Foreign Soil

by Maxine Beneba Clarke

  But Millie knew her father wanted more for his children than this place, beloved to him as it was. In the dark of night, spooned up against the warm body of her twelve-year-old sister, in the bed they’d shared since Millie was two, she pondered what life might have in store for her.

  The neighborhood school in Cidar Valley was a one-room building run by the Pentecostal church. Though adequate, by island standards, in syllabus and staffing, it did not offer classes beyond those mandatory for a basic primary education. In a rural village, where jigging school for the day meant an extra pair of hands in the kitchen or garden, the school had ongoing problems with attendance. Learning the King’s English played second fiddle to loosening hardened ground soil to dig a yam bed. Eldest daughters grew up rising at five to pummel maize meal for the family’s porridge, and fell asleep at night sitting on wooden washing stools, chins slumped to chests.

  Mr. Lucas had greater aspirations for his daughter. He knew for sure that something extraordinary rested in the fingertips of this child. Millie was no genius, but he’d watched her at her sums and spelling of an afternoon: the way her long tapered fingers pressed the pencil firmly down on the paper of her exercise book. He watched her at the kitchen sink on Sunday afternoons, plucking feathers from the still-warm bodies of fat garden chickens, yanking the strands from the flesh with a sharp flick of her wrist.

  Millie’s mother was a strong woman, stockily built with broad shoulders, coarse practical hands and earthy fingers not given to the delicate duck and weave of a sewing needle. At the age of eight, Millie had become responsible for the household darning, and within a year this had been extended to the fashioning of basic clothing items for the younger children, and mending for several other families in the village.

  What to do with beautiful Millie had kept her father tossing and turning in his bed at night for almost twelve months. One evening he resigned himself to the logical conclusion. He turned to his wife, their old wooden bed creaking as he moved. “Ye know we gotta send dat girl te Kingston?” he asked, gently shaking her shoulder. “Edna, ye damn know it gotta be done.” His wife played asleep, refusing to roll over or reply. She would protest his decision, the man knew it, but eventually she would come to see the light.

  Mr. Lucas had no inkling of where in Kingston he was going to send his daughter or how he was going to get her there, but he had faith that the Lord would offer up a way. He knew that scraping that little something out of nothing was the legacy of the city, sordid as its beginnings were. Centuries back, the harbor of Port Royal had been multiculturalism at its fighting best. Swarthy Spanish pirates ate in dark taverns next to Roman Catholic priests before returning outside to deliver leftover scraps to the African slaves who’d been minding their horses. Located on the shipping route between Spain and Panama, Port Royal was the Sodom of the New World, a place a woman could do well, given the right body and inclination.

  The Baptists of Jamaica believed the earthquake of 1692 was comeuppance for the depraved trading hub. The earth beneath the port opened just as the city was retiring for lunch, swallowing brothels, gambling dens, and trading shops filled with spices, silk, and doubloons. Quaker meeting houses caved in, churches crumbled and local synagogues sank: the wrath of a furious God against the golden gleam of sin.

  The earth cracked in so many places that there was nowhere left to run, the ground parting wet and panting like a thousand lusting mouths, suctioning lives and livelihoods into fierce vacuums of quicksand. In truth, the quake was the result of an ever-adjusting Earth and shortsighted planning. The city was built flat against the sprawling palisades, founded on long sandy beaches prone to shifting with the tide.

  Refugees moved inland, away from the death rubble and decay, and the smaller village of Kingston swelled to the occasion, gathering up those who had lost everything. Weeks turned into months, months turned into years, and years turned into decades. One day people looked up and a city had been built around them, bustling between the mountains and the sea. Old people were buried, new life birthed, and eventually all talk of leaving ceased. Somehow, Mr. Lucas knew that things would come right for his daughter in this place, that the girl was full of a kind of promise that would surely shrivel and wilt in that valley of theirs.

