Tell No-One About This

by Jacob Ross

  Meantime, First Fruit never change. A basin of full of mango every second Friday in June and July; sweet potatoes, eddoes and pum-pum yams in Dry Season. Dry corn for Easter, pidgin peas in January. Pumpkin, watermelon and guava whenever they bear fruit. A coupla heads of lettuce and cabbage any time of year. Flowers for the altar every Friday and Sunday…

  George even turn artist with them flowers: purple yam shoot that he lace around them roses and lilies like blood vessels; potato vines with streaks of blue and crimson. A coupla wax apple and French cashew ‘mongst the yellow of them flowers.

  The woman didn’t trust it. She begin to feel that the man take over the church-duties of the daughter to mock them. Particularly becoz this silent, heavy fella never ask after she health, never mention she name or how she getting on, all the time the girl away. And yunno, in them months that pass, the woman start to hate George. In them quiet ways that woman does hate, holding it close to she chest like it was a secret. She walk softer in the house, she two eye sliding away from George face whenever he talk to she. She never use to notice the size of him before – yunno, how heavy he weigh on she; how he breath on she face oppress she.

  Maybe Gracy didn’t know what to look for. Maybe she so full up of embarrassment and worry for she daughter, she miss them sign. Like that Friday after vespers when George bring a bag of coconut to the church, pull out that knife of his and slice off the top of each one with a clean swing. He line them up on the steps, look in Father Ambrose face and say, ‘First fruit.’

  Was a special High Mass the Sunday of that same week – must’ve been a couple weeks before the girl come back home. Candle on the altar burning; congregation head turn down; light coming through them pretty stain-glass-window and falling on them head. That light brighten up everything inside the church, especially the fella with the bleeding heart, who looking down kinda poor-me-one on all them head.

  When Mass finish, congregation walk out to a nice-an-quiet afternoon and Ambrose come out on the step to pass last-words to he flock. One of the wimmen turn she head and sudden-so she face twist-up. All eyes follow she finger.

  Was George she pointing at, walking up the road, trailing a white ram on a piece of rope.

  When he reach them, he tie the four foot of the animal and throw it on its back.

  To this day, nobody know where the blade come from; all they see was the flash of the steel. He butcher the sheep right in the doormouth of the church.

  And while George working on the beast, words coming outta he mouth like a sermon. Fresh words, yunno, because people can’t remember ever hearing him talk, far less make speech.

  ‘Sheep stupid,’ he say. ‘They see the knife coming and they bow their head and tek it. They dead without a sound. A chicken know better. Yuh cut off chicken head and it beat round the yard like the life don’t want to leave it. That make sense. Chicken got no interest in heaven o hell o purgatry. Chicken don’t give a shit about where it go after it dead. Chicken want to hold onto what it got right now. Chicken got sense. Is why people should never eat chicken.’

  George pass he hand across he face, then he look up at the priest and say, ‘Sheep get what it deserve.’

  A flick of George wrist, a twist of he hand and he slide he arm beneath the ribcage of the beast. And then… and then… he pull out he hand and raise it in the air. ‘First fruit,’ he say. That voice come from he belly, thick like molasses.

  He hold out the dripping heart to Father Ambrose like it was a mango. Priest face go white. Priest shake he head like Eve shoulda done when Satan offer she the apple. He grab he chest and back-back fast inside the church with a coupla acolytes running after him.

  People make their own lil congregation around George. And yunno, Ole-Man Joe-Joe was the one who take the bleeding heart because he say he got a weak back and it got many uses he could put that lovely piece of flesh to.

  George offer a piece o the rest to everybody. That was enough to pull them outta the shock and have commonsense take over. Because, yunno, if folks round here have a choice between pleasing God and a nice lamb stew, them choose the lamb stew every time – them damn well know they could always pray for absolution next Sunday.

  Make it sufficient to say that after that it didn have a time when Father Ambrose didn’t raise he head in the middle of he sermons, to watch the entrance of the church.

