by Alex Wheatle
Exhaling his smoke, Joseph turned to look at his friend and scolded, “Kwarhterleg! Yuh love mek big bull outta young goat! Tell me wha’ happen, mon! Me don’t ’ave nuh time fe long journey around broad bush.”
“Jenny get ah serious beating today, mon,” Kwarhterleg revealed. He went on to tell Joseph of what happened today at church. Jenny was playing tag with her sister during the singing of a hymn and had squealed when Hortense had pinched her. The preacher slammed his hymn book closed, looked upon his congregation in disbelief that a child had interrupted the singing and walked slowly over to Jenny. His eyes fixed upon the girl’s petrified expression, he struck her twice with an open palm, the sound echoing in the church hall. Jenny fell off her chair and banged her head upon the dusty wooden floor but she was determined not to cry. Still glaring at the child and looming over her, the preacher recognised Joseph’s defiance. He offered Jenny a dismissive glance before returning to the pulpit. Amy, Jenny’s mother, helped her daughter to her feet as fury rose within her. Amy was about to protest when she spotted her father, Neville, who was gesturing with his hands to calm down. She could read his lips. “Nuh cause bangarang inna God’s house.”
Not betraying an emotion, Joseph toked twice on his pipe and peered into the mists. He said nothing for ten minutes, until he had finished smoking. Kwarhterleg was filling his own wonky wooden pipe when finally Joseph spoke. “Amy say anyt’ing?” he asked innocently.
“Nuh, mon. Yuh know so she won’t say anyt’ing to de Preacher-Mon. Who would? Ah mon of God dat. Serious t’ing! If yuh cuss de Preacher-Mon den Old Screwface will set his mark ’pon yuh an’ yuh will surely ketch ah fire.”
“Me nah ’fraid of nuh Preacher-Mon or de devil himself or Old Screwface as yuh like to call him,” said Joseph defiantly. He stood up and examined his cutlass that was resting six feet away from him on the ground; the cutting edge of the blade stained brown from the soil. “Come Kwarhterleg! Amy should ’ave dinner ready an’ me sure ya belly ah tickle yuh like hog sniffing him tripe dat he cyan’t see. An’ me affe talk to Preacher-Mon.”
Collecting his tools, pick, spade and cutlass, Joseph placed them inside an old crocus bag, slung it over his shoulder and started off. Kwarhterleg hobbled behind him, trying to keep up with Joseph’s long strides, his unlaced black boots making clear imprints in the rich soil. Refusing to walk more than thirty paces in a straight line, Joseph would suddenly zigzag to confuse any malevolent spirits that he thought could be pursuing him; even Old Screwface himself might take matters in hand after his recent comments, Joseph thought.
They went downhill, following the goat’s path through a forest of palm trees before passing groves of bamboo, tambarine and ackee. It became hotter as they declined further, the mosquitoes becoming more numerous, energetically skitting through the dust. They soon saw the first corrugated zinc roofs of the sparse dwellings of their village.
Most of the homes had only two tiny rooms – one for sleeping and the other for storing farming tools, cooking utensils, brushwood and water urns. A kerosene lamp, hooked on a wooden beam near the front door, provided light. Everybody had an outside kitchen – a corrugated aluminium roof set upon wooden stilts and a low fireplace. Some villagers kept their fires going all day to ward off the mosquitoes. Between the home and the kitchen was a patch of rock-hard ground where the chickens scratched, bare-footed children played, goats strayed and skinny yapping dogs – if they were bold enough to risk a thrashing – snouted for scraps. The village itself was sheltered by green-cloaked hills on all sides.
The Rodney dwelling was similar to many of the others in Claremont except for the water lillies, tulips, Croton green and other flowers that Joseph had planted around his domain; Amy’s mother, Melody, named the ring of flowers Joseph’s Coat Of Many Colours. Joseph had also planted an avocado and a bambay mango tree which were now reaching their maturity; from one of their branches hung an old tyre, attached to a rope, still in the late afternoon calm.
Jenny, Joseph’s ten-year-old daughter, was the first to see her father returning home. She halted the game she was playing with her eight-year-old sister, Hortense, and ran up to him, smiling. Joseph put his crocus bag on the ground, dropped to his knees and received Jenny into his tight embrace, returning his daughter’s happy greeting. Hortense came running behind her sister but Jenny was not about to loosen her firm hold around her father’s neck. Both girls had their hair braided for church but Hortense had thrown away the green Croton flower that had decorated her head. She had teased Jenny about the slaps she suffered from the preacher and aped the preacher’s actions by smacking her with the flower. Jenny had still kept her bloom, wanting to hold onto the gift that her father had given her.
