Authors: Alex Wheatle
It was a breezy February morning in 1959 when Hortense had arrived at Miss Martha’s house and found boxes, trunks and barrels filling the area of the verandah floor, ready for shipping. Miss Martha, standing in her front doorway, was watching her gardener, Jonte, perform his duties. She was sporting a wide-brimmed floppy hat and
sunglasses that covered almost half her face. The flower-patterned sarong she was wearing billowed out with the wind, sometimes exposing her thighs and drawers. Hortense approached her, feeling a sadness within her heart.
“Marnin, Miss Martha. So yuh ready to go.”
“Oh, morning, Hotty. Yes, paradise will soon be lost. When the breeze blows I do like to come outside and feel it on my skin. So refreshing and pleasant.”
“Yes, it do feel mighty nice,” agreed Hortense.
Her sunglasses masking the aim of her gaze, Martha didn’t turn around and greet Hortense with a kiss like she usually did. “Do you know, Hotty, my gardener, Jonte, has been with us since the end of the war.”
Hortense looked at Jonte who was bare-backed and only dressed in white shorts and sandals. The sun reflected off his bald, brown head.
“And in that length of time, Hotty,” Martha continued. “He has never entered my house. When he concludes his work on a Saturday morning he waits patiently sitting down on the lawn for me to present him his wages. He doesn’t even call me for it. When he first came to work for us, my husband was very strict with him, watched him like a hawk. He was perturbed about leaving Jonte and myself alone in the house. I suppose that is the fear of the white man. Jonte
is
a very attractive man. But my husband was worrying totally unnecessarily for Jonte is a quiet, withdrawn man. Very undemonstrative. He has always performed his work well and I have only felt the need to rebuke him on those rare occasions he comes in late. But after all this time he still seems afraid to look me in the eye. He has never picked up on my give-away signs. Do you understand, Hotty?”
“Yes, Miss Martha,” Hortense replied with a grin. “Sometimes me wonder why yuh always tek ya breakfast ’pon de verandah. Now me know why. Jonte ah tickle ya fancy.”
Martha chuckled, Hortense’s candid humour a relief to her. “But why should he notice me? I am a white woman approaching middle-age and the sun withers my skin. Maybe if he had seen me
in my ballet days he wouldn’t have been so apathetic. Then again, perhaps Jonte has always sensed my husband’s disquiet.”
“Wha’ are yuh getting at, Miss Martha?” Hortense asked.
“My dear, Hotty.” Martha finally turned around to face Hortense. “You are so naive. And that’s why I feel it is my duty just to give you a gentle warning. You will soon be in the motherland and you need to know certain peculiarities of the men there.”
“Gentle warning about wha’?” Hortense wanted to know.
“I know I continually talk about the times I watched Mr Bojangles perform on Broadway. But there was definitely a sadness within his eyes, although he was smiling. A look of unfulfilled promise. Although he could dance like a dream he was never offered a leading role in a MGM musical. The nearest Mr Bojangles came to a leading lady was dancing with the seven-year-old Shirley Temple. No dancing in a ballroom or down a neon-lit, curling staircase with Ginger Rogers for Mr Bojangles. You see, Hotty, it was the white man’s fear that derailed Mr Bojangles’ dreams and aspirations. It’s an unspoken fear. I have seen it in the way my husband regards Jonte. And as a white woman you begin to wonder where that fear comes from. You even begin to imagine… experiencing relations with a black man. They don’t mind a black woman displaying their sexuality, but they have to be light-skinned to be truly accepted. Do you understand, Hotty?”
Martha’s hidden gaze returned to Jonte who was bending over a flower bed, pulling out the weeds and forking the soil. His taut back muscles glistened beneath the morning sun. Hortense recalled the manner in which Martha’s husband always ran his eyes over her, making her feel so uncomfortable.
Managing to restrain a grin, Hortense offered, “Miss Martha, me don’t waan to speak outta place. But if yuh waan to grine Jonte, den grine him! Me sure he won’t mind. Me husband tell me life is to enjoy. Look fe ya heaven ’pon earth.”
