by Alex Wheatle
The following Monday morning, Hortense, not wanting to wait for an evening visit from the doctor, escorted a whimpering Cilbert, who was almost drunk from his treatment of hot whiskey bowls, to the surgery. Hortense had to use all her strength and balance to keep him upright; the pavements were coated with treacherous ice and she nearly slipped into a newspaper advertisement board that head-lined how militant groups among the 25,000 Aldermaston marchers clashed with the police at Whitehall.
Examining Cilbert’s chest with a stethoscope and the mucus from his cough, the doctor diagnosed pneumonia. “Wha’ is dat, doctor?” Hortense queried immediately, scanning the physician’s eyes for any hint of foreboding. “Ya scare me! It sound evil! He will be alright?”
Pausing before answering, the doctor replied, “most cases of pneumonia clear up by themselves but your husband is at an advanced stage from the infection. The colour of his phlegm is a tell-tale sign. You see, it’s an infection of the lungs. He will have to enter hospital and receive an immediate course of antibiotics. Penicillin.”
“Antibiotics! Penicillin? Wha’ is dat? Yuh sure he’ll be alright? Me did keep tell him to go an’ see de doctor but him ah always say, ‘me fine, stop fussing, Hortense’. Some mon jus’ don’t waan to lissen an’ Cilbert is stubborn like sulking mule!”
“Antibiotics is a medicine to help clear infections. Please don’t worry, Mrs Huggins. With rest and the right medication, your husband will recover.”
Although the doctor displayed a certain calmness, he dialled for an ambulance to take Cilbert to the hospital for prompt attention. He turned his back to Hortense as he spoke quietly into the phone. Sitting beside Cilbert in the ambulance, Hortense held and stroked his limp right hand, gazing into his weary, half-opened eyes. There was no glint, no hunger for life, Hortense found, despite Cilbert trying to raise a smile that failed to reach his cheeks. “Nuh boder yaself, Hortense,” he stammered. “Yuh t’ink dis foolish cough coulda beat me down? Nuh, sa! Watch when summer ah come! Along wid me own people me will be cheering on de mighty Frank Worrell when him ah come out to bat at de Oval. He will lick de English fe six! An’ me will go to work wid me head lifted high. Yes, sa! Mighty Frank will show de English dat we West Indian are good at somet’ing. Whatever dey might say.”
Returning the smile, Hortense couldn’t stem the tears falling down her cheeks. Upon reaching the hospital, Cilbert received his first dose of penicillin after Hortense assured the medics that he hadn’t eaten since the night before. Between her sobbing and the attacks of panic dancing in her mind, she called home. Stella, Jenny and Jacob soon joined her at the hospital, none of them quite believing the severity of Cilbert’s illness. They all sensed the fear within Hortense’s eyes and comforted her the best way they could.
“Cilbert strong,” assured Jacob, embracing his sister-in-law. “Look how him recover from de beating him ah suffer inna Trenchtown.”
“Cyan yuh say ah prayer fe him?” asked Hortense. “Please.”
“Of course,” smiled Jacob, taking Hortense’s hands within his own. “Dear Lord. May yuh protect Cilbert from any tribulation an’ watch over him in his time of need. Give him the strengt’ to recover an’ de spirit to endure.”
“AMEN.”
Stealing fretful glances at Cilbert and finding the shadow of sickness upon his face too much to bear, Jenny had to sit down for she felt her legs would soon fail her. She closed her eyes and said her own silent prayer as the emotions raging inside her battled to be released.
By nightfall a doctor had reassured Hortense that Cilbert’s condition was now stable, although he was running a high temperature and was unable to eat. He was lying perfectly still on his back, the rich, chocolate colour of his face now a dull, winter-brown. His eyes moved slowly to acknowledge his visitors and his mouth was slightly open, lips trembling, as if it would take a mighty effort for any animated conversation. His fragile breathing was hurried and his right hand rested upon Hortense’s left arm. Hortense regarded him lovingly, her eyes full of compassion, her smile defiant. In contrast, behind her, Jenny could not deny the utter turmoil in her expression. She fidgeted in her seat, her eyes darting here and there, unfulfilled hope ripping her heart asunder. In her mind she heard a voice say, ‘at least yuh had him, Hortense. If him dead me will never get de chance.’ Shaking her head and burdened by guilt, Jenny stood up. “Hortense, it’s getting late. Me affe go home now. Jacob an’ Lester took Stella home four hours ago. Yuh coming wid me? Me sure Cilbert will be alright.”
