< Situations And Revelations Of Passing Notice In Guyana >
Locket # 23:
Yes, call me young, impulsive, and lacking “morals”; but my parents taught
me to discipline myself if I wanted to get anywhere in the world. In school it
was hard on account of Mrs. Bradshaw’s daughters. Verona, the eldest, was in
my final year class (her sister was a form below.)
They were bright students, but not good-looking girls. Mrs. Bradshaw was not
good-looking either, but she had this great rear view, which she passed on to
her daughters.
Fellows would talk about one day getting close to Verona’s rear view, but every-
one knew that would never happen. Mrs. Bradshaw’s girls had only one thing
on their mind: good test and exam marks; on their best behaviour, at all times.
This is why I hung out with Verona. I had good test scores, I envied her discipline
and forward thinking; but I wanted to get close to her rear view.
Months before finals, everybody looking ahead, university or job, I told my
parents I was joining a “study group”, all day Saturday sessions. They thought
I was doing this at school. Instead I went by Verona’s house.
We spent the whole morning and afternoon “studying”. If my parents had found
out, they would have slaughtered me ‒ for lying to them; for choosing to hang
out with people they didn’t know (never mind Mr. Bradshaw was some fancy
city lawyer, and the house was in Queenstown).
From the start, Mrs. Bradshaw was pleased a young man had chosen to “study”
with her eldest daughter, at her house.
She’d wander in, do a half-circle at the dining table, surveying the books and
bowed heads. She’d ask (stopping by my chair) How is everything going? Urging
us to take a break for lunch. She surprised us one day with plates of Indian
food, which tasted okay, I have to say.
I soon realized there was no “man” in the house. No sons in sight, and no Mr.
Bradshaw around. It seemed he had moved out, or was asked to leave, I wasn’t
sure. It was none of my business, and Verona and her sister carried on
regardless.
Verona never spoke about her father, but in Georgetown you can’t help hearing
about other people’s business.
Fellows said Mr. Bradshaw was one of our big-shot lawyers who along with
their friends think they run everything in the country. He and his wife were
“separated”; he was living with another woman, his secretary, a younger
woman.
I didn’t know all this for fact, but I felt for Mrs. Bradshaw. It must have burned
her, how she delivered and raised two children, only to watch Mr. Bradshaw
suddenly take up with some younger woman.
I noticed when she came to the dining table Mrs. Bradshaw would stand next to
me. How is everybody doing? Rajiv, you alright? I felt the closeness of her body,
tight and trim inside nice fabrics; in good shape despite swelling and delivering
babies twice.
I admired the way she maintained herself, how she taught the girls to focus,
focus! on the road ahead; ignore all the garbage, the noise and slackness in
Georgetown
One afternoon she came really close, left thigh touching; she placed her left
hand on my shoulder. So what you all studying today? Rajiv? Verona had slipped
away to the bathroom.
The fingers on my shoulder gripped, pressed. I felt heat from the thigh through
the fabric. We have a test next Monday. Have to get ready, I said. And then I
lost control.
My right arm went round her waist, friendly like. Thanks for letting me study
here, Mrs. Bradshaw. I hope I’m not intruding. Her fingers pressed harder, my
hand slipped down to the buttocks. (When last did anyone touch her like that?)
She flinched, but said nothing. The bathroom door opened, Mrs. Bradshaw
moved away, and the courage in my impulse melted.
As it turned out, our study sessions brought rewards. Verona’s results were so
good, she went off to Barbados (studying law; I think big shot Mr. Bradshaw
pulled some strings.) I took off for New York (idled for a bit, but now I’m
enrolled full time in college.)
So you see, it pays to control your impulses, take your studies seriously; all the
good things they tell you in school.
Only one thing, though. I won’t have come this far if it wasn’t for my hands on
Mrs. Bradshaw’s buttocks, that first space probe.
Sounds weird, I know, but I’m saying now: I joined the study group to get really
close to Verona’s rear view, which led me all the way to the Bradshaw dining
table, where I discovered “the source”, the mother of my desire, my schoolboy
fantasies; over which back then night and day I exercised supreme, yes,
supreme! control.
