Chapter 34 thirty three holtens

Mrs Bligh (she wished I called her Queenie) came to the door wrapped in a scruffy wool coat.Believing that the somber coat was her house coat, I secretly assumed she had changed her mind about going shopping as promised.Maybe I was disappointed by changing the plan, but I wanted to ease this anxiety, so I told her: Don't worry about me.I should have no problem finding my way to those stores by myself. Then I was taken aback because she closed the door behind her and said: What?What are you talking about?I'm ready.I had previously thought this frustrating outfit was a bathrobe, not her go-to coat.Couldn't the woman see that the coat was not only ugly but also too small for her?Determined to let go and fight, she buttoned the buttons one by one.After the fight, she looked me up and down, as if I had no taste.I dressed appropriately for a woman like me shopping in a London store.My coat was clean, my gloves were freshly laundered, and I wore a hat on my head.But Mrs. Bligh stared at me as if there was something wrong with my attire, and then told me again: I don't care what other idlers say!I don't mind if people see me walking down the street with you.

Yet it was she, the Englishwoman, not me, who wore a battered home coat, no brooch or jewellery, no gloves, not even a decent hat that raised her eyes a little. Imagine my astonishment when I came to the busy street and saw every English woman in a scruffy house coat!As if the Almighty God had stolen the rainbow from this place, no one was dressed bright enough for me to please my eyes.All gray.But walking through this lifeless place, my eyes began to detect colors that struck me as surprising, the astonishing hues of the complexions of all Englishmen.None of the books and tutors I have ever told me that I can see so many different Britons.In Jamaica, the Brits all looked like my college tutors: fine hair the color of toast; features ruddy in the sun.Even compared with the best Jamaicans, it is easy to tell that the British are walking on the road.But here, in the UK, with so many different skin tones in front of me, I started to feel overwhelmed.The walk to the store with Mrs. Bligh had me looking around in bewilderment.

These are stores. This woman actually thinks that even if there is food in the window, I can't see that it is a store?I ignored her because my mind was getting confused by the woman standing next to us.Her hair was as black as ink, and her complexion was not much lighter than mine, the color of honey.She is holding the hand of a little boy who also has dark hair.He saw me staring at them, and he gave Mother a push, and they both turned their blue eyes back to me. This store is a grocery store.Mrs. Bligh told me. I nod.There are groceries in the window, what would a grocery store be?But I waited for this blue-eyed, dark-haired woman to speak.Is she British?Or a foreigner?

Come on, let's go in.Mrs. Bligh said to me. Because this slightly dark-skinned woman took her son one step ahead of us, and I was happy to follow behind.A dark-skinned woman browses the counter and asks the clerk: Do you have any cheese today?Pure English, fluent and proud.I could only open my mouth wide in surprise.I've never seen a British woman so dark.At home, her complexion would make many older Jamaican men look around in embarrassment. Mrs. Bligh saw me open my mouth, and she said, In the grocery store, you can buy milk, biscuits, sugar, eggs, that sort of thing.Do you need eggs?Or bacon?Lots of things are rationed, but most of them are here.So remember, this is the grocery store.

Men with darker skin have red hair.Tiny red freckles on his face resembled bird eggs.Scot.I believe he is Scottish.Because in Jamaica, only the Scots are so red.But no, he is also British. Need something?He asked me directly.Red Brits! He wants to know if you want to buy anything.Mrs. Bligh told me. I buy based on her concern.Please give me a can of condensed milk.I ask him for help. But the redhead stared at me like I wasn't saying the right thing.There was no gleam of understanding in his eyes.What are you talking about? Condensed milk, I said five times, but he still looked at me suspiciously.Why does no one in this country understand my English?In college, my pronunciation was the object of admiration.I had to point, and the nasty can of condensed milk sat right behind his head.

Oh, condensed milk.He told me, like I didn't say anything at all just now. Tired of this silly dance of misunderstandings, I didn't bother to ask him to bring me a loaf of bread, and just pointed to the one on the counter.The man surrounded the bread with his large hands, scratching here and there with his freckled fingers.I glared at him.Shall I eat the bread this man touched?He wiped his nose with the other hand and passed me the bread.I didn't take it, and waited for him to put the bread in the bag and wrap it up. What you want is ready.he said to me, pushing the loaf forward again so that I could see each finger pressing thin, dirty black lines on it.It was Mrs. Bligh who came and took the bread from him.Her dirty hands also picked up my loaf of bread and put it in my shopping bag.

She told me loudly so everyone could hear: This is bread. Does she think I'm an idiot who doesn't know what bread is?But I couldn't believe what I saw with my own eyes.The British actually buy bread like this.The man patted the red hair and ran his hand down the dirty white coat.Tsk, why didn't he lick it first and then give it to me? I whispered into Mrs. Bligh's ear: He hasn't wrapped the bread yet. But she ignored it.When I paid the clerk she was busy rolling her eyes to the ceiling with him. Mrs. Bligh is a meticulous teacher.Shops with meat in their windows, she told me, were butchers.The one with the pretty pink cake is the bakery.Every time she told me, she made me repeat those words.But instead I told her: I know, we have these stores in Jamaica too.She nods.She said yes.Then I saw a fish shop and told me it was a fishmonger.

