by Alex Wheatle
Petrified, Cilbert nodded, trying to inch himself backwards. Hortense released her grip, walked to the dresser where she collected her towel and toiletries for her morning fresh and went outside, humming a tune she had heard at the lawn dance. Cilbert emitted a long sigh, closing his eyes for a long second as he did so. He would never raise a hand to his wife again.
For the next few months Hortense made it her business to get to know her neighbours. Mrs Laura Lee and her husband Kolton shared the kitchen with her, and Hortense often minded their six children. Kolton was an usher at a downtown cinema where the hard-to-please patrons were fed a continuous diet of American westerns; the screen was perforated with bullet holes and Hortense learned the proprietors were planning to display their films on a white-washed, concrete wall. Laura, renownd for her tough, unblinking negotiating skills, owned a mobile snack bar and won most of her custom on lawn dance nights.
Across the way, the broad Oliver Minott, a bicycle mechanic, lived with his wife, Babsy and their four children. Hortense noticed that Oliver cleaned his bicycle meticulously before he set off every morning, always returning from work late and was forever moaning that there was no water left to wash away the oil and grease his skin had collected during his working day. Residents nicknamed him ‘Midnight Oil’.
Up on the second floor lived Bigger Knowles and his family. Bigger was a chef at an uptown hotel and he gained many friends by bringing his work home and sharing it around. Hortense soon discovered that residents of the tenement yard always complained of Bigger blocking the toilets with his ‘monster shits’. “Lord bless me soul an’ protect me wha’ me see dis very marnin!” Mercy, the Christian woman would shriek. “Bigger’s mighty bottom hole strike again! Wha’ ah palava! It coming like ah mighty dam dat ah hold up river flow! Him should buil’ him own strikin’ toilet fe him incredible bottom!” Yielding to her nagging, Hortense escorted the virginal Mercy to church most Sundays. Hortense would never reveal to her that she overheard the single young men who lived in the yard waging bets on who would ‘grine Mercy an’ mek her pum-pum bawl’ first.
Delroy Dyer, who worked on the docks, lived with his wife, Jaseth, two doors away from Hortense. He informed Cilbert that the deep scar upon his right shoulder was sustained following a dock-workers strike in 1956; the army was called in following the declaration of a national emergency and Delroy sustained his injury during one of the many harbour-side skirmishes. When the children were put to bed and the adults were sitting on their stoops, reflecting on their day, Delroy, who was the same age as Hortense, practised his harmonies with his friends while strumming his homemade guitar. Hortense and others were quick to offer their advice and views on Delroy’s songwriting abilities. Delroy had named his group the Mighty Invincibles.
They were practising for auditions at the Carib theatre where Vere Johns held his weekly Opportunity Hour. If they were successful they could hear themselves being broadcast on the newly formed Jamaican Broadcasting Corporation but the competition was fierce; the last auditions attracted over a thousand wannabe Billy Eckstine’s and Nat King Cole’s and scuffles had broken out in the two hundred yard long queue. It was not uncommon for an artiste to finally reach the stage and then be pelted with bottles, stones, rotten coconuts, a variety of nuts and worn-out shoes before he concluded his first verse. Delroy initially had to ignore the cutting remarks from his neighbours while he rehearsed his group. “Nuh, mon! Wha’ kind ah fool fool lyric is dat!” Someone might say. “Yuh nuh ’ave any sense? Yuh better go ah school an’ t’ief dictionary! Becah yuh surely need it. An’ de voice sound like long-belly goat ah scream when him drop down inna sewage pit! Ha Ha! About yuh waan be ah star!”
Kingsley Banton lived alone above Hortense’s apartment but nobody was quite sure what he did for a living. He was never seen out of his sharp colourful clothes and his lace-up shoes were always well polished. He wore a natty hat that was angled to cover his scarred left eye. He wouldn’t rise until the afternoon and when he departed to whatever business concern he had, nobody would see him until the next day. Cilbert, who was short-strawed by his neighbours to learn more about the mysterious Kingsley, went upstairs to Kingsley’s apartment offering him a drink of rum. Kingsley declined but Cilbert had a glimpse of an Oriental-looking woman through a crack of a door. Cilbert, in his report to his fellow residents, guessed that Kingsley was a pimp. Oliver gave Kingsley the moniker of ‘Black Drac’.
