Song felt shy in front of her. ‘I don’t know how.’
‘It’s not very hard. So, how’s it living with a preacher ?’
‘With Father Holmes ? It’s everything I could hope for.’
‘Isn’t it a bit strange ? Is he strict ? I think he’s scary.’
Song was amused that Father Holmes could be scary. ‘He’s not. He’s kind and patient and generous.’
‘Still, it must be a bit strange,’ she said. Then she ran off, as quickly as she’d appeared. ‘See you around!’ she called back over her shoulder. Song watched her from afar as she tucked her dress into the elastic of her panties and started flinging herself up on the palms of her hands, walking upside-down in figures of eight. Song stared at her skinny flailing legs and her arched back.
The schoolyard was an expanse of dirt mostly cleared of trees but with thick dark forest on two sides. One side faced the road. Every so often a cart trundled past loaded with miners and equipment. The men stared out into the schoolyard. Song thought how some looked no older than himself. He was glad to be there in the schoolyard, preparing to return to a classroom, but was also curious about where they were going, what they would be doing. One of the men called out a name, trying to get the attention of some kid too involved in a game to notice. Some of the smaller children waved back anyway.
In a branch hanging above him Song caught sight of parakeets the colour of fresh limes. He loved these birds. They were always so friendly, and he felt lonely sitting there in the schoolyard. He put his palm to his mouth and began to mimic their call.
The birds chattered back.
A boy walked over to Song. He had uniform trousers on but was wearing the wrong shirt. He stooped as he walked, like Jinda had, and at that moment Song wished his old friend was also with him on this first day of school.
‘What you doing ?’ The boy asked.
Song pointed. ‘Parakeets.’
The boy sheltered his eyes from the sun and looked into the tree. He looked puzzled. ‘Can they understand you ?’
Song brought his hand to his mouth and released a series of high-pitched chirrups.
Again the parakeets chattered back.
The boy turned to him with bright eyes. ‘Who taught you that ?’
‘Father Holmes,’ Song said. ‘That’s who I live with. I can do lots more impressions.’ Suddenly Song felt the urge to tell his new friend everything. ‘We’ve got a bird book, too. I can show you if you come over.’
‘Sure,’ the boy said. ‘I’m Jon Swire. I can draw.’
‘We need someone who can draw. I’m Song Holmes.’
Jon came over after school the next day.
‘This is Jon Swire, Father. He can draw really well. He’s going to illustrate our bird book.’
‘What good news,’ Father Holmes said. ‘We need a proper artist for this book, Jon, and I’m glad to know you’re one.’
Then Song took Jon into the kitchen to meet Jingy. ‘Jingy, this is Jon Swire, my friend from school.’ Song savoured those words.
‘Nice to meet you, Jon Swire. Hope you’ve got a good appetite.’
‘I do, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Always, anytime.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear that.’
The pair went to the front yard of the vicarage with the bird book. Song observed Jon’s talent with amazement: how he could miniaturise the world around him on a blank piece of paper. The image of a bird lost none of its life on a page. He was quick and accurate. Song loved watching him sketch: the curve of a head, the point of a beak, the shape of a wing.
‘How do you know how long to make the tail ?’ Song asked.
Jon flicked his wrist. ‘You just look, and then you draw,’ he said simply.
One day Jon asked Song over to his house after school. They took the long way round, stopping to see Lady. Of all the people in Bartica she was Song’s favourite. He had taken to running her errands and bringing her cakes.
‘Hey Lady,’ Song called out, as the pair arrived. He could see her painted pink toenails peeping above the sides of the hammock. ‘Cream pie or a pine tart ?’
She raised her head and then let herself slump back down again. ‘Nothing but a crust for me today. This woman don’t deserve nothin’ else.’
‘I’ve bought one of each already.’ He gave one to Lady.
‘Now, what you doin’ buying me something I don’t need.’ She bit into the pastry. ‘Mmm, guava jam, sugar sprinkled soft like morning rain. Now, on your way. I’m too ragged to talk today.’
‘How about a song ?’
‘Not from me. But you can peep inside and hear some real music.’
