Island Songs

by Alex Wheatle

  “Of course,” Jenny replied. “Jacob an’ meself will mingle wid our fellow passengers. It’ll be good fe dem to know der is ah minister ’pon board, ah mon of good standing.”

  Wiping her mouth with a serviette, Hortense stood up and departed the dining hall. She shot a wounding glance in Almyna’s direction. An anxious Cilbert followed his wife, careful not to get too close to her.

  Upon reaching the cabin, Hortense locked it from the inside once Cilbert had entered. “Yuh still find her tickling ya fancy?” asked Hortense, her eyes now insecure, her expression fragile.

  “Of course not,” lied Cilbert, trying to master his nerves.

  For a moment, Hortense thought of her brother David and how he promised that he would always return to her. She recalled the strength of David’s gaze and the conviction in it. She searched Cilbert’s eyes for confirmation that he would never leave her. Satisfied, she walked slowly into Cilbert’s embrace and they kissed and caressed each other’s faces hungrily. Clothes were quickly discarded and scattered upon the floor. There was an urgency and ferocity in Hortense’s love-making that Cilbert never experienced before as Hortense pressed her face against his, wanting to be utterly consumed into his body. He felt it was almost spiritual, a meeting of kindred souls.

  The next morning, Cilbert accompanied his wife for a walk upon the passenger deck; a girly smile was fixed upon Hortense’s face. Together they peered into the horizon, wondering what fate had in store for them. Jacob and Jenny strolled behind them, both concealing their anxiety at the absence of land. Jacob was careful to avoid straying too close to the railings. They all greeted fellow passengers warmly and paused for short conversations that were mainly about the need for Jamaican chefs and the body odour of Italian waiters. “Dem smell bad,” said Jenny to a young Jamaican couple. “An’ it seem dat der mudders forget to teach dem how to scrub dem fingernail!”

  It was Cilbert who spotted Almyna walking towards him in her unique style, arm-in-arm with Hubert.

  “Good marnin, Cilby,” Almyna greeted, over-smiling. “It’s good to tek in de sea breezes isn’t it? May me introduce yuh to me husband, Hubert.”

  Hubert took off his felt hat and held it poised over his head in a formal gesture. “Good morning, Cilbert and Hortense I believe.” He replaced his hat as Hortense inwardly seethed that Almyna must have spoken about her. “Isn’t this a coincidence? For two people to grow up together now finding themselves upon the same ship years after they had lost touch.”

  “Yes it is,” returned Cilbert, almost having to check himself from bowing. “May me tek dis opportunity to bless ya voyage.”

  “Thank you, Cilbert,” smiled Hubert, recognising the exaggerated manners of someone from Jamaican peasant stock addressing an aristocrat.

  Jacob and Jenny offered their greetings, Jenny somewhat reluctantly. She couldn’t conceal her animosity towards Almyna and thought the excessive display of politeness was pathetic.

  “Yes, Hubert,” started Almyna. “Hortense an’ Jenny hail from de Claremont valley inna St Anne, nah far from where me an’ Cilby born an’ grow.”

  “A beautiful and bountiful part of Jamaica, by all accounts,” said Hubert. “The Eden of the Caribbean.”

  “An’ poor too,” added Almyna. “Hortense an’ Jenny are de daughters of ah mon who dey call Moonshine. Mysterious an’ dark Moonshine is, an’, me nuh waan to mek nuh offence, but people say him ’ave pagan ways an’ underworld customs. Moonshine don’t walk de ways of de Lord an’ him never go ah church. His name spread far an’ wide an’ him come from de seed of wild Maroons. He sings in strange tongues. Some say he’s in league wid de devil.” Almyna concluded her sentence with a dismissive glance at Hortense.

  Hortense’s grip upon Cilbert’s left hand tightened considerably and Hubert, embarrassed by his wife’s unkind words, tried to smile away the obvious tension. “This voyage has been pleasant so far, but no doubt we will encounter more troubled waters and—”

  Suddenly, a fist detonated against Almyna’s left jaw, wiping her self-satisfied grin off her face and knocking her off her feet. Her back thudded against the deck and as she rolled over, she caught a strong whiff of salt. Jenny, her rage not satisfied, leapt upon Almyna like a tigress seizing its prey. Before anyone could respond, she viced Almyna’s throat with her long fingers, squeezing to the absolute limit that her strength allowed. Pure hatred was within her eyes. “Yuh ever say anyt’ing about me papa again an’ as Massa God is me witness me will kill yuh. An’ ya fate will be worse dan dat if yuh come near to me sister husband once more. STAY away from Cilbert!” Almyna gasped and choked, her head rocking violently from side to side.

