Island Songs

by Alex Wheatle

  Hortense and Jenny feasted upon a mackerel and snapper dinner with ackee, bammy, breadfruit, spinach, peppers, scallion, ardough bread and rum cake. This was washed down with the finest Appleton rum, mixed with mango juice and goat’s milk. Hortense was introduced to all the relations she had yet to meet and she was soon overcome at the generosity and goodwill showered upon her. She couldn’t stop crying. How Cilbert would have loved this homecoming, she thought. Jenny was in deep discussion with Levi, Jacob’s name surfacing time and again. They seemed to come to an agreement upon something as Levi nodded and embraced his sister-in-law.

  As the sun began its descent into the western sky, Hortense, her fears and doubts of returning home for good now forgotten, helped Carmesha with the washing up. “Carmesha, before me res’ me head an’ go to de old house, me waan go up to de family burial plot. Yuh t’ink Junior coulda drive me?”

  “Of course, Hortense. Nuh problem. Me forget dat yuh never bless ya eyes ’pon Amy an’ Joseph burial plot. Junior!”

  Passing through Claremont market, Hortense thought it hadn’t changed much, save for a few shopfronts that advertised Jamaican rum and the tarmac road that had replaced the dusty route. But the far-off hills were specked with new houses, many of them as impressive as any she had seen back in London. Only a handful of men worked in the fields, Hortense found, and none of them were young. Goats still walked their own sure-footed paths, skinny dogs still yapped their unnecessary barks and chickens still wandered with a carefree abandon, utterly unaware of their fate. Radios tuned into the BBC’s World Service and ghetto blasters seemed to sound out from everywhere, and Hortense wished her old bones could dance like she used to one more time. She closed her eyes and saw herself jigging at Elvira’s birthday night party almost fifty years ago. “Me was de best,” she whispered to herself. “Oh yes! Me was de best!”

  Finally reaching Joseph’s old plot of overgrown land, Hortense and Jenny climbed out of the car and gasped at the sheer natural beauty that surrounded them. For Hortense, Junior’s car instantly became an unwanted intruder as she blessed her eyes upon many shades of green, browns and bright yellows. Untouched valleys, cast in lengthening shadows and ripe in mangroves, seemed to be holding on to some long-held secret and the glittering stream that sliced through the uplands, banked by sentinels of Blue Mahoe trees, only added to the mystery. The hills stretched and rose into the distance, as if they were seeking a meeting with the heavens and the natural mystic, ebbing and flowing in the gentle, Caribbean breezes, rekindled Hortense, Jenny and Carmesha’s memories of their treasured past and prompted imaginings of their children’s and grandchildren’s great futures.

  Leading Jenny and Hortense to the family burial plot, Carmesha reminisced of her years living in the misted hills. Blissful times, she thought, and such a good upbringing for her sons. Amy had been Carmesha’s best friend and confidante and her death was a particularly harsh blow for her. Indeed, it was Amy who suggested that Levi and Carmesha should invest their money in a business venture to capitalise upon the returning Jamaicans from abroad. The Fish On The Mount restaurant was an instant success and it was the place to dine in the area.

  David’s grave had now been marked by a headstone and the Egyptian Ankh cross. Hortense, who had returned to the faith of her childhood, went to David’s place of rest first and cleared away the leaves and dry earth that had rested upon it with her handkerchief. She then kissed the cross, closed her eyes and said a quiet prayer. Meanwhile, Jenny had dropped to her knees at her mother’s last resting place, a sense of guilt probed her conscience for she had divorced Jacob a year after her mother’s death. Finally meeting beside Joseph’s burial plot, Hortense said to Jenny, “me suppose der ways are gone fe ever, y’know, der old customs an’ traditions. Only we remember dem but soon we will join dem. An’ when we pass on our ways will be forgotten too.”

  “Don’t yuh ever regret dat Cilbert isn’t bury at his place of birth?” Jenny asked.

