Island Songs

by Alex Wheatle

  Inspecting the poor wretch, Neville gave him a strong ‘eye pass’. Neville’s family, Amy included, peeped from behind his back. “Where yuh come from, bwai? Where ya mama an’ papa? When de las’ time water ah rinse ya armpit? Where ya shoes? ’Pon ya travels yuh never t’ought to moisten ya skin wid coconut? Ya elbows are grey like vexed rain cloud!”

  Joseph’s eyes dropped to gaze at his scored feet and he emitted a sense of shame. “Me don’t ’ave nuh family, sa,” he lied. “Tell me where de river der an’ me would forward to it, sa.”

  “But yuh mus’ ’ave ah strikin’ plot somewhere,” Neville insisted. “How cyan yuh born widout family. If yuh is ah trickster or ah t’ief me gwarn lick yuh wid me piece ah breezeblock ’til de crab louse come outta ya dutty hair!”

  Refusing to answer, Joseph continued to stare at the floor. Amy, wrestling free from her mother’s grip, stepped to her father’s side. She took a lingering look at the visitor. He was different from anybody she had ever seen. So dark! So tall! And the eyes! So pitiful. But he looked strong, his shoulders barely fitting within the door frame. Amy compared Joseph’s jawbone to a Blue Mahoe branch that she sometimes sat upon.

  Seeing himself as a Godly man, Neville considered that if he offered this young beggar some food and a place to rest his bones for the night, it would only enhance his reputation, especially if he told the aged preacher man about it. Yes, old Mister Forbes would have to talk about this good deed in church, he thought. Maybe if I play my cards right, the good people of Claremont might want me to sermon them when the preacher man passes away and rises to heaven to get his reward. Wise Mister Forbes bones are getting creaky and his crazy son, Isaac, spends him time trying to sway pretty girls to follow him to the bush. “Alright, bwai,” Neville decided. “Yuh know ya name?”

  “Joseph,” muttered the stranger, his words aimed to the floor.

  “Come in, Joseph. We will give yuh ah liccle supper an’ somewhere to rest ya mosh-up foot…Amy, start up de fire an’ boil some water an’ mek de bwai ah coffee. Don’t use too much coffee bean!”

  In the morning, Neville emerged out of his house and found that the yard had been swept by Joseph already, wood had been collected for the fire and Joseph had located the stream to wash himself in; his hair now looked a rich black texture. Neville, mightily impressed, asked his wife, Melody, to cook Joseph’s breakfast and while smoking his pipe, pondered Joseph’s future. He decided to give him a trial run working on one of his two fields. Joseph dropped to his knees in thanks, his eyes filling with tears.

  Neville discovered that Joseph was indeed industrious and knew the ways of tilling and farming. At length he discussed Joseph’s fate with Melody, and one night he said to her, “sometimes de Most High give yuh ah chance to right ah wrong. Mebbe if we do right by Joseph de Most High might finally bless we wid ah son. So long He has cursed my seed.”

  After two weeks he decided to take Joseph on permanently; his wages were food, an outside straw bed and a drop of rum to wash down the ackee and salt-fish supper that Neville insisted upon on Friday nights. Amy, Neville’s youngest daughter, was delegated to bring Joseph’s meals to him in the evenings; Jackie was asked initially but she cried off, saying, “de black stranger wid de wolf eyes look like de angel of deat’’’. Joseph never said much upon receiving his dinner, just a “t’ank yuh liccle Amy, ya mos’ kind”. He never did reveal where he hailed from, despite Amy’s mother prompting him and, in the end, she shook her head, muttering under her breath, “hear me Lord, praise is ya very name. It easier to t’read ah long belly goat t’rough de eye of ah needle dan getting dat long bwai Joseph to talk about him past.”

  “Amy! Amy. Wha’ happen to yuh? Yuh ketch inna daydream?”

  Shaking the memories out of her head, Amy composed herself and looked at her sister, Jackie, who was carrying a long piece of rope in her hands. Jackie was shorter and fatter than her younger sister. Her eyes looked fearsome and her bunched calf muscles well defined from treading miles every day since she could remember. She could also cuss-cuss with the best higglers in the market. She was wearing a simple light blue frock and a white, cotton headscarf that exposed her silvering temples.

  “Yuh forget we ’ave to go up to Misser DaCosta to buy fat goat fe harvest night.”

  “Nuh, Jackie. Me don’t forget. Cool down ya fire an’ stop fret! Me jus’ ketching ah liccle res’.”

  The two sisters set off and took the winding goat’s path uphill, through water coconut and pimento groves that led to Mr DaCosta’s land. Sometimes the terrain was treacherous and unstable underfoot but years of experience allowed them to find a true path, Amy using long, elegant strides while Jackie employed short, hurrying steps.