Only listening to Cilbert’s delicate breathing and her eyes appreciating the contours of his face, Hortense didn’t hear her sister. Jenny kissed Hortense upon the top of her head before departing. As she stood waiting for a bus she recalled the night of Hortense and Cilbert’s wedding. She was brooding in Mr DaCosta’s back yard, consumed with jealousy and anger, when Jacob found her. She admitted to him that sometimes she had ‘dark thoughts’ and couldn’t understand why. She now realised that as far back as she could remember there was a part of her which was ungodly. She remembered one harvest night when she faked a leg injury because she just couldn’t tolerate her father carrying Hortense home. She recollected her spiteful ripping of Hortense’s party dress. And now she still felt cursed with loving Cilbert, despite her prayers to the Most High to release her from her lust. Feeling utterly powerless to break her infatuation, Jenny boarded the bus pulling up outside Kings College hospital with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Me mus’ be de reincarnation of Jezebel,” she whispered to herself. “Wha’ mek me so bad-minded?”
The viral infection that rampaged through Cilbert’s body proved a ferocious foe for the penicillin to battle. Nurses had to place cold flannels upon his forehead at night in an attempt to check his rising temperature. Waking up following a couple of hours of hard-fought sleep, Cilbert found himself and his pillow drenched in sweat. Now he could hardly utter a sound and he continually dreamed of his mother leaving a naked baby beside a swift-flowing stream.
Controlling her worst fears, Hortense kept rigidly to her daily routine. She would wake Lincoln at 5.15 a.m., feed him his breakfast of cornmeal, cinnamon flavoured porridge and Rich Tea biscuits before bathing him in the kitchen, using the hot water from the kettle and a large plastic bowl. She then powdered him with baby talc and anointed his skin with vaseline before dressing him in clothes that his father had bought for him. Draining the last drop of her nutmeg-flavoured tea, she would knock upon Mary’s door at precisely 6 a.m., handing over a crying and bewildered Lincoln into Mary’s arms. Hortense then set off to County Hall where she performed her cleaning work as diligently as she had ever done, not stopping for a conversation with anyone.
Finishing work at 10 a.m., she took a bus to Kings College hospital where she insisted upon giving Cilbert his morning ‘bed wash’. There she remained until the late evening, speaking to Cilbert of their future together and the brothers and sisters they would provide for Lincoln to play with in their own house. They dreamed of playing with their children in a back garden of a big mansion up in Strawberry Hill. Cilbert, unable to answer his wife, would raise a weak smile, all the time resting his right hand upon Hortense’s left arm, his bleary gaze never leaving Hortense’s face.
Jenny would arrive early in the evening, bringing with her cooked Jamaican food that she hoped Cilbert would today be able to consume. Cilbert would offer Jenny a smile in a gesture of thanks but would gently shake his head. This repeated action only added to Jenny’s dread, and upon their journey home, it was Hortense drying Jenny’s tears upon the number 45 bus. “Nuh worry yaself, Jenny,” Hortense would soothe. “Cilbert will shake off dis sickness. Wha’ chance do dis pneumonia ’ave wid Jacob praying, Miss Mary praying, Miss Mary’s priest praying an’ de good will of our family? Nuh chance! Yuh wait an’ see, Cilby will be soon up an’ about like ah spring lamb who step ’pon ah dutty nail.”
2nd May, 1963. Arriving at hospital at 11 a.m., Hortense found Cilbert sitting up in bed. For the first t
ime in weeks he offered a smile that showcased his teeth and animated the fine lines upon his temples. His face was still shrouded in sickness but his gaze was keen and direct, his head movements responsive. “Yuh look ah whole heap better!” Hortense smiled.
“Cyan me read ya paper?” Cilbert asked, resisting the pain from his throat and chest, trying to impress Hortense with his new-found strength.
“So yuh feel better?” Hortense chuckled, passing over to him her edition of the Daily Mirror; the front page spoke of Winston Churchill’s imminent retirement from politics.
“Yes, me feel ah liccle better,” Cilbert answered, his voice still frail but it seemed returning to its full baritone. “De nurse tek me temperature dis marnin an’ from ah 105 it drop down to 104. Dis marnin me even struggle over to de toilet. It tek de breat’ outta me but me made it. Don’t tell de nurse! Me jus’ don’t like using dem bed pan.”