  The girl was a mother when she come back. Sh’was a little more plump and a lot more serious-face. She look like she mother.

  Giving birth – that kind of pain – does teach acceptance, or p’rhaps it force acceptance on a woman. Dunno.

  Right now, the young-girl not thinking how the ole priest spoil she future; she not remembering the terrible thing he done to she. S’far as she concern, what done happen, happen and done. She look at the infant in she arms – the little hand and eye and foot so perfect, the tiny mouth searching for the sustenance sheself give – and that is all that concern she now.

  She come home in the dark, so the dark could shelter she from people eyes, give she a lil bit of time before they start bad-talking and twisting the story to suit themselves.

  George and the mother see the change in she, of course. But George and the mother see different things. All George notice is the colour of the baby against the young-girl skin. It yellow like a ripe paw-paw with hair somewhere between white and brown.

  The mother see the way the girl flesh out and them small pleatline across she forehead that wasn’t there before. So, when Gracy reach out and touch she daughter, was like if the distance between them shorten. Both of them was mother now. Both of them carry a seed that take root in them, and bring it into light. It ain’t got no fella in the world could understand that feeling.

  ‘Yellow chile,’ was all George say.

  The girl look up at him as if she hear some kinda rustling in the bush, but she not sure whether is good or bad. Gracy watching George too. She alert like a dog. But they follow him into the house.

  A pusson could suppose that in George mind the child is evidence. Round here, where people colour run from sapodillabrown to starapple-black, that baby stand out like a ripe banana in a basket full of pum-pum yam.

  Still, in the days that pass, the mother and the girl relax, because when the infant cry is George self who get up whatever hour in the night and feed it. Is he that rock it back to sleep. Is George that carry it most times on he shoulder.

  Is he decide on the Christening.

  Sunday, three weeks after the girl reach home, the mother dress-up in a pretty cotton frock with a pattern of black hibiscus print all over it. The girl in a light-blue, long-sleeve dress. She wearing white sandals that buckle round she ankle. She pull back she hair so the morning sun fall on she face.

  Is so them walk up the road to the church, the girl holding the baby, the mother by she side, and George one half-step ahead. He walk stiff in he new press-up khaki shirt and clean black trousers. He wearing a new pair of water-boots. The sound of the rubber on the road drown out the few lil words that exchange between the mother and she daughter.

  People was shock. That young girl carrying the baby in she arms didn’t make no sense to them. They never see no youngfella dogging round George house or courting she in secret. Bush does talk, an, bush wouldha’ find out and report back. So how come nobody never know?

  Nobody had to tell them the baby belong to the girl. The way she carrying the child alone make that plain. Besides, the yellow of the infant tell them it didn’t belong to the girl mother and George, because nutmeg don’t bear mango and snake don’t make short children.

  The surprise send the gossip hurrying ahead of them. People start to line the road. By the time George and the two wimmen reach the church it was a proper procession.

  The three of them walking in a heavy silence now, with only the sound of George water-boots on the road. The mother holding she head straight, she mouth tight like a twis’-up purse.

  They reach the steps, begin to climb them – the young-g
irl lifting she foot careful with the child, she face calm as one of them Mary statues inside the church.

  Was when they reach the door, George turn round and lift the baby from the girl. The mother grab George arm. The girl push out she hands to take back the child. George look at she, and whatever the young-girl see in George face must’ve been stronger than the pull of motherhood, because she drop she hands and stagger back. Then she gather herself and begin to hurry along beside him, she whole body push forward, she two hand reaching up to the infant that George was holding high above he head. And is like that George march up the aisle, the child in the air, like Abraham holding up lil Isaac.

  Church was pack. Congregation in the middle of some hymn with the morning sun running across the old stone floor all the way up to the altar, where Father Ambrose sprinkling a baby forehead while the parents looking on.

