I bet you anyt’in’ de English don’ even know ’bout we. And Rude would have lost anything Alwyn Cooke might have wanted to gamble, because the British did know, at least some of them did—after all, there was a ministry of foreign affairs and a whole department devoted to the Commonwealth. Aaron Lowell himself had exchanged some words with (minor) British officials, and in light of the overwhelming demonstration of animosity against Bradshaw, which the people of Anguilla had so civically displayed, he had promised, almost immediately, that he would arrange to go to London to hold talks with—and here his explanation fell short of the desired, because almost certainly he did not have a clue with whom he should speak—some senior official.
Naturally, no senior official wanted to discuss the question of Anguilla—least of all with the Anguillian delegate—and, indeed, Rude Thompson might have come close to the bull’s-eye had he said that nobody of importance in England knew about Anguilla. But Rude was not in the mood for details, and matters of degrees had never been his strength, so he just continued his diatribe, as much to himself as to anyone else. Nah, boy—we ain’ not’in’ to dem. Worse dan slaves, becausin’ we be de slaves of de slaves. Not’in’ at all, at all.
For a few days it was evident that the population of the island was shell-shocked from the lack of news, but little by little things got back to normal, and soon thereafter you could see the children walking from school to their homes, the taxis taking the occasional passenger from George Hill to Blowing Point, the de Havilland Twin Otter from LIAT landing on the dust strip from time to time. Until the stillness brought about by the lack of news was broken—smashed, obliterated—by the emergence of another, quite different piece of news: it was announced that a member of the British government would be traveling to Anguilla prior to the declaration of statehood for St. Kitts-Nevis-Anguilla. Statehood was scheduled for February 27; this was January 15. There were still six weeks to build hope, along with a plan of action, and to do something about it. And in the middle of it all, the British were finally coming.
Thus, in the middle of winter 1967, to the fine tune of the cool breeze and the short days laden with unpredictable showers that came and went, Rude Thompson and Alwyn Cooke picked up the pieces—whatever was left—of the plan they had prepared two months earlier, prior to Robert Bradshaw’s visit, and worked together to forge a way out of the voiceless anonymity in which Anguilla found itself. But Rude Thompson and Alwyn Cooke had already explored many avenues, and the alternatives which emerged were alternatives that either one or the other was unwilling to contemplate: I say so already, Al, you have you shotgun, I have mine, an’ we bot’ know how to use it, to which, I t’oght I tell you already not to t’ink ’bout it. So wha’ you doin’ talkin’ da’ foolishness again?; or, Is a letter we need write to de British before dem sen’ dis guy down, so he know wha’ we need before he arrive, to which, Jus’ becausin’ you ain’ sign de damn paper don’ mean it don’ exist, Al. We done dat too! Is goin’ back ten years, goin’ back to dat.
For days Rude and Al went round and round in circles, discussing, proposing, studying, and dismissing theories, ideas, and plans to get the process of emancipation from St. Kitts off the ground. For days they argued heatedly outside, in the front yard of Rude Thompson’s house in East End, on the back porch of Alwyn Cooke’s house in Island Harbour, in the ill-lit hall of the only bar on the eastern part of the island, the Banana Rod, where at the end of each conversation Rude would vent his frustration with an angry slamming of his empty beer bottle on the wooden table, which would send a heavy thump echoing through the darkness outside.
It was on one of those days, after Rude’s thunderous outburst had startled the night, that the largely impotent enthusiasm of the two plotters was unexpectedly invigorated by the fresh thrust of a newcomer. Sol Carter was disgusted with the spectacle that Rude and Al provided on an almost nightly basis, the two of them imbued on a trip of self-importance that contributed more to the growth of their egos than to the improvement of Anguilla’s situation. So one night, after Rude disturbed the peace with his beer bottle, Sol snapped, Boy, why you slam you glass so? You t’ink the night you own? You talk an’ talk an’ talk an’ ain’ never not’in’ useful comin’ from you. Look wha’ you do las’ time when Bradsher come to Anguilla. Instead of talkin’ to de man, you make him leave, and so began the first of many bust-ups between Rude Thompson and Sol Carter.
