Tell No-One About This

by Jacob Ross

  Granny uses to leave me to handle dem people, so I tell de fella dat evolution is a Darwin phenomenon dat have impertinence, an application to sheep an goat an bacterias, so I did want to know iffen he is extenuatin dat we is some kind o ectoplasm o what. Dat confuse he an he left straight away. Den Public Works arrive in overalls an hard hat, an I didn bother to put no heavy wuds to dem seein as dem is not s’pose to be eddicated like me. I didn wan to throw no pulse to swine, so is straight bad wud I cuss dem, which I will desist from quotin here.

  I tell Ministry of Education dat dem is irrelevant, cos I soon to leave school anyway.

  Foreign Affairs was a nice young girl dat run back to de road soon as she see me. I s’pose was becos she see me with Granny cutlass in mih hand cos I was cleanin dem weed round de laughin tree. But I stop she wit a few big wuds and den I cuss she up an down, an den back up again, an dat was dat.

  Agriculture nearly get me. I never see a fella nice so. Black an smooth an long like a garfish, wid nice nice eye. He look at de tree, den he look at me an den he look at Granny and I sure a flash o someting pass between dem two. He turn round an look at Coleridge hotel below. Den he flash dem pretty teeth at we. An even iffen I feel a little self-conscious to say so, dem moonlight teeth mek me feel same like when Granny show me de sky dat evenin long time back. Except de feelin was a little more localise.

  ‘Arbores Sinistres,’ he say. ‘It start to… er?’

  ‘Happen soon,’ Granny tell im. Mih tongue was too block up for me to ask im what it was dat tree didn start to do yet.

  Well, a month after, I learn. It start with a cackle. One bright evenin I hear cacklin an I run out. Was Granny under de tree an she was holdin open she hand like if she was beggin it for something, an she was cacklin like mad.

  ‘Come an see dis, chile. It start laughin.’ An she grab mih hand an hold it up same way like she hold up hers. Well was only a little bit o water drippin from dem leaf an branch. I tell she I didn know why she fussin over a little bit o dew.

  She cackle again an tell me how I dunno how to use mih brain. ‘What time o day it is, Ku-Kus?’

  ‘Evenin.’

  ‘Dew does fall in de evenin? An when last rain fall round here?’

  Dat was when it hit me. Dat tree was drippin water in de middle o Dry Season. How come, I wan to know. ‘Now I could rest in peace,’ was all she say.

  Well God grant she satisfaction to see de first part: how Coleridge big white wall jus begin to split apart, startin with a little crack an den growin, growin, growin till was like a mouth dat somebody bust open with a cuff. It happen over four months an every time Granny look out, she smile. Was a happy smile but, like I say arready, tired.

  She prepare me, little bit by little bit, for what was comin to pass with she. She tell me dat it was no different from de sun goin down an I shouldn worry cos she was arready risin, like dat selfsame sun, in me.

  I does still cry when I think of it, but soon after I ‘member de fight dat Missa Coleridge fight to keep all dat concrete standin. Jacob fadder tell we how de floor of de dancin hall jus split apart so slow you barely notice it. An den it was a snorin, gapin hole like de sea dat Moses part with he own little piece o laughin stick. Dat take a coupla years. An den it was de bungalow he call de King Room dat crack up like biscuit an start crumblin. An den everyting else start fallin down.

  Grace fadder say dat he was by de swimmin pool when de water start to leak. He was de one dat empty de pool, which was empty from ever since, cos no more touris was comin dere. Jacob fadder say Grace fadder lie. Was he who see Missa Coleridge eye turn glass an his face go red like if de finger o God was on he throat an chokin he, when he see de root of dat laughin tree peepin out de bottom o he swimmin pool. I tell meself dat really was Granny hand. Coleridge look up at we little maggabone house on top de hill and was as if he see de tree for de first time.

  Jacob fadder say dat he was standin by where de gate used to be when he catch sight o Coleridge runnin up de hill ‘at a vory, vory forst rate.’ (He start practisin to speak like Coleridge from de time he turn watchman.) ‘But was onforchnate for Coleridge because soon as he foot hit de road is attack he heart attack im.’