“Cilbert! Yuh know yuh affe keep ya energy! See me don’t tell de doctor an’ tell him to cuss yuh if yuh try dat again. Yuh mus’ res’ yaself.”
“Stop ya naggy naggy self an’ come over here an’ give me ah hug.”
Hortense could do nothing but smile and sat beside Cilbert upon the bed. Cilbert’s embrace was weak and it was a mighty effort for him to lean into Hortense’s arms. He fell back against his pillows, breathing hard but tried to disguise his obvious discomfort with a grin. He placed his right hand upon Hortense’s left arm and gazed adoringly into her eyes. “Now lissen to me, Hortense. Me know me not ah perfect mon. Me impulsive, me like de bright lights, me stubborn an’ sometimes me selfish. Me eyes too fixed ’pon de prize of ambition.”
“Cilbert don’t worry yaself about…”
“Don’t interrupt me, Hortense. It affe be said. When me come outta here me gwarn to change me ways. Be more of ah family mon, spend more time wid Lincoln an’ yaself. Me affe stop sporting at Notting Hill, coming home jus’ as de bird dem ketch der worm. Me sure de Mangrove club cyan get along fine widout me. Lester affe find somebody else to sport wid.
“Being in here it give ah mon ah whole heap of time to t’ink. Yes, sa! When me ably me will write ah letter to me Mama. Yes, somet’ing me affe do. Let her know she ah gran’mudder. Let her know how much me love me wife. Yes, sa. Dey will accept yuh! Me will mek sure of dat. Sometime de boredom inside here drive me mad. Especially at night time when me cyan’t sleep.”
Cilbert paused, not wanting to reveal his nightmares to Hortense. “Me ’ave been very selfish,” he continued. “Miss Mary tell me one time dat ah mon should nah live to work but him should work to live. Y’understan’, Hortense? Do yuh understan’ dat yuh was de only girl fe me? Nobody else ah compare. Nuh, sa! Fe true! Nuh matter wha’ anybody might say.”
Placing a hand upon Cilbert’s left cheek, Hortense replied, “but yuh only working so hard to provide fe me an’ Lincoln. Of course, we ’ave our fussing an’ fighting an’ sometimes me waan to lick yuh wid de Dutch pot, but when me wake up an’ see yuh lay down beside me inna de marnin, me coulda never wish fe ah better mon. Now me tell yuh dis, don’t let ya head swell or me will lick yuh wid de Dutch pot fe true!”
Cilbert laughed but his chuckles soon turned into coughs. “Don’t excite yaself,” said Hortense, patting his back. “Yuh mus’ res’ now. Becah me waan yuh fit an’ well to tek me to de cricket inna few weeks time.”
“Yuh waan watch de cricket wid me?” Cilbert wanted confirmation, leaning forward, his eyes full of excitement. “Ya coming to de Oval wid me?”
“Yes, do me ’ave to say it twice? Me cyan’t understan’ how grown mon get demself inna tizzy about ah mon wid stick licking ah foolish ball. But me will go wid yuh jus’ fe de atmosphere. Now lay back down an res’ yaself.”
Cilbert did as he was told. “As me getting better now, yuh cyan bring Lincoln tomorrow? Him mus’ ah wonder where him papa der.”
“Yes, him do,” smiled Hortense. “Sometimes inna de marnin him look over to ya side of de bed an’ him ’ave ah look ’pon him face dat ah say, ‘where dat big lump dis marnin?’”
“Dat is good fe know. Yuh know, Hortense, sometime me ah wonder wid all my work an’ now dis sickness if him know who me is. Me always felt dat me never really get to know me papa so me don’t waan Lincoln to feel dat same feeling.”
“Nuh worry yaself, Cilbert. Lincoln know who yuh is. Definitely. Besides, me talk about yuh all de while to him.”
“Dat nice,” Cilbert nodded as he opened the newspaper. “Dat nice.”
There were no tears upon the number 45 bus that evening as Jenny, unable to restrain her satisfied grin, looked into her food container to confirm yet again that Cilbert had eaten solids for the first time in weeks. “We will remember dis day,” said Jenny to Hortense. “Cilbert finally turning de corner. An’ even de cursed snow is finally melting! Yes, sa! Massa God is smiling ’pon we. Praise His very name.”
