Island Songs

by Alex Wheatle

  On Sunday afternoons Jenny tutored a Sunday school class set up for her by Jacob. She discovered that the children who were illiterate were also hungry. So in response Isaac used some of the collection money from his church in order to purchase food and cook large pots of beef stew for the children before their classes. Soon, the sessions became over-subscribed and parents fought each other for their children’s places. Jacob’s idealistic notion became unworkable and he was forced to return to just providing writing and reading lessons. Subsequently, many of the illiterate children stopped attending and this preyed on Jacob’s mind.

  Encouraged by their neighbours to stay in Kingston for the Christmas festivities, Hortense, Jenny and Jacob could only admire the creativity of the Trenchtown people. Tenement buildings, sidewalks and shopfronts were scrubbed and whitewashed to brighten up the environment and give it a Christmas feel. Corkscrewed orange, tangerine and avocado peels were hanging on strings from the ceilings of residents verandahs in improvised decoration. Oil lamps were hanging outside doors. Nativity paintings suddenly appeared on street walls. Only the Trenchtown rastafarians were offended with images of a white baby Jesus but most people didn’t care what they thought. The soothing sound of hymns and carols echoing from all over Kingston never ceased.

  On Christmas day morning, Hortense, Jenny and their spouses escorted Kolton, Oliver and their offspring to the seafront where hundreds of Trenchtown children enjoyed free boat rides in the harbour. They journeyed close to the ruins of Port Royal and the adults, pointing to the bottom of the sea, told the children about the sinful pirates who once inhabited the bay; Jacob departed the boat on groggy legs and brought up his cornmeal porridge breakfast upon the shore.

  Following a communal dinner of roast pig and every kind of trimming that could be thrown in the blackened pots, everyone made their way to Hope Botanical Gardens where they clapped and cheered the marching Alpha Boys band – teenage orphans who were cared for by Catholic nuns. Indeed, graduates of the Alpha school were now making a living as top session musicians for the blossoming Kingston recording industry; entrepreneurs such as Prince Buster and Sir Coxsone, unlike the controllers of Jamaican broadcast radio, recognised the public demand for Jamaican songs and lyrics and had set up their own record labels.

  Watching the Alpha Boys march by, Hortense, unable to resist the urge, grabbed Cilbert’s hand and began dancing. Jenny, not wanting to make a spectacle of herself, quietly handed out leaflets advertising the sermon Isaac would present for midnight mass.

  As Christmas night fell, Cilbert surprised Hortense by hailing a taxi and taking her to Hellshire Beach, a quiet strip of golden sand ten miles west of Kingston that was fringed with occasional palm and mango trees. There, under a perfect navy-blue sky where in the distance they could see the harbour lights of Kingston stretching out in a long curve, they drank from a bottle of coconut rum punch that Cilbert had prepared. “Isn’t dis better dan sitting inna Jacob’s church ah lissen to de same old story dat we hear when we pickney?” smiled Cilbert. “Life is fe living an’ yuh affe enjoy it. De Christian way of life is all about preparing for deat’. Hortense, me heaven is inna dis world wid yuh! Let we drink to dat. Me an’ yuh.”

  “But Jenny was so vex,” replied Hortense. “It will tek her some time to forgive we fe nah supporting Jacob’s sermon.” Hortense then took in her surroundings and broke out into a glorious smile, downing a generous gulp of coconut-rum. They then made love with the gentle, frothing waves soothing and cooling their naked calves. They could both hear the music from a sound system that had set up on a beach two miles away. Under a half-moon sky that illuminated a strip of the calm waters of the Caribbean sea that stretched to the horizon, a rastafarian fisherman, paddling into shore in his red, gold and green painted canoe, observed the couple and laughed.

  Hortense excitedly told Jenny of Cilbert’s romantic gesture and soon after Jenny informed Hortense of her plans to return to Claremont for the New Year and visit Papa who had been sick. “Yuh nah come wid me, Hortense?” Jenny said accusingly. “Me stay inna Kingston wid yuh fe Christmas but yuh cyan’t come wid me to Claremont? Selfish ya selfish!”

  “Me cyan’t go,” answered Hortense. “Miss Martha waan me to cook dinner fe her guests ’pon New Year’s Eve.”

  “Tell Miss Martha to learn to cook fe herself! Don’t she know yuh ’ave family?”

  “She been good to me an’ me don’t waan to let her down. An’ she cyan cook fe herself! As long as me watching her.”