When I came to the cloth store, I wanted to ask her: Is this where you buy materials?The cloth seemed to be spread all over the floor, leaving little room to walk.Some cloths were dirty and some were crumpled and frayed.Two old women looked like they were crawling through the messy pile of cloth on their hands and feet, while the clerk was just daydreaming behind the counter.How could the British treat such fine fabrics?I told Mrs. Bligh that in Jamaica, fabrics are displayed in neat rows, allowing people to browse designs and colours.Point to the selected cloth, and the clerk will take it down and measure it.She understood what I told her, but still looked at me in amazement and said: Oh, is there a cloth merchant in your hometown?

Three basins!Mrs. Bligh yelled in the hardware store for everyone to hear.Why do I need three water basins?I told her softly, one to wash vegetables, one to wash cups and dishes, and one to take a bath.No, she told me, I just need a water basin.One is enough for you, just flush it.How could a British woman expect me to bathe in a vegetable basin?I find that disgusting.Does asking for three pots really have no taste for this British woman?I stared at her dumbfounded.But even though I asked for three basins, the clerk only handed me one.But I don't care.I want to make a note of the location of this hardware store so that I can come back when this idle Englishwoman is out of the way.But my eyes were drawn to the complexion of a woman who was pushing a pram with a child in it.

I have never seen such a white woman in my life.The curls on her head were white and smooth as foam, and reminded me of dim sum.Her complexion was so pale that even the paper looked dirty next to her.Eyebrows, eyelashes, even lips seem to be colorless.She was so pale, the blood must be milk.I couldn't hide my surprise, and immediately blurted out: That woman is so white, is she British?I must ask Mrs. Bligh. Don't look any further, it's very rude.Mrs. Bligh whispered to me quickly.Then I took a sneak peek at the woman and told me: Yes, of course she is British. But she is so white.

Do not be silly.she told me. Mrs. Bligh's complexion paled beside the woman.This vulgar woman is pushing a stroller, and a blond child sits forward, pointing at me like fat darts.He yelled, drawing his mother's attention: Look, Mom!She is black.Mama look, black woman. The fair-skinned woman turned her smooth eyes to stare at me.Who is more surprised?Because we both stared, sure that we were watching the ghost in front of us.She almost pushed the stroller against the street lamp before she leaned forward and lectured the fingering child.Don't use your fingers, George.She's not black she's a person of color. And there was a shout from the other side of the road.Loud, rough and boisterous.Monster, monster.It's three young people.They held onto the wall, circled their hands and shouted: Hey, Heitan ghost. Mrs. Bligh said: Leave them alone. I asked her: Are they talking to me? Just keep going, Hortens.But I want to see the faces of those people.What kind of Brit would yell so vulgarly? Yes, it's you, Hei Zi.We are talking to you.They moved away from the wall and stood at the edge of the sidewalk, waving their arms like clowns. Mrs. Bligh was very angry, and grabbed my cuff; and I shouted at them over my shoulder: You're really rude.A half-eaten roll flew from one of them and hit Mrs. Bligh on the shoulder of her ugly coat. Just keep walking, please hurry up.Mrs. Bligh begged.There is a small oil stain on the jacket. Look, they stained your coat sleeves.I tried to pat it clean, but Mrs. Bligh held me so firmly that there was nothing I could do but follow her. We're almost at Neven Street, and we're going to round the corner.Mrs. Bligh, recovering a little from the hooligan threats, assured me that what she was teaching me now was good manners.If there are Brits to cross on the pavement and there is not enough space for both sides, then as a visitor to this country I should get off the pavement and stand on the road. I can't believe my ears.I asked her: I am a woman, but should I stand on a busy road?She nods.So I asked her: If there is a puddle of mud, should I also stop on it?I believe she was considering the utility of this suggestion, but as she looked up Neven Street she stopped suddenly.She took a hurried breath, and the breath hit her chest, making her back hesitate and flinch.For a moment she was pale, and the pink color of her cheeks dried up, as if she had lost all blood.My eyes scanned the street and saw nothing that could provoke such a cruel reaction.There was only one man standing in front of the door with his back to us.Mrs. Bligh began to raise a finger slowly.But the force of the gesture caused her to fall heavily on top of me.I grabbed her, the woman was surprisingly heavy.Unable to support her with my arms, I had no choice but to lower her gently to the ground.The man turned and cleaned his eyes, and saw Mrs. Bligh sitting upright on the pavement, muttering softly, over and over: Bernard?Bernard?