  Well, it had a whole heap o confusion an confabulation after dat. An talk didn finish till long time after govment deport Coleridge body back to he famly in Englan.

  But quiet come and a whole heap o realisin follow after dat.

  Now I is many tings, but one ting I definitely not is agriculturally botanical in my knowledge. But Cyril (which is dat pretty fella name) siddown on de chair dat Granny uses to sit on, an he explain everyting to me.

  He say de laughin tree is a collokyalizam for a tree from de mountain where my Granny come from when she was young. An dat tree grow down more dan it grow up. It does push down root like if it tryin to reach de navel o de earth. It don’ have no respect for rock an stone eider. Dat tree jus keep pushin till it hit a table full o water (I didn ask im to explain dat, cos I didn want him to tink I ignorant) which he say, is always dere below de ground, even in dese dry parts where we live. Once dat root reach, it start drinkin like Coleridge tourist used to drink deir funny-lookin drink from straw. It drink so much dat it start to fatten up an spread an sweat through every leaf an branch. De sweatin is de laughin. An I have it from good autorities – my Cyril imself – dat is so tree does laugh.

  My Cyril say dat de trouble does start when dem root on de side o de laughin tree start to spread out an run. Is a tree dat curious an a little bit aggressive (he look at me an smile). It just mash through anyting dat in it way, which is what Missa Coleridge find out jus before he heart attack im.

  An yunno what de best part was? Well, my Cyril say dat soon as dat centre root siddown at dat table o water down dere to drink, a laughin tree don care what happenin on top. You chop it an you burn it, you kick it an you cuss it – it jus cyahn dead. Dat’s what my Cyril say.

  Well, it upset me little bit when he mention chop an burn.

  ‘Whats the matter, girl?’ he say.

  I had to ask im: ‘Cyril, why de hell I goin to want to chop-anburn a tree dat my granny bury under?’

  FIRST FRUIT

  Fellas say was the woman who start the trouble; woman answer back and say is man who carry the trouble inside himself and he use woman to bring it out.

  Anyway, is bush that really know what come to pass, becuz bush got eyes and ears. Bush know everything. This is how bush say it happen.

  One scorching afternoon this woman, name Gracy, come to George place to buy provision. Is what people used to do, yunno. Most of them never hear him talk, so they believe he dumb. They pay him the money, take the provision and go.

  P’rhaps was the heat that stir George blood or mebbe was one of them feelings that hit a fella sometimes when he realise he ain’t got nobody in the world except himself.

  He watch them marks on the woman’ arms and legs, and the girlchild by she side; then he look she in she face and say, ‘The man finish with you?’

  ‘I livin with me mother,’ she say.

  ‘I didn ask you where you livin, I ask if the man finish with you.’

  The woman tell him, yes.

  ‘How long since?’ he ask.

  ‘Last week make two months,’ she tell him.

  ‘He never touch you since?’

  The woman say, no.

  George look down at the girl, then at the woman. ‘I have three room. I not including kitchen and veranda. I got electric light and pipe water. I never hit no woman and I tired eating my own food.’

  ‘I got a daughter,’ she say – like she not sure he see the lil girl by she side.

  ‘Leave she with your mother for a coupla weeks; see if this suit you first.’

  George look straight at she again. ‘You leave the man or he throw you out?’

  The woman sour she face. ‘Why you want to know?’

  ‘If you lef him he goin come to my yard looking for you and I don’t want no trouble. If he throw yo
u out and then come to play bad-john in my place, I kill im.’

  George drop a whole heap of provision at the woman feet. He point a finger at the house. ‘Is y’all place if you come. When y’all break something, tell me and I fix it. One thing I askin, though. Never lie to me.’

  ‘Me! Me?’ And sudden so, Gracy get blastid vex. ‘I’z a practisin Catholic, y’unnerstan?’

  ‘Eh-heh,’ George say.

  ‘You didn ask me name,’ she say.

  ‘Tell me when you come next time. I got them animals to feed.’

