Island Songs

by Alex Wheatle

  “Help ya neighbour?” argued Cilbert. “It was neighbours who cramp an’ paralyse me inna Trenchtown! It was neighbours who t’ief we garments off we clothes-line ah nighttime. It was neighbours who t’ief Wilfred Gray’s Sunday fowl! Me don’t trus’ nuhbody me don’t know. An’ if ya God don’t like dat let him try live inna Trenchtown an’ see how long it tek neighbours to t’ief him halo. If yuh waan to help dis Bruce den me don’t waan anyt’ing to do wid it. Yuh don’t hear of de saying, kick dahg an’ him will respect an’ fear yuh but if yuh treat de dog kindly he will waan ya respect an’ won’t fear yuh.”

  “Wise words, Cilbert,” concurred Jenny. “An’ nor shall I help dis mon.”

  Jacob looked at Jenny as if he was questioning her soul. Feeling morally bereft, Jenny departed the cabin. “Me need to get some air. Too stuffy inna dis place. An’ de ceiling too low. It mek me feel claustrophobic.”

  Cilbert turned to Jacob. “Dis is ya responsibility. But if t’ings go wrong, don’t expect Massa God to come down an’ help yuh.” Cilbert faced his wife and searched her eyes for agreement. “Hortense, me sorry, but dat is how me feel. Yuh two decide wha’ yuh affe do. Me gone to de bar to look ah rum drink.”

  “Yes, yuh do dat,” returned Hortense. “Yuh spend more time der dan wid ya wife. Mebbe yuh tek ah fancy to dat reeking bar-mon wid de long whisker an’ nuff missing teet’. Him smell like bad breat’ donkey dat wander inna dutty pig pen.”

  “Me spend more time der becah ah liccle fire-water cyan’t give me nuh argument. Dat is one t’ing me cyan’t stand wid yuh, Hortense – yuh always t’ink ya right an’ ya naggy naggy ways start get ’pon me nerves.”

  Cilbert pulled at the cabin door with force and left it swinging upon its hinges. He marched along the corridor cursing under his breath. Jacob and Hortense glanced at each other, sure in their minds they were taking the right course of action.

  During subsequent meal times, Hortense, ignoring the brutal glares from Cilbert and Jenny, would slip out of the dining hall with a plastic container full of food. Bruce, afraid to emerge out of his hiding place, accepted his nourishment gratefully. Jacob visited Bruce in the evenings and upon discovering that Bruce was unable to read and write, quietly read passages of the Bible to him. Jacob also presented Bruce with two pairs of his old trousers and three shirts.

  Happiest when he felt he was most needed by his own people, Jacob began to conduct prayer meetings upon the passenger deck on Sunday mornings and soon the heartfelt sound of a gospel choir could be heard in the ship’s wake rising above the ripplings of a tamborine that a woman was thrashing against her thigh. Many non-church-goers attended Jacob’s improvised services, including Almyna and Hubert. They believed that in displaying their presence, Massa God would grant them mercy if catastrophe blighted the voyage. Cilbert thought the whole thing was a ridiculous, hypocritical farce and spent Sunday mornings gambling with poker dice, but the onlooking Italian crew members, the vast majority of them staunch Catholics, began to warm to the Jamaicans.

  On Friday and Saturday night dance nights, held in the dining hall once the tables were pushed to the walls, the Italian band, accustomed to playing instrumental versions of classical arias, were now experimenting with Jamaican ska. Their attempts never approached the heights of The Skatellites, the crack band of musicians who were hotting up the dance halls and lawns in Kingston, but the Jamaicans, starved of cultural nourishment since their boarding of the ship, turned the dining hall of The Genovese Madonna into a Trenchtown lawn dance. Only the first class passengers sniffed and whispered unkind comments. “Look at them downtown people!” one lady said. “We try our best to represent our country but them ghetto people force the band to play the devil’s music. I’ve never felt so much shame!”

  Fifteen days out of Kingston, the passenger vessel docked at Puerto de la Cruz in Tenerife. A number of sea-sick West Indians, observing the mountainous island from a distance, despaired as they wrongly assumed they were still in the Caribbean. Their relief was obvious when they were informed that the ship was only two hundred miles or so west from the coast of Morocco. “Me was only pretending dat me t’ought we was still inna de Caribbean sea,” one man laughed. “Den why me see eye-water ’pon ya face?” another returned. Images of Humphrey Bogart’s lop-sided grin, garbed in a white jacket and draining a cool cocktail in a Casablanca bar bombarded all of their minds.

