Tell No-One About This

by Jacob Ross

  Ridley see the touris-man slip and fall over. He was comin in at the time, laden as usual with fish. He turn his boat and head for the rough water at the foot of the cliff. He drag the man out and call for help.

  Like y’all know, it was on the news next morning. Opposition politician blame the govament for makin the roads a deathtrap and mashin up the island’ only source of income. Govament turn round and blame y’all for not puttin up no sign explainin the danger.

  And Ambo – Missa Ambo point his finger at Ridley.

  When dem policeman reach here with notebook and walkietalkie, Ambo swear the white-fella was alive an happy and talkin when Ridley bring him to the beach. It was the way Ridley drop the fat fella on the sand that break his neck.

  Y’all stand up there and watch them arrest Ridley and take him away. Nobody say a word. Nobody open their mouth to say, boo! Not one ov y’all say, No officer, is not so it happm. Make it worse, y’all shut up your wimmen and chilren, sayin if they draw a single breath to talk, is cut-arse and bust-mouth they goin get from you. Why so? Becuz some of you stupid enough to believe that when Ridley gone, all the big-fish in the sea goin turn round and start jumpin inside y’all boat.

  So right now, ask y’all self this question – is who kill Ridley? Eh?

  What y’all didn realise at the time was that truth got teeth. It does rise up and bite yuh on y’arse real hard when you least expectin it. Is eggzackly what happen between y’all and Ambo.

  After Ridley gone, y’all still acceptin Ambo offer of a drink or two. Yuh even ask him for the details of his testimony in court; the big words them lawyers use to trap-an-condemn Ridley Bowen; the look on the face of the judge and jury when the hammer fall. Yuh even tell him thanks.

  How long it take before Ambo make his move on Ridley boat? Coupla weeks? A month? None of y’all remember?

  Well, was three weeks and three days eggzackly. Is true to say that none of yuh here go near the boat. It sit on the water of the foreshore, clean and new-lookin as the first day Ridley launch it.

  But Ambo – hm! – every mornin he come out, he glance at the craft before liftin his face at the horizon. Every day he take one step nearer. He busyin himself with twine or the bamboo frame of his fish-pot. He layin out his fishin rods on the sand and inspectin dem. Little by little, he find himself at the edge of the water. And all the time he talkin to himself, but loud enough for people to hear him. Is a cryin shame, he say, that a decent boat like that jus lyin dere on the water, wastin.

  He get no answer, not even when he drop his tackle on the deckin of the bow and lef it there. Next few days, his bait-hold and two empty kerosene can on the seat. Coupla days later his canvas bag and a can of petrol lyin in the belly of the boat.

  Nimrod, Ridley son, watchin him with his two dead eyes.

  People laying down in bed one night when they hear the engine chuckle. It run for seven minutes and three seconds and then cut off.

  ‘Just checkin tings,’ Ambo say next day in the rum-shop. He order a bottle, take a handful of glasses and pour each of y’all a drink.

  ‘I’ll take her out tomorrow,’ he say. ‘Just to see how good she workin. I hate to see a good boat goin to waste.’

  Then you, Squingy, your voice come across the room. ‘What about the lil boy?’ you say. ‘What bout Ridley boy-child?’

  That make Ambo rest his glass on Barry counter and turn around to face you.

  ‘What about him?’ he say. Ambo voice full up the whole shop, and a pusson wouldn be surprise if it travel right across the beachfront. He lookin at them rum glass in y’all hand as if he want to snatch them back.

  ‘Lil fella useless,’ he say. ‘Soft as shit. Ridley make a girl of him! And besides, I work for that boat. I save y’all from Ridley. Is me who give witness in court. Squingy, you sayin I didn earn that boat?’

  And you, Squingy, you raise yuh head and say, ‘Naah, man, Is agree that I agreein wiv you. I jus sayin what you say yuhself, Ambo. You work damn hard for the boat.’

  Ambo blow his nose; he show y’all his teeth and buy another bottle. All the time he talkin fast-fast-fast. ‘Is not as if I got a hard heart. Squingy, you right, the lil boy didn do me nothing. Ridley was the criminal, not he. Even if the Bible say when you don’t like the fadder, you mustn’ like the son, I got nothing against the lil boy. I goin take care of he.’

