No Woman No Cry

by Rita Marley

  But it soon reached the point where I had to do housework as well as nursing. I had various jobs, and then got one as a live-in nurse-housekeeper for a very old woman, whose wealthy children let her live by herself. Maybe they couldn’t stand her, or maybe she preferred this, although from what I could see, she was miserable. But she owned a mansion, and that’s where we lived, just the two of us.

  Working for Mrs. Carrington was a task, and frightening, because although aged she could be scary. So was the neighborhood, where only rich white people lived, and the only black people I ever saw were the maids. It gave me a weird feeling when I thought about it, that I was a helper now, a maid. If I sometimes snuck a phone call, I would have to listen to Mrs. Carrington going over her bill: “Who made this call? That damn maid!” Old as she was, she would inspect her silver with a magnifier to be sure I had cleaned it properly and count it to be sure I had not stolen any on my day off.

  After Mrs. Carrington had her morning coffee, and maybe toast and scrambled eggs, she didn’t eat again until two or three o’clock, when she would pick out what she wanted for dinner. She counted everything—each slice of bread (and you could only have one), each egg. She measured all our food by the spoon, never a measuring cup. For the two of us she’d dole out maybe two to five spoonfuls of whatever we were eating, or one lamb chop and one baked potato—for us both, and that was it for the night! So I’d find myself many nights, after I put her to bed, sneaking down to the kitchen to steal an egg or a chop, even a piece of bread or a potato, because I was always hungry—and not just because I was pregnant, though that certainly had something to do with it. Thinking about this now, I realize I’ve really had a life …

  But even more than the hunger, and the fear and embarrassment involved in stealing food, what I minded was the loneliness. My room was in the attic, and there wasn’t all that much work to do. I missed home—not only Bob and my girls but Jamaica itself, with its sunshine and music. I missed Ziggy, whom I was able to see only on my weekend off. Sometimes I’d cry myself to sleep, other times I swore I heard ghosts in that cold, empty house. Just the silence of the place alone would drive me crazy. But I stuck it out—and Mrs. Carrington was even going to sponsor me to the United States, I was told, if I stayed on as a live-in. So I guess I was a good enough maid.

  I kept waiting for Bob to come to Delaware, but then he got a draft notice from the U.S. government. It was the time of the Vietnam War, and because he had taken out citizenship papers, they wanted him for military service. The letter said, essentially, “We got you!” But Bob’s response was, “No, I’m gonna run.” So there was no more talk of his joining me. And at the same time he would not give up on his music. So each day he would write two or more songs about, as usual, his life—for example: “Talking Blues,” “My Woman Is Gone,” “Baby Come on Home.”

  Caught up there in Mrs. Carrington’s attic, with no end in sight, I had a lot of time to think. Something in me still couldn’t believe that this was it, that this was where I’d remain. I fooled myself into believing that what I was going through was just to keep my independence, and that things weren’t going to be this way always. And then sometimes—just when I needed him, it seemed—Bob would call to give me encouragement, to say again, “Just cool, soon everything will be fine, either you come back to Jamaica or whatever, but don’t stay there and worry yourself.”

  It was sweet Eddie Booker who gave me the most immediate hope. Just before my weekend off, he’d call to say, “Oh Rita, I’m coming to get you!” And he’d drive me home and oh, I was so glad to see my boy Ziggy! But then one day it was snowing, and when I got home I found that Ziggy had been playing in the park across the street with some kids who’d thrown snow inside his jacket. He came down with pneumonia and I had to rush him to the hospital that night, one of his lungs almost collapsed. I nearly died, I cried so, I kept saying, “No no no, I can’t leave Ziggy anymore, ’cause they’re gonna kill him.” Things were getting out of hand now, I thought, I think it’s time for me to go, this would never have happened around Aunty. I called Bob, and said, “I’m coming home.”

  He said, “It don’t make sense to come home, there’s nothing to come home for because nothing is happening in Jamaica.”

