Island Songs

by Alex Wheatle

  Levi laughed but now felt more alone than ever, only the birdsong and the rustling of the leaves above his home to look forward to. He couldn’t even read his books for the 1951 storm had washed them away. He hoped Carmesha would come up and see him tomorrow. He hoped one day he would live with her.

  As Carmesha was returning home, glad that she had finally won a verbal battle over Levi, Jacob, Levi’s brother, was nervously knocking on the door of the Rodney household. He was holding his black, felt stetson with both hands while shuffling his feet, trying his best to be presentable. Amy opened the door. Jacob bowed slightly, smiling. “Good night, Miss Amy,” his words of greeting following the best polite Jamaican tradition. “I waan to ask ya permission if I coulda escort Jenny to Elvira’s birt’night party up der ah Misser DaCosta.”

  Biting her lip to stem her humour, Amy replied. “Yes, of course. Me will jus’ call her. Jenny! Jenny!”

  Jenny came trudging to the door, looking disinterested. She was holding the family Bible in her right hand. Jacob bowed elegantly again. “Good night, Jenny. Mighty fine to see yuh dis fine night an’ as ever, ya face shame de most elegant flower.” A stifled laughter could be heard from a back room but Jacob continued. “Jenny, yuh remember me tell yuh las’ Sunday inna church about Elvira’s birt’night? Well, de day has come an’ me here to escort yuh.”

  Jenny offered a false smile, running her eyes over Jacob who was soberly dressed in a blue suit and red tie. Not as dangerous as Cilbert, she concluded. No way near as handsome. Ah nice pleasant mon but dat is all. “Yes, me remember, Jacob. But me ’ave blister ’pon me foot from standing up ah market all week an’ me well, well tired. Me was flattered dat yuh ask me an’ if me coulda come me would. But me don’t waan yuh to carry me home if me cyan’t walk an’ me don’t waan to be nuh burden. Me sweet sister, Hortense, is looking after me. Liccle earlier she place some herb inna bowl full ah hot water to mek me soothe me foot dem. Mebbe de nex’ time.”

  Amy presented Jenny with an accusatory glare as Jacob dropped his head. He placed his hat back upon his head and sighed. He was just about to say farewell when Hortense appeared at the door. “Yuh cyan’t tek me?” she offered, smiling broadly, her eyes sparkling. “Me foot nuh bruise or blister. Besides, Jenny never love to dance. She woulda jus’ sit down an’ sip her box juice all meek an’ quiet. So, Jacob, wha’ yuh say?”

  Sensing an argument might develop, Amy bid farewell to Jacob before leaving to tend to her grandson. Jenny scowled at Hortense with utter disdain before marching off. Hortense presented an anxious Jacob with another sexy grin that hit the target; Jacob inched backwards, staring at his feet. “I. I cyan’t see nuh reason why I cyan’t escort yuh. It. It would be ah pleasure, Hortense.”

  “Yes, it would,” returned Hortense, quick as a flash. “Sorry about me sister, sometime she ’ave her funny ways. She always come back grumpy when she work alone in ah de market. An’ she cyan’t expect me to be wid her all de while. But, Jacob, yuh deserve dat me look me best dis fine night so me jus’ gwarn to change. Soon come.” She offered Jacob a wink as she about-turned. Jacob closed his eyes, anticipating a bad night ahead with Fire Nettle.

  Hortense was dressed in a light blue, knee-length frock that she had bought from Mrs Walters; Amy negotiated a discount with the dressmaker that involved a sackful of yams, peppers and sweet potatoes. She offered Jacob her arm. Jacob, smiling nervously, accepted and led her uphill to Mr DaCosta’s land through the pimento groves.

  Although he had lost many of his livestock in the 1951 hurricane, Mr Welton DaCosta, who had learned from his father the science of selective breeding, had since prospered, selling his livestock not just in Claremont but to surrounding hamlets as well.

  Mr DaCosta had built a two-room extension to his original six-room home and upon his wide verandah there were now four circular tables with striped blue and white umbrellas sprouting out of them; Mrs DaCosta gave afternoon teas following church on Sundays to the likes of Isaac and his wife and other well-booted folk. In the corner of the verandah stood a radiogram, its height challenging Mr DaCosta’s tallest goat and its width similar to that of one of his brown cows. It was connected with a cable to a vibrating generator behind the house that was next to an outside kitchen with three hearths.

