Authors: Alex Wheatle
Jacob expressed a hint of pride. “Yes, mon. Jenny cyan be de most calm girl y’know, calm like de waters inna Fern Gully lake. But when she lose her temper yuh affe step inna ya shelter an’ wait ’til de storm blow out. Back inna Claremont dem call Hortense ‘Fire
Nettle’, but dey should call Jenny ‘Raging Thorn’.”
“Ah fine description,” Cilbert nodded. “But nex’ time yuh see Hubert yuh better apologise ’pon Jenny behalf.”
“Yes, yuh never know. Hubert might mek ah complaint to de captain.”
They both sipped their drinks. “How is ya head?” asked Cilbert. “De rum still ah swim?”
“It’ll be much better when I sight land once more.”
“Well, only twenty days to go,” stated Cilbert.
“Yuh sure ya frien’, Lester, will be der when we arrive at Sout’ampton?”
“Of course,” answered Cilbert. “Lester will nah let we down. Me know him from me university days.”
“Wha’ is Brixton like?” Jacob wanted to know.
“Well, Lester say it very close to de middle ah London. Plenty, plenty brick houses all over de place. An’ many of we own people. Lester in him letters say de people walk so fast – if yuh t’ink Kingston people walk quick yuh don’t see not’ing yet!”
“An’ dis place where we will be staying, ya sure it alright? I don’t waan tek Jenny to live inna run down place. Yuh know how she love complain.”
“Jacob, stop boder yaself. Lester is ah mon to be trusted. Lester’s brudder serve wid de Royal Air Force inna de war an’ he has been inna Englan’ since 1946. An’ Lester been living inna Englan’ since 1956, so we’ll be well looked after.”
“I hope so,” said Jacob, not entirely convinced.
“It
will
be so,” asserted Cilbert. “Ah day or two after we arrive we ’ave to forward to de labour exchange an’ register we name. Jacob, yuh give any t’ought to wha’ kinda job yuh waan? Becah me know yuh waan to set up ya own church but yuh cyan’t do dat straight away.”
Jacob paused to sip his orange juice. “I am not skilled like yuh an’ I don’t believe I cyan find employment inna London looking after hog! Dat is de only t’ing me cyan do apart from me service to de Most High. But I am nuh ’fraid of hard work so mebbe me will perform some labouring ’pon ah building site or wherever. But one
day, mark me very words, I
will
’ave me own church fe my own people inna London. It mus’ be strange fe our brudders an’ sisters inna Englan’ to step inna white mon church. I feel dis is de reason de Most High place me ’pon dis earth’.”
Cilbert admired the ambition in Jacob’s words and they shook hands and embraced. For the first time since they had known each other they felt like brothers.
Three days out of Kingston.
The Genovese Madonna
steamed through the Windward straits and the passengers looking out from portside could make out the eastern Cuban shoreline shimmering in the distance. A crew member aloft in the crows-nest could see Guantanamo Bay and the masts of vessels docked there. To him they appeared like white needles bobbing in the blue yonder. Those on starboard, a few of whom were recalling the heroic deeds of the once enslaved Toussaint L’Ouverture that they had heard in story-time sessions from village elders, hoped to sight the western fringes of Haiti. But only endless glinting sea and cloudless sky met their eyes.
Two days later the Italian-made vessel weaved its way through the Turks and Caicos islands. Cilbert, mocking the protruding lumps of land that dotted this area of the Caribbean sea, wondered how the islanders could stage a cricket match. “If George Headley was batting at his brilliant best de captain of de bowling side would affe place him fielders inna de ocean!
Ha Ha
! Wha’ ah fine joke!”
“George Headley was an excellent batsman,” a Barbadian man agreed, adopting an English accent. He was one of only a few Barbadians on board. “But Headley can’t touch the genius of Garfield Sobers. And Sobers come from Barbados. A rather
small
island.”
“Damn blasted Bajee people dem!” Cilbert muttered under his breath while cutting his eyes at the suited Barbadian. “Dem t’ink dey are better dan everybody. Look at him trying to talk English an’ wearing him shirt an’ tie. Did Bajees ever put up resistance to de white mon? Did dey ever try an’ escape from slavery?
