Local Customs

by Audrey Thomas

  I wasn’t so much afraid anymore as anxious to see what would happen next. Perhaps I had written so much about frightening things in my novels that I had made myself immune to horror. I said to myself, Someone is doing this in jest, to see how the “‘Bronie lady” will react. I did quiz Isaac, but he insisted no one gets by him in the night. On the other hand, I have heard the merchants talk of how their watchmen do more snoring than watching.

  Where could someone hide during the day and not be seen?

  There were always vultures wheeling up above the town.

  George

  SUCH A CARRY-ON WHEN I THREATENED to throw her drops overboard. “I’ll die, George. I’ll fall dead at your feet.”

  It’s not that I knew what was in the bottle; I just didn’t like the idea of dependency.

  Brodie: She mentioned her drops one day; she said they were for “an old complaint.”

  Mr. Freeman

  THEY SAID YOU COULD SMELL THE SLAVE SHIPS when they were a mile out. My poor father! Sold to the highest bidder, a strong young boy. And sold again in the West Indies. His teeth examined, his spine, between his legs. He spoke no English, but soon learned all he needed to know: “Sah.” “Yes, Sah.” “Mastah.” And then, one day, when he accompanies his master to England, when he steps on English soil, he is free. Or so the story goes. Free to go where? Free to do what? What saved him was the fact that his master was an amateur botanist, and kind, as masters go. He became an undergardener and then moved up. What saved him was the love of a good woman, a widow with three sons.

  He was always cold — wore a muffler at home. “I’m only warm when I’m working,” he said. He had a soft voice, different from the voices out here. It had a lilt to it, which made him sound happy even when he was not.

  Soon the Harmattan would begin in a fog of red dust. Hmm. An idea for a sermon, perhaps? The soul’s Dry Season, thirsting for refreshment. Yes. I must write it down before I forget it. God’s lessons are everywhere — if only one pauses to pay attention. “Blessed are they who do hunger and thirst after Righteousness.”

  I thought I might just stop at Mr. Swanzy’s along the way home; his cook was chopping the heads off chickens as I came by earlier. Strange how they rush about with their heads cut off. Another idea for a sermon? Why, ideas are falling on me as thick as rain. Thomas, you are inspired this afternoon, truly inspired.

  Letty

  AT THE LAST CHAPEL SERVICE I ATTENDED, Mr. Freeman gave a sermon about dust. It had to do with the coming Harmattan. He spoke in ringing tones for a few minutes, then the interpreter stood up and he sat down. Then Mr. Freeman up again, then down, and the interpreter up. Up. Down. Up. Down. I’m sorry to say it reminded me of a Punch and Judy show. All we needed was the hitting and the little dog. The choir looked splendid in their blue sashes.

  George: Excellent sermon Mr. Freeman. I am always pleased to see you using topics from the world as we know it out here.

  Mr. Freeman: Thank you, Mr. Maclean. Next week my topic is chickens.

  I didn’t mean to laugh.

  Mr. Freeman

  ONE DAY, MRS. MACLEAN MENTIONED she had taught their gardener to read when she was young.

  “Was he black?”

  “No, but it saddened me that there was someone I knew who was unable to enjoy the world of books.”

  “And yet you are not saddened by the children here, who cannot read or write.”

  “Don’t pester me, Mr. Freeman. I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice, I made certain commitments before I left England and I must fulfill them before I can think of anything else.”

  (Another weeping woman, another Byronic hero, another broken heart, another tomb. What rubbish! She sent me a basket of fruit when I was indisposed — but to give of herself?)

  Letty

  THAT EVENING I ASKED GEORGE what he really thought of the missionaries, not just Mr. Freeman, but missionaries in general.

  “I think they do fine work with little reward.”

  “Well, wouldn’t they say their reward is in Heaven? Do you want to know what I think? I think sometimes these worthies resemble the serpent in the Garden of Eden.”

  “Letty!”

  “Aren’t they offering Christianity the way the serpent offered the apple? And then when they take it and eat of it thereof, or whatever the Bible says, they discover Sin. They discover Shame.”

  “They offer redemption; we are all tainted with Original Sin.”

  “All right. He makes them ashamed and then he tells them to cover up, to abandon their gods and fetishes and Jesus-God will forgive them everything, Jesus-God being sort of like a Heavenly George Maclean, only without the uniform and without the fear of fines. He introduces the concept of sin so that they can be saved from sin. Doesn’t sound strange to you?”

  “You are a casuist.”

  “No. But since coming here I’ve been thinking a lot, more than I’ve ever thought before, about missionaries. Why do we want these people to be Christian?

  “Because of the civilizing influence of Christianity and Christian precepts.”

  “And then what? Once they cover up, get rid of excess wives, ban the old gods, declare themselves for Christ, will they be better off?”

  “Of course. They live in spiritual squalor and it keeps them from progressing.”

  “George, for two centuries the people here witnessed the slave trade. Weren’t those mostly Christians who carried it out? Do you think they can easily make the distinction between one kind of Christian and another?”

  “Many of the Africans helped in the slave trade as well.”

