by Judy Powell
Lionel was one of the first boys on the football field. The coach was a stickler for time. He meted out severe punishment for lateness. The first time Lionel was late he had to do twenty push-ups plus two laps around the field. He never exercised when he was at home so he was far from fit and was exhausted at the end of that session.
He was going to make sure that this did not happen again. Just being sent to remedial school for a year had given him the biggest scare of his life. He wanted to be able to survive. He did not want to do anything that would lengthen his sentence.
When the coach arrived he immediately placed the boys into two teams and the game began. It was rough going for Lionel who was tall but very thin. His lanky form was no match for the burly youths who threw themselves at the ball and at him. He had been called ‘wimpy’ and ‘girl’ by some of the bigger, more aggressive boys.
He soon learned to simply stay out of their way both on the football field and off. But today his efforts would be in vain.
Coach Thomas blew his whistle and the game began. Lionel’s team had lost last time and some of the boys had insinuated that it was his fault. This time he was determined to prove himself on the field.
Forty minutes into the game the biggest boy on the field rushed over to tackle the ball from him but Lionel was determined to hold on to it and the encounter soon became a scuffle.
The bigger boy elbowed Lionel and pushed him to the ground. In return, Lionel shot a foot out and brought his aggressor crashing down. With a yell of rage the boy threw himself on top of Lionel and pummelled him with heavy fists. By the time the coach ran up to them, whistle shrieking, several heavy blows had already landed on Lionel’s face.
As the coach dragged him off, his opponent snarled, “Watch me and you later. Me a go bus’ you up.”
Lionel’s heart sank. He had tried so hard but now a fight seemed inevitable.
That evening after dinner Lionel sat on his bunk, waiting. Although he was hoping the ruffian had changed his mind he was not to be disappointed. Three rough-looking boys approached his bunk, one of them the boy from the football field.
“Get up. You coming with us,” he growled.
“Where?” Lionel’s voice sounded a lot stronger than he felt.
“We going to the gym. We going to settle this thing tonight.”
Each of the assistant goons, as Lionel had come to think of them, grasped one of his arms and pulled him up off the bed. They walked him briskly to the back of gym towards the boxing ring.
“Boxing? You want me to box?”
“Yeah. Get up in that ring.”
Then it dawned on Lionel. The boy who had wrestled him to the ground was also a member of the boxing team. He would get murdered in that ring. But he could not back down now. This was virtually a test of his manhood.
Both boys fitted gloves and the fight began.
In less than five minutes Lionel’s face was red and battered. The bigger boy rained blows on Lionel’s face and stomach. He was no competition for the boxer.
“Stop dat right now. Get outta here before I beat all o’ oonu to a pulp.”
At the sound of the gruff voice the three bullies turned and stared. When they saw who it was they jumped out of the boxing ring and dashed out of the gym leaving Lionel curled up on the canvas, alone.
Slowly, he struggled to his feet and looked at the person who had spoken. He felt his heart tighten. He was staring into the fierce eyes of the most feared boy in the school –Blacka, the Beast.
“Hey, coolie bwoy, you don’t hear me say you must scatta? Now!”
He shouted the last word at Lionel then walked up to the boxing ring, an ugly snarl on his face. Lionel slowly backed away from the ropes, still clutching his aching belly.
Blacka was at least six feet three inches tall and burly. Although he could not have been more than seventeen years old he already looked like a fully grown man, with Popeye-like arms and a stubbly beard covering his chin.
The other boys said he had been in Saint James since he was fourteen and was not going to be released until his eighteenth birthday. Outside of his immediate gang, boys either gave him a wide berth or scurried to carry out his orders. It would not do to annoy a boy of his size and reputation. No one was quite sure about this but it was also rumoured that he had killed his own sister - with his bare hands.
Lionel’s breath caught in his throat as he watched Blacka climb over the ropes and into the boxing ring. Sweat stung his armpits. His breath came in shallow gasps. He knew he stood no chance against this mass of muscle.