  “Nuh, sa. From de day me meet him he was talking about Englan’. Dat was his dream so he should res’ der. Me know he’ll be waiting fe me. Me feel bad about Jacob inna Englan’ though. At me son wedding him did look so alone, so old. Me try to deny it but me feel old too. Me Island Song will soon be over.”

  “Oh, Hortense! Stop ya dead talk! Yuh ’ave many years left inna ya bones! An’ as for Jacob, me was talking about him wid Levi. Levi will send Junior to Englan’ to bring him home. For nuh matter our differences, he belongs here.”

  Breaking out into a smile, Hortense said, “dat’s good of yuh, Jenny. Dat is good. Me still don’t understan’ why yuh two divorce but Jacob is ah good mon. Yuh never know? Inna de twilight of ya lives yuh might feel dat yuh waan keep each udder company?”

  Returning Hortense’s smile, Jenny didn’t reply.

  The house where Jenny and Hortense were born had also been refurbished and extended. An inside toilet had been constructed and the verandah was spacious enough for a family to eat their meals there and watch the setting sun dip beyond the western hills. The crickets in the fields still debated at night and the stars above seemed to shine brighter here than anywhere else. Joseph’s ring of flowers offered welcoming colour around the house and the mambay mango tree had grown strong and fruitful, its roots creeping under the stonework at the back of the building. Once inside Jenny complained that her nephews and other relations hadn’t kept the place as spick and span as they had promised while she had been away. “Stop fussing, Jenny,” Hortense rebuked. “Yuh should be t’ankful dat de place wasn’t burgled! It look lovely to me. Although it seem ah bit ghostly to me. So quiet.”

  Finally retiring to a double bed with an accommodating mattress, Jenny unpacked her old Bible and turned to the pages of Genesis. Looking on from her side of the bed, Hortense remarked, “Jenny, me really an’ truly hope me pass away before yuh.”

  “Hortense! How cyan yuh say such ah t’ing!”

  “Becah me waan to meet an’ greet de angels before yuh come up an’ claim dem fe yaself, talking an’ nagging der ears off! As a chile yuh did always waan wha’ me ’ave.”

  Smiling, Jenny replied, “only becah me love yuh, Hortense. Me waan to share everyt’ing wid yuh. Now res’ ya head. Yuh come home an’ me will look after yuh like me promise David.”

  Closing her eyes, Hortense found a deep comfort in her sister’s words. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

  Acknowledgments

  ISLAND SONGS IS DEDICATED TO MY GRANDFATHER,

  LOUIS ‘CHARLIE’ WHEATLE, 1900-1986

  – A TRUE MAROON.

  I would like to thank David Shelley for displaying faith in me as well as the team at Allison & Busby. My deepest gratitude goes out to Laura Susijn who has stood by me thick and thin – the drinks will soon be on me! Leo Hollis, you’re a ‘producer’ supreme! Thanks for your counsel, time and installing a belief in me. My appreciation goes out to the Arts Council of England for giving me support in the writing of this novel. My heartfelt thanks to my two aunts, Hermine and Lilleth, for sharing with me such vivid recollections of growing up in Jamaica in the middle of the 20th century. Much credit to my father, Alfred, for giving me such a colorful memory of his own passage from Jamaica to England in 1954. Special appreciation to my sisters, Margaret and Hope, for offering me so much understanding and compassion. Big mention to my daughter, Serena – thanks for everything. A massive shout to my sons, Marvin and Tyrone – you are Jedis now! My cousins, Jackie, Debbie, Gary, Junior, Sharon, I have not forgotten you. Shout-outs to all the Wheatle’s out there – I didn’t realize there were so many! Special mention to those living in Old Harbour, St Catherine, where they serve the tastiest fish and bammy on the island. And big up to those dwelling in Papine, Kingston – I may be biased but Papine has the best market in Kingston. Respect to all those who have supported me during my writing career, especially the fan who came into the Index Book Store in Brixton whilst I was performing a signing and presented to me a chocolate herb bar!

/>   “Jamaicans have such a range of words describing phenomena so neatly and I think this is a testimony to their combativeness…they are a breed apart, in my estimation of any people.”

  Walter Rodney – lecturer, political activist.