  They live nice, yunno. Nobody never hear them quarrel. Not even when Elton come one day drunk as hell, claiming the lil girlchild was his seed and he want some kinda, uhm, reparation. George didn kill the fella, he just break his arm. And while Elton on the ground bawling, George ask him a lil common-sense question: ‘If you fling-way corn in a fella garden; the fella manure it and water it; corn-seed grow, make corn – who you going say the corn belong to?’

  Elton couldn’t answer that; he was in too much pain.

  Girlchild really like George, though. P’raps she see that he’s the kinda man will bust she wutless father arse for she, and besides, he treat she like his own. And for children, it ain’t got no feeling more secure than that.

  It happen that it had a priest name Father Ambrose in that big stone church up there. Ambrose was a tall ole fella – white as cane flower. Had a pretty voice – like Irish people got – with a lotta music in it. But he was thin and hard as bone. Ambrose used to visit George woman all the time. That priest always talking about sacrifice to she. A true child of Christ, he say, offer the first of everything to Him. First fruit belong by rights to the church, like in the time of Moses. Is the only way of saying thanks and calling down more blessings.

  George never pay no mind to what the woman say the priest tell she. His religion was his garden and his animals. The woman take Ambrose serious, though. She didn’t realise she could buy she way to heaven so easy until Father Ambrose tell she so. And now she know that, she like a tick in George backside. First, she tell him they have to married because they living in sin, and she not going to sin no more until they married. So is married they married.

  Well, like everybody know, woman got a way of turning rockstone to putty if she put she mind to it. Soon as they married, the first and best of everything from George lil farm went up to that church. Add to that, every coupla days after vespers, the woman send she daughter with a basket full of flowers for the altar table.

  Was a flourishing girlchild, polite and pretty as hell. On them flower-visits, the mother dress she in patent-leather shoes, flowered cotton dress, frill-top socks turn down just so, with two red puffer ball dancing around the lil girlchild ankles. Hair comb-up neat-an-nice too.

  It continue, it continue, it continue for a year till one evening in the church, in the sacristy on the cold stone floor, under the alabaster gaze of the Lady of Fatima and Saint Christopher, ‘mongst a scattering of canna lily, bougainvillea and crush-up lantana, Father Ambrose lay he hands on the lil girl. Left she so full of shame, and so frighten with all he tell she about hell-fire and damnation, if she tell, that the girlchild almost lose she senses.

  Back home, the mother didn’t notice nothing different about she daughter that Friday. George didn’t either, but come Saturday, in the kitchen, at the table in front of their plate of stew-chicken and rice-an-peas, George raise he eyes at the girl face and kep’ them there. ‘What wrong?’ he say – like he didn have no doubt about it.

  Girchile wouldn’t look at him.

  ‘Talk,’ he say.

  She never lie to him – was the only understanding between them. Still, it take a long time to squeeze it outta she. George wait like he had all the time in the world. He wait till he got the details outta she. The mother start crying.

  ‘What make him do that?’ George say.

  Girlchild didn’t know how to answer that, so she start crying too. That was enough for George. Like he find the answer in the water dripping down she face.

  He get up, breathing like he got a whole forest inside him, with a high wind running over it. He turn to the mother. ‘Tomorrow Sunday, not so?’

  The woman drop she head and say, yes.

  ‘Priest gettin them flowers same way,’ George say. ‘I going bring them to him meself.’

  The woman look at him quick, but she can’t read George face. She could never read George face. But them words is not what she expect.

  ‘What you going to do?’

  ‘What you want me to do?’ George ask, like if he waiting for she to pass the order.

  ‘I don’ want no trouble,’ she say.

  ‘You already got it,’ he say. ‘But I not going to touch him if that is what you ‘fraid.’

  He push he hand behind he back and pull out he garden knife. Was a wicked looking thing – half the length of a fella arm. The steel bright-an-shining like it make outta glass, and so sharp a pusson could split a hair longways with it. They only see it when he butchering animals. George rest the big knife on the table in front of Gracy. ‘Hold this if you want to rest your mind. But come tomorrow, is I takin them flowers to the church.’

  And that was that; George done talk.

