Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 16 (2) 

People change when they get married. There is a need for structure. Some revert to their only frame of reference,  the way they were brought up as children. There were minor arguments. Alex talked about how his parents had done things. Anna's ears seemed to stick out. He asked why she hadn't taped them back when she was born. Elizabeth wanted a Nanny - it was expected. He could not afford to hire one and thought Elizabeth should be the one to take care of Anna in her important formative years -- thought it was too detached and clinical. "A child's personality is already developed by the age of five," he said. If anything, they should have a male nanny for a male nurturing presence when he would be away.

He was more liberal, let Anna sleep and play according to her whims. Natural he thought. Elizabeth's British upbringing demanded routines, discipline, a strict approach. They were pulling in different directions. Alex brought home books on child-rearing, read the conflicting theories and confused his arguments as much as ever. Elizabeth's parents came once a week and confounded matters with their own values, reinforcing her way of doing things.

"It seems my opinion, my input, doesn't matter at all," he said. "You just dismiss it." Alex felt alienated. It was only Anna who accepted him, liked him it seemed and he had regular moments of intimacy with her when he rolled her in the pram to the park. Then, he was quite happy to sit on a bench and watch her lay there looking at the trees and sky or the pigeons that occasionally fluttered up over their heads.

To top it off, Elizabeth thought he was not much help.

"You helped create her, now you take the responsibility," she said. He tried his best, nonetheless, it seemed he just couldn't do enough. He changed Anna, took her walks, learned to mix the formula of Similac, fed her. He read up on Baby Foods, stayed away from Nestle and others that had been dumped in the Third World. But he could not please Elizabeth. The more he did, the more critical she was. She was demanding behaviour from him no one was capable of.

He'd read the papers, comment out loud on the state of the world, pick articles about England to talk about, dig at her.

"Six hundred textile workers laid off in Manchester," he dug. "That's what England gets for cutting the thumbs off weavers in India." 

 "Well, we civilized half the world."

"That's why the British Empire died. You make your wealth off colonies. America created wealth from her own resources and hard work." 

  "America will fall. You are too undisciplined."

"The economy is rife with labour problems, too many industrial strikes. British Rail is out again. Your system is too old, too closed. Nothing is open, not a single shop in the afternoon."

"Because we're all at the galleries, the tea shops, at theatres instead of always trying to make money. We have more culture. We're just more civilized."

It always ended the same way. "More civilized," she'd say haughtily. She thought he was an animal because he didn't follow proper custom. He said she was stuck on tradition, polite not because she meant it but because she'd been conditioned to acting in a certain way.

She sent him on errands to the shop with a long list of things to buy. He'd spend an hour getting the right sizes, the correct brands. He had to be exact. It was one of her ways of keeping control, of ruling him. The reckless love they'd felt had now changed into habits, into a system. It was oppressive, inflexible. He had little room to manoeuvre.

He remembered her before when she was free. And how their relationship had been, how he'd loved her. That part of them was now destroyed, replaced by this system of interacting routines, of pressures to take care of Anna, to relate like a family. They never fought, never yelled or raised their voices. There was just distance, coldness, detachment. But there was orderliness. It stifled him. Why could she not forget about Anna for once, make passionate love to him, unearth the intimacy they'd shared which was now buried under layers of parenting routines? Just give him something to hang onto.

But there were times Elizabeth was friendly. It depended on her mood. Most days she seemed uptight, tense around him. Alex got to going downtown to pick up the papers and read the classified for jobs in peace. He'd found a cafe near Picadilly Circus, a quiet place. He'd order a cappuccino, go through the papers, see what was going on, contemplate the future. The economy was not that strong, teetering. The analysts were pessimistic, the topics always about inflation, unemployment, possible recession. He'd watch the businessmen with their array of hats and umbrellas, hurrying like clockwork in the street. He didn't know how office girls managed to pay their rent and deck themselves out the way they did. There were old buildings and it rained often. London had never seemed so depressing to him before. Sometimes he'd put a bet on the hidden pea game tattooed fast-talking men set up hastily in the street, and as quickly disappeared. Then he'd go down into the tube at Picadilly, down into the long tunnels and ride the train home.

