“In my mind was nothing but the sound of the washing.
“I have washed their clothes, yes. I have washed their drawers, their shifts and their panties, their underwears and their monthlyrags, and I have seen their stains, and blots and blood; and I have not pointed a finger at, nor singled-out, the owner of those stains or blots or blood, in judgment.
“Nothing but the sound of washing took my attention, as my two hands rub the clothes on the jucking-board.
“I have cleaned their rooms. Their bathrooms, their bedrooms, their beds, under their beds, seen the stuffing of their mattress, where I have come face-to-face with their true colours: the things they have left, the mess and the messages. And I have closed my two eyes against all temptation to broadcast that evidence. I have cleaned their topsies, their bedpans and chamberpots when they are laid up; and when they are poorly, at death’s door.
“But I always knew the day would come. I lived always with the hope that my day would come. When my knowledge of that evidence was seen by me, I knew then that my knowledge of their ways, their behaviour, and their secrets, would be my education and my deliverance.
“We, to them, are all labourers, Percy. You, me, Manny, Golbourne, the Constable. The Headmaster and the Headmistress of the elementary schools. Gertrude. All o’ we. Common, low-class workers. Discardable, Percy. They talk about how to keep you and me in our place. Constantly. And the fact that I have a son, fathered by one of them, Mr. Bellfeels; plus the fact that he treats Wilberforce no different from the way he treats his two girl-thrildren, the inside-thrildren, Miss Euralie Bellfeels, who I call ‘the Duchess,’ and Miss Emonie Bellfeels, ‘the Lady’—not to mention the other lady, his wife, Mistress Bellfeels, formerly Miss Dora Blanche Spence—it still don’t mean that Mr. Bellfeels carries any respect in his heart for me. Does Mr. Bellfeels respect Wilberforce? Perhaps. Because he is a doctor of Tropical Medicines. Does Mr. Bellfeels respect me, the mother of his son-and-heir? Not on your blasted bottom-dollar! Never!
“There is a distinct difference in the way Mr. Bellfeels see me, and the way he was brought up to see me, from the way he see Mistress Dora Blanche Spence Bellfeels. Yes.
“One is wife. The other is harlot. One is Mistress. The other is the whore. One was. . .”
“Did you say whore, Miss Mary?”
“Is there a difference, Percy?”
“Are you referring to your hoe?”
“They are both the same, and sound the same.”
“Well, one is a thing; and the other . . .”
“So, at those Friday night dinner parties, I got to know more about you than you could ever imagine. And the strange thing about this kind of information is that I know more about you as a thing that you stand for in their minds, than as a person. Than as a man. A full person who plays his piano on Friday nights, and takes a snap regularly, as anybody else, at the Harlem Bar & Grill, in the Selected Clienteles Room. You understand now, what I mean?”
“You know all this ’bout me, Miss Mary?”
“You understand now, the difference between how you see yourself, and how somebody else who don’t know you, or like you, see you?”
“I understand. But the source of your knowledge of me, frightens me! This is dangerous knowledge that you are in possession of, Miss Mary-Mathilda.”
“I was telling the Constable about the music Mr. Bellfeels used to play in this House. It was like a Victorian parlour in the olden days. Like the ones in the London Illustrated News. And like the Friday night magic lanterns that the Department of Social Development and Culture put on, that always had pictures of drawing rooms up in London-Englund, with pictures of the King, George-the-Fiff, sitting in a wing-back chair, playing with a dog, listening to music, on His Master’s Voice.
“But I don’t encourage the dog inside the house!”
“But, Mary-girl,” Sargeant says, in a burst of exuberance followed by contrition. “I don’t mean to be so personal. But, Miss Mary. You mean to tell me that in all these years, as a woman, you was so interested in my tinklellings of Do-re-me-fa-sol-la-tee-do?..Well, God bless my eyesight, this Sunday evening! What I am hearing at all, though?”
“Some things are things that don’t bear repeating two times. One time is enough. So, one chance is all I am offering you, Percy.”
“I tekking that one chance.”
“In a short time from now, in the circumstances, I may not be able to talk to you no more. This is the last time, maybe, we’ll be in the same room.”
“I hope not, Miss Mary-Mathilda. I know you are in possession of certain knowledge that will never come my way. Regardless to my rank.
