Song

by Michelle Jana Chan

  ‘I probably got you a harder beating.’

  ‘Would have been hard either way.’

  When Song saw Father Holmes on the porch with Edward Hoare he went around to the back of the house.

  ‘What you sneaking up on me for ?’ Jingy said when she saw him come padding through the back door.

  ‘Thought I might steal one of your pine tarts without you seeing.’

  Jingy smiled. ‘On your way.’ She shooed him out of the kitchen. Song went to the study where he knew he could hear the men’s conversation on the porch. He picked up The Count of Monte Cristo, which he was halfway through.

  ‘. . . I’m not going to do it,’ Father Holmes said. ‘He shouldn’t be asking this of me. I’m not suggesting the church should condone prostitution. But I do believe it is exactly these women who need our help most.’

  Song thought about Josie, and of all the girls at Ruby Lou’s.

  ‘Father Francis is a man clearly out of touch with the real world,’ Edward said.

  ‘If I shut this church to all the sinners on his list I may as well leave Bartica altogether. Or apply for a job as a policeman.’

  Edward chuckled. ‘Tom Jameson could do with an assistant.’

  ‘I’m serious. His letter says that nobody should have the privilege of attending church who drinks, who listens to music, who prospects for gold . . .’

  Song thought about the pork-knockers at Ruby Lou’s doing all three. There was a strange part of him that felt slightly pleased the church took this view. It helped him justify even more his decision to turn away from it, even in private.

  ‘Maybe you should invite him here to take a look at the place for himself,’ Edward said. ‘Not that he would come of course. I’ve been in the colonies long enough to know his type. I’d tear up his letter if I were you.’

  ‘I’m subordinate to Father Francis, you know that.’

  Song hated that. He thought of the time when he himself was answerable to Mr Carmichael. There and then, he swore he would never be answerable to anyone again.

  ‘Write back and say you’ll try to put all his ideas into practice,’ Edward said. ‘Give him what he wants to hear. Then forget about everything he’s said. He won’t be any the wiser. It’s your parish. He’ll never come here. You can run it however you see fit.’

  ‘It would be breaking rank.’

  ‘Follow your heart. Not the church. Hark at me giving advice to a clergyman.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you for listening, Edward. There are not many who I could talk to about this. The truth is I’m already seen as something of a troublemaker. As much as a vicar can be, at least. The governor agreed to this posting because it would get me out of Georgetown. He said I was neglecting St Andrew’s; I was spending too much time with sinners and not enough time with good Christians.’

  Song wondered who the good Christians were. Not Mrs Boyle, who’d struck Father Holmes. Nor Mrs Mills, who’d been against Song reading. Both women were in the choir and everyone thought they were some of the finest churchgoers. And then there was the committee secretary, Mrs Burford, who didn’t want Song living upstairs, who said the whole congregation felt the same way.

  Edward Hoare snorted. ‘I could tell them a story or two about so-called good Christians sinning right under their noses. Married men and married women behaving like rabbits. The drinking at the club puts Josie’s in the pale. Hypocrites. Preaching one thing, practising another. If he wants to get serious about shutting church doors he’d leave out in the cold half of Georgetown society.’

  ‘You might be right.’

  ‘At least Bartica’s more honest. They hang out their dirty laundry instead of trying to hide it away. It’s why I can’t stand Georgetown. The niceties and nonsense. They couldn’t be sweeter to your face. Turn your back and they’re sleeping with your wife or knocking off your business partner. Nobody there ever said congratulations and meant it. They twist themselves up at anyone else’s good news. At least in a town like Bartica you know where you stand. No pretences. If someone’s going to kill you at least he has the decency to tell you first.’

  Father Holmes laughed. ‘I might leave that out when I write my reply.’