  Skirting the north African coast and splitting the strait of Gibraltar, The Genovese Madonna entered the warm waters of the Mediterranean. As the ship headed north-east through the Ligurian Sea, the passengers sensed an increased thrill and relief from their hosts who were looking forward to returning home. “Beautiful Genoa!” exclaimed one sailor to Cilbert in his stuttering English. “We’ll be back in time to celebrate the feast of the Madonna della Guardia, the protector of sailors.”

  “Good fe yuh,” half-smiled Cilbert, not impressed. He was still smarting from his latest quarrel with Hortense.

  “It’s a great pity you don’t have the papers to walk around my beautiful city,” said the sailor. “We are a very welcoming people and for hundreds of years we have seen peoples and merchants from all over the world. Many tourists make their way to the Piazza Acquaverde to see the statue of our most famous son, Christopher Columbus. His voyage to the New World was blessed by the Pope and the divine Madonna guided him herself.”

  Cilbert sneered and narrowed his eyes. “Columbus! Christopher damn Columbus! He was ah damn blasted liar! He discover not’ing! Der was people inna Jamaica before him. De tobacco-smoking, mild-mannered Arawaks fe one. An’ all Columbus do is bring ah great evil to de island. Yes, Columbus was Old Screwface’s disciple. May him soul get roasted an’ nyam by de dragons of hell fe all time!”

  The Italian seaman, not understanding Cilbert’s sudden anger, stormed off muttering Latin obscenities.

  Docking at the port of Genoa, the Jamaicans were reminded of Kingston harbour as they viewed the green-caped mountains that backdropped the city. They could see narrow, winding streets with aged, bent houses and shops and they wondered about the people who lived there. “Where are de white people palaces?” one Kingstonian asked. Bruce, who had stolen upon the passenger deck, was dismayed because there was no sight of happy men dressed in silks and robes, juggling nuggets of gold. Maybe he would witness this scenario in London, he thought.

  A dozen of the first-class passengers, suited and booted, stepped ashore and spent their time strolling through the many art museums within the city, regarding paintings and sculptures as if they were seasoned art critics from the Sunday broadsheets. Others, including Hubert and Almyna, dined at fine restaurants where they attempted to impress the waiters with the small number of Italian words they had picked up from their voyage. Hubert noticed that the Genovese men were especially pleasant and complimentary to Almyna. Boosted by the lavish comments about her looks and her smooth Egyptian-like skin, Almyna giggled and underlined her Kingstonian catwalk strut whenever she bade farewell to her admirers. Hubert fumed under his thin moustache.

  Following minor maintenance work and a change of crew, the ship set course to her final destination, Southampton, England. The West Indians, including those who had fallen to illness thus far, felt a growing excitement. Many of them remained on the passenger deck for the best part of the journey, all wanting to be the first to sight the shores of the Motherland. Jacob, ignoring his dread of the sea, joined them at the railings. Even those who slept in more spacious cabins joined the second-class passengers in raucous renditions of ‘God Save Our Gracious Queen’.

  Searching in her suitcase for her best frock, Jenny, trying to imagine how English ladies dressed, said to Hortense. “As soon as we reach Sout’ampton, me ’ave to write ah letter to Papa. Tell him we reach safely. An’ Gran’papa Neville will affe stop sacrificing fowl fe we deliverance.”

  Jenny laughed at her own jesting and Hortense sensed that her sister had left her doubts and worries somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic
. She took hold of Jenny’s left hand. “Me did tell yuh everyt’ing will be alright. We’re starting ah new life inna de motherland an’ our children will be born English. Cyan yuh imagine dat?”

  Embracing her sister and fantasising of the good life that the country may offer her, Jenny replied, “yes, so dey will. Cilbert will mek ah great fader an’ me sure his mighty ambition an’ determination will pass on to him children.”

  “An’ Jacob will pass on him devoutness an’ fait’ to ya children,” returned Hortense.

  Jenny didn’t add to Hortense’s praising of Jacob.

  Twenty-two days out of Kingston, The Genovese Madonna, under an overcast sky, skirted the Isle of Wight, bypassed the coastal town of Gosport and steamed serenely up the Solent. Yachts and other small vessels dotted the murky-green sea. In dry docks, ships were being constructed and repaired by burly men wearing boiler suits and hard hats. Looking around her, Jenny remarked. “Everyt’ing look so grey. Even de people who ah work ’pon de ships dem – grey like hurricane sky. Me never see ah cloud so broad. Don’t it ever move? An’ it cold! De north pole mus’ be close.”

