by M. P. Wright
Benny sank the rest of his pint and wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand then looked across at me. “Come on, Joseph, git that down ya. We’ll have a couple more when Trute and me git back.” He raised himself out of his chair and tapped the table with his huge knuckles. “Come on, Trute, let’s me, you and Claude go find that bathroom and wash our paws, shall we.”
Truth cautiously got up and followed Benny. As they walked down the hall Benny called back to his wife. “Estelle, speaking o’ plenty o’ fat, is yo’ momma gonna be joining us for supper tonight?”
Before Estelle could bite back at her husband, Benny had begun to roar with laughter, drowning out any berating of him that she could muster. It was only as he was climbing the stairs and had quietened down that I heard the very faint sound of a giggle coming from Truth. I took a hearty swig of my cold beer, smiled to myself and felt my body relax for the first time in days. I slumped back into my chair and closed my eyes, finally allowing myself to bask for a moment in the warming sensations of a safe and happy home, aware that the feelings of joyfulness I felt at that moment could be all too fleeting.
13
It had been a long time since I had last sat with a family in good company at a dining table. Back in St Pauls I normally found myself eating either in some backstreet café or alone in my digs. I’d forgotten what it was like to be together as a family. Sure, I had my own kin in Aunt Pearl, Uncle Gabe and Vic, and I went over to their place often enough to get my fill of some good home cooking, but this felt different. Truth was sat between Benny and me, and I watched her as she noisily chowed down on her second plateful of pork chops and mashed potatoes, eagerly shovelling in mouthfuls of Estelle’s fine food, which she kept washing down with lemonade. Estelle sat with her mother, Cecile, on the opposite side of the table. Old Cecile had barely spoken to any of us but made more noise stuffing her face than Truth. She only seemed to come up for air every now and then to cast a dark, wary eye over towards her son-in-law.
It felt strange having the little girl sitting next to me eating dinner, and something about the child brought flashes of past happy mealtimes I’d once shared with my own child and her mother. Once, those feelings would have made me leave the room, or even the house, but this time the feeling was not so painful. As everybody was finishing up I continued to stare across at Truth, lost in how uncanny the similarities were between her and my own late daughter, Amelia. It was only when I felt Benny jabbing at my arm that I broke out of my melancholic reverie.
“Hey there, you look like you drifted a million miles away, brother. You OK there?” Benny gave me a concerned look as he leant over and topped up my glass with more beer.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Benny, sorry man . . . Just tired. It’s bin a long old day.” I took a swallow of my beer and caught Estelle shoot a quick smile at me from across the table then looked across at Truth.
“How ’bout Momma and I take Trute out to feed the chickens befo’ the sun goes down? You boys take your beer into the sitting room and get better acquainted.”
Estelle and Cecile got up from the table, and Estelle gestured for Truth to follow her and the old girl. Truth pushed her chair back and, without saying a word, went and joined Benny’s wife.
“When we get back from our chores with the hens, I’ll run a warm bath for this young lady. Get her settled for bedtime. From the look o’ this child’s eyes, it ain’t just you who’s had a long day, Joseph.”
Benny got up and kissed Estelle on the cheek, and watched as his wife, Cecile and Truth walked down to the bottom of the garden to where the chicken coop was. He picked his pint pot off the table, went into the larder and returned with two more bottles of light ale then looked down at me. Benny motioned with his head for me to come and join him in the next room. I got up to follow him and, as I did, he turned quick as a whip, stuck his elbow into my ribs and winked at me.
“You see how that soundless old bitch Cecile was trying to rattle up one o’ her hexes from across the table at me. It’s all in her eyes, I tell ya. That woman never wanted me to hook up with her daughter, thinks I’m no good for Estelle. Shit, we bin married for twenty-five years, you’d think the miserable sow would gimme a break. She got herself a voodoo doll in her room looks the spittin’ image o’ me. Pins stuck all over the fuckin’ ting. Ain’t any wonder my ass stings so damn much.” Benny chuckled to himself. “Come on, sleepyhead, let’s do as my good lady says.” Benny chinked two beer bottles together. “We’ll crack a couple more o’ these open, then you can tell me why you and that cute little pickney out there have travelled down from Bristol in such a goddamn rush and ended up knockin’ on my gate door like you have.”