  To this end, he planted an extra plot of sugar bananas in the back garden. He tended them especially carefully, circling them with coffee grounds to keep pests away, gently prodding curled baby leaves to unfurl under the yellow heat of the tropical sun. “Come, banana, come. Nothin’ te be scared ov. Ye gwan be teyk care ov, jus ye concentrate on de growin’, Mr. Lucas yere worry bout de rest. Ye gwan be mi daughter dere passage fe a new life, so grow, fruit, go on an grow. Curl out dem leaves an jus grow . . .” And slowly but surely, over the course of ten months, the stalks thickened. Large red-purple buds emerged, strong, fat, and blooming clusters of white flowers.

  Millie watched her father from the kitchen window of their cabin, peered eagerly at the way he patted down the rich black grounds around her banana future with the toe of his weathered brown work boot. The plants were a testament there had to be something more out there for her than Cidar Valley, and that something more was drawing toward her, she could feel it.

  Millie’s younger brothers and sisters, knowing the fruit crop was intended to fund a better life for their elder sister, nicknamed her Banana Girl. The name soon caught on with the other Cidar Valley children. As Millie passed by, ferrying an apronful of yam to the kitchen to prepare for dinner, they’d jokingly hum strains of the “Banana Boat Song” under their breath. “Six foot, seven foot, eight foot bunch, daylight come an we wan’ go home . . . Dere go Banana Girl again.”

  The other young men and women in the village tittered among themselves. “Wat greatness her daddy tink dat yellow flesh inside peel gwan bring?”

  “Ye nyah haffi tell mi bout dat one. Her daddy, im tink her de brightest star in blackest sky. But twelve month come, de girl be still yere darnin fe whole village, or in de factory, sortin de bean.”

  “Hear, hear. First ting dem Pentecostal teach us up de school be dat pride a sin. An yere she is, swannin aroun tinkin she bettah dan all ov us.”

  Millie was a dreamer, with the city in her sights and a dream in her heart, and she wanted to do her family proud. The odd time she turned her mind over to it, the thought of staying in that there valley made her tired right down to her bones.

  In the black of night, after the rest of the family had retired to bed, she padded barefoot across the garden, past the tomato, spinach, and yam plots, and stared at the banana plants. Seemed to her like they were speaking to her, all that bending, winking, and rustling in the wind. Shee cah heeee tsssssss. Teeeeka sssssss heeeeeee. Millie stood there listening, desperately trying to determine her destiny.

  * * *

  From the age of nine Millie had accompanied her father on rare journeys into Kingston to replenish hardware and sewing supplies. Regular black folk in the village wishing to fetch provisions were obliged to wait until a lorry in the area was going. The driver would make a tidy profit charging for a space in the tray of the truck, often so crowded the vehicle sat low to the ground, tires groaning all the way to town. Once arriving in the city, passengers were given a time and a place for the return pickup. Many a village man, having indulged in city overproof, was left stranded in the capital for several days, until the next lorry visited.

  On their arrival in Kingston, Millie’s father would walk her to Willemina’s sewing shop on Port Royal Street, then cross town to seek out the hardware, cooking, and gardening supplies the family needed, before returning to pick up his daughter. Willemina was a striking woman of sixty-five with perfectly roller-curled silver-white hair framing her dark face. Wary of nimble-fingered children, the shopkeeper had trained her sharp gaze on Millie’s every move as she worked her way around the shop with her basket on her first visit.

  After several shopping trips and a few polite conversations, Willemina realized that in spite of her
youth, the courteous girl knew exactly what she was looking for. Millie knew how to clothe a large family with the cheapest of material. Hessian bags from the hardware store were bleached then softened in boiling, soapy coconut oil and water. This material formed the tough outer layer of much of the family’s clothing. From Willemina’s store she bought cotton lining, thread, buttons, thimbles, and other sewing accessories, always quizzing the shopkeeper about the products prior to making a purchase.

  The midyear visit of Millie’s fourteenth year was different. As Millie browsed the cotton thread selection, she could feel the older woman’s eyes following her. Willemina, for her part, couldn’t believe what she saw. The child who had provided her store with custom since she was no more than knee high had almost grown into adulthood. The woman thought about what might be in store for the girl back home, helping care for her army of sibling pickneys. She thought about the shake in her own fingers when she threaded a needle these days, the ache in her back when she bent to stock the lower shelves.

