Authors: Alex Wheatle
It was a muggy April afternoon in 1958 when Hortense took a break from her work in Martha’s house, sat in a chair upon the verandah, poured herself a shot of rum mixed with lemonade and started to read one of Jenny’s letters that she didn’t have time to read in the morning. She didn’t notice Martha walking up the
pathway, laden with shopping.
“Good afternoon, Hotty,” Martha chirped, her wide-brimmed hat flapping in the breeze.
Hortense looked up in alarm, shot up out of her chair and hoped Martha might think her rum cocktail was a glass of water. “Good afternoon, Miss Martha,” she greeted with a huge smile. “Yuh enjoy ya shopping ah Papine market?”
“It was a delight, Hotty. The people there are so pleasant, so colourful. I love the way they sing while they work and try to entertain the customers. My goodness! It seems that all Jamaicans want to be a Mr Bojangles. Did I tell you I saw the great man perform once on Broadway?”
“Yes, yuh did, Miss Martha,” Hortense laughed. “Plenty time!”
“They even offered to carry my groceries to the car. So accommodating those Papine marketers.”
Hortense guessed that the stall-holders in Papine market saw Miss Martha coming and immediately increased their prices by fifty per cent.
Martha could smell the rum. “Hotty, take your seat again and enjoy your break, don’t let me stop you. Besides, I need to discuss something with you. If you could spare a moment?”
Sitting down again, Hortense gripped the arms of the chair tightly as Martha went into the kitchen to offload her shopping. She returned with a bottle of Appleton’s finest, bringing a glass for herself. She topped off a suspicious Hortense’s glass before she took her seat. “Now, Hotty,” she began. “It seems that circumstances have upset our future plans. There is talk of independence in the air and yesterday my husband’s seniors made it clear that his services may not be required for much longer.”
“Wha’ do yuh mean, Miss Martha?”
“Well, my dear, Hotty, it means that the British in the next year or so will gradually pull out of this blessed country. For when independence comes, my husband and his like will have no role to play. We’ll have to return home.”
“Dat is terrible, Miss Martha! Will yuh lose ya house an’ everyt’ing?”
Martha chuckled, adoring Hortense’s naivety. “Not quite, Hotty. That we can sell. We will only lose a certain dignity but we will be fine. I’m sure the British army will find some new role for my husband or perhaps they will pension him off; between you and me he is nudging fifty-eight. I’m more worried that I would have to let you go. I know it’s a bit of a devil finding employment out there and I will lose more of a friend than a worker.”
“Nuh worry yaself, Martha. Nuh need to look so sad. Me husband an’ meself are saving to forward ah England an’ me sure me cyan get ah nex’ job.”
Martha smiled. “And I’m sure you will do well. We have grown to love this country,” she admitted. “The larger than life people, the pace of life. And I have been invited to the governor’s mansion for grand dinners. By the way, he’s fine. Even after independence, Jamaica will still require a governor. I suppose the only white people who will remain are those in business and the Noel Cowards and Ian Flemings of this island.”
“Who is Noel Coward an’ Ian Fleming?” asked Hortense.
Martha laughed again before sipping her undiluted rum. “They are both writers, Hotty, who once came here for their holidays and loved the island so much that they now reside here.”
“Is dat so? Ah mon could live off wha’ dem write?”
“Of course, Hotty. Their adventure in this island will continue but mine is coming to an end. It’s ironic that you and Cilbert want to embark on an adventure to England. Whenever I reflect upon my years there, I remember the drabness, the hurrying and the scurrying to realise one’s dream. The smog and the cold. But don’t let me put you off, Hotty. It’s just that I thought I would end my days here and perhaps that’s why I feel a certain melancholy at returning to England.”
“Me an’ Cilbert don’t intend to spend de res’ of we days inna England. Nuh, Miss Martha. Jus’ ah few years so we can save ah liccle money an’ come back an’ buil’ ah pretty house jus’ like ya own.”
“That’s a fine ambition, Hotty. May I propose a toast to it.”
Feeling slightly tipsy, Cilbert made his way home from a friend’s yard in Denham Town. He had enjoyed a fine fish supper and quite a number of Dragon stouts, his reward for fixing a radio. He had now got used to the desperate stares of the shanty dwellers and learned to ignore the pitiful, hungry faces of young children who seemed to have forgotten how to play. There were only so many pennies he could give and those who received them never forgot the faces of their benefactors, always begging for more as Cilbert had discovered.