Benny and Estelle’s sitting room was small but comfortable. I walked across the flagged stone floor, which was partially covered by a threadbare Persian rug at the foot of the fireplace, and joined my host, who was already sat in one of two upholstered armchairs sat opposite the unlit hearth. A large single standard lamp sat in one corner and threw a feeble blanket of dim light across the room. The walls were decorated with gaudy flocked wallpaper and above the mantlepiece hung a bleak-looking painting of a sailing ship out at sea being battered by high waves. Benny handed me one of the opened bottles of beer then began to refill his own glass with ale. He took a long swig before resting the glass in his hand on the arm of his chair.
“So, you a Bim boy then, Joseph. Where’bouts on Barbados you spring from?”
“Place called Six Cross Roads out in St Philip Parish.”
Benny nodded his head as I spoke, formulating his next question for me in his head.
“Loretta said you used to be a policeman back there. That right?”
“Yeah, that’s right, I was a sergeant on the force.”
Benny looked across at me suspiciously for a moment then hit me with another pointed question.
“And what you do now in St Pauls?”
“Well, the sign outside the place I work says enquiry agent . . . but most o’ the time all that means is me stickin’ my snout into other folks’ bidness and gittin’ myself into trouble of one kind or another.” I shook my head slowly and laughed to myself then realised that Benny’s eyes were burning into me.
“My niece gone and told me ’bout the kinda trouble your work gets you in, Joseph, an’ I ain’t likin’ what I heard. I’m just tryin’ to weigh up if me and Estelle wanna git involved in any of your mess. More importantly, I needs to know why you got that white child out there hangin’ on your coat-tails and if she’s gonna bring me some kind o’ misfortune too. Loretta said you and Carnell were good friends, said you were a good man. That may be so, but I ain’t got to my age trustin’ the word o’ good men; I need to see ’em spreadin’ some o’ that goodness ’bout befo’ I trust ’em. You git my drift?”
I nodded my head in agreement. Benny sat back in his chair and took another mouthful of beer.
“So, Joseph, why don’t you chuck a bit more o’ that ale down your neck then start tellin’ me, just like my Estelle says . . . the whole story.”
During the next half-hour, and for the second time in as many days, I narrated my bizarre tale of death and deceit to a charitable soul who would have been wise to have thrown me out on my ear and shunned my very existence. But luckily for me that wasn’t going to be the case. That night my chronicling of a cruel and unusual subject matter was heard by stranger whose actions after the telling made him a friend. That’s the thing about decent folk and the one thing that never fails to surprise me, no matter how much disarray and hardship you bring into their lives, they still remain true to what they believe in and keep doing whatever they can for you. Benny Goodman was that kind of guy and I was grateful to him for his kindness.
We sat in silence for a moment. It was just after eight thirty and the sun had started to set low outside. What was left of the fading evening light began to shroud the sitting room in an eerie gloom that the standard lamp behind us was failing to cut through. I could hear Estel
le’s voice outside as she, Cecile and Truth returned from the garden. Benny leant across from his chair and rested his hand on my arm.
“You leave me to speak with the wife ’bout what you’ve bin tellin’ me. She’ll be fine once she knows the score. But be sure o’ one ting, Joseph. Any o’ these men you say may be lookin’ for you or that poor child come sniffin’ ’bout here and they step one foot in my home or try and bring harm to me or my family . . . I gonna take ’em out at the neck. You hear me?”
I stared into Benny’s dark, unblinking eyes as he spoke, and the fearful and intimidatory look on his face left me in no doubt that the big man would be true to his word.