  “Amy,” Jackie called, her tone over dramatic. “Preacher Mon come up to talk to Papa las’ night. When me sight him tie up him donkey, Preacher Mon face look like fiesty higgler slap him face wid wet callaloo. Him was vex me ah tell yuh.”

  “Isaac fussing?” Amy queried casually. “Wha’ is wrong wid him now? Him wife der ’pon her mont’ly cycle? Him donkey run away becah de poor beast cyan’t tek de beatings nuh more? Somebody t’ief de collection money?”

  “Why yuh always call Preacher Mon Isaac?” Jackie wondered.

  “Nuh Isaac him name?”

  “Yes, but yuh should nah call him dat. Anyway, Amy, yuh well an’ truly know why Preacher Mon vex. Joseph, ya brute of ah husband, ah lick him down. Me hear Preacher Mon ah tell Papa. Papa ah lissen an’ shake him head ’til him head get loose. An’ den Papa frown an’ frown ’til him face look like ah crushed old plum. Dis gwarn cause one mighty bangarang an’ de Most High himself might set curse ’pon ya family! De poor people dat live down ah hillside hate Joseph already an’ wid dis latest news some ah dem might seek der revenge. Mebbe dey will chop off more of Joseph’s finger dem!”

  “Jackie, yuh jus’ like dem leather-neck higgler ah market who cyan’t sell dem wares an’ dem spend dem time ah create rumour an’ susu while dem head top ah turn grey! Foolishness de higgler dem ah talk, but ya susu, Jackie, is ah whole heap worse. Cyan’t Isaac defend himself? Why him ah ride to Papa yard an’ start bawl like girl chile who cyan’t find her pretty dress to go ah church ’pon Sunday. Isaac mus’ fight him own battle an’ don’t drag anybody else inna it. Isaac like fowl who run away from craven dahg.”

  “Yuh know, Amy,” Jackie cooled her tone, not wanting a cuss cuss with her sister for her tongue was no match for hers. “Yuh t’ink Preacher Mon still ah feel it becah yuh turn him down all dem years ago?”

  Amy’s eyes betrayed a sour memory and she switched her gaze in front of her. Jackie seized on the opportunity and went on. “Him even ask Papa fe permission to marry yuh before yuh know anyt’ing about it. Amy, yuh coulda live inna Preacher Mon big house. Me remember dem time an’ Preacher Mon ah bawl ’til him tears run dry. Dat’s why him coulda never like Joseph.”

  The last remark cut Amy like a sharp stone on a bare-footed child. But she wasn’t about to display any hurt to her sister. “Well, if Isaac still ah feel it den me don’t care,” Amy shrugged, remembering the marriage proposal that came when she was only fourteen years of age. “All of yuh did ah laugh after me when me tek up wid Joseph an’ Isaac did ah t’ink dat me turning fool like fowl who lose dem head. So him only feel it becah Joseph prove him an’ everybody else wrong.”

  “But, Amy, yuh affe admit dat sometime Joseph gwarn strange. Him use to frighten me when me ah girl chile wid him wolf eyes. An’ yuh still don’t know where him ah come from after all dese years.”

  Coming to a halt, Amy caught Jackie with a fierce glare. “Dat is me business, nuhbody else’s!”

  The two sisters looked at each other for more than thirty seconds, both of them realising that they jousted verbally with each other as long as they could remember. Jackie wanted to win this particular battle. She went on. “As him turn up dat night outta nuhwhere any day him coulda tek up him long foot an’ disappear to nuhwhere. Some people inna town
still call him Black Duppy.”

  Resuming her trek, momentarily leaving Jackie yards behind, Amy countered, “yuh woulda like dat, Jackie. Den yuh coulda spread rumour dat Old Screwface ah kidnap me husband an’ tek him down to work inna hell fire.”

  Jackie opened her mouth but no words came out. Old Screwface had never appeared in a cussing joust with her sister before. Amy continued, her tone full of injustice, her voice raised. “Jackie, me don’t understan’ yuh becah me never blaspheme or slur ya husband. Although me always sight him down ah liquor bar near ah market wid ah drink of somet’ing inna him hand, talking pure fart to anybody who care to pass while him crops ah wonder where him der.”

  Now grinning, Amy went for the kill, knowing if it would come to a fight she always had the upper hand. “Lazy him ah lazy. Licky licky ya husband licky. Me surprise de rum him ah drink nuh turn him into sugar cane. Him coulda grow ah new sugar plantation if him piss ’pon de land. Even people who suffer from cold fever an’ ah live inna St Anne’s Bay cyan smell de rum offa ya husband breat’! Jackie, ya de one who should start fret!”