Hortense learned that Cilbert was a man of routine and habit. Finishing work early on Friday afternoons and smiling a grapefruit-wide smile, without fail he would deposit a few shillings into his bank account. “Ah very fine day, Miss.” As the tiller gave him his receipt, Cilbert would mutter “Englan’’’ under his breath. He would then pay the rent, his eyes flirting with the sour-faced, toffee-skinned clerk. Disliking the rancour and bangarang of Coronation market, he would take a bus from Crossroads to Papine, where he would buy fresh fruits and snacks that he would place under napkins in a small bankra. Hortense would see him at four o’clock on the dot, sitting patiently on the ground outside Miss Martha’s gates, smoking his Four Aces cigarettes. His bankra was topped up with Dragon stout and Red Stripe beer. Miss Martha, shaking her head, would continually ask Hortense why he didn’t want to wait inside. “Me don’t know, Miss Martha. Sometimes Cilbert too shy like.”
After Hortense finished work, Cilbert, wanting to escape the city noise and air, would escort Hortense to the spacious Hope Botanical Gardens. There they would stroll arm in arm in the late afternoon sun, refreshed by the soft breezes that came down from the Blue Mountains. Cilbert would throw a penny into a fountain, making a wish while holding his wife’s hand. Then he would pick out a secluded spot for a picnic, usually under the leaves of a Blue Mahoe. The beautiful scenery was a reminder to the couple of the Claremont valley. They would stay until the twilight hours, sometimes making love, sometimes just enjoying each other’s company, sharing dreams of the future while gazing up at the steep-rising green hills that overlooked uptown Kingston.
Every two weeks Hortense received a letter from Jenny, informing her of all the gossip, susu and going-ons in the Claremont valley. Kwarhterleg had passed away and gone to his reward in January, 1958. A grieving Joseph, escorted by Isaac and Neville, had taken his body back to the place of his birth, Browns Town, and buried him there – Kwarhterleg’s last wish. Many of Kwarhterleg’s family had moved away and subsequently there were only seven mourners who watched Kwarhterleg’s coffin being lowered into the ground. It was whispered that Joanne Lindus, now in her late seventies, visited Kwarhterleg’s grave every night for three weeks following the burial. Neville had witnessed the pain and guilt in her eyes and he remarked, “everybody has to mek choices. Joanne made hers but leaving Kwarhterleg has haunted her every step since an’ every step she will tek in dis world.”
After Kwarhterleg’s funeral, Joseph became even more remote to his fellow villagers, refusing to go into town on a Friday night to enjoy a beer with the new friends he had found since his story-time session. Instead he would visit Jenny, bringing with him some of the produce of his land. Amy continued to dust and clean the improvised bed where Kwarhterleg slept and sometimes forgot that she now only cooked for two.
Thankful that Amy had received him back into her life and wanting to busy himself around the house, Joseph was building a verandah as a token of his love. He had already repaired and upholstered two chairs for them to sit in. Grandpapa Neville, still walking the land straight-backed, was forever asking Joseph and Amy when Hortense or Jenny would provide his second great-grandson. Jackie had split up with her husband, who was now a chronic alcoholic; God-fearers whispered that he was possessed by a demon and had called on Isaac to perform an exorcism. Carmesha was pregnant with Levi’s first child but Levi had rejected Isaac’s demand that they should marry. Jenny was a bridesmaid to Mr DaCosta’s daughter, Elvira, who married a young man from Treasure Beach; some alleged she was with child. Higglers in the market were claimin
g that Isaac had a love-child born to him by a fourteen-year-old girl who lived in Alexandria.
Jenny was ashamed of this alleged scandal involving her father-in-law and urged her husband, Jacob, to move away from Claremont and head for Kingston. There would be plenty of ministerial work for Jacob to perform in the capital, she argued. Jacob dithered and dallied, torn between his father and his new wife. And his elder brother, Levi, who he had grown to respect, counselled against the move also. Jenny, who was now teaching English at the local school, wrote to Hortense, ‘…could you imagine we living together again? It will be just like the old days. If you have Jacob and myself sharing the burden of rent, then you could save more and finally forward to England. Me feel so lonesome without you in my life. Papa always looks for me but it’s not the same like before. Something has been lost between us. Mama is the same old Mama. Her heart still cool like the midnight breeze. Sometimes I sit under our tree and think of all the conversations we used to have.’ Jenny always concluded her letters to Hortense by writing many kisses and ‘mek sure yuh give me love to Cilbert’.