Martha rocked back in laughter. “My dear, Hotty! I love the way Jamaicans can be so frank at times! You are so sweet. But, Hotty, between you and me, I know my husband has relations with a few of the, shall I say, ladies of the night. He ventures into town with
his friends on a Saturday night and he returns with the scent of women on his body. The darker the better – they fascinate him. But, Hotty, even for a middle-class white lady who lives in Jamaica, there are lines etched into the sand that I cannot breach. And having any sort of relationship with a black man is one of them.”
“But, Miss Martha, me still don’t understand ya warning.”
“From what I understand, your Cilbert is an ambitious man. But that fear of the black man still very much persists. So when you reach England, be aware of it. Don’t let it break Cilbert’s spirit as he attempts to better himself, for obstacles and glass ceilings will be placed in his way. It will be something your sons will have to contend with also, I should imagine.”
Closing her eyes, Hortense thought of England and wondered what form these obstacles and glass ceilings would take.
Having had to listen to Hortense’s and Cilbert’s passionate lovemaking one April night in 1959, the following morning, Jenny asked Hortense if she would walk her to work. It was just before seven in the morning and vendors were pushing their carts to meet the Kingston commuters. Children, most of them dressed in khaki uniforms, were setting off for school. Higglers had already claimed their positions in Coronation market and the first road accident of the day saw a car knock over a cyclist – motorists blared their horns for someone to remove the victim and clear the road.
“Hortense, me nah waan yuh to be offended by wha’ me ’ave to say,” said Jenny.
“Offended by wha’?” asked Hortense.
“Well. How cyan me put dis?”
“Jenny, ya mout’ tie up inna knot? Talk to me an’ stop ya teasing.”
“It’s really about Jacob,” revealed Jenny.
“Wha’ about Jacob?”
“Well, when him sleeping him don’t like to lissen to yuh an’ Cilbert ’aving ya fun.”
“’Aving fun? Yuh mean sex, Jenny? If yuh say sex de Lord God will nah strike we down wid ah t’underbolt! Me an’ Cilbert married so wha’ is troubling Jacob?”
Jenny had to pause to think of an answer. “Well, yuh know Jacob is ah deep religious mon. He jus’ don’t feel right when yuh an’ Cilbert enjoying yaself. It don’t boder me! But Jacob, yuh know, it mek him feel mighty embarrass.”
Laughing out loud, Hortense had to stop walking to compose herself. “Wha’ yuh waan we to do, Jenny? Mek love inna de courtyard an’ mek everybody see? Or mebbe we shoulda gwarn to de lawn dance, strip off we garments an’ grine like de world is coming to an end? Giving crowd of people ah nex’ entertainment? Mebbe we should charge two dollar an’ Miss Laura cyan stan’ by de sidelines selling her wares.”
“Jus’ be ah liccle bit quieter, Hortense,” asked Jenny, fretting that passers-by had heard the conversation. “Nuh mek so much blasted noise! It’s ah wonder de people who live ’pon Blue Mountain don’t hear ya scream.”
“Me don’t scream, Jenny! Yuh asking me to mek love wid ah jackfruit inna me mout’ so me don’t mek nuh noise? Jenny, pleasure is mighty scarce wid de life we live so when it come me ’ave to enjoy it. Tell Jacob to stop his foolishness! Me never know he is so prude-like. How does he t’ink how he come into de world?”
Later that night, before retiring to bed, Hortense whispered to Jacob, “nuh worry yaself, me will turn me volume down. De las’ t’ing me waan to do is upset ah preacher mon sensibilities. An’ if yuh really don’t waan to hear, why yuh don’t mek sweet love to Jenny an’ mek her scream so dat de people ’pon Blue Mountain cyan hear.”
Bewildered, Jacob looked at Jenny who was looking at her most innocent. Hortense, unable to contain her mirth, roared with laughter.
Two weeks later, Cilbert was climbing down from a telephone pylon. Collecting his tools he muttered to himself, “mon! Hot up der fe true! Now me gwarn to enjoy me birt’day tonight. Yes, sa. Me wonder if Hortense plan anyt’ing fe me? If she don’t me will tek her to Devon House fe ah nice meal an’ lissen to some calypso
an’ mento. Yes, sa. Twenty-four today!”
Wiping the sweat off his forehead he made his way down to Half Way Tree where he caught a bus back home. Upon arrival at the government yard, he spotted Hortense and Laura returning home. They were pushing a cart upon which bagfuls of groceries were catching a ride.