Hearing a knock upon her bedroom door at 3 a.m. the following morning, Hortense got up, checked on Lincoln who was sleeping peacefully inside his cot and answered the door. She declined to switch on the light as Mary Skidmore’s frame filled the doorway. She was fingering the crucifix that was hanging around her neck and her tired eyes were smudged with tears. Her lips were quivering, mouthing words that never produced no sound, and she continually shifted the weight on each foot.
“Wha’ is it? Miss Mary? Somet’ing happen to Misser Sean? Stella alright?”
Shaking her head, Mary looked down to the carpet. She now wrapped her right hand around her crucifix. “I got a call from the hospital. Cilbert died half an hour ago. Bless his soul.”
Mary’s head dropped into Hortense’s embrace as Hortense felt her heart almost stop. Unblinking, Hortense stared out into the darkness of the passage. Her breathing ceased for six seconds and her mind exploded with memories as she and Mary clung on to each other. In split seconds, Hortense recalled the first time she had blessed her eyes upon Cilbert at Elvira’s birthday night party. Then an image of her brother David’s dead body being washed and anointed by her mother. David’s face morphed into that of Cilbert’s and it was now Hortense performing the dead rituals as a rooster’s call rang in her ears. Hortense moved away from Mary’s arms, her steps unsure and her gaze distant. A cold numbness coursed through Hortense’s veins and her eyes refused to blink even when her head hit the mattress.
Struggling to compose herself, Mary whimpered, “oh my, Jesus! Oh my Jesus! Let me tell Jenny and Jacob, they’ll know how to look after yer. I’m not much good in these situations, Hortense.”
Leaving Hortense staring blankly at the sleeping Lincoln, Mary pounded up the stairs and with both fists, hammered upon Jenny’s door. A minute later, Jenny, Jacob, Stella and Mary came into Hortense’s room, all of them stepping as if any undue pressure might deepen Hortense’s grief. Someone switched on the light and they found Hortense staring at her framed wedding photograph, tracing Cilbert’s image with her right index finger. Lincoln awoke and this prompted Hortense to emerge from her trance-like state. She picked him up, held him against her shoulder and began rocking him back to sleep, walking him around the room. She failed to acknowledge the people within the room. Unsure of what to do or say, Mary slipped out to put on the kettle. Jacob sat on the bed and dropped his head in sorrow. Stella, tears free-falling down her cheeks and dribbling over her lips, walked up to Hortense, placed her arms around her and buried her head into her back.
Rooted to the spot, Jenny had to lean against a wall to remain upright. From the pit of her soul, a scream was fighting ferociously to be unleashed and Jenny fought to restrain it, the pain in her struggle displaying itself in her face. She attempted to focus her gaze upon Hortense but she only saw the accusing glare of her mother. Her breathing accelerated and she began to feel dizzy. Inching away from the wall, she fell onto Jacob’s lap, burying her face into his thighs. She slammed her eyes shut, refusing to allow tears to form and this act, added to the struggle to control the escaping emotions of her soul, propelled he
r into unconsciousness for two minutes. Nobody noticed.
Until the alarm clock rang at 6 a.m., Hortense lay upon the bed, staring at the ceiling. She was trying to remember the ‘washing of the body’ rituals that as a child she had witnessed her mother perform. She comforted herself with the belief that Cilbert will finally meet David in the afterlife. Lincoln fell asleep on top of her, his head snuggled between her breasts. Stella was curled up beside Hortense, still wearing her dressing gown, her eyes raw and reddened. Jenny’s head still rested upon her husband’s lap, her eyes now open but the fatigue from her inner battles was visible in her utterly wracked expression. Above her, Jacob whispered prayers to himself, his lips hardly moving and his eyes closed. Empty mugs of tea and coffee littered the dressing table alongside a half-opened packet of short tea biscuits. Standing unopened was a bottle of Irish whiskey that Mary had left at 4 a.m. before retiring to her own bed, unable to cope with everyone’s grief.
The next day, Hortense, accompanied by Jacob, officially identified Cilbert’s body. She was allowed to wash his naked body and place blessed water, that she had obtained from Mary, into his mouth and upon his chapped lips. She maintained a dignified presence, never failing in her duties and holding her grief at bay.