By September, Alex starred to get worried. There was new pressure on him. He had some money saved, his Tour gratuity and other remittance transfers he'd made. He wasn't eligible for Unemployment Insurance and Elizabeth's grant money was long gone. He was only on a visitor's visa but applied for permanent residence and a work permit. It could take six months to process these, he was informed. By that time, their saving would be almost depleted. Elizabeth was too proud to ask her parents for help. And professional jobs that paid were not easy to obtain in England. At least in Africa he had saved some money. They provided you with a house. If it was just Elizabeth ...  he did not want the baby there with the heat and lack of medical facilities. It was hard enough to survive yourself.

"I've got offered a job, as a Surveying Engineer," Alex broke the news one day after going downtown to check with several companies on employment prospects. "It sounds O.K. Overseas with Stirling Estalda. Not Saudi -- I've heard too many bad things. They're all over Africa -- road projects. It pays in foreign currency, in Pounds and they give you a home ticket, leave every four months."

"What about us. We can't go to Africa yet!"

"I know. This would only be for a year or two until my work permit comes through or Anna gets older."

"What are we to do, stay here?"

"Look, we can get some money ahead.They cover expenses and your cheques are sent out. I've got the down payment on a house now. We'll buy one here in England. I'll be banking money for the mortgage and have a leave every four months. A couple of high remittances and it'd be paid for probably. We've got no choice right now. Look, you can just take care of Anna, maybe get down for a visit later, do some research or something."

House hunting gave Elizabeth something to do to keep busy. Over in Highgate, they found a half-duplex with large windows which rose almost to the sculptured ceilings, a walled garden out back and small iron-fenced front yard, properly landscaped, and closed the deal.

Elizabeth formulated renovation plans. She was artistic and in her element, arranging the furniture and the wall-hanging and displaying the other artifacts from Africa she'd had packed away. She imagined the painting and wall-papering, the re-finishing of the hardwood floors and the stripping of casings and doors she'd do, her mind occupied with these ideas.

On closer inspection, it revealed a painted iron grate, rounded at the top, was designed to fit into the end wall of the living room, flush with the wall. A coal fireplace, not six inches deep, was set into the wall. Alex went outside and looked up to where a chimney seemed to serve the two houses with six clay pipes sticking out of it, rippled on the ends like plastic faucet attachments he'd once bought at Home Hardware. He'd have to call a cleaner, a chimney sweep if they still existed, and a fire marshall to check if it was usable.

From the top floor bathroom he could partially look down into part of the patio of the adjacent attached house. A high vine-covered stone wall separated the yards. Gave some small bit of privacy in the congested city. But not enough. Alex watched as a woman, probably in her thirties, walked with a book to a chaise lounge on the patio, and lay down, unleashed her halter top and threw it aside, bare above the waist, her breasts pointing to the sky, toward what precious sunlight filtered through the smog.

He did not move. The woman, finally glancing up, saw his face in the small window pane, appeared to laugh, her mouth fixed in a smile, and unperturbed by his presence, went on reading.  Alex disappeared feeling embarrassed and guilty to have spied on her, not looked away, and stared at her half-naked body and been excited by it, an invader, a spoiler of her pleasure. He had been an uninvited witness of her small slice of contentment, and it bothered him, probably more than it did her. He'd have to put a curtain on the window, one could see out of but not in, one where she couldn't see if he was watching her.

He went back downstairs. Elizabeth had Anna sitting in a stroller, a light dress on her and a white sunhat with lace on the edges, tied on her head. 

"I'll take her. I don't mind. I want to see some of the neighbourhood. You can relax, check things out. We'll go around the block, find some pigeons to feed. Let's go Anna." 

The three months in the house had started to drive him mad, get on his nerves. Alex was now happy to be getting back to work, glad to have a job. He knew he had felt cooped up, had started to get depressed about not being able to work, which had added to the tensions with Elizabeth, made things even more difficult. It had been no holiday, but it had been a change. Alex felt uplifted, ready for Africa again. It was where the work was. It had to be and he was fresh, could handle the hardships. He had been on leave was all. Alex felt an acute sense of building something for the future. And he could work with them, help them gently milk Mother Africa, slowly tame her.