“This is a case of the possession of knowledge, and having that knowledge conceal from me. Unless you come to my aid, Miss Mary-Mathilda, this is one case I will never crack. So, I have to listen to you, with both o’ my two ears wide open.
“But I have to axe you one question, first. What caused you to say, a minute ago, and I quote, ‘This is the last time, maybe, we’ll be in the same room’?”
“There was always dangerous talk going-on round me,”she says, ignoring his question. “From the time I was a ignored eyewitness and listener till the time they trusted my presence amongst them, they trusted me to listen. But not to talk. Never. Nor repeat secrets. Not if I value my life. Secrets, scandals and plottings. You don’t know what goes on in this little Island of Bimshire!
“Ma would put me to siddown, and regardless to who happened to be in our house, at the time, Ma always allow me my contribution in their conversation. I raised Wilberforce with identical guidance. You know, of course, that Mr. Bellfeels never put Ma in a house, like this one. Although he had his full of Ma.
“Mr. Bellfeels had his full with me. He had ownership and control over me. And I am the first to admit it.
“But he faced the price and the penalty of my ownership. I made him pay. I made him pay. I made that son-of-a-bitch pay. Pardon me, Sargeant, I losing control over my emotions. I am not like this. Pardon my French . . .
“But I don’t have to tell you, a man trained and schooled in the art of listening to people talk, gathering-up conversations and talk, and putting them in a legal fashion, to be constructed as evidence, that a lot of the things I heard, I cannot repeat to you. Some of them dealt with family secrets and Island secrets, that scared me, and made my blood crawl, even to think about them now; or want to remember them, after they were pronounce round the dinner table. I knew exactly what I heard in whispers in Ma’s presence round Mr. Bellfeels dinner table over at the Main House, and later, here in the Great House when Mr. Bellfeels was a regular visitor . . . visitor, or courter? Courter, yes! With his invited guesses, Revern Dowd, the Solicitor-General, and the other two leading barsters-at-Law in the Island.
“I try, all these years, not to remember those things; and certainly not to repeat them. Not the real good secrets and scandals. Like the one of a woman, who lives in this Village, who poisoned a Governor of this Island. Yes. She was the Governor’s Outside-woman, or ‘kip-miss.’ Every Saturday afternoon, punctual at three o’clock, regular as a bowel movement, regular as God send—you could set your clock by His Excellency’s arrival; yes—the Governor would tie-up the horse-and-buggy outside that woman house. To a ackee tree. In full view for the neighbours, the Marrish and the Parrish, to see! Yes. Horse-and-buggy tie-up outside her house. This went on every Saturday, for months and months, turning into a year and a half. On the dot of three o’clock. You would see His Excellency, dress-off sparkling in white drill suit, white shirt, grey plaid tie, white cork hat and white socks and white patient-leather shoes cleaned by Blanco four times a week, by his batman. Mr. Bellfeels told me all this. Yes. And the Governor would walk in through the front door. And the second he cross her threshold, and step inside, and siddown in the best-polish Morris-chair, bram! the window-blinds drop. Drawn. Jalousies shut down tight-tight . . .”
“My God!” Sargeant says. “I heard ’bout this, but I didn’t know
that it really happen! I thought it was a myth, like a ’nancy story! My God! Miss Mary-Mathilda, what you telling me?”
“And the poor man . . .”
“The poor Governor? His Excellency?”
“Not the blasted Governor, Percy-man! The husband! That poor man. That poppit. She had him like a loopey-dog. Send-him-out in the yard; stanning-up beside the pigpen, under the puh-paw tree, in the shade, where he had to wait there, till the Governor do-hisbusiness. And eat his belly full. And that man, her poor, legal wedded poppit husband, could not move a inch, nor come back inside his own house, the poppit; could not cross the threshold of that one-roof house he build with his own two hands, till His Lordship the Governor was first satisfied. And had-eat what he wanted!”
“My God, Miss Mary! Things like them, didn’t happen in this Island, man! Couldn’t!”
“And in case the husband wasn’t home when His Excellency come for his stuff, the pudding-and-souse, she used to send the husband a signal. With music. The moment Sir Stanley parted the pink cotton blinds and step-in her front-house, the wife would Put-on a record ’pon the grammaphone. ‘A Tisket, a Tasket,’ by Ella Fitzgerald. “‘A Tisket, a Tasket.’”
