The Incomers Page 4

  The blast of a horn brought Ellie back to the swaying bus. Shouts reverberated from the back seats and crescendoed to the front. The driver swore as he crunched the gears while stamping on the brake. The bus slowed and the front tipped off the road to the herald of another horn blast. A mass of bodies were thrown to the side and screams replaced the shouts. Ellie bashed her forehead against the door and only glimpsed a construction truck, piled high with rubble, speed off ahead of them before a trickle of blood ran into her eye. The driver lifted Ellie back from the door and pulled it open to allow her and the rest of his human cargo to spill out onto the roadside.

  The bus lay skewed, its front wheel in a ditch beside the raised road. Many passengers squatted down to examine the damage, some stood. Most of the women loaded their goods on their heads and walked off as they used to do before the bus was in operation. The driver lit a cigarette, scratched his crotch then scratched his head. Ellie sat down on top of her bag in the shade of the broken bus to wait for salvation.

  Machetes glinted in the afternoon sun as two younger men from the bus hacked at a young tree by the side of the bush. Ellie watched them as the sweat ran down their shoulder blades and disappeared under their vests. Three other men helped them carry the felled trunk to wedge below the axle. The women were shooed from their shady spot into the blazing sun, and under the driver’s instructions the men worked together rolling a large rock under the trunk to create a lever.

  As the remaining women clucked, ‘Ah, ah, our strong men, so strong, so brave’, Ellie looked to the horizon where she saw a pink cloud. She narrowed her eyes to make out the form. There was not another bus due this way for many days. Was this another construction truck coming to push them further into the ground? Other women noticed; they sat forward to gape. Some rose and began to walk towards the road. Water was passed round by those who had more than others.

  A quivering image emerged from the dust. Like a hog escaping from bush fire, a white Landrover hurtled towards the stranded villagers. The men at the bus ignored this intrusion, intent on their task. The Landrover drew up behind the bus and stopped. Ellie peered towards the dust coated windscreen and felt her mouth dry, even although she had just tasted a second sip of water from her toothless friend. A white man was driving, but it was a black man who jumped out of the passenger side and shouted in English, ‘What happens here, my friends?’

  A bus load of black faces stared at him.

  Ellie stepped forward and translated for the bus driver. The driver wiped his brow with the bottom of his tee shirt.

  ‘Tell them we can manage,’ he said to Ellie, but before Ellie had a chance to speak the white man stepped out of the Landrover and walked towards them.

  ‘We have a winch, we can pull you out.’

  The deep voice sang. His voice had the same ring as Sister Bernadette, and Ellie realised this man was Scottish.

  He was taller than his passenger and so white, like a ghost. Ellie thought his white hair looked so soft that she wanted to touch it to see if it was like silk. This man before her had waves in his hair like the shifting sands. His white shirt was open and she could see blonde hair curling towards his throat. Ellie swallowed and found she could not talk. He looked like the picture of Archangel Gabriel she had in her epistle.

  Both intruders looked at her.

  ‘She speaks English,’ the passenger said.

  The angel smiled at her and held out his hand for her to shake.

  ‘Hi, I’m James. James Mason.’

  Ellie stared at the hand and then at his face which she saw was deepening with colour. His eyes were the colour of the big river.

  ‘I know, I know, stupid name,’ he said. ‘My mum is a huge fan of the flicks.’

  He pushed his hand towards her again, and she knew she must take it. She placed her hand in his and was surprised at how cool it was. His grasp was firm over her limp one. She was tempted to return the pressure but held herself back and could not help staring at their two hands entwined; black on white, white on black. Fingers and palms joined in this first meeting over the dry dusty earth of her fatherland.

  Ellie had never believed in love at first sight, but when she met James she believed this was a man who would never beat a woman. They were married within six months; James had agreed to obey her tribal tradition of bearing gifts to her family compound and the nuns had insisted on a Nuptial Mass in the mission church. And although she knew James was a Catholic, he had appeared ambivalent to both rituals, insisting he only wanted them to be together, no matter what it took.

  When she found the prayer book, in the house of the witch’s hat, at the bottom of his drawer, with his name and an address in Perth written in childish writing on the first page, she realised she knew nothing of him or his motives for marrying her. At first she stared at the contents unable to believe what she was reading. She put it back in the drawer determined to forget it and never mention it, but like a stick in a river her mind became stuck in a current of thought she could not escape.

  Ellie feels she paces many miles on her kitchen floor before she returns to the drawer and takes the prayer book back into her shaking hands. James stares at the book.

  ‘I haven’t used this for years, not since I left school, in fact.’

  ‘The priest seems to think he has not seen your face in his church for a while, but not that long.’

  ‘He’s just an old woman, I wouldn’t listen to what he says,’ James says, pushing the prayer book away from him.

  ‘Why did you keep it if you have not used it?’

  Ellie’s palms feel damp. Her husband still does not look at her face. He finds the grain running through the table top more interesting, she thinks.

  ‘My mother gave it to me for my confirmation. It’s not for throwing out, Ellie, you should realise that.’