  Thirty yards to the right of Mister DaCosta’s home, underneath the shelter of water-coconut trees, sat the cock-pit, ringed by corrugated sheets of metal and warped lengths of wood. Two squawking cocks were held aloft in the air by a red-skinned man; Welton DaCosta’s son, Enrique. He invited a baying crowd of young men who had their hands raised clutching cash, to place their bets. Wagers were taken by Enrique’s younger brother, Luis. The cocks were tossed into the pit, their claws reinforced with tacks, and fought each other under the light of kerosene lamps to wild cheers and curses.

  In moon-shadowed clearings beyond the cockpit, men chanced their luck by rolling poker dice and those merry with fortune purchased cannabis and lambs bread from Mr Patterson’s son, Samuel, who stealthily crept here and there, his eyes on the alert for any member of the DaCosta family. His customers rolled their herb in brown gummed paper and smoked it raw. Others watched perched in trees the proceedings of a domino tournament, played out on two tables by the left of the house next to Mr DaCosta’s small pick-up truck. The contest was a sober affair with men stroking their chins as they flicked their eyes from the dominos that were played to those in their hands. Elders shouted out their advice freely and wasted no time in yelling their disapproval if they saw bad play. “Wha’s ah matter wid yuh bwai? Yuh sure yuh ever attend school? Ya papa never give yuh any sense? Ya brain inna ya black bamboo?”

  As they approached the party, Hortense and Jacob could hear the alley-cat piano play of Jelly Roll Morton sounding from the cranked-up radiogram that was broadcasting one of New Orleans’ more lively radio stations. Young men and women were dancing deliriously upon the apron of hard ground in front of the verandah. Older men, their wide-brimmed hats concealing their silver-topped heads, slouched around eyeing the young women while toking raw tobacco. They complained that the Yankee DJ from New Orleans wasn’t playing any blues or big band music.

  Mr DaCosta’s female kin were serving hot curried goat with rice, fish fritters, fried and heavily seasoned chicken legs, and the family rum punch that no outsider knew the recipe of. It was served in paper cups and its lethal effect was soon apparent judging by the unsure steps and silly grins of many guests. Red Stripe beer was piled in crates in a corner of the verandah and cool-looking men, crowned with pork-pie hats, sporting clipped moustaches and pulling on Craven A cigarettes, posed with two bottles between their fingers, sipping each in turn. Children ran here and there, sucking on sugar cane and lipping box juices, enjoying their freedom from parental control. The night air was filled with chatup lines, put-downs, laughter and cussing, and, although many of the guests were dirt poor, nobody could party quite like them.

  Intoxicated with the excitement before her, Hortense unwrapped her arm from Jacob’s, ran up to where the rum punch was being served, downed a whole cupful in one take and before Jacob realised what had become of her, she proceeded to jig wildly to the liquor-house boogie-woogie of Kid Stormy Weather, hitching up her dress to give her legs more freedom. Men’s heads turned immediately and as Jacob was asking for a beer, Hortense found herself being encircled by whistling, clapping men. She raised her dress to reveal her thighs, laughing as she did so, and this act was met with hollers of approval. A commercial break interrupted Hortense’s energetic dancing and she was bombarded by offers of a drink. She opted for another cup of punch, downed in time to skip to Champion Jack Dupree. Jacob, his fears realised, caught sight of her and shook his head. Hortense’s female peers, including Elvira, looked at her from the corners of their eyes in silent admiration and envy.

  Greatly appreciating Hortense from his position next to the radiogram was Cilbert. His bottle of beer poised just below his mouth, his eyes refusing to blink as he blessed his e
yes upon Hortense’s dance moves. “Hey, Wire,” a friend called him. “Yuh t’ink yuh coulda control dat. Lord bless me poor mama knee-bone! Wha’ ah pretty, bamboo-stiffening sight!”

  “Yes, mon, ah fine sight.” Cilbert agreed licking his lips, not diverting his gaze. “Fe true! Ah great prize she is an’ any mon who capture her heart would feel mighty wid her ’pon him arm.”

  An hour later, while Amos Milburn was complaining about ‘Bad Bad Whiskey’, Cilbert saw Hortense slumped on a chair upon the verandah, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard. Cilbert asked his cousin to look after the radiogram and walked up to her. He put on his best blue-swee smile and adjusted the angle of his hat. His heart was pounding inside his chest and he couldn’t remember ever feeling so nervous before ‘fishing fe ah pretty girl’. “Me. Me been watching yuh dance fe de last hour an’, er. Me. Me come to de conclusion dat yuh mus’ dance professional like! Yuh mek de udder girl look like. Like dem ’ave splinter. Yes. Like dem ’ave splinter inna dem foot!”