“‘A Tisket, a Tasket,’ Miss Mary?” Sargeant says, singing the tune. ‘My brown-and-yellow basket’?”
“And when the husband hear the music, he would walk back out Flagstaff Road, to the corner, siddown on the embankment, on the rock beside the Standpipe; and watch the General Company passenger buses, and lorries from the estates carrying canes to the Factory to grind, pass; the poppit; and private cars, donkeycarts and mule-carts passing him sitting down ’pon the rock, laden-down with goods for the peddling shops that sell mainly salt fish and flour; and lumber. The husband sitting and watching and amusing himself by memorizing the licents-plates on all these trafficks travelling-past, going up into the country, passing Sin-Davids Anglican Church, Upton Hill, Lower Estate, Frere Pilgrim, Kent Great House, all them places and plantations. And that man dare not move from that rock. Balls cut off! It was like . . . he was all of a sudden . . . turned into a statue cut outta rock-stone. Or a watchman.
“The husband stood there, till the horse-and-buggy carrying the Governor pass-back, and . . .”
“I wouldda kill she!”
“And something else used to take place.”
“What more could take place?”
“One of the most hurtful things a woman could do to a man.”
“What used to happen, Mary-Mathilda?” Sargeant says. “I mean, what more could happen, Miss Mary-Mathilda?”
“Percy, as a man, it would make your heart bleed, just to hear how that woman treat her poppit-husband.”
“What-so, that could be, Miss Mary?”
“The husband had to stann-up, at attention . . .”
“No! Noooo!”
“. . . with his hat in his hand. His brown felt hat. Resting at the top pocket of his khaki suit, short pants and short-sleeve shirt. He was a gardener. At the Aquatic Club down in Town. Hat touching his heart. You must have seen pictures of Amurcans, how they does rest their hand on their heart as they stand and sing ‘The StarSpangled Banner’? And salute. He had to salute the buggy-andhorse carrying the Governor from his house. The husband couldn’t move a inch till that horse-and-buggy, conveying the Governor, get out o’ sight. Stiff, at attention, like an Amurcan, until the horse- and-buggy went round the corner, through the Pine Plantation and the fields o’ green sugar canes growing as pretty as anything, like waves in the sea, going towards Guvvament House.”
“Miss Mary-Mathilda, tell me the truth. It wasn’t that bad in the olden days, was it? My mother and my gran-mother always talking ’bout them days as the good-old days. But was it that bad, in the good olden days, in this Village?”
“In this Village? In this Island, you mean! You shouldda seen Mr. Brannford! stanning-up at attention. Straight as a arrow. A arrow from a cane stalk. Like the arrows growing outside my window. Brown felt hat in hand. Resting at his top pocket. On his breast. Near his heart. And bowing. Whilst the horse-and-buggy pass. And dare not lift his eyes, nor move, till that horse-and-buggy reach the intersection of Highgates Commons and Reservoir Lane to take His Excellency back out to Guvvament House.”
“What a piece of Island history!”
“What a Island!”
“And not more than thirty-forty years ago, since these things happen, you say ? These occurrences occur so recent in the history of this Island?”
“His Excellency, Sir Stanley.”
“A governor Englund send down here to govern we!”
“Cuddear!”
“Sir Stanley and Mr. Brannford.”
“And Mistress Rosa Mary Antoinette Brannford, his wife. She made everybody stranger and acquaintance alike, call her by allfour of her names. Particularly, if she thought you were lower than her, in social status. The curly-hair, curly-hair . . . bitch! Pardon my French.”
“‘A tisket, a tasket,’” Sargeant says.
“And it seem as if the horse had real horse-sense. Every time that horse got near to where Mr. Brannford was stanning up, on the rock, it would drop a line o’ shit, plop, plop, plop, plop . . . plop, just before it reached the corner, and until it rounded the corner . . . in Mr. Brannford’s face!”
“‘A tisket, a tasket,’” Sargeant says.
“‘My brown-and-yellow basket’!” Mary-Mathilda says.
“‘A tisket, a tasket,’” Sargeant says.
