Authors: Alex Wheatle
Apprehensive, Stella followed Hortense into the ambulance. Sirens blaring, the ambulance arrived at Kings College hospital in Camberwell within five minutes. Hortense, her waters now breaking, was wheeled straight into the delivery theatre, holding onto Stella’s right hand for dear life. “Where’s Cilbert? Where’s Jenny?” she stuttered.
“Don’t worry, Hortense, they’ll be here soon.”
After five and three quarter hours of labour, Hortense gave birth to a baby boy at 6.09 p.m. The infant weighed seven pounds and three ounces. Stella, examining her reddened, bruised right hand that Hortense had been gripping throughout her ordeal, sat beside the new mother feeling she had just survived a tortuous experience as well. The baby was sleeping face down upon Hortense’s chest, perfectly unaware of the screaming and Jamaican curses he had provoked. Propped up by two pillows, Hortense, her hairline damp with sweat and her cheeks bloated, simply gazed lovingly at her firstborn, her pain and aches forgotten at this moment.
Her pink Lyons uniform visible under her beige mac, Jenny entered the ward with Jacob. Upon seeing her sister, Jenny quickened her step as a full smile rippled from her eyes. “Is it ah bwai? Is it ah bwai?” she asked.
Exhausted but happy, Hortense nodded.
“Gran’papa will be so pleased,” said Jenny. “An’ Papa too.”
Looming over Hortense with his right hand poised an inch over the baby’s head, Jacob, almost speaking in a whisper, offered, “do yuh waan me to bless him now, Hortense?”
Raising a huge grin, Hortense nodded again. Jacob tightly closed his eyes, placed his hand gently upon the back of the baby’s head and prayed, his face a picture of concentration. “
Dear, Lord. May ya
mighty right hand guide this new life. May yuh hear an’ answer his call in times of need. An’ may yuh protect him when peril encroaches. An’ may his eyes be opened to see ya glory
.”
“T’ank yuh, Jacob,” appreciated Hortense. “Dat was so sweet.”
The labour ward door burst open as Cilbert, still dressed in his work clothes, marched along the aisle, his expression bursting with happiness. He spotted Hortense and hot-footed towards her, banging his leg against a bed-post on his way. Laughing at his excitement, Hortense lifted her eyes to glimpse a clock hanging high on a wall. It was 7.45 p.m.
Smothering Hortense with kisses, Cilbert asked, “do me ’ave ah son? Do me ’ave ah son? De baby look so small an’ sweet! Me cyan’t tell if de baby ah bwai or girl, tell me Hortense! Please tell me dat me ’ave ah son. Everyt’ing alright? De baby healt’y? Yuh healt’y? Sorry me late. Cyan me pick de baby up? How small an’ fine de baby look!”
Everyone collapsed in fits of giggles as Hortense carefully presented her son to her husband. “Yuh sure ya hands clean?” Hortense demanded. “An’ why yuh so late?”
“Of course me hands clean,” replied Cilbert, refusing to take his eyes from his firstborn. “Me only get to hear de good news when me reach back to de depot. Me rush home when me finish work an’ den come here. Me never ’ave nuh time to change me clothes.”
“Well, Cilby,” returned Hortense. “Look ’pon ya son. Mebbe me shoulda known becah de baby did kick like ah mon wid long foot.”
