by Jacob Ross
‘I’ll tell you what my problem is, Oslo. I looked hard inside a man’s soul once. He kill a boy, see? Kill a boy out o’ jealousy. Take nine years o’ my life to work that out from the lil book he used to write in. And the kind o’ torment it bring down on him, I not wishing that on nobody. And then there was Harris. You ’member Harris? Got pass away in his own house for a piece of bread. Harris was my friend, the first friend I ever had. Full of life, brimming all over with it, and then one night the man who share hi house with him take all that away. One day something happen. I had the chance to look in the eye of the man who done it. He carry the same intention to murder me. I tell you, man, I saw the Devil there in dat lil piece of bush behind my father house I used to call Eden; and I tell you this, Oslo: no anger, no hate, no cause in the world, could make me want to ’come like that. S’not even that I don’t have it in me. I have. But I make that choice long time ago. Y’unnerstan?’
‘Oslo? You want to eat now?’ The woman was at the door with her hands on her hips.
Oslo began walking towards the house. He stopped at the steps and looked back at Pynter. ‘You too nice to eat me an’ Mary food?’
Pynter sat at the table and picked his way through the plate of soused herring, sweet potatoes and bananas. Oslo had told Mary that Pynter did not want her food, but she filled a plate and placed it in front of him anyway.
Oslo wanted to know as much as he could about ‘de softies’ in San Andrews. Pynter answered him with grunts while studying the titles of Oslo’s books. They were mainly westerns by Louis L’Amour, and Perry Mason novelettes all stacked next to a massive Bible.
‘You still read, Pynter?’
Pynter nodded.
Oslo raised a finger at him. ‘I show you something, then. Mary?’
‘What?’
‘Gimme de box.’
‘Which box?’
‘How you mean which box? De box!’
Mary dragged in a box of books from the next room.
‘These,’ Oslo’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘every single one o’ dem banned by Victor. I got forty years’ worth o’ jail in dis lil box here. Mebbe more. Ever hear ’bout Lenin?’
Pynter nodded. ‘My town girl have a whole heap o’ dem.’
‘Ever read any o’ dem?’
‘I prefer poetry.’
‘You gone soo sooft!’
‘I still prefer poetry. People worried about the trouble this gonna start.’
‘Who is “people”? You?’
‘All of us, including those who decide to go home and stay home and not have anything to do with this tug-o’-war no more.’
‘It ain’t got no going home until this thing is over proper, fella. S’far as I concern, it ain’t got no home to go to. For nobody. You don’t realise dat?’
‘And who decide dat?’
The teeth flashed. ‘Me! If nobody else goin decide, I will decide! Something happen to y’all dat I don’ unnerstan. Is like … like if … ’
Pynter watched Oslo grapple with the words. ‘Put it this way, Oslo, this is more about me trying to unnerstan myself through people like you.’
‘Jeezam! You even talk like dem.’
‘Like who!’
‘Them people you mix with.’
‘I always talk like dat.’
‘No way! I remember you, fella. Sharp like a knife and uptight! Like you was vex with de world. Vex to bust. I never used to like you but I ’member you for dat. Where all dat gone?’ Oslo slowly worked his jaw over a piece of yam. ‘Lissen, fella. You still got dat pen?’
Pynter reached into his shirt pocket and held up Sislyn’s pen. Oslo took it carefully and held it against the window light. ‘It got ink?’ He slipped off the cover, spread his left palm flat and retraced the strong dark lines there. Oslo smelled the ink and chuckled. ‘I still envy you this, you know dat?’ Twas like when you sit down with dis pen in your hand, you was protected. Nobody could reach you. I used to hate you for dat. Paso used to tell me that you write good. You gonna write about – about, erm … ?’
Oslo’s own question seemed to have done something to him. For the first time he appeared uncertain.
‘Don’ know.’ Pynter eased the pen from Oslo’s fingers. ‘I see tough times ahead, Oslo.’
‘You talk as if tough times went somewhere.’
‘Somewhere in the back o’ my mind I come here well prepared to straighten you out.’
