Now, it might not have been thirty years since Fitzroy Bryant had seen that stump in public, but it certainly had been a good while—so when he saw his friend and colleague open his arms wide at the crowd, he understood (perfectly, immediately) that it was time to move on to the next venue. Aaron Lowell, on the other hand, had not been serving as representative of Anguilla in the legislature of St. Kitts-Nevis-Anguilla long enough to have been confronted with the real shape of Bradshaw’s right hand. Indeed, all along what had seemed more conspicuous to Aaron Lowell had been, rather, how seldom Bradshaw used his right arm, overcompensating to a degree that made the lack of symmetry in his body become more accentuated. Hence, Aaron Lowell had to be shaken out of his stupor by physical means before he caught up with the revised agenda and joined Fitzroy Bryant and Robert Bradshaw on their way to the Morris Minor that would take them out to the West End.
The abrupt close to a meeting that had brought to surface such delicate issues without proposing anything even remotely resembling a solution would generally have bred so much bad blood it seems difficult to imagine how Bradshaw, Bryant, and Lowell made it out of the park unscathed, but such was the effect of the unexpected apparition of that right stump, such was the extent of the surprise it spread among the crowd that, while everyone questioned everybody else, rubbing their eyes, shouting to the heavens, Boy, you see de dead stick Bradshaw carry for a right hand? the politicians were able to make a mute, though not so secret, escape.
Back in the safe haven of the maroon Morris Minor silence reigned. Aaron Lowell sat incredulous, hunching his frame as low as possible, hiding his small, round head between the lapels of his suit and the narrow brim of his understated trilby (to match the gray flannel), avoiding by whatever means available the sight of Bradshaw for fear he might not be able to govern his eyes away from his right arm. The police officer at the wheel of the Minor had already driven past the Anglican church in The Valley and the Wallblake House, he had left behind the airport to the left and Wallace Rey’s shop to the right (flying a banner that read, BRADSHAW NO), he had gone up and down George Hill and found himself by the dangerous intersection with the downhill road toward Sandy Ground, when he mentioned nonchalantly, Dem coming wit’ us to West End, as he pointed with his chin at the image of the green Ford Anglia that grew larger in his rearview mirror. Bastards, was all that Aaron Lowell could discern from the mumblings Bradshaw let out as response.
The road got considerably worse after the Sandy Ground junction, as the Minor made its way through the bushland of South Hill until it reached the massive stone structure of the Methodist church, overlooking the fishing village of Sandy Ground from above, with its large pile of salt reaped from the adjacent pond, the narrow stretch of land (where the Road lay) that separated the pond from the sea, the turquoise, unspoiled waters of Road Bay and its tropical tilde off the coast, and the minute Sandy Island, a sandbank high enough to host a nest of palm trees. Robert Bradshaw’s fit of anger was appeased by the natural beauty of the scenery, or maybe it was by the irrefutable evidence of the total abjection in which the island was immersed, perfectly portrayed in the tiny two-toned fishing boats, direct heirs of the indigenous canoe, anchored along the bay, without so much as a pier to load and unload them. Perhaps Robert Bradshaw was struck by an instant of compassionate lucidity, as he understood the recalcitrant—plain rude, actually—behavior of the crowds at Wallblake Airport and Burrowes Park when he was confronted firsthand with the size of the potholes on the dust road that took him, Fitzroy Bryant, and Aaron Lowell from The Valley to West End at a speed more befitting a mule than an automobile, simply because by every inch that the right foot of the police officer behind the wheel approached the floor of the car, the possibilities of a blown tire were increased exponentially. Or perhaps Robert Bradshaw was simply reassured—comforted—by the levels of despondency that the insolent Anguillians who had just dared address him with such disrespect had to withstand day in, day out, throughout the course of their pitiful, miserable lives.