  Hortense laughed out loud while giving Cilbert a complete eye-pass, even craning her neck to check how his backside fitted his slacks. “Well, me hear better compliments dis fine night so before yuh talk to me once more, wash out ya mout’ to clear out de goatshit dat wrap around ya tongue! Yuh like ah rooster dat find ah small rockstone inna him mout’ before him start sing to signal de marnin. Ha ha! Lord me God yuh mek me laugh.”

  Quickly turning around to see if any of his friends had witnessed his embarrassment, Cilbert smiled away his obvious shame. “Sorry. Sorry to boder yuh, sister. Me. Me jus’ did ah waan to applaud yuh on ya fine dancing.” He was about to return to the radiogram while thinking up excuses to tell his friends.

  “Where yuh go!” barked Hortense. “Yuh give up so easily? Yuh sen’ out one fishing line an’ me mek ya feel shame so yuh go ’long an’ lef’ me? Bring me ah drink an’ come mon an’ loosen ya tongue! Don’t give me nuh half-full cup. An’ clean off de sweat ’pon ya forehead.”

  Unsure if he could handle Hortense’s jousting and remembering his failure with Jenny, Cilbert paused momentarily, thinking of further possible injuries to his ego. He looked at her again, losing himself in her eyes and decided she was worth the risk.

  “Give me some ah dat rum punch,” Hortense ordered. “An’ nuh worry yaself. Me don’t bite.”

  On his way to fetch the drinks, Cilbert gave a thumbs-up sign to his friends. Upon his return, he found Jacob sitting beside Hortense. “Er, excuse me, sa,” he addressed Jacob, his excitement of the chase checked. “Me don’t waan to intrude. Me jus’ ah bring drink fe de young lady.”

  Jacob, who wanted to depart the riotous party as soon as Hortense was ready, looked bewildered. “Nuh, mon,” Hortense replied. “Me nah wid him. Let me introduce yuh. Dis is Jacob, ah mighty fine mon. Yuh don’t know him? He’s de son of Isaac, de preacher mon who wag him tail at anyt’ing inna frock. But Jacob nah like dat. Him love off me sweet sister very deeply but she don’t know wha’ is good fe her.”

  Cilbert gave Hortense her drink and pulled up a chair to sit beside her. He tipped his hat in greeting Jacob and the preacher’s son wished for a hole to appear in the verandah floor and swallow him. “So, does loveliness ’ave ah name?” Cilbert asked, displaying a clean row of front teeth.

  Before Hortense could answer, a young woman marched up to Cilbert, hands on her hips, her fury obvious.

  “Almyna!” Cilbert called, his eye-brows rising near to his hairline. “Wha’? Wha’ yuh doing here?”

  Almyna leaned towards Cilbert, nearly headbutting him. “Ah surprise, Cilbert! Me come all de way from Orange Valley wid me sister, Myrna, fe ya benefit, an’ when me reach me find me very mon ah carry drink fe ah nex’ girl! Me don’t even get ah welcome!”

  “Almyna. Me jus’ serving drink. Dat is all. Cool ya fire!”

  Hortense ran her eyes over Almyna and saw that she was indeed pretty. But she had never liked the ‘I’m better than you ways’ of ‘red-skin’ women, so she offered Almyna an evil look. She then turned her attention to Cilbert, giving him a fabulous smile. “Well, Cilbert. If yuh was my mon me would always keep yuh in sight. T’ank yuh kindly fe bringing me drink. Enjoy de res’ ah de night! Mebbe we will meet again under de sweet moon one night?”

  Almyna glared at Cilbert and he ushered her away with sweet words and poured her some rum punch. She didn’t see Hortense’s eyes following her. “Red skin bitch!” Hortense muttered under her breath. “Yuh t’ink ya so nice. Well, me nicer! An’ me don’t ’ave nuh white mon blood to stain me. Me gwarn tek away ya mon!”

  An hour later, Jacob was walking Hortense home. The crickets and cicadas were in full cry and the stars shone brightly above their heads. Two roosters, whose internal alarm clocks had gone awry, could be heard in the distance announcing the morning five hours early. The breeze had gone and the land was still. The formless shadows towards the horizon were now at an unguessable distance but the invisible Natural Mystic remained, a feeling and a presence that Jacob and Hortense could both sense. It was soothing for the soul and they believed it protected them from Old Screwface whenever the sun took its rest.