  Priming her tongue for a reply, Jackie thought better of it. The remainder of their trek was completed in silence.

  Mr Welton DaCosta, a lean light-skinned man, owned a sizeable plot of sloping land where he raised cows, bulls and goats; one of his forefathers was the child of a Spanish captain and a slave. To quell the gossip and the scandal, when this child reached his teenage years, he was dispatched with his mother to the backwoods of Claremont, accompanied by a bull and four cows. The days leading up to harvest time was Mr DaCosta’s busiest and most lucrative of the year; there was no red soil staining his land so he hadn’t been tempted by the corporate cash wads like other farm owners had been. He saw Amy and Jackie approaching him. They had a fearsome reputation in the village. Welton knew there was no way he could tempt the harsh-mouthed sisters into purchasing one of his cheap ‘maaga’ goats.

  The sisters left Mr DaCosta’s land with a fat-bellied goat walking dejectedly behind them, as if it knew of its fate. A noose was around its neck and Jackie gave it no time to nibble on grass or inspect anything with its nose. The siblings reached their father’s home forty-five minutes later; Jackie paused at the post office where she collected her father’s mail. Neville lived just outside the village near a tambarine grove, a mile away from Amy and her family. The location offered a grand view of the descending hills that led to the sea. On fine mornings, Neville and his family could detect a shimmering horizon tinted with shades of light blue.

  His house, containing three rooms, was impressive by Claremont standards. It was made of white-washed breeze blocks. Jackie lived with her immediate family in a small hut on the same plot separated by a chicken coop and a pig pen. They all shared the nearby kitchen. Four of her other sisters were now married and had moved away from Claremont. Many shrieking children, whom Neville was babysitting, formed a circle playing some game in the yard that involved a rotten mango and a water coconut. “Brown girl in de ring, tra la la la la!”

  Wearing an unbuttoned cotton shirt of check pattern that revealed tight grey curls upon his chest and brown three-quarter length pants, Neville was sitting on a wooden chair outside his front door. A beige, cloth cap hid his silver hair and the thick smoke from his pipe was soon lost in the hot afternoon sun. His forehead was lined and appeared wise and his countenance commanded respect. Some Claremontonians said he had ‘spirit’ in his eyes and called him ‘Custos’ – a title of deep respect. But he seemed weary of his exertions keeping the ‘kidren’ in line. He pulled his pipe from his mouth and gave Amy a stern eye pass. Jackie tied the goat to the trunk of an avocado tree and passed two letters to her father. The goat set about exploring the ground, checking if there was anything worth nibbling.

  “How is David, me one gran’son?” Neville asked calmly. “Why him don’t come look fe me ’pon ah Friday evenin’ like him used to do? Me still have so many t’ings to teach him.”

  “Him busy y’know,” Amy answered, wondering when her father would discuss Joseph.

  “An’ Hortense an’ Jenny?” Neville queried. “Dem alright?”

  “Yes, Papa. Dem fine.”

  Neville’s eyes narrowed, like a slowly-closing oyster shell. “Amy! Wha is wrong wid ya swift-tempered mon?” he barked. “Preacher Mon ah come down to me yard an’ ah complain ’til me ears start burn! Him tell me dat he was giving ah mighty welcome to Joseph becah him ah t’ink dat Joseph come to settle dem differences. But Joseph ah strike him down before Preacher Mon coulda offer him ah liccle rum an’ ah handshek. Don’t Joseph realise dat him affe be careful? Some people who live down ah hillside still waan to string him up. People aroun’ here don’t forget not’ing!”

  “Nuh believe everyt’ing Isaac ah tell yuh, Papa,” Amy defended her husband. “Isaac always love to mek long-tail alligator outta small bullfrog.”

  “Amy, Preacher Mon show me him bruise. Him face swell up like water melon wid too much water. Yuh affe talk to Joseph, Amy. Him cyan’t jus’ lick down everybody who ah vex him. Me like Joseph but him too crazy.”

  “So, Papa. Yuh never see de swelling ’pon poor Jenny’s face. She never stop bawling ’til she reach home an’ me give her ah box juice. Isaac don’t ’ave any right to strike down pickney dat him seed nah produce.”

  Giving himself a further toke from his pipe, Neville had long ago realised that Amy would always stand up for her husband, no matter if he was in the wrong. He would never reveal it to anyone but when Isaac stormed into his house, complaining about his son-in-law, he felt a certain satisfaction, wishing he had struck a blow on Isaac’s jaw many seasons ago when he decided that Isaac didn’t deserve the prominence and respect his role as preacher afforded him. He would also never admit that he still felt like a failure for only producing daughters. But now he secretly admired Amy’s ‘talk-back’ ways and she was now his favourite. She had ah ‘mon tongue’.