Oslo smiled. ‘This is not like last time, fella. Times change. I won’t let you get away this time. I mean it.’
‘We still got time,’ Pynter said. ‘Like you say, this thing not over yet.’ Pynter was looking out at the islands and reliving his conversation with Oslo when he heard a soft knock at the door. He wondered why anyone would come to Tinelle’s house in the middle of a curfew. He eased it open and there was Patty, dressed the way she used to when she and Leroy went for Sunday strolls down Old Hope Road. She wore the same shoes too, and the khaki trousers she worked the canes in. Lipstick glossed her lips like purple plums and her hair was pulled up like a mountain rearing back on itself.
She stood on the steps wavering like a palm tree in a soft wind. Pynter kissed her on the cheek and stepped back from her. He could see that something had frightened his young aunt and, whatever it was, it had brought her through the curfew to see him. He was certain she was sent. She took a seat on the wall of the veranda. She started fanning herself and looking around as if she’d just landed in a foreign country, swinging her head at the buildings and the sea below. ‘Y’all not ’fraid this house toss y’all down dere one day?’
Pynter went inside and brought her a drink. He handed her the glass. ‘How you come here?’ he said.
‘Where the girl?’ she said.
‘Sleeping.’
‘Pynto, you love dat girl?’
‘Like sand.’
‘Like?’
‘Sand – a whole heap.’
‘Dat’s why you burning yourself up over her?’
He smiled.
‘You gotta eat more greens. You get sick if you continue like dat.’
‘Like what.’
‘I not stupid. You greedy fo’ dat girl and you not eatin proper. You goin dry up if you go on like dat.’ She cut angry eyes at him. ‘Fellas always do dat! Y’all behave as if it ain’t got no tomorrow. Look how pale an’ dry you get!’
A hard wind scrubbed the eaves of the house. She looked up quickly. Now she was turning the glass in her hand. He watched her fingers.
‘They come fo’ you, Pynto. Soldier-fellas come to de yard askin fo’ you an’ Oslo.’
‘I didn do nothing,’ he said softly, weakly.
Patty shook her head, as if to say he’d missed the point.
The whispering of feet on the floor inside the house made Patty look up. Tinelle came to the door and seemed transfixed there. Patty lifted her eyes and smiled at her, and Tinelle’s face relaxed.
‘This is Tan Pat,’ Pynter said.
Tinelle walked over to Patty and kissed her. It was as if they’d always known each other. Patty seemed to understand this. She took Tinelle’s hand and rested it against her cheek.
‘A little bit o’ bizness between family,’ Patty said. Tinelle returned Patty’s smile and went back in.
His aunt dropped her voice. She’d counted twelve men, she said. They said that he, Pynter, had some questions to answer concerning Sergeant Sylus. They were not interested in Peter. They were sure that only Pynter could help them. He was the one that looked like the communist-fella-who-got-what-he-was-askin-for, not so? One of the men had taken out a piece of paper and read out some names. Oslo’s was there, and a couple of others that no one in Old Hope knew. Pynter’s was the last. Deeka swore on her life that Pynter knew nothing. They wanted to know how Deeka knew that. She told them she was certain because her grandson was no longer in the country. That worried them a little until Windy started crying.
They’d narrowed their eyes at the girl and told De
eka she was lying. And furthermore, she and the rest of the yard could look forward to a whole heap of sleepless nights until they found Pynter, or until Pynter came to them. Deeka followed the men down to the road, threatening them with murder. The men laughed at her, said good night and left.
Elena went to Cynty’s house to speak to Tobias but the little man was no longer with Cynty. Cynty sent him away for reasons she would not tell Elena. Except to say that Tobias talked too much. He couldn’t help it. And in these times a talking man was a man whose mouth was just as bad as a gun. What Cynty knew was that the wardens in Birdie’s prison were preparing themselves for a fresh crop of young people. Somebody had to pay, somebody from anywhere would do. But Old Hope made more sense. It was where Paso came from. And it was a couple of hills away from Saint Divine where Sylus got passed away. And the little they got from Frigo when they caught him was enough to send them looking for Oslo and Pynter.