The two sisters were dressed in simple white knee-length cotton dresses. Kwarhterleg knew that Joseph only genuinely smiled when greeting his eldest daughter after a hard day’s toil. He didn’t even reserve this special greeting for his wife. Amy emerged from the house wearing a white head-scarf; it was clear she had passed on her looks to Hortense. Jenny was darker and much taller than her sister. Amy, thirty-seven years of age, looked no older than twenty-five. Her brown skin glowed like freshly melted milk chocolate and there was a proud fire in her warm caramel eyes. “Dinner soon ready,” she informed her husband. “Why don’t yuh tek off your boot dem an’ res’ yaself before me give yuh dinner. Jenny, leave ya fader alone an’ give him space!”
Jenny reluctantly unwrapped her arms from her father’s neck. Hortense grinned mischievously then ran up behind her sister, slapped her upon the back of her neck and bolted away, shouting, “ya it!”
Joseph’s eyes followed his two daughters. “Me cyan’t tek me res’ now,” Joseph told Amy as a chicken strolled in front of him, unaware that it might well be next Sunday’s main course for dinner. “Me affe sort out ah liccle somet’ing wid Preacher-Mon.”
Amy glared at Kwarhterleg, crossing her arms. Kwarhterleg, feeling uncomfortable under her fierce gaze, stumped away to his favourite seat against the bambay mango tree. He took out his pipe and hoped Amy would bring him a drink after her vexation had subsided. Joseph collected his crocus bag, slung it over his shoulder and set off again. He turned to his wife after ten long strides. “Amy, where David der-ya?”
“Him gone walking. Yuh know how him love to walk around strange bush when de fancy tek him. Or mebbe him find ah girl to court wid dat him don’t tell we about. Nuh fret, Joseph. David never late fe him dinner. Especially if it chicken.”
Joseph started off again leaving the yard. Jenny caught sight of him departing. “Papa! Papa!” she called. “Cyan me come wid yuh? Please Papa.”
“Nuh, Jenny. Nah dis time. Play wid ya sister. Ah madness me ’ave to deal wid.”
Jenny stomped off into the field behind her home, outrage marked her expression. Hortense set about teasing her, a game she loved to play whenever her father slighted Jenny. “Papa don’t waan to walk wid yuh becah ya face look like wrinkle-up plum,” she sang. Jenny picked up a spoiled mango and threw it at her sister, just missing her target. Hortense ran off complaining to Amy as Jenny went deeper into the field.
Once Joseph’s face was out of his family’s view, it changed to an uncompromising fury. As he walked through the village, Claremontonians offered him cautious greetings and bade him well but none paused for a conversation to discuss the matters of the day as Claremontonians loved to do. He passed a farming tools repair shop where a grey-haired man was mending a broken plough. Mr Cummings, the proprietor of the crop-seed store, waved to Joseph but Joseph didn’t see him.
He marched on, weaving through soiled fruit, rotting vegetables and garbage that the marketers had left behind from the morning market. Joseph saw that most of the liquor bars that lined the market square were shut, observing the Sabbath. However, Mr Johnstone’s ‘rum joint’ was open for business and a man sitting on an unsteady bench was enjoying a glass of milk and rum, his donkey tied to a tree nearby. “Good evening, sa!” the man said. Josep
h, not recognising him, guessed he was a travelling businessman heading for the north coast, and ignored him.
His stride lengthening, Joseph passed the DaCosta family dairy. He paused and took off his hat to greet Mrs DaCosta, a long time friend of his wife, who was milking a goat. He also greeted Mrs Walters, another friend of his wife; she ran a small dressmaking concern and journeyed weekly into St Anne’s Bay to purchase textiles. The dusty, pot-holed road sloped and curved downhill, coconut trees and five-fingered plant fronds skirting its edges. Women went by balancing jugs of water upon their heads with ridiculous ease. A dozen or so elderly women, all dressed in perfectly white, ankle-length frocks and white headscarves, were returning from a baptism at the river. They were singing heartily while clapping their hands. Joseph kept his distance from them and guessed that if Isaac conducted the service, he would be heading home too.