Nuh, sa
! Dey accepted slavery too easily an’ now dey try an’ mimic de white mon.
Bajee uptown pussy
…”
“Oh, Cilbert, stop ya bragga an’ cuss cuss,” censured Hortense.
“Yuh don’t t’ink some Jamaican mon t’ink dem high an’ mighty an’ try talk de queen’s English while dem ah wear dem t’ree piece suit?”
“Mebbe so,” said Cilbert, raising his voice. “But we never pretend dat we
don’t
come from slave!”
By the seventh day, the ship had crossed the Tropic of Cancer, a thousand miles south of Bermuda. The wind speed had picked up and the chopping seas were veined with white froth. Maverick gusts and breezes curled around the upper deck walkways, stealing through open doors and reddening crew members’ noses. West Indians, viewing the blue nothingness through watering, squinted eyes, recalled childhood history lessons where they had been told that in Christopher Columbus’s day, navigators dreaded to sail into unchartered waters for fear of falling over the edge of the world. Peering into the unmoving horizon, a few observers could now understand that horror.
That morning, returning from the laundry room, passing the boiler house and the engineering workshops, Hortense heard amid the general din a muffled groan from a linen cupboard. Deciding to investigate, she opened the door and there beyond the shelves, crouched in a corner, was a man dressed only in a stained vest and grubby grey chinos. His eyes were yellowed and the beard that covered his face concealed the hollows in his cheeks. The brown cloth cap he was wearing seemed too small for his head and a shanty town aroma streamed off him like emissions of rum from a kerb-side, smashed bottle. “Lord bless me gran’mama knee-bone,” Hortense exclaimed. “Wha’ yuh doing inside der? Yuh ah madmon? De sway ah de ship turn yuh into ah damn fool? Ya press banana skin inna ya eye?”
“Nuh, nuh, Miss,” the man replied, looking over Hortense’s shoulder to check if anybody else was around. “Me ah stowaway, Miss. Me climb up ’pon de anchor chain back inna Kingston harbour. But me t’ought de ship woulda reach Englan’ after two days. An’ now me hungry.
Very
hungry.”
“Yuh ’ave de sense yuh was born wid?” scolded Hortense. “Yuh go ah school? Who tell yuh dat Englan’ is only two day sail away? Englan’ is ’pon de udder side ah de world! T’ree weeks dis journey
tek. Mebbe four. Lord me God! Me see some foolish mon inna me time but yuh mus’ be de king of de idiot dem.”
“Me never go ah school,” the man admitted, dropping his head.
“Wha’ is ya name?” Hortense wanted to know.
“Bruce. Misser Bruce Clarke.”
“Well, Misser Bruce Clarke,” Hortense stated, her tone unforgiving. “Wha’ mek yuh go on dis foolish escapade?”
“Well, Miss. Me born an’ grow inna Maypen. Could nah find nuh work der so me forward to Kingston. Could nah find nuh place to live so me shack up inna de Dungle. Could nah find nuh work inna Kingston neider so me decide to tek me chance ’pon dis ship an’ forward to Englan’. Plenty mon tell me de streets ah London are paved in gold. So dat is wha’ me ah look for. An’ if me find it me gwarn sen’ it back to me poor sweet mama who cyan’t walk so good.”
Hortense shook her head. “People tell yuh wrong information. If yuh forward to Englan’ yuh affe work hard fe every red cent.” Hortense studied the pathetic demeanour of the stowaway and she remembered the story of how her own father had befriended Kwarhterleg. “Anyway, Bruce, nah worry yaself,” she assured. “Me won’t expose yuh to de crew. Dem cyan’t understan’ ah word me say anyway. Stay here an’ wait ’til me come. Me will find food fe yuh but dat is all me cyan do. An’ when everybody gone to dem bed me beg yuh to wash yaself. Ya smell like ah block-up Trenchtown sewer dat even de fatty cockroach dread!”
“Yes, me will do dat. T’ank yuh, Miss.”
“Me name is
Mrs
Hortense Huggins.”
Before Bruce could utter another thank you, the door was pulled shut and he could hear Hortense’s fading steps. He retreated to his dark corner.
Returning back to her cabin, Hortense revealed to Cilbert, Jacob and Jenny what she had discovered.
