Authors: Alex Wheatle
Claremont, Jamaica
November 1953
Friday evening. The setting sun shone through the gaps of the far-off trees, creating amber rays that forced the people in Claremont market to squint. They were soothed by a freshening breeze that drifted off the Caribbean sea. The liquor bars that fringed the market square were soon full of thirsty men who had just returned from the fields, happy that their working week was over, happy they had work. They now wrapped their earth-soiled hands around warm bottles of beer and Dragon stout. Their women were at home, cooking the traditional Jamaican Friday supper of fish, ackee and ardough bread. Those who were well-booted sank shots of rum and pulled hard on foreign cigarettes that had recently become available: keen-eyed shanty girls would sometimes accept the offer of a drink from a man toking on an Embassy Filter.
The front of the post office was now blackened by the emissions of country buses. Three cars were parked outside the bakery, Mr DaCosta’s dairy and Mrs Walters’ dressmaking concern; she now had three sewing machines and had built a small extension to her home. Wide-eyed children peered through the windscreens. Recently married men constructed their new homes on the knolls above Claremont; many of them worked in the bauxite quarries twenty or so miles away, and shanty dwellers were still repairing or rebuilding theirs. Even Levi now had neighbours. Most of them grew marijuana for an income on any strip of land they could find up in the hazy hills. Stalks of sinsimilla could pay for a child to attend school for a month. The marketers saw new faces every day. There was now a bustle and a bangarang in the market square that
the Claremont elders frowned upon; they especially disliked the Chinese family who were the proprietors of a new grocery shop near the market.
As the men drank, smoked their raw tobacco and played contentious games of domino, they watched the young women saunter by, and sometimes offered up their remarks. “Sweet girl inna de pink frock! Yuh waan to rinse an’ clean me bamboo inna ya tunnel ah love? It will tek nuff time becah me bamboo long like fishermon rod an’ broad like cedar trunk. But me ’ave nuff stamina!” The men’s comments were answered swiftly with raucous put-downs and fierce finger-jabbing, questioning, amongst other things, the man’s sexual technique, sexual orientation and who his real mother was. “Go away liccle bull-bottom-face bwai to ya strikin’ plot! An’ ask ya fake mama who ya real mama is an’ beg Massa God fe ah nice girl to court wid! An’ dutty rooster wid mosh-up claw an’ mouldy feader is ya real papa but ya fake papa don’t know!” These men rarely chanced their crude courting skills with Jenny, for they had learned from their embarrassing experiences with her sister, Hortense. Maybe Jenny has the same ‘whip’ tongue, they feared.
Now eighteen and as tall as most men, Jenny insisted on wearing one of her best frocks whenever she worked the family stall; her figure had filled out and she found it uncomfortable whenever a man presented her with amorous looks. She found it even more unsettling whenever a handsome man lavished her with praises. She loathed the bartering in the market, having to raise her voice to compete with the other vendors and higglers. But, as always, she kept her thoughts to herself, accepting her duties in her father’s absence. Sometimes, Carmesha and Hortense relieved her, but Hortense, her skin not thick enough to absorb the whispered comments about her ‘devil papa’, cursed and offended many. Indeed, on two occasions, Levi and Jenny had to come down and rescue her from a beating. That should have been Papa’s job, thought Jenny. She asked the question she had asked every day since he disappeared. How could he vanish jus’ like dat? Me was his favourite. His liccle angel. Why has he done dis to me?
Carmesha and Hortense had grown close and whenever Hortense had the opportunity, she barraged Carmesha with questions about Kingston. “Do de people live mighty? How big are de ships dem? How many rooms do de white people ’ave in dem house? Wha’ kind ah music dem lissen to? How do de young girl dem dance? How dem dress? Any black mon der rich an’ drive big car? Yuh t’ink ah handsome, polish-booted Kingston mon would say me pretty?”
Travelling on the odd occasion to Kingston visiting relatives, Carmesha did her best not to paint an idealistic picture of Jamaica’s capital. Kingston spat at the weak and laughed at the good-natured, Carmesha told Hortense many times. People live upon each other’s toes in sprawling government yards. A dozen or more families had only the use of one source of water – a standpipe in the middle of the courtyard. These yards were built after the 1951 hurricane and Carmesha, upon visiting her uncle who lived in Jones Town, could not believe the concept of an inside kitchen. So unhygienic, she thought.
Running parallel to the yards was an open sewer system that even the stray goats baulked at. It was an ideal habitat for flies and mosquitoes. Barefooted children suffered from horrific foot disfigurements, caused by blood-loving, burrowing insects laying in wait upon the dusty lanes that networked downtown Kingston. Gangs of bad men walked up and down flashing their ratchet knives but even they kept their distance from the Kingston lunatics who at night spoke and quarrelled with the moon. Kingston wasn’t a place for a nice country girl, Carmesha thought.
