“That was done in times when a woman, with no education to speak of, didn’t know the term ‘feminine-suffrages.’ We knew we were feminine-minded-women, though. That was driven into us, by instinct . . .
“There was no feminine-suffrages in my time, Constable. But we still knew what was happening to us, in this Island. As women, we didn’t comport ourselves with the talk of English suffrageswomen. But that voice was buried inside our hearts. And although we could not, dare not, shout-out a dirty word in Mr. Bellfeels face, or pick up a rock-stone and pelt it at Mr. Bellfeels, and break his arse . . . pardon my French! . . . and watch his head burst-open like a watermelon, and watch the blood spurt-out like the water from a water coconut, all those thoughts and buried acts, and stifled wishes concealed in our craw, were always near the top, near to erupting. We couldn’t act like this modern generation of darkskin women I see walking-’bout this Village, in dresses of African print; and wearing their hair natural; uncomb. But the plot of defiant words and Africa was already hatching inside our heads. Yes.
“A woman of my generation could not even dare to think of poisoning a man like Mr. Bellfeels, with a few drops of Jays Fluid, put by accident in his gravy. A silent, and secretive poisoning. With a teaspoonful of glass-bottle grind-up fine-fine-fine and sprinkledover his food, to conceal the act against detection.
“But, thank God, there was at least one feminine-suffrages woman living-’bout here. One woman, in the whole of Bimshire, with big-enough balls to confront a certain gentleman, who shall remain nameless . . . Yes.
“She poisoned him. A lil grind-up glass-bottle, fine-fine-fine, in appearance no difference from white pepper in a shaker, and just a little pinch, and sprinkled it with carefulness on the fresh parsley leaves he loved so much to have on his souse. And out-goeshim! . . . God rest his soul . . . Yes.
“But before Ma left this life . . . and may God rest her soul, too . . . she said to me, ‘Mary-girl, you must never forget that Sunday afternoon in the Church Yard! And bear witness to how my mouth was stricken. But there is times when it is more better not to open your mouth, than to speak a word.’
“Ma whispered those words, using her dying breath, to utter her last advice.”
The Constable is getting tired.
Miss Mary-Mathilda is standing by the window, looking into the blackness of the night, towards the North Field, unidentifiable from the surrounding darkness of the night.
The Constable tries to recall details of a dream he had last night: Naiman was bringing him and Sargeant sixteen salt fish cakes in a greasy brown paper bag, along with special rum, cured in prunes and raisins and golden apples. He can taste the rum scorching his throat as it goes down . . . But Miss Mary-Mathilda’s voice keeps following a path that is more fixed than his own dream, a path to another kind of life lived in this Village, but which he knew nothing of before tonight. It is a life he could not see from his distance down the hill.
Tonight he has been sitting in a house, inside its cool, large, shuttered doors, on a mahogany tub-chair, offered a drink of milk with chocolate, from a crystal glass. The utensils in his home are all made of tin. The tinsmith rivets a handle onto the empty “tot” that contained condensed milk, imported from Englund. And on other “tots” that once held green pigeon-peas, Canadian pears, Canadian apricots, Canadian plums; and larger ones not round, nor cylindrical, which came with pilchards, salmon and Fray Bentos corn beef, with “Halifax” and “The Argentyne” marked on them, before they got into the hands of the tinsmith. These utensils are the “crystals” of the Villagers.
But his life down the hill was still a life. In his world, he was happy; had been happy even without the acquaintance of this Great House, this other world that was, for him, out of reach socially. Now that he has seen the life Miss Mary-Mathilda lives, even under the circumstances; now that he has entered her world, he can still feel that what beckons him here, in this world shuttered against hurricane and intruder, is not its size and comfort, more and more unenticing; and not better than his existence in the sub-station; nor better than in backyard palings sitting on a rock, eating pudding-and-souse every Saturday afternoon, with the pleading eyes and the hot breath of the neighbourhood’s mongrels focused upon his enamel plate; not better than pounding domino seeds under a sea-grape tree, on Hastings Beach; and not better than just sitting in his one-roomed, one-roofed chattel house, down the hill, through the fruit trees and the royal palms, near the Pasture, near the Rock Quarry, near the Church of the Nazarene, in the Village of Sin-Davids which borders Flagstaff Village, reading detective magazines full of murders lent to him by Sargeant, sent by his daughter Ruby, from Brooklyn.
