Peter

Bodil admires the slight tan she has achieved as she stretches her long, slim arms up towards the branches of the apple tree. A dappled shade flickers across the perambulator parked beside her as little Pamela lies sleeping, her blanket clutched tightly in one podgy fist. 

She had so desperately wanted to make a good first impression when Charles had been hired by the school to join the mathematics department. Now the academic year is over, she can enjoy some peace in the school grounds. Bodil is painfully aware she hasn't helped her husband settle in as smoothly as a proper wife - an English wife - would have done. The school masters' house they were allocated on arrival is more than adequate - overwhelming, in fact, for a young bride from another country who can barely speak the language, let alone use the modern top-loading washer. Regular kitchen floods are not a recipe for marital bliss.

Bodil sighs as she remembers the two singed shirts Charles has worn to work in the past two weeks, yet he tries desperately to encourage her in the housework. She knows, of course, that he is more than capable of doing it all without her help, and in half the time. He is the one who lived the single life during the war. She knows he can cook, iron, and polish better than her. These men are so able.

Pamela stirs in the perambulator, suckling in her sleep. Bodil wonders if babies dream, and when she will next have to feed the child. She reminds herself - for what seems like the thousandth time - that Charles did choose to marry her when she was only 19, still only visiting on a holiday visa, and still just a baby in the eyes of many who met her. He gave her a home, he invited her into his life and trusted she could add a woman's touch. Leaning back in the deckchair, Bodil looks up at the blue above and sighs, thinking back to her attempts to make their campus house a home.

"Flags?! In the window?!" Charles had yelled up the stairs as he returned for a quick hot lunch one day. "Why must you Danes insist on advertising your country so prominently? Don’t you think the boys already know where you come from? They can hear your accent a mile off! For goodness sake, Bodil."

She had apologised and taken the little red and white flags down that evening. A patriotic pride is as natural as breathing in Denmark, but not so acceptable here. It is true she cannot escape the accent. She can only get so far with her looks; soft blond curls, sweet youthful face, innocent blue eyes. When she had travelled across the Atlantic Ocean in '47, clutching a small suitcase with fear and excitement, she had worn simple clothes with the height and stature of those with Nordic blood. Even now, almost daily, she receives admiring glances for the way she dresses with effortless elegance.

And yet, the moment she opens her mouth, stammering with the few phrases she has so far retained, that deep Germanic-sounding dialect gives her away. The butcher no longer looks her in the eye (although she knows he is quite happy to gaze at her figure as she leaves his shop) and the lady in the post office fumbles and turns red with embarrassment whenever Bodil reaches the front of the queue.

But the freedom of the school campus is far better than the long months they had lived with Charles' parents in Surrey when first married. Wimbledon is quieter than inner-city London, although larger than any town she knew in Denmark.

Bodil lies back in the chair and stretches her bare feet in the grass. Tomorrow she will attempt (again!) to meet people. Visits to the park with little Pamela are almost daily, yet she still hasn’t held what she deems a successful conversation, one that could develop into friendship.

Friendship would be lovely. She sees other young mothers walking in twos and threes, an army of perambulators marching cheerfully across the street or round the duck pond. She has frequent polite conversations with the flower lady, but that's not the same. The health visitor had encouraged Bodil to attend the 'new baby' coffee mornings, however the sideways glances and whispering in huddled corners made her nervous to return. She knows they tittered at her accent. She knows she will always be made to feel like an outsider.

  Bodil enjoys the warmth of the sun on her face; it is so much warmer than home. She begins to doze, trying to plan for supper but knowing Charles will be happy with a boiled egg.

  Suddenly, she hears footsteps on the gravel path nearby. A figure towers over her. Bodil flinches back, her eyes still adjusting to the light. The deckchair cracks loudly with her sudden movement and she lurches sideways towards the ground.

The figure is a man, stocky, not tall, and he grins widely, but what shocks her is his face and hands; they are darker than oak, darker than chocolate, darker than any face she has seen before.

"Hello? Sorry, did I surprise the lady?" he asks in an unfamiliar accent, the smile never leaving his face.

Bodil looks down at her feet in the grass, her slim pale feet. She glances back up at him, scrunching her eyes as sunlight blinds her through the branches.

His voice again: "My name is Peter, I am the new gardener. Please let me help."

Bodil stands unaided and moves round the perambulator, putting the sleeping child between her and the stranger. Composing herself, she looks straight at the man and forces a smile.

"I very sorry, Sir," she says carefully. "I did not know you were..." She searches desperately in her brain for the right words, for English words, for polite words. "I did not see you before."

"The new gardener", he repeats, pointing to himself. His smile lights up even brighter. 

"You are not from England?" she asks tentatively.

"No." He pauses. His smile drops. "Jamaica. Far, faaar away." His hand motions the distance.

"I am also from far away," Bodil smiles. She likes the man.

"Peter", he repeats, holding out his hand. They shake hands warmly. Bodil giggles nervously.

"I am Bodil. I am from Denmark?" She doesn’t know why she says it like a question. She suspects he may not know her homeland.

"Denmark, yes," he nods.

She is pleased. "It is warmer here in England," she offers, as an amusing comment.

"Nooo..." Peter shakes his head violently. "England is like ice. I miss the sun!"

They laugh, sharing a moment, thoughts of home tumbling through their minds.

"Please," Bodil motions to the grass. "Sit?"

Peter nods. "I need a rest. The soil is veeery dry for digging."

Bodil loves the way he emphasises certain words.

"I like the way you speak," she offers.

"You too have a delightful accent," he replies. "Now please, no shade for me; let us sit in the sun."

The two strangers lower themselves to the ground, finding comfortable positions side by side on the grass. They will be friends; Bodil is sure of this. Good friends, and foreigners together, in a land neither can quite call home.

(***Based on a true story; my Danish grandmother's first meeting with Peter, the gardener, who became a good friend. She had never seen a black person until that day.)