  “T’ank yuh, Jacob fe teking me out dis fine night,” Hortense said. “Yuh know, me realise me full ah nettle an’ fire but sometime me feel dat me life ah nah go nuhwhere. Y’understand?”

  “Yes, I understand. Claremont don’t ’ave too much to offer. But as fe meself my family been inna de service of de Most High fe generations. An’ I feel it is my duty to serve de people who live an’ work ’pon dis land.”

  “Dat is admirable,” replied Hortense. “But yuh don’t waan ah life fe yaself? Dat’s wha’ me always tell Mama, me waan to live me own life, yuh know. Go far away from Claremont an’ let me kidren see somet’ing different to de far-off mountain an’ plenty, plenty tree. Me know people ah susu behind me back an’ say Hortense too wild an’ Hortense mout’ too labba labba. Even Jenny sometime tell me to quiet me mout’. But me jus’ letting off frustration, yuh know. Dem expect ah young girl to praise de Lord every day, do dem chores an’ be polite to we elder. But it seem to dem dat ah young girl cyan’t have fun. Me love her dearly, but even if me try me coulda never be like me sister. We’re too different. We ’ave been very close but she cyan’t understand dat me need me space, yuh know, live me own life.”

  Jacob paused, forming an image of a smiling Jenny in his mind. Hortense read his thoughts. “Yuh really love her, isn’t it? Nuh worry yaself, Jacob. In time you’ll win her love. Me know Jenny. She ’ave plenty fire inna her belly an’ she full of emotion. She like one ah dem new fizzy drink can dat’s been shaken. Storm ah grow inside de can but de outside remain cool. She still dealing wid Papa disappearance an’ even Mama don’t know how much she really feel it. Mama don’t know many t’ings about me an’ me sister. When nuhbody about apart from me, she talk about Papa all de while. Yuh see, she ’fraid of ah mon bruising her heart once more. Y’understand? Give her time an’ ya devotion will be paid in full. But yuh affe realise dat her waters run deep like lake wid nuh bottom.”

  “Yes, Hortense. Yuh well fiery but yuh cyan read my mind. Jenny tek my heart fe ah long time now but I never know wha’ she t’inking becah she don’t say too much.”

  “She don’t even say too much to her own mudder but believe me, deep down she respect yuh an’ will love yuh. Me promise yuh dat.”

  “Don’t yuh miss ya papa?” asked Jacob.

  Hortense paused, her eyes staring blankly ahead. “Papa never love me. Me don’t know why. Me gran’papa say him have nuh choice. So me learn to deal wid it. It’s funny, yuh know. Jenny t’ink dat Mama never love her an’ me t’ink Papa never love me, but me nah worry about it nuh more. Yuh see, me still miss David. It’s David me talk to inna me prayers. He was de only one who me really an’ truly love.” Hortense trailed off, her expression betraying her loss. “It’s David foot dat me waan to follow. Not Papa or Mama.”

  Fifty yards ahead, Hortense and Jacob both saw a figure sta
nding outside the family home. It was Amy, standing still with arms crossed, peering down the road. Hortense went up to her. “Mama? Yuh nuh tired yet?”

  Producing a welcoming smile, Amy ignored Hortense’s question. “Yuh ’ave ah good time? Jacob, t’anks fe escorting me daughter home. Me sure Jenny’s foot will heal an’ nex’ time she cyan go sporting wid yuh.”

  Hortense turned to Jacob. “Well, t’ank yuh again. Me gone to me bed now. Don’t let de bugaboo bite yuh ’pon ya way home an’ don’t give up ’pon me sweet sister.”

  Hortense went inside. “Yuh don’t ’ave to trod home yuh know, Jacob,” Amy said. “Yuh cyan stay wid us fe de night. Me will mek up ah bed fe yuh inna de store-room.”

  “Nuh, Miss Amy. I’m nah ’fraid of de dark like my papa an’ him generation. T’ank yuh fe de offer. But I affe look about me papa business inna de marnin an’ I waan ah early start. Goodnight, Miss Amy.”

  Watching Jacob disappear into the night, Amy thought he would make a fine son-in-law. When he was out of sight, Amy poured a little rum in a mug and sprinkled it over the threshold of her home. “Old Screwface,” she smiled. “Me don’t know why yuh ah wait an’ loiter becah me will never forget.”

  Then she returned to her vigil of peering down the road, her arms crossed.

  Chapter Eight