Song and Jon stepped up to the porch. They pushed the door gently. Haunting melancholic music swirled out, like smoke. Song was entranced. He felt he could almost touch the raw notes.
Lady’s voice was drowsy. ‘Makes me feel all the more worn. Hung out like laundry. Too many pork-knockers in town.’
‘Anyone found any gold ?’ Song asked.
‘Those men are as full of made-up stories as they are real ones. Telling me about places so far up the Rupununi you’re no longer in British Guiana but in Brazil, where gold just about bleeds out of the ground. Cathedrals and tiered theatres deep in the forest bigger than anything in the cities of Europe; shops selling feathered hats and trinkets and reels of coloured ribbons long enough to reach the moon and back. Don’t believe a word of it. Nobody cares about those good-for-nothings. Not the wives, not the kids. Not these women, neither. We all want to see the back of those men with their big stories and bad breath and bloodshot eyes. Let them fill up their boats with rice, salt pork and oil, and be gone. Good riddance.’
Song and Jon carried on down the road. They passed Louis’ store and Bronco clipped Jon around the ear for eyeing a soursop. At the dock Joseph showed them his bucket of fish. There was an eel squirming among the catches.
Jon’s house was on the poorer Mazaruni side of Bartica, furthest from the Essequibo. It was a large ramshackle house with broken boards and flaking paint. The yard was heaped with junk. Out front, Jon’s baby sister Sonia was alone and crying. Jon picked her up and she grew quiet. Inside they heard a woman and man arguing.
‘Sorry,’ Jon said. ‘That’s Mama’s friend Kiddo. We can sit out here for a bit. I told her you were coming.’
Song shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘They don’t always fight. Sometimes it’s nice.’
The two boys played with little Sonia, swinging her around by her wrists. She wailed whenever they stopped, so Song swung her around again and again, happy to hear her endless chuckling.
‘She’s got worms,’ he said, pointing at her bloated stomach.
‘Maybe,’ Jon said. ‘The doctor that came by said she should have more milk.’
Suddenly Kiddo burst out of the house, thumping his shoulder against the frame of the door. He was tall, gaunt in the face and with thick wavy hair. Only one mismatched button of his red shirt was done up. There was a light fuzz on his chest.
Song stopped swinging Sonia. He lifted her up to sit on the edge of the porch.
Kiddo looked at Jon. ‘What are you doing here ?’ He threw his empty bottle at Jon and it hit him on the shoulder, then bounced off and struck Sonia’s face. She was still for a second, then her eyes widened and she screamed.
‘Shut up,’ Kiddo shouted at her.
Song was angry, but at a loss as to what to do. Sonia continued to scream, too little to know she had better stop or might face more abuse from this grown man. Song thought of Mr Carmichael. The same kind of man.
Jon’s mother came out of the door. The skin above her eye was split. ‘Baby,’ she cried out, looking at Sonia. She turned on Kiddo ‘What you do to her ?’
‘Leave off, woman.’ Kiddo tripped down the steps of the porch.
Jon’s mother picked up Sonia and bounced her on her hip. ‘Who’ve you brought home, Jonny ?’
‘Song,’ Jon said. ‘Like I told you.’
; ‘Did you ? Don’t remember.’
‘I did.’
‘Well, you’re late. What you been doing ?’
‘Nothing. We came straight.’
‘Don’t lie.’
‘Don’t lie to your mother,’ Kiddo shouted.
Jon pulled a face. ‘I ain’t lyin’. What you got for dinner ?’
Jon’s mother was patting the cut above her eyebrow with the back of her hand. She saw it was bleeding. ‘That’s nice, ain’t it ? You just come home and want dinner straight. S’pose you want some for your friend, too.’
‘Damn charity,’ Kiddo said. He had laid down on his back in the yard, squinting at the sky. Sonia was still screaming. ‘Shut that kid up,’ he said again.
Song and Jon both spoke at the same time: ‘I told you he was coming, Mama,’ Jon said, as Song said: ‘It doesn’t matter. I need to get home anyway.’
‘Well, we ain’t got nothing. What’s your name again ?’