Because if ever there were two characters who were not meant to be together, two personalities that were incompatible, they were Sol Carter and Rude Thompson. Because Rude Thompson was a man who simply could not sit and watch life pass by without doing something, but he was not necessarily the most efficient of persons, as his urge was to act, regardless of consequences, whereas Sol Carter, older, wiser, and more collected, was a man whose priority lay with results, and how those results could best be achieved. And, indeed, it was one of the early victories of the revolution to be able to pair poles as far apart as these two in the quest for a common goal. But before that, the first bust-up had to take place, and Sol Carter had to tell Rude Thompson how futile—how fruitless—his attitude, his endless talk, and his thoughtless actions had turned out to be, only for Rude to throw back at him what he threw back at anyone who dared recriminate him, So you know whattodo? Why you don’ do it already? Why Anguilla still de same? while his arms flailed in the air—chest puffed out, head tilted upward—and his disposition was in place to settle the score with his fists.
Yet, at fifty-five, Sol Carter was still a mountain of a man, and he had lived too long, through too much, to be intimidated by a hotheaded idiot. Sol did not flinch, he did not take a step back, he didn’t even blink—he just let out a sentence that would stay with Alwyn Cooke long after the scene was defused and the three sat down together working as a team: Wha’ever I do, I do quiet, and I make for sure it work. If you knew wha’s best for dis island, if you knew wha’ you want, I tell you how t’ get it—but I don’ t’ink you even know dat.
Whether or not Rude Thompson knew was unimportant, because Alwyn Cooke certainly did know what he wanted for the island, and faced with this degree of self-confidence he could not help his curiosity, so once tempers were calmed he opened up toward Sol Carter with candidness and, without getting ahead of himself, explained that all they wanted, as a starting point, was to find a way to let the people outside Anguilla know—understand, even—the conditions in which you, you, he, she, an’ me mus’ meet every night: in darkness, in silence, to drink a drink that ain’ even cold because de ice melt too fast.
Sol Carter’s expression changed as soon as he heard the explanation. It might have been that he did not expect as specific a response so quickly, or maybe he was surprised at how easily the problems of these rash youngsters could be solved—whatever the case, Sol’s eyes grew larger in the darkness as he heard Alwyn describe what to him appeared to be the most immediate need to further Anguilla’s case, and his cheekbones dropped, and his jaw was drawn outward, as if he could no longer hold back his words, and, Boy—you see wha’ happen when all you do is talk an’ talk an’ you don’ boder looking roun’ youself? Neither Alwyn nor Rude knew where this was going, but they were willing to take one minute’s scolding (no more than that, thought Rude) before Sol explained, De stage you lookin’ for exist already in St. Kitts, and de owner a man who would be willin’ to let you speak.
Solomon Carter had a knack for speaking in metaphorical terms, but eventually he would cut short his musings and call things by their name. So, eventually, Alwyn Cooke and Rude Thompson understood that the stage to which Solomon Carter referred was none other than the Speaker newspaper, established prior to the election of 1966 by the leader of the opposition party, Dr. Crispin Reynolds, to counteract what he denounced as censorship of the news on behalf of government, who controlled the only radio station on the island, ZIZ, and the only newspaper until that point, the Labour Gazette.
Crispin Reynolds own a house in Sout’ Hill—he come t
o Anguilla all de time. When he next on de island, go speak to de man.
But this was not Rude’s way. From that moment onward, not a day would go by when Rude would not write about the neglect in which Anguilla found itself, the reality it was forced to confront, and the absence of hope with which the people of Anguilla lived, oppressed by an institutional bully such as Robert Bradshaw.
As soon as Alwyn Cooke realized why he had suddenly seen so much less of Rude Thompson, he feared the worst: there was no telling what sort of nonsense his friend might be moved to narrate; moreover, there was no telling what the new paper would be rash enough to print, in its anxious determination to smear the name of the man who just a few months earlier had beaten its party to every single seat in the constituency of St. Kitts. Therefore, when Alwyn Cooke saw Rude Thompson’s letter printed in the Speaker, he bought an extra copy and went straight to Rude’s house in East End. There, neither angry nor enthused, he asked Rude how many of those he had sent.