  I was so upset. What had happened to “Just cool—soon everything will be fine”? I knew I’d have to have the new baby in Delaware if I couldn’t come home right then, because I was almost due, and soon it would be too late to fly. A kind of uncertainty crept in about Bob that I’d never felt before. I realized we’re separating, we’re growing apart. What’s happening here?

  So I said, “As soon as I can, after this baby is born, since you’re not coming to America, I’m coming home. And that’s it.”

  I worked right up to the time the baby was due. I had to. So that if anyone said, “Your child is eating a lot!” I could say, “No problem.” I’d get my pay, pay this, help out that, buy everybody a beer, and we’d drink and be happy. But living with Cedella Booker was an experience. Soon after Ziggy’s pneumonia I’d left Mrs. Carrington to work days in the hospital, and so I was home to take care of Moms at night—bathe her, oil her hair. She looked forward to that, it was my “daughter-in-law thing.” We would sit and watch TV and I would be there for hours, chatting, making her comfortable, before we went to bed. But the time I spent with her was great; I learned a lot from Moms, so I didn’t mind so much that I had to wash out her tub after bathing her and other things daughters-in-law don’t do anymore. And then sometimes at night I had to scrub her kitchen floor, and wax it, so that in the morning it would be shiny when she went down to make Eddie’s coffee and bologna sandwiches for her boys’ school lunch.

  Sometimes I was able to speak to Sharon and Cedella if Aunty took them to the post office to get a connection to call me in Delaware. I’d listen to their little voices asking, “Mommy, when are you coming home?” and I would end up in tears. At night I’d try to sneak out of the house to smoke a little spliff or end up sobbing myself to sleep. I don’t know how I did it those last few months. I must have been so strong even though back then I felt so weak.

  The only relief I had from all the Delaware pressure was an occasional trip to Brooklyn, where my father was living with Alma Jones. The first time things got truly uncomfortable and I felt I had to run away, I called Papa and he said, “Just take the train.” As if it were so easy! Although I’d been on the train before when we were working with JAD, I felt unsure of myself now, especially with my big belly and Ziggy still a little boy. It was Eddie Booker, that sweet soul, who took me to the train station, got my ticket, and saw me off. He made sure I was on the right train and cautioned me, “Don’t get off till you hear them say, ‘New York, New York’!”

  It was a five-hour ride, at least, and Ziggy usually fell asleep, so I could just relax and stare out the window and think. At the time Cedella Booker didn’t recognize the faith of Rastafari, though she has since become more interested. So between us there was always some general warfare about that, besides “I have to get home to clean the kitchen.” Sometimes my trips to New York would follow pleas for backup money to my cousin Kenneth, with whom Dream had lived for a while; other times I’d just sit on the phone crying to Papa, or Miss Alma, “Oh, we had a fight” or “Mrs. Booker’s barking at me again.” And they’d say, come up here for the weekend, come to Brooklyn.

  Today, when I see young women who look like me, who seem to be living that same life, I look at them and remember how I used to feel then. How I used to get off the railroad, find the right subway to get to the house, pregnant me and the little boy Ziggy, in the middle of winter. Feeling so tired and lost but so upright and determined, until I’d buzz that door and a voice said, “Who is it?” and I’d say, “It’s Rita!” and Miss Alma would scream and then come running down the eight flights of steps to get us, crying, “And the baby, how you come in such cold!” Oh, she’d make a fuss, and then the sweetest rice and peas, with oxtail, Papa’s favorite dish. And, surp
risingly, I began to understand my father in a way I never had before. It was amazing to me how many little jobs I’d seen him trying to do, to keep on being a musician and make a living—in London, Stockholm, and now Brooklyn. Right then, his children with Miss Alma, George and Margaret, as well as Kingsley, Papa’s adopted son, were living in England with Miss Alma’s sister. And I realized that although I’d been angry at him when he left me with Aunty, he was only trying to support his family, which he had hardly ever managed to do.

