Saturday, 21 October 1995
Satya had made up her mind: she was not going to read about competition and the challenges of global trade all over again. She did not need reading week to assist her in her studies, she told herself, for her essays were already in hand. Perhaps, she thought, its arrival was a sign; if she wanted to, she could jump on a train and be home in an hour. She would treat it as a mid-term holiday, she decided, escaping that dreadful hall for the week.
She had already abandoned her letter. A sheet of paper set in front of her, she had sat at her desk for three nights in a row earlier in the week in an effort to pen her thoughts, but she had only produced a mound of screwed up paper balls. Sounding right was hard; saying what she felt was almost impossible and keeping it short could not be done. The day before yesterday, she had spent all night writing something she believed in momentarily, completing it as the darkness left the morning sky. She had even pushed the folded page into a white envelope, addressed it and fixed a stamp in the top right-hand corner. But when she awoke from her slumber at lunchtime, nursing a headache and regrets, she tossed it straight into the bin without re-reading it. It was a lost cause.
Now the old town called her. She would return and speak to him in person, the nostalgia for those tree-lined streets causing strange cravings within that made her accelerate her plans. She would arrive bearing a gift to excite him, something rare and unique if she could find it. Carrying a small bag on her shoulder—a couple of changes of clothes, but no books—she spent an hour in every record shop in the vicinity of the station, sorting through the dusty collections in search of a recording to reignite an extinguished flame. Marcia, Marley, McGregor, McLean, Merger, Nash; maybe looking in the right section would help. Maria, McBride, McGhee, Meadows, Miller, Milton, Moore. ‘Yes,’ she cheered for a second, only for her contentment to immediately leave her. The label on the brown paper replacement sleeve read, Moore, Gatemouth, Boogie Woogie Papa; this was not what she had in mind.
In the seventh shop, a basement room beneath the street, searching franticly as if the record mattered more than her ultimate destination, she pushed her way through a group of dreadlocked men in the reggae section, muttering apologies for interrupting their heated discussion about the police raid on Nyabingi at the Chapel Centre last night. She was losing hope of ever finding the track, now that the walls shuddered to the thumping bass of the Evolution of Dub. The vibrations fired straight through her, causing her empty stomach to growl. This was her last attempt, she told herself, fingering the racks before her. ‘Oh dear God,’ she whispered, ‘show me a sign.’
Was it a miracle or just good luck? The first record she picked up was the one she sought. She slipped the disc out of its sheath and read its round label. Misty Blue, D Moore, B Montgomery. Sliding the forty-five back into the envelope, she carried it across the room as if it were a prized piece of porcelain. At the counter, she asked the manager to exchange the Mad Professor for her priceless gem, and soon every customer was revelling in its glory, struck by its immense beauty. Yes, she thought, it was a fitting tribute, the perfect gift; if it provoked on his face the streams of tears that now streaked down her own cheeks, she would cradle him in her warm embrace.
Sitting on the train now, heading east, she had to still herself, her excitement causing a sickly feeling within. Her chest felt tight and she carried a dizzy headache, her unease compounded by the jerky movements of her two-carriage express. The train shook from side to side on every jolt, and rattled, and creaked. The noise of its rough diesel engine was unbearable, its wheels on the tracks clattering beneath her; the lighting was dim, the bench seats painful. It was a pathetic machine, like two single-decker busses joined at the rear and set on steel wheels. The chrome handle fixed to the back of the seat jabbed her back with every bump. It was all unbearable, but she had to make this journey.
Turning into his street an hour and a half later, shivers bubbled through her veins, her stomach hollow. She approached slowly now, questioning herself, interrogating her intentions. Despite all her efforts, she still did not know what to say; she hoped he would do all the talking when he saw her, embracing her with open arms, inviting her inside. She hoped he would take the record, put it on his deck, set the needle and let it spin. That gorgeous track would speak for her, conveying her feelings far better than she ever could. She told herself all sorts of stories like this, but she was not convinced.
Even as she paced up the pavement towards his still broken front gate, the sight of his front door pulling more memories from within, she had no idea how she would begin. Was hello enough, or would silence and staring eyes do? She would find out now. Standing on his doorstep, quivering with fear, she rang the bell.