  Was the sound of George boots that kill the hymn and raise people head. Or maybe was the bellow that come from him, or perhaps it was the sight of the upraise child, or the vision of that wall of darkness bearing down on the priest. Dunno! Make it sufficient to say that Ambrose see George right hand dip inside he shirt. He see that same hand rising with the knife. And sudden-so church turn Babel with the bawling of the young-girl and Gracy and the terror that rise up from the benches. Plus them words that come from George mouth. Words that make sense only to he and the priest, because Father Ambrose shake he head and stagger back; he bring up one arm to cover he face, while the other hand start tearing at he chest. As if he just catch sight of the God that left him all them years ago.

  Whatever it was, it knock him down so hard on the old stone floor, it shut up the congregation.

  Father Ambrose never get up.

  Look at George now! Watch what them years in jail cut him down to. See how he in two mind about that place? A pusson can’t blame him. Bad weather beat down the cattle shed. Rainy Season wash away the pig pen, and them banana and peas grow so crazy they start strangling one another. A stranger would never know it used to be a farm that lay out neat-an-nice, as if George know geometry.

  People don’t remember if they ever see the woman and the girl after George got taken away. Now and then, them window-blind does shift, but that could be the wind. When nighttime come, a pusson think they hear a bucket knock across that valley there, or the soft laugh of a woman, and a younger laugh that follow it. But who know for sure?

  If them two woman still in there, what keep them waiting all these years? It couldn’t be love – that’s for sure. People say it didn’t make no sense for them to run away because wherever them go, George sure to find them.

  Commonsense say is what happen when woman lose religion; when God tumble off he throne and become ordinary in she eyes.

  ROSES FOR MISTER THORNE

  For the fallen (June, 1980)

  Anni pushed a reluctant hand toward her little plastic radio and cut off the outraged voice of Mister Thorne. She would have liked to listen to his whole speech but she had work to do. Her yams were strangling the sweet potatoes, and today she was going to tame them.

  Out in the garden, though, her head was full of Missa Thorne: his talk of Bloody Thursday, the bomb-blast that was meant to kill him, and the retribution he’d let loose on the Counters who’d placed the device beneath the stage on which he stood.

  His words brought back pictures of the three girl-children they’d made posters of, and spread throughout the island, their destroyed bodies splayed on the grass like gutted fish.

  She felt again the quiet that had fallen on the island, and the loveliness of that afternoon eighteen months ago: a clean blue day; the air over Old Hope sweet and humming because, during all that week, the mangoes had been throwing out their blossoms,

  He was returning to The Park next week, Missa Thorne reminded them. He’d been reminding them for months. He was going to stand on that very same stage and speak, so that all the Counters on the island knew-and-understood that the Revo was not afraid of them, and if they tried it again, the people will give them heavy, heavy manners.

  Voices broke through her thoughts. On the road below, Slim, the young, fast-talking militiaman, stood among a buzz of young people. He was fingering his red beret with one hand, the elbow of the other making jerky movements above the pistol on his hip. They’d already cut away the overhanging trees, fed the leaves and branches to a snapping roadside fire. The girls had tied back their hair with the flag of the Revo – a white square of cloth with a blood-red circle in the middle. Small outbreaks of laughter rose above the slap of machetes and the grate of spades.

  She was wondering what the hell them find so funny this time-a-mornin’ when Slim pulled back his shoulders and raised a long brown arm at her. ‘Crazy-Anni, how you this morning?’

  Even from this distance she could see the broad spread of the young man’s teeth.

  She muttered something nasty and turned toward her rosebush.

  It stood on its own mound in the half shade of her cocoa tree, its roots covered with a layer of sea kelp, compost and manure. She’d protected it from the spite of wind and rain, and direct sunlight with a ring of coconut fronds.

  And to think that once this perfect rosebush had almost died – that July morning of heavy dew that had caught her unawares and blighted the leaves with black spot. She’d taken the bus to Saint George’s to see the man in the Agroshop who knew everything.

  ‘Cut it back,’ he said. ‘Hard! You’ll be hurting it to save it.’

