Song

by Michelle Jana Chan

  ‘You bake ?’ Mary Luck said to the young woman.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Little A said. ‘My grandmother taught me to bake and she could bake so light that folk said her cakes could get up and fly.’

  ‘Careful,’ Song said. ‘You’re talking to Mary Luck of Lucky’s Bakery.’

  Little A blushed. ‘I baked a lemon sponge this morning, if you would like to see if it’s to your liking, ma’am.’

  ‘I would like to see if it’s to my liking, indeed,’ Mary Luck said. ‘You look pretty tiny to be good at baking. Don’t you eat your own cakes ?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll love it, Little A,’ Hannah interrupted. ‘Now I’m counting on you to teach me all about this city. I’ve never been here before. In fact, I’ve never left old Bartica for anywhere.’

  Amalia visited their first day to make sure they found everything to their liking. Song was amused at how nervous she became in front of Hannah and Mary Luck.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,’ she said. ‘You too, ma’am. I won’t stay long. I know you’re with child, ma’am, congratulations ma’am; I know you need to be getting some rest.’

  Amalia was softer with Song, too. ‘She’s a lovely lady,’ she said. ‘Who’d have thought it ? Song found himself someone very fine.’

  Amalia’s timidity around the family was offset by the way she bossed about Little A. ‘Do you know who this family is ?’ Song overheard her. ‘That there man owns a goldmine. Know what that is ? You can’t go serving him up any old food you think of at any old moment. You got to plan. Days in advance. He’ll be entertaining, too. And that old woman, she was the best baker in Bartica. Bartica ain’t so big but she was still the best at it. So you don’t get no high horses about your baking skills. Act sharp now. Just because that new lady’s being nice to you doesn’t mean you can slack around the house. When she’s expecting, you need to feed her twice as good.’

  Hannah laughed under her breath with Song. ‘I like Big A too,’ she whispered. ‘Know what I like most ?’

  ‘What’s that ?’ Song asked.

  ‘I like that she knew you when you were still small and beginning to discover the world so big.’

  ‘She did. She knew me from the start.’

  ‘Boy from a backwater made good. Who can somehow see everything ahead of him with only one eye.’

  ‘Who falls in love with the most perfect woman with mixed-up eyes.’

  Song set up accounts at shops across Georgetown: Hardwood & Co Carpentry for new furniture; Happy Life Haberdashery & Upholstery; Stella’s, known for her fine needlework; Hilton Ho’s for a clock in every room; Gem’s Florist for all the flowers Song had promised Hannah their first night.

  ‘Make us a beautiful home,’ Song said. ‘I feel like I’ve been swinging in a hammock half my life.’

  ‘Mother will come down hard on me if she sees me looking at anything with a bit of lace or an extra inch of material that hasn’t got some use.’

  ‘I’m in no doubt you’ll be able to defy Mary Luck if you put your mind to the task.’

  Hannah smiled. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Deliveries arrived every week. Tables built from greenheart. Mahogany chests. Cupboards of snakewood. An oak desk made in England arrived with a red leather top and secret drawers. Hannah put Father Holmes’ typewriter on top. She ordered shelving along two walls in Song’s study to carry all the books which she organised herself alphabetically by title. There was the yellowed globe and brass scales from Mr Leigh. She hung Father Holmes’ oil painting of the Welsh hills on the wall behind the desk. Song loved and hated that picture. If Father Holmes hadn’t gone back to Wales to look after his mother, maybe he would be here now. But he didn’t like to ponder that. He also loved Wales because it was where Father Holmes was from. He could still whistle like the birds who lived in the hedgerows in the hills of north Wales.

  For the dining room Hannah commissioned a finely carved table surrounded by a dozen chairs with bone china crockery and silver knives and forks. The parlour for entertaining was filled with sofas and chaises longues and kissing seats, with silk Chinese rugs underfoot. She had asked Jon Swire to draw illustrations of Song’s favourite birds – including the whiskered white-headed song warbler – which were hung all over the room.

  Upstairs there were new teak beds and deep mattresses with feather pillows and linen sheets hand-stitched with tiny rosebuds. Hannah bought porcelain jugs and bowls for the bathrooms and thick cotton towels.