  This is true. Ellie herself still wears always the juju her mother gave her for protection before the birth of Nat. A juju filled with tribal magic, a magic she turned her back on when she went to the mission.

  Ellie picks the book up by its cover, turns it upside down and gives it a shake. Pages of coloured markers fluttered to the table. Pictures of saints, of Our Lady’s Ascension, Saints’ relics and many depicting the various guises of Jesus. Ellie bends and between her finger nails she picks up a tattered black and white scrap as if it is tainted with a poison she wants to avoid.

  She holds it up between her husband and herself and begins to read.

  ‘Society of the Holy Childhood, The Missionary Apostolate of Catholic Faith.’ She stops and looks at him; he has a puzzled look on his face but under that puzzle she sees something else, something she has not seen before in him. Wariness.

  ‘And what is the purpose of this noble organisation? “To save the lives of children forsaken by their pagan parents or to redeem them from slavery and to give them the grace of baptism and a Christian education.”’ She stops again, but James continues to stare at the table.

  She can see a vein throb in his temple and her heart begins to beat hard. Like a child stepping into the river to swim, she knows the crocodile is there but cannot step back once cool water soothes her aching feet.

  Ellie clears her throat of the small lump of bile that rests there. ‘Condition one: “To say a Hail Mary” and other stuff — easy. Two is better: “To make a small contribution for the work of the Black Babies Society.”’ She spits the words out at him. ‘“On average one “Black Baby” is rescued for every two shillings and six pence received. Member’s name: James Mason.”’ Ellie drops the card and places her hand flat on the table before easing herself into her chair; without the table she feels she will sink to the floor. When she had found the card she had raged to herself and paced but now she needs to sit.

  ‘You have done well for the Society: you have saved one “Black Baby” and begat another.’

  James narrows his eyes; she can see the back of his jaw working as if he is chewing hide. Ellie stands again and places the kettle
on the stove. She feels she has maybe gone too far, she does not want to see steam escape from his ears like in the cartoons. The deep breath she takes as she turns back to him explodes in the silence. He picks up the card and reads it, then places it back in the prayer book at a particular page and carries the book out of the room, closing the kitchen door behind him. The silence drums in Ellie’s ears so hard she wills her husband to shout, to throw something. He is so quiet, there is no steam, there is no sound, as if he holds his breath throughout the whole exchange. Then the door to their bedroom slams so hard the pot rattles on the stove and Nat screams from his nap.

  Ellie looks at the closed door and wonders what she has started.

  The Pairty Line

  ‘Ur ye goan tae the bingo the night?’

  ‘Aye, an’ ah better win cos ah’m skint.’

  ‘How come yer skint, it’s only Friday? Did yer man no gi’ ye yir hoosekeepin’ last nicht?’

  ‘Him, the useless basturd. He’s back shift this week, left tae catch the pit bus at wan o’clock, but couldnae git further than the club. He only gied me half the hoosekeepin’ when he stoatit hame at closin’. Couldnae leave hiself short, could he?’

  ‘Goad knows why ye pit up wi’ that.’

  ‘It isnae his fault really. He says the new pit manager’s a right wee Hitler, ayeways changing the shifts roond. Ma man hates the back shift.’

  ‘He’s a pair wee sowl, that man o’ yours.’

  ‘Dinnae gie me yir snash. It is a shame.’

  ‘Aye aw right.’

  ‘And, he’s pit a new rule in place.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gallagher, the manager – if ye miss a shift yir barred fae gettin’ overtime.’

  ‘Really, that’s awfy.’

  ‘Ah ken, so not only ur we doon a day’s wages, he’ll git nae Sunday shift. Ah’ll be even mair skint next week, eh?’

  ‘Better git yersel tae the bingo everyday next week then.’

  ‘Ah ken, otherwise ah’ll huv tae bump my rent payment aff fur anither fortnight. The arrears ur fair mountin’ up.’

  Chapter Six

  James refuses to speak to her. Even though the bed is cold he confines himself to sleep on the edge, as if fearing to touch her even when he sleeps. She wakes each morning to find him gone. An empty bowl with vicious dried-on cornflakes and a cup half full of cold tea his only message to her. He must eat lunch at the big hoose because he misses his midday meal at home, and in the evening he slouches in at six thirty, cold from the early evening dark, his eyes tired but determined. Ellie lays his meal out for him and watches him eat in silence before he rises, leaving his picked-at plate on the table for her to clear away. He then disappears to run a bath and go to bed to read estate journals. Once she tries to speak to him, to tell him of Nat’s new tooth, but the words clot in her mouth.

  Ellie thinks this silence will last forever, then on Saturday he comes home stating he has instructions to take the Fairbairn boys to mass on Sunday and Ellie should come with him. It is an order from James, not a request. The sight of his hardening jaw clips her protesting tongue before she sentences herself to another week of silence.

  As he leaves the house to chop logs for the wood burner he throws Ellie his parting argument.

  ‘This is part of my duties; this is where the priest knows me from.’

  The Fairbairn boys from the big hoose are home for the half term; their parents, as usual, absent. The boys, being about twelve and fourteen could be considered old enough to look after themselves, but instructions must be obeyed. With no one to look after Nat, Ellie is forced to take him too.