“And one Saturday evening, after Sir Stanley had had his full, and had dined on her pudding-and-souse . . . and I have to admit, that Rosa Mary Antoinette Brannford made the best pudding-and-souse in the whole Village, if not the Island . . . this particular afternoon in question, after Mr. Brannford stann-up in his stiff, starch-and-ironed khaki suit, with his brown felt hat resting at his heart, like an Amurcan; standing this way, in salute to Sir Stanley, and as per-usual, Sir Stanley would wave his whip, to the husband, in acknowledgment, the horse would shit, as if in punctuation, plop, plop, plop, plop . . . plop . . . Percy, it was not ten minutes later that the next person to visit Mistress Rosa Mary Antoinette Brannford to pick up her order, six cents in pudding-and-souse, that person being none other than Ma, my mother . . . Ten minutes after the Governor had-left, Ma found the corpse! Mistress Rosa Mary Antoinette Brannford. Leaning over the wooden platter that contained the lengths o’ black pudding, the black black pudding which the Villagers prefer; whereas the Plantation-people prefers the white black pudding . . . there she was, according to Ma, with her throat slit. From ear to ear. With the same knife she had-use to slice the black pudding with, into servings. Yes.”
“Jesus Christ, Miss Mary-Mathilda!”
“And not one day! Not one day, did Mr. Brannford spend in His Majesty’s Glandairy Prison, for her!”
“You mean, scotch-free?”
“Scotch-free. Simply because the Plantation-people and the Solicitor-General, and them-so, had-wanted Englund to make one o’ their-own, Governor—as promise by the Colonial Office.”
“. . . the name o’ the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost!” Sargeant says, making the sign of the Cross.
“And for murder! And not a day in Glandairy! And why? Because the Plantation-people and the Solicitor-General didn’t like Sir Stanley!
“And a good thing about the Governor. Just before Mr. Brannford, poor soul, kill she, Sir Stanley had-start paying a carpenter to add-on another roof to their house.”
Mary-Mathilda gets up from the straight-backed chair in which she has been sitting, all evening.
The chair creaks a little. It is relieved of her weight. She is not a large woman. But her body is solid. Her build tells you she is a strong woman, in good health, with good stamina, very beautiful, still desirable.
Her strength and sturdiness that you can see in her physical appearance, the way she stands, erect, and the way she walks, with a determination that sometimes makes you feel she is pounding the floorboards out o
f annoyance, all these, you might surmise and conclude, are the result of years working in hot sun, digging into the black soil with her hoe; weeding; and lifting bundles of canes that would break the back of the average man.
She is a beautiful woman.
“No sooner than the Governor reach-back, went upstairs to take a shower before dinner with the Legislative Council, leaving the six members in the drawing room drinking rum punch after rum punch, and eating parched nuts; and waiting on the Governor to join them, and waiting to get at the food on the dining table, roast pork, baked rabbits, a whole dolphin steam with the head still on, and dry-peas and rice . . . waiting, waiting . . . when finally, one of the members decides to call the batman. And when the batman came back, he went up to the same member of the Legislative Council, and whisper something in his ear . . . and immediately each of the guesses put down their rum punch, glance at the table laden down with all this food, and with whizzy-whizzying, walk soft over the thick carpets, down the red runner on the stairs, cussing the blasted Governor for spoiling their dinner . . . the batman had found Sir Stanley, naked as he born, in the shower, slump to the tiles, with the cold water coming down like a waterfall. Dead. The Legislative Council and the Bimshire Daily Herald said he dead from heart attack. A blasted lie! But the attopsy declared, ‘Slow poisoning, using the agent of glass-bottle ground fine as flour and administer with the Bimshire cultural delicacy, to wit, ‘black pudding-and-souse.’” Yes.
“Yuh see, Wilberforce conducted the post-mortem attopsy.”
“My God!” Sargeant says. He is overcome by the story. When he regains his composure, he says, “But where you hear these things from?”
She stands now, beside the heart-shaped mahogany table, on which the maid had placed the decanter of Bellfeels Special Stades White Rum; and the glass jug that contains the milk the Constable had drunk from; and the decanter that contains brandy. She lifts the decanter. Immediately the light from the electric bulb touches the decanter and shows to greater effect the lead and the magnificent workmanship in its design. It is a design of diamonds and of a swirl like the symbol for wild strong winds blowing in hurricanes over the Carbean Sea, making typhoons, and ending in whirlpools; and some of the workmanship in the design is like the shoots of sugar canes with their silken arrows that point upward to the short fat strong neck of the decanter.
The Austin Clarke Library Page 13
