1997

COCONUT — CHAPTER NINE

“Family, is everything.”

It’s funny what you remember when you are young, or what your mind allows you to; like looking back through a kaleidoscope of memories, staring into a pane of broken mirror, refracting your own image back to you, a million times over, stretching your silhouette into countless shapes, some you remember, some you don’t — quietly twisting the dials of an old radio, desperately trying to tune into the right frequency, distant barks of conversations, silky moments of joy caressing your ears, panning in and out of tune — the focus on a fuzzing television screen, melting colours of grey, green and white flicker and buzz. Your little-self kneeling; mouth open, eyes widening, crouched on your hind legs, old trainers pressed into your rump and knees pressed into the carpet, hips rolling from side to side waiting for your favourite show’s title start to spin onto the screen.

The rhythm of a day, little reminders of the beat of your heart, your memory wilfully unlocks cut-scene moments of joy or of the sublime. Very rarely do the deep, scare mongering scars open up without due prompting — the hours spent staring out of a car window seem to follow me around like a lost puppy. A calm, peaceful moment, strapped into the back seat of the car — the silence of the journey washing over you, lulling you into a warm cloud of comfort. Watching the rolling fields swoop in and out of your eye line, the changing horizons masked by bushy treelines and unreadable motorway signs.

The ultimate trust in your parents whisking you away to the next destination, the non-questioning smile and with one big leap into the back of the car and away you go. The lighting of lampposts slowly hypnotising you, the orange haze burning your pupils as you stare too long into their cats eyes — their repetitive nature following your own heart beat, slow, steady, consistent, never changing, always appearing, in and out, the silent rumble of passing traffic. I would drift off into my own thoughts, a canoe with no paddle, the suns warmth on my forehead and shoulders, the calm knowledge that the rivers path would guide me home.

I must have been about 12, still tall enough to still classed as very tall and considered a young adult, taller than most of the men in our village, but still young enough to still be a lamb. Nervous and shy, would not speak without being spoken to, or the firm prompt or push to communicate freely. Toothy smiles, and open eyes gave our parents promise of true love. We were safely guarded from the dangers of the big wide world, protected in the bubble of the nest they had created. We followed their path as we only knew of that one road.

It was the summer of the late-90s; My Mother, the shepherd of our family on this day, took both my sister and I to London for an educational tour of the City. She regaled stories of her time in town, drafted into a top university and living off dry cereal and good wine. We listened in awe at her hard working lifestyle, no time for too many friends, focused on furthering her education whilst waitressing any spare hours she could muster.

The train from Milton Keynes took us straight in Euston station where we were met by elbows, pacing suits clutching comically large phones and shuffling tourists gawping at the shifting digital signage. The trains arriving always sounded piping hot, screaming bloody murdered as they arrived into their port; steam and dust billowing from the tracks as they cool and take a final, heavy breath. People, of all shapes and sizes, like multicoloured ants scuttle and burst from the train’s sides, breaking sweat to make their next connection, up the ramps and past the stalls — tickets being swallowed one at a time by a greedy gate. Security passing a judgemental eye over us all, I watched their eyes as they focus in on our little trio, questioning our intentions and why we would be in the big city without a male chaperone. The sneer and grin of authority, stepping in and taking our tickets ensuring there was nothing untoward; but why would there be, a young mother and her children doing what any other family would do on a summer holiday in July. Moments like these made us feel different, lower class, delayed for minutes due to the quizzing of the men, the leering of men, the trailing eye up and down from ankle to eye. It was only until a female security guard came along were we let to pass through the gate, a thoughtless wave through and watching us walk up the ramps and into the passing crowd.

I remember the sound of the station confines was louder than loud, like a football game reaching fever pitch celebrating the winning goal in a derby match, the sound whipping into the ceiling and echoing hard downwards into the warping tides beneath. Scared and intrigued we clutched our mother by the hand as we snaked through the tectonic crowds. Unsteady on the escalators we lurched down into the underground, the warm hush of air felt as though we back in the Caribbean, the warmth was welcoming yet a little overbearing considering the mid-July heat. Immediately hot and bothered we entered deeper into the system, another escalator, jostling we found our ground, bumping past eachother my mother was forced to clutch onto my sister where I could now walk freely. Not that there was much room to move, we were in the heart of rush hour.