“Cilby!” called Hortense. “Me glad yuh reach home quick! Me buy ya favourite lamb shanks to cook tonight. Yes, mon. Gwarn inside an’ tek ya res’.”
Kissing Hortense upon her cheek, Cilbert smiled and said, “mebbe liccle later we cyan go fe ah drink? Yes’ sa! Devon House sound good to yuh?”
Wrapping her arms around Cilbert’s neck, Hortense kissed him fully on the mouth. “It would be so nice to see people wait ’pon we fe ah change.”
Cilbert went to cool off his face at the standpipe as Hortense entered her home with her shopping. Someone was already cooking in the kitchen. Hortense went to investigate.
Seasoning generous portions of lamb shanks with jerk and chilli, was Jenny. Hortense dropped her bags upon the floor in disbelief. “Jenny, wha’ ya doing?”
Her sleeves rolled up and her palms caked in seasoning, Jenny answered, “me know dat yuh working wid Laura today so me decide to start cook Cilbert’s meal. Me only work half day today. Yuh waan help me peel de avocados?”
“Me cyan’t believe dis!” shouted Hortense. “Me stop by ah market an’ buy de food! It was MY treat! Now yuh gwarn an’ spoil it! COME OUTTA DE KITCHEN BEFORE ME STRIKE YUH DOWN!”
“But, Hortense,” replied Jenny. “When yuh finish work wid Laura yuh complain dat yuh foot so tired. So me jus’ trying to help.”
“Help? It’s MY husband’s birt’day an’ ME should cook fe him ’pon him birt’day! NUHBODY ELSE!”
“But, Hortense, me don’t finish yet. Yuh cyan help me.”
Storming out into the courtyard, Hortense yelled Jamaican
obscenities. Jacob, who was talking with Mercy, ran back to his own house to see what the shouting was about. He and Cilbert both entered the kitchen at the same time.
“Wha’ ah gwarn?” asked Cilbert. “Why Hortense run inna Laura house cussing pure bad word?”
Staring at the seasoned lamb that was now ready for frying, Jenny began to sob. “Me always try me best to help out! Me jus’ waan to help but Hortense ketch ah rage. Me don’t know why she ah so vex wid me. Me love me sister so much an’ it pain me so to hear her cuss me like dat. Me so grateful dat she look after me since me here inna Trenchtown so me jus’ ah try an’ pay her back. Yuh understan’, Cilbert?”
Jenny covered her face with her palms and broke down. “Jacob, see to her,” said Cilbert. “Me will try an’ cool Hortense’s fire.”
As Jacob offered Jenny a shoulder to cry on, he couldn’t help but think that his wife had never been so eager to cook him a birthday treat.
Cilbert’s birthday dinner was consumed in near silence. Only Jacob attempted conversation. Later that night, Cilbert took Hortense to Devon House where they drank pineapple-rum cocktails and danced to a calypso band. Jenny busied herself washing clothes, not wanting to talk with anyone. But Jacob watched her secretly, his heart disturbed about something.
Late June, 1960
The government yard where Hortense and Jenny lived was orange-lit by the embers of fading coal fires. Smoke from thousands of Trenchtown kitchens and improvised cooking vessels, laced with the lingering aroma of chicken, cow foot and peppers, obscured the perfect night sky; shanty dwellers would rise in the morning covered in a film of blackened ash. Tired women, humming spirituals to themselves, were hanging their washing on string lines. Men pondered their working days and how they would meet their next rent payments as they downed bottles of beer and gnawed fowl bones. Someone was complaining loudly about the lack of water inside the communal shower. The Folkes Brothers ‘Oh Carolina’, competing against the distant sound of a rastafarian knuckling a haunting rhythm on a Nyabinghi drum, crackled out from a bruised transistor radio that was hanging from a rusty screw. An old lady, a black scarf wrapped tightly around her head and relaxing in a tatty, uneven chair outside her home, nodded and tapped her feet in time to the music. An open Bible rested upon her lap but her eyes were closing.
