In the Circumstances

By Sue Bates

Mabel Morrison is an elderly black lawyer who has spent her life defending the underdog in a society where being black and keeping your head held high is a challenge in both minor and major ways. Her life collides with that of Sam, a homeless young man, who fights his demons with limited success. Their lives are very different but they share the experience of prejudice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sue Bates
• Release date: Jan 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916021310

Sue Bates

I was born in Northwich, a small market town in Cheshire, England. I have one elder brother and three younger ones and always considered myself their equal (this has come in very handy). I left school at sixteen and began work as a Civil Servant dishing out retirement pensions to the mostly grateful public but soon grew tired of the paperwork and so made the radical step of giving it up to train as a nurse in Manchester, home of the famous football clubs. Nursing taught me a lot about human nature and gave me confidence and the pleasure gained from helping people. Then came marriage and studying part-time and eventually university and three children and two grandsons. I lived in California for two years and then back the UK where I worked full time as a lecturer/manager and after many years that were enjoyable as a lecturer (the students were great), I made another leap into the unknown and now spend my time writing.

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In The Circumstances

Sue Bates

Copyright 2019 Sue Bates

Published by The Bothy Publishing at Smashwords

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cover design by Sue Bates

ISBN 978-1-9160213-1-0

1

Some people said he was living under the M1 (actually underground – he could have a dining room table under there, for all they knew). Others said it was more likely to be under the M6 (he'd have less chance of being caught, if he popped up in the Lake District). Most thought it was just a farcical story to give the papers something to write about. When it comes down to it, how can anyone survive in a labyrinth of tunnels under one of the country's main motorways?

However, the rumours continued. A few people swore they'd seen him from their car windows (a tall thin figure – long arms, long legs – with a handsome face except for the deep-set eyes). One or two added more details describing his eye colour as a deep staring blue, his hair as long, straw-like.

If it hadn't been for the fuss I'd made, I expect the press would have moved on to something else. So I suppose it was really all my fault – because, soon after I'd complained, the Department for Transport and the police started to search in earnest for the elusive tunneller, as I'd taken to calling him.

The incident I got caught up in, or rather dropped into, happened on a very cold winter's morning. The sun was out making the frost-covered countryside sparkle. It was such a pretty sight.

I'd got up very early so I'd be first on the road and beat the crowds – I'm too old to waste time stuck in traffic jams.

I admit I drive slowly, well, very slowly. This is another reason why I drive at quiet times, to avoid upsetting people. In the past, people have got so angry they've threatened to kill themselves by overtaking on blind bends, but I don't think it's just my slow driving that upsets them. I think it has also got something to do with me being black – it offends their sense of superiority, me being in front of them like that. I forgive them – they don't know any better– it isn't their fault they're white. Superiority complexes are just as hard to bear as inferiority complexes, for all I know.

To get back to the incident. I was on a country road that day and, as I said, early enough to have the road to myself. I was thinking about my finances at the time (I've got to work everything out to the last pound) and maybe I wasn't concentrating quite as much as I should've been – I admitted as much to the police later.

Well, the first thing I noticed was the bumpiness – I remembered wondering where all the country's taxes went. Then I got the distinct impression that my car was sinking, then there was a very loud bang, then the crunching of metal, and then silence.

I sat completely still, gripping the steering wheel. I'm not sure how long I sat like that – time was distorted – there was no time for fear (everything happened so quickly). But, interestingly, there was time for me to think that I couldn't really complain, even if I died right now, because I'd had an exciting life.

I remember hearing the heavy thumping of my heart and, when I realised I wasn't hurt, time started again and I looked around.

Maybe the shock caused a surge of blood through my brain, clouding my vision, because I thought I glimpsed a pair of blue eyes staring out of a white, muddy face. I blinked and they were gone.

It was only then that I felt frightened. Nevertheless, I opened the car door and got out, telling myself that this was no time for any hysterical nonsense. The car looked surprisingly undamaged. It'd fallen into what seemed to be a large area of subsidence. Just an old salt mine finally collapsed in on itself, I thought, as I scrambled up on to the road above.

2

Considering the odds, my life, so far, has been something of a success. I'd refused to fall into any of the available stereotypes. Well, maybe not exactly refused – to be truthful, I couldn't. Even when I was young, I wasn't lithe and sexy – so modelling was out. I wasn't much interested in dance and music either and, with my looks, I couldn't even dream of becoming a pop star. Sport was out too – I hated it.