It felt like a million people all on this one single platform, and opposite us, the same amount, if not more. Humid, angry, lost, faces. So many were surrounding us I questioned how we had not all fallen, cracking the concrete we were stepped on into the ground below. Trains swooshed in, people entered, the train swooshed away. Waves of new people seemed to arrive, infinitely keep arriving until it was our turn. We minded the gap and hopped onboard. The temperature was unbearable but eventually we made it to Victoria, a series of stairs and signs lead us to the district and circle lines. It was a magic experience, somewhere between time travel or gold mining, we were finding our way through the darkness, slicing our way through hibiscus plants to find treasure, somehow navigating our way around this spaghetti junction map. Still underground and slightly sweating we jumped onboard our next train.

Lego’d together as a unit we stuck together on our carriage. Rocking from side to side, we smiled at eachother, losing our feet here and there, falling into a reading passenger or arguing couple, without saying a word we all knew we were enjoying this journey. Just a quick look into the eyes and we knew, this was exciting, brand spanking new, we were out of the compound of our home and free. Free from school, free from Mr D, free from rugby call, free from everything, unbound and wiling to run off into the sunset as a trio.

The electric lights flickered on and off, and without a warning shards of light burst through the windows. We were above ground, I could see trees. Red walled houses and even roof tops. We were zipping through London. This was a whole new adventure unfolding. I smiled at my little sister whilst holding onto the handle bars in the roof of the carriage, I swung slowly like a monkey on one arm and she laughed, open mouthed closed eyed, a laugh that only a 7 year old could make. We are still sardined between a crowd of suits — doing our best to stay quiet and calm but the days excitement has already been overwhelming.

One stop later, we go through a new tunnel and plunge into sheer darkness, the electric lights flicker orange and then white — I smile at my mother again, and her face has now changed. The warmth has gone and the atmosphere is now very cold. Her stance has changed, she has somehow evolved into a small, unscalable wall; the lights flicker again; she is looking into the opposing door, away from the passengers. Without thought she scoops my sister around and presses her tight against her. With a snap, I am pulled quickly into her chest too, I push away slightly, quizzing her actions and look around to see what has happened; the lights flicker on and off again. I turn around and I see a tall, bald man staring, his eyes are fixed on us, on my mother. Flicker. He is smirking. Only a few people away from us, he is tall, and head looms over the others. I can see him still clearly. He is tattooed on every perceivable part of his body, symbols and script have grown up his back, around his neck and onto his the crown of his shiny head. Flicker. Hunched, droppy eyed, wearing a baggy army style green jacket, he starts to move towards us. The passengers part easily due to his size and demeaner, shoulder first he struts, he almost licks his lips in anticipation of being near us.

I whip back around to my mother. Wide eyed, short of breath I do not know what to say. Fear. I feel real fear for the first time. It flutters in my stomach and sticks in my throat like the last piece of apple, throttling my confidence and voice. He wants us, he wants us dead, he wants our blood and on his boots. He does not break eye contact with any of us, sneering and smirking, laughing to himself as he drags himself closer and the train begins to pull into its next stop. No one steps in. No one engages with us. We are his prey in an open field, cornered gazelles, travelling without moving. My mother is brave, strong, our hero; but I do not know what to do in this situation. She does though. The entire train is silent, holding their breath, wishing that something terrible does not happen on their lunchtime commute. We are all silent. Flicker. Her face changes again, and stares right back at the man. A look I had only seen in comic books before. I turn back around and he is still there, closer, standing over us. A tall stinking tree arched over us. His hands slung over the handle bars in the train roof like an old lion waiting for his dinner to be served. Across his fingers I read a green, greying tattoo, S K I N S. My eyes beginning to focus on his facial art, a swastika tattoo in-between his eyes, lightning bolts, hell fire symbols and a star of the devil. Flicker.

Sandwiched between the double doors of the train and our snake like new friend, the train pulls into its next station. A cool gust of air opens up into our carriage, freedom, right there. Right by us. It was as if god had blessed us with an escape route just a few feet away. Without thought we step off all at once like we are a 6 legged squid, scuttling for freedom.

The man does not follow, he stands, still staring at us. And like that, the experience was over. A passing wave of relief goes through us. We all exhale taking a moment on the platform. My sister recovering from almost suffocating from the tight grip my mother has over her, me, a long exhale and pat down, ensuring I had all limbs after my first experience with true fear. And my dear mother, a silent sigh, a wistful look to the stars, this was not the first time this had happened. It was clear, instead of shying from the bullies she stared him right between the eyes. Right back at him, showing no fear.

I don’t remember if we made it to the museum that day. But I learnt so much from this short day in July.