*
People in this country like to hide things away in a vault ‒ foreign currency,
papers, whatever ‒ all kind of stuff get stacked away; every Harry and Harilall
holding back things they don’t want other people to find out.
Here’s a little chapter I keep in my vault.
So I come home for vacation last year, and I’m having a good time with my
cousin Ishoof; he has a nice car. This morning he had to go to Queenstown to
fix his internet service bill. The building was on the same street as the
Bradshaws, a block away.
I told him I’d “explore” the neighborhood while he was inside, and off I went,
meaning to drop by the Bradshaw house, say hello and stuff.
She was outside, in sunglasses and broad-rim straw hat, stooping and poking
away at flower pots. I couldn’t believe I was back in Georgetown. People now
had nothing better to do on Saturdays but poke around flower pots.
You should have seen the look on her face. Eh eh, what you doing here?
Up the front steps, the trowel left back in the dirt; inside, the sun hat tossed
on a chair, Sit down, sit down! I touched the tablecloth on the dining table,
the launch pad of my success, Verona’s success.
There was so much wonderful news. Verona was in Barbados, studying law, and
doing well. How come you didn’t stay in touch? She said she never heard from
you once.
I saw snapshots of Verona, looking different (not looking better, despite the
hairstyles). Her sister had found a job in the city. Mr. Bradshaw, still good for
nothing, and finally convinced nobody was planning to sneak up the back steps
and squat on his private property, had agreed to divorce proceedings.
And today, at this hour, look who showed up! out of the blue, Verona’s “study”
mate; catching her at home all by herself. Look at you! You have a nice little
beard.
She got up to fix me a glass of lemonade. She came over and gave what started
as a congratulations! massage on the shoulders. I got up to give her what
started as a Thankyou! (for letting me “study” at your dining table) hug.
Actually, I was searching through memory for the moment back when my hand
had strayed down her back to the buttocks. It was there! the promise, still
there! still drawn to each other after all this time.
This time I grabbed hold. Felt a little pull back, a little hesitation (maybe
wondering, how real was this desire for her?) Then she took my hand as if now
she wanted to show me the rest of the house, the rooms past the dining table.
[There was a One moment, please. Dash to check the front door locks. And I
pulled out my phone to text Ishoof, Wait for me, don’t fucking leave.]
The bedroom had that midday neatness and readiness for night time, for a
couple tired and needing rest after a long work day.
Her chat speeded up as she undressed, for whose benefit I couldn’t tell; about
Mr. Bradshaw, with whom she had known only brief happiness; who only
wanted a Mrs. Bradshaw installed in the house to bear and rear, in the kitchen,
in the bedroom; and when he done, jumped straight into his long sleeve
pyjamas.
Oh God! The long sleeve pyjamas (my pants on the floor at my ankles looked
bewildered) if she ever married again, after all she was “still young”, never!
never to a man who liked long sleeve pyjamas!
At this point I told her to shut up, I’d heard enough. I didn’t stop by just to
light candles outside her vault.
Actually, I spoke in her ear, I don’t want to hear another word about Mr.
Bradshaw. I thought that made me sound more mature, not like the nervous
schoolboy she remembered; plus it would make us feel like equals, you
understand.
I moved the twin pillows from the headboard to the center of the bed, and
pushed her down gently. I was not the pyjama man who took her on vacation
only once, and that was on their honeymoon. In fact, this was going to be the
best fucking vacation she ever had! (Just to help her feel a lil’ revenge, you
understand.)
After the last Jesus! comeJesus! I rolled off on my back and was catching my
breath, staring up at the ceiling, until the thought “old enough to be your
mother” start poking at me; started me wondering how I should say (meaning
no offence but) I had to leave; and it wasn’t like we did something really bad.
And who knows, it could be the start of something different in her life generally.
Otherwise, would be more of the same, hot mornings with the sunglasses and
the flower pots; her days stuck in repeat.
I am back in New York. When fellows here start bragging about homeruns
they scored, the best sex they ever had, I smile a little smile and spin my
safe lock.
This “revelation” thing here is just in case you hear people in Georgetown
talking, the same crocus bag crab shit, about people they don’t know and
never met. Later.
R. Ragoobarsingh
Georgetown, Guyana
New York, USA
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 