“. . . and when I left this house, a few hours ago,” she is telling the Constable, “there wasn’t a shaving of a moon in the sky. It bringback two things to me. Number one: as girls, Clotelle, Clotelle’s sister, Cecily, who we called Sis, Gertrude my maid, although slightly younger, and Mr. Brannford’s wife and me, we never played games at night, even beside our house, or in Clotelle’s paling, unless it was a moonlight night. And we girls played with boys, in them days. Golbourne and Sargeant and Pounce and Naiman, before he went-off slightly in the head. The game we played the most was London Bridge.”
And she recites the first verse:
“‘London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair lady . . .’
“And after ‘London Bridge,’ the next popular was ‘A Riddle, a Riddle, a Ree.’”
And again, her face transformed by the recollection of her children’s games, and her voice strong but tender and sweet, she recites the first verse of this rhyme:
“‘A riddle, a riddle, a-ree,
No one can solve this riddle but me!
What is long and tough and shiny
And have a smell, and a sharp
Shiny thing at the end, and . . .’”
“A hoe!” the Constable shouts. And immediately is embarrassed that his voice was raised, so he covers his mouth with his left hand to erase the words spoken, to draw them back into his mouth, to apologize for speaking out of turn.
She smiles with him. Her face becomes more beautiful, and youthful; and she is once again the young, frisky, little girl with the falsetto voice, keen as a knife, who laughed the loudest amongst her girlfriends and boyfriends, as they played London Bridge.
“Yes!” she says. Her face is beaming, beautiful and joyous. “A polished hoe.”
“I like riddles bad-bad, ma’am,” the Constable says, and wipes his eyes, and then sits erect.
“That’s a good thing, specially for a policeman doing detective work.
“And the second thing about moonlight nights versus dark nights is a story of a woman who was two-timing her husband. I don’t recall the details in full . . . My mind is not my own, tonight . . .
“Earlier this evening, heading to my destination, I deliberately walked in the middle of the road. Now that Crop-Season in full swing, and the canes cut, the ground animals and other pests are disturbed from their lairs and habitats in the canes, so it could be a lil dangerous to walk too close to the side or gutter, specially near a cane field; and that cautiousness made me walk in the middle of the road.
“Two motor-cars passed me like this. The first was the Vicar, late for Eveningsong-and-Service. He wave. And when he see who the body is, bram! he apply the brakes in the middle of the road and back-back the car to greet me.
“‘Ma’am,’ he say to me, ‘where you going with that?’ His two eyes rested on my two hands behind my back. He couldn’t see what was in my hand, though.
“‘Just stretching my two legs, Revern Dowd, sir,’ I say. ‘Tekking a lil stroll. Is such a lovely evening, though it dark!’
“And blam! he put the Morris Minor in first gear and roar off.
“‘Church,’ he say, holding his head out through the window. ‘I late!’
“And the Pucker-Pu
cker disappear round the corner, in smoke and exhaust, thick-enough to choke me.
“The second car that pass was Manny.
“‘Jesus Christ, Tilda!’ Manny shout-out for everybody to hear, in case there was somebody listening. Manny’s mouth doesn’t have any cover. And knowing this, I kept the hoe behind my back. And succeeded. ‘Where you going this time o’ night, Miss Mary-Mathilda, ma’am? I could give you a lift?’
“‘No thanks, Manny-boy!’ Manny possess the eyes of a hawk.
“‘I just stretching my two legs, Manny-boy!’ I tell him. ‘Just tekking a lil constitutional, boy, before it get more darker.’ And before Manny move-off, he say, ‘I went down Oistins Market for flying fish, but them fishermens so blasted thiefing! Sargeant dropping-round for a snap, later . . .’ And like the Vicar, before him, Manny was gone!
“I continued my journey, slow; taking my time.
“If you have a weak heart, even on a moonlight night, the canes have a way of shaking themselves, and making noise in the wind, that could put the fear of God in your heart. And on a dark-night, like tonight, if your heart weak . . .
“But I was a woman of determination.
“The smell of bourgeanvillea flowers, even the crotons, and specially the lady-of-the-night, followed me all the way from here, to where I was heading.