“Yuh mus’ report him!” shouted Cilbert. “It seem dat dis mon never work ah day in him life! Lazy him ah lazy. We scrimp an’ save to board dis ship an’ dis Bruce travel fe free. Why should we sponsor him an’ protect him? He could be ah ginall or ah trickster.”
“Yes, an’ him could be dangerous,” added Jenny. “Say dis Bruce get ketch an’ dem find out we help him? Me don’t waan to be seen as ah accomplice to ah criminal act. It will damage we reputation, especially Jacob becah he is ah preacher. When we reach Englan’ dey might deport we. Sen’ we back inna great shame. How yuh t’ink poor Papa will tek de news? We mus’ report him to de aut’orities.”
Listening quietly to the debate, Jacob recalled the days he ventured and spread the gospel in the Dungle and the solemn dignity he had found among the people there. “Bruce
is
our brudder,” he asserted in a soft voice. “An’ if we don’t help him we are failing in our fait’. Yuh mus’ help ya neighbour! So de good book say.”
“Help ya neighbour?” argued Cilbert. “It was neighbours who cramp an’ paralyse me inna Trenchtown! It was neighbours who t’ief we garments off we clothes-line ah nighttime. It was neighbours who t’ief Wilfred Gray’s Sunday fowl! Me don’t trus’ nuhbody me don’t know. An’ if ya God don’t like dat let him try live inna Trenchtown an’ see how long it tek neighbours to t’ief him halo. If yuh waan to help dis Bruce den me don’t waan anyt’ing to do wid it. Yuh don’t hear of de saying,
kick dahg an’ him will respect an’ fear yuh but if yuh treat de dog kindly he will waan ya respect an’ won’t fear yuh
.”
“Wise words, Cilbert,” concurred Jenny. “An’ nor shall I help dis mon.”
Jacob looked at Jenny as if he was questioning her soul. Feeling morally bereft, Jenny departed the cabin. “Me need to get some air. Too stuffy inna dis place. An’ de ceiling
too
low. It mek me feel claustrophobic.”
Cilbert turned to Jacob. “Dis is ya responsibility. But if t’ings go wrong,
don’t
expect Massa God to come down an’ help yuh.” Cilbert faced his wife and searched her eyes for agreement. “Hortense, me sorry, but dat is how me feel. Yuh two decide wha’ yuh affe do. Me gone to de bar to look ah rum drink.”
“Yes, yuh do dat,” returned Hortense. “Yuh spend more time der dan wid ya wife. Mebbe yuh tek ah fancy to dat reeking bar-mon
wid de long whisker an’ nuff missing teet’. Him smell like bad breat’ donkey dat wander inna dutty pig pen.”
“Me spend more time der becah ah liccle fire-water cyan’t give me nuh argument. Dat is one t’ing me cyan’t stand wid yuh, Hortense – yuh always t’ink ya right an’ ya naggy naggy ways start get ’pon me nerves.”
Cilbert pulled at the cabin door with force and left it swinging upon its hinges. He marched along the corridor cursing under his breath. Jacob and Hortense glanced at each other, sure in their minds they were taking the right course of action.
During subsequent meal times, Hortense, ignoring the brutal glares from Cilbert and Jenny, would slip out of the dining hall with a plastic container full of food. Bruce, afraid to emerge out of his hiding place, accepted his nourishment gratefully. Jacob visited Bruce in the evenings and upon discovering that Bruce was unable to read and write, quietly read passages of the Bible to him. Jacob also presented Bruce with two pairs of his old trousers and three shirts.
Happiest when he felt he was most needed by his own people, Jacob began to conduct prayer meetings upon the passenger deck on Sunday mornings and soon the heartfelt sound of a gospel choir could be heard in the ship’s wake rising above the ripplings of a tamborine that a woman was thrashing against her thigh. Many non-church-goers attended Jacob’s improvised services, including Almyna and Hubert. They believed that in displaying their presence, Massa God would grant them mercy if catastrophe blighted the voyage. Cilbert thought the whole thing was a ridiculous, hypocritical farce and spent Sunday mornings gambling with poker dice, but the onlooking Italian crew members, the vast majority of them staunch Catholics, began to warm to the Jamaicans.