  But whenever I ran away to New York and came back there was a big quarrel. “Why you have to go to see your father, why, what news did you take to them?” I felt as trapped then as Bob had been in Stockholm with Johnny Nash. And I couldn’t blame Bob because he was trying, too. I guess because we were so young and inexperienced we were not able to support each other morally, to say, well, this is life, it’s coming at us in a way we didn’t expect. We were lucky enough to have families who put up with us and helped us when we needed them.

  Our second son, Stephen, was born in April. I went back to work in the hospital right away, figuring I’d work and try to save some money until he was about five months old, although I really wanted to go home right then. But one night, after an incident I can’t even remember (there were so many), I went into my room, sat on the bed, took out my writing paper, and sat there for a while thinking of what to say. I was so tired I could barely hold the pen. The house was very quiet. “Dear Aunty,” I wrote, “I think I’m being taken advantage of.” I realized that not only was I homesick, I was really getting too tired to go on this way, working so hard and not ever feeling happy, and wondering all the time about what Bob was doing and what was happening in Jamaica. Although the Bookers tried to make me feel comfortable, and Moms especially, for Bob’s sake, didn’t want me to feel as if I was not accepted as part of the family, there was just too much pressure. And I thought I’d had enough of America.

  When Aunty got my letter, she called, saying, “Oh my God, what’s going on?” The Bookers were concerned, Moms very upset that I’d written my family that kind of letter. Then I found out that in Jamaica there was more trouble: Bob was still living with Aunty and the two girls, yet there’d be nights he didn’t come home, although that was “home”—where they washed his clothes and he came for dinner (when he wanted to, since I wasn’t there). Aunty was even more miserable than she’d been before I left, because her expectations weren’t being in any way fulfilled. It seemed to her that Bob was getting less ambitious, because he took sides with his boys and didn’t have a job.

  He had said all along that he was going to stay in Jamaica to see what would happen with the connection he had made in London, that he was going toward something. But he was miserable, too, and before anything happened with the music a lot of fooling around went on that had nothing to do with music. I think men have less patience than women; if they try something and it doesn’t work, they immediately get upset with themselves that they didn’t do the right thing. Women tend to think first how it’s going to affect us, the children—in other words, we’re left with the responsibility.

  I went home as soon as Stephen could sit up. I didn’t know until then about the two young women Bob had been seeing while I was in Delaware, though I had suspected one even before I’d left—I’d even gone to her mother to say, “Tell your daughter to stay away from my husband!” Both of these women had become pregnant at the same time, their sons born about a month after Stephen. I was very upset at first to learn about all this, though it’s common in Jamaica. But since then, I’ve come to love both of these boys and to think of them as my sons.

  I had a little money saved. When I found out about this new situation, my first thought was that I needed to stand on my own two feet. Even though I still loved Bob, and was glad to see him and for the time being wanted to remain his wife, I realized I couldn’t completely trust this man anymore with my life and my children. I really had to try to forget about him for a while—even if that was hard to do—and focus on the four children: Sharon, Cedella, Ziggy, and now Stephen.

  First thing, I’d seek after getting out of Trench Town, however I could make that happen. It seemed crucial. I felt especially bad for Ziggy, who had been going to school in Delaware and was accustomed to certain treatment—it was a new life in Trench Town. I was only twenty-five, but I felt I’d achieved a degree of knowledge and experience and wanted some respect. I had worked too hard in Delaware and felt I should use whatever I’d gained, not just financially but morally. I’m gonna give something to my children, I thought, these kids are too nice, I owe it to them. And if Bob doesn’t want to be part of it, too bad. I felt as if I had something to boast about—even though I had nothing except a few American dollars that would soon be gone.

  Of course Aunty said, “You crazy? What you gonna be doing? Ah, Robbie not makin’ one bit a money and you come back? Why you never stay in America? What you come for? Why you followin’ him?” She thought I should divorce him.

