has a question for the panel, I believe. Mrs.



Whitaker?



Mrs. Whitaker: Thank you, Brian. Well, I'm a new gardener and this is my first frost and in two



short months my garden's gone from being a real colour explosion to a very bare thing indeed .. .



Friends have advised flowers with a compact habit but that leaves me with lots of tiny auricula and



double daisies, which look silly because the garden's really quite large. Now, I'd really like to plant



something a little more striking, around the height of a delphinium, but then the wind gets it and



people look over their fences thinking: Dear oh dear (sympathetic laughter from the studio



audience). So, my question to the panel is, how do you keep up appearances in the bleak



midwinter?



Foreman: Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker. Well, it's a common problem .. . and it doesn't necessarily



get any easier for the seasoned gardener. Personally, I never get it quite right. Well, let's hand the



question over to the panel, shall we? Joyce Chalfen, any answers or suggestions for the bleak



midwinter?



Joyce Chalfen: Well, first I must say your neighbours sound very nosy. I'd tell them to mind



their own beeswax if I were you (laughter from audience). But to be serious, I think this whole



trend for round-the-clock bloom is actually very unhealthy for the garden and the gardener and



particularly the soil, I really do ... I think the winter should be a time of rest, subdued colours, you



know and then when the late spring does finally arrive the neighbours get a hell of a shock! Boom!



There it is, this wonderful explosion of growth. I think the deep winter is really a time for nurturing



the soil, turning it over, allowing it a rest and plotting its future all the better to surprise the nosy



people next door. I always think of a



garden's soil like a woman's body moving in cycles, you know, fertile at some times and not



others, and that's really quite natural. But if you really are determined, then Lenten roses



Helleborus corsicus do remarkably well in cold, calcareous soil, even if they're quite in the



Irie switched Joyce off. It was quite therapeutic switching Joyce off. This was not entirely



personal. It just seemed tiring and unnecessary all of a sudden, that struggle to force something out



of the recalcitrant English soil. Why bother when there was now this other place? (For Jamaica



appeared to Irie as if it were newly made. Like Columbus himself, just by discovering it she had



brought it into existence.) This well-wooded and watered place. Where things sprang from the soil



riotously and without supervision, and a young white captain could meet a young black girl with no



complications, both of them fresh and untainted and without past or dictated future a place where



things simply were. No fictions, no myths, no lies, no tangled webs this is how Irie imagined her



homeland. Because homeland is one of the magicalfantasy words like unicorn and soul and infinity



that have now passed into the language. And the particular magic of homeland, its particular spell



over Irie, was that it sounded like a beginning. The beginning est of beginnings. Like the first



morning of Eden and the day after apocalypse. A blank page.



But every time Irie felt herself closer to it, to the perfect blankness of the past, something of the



present would ring the Bowden doorbell and intrude. Mothering Sunday brought a surprise visit



from Joshua, angry on the doorstep, at least a stone and a half lighter, and much scruffier than usual.



Before Irie had a chance to express either concern or shock, he had flounced into the lounge and



slammed the door. Tm sick of it! Sick to the back fucking teeth with it!"



The vibration of the door knocked Capt. Durham from his perch on Irie's windowsill, and she



carefully re-erected him.



"Yeah, nice to see you too, man. Why don't you sit down and slow down. Sick of what?"



"Them. They sicken me. They go on about rights and freedoms, and then they eat fifty chickens



every fucking week! Hypocrites!"



Me couldn't immediately see the connection. She took out a fag in preparation for a long story.



To her surprise Joshua took one too, and they went to kneel on the window seat, blowing smoke



through the grate up into the street.



"Do you know how battery chickens live?"



Me didn't. Joshua explained. Cooped up for most of their poor chicken lives in total chicken



darkness, packed together like chicken sardines in their chicken shit and fed the worst type of



chicken grain. And this, according to Joshua, was apparently nothing on how pigs and cows and



sheep spent their time. "It's a fucking crime. But try telling Marcus that. Try getting him to give up



his Sunday hog-fest. He's so fucking ill informed. Have you ever noticed that? He knows this



enormous amount about one thing, but there's this whole other world that.. . Oh, before I forget you



should take a leaflet."



Me never thought she would see the day when Joshua Chalfen handed her a leaflet. But here it



was in her palm. It was called: Meat is Murder: The Facts and the Fiction, a publication from the



FATE organization.