Suddenly he blurted, “You goin’ do me like your sister now?”
The words had flown out of his mouth before he could stop them. What in heaven’s name had made him say that? If he wasn’t dead meat before, he knew he was now. Sucking in his breath he clenched his eyes shut and steeled himself for the blow.
Seconds passed. Nothing. More seconds. Silence. Lionel’s held breath began to strain his lungs. His fear of the blow turned to dread that he would face something even worse. Slowly, he opened his right eye and stared straight into Blacka’s grinning face.
“You a idiot, bwoy. You a one o’ them fools who believe that story?”
Lionel slowly expelled his breath. He straightened his back and looked up at Blacka in confusion. Laughter? That was the last thing he expected from the Beast.
The big boy laughed out loud as he watched Lionel. “If you evah see you face! How you so stupid, bwoy? You know where that story come from? A me make that up when me jus’ come ya.”
For a moment Lionel forgot to be scared. He was too curious. “But…why? Why you would say something like that about yourself?” Still clutching his ribs he eased himself slowly back down to the canvas.
“Nuh worry ‘bout dat. Me have me reasons.” Blacka leaned back against the ropes and looked down at him. Then, to Lionel’s surprise, he stretched out a hand to him. “Come. Time fi leave this place.”
Blacka’s giant hand enclosed Lionel’s slim one and he was pulled upright. The bigger boy helped him out of the ring then stuffed his hands into his pockets and sauntered out of the gym, leaving Lionel staring after him.
It was not until a week later that Lionel found out the real reason why the Beast had not walloped him in the boxing ring. Blacka revealed that Mrs. Ramjeet had been his grade five teacher. He remembered seeing Lionel coming to the classroom to see his mother. Mrs. Ramjeet had been one of the few teachers who paid any attention to him. Lionel realized that the only thing that had saved him was Blacka’s respect for his mother.
Although he would not have described his new relationship with Blacka as friendship there was some sort of connection between them. They rarely saw each other but when they did they greeted each other in an offhand way. The boys who had beaten him up kept their distance, realizing that there was some level of communication between the two.
Lionel was surprised and a little nervous when one night he got a message to meet Blacka at block eight. He still did not know the other boy very well, at least not enough to be comfortable at the summons. But he knew better than to ignore the instruction. At nine o’clock sharp he was in the empty classroom at block eight.
Blacka walked in alone. The two eyed each other, Lionel with cautiousness, Blacka with apparent confidence. Then Blacka spoke.
“I have something I want you to do for me.”
Lionel’s caution turned to trepidation. What could he do for a boy like Blacka? He wondered if it had anything to do with drugs. He was afraid to ask. He wanted no more problems; he just wanted to get out of Saint James. He did not want to stay a moment longer than necessary in this hell of a place.
His voice shook slightly as he spoke. “What you want me to do?”
His nervousness must have been obvious because Blacka chuckled then said, “Just cool, man. Relax yourself. I not asking you to do anything that you can’t do.”
Then he paused and looked hesitant, seeming almost embarrassed. His voice w
as low and Lionel could hardly hear his words. “I want you help me with some school work.”
Lionel could only stare at him in surprise. Finally, he dragged himself out of his daze. “Sch…school work? I…I thought…” Then, seeing Blacka’s scowl he quickly said, “Never mind.”
“I need help with my English,” Blacka continued. “Me soon haffi leave this place and me no really have no other place to go. The only place me can think of is a little apprenticeship with a mechanic but them tell me that me haffi know English. Them using computers to fix cars now and you haffi know how fi read.”
Blacka looked at Lionel, his face serious. “Me need some help with that. Me know that you know the English stuff; your mother a teacher so you mus’ know them things.
“Sure, I will help you.” Lionel nodded vigorously. “No problem, man.”
