June 1948: As the gangway landed with
a jolt on the Tilbury quayside, Gabriel smoothed down his suit and took a deep
breath. Everything was grey. So different to Jamaica’s fierce sunshine and loud
colours.
The people were grey too.
Stevedores scuttling about like ants. Immigration officials lined up to check
papers. Curious locals gathered to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. All in
shades of grey.
And there she was, shining
like a beacon cutting through a sea fog. Platinum hair and a slash of red
lipstick. Gramma would have called her a Jezebel. But she was no wanton hussy.
She was classy, powerful, in control.
Like many onboard the Empire
Windrush, Gabriel had no-one in Britain. He arrived alone, dreaming of a
better life and the chance to play his music beyond the jive joints of home. He
was 19, his suit was too big, and the furthest he’d travelled before was the
bumpy bus ride to Kingston.
As he stepped out into the
street, a hand touched his shoulder.
“Follow me,” she said,
leading him to a café where someone called Madge served them stewed tea from an
urn.
“My name’s Val,” said the
blonde. “And you, my dear Gabriel, are special.”
He started at the sound of
his name.
“You don’t know why yet,
but it’ll become clear over the years. When the time comes, I’ll call you.”
++++++++++++++++
June 2020: She stood in the dingy jazz bar he’d haunted
for 50 years. Ageless, resplendent in a leather jumpsuit, her hair still long
and shockingly pale. The scarlet gash of her lipstick declared she was ready
for action.
“Been a long time, Val.”
She looked him up and down.
“A VERY long time.
“I said I’d tell you when
the time came, didn’t I? Well, the time is now.”