  Jenny cut her eyes at Hortense and proceeded to pack her clothes.

  It was a breezy February morning in 1959 when Hortense had arrived at Miss Martha’s house and found boxes, trunks and barrels filling the area of the verandah floor, ready for shipping. Miss Martha, standing in her front doorway, was watching her gardener, Jonte, perform his duties. She was sporting a wide-brimmed floppy hat and sunglasses that covered almost half her face. The flower-patterned sarong she was wearing billowed out with the wind, sometimes exposing her thighs and drawers. Hortense approached her, feeling a sadness within her heart.

  “Marnin, Miss Martha. So yuh ready to go.”

  “Oh, morning, Hotty. Yes, paradise will soon be lost. When the breeze blows I do like to come outside and feel it on my skin. So refreshing and pleasant.”

  “Yes, it do feel mighty nice,” agreed Hortense.

  Her sunglasses masking the aim of her gaze, Martha didn’t turn around and greet Hortense with a kiss like she usually did. “Do you know, Hotty, my gardener, Jonte, has been with us since the end of the war.”

  Hortense looked at Jonte who was bare-backed and only dressed in white shorts and sandals. The sun reflected off his bald, brown head.

  “And in that length of time, Hotty,” Martha continued. “He has never entered my house. When he concludes his work on a Saturday morning he waits patiently sitting down on the lawn for me to present him his wages. He doesn’t even call me for it. When he first came to work for us, my husband was very strict with him, watched him like a hawk. He was perturbed about leaving Jonte and myself alone in the house. I suppose that is the fear of the white man. Jonte is a very attractive man. But my husband was worrying totally unnecessarily for Jonte is a quiet, withdrawn man. Very undemonstrative. He has always performed his work well and I have only felt the need to rebuke him on those rare occasions he comes in late. But after all this time he still seems afraid to look me in the eye. He has never picked up on my give-away signs. Do you understand, Hotty?”

  “Yes, Miss Martha,” Hortense replied with a grin. “Sometimes me wonder why yuh always tek ya breakfast ’pon de verandah. Now me know why. Jonte ah tickle ya fancy.”

  Martha chuckled, Hortense’s candid humour a relief to her. “But why should he notice me? I am a white woman approaching middle-age and the sun withers my skin. Maybe if he had seen me in my ballet days he wouldn’t have been so apathetic. Then again, perhaps Jonte has always sensed my husband’s disquiet.”

  “Wha’ are yuh getting at, Miss Martha?” Hortense asked.

  “My dear, Hotty.” Martha finally turned around to face Hortense. “You are so naive. And that’s why I feel it is my duty just to give you a gentle warning. You will soon be in the motherland and you need to know certain peculiarities of the men there.”

  “Gentle warning about wha’?” Hortense wanted to know.

  “I know I continually talk about the times I watched Mr Bojangles perform on Broadway. But there was definitely a sadness within his eyes, although he was smiling. A look of unfulfilled promise. Although he could dance like a dream he was never offered a leading role in a MGM musical. The nearest Mr Bojangles came to a leading lady was dancing with the seven-year-old Shirley Temple. No dancing in a ballroom or down a neon-lit, curling staircase with Ginger Rogers for Mr Bojangles. You see, Hotty, it was the white man’s fear that derailed Mr Bojangles’ dreams and aspirations. It’s an unspoken fear. I have seen it in the way my husband regards Jonte. And as a white woman you begin
to wonder where that fear comes from. You even begin to imagine… experiencing relations with a black man. They don’t mind a black woman displaying their sexuality, but they have to be light-skinned to be truly accepted. Do you understand, Hotty?”

  Martha’s hidden gaze returned to Jonte who was bending over a flower bed, pulling out the weeds and forking the soil. His taut back muscles glistened beneath the morning sun. Hortense recalled the manner in which Martha’s husband always ran his eyes over her, making her feel so uncomfortable.

  Managing to restrain a grin, Hortense offered, “Miss Martha, me don’t waan to speak outta place. But if yuh waan to grine Jonte, den grine him! Me sure he won’t mind. Me husband tell me life is to enjoy. Look fe ya heaven ’pon earth.”

  Martha rocked back in laughter. “My dear, Hotty! I love the way Jamaicans can be so frank at times! You are so sweet. But, Hotty, between you and me, I know my husband has relations with a few of the, shall I say, ladies of the night. He ventures into town with his friends on a Saturday night and he returns with the scent of women on his body. The darker the better – they fascinate him. But, Hotty, even for a middle-class white lady who lives in Jamaica, there are lines etched into the sand that I cannot breach. And having any sort of relationship with a black man is one of them.”