‘I’m Song.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Song. I’m Jonny’s mother. Now he didn’t say we had guests coming, so we ain’t got enough to go round tonight. You’ll have to go on home.’
Song couldn’t bear to leave Jon and Sonia there with Kiddo. But he was also glad to be ordered home. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I bothered you.’
‘Lady man,’ Kiddo muttered.
Jon looked at Song. ‘Sorry.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ Song said.
Kiddo tried to grab at Song’s ankle as he passed but Song was too quick. He was running as fast as he could. But he felt smashed up inside knowing now that it was true, that Bartica had men like this.
Back at the vicarage, Father Holmes was eating alone. He looked up at Song and smiled. ‘You were quick. Everything all right ?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ Song said.
‘You eaten ?’ There was a tureen of chicken stew on the table.
‘Yes,’ Song replied.
‘Want to join me while I finish up ?’
Song sat down in his usual place. ‘Can Jon come and live with us ?’
Father Holmes chewed slowly on his mouthful. ‘Does he want to ?’
Song hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why do you ask ?’
‘I just wondered if he could.’
‘I would have thought Jon’s mother needs him at home.’
Song said nothing.
‘You can bring him for dinner as often as you like,’ Father Holmes said.
Song looked at the dish of chicken stew and thought how much he had in his life now. There was always enough to eat. He wished he could do more for his friend. He knew Jon had it hard at home.
Song also thought of Lady. Forever saying she was all right, pretending she didn’t need anything, but always glad, always grateful for something sweet. All these friends with so much less than him.
The next morning, still weighed down by the day before, Song stopped by Louis’ to buy something for Lady. Outside the store, there was a girl untying trays of cakes loaded on the back of her bicycle. Song noticed the icing sugar down the front of her dress. She clumsily loosened the trays and Song watched a half-dozen biscuits fall to the ground. They broke on landing. He heard the girl grunt in frustration. He grinned at her funny ways, glad to smile. She was too busy to see Song. As he wondered who she was, he saw the words painted on the side of her bicycle: Mary Luck’s Lucky Bakery. She must be Mary’s daughter.
Song sped in and out of Louis’ to pick up a bag of fritters. But when he came back out into the street the girl was already gone, and he wished she wasn’t. He rushed on to find Lady. She was lounging on a Berbice chair with her knees on the leg rests. He handed her the bag of banana fritters. Before she’d had a chance to protest, he spoke. ‘Lady, tell me what you think of Kiddo ?’
‘He’s a dog,’ she said.
‘Why’s Jon’s mama with him ?’
‘That’s what women do.’
‘But he hits her.’
Lady nodded. ‘Bet he does.’
‘She should run away.’
Lady smiled. ‘Where should she run away to ?’
‘Anywhere. Anywhere he can’t find her.’
‘She won’t run. That’s a fact.’
Song didn’t understand. ‘Why not ?’
‘Women don’t run. Don’t go nowhere.’
Song shook his head at her answer. Jon’s mama had to run. She had to get away.
‘You need to stop worrying about everyone else, and start worrying about yourself.’ Lady licked her fingers and started to hum. Then she parted her lips and let the languorous words fall out.
‘At the end of the day
when your bones are tired,
And you ain’t no friend in the world,
Hold your head high, don’t give up, don’t give in,
And walk tall wherever you go.’
‘All the wisdom of the world,’ she said, ‘is wrapped up in a mother’s lullaby. You remember that when you feel like the whole world hates you.’
Song thought of his own mother. He couldn’t remember her ever singing to him. When he tried to picture her now, he couldn’t see her face. Only the blur of her and his sisters’ and brothers’ shapes in the distance. He didn’t want to forget, but he didn’t want to try to remember if he wasn’t able.
‘You lost, Song ? Whatch you thinking about ?’
He shook his head. ‘“You can be collapsing inside but you gotta stand tall.” A man once told me that.’
‘I like that man,’ Lady said. ‘Kind of man for me. Where can I find him ?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Course he is,’ Lady said. ‘Good ones are always dead. You come share your company, Song. It’s good for a woman like me to remember there are folk left in the world like you, full of wonder and hope and truth. Carry on living that way and you’ll be finer than most.’