  Readers’ Notes

  When I was twelve years of age and living in a children’s home in a quiet corner of Surrey, I wanted to know about the circumstances that had led me to living in care since I was four. At the time I didn’t know my parents full names or even what nationality they were. My housemother informed me that for a reading of my file, my social worker had to be present. I waited a week and when that huge file was opened, thick as two hardback copies of War and Peace, the most startling thing that I learned was that I had four older sisters and one brother, all on my mother’s side. Unfortunately, the file didn’t say where they were.

  I went to my bed that night asking one question: how could my mother love and care for her other children but not me? The question stayed with me for years and years, and as I went through the journey of my life, I discovered that this question is not just posed by people who grew up in council care. I have met people from all walks of life and have found that a son may feel that his father has no time for him but adores his sister, or a daughter can be convinced that her mother doesn’t love her but loves her brother.

  I explored this theme in my novel East of Acre Lane but I wanted to examine it further in Island Songs. Of course, great authors before me have written about this subject matter. East of Eden by John Steinbeck and The Thorn Birds by Coleen McCulloch are just two examples.

  It was when I made a pilgrimage to Bob Marley’s birthplace, a tiny village called Nine Mile in the garden parish of Jamaica, St Anne, that I found I had my setting for my ‘big love epic’. The rich green colours, the still jackfruit trees, perfect sky and the beautiful hills just demanded for someone to set a story there.

  When I sat down to sketch the characters, I had in my mind two brothers who would be the main protagonists. I decided they would have a Cain and Abel-like relationship with one favoured and adored by the father and the other despised. What changed my mind was Jamaican women. Within my own family, the women are full of life, colour, complexity, feistiness and great spirit. In my opinion it is the Jamaican women who keep families together, Jamaican women who have made the greater sacrifices. With that in mind, Augustine and Clement came to be Hortense and Jenny. It was also handy because it allowed me to revive these characters from East of Acre Lane.

  Most of my research involved me talking to my two aunts, Hermine and Lilleth. They made me roar with laughter as they described childhood scenes of them living in the ‘bush’. What made it even more entertaining and fascinating was the turn of phrase they used with their thick Jamaican accents. I felt that the beautiful way they spoke had to be included in the dialogue and hoped that readers would get a sense of that as they read the book. For me, the way Jamaican women speak is an essential element of their character.

  One of the first scenes I wrote for Island Songs was the Atlantic passage: Hortense, Cilbert, Jacob and Jenny’s journey to England from Jamaica. It was my father, Alfred, who offered his memories and insights for this piece during a long-distance telephone call from his home in Jamaica. He himself had a similar trip when he first came to England in 1954, and it was his recollections about stowaways and how they jumped overboard moments before the ship reached port that caught my imagination. Even more entertaining were my father’s memories about seeing central London for the first time. If I’m ever accused of being a plagiarist then I will only hold my hand up if my father is pointing the finger!

  With all the characters assembled I had a crisis of confidence. How could a man get inside the minds of two women? I have trouble understanding just one. So before I set pen to paper I talked to as many women as I could. The stories I collected seemed to be concentrated on one theme: the man I decided to go for turned out to be a bastard. ‘He was always a bit of a rogue but I thought I could change him.’ This fascinated me. Why are women always attracted to men with danger signals on them? Why do many women take for granted the kind of man who would treat them like a queen and never break their heart? Many women say this isn’t true but let me put forward some evidence. Sean Connery’s portrayal of James Bond is often voted as the best and sexiest Bond. His portrayal of Bond also treated women appallingly, yet women love it. Whilst George Lazenby, who offered a more vulnerable James Bond, displaying Bond falling in love, is often voted the worst Bond ever. Why is this?

  It’s for the reason above that I sketched Cilbert, another character that I parachuted in from East of Acre Lane, as a bit of a rogue, yet Almyna, Hortense and even Jenny lust after him. Of course, Jacob, although he is devoted to Jenny and would never willingly hurt her in any way, is betrayed. You might think this is unfair, but I ask a question to you women out there if you have finished the book: if you had to choose between wayward Cilbert and God-fearing Jacob for a wild night out, full of promise and passion, who would you choose? Be honest now!

