The White Woman on the Green Bicycle by Roffey Monique

Author:Roffey, Monique [Monique, Roffey,]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 2011-02-15T05:00:00+00:00

George joined a cricket team. The team was mostly light-skinned men, many fellow expats. They played for hours on the savannah on a Sunday or travelled south to play in San Fernando. He adored playing against the local island teams because, of course, they played much better than those who’d taught them. One afternoon I went to watch him play on the savannah in Port of Spain.

Those green sloping hills were all around, the sky blazing a Holy Virgin’s blue. Far off, above the eastern slums, corbeaux spiralled. The grass was pale and crisp. Men dressed in white, men both dark-skinned and light. My husband amongst them, his skin sizzling, his too-long auburn hair hanging like a flag. Most wore hats to ward off the sun. The air was heavy with itself, so full of moisture it caused a slowdown of movement, of the senses. I sat with the other wives under the pouis trees. I watched George as he walked out to bat.

The bowler was tall, straight-backed and coal-skinned. He and George nodded, only just perceptibly, at each other. They took their places at either end of the pitch. For a moment they almost bowed. Then the bowler turned his back and walked slowly in the opposite direction: ten, maybe twenty paces further away from the designated spot. A fast bowler, someone muttered. My stomach trembled. A murmur went up amongst the spectators. But George stood eager and braced.

‘Poor man,’ said one wife.

‘Dear God,’ said another.

The bowler began his run, slow and loping at first, his steps somehow halting in the air, his feet light when they touched the ground. They went invisible as he quickened his pace. His arm flew back and his whole body arced with the curl of his right arm. The ball was released while the bowler was still airborne. The throw was like a javelin hurled, like an act of war being committed.

‘Oooooh,’ came the gasp from those watching. People stood up from their chairs.

George turned the right side of his body to meet the ball and smashed with all his might, sending it far into the centre of the park. Smack.

‘Yesss!’ came a roar of relief from the onlookers.

A fielder tore after it. Two others followed. Mayhem erupted on the pitch.

Blind in the heat-haze, I clapped as George made four, five, six, seven runs. Moisture ran down my face, trickled between my breasts. The men in white blurred before my eyes.

‘Well played,’ said a wife.

I sat down in my chair and fanned my face. ‘Well played,’ I whispered, breathless. I knew nothing of cricket, hadn’t even known George was so interested before we arrived. But I saw his reason for loving the game that day, playing it there, of all places on earth, on the savannah in Trinidad.

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