Whatever the case, as the maroon Morris Minor cruised through South Hill and penetrated farther west, beyond the junction that led toward the southern coast—Blowing Point, Rendezvous Bay, and the only hotel on the island—and downhill again past the marshland next to Maid’s Bay Pond, where the island narrowed visibly, Bradshaw’s countenance shed its load of languor, of anger, and regained its usual composure. By the time the three men had reached the low hill that rises just beyond Maunday’s Bay, Bradshaw was already harassing Aaron Lowell again, asking, Wha’ coin we expect from dis bunch, here? Will yer be able to restrain yer own people? Lowell didn’t even know whether the question was addressed to him, let alone how to answer, so he kept his eyes low (away from that cursed right arm) and his mouth shut. Hey! He speak, or he dumb like all Bobo Johnnys?
Nobody really knows where the term “Bobo Johnny” actually came from, nor, in fact, what it means, beyond it being a derogatory appellative used by Kittitians to refer to Anguillians. Some adduce, with the blessing of common sense, that the “Johnny” element stemmed from Anguillian laborers working in the cane fields in St. Kitts, who all, without fault, would take a johnnycake to munch on their way to work. The “Bobo” aspect has a more obscure origin but it would not be inconceivable to link it to an identical Spanish word, which means fool or dupe, and which might have entered the Kittitian dialect as an influence from the Dominican Republic, where many West Indians worked as cane-cutters until the second half of the 1930s, when a combination of the low price of sugar in the world markets together with Rafael Trujillo’s sudden craze to moderate the country’s largely African heritage meant that black migrant workers were no longer either terribly welcome or particularly willing to make the journey to Santo Domingo.
Either way, regardless of whether or not, etymologically speaking, “Bobo Johnny” originally meant “the fool with the cake for the journey,” in 1966 the expression certainly had been ascribed a negative connotation. So why would Robert Bradshaw, an accomplished politician soon to become the leader of an autonomous state, use such an unfortunate choice of words when addressing his Anguillian colleague? The answer to this question might be as simple, as blunt, as “Because he could.” Although he had collected himself, Bradshaw was still angry, and when people are prone to being contemptuous, one thing that is sure to trigger it is anger. The chief minister had come to Anguilla as a gesture of good faith—not to actually consult the people about anything, but to reassure them that things would be fine. He could understand there were concerns, and he could just about tolerate people burdening him with their petty problems, but there was unequivocally no room for anyone to question his words, his judgment, his decision. In other words, Robert Bradshaw had come to Anguilla like a stern father to inform his children about, rather than to discuss with them, the next move, in full confidence that his way was not only the best, but actually the only way.
So, when Robert Bradshaw called Aaron Lowell a Bobo Johnny, when he said all Anguillians were dumb, he did so in relatively good spirits—as good a spirit as he was capable of displaying. Because to him the question of superiority of Kittitians over Anguillians would have appeared no different that the question of whether turtles are better equipped to live on land or sea. After all, St. Kitts had enjoyed progress and prominence and riches for centuries, while Anguilla coped with famine and droughts and extreme poverty. And, after all, St. Kitts had produced a character such as his, whereas Anguilla would always foster weaklings like Aaron Lowell, who refrained from answering even as they were being insulted to their face. And, moreover, Anguilla had accomplished nothing throughout its history, which was precisely all to what they could ever aspire without an association with St. Kitts.
Aaron Lowell stopped himself from falling into Bradshaw’s game for as long as he could. For as long as he could, Aaron Lowell kept quiet in his seat, avoiding direct eye contact with Robert Bradshaw and fearing more than anything the force of that limp right hand. But as the maro
on Morris Minor came closer to West End Pond, and it neared the stage at the West End village, where Bradshaw would deliver the third of his speeches that day, he built up his confidence, disguised his temper, and refashioned himself into the persona he had developed over so many public appearances in the previous three decades. If di man don’ answer my questions, I will have to give orders instead: Lowell, make sure yer control yer people dis time.
Upon the second mention of this whole “your people” nonsense, Aaron Lowell could no longer hold back. I from The Valley, I ain’ from Wes’ End, an’ dem people no more mine dan yours.