  But I thought this was not for a Rasta to do, not a good example. So even though I was in so much pain, I said no, he’s still my husband and I don’t want to lose my husband. I asked myself, can I hold out? I knew he loved the kids as much as I did, but that he was distracted because of all the pressures, there was just too much mix-up. Where there’s weakness I have to be strong, I thought. I have to be strong for the kids. Even if I’m angry as hell at Bob, I have to be strong for him. I felt I had to take the lead, and that we had to try to be friends because we were partners now, we were connected forever, we were family.

  chapter seven

  THANK YOU, JAH

  WHATEVER FEW DOLLARS I brought home from Delaware blew in a couple of weeks, because I had to go up to Courts and take out a double bed and an extra dresser for the kids. It almost seemed as if I’d turned back the clock by coming home. Once again we were living hand to mouth, with neither of us working and the JAD royalties nearly nonexistent. Nothing had changed, and only trouble had been added.

  When Bob returned from London after the JAD thing fell apart, he’d said, “Well, a man named Chris Blackwell is coming to Jamaica, you’ll soon see here, Rita, things might work out, there might be a deal.” And so forth … But that to me had been just a big maybe, and I didn’t know much about Chris; in any event, there had been no money.

  These days, the name Chris Blackwell is widely known, since his company, Island Records, has been responsible for taking Jamaican music to the rest of the world. Chris grew up in Jamaica, in an Anglo-Jamaican family, and by the time Bob walked into his London office he had been promoting Caribbean music for more than a decade. In Jamaica he’d already established a small record label, Blue Mountain/Island, and in 1962, when he moved to London, he began to release recordings by performers like Millie Small, Jimmy Cliff, and the Skatalites. Chris had even reissued some of the Wailers’ early work for Coxsone, recorded under the name Wailing Wailers. This was what led them—stranded in London—to look him up. It was Chris’s interest and belief in the Wailers, and in Jamaican music in general, that had sent Bob and Bunny and Peter home on the plane with a promise: Bring me an album and we’ll see what we can do.

  Not long after I returned from Delaware, just when I was beginning to doubt anything would ever happen, Chris made the Wailers an offer. He was going against advice: He’d been told that he was crazy to even think he could get a deal with them, that they were not to be trusted and would surely rip him off—“You don’t put your money on these guys, they’re the rude boys! You may never see them again!” But Chris had had earlier, positive experiences with Rastafarians that led to his interest, and he really had his finger on the pulse of Jamaican music. And I think he had the same reaction to the Wailers that I myself had at first. From the day I met them I saw something about them that was different from ordinary Trench Town bad boys—there was some class to them, some future. Chris has said that “something about them” made him feel as if he could trust them, maybe the way the
y delivered themselves. And now they had delivered. So he decided to give them money to go into the studio.

  And this is where everybody started to smile—there was no deal so far, but a deal was clearly in sight. I felt some relief, as if I could breathe again, and I even began to get along better with Aunty because we could help out with money to buy food, and I knew I could soon get out of her house. Chris was also making it easy for the music to happen. In the early seventies he had bought a large, run-down house at 56 Hope Road, uptown near Jamaica House, the prime minister’s residence, and also near Devon House, a landmark mansion where his mother had been raised. The place, which he named Island House, included some acreage and a few outbuildings in the back. It was shabby but livable. Chris set it up as a gathering/rehearsal space for the musicians he wanted to promote, and in short order he and Bob arranged that after the release of the first album, Bob was to take over the property, giving him a place to hold interviews and press conferences. As things worked out, eventually the ownership of 56 Hope Road passed to Bob, as a final payment for his share of the three-album deal the Wailers signed.

  When all this started, Bob was of course thrilled. He kept saying to me, “Listen, we’ll have a house!” As for me, I was astonished, especially by the location—ordinarily, if you didn’t have money or you weren’t white (or brown), you could hardly set foot in that area. Plus a Rasta! Even worse! Hope Road was the first time any such achievement had ever happened to a Rasta. To be able to flash dreadlocks and wear the Rastafarian colors in a home beside the governor general’s—the king’s house! A home beside the prime minister’s place where he has his office—two doors from it! Right in the limelight, in the middle of uptown!