I knew early on that my looks were well below average – I'm little and rounded. The only thing I've got going for me is my blackness. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror in the morning, I think about my ancestors and the definite outlines of their black faces, forged in the African heat. The faces of my white friends have undefined boundaries – I imagine their faces being lightly sketched on the horizon of a cool European continent. My daughter tells me I'm too colour conscious, bordering on racism.

Us and them. Them and us. Why not we? When black people married white people was it all about status or more about a celebration of difference – flying in the face of convention – an act of rebellion – their brown children carrying within them the knowledge of continents – true inheritors of the earth? 'Not true, everyone's an individual, that's all there is to it' says my daughter. 'People marry because they fall in love or at the very least like each other!'

I've been thinking about the blue-eyed boy I saw when my car fell into that hole. I told the reporters that I'd definitely seen someone, but, when I got back home, I began to doubt if I had. If you really want to believe in something, it's not difficult to convince yourself. I've met plenty of people who convince themselves that what they want to be true is in fact true. There are the outright liars, of course, but then there's the majority who stretch, squash, and mould the truth into a shape of their own choosing. In the end, it all comes down to the same thing – you never really know the truth about anything. And, maybe unconsciously, I'd not only stretched, squashed and moulded the truth but actually created a whole new truth for myself, as far as that young man was concerned – I'd heard about the elusive tunneller and wanted to believe in him and therefore had seen him.

3

It's a nightmare. Just my luck. The car was cheap and old and the woman getting out of it was old and black. I've been around the world and never seen anyone so black.

The person should have been a banker from the City driving a BMW – a fat cat who got out of his car in a blind rage. And then I could have calmly handed him one of my leaflets CARS KILL EVERYTHING written in blood red letters. But it had all gone wrong. It had all gone badly wrong. That woman was worse off than me, Sam thought bitterly, as the spy sniggered in his ear.

'I could have told you that. You're a loser. You're a loser.'

4

The police phoned me up last week and asked me if I could please come into the police station and give a full statement or they could come to my house, if I preferred (they were polite enough – but they hadn't seen me yet).

I declined the home visit. My house is my castle – I'm very English in that respect and resent intrusion from outsiders. Family, yes. The rest, no. Len, one of my grandsons, calls me a recluse. I laughed loudly at that – my house is always full of my family. But that's not the same, he insists.

I got dressed up for my visit to the police station. Bright red, bright yellow, bright orange, looking good against my black skin – I may be old but I'm stunning. My daughter said I was overdoing it. 'Why do you always insist upon making a statement so that everybody notices you' she said. She's one to talk. 'Look upon it as my mission in life' I said. Being black, where most people are white, does sometimes have its advantages. Sometimes I can really enjoy myself.

I caught the bus to the police station and turned a few heads on the way. I made the white people smile, despite themselves. The black people I passed were unimpressed – the young see me as an uncomfortable reminder of a stage they think they've passed through, and I expect the old find me unseemly. Not that I care.

I smiled back at the white people. My smile drowns out theirs. Mine is a definite statement of joy. My white teeth appearing whiter than white against my black face. The smile of the white person, so dim in comparison – you really have to concentrate to see it, but, when you're feeling charitable enough to make the effort, it's there. And sometimes it's real and a true connection is made.

The police station was worse than I'd expected, which is saying something. I was – obviously – a lesser life form. I knew this from the way they raised their voices on meeting me – enunciating their words, distorting their faces (their faces mirroring their dull minds). They exchanged furtive glances (I caught them at it on several occasions) during the hour-long interview. They asked my age, my profession (retired, I said). They weren't even curious enough (why be curious about a lesser life form) to ask me what I'd done before I'd retired. I haven't really retired, of course.

I'd responded with quiet dignity (the phrase usually reserved for such occasions) and this had at times almost broken through, chipping away at the wall of prejudice so that I caught a glimpse of a world beyond its present limitations. And they, from their side, may have noticed the tiny crack and seen, for a second, more expansive possibilities.

The wall could perhaps be brought down by the composure of dignity, but it is not the only way, no, not by any means. I live in a democracy. I have a right to put in a complaint. And I did. They changed their tune