Bradshaw could sense the defiance in Aaron Lowell’s words, but the stage was too close to allow anger to filter into his demeanor again, so he simply explained, Dey Anguillians, dey di electorate, and dey choose yer as representative. Dey yer people, Lowell—jus’ keep ’em under control.
Aaron Lowell played no role whatsoever in keeping the people from the West End under control, but the crowd was considerably smaller than it had been at Burrowes Park and, somehow, they seemed less passionate, less interested, less bothered by the whole issue of statehood, by the association with St. Kitts, by anything, in fact, that was not immediately related to their fishing, and even as Alwyn Cooke, Rude Thompson, Gaynor Henderson, Walter Stewart, and a number of men and women intent on disrupting the proceedings joined the crowd and purposely twisted every one of Bradshaw’s statements and launched tirades of insults, of accusations, at the politician, their words seemed not to find interest, quorum, or even favor among the others assembled, and Bradshaw, his confidence restored by the presence of a reasonable, if not terribly engaging group of people, remained calm and collected about the imported troublemakers.
But this was the only point Bradshaw would score on his visit to Anguilla. The meeting on West End was short and swift, and the chief minister even displayed some sort of a sense of humor as he scornfully made fun of the men and women following the maroon Morris Minor: Boy, dey mus’ be grateful for we visit, Fitz. To which Fitzroy Bryant, abject and disturbed by the terrible conditions of the road, simply retorted with a forestalled smile that awaited the punch line, How else dey will know the geography of dey island? Look at dem—is a field trip dey having.
When Robert Bradshaw finally ventured to ask, Who dem hell-raisers be? Aaron Lowell, desperately clinging to the sight of anything, anything at all, except that dead right hand, simply disguised his ignorance by claiming, Dey is jus’ some ragamuffins from East End. He had recognized Alwyn’s car, but he had not looked hard enough to get a clear picture of the members of the organized dissent they had encountered that day.
And yet, the worst was still to come. Indeed, it appeared as if Lowell’s reply had acted as the perfect cue for more trouble to happen, but the real determining factor had been where the party found itself, because the Kittitian policeman—let’s give him a name already—Constable LaRue, had long left behind the Anglican church at The Valley, and the Minor had turned to the right, and the road had taken them to the tamarind tree by Albert Lake’s shop, and the driver had continued past Proctor’s corner and taken Long Path out to the east. And at this stage the green Ford Anglia had been joined by Wallace Rey’s red pickup truck, and from time to time the cars would meet a group of people blowing their conch shells in disapproval, and as the marshlands extended farther east, the potholes on the road began to resemble lunar craters, and they multiplied by the second (or the meter), and soon enough the Minor had to drive so slow the people outside didn’t even have to run very fast to keep up. And the cars behind blew their horns, and the crowd jeered and blew the conch shells, and expressed in guttural, rather primeval fashion their animosity toward the Kittitian delegation.
Inside, Bradshaw’s mood transmuted once again as his temper got the best of his humor. But he would not ask the driver to stop, and he would not give the signal to turn around, until the situation reached breaking point right by the Sandy Hill intersection. There, trailed by dozens of people walking behind and beside the Minor, blowing into their conch shells, Bradshaw was startled out of his skin when a cooking pan hit the window on his side of the car. Ylaria Cooke had brought it specifically for that purpose, though she never thought it would be as effective as it proved to be. The crowd, gathered by the maroon Morris, felt invigorated by the rattle of the old metal, by the courage of her gesture, and suddenly they reached toward the car, first fearfully, but then progressively more confidently, slamming the bonnet, pounding the roof, shouting into the windows. Afraid, Bradshaw informed his driver of his sudden need to Get back to di airport.
The speech in the East End would never come to be. Alwyn Cooke, Rude Thompson, and their makeshift army had landed a blow that would certainly help their morale, if nothing else. In turn, Bradshaw produced enough bile during this one trip to harbor an intrinsic hatred of Anguilla for the rest of his life. For the time being, however, he could only drain his rage by harassing Constable LaRue to Go faster—fast as yer coin, to get to Wallblake Airport as soon as possible and end this nightmare.