*
After she cleaned and put away our supper dishes, Estelle boiled up some water in three big saucepans on the stove while Truth sat on Cecile’s knee at the kitchen table. I had no doubt that this old woman of few words was more than just the mean-spirited hag that Benny said she was. Cecile had the elderly poise and knowing aura of the kind of woman who back home we called a traituer. Traituers were a powerful kind of faith healer with one foot in the here and now and the other in the spirit world. Women like that gave me the creeps, but Truth had clearly taken to her. Cecile sat with her back to me, rocking the little girl in her lap and singing a Caribbean folk song, “Lang Time Gal Mi Neva See You”. Truth was captivated by the lilting tones of Cecile’s deep Jamaican accent as if she was almost hypnotised by the mystical tone in the elderly woman’s voice.
I heard Benny curse to himself outside and watched as he carried a big galvanised tin bath in from one of the sheds in his garden. He dropped the metal tub onto the kitchen floor and began to cuss again.
“Damn, I swear that bastard bath gits heavier every time I hump it in from outta the yard!”
Estelle glared a look of disgust at her foul-mouthed husband.
“What I tell you earlier ’bout using profanity in this house? We have a child and my momma in our home. I won’t hear no more of it, Benny, you understand me?”
“Profanity my ass. Your momma got a dirtier mout’ on her than a steamboat navvy.”
Benny went on venting his wrath, only this time focusing it towards his slyly grinning mother-in-law, who was sitting across the room from him. Benny jibed at the old girl some more.
“I feel like Samson with his hair chopped off. Cecile, you bin messin’ wid my mojo, you old witch? I can tell when you ain’t up to no good. You git that look on your face, like the one you got on you now . . . I know you bin cookin’ some o’ that nasty root medicine shit in your room again. Damn house smells like yo’ cat’s ass after you bin boilin’ up them plants o’ yours. You keep ya damn voodoo shit outta my home, you hear?”
Cecile didn’t say a word; she just kept on singing to herself and the child, occasionally moving Truth back and forth on her scrawny knees. Benny looked at me and winked. There was tomfoolery in his voice and mischief etched across his face as he said to his long-suffering wife, “Estelle, honey, tell yo’ momma this is 1966. We is living in Somerset, this ain’t no African shack she’s dossin’ down in. People in the village, they gonna start to talk. Get me a bad reputation.”
“You already got yo’self a bad reputation, fool.” She pushed Benny to one side with her shoulder then poured a boiling pan of water into the galvanised bath. The scalding water spat back at Benny, splashing his feet and trousers as his wife emptied the rest of the pot out. The look of shock on Benny’s face was a picture to behold.
“Estelle, what they hell you tryin’ to do to me, woman, gimme third-degree burns? You damn well nearly had me shrivelled up, pulling a fool stunt like that.”
Estelle glared back at her disgruntled other half then stuck her finger in his face. “Shrivelled up, ain’t no chance on earth that water, hot or cold, could seep into that oily ole hide o’ yours. When Trute’s finished taking a bath, you can sling your dirty butt into it. Git some of that grease that’s stuck under those filthy fingernails o’ yours cleaned out. Perhaps while you’re in there you could try scrubbin’ that foul mout’ o’ yours out with soap too.”
Benny, now berated within an inch of his life by his wife, sat down on a chair at the kitchen table and looked at me with hangdog eyes. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I know when I’m beat.” He slumped back into his seat like a sullen schoolboy and shut his eyes. He mumbled to himself, “I ain’t got no dirty butt, Estelle,” then began to laugh.
Cecile and Truth, clearly amused by Benny’s comment and by Estelle’s victory in getting her grubby spouse to take a bath later, stared at him from across the steam-filled room like gleeful jurors gazing at a guilty felon in the dock. As Estelle picked up another pan and continued to fill the rest of the tub with blistering water, she began to laugh along with her good-humoured husband whose initial quiet chuckles had now become a full belly roar. The continuing laughter echoed around the old cottage, and the palpable sense of warmth and love that the Goodmans exhibited filled their home in a way that was hard to describe. I too had often experienced such special times with my own loved ones, but those tender reminiscences now seemed like distant memories that perhaps belonged to another man. Being with such a fine family at a special moment as this was a joyous thing to behold, and I envied the happiness and contentment that they shared with each other.