"It stands for Fighting Animal Torture and Exploitation. They're like the hardcore end of



Greenpeace or whatever. Read it they're not just hippy freaks, they're coming from a solid scientific



and academic background and they're working from an anarchist perspective. I feel like I've really



found my niche, you know? It's a really incredible group. Dedicated to direct action. The deputy's



an ex-Oxford fellow."



"Mmmm. How's Millat?"



Joshua shook off the question. "Oh, I don't know. Barmy. Going barmy. And Joyce is still



pandering to his every whim. Just



don't ask me. They all sicken me. Everything's changed." Josh ran his fingers anxiously through



his hair, which just reached his shoulders now in what Willesdeners affectionately call a Jew-fro



Mullet. "I just can't tell you how everything's changed. I'm having these real.. . moments of clarity."



Irie nodded. She was sympathetic to moments of clarity. Her seventeenth year was proving



chock-a-block with them. And she wasn't surprised by Joshua's metamorphosis. Four months in the



life of a seventeen-year-old is the stuff of swings and roundabouts; Stones fans into Beatles fans,



Tories into Liberal Democrats and back again, vinyl junkies to C D freaks. Never again in your life



do you possess the capacity for such total personality overhaul.



"I knew you'd understand. I wish I'd talked to you before, but I just can't bear to be in the house



these days and when I do see you Millat always seems to be in the way. It's really good to see you."



"You too. You look different."



Josh gestured dismissively at his clothes, which were distinctly less nerdy than they had been.



"I guess you can't wear your father's old corduroy for ever."



"I guess not."



Joshua clapped his hands together. "Well, I've booked my ticket for Glastonbury and I might not



come back. I met these people from FATE and I'm going with them."



"It's March. Not till the summer, surely."



"Joely and Crispin that's these people I met say we might go up there early. You know, camp out



for a bit."



"And school?"



"If you can bunk, I can bunk .. . it's not as if I'm going to fall behind. I've still got a Chalfen



head on my shoulders, I'll just come back for the exams and then fuck off again. Irie, you've just got



to meet these people. They're just.. . incredible. He's a Dadaist. And she's an anarchist. A real one.



Not like Marcus. I



told her about Marcus and his bloody Future Mouse She thinks he's a dangerous individual.



Quite possibly psychopathic."



Me thought about this. "Mmm. I'd be surprised."



Without stubbing out his fag, he threw it up on to the pavement. "And I'm giving up all meat.



I'm a pescatarian at the moment, but that's just half measures. I'm becoming a fucking vegetarian."



Me shrugged, not certain what the right response should be.



"There's a lot to be said for the old motto, you know?"



"Old motto?"



"Fight fire with fire. It's only by really fucking extreme behaviour that you can get through to



somebody like Marcus. He doesn't even know how out there he is. There's no point being



reasonable with him because he thinks he owns reasonableness. How do you deal with people like



that? Oh, and I'm giving up leather wearing it and all other animal by-products. Gelatin and stuff."



After a while of watching the feet go by leathers, sneakers, heels Me said, "That'll show 'em."



On April Fool's Day, Samad turned up. He was all in white, on his way to the restaurant,



crumpled and creased like a disappointed saint. He looked to be on the brink of tears. Me let him in.



"Hello, Miss Jones," said Samad, bowing ever so slightly. "And how is your father?"



Me smiled with recognition. "You see him more than we do. How's God?"



"Perfectly fine, thank you. Have you seen my good-for-nothing son recently?"



Before Me had a chance to give her next line, Samad broke down in front of her and had to be



led into the living room, sat in Darcus's chair and brought a cup of tea before he could speak.



"Mr. Iqbal, what's wrong?"



"What is right?"



"Has something happened to Dad?"



"Oh no, no... Archibald is fine. He is like the washing-machine advert. He carries on and on as



ever."



Then what?"



"Millat. He has been missing these three weeks."



"God. Well, have you tried the Chalfens?"



"He is not with them. I know where he is. Out of the trying pan and into the fire. He is on some



retreat with these lunatic green-tie people. In a sports centre in Chester."



"Bloody hell."



Me sat down cross-legged and took out a fag. "I hadn't seen him in school, but I didn't realize



how long it had been. But if you know where he is .. ." "I didn't come here to find him, I came to



ask your advice, Me. What can I do? You know him how does one get through?"