  Around the porch were rocking chairs, Berbice chairs and cane chairs. Hammocks were made of pink calico with white knotted fringing.

  Mary Luck tutted at every new delivery but could not disguise her pleasure at all the pretty things around her. Of the three of them, she settled into Georgetown life the quickest. She joined St Saviour’s church and a baking circle, and spent her hours at home teaching Little A new cooking skills. Her chickens were given a corner of the garden and she cared for them as if they were pets.

  Song found it harder for him and Hannah to find their way. Georgetown did not welcome them warmly. There was suspicion of Song’s swift success, and his past. A plantation boy made good; it couldn’t be as simple as that, they’d say. Some crossed the street when they saw the couple walking towards them. Song and Hannah could silence a room when they arrived somewhere, not that they received many invitations.

  ‘Of course it’s like this,’ Hannah said. ‘We shouldn’t have expected anything different. Mama was always going to be fine. Nobody’s going to be afraid of an old lady with a couple of chickens and a barrowful of rocks. But a newcomer with a goldmine, that’s another thing. And they’ll be suspicious of his wife, too, by association, no matter how nice I am.’ She winked at Song.

  ‘I’m not a newcomer.’

  ‘New enough.’

  ‘It was easier arriving in Bartica.’

  ‘Nobody’s much afraid of a vicar either. Not one like Father Holmes. Nor a houseboy by his side.’

  ‘You talk too much sense, Hannah. “Strangers don’t like strangers,” that’s what my papa used to say.’

  ‘A new family with money and without history. That’s hard for a community to accept.’

  When the house was ready they invited their old friends. Jon Swire came with his wife Rose, who was also expecting their first child. Hannah warmed to her. A Georgetown girl, Rose had a gentle disposition but was a good natterer and she could share with Hannah the ins and outs of the town’s social life, its quirks and oddities.

  ‘I don’t know what it’s like in Bartica,’ Rose said, ‘but I can tell you we do some things strangely here. At least I think so. Women don’t go out much after mid-morning. If you’re seen out, people talk. I don’t care to listen. Then you can be seen to be going out again late afternoon – but always with a hat. Isn’t that funny ? Nobody wears much jewellery, unless there’s a party. Your church is important. If you don’t join a church, it will be difficult for you. Will you ? If you do join a church, it will be just as difficult, depending which you choose. Georgetown’s a funny place.’

  Hannah listened to Rose’s peculiar little tales, and was grateful. The two women drew close.

  Meanwhile, Song and Jon had a chance to spend some proper time together.

  ‘Your pictures are up, Jon. I love them,’ Song said. ‘I wish Father Holmes could have seen how good you have gotten.’

  ‘Ah, the whiskered white-headed song warbler,’ Jon replied. ‘I loved drawing that one. Your bird.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been if it wasn’t for Father Holmes taking the books to England.’

  ‘I still have the fourth volume. It’s unfinished. We should revisit it some time. Pretend we’re kids again.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Some new acquaintances came by, too. Mr House complimented Hannah on her home-making. Even Mr Hing, who was rarely known to leave his workshop, became a regular on Sunday evenings. There were the Ting-Lees, who owned the main perishables store, which neve
r fully closed, day or night. Hannah first got to know Old Ting Lee, the blind mother of Mr Ting Lee, who made lime ices and sold them after dark through an open window next to the store. It had become Hannah’s craving. She loved to watch the old woman make the lollies by feel – squeezing limes, mixing in brown sugar and cooling the mixture in moulded trays with finger sticks planted in each cup which in spite of her clouded eyes stood as straight as the trunks of greenheart trees. Hannah sometimes ordered three on the trot, walking in a circuit until she had finished one, returning for another, and another. There was also Edward Hoare, who was the household’s most popular visitor; he stopped by whenever he was back in town. He shared Bartica gossip with Mary Luck, brought jars of forest honey for Hannah, and he and Song passed many evenings on the front porch together.

  ‘I remember when I used to hide out in the hallway listening to you and Tom Jameson and Father Holmes talking. I was fascinated by your conversation. Although in truth I probably didn’t understand very much.’

