Island Songs

by Alex Wheatle

  “Yes, dat true, Mama,” added Jenny, her fury obvious in her expression. “Sometime it mek me mad an’ me waan to do dem ah evil somet’ing. Like giving dem poison cassava to nyam. Beast dem bwai ah beast, Mama an’ may dem burn inna hell-fire!”

  “Jenny, mek sure dem t’oughts get outta ya head,” rebuked Amy. “An’ yuh too, Hortense.”

  Jenny turned to Hortense. “Ya tek all day to write de strikin’ essay,” she revealed. “An’ when Miss Mary turn her back yuh rush come to me an’ copy wha’ me write.”

  “Lie she ah tell, Mama! Me pretty work was all by meself!”

  “Alright, Hortense an’ Jenny. Me don’t waan nuh contention tonight! Me sick an’ tired of it. Jenny, yuh should be helping ya younger sister anyway. Hortense, yuh cyan stay up ’pon harvest night, but yuh affe help out wid chores tomorrow.”

  “Nuh problem, Mama,” grinned Hortense, cutting her eyes at her sister. “Anyt’ing yuh ask.”

  Amy turned to Jenny who returned to reading her Bible. She felt no need to ask her if she was good at school. Praise de Lord, Amy thought. De Virgin Mary herself coulda never behave better when she ah girl chile.

  “Mama,” Jenny called softly, her voice much more fragile than her sister’s. “Cyan me wear me pretty pink frock fe harvest night, Mama? De same frock me wear to Auntie Virlinger wedding. Nuh worry, Mama. Me would never dutty it. An’ even if me did dutty it me would carry it over to river meself an’ scrub it ’til it cyan’t clean nuh more.”

  A smile curled around Amy’s mouth. “Yes, Jenny. But yuh too affe help out tomorrow an’ rise up inna de marnin wid de rooster call.”

  “Nuh worry yaself, Mama. Me will rise fe true even before sweet Papa ah pull on him mighty boot an’ drink him first marnin rum when he t’ink nuhbody ah look.”

  Joseph had to yank his pipe from out of his mouth in order to laugh.

  Observing her father chuckling at Jenny’s remark, Hortense darted off to sit in the tyre hanging from the mango tree. She called on David to push her and thought of ways she could make David laugh.

  “Kwarhterleg, yuh well ably inna de kitchen,” Amy said gratefully. “It smell nice.” She went over to the pot and tasted the boiled chicken; the dogs suddenly shied away as if greatly alarmed. “Yes, sa. Kwarhterleg, yuh waan me put on de rice?”

  “Nuh, Miss Amy. Go an’ res’ yourself. Me ’ave t’ings inna serious order.”

  Amy went off into the house to fetch herself a drink of goat’s milk and rum. She returned with a stool and set it beside Joseph. “Yuh look tired, Joseph,” Amy greeted. “Or is der somet’ing else ’pon ya mind?”

  “Nuh, Amy. Not’ing ’pon me mind. Jus’ restin’ me bones.”

  Amy decided to tackle her husband later, when Jenny, Hortense and Kwarhterleg were asleep. She steeled herself for another attempt to get to the root of Joseph’s mysterious past. In quiet moments she could detect a pain in Joseph’s eyes. It was this that had instilled a certain fascination all those years ago. That mystery, those repressed memories, what was going on in the back of his mind. When they became intimate during their courting days, Amy would question Joseph about his past. But he would just shrug, saying. “It don’t matter, Amy. De past is der inna de past. It’s de future dat me look forward to.”

  Three hours later, Joseph was sprinkling rum upon the threshold of his dwelling. Amy watched him intensely. Unseen by both of them, David, who was in the yard, stood very still and looked out to the dark contours of the hills that lay to the south.

  “Joseph,” called Amy, using her most diplomatic tone. “Don’t yuh ever get lonesome? Y’know, being ’pon ya own in dis cruel world. Widout nuh brudder, sister, mama or papa? Me family live all around dese parts an’ sometime dem get ’pon me nerves. But me woulda surely feel it if dem nah der. Y’understand? It mus’ be ah mighty burden… Yuh don’t wonder sometime where ya family der? Gran’papa always used to tell me dat de twig is mightier an’ wizer when him know where de root of de tree lay.”