‘Wonder and hope and truth,’ Song softly repeated Lady’s words. He liked that. He wanted that to be true.
He continued to school and on his way he bought four pints of milk from Louis’.
He gave them to Jon. ‘They’re for Sonia. We had spare.’
‘Mama won’t take it,’ Jon said. ‘Kiddo told her not to accept any charity. When the doctor came around with medicine he wouldn’t let her take any of it.’
‘But this is spare,’ Song said. ‘Say you just got it.’
‘From where ?’ Jon said. ‘Maybe you give it to her. She was pretty nice about you after you left. Said she liked your manners.’
During their break the two boys walked over to Jon’s house. His mother was on the front porch, her head in Kiddo’s lap.
‘You brought him again ?’ she said.
‘Not to eat,’ Jon said. ‘He’s got a present.’
Song held up the bag. His voice was trembling. ‘We had some spare milk, ma’am, so I brought it for Sonia.’
Kiddo pushed Jon’s mother’s head out of his lap and stood up. ‘Who d’you think you are ? We got plenty of milk.’
‘Now Kiddo, calm down,’ Jon’s mother said. ‘Boy was just trying to be nice.’
Kiddo walked out from under the shadow of the porch. ‘Who asked you for milk, eh ?’
‘Nobody, sir,’ Song said. ‘Just had some spare, that was all.’
‘Maybe we don’t want your spare.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Give that to me.’
Kiddo reached out and grabbed at Song.
‘Leave him alone,’ Jon cried out.
‘You shut up,’ Kiddo shouted back. ‘You’re next.’ He held Song around the wrist and with the other hand snatched a bottle out of Song’s bag. Then he turned and threw it at the front of the house. Glass splintered and milk splashed over the porch.
‘Cut that out,’ Jon’s mother said. ‘Jonny, why you bring him ’round again ?’
Kiddo threw a second. It shattered by the door. Milk ran down the walls. Sonia woke up in the hammock and started
crying.
‘That’s enough, Kiddo!’ Jon’s mother was yelling now.
As Kiddo pulled out a third from the bag, Song grabbed the last bottle and smashed it on to the ground by their feet. Glass and milk exploded over them both. Taken by surprise, Kiddo loosened his grasp. Song took his chance to turn and run. He raced through the yard, through town and towards home without looking back. Back in his room he threw himself onto his bed. His heart was hammering. He pulled his knees up to his chest to look at the nicks and cuts on his shins. In his head he could still hear Sonia’s cries. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his mother holding his face between her palms; Ji Liu cradling him when he was so sick; Amalia, careful not to touch the welts on his back; Jingy drawing him close to her, squeezing him like lime.
Song was late leaving the house and Lady was not outside Ruby Lou’s. He looked up at her window. The yellow cotton curtains were flapping loosely in the breeze.
‘Lady ?’ He called up in a half-whisper.
Nobody came.
He waited for a few minutes before continuing to the bakery. He bought her a coconut cream pie.
On his way back Song saw a dozen people jostling in the street. He stopped, straddling the frame of his bicycle. All the boys from the dock were there. Neighbours had come out to see what the ruckus was about so early in the day. In the middle of the crowd Ruby Lou was screaming at Jameson.
‘Ain’t you meant to be running this hell hole of a hell town, Mr Jameson ? And where’s that goddamn DC ? We got thievin’ and murderin’ strangers coming into ’stablishments like ours kickin’ up one hell of a stink leaving us frightened for our lives, bloodying up the place like there’s no good respect in these parts any more. D’you think this is law ’n’ order, Mr Jameson, ’cause I for sho’ ain’t callin’ it that.’
Ruby’s girls were wailing on the porch. Sugar, the skinniest but the loudest, had joined in and was shouting down Tom Jameson. ‘You find out who’s responsible,’ she yelled. ‘And you find out quick. Or we’ll be taking this into our own hands.’
‘Now settle down, ladies,’ Tom said. ‘We need some calm and reason so we can get to the bottom of this.’
Song caught sight of Joseph. ‘What happened ?’
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