“And over and above those scents, the smell of burnt canes and cane trash filling my nose. With cane fires occurring every other night, you bound to smell the smell of trash and burnt canes, rawliquor and crack-liquor. And the syrup . . . and the canes themselves burning.
“No lorries were running this time of night, taking canes to the Factory, on a Sunday.
“You couldn’t see no moon! I used to like moonlight nights so much, on a full moon; when I was a lil girl, oh-Lord! how Ma would take me and Clotelle and Golbourne and Sargeant and Pounce for long walks! Sometimes two miles. Sometimes three. Oh-Lord! The times we used to have! Walking to the Factory, and seeing the steam from the engines, and the smoke climbing outta the chimneys, rising to touch the clouds up in the skies . . . Crop-Season, Constable, Crop-Season! Days of glory ’pon a Plantation! We thrildren would steal a piece of cane from a pile in the Yard; the sweetest cane that we called ‘Juice-nine-tray-five’ . . . and the juice running down the two sides of our mouth, oh-my-God . . . and later on in life, I now am a lil older, on nights like tonight, black-as-sin, that Mr. Bellfeels used to take me in the canes. In any field of canes. Just so it was out of hearing distance from the chattel house where me and Ma and Gran lived. I would hear Mr. Bellfeels motor-car, a lil red Vauxhall, and he would press the horn, beepbeep, soft-enough to alert me: not loud-enough to alarm Ma; and I would tell Ma I going to the Standpipe for a fresh bucket of water to wash my face-and-hands with. And once, in my excitement, I left the bucket in the house! But Ma knew. Ma did-know. Ma had to know. How couldn’t she not know, when she-herself had to dreamup similar strategies to get away from her own mother?
“And through those encounters, mostly on dark-nights, I started to carry this lasting smell of mould; a smell with the tinge of sweetness; the smell like cane juice and burnt trash; this smell in the pores of my skin and on my clothes. But it is the smell of mould, that closeness to the soil, that can’t be separated from natural things, nor from the stench of the soil itself. You understand what I saying?
“The closeness to the mould and the dung and the horseshit and the cane trash and the hard ground, and the soft muddy ground— in the rainy season—this closeness left their taint on my acts with Mr. Bellfeels, and on my clothes, on my skin, on my natural smell, on my mind. In my pores.
“That is what I am telling you, Constable. So, write it down so, please.
“Perhaps your age prevents you from handling the ironies of my life. But I am talking to you this way for a purpose, since I already decide that you are not too young to hear the ironies of life. It is better for you, as a young man, and a police Constable, to hear these things from the mouth of a woman old-enough to be your mother than from a woman more younger in age and attitude. Yes.”
She looks up, and sees that the Constable is sleeping; and snoring mildly; and his face is serene; and he looks so innocent; and she ignores him, and goes on talking, as if he is not in the room with her; and she seems to gain confidence in talking these personal “woman-things,” as Gertrude calls them; and it is as if she is really talking out aloud to herself.
“I remember the first night, oh-my-God, how I hurt and hurt. I think I had a lil blood flowing. Not from my menses . . . though, I hope this doesn’t frighten nor embarrass you, a Constable and a man, to hear me talk this way. But you are sleeping, anyway . . .”
The Constable is still snoring.
“I have to give you a Statement, even although it is a preliminary Statement, keeping the pot warm till Sargeant come, more or less . . . certain things I have to state whilst I still have the memory . . . in case they are important.
“I do not mean to frighten nor embarrass you. You and me are bound by duty. And obligation. The same duty. The same obligation. Me to talk. And you to listen.
“Yes, I know that most men can’t take such plain talk. Specially from a woman. They love women. Men say they do. Most men. Would even tell you that they like women. But they don’t like to know too much of the close, personal ‘woman-things’ that make a woman a woman. Or what makes a woman tick.
“I am not .Welling on this to scare you. It is merely the ironies of my life. And life itself.”
The Constable is still sleeping. A gentle snoring comes from him; and a smile paints his face.
“For no reason at all that I can find, right-now I am remembering how the cane blades would be biting into my skin as Mr. Bellfeels grinding and grinding himself into me. And you know, in spite of that, in spite of my present attitude about that, there was a certain niceness to those nights . . . a sweet taste. At the beginning.