If Patty weren’t already so upset, he would have told her what he was thinking while she talked. That there was no way through this. They would find him, sure as rain. Like they found Paso in the end. Instead he said, ‘How’s Tan Cee?’
‘She good. Much better. I … ’
‘I want to see her, Tan Pat.’
Patty didn’t answer him. She pushed her hand into her bag and pulled out a purse. ‘Wish I had more. S’everything I got,’ she said.
He shook his head but Patty stuffed the purse in his hand.
‘How you getting home?’ he said.
‘Same way I come,’ she said, pointing at her feet. It was all of eight miles to Old Hope. Night would meet her on the road.
She placed a hand on his shoulder. Now, she was looking at him with Deeka’s eyes.
‘Lisen to me,’ she said. ‘You not leaving like Birdie. Y’unnerstan? You not runnin from nobody like no criminal. When you leave dis place you leave here like a man. Full of all de dignity we teach you. Is what I want, is what Deeka want. Is what Elena an’ Tan Cee want. Tomorrow I goin talk to dem soldier-fellas. Got a coupla dem who come to look for me an’ say hello all the time at de store. I goin find Chilway an’ talk to ’im. He got to have soldier friends he know. I’ll walk through a million curfew if I have to. Let dem shoot me if dey want; but you not leavin dis islan’ like Birdie.’
He wanted to walk with her out to the road but Patty waved him back. He watched her till a bend in the road hid her from view.
The island sank into a well of silence. Tinelle said that the problems would begin when they started reading out names on the radio. Pynter sat with her in the darkness of her father’s house, feeling that the whole island was crowding in on them.
The thought of the soldiers separating him from her filled him with a fear he sometimes choked on.
If Tinelle hadn’t been so sure that the trouble would blow over, he would have gone and handed himself in. Sometimes he caught her in the kitchen staring at her feet, her eyes red, as if she had been crying, even though he knew she wasn’t.
He heard the footsteps long before the man entered the gate, a heavy, solid stride. He felt Tinelle’s weight on him. Her mouth was hot against his neck, her legs wrapped around him as if she wanted to take him whole inside herself and hide him there.
A knocking at the door, hesitant at first, then firmer. He pulled himself to his feet, dragging Tinelle up with him, and walked to the door.
‘Pynterrr,’ she said.
‘I fed up,’ he said.
Outside, the man called his name. Pynter pulled open the door.
He did not recognise the shape, standing as it was with the lights of the town behind it. Not at first. His mind presented him with a quick picture of Birdie, then abandoned it as soon as Peter said his name.
His brother slipped inside quickly. Pynter guided his brother through the darkened hall.
Suddenly Pynter felt at ease. Peter seemed to have the same effect on Tinelle. She dropped all the precautions she’d taken so far and lit up the hall with candles.
Peter stood in the middle of the space looking quietly across at him. Tinelle’s eyes could not stop from shifting from Peter’s face to his. Pynter thought he knew what she was seeing – they barely looked like brothers. And standing there, solid and at ease inside his body, Peter looked exactly like their father.
‘Deeka send me,’ Peter said. ‘S’matter o’ fact, I tell dem I comin cuz somebody got to take care o’ you, fella.’
‘S’kinda late.’
‘They come to take you, dey have to take me too.’
‘Go back home,’ Pynter said. ‘People don’ want you here. You waste your time coming an’ I wasting my time talkin to you.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Pynter!’ Tinelle’s voice startled both of them.
Peter turned to Tinelle. ‘He tryin to make me vex – so I could walk out of this house an’ go back home. Tell de backside, I not goin nowhere until I finish tell ’im what I come to tell ’im. A fella come home to look for ’im yesterday. No, not dem.’ He shook his head. ‘A short, lil man. Important-looking fella with a pretty walkin stick and glasses.’
Pynter shrugged. ‘He say who he is?’
‘Deeka couldn’t remember that part,’ ceptin that the name was long, like a govment man o’ something, with a whole string of things hook on to it.’
‘A string of?’