Blacka nodded in acceptance, then he paused and stared pointedly at Lionel. “By the way, what a bwoy like you doing in a place like this? How you end up here?”
“Well…” Lionel looked away, the shame still heavy on his heart, “they catch me with some weed…I was goin’ sell.”
“Wait, the little man is a hustler!” Blacka broad face broke into a toothy grin. “You certainly don’t look it.”
“I’m not a hustler,” Lionel said sharply, and Blacka raised an eyebrow mockingly. Lionel drew in a breath and continued in a low voice. “I’m not a hustler at all. Is jus’…is jus’ the stress get to me, that’s all.”
“What kind of stress you have so?” Blacka was obviously unconvinced.
“It hard to explain…since my father leave us things just kinda get rough, you know…too much pressure.”
“Yeah? Me wouldn’t mind if my old man did leave and never come back.”
“What you mean?”
“Trust me, if I did stay in that house one more day I woulda murder that man. Him wasn’t me real father still, is me stepfather, but him almost try kill me one time. Is only me mother save me.” Blacka’s mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. “But even she used to smoke ganja and all them something de and drink nuff rum, so is like me never did have no mother anyway.” He shook his head slowly. “Trust me, if me did have a teacher mother like yours me know me would go places.”
Blacka looked at Lionel with eyes full of sadness but there was a crooked smile on his lips. “You want take my life and give me yours?”
Lionel could swear he saw a glint of a tear in the corner of the boy’s left eye. He dropped his eyes and remained silent, not sure how to respond.
The pain in Blacka’s eyes touched his heart and he had the sudden realization of how lucky he was to at least have a mother who loved him. Father or no father, he was better off than most of the boys in this school. Blacka was right. What the hell was a boy like him doing in a place like this?
Impulsively, and to Blacka’s obvious surprise, Lionel grabbed his arm and said, “Let’s go. We have a lot of work to do.”
CHAPTER SIX
1980
The bar was crowded. It was Friday night and the beginning of a long weekend. Monday would be National Heroes Day and the village men and women were looking forward to sleeping in. They would take full advantage of the day off from work, a day without the children running underfoot.
Of course, the children would be made to go to the National Heroes Day celebrations in the parish capital, Port Maria. Claude Stewart Park would be full of school girls in blue, green and red uniforms and boys in khaki suits. The police would be out in their ceremonial garb and the local bigwigs such as the Mayor and the Member of Parliament would be handing out awards to local heroes.
Tonight, Red Stripe Beer and Guinness Stout flowed freely and men laughed louder, spent more, flirted more. The two barmaids had their hands full, balancing trays of bottles and glasses as they circled the tables, skillfully avoiding the pinches aimed at their rumps.
Beth stood behind the counter and observed the bustling scene.
“Miss B.,” a short black man called from the domino table, “drinks on the house tonight? Is holiday, you know.”
Laughter rang out through the bar. Beth folded her arms over her bosom. “Maas Joe, don’t make me come over there to you, you know. You still owe me from last month. Wait, your pay day don’t come yet?”
Joe’s domino partners chuckled and one of them slapped him on the back. “You must pay up you bills, man. You throw the biggest offering in church and can’t pay you bill?”
“Cho, man, play you han’ and stop bother me. You think I don’t know you owe Miss B., too?”
Beth shook her head and smiled as she watched the men lose themselves again in the game. She had opened this bar nineteen years ago and had watched it grow from a one-room business to a two storey concrete building.
In the early days the church people had condemned her for opening such an establishment in Bonny Gate. She was not going to let church people decide what she would do, nor would she let them restrict her ability to take care of her child. She knew the bar would make money for her and she planned to take full advantage of the opportunity.
Yes, it hurt when the church women passed her on the street and turned up their noses. Worse, it was a great embarrassment when she heard that she had been the subject of the sermon that week. But she was not going to let anyone determine the direction of her life. They could go ahead and preach and sermonize; that was their business. Despite all that, Beth knew what she had to do, and she was determined to survive.