  Jacob and Hubert dashed to pull Jenny off Almyna. Hubert was mindful of the threats made by someone of a Coromanty bloodline and decided against retaliation; raised in a home kept by servants and maids, Hubert had heard in bedtime stories about the ‘blood-lust’ and ‘savagery’ of the Maroons. Hortense and Cilbert looked on astonished, their mouths agape.

  “Mad like dem fader!” screamed Almyna. “Jezebel pagans! Dem sister are disciples of Old Screwface!”

  Ashamed of his wife’s petulance and shocked at Jenny’s brutality, Hubert hauled Almyna away, trying to comfort her. “Hubert! Do somet’ing about dem! Why yuh nah fight fe me? She like ah mad bull! Pagans!”

  Rubbing the knuckles of her right fist, Jenny glanced regretfully at Hortense and marched off, tears were filling her eyes. Jacob went after her but Hortense restrained him. “Let me see to her, Jacob. Somet’ing else dan dat red skin bitch Almyna ah trouble her. Me know she anxious to mek dis trip. Nah worry yaself. She’ll be alright.”

  Hortense found Jenny in their cabin. She was sitting on a bunk bent over, her head almost touching her knees and she was holding her face within her palms, stifling her weeping. Hortense sat beside her and placed an arm over Jenny’s shoulders. “Jenny, dat was one mighty t’ump yuh give to dat red skin bitch,” Hortense chuckled. “But me cyan fight me own battles now. We’re nah der ah school. Yuh don’t ’ave to defend me nuh more. Cilbert will never leave me fe de likes of her. She jus’ jealous. So me cyan tek whatever Almyna say to me an’ show de udder cheek.”

  “She went too far,” wept Jenny. “Who she t’ink she is? Talking about Papa like dat! Me shoulda fling her overboard.”

  “Me feel dat way too but yuh jus’ affe ignore her,” counselled Hortense. “She jus’ ignorant an’ all becah she ’ave ah lighter complexion she go on high an’ mighty like she an aristocrat. But remember wha’ sweet Gran’papa Neville tell we years ago, de higher de monkey climb, de more he get exposed. Almyna will get expose de same way.”

  Jenny kept on sobbing, her wails becoming louder. “Is der somet’ing else dat ah trouble yuh, Jenny?” asked Hortense. “All of we are nervous about dis trip so mebbe it put ah strain ’pon yuh. An’ me don’t know wha’ yuh an’ Mama argue about t’ree days ago but she love yuh dearly. An’ Papa too.”

  Moving her hands from upon her face, Jenny turned to gaze into her sister’s eyes. Her lips moved to speak but no sound came out. She secretly wished they were children again, depending on each other with nobody else interfering. An’ Mama didn’t love anyone, she thought, but she kept this emotion to herself.

  “Come, Jenny,” urged Hortense. “Remember we promise, we don’t keep anyt’ing from each udder. Not ah damn t’ing.”

  Palming away her tears, Jenny looked out the porthole window. There she gazed for two minutes until she said, “Hortense, me nuh sure if me love Jacob. Mebbe me shoulda stayed home.”

  “Now yuh cyan’t really mean dat,” replied Hortense. “Jacob is ah lovely mon an’ yuh mean de world to him. It’s ah big, big t’ing going ’pon dis trip an’ all of we emotions are all over de place. Me had doubts too. But yuh will get over it. It’s jus’ nerves dat ah ketch yuh. Wait an’ see ’til we reach Englan’, everyt’ing will be alright.”

  Hortense kissed Jenny upon her forehead and embraced her. Jenny was about to confess
something but feeling the familiarity and closeness of her sister, she closed her eyes and imagined they were back at home as children, curling up to each other in bed and listening to the hoots of the patus hidden away in the mighty Blue Mahoes.

  Following the incident on deck, Cilbert led Jacob to the dining hall. Cilbert ordered a coffee for himself and an orange juice for Jacob. They sat without saying a word for ten minutes, listening to the clatter of the breakfast dishes being washed up, until Cilbert remarked, “Lord me God, ya Jenny ’ave ah fierce temper ’pon her! She t’ump like one of dem big cane cutter. Poor Almyna mus’ ah wonder wha’ lick her. Mon, even de mighty Sonny Liston woulda ketch ’fraid if him see Jenny inna action.”

  Jacob expressed a hint of pride. “Yes, mon. Jenny cyan be de most calm girl y’know, calm like de waters inna Fern Gully lake. But when she lose her temper yuh affe step inna ya shelter an’ wait ’til de storm blow out. Back inna Claremont dem call Hortense ‘Fire Nettle’, but dey should call Jenny ‘Raging Thorn’.”