One every day—dis de firs’ dey print. But dere ain’ no stoppin’ us now.
Alwyn Cooke was not interested in stopping anything, but he was concerned about the effectiveness with which Rude would make use of this avenue, which, suddenly, had opened up for their purpose. I notice some mistakes—da’ comma after “abuse,” wha’ you put it dere for? Why you go use commas jus’ like da’, like it no matter where dey be? De people don’ go believe you when you use big words like “negligence”—dey go t’ink you know ’bout dem big words so much like you know ’bout dem commas you use all over de place.
There wasn’t much wrong with the use of commas in the text, and if there had been, nobody in Anguilla or St. Kitts would really have cared (much), but Alwyn Cooke saw this as the subtlest way to propose to Rude Thompson to allow him to go through the text before he sent it to the Speaker, without making him feel censored, or even monitored. It worked perfectly, as Rude agreed to hand him the first draft of the letters before sending them on—But you don’ change not’in’ before aksin’ me firs’.
The editing process of Rude’s letters to the Speaker from that point forward consisted in him producing the first text and handing it over to Alwyn, who would then visit Sol Carter behind Rude’s back (no matter how subtly put, Rude would never have agreed to that) to discuss the content. Invariably, Sol would find fault in the aggressive tone of the prose, but he would not be allowed to make any changes—instead, he would have to suggest to Alwyn to alter a word here, to suppress a sentence there, which Alwyn would do diligently in his own handwriting, so that when he met Rude Thompson anew, he could claim the corrections were his own. Seldom were there any commas or semicolons to change, although Alwyn always made a point of adding or taking out three or four—not too many, lest Rude’s feelings be hurt, but not too few, to emphasize the need to continue with the editing process.
Indeed, as the days went past and Rude detected the pattern of the commas and semicolons replaced by Alwyn, he adapted his writing style to avoid making the same “mistake.” Alwyn, of course, didn’t have much of a pattern—or, at least, he didn’t think he did—and soon enough he was placing commas in Rude’s texts in the exact same place where previously he had taken them out. Bitter arguments ensued between Alwyn and Rude as to where commas should be placed and why semicolons should be used, while the increasingly appropriating corrections made by Sol Carter through Alwyn Cooke’s handwriting were approved almost without exception.
The first thing Alwyn did when he saw Rude Thompson’s name in the Speaker was drive to his friend’s house in East End to convince him that four eyes were sharper than two. The second, once Rude had agreed to show him the letters before submitting them, was visit Sol Carter in his home in Island Harbour. It was a Sunday afternoon and Sol was outside tending to his goats and planting some seeds in his small plot of land. Alywn approached with the Speaker opened on the relevant page. I wan’ you help me shape his letters wit’ a clear message. But Sol was not in the mood to make things easy. You say so youself—his letters. Wha’ I got to do wit’ it? Alwyn took a conciliatory approach, explained how all of them were on the same side, claimed they needed Sol as much as he needed them—as much as all Anguillians needed each other in these difficult times. We mus’ stan’ together, for only as one shall we succeed. Now, take me to Dr. Reynolds’s home—I wan’ speak to de man.
Sol Carter hesitated for a moment. He stood erect in the afternoon sun, looking stronger, bigger than he was, by the size of his shadow. He took a few steps into the bush, tied the rope of his lead goat to a sturdy neem tree, and on his way into his house, almost brushing Alwyn Cooke, he just muttered, barely audibly, Berightback. Sol Carter washed his hands thoroughly, dried the sweat covering his chest, slipped a white cotton top on, and met Alwyn Cooke by his green Ford Anglia. The eight-mile ride between Island Harbour and South Hill, plagued with enormous potholes, took the best part of an hour.