Not dissuaded by Carmesha’s descriptions, Hortense would reply, “But it mus’ be mighty exciting living inna Kingston. David survive it an’ me waan to see it fe meself. Carmesha, nex’ time yuh go ah Kingston, me beg yuh to tek me.”
Ready to leave the market now after she had stuffed the notes in her drawers and placed the coins into her small, cowhide purse, Jenny heard someone calling her. “Angel! Angel!”
Turning around, Jenny saw that a young man was running up to her. He was wearing a white Fred Perry T-shirt, cream-coloured slacks and polished, brown brogues. A blue flannel was protruding loosely out of his back pocket, his ‘sweat-rag’. His beer-dampened
moustache was full but his sideburns and beard were wispy, not fully developed. He was sporting a brown, pork-pie hat with a black feather sticking out. He was tall and athletic with an easy smile but his eyes promised romance and an adventurous spirit. Behind him, two dogs were scrapping over spoiled green bananas.
“Yuh calling me?” Jenny asked, not impressed by the smell of beer, thinking this man was a cocksmon.
“Do yuh see any udder pretty girl dat me coulda call?” replied the young man, displaying a clean row of teeth.
Giving her admirer a lingering eye-pass, Jenny had to admit the young man was handsome. Very handsome. But there would be rainbows in Old Screwface’s domain before she told him this. “Who is yuh to call after me? Yuh t’ink me any bluefoot girl who tek off wid any mon? Yuh t’ink yuh coulda carry me off fe ah grineah-bush? If yuh come wid dat intention me will fling rockstone after yuh. See if me don’t. An’ me name is
not
Angel!”
“Cool ya temper, sister! Me only trying to be friendly. Me was jus’ cooling wid ah Red Stripe an’ me sight yuh ah sell food der ah market. An’ me say to meself, Lord! Me sight ah pretty girl dis fine day! Me had to talk wid her. Me name Cilbert. Cilbert Huggins. Some mon call me Wire. Yuh cyan’t tell me ya name?”
“Wha’ for? We ’ave any business? Come outta me way becah me waan reach home. Me don’t ’ave nuh time to chat wid strange mon looking to sweet-talk ah nice girl to de bush. Why yuh nah go down der ah hillside where dem bluefoot girl will grine any mon fe ah single red cent!”
“Bloodfire! Yuh nuh easy, sister!”
“
Don’t
talk bad word to me!”
“Alright, alright. Cool yaself, sister. Look, me tell yuh wha’. Mek me buy some ah ya yam an’ breadfruit an’ give me some ah dem tomato too.”
Catching Cilbert with a stern glare, Jenny warned, “yuh better give me de right money becah me nah give credit.”
“Nuh worry yaself, sister.”
“Me is
not
ya sister!” Jenny rebuked before handing over the vegetables.
“Alright,” Cilbert winked, still flashing his molars. “We ’ave ah business now. Me one ah ya customer. So yuh cyan tell me ya name now?”
Almost succumbing to a smile, Jenny managed to stop herself. She felt her heart beating. He was devilishly beautiful, she admitted. And confident. The kind of man Preacher Mon raged against in his sermons about the temptations of the flesh before marriage. But Jenny wanted to learn more about her potential suitor. “Alright,” she agreed. “If yuh promise yuh nuh boder me nuh more.”
“Me promise,” said Cilbert, thinking he was getting somewhere.
“Jenny,” she revealed, accepting the cash.
“Well, dat is ah mighty fine name,” returned Cilbert. “Look, Jenny. Misser DaCosta holding ah party tonight. It’s him daughter, Elvira, birt’night. Music will be playing, yuh know, New Orleans jump-up music from de radio an’ yuh coulda lissen to mon like Amos Milburn. Me wire Misser DaCosta radio so we cyan tune into dis station dat broadcast
direct
from de jump-up city. Dem play nuh boring Frank Sinatra or dem kinda boring singer white mon. So, Jenny, yuh waan escort me dis fine night?”
Her curiosity aroused, Jenny wanted to hear for herself what her peers had been talking excitedly about for months. But she thought she would invite gossip from the market higglers if she stepped to Mr DaCosta’s with a stranger. And what would Hortense think? Maybe she wouldn’t like it if she had a
bwai-frien
’. It would upset things. No matter how princely a man looked she would never let him come before her sister.
Nuh
, sa! “Do me look like de kinda girl dat tek off wid stranger wid ah blue-swee smile? Yuh only know me for two seconds an’ yuh waan tek me out go rave? Me ’ave to know ya intentions first! Yuh know where me work so if yuh see me yuh see me!”
“Me not ah stranger nuh more,” Cilbert protested. “Me one ah ya prize customer!”
“Yuh t’ink yuh cyan sweet me wid ya sugar-talk? Like sugar inna chocolate goat milk? Go ’long, mon, becah me don’t ’ave nuh time to waste!”