  “Dat chile go te school?” she asked Mr. Lucas curtly, when he arrived to pick Millie up.

  “Course she go te school! Wat, ye think both she an mi dat foolish?” Mr. Lucas scolded Willemina.

  “De girl sew?” Willemina kept her eyes on the length of cotton she was measuring out with a meter stick.

  “Ye know she can, woman. Half de village run aroun naked iv nat fe she!” He placed a proud arm round his daughter, who in all her growing had now stretched up almost to his shoulder.

  “She sew wid machine?” The aging woman tried not to sound too eager, could hardly believe her luck. “Mi can teach her dat, iv she so inclined. Long time now mi run likkle sewing school out back de shop on weeknights. In mi old age, mi lookin’ fe help in de shop. Board, meal, an sewin’ tuition fe right-minded girl.”

  Millie stood stock-still at the sewing shop counter. Her head felt giddy, and when her vision started blurring, she realized she was holding her breath. The woman was looking at her now, with those knowing eyes, as if between the two of them was a delicious secret.

  “Mi tank ye kindly fe offer, but de girl only fourteen, an still gat half an one year in de village school te finish up. Mi put de proposal before de girl mudda an return fe give decision.” Millie’s father screwed up his face as if in thought, but in truth the man liked the idea and his mind was made up before the old woman had even finished her sentence.

  * * *

  The bananas Mr. Lucas had planted to fund his daughter’s future grew like the young girl’s fate was meant to be: almost spherically fat, full with white flesh, in such thick heavy bunches that the man had to prop them up with stakes lest the trunks break or bend to the ground.

  That October, the wet season was unforgiving. The rains fell like the ocean would, if the entire seabed were yanked from underneath. For three whole weeks the wet did not let up, and with the steam of the following heat rush came Panama disease. The fungus first attacked the feeder roots of the banana plants, freckling them lightly with tiny brown spots. Mr. Lucas, crooning to his daughter’s future-crop with a deep, velvety calypso as he tended the plot after the rains, noticed the disease when, starting at the outer edges, the jade-green leaves started to yellow. Within two weeks the tiny Panama freckles expanded to dark pockmarks, and the man knew his daughter’s dreams were in trouble.

  Millie’s mother and father were away collecting coffee discards down at the processing plant when the area’s agricultural inspector arrived. Millie watched from the kitchen window, fat tears welling in her eyes, as the large man let himself into the garden, almost wrenching the gate from its hinges.

  “Jesus, iv ye listenin up dere, ye gatta help us now,” the desperate girl appealed as her hands busied themselves with the washing-up. The man’s heavy boots clumped around the banana plot, and after several minutes, he raised his head toward the house and stared at her through the cracked windowpane.

  That night Millie watched her parents through the door slit of the room she shared with her four sisters. Her mother and father sat with their heads bowed, but she could see the tears, fat and wet, splash down their cheeks and into their laps. Snuggled back in bed, Millie thought about the woman in the sewing shop, the future that had somehow passed between them. Something would come, Millie knew it. Something would come.

  Mr. Lucas was nothing if not resourceful. Hailing the next lorry into Kingston, he purchased as much marshmallow and spiced pig meat as he could carry. The Lucases’ bonfire could be seen for miles around, raging flames dancing a glowing tangerine across the charcoal sky. As with all Cidar Valley gatherings, the whole community flocked around. Millie’s father stood at the front gate, collecting ha’pennies for entry, laughing off the tut-tuts and annoyed teeth sucking of neighborhood scrooges. Millie and her mother manned a small stall near the burning banana brush, selling marshmallow and sausages by the stick while the younger kids stoked the glowing bonfire.

  * * *

  “Ye call Miss Willemina Auntie, ye hear, an ye gatta respeck her like she one an all.”

  Millie smiled, and watched her father try to blink away his pride-tears with scolding before he turned on his heel without a backward glance and headed for the return lorry to the valley. The girl was more than happy to bestow the honorary title on her guardian, a kindly woman, though stern in a well-meaning, grandmotherly sort of way.