  S’far as Ambo concern, takin care of Nimrod mean restin a lil fish near his foot at the end of every trip.

  Ridley boy-child didn refuse the fish. He didn take it either. Instead, he bring his face down towards the dead mud-mullet, take one of dem flat nail that lil boys round here does carry, and he run the sharpen tip from the gills right down to the tail. He stoop over it for hours like if the lil fella searchin for some kind of answer in the insides of the creature.

  Was the sight of that lil boy stoopin over a stinkin mullet that make y’all women see blood. S’matter of fact, that’s not true! From the time y’all lock up their mouth with the threat of a good cut-arse, them gone underground. They start runnin conference over them basin of clothes they washin in the river; they makin conversation with their hand and eye and waist – with their mouth push out long-long-long and stiff like cocoa-rod. Uhhuh! They holdin plenary in the fish-market without a single word passin between dem. Is dangerous when forty woman bring their head together over a single basket of jacks, drop their voice soft and start slidin the whites of their eyes at each other, fas’-fas’-fas’ like fish.

  And once them reach consensus, the pressure start on y’all arse. Was a mystery how dem get so forgetful overnight, not so? Dem wash y’all clothes, but never remember to use soap or to hang them out. No salt in y’all food, or food too salt. No seasonin in fish. No sugar in tea cuz dem didn remember to buy none. A whole pot of oil-down gone sour soon as it done cook. Make it worse, all of dem start sufferin from cripplin headache, specially when nighttime come. And they could only find ease from the pain by sleepin on the floor. By demself!

  Men think they smarter than women? Joke! Watch how women does use their brain – and learn! Cuz y’all couldn take it. Two weeks wasn up and y’all surrender. You fellas give up long before y’all even realise it was a fight. Because if y’all have a choice between God and y’all nighttime comfort, God lose every time, far less ugly Ambo.

  As for Ambo, it take a while before he notice the hardenin around him. Women buy fish from him only when the others couldn supply, and they get vex when he offer extra. No more slap on his shoulder from the fellas. Ole-talk stop soon as he enter the doormouth of Barry rumshop, and all man full up their glass before Ambo could offer them a drink. Then the chilren stop hearin him when he greet them. One evenin, the woman he livin with say she takin the baby to see she mother, and he never see the woman and the baby again.

  Like a jumbie umbrella that spring up on a heap of manure overnight, it come to Ambo mind, sudden so, that no matter how loud the world is, a whole heap of silence surroundin him. He didn want to believe it, but the feelin stay. That feelin stick-ansettle quiet-quiet like the barb of a hook that sink so secret in the flesh, a pusson hardly know it there until, jusso, it start to hurt.

  And y’all remember how Ambo try to fill that silence with his voice? He keep remindin y’all of the murderer that Ridley was; the disgrace that sonuvabitch from wherever-he-come-from bring down ‘pon dis lil fishin village halfway up the coast. It was even on the news, he say, not so?

  Nobody say nothing. No matter what he say, nobody answer him.

  As the weeks unroll, Ambo take his talkin to the steps of every house, his voice gone dry and high and cry-cry. And still nobody answer him. People went about their bizness as if Ambo wasn there.

  Is a hard ting that: when you exist in your own skin and you always know that, but then you find out nobody else kin see you. It start makin you wonder if you real, and you’ll do anyting to prove it.

  Mebbe that was what push Ambo onto the public road, in a fever of words, takin his story to strange
rs first, then to anyting that move.

  Now look at him! Look at him across there! Gone thin and hard like Dry-Season; stand-up on the edge of the same precipice the whitefella fall off.

  Talkin – always talkin. Like he can’t stop himself. Makin a whole heap of ruction on that hill.

  Arguin his arse off with the wind.

  DE LAUGHIN TREE

  When the white man tell Granny she stupid, she didn give im back no forward answer. She didn even cuss im afterwards an call im no sand fly, no beke, no big guts, half bake so-and-so from Englan. No red-arse, no lobsterface, no bleachout nothing. I tell meself it wasn fair, cos if was me dat even raise mih eyelash too fast at she, she would ha grab de palette by de door, and right after, I would ha been rubbing mih skin an bawling.