Two decades later she was one of the most successful businesswomen in the village and the same women who used to look down on her allowed their husbands to visit her bar. That Christmas when the head deaconess sent and asked her to donate a turkey for the church dinner Beth knew she had won.
“Yes, been one of the hottest years since sixty-two.” Uriah Simmonds leaned back in his chair, rum glass in hand, ready to talk politics.
“Every year been hot since independence, Maas Uriah.” Jimmy, the butcher, took a sip of his beer and let out a loud belch.
“Bwoy, no year hot like this year. You know them say so far is over six hundred political murders take place already?” Uriah looked round the room and nodded emphatically. “These politicians haffi do better than that, you know. Is them bringing in all the guns and weapons into this place and making people killing off one another.”
“An’ you know what the sad thing is?” Hubert Brown, Beth’s neighbor, chimed in.
“None a fi them pickney not dying in dis war; is fi we pickney a dead off.”
The discussion was animated and soon the entire room of people was involved. Beth just sat on her bar stool and watched as the usual defenders of the Jamaica Labour Party lambasted the People’s National Party supporters for the state of the economy while the PNP group accused the Jamaica Labour Party of sabotaging the elections and ‘mashing up the country’ with propaganda and violence.
This was the norm. Politics was usually the discussion of the day and, if it was not politics, it was women. Beth had heard all this so many times that she was immune to the shouts, the boisterous laughter, the angry retorts, even the blows with which were thrown every once in a while. Her only stipulation was that fights be taken out into the streets - she had not worked this hard for drunkards to destroy her place.
It was almost two in the morning when the last of the patrons staggered out of the bar. It had been a good night. The holiday spirit had relaxed the men, loosened their grips on their pockets and whet their thirst for drink.
The barmaids left, tired but satisfied with their night’s earnings. A smile here, a touch there, and the tips became more generous. They knew how to work the bar. They knew how to get a semi-intoxicated man to slip his last dollar into their hands while he grabbed at their skirts.
As the young women left, Beth pushed the door shut and locked it. She climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor where she lived. As she lay down on the bed, she sighed. She was not looking forward to the stress that would com
e when she got up at dawn.
Despite a throbbing headache Beth was up at six o’clock. It was a cool, sweet-smelling country morning and she was glad for the fresh air to clear her head. She had a lot to do and could not afford the luxury of lying in bed late.
She went out onto the balcony of her second floor bedroom and looked down the hill at the marl road and the thick green foliage below. Birds were warbling in the bushes and the early morning fog was beginning to lift so that she could almost make out Port Maria B ay in the distance.
“Miss Betty!”
Beth looked down to see Glenda Common walking slowly along the road below, leading her donkey loaded down with two hampers covered with crocus bags.
“How is the morning, Miss G.?” Beth smiled back and waved.
“All is well, Miss B., all is well.” Glenda waved back. “What you want me bring back from bush for you? I goin’ dig some yam head today and the pumpkin look like them ready.”
“Thanks, Miss G., but I’m alright. I still have two pound o’ the yam from last week.”
Glenda waved her goodbye, switched the donkey on the romp, and went on her way.
It was just about time for Maas Hubert to pass this way too but, as usual, he would be trying to sneak past the house without greeting her. He, like many of the men in the village, had a tab at the bar. But that was not the problem. He had also borrowed two thousand dollars from her with the promise to pay her back by the end of that month. That was almost a year ago.
Beth was too tired to fight any battles this morning so, to save herself the effort and save him the embarrassment, she turned and went back into the bedroom and began to prepare for the day.
By eleven o’clock she had finished the Sunday dinner. She had prepared brown stewed fish with rice and peas and a macaroni pie. She also had a sweet potato pudding she had made two days before. She packed the food into neat little containers then stuffed them into her big shoulder bag. After making a final check of the stove, she turned and pulled the door shut behind her then headed down the hill.