Cilbert’s confidence was waning and his face betrayed the injuries to his ego. “Alright, look, Jenny. Me sorry dat me charge in like hungry bull. At least allow me to help yuh push de cart. Dat t’ing look like ah mighty struggle fe ah fine girl to handle.”
Jenny thought about it. Her legs were tired from standing up all day. “Alright. Yuh cyan walk wid me jus’ ah liccle of de way. But
don’t
get any ideas inna ya pants becah me nah ’fraid to fight any mon.”
The broad smile returned to Cilbert’s face. Jenny relinquished her hold on the cart and stood still with her arms crossed, waiting for Cilbert to take over. He flashed her a smile and started pushing. Jenny ambled beside him with a prissy grin. “So where yuh come from?” she asked, momentarily taking down her guard.
“Me family live ah Orange Valley, down below Walker’s Wood,” revealed Cilbert. “We’re related to de DaCosta’s ’pon me mudder side. Me training to be an electrician. Nex’ year me gwarn to learn at de University ah de West Indies der ah Kingston; me sponsored by Misser DaCosta – ah good mon dat. Me cyan fix anyt’ing, Jenny. Any radio an’ dem t’ing der. Me even fix Misser DaCosta generator after it get mosh up inna de fifty-one storm.”
“So yuh know about wire! Yuh waan me to clap me hand?”
“Nuh, Jenny. Me jus’ telling yuh wha’ me do. Me ’ave nuff ambition. When me finish me learning me waan leave Jamaica, go ah England an’ mek nuff money an’ den come back an’ buil’ mighty house. Some mon say der is gold to be found inna de London streets.”
“Me would
never
go ah foreign land. Me prefer to live de simple life an’ help out me family. An’ de only gold to be found is inna heaven.”
Cilbert paused and stood up. “Yuh tell me dat all yuh waan’ do wid ya life is to sell food ah market? An’ push dutty cart?”
“Me papa buil’ dat cart so
tek
back ya slander! An’ me family don’t strive fe de riches ’pon eart’. We jus’ live simple, praising de Most High. Living off de land dat de Most High provide we.”
Cilbert resumed shoving the cart; it proved difficult because of the wonky wheels. “But Jenny, our parents toil inna de land an’
work dem finger to de bone to give we ah better life. So de least we cyan do is show nuff ambition.”
Jenny thought of the strutting, cocksure men who always frequented the bars in town and who never attended church. “Ambition lead to vanity. Vanity lead to greed. Greed lead to sin an’ sin lead to deat’.”
“Yuh cyan’t really mean dat,” replied Cilbert. “Yuh talk like dem old preacher.”
“Better to talk like old preacher dan talk like ah fool who crave material t’ings.”
Regretting her last words, Jenny didn’t mean to offend Cilbert – he seemed nice enough, she thought. But maybe not the marrying type. And even if he did ask for her hand, how could she leave for England and leave Hortense? How could she even consider marrying him? Hortense still needed her. But he was so damn handsome!
Jenny had been drilled at church not to seek riches and be glad to live off the land where she walked. Isaac had reinforced this message on his twice-weekly visits to her house, which had started with the disappearance of her father. Hortense would always run off when Isaac parked his donkey but Jenny didn’t want to further embarrass her mother and listened to whatever Isaac preached to her.
Sensing that Jenny would not be an easy catch, Cilbert accepted defeat. “Jenny. It’s been nice walking wid yuh an’ getting to know yuh. But me affe gwarn to Misser DaCosta’s an’ help him set up t’ings fe de night. Mebbe we will see each udder again an’ we cyan talk some more. Until dat time.”
Cilbert waved, forcing a polite grin. Jenny wanted to smile and wave back but something stopped her from doing so. She watched him disappear over a hill and felt the gathering tempo from her heart. She rebuked herself for having carnal thoughts.
Reaching home fifteen minutes later, Jenny could smell the roasted mackerel and the steaming rice and ackee as she walked passed the kitchen; Hortense was seeing to the cooking with a sour expression upon her face. Kwarhterleg was aiding her, poised over the rice pot with gratings of coconut in his palm. “Afternoon, liccle
Jen,” he greeted. “Afternoon, Kwarhterleg, Hortense,” returned Jenny. Hortense shot her a grumpy look. Jenny avoided her sister, not in the mood for what her mother called Hortense’s ‘horse dead an’ cow fat’: the irrelevant details of her day. She should have been helping me in de market! Jenny thought. Leaving me all alone to deal wid all de shouting an’ bangarang! She approached her mother who was unpegging clothes from the washing line. “Mama, ah good day fe selling. ’Pon Friday we mek as much money as de res’ ah de week. But, Mama, sometime me cyan’t tek de rudeness ah dem new people who now live ah Claremont. Ungodly dem ah ungodly! Yuh waan me to go up to Levi an’ give him ah money?”