  He’d handed her a tiny bag of Epsom salts. ‘Tonic. Magnesium. And don’t forget a few spoonfuls of gypsum and a sprinkling of sulphur.’

  Now here it was, bristling with thorns, its leaves dark and glossed with health; the petals, furled tight like an infant’s fist, straining against the sepals that held them in. She’d taken cuttings from it. The best was for Missa Thorne. She would take it to him next week because he’d asked for it.

  He’d come to Old Hope the month before the bomb. She was bending over the vermillion tendrils of her pum-pum yams when the thundering of engines straightened her and pulled her gaze down to the road. The grate of wheels on gravel. Men’s voices.

  Something in her quickened when she saw the soldiers stepping out of two green jeeps, and between them, a long black car, so brightly polished it looked silver in the hot light.

  A brown man in a blue suit stepped out of it. Another in a white waistcoat stood at his side. Their eyes were on the path that led past her place to the new co-operative farm further up her hill.

  She’d straightened her headwrap and turned her face down to her yams again, pulling at weeds that weren’t there while the hum of voices drew nearer.

  The thud of footsteps stopped. A voice reached across to her from the narrow feeder road across the small ravine below her house. ‘Greetings, Gran!’

  She’d gathered the tail-ends of her dress around her knees and straightened up, wiping the soil from her hands onto her clothing.

  She looked over at the smiling man and nodded. The whole village had come up the hill behind him.

  Slim had pulled away from the crowd. The youngfella’s eyes were wide, his hands agitating at his side. ‘Craz… erm, Miss Anni, is the Chief self saying hello to you, y’unnerstan? Is Missa Thorne greeting you. Is is…’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, and raised her eyes at Mister Thorne. ‘That’s you for true?’

  A chuckle rumbled out of him. ‘I’m afraid so, Granny.’

  She’d imagined a darker fella – grim-faced, with the barrel chest that the bass of his voice suggested on the radio. Missa Thorne was slim and brown. He slipped a cigarette between his lips, pushed his fingers into the pocket of his blue shirt-jac and pulled out a lighter. She watched him bring the flame to the cigarette. The smile was still there, even through the cloud of smoke.

  The tall youngfella beside him in the white waistcoat, with a wire in his ear, wouldn’t take his eyes off her. Those eyes of his and the little jerky movements of his head reminded her
of birds. The Birdman made her nervous. Missa Thorne took in her patch of corn, her pigeon peas and sweet potatoes. His eyes paused on her bed of roses.

  ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Really nice.’

  ‘They my children,’ she said, angling a sideways glance at his face. ‘They grow happy when I touch them.’

  He nodded as if he couldn’t agree more. For a moment, she was conscious of her little two-roomed house, leant up against the calabash tree.

  She didn’t know what came over her. She hurried over to her roses, brought her knife to her best plant, cleared the thorns and cut the fattest flower. She walked back and held it out to Mister Thorne.

  The Birdman chuckled. She caught herself and chuckled too because she’d forgotten the small ravine between them.

  Missa Thorne’s face pleated in a wide smile. ‘Roses for the Revo, right? Thank you all the same, Comrade.’

  He lit another cigarette and said something to the Birdman; then he pointed at the garden. ‘Grow one for me, Granny. Maybe next time?’

  She’d nodded, said she would and watched the crowd move off; kept her eyes on Missa Thorne’s blue shirt until he turned into the co-operative. He’d stopped at the high steel gate, raised a hand above his head and waved. He hadn’t looked back, but she knew that wave was meant for her.

  She might have forgotten all about that promise, if eight weeks later, there hadn’t been the bomb that almost killed him. Something new had settled on the island. She sensed it straightaway, like the arrival of bad weather – a darkening that a pusson could not put a name to but felt all the same. She saw it in the gun that Slim began wearing on his hip, in the children sneaking off at night with him in those green jeeps, and returning in the small hours of the morning. Their faces were grim, and they talked only of blood and heavy manners.

  The young children had changed their ring-game songs, their chants now full of little cruelties.

  Ole Miss Anni