Golden Child, page 7
‘Hi, Sayeed, boy!’ Clyde says. He opens his arms. Sayeed comes for the kiss, takes a handful of peanuts from the bowl and then races into the house. Rachel comes up, holding her handbag over her head. Rachel is the prettiest of the girls in her family, slim, with D-cup breasts and long curly hair. Today she’s wearing tight, light-blue trousers and a sleeveless top with a kind of frill at the neckline that sometimes gives Clyde a glimpse of her cleavage. The women come out and stand on the patio for a while talking about Rachel’s outfit, what she did in the shop this morning and the various people she bumped into at the mall; then they talk about Rachel’s mother and father and sisters, and the sisters’ husbands, and the sisters’ husbands’ sisters. Clyde returns to his newspaper. Eventually the women drift away to the kitchen.
The rain has stopped again by the time Romesh arrives. He helps himself to a Carib from the back sink, kicks off his slippers and settles down next to Clyde on the patio. Romesh has two streaks of sweat running down his face on his left side: two lines going straight straight down, like tyre tracks. He tilts his head to the side, wipes his cheek against his shirt-sleeve.
‘Hot!’ Clyde says.
‘Boy? Whole day I on the road,’ says Romesh. He pinches his shirt just under the neckline and pumps it, to make a breeze on his neck. ‘All morning, since seven-eight o’clock.’
He went down to San Fernando this morning, he says, to pick up a crate of ceramic tiles for a hotel, then somewhere else, halfway across Trinidad, to unload, and he had to wait while the client went through every single batch of tiles, counting which ones were wet, which ones were broken. He jiggles his knees as he talks, recounts the falling out with the tiles customer. ‘I not able with this kind of work at all,’ he says. ‘Whole day I on the road, sweating, breaking my back, and people complaining about two-three broken tiles!’
‘Well, take the electronics shop, then,’ Clyde says. ‘Not so Rachel’s father wants you to manage the electronics shop? You playing hard to get with him, or something? Take it!’
‘Boy, it have money in transport, I’m telling you. All kinds of things need transporting.’
‘So I hear,’ says Clyde.
‘I will transport anything,’ Romesh says. ‘It doesn’t matter to me. All kinds of things need transporting from A to B. Tiles, cement, pig-feed, bottled drinks, fridge, freezer, anything.’ He takes a swig of his drink. ‘Sugarcane,’ he says, with a laugh. ‘Coconuts. Anything.’
‘Or things in powder form,’ says Clyde.
Romesh swings his knees in and out. ‘Doesn’t matter to me. I driving the same twenty miles in the hotsun either way, regardless of what’s in my truck. Not so? But one thing pays me a hundred dollars and another thing pays me a thousand. Eh? I taking the thousand dollars! Not so? If one person offers you a hundred dollars for a job, and someone else offers a thousand dollars for the same job, not so you would take the more money?’
‘Watch yourself, Romesh,’ Clyde says. ‘You’re rationalising rationalising there, and you going to land up in hot soup.’
Romesh is on his third Carib by the time Philip arrives in his silver Mercedes. He has to park on the road because the driveway is already full and Clyde can tell he’s annoyed by the time he reaches up to the patio. Marilyn is already fanning herself and complaining about the heat.
‘You brought a book to read?’ Joy asks Anna. Anna’s nine, the cleanest-looking child Clyde has ever seen, her hair tied back in a plait, and sandals with buckles on her feet. ‘You want to go in our room to get peace and quiet?’
Anna shrugs. Clyde notices how her eyes flick around the room, how they rest on his worn slippers, his dusty toes.
‘What you having to drink, Philip?’ Mousey asks.
‘I’ll take a rum-and-coke, thanks,’ Philip says. He tucks his thumbs under the waistband of his trousers to keep them in place as he sits down. ‘With ice, eh? You have ice?’
Mousey says Clyde bought ice, and she shuffles off to get the drinks.
‘If you see traffic out there!’ Philip says. The route they initially took was blocked because of an Emancipation Day parade, and they had to go a different way. ‘Not really a parade,’ he says, ‘just random people walking in the road with banners and a bit of tinsel around their necks. If you see how much traffic they caused!’
‘I doubt they even know what emancipation means!’ Marilyn says.
