together in her room, something else we hadn’t done in yonks.

  I have to say the meal was despicable, and after the consolation I took from the chicken, which was the only thing on the plate that looked nearly okay, as soon as I cut into it, it began to bleed.

  ‘Next time it will be better,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. When I was your age I didn’t even know how to make a cup of tea.’

  We took our plates back downstairs and emptied them and she helped me tidy up the mess I had made of the kitchen. She gave me some money and I left, headed for Kentucky’s to buy us some finger-licking food it was actually possible to eat. She was up, she was moving, she was talking. I was so happy I wanted to fly. I bombed it all the way to Mare Street and then, so our food didn’t get the chance to cool too much before we ate it, I bombed it back.

  The round trip took about half an hour and I was out of breath as I opened the front door, calling out to her. She didn’t answer. When I stepped inside the living room she was sitting on the settee looking down at her lap, demurely. Beside her sat a man I’d never seen before, tall and light-skinned, really good-looking for an old guy, and very smartly dressed. He smiled at me as I entered, real friendly like. It was so contagious that I smiled back automatically and the smile froze on my lips when I realized that Berris was in the room too, standing beside the window, his weight on one shoulder pressed hard against the wall, as if his legs alone were not strong enough to keep his body upright. His other hand was wiping away a stream of tears.

  He looked at me. I think it was the first time he had ever looked me in the eyes for more than a few seconds, like he was so distraught he didn’t care who saw him or what they thought, as if being that upset exempted him from pride and shame.

  ‘This must be Jinx,’ the other man said. ‘I’m Berris’ friend, Lemon.’

  Looking at Berris, I experienced a feeling that I despised for years after. I’d never seen a grown man cry before. Never. Up till then it was something I hadn’t even known was possible. I must have read about forty Mills & Boon books all in all, and in not a single one had any man cried or even come close, whether they were sorry for what they’d done or not. And Berris looked like he had been crying non-stop for twentyfour hours straight. His eyes were red, the skin all around them puffed and swollen and blotchy. Even though his skin was dark, his nose was still blatant Rudolf.

  I’d hated that man so bad for weeks, wanted nothing else in that time but that he pack up and get out of our home, yet he looked more wretched than any man, woman or child I’d ever seen in my life. Like he knew he’d done the worst thing a person could ever do and was truly, to the heart, sick and remorseful and sorry. He couldn’t look at her and he couldn’t stop himself from bawling like a baby. It was the most pathetic thing I’d ever seen.

  In that moment, because I knew what he’d done, how he’d smashed in my mother’s face in temper, because the memory of him polishing off his dinner and the l
ook of pure satisfaction in his eyes was still fresh and vivid in my mind, my feelings shocked me. I looked at the man who had caused our family so much hurt, so much upset, and there was no denying it; I felt sorry for him.

  I felt sorry for him.

  6

  It was the smell that woke me. Heaven scent. Both alien and familiar at the same time. First it permeated the air, then pervaded my nostrils, then made its way down to my gut where it took hold and wrenched hard, and I found myself simultaneously hungry and awake.

  I lay where I had fallen asleep the night before, on the settee still. Lemon had put the blanket over me, wedged a pillow under my head, and I had slept like a babe. I didn’t know where he had slept himself, but he was up now, in the kitchen, frying fish.

  I could smell it.

  Snappers maybe or red mullet. Traditional fare. The kind of fish my mother had fried, the kind of smell this house had not contained since that time. Maybe he intended to feed me to death, kill me with West Indian food, serve me every dish my mother had ever cooked and given me, bring back into this house everything that made me remember her and all those things I had foolishly thought I had been so successful in forgetting.

  It smelled delicious.

  I threw back the blanket and stood. It had been a long time since I’d had the pleasure of waking to a meal I hadn’t prepared myself. I breathed in slowly, relishing the wonderful odour, realizing what I felt was more than mere hunger, it wasn’t just a desire for something to pick at or nibble on: I was famished. Not only did I want to ingest the aroma, my mouth was salivating, my stomach contracting as though I hadn’t eaten for weeks. The only time I could ever remember having that kind of physical response to food was when I had been pregnant with Ben, as though all sense of smell and taste had risen a plane, gone up a level, a hunger that was elevated to the realm of the supernatural. For a moment, my longing for the breakfast Lemon was cooking was so intense I actually felt afraid.

  I folded up the blanket and took it upstairs with the pillow and had a shower. A fast one. And brushed my teeth and dressed and went back downstairs where I found him waiting for me, sitting on the second to bottom step. He stood up as I approached and nodded his good morning.

  ‘I cooked breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You ready for it now?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Then come. We eat.’

  I followed him.

  I was right, it was red mullet, perfectly fried, crisp and salty on the outside, moist and steaming on the inside, served with a fiery salsa of onions, sweet and scotch bonnet peppers, tomatoes and garlic, and on the side of the plate, a small pile of cucumber, sliced wafer thin and smothered in lemon juice, pepper and salt.

  ‘Is good?’ he asked, watching me, his cutlery in his hands, his own plate as yet untouched.

  My mouth was full so I nodded. I was eating slowly, exploring the tastes inside my mouth and the experience was as erotic as foreplay. I swallowed.

  ‘Bloody good,’ I said.

  ‘You look like you could do with little meat on them bones.’

  ‘Are you trying to fatten me up?’

  ‘I’m just saying you don’t need to be on no diet.’

  ‘You’re hardly Barry White yourself.’

  ‘But I eat proper food.’

  ‘I eat proper food.’

  ‘Decent food.’

  ‘Marinated overnight then cooked down for five hours?’

