Person of Significance

Marjorie Lazaro

Description

Marjorie Lazaro's novel, A Person of Significance, explores London in the 1950s, at a time when immigrants were arriving from West Africa, India and the Caribbean, each with their own story. A Person of Significance follows the story of Gad, a talented young pianist from Burma, who arrives in London with nowhere to live, despite the fact that he has a place at a top music college. He faces prejudice from the unwelcoming city but, nevertheless, manages to pursue his ambition as a musician. Gad develops an individual style of performance that allows his warm musicality to connect with his audience. During his time as a music student, he also meets the beautiful Therese and embarks on a passionate, yet turbulent, relationship with her.Although A Person of Significance is upbeat in tone, readers quickly learn how Gad is forced to face continual prejudice in a tough society. On the road to becoming a musician, whilst trying to get his college tutors to understand his needs, he has to deal with his mother's death. He falls madly in love, but is mistrusted by Thrse's family. Will Gad ever be accepted?Inspired by the work of Adrian Levy and Michael Ondaatje, this novel will appeal to readers who enjoy modern and contemporary novels and romantic fiction, as well as those who are interested in exploring different cultures and societies in fiction.

Sujets

• Gran Londres
• Greater London
• Grand Londres
• London

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 12 novembre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785897306
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2016 Marjorie Lazaro

