Chapter 20 nineteen gilbert

You see, most people look up.It may be the first time that their feet have set foot on British soil, and their wobbly feet in the sea still cannot settle on the firm ground, but it is a wonder as soon as they open their eyes.At last they reached the City of London.And let me tell you, the country I thought I knew confuses these Jamaican boys.See how shocked they look when they point to the train rumbling across the bridge.The billowing black smoke sprayed all the way, past the white laundry sheets, trousers, and baby hats hanging on the laundry line.Well, they had never seen such a tall house, and they looked exactly the same.what is that?Chimney?Is there a fire in an Englishman's house?No way!Why does everything look so shabby?Not even the sun can find color, only gray.Stare at those who stare at them.Good man, how sullen the woman looks.The traffic situation made them look around.Hold on tight, lad.Look, did you see the white man drive the bus?And in the distance, do you believe what their eyes saw?It's the white scavenger.

But I, an old RAF volunteer, have seen it all in wartime.So I looked down, not like the wide-eyed rookies.I just go back to the UK.On the sidewalk in front of me, I noticed a brooch for women.What a lucky thing, really a little bit of luck.Lying forlorn on the side of the road, this precious oval jewel glows with the brilliant green light of a hummingbird in sunlight.If Aunt Corinne saw it, she would raise her hands to the sky and call it an omen. Here are the thoughts that came to mind as I walked three steps to the brooch.One: Perhaps it fell from the young woman's coat.Gee, my luck is another man's misfortune.Two: It fell from the old woman's purse.Maybe taking it to the police station is the proper way.Three: How beautiful this dark green brooch would be on Hortens.I paint a picture in my mind.Watching me pin the sparkling brooch on her dress, close to her neck to frame her smooth tan skin, she touched the pin, tilted her head, and mesmerized me with a charming smile.

So these thoughts all happened as I approached.I was about to bend my knees to reach for the brooch when I heard it fly away.Black blobs suddenly scarred the air.The jewel is but a swarm of flies in the light, and the brilliant green is the fighting motion of their backs.My eyes couldn't believe what I was seeing anymore, as the fly hosts flew off and left me with a little brown piece of shit they had gathered.Is this also a sign?Maybe.Because a wide-eyed rookie was walking down the road and was stepping on the compost. Sleep in the same room with six men, and you get to know them better and better.Not for the reason they tell you to leave Jamaica, or for a lover longing to stay back home.You don't hear about their mums, their school days, or their promising dreams in the UK.Won't.You know, more than the intimacy of lovers: the sound of their breathing in sleep.Take Winston, for example, he shouted a few words every night: Give it to me.His twin brother Kenneth pursed his lips tightly, as if sucking on a melon.Eugene and Curtis would snore, and both sounded like the rumble of a broken engine.But if you yell shush, softly, boy, then Eugene will obey and Curtis will fight harder.Cleveland's breath smelled like his ass when he opened his mouth, and Louis scratched all night and wondered why his skin was red and swollen in the morning.

My old RAF Volunteer didn't just sleep in a barracks with six other guys, everyone in there knew that war was as hard as life.Sleeping in this stinky little room, straddling three beds, sitting on my own bed, watching one boy jump out of bed and get ready for work, and the other boy come back from work and jump up on the bed to take his place, would make me The old volunteer hissed and cursed because I needed sleep while everyone else was dressing up to look presentable the next day.When you want to shave and eat cereal when you're short of water so that the crunching doesn't bother you, you're bound to curse the war days and be free as larks.

But sailing on the Gale was still fun and it was just the first few weeks for us Jamaicans.We were convinced we could find a nice place to live in the UK, with a bath, a kitchen, a little garden.Winston's brother's friend had temporarily loaned us these two cramped, damp rooms.Use it for one night, maybe two nights.Than a shelter, better than a youth hostel.I ended up staying for two months!Two months on, this act of intimate hospitality is already beginning to shake my hopes.I need to find a place to start my life again. How many doors have I opened?How many houses have you knocked on?Let me count how many doors are slowly opening and closing quickly.I didn't even get a chance to get the word through the door.Come on, these English landlady gentlemen and wives really know how to make excuses.Would they see me differently if I was still in uniform, a soldier in blue and pomade?Will they thank me for my sweet victory, shake my hand, and invite me in for tea?Or would I still see that quiet sense of dread passing over smiling faces like a dark cloud covering the sun while aristocratically politely announcing me that the room was let?Or listen to them gently let me know uh, I'm willing to rent to you, it's just that I have a lot of tenants and I'm afraid they won't like it if I rent the room to people of color?Just to make sure I understand, add that it's not me, if it's just me, I'll rent it to you, and at the same time smear someone else whose personality (they assured me) might not see my presence.Man, if I move in, there's a bunch of people who won't like it, like the husband, the wife, the housewife, the neighbors, and listen, they tell me that if there's a colored person among them, even Children will be angry.Maybe I should take a hiking outing and take me all the way back to the origins of this restriction on people of color.Go to the husband first, then the wife, the woman in the house, the neighbors, the children.When each of them told me it wasn't them but someone else, I kept looking.Ultimately, the perpetrator of prejudice against people of color must stand before me.And I could say to his face, So, I guess it's you who hate us niggers.

It was because I was desperate, and it reminded me of No. 21, Nevin Street, SW5 District.That little scrap of paper I first saw many years ago in the fields of Lincolnshire, in my most neatly handwritten envelope.Who knows?That house was probably nothing more than a ditch by the side of the road, and the neighbors were still talking about the missile strikes.It might be a stranger who opens the door, and it takes a long time to figure out who lived there before.Maybe all I see is my exasperated husband punching me.But now, not only my feet are so sore that I don't care about everything, even I have to go all out.

When I pressed the doorbell that would not ring, my hands trembled in panic.I knock on the door instead.It's Queenie.Blaine's door.She was looking at me again like when we first met.For about two seconds, she thought I was someone else.Then she remembered my face and said, Yeah, that's not the pilot Gilbert.Joseph!Well, what the hell happened to you?