Gazing lovingly at the new British passport in his hands, Cilbert, sitting on the stoop outside his home, smiled and kissed the document. Hortense, snuggling beside her husband, kissed him upon his forehead. They both felt that the Kingston night was smiling at them and that the chance to improve their lives was now within reach. “Cyan yuh believe it, Hortense? We’re all British citizens! De passports say so! It’s ah fine t’ing we’re all going to England now becah after Independence dey will stop issue British passports.” Cilbert opened the document to the first page. “An’
Misser Hugh Foot, de governor general, sign it himself. Hortense, we jus’ as British as Miss Martha an’ de Queen ah Englan’. Isn’t dat such ah fine t’ing?”
“Me feel sorry for Oliver,” said Hortense, not sharing Cilbert’s joy. “De immigration office refuse him application becah Oliver ’ave ah criminal record. Him t’ief ah bicycle wheel ah few years back – ah Chinee mon expose him to de police.”
Cilbert didn’t seem to care about the fate of his neighbour, he only had eyes for his passport. “Too bad,” he said, not looking up.
“Is dat all yuh cyan say, Cilbert? Oliver been ah good frien’ to we.”
“Yes, but me cyan’t change de reality of de situation. Him t’ief ah bicycle one day an’ now him paying fe it.”
“Sometimes, Cilbert, ya narrow-minded obsession wid ya own ambition mek ya cold to ah nex’ mon’s tribulation. Well, at least when re reach Englan’ me cyan look for Miss Martha. Me miss her deeply but me ’ave her address. She live inna place call Berkshire.”
Jenny and Jacob emerged from their apartment carrying steaming mugs full of manesh water – a peppery soup. They gave one each to Hortense and Cilbert. “Well, dis time tomorrow,” Jenny said. “We’ll be sailing ’pon de mighty Atlantic. De same ocean we forefaders arrive from. Cyan yuh believe dat? Little we from de Claremont valley.”
Looking alarmed, Jacob’s eyes betrayed some dread. He tapped Cilbert upon his right shoulder and whispered, “cyan we talk? In private.”
Grinning, Cilbert assumed Jacob wanted the apartment for Jenny and himself so they could make love. Cilbert stood up, placed his right arm over Jacob’s shoulders and turned to Hortense. “Mon talk.”
The men walked towards the stand-pipe in the middle of the yard. A squadron of mosquitoes followed them. “Nah boder yaself, Jacob,” smiled Cilbert. “Hortense an’ meself still ’ave to mek ah few more goodbyes so yuh cyan ’ave de place fe yaselves fe two hours or so. Every mon ’ave him needs, eehh?”
“Nuh, nuh, mon,” Jacob replied, his voice tinged with
desperation. “It nah dat at all.”
“Den wha’ is it?”
Jacob paused and looked at the dusty ground. “I.
Don’t
laugh! I am ’fraid ah de mighty ocean. I am ’fraid de ship will capsize an’ we will all drown.”
“Ya joking wid me,” replied Cilbert.
“Nuh, mon. I mek nuh joke. I get nightmares about it fe de last few weeks. I cyan’t even swim. My fader never tek me to de coast to teach me. Before I go to my bed I will pray to Massa God fe we deliverance an’ to bless we ship.”
“Lord wha’ ah palava!” hollered Cilbert, restraining a chortle. “Why yuh never say somet’ing before? We pay £90 each fe we fare! Yuh waan to waste ya money? Look how long it tek we to save it.”
Jacob felt his manliness was being interrogated. “Nuh, mon. I don’t waan to waste my money. But
don’t
tell Jenny about my fear. I don’t waan her to say dat I am ah meek mouse.”
Cilbert patted Jacob upon his back. “Nuh boder ya godly self, Jacob. Me will look after yuh. Wid de help of fire-water! Dat will calm ya nerve.”
Cilbert returned to Hortense and hugged her. Jacob rinsed the evening stickiness off his face at the stand-pipe, not at all encouraged by Cilbert’s words.
The next morning, nine a.m. A clear, bright sky had blessed Kingston and white birds flew above the still harbour waters. Standing in a long queue of migrating Jamaicans all wearing their best clothes, Cilbert, Jacob, Hortense and Jenny observed the busy scenes around them in wonder and dread, carrying their peeling and battered second-hand suitcases. Cussing, bare-backed men off-loaded goods from tankers, dry bulk carriers and general cargo ships. Groggy merchant sailors were reporting back for duty. The sound of cranes and other lifting mechanisms filled the air. Proud-looking Jamaican harbour pilots, sporting stained sailor hats and cheap rings on their fingers, raced here and there, some coming into port in small, questionable boats following their navigating of a vessel into open waters. Funnels discharging smoke and exhaust fumes caused Hortense to cough.