“At the very beginning. I was a lil girl then. But I am not ashamed to say to you that I liked it. I liked giving myself to a man. Yes.
“At the beginning. In a way I enjoyed it. I was being made a woman of. And I knew the power of the man who was turning me into a force-ripe woman. I wasn’t so young not to also know that the man fooping me by force was a man of means, and privilege, able to put me in a category which not one of the boys I grew up with, and who, later on as men, were after me, could: Golbourne, Pounce and Sargeant, Manny and even the Headmaster of Sin-Davids Elementary School. Not one of them could put me in a house. Not in the same category certainly as this Great House. Not on the same peg as Mr. Bellfeels could. And did. Not on their bottom-dollar!
“Sargeant? No.
“Golbourne? No.
“Pounce? Forget Pounce.
“The Headmaster of the Elementary School? He come closest . . .
“Your own father, Granville, before he met the accident, no.
“So, you see, Constable!
“Not one of them could lift me up outta the mud; outta the thick, black soil and the hot-sun that me and them lived in, and toiled so hard in, so long in, in the North Field, and in other jobs on this Plantation. Yes.
“Mr. Bellfeels made a woman of me. I was made a woman of. Not in the proper manner. Of matrimony. Family-life. And hearthside-bliss. Such as we learned in Bible Stories for Little Christians, taught by Miss Smith in Sunday School. Or that I started seeing in the Illustrated London News magazine. No!
“It was robbery.
“And you ask yourself, year after year, as I have, for years, Why you let him do this to you? Why you let Mr. Bellfeels crawl-all-over you, Mary-girl? And only now, in the last three months, decide to take matters into your two hands?
“You want to ask me that question?”
Just then the Constable wakes. He rubs his eyes, roused from a dream he was having, and not knowing where he is, he looks around stupid, for a moment. His eyes are bloodshot. But she is kind and sweet to him; for she likes him; and does nothing to make him
more uncomfortable.
“Don’t you want to ask me why am I talking so much about my life, and nothing-much about my act?”she says. “Don’t you want to put that question to me?
“I would ask myself that question. Yes. And get this answer: ‘I am talking this way because I am really talking aloud to myself, and nobody is present.’ And even so, you are here and yet you are not here. Yes.”
“I would like to axe you a question, ma’am,” the Constable says. “Not as a means o’ curiosity. But as part of your Statement. A different question altogether, ma’am, that Sargeant axe me to axe you, concerning the . . .”
“But where Sargeant is, though?” she says.
“Sargeant had to visit . . . had to visit . . .”
“The rum shop, I know. Manny told me. He’s preparing flying fish . . .”
“The Selected Clienteles Room, ma’am.”
“Today is a funny night!” she says. The Constable has a blank look on his face. “You ever heard that saying? Today is a funny night? ”
“No, ma’am.”
“Today is a funny night was used the first time by men who pull lighters . . . big-big boats the size of a barge . . . with foodstuffs from off merchant ships, which they on-loaded in the warehouse bonds; and also by “spidermen,” men pushing wooden barrels of molasses, in metal-things the shape of a spider, working on the Wharf and the Interior Careenage. These is the men who played a big role in the Riots. Who started the 1938 Riots. Ordinary men and women of this Island, the first to seek freedom and political franchises. Later, full independence. The Riots of ’38.
“A police, much like you or Sargeant, was the first to brand the statement I just used, today is a funny night, as a revolutionary statement, saying it contain a hidden code and meaning; swearing that today is a funny night contains threats against our rulers, people like Mr. Bellfeels, and the Vicar, and the Solicitor-General and the owners of Cave Shepherd & Sons, Haberdasheries, and the members of the Aquatic Club on Bay Street. And with that simple statement, which Wilberforce tell me is complete with bad grammar, you should have seen the throngs of men and women, who the rulers got the police and the volunteer-soldiers to shoot-down and kill; and lock-up for using incendary statements. So, I always guard against using incendary language, from that day in 1938. But the men and women came within one inch of burning-down the whole blasted Island, beginning with the stores in Town! Yes! What a beautiful sight it was to see, too. Yes! Today is a funny night. ”
The Austin Clarke Library Page 7