Missing her sister’s maternal-like affection since she had relocated to Kingston, Hortense presented Jenny’s idea to Cilbert. Thinking of England, Cilbert quickly agreed. All Jacob had to do was to find a ministerial position in Kingston and he had the contacts to do so because he had dealt with all of Isaac’s correspondence since he was ten years old.
Dusting Martha’s front room one January morning in 1958, Hortense heard Martha call her from the kitchen. “I’m really in a fiddle of what we should cook for my husband’s guests tonight, Hotty.”
With a dust cloth draped over her right shoulder, Hortense appeared in the kitchen with her hands upon her hips. “We?”
“Well, er, I get your point, Hotty,” Martha replied, a little taken aback by Hortense’s confrontational tone.
Martha was hunting in her food cupboards, shaking her head. “I would like to offer them something quite different, a meal they can appreciate and remember. I think my husband is too polite to suggest that my beef stews are becoming tedious.”
Hortense thought about it. “Why yuh nah come shopping wid me der ah market? We will decide wha’ fe cook when we reach der.”
“The market?” Martha asked, her face a picture of astonishment. “I have never been. It’s not a place where a woman of my standing would frequent. My husband has always brought food home from the army camp – they receive British foodstuffs every week.”
“Yes! An’ it’s tasteless! Me get sick an’ tired of cooking it. Roast beef, potatoes an’ blasted cabbage! An’ as fe de market is nuh place fe ah woman of ya standing, yuh really mean it’s nuh ah place where white women waan to go,” said Hortense, now releasing her pent-up frustration with her employer who she felt couldn’t do anything for herself.
Sitting down at her kitchen table, Martha was about to admonish Hortense for speaking out of turn – no employee of hers had ever been so forthright with their opinion. “Are you aware that I could quite easily dismiss you for your last remarks?” Martha said.
“Dismiss me fe telling de trut’?” Hortense dared. “Since me work here all me see yuh do is get up inna de marnin, nyam ya breakfast while yuh complain about ya husband doing dis an’ dat, den yuh drive down to ah uptown bar where yuh drink liquor alone. Den yuh come back, sit down ’pon de verandah, drink ah nex’ drink an’ start complain dat de sun too strong. Wha’ kinda life is dat?”
Dropping her head with the realisation that her life was empty, Martha replied, “you have to understand, Hotty. A white woman living here is not as free as you might think. We are not supposed to just wander down to the market on our own, we cannot just entertain the thought of attending those lawn dances that you speak of. Even drinking alone in an uptown bar is frowned upon – but I will not give up that.”
“Rubbish yuh ah talk, Miss Martha! Wha’ is der to stop yuh doing somet’ing different?”
Miss Martha raised her head and managed a smile. “What is there indeed?”
Escorting Miss Martha to Papine market, Hortense introduced her to the names and varieties of Jamaican food. Higglers looked upon the two women with amazement as Martha found the banter and characters who worked there fascinating. As Martha held onto Hortense’s arm, they bought curried goat, chicken, jerk seasoning, lamb shanks, snapper fish, bream, dasheen, breadfruit, spring greens, yams, plantains, crabmeat, salted cod, okra, spinach, tamarind puree, coconut oil, varieties of herbs, avocados and mangos.
Their shopping nearly completed, Martha felt safe enough to investigate on her own and she was immediately besieged by vendors and higglers. At first alarmed, Martha backed away from the market sellers but catching sight of Hortense laughing in front of her, she bought two cups of peanut punch.
Stopping off on the way home at a rum bar, Martha couldn’t contain her excitement of her shopping adventure. “My presence provoked much attention, Hotty! I felt like a Broadway star!”
Reaching home, Martha marched to her kitchen with purpose. “This time I will help, Hotty. What shall we cook?”
“Coconut chicken,” suggested Hortense, who was left to carry in most of the groceries. “An’ fried fish!”