Crispin Reynolds was neither tall nor imposing. Indeed, other than his corpulence, his physique seemed to lack the stature necessary to leave a lasting impression. At best Crispin Reynolds might have been described as the sketch of a man made only of different-sized circles: his head was small and his neck nonexistent; his torso was sizeable, if short of obese; his hind climbed all over his back; his legs were short, stocky, and powerful; his arms, less rotund than the rest of his body, fell limply on either side of his rib cage. Almost as if to confer an air of distinction to his presence, Dr. Reynolds was generally a tad overdressed, to the point where, even on a spontaneous visit such as this one, he was found wearing a light pair of gray trousers with a pleated white cotton shirt and a fedora. As soon as Sol Carter introduced Alwyn Cooke to him, his soothing voice, charged with the importance of someone who is used to being heard, addressed him with familiarity. I t’ought to find a younger face to go wit’ di name, and with a touch of flattery, Pleasure to meet yer, Mr. Cooke.
But Alwyn Cooke was not in the mood for flattery. He was polite but unresponsive to Crispin Reynolds’s sweet talk and, without much delay, went straight to the heart of the matter. We in Anguilla very grateful in de last few mont’s to find a different way to look at t’ings from St. Kitts, and Alwyn Cooke produced the latest copy of the Speaker. To which Crispin Reynolds, allowing his credentials as a politician to shine at their brightest, And yer expressed it overwhelmingly in yer support for Aaron Lowell in di last elections.
Alwyn Cooke turned a deaf ear to Dr. Reynolds’s complimentary tone and continued his progress toward the issue he really wanted to discuss: Now we even have one of our own writin’ in de paper, and the rough creasing of the pages of the Speaker as Alwyn turned them, trying to find the right one, shook Dr. Reynolds out of his surprise at learning that an Anguillian—a Bobo Johnny—had been published in the paper. But wha’ we really like to see, an’ I come to aks, is somet’in’ even larger. This time Dr. Reynolds failed to make a comment while he waited for Alwyn Cooke to explain that he had come to ask if Rude Thompson could have a regular space in the paper, where the news from Anguilla would be aired to fellow citizens in St. Kitts and the islands abroad.
Crispin Reynolds saw in the request a simple initiative to gain support among a people who were desperately looking for any kind of leadership to show them the path ahead. They had voted for his party in the previous elections, that much was true—but Aaron Lowell had been an independent candidate for much of the campaign, and it had been a wise move on his part to bet on the winning horse and bring Aaron Lowell into the fold. However, it was all but certain that Lowell would have won the election even without the party’s support, and it was much less than evident that party politics would take root in Anguilla to an extent where they would determine who would be its representative. So, presented with this unexpected tool to increase his and the party’s presence on the island, Crispin Reynolds appeased Alwyn Cooke: Of course—we committed to improvin’ di standards of life in di island an’ makin’ di union a uniform whole, where each part is as import
ant as di oders, no matter how big or small.
Alwyn, tired of political rhetoric, was at least relieved that he had chosen to visit Dr. Reynolds in the absence of Rude Thompson. But he also wondered why in the world, if the parts were supposed to be equally important, and the commitment was to improve the quality of life on the island, why, then, no one at the Speaker had so much as mentioned Bradshaw’s embarrassing visit just a few weeks before.
Dr. Reynolds explained, typically elusively, that after Bradshaw’s win in the recent elections and with the prospect of statehood ahead, he had really turned the heat on anyone who opposed him. He feel invincible, an’ anyone ’gainst he facin’ trouble right now. In view of this situation, it had become increasingly difficult to publish negative comments about the prime minister without being deemed defamatory by the government, and risking anything from closure to prison. For that very reason, the Speaker had recently adopted a strict editorial policy whereby they would only publish that which they could, immediately and unequivocally, verify. Often this meant publishing only that which the staff of the paper had witnessed and documented. I di only person linked to di paper in Anguilla, an’ I in a meetin’ in St. Kitts when Bradsher visit di island, so nobody over here cover di event.
Alwyn Cooke looked Crispin Reynolds in the eye with a trace of disbelief. How you mean no one from de paper see de event? Why, Rude Thompson was dere—I see him wit’ mine own eyes!
Predictably, Crispin Reynolds didn’t know who Rude Thompson was.
Well, de man be de paper contributor in Anguilla—you should know he!
And suddenly a glint of mischievousness caught Dr. Reynolds’s eyes, as he recognized the cunning move Alwyn was proposing. Suppose we get in trouble—how we back it up?
The Night of the Rambler Page 13