‘Titles an’ tings like dat. Deeka couldn remember everything and she was de only one that meet ’im.’
Pynter’s mind shifted back to a time in his father’s house when a man with a stick with the head of a lion arrived and frightened Manuel Forsyth into sending him to school. He hadn’t seen Bostin since. ‘This fella, he walk like he prefer to fly?’
‘Deeka say he walk tiptoe.’
Pynter smiled. ‘Bostin. He tell Deeka what he want?’
‘He want to see you. Urgent. Ask where he could find you.’
‘And?’
‘Deeka cuss de man. She tell ’im to haul ’iz arse from her place befo’ she knock ’im down. He put this in she hand and leave.’
Peter handed him a letter.
Mister Pynter Bender,
Hello and how are you?
I estimate that you would be around nineteen years old now (hence the salutation ‘Mister’). I hope you do not deem that it is too late for me to congratulate you on your A-level results. Being responsible for overseeing such matters now, I was made aware of your outstanding performance the very day the results were expedited to my offices from Cambridge, England.
I expect that you will now appreciate the basis for my altercation, many, many years ago, with, if I may say so without undue offence, your very recalcitrant father.
A number of conjunctures precluded me from making certain openings possible for you (based entirely on your impressive academic performance, I may add).
I have been made aware of the circumstances surrounding yourself at present through very confidential sources. It is with concern and curiosity that I present this request to see you and discuss possibilities.
There may be something I could do.
You will, I presume, appreciate the extremely sensitive nature of this missive coming from a person of my placing and position. Therefore, subsequent to reading its contents, I urge you to destroy it.
Yours Faithfully
Bostin Uriah – PTECO, ANCEEDP – Ministry of Education & PP of the SRBE.
‘Writes like a politician,’ Tinelle chuckled.
‘Better than that,’ Pynter said. ‘I remember telling you about him once,’ he said to Peter.
Peter nodded. ‘Long time back. Y’all was in touch all dis time?’
‘No.’
‘Then how come…’ His brother seemed to change his mind about asking the question. Peter shrugged. ‘I’ll bring him to you if you want.’
‘How?’
‘Anyhow.’
‘From where?’
‘I’ll find him.’
‘In this curfew?’
‘In any curfew.’
‘Bring him, then.’
He had to hand it to Bostin. He was dressed as meticulously as Pynter remembered him, a grey polyester shirt and blue trousers whose seams were pressed to a knife’s edge.
He was now Principal Teacher Education Concerns Officer, Advisor on National Curricular and Extra-curricular Education Development Policy ANCEEDP (pronounced, Add-Seed, he instructed), with an eye firmly fixed on the Statutory Regional Board of Examination. He had cultivated a little paunch, as was becoming a person of his position. The cane, imported from England, silver-capped at either end, rounded the image off perfectly.
Pynter liked listening to him as much as Bostin enjoyed being listened to. Tinelle stifled her laughter in the kitchen while she prepared him the orange juice and Jacob’s Cream Crackers that he asked for.
No food, thank you. Jacob’s Cream Crackers with a pat of Blue Band margarine, Blue Band Gold if there was any about, would do him fine. Thanks ever so much, Miss McMurdo. Did she know that McMurdo was a Scottish name? A nice match one would say, he nodded at them. Nice. Not all names had to have a history. In fact, a few names without any history at all were making history right now. Indeed, it was a common thing for commoners to marry into history – no disrespect meant, Mister Bender. Just look at the royalties of Europe! A handsome young man with a brain like that and a very pretty lady with a bit of history behind her name could do very dramatic things indeed. If he had his way, there would be a Ministry for the Family. Yes indeed! A Ministry for the Foundation of Society. He would name it personally, because that is what a family is, the foundation of society. And who will head that Ministry? A Minister, of course, he smiled, a Minister. And bright young people like Mister Bender there and pretty Miss McMurdo here will have a definite place in it. A well-paid place too.
‘You said you wanted to discuss, er, possibilities?’ Tinelle slipped in politely.
Bostin looked up. ‘I said?’
‘Not tonight. In your letter to Pynter.’