Hortense showed Martha how to wash the chicken with vinegar, lemon and water. She then covered the chicken pieces with a light film of flour before frying until golden brown. Placing the chicken into an oven, Hortense displayed to Martha how to wash and prepare vegetables. When almost cooked, Hortense removed the chicken from the oven and glazed it with honey and sprinkled coconut gratings over it. She returned the chicken to the oven for another ten minutes then she dressed it with chopped coriander. “My goodness! It smells delightful,” remarked Martha.
Showing Martha how to gut the fish and trim its fins, Hortense allowed Martha to season the bream with spices, salt and chilli. Lightly dusting the fish with seasoned flour, Martha fried the bream in hot oil until crispy. “Is that alright, Hotty? I fear it’s too dry! My! That oil is a nuisance when it splashes upon your arm!”
“Ya doing alright, Miss Martha,” laughed Hortense, enjoying herself in the role as teacher and recognising the child within Martha. “Like me said, der is not’ing to it.”
“Hotty, you will stay when I serve dinner won’t you? Just in case anything goes awry. I will pay you for your time. I have had a splendid day.”
“Nuh worry yaself, Miss Martha. Besides, me waan some of dat chicken too!”
Miss Martha’s and her husband’s guests were a middle-aged white couple who lived in Constant Spring. Hortense declined Martha’s invitation to join the dinner party – she still felt uncomfortable around white men. Instead, Hortense busied herself in the kitchen with the washing up while stealing glances at the reaction from those who were tasting the meal. Martha served the coconut chicken and fried bream with roasted breadfruit, yams, spring greens and spinach. The dinner was a complete success and upon receiving congratulations, Martha didn’t forget to honour Hortense’s involvement.
Later that night, as Martha’s husband drove the guests home, Hortense was relaxing with her feet up on the verandah. She was sipping the peanut punch that Martha had earlier bought for her. “I cannot say how grateful I am,” offered Martha. “My husband was so proud of me. Of course you are right about me, Hotty. I need to try different things. I have been lethargic for too long.”
“Do dat mean yuh will come lawn dance wid me,” laughed Hortense.
“Hotty, you might be able to teach me to cook but do you really think my husband would permit me to attend a downtown lawn dance? That would be stretching it a bit don’t you think? I would be quite happy to hear of your descriptions of these colourful events. My imagination will do the rest. Hotty, raise your glass to a good day.”
The two women chinked their glasses, recognising a closer understanding of each other.
It was a muggy April afternoon in 1958 when Hortense took a break from her work in Martha’s house, sat in a chair upon the verandah, pou
red herself a shot of rum mixed with lemonade and started to read one of Jenny’s letters that she didn’t have time to read in the morning. She didn’t notice Martha walking up the pathway, laden with shopping.
“Good afternoon, Hotty,” Martha chirped, her wide-brimmed hat flapping in the breeze.
Hortense looked up in alarm, shot up out of her chair and hoped Martha might think her rum cocktail was a glass of water. “Good afternoon, Miss Martha,” she greeted with a huge smile. “Yuh enjoy ya shopping ah Papine market?”
“It was a delight, Hotty. The people there are so pleasant, so colourful. I love the way they sing while they work and try to entertain the customers. My goodness! It seems that all Jamaicans want to be a Mr Bojangles. Did I tell you I saw the great man perform once on Broadway?”
“Yes, yuh did, Miss Martha,” Hortense laughed. “Plenty time!”
“They even offered to carry my groceries to the car. So accommodating those Papine marketers.”
Hortense guessed that the stall-holders in Papine market saw Miss Martha coming and immediately increased their prices by fifty per cent.
Martha could smell the rum. “Hotty, take your seat again and enjoy your break, don’t let me stop you. Besides, I need to discuss something with you. If you could spare a moment?”
Sitting down again, Hortense gripped the arms of the chair tightly as Martha went into the kitchen to offload her shopping. She returned with a bottle of Appleton’s finest, bringing a glass for herself. She topped off a suspicious Hortense’s glass before she took her seat. “Now, Hotty,” she began. “It seems that circumstances have upset our future plans. There is talk of independence in the air and yesterday my husband’s seniors made it clear that his services may not be required for much longer.”