  Ellie and James pick the boys up at the big hoose a quarter of an hour before the service is due to begin. The younger boy lumbers into the car and slumps in the back as if he were sleepwalking. The elder stinks of alcohol, curls up in the corner and falls asleep as soon as he clambers in to the back seat. Neither boy speaks to Ellie or James, nor does she expect them to, and even when Nat holds out his hand to them, the smaller boy looks straight ahead with sleep in his eyes.

  Ellie has only ever passed by the high hedge that skirts the back of the church when out on her foraging trips, but each time she passes she feels guilty. The nuns would be shocked to discover she had turned her back on them. The church stands sentry on the edge of the village: a grey monstrosity that looks with narrowed, accusing windows toward Ellie. She wraps her coat closer around her as the Landrover parks at the side door.

  James takes a long brass key from his pocket and opens the heavy varnished side door of the church; the village parishioners enter the church through the commoners’ front door. The church is vast, bigger even than her country’s cathedral. This church has many, many seats and a ceiling so high Ellie is sure angels reside there. The side altar looks onto the main altar which glows under the majesty of a golden tabernacle surrounded by burning candles. The smell of stale incense claws at her throat. A life-size statue of Our Lady obscures the left half of the main church from Ellie’s view but she knows, from the scuffling and coughing, that people occupy these pews. On the right side of the church she watches a flock of parishioners, young and old, make their way up the aisle and genuflect before filing into wooden benches. There is only room for about ten worshipers in the side altar so Ellie moves in behind the boys and closer to the door.

  The church is colder than anything Ellie has felt since she arrived in this country. Colder than the house, colder even than the frosty mornings when she first stooped at her front door to pick up the milk bottles, their silver tops pecked ragged by the greedy birds who stole the frozen cream that settled there. Her nose begins to run. Nat too, begins to snuffle and she opens her coat and bundles him inside. He has been snuffling more these days, and she worries he will catch some horrible disease from these sullen pale-faced Fairbairn children. He has had no other contact with children since they arrived in this country.

  In Ellie’s homeland the children are quiet in church, respectful and devout. Here, in this church, children cry and rattle their toys along the wooden seats. Someone has a cough they cannot contain and at one point it sounds as though something ruptures in their chest. Ellie pulls her coat further round Nat. Two girls in the front row snigger and talk in loud quick voices she cannot understand. When Ellie cranes forward to see more, she notices they look directly at her. She meets their eyes and they both bow their heads but the sniggering does not cease. Ellie’s gaze moves round the rest of the congregation and finds they all look at her; some with open curiosity.

  A tinny bell rings and five altar boys in white robes file through a door opposite the side altar, followed by Father Grattan. He looks different in his green robes. Ellie thinks he suits the colour and wonders, not for the first time, why priests choose to wear mostly black when there are so many wonderful colours in their wardrobe.

  The altar-boys walk into the aisle, genuflect and climb the altar steps. When the priest sees Ellie and James he smiles towards them and Ellie’s mouth dries. She looks back to the congregation and spots the little curly-headed girl from the house by the road sign. She is half way down the church in the middle of a row. The congregation turn their attention to the priest, but the curly-headed girl is intent on Ellie. When Ellie nods her head and smiles towards her, a grin crosses the girl’s face and makes Ellie’s heart calm. A tall, dark-haired man beside the girl puts his hand on her shoulder and the girl lowers her head. Ellie cannot be sure from the distance between them but she imagines that hand sends a message the girl knows well. On the other side of the girl, with her head bent and eyes closed, stands the skinny woman.

  Ellie’s gaze moves along the line to a tall teenage boy with floppy dark hair and spots, who looks embarrassed to be there. Next to him is a girl with long straight greasy blonde hair. She is examining her nails and fiddling with her hair until a chubby lady in a blue coat and black mantilla catches her hand and places a hymn book in it.

  Ellie is glad of Nat’s heat to warm her throug
hout the service and is relieved when James ushers them out into the winter sunshine and back to the car. As they drive past the front steps Ellie sees the little girl wave to them and the father take her hand in his and pull her towards the open side gate. Ellie can see he is not pleased.

  ‘Who is that family?’ she asks.

  ‘How should I know?’ James replies. ‘You should know by now the estate hardly ever mixes with the village.’

  It appears the mood does not shift easily from her husband’s shoulders.

  When they arrive back at the witch’s hat house, Ellie puts the baby on the floor to play while she cooks James bacon and eggs the way they like food fried here, in lard. James stares at his plate but does not eat.

  Ellie sits opposite him and takes a deep breath.

  ‘Husband, I am sorry. I should not have spoken to you in that way.’ She bows her head. ‘I was wrong.’

  Still he is silent.

  ‘I will do anything to make things right, but I cannot take back my words.’ Her apology is lumpy on her tongue; this is not the way it sounded when she rehearsed it in church.

  He looks at her. ‘You asked me why I married you. Why did you marry me? Was it for a passport out of that hellhole country of yours?’ His voice is calm but she can feel the venom on his tongue.