  Hortense found herself nodding her agreement. Cilbert, who had half-expected to be welcomed by marching bands and a jovial local mayor dressed in all his finery, stared out blankly, trying his best not to display the sense of disappointment he was feeling. He turned to look at Jacob and figure out if he shared the anti-climax. But Jacob was no longer standing by his side. “Where Jacob gone?” he asked.

  Cilbert imagined London to be much brighter, full of happy smiling people who would be fascinated to learn about Jamaicans and their traditions. He convinced himself that he would be greeted in the street and asked, ‘how do you do’. In his letters, Lester had described the bustling streets of the West End and Cilbert could foresee Jamaican restaurants, bars and clubs that played Caribbean music. He chuckled to himself as he imagined white people jiving to calypso and dining on chicken, rice and peas.

  Disembarking from the ship and taking her first step upon English soil, Jenny felt that she had been severed from a part of her identity and history. She couldn’t help but think how out of place her father and her grandfather would be in her present surroundings. Recalling childhood suppers she remembered how her father made such a big deal if he happened to sight a ‘sweaty white mon’ mounted on his horse, continually swabbing his forehead with a soiled handkerchief. Now, she felt girdled by these white people, all walking so quickly, brushing past her as if they were all trying to locate misplaced cash or in need of a toilet. They appeared so grim and passed each other without offering a greeting or a nod of acknowledgement. She noticed Hortense squeezing the colour out of Cilbert’s right hand.

  “Englan’!” Cilbert exclaimed, not noticing the bemused looks from the natives. “Land of opportunity!”

  Smiling nervously, Hortense glanced behind her at the sea and for a moment considered a return to the ship. She tried to summon up courage but the tears welled up in her eyes. She imagined her brother David stepping ashore in New Orleans over a decade ago but at least there had been a significant number of black people there already. In his letters to Cilbert, Lester may have eloquently described the port of Southampton and the city of London, but he failed to relate the fear and sense of loneliness upon arrival.

  Not relaxing her grip on Cilbert’s hand, Hortense now knew how that Chinese family felt when they first arrived in Claremont. They were ignored by almost everybody. Nobody would purchase their groceries and one night, someone set fire to their shop front. Hortense recalled the look of the Chinese mother the morning after the incident. She didn’t say anything but her eyes were desperate, pleading to be accepted. From standing at her family stall, Hortense made four steps towards the Chinese woman with the intention of offering ‘ah good marnin’. But sensing the eyes of other Claremontonians upon her, Hortense paused and stepped back. She now wondered if the English would treat her the same.

  Anxiety written over his face, Jacob wondered if Bruce Clarke had survived his plunge into the Solent. Jacob, after failing to collect enough cash from other immigrants to secure Bruce’s passage, had counselled Bruce to give himself up and perhaps the authorities would let him remain on English soil, but Bruce would not yield. “Me nah gwarn to return to Jamaica,” he insisted. “Not’ing der fe me apart from de dutty Dungle! Me will tek me chances inna de sea water an’ swim to de shore.”

  Reluctantly, Jacob led Bruce to a secluded area of the stern of the ship. There he offered Bruce a few bank notes and a fistful of change. Bruce placed his right hand upon Jacob’s left shoulder in a gesture of thanks and smiled. “Pray fe me, preacher-mon? Yuh is de bes’ friend me ever had.”

  Without hesitation, lacking style or grace, Bruce plummeted into the sea, carrying a small bundle of clothes wrapped up in a plastic bag. Jacob, his heart thumping furiously, didn’t spot Bruce’s head emerge above the waters until after five seconds, bobbing with the trailing wake of the ship. Jacob couldn’t help but think he had helped a man to his death.

  Having passed through customs without as much fuss and questions as he had expected, Cilbert saw an impressively tall black man wearing a dark blue suit, skinny red tie and a black pork-pie hat waiting by a newspaper stand. He had the ready smile and confidence of a lead singer from a doo-wop band. “Lester! Over here, sa!”

  Cilbert caught a glimpse of Hubert and Almyna meeting two white men and a mixed race woman. For a short second, Almyna offered him an over-the-shoulder, regretful glance before she was led away.

  Lester Hibbert swaggered to meet his old friend.