They talk about traffic for a good while; about landslides and rain, and the latest crimes around the country; and how Philip’s work is going, which cases are coming in front of him and what he thinks about them. He can only ever talk in general terms, of course, but he talks about the people who’ve been in his courtroom (‘my courtroom’) and who they are and, if they’re barristers, where they qualified and who they’ve worked for, things like that. Mousey gets Philip a second rum-and-coke, and then Philip sips, looks at Clyde over the top of his glass.
‘So, how’s work going?’ Philip asks. ‘What is it you’re doing at the moment?’
‘Same thing, man,’ Clyde says, trying to sound casual. ‘Construction.’
‘Construction! You mean the concrete? You mixing concrete still?’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Mousey says, ‘everybody need a house to live in! If you know how to mix concrete you will always find work!’
‘Yea, but now you have mouths to feed,’ Philip says. ‘That kind of work is not reliable!’
‘But he’s hardworking, and he’s determined,’ Marilyn says. She’s sitting with one leg crossed over the other so her foot sticks out a bit in front, showing off her perfect white toes and nail-polish. ‘He has the right attitude. That’s half the battle.’
‘Why you don’t try to get a job in oil and gas?’ Philip says. ‘I bet you most people around here are working in petrochemicals now, not so?’ He talks about the changes he has noticed around Trinidad recently: how more people now have satellite dishes on their roofs; how everybody nowadays has burglar-proofing bars over their windows and doors; how he has heard, via his contacts on the grapevine, how many expats are coming into Trinidad these days, and how in Point Lisas, by the industrial estate, they’re going to build a compound with a swimming pool for all the foreigners to live in.
‘Eh?’ Philip says, turning to him again. ‘I bet if you go and ask, they would have something for you to do. You wouldn’t be able to get the really high-paying jobs, because – well. But at least get a foot in the door.’
‘You need a university education for those high-up jobs,’ Rachel says. ‘Physics, Chemistry, Engineering, that kind of thing.’
‘Education,’ Mousey says, nodding.
‘But Philip is right,’ Marilyn says. ‘It’s the foot in the door, that’s what you need. And once you’re in, you can work your way up.’
‘You see, if he had the education,’ Mousey says, ‘then he could get the high-up jobs!’ She starts talking about her brother, Uncle Vishnu, how he got a scholarship to St Saviour’s College there in Port of Spain, and then won an island scholarship to England to study Medicine. Clyde takes a handful of peanuts and sits, one foot cocked over the other knee, looking out towards the front yard. He has heard this story many times before, how it all goes back to Mousey’s father, Surindranath, and the sacrifices he made. Out on the Trace, children of various sizes are running back and forth, hollering, waving sticks and leaves at each other; Peter and Paul and Sayeed are watching them from the front gate. ‘And as you see, my son, Philip,’ Mousey says, gesturing to Philip, ‘took the same path, and now he’s a judge, always in the papers.’
On the patio, while Mousey talks, Romesh drinks his beer, swings his knees in and out. Romesh didn’t do well at school at all: he went to a Government Secondary somewhere in Marabella or somewhere, one of those places where the teachers are always on strike and the girls are pregnant by fifteen. Whenever Mousey gets going in this vein, which is often, Romesh refuses to make any response, just acts like it’s water off a duck’s back. Clyde refuses to make any response either, even though he knows Mousey wants him to be impressed. But what is there to be impressed by? They have two kinds of men in the world, Clyde thinks, two kinds of fathers. One kind works hard and brings all the money home and gives it to his wife to spend on the house and children. The other kind doesn’t do that. And nobody can control which kind of father they get. Simple as that.