  “Ah fine description,” Cilbert nodded. “But nex’ time yuh see Hubert yuh better apologise ’pon Jenny behalf.”

  “Yes, yuh never know. Hubert might mek ah complaint to de captain.”

  They both sipped their drinks. “How is ya head?” asked Cilbert. “De rum still ah swim?”

  “It’ll be much better when I sight land once more.”

  “Well, only twenty days to go,” stated Cilbert.

  “Yuh sure ya frien’, Lester, will be der when we arrive at Sout’ampton?”

  “Of course,” answered Cilbert. “Lester will nah let we down. Me know him from me university days.”

  “Wha’ is Brixton like?” Jacob wanted to know.

  “Well, Lester say it very close to de middle ah London. Plenty, plenty brick houses all over de place. An’ many of we own people. Lester in him letters say de people walk so fast – if yuh t’ink Kingston people walk quick yuh don’t see not’ing yet!”

  “An’ dis place where we will be staying, ya sure it alright? I don’t waan tek Jenny to live inna run down place. Yuh know how she love complain.”

  “Jacob, stop boder yaself. Lester is ah mon to be trusted. Lester’s brudder serve wid de Royal Air Force inna de war an’ he has been inna Englan’ since 1946. An’ Lester been living inna Englan’ since 1956, so we’ll be well looked after.”

  “I hope so,” said Jacob, not entirely convinced.

  “It will be so,” asserted Cilbert. “Ah day or two after we arrive we ’ave to forward to de labour exchange an’ register we name. Jacob, yuh give any t’ought to wha’ kinda job yuh waan? Becah me know yuh waan to set up ya own church but yuh cyan’t do dat straight away.”

  Jacob paused to sip his orange juice. “I am not skilled like yuh an’ I don’t believe I cyan find employment inna London looking after hog! Dat is de only t’ing me cyan do apart from me service to de Most High. But I am nuh ’fraid of hard work so mebbe me will perform some labouring ’pon ah building site or wherever. But one day, mark me very words, I will ’ave me own church fe my own people inna London. It mus’ be strange fe our brudders an’ sisters inna Englan’ to step inna white mon church. I feel dis is de reason de Most High place me ’pon dis earth’.”

  Cilbert admired the ambition in Jacob’s words and they shook hands and embraced. For the first time since they had known each other they felt like brothers.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three days out of Kingston. The Genovese Madonna steamed through the Windward straits and the passengers looking out from portside could make out the eastern Cuban shoreline shimmering in the distance. A crew member aloft in the crows-nest could see Guantanamo Bay and the masts of vessels docked there. To him they appeared like white needles bobbing in the blue yonder. Those on starboard, a few of whom were recalling the heroic deeds of the once enslaved Toussaint L’Ouverture that they had heard in story-time sessions from village elders, hoped to sight the western fringes of Haiti. But only endless glinting sea and cloudless sky met their eyes.

  Two days later the Italian-made vessel weaved its way through the Turks and Caicos islands. Cilbert, mocking the protruding lumps of land that dotted this area of the Caribbean sea, wondered how the islanders could stage a cricket match. “If George Headley was batting at his brilliant best de captain of de bowling side would affe place him fielders inna de ocean! Ha Ha! Wha’ ah fine joke!”

  “George Headley was an excellent batsman,” a Barbadian man agreed, adopting an English accent. He was one of only a few Barbadians on board. “But Headley can’t touch the genius of Garfield Sobers. And Sobers come from Barbados. A rather small island.”

  “Damn blasted Bajee people dem!” Cilbert muttered under his breath while cutting his eyes at the suited Barbadian. “Dem t’ink dey are better dan everybody. Look at him trying to talk English an’ wearing him shirt an’ tie. Did Bajees ever put up resistance to de white mon? Did dey ever try an’ escape from slavery? Nuh, sa! Dey accepted slavery too easily an’ now dey try an’ mimic de white mon. Bajee uptown pussy…”

  “Oh, Cilbert, stop ya bragga an’ cuss cuss,” censured Hortense. “Yuh don’t t’ink some Jamaican mon t’ink dem high an’ mighty an’ try talk de queen’s English while dem ah wear dem t’ree piece suit?”

  “Mebbe so,” said Cilbert, raising his voice. “But we never pretend dat we don’t come from slave!”