Walking past Second Street in Trenchtown he heard domestic disputes, barking dogs, the crackle of fires, radios tuned into Miami stations and the alto-pitched voices of yard dwellers attempting to imitate the black American trio harmony groups that were growing extremely popular. Inside the yards, children were imitating the singing adults, performing their dance steps and even bowing when they finished their songs. Their mothers laughed heartily. One over-enthusiastic child, who was taking the mickey out of his father, was cuffed upon the neck and sent to fetch a bottle of cod liver oil to ‘clean out him t’roat’ for being so impertinent. Smiling, Cilbert recalled what Hortense had remarked to him a few days ago. ‘
Every Jamaican waan to be ah Misser Bojangles
.’
Cilbert saw five ghetto toughs idling in a corner, their eyes darting from one side to the other. He quickened his pace, hoping they didn’t see him but he was smartly cut off. Cilbert recognised them vaguely and produced one of his widest grins. Long ago Cilbert had learned not to carry any large amounts of cash when walking alone at night. “Me’s ah poor mon dat come from de country,” he said, displaying his palms. “If me coulda give yuh somet’ing den me would. An’ me don’t look nuh trouble.”
“We
nah
look fe money,” the bulkiest man replied, eyeing Cilbert
from his hair-line and down to his dust-specked shoes. “We sight yuh around Trenchtown an’ yuh cyan’t live here so widout showing ya political colours. So who yuh intend to vote for? Which one yuh favor? PNP or JLP?”
The four other men closed in on Cilbert, forming a semi-circle.
“Me don’t involve meself wid politics, sa,” Cilbert replied, feigning a little misunderstanding. He stepped back a pace. “Me jus’ do me liccle work to keep me family an’ to keep ah roof over we head. Where me come from inna de country we don’t know too much about politics.”
“Dat cyan’t gwarn so!” the big man riposted. “We don’t like people who sit ’pon de fence. Ya eider fe one or de udder. So me ask yuh again. Which party yuh gwarn to vote for?”
Cilbert realised he had an evens chance. He felt the sweat collect around his temples and the quickening of his heartbeat. He shifted his eyes, searching for an escape route but he was surrounded. Shanty dwellers ignored the scenario as if it was simply part of a daily routine they had witnessed many times. Cilbert tried to guess from the way the thugs were dressed to what political persuasion they belonged to but found no clues. In their scuffed shoes, baggy slacks and bright-coloured T-shirts they looked like any other Trenchtown man. Cilbert recalled the vivid descriptions of political violence he had heard about; most victims never lived to tell their tales. He could sense the moistening of his palms. The fish supper was now dancing inside his stomach and he could hear every breath he took. Closing his eyes for a milisecond, he blurted out, “PNP.”
Still bad-eyeing Cilbert’s feet, the apparent leader of the gang, spat a thick spit of saliva and tobacco remains on the dusty ground and said in a stretched whisper, “wrrronnng mooovve, sa.” He clenched his fists.
Cilbert tried to run but felt two pairs of arms grappling around his neck. His legs were kicked away from under him and his head thudded against the dusty, hard ground. Cilbert briefly opened his eyes only to see unlaced heavy boots aiming for his face. He covered up as best as he could but he heard the sickening crunch of his nose being broken. A sharp pain shooted up to his forehead and
around his eyes. He tried to stem the bleeding from his nostrils, leaving his eyes exposed. A wild kick split the delicate skin between Cilbert’s left eyebrow and eyelid. Blood spurted out. Cilbert could only see watery, indistinct shadows from his good eye. He heard someone say, “we know where yuh der-ya! An’ we know ya pretty wife too! So yuh better support an’ sponsor de JLP.”
As he writhed in agony, Cilbert could hear the scampering of boots fading away. He wished he had never come to this accursed city, and then he slipped into unconsciousness.
It was Kingsley Banton who found Cilbert slumped against a shanty town wall. Not caring that Cilbert’s blood was staining his ‘Saturday night’ shirt, Kingsley placed one of Cilbert’s arms around his neck and acting as a crutch, supported Cilbert home.
Upon seeing her husband, Hortense screamed. “Dem bastard! Dem cruel bastard! Lucifer mus’ be dem fader an’ Jezebel der mudder. As de Most High is me witness see me don’t rip open dem belly an’ hang out dem liver ’pon ah shanty woman washing line!”
Hortense’s histrionics alerted her neighbours and they all came to see what had occurred. Laura rushed to boil some water while Bigger Knowles bounded up the stairs to fetch his herbs. Oliver readied his bike to take Cilbert to the Jubilee hospital in downtown Kingston as Mercy comforted Hortense in a torrent of ‘
Lord mercy me’s’
and ‘
Hear me prayers
’.
