by Jacob Ross
‘Your sister is a chopper coz…’
‘Coz what?’
‘Coz she in favour.’
‘Ah don’t unnerstan.’ ‘Chupid boy. She have two overseer boyfren.’
‘Don’t say dat about my sister, Tin. I goin’ tell ‘er.’
‘Favour for favour, my modder say.’
‘Don say dat ‘bout my sister.’ I was close to tears and no longer afraid of her.
‘Well, is what I hear say.’
‘She work harder dan your modder an’ fadder put togedder.’ I couldn’t stop pounding my knee. ‘Is not only man should chop cane for money.’
‘Okay, Baldie, awright. I didn mean it. I sorry.’
‘I goin tell ‘er, you hear. I goin’ tell ‘er.’
‘Sorry, Baldie, sorry.’
‘Don’ talk to me.’
We didn’t speak for weeks. Tin Tin tried to make up several times and finally gave up, which disappointed me since I had planned to soften a bit the next time she came round.
I tied out the goats, waited for Sis with her cup of water and studied her with greater care. I asked her no more questions. In fact, we barely spoke.
I really missed Tin-Tin when the nights of the chill, bright moons arrived. We should have been sitting with the rest of the village children on the mounds of cut cane, sucking away and talking about anything that came to mind.
We talked about the things we had heard and read about – strange inventions, planes that flew backwards, machines that talked, wondering how our little world fitted into all of that. Our dreams for ourselves never went beyond the tallest cane.
Nothing compared with the pleasure we got from invading the fields. You would hear the dull poks as we broke the canes, the swish of the leaves as we hauled the plant, root and all, into the road.
There was a watchman somewhere in the night out there, but we didn’t care. He never caught anyone. Besides, it didn’t feel like stealing. Thinking back, there was something vengeful in those nighttime raids. We called it breaking cane.
I passed my exams, had done well enough to go to the secondary school of my choice. My name was even in the papers.
The following week, Tin Tin brought me a sapodilla. It smelled so good, I almost fainted. It would be my first for the season. The first fruit was always the best. You got more than just its taste; you got the promise of a whole season of ripeness ahead. We often did this with our first fruit, yunno – come together and argue over the first bite.
I forgot our quarrel and all the weeks of not speaking to her.
‘I wan’ de firs’ bite.’
‘Nuh,’ she said.
‘Gimme de firs bite, nuh.’
‘You say, ‘nuh’. Dat mean you don’ want it.’
‘Yeh, man, gimme de sappo, nuh.’
‘You jus’ say ‘nuh’ again.’
‘Jus’ one bite.’
‘Okay, come for de bite.’ I was blind to everything but the fruit. I came forward. She bit me hard on my arm. Tin Tin couldn’t stop laughing. Then she offered me the whole fruit. I ate half and handed her the rest. She shook her head. I had never seen her so serious before.
‘Tek it, Baldie, I bring it for you.’
She was lying and knew I knew it.
‘What you want for it?’ I asked.
‘Nuffing. Let’s go break cane.’
In a week or two the season would be over. We had a spot where we used to sit and chew our cane and argue. It was the steps of a broken-down plantation house.
‘You find place like dis all over de country, in all dem islands, always on de highest hill,’ I said to Sis, pointing at a picture in my history book. ‘I wonder why nobody never bother to pull dem down or p’raps build dem back?’
‘Lots o’ things remain besides dem old house,’ she muttered. ‘If I have my way, I pull everyting down, dig up de foundation an’ start clean – from scratch.’
‘Talk to me, Baldie,’ Tin Tin said.
‘Bout what?’
‘Anyfing. Like we uses, erm, like we ‘custom.’
‘Bout when we get big, you mean?’
‘Yup.’
‘Okay, like I tell you; we goin build a house wid – lemme see – nine room an…’
‘No, ten – you say ten is a balance number, remember?’
‘Oh, yes – ten.’ I looked at her. ‘And after?’
‘Don’ ask me. You tell me.’ She was angry. ‘You ferget arready? You don’ even start Secondry an’ you ferget arready. Go ahead.’
‘An mebbe, mebbe we married, s’long as you don beat me up when I make you vex.’