  I tell meself dat mebbe she tired becos this quarrel with Missa Coleridge start off long time. Long before my mother leave me with Granny an say how she goin to Trinidad to make a livin, and she goin send money and after a little time she goin send for me. I still waitin, like I waitin for Granny to put some words in Missa Coleridge tail. Nobody never talk to my Granny like dat an get away, jusso. People always comin an askin if we want to buy someting: provision, fish, sweetie, even costlymetics from de Avon lady, and once a man come offerin to sell a little donkey and Granny ask him what she want with a little jackass – ain’t he think it have nuff jackass round here arready? De man ask if she talkin bout sheself. I sure he still regret it, becos she tell im a couple tings dat make im look like he wish he never born.

  Now I never fraid to put some serious wud in Missa Coleridge tail meself, specially when my granny wasn goin to do it. People always tellin de ole lady how I rude, but if is one time I feel glad for mih rudeness was when dat white man tell my granmother how she stupid. BIG PEOPLE does get away with too much freshness, jus’ because dey feel dey BIG. In fact, if it wasn for Granny palette, and de fact dat BIG PEOPLE does tell she all de tings I does say back to dem, and dat I got too much mouth, it have a lot o time I does feel to put some serious wuds in BIG PEOPLE tail. I does want to ask if dem have myopia, if dem arthritis reach up in dem eye an dem cyah see dat is a little mouth I have. Cos I like to put wuds, specially for people who talk to me as if I is deir child, as if I don’t have no mother, just because she gone away an never send for me – though sometimes, when Granny vexin over my mother never writing, I does feel to put some wuds to my mother, too – only in my head, cos Granny wouldn like it.

  I ‘member de first time Missa Coleridge come he was grinnin all over he face. He tell she how everybody done sell out deir little piece over de sea – as if she didn notice – and seein dat all she friends gone to a nicer place down by de Chichiree, near de swamp, didn she think dat was a good idea to go an live wid dem?

  Granny kinda smile an tell im no, she didn think so. Missa Coleridge get red. Although h’was red arready, he get even redder like cook crayfish. He didn say nothing more. He just pull off he white canvas hat an start to fan he face real fast. Den he walk off.

  Now de same way I does look at a sky an know when rain makin up to fall, I know was trouble coming. Granny know dat too cos even if she didn batten up de window an look up at de roof to make sure dem hole up deh plug good, she mouth gone tight and she eye turn flat an dark, as if all de battening happenin inside o she.

  ‘Ku-Kus,’ she say (is how she does call me, an I not suppose to tell nobody why), ‘Ku-Kus, go bring de grip, come, gimme!’

  I go. I put it on de floor.

  ‘Open it.’

  I try. ‘I can’t open it, Granny. It tight.’

  ‘Rudeness is all you good for,’ she say in a frettin kind o way. I notice how she hand tremble. Was a shakin dat start from she shoulder and work itself all de way down to she finger. Dat worry me. She not de kinda o pusson you kin make tremble easy.

  She straighten up as much as she back allow, and look at me an say, ‘Feather,’ (dat’s another name she does call me, an I not goin to tell nobody why), ‘Feather, don’t ferget about yuh mother, jus because she ferget about we. But yuh have to tell yourself dat she never goin write we, an she never goin send for you.’

  Was sad I feel, not for meself but for Granny. An I put some wuds to meself an say, ‘Ku-Kus, Granny damn right to bring dat palette to y’arse sometimes, even when you think you don’t deserve it, cos you does ferget how hard she try with you. Ent she does send you to school? Ent she does give you a piece o meat same size as she when she cook an sharin food? Ent she does sew up dem hole in yuh clothes, even if she finger tremblin an she could hardly see? Ent? So, Ku-Kus, why you does give er so much trouble, EH?’

  I was puttin dem wuds to meself while Granny was lookin at me in a serious kind o way. Same time de grip open, an it let go de nicest smell I ever smell. Ain’t got no nicer smell in de world dan cinnamon an sandalwood an camphor, an a whole heap of ole time smell mix-up. Dat’s how Granny grip did smell.

  ‘Feather,’ she say, real serious, ‘it have a lot o different way to fight. When I had strength in mih body, I was strong as any man. Ask yuh granfadder, who try to hit me once. He could never use dat hand de same way after. Trouble was, after dat, I had to do all de hard work. Ask im.’