  ‘They’re all reading from a script,’ Edward said. ‘I could cite it from memory. Complaints about the insufferable heat and the mosquitoes and the lazy locals while lording it up with houses full of staff, good wages and sex in the afternoons. Back home they would be masturbating mediocre civil servants. Here they’re sleeping with their best friend’s wife – while she’s throwing up her hands about the promiscuity of the local population. Do me a favour, Father. Rip up the letter. I don’t know another man who can put his hand on his heart like you can.’

  Song was shocked at Edward speaking that way to Father Holmes. For the first time, perhaps, he realised that Father Holmes was more man than vicar and he loved him all the more.

  ‘You think too highly of me, Edward. None of us are perfect – and that’s my point. If we’re demanding perfection before people walk through our doors we’ll have very empty churches.’

  ‘Don’t let this man get to you, Father. You carry on listening to whatever voice has been in your head all this time.’

  ‘I just wish it was always loud and clear. My head is noisy with questions. Maybe this town’s changing me, like Tom says. Maybe I’m afraid I myself am no longer good enough to walk through the doors of my own church.’

  ‘Eternal doubt of the eternal man. We wouldn’t be men if we were sure of our position in the world. Faith is built on doubt.’

  There was a long pause. Song waited.

  ‘I’ll rip it up,’ Father Holmes finally said.

  A few weeks later, Jon joined Song for an early dinner at the vicarage. Both boys knew he couldn’t stay long; he’d have to run home straight after his last mouthful.

  At the table Father Holmes handed Jon a letter. ‘Song tells me you’ve been having a rough ride at home. So I took some liberties. Figured you needed to plan a future.’

  Jon looked at the envelope addressed to him. ‘Thanks, but I’m okay, Father.’

  ‘Open it,’ Song repeated. He was excited for his friend.

  ‘I sent some samples of your artwork to Governor Johnson. He loves birds.’ Father Holmes continued. ‘This is his reply.’

  Jon looked at the envelope. ‘For me ? A letter from the governor ?’

  ‘It’s good news.’

  Jon took out the letter and read its contents. His face lit up.

  ‘What does it say ?’ Song asked.

  ‘He wants me to draw some sketches of birds for Governor’s House. He’s going to pay me.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Father Holmes said. ‘You’ve a professional future in drawing, Jon. You’ll be able to make a good living this way.’

  ‘What else does it say ?’ Song asked.

  ‘He wants me to draw every ibis and spoonbill,’ Jon said. ‘He wants them on linen paper and framed.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that last part,’ Father Holmes said. ‘I’ll help you with the materials.’

  ‘How much is he going to pay you ?’ Song asked.

  ‘You don’t have to tell us, Jon,’ Father Holmes said. ‘It’s your business.’

  ‘He says a shilling,’ Jon said. ‘We can put it towards a new boat.’

  ‘Now, I have something else to talk to you both about,’ Father Holmes said. ‘I want you both to apply for a scholarship to Queen’s College in Georgetown to finish your secondary school. Song, you have a good chance of an academic scholarship, and Jon, I absolutely insist you try for an art scholarship. The education there is first-class and you’d both benefit from the experience. I’ve already made inquiries and you can sit the examinations here.’

  Song stared at Father Holmes. ‘Georgetown ? You mean we’d leave Bartica ?’

  ‘My mama would never let me,’ Jon said.

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Father Holmes said. ‘Neither of you have got it
yet and the exams are not easy. Let’s apply first. If either or both of you get it, we can then think about what to do next.’

  Song considered the idea of a scholarship to Queen’s College. It was beyond what he’d ever hoped he might have achieved at school. Then he thought about his dream to go upriver. That’s where he believed he really belonged. Like the feeling he had looking over the cliff at Kaieteur. Answerable to no one. Entirely free.

  Both boys sat the examination after school one day. It was only the two of them in an otherwise empty classroom. Mr Nutt stood vigil.