‘You never say ‘mebbe’ before.’
‘Well…’
‘Wish I was a boy an didn have no lil brother an sister to care for. Then I would ha show you.’
‘Is not my fault.’
‘Is mine?’ she snapped. She lowered her head at me, ‘What you wan to become?’
‘Lawyer mebbe; p’raps doctor – make a lotta money.’
‘You don’ want to drive cane-truck no more?’
‘Don fink so. Why you ask me all dem questions, Tin?’
‘Cuz is not fair.’
‘Is not my fault’
‘You say dat again, I hit you.’
‘Well is…’ I stopped short. I was struggling to clear the tightness in my chest and throat. ‘I hate cane,’ I said.
She, too, was close to tears. We rose and, together, picked our way over the stones of the same road that I watched the women walking on every evening after work.
‘Baldie,’ she said. Her voice was clear and strong again. ‘I hate cane too. Cane not always sweet. It have some dat salt, some dat coarse. It spoil yuh teeth, an if you not careful, you cut your mout’ wit de peelin. Take my fadder; take your fadder. See what happen? Dat’s why I don’ like no sugar in my tea. I ‘fraid I might be drinkin ‘im.’
She was talking like my sister. Did they all talk like that when things upset them?
‘I startin Secondary on Monday, Tin.’ I felt I had to tell her.
‘I know.’
We were almost home. Tin Tin was looking into my face. ‘Luck, Baldie.’ I saw that she meant it.
‘I see you tomorrow?’ I said.
‘Dunno, Baldie.’
‘We goin break cane togedder, right?’
‘I don fink so, Baldie.’ She dropped my hand and sprinted off home.
‘Sis?’
‘Eh?’
‘Why Tin Tin tell me good luck as if I done dead o’ something? As if she never goin’ see me again? She don’ even want to talk to me no more. She say if everybody can’t get eddicated, den nobody should.’
‘Coz she unnerstan.’
‘Unnerstan what?’
Sis looked at me. She began speaking so softly her lips barely moved. ‘Coz dem offerin you a ticket so you could up an leave – like your modder – alone – and never come back. Leave everybody else behind. Tin Tin should’ve gone before you – you know dat?’
Her eyes seemed to have gathered all the lamplight, and were holding it in.
She was no longer my sister when she became like that. She was somehow stronger and stranger than anyone I had ever known or dreamed of – staring past me, through the walls, beyond the night.
‘What you want to become?’ She had pushed the new uniform on the table in front of me, as though I had only to put it on to become whatever I wanted.
‘Tin Tin ask me de same question.’
‘An you tell ‘er?’
‘Yep – doctor mebbe, o’ lawyer.’
‘Nuh.’
I looked up, surprised.
‘We don’ need no lawyers now, and we been gettin’ along fine widdout doctors. We want teachers and a school firs’.’
‘But we talkin ‘bout me; not no teacher an’ no school. Who it have to teach round here…’
‘We,’ she hissed. ‘We! Teach, Baldie, coz secandry ain’t no real escape. Long as we tie down, you tie down too. Learnin to
escape cane not enough. How to break it – break out ov it, is what you have to learn. You unnerstan?’
I shook my head.
‘Tin Tin unnerstan: Sheez de real canebreaker.’
‘I could break cane too.’ I was hating them for making me feel so useless.
‘Den teach. When de time come, build a school; stay right here an teach de children so’z it don’t have no more Tin Tin; so’z it don’t have no more me. Canebreakers come befo lawyers, y’unnerstan?’
I wished she hadn’t thrown that weight on me. For the first time I saw the lines of fatigue on her face. I was wishing I could still experience the pleasure of handing her a cup of water and watching her drink.
WALKING FOR MY MOTHER
Old Hope turned out their children to watch Nella go. It was wonderful and frightening because the quiet in the air was all for her. All for her, the gifts, the utterances of pleasure, the sideways glances and sweat-rimmed smiles. Like they were seeing her properly for the first time.
Ken had gone into the bushes and brought back two glistening guavas. White and rare, they smelled of the last days of the Dry Season. Even the wrapping was unusual – a dasheen leaf, shaped like a heart and patterned with a web of purple veins. Her uncle placed the guavas on the table beside the bread they’d baked specially for her.