Joseph’s mind was fixed on revenge. He passed a group of young men playing cricket in a field; their ball was a round piece of raw chocolate bound with elastic bands and their bats were hewn from broken-off branches. Bowlers aimed at sticks speared into the hard ground. In their playing field, stray goats snuffed and nibbled, and at the boundary stray hungry dogs hunted in small packs, searching the refuse for a meal but keeping their distance from the players. On rare occasions, Joseph had seen a wheezing Ford car struggling up the hill, its suspension wailing. Villagers would pause from whatever they were doing and gawp at the driver, wondering how rich he was.
Joseph didn’t bother to acknowledge the families who lived in not-so-square wooden huts on either side of the road as he got to the edge of the village, although he once knew them all. Inside the sparse homes, mothers were braiding the hair of sobbing daughters; older girls were hanging clothes, nylon, cottons and crimpolene, on washing lines, resisting the temptation to wring them free of water for they owned no clothes-irons. They hoped the breeze would blow out the creases. Tough-footed children threw sticks at mango trees and played pirate and sword-fencing games. Matriarchs sat outside on wonky stools reading their Bibles aloud while simultaneously slapping the children who misbehaved in front of them. No misdemeanour escaped their quick eyes. Other young boys fed the fowls and swept backyards with coarsed-grass brooms while men rested their backs against unstraight walls, smoking and chewing raw tobacco, staring blankly ahead. It seemed they were asking God, Why yuh mek we suffer so?
In Joseph’s mind, Mr Forbes’s body morphed into a rusty nail.
The smell of boiling rice and chicken, cooked in coconut and goat’s milk, wafted from the outside kitchens from blackened cooking pots; many Claremontonians never enjoyed the Sunday traditional Jamaican dish of ‘rice and peas’, for the red kidney beans that were mixed with the rice proved too expensive. A few bread-winning adult males in Claremont, including Mr DaCosta, had the luxury of a ‘watchmon’ – a chunk of salt pork added to their generous portions of rice, ‘peas’ and chicken.
Mr Forbes, the Preacher Man, lived a two and a half mile trek from the centre of the village. His church was even further away but no villager queried the madness of having to perform a six mile round trip to praise their Lord. Although his formal duties were with the church, Mr Forbes was also a part-time agony aunt, counsellor, clairvoyant, Godfather to almost every child born in Claremont and, on one occasion, an exorcist to a villager who had stolen food from a man’s plot of land and who swore that Old Screwface ordered him to perform this heinous deed.
It took forty minutes for Joseph to reach Mr Forbes’ home, his long strides making the journey fifteen minutes shorter than it was for most men. An almond tree was planted near the entrance of the house and Joseph took shelter in its shade, his legs weary from his long day. He took off his hat and palmed the sweat off his forehead. Two goats eyed the visitor.
“Preacher Mon!” called Joseph replacing his hat, his deep baritone snarling through the warm, late afternoon air. “Preacher Mon.”
A boy came running out. It was Jacob, Mr Forbes’ thirteen-year-old son. He was wearing long grey shorts and a white shirt. His hair was centre-parted and Joseph thought that he looked ridiculous. He reckoned that Jacob’s Sunday prayers probably hadn’t yet stopped for the day. Too much blasted praising fe de Lord inna dese parts, he said to himself. But will de Most High ever come down an’ help me plant me field? Nuh sa!
“Good afternoon, Misser Rodney,” Jacob greeted, his manners immaculate. “Papa soon come. Him jus’ changing him clothes from church. Yuh waan ah drink, Misser Rodney? We ’ave all kinda juice drink an’ ah liccle rum if yuh waan it?”
“Nuh, mon,” Joseph bellowed, not even looking at the boy and keeping his eyes trained on the entrance of the house. “T’ank yuh kindly.”
“Is dat yuh, Joseph?” Mr Forbes called from within the house as Jacob skipped inside. “I’ll soon be wid yuh. I really wanted to talk to yuh anyway becah I never see your son, David, at church today. So it’s ah good t’ing yuh come down to see me. I t’ought dat we did agree dat yuh would not stop any of ya family from coming to church. So it troubles me dat I never saw David in de congregation dis marnin. Maybe David feels dat if his fader don’t attend church den him don’t ’ave to. So I waan talk to yuh about dat an’ set t’ings right. Also, I was forced to strike Jenny today. Dat chile need some discipline. Fussing an’ fighting inna God’s house! Unruly she is! Yuh ’ave to discipline her an’ tek ah big hand to her backside. Joseph, yuh know I cyan’t tek dat kinda behaviour in my church.”