  Sunday come, the wife stand-up by the window looking down the hill at George in the flower garden that he help she make – a whole half acre – pretty with alamanda, bird of paradise, all kinda calla lily, heliconia, mimosa, russelia… Name it and she got it – all for the church.

  She watch George collect a whole heap of crimson rose, a handful of hibiscus, the tongue of a banana flower. Then he move among them lilies and bring the kitchen knife to a row of white anthuriums.

  Gracy stand-up on the step and watch him leave, the bunch cradle across he chest. She watch them white lily circling all that red and, sudden so, it bring to mind a bandage round a wound.

  The priest was by the altar when George reach. The ole-fella head was bow, he two hand busy. Ole Miss Mona was on one side of the church, following a broom around them pews. Father Ambrose didn’t hear George walk in. Heavy fella like George – he could move like he got no weight when he had a mind to.

  First thing Father Ambrose see was them white lily, then a big black hand pushing them out to him. Then he see the red. He swing round to see George, his shoulder so broad like it block out half the light from the big church door, and them cave eyes of his so dark it was as if they got no light reaching them. The ole priest jump back, fling up he hand like he fighting off Lucifer himself. The ciborium he was wiping hit the ole stone floor and raise a noise like a bell striking the hour.

  ‘I frighten you?’ George say. ‘Word reach me dat you have a weak heart?’ He even crack a smile. ‘Careful,’ he add. ‘Work like yours need a real strong one.’

  A lil while pass before Father Ambrose find he voice. ‘Yes, my son. This mortal coil… It happens to us all…’

  Imagine George listening to that sing-song voice – smooth and pretty as if Father Ambrose soften it with sweet oil. A pusson close them eyes and they’ll think it was a youngfella talking.

  Priest face different though. Them eyebrows of his like two line of ashes. Watery eyes – some colour between grey and blue, like weather that can’t make up it mind.

  Father Ambrose bring he palms together and George look at the fat gold ring on the second finger of he left hand, then at the sleeve of he robe that look so much like gaulin wings. George raise he head at them pretty church window and the organ at the back of the nave that rise up to the dark, dark roof.

  ‘What happen to all ov us?’ he ask the priest.

  Ambrose look confuse.

  ‘You say it happen to all of us…’

  ‘Did I? Ah well – a manner of speaking, son. A manner of speaking, so to, er, speak.’

  George point at them cherubim, left side of the chancel. ‘Ah notice you surround yourself with children.’ Then he lift he chin at Jesus of the bleeding heart, and turn to face the priest. �
��Was de people de fella trust do that to him, not so? But you know what I say? I say a man must know de people he move among. A pusson could even say that fella on de cross up there ask for it. Too damn busy talking to take notice of what they had in mind for ‘im.’

  ‘We are in His House!’ Priest raise he voice so high it full-up the church, and them white eyebrows start trembling. ‘To speak like that in His House is blasphemy. I must ask you –’

  ‘What I sayin, is that Fella was a big man. He could’ve save ‘imself, is what I sayin. Now if he was a child – that different. Becuz to spill de blood ov a child – yunno – that’s…’

  George swing round, drop them flowers on the altar and walk out of the church.

  George not stupid. It must’ve cross he mind that this wasn’t the first time Father Ambrose been suffering poor-people children to come to him, and shaming them into silence afterwards.

  One thing for sure, Father Ambrose didn’t visit George house after that.

  Make it sufficient to say that six weeks later, the mother say she worried she daughter not sheself no more. The young-girl whole body upset. George didn’t answer, but Gracy get hopeful when he leave the house and go down to the garden, because George know plants; he understand the secrets of their sap.

  But the woman heart drop when all he come back with was provisions and conversation: The heifer going to the bull next week. The white ram in the paddock useless – five weeks gone and none of them ewes get catch with lamb.

  ‘What about she?’ Gracy roll she eyes at the girl. ‘She still in school an…’

  George lift a hand to stop she. ‘You Catholic, not so? You tired tell me is de one thing you not givin up or changin for nobody. You say you rather dead. So why you want to change that now?’

  And that was that. Talk finish.

  When the girl begin to show, they pack she off to Gracy family in the north. Maybe it was to spare the woman the shame; maybe it was something else. Dunno.