  Taking his time in answering, Joseph could not turn around and face his wife. He took a swig from the rum bottle, thinking that yes, Amy deserved an explanation, but after thirty years, he had still not come to terms with the horror of it. He couldn’t even understand himself why he had walked out on that day. But he had had to get away. If Amy knew the truth he would surely lose her respect. Ah good mon woulda never leave him distressed family, Joseph said to himself. But he had. Guilt had been a constant companion ever since. Guilt was with him when he rose in the morning and guilt spoke to him in the moments before he fell asleep. “Me alright, Amy,” Joseph finally replied. Nuh worry yaself. Ya family me tek fe me own so me don’t need anybody else. Yuh is me root now.”

  Allowing the matter to drop, Amy decided that she would keep on chipping away in the hope that Joseph would one day lower his guard. “David, where yuh der?” Amy called. “Me an’ ya papa gone to we bed now. Nuh stay outside an’ let de duppy dem play wid yuh.”

  “Nuh trouble ya head, Mama. Ghost or duppy never trouble me. Me jus’ ketching de night breeze an’ ah lissen to de cricket dat ah talk. Me soon gone to me bed, Mama.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Joseph stretched out on his bed alongside his wife. As soon as Joseph’s eyes closed he found himself back in 1908. He was feeding the chickens when he heard his mother’s excited call.

  Chapter Four

  Harvest Sunday morning. An arch of the sun had just crept over the eastern hills, showering light on the green Claremont valley and glittering the stream that hurried through the bush-banked ravines of the uplands. The flowing water rushed down and filled the clay and limestone gulleys, nourishing the vegetation of the lowlands. There wasn’t a cloud in sight and only a single Doctor bird gliding through the heavens, showcasing her full span of wings and her long, multi-coloured forked tail, surveyed the Eden-like land beneath her.

  The cooling breeze and rains that had moved away from the Caribbean sea during the night and swept through the higher places of Claremont and the surrounding districts, were now, in the uncompromising face of the rising sun, losing their potency. The damp leaves in the tree tops were now calm but Levi’s lofty domain remained cloaked in a stubborn mist, only the uppermost leaves of the Blue Mahoes visible to a bird’s eye. Mosquitoes, liking the dewy conditions, multiplied around shaded, still waters and muddy gulleys. On the ground, roosters challenged one another and the dogs tried to match them with their barks.

  But they had no need to sound their early morning alarm calls for the people of Claremont had already risen and had their ‘marnin fresh’. Indeed, the dogs in the village looked at each other, wondering when they would be thrown their next bones and why their owners had set off en masse, leaving them behind. Another morning in the ‘land of springs’.

  Along a squelchy mud path with steep grassy banks that curved and wriggled almost every step of the way, a long stream of Claremontonians were trekking downhill to Isaac’s church, intermittently shaded by palm leaves. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best. All who were able carried a basket or what the locals called a ‘bankra’ of harvest offerings that contained the fruits and vegetables of the Claremont valley; the firm-backed men, including David, were burdened with bigger baskets that they called ‘cutacoos’, the woven shoulder straps made of hemp.

  Donkeys, blinking away the flies buzzing around their eyes, made up the rear, carrying crocus sacks full of crops on their hind legs, their masters poised with sticks in case of disobedience. Other donkeys transported the elderly and infirm. At the head of the train was Neville, who was leading the people behind him in passionate song. He was striding out flamboyantly, dodging the puddles and denying his sixty-four years, his steps timed to an ancient drumbeat.

  “Hear me Lord!” Neville sang, almost bursting his voice-box.

  “HEAR ME LORD,” the followers echoed.

  “We gwarn give to de poor.”

  “WE GWARN GIVE TO DE POOR.”

  “De fruits of our harvest.”<
br />
  “DE FRUITS OF OUR HARVEST.”

  “An’ hunger shall be nuh more.”

  “AN’ HUNGER SHALL BE NUH MORE.”

  “We reap wha’ we sow.”

  “WE REAP WHA’ WE SOW.”

  “Inna de field an’ we soul.”

  “INNA DE FIELD AN’ WE SOUL.”

  “An’ we hope de Lord bless our land.”

  “AN’ WE HOPE DE LORD BLESS OUR LAND.”

  “So we cyan come again an’ bless ya mighty hand.”

  “SO WE CYAN COME AGAIN AN’ BLESS YA MIGHTY HAND.”