  “Of course they did; they learned from the Europeans.”

  “There was slavery here long before we came.”

  “You’re impossible!”

  “I’m tired. Let’s continue this another time.”

  “Of course.”

  Letty

  THE BACKING ON THE MIRROR IN MY BEDROOM had tarnished in places; it gave back a spotted reflection. Even without constant rain — it was very sporadic now — the humidity tarnished everything. Twice a week the prisoners polished all the cutlery and plate and I saw to the backs of my brushes, a present from the Misses Lance. Brodie told me the story of a silver statue of St. James that the Portuguese had sent to Elmina when they controlled the Castle. It turned black almost as soon as it was unpacked and frightened the natives to death. They thought it was a devil.

  Mr. Freeman

  HOLINESS IS HAPPINESS. There is joy in salvation. I must get that across to them. The joy!

  Letty

  I ASKED BRODIE IF HE WOULD UNDERTAKE a commission for me; a few books to use as prizes for the children as they advanced in their studies. Nothing offensive, just books with lots of pictures and a few words. Bible stories would be best, but, barring that, stories of animals. I was going to suggest to Mr. Freeman that we inaugurate a Prize Day in the coming year, making it an annual event. I would present the prizes: G for GRACIOUS. I also gave Brodie a letter to a physician in London, not Dr. Thomson, who was to entertain a special request, “as previously agreed to.”

  “Do you mind doing these errands?”

  “I would do anything for you.”

  George

  FATHER ASKED ME A QUESTION on my last night at Urquhart.

  “George, are you happy out there?”

  “Content might be a better way to put it. Content to do my duty to my country.”

  “Your health is suffering for it.”

  “Not so badly as some.”

  “Your uncle might be able to find you something else — in a more salubrious climate.”

  “It’s all right, Father, really.”

  But it wasn’t. Did I think Letty would make it better? I had asked her to marry me on an impulse, but what was that impulse? Love — or desperation? There was no instrument up in my cockloft to measure boredom. I think, secretly, I longed for a war, even a minor war, to stir things up. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow …”
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  Letty wasn’t the only one who could quote Shakespeare. Be careful what you wish for.

  Isaac

  GUBB’NOR COME QUICK! GUBB’NOR COME QUICK!

  Letty

  (TO BRODIE): MRS. BAILEY WAS TELLING ME ABOUT the ju-ju stall in the market. She says it is full of disgusting objects. Love potions/hate potions, roots and powders, “things to stick up yer,” as she puts it.

  Brodie: Sometimes it is the fear that works the magic, not the thing itself.

  Letty: And other times?

  Brodie: Well, of course there are a multitude of poisonous things, as you know. And things that cure as well. The garden boys, if they slice a leg with their machete, slap on a leaf and the wound stops bleeding in seconds. But when you ask, “Which leaf? Which leaf?” they won’t tell you. We need a botanist to make a tour of this coast and write it all down. I expect Thomas Freeman is already doing some research. Superstition, yes, lots of superstition and fetish nonsense, but a lot of practical knowledge too.

  Think of all the folk remedies back home amongst the country women. “Simples,” they call them, but it’s the same idea. And think of Culpepper, how successful he’s been.

  Letty: We can’t just go out and buy poison.

  Brodie: Some poisons we can. To kill rats, for instance.

  I thought of my drops; how the doctor at St. George’s warned me to always dilute the stuff in distilled water. “There is a country saying about this: three to kill a rabbit, five to kill a man. You must be very careful.”

  George wanted to throw them overboard, yet at the inquest he said he did not know what hydrocyanic acid meant. If he did not know what it meant, why did he tell me it was “too dangerous”?

  And who was he to talk? Were those not opium pills he was taking when he was so ill? It was the opium that caused his delirium, his costiveness.

  “Ekosua! Ekosua!” he had cried out again and again.

  For four nights I lay on a pallet by the bed, afraid to leave him alone, bathing his forehead as he tossed and turned.

  Once, he opened his eyes and recognized me.

  “Oh, Letty,” he said, “what will you do if I should die?”

  “My dear,” I replied, “if you were to die, it would not be long before I followed you.”

  That’s what I said to him, but I was frightened; what would I do? Go back to England on the October boat? The widow Maclean. At least I would have some status, possibly some money. I know that when we married George changed his will to include me, but there was his family as well; bequests to them I’m sure. Perhaps the widow Maclean wouldn’t be much better off than L.E.L.

  I had not made a will, although Whittington urged me to it. George had already agreed that my money was my own.

  After my death he kept up the payments to my mother; it seemed only right. At his death, of course, they ceased. I assume my brother took over.

  “Whittington!”

  “Family name,” I said.

  “Are you related to Dick Whittington and his cat?”

  I was always surprised when George attempted humour.

  Mrs. Bailey

  THERE HAD BEEN A BABY GOAT TETHERED somewhat apart from its mother (I reckon it was to be slaughtered in the morning) and its cries had kept me awake. Maaa … And then response: Maaa … Over and over. The baby would call and the mother would respond. “I’m here, I’m here.” So I wasn’t in a deep sleep when I heard the screams.