  By the seventh day, the ship had crossed the Tropic of Cancer, a thousand miles south of Bermuda. The wind speed had picked up and the chopping seas were veined with white froth. Maverick gusts and breezes curled around the upper deck walkways, stealing through open doors and reddening crew members’ noses. West Indians, viewing the blue nothingness through watering, squinted eyes, recalled childhood history lessons where they had been told that in Christopher Columbus’s day, navigators dreaded to sail into unchartered waters for fear of falling over the edge of the world. Peering into the unmoving horizon, a few observers could now understand that horror.

  That morning, returning from the laundry room, passing the boiler house and the engineering workshops, Hortense heard amid the general din a muffled groan from a linen cupboard. Deciding to investigate, she opened the door and there beyond the shelves, crouched in a corner, was a man dressed only in a stained vest and grubby grey chinos. His eyes were yellowed and the beard that covered his face concealed the hollows in his cheeks. The brown cloth cap he was wearing seemed too small for his head and a shanty town aroma streamed off him like emissions of rum from a kerb-side, smashed bottle. “Lord bless me gran’mama knee-bone,” Hortense exclaimed. “Wha’ yuh doing inside der? Yuh ah madmon? De sway ah de ship turn yuh into ah damn fool? Ya press banana skin inna ya eye?”

  “Nuh, nuh, Miss,” the man replied, looking over Hortense’s shoulder to check if anybody else was around. “Me ah stowaway, Miss. Me climb up ’pon de anchor chain back inna Kingston harbour. But me t’ought de ship woulda reach Englan’ after two days. An’ now me hungry. Very hungry.”

  “Yuh ’ave de sense yuh was born wid?” scolded Hortense. “Yuh go ah school? Who tell yuh dat Englan’ is only two day sail away? Englan’ is ’pon de udder side ah de world! T’ree weeks dis journey tek. Mebbe four. Lord me God! Me see some foolish mon inna me time but yuh mus’ be de king of de idiot dem.”

  “Me never go ah school,” the man admitted, dropping his head.

  “Wha’ is ya name?” Hortense wanted to know.

  “Bruce. Misser Bruce Clarke.”

  “Well, Misser Bruce Clarke,” Hortense stated, her tone unforgiving. “Wha’ mek yuh go on dis foolish escapade?”

  “Well, Miss. Me born an’ grow inna Maypen. Could nah find nuh work der so me forward to Kingston. Could nah find nuh place to live so me shack up inna de Dungle. Could nah find nuh work inna Kingston neider so me decide to tek me chance ’pon dis ship an’ forward to Englan’. Plenty mon tell me de streets ah London are paved in gold. So dat is wha’ me ah look for. An’ if me find it me gwarn sen’ it back t
o me poor sweet mama who cyan’t walk so good.”

  Hortense shook her head. “People tell yuh wrong information. If yuh forward to Englan’ yuh affe work hard fe every red cent.” Hortense studied the pathetic demeanour of the stowaway and she remembered the story of how her own father had befriended Kwarhterleg. “Anyway, Bruce, nah worry yaself,” she assured. “Me won’t expose yuh to de crew. Dem cyan’t understan’ ah word me say anyway. Stay here an’ wait ’til me come. Me will find food fe yuh but dat is all me cyan do. An’ when everybody gone to dem bed me beg yuh to wash yaself. Ya smell like ah block-up Trenchtown sewer dat even de fatty cockroach dread!”

  “Yes, me will do dat. T’ank yuh, Miss.”

  “Me name is Mrs Hortense Huggins.”

  Before Bruce could utter another thank you, the door was pulled shut and he could hear Hortense’s fading steps. He retreated to his dark corner.

  Returning back to her cabin, Hortense revealed to Cilbert, Jacob and Jenny what she had discovered.

  “Yuh mus’ report him!” shouted Cilbert. “It seem dat dis mon never work ah day in him life! Lazy him ah lazy. We scrimp an’ save to board dis ship an’ dis Bruce travel fe free. Why should we sponsor him an’ protect him? He could be ah ginall or ah trickster.”

  “Yes, an’ him could be dangerous,” added Jenny. “Say dis Bruce get ketch an’ dem find out we help him? Me don’t waan to be seen as ah accomplice to ah criminal act. It will damage we reputation, especially Jacob becah he is ah preacher. When we reach Englan’ dey might deport we. Sen’ we back inna great shame. How yuh t’ink poor Papa will tek de news? We mus’ report him to de aut’orities.”

  Listening quietly to the debate, Jacob recalled the days he ventured and spread the gospel in the Dungle and the solemn dignity he had found among the people there. “Bruce is our brudder,” he asserted in a soft voice. “An’ if we don’t help him we are failing in our fait’. Yuh mus’ help ya neighbour! So de good book say.”