  Walking with his family ten yards behind Neville, Joseph didn’t sing with the same faithful heart as his fellow villagers. Instead, he shifted his eyes to glance upon the people who he thought still despised him. Hortense had none of her father’s concerns, her shrill voice rising above the congregation’s roar. Earlier, the excitement had proved too much for her and she wetted her drawers. Amy had given her a spanking but even this could not quell her joy for the day ahead. She was the first of her family to join the march and she made sure everyone heard her voice. Although Jenny’s spirit was uplifted by the lively call and response led by her grandfather, she still stole dismissive glances at the children who lived in the shanty huts and wore the same frocks they always did, only today their dresses were a little brighter. Sporting her favourite pink outfit, she said to herself, “yuh say me Papa ah devil mon but at least he cyan buy me ah pretty frock! Wha’ cyan ya penny-ketching papa buy yuh?”

  Dressed in his most striking dark suit and white shirt, Isaac stood outside his wooden, stone-built church and clapped his hands when he sighted his flock sluicing down the hillside. He bade a special welcome to those who attended church rarely, shaking the men’s hands firmly and kissing the women upon their cheeks. “Praise de Lord!” he bellowed.

  The donkey owners secured their beasts to tree trunks and when everybody was ready, Isaac ushered them inside the sparse building. The food bearers laid their baskets around the plain altar which displayed a single flaming candle in a brass holder and an old leather-jacketed Bible on its bare wooden top; local legend had it, eagerly fanned by Isaac and his father, that the Latin Bible was the only personal belonging a Spanish priest had left behind before fleeing from the English in the 17th century. Isaac didn’t know of anyone who could read it.

  There were three clay basins on each side of the church, sitting below open windows. Neville, his face solemn, filled them with blessed water, bowing his head as he did so. Then from a crocus bag he was carrying, he dropped mint leaves, grapefruit halves, quarters of watermelons, sliced limes and dandelion flowers into the bowls. When he had finished, Neville turned around and saw that the church was packed and everyone had taken to their simple wooden chairs; women, some of whom had kicked off their muddied footwear to stretch their toes, were cooling themselves with homemade fans, the men using their white handkerchiefs to dab their brows. The church was beginning to emit a fresh, fruity aroma that the flock were grateful to inhale.

  Looking at his most proud, Isaac stepped up to the pulpit and gazed out upon his congregation, offering them a broad smile. Mouthing a silent prayer while closing his eyes, he blessed the food. He then raised his arms and prompted, “let us sing!”

  “We plant de fields an’ scatter de good seed ’pon de land…”

  The service lasted two hours and even the birds nesting in far-off tree tops heard the joyous singing and praise of the Most High. Before worshippers were given license to leave, Jacob, Isaac’s son, walked respectfully among the flock, accepting donations.

  Standing straight-backed outside his church, Isaac shook hands with everyone as they filed out, offering thanks and the good grace of the Lord to protect them. He even seized a surprised Joseph’s mighty right paw with both hands, grasping it hard and seeming somewhat reluctant to let go. Joseph, feeling mightily abashed, for he only ever attended church for harvest time, weddings or christenings, smiled weakly, looking around for Amy to save him; she was purchasing box juices from a vociferous vendor who had suddenly appeared outside the church door with his creaking cart. Hortense and Jenny soon quenched their thirst with guava juice while someone nourished the donkeys with crushed sugar cane and water.

  Following half an hour of susu sessions, where the good people of Claremont huddled in groups of sixes and sevens, commenting on their neighbours’ dress sense, cleanliness of shoes and other matters they felt important to remark upon, they set off home, carrying their empty bankras and cuttacoos, the donkeys plodding along the path more happily and freely.

  When they all reached home, the women set about cooking the goats, spicing and jerking the pork, making fish fritters and fried dumplings, roasting varieties of fish, preparing the vegetables and fruits for the forthcoming feasts. The men drifted off to the liquor bars that dominated the market square where they bought the finest Appleton rum and the local homemade port while lipping bottles of Red Stripe beer; Mr Patterson was winning healthy trade selling yards of tobacco, hemp and a herb that he called ‘lambs bread’. The young children, legs weary from the long walk and tired from rising early, took an afternoon siesta.