  Song felt the weight of the occasion, filled more with awe than anxiety as he stared at the exam paper before him. As luck would have it, one of the questions asked him to explore the opposites of good and evil in Treasure Island, which he and Father Holmes had discussed together at great length. Song chose to write about the duality of the character of Long John Silver, a bold adventurer yet a ruthless criminal, and a man who became progressively vulnerable and therefore likeable, yet it could not be denied was also a manipulator and murderer. They were the blurred lines of good and evil, Song contemplated. He outlined something Father Holmes had said to him, suggesting some readers might be outraged if Long John Silver was hanged even though he had killed a man, and how it was much more adroit of Stevenson to let the pirate escape, rather than be brought to justice.

  Another question on the examination paper asked him what was the greatest adversity he had ever faced. Song responded by writing about the voyage from China to British Guiana, bringing in elements from Moby Dick about Ahab, the ‘grand, ungodly, god-like man’, his depthless courage and drastic single-mindedness.

  Song was determined to do well for Father Holmes, but he didn’t believe he would ever attend Queen’s College, even if he won a place. He didn’t want to abandon his dream of going upriver. After he put his pen down, he dismissed the idea of Georgetown altogether.

  CHAPTER 12

  Father Holmes handed the letter to Song. ‘It’s from the Archbishop of York.’

  Song scanned the page: ‘It is on my recommendation that you have been invited to represent your region at the Annual General Meeting of the Synod which will this year be built around the theme of Rural Missionary Work. I understand the great distances of our world but I consider your attendance essential. This conference will map out the missionary work of the church for the next ten years.’

  ‘It sounds like an honour,’ Song said. ‘Or at least they want it to seem that way.’

  He read the rest, quickly absorbing key sentences: ‘attendees from every continent’; ‘your contribution would be highly valued given your experience in the field’; ‘I am well aware of the important work you are doing among the rural communities of British Guiana’; ‘the conference will be held in London this coming November’.

  Song looked up sharply. ‘Will you go ?’

  ‘I am obliged to accept. But this presents an opportunity for us, Song. For a while now I’ve been wanting to talk to you about a trip to England. Together. Will you come with me ?’

  ‘To England ?’

  ‘To England. To London. To Wales. To the museums. The art galleries. The theatres. All the places we’ve read about.’

  Song stared back down at the letter. ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘There are so many places for us to see. We’ll go to the British Library, where there are more books than we could read in both our lifetimes. We can visit the Royal Ornithological Society, where there are thousands of plates of birds. We’ll see all the world in the British Museum: Egypt, India, Greece. We can think of the trip as an integral part of your education.’

  Song did not look up.

  Father Holmes’ voice softened. ‘Does that sound terrible ?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Song choked.

  ‘What is it then ?’

  ‘I can’t go back to sea.’

  ‘It would be nothing like the last time, I promise.’

  Song shut his eyes. ‘Please don’t ask me to.’

  There was silence in the room.

  ‘It’s all right, Song.’

  ‘Will you go ?’

  Father Holmes’ voice was quiet. ‘I have to. In truth I’m not even sure what I think about rural missionary work any more. Do you know why ? Because of you, Song. Because you help me to ask myself hard questions.’

  Song didn’t want to talk about any of that. ‘Will you come back ?’ he asked simply.

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  Song folded up the letter and pushed it back across the table.

  ‘It won’t be long,’ Father Holmes said, seemingly trying to calm himself as much as Song. ‘You’ll have the important job of looking after things here while I’m away. Can you do that ? We’ll write. You’ll study. I’ll do the conference. It will be no time before I’m back and we’re together again.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Song said, unflinchingly. Inside he was hurting but he buried that. ‘I’ll be waiting here for you, Father.’

  Father Holmes reached out his hand to Song. ‘I’ll miss you. I miss you already.’

  With Father Holmes gone there were fewer chores around the house and even fewer visitors. Father Francis did not come to Bartica to hold a service and although Song continued to keep the church clean and tidy, it became a sorrowful place to be.

  Month after month passed and there was still no news from Father Holmes. There were moments when Song was filled with panic, not doubting Father Holmes would write but that he would survive the long sea crossing. To steady himself, Song focused on his studies and read until his eyes could no longer strain to see the words in the dark. He wrote frequently to Father Holmes, sometimes every day. He also began a new volume of bird book. From time to time, he saw Jon, but otherwise he kept himself to himself.