As Fitzroy Bryant climbed the two steps leading to the de Havilland Twin Otter that would take him and his chief minister back home, his bottom ached from the indirect beating that, through the negligence of his own government, Anguillians and their terrible roads had delivered him.
CHAPTER V
THE UNDELIVERED MESSAGE
As the de Havilland Twin Otter that carried Robert Bradshaw and his right hand, Fitzroy Bryant, sped off the dust strip of Wallblake Airport and soared over the late-afternoon sky, it left behind a thick cloud of smoke and a general sense of vindication among the Anguillian population. Alwyn Cooke and Rude Thompson were beyond themselves with excitement—an excitement that was contagious as they playfully pushed and shoved each other. We done it! one would say to the other. We teach ’em good! the other would answer back, and their common cackle would only come to an end in order to begin the mirth again with a Now wha’ dey goin’ say ’bout we people in Anguilla? which would be rhetorically answered with Now how dey go ignore us?
Except the practicalities of ignoring the wishes—the actions—of the people from a small, anonymous rock in the Caribbean atoll were still far simpler than Rude and Alwyn imagined. As it turned out, ignoring the people of Anguilla was the easiest—the least embarrassing—thing Robert Bradshaw could do under the circumstances. Consequently, when small crowds of disgruntled Anguillians gathered around radio sets powered by batteries bought collectively by five or six people, or they tuned in, rather ambitiously, to the BBC with the help of the only generator in this particular area of the island, hopes and expectations were progressively traded for confusion, frustration, and, ultimately, anger, as no story—not one word—about Anguilla, Bradshaw, or his recent visit to the island made it to the regional news coverage.
And the dial rolled up and down, seeking ZIZ Radio St. Kitts, and eventually a familiar voice, a familiar accent, announced that it was time for the local news, and three reports of a missing old man, and dates for the upcoming season of cane cutting, and two buses that would be added to the public transport service, monopolized the program, and Is only fifty-one days to statehood, and not one word about Anguilla, or Bradshaw, or the visit he had just paid the island. Because nobody had informed ZIZ, the BBC, or anyone else about the incidents; because in Anguilla, just like there was no electricity, no running water, no telephone, no paved roads, there were also no news reporters, or news agencies, nor were there any means of sending out communication in any quick or effective form; and Bradshaw was certainly not the kind of man who would inform the world about his failure to appeal to a bunch of rowdy housewives. So, in the end, Bradshaw got back to St. Kitts and acted as if everything had gone according to plan, and he didn’t even have to say, Don’ mention a word ’bout dis, to Fitzroy Bryant, because Fitzroy Bryant was too intelligent to need telling and too loyal to want to smear Bradshaw’s public image with such nonsense. And so, after the same scene was repeated
the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that, Anguillians took a break from the evening news, because no one really expected to hear anything about themselves on the radio anymore.
Then it dawned on Alwyn Cooke, then it dawned on Rude Thompson, how lost—how forsaken—Anguilla really was. I don’ understan’—what we s’posed to do? and the long-drawn silence that followed was the best—the most appropriate—answer Alwyn Cooke could muster. And then: We already done wha’ we s’posed to do. We already done it, an’ is the same as before, becausin’ nobody know we done it. Tell me somep’in’, Al: wha’s de difference between somep’in’ happenin’ an’ de same t’ing not happenin’ at all, when nobody know if it happen or not? You tell me—wha’s de difference?
And the difference, of course, was, If Anguilla screwed an’ nobody know, Rude, you an’ me an’ everybody else you know in dis island screwed jus’ de same. Da’s why it our job to get some people to know. And the difference was the dismay in Rude Thompson’s heart, the disappointment evident in Alwyn Cooke’s countenance, after they had achieved what they thought had been the first victory in their fight for recognition.
The Night of the Rambler Page 12