Cilbert, although linking arms with his wife, only had eyes for the passenger vessel named
The Genovese Madonna
that he would soon board. Awed by the size of the ship, Cilbert felt that his boyhood dream was now materialising before his eyes. Jacob, unsteady on his feet because of the amount of undiluted rum Cilbert had forced him to drink, observed the vessel with different feelings. To his eyes,
The Genovese Madonna
may as well have been a sea monster. Meanwhile, Jenny continually looked behind her, as if she was waiting for someone to call her back. An image of her father, to whom she bade farewell three days ago, loomed large in her mind. She wondered if she would ever see him again. Indeed, she doubted if she would ever bless her eyes on Jamaica again.
Jenny had recognised the smile that her father had only reserved for her and standing upon his plot of land, Joseph asked her, “yuh sure yuh waan to go to Englan’, Jenny? Hortense is ah big woman now an’ she cyan look after herself. She stop cry fe me ah long time ago an’ Amy too. An’ now she ’ave Cilbert. An ambitious mon.”
“Jacob ambitious too,” replied Jenny. “It would be ah mighty achievement to establish ah church inna Englan’.”
“Yes it would,” agreed Joseph. “But Jacob love dis land an’ its people. So me was ah liccle surprise dat him tek dis decision.”
“Didn’t St Paul love him land? But him travel far an’ wide to spread de gospel.”
Joseph laughed. “Always de Bible student! May Kofi bless ya every step an’ never forget to lift up ya head an’ walk tall. Yuh is
Maroon
!”
“An’ besides, Papa, Hortense will need me wid her.”
Joseph fingered his chin. “Ya sure? Hortense ah big woman now. She certainly don’t need her papa!”
“Yuh don’t know her de way me know her. She tough like coconut shell ’pon de outside but soft like uncooked dumpling inna de inside.”
Jenny embraced her father and closed her eyes, her tears dampening Joseph’s rough cotton shirt. Five minutes later she stepped away, walking backwards and sideways until her father was nothing but a silhouette.
As Cilbert stepped aboard, he looked around at the other passengers, trying to keep his composure. A fear of the unknown flowed through his veins mixing with the adrenalin. He detected a certain apprehension in the eyes of his fellow countrymen and found himself tightly gripping the left hand of Hortense. Jenny searched for Hortense’s right hand and clutched it eagerly as Jacob staggered behind, promising himself never to drink rum again. They were all led by a smartly dressed Italian deck officer to the cabin decks below; Cilbert had to assist Jacob down the steps of the companionways as Jenny smouldered in embarrassment. The grainy wooden beams of the interior of the ship reeked of the ocean, and Jacob fought to control what was shooting up his throat.
The cabin, containing two bunk-beds pushed against opposite walls, was four paces wide and eight strides long. The porthole offered them a view outside of seven metres above the water line. “Wha’ kinda mattress dey call dis?” moaned Jenny, squeezing it with her hand. “It thin like white people lip!”
Off-loading their luggage, Cilbert, Jenny and Hortense all felt a little claustrophobic. Leaving behind Jacob crashed out on one of the bunks, they made their way back up to the passenger deck and joined others who were leaning on the railings, looking into Kingston. Nobody said much. Many shed silent tears.
Everybody dwelled on their own personal fates and feelings. Hortense recognised and felt proud that she and Jenny were the first females in their known family history to explore and see the world. She recalled her mother saying to her three days ago, “it seems all of de children of Kofi are cursed wid him curiosity an’ wanderings. So it was wid sweet David. May de spirit of Kofi bless ya every step but remember where ya home is an’ de people yuh come from.”
Jenny’s head was full of panic and apprehension. Gazing at the rising hills that backdropped Kingston, it finally struck home that she was starting life in a foreign land with a man she couldn’t love. She fought to block out in her mind the cutting glare of her mother and the manner in which she crossed her arms when they parted.
“Why everyone so sad?” she asked, masking her own anxiety and guilt as she glanced at the other passengers. “Dis is de time of we life!”