  Religion has always been a central part of Jamaican family life and I didn’t see how I could write a Jamaican ‘epic’ that didn’t include it. When I visit the countryside of Jamaica there is no more beautiful sight than a Sunday morning when families, dressed in their Sunday best, walk from their homes through the bush to their immaculately kept church. But deep-held beliefs with Jamaican folk has its contradictions. For example, living in Brixton in the late 1970s and early 1980s, I witnessed many friends being forced out of their homes because they had decided to follow rastafarian doctrine and had dreadlocked their hair. Some parents saw it as blasphemy. I wanted to explore where this rasta phenomenon first took hold, and that is why I introduced Levi. To sketch his character I talked to rasta elders in Jamaica and Brixton.

  Also, I wanted to examine loss of faith. It is something I have experienced when I was a child and it affected me deeply. I remember, feeling at my lowest ebb when I was about thirteen, I went to see my local Catholic priest. Naively, I asked him if I could live in the church because living in a children’s home was a hell for me. He smiled and blessed me. An hour later he called the relevant authorities and I was taken back to the children’s home. I never returned to any church again until the christening of my first son. It wasn’t a Catholic church.

  People have different reactions when they have faced tragedy. Some embrace religion as it gives them comfort in their darkest hour. But some, like Hortense in Island Songs, utterly reject it, just like I did. My struggle still continues to this day. Seeing so many bad things happening in the world makes me ask: why, if there really is an all powerful good God, does He allow so much tragedy to happen?

  For someone who didn’t know what it was like to grow up in a family, observing family life was a fascination for me. When I left the children’s home and headed for Brixton in 1977, I always wanted to be invited by my new friends to their homes just to see how they interacted, fell out, made up with each other, and how mothers would show their love or fathers display to their sons how to be a man. Of course, I never revealed to my friends what I was up to, but I discovered that some parents were not even aware that one of their offspring felt they were being neglected, unloved or biased against. Island Songs and East of Acre Lane are, I guess, the study paper of all my watching and listening.

  Alex Wheatle

  South London, November 2005

  Books that influenced the writing of Island Songs

  East of Eden, John Steinbeck

  The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCulloch

  Sula, Toni Morrison

  The Color Purple, Alice Walker

  Catch A Fire – The Life and Times Of Bob Marley, Timothy White

  Music Artists listened to while writing Island Songs

  (I find it impossible to write without a musical backdrop)

  Bob Marley & The Wailers, The Studio One Sessions

  Leroy Sibbles & The Heptones, At Studio One

&nb
sp; Alton Ellis, The Rock Steady Hits

  The Skatellites, Perfect Ska – the best instrumental band ever to come out of Jamaica

  Curtis Mayfield & The Impressions, The Early Years

  Slim Smith, At Studio One

  Pat Kelly & The Techniques, At Treasure Isle/Duke Reid

  Great People born in St Anne

  Bob Marley

  Burning Spear

  Marcus Garvey

  Names

  Hortense – named after the great Jamaican vocalist Hortense Ellis.

  Jenny – the name of one of my partner’s aunts.

  Cilbert – a friend I used to play cricket with – an excellent batsman.

  Almyna – Myna, my mother’s nickname, used by those who know her very well.

  Hubert – there are about three or four Huberts and Herberts in my family on my father’s side.

  Amy – An aunt on my father’s side. She looked after me so well on my first trip to Jamaica in 1987.

  Carmesha – a student who lodged at my aunt Lilleth’s home in Kingston while studying at the University of the West Indies. On my 2001 trip to Jamaica, Carmesha spent hours braiding my son’s hair and took him out dancing, showing him the dancehalls of Kingston.

  Odd Fact

  In Island Songs, my Claremont Valley is fictional, based on the bountiful lands surrounding Nine Mile. But there is a real Claremont in the parish of St Anne that I passed through one day on a country bus. So my apologies to the real Claremontonians if you feel that I have taken liberties with the geography of your area.