The African heads ...

I've just spent the last two days with my mum and dad - I try to see them every three weeks or so - Tessa was there this time with me - she got the train from Fratton to Havant - from the train, you can see rows of terraced houses - seagulls fly over the slate roofs and satellite dishes - each side of the curving track there are narrow gardens, with sheds and wild lawns - I can remember seeing the word Pompey, whitewashed upon a wall -

I drove to Havant in the red Peugeot, along the motorway, overtaking roaring lorries - there was a two mile tailback in the westward lane - families were starting out on their holidays - shiny cars were heading for campsites and beaches - the Daily Express screeched there'd be another heatwave -

Inside my mum and dad's house we watched Ray Milland in Bugles in the Afternoon - yelping Sioux braves circled valiant cavalrymen - a sneering villain got his just deserts -

I looked around the sparkling living room - I saw precious ornaments, arranged carefully upon shelves, photographs, paintings, brave flowers in vases -

There, upon the top of a bookcase, were three African heads, carved out of rich, glossy, wood - my dad had been given these heads by a Ghanaian doctor - it was the day of independence - he had been taken in a graceful pirogue up a wide river - the Royal Navy cruiser was anchored off the coast - he'd drunk whiskey in the doctor's compound, toasting the new country -

When my mum and dad, and Tessa, had gone to bed, I picked up the heads - I ran my fingers over their smooth faces, over their eyes, foreheads and lips - I stared for a long time at their calm faces -

I placed the heads down again, and turned off the light - I left them in darkness -

Later, I dreamed of Africa - I was breathing exotic air - I sat opposite my dad, in the slender craft, splashed by warm seas - he was young again, bright eyed, fearless -