Aunt Gigelle had brought her a boiled egg. She came swaying down the hill, balancing one in each palm as if they were the globes of life.
‘Pretty peee-ople!’ she sang, bending low and curving her very, very long fingers around her face and Liam’s. ‘One from Bucky and one from me. One for Liam and one for you.’ Then, preciously, she placed them on the flowered tablecloth.
Uncle Ian had polished the new black patent leather shoes till they shone like pools of water in the morning light, while Gran Lil moved around her strangely. Her grandmother had taken off her headwrap and allowed her white hair to uncoil and settle like a halo round her face.
Even her twin brother seemed amazed. Liam had promptly offered her the other egg. Every now and again, he examined the brilliant white polyester shirt, passed the back of his hand against the dark-blue skirt and lifted the tip of the gold-striped, carmine tie.
They’d already begun preparing her. Aunty May had bathed her with the Cussons Imperial Leather soap they’d bought for the occasion. A new toothbrush that matched the ochre wrapping of the soap exactly and a little packet of Colgate toothpaste waited on the table while she ate in brand new socks and underwear. Occasionally, her mother glanced at her and then at Liam, furtively.
Breakfast over, her mother dressed her. Her hands were trembling slightly.
Over the weeks she’d seen her mother take complete command of everything. Her moment had arrived and she’d slipped into it like a garment cut especially for her. She’d become strange and secretive and oddly compelling, for her Mammy now ruled the yard with worry.
Mammy had worried for a month about the money she didn’t have, might never have, but had to have in order to buy the books and uniform. And gradually the yard began to worry too. She fretted for another week – her voice low, complaining, and very mildly accusing – till one Sunday, moody and fed up, Aunty May sent her, Nella, off to take the good news to a friend of hers in some place named La Tante.
She had returned home with fifteen dollars, which Mammy promptly took off her.
Gran Lil had also had enough, and spent an entire day rummaging her memory for names of distant cousins, nephews, nieces and great aunts up north. She then sent the good news off through friends, by bus. Soon, crumpled packets began to arrive with pairs of socks and underwear; and bags with beautiful, obscure books – whose only purpose had been to sit on shelves near Bibles because they looked important. Sometimes they came wrapped on top of sacks of provision or between a couple of live chickens.
That was good, but not enough, her mother fretted. What the chile needed most was money. ‘Mooneeey.’ Her voice drifted with the word, reluctant to let it go.
So over the evening meal, they helped each other recall ancient favours to old-time friends and once they’d settled on some names, they sent her off again, on her own. It was always on her own. Never, they warned, to mention money, or to remind them of the favours, just to pass the good news on.
Then one Sunday morning, with a long, momentous sigh, Mammy sat down on the steps, plunged her hand down her bosom and pulled out a handful of notes. She kept dipping and dropping fistfuls at her feet while they looked on fascinated.
‘T’ree hundred dollars an…’ She paused abruptly, her face rigid with anxiety. She beat a frantic tattoo on her chest, thrashed her skirt, stomped and heaved herself, before bringing her nose down to the stones in the yard. Finally, fingers poised as if to pick up a needle, her mother retrieved something, grinned a large democratic grin, and muttered fervently, victoriously, ‘…an one cent!’ which raised a wave of laughter.
Then she left the money there for anyone to examine it, as if to say that her figure was, well, just that – hers! – a mere probability – and they, after counting it themselves, might just as easily come up with a different but equally legitimate sum.
Some stared at the notes, others prodded them with their fingers, or nudged them with a marvelling toe, or, not uncommonly, brought their noses down to them. For nothing on earth smelled as satisfying as three hundred EC dollars, and one cent.
With that money, her mother had bought her everything, including the breakfast of bacon, the bowl of steaming Quaker oats, and the Milo drink she hated but felt obliged to drink because it was what eddicated children was s’posed ter have on their first day at any secondary school, anywhere in the world.
Now that she was about to set out, something tight and warm had settled in her stomach. A hush had settled over the valley. The neighbours had brought their children to the side of the road and placed the younger ones directly in front, holding them there with hands firmly on their shoulders.