  He had avoided entering Father Holmes’ room, only glancing at the closed door and wishing it would soon be flung open. But one day when he missed the vicar terribly, for no particular reason he could explain, he approached his room and turned the handle. His hands shook as he pushed open the door. He felt the blast of Father Holmes: in the smell of the room, seeing his shaving brush by the bowl, a notebook by his bed with a pen lying diagonally across it. Song could not help himself. He broke down in sobs.

  The first news came three months after his departure. A dozen letters arrived altogether, which Father Holmes had written over the course of his sea voyage. It had been a slow crossing, he said, with light winds. He had painted every day to pass the time. The last letter was written shortly after the boat had docked. Father Holmes had described the biting wind on England’s south coast and the crunch of snow underfoot. Song imagined touching the fallen snow and the cold wind on his face.

  Cheered, Song wrote to Father Holmes every evening. He detailed the birds he and Jon had spotted and their progress with the new book. He did not mention that the church lay empty. Nor did he say how badly Kiddo had beaten up Jon’s mama and then knocked out Tom Jameson, who had been called to sort out the fighting. Song did not skip only the bad news. He wanted to save the fact that he had moved up another grade and that he had won the Latin prize.

  One month later another batch of letters arrived. Song arranged them in chronological order before reading them. In one Father Holmes wrote how the conference in London had been fascinating and attended by people from all over the world. He expressed how, whether he agreed with it or not, there would be a push to increase missionary work in rural regions like Bartica. In another, he wrote that he had received Song’s letters which had given him ‘immeasurable joy’; he missed Bartica, he missed Song.

  He also described how he had dropped off the first two volumes of their bird books at the Royal Ornithological Society, protecting them under his coat against sleeting rain. The weather had been bitterly cold and he wrote how much he missed their warm evenings together on the vicarage porch.

  Song touched the writing paper, trying to imagine Father Holmes touching the same paper. It
didn’t seem possible.

  The last few letters were not written in London but in Wales, where Father Holmes was visiting his sick mother. There were descriptions of the damp draughty cottage and the winter gloom; he wrote that it was already too dark by lunchtime to read without a lamp. His mother was not well and he spent long evenings by her bedside reciting passages from the Bible.

  The next line jolted Song. Father Holmes explained how his mother’s illness might force him to delay his return.

  Song could feel a rising fear inside of him. He imagined the vicar’s sick mother gripping Father Holmes’ hand and charging him never to leave her bedside, just like she had sentenced him to a life in the church.

  It was with dread that Song picked up Father Holmes’ last letter. After reading the first sentence a shiver of guilt passed through him. The old woman had passed away. Song held the letter to his chest. Father Holmes wrote that he would be leaving shortly after the funeral. The Falmouth was sailing. He hoped to be back by Easter.

  The boat was late, as boats always were. March rolled into April. May came around. Still the Falmouth did not arrive. Song remembered his same mounting fears when Father Holmes was gone upriver the first time and he had waited anxiously for his return. ‘That grown man can look after himself,’ Jingy had assured him. And she was right. Father Holmes had come strolling back into the vicarage just like she’d said he would. Nevertheless Song’s uneasiness kept him up at night. He saw storms in his head. Screams on the wind. The splintering of wood. Choking on salt water. Bodies floating on a flat calm. He awoke from his nightmares embalmed in sweat and gasping for breath.

  Song had never imagined Father Holmes would not be back for his last day of school. He felt his absence acutely, watching the friends in his year with their mother or father or both. Jingy was there, of course. Edward Hoare turned up, too, to congratulate him on his graduation.

  ‘Least I could do for Father Holmes. He’d be very proud to see you today. So, are you heading to Queen’s College for your last two years of school ? Father Holmes mentioned something about that. And you must be, what, sixteen by now ?’