An hour later, Cilbert heard Italian shouts and spotted a harbour pilot in a small boat that was attached by rope to
The Genovese
Madonna
. Cilbert heard and felt the vibrations of the engines and propeller starting beneath him and could sense the ship finally moving. Hortense and Cilbert jumped up and down on the spot, waving and hollering to the crowds below. Tears were streaming down their cheeks and they hoped that their Trenchtown friends could see them. Even Jenny could not stem her sobs as Kingston, ever so gradually, reduced in size to nothing but a pale white and green haze that straddled the horizon. Hortense, surprised at her sister’s display of vulnerability, for Jenny rarely revealed her emotions in public, moved with Cilbert to include her in a warm embrace. “Trus’ Jacob to ketch sick,” laughed Hortense. “He should be wid yuh at times like dis. It nah like him to be licky licky. Me wonder who give him de fire-water?”
Feeling the heat of Cilbert’s chest upon her breasts, Jenny replied, “let him sleep it off! Me don’t know how could he embarrass me so!”
Jacob had recovered by the time of the evening meal that was taken in the ship’s passenger restaurant – a long hall just below the bridge. Many of the passengers had now grown accustomed to the sway and heaving of the ship and finally grasped that when
The Genovese Madonna
was riding a rogue wave, it didn’t herald imminent doom. Outside, the stars shone bright and there was a chill in the air that discouraged the Jamaicans to venture on deck. The Atlantic spoke in a whisper. Moustachioed Italian waiters served heaps of pasta and mince and poured red wine into glasses. The sea air fuelling their appetites, Cilbert, Jacob and Hortense couldn’t eat their meal quickly enough. In contrast, Jenny grimaced as she picked at her food with a fork. “De meat nah cooked right,” she complained. “Look how it red like bauxite!”
“Stop ya fussing, Jenny,” said Hortense. “Yuh better get used to it. T’ree weeks we der ’pon dis ship.”
“Well, me nah eat it,” asserted Jenny, slamming her fork down on the plate. “Me would complain if any of dese Italian people coulda understan’ English. Yuh see de way dey look ’pon we? Dem look ’pon we like country farmer ah look ’pon hog inna truck! Me
don’t
like dem. Me nah trus’ dem. Fe all we know dey might poison we. An’ dey ’ave dirty hand.”
“Now, my love, don’t get vex an’ paranoid,” soothed Jacob. “It’s been ah very long day. I will get some more bread fe yuh.”
“Nah boder yaself, Jacob,” offered Cilbert. “Me will fetch it. Me waan some more ah dat mince wid de red sauce.”
Rising to his feet, Cilbert made his way to the kitchen, the low ceiling only a foot above his head. Standing by a hatch where an Italian waiter was serving wine and beverages for passengers who wanted a supplement to their original servings, was an elegant, amber-skinned woman. She was wearing a burgundy-coloured pencil skirt with matching jacket. Pearls decorated her naked collarbone. Her perfect black hair had been straightened and was parted on one side. Bright red lipstick coloured her thin lips and the foundation upon her face gave the appearance of caramel-coloured porcelain. Her posture was confident and superior, like a nineteenth century Parisian courtesan. Cilbert recognised her instantly and walked over to her.
“Good evening, Almyna,” Cilbert greeted, catching a strong scent of perfume. He wasn’t sure if he should smile too openly.
For a short second, Almyna’s eyes betrayed her astonishment but she soon regained her poise. “Well, well!” She ran her eyes over Cilbert and casually displayed the glittering wedding ring upon her left hand. “An’ der was me t’inking me leaving me old life. It jus’ goes to show dat yuh cyan run away from ya past, nuh matter where yuh go.”
Almyna flashed a knowing smile.
“Yuh look very fine,” complimented Cilbert, briefly glancing behind him to check if Hortense was observing.
“Well, t’ank yuh, Cilbert. May me say yuh look fine too, considering everyt’ing. But me see ah liccle stress aroun’ ya eyes. Ya face nah so fresh nuh more. Me suppose it’s de strain of adult
living. Someone ah tell me yuh was living inna Trenchtown. Dey tell me it rough an’ dutty down der. Mebbe dat cause de stress inna ya forehead. Yuh did look so cute as ah young bwai.”