The new bag of books dangling from her shoulders, and a few dollars stuffed down her pocket, she made her way down the track to the road. Aunty Paula had set off in front, clearing the path of leaves and stones and whatever else she thought might make her trip and bruise her dignity.
‘Yuh modder don’t want you to take de bus from here,’ Aunty May whispered.
She nodded – she would have nodded to anything. Aunty May also told her that Mammy, at the last minute, had decided not to come with her. ‘She ain got nothin to put on,’ her aunt explained. ‘Never mind, she going ter be watching you. Everybody goin be watchin you.’ Then she’d paused a while. ‘An I not comin eider, so don’t bodder look at me.’
‘People gettin on as if I not comin back!’
‘You intend to?’ Aunty May grinned cheerlessly at her.
‘Is just a secondary school I going to, dat’s all.’
The woman stopped wiping her face with her hand. ‘You de first dis side of Old Hope Valley; in fact de first dis side of anywhere as far as I know to go to school in town. Once dem lil ones dere see dat you kin get to secandry, dey know dat dey kin get dere too, by de hook or by de crook. Dem tinkin mongst demself dat if Hannah girl-chile kin do it, deir own chile kin do it too. Jealousy,’ she chuckled loudly. ‘Dat kind o jealousy is good.’
‘People talk as if I deadin o someting.’
‘Hush you mouth, you always complainin. Deadin me tail! I hope you not going ter talk like dat when you reach inside dem people hifalutin, low-fartin school. You got to speak proper. Deadinggg – pronounce your G proper, hear? You got your handkerchief? ‘Kay! Hold orrrn, Hannah! Stop frettin at me! You can’t see I fixin ‘er?’ She gasped and laughed and stepped away. ‘Gwone chile, we give you broughtupsy, now go and get de eddication.’
‘And Liam? I want Liam to walk wit me, I want…’
‘Never mind Liam. Liam goin to be awright. Liam always goin to be awright. Liam is a boy!’
Aunty May moved up close. She did a strange thing. She licked a finger and mad
e a circle on Nella’s forehead. She then kissed the spot she’d marked.
‘When you reach Cross Gap, you stop an wave, okay? Cos all o we goin be watchin over you.’
She knew straight away where they would be standing. Glory Cedar Hill was the only spot from which the whole snaking thread of asphalt could be seen all the way to Cross-Gap Junction.
‘Walk, Nella. Walk tall an proudful like you never walk befo. Gwone gyul! Start walkin for your modder.’
She lifted a querying face at her aunt, ‘Walkin fo my…?’ Then she understood.
Aunty May turned and hurried back up the hill.
Miss Ticksy broke away from the crowd lining the roadside, wiped her hand on her dress and handed her a dollar bill. The woman stepped back and wiped her hand again. ‘Hannah is me friend,’ she explained. ‘An Nella is she daughter.’ And she laughed a laugh that was loud enough for all of them.
She heard Missa Ram’s dry voice. ‘You break away, gyul! Look at my crosses! De lil gyul break away!’ It was one of the rare times she had seen the old man off his donkey.
She took her time, feeling lost and not a little awkward. The new unfamiliar leather shoe made walking appropriately difficult. Shereen called her softly from the verge. She smiled back, shyly, uncomfortably, from the distance that her friend was placing her. Their faces were open and friendly, but they were not reaching out to her. They seemed to be taking her in with a new interest.
Half an hour later, still dazed, still drifting, she arrived at Cross-Gap Junction. Turning, she squinted up at Glory Cedar Hill.
Shapes they were, just shapes: her granny, Mammy and Aunty Paula and Aunty May and Shereen and Miss Ticksie and the rest of them. Shapes, dancing against the morning sky.
She thought she heard them singing. Or perhaps they were shouting something down to her. It all sounded like music anyway.
She waved back, walking as she waved, sensing with a sobering, abrupt sadness that she was also walking away from something else.
THE UNDERSTANDING
Something is wrong with you. They keep telling you that because you burn to break through the iron door and go flying across the gravel-yard, over the wire fence into the sun.