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781785897306

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For Cedric


Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13

Part II
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29

Part III
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51

Author’s Note
Acknowledgements



Part I






Chapter 1
London, August 1952
Garrard halted at a crossroads, breathing hard. Traffic stoplights loomed over him, delivery trucks and vans pressed close with their stink of petrol and hot rubber and dust. His lungs struggled for oxygen, the thunder of heavy vehicles and the tread of many feet assaulting his ears. Huge red buses like elephants that could crush you in a moment lumbered along in procession, each with a place name and a number on its forehead.
‘Here’s the place,’ his sister had said, the practical one, waving her magazine in the air. ‘Right in the middle of London – look, you can’t miss it. Regent Street, it says.’
It was unreal. At last he was actually in the city, that musical, starry, thrilling, exotic, daunting, longed-for destination. It was only three hours since his arrival.
The journey from Rangoon to London via Liverpool had been simple – a matter of saving his passage and packing his bag. P&O did the rest. Now he was alone, on foot, and needing to find the special place that would kit him out for the winter. A lightweight shirt and trousers were fine for the tropics, but the British Council representative had warned him to provide properly for the cold and fog that were to come. Against his nature, he had to be practical.
According to the map at the hostel, this was Oxford Circus – a strange name for a crossroads in London; it seemed to be the centre of the West End. But there was no way to tell which was Regent Street. Should he ask? People were milling around him, some directing curious glances at him. He looked straight back, unabashed. No! I can do this myself! D’Silvas never admit defeat.
He looked round again; then, attracted by its elegant curve, he chose the broadest street, which stretched away downhill in a perfect arc.
The buildings looked huge, long spreads of brightly lit display windows glinting in the afternoon sun. Peering to see what was on offer, he caught his own reflection amongst the bustling crowd, astonished at how conspicuous he looked amongst these tall, pale Europeans, seeing himself through their eyes – a small, alien figure, a round, dark face with hamster cheeks, bold eyes, curly black hair.
But suddenly there was the place, exactly like the picture in Weldon’s: shiny, a large and imposing emporium. In the entrance he paused for his eyes to adjust after the sunny brightness. He went in. The cool quiet of the building was strange to him – shady, not hot and humid, no more clamour of voices and footsteps.
The store was practically empty, with a clean smell of cloth. Wooden counters stretched away into the distance, defending shelves of fabric, and dummies wearing smart outfits gazed at him, still and unblinking. The adverts had promised he would be able to choose material and have it made up to his own measurements, just like in Rangoon, where of course the family had its own tailor.
An assistant loomed up beside him. Garrard squared his weightlifter’s shoulders in the crisp linen shirt before glancing up at the young man.
‘I need a new suit,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said the assistant, not returning his gaze. His voice was neutral and his face gave nothing away.
Garrard took a second look. Yes, his manner really was offhand: not obliging in the least. He was young, too. He should learn some manners.
‘So please show me your heavyweight samples, isn’t it?’
The man’s expression changed, a sneer perceptible. Garrard wondered if he had made a mistake – perhaps one of many in this new place. The pale youngster stood blocking Garrard’s approach without meeting his eye. At the nearest counter, a customer leaned, examining a book of swatches.
Is everybody deaf?
‘That’s the sort of thing I need,’ said Garrard, still polite, gesturing towards a dummy dressed in warm cavalry twill trousers and a grey tweed jacket.
Then he heard the young man say, ‘I think a whole suit might be rather expensive for you, sir.’
Expensive?
‘But this is the Fifty Shilling Tailors?’ asked Garrard. By his calculation, fifty shillings was two pounds ten shillings.
‘I’m afraid you are quite outta date, sir,’ said the man, raising his voice. ‘The cheapest we ‘ave ‘ere…’ and he emphasized the demeaning word ‘…would be three pounds ten shillings.’
The other customer lifted his head to listen. Garrard hesitated, heat rising in him, the shock of such unexpected hostility putting him on the defensive.
‘Yes? And?’ Three pounds ten would keep him for a week – more than any music student could afford, and about three times as much as he would have paid in Rangoon.
He looked the man in the face. The man looked back. Garrard could not retreat now.
‘Well, show me your, this thing, best cloth,’ he insisted. His fists balled in his pockets, he moved towards the counter, his way still barred. His determination forced the fellow to stand aside; he followed, watching while Garrard flicked through a sample book.
‘Have you nothing better?’ Garrard said.
‘Nothing – sir.’
‘Hm.’ Garrard looked through the book again, finally pausing at a cream twill. He turned the page over, but there was no price on the back. He decided not to let this concern him.
‘This one, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a pair of trousers only, though. For a jacket, I’d need better stuff.’
There was a pause while the man digested this. Then, ‘If sir would like to pay a deposit?’ he said.
‘Of course, of course. Just measure me up, please,’ said Garrard, keeping control. He stood, legs planted, and watched the assistant kneel reluctantly at his feet to take his inside leg measurement and enter it in a book, before noting down the other necessary details. Then Garrard took out his wallet and produced the one, lonely pound note with a flourish. ‘This should do for the deposit, I think,’ he said. ‘I will call back tomorrow.’
Another mistake. Catching the young man’s expression, Garrard corrected himself – ‘Or rather, next week.’ He left, leaving no room for dispute.
Outside in the hot sun he wiped his face. Such a tamasha over buying a suit! he thought. I’d better not trust to Weldon’s mags in future .
*
The full blast of Regent Street bruised him as he emerged: the white glare, the roar of traffic, with the red buses and the drably dressed people walking briskly along the pavements, skilfully avoiding each other without apparently trying. He had been brought up to think that London was a cosmopolitan city where everybody had a place – like Rangoon, with its Indian merchants and professionals, Chinese businessmen and shopkeepers, British administrators, Anglos with their skills in engineering, accountancy and so on, and everywhere, going about the work of the city, Karens, Karennis, Kachins, Shans and the warlike Burmans themselves, all part of the city’s rich mix. Here in the West End all the faces were white – except his.
As he began to negotiate the crowded streets, following the only route he had so far learned – northwards from the West End towards the quieter squares of Bloomsbury – his was no longer the only brown face. Here, in the university quarter, the traffic thinned out, and he noticed more and more Africans and Indians on the pavements. The Africans liked to bunch together, he saw, sprawling apart in bursts of exuberant laughter. The Asians were more reserved, swimming like sleek pickerel compared to the African grouper fish.
Garrard began to relax, and the tension in his shoulders eased as he walked under shady plane trees. Clearl