  ‘How funny. And here we are now. You a grown man, me an old man. Why was it that I was the one of the three to survive ? Should have been Father Holmes, of course. Tom Jameson and I ? Well, there wasn’t a lot to separate us.’

  ‘I remember Tom used to moan about Bartica endlessly.’

  ‘A lot to moan about when you’re a PC in Bartica. I miss him. Never got to the bottom of that killing. Someone’s walking free with blood on their hands.’

  Song shivered. He thought of his own hands pressing deep into the throat of Jesus.

  ‘Yet you love Bartica, don’t you ? I remember you saying that there’s a kindness there that you can’t find in many places in the world.’

  ‘Kindness, yes, but a whole lot more, of course.’

  ‘You choose to be there. We miss it sometimes, you know. Georgetown’s a hard town to love. Or perhaps it’s that the town finds us a hard couple to love.’

  Later that evening, Song asked Hannah the same. ‘Is Georgetown a hard town, or are we a hard couple ?’

  ‘Both, I’d say.’

  ‘Do you think you will be happy here ?’

  ‘I’m already happy.’

  ‘But you miss Bartica.’

  ‘Not really. It just takes time.’ Hannah’s eyes softened. She ran her fingers through her husband’s hair. ‘I’m in no hurry. Not like you.’

  ‘I can wait, but I don’t want you to have to.’

  ‘Georgetown won’t be rushed. We’ll find our place eventually.’

  Song did not want to wait for the world to change. It had not changed in time for Jinda or Lady or Father Holmes. He felt the ache he always felt when he thought of Father Holmes. He missed their quiet conversations about the stuck stubborn world. He missed the way the pastor tried to hurry up change and Song vowed to do the same.

  CHAPTER 24

  Mary Luck had become a popular member of the congregation at St Saviour’s, and had been encouraging Hannah and Song to accompany her.

  ‘I’m not telling you which church to join but you need to join one,’ Mary Luck said. ‘Otherwise it’ll be no wonder tongues wag.’

  Song reluctantly attended. He would rather have bowed out of church-going society altogether but he knew that would raise more questions that he cared to answer. He had enough trouble as it was without courting more. He could imagine the whispering. ‘What would the vicar say after everything he did for that boy ?’; ‘Thinks of himself above the church’; ‘All that money and he won’t share a penny with the church.’

  ‘Let’s go to St Andrew’s this Sunday,’ Song suggested. ‘I’d like our firstborn to be christened there.’

  Hannah frowned. ‘I don’t think we should, Song. It’s not our church.’

  ‘It was Father Holmes’ church,’ Song said. ‘He’d have wanted us to go there. A church should welcome anyone and everyone, that’s what he’d say.’

  The next Sunday the couple walked to St Andrew’s. It was over ten years since Song had walked the same route with Father Holmes. He knew the way so well, on foot or on his bicycle. He could ride there while reading a book at the same time.

  The church looked no different to how Song remembered it. If anything it looked fresher now. The congregation was strong in numbers, and Song and Hannah sat near the back of the church. Song glanced around. Even after all these years he recognised the governor and his wife, the Burfords, Mr and Mrs Stewart. Beside Millie Stewart was a young man who was probably her husband. Song recalled the night at the sea wall and wondered about Scott. And there was Mr Carmichael and his family. Song had not seen him for many years but time had not mellowed how he felt.

  The place was hauntingly familiar to Song. He recalled the days when he used to sit to the side of the apse, out of view of the congregation yet still able to watch Father Holmes deliver his sermon. Occasionally Father Holmes had caught his eye and they’d shared a half-smile.

  Father Francis was preaching about infidelity, about idleness, about how losing one’s way was a sure route to hell. Song allowed himself to daydream and could hear Father Holmes’ voice instead of Father Francis’. Speaking about the power of kindness, the worth of compassion, the importance of love. The echo of his words carried in the unstirring air. Song remembered the way Father Holmes draped his arm across Song’s shoulders as they walked back home to the vicarage and how he asked Song for his views on the sermon. Song felt a tear slip down his cheek.