Me bit her lip, her mother's old habit. "I mean, I don't know . we're not as close as we were .. .



but I've always thought that maybe it's the Magid thing .. . missing him ... I mean he'd never admit



it ... but Magid's his twin and maybe if he saw him



"No, no. No, no, no. I wish that were the solution. Allah knows how I pinned all my hopes on



Magid. And now he says he is coming back to study the English law paid for by these Chalfen



people. He wants to enforce the laws of man rather than the laws of God. He has learnt none of the



lessons of Muhammad peace be upon Him! Of course, his mother is delighted. But he is nothing



but a disappointment to me. More English than the English. Believe me, Magid will do Millat no



good and Millat will do Magid no good. They have both lost their way. Strayed so far from the life



I had intended for them. No doubt they will both marry white women called Sheila and put me in



an early grave. All I wanted was two good Muslim boys. Oh, Me ..." Samad took her free hand and



patted it with sad affection. "I just don't understand where I have gone wrong. You teach them but



they



do not listen because they have the "Public Enemy" music on at full blast. You show them the



road and they take the bloody path to the Inns of Court. You guide them and they run from your



grasp to a Chester sports centre. You try to plan everything and nothing happens in the way that you



expected .. ."



But if you could begin again, thought Irie, if you could take them back to the source of the river,



to the start of the story, to the homeland .. . But she didn't say that, because he felt it as she felt it



and both knew it was as useless as chasing your own shadow. Instead she took her hand from



underneath his and placed it on top, returning the stroke. "Oh, Mr. Iqbal. I don't know what to say



"There are no words. The one I send home comes out a pukka Englishman, white suited, silly



wig lawyer. The one I keep here is fully paid-up green bow-tie-wearing fundamentalist terrorist. I



sometimes wonder why I bother," said Samad bitterly, betraying the English inflections of twenty



years in the country, "I really do. These days, it feels to me like you make a devil's pact when you



walk into this country. You hand over your passport at the check-in, you get stamped, you want to



make a little money, get yourself started .. . but you mean to go back! Who would want to stay?



Cold, wet, miserable; terrible food, dreadful newspapers who would want to stay? In a place where



you are never welcomed, only tolerated. Just tolerated. Like you are an animal finally house-trained.



Who would want to stay? But you have made a devil's pact ... it drags you in and suddenly you are



unsuitable to return, your children are unrecognizable, you belong nowhere."



"Oh, that's not true, surely."



"And then you begin to give up the very idea of belonging. Suddenly this thing, this belonging,



it seems like some long, dirty lie ... and I begin to believe that birthplaces are accidents, that



everything is an accident. But if you believe that, where do you go? What do you do? What does



anything matter?"



As Samad described this dystopia with a look of horror, Me was ashamed to find that the land



of accidents sounded like paradise to her. Sounded like freedom.



"Do you understand, child? I know you understand."



And what he really meant was: do we speak the same language? Are we from the same place?



Are we the same?



Irie squeezed his hand and nodded vigorously, trying to ward off his tears. What else could she



tell him but what he wanted to hear?



"Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, yes."



When Hortense and Ryan came home that evening after a late-night prayer meeting, both were



in a state of high excitement. Tonight was the night. After giving Hortense a flurry of instructions as



to the typesetting and layout of his latest Watchtower article, Ryan went into the hallway to make



his telephone call to Brooklyn to get the news.



"But I thought he was in consultation with them."



"Yes, yes, he is ... but de final confirmation, you understand, must come from Mr. Charles



Wintry himself in Brooklyn," said Hortense breathlessly. "What a day dis is! What a day! Help me



wid liftin' dis typewriter now ... I need it on de table."



Irie did as she was told, carrying the enormous old Remington to the kitchen and laying it down



in front of Hortense. Hortense passed Irie a bundle of white paper covered in Ryan's tiny script.



"Now you read dat to me, Irie Ambrosia, slowly now .. . an' I'll get it down in type."



Irie read for half an hour or so, wincing at Ryan's horrible corkscrew prose, passing the whiting



fluid when it was required, and gritting her teeth at the author's interruptions as every ten minutes



he popped back into the room to adjust his syntax or rephrase a paragraph.



"Mr. Topps, did you get trew yet?"