  Expressing exhaustion, Kwarhterleg was slumped on a stool outside an open bar next door to the post office, nursing a beer. He was flanked by Joseph and David. Across the road, a young woman was admiring the new crimpolene frock she had just purchased from Mrs Walters, the local seamstress. She held it tight against her chest before carefully placing it inside her bag. She then set off quickly for home, excited as Cinderella preparing for the ball. The bartender, who had been eyeing the woman, was arranging bottles on a warped shelf; the constant clink clink irritated Kwarhterleg. “Mon, wha’ ah serious tribulation!” Kwarhterleg gasped. “Believe me, dat might be de las’ time me hobble down to Preacher Mon church.”

  “Well me did ah tell yuh dat yuh should nuh boder,” rebuked Joseph. “An’ David tell yuh de same t’ing. Kwarhterleg, yuh stubborn like mad mule. Even Preacher mon affe understan’ dat yuh cyan’t mek long walk nuh more. Him don’t know dat Alligator ah nyam off ya leg?”

  “Of course Preacher Mon know! Me never miss ah church harvest fe fifty years,” Kwarhterleg stated proudly. “As long as me ably me will tek de walk.”

  “Den why yuh ah complain! David, try an’ talk some sense into dis mad fool. Nex’ year me don’t waan carry dis old peg-leg down ah hillside ’pon me shoulder.”

  David, looking at the southern hills pre-occupied about something, hadn’t been paying attention to what was being said.

  “David!” Joseph called, his tone deeper, louder. “Wha’ de matter wid yuh bwai? Yuh lost ya tongue today? Yuh been too quiet fe me liking an’ yuh look like yuh inna daydream.”

  The bottle of drink in David’s right hand was still full. He brought the lip of the bottle to his mouth but only to moisten his cracked lips, using his tongue to spread the beer. Joseph looked at him curiously. David gently placed his drink down on the wooden table, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead and took a sharp intake of breath. “Papa,” he said, his tone full of regret, “me affe leave dis place.”

  Swapping fretful glances with Kwarhterleg, Joseph’s shock denied him any quick response.

  “Papa, it’s ah long time me been feeling dis need. Yuh provide me wid ah good life. Me never hungry. Me go ah school, learn many t’ings. But me waan see de outside world, Papa. It’s like ah calling. Me affe go an’ rely ’pon me own hand. Stan’ up ’pon me own foot.”

  Joseph fished in his trouser pockets for his pipe. He soon stuffed it with tobacco and gave a leaf to Kwarhterleg for his own use. He took three tokes before saying another word. “David, yuh cyan’t jus’ leave widout nuh plan. When yuh plan to leave anyway?”

  Kwarhterleg wondered why Joseph was taking this startling news so casually.

  “Papa, me leaving tomorrow,” David announced. “Me plan to go to Kingston but before me go der me heading to ah place near Linstead. Dem ’ave ah aluminium bau
xite place der so me could get ah liccle work. Dat’s wha’ me waan do, Papa. Travel, see place, work an’ den move on. Many ah me friends who me go school wid ’ave lef’ Claremont. Me feel it inna me bones, Papa. Ah calling.”

  “David, yuh don’t hear of de serious labour strikes inna dem cane field?” Kwarhterleg warned. “Some time ago dem affe sen’ in police an’ roughneck to mek people go back ah work. Nuff mon dead.”

  Kwarhterleg had heard from travellers passing through Claremont that the indentured Indian workers received more pay than blacks in the cane fields, and this was despite the British only making a fraction of the financial rewards from sugar as they used to, and from a number of over four hundred sugar plantations there were now less than forty. Aluminium bauxite was found in Jamaican soil and country folk, desperate for work, arrived at bauxite sites in great numbers. Opportunist employers paid minimal wages for those who were willing to work and this caused much contention and fights. A man called ‘Busta’ set up the first recognised union in Jamaica but the employers had the police on their side, breaking up strikes with uncalled for violence. Many strikers were bludgeoned to death.

  Kwarhterleg looked at Joseph expecting him to state further warnings. Joseph’s mind flashed back to when he left home and he had to admit to himself that at least David announced his intentions like a man. No stealing away in the middle of the night as he had done. He wondered whether this calling was a family trait. Naptali, his eldest brother, had left home before Joseph was even born. Joseph himself had a great urgency to leave home, build a new life. “Every mon affe do wha’ him affe do an’ go where him destiny ah tek him,” Joseph said finally.