  “He look like ah joy bwai,” Jenny whispered to Jacob. “Like dem mon inna Trenchtown who ’ave plenty, plenty women an’ even more kidren. Dey never sleep inna de same bed two nights running an’ dey always ketch crab-louse ’pon der business.”

  “Don’t judge by appearance, sweetheart.” replied Jacob. “Give him ah chance. After all, he come down from London to greet we.”

  Cilbert and Lester embraced and remarked on how each other looked since their days at university. Hortense soon drew Lester’s attention. “So dis is de beautiful Hortense? Well, Cilbert, yuh strike gold fe true! Nuh wonder yuh never invite me back to Claremont an’ introduce me.”

  Hortense felt her cheeks warming as Jenny whispered into Jacob’s ear, a hint of envy germinating in her mind. “Me told yuh so! Dis Lester is ah joy bwai. Me gwarn to watch him closely in case him try an’ corrupt me sweet sister.”

  With the introductions concluded, Lester led the new arrivals to the train station. Struck by her new surroundings, Hortense marvelled at the way people queued at bus stops and taxi ranks. Everything was so orderly. Crossing the roads without motorists blaring their horns was a pleasure. She felt she was being stared at by the natives but this only encouraged her to lift her chin and walk tall. Yes! Look ’pon me people of Englan’, she wanted to shout out. Me’s ah proud Jamaican woman born inna Claremont where de fields an’ leaf so green!

  “Jacob! Jacob!” Jenny nudged her husband. “See how de white people ah look ’pon we? Don’t dey ever see black people before? Dey look ’pon we like ah city mon look ’pon ah bull grining ah cow. Ungodly dem ah ungodly!”

  “Everyt’ing will be alright,” calmed Cilbert. “Inna Sout’ampton dem nuh used to black people. Inna London it will be different. People will come up to we an’ introduce demselves. Watch an’ see!”

  “Haven’t our people been arriving at dis port fe many years now?” queried Jacob.

  “Well, dat true,” answered Cilbert. “But nuh too many Jamaicans live here. Once yuh live inna area de people der get used to yuh.”

  “Me hope so!” remarked Jenny.

  “Wha’ do yuh say, Lester?” Hortense asked. “Do de people like we?”

  “Well, er. Cilbert is right when him say dat de places where Jamaicans don’t live, de people look ’pon we funny. But inna London we don’t ’ave dat problem. Jus’ ah few small minded people don’t like we presence.
”

  “Jus’ ah few!” Jenny wondered. “Yuh sure it jus’ ah few?”

  Lester failed to answer again.

  They caught the ten a.m. train from Southampton to Paddington, London. Feeling exhausted, Hortense rested her head against Cilbert’s shoulder and tried to catch some sleep. Sitting opposite her with a biro poised over a notepad, Jenny peered out of the window, marvelling at the train’s speed and the green countryside that flashed by. She imagined how her father would enjoy trodding the flat lands and for a moment wondered about the fate of the family donkey.

  Meanwhile, Jacob was pouring over his newspaper. There was an article about Francis Chichester who had just set a new sailing time record of forty days from Plymouth to New York. Jacob chuckled at the name of Chichester’s yacht, Gypsy Moth the Second. He wondered if the first Gypsy Moth had sunk in the Atlantic. Another front page lead was about an agreement between the British and French governments that work could commence soon on the Channel Tunnel. A smaller news item near the foot of the front page detailed the end of British rule in Cyprus. Jacob wondered when Jamaica would enjoy her independence.

  Cilbert, studying the back page of Jacob’s newspaper, couldn’t wrestle his eyes from a car advertisement; a newly designed three litre Rover with all the modern appliances priced at £1,715.10. If me work hard me will get meself one of dem, he promised to himself. Yes, sa, an’ when me get it me gwarn to tek ah photo of meself inna de car an’ sen’ it back to Trenchtown an’ mek de people me know realise dat me doing well fine inna Englan’.

  The train came to a halt at Paddington. Hortense got out blinking the sleep from her eyes. Seeing that she was weary, Cilbert linked arms with his wife and took the small suitcase she was carrying. Once Hortense’s train ticket had been accepted by an unsmiling barrier guard, Hortense saw a sobering sight. A middle-aged white woman, wearing a headscarf and a light blue overall, was pulling a grey metal bucket containing a mop, towards the train station’s public toilets. Her hands were protected by pink rubber gloves and her grim expression matched her task ahead. “Cyan yuh imagine dat?” said Hortense, pointing the woman out. “Me see some t’ings today but dat mus’ be de strangest sight of de whole day.”