  After the service Song and Hannah were among the first to exit. At the door Father Francis didn’t shake their hands. Song held a steady gaze but the vicar didn’t look either of them in the eye. Song felt disgusted by his behaviour. How far he had veered from what was right and good.

  Song steered Hannah quietly through the churchyard. As they were about to turn into the street, Edward Hoare caught up with them. He was breathless.

  ‘Good morning to you both. I hope you don’t mind me asking you, Song, when you’re next heading back and if I can join ?’

  ‘Soon. Is anything wrong ?’

  ‘I’m tired of this town. Tired of the people here. It’s that thing Tom Jameson used to say – that there are some things in life with no rhyme and no reason and I was one of them. He never understood why I preferred Bartica to so-called civilisation.’

  ‘So-called. Exactly.’

  While they talked, Hannah moved away to examine the headstones in the cemetery. Song noticed a woman approaching his wife. She was clearly agitated, gesticulating. He heard them both raise their voices. It was a heated exchange. Song excused himself from Edward’s company.

  ‘Hannah, are you all right ?’

  She turned to face her husband. She was pale. She took his arm. ‘Yes. But let’s go home.’

  Song knew something was wrong. He looked at the woman opposite, who he did not recognise. ‘Can I help you ?’

  ‘By staying away from here. You’re not welcome here, and neither is that woman.’

  ‘That woman is my wife. And this is a church, ma’am. Everybody’s welcome in a church.’

  ‘You stay with your own kind.’

  Song had heard all this before. He knew her sort. He was only sad Hannah had to hear it, too. ‘And tell me, ma’am, who are my own kind ?’

  ‘We are not.’

  Hannah was pulling at Song’s arm. ‘Take me home, Song.’

  ‘Take her home,’ the woman echoed.

  Song heard the anxiety in Hannah’s voice. He turned to his wife and saw her lost eyes. He felt a pang of regret for having brought her here. Not just to St Andrew’s but also to Georgetown. Was it really to give his family a better life ? This was not a better life. Not yet. Song pulled Hannah close to his side and they walked into the street in the direction of home. He felt a new sense of resolve to rise up against this woman and her sort, not now, but in time.

  A few days later Father Francis stopped by the house. ‘I’m sure you know why I’ve come to see you,’ he said to Song.

  Song hadn’t expected his call but he w
as prepared. He wanted Father Francis to think he was completely unaware of the vicar’s prejudices. In fact, Song wanted him to think that he believed he was a very fair man.

  ‘I’m glad you came by, Father,’ Song said. ‘I’ve been meaning to come and see you. We had a very unfortunate encounter outside St Andrew’s on Sunday with a member of your congregation who believed it was their place to say we were not welcome in your church. I am sure you’d like to set the record straight. When the time comes, I’d like to christen my firstborn in St Andrew’s. I know it would have been Father Holmes’ wish and I hope you’ll do us the honour.’

  Father Francis stiffened. ‘The individual you mention was expressing the feelings of my entire congregation. I have received lots of complaints. St Saviour’s is your church and I know Father Collins will be happy to christen your child there.’

  ‘Out of respect for . . .’

  ‘I hear there is a wonderful choir at St Saviour’s,’ Father Francis interrupted. ‘Isn’t that so ? I’ve been meaning to come myself and hear those beautiful voices. Wednesday evenings is when they practise.’

  ‘I am asking you, Father Francis, to respect the wishes of one of your former fellow clergymen.’

  Father Francis’ tone changed. ‘You used to clean St Andrew’s. That was your only association.’

  Song steadied his voice. ‘Father Holmes believed a church should be open to anyone who had the courage to pass through its doors.’

  ‘There is a respectable community at St Andrew’s who have been attending services for many years. You have only recently arrived in this town and my congregation is not comfortable with newcomers. I know Father Holmes would have understood exactly what I am talking about.’

  ‘He would not have understood at all. Father Holmes flung his doors open wide to anyone. Prostitutes, drunks, gamblers. We went out into the community looking for people who needed help.’

  The vicar’s face was flushed. ‘Bartica is a different place altogether, thanks be the Lord. Whores and sinners. Father Holmes had to let such people into his church because that’s all Bartica has to offer. It would have otherwise stood empty.’