  “Alright, Amy,” Neville dropped his angry tone. “Not’ing cyan change now but when me sight Joseph me will say some strong words. Me will deal wid de goat inna while an’ chop off him head. Ah fine goat dat. It well an’ truly should feed many mout’. Me woulda leave de work for Jackie husband, but only de Most High or Old Screwface know wha’ crazy time him reach home from liquor bar ah night time.”

  Kissing her teeth, Jackie made a mocking sucking sound, stormed off and barked at her children, ordering them to halt their game and start their chores. Amy, stifling a snide grin, remarked, “me always say Reuben too licky, licky.”

  “An’ ya Joseph ah wear him skin too t’in,” retorted Neville, pointing at her with his pipe. “One day ya husband will find himself inna mighty trouble wid him quick-fire temper. Him like crazy bull inna blood-grass field. So before yuh laugh after ya sister, t’ink about dat.”

  “Joseph don’t trouble anyone who nuh trouble him,” Amy replied.

  “Yes, dat true. But der is somet’ing inna Joseph dat ah eat him up from de inside. Sometime me sight dis inna him dark eye. Somet’ing dat is deep inna him soul. De African spirits ’ave told me dis inna me dreams. So me know fe certain. Yuh know dis fe true, Amy. Me been asking yuh fe long time now, but yuh affe find out about him past. Becah dat is de key to Joseph. If yuh waan to know de secret of ah mon yuh affe study him childhood. Me tell yuh dis before, Amy. Fe years an’ years me mind been concentrating on dis very t’ing an’ it ah drive me crazy wid frustration.”

  “Papa, yuh love to repeat yourself. Every day me see yuh ya say de same t’ing. Everyt’ing will be alright. Nuh fret, Papa. Me give up long time to try an’ dig de deep soil ah Joseph mind. It mek nuh sense to trouble him about it nuh more.”

  “Amy, me hope yuh is right,” Neville replied, intimidating his daughter with unblinking eyes. “But me warn yuh! De same tribulation dat Joseph run away from will look fe him an’ knock ’pon him door.”

  Sensing her father was right, Amy didn’t want to admit it openly. Discomfited by her father’s hard ga
ze, she walked off to find Jackie.

  “Amy,” Neville called. “Don’t speak ah me dreams to anyone! Yuh know wha’ people ah like in dese parts but der are udder powers dan de Most High inna dis world. Powers dat uneducated people cyan’t understan’.”

  “Yes, Papa. Nuh fret yaself.”

  An hour later, Amy and Jackie had stripped the headless goat free of its coat and suspended it from a tree, prepared for seasoning; the head was buried by Neville in a field a mile away. Lifting his face to the heavens he offered a quick prayer of thanks. Meanwhile, the children looked on the goat’s carcass and licked their lips.

  Kwarhterleg, who had plucked, gutted and chopped up a chicken, was tasting his cooking in the pot when Amy arrived home, the steam carrying a seasoned, mint and pepper aroma that made everybody hungry. The old man was stirring the pot with one hand and with the other, used his crutch to fend off the dogs who were yapping at his one heel. Jenny was sitting down in the kitchen quietly reading the Bible and Hortense was trying to catch a ride on David’s back but David, not at his most playful, kept shooing his younger sister away. Drawing on his pipe in another corner of the kitchen, Joseph sat deep in contemplation. Hortense spotted her mother’s return. “Mama! Mama! Cyan me stay up fe harvest night? De rest of de girl dem ah school are staying up, Mama. An’ dey will tease me if me don’t reach, Mama. An’ yuh know dem kidren tek any chance to cuss me an’ Jenny. Please, Mama. Papa tell me to ask yuh.”

  “Yuh behave yaself inna school dis week, Hortense?”

  “Yes, Mama. Miss Mary even stroke me head top when me finish me spelling an’ write essay about de English empire. Dis week we learn about Queen Elizabet’ de first an’ how she mosh up, cramp an’ paralyse de Spanish Armada. Mama, Miss Mary show me England ’pon ah map an’ me did ah wonder how ah land so small coulda ’ave king an’ queen dat rule half de world. An’ Miss Mary smile wide like ah piece ah long, golden corn when me sing de English national anthem – me know all de words. Liccle after dat she give me ah sugar water fe me pretty work an’ singing. De udder girl dem ketch red eye. Jealous dem ah jealous. An’ Mama, two of de bwai dem did ah cuss cuss Papa’s name. If dem carry on see me don’t tell Gran’papa an’ he will set curse ’pon dem dirty behind!”