Mr Forbes finally emerged from the house. He was wearing a black felt hat that covered his round head. A white shirt restrained the overflow of his stomach, his smart velvet black jacket ending just above his knees. Grey slacks hugged his stocky legs and Joseph could see the braces that held them up. His lace-up, brown brogue shoes were recently polished and he wore a gold ring on his left hand. Joseph thought that someone who dressed like this in this part of the country was crazy. He guessed that Mr Forbes was able to afford his ‘uppity’ clothes because of the offerings he received every Sunday from his flock.
Striding towards Joseph with the countenance of a man who knew he was superior, Isaac’s back straightened as his thumb and index fingers held the lapels of his jacket. But Joseph’s lack of response to his earlier comments slightly disturbed him; he had expected some kind of explanation or an apology. Before the preacher could add anything else, Joseph dropped his crocus bag, swung back his right fist and levered a punch with devastating ferocity. It struck and lifted Isaac clean off the ground, propelling him backwards. He hit the earth with a solid thud and by the time he had blinked away his momentary concussion, he could only focus on a cutlass, poised an inch away from his left eye. Joseph’s frame loomed above him. “Lay one finger ’pon me girl chile once more an’ me will skin yuh wid me cutlass like fat-bellied goat skinned ’pon Christmas eve. Den me will hang yuh over Crab Foot Gully an’ mek de buzzard dem peck ya eye dem!”
Glancing at Joseph’s intense expression, Isaac knew that he meant every word. The preacher closed his eyes for two seconds believing that Joseph might just kill him now. When he re-opened them he saw Joseph strolling off, flinging the crocus bag over his left shoulder. Joseph paused, turned around and regarded the preacher once more. To Isaac his eyes were inhuman, unfeeling, like those soulless duppys who preyed on unbelievers at night.
“Come harvest time,” Joseph added, “nuhbody will bring ah better basket of offerings dan I. Dat’s as sure as mountain goat find safe route ’pon dangerous hillside.” Joseph tipped his hat with a flourish. “May tomorrow mek yuh wizer.”
On his return journey, Joseph found that no villager was abroad, save a couple of silver-headed men who offered Joseph vague nods of greeting as they sat outside their homes, peering at the stars. Joseph laughed to himself, not understanding why the villagers were so afraid of the dark. But he still walked in curves and bends, the kerosene lamps guiding his steps.
The moon had risen over the eastern hills by the time Joseph finished his dinner. In
this remote corner of Jamaica, its silver light in a navy-blue sky reflected off the tree tops, creating a kaleidoscope of dark greens, browns, greys and blues that blurred the horizon. Joseph was sitting on a sawn-off tree trunk, shaped and smoothed by countless backsides. Two of his dogs were waiting for the bones from the pot. Amy was boiling water in a pot over the fire, about to wash the dishes and cutlery. Jenny, using the fire’s glow, read from the family Bible, the pages dog-eared and yellowed. She took extreme care when turning over the pages and her forehead was locked in concentration. Hortense sat astride her brother David’s back, the two of them playing some horse game, and Kwarhterleg, satisfied, smoked his pipe, sitting against his tree.
Having fed the dogs with the bones, Joseph passed his empty plate to Amy. “Joseph,” Amy called sternly, “yuh sure yuh never cause ah fuss an’ ah bangarang der ah preacher yard?”
Searching in his pockets for his pipe, Joseph replied, “nuh, mon. Nuh worry yaself. Preacher Mon will never box Jenny nuh more. Me mek him agree to dat.”
Using a cloth to protect her hands, Amy poured the steaming water into a plastic bowl where she had placed the dishes. Employing a palm-sized block of wood that had the coarse hairs of many coconut shells glued to it, she proceeded to wash up. “Me don’t waan to hear nuh susu talk from neighbour how me husband ah cuss cuss wid preacher. Me was about to strike Hortense an’ Jenny meself fe dem unruliness inna church.” Amy also feared that her father would learn of any incident that might have occurred.
Exhaling his first satisfying smoke, Joseph returned, “dat is ya right. Preacher Mon don’t ’ave any right. None at all.”
Cursing and tutting under her breath, Amy carried the bowl inside the house. Jenny looked up at her father and smiled. Joseph stroked her head. “Nuh worry yaself, liccle angel. Papa would never let any mon give yuh pain. Come, de moon is coming out to play. Yuh better gwarn to ya bed before Mama get too gripy.” They didn’t see Hortense who was staring at them with jealous eyes.