Truth and I had been given the spare room, which was located upstairs at the furthest end of the old cottage. The room was warm but well aired and a small bedside lamp on a table next to the headboard offered a comforting hum of soft light. Benny had already laid down a single mattress at the foot of the bed that I’d be sleeping on. Estelle had kindly covered the mattress in soft white cotton sheets and a pretty patterned quilt for Truth.
Truth, scrubbed till she shone and smelling of lavender bath salts, snuggled underneath the quilt and lay looking up at me, a quizzical expression on her little face.
“Where’s Theo? I want Theo, Joseph.”
The child didn’t take her eyes off me and waited for an answer. I knelt down by where her head was bolstered by two huge duck-down pillows, thinking of what I could tell her. I’d already spoken of Dr Fowler’s death once this evening; I wasn’t up to going over the story again. I didn’t want to lie, but now, staring down into the child’s questioning eyes, a lie was all I had to give.
“You remember back at the baths I said Theo was unwell.” Truth nodded her head at me. “Well, even though he wanted to, he was just too sick to make a trip like the one we’re on. That’s why he gave me the job.”
Truth looked away; her gaze became pointed towards the white skirting boards on the other side of the bedroom. I was about to get up and say goodnight to her when she spoke to me again in a hushed tone.
“Theo’s dead, isn’t he, Joseph? I know the bad men got him, didn’t they?”
I felt the hairs on both my arms and my neck stand on end as Truth’s question shot through me. My mouth dried and I struggled to find any words to reply.
Truth continued to stare across at the far wall. “Are the bad men going to kill us, Joseph?” She drew her hand from underneath the quilt and reached out for my own.
I took her tiny hand in mine then gently stroked the top of her forehead with the other. “I ain’t gonna let nobody hurt either o’ us, you understand me? You got my word on that, little one. Now, you shut those eyes o’ yours and git yo’self some sleep. We got us a fun day to have tomorrow.”
I rested my back against the side of the single bed, still holding Truth’s hand, and watched as she slowly fell into a dead sleep. I tucked her arm back underneath the quilt and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me quietly. As I began to walk down the landing, Cecile came out of her room and called after me.
“Mr Ellington, do you have a moment fo’ me?” I could hear the rasp of her breath as she spoke.
I hesitated then turned around to face the old woman and began to walk back towards her. “Of course, Miss Cecile, what can I do for you?”
�
��Ain’t nuttin’ you can do for me, son. More someting I need to tell you.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” I was starting to get spooked again.
“You need to know you got more than one little girl on this journey o’ yours.”
I felt my throat tighten and I took a step back from the old traituer.
“This other child, she by your side even though you can’t see her. She always bin by your side, even when you thought you was on your own. Child that spoke to me, she on the other side. She don’t ever sleep, she just watches over you. She told me to let you know that it ain’t safe round these parts and that you gotta keep movin’. Said that when they come for you with their guns, they’ll come in the night, and you was to pay mind to that.” Cecile backed into her room, and as she began to close her door she spoke to me again, only this time her voice seemed distant, as if it was not coming from out of her own mouth. “Pay heed to what you bin told, Mr Ellington. Remember . . . they’ll come for you in the night.” The door snapped shut and I heard a key turn in the lock.
The air around me suddenly smelt of ash and burnt hair. Rooted to the spot with fear, I stared down at my hands: they shook at my sides as if I’d been struck down with a maligning palsy. My heart pounded hard and fast as if it was about to split out of my chest and fall at my feet. The image of its frantic beating as it lay on the floor in a pool of my own blood still visible in my mind, I closed my eyes to try and shut out the horror of a waking nightmare I had no control over. The self-imposed darkness did little to ease my anguish.
14
The gentle rays of warming sunlight crept through the gap between the curtains and caressed the side of my cheek, rescuing me from the nightmarish world I had inhabited in my sleep. I turned onto my back, staring up at the yellowing Artex ceiling for answers, then took in a couple of deep breaths as I tried to mentally shake the gory images from my troubled sleep out of my head. The sheets around me, soaked with sweat, were the only outward physical proof of my trials; the clammy wetness of the fabric clung to my naked skin. Inside, my head throbbed. The bad dream had left me feeling hollow and washed out.