By five o’clock, the thing is going the same way as usual. When you have men like Romesh and Philip drinking alcohol from morning till evening, this is how it always ends up, with one set of arguing, always about the same old things. A lot of it comes from Romesh, who is the most drunk of all: it starts when he asks Philip for money to help with some debt he’s run up, and then things spiral downhill in the usual way with Philip saying self-righteously, ‘Never a borrower nor a lender be,’ and Romesh telling Philip to stop being high and mighty and acting like he’s better than everyone else, and how he should share what he has with them because they are family. Uncle Vishnu, arrived back from the races and sitting with his plate of food balanced on his knees, says how he has already lent Romesh money once and he’s not going to do it again without good reason, and he says nothing else on the subject at all. Then Mousey says that she will lend him what money she can, but she argues with Romesh about how he doesn’t do enough to help; how he only comes when it suits him; how all he does is eat and leave, and bring the child Sayeed here for her to mind and feed, how Romesh should do something in return; how he should help out. Take, take, take, she says. That is how you are. And Romesh says, you see, I rather get the money from Republic Bank and pay it back with fifteen per cent interest, rather than have to listen to you complaining about all the things I don’t do.
Clyde has been trying to stay out of the whole thing, and not say anything at all, but at one point, Romesh turns to him and says, ‘But Uncle Vishnu is giving you money. Why he’s giving money to you and not to me, that’s what I want to know?’
Uncle Vishnu smiles and shakes his head to himself, and he starts picking up empty paper plates to throw away. ‘You know why!’ he says. ‘Why you asking him when I’m right here in front of you?’
‘I want to hear from him,’ Romesh says, looking at Clyde.
‘Hello,’ Uncle Vishnu says. ‘God helps those who help themselves! You refusing to take a good job that someone is offering you, and instead you want money for free? I already explained this to you. Behave yourself – I’ll help you, gladly. Misbehave yourself – no help.’ And he takes the stack of paper plates and goes to the kitchen.
‘He is not even a blood relative,’ Romesh says to Philip. ‘I am a blood relative. I don’t understand why he is the favourite.’
‘I am the favourite?’ Clyde says. ‘Uncle Vishnu’s just helping out with expenses, seeing as everybody always coming here to eat, that’s all. You-all are plenty mouths to feed, you know! And I have the boys now too. That’s why.’
‘But I have a child too,’ Romesh says. ‘I don’t find that fair.’
Clyde picks up a few empty Carib bottles and walks out before Romesh can say anything more. In the kitchen, Joy is scraping leftovers into a pot, the dogs watching from the top step. ‘Move,’ he tells them, and he pushes his way out and down the steps. He puts the empty bottles into the bottle-crate under the steps, and then takes a deep breath, trying to cool down. It’s sunset. The breeze has dropped, the clouds are very still.
‘Aye,’ Uncle Vishnu says, from the back door. He follows Clyde down the steps. ‘Don’t let Romesh provoke you, you know.’
Clyde doesn’t look at him. He wishes he hadn’t had that last Carib. He wishes Joy’s family wouldn’t take over his house every weekend.
‘One day he’s provoke you,’ Uncle Vishnu continues, ‘the next day, he’s provoke somebody else. That is how he is. He is not a serious fella. You are a serious fella. You need to focus on your family, don’t bother with people like Romesh.’ He pauses for a moment, and then maybe he sees the mood Clyde is in, because he says, ‘Why you still mixing concrete, man? You see all the people I know? Why you haven’t come to me and asked me to help you get a better job?’
‘Boy, I don’t know,’ Clyde says. ‘I’m managing.’ But he’s not managing. Every time Joy’s family comes here, they have the same conversations again and again; and every time, the day ends just like this, with him wanting to pour himself a glass of rum, or shouting at Joy, or wanting to throw all these empty Carib bottles against the wall.
‘You don’t see how many people are offering me favours?’ Uncle Vishnu is saying. ‘I don’t owe them anything, you know. They’re trying to thank me for something I did for them. You want a job with Neal and Massy? I could get you a job, you know. Just name the place you want to work, and I’ll get the job for you.’
‘Anywhere?’
‘Anywhere! Don’t be so shy, man! You’re my family, I will do anything for you! I will move mountains! Where you want to work?’
Uncle Vishnu is really distressed. He really wants to help. Clyde feels the decision forming itself in his mind, like something with a will of its own that he has no power to stop.
‘Oil and gas, man,’ Clyde says.
‘Oil and gas,’ Uncle Vishnu repeats. He looks relieved. ‘No problem. Let me speak to some friends of mine.’ As Uncle Vishnu turns to go back up to the kitchen, he says, ‘Don’t doubt yourself, man. You’re doing the right thing. You’re providing for your family. Stand up tall.’