  Was a lot o tings to ask my granfadder. Trouble was he done gone an dead long before I born. De first time she ask me to ask im something, I take she serious and start looking about de house, even under de bed to see if he was hidin there o something. Dat was de first time I make she laugh so much. ‘Chile, how you chupid so?’

  ‘Open dis,’ Granny say. She hand me a yellow piece o paper dat fold-up small, like nobody was never intend to open it. When I open it, it had a drawin on de left-hand side on top, an a pretty piece of string dat stick to a red round ting on de paper, like a big drop o blood dat mix up with candle wax an harden. I never see a piece o paper dat look so serious. If paper was priest, then this would ha’ been de Pope. Not even Granny big leather Bible did look so serious.

  ‘What dat is?’ I ask she.

  ‘Read it,’ she tell me. Now Teacher always tell me how I is a boss reader, an is mosly because I interested in puttin wuds to people who fret me up. Dat is de only way dat I could answer back BIG PEOPLE an don’t get a taste o Granny palette for mih rudeness. Like when Missa Jojo shout at me for bathin naked below de standpipe by de road, an call me a shameless little so-an-so. ‘Nutting obnoxious o anonymous, o even obstreperous about havin de benediction of water on meself, Missa Jojo, sah,’ I say, an I went on bathin, like if he wasn dere.

  He open he mouth, but he didn have no tongue to give me back high quality, bigtime wuds. I smile because I did put de benediction in deliberate, just in case he tell Granny, because was a word dat Pastor does use all de time in church, an everybody know dat it mean niceness, o someting close to dat.

  But! Dat paper was different. It write like how Moses in de Bible would ha write. Anyway I start to read:

  In the name of God Amen.

  I, John Munchford, in the Parish of St. Albans on the 30th day of October 1904, Anno Domini, being weak of body but of sound and perfect disposing mind and memory, praised be God, bequeath unto Ursula Auguste Jameson a plot of land measuring half a hectare squared, the which begins at Hill Cray Rise and proceeds northwards towards the adjoining estate of Carl Strong, said land having no agricultural merit and ceded by myself in lieu of and in recognition of thirty years service as maidservant in the employment of the Munchford household.

  It is also hereby deemed that the Inheritor of the aforementioned property becomes henceforth sole proprietor of said and shall have the powers vested in herself by law to bequeath or dispose of said property as she deems fit.

  John Munchford.

  When I done read, I look at Granny an say, ‘And den it have some big-time scrawl, like if somebody wrap up a piece o wire, drop it in a bottla ink an den press it on de paper.’

  ‘What it say?’

  ‘Is a signicha. It not s’pose to say nutting.’ Same time I tell meself dat I must practi
se to write me name just like dat.

  ‘Nuh. De paper what it say?’

  ‘I jus done read it for you,’ I tell she. An I start scratchin mih ears, which I does always do when I little bit embarrass, cos I could see dat Granny wasn satisfy at-all. An I wasn neider. I damn vex dat people could be so boldface as to write down a whole heap o wuds on serious paper an I couldn understand dem. As if dey want to make a fool o me in front my granmother.

  ‘It say someting bout land,’ I tell she, ‘land an property.’

  Well… I figure it have to say someting serious and it could only be dat she own de place. Besides, nobody didn have no doubt dat was she place – till Missa Coleridge come an say she have to sell, an ask she iffen she really own it.

  ‘I sure it say so, Granny. We definitely own dis property an land. Perhaps.’

  Now de time dat man tell Granny dat she stupid wasn de first time he come. De first time he was smilin. Wasn a pretty smile. I notice de yellow teeth an how dem thin little lips pull back over dem, but he speak polite and proper. He touch de brim o de white sailor cap he wearin an say, ‘Evening Maam,’ an Granny say, ‘Evenin, suh.’ He say, ‘How’re you today?’ Granny say, ‘I awright thank you. De little ramatism does bother me sometimes, but I survivin by de grace o de Almighty.’

  De man smile an brush he shortsleeve white shirt. I vex becos I feel dat Granny coulda find some prettier wuds to answer with. She coulda tell he dat she not complacent an she aint got no botheration, dat she was of a salubrious constitution an feelin damn well good with it. But no, she tell im bout she ramatism!

  ‘Nothing grows here, I see,’ de man say. ‘Not good for gardening, is it?’