Once Laura had managed to stem the bleeding, Cilbert’s body was placed in her push-cart that was now attached to Oliver’s bike. Hortense, Mercy, Bigger and Kolton escorted the whimpering Cilbert to hospital.
At the Jubilee hospital reception, Hortense stood still in shock, not quite believing what was in front of her. People with gaping wounds, disfigured faces, burnt hands and a number of other appalling injuries, were laying on collapsible chairs, slumped on the blood-spotted floor and sitting against grimy walls. Flies and mosquitoes buzzed around a hanging, naked bulb. A crushed cockroach, its bodily fluids staining the wooden floor, had crawled its last crawl beneath a filthy window. Ants went about their business freely beneath the unlevel skirtings and through wall
fissures. Behind the reception desk, lying prostrate in a corner, were two men. They had recently died from stab wounds and were waiting to be taken to the morgue. A single nurse was patching up whoever could be patched up; she looked utterly spent. Two doctors quickly marched by now and again, their white cloaks stained with blood. Revolting smells, not wafted away by any form of air conditioning, assaulted Hortense’s nose.
Hortense turned to Bigger. “Cyan’t we tek him to de university hospital?”
“Nuh, Hortense. Dat hospital is fe uptown people. We don’t ’ave de right address. Trenchtown we come from.”
Cilbert had to wait eight hours for treatment and when he finally emerged from the Jubilee hospital, wearing a dressing upon his nose, he had to shield his swollen eyes from the morning sun. Now conscious, he said to Hortense, “me gwarn to work every hour dat is available to me. See if me don’t! An’ me gwarn to save
every
penny. Me an’ yuh gwarn to leave dis cursed town an’ go ah England.”
Writing a tearful letter to Jenny the same morning, Hortense explained to her what had befallen her husband. Too frightened to leave her yard, Hortense gave the letter to Laura to mail at the post office. Mercy, having initiated a group prayer at her church for Cilbert and Hortense, returned to the yard in the afternoon. With Laura, Mercy helped to cook the Sunday dinner for Hortense and Cilbert and it was shared out to all their new friends. Hortense was reduced to tears at the gesture and thanked them all.
Although still feeling acute pain, against well-intentioned advice, Cilbert set off for work the next day. He would never miss a working day or an overtime opportunity until he set sail for England.
Reading Hortense’s letter in the empty church hall where she taught English to Claremontonian children, Jenny palmed away her tears. Only now did she recognise that her infatuation with Cilbert would never fade. She could not dismiss it. A smiling Cilbert had lodged himself in her inner vision from the first time she had
blessed eyes on him and now she just had to see him, at least be close to him. “Me cyan never ’ave him but to look ’pon him every day would be ah blessing,” she whispered to herself. “At least me could ’ave dat.”
As soon as Jacob arrived home from his parish duties, Jenny suggested a walk in the hills to watch the sinking red sun dip below the western ranges. She told Jacob about the contents of Hortense’s letter. Reaching a hill-top that offered them a spectacular view of the Claremont valley, they lay on their backs to count the stars, feeling the delicate breezes that stole in from the north coast. Jenny, who preferred to make love outdoors, seduced her husband by undressing slowly. “Me love de hillside breeze ah lick me naked skin,” she grinned mischievously. “It feel so soothing.” Jacob didn’t need a second invitation.
Seconds after they had made love, Jenny pleaded with Jacob to start afresh in Kingston, where she would be by her sister’s side. “She need me, Jacob. Hortense ’ave nuh family der ah Trenchtown an’ she affe deal wid tribulation ’pon her own. Cilbert ah nearly lose him life! We might as well move becah ya fader ah scandalise himself by breeding dat young girl from Alexandria. People look ’pon me funny now an’ me cyan’t tek dem passing remark about ya fader’s situation. Me beg yuh, Jacob. If yuh love me yuh woulda do dis t’ing fe me. Yuh know how me an’ Hortense close. Me lose me one sweet brudder already. If somet’ing happen to Hortense an’ me nah der to help her me would never forgive meself!”
Following many days and nights of Jenny beseeching Jacob, he finally relented and set about writing to his contacts in Kingston, enquiring about ministerial positions. He informed Isaac that he felt the Most High had need for him in Kingston. “Same way dat Jesus did ah walk among de poor an’ unruly trying to save dem soul, same way I affe work. Der is plenty, plenty more soul inna Kingston to save.”
Resisting the temptation to discourage his son, Isaac nodded his acceptance. He recognised that Jacob was utterly besotted with Jenny. But secretly he cursed the very existence of the Rodney family.