  Millie was a hard worker and the old woman congratulated herself often on her good fortune, rarely voicing a criticism about her apprentice’s work. Around six every morning, Millie rolled out dough for bammy cake, which she fried up with banana chips and fresh fish for her and Aunt Willemina’s breakfast. Once her tiny room was tidied and the breakfast dishes washed, Millie was free to amuse herself until the shop opened at nine.

  The only sewing and haberdashery store in central Kingston, Willemina’s was as busy as a market, but Millie managed to keep proceedings under control with her quick thinking and able fingers. Under her guardian’s watchful eye, she embarked on a series of practical measures to streamline operations in the shop: dividing the large open room into clearly labeled sections, and precounting and bagging buttons so that the old woman’s creaking knuckles did not have to do the job with every purchase. The girl firmly cut off credit when accounts reached a certain limit, where Willemina previously hadn’t had the heart to do so. When customers commented on the old woman’s good luck in finding her protégée, Aunt Willemina frowned at the girl’s puffed-up chest. “Cha, chile, it be de death-a ye fe gwan get silly-proud an a big fat head, ah?”

  On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights, Millie attended the sewing school Willemina ran in a small shed out back of the shop. The room contained a blackboard and six sewing stations, and the walls were lined with shelves holding all manner of patterns and sewing implements. Aunt Willemina’s sewing course ran over a twelve-month calendar year and, other than Millie, the class included five local girls of varying ages: the youngest about ten, the eldest close to eighteen. All materials for the classes were provided, but there were no set fees, the demand for dressmakers being so high in Kingston that acceptance into the unregistered and informal course was by highest bidder. Apparently unaware of their good fortune, many of the girls complained about the long hours and repetitive training.

  “Mi nyah wan come te dis stupid sewin school, fe cryin out loud. But mi dadda seh if mi nat gwan finish secretary school, mi gatta haff a trade.”

  “’S if we nyah haff bettah tings te do wid our time, eh?”

  While the other girls moseyed about before each evening’s class groaning over their lot, Millie felt fortunate to be in attendance. But at night, snuggled down lonely in her big bed, shifting to find the warm spot her sister’s body once afforded her, Millie dreamed of the banana plot, swaying and whispering in the wind.

  * * *

  Millie liked to walk along Kingston Beach during her recreation time, curls a-fly on the wind. It was a new and foreign sensation for a girl from the mount
ains to feel sand squishing in the spaces between her toes. The majestic sight and sound of the flat ocean filled the young woman with wonder. Millie rose way before dawn some mornings, creeping out to catch the bronze-flecked sun easing up over the shimmering water before breakfast preparation time. It was during one of these morning walks that she met Winston Gray.

  Winston cut cane for a living, the only work available to an uneducated seventeen-year-old in his home region of Montego Bay, now that the war was over. The war had taken Winston’s elder, and only, brother nearly four years back, fool that the young man had been to volunteer. Even though the fighting was now finished, Winston had decided to steer well clear of the armed forces.

  Cane cutting was backbreaking work: bent down double under the scorching sun, Winston swept his sharpened machete a hair’s width from the ground to harvest the plant. Once severed from the root, the cane stalk was shaved of leaf, sliced into even pieces, and the roughage discarded for later incineration. Then the whole process started again. In an irony the young man never came to appreciate, the cane forming the finest, sweetest sugar grew from a swamp of cow dung, mud and the burned ash of previously processed crops. Winston started work before five in the morning and cut until sundown. By midday, horseflies would be arriving to drink at his salty brow. All day, cow-itch nettles bothered and bruised the young man and his colleagues’ shins.

  But the day he met Millie, in the second-to-last week of his 1949 off-season, Winston wasn’t thinking about work. He had money in his pocket, sand beneath his feet, and forty-eight hours left to kill in the capital. Walking toward Millie on the beach, he fell for the gentle young thing at first sight; after he’d passed her he turned on his heel and dropped into step next to her. The two remained silent for a kilometer, trotting side by side, before he took her hand. “Ye nyah mind if mi teyk liberty like dis, young lady?”