  “But, Miss Martha, me still don’t understand ya warning.”

  “From what I understand, your Cilbert is an ambitious man. But that fear of the black man still very much persists. So when you reach England, be aware of it. Don’t let it break Cilbert’s spirit as he attempts to better himself, for obstacles and glass ceilings will be placed in his way. It will be something your sons will have to contend with also, I should imagine.”

  Closing her eyes, Hortense thought of England and wondered what form these obstacles and glass ceilings would take.

  Having had to listen to Hortense’s and Cilbert’s passionate lovemaking one April night in 1959, the following morning, Jenny asked Hortense if she would walk her to work. It was just before seven in the morning and vendors were pushing their carts to meet the Kingston commuters. Children, most of them dressed in khaki uniforms, were setting off for school. Higglers had already claimed their positions in Coronation market and the first road accident of the day saw a car knock over a cyclist – motorists blared their horns for someone to remove the victim and clear the road.

  “Hortense, me nah waan yuh to be offended by wha’ me ’ave to say,” said Jenny.

  “Offended by wha’?” asked Hortense.

  “Well. How cyan me put dis?”

  “Jenny, ya mout’ tie up inna knot? Talk to me an’ stop ya teasing.”

  “It’s really about Jacob,” revealed Jenny.

  “Wha’ about Jacob?”

  “Well, when him sleeping him don’t like to lissen to yuh an’ Cilbert ’aving ya fun.”

  “’Aving fun? Yuh mean sex, Jenny? If yuh say sex de Lord God will nah strike we down wid ah t’underbolt! Me an’ Cilbert married so wha’ is troubling Jacob?”

  Jenny had to pause to think of an answer. “Well, yuh know Jacob is ah deep religious mon. He jus’ don’t feel right when yuh an’ Cilbert enjoying yaself. It don’t boder me! But Jacob, yuh know, it mek him feel mighty embarrass.”

  Laughing out loud, Hortense had to stop walking to compose herself. “Wha’ yuh waan we to do, Jenny? Mek love inna de courtyard an’ mek everybody see? Or mebbe we shoulda gwarn to de lawn dance, strip off we garments an’ grine like de world is coming to an end? Giving crowd of people ah nex’ entertainment? Mebbe we should charge two dollar an’ Miss Laura cyan stan’ by de sidelines selling her wares.”

  “Jus’ be ah liccle bit quieter, Hortense,” asked Jenny, fretting that passers-by had heard the conversation. “Nuh mek so much blasted noise! It’s ah wonder de people who live ’pon Blue Mountain don’t hear ya scream.”

  “Me don’t scream, Jenny! Yuh asking me to mek love wid ah jackfruit inna me mout’ so me don’t mek nuh noise? Jenny, pleasure is mighty scarce wid de life we live so when it come me ’ave to enjoy it. Tell Jacob to stop his foolishness! Me never know he is so prude-like. How does he t’ink how he come into de world?”

  Later that night, before retiring to bed, Hortense whispered to Jacob, “nuh worry yaself, me will turn me volume down. De las’ t’ing me waan to do is upset ah preacher mon sensibilities. An’ if yuh really don’t waan to hear, why yuh don’t mek sweet love to Jenny an’ mek her scream so dat de people ’pon Blue Mountain cyan hear.”

  Bewildered, Jacob looked at Jenny who was looking at her most innocent. Hortense, unable to contain her mirth, roared with laughter.

  Two weeks later, Cilbert was climbing down from a telephone pylon. Collecting his tools he muttered to himself, “mon! Hot up der fe true! Now me gwarn to enjoy me birt’day tonight. Yes, sa. Me wonder if Hortense plan anyt’ing fe me? If she don’t me will tek her to Devon House fe ah nice meal an’ lissen to some calypso an’ mento. Yes, sa. Twenty-four today!”

  Wiping the sweat off his forehead he made his way down to Half Way Tree where he caught a bus back home. Upon arrival at the government yard, he spotted Hortense and Laura returning home. They were pushing a cart upon which bagfuls of groceries were catching a ride.

  “Cilby!” called Hortense. “Me glad yuh reach home quick! Me buy ya favourite lamb shanks to cook tonight. Yes, mon. Gwarn inside an’ tek ya res’.”