On Friday and Saturday night dance nights, held in the dining hall once the tables were pushed to the walls, the Italian band, accustomed to playing instrumental versions of classical arias, were now experimenting with Jamaican ska. Their attempts never approached the heights of The Skatellites, the crack band of
musicians who were hotting up the dance halls and lawns in Kingston, but the Jamaicans, starved of cultural nourishment since their boarding of the ship, turned the dining hall of
The Genovese
Madonna
into a Trenchtown lawn dance. Only the first class passengers sniffed and whispered unkind comments. “Look at them downtown people!” one lady said. “We try our best to represent our country but them ghetto people force the band to play the devil’s music. I’ve never felt so much shame!”
Fifteen days out of Kingston, the passenger vessel docked at Puerto de la Cruz in Tenerife. A number of sea-sick West Indians, observing the mountainous island from a distance, despaired as they wrongly assumed they were still in the Caribbean. Their relief was obvious when they were informed that the ship was only two hundred miles or so west from the coast of Morocco. “Me was only pretending dat me t’ought we was still inna de Caribbean sea,” one man laughed. “Den why me see eye-water ’pon ya face?” another returned. Images of Humphrey Bogart’s lop-sided grin, garbed in a white jacket and draining a cool cocktail in a Casablanca bar bombarded all of their minds.
Skirting the north African coast and splitting the strait of Gibraltar,
The Genovese Madonna
entered the warm waters of the Mediterranean. As the ship headed north-east through the Ligurian Sea, the passengers sensed an increased thrill and relief from their hosts who were looking forward to returning home. “Beautiful Genoa!” exclaimed one sailor to Cilbert in his stuttering English. “We’ll be back in time to celebrate the feast of the Madonna della Guardia, the protector of sailors.”
“Good fe yuh,” half-smiled Cilbert, not impressed. He was still smarting from his latest quarrel with Hortense.
“It’s a great pity you don’t have the papers to walk around my beautiful city,” said the sailor. “We are a very welcoming people and for hundreds of years we have seen peoples and merchants from all over the world. Many tourists make their way to the Piazza Acquaverde to see the statue of our most famous son, Christopher Columbus. His voyage to the New World was blessed by the Pope and the divine Madonna guided him herself.”
Cilbert sneered and narrowed his eyes. “Columbus! Christopher damn Columbus! He was ah damn blasted liar! He discover not’ing! Der was people inna Jamaica before him. De tobacco-smoking, mild-mannered Arawaks fe one. An’ all Columbus do is bring ah great evil to de island. Yes, Columbus was Old Screwface’s disciple. May him soul get roasted an’ nyam by de dragons of hell fe all time!”
The Italian seaman, not understanding Cilbert’s sudden anger, stormed off muttering Latin obscenities.
Docking at the port of Genoa, the Jamaicans were reminded of Kingston harbour as they viewed the green-caped mountains that backdropped the city. They could see narrow, winding streets with aged, bent houses and shops and they wondered about the people who lived there. “Where are de white people palaces?” one Kingstonian asked. Bruce, who had stolen upon the passenger deck, was dismayed because there was no sight of happy men dressed in silks and robes, juggling nuggets of gold. Maybe he would witness this scenario in London, he thought.
A dozen of the first-class passengers, suited and booted, stepped ashore and spent their time strolling through the many art museums within the city, regarding paintings and sculptures as if they were seasoned art critics from the Sunday broadsheets. Others, including Hubert and Almyna, dined at fine restaurants where they attempted to impress the waiters with the small number of Italian words they had picked up from their voyage. Hubert noticed that the Genovese men were especially pleasant and complimentary to Almyna. Boosted by the lavish comments about her looks and her smooth Egyptian-like skin, Almyna giggled and underlined her Kingstonian catwalk strut whenever she bade farewell to her admirers. Hubert fumed under his thin moustache.
Following minor maintenance work and a change of crew, the ship set course to her final destination, Southampton, England. The West Indians, including those who had fallen to illness thus far, felt a growing excitement. Many of them remained on the passenger deck for the best part of the journey, all wanting to be the first to sight the shores of the Motherland. Jacob, ignoring his dread of the
sea, joined them at the railings. Even those who slept in more spacious cabins joined the second-class passengers in raucous renditions of ‘God Save Our Gracious Queen’.