*
Uncle Vishnu is a fast man to act. The following week, he takes Clyde to meet someone down at Point Lisas, and a fortnight after that, Clyde gives his notice at the construction company and fills out the paperwork for Amoco. By the end of the month, Clyde has a sticker on the windscreen of his car that the security guard at the industrial estate nods at each morning; hanging up in the cupboard at home are five shirts with the Amoco logo on the pocket; he doesn’t need Joy to pack lunch for him first thing in the morning any more – instead, he goes to the Amoco canteen, where they have all kinds of food: dhalpuri roti and buss-up-shut, chicken wings and drumsticks, pelau, corn-soup, callaloo. At Christmas, his colleagues say, he will get a hamper filled with jams and chutneys, Hershey’s chocolates, strawberry Pop-Tarts. At Carnival-time, there will be a family fun-day for the employees and their families, with a DJ, free t-shirts, lime-and-spoon races, tug-o-war.
The next time Philip and Marilyn come for lunch, at Divali, Philip asks Clyde how the petrochemicals business is going, and Clyde gives his insider information about the developments at Point Lisas, and which way oil prices will go. ‘It’s manual labour, naturally,’ Philip says. ‘Sweat of the brow!’ Clyde isn’t sure whether he means it as a compliment or not, but he doesn’t really care either way. These days, he has a regular, reliable income: not very much money yet, but enough to put a little aside each month. He’s opened a bank account with Republic Bank, and Amoco pays him a salary straight into the bank account on a monthly basis, not cash at the end of the week like the concrete mixing used to. The only drawback now is tax: instead of getting the full amount in the bank account, they’re taking some away. But Uncle Vishnu has said he will speak to someone and sort that out.
These days, then, the few minutes that he spends sitting on the back-step with his coffee in the morning are peaceful and contented, and he rehearses in his mind the words he will one day say to Peter when he is big enough. If you are an honest person? he will say. And you work hard? He imagines walking side by side with Peter, the dark, glossy hair of youth, the frame still slender, on the cusp of adulthood. You can achieve what you set out to achieve in life, he will say. People used to say that because I didn’t finish my schooling, they said I would come to no good, I would end up washing windscreens on the highway or sitting on the street corner selling nuts. But you see me? I just put my head down and I worked hard, and I didn’t get myself all tangled up with doing favours for one person to try getting back a favour from somebody else. No, no. So you see, if you just rely on yourself, and live an honest kind of life, and you work hard? It will pay dividends. Trust me, he will say, it will pay dividends.
6
While they wait for the Hindu school Principal to come, Paul sits in the hole in the ixora bush by the fence. The dogs made the hole; they’re always sticking their heads in the bush to bark at the Chin Lees’ dogs on the other side. It is a good place to sit because the bush gives shade, and at this time of day the dogs are all asleep, so it is quiet. Paul has to be careful not to get dirty because he and Peter have already bathed and put on their good clothes. But there is nothing dirty here, the grass is dried-up and prickly now it’s dry season. He picks a little red flower off the tightly packed bunch just next to him, and sucks the nectar out from the tiny tube of the stem. Then he holds the stem gently between his finger and thumb and twirls the flower slowly, then fast, slowly, then fast, watching how the petals go blurry. While he twirls, he listens carefully in case Peter is sneaking onto the patio to eat the Danish Butter Cookies that Mummy put on the coffee table.
When Paul hears the Principal’s car turn into the Trace, he crawls out of the bush and runs through the carport, around to the back. Peter is already there. Together they crouch down and look through the gaps between the stilt-legs that the house stands on, and they watch the Principal waiting at the gate for Mummy to let him in. He’s a dark-skinned Indian man with a moustache and a normal belly: not one of the very big bellies the size of a football; a smaller belly, maybe the size of a cushion. A flattened cushion. ‘Where’s the bad dog?’ they hear the Principal ask. ‘They told me you have a bad dog here.’
Mummy says she’s tied up. When the Principal comes in, he reaches out a hand to pat Jab-Jab on her head but she shies away. The dogs trot after him up the drive, sniffing the scent he leaves behind. When he comes up the steps, they don’t follow him up and stand at the gate panting and wagging their tails like they usually do; instead, they go and lie down in the holes they’ve dug up in the front lawn.