  Kissing Hortense upon her cheek, Cilbert smiled and said, “mebbe liccle later we cyan go fe ah drink? Yes’ sa! Devon House sound good to yuh?”

  Wrapping her arms around Cilbert’s neck, Hortense kissed him fully on the mouth. “It would be so nice to see people wait ’pon we fe ah change.”

  Cilbert went to cool off his face at the standpipe as Hortense entered her home with her shopping. Someone was already cooking in the kitchen. Hortense went to investigate.

  Seasoning generous portions of lamb shanks with jerk and chilli, was Jenny. Hortense dropped her bags upon the floor in disbelief. “Jenny, wha’ ya doing?”

  Her sleeves rolled up and her palms caked in seasoning, Jenny answered, “me know dat yuh working wid Laura today so me decide to start cook Cilbert’s meal. Me only work half day today. Yuh waan help me peel de avocados?”

  “Me cyan’t believe dis!” shouted Hortense. “Me stop by ah market an’ buy de food! It was MY treat! Now yuh gwarn an’ spoil it! COME OUTTA DE KITCHEN BEFORE ME STRIKE YUH DOWN!”

  “But, Hortense,” replied Jenny. “When yuh finish work wid Laura yuh complain dat yuh foot so tired. So me jus’ trying to help.”

  “Help? It’s MY husband’s birt’day an’ ME should cook fe him ’pon him birt’day! NUHBODY ELSE!”

  “But, Hortense, me don’t finish yet. Yuh cyan help me.”

  Storming out into the courtyard, Hortense yelled Jamaican obscenities. Jacob, who was talking with Mercy, ran back to his own house to see what the shouting was about. He and Cilbert both entered the kitchen at the same time.

  “Wha’ ah gwarn?” asked Cilbert. “Why Hortense run inna Laura house cussing pure bad word?”

  Staring at the seasoned lamb that was now ready for frying, Jenny began to sob. “Me always try me best to help out! Me jus’ waan to help but Hortense ketch ah rage. Me don’t know why she ah so vex wid me. Me love me sister so much an’ it pain me so to hear her cuss me like dat. Me so grateful dat she look after me since me here inna Trenchtown so me jus’ ah try an’ pay her back. Yuh understan’, Cilbert?”

  Jenny covered her face with her palms and broke down. “Jacob, see to her,” said Cilbert. “Me will try an’ cool Hortense’s fire.”

  As Jacob offered Jenny a shoulder to cry on, he couldn’t help but think that his wife had never been so eager to cook him a birthday treat.

  Cilbert’s birthday dinner was consumed in near silence. Only Jacob attempted conversation. Later that night, Cilbert took Hortense to Devon House where they drank pineapple-rum cocktails and danced to a calypso band. Jenny busied herself washing
clothes, not wanting to talk with anyone. But Jacob watched her secretly, his heart disturbed about something.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Late June, 1960

  The government yard where Hortense and Jenny lived was orange-lit by the embers of fading coal fires. Smoke from thousands of Trenchtown kitchens and improvised cooking vessels, laced with the lingering aroma of chicken, cow foot and peppers, obscured the perfect night sky; shanty dwellers would rise in the morning covered in a film of blackened ash. Tired women, humming spirituals to themselves, were hanging their washing on string lines. Men pondered their working days and how they would meet their next rent payments as they downed bottles of beer and gnawed fowl bones. Someone was complaining loudly about the lack of water inside the communal shower. The Folkes Brothers ‘Oh Carolina’, competing against the distant sound of a rastafarian knuckling a haunting rhythm on a Nyabinghi drum, crackled out from a bruised transistor radio that was hanging from a rusty screw. An old lady, a black scarf wrapped tightly around her head and relaxing in a tatty, uneven chair outside her home, nodded and tapped her feet in time to the music. An open Bible rested upon her lap but her eyes were closing.

  Gazing lovingly at the new British passport in his hands, Cilbert, sitting on the stoop outside his home, smiled and kissed the document. Hortense, snuggling beside her husband, kissed him upon his forehead. They both felt that the Kingston night was smiling at them and that the chance to improve their lives was now within reach. “Cyan yuh believe it, Hortense? We’re all British citizens! De passports say so! It’s ah fine t’ing we’re all going to England now becah after Independence dey will stop issue British passports.” Cilbert opened the document to the first page. “An’ Misser Hugh Foot, de governor general, sign it himself. Hortense, we jus’ as British as Miss Martha an’ de Queen ah Englan’. Isn’t dat such ah fine t’ing?”