  ‘With taste.’

  ‘I have to admit, this is delicious, Lemon.’

  ‘You look so much like her.’

  ‘Don’t spoil this for me,’ I said.

  He made sorrel. First sorting through the dried hibiscus flowers and discarding the bad ones, filling and refilling the kettle and pouring the boiled water into a mixing bowl that had been unused for almost a decade and a half. Then he tipped the flowers into the bowl, where they floated. He used a ladle to press them down into the water, where immediately they began to bleed.

  I sat on the high stool and watched him.

  The radio played soca in the background. Different parts of Lemon’s body danced at different times; his bouncing shoulders, his nodding head, his tapping toes or winding waist or swivelling hips. At no time while he worked was he ever detached from the music. Even when he was grating fresh ginger into the mixture, he kept perfect time with the beat.

  He threw in whole cinnamon sticks and a couple of cloves. With a knife he peeled the skin from a large orange in a single coiling strip and let it fall in. Then he halved and juiced a couple of lemons and added them as well. Last came the cane sugar and he poured in almost half the bag. The air was spicy and zesty, filled with the promise of tasty future treats.

  ‘I can’t remember when’s the last time I had sorrel,’ I said.

  ‘I made this for Mavis once sometimes twice a week. Was one of her favourite drinks. And mine.’

  He used a ladle to stir till the sugar was dissolved to his satisfaction. Finished, he turned the volume of the radio up and danced his way over to where I sat. He took my arm and tried to pull me to stand and dance but I resisted.

  ‘I don’t do calypso,’ I said.

  He continued dancing as if I had gotten up and was dancing with him, holding both my hands and moving them in time to the beat as he jumped and pranced and bounced his body against my legs and knees and thighs. It was impossible not to laugh, not to be swept upstream with him on the current of his exuberance, and as soon as I did he pulled me off the chair, and because it was pointless trying to resist any longer, I joined in. I couldn’t remember the last time I had danced.

  Afterwards, we put the telly on and he asked me to get the hair-grease and comb. He sat on the settee and I sat on the floor between his legs. Working in sections, he greased my scalp, then combed and plaited my hair in tiny perfect braids that were better than any I could have done myself. The last person to have done that was my mother. He was unhurried and so gentle. At one point I had to struggle to keep my eyes open it was that nice. And unexpected. I sipped sweet sorrel on a warm, full belly and found myself content.

  ‘You did her hair as well, didn’t you?’ I asked, and he nodded. Then all was silent till he finished.

  ‘You have any clippers?’ he asked.

  ‘Upstairs,’ I yawned.

  ‘Bring them down, and some cream.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Unless you busy.’

  I went upstairs to my bedroom, searched quickly, then brought them to him.

  He clipped my fingernails, and filed them down. Then rubbed cream into my hands, slow and meticulous around the cuticles, so gently it was almost impossible to believe a man was doing it. Finished with my hands he did my feet. The nails first and then more filing. He took longer over creaming them, rubbing and squeezing and pressing and massaging them on their way into foot heaven. I sat on the settee looking down at him, watching as he worked, studying the careful precision of his fingers, marvelling that I had ever thought them clumsy, relaxing till it seemed I might slide off the settee into a shapeless, boneless heap of melted contentment at his feet. And still he rubbed.

  With his fingers.

  I was aroused.

  He looked up at me and I wondered, did my breathing change? Had my temperature suddenly soared? I couldn’t say precisely how, but I knew he knew exactly what I was feeling; he had always known, always. The words tumbled out of my mouth involuntarily.

  ‘I love you.’

  The movement of his hands slowed, almost to a stop. ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘I know enough.’

  ‘You got no idea who I am, the things I’ve done.’ It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. On the verge of tears I

  said, ‘I don’t care.’

  He released my feet and stood. ‘I shouldn’ta come.’ ‘Why won’t anyone love me?’ The tears began to fall and I

  hated them for coming now, for the indignity, but I had no more control over them
than I had over the words queued up inside my throat. ‘Not her! Not him! Not you! Not even my son! Why?’

  ‘She did love you.’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘I know she did.’

  ‘She loved him, only him. After he came there was nothing left for me. Nothing.’

  ‘How can you think that?’

  ‘I was there! I saw!’

  ‘From what I seen, I know she loved you.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t have the right.’

  ‘I give you the right.’

  ‘You don’t know enough to say that.’

  I was shameless in my begging. ‘Please!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said and reached his hands out as if he wanted to hold me, to embrace and comfort me. I chopped at his outstretched arms with one of my own as hard as I could, and with the other I wiped my face.

  I said, ‘In that case, keep your fucking hands to yourself!’

  I felt like an idiot, a silly adolescent child. Like I was sixteen years old again. What was the point of time passing if nothing changed? I cleaned the bathroom. Wiped out the bath and the bowl and the shower. Then the mirror and every surface. And swept and mopped then dried the floor.

  I was fuming. At myself. For wanting too much, for asking. For forgetting that I had loved him once before and had already been hurt. Furious that what I wanted to say was still bound tight inside me and I was blurting out the things that were better kept hidden. It was the food, and the drink, and the comfort, peeling back my armour to leave me naked. Instead of loving my son, I was loving this man who had already let me down, doing what my mother had done to me. I studied my face in the mirror seeking any sign that I had changed, or worse, seeking signs that I had changed into her.

  He was in the kitchen when I went back downstairs, funnelling the last of the sorrel into empty bottles he must have retrieved from the recycling box outside. When he looked at me I wondered what he saw. Who. I wanted to say sorry, but unlike the declarations of love mobilized to burst their way free of my lips, the apology merely smouldered.