"Not yet, Mrs. B." not yet. Very busy, Mr. Charles Wintry. I'm going to try again now."



A sentence, Samad's sentence, was passing through Irie's tired brain. Sometimes I wonder why I



bother. And now that Ryan was out of the way, Irie saw her opportunity to ask it, though she framed



it carefully.



Hortense leant back in her chair and placed her hands on her lap. "I bin doin' dis a very long



time, Irie Ambrosia. I bin' waitin' ever since I was a pickney in long socks."



"But that's no reason '



"What d'you know fe reasons? Nuttin' at all. The Witness church is where my roots are. It bin



good to me when nobody else has. It was de good ting my mudder gave me, an' I That going to let



it go now we so close to de end."



"But Gran, it's not.. . you won't ever .. ."



"Lemme tell you so meting I'm not like dem Witnesses jus' scared of dyin'. Jus' scared. Dem



wan' everybody to die excep' dem. Dat's not a reason to dedicate your life to Jesus Christ. I gat very



different aims. I still hope to be one of de Anointed evan if I am a woman. I want it all my life. I



want to be dere wid de Lord making de laws and de decisions." Hortense sucked her teeth long and



loud. "I gat so tired wid de church always tellin' me I'm a woman or I'm That heducated enough.



Everybody always tryin' to heducate you; heducate you about dis, heducate you about dat .. . Dat's



always bin de problem wid de women in dis family. Somebody always tryin' to heducate them



about so meting pretendin' it all about learnin' when it all about a battle of de wills. But if I were



one of de hundred an' forty-four, no one gwan try to heducate me. Dat would be my job! I'd make



my own laws an' I wouldn't be wanting anybody else's opinions. My mudder was strong-willed



deep down, and I'm de same. Lord knows, your mudder was de same. And you de same."



"Tell me about Ambrosia," said Irie, spotting a chink in Hor tense's armour that one might



squeeze through. "Please."



But Hortense remained solid. "You know enough already. De past is done wid. Nobody learn



nuttin' from it. Top of page five please I tink dat's where we were."



At that moment Ryan returned to the room, face redder than ever.



"What, Mr. Topps? Is it? Do you know?"



"God help the heathen, Mrs. B." for the day is indeed at hand! It is as the Lord laid out clearly



in his book of Revelation. He never intended a third millennium. Now I'll need that article typed up,



and then another one that I'll dictate to you off the cuff you'll need to telephone all the Lambeth



members, and leaflet the-'



"Oh, yes, Mr. Topps but jus' let me tyake it in jus' a minute It couldn't be any udder date, could



it, Mr. Topps? I tol' you I felt it in my bones."



"I'm not sure as to how much your bones had to do wiv it, Mrs. B. Surely more credit is due to



the thoroughscriptural study done by myself and my colleagues '



"And God, presumably," said Irie, cutting him a sharp glare, going over to hold Hortense, who



was shaking with sobs. Hortense kissed Irie on both cheeks and Irie smiled at the hot wetness.



"Oh, Irie Ambrosia. I'm so glad you're here to share dis. I live dis century I came into dis world



in an cart-quake at de very beginning and I shall see the hevil and sinful pollution be hera sed in a



mighty rumbling cart-quake once more. Praise de Lord! It is as he promised after all. I knew I'd



make it. I got jus' seven years to wait. Ninety-two!" Hortense sucked her teeth contemptuously.



"Cho! My grandmudder live to see one hundered-and-tree an de woman could skip rope till de day



she keel over and drop col'. Me gwan make it. I make it dis far. My mudder suffer to get me here



but she knew de true church and she make heffort to push me out in de mos' difficult circumstances



so I could live to see that glory day."



"Amen!"



"Oh, ha men Mr. Topps. Put on de complete suit of armour of God! Now, Irie Ambrosia,



witness me as I say it: I'm gwan be dere. An' I'm gwan to be in Jamaica to see it. I'm going home



that year of our Lord. An' you can come dere too if you learn from me and listen. You wan come



Jamaica in de year two thousand?"



Irie let out a little scream and rushed to give her grandmother another hug.



Hortense wiped her tears with her apron. "Lord Jesus, I live dis century! Well and truly I live



dis terrible century wid all its troubles and vexations. And tanks to you, Lord, I'm gwan a feel a



rumble at both ends."

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