  I went down to her right away. She was sitting up in bed, eyes wide with terror, nightdress soaked, the sheets as well.

  “Letitia. Mrs. Maclean. Whatever is the matter?”

  At that she broke into wild sobbing, so I just held her and said, Shh, Shh, until she calmed down. Then I changed the sheets while she put on a fresh gown.

  “Don’t leave me!” she said, clutching my hand.

  “I won’t leave you; I’ll sit on the chair, here, and stay ’til morning. But what was it that frightened you so?”

  “For weeks there’s been someone outside my door. When I call out, they don’t answer. Tonight I decided to open the door, to see who was playing this joke.”

  “And?”

  “And, when I flung open the door, there was no one. No one I could see. And yet someone was there, I could feel it. A presence. Someone was there, I swear it. I ran back into the room and slammed the door. But whatever it was just stood out there. And then it began to laugh.”

  Although I don’t believe in “presences” and all that nonsense, I could see that she was genuinely frightened. And the way she spoke — of the sense of someone invisible standing outside and laughing, made the hairs stand up on the back of me neck.

  “Someone wants to harm me.”

  “I think these are probably just fancies; you are overtired, what with all that nursing of Mr. Maclean and then trying to finish your essays, like. I think that’s all it amounts to. And maybe you could hear the baby goat crying down below.”

  “I heard no baby goat. I heard laughter, from outside my door. Something was really out there. Something wishes me ill.”

  The next night I offered to stay with her again, but she said she was fine now and to say nothing to Mr. Maclean. I had a little chat with Isaac, who had moved his sleeping-mat away from outside Letitia’s door. I told him to get back up there and do as he had been told.

  Letty

  THEY MUST HAVE “MEDICINE” that makes them invisible. But why stand outside my door? Could they not open the locks and simply walk right in? Strangle me or poison me or do whatever it was they intended to do? My eldest niece had given me a small St. Christopher medal on a golden chain. I had never worn it because it seemed silly to do so. But now I took it out of my jewel case and clasped it around my neck. I doubted it would do any good, but it was worth a try. I told myself all this was a trick and I really should consult George — he’d soon find the culprit.

  I stayed longer and longer in our shared bedroom, but as soon as I made my way to my own quarters, the presence followed me. Why didn’t it attack me there? Why didn’t it force its way in? It played with me, like a cat with a mouse. When I looked in the mirror I could see the huge circles under my eyes and yet George saw me as fine.

  “Letty, you continue to amaze me. What is your secret? No fever, nothing. And you have even gained a little weight; it suits you. I wish I had a magic carpet so that I could whisk you over to London for one night (and one night only) to show all the doubters how well you are.”

  “But you were the major doubter, George, were you not?”

  “I was.”

  A drachma is 60 grains or 1/6 of an ounce; a minim, the smallest fluid measure, is 1/60 of a drachma. I measured out my medicine in minims. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  If I had died in England, what sort of funeral would there have been? Horses with black plumes, women in black bombazine, men with black armbands? Would there be many coaches? L.E.L. is dead! Or would Whittington simply bury me next to Father, say a few chosen words, and be done with it? Who would attend the funeral? Who would provide the funeral spread? My uncle Landon told me that in Yorkshire there has to be a ham or the funeral is incomplete; what would be the culinary equivalent in London? I realized I had only been to one funeral — my father’s — which I had to arrange, Mother being prostrate with grief and Whittington still a student. I can’t remember what we served. I was holding back my own terrible grief in order to be the dutiful, efficient daughter. I remember little of that. William Jerdan would be there, of course, Bulwer, ditto, the Misses Lance, perhaps even my mother. How strange to think I have not outlived my mother!

  Of course George would not be there, for if I had died in England, in the year of our Lord 1838, I would not have been married to George. And, if I had not been married to George, I would not have died so young.

  Would my mother become maudlin, tell everyone how she had come to her marriage with £14,000, a saddle horse, and a groom, but her husband had lost everything and she was reduced to taking money f
rom her daughter?

  Did my mother weep for me when she learned of my death out here, or did she think only of herself? When I was a small child I had Whittington to play with, but after he went off to school I was left to my own devices. All Mother’s affection went to Lizzie, who was born sickly and continued that way until she died. There was no affection left for me.

  But my father loved me. As I have said, I used to swing on the gate at Trevor Park and wait for him each evening. He rode his horse (or perhaps it was Mother’s horse?) to town and back and I could hear him coming long before I saw him. He’d been to sea as a midshipman. I loved his stories about that time. I loved the books he bought me: Robinson Crusoe, Sylvester Tramper, The Arabian Nights.

  Then we came down in the world. My mother never forgave him. And it’s true that once you have been used to certain things and then have to do without them, it can make you bitter. Far better to rise than to fall.

  I was hoping we’d be able to ride on the Coast.

  “George, why are there no horses here?”

  “They can’t survive.”

  “Why not? Is it the heat?”

  “We don’t think so, but we don’t really know. In other parts of Africa there are horses. Up in the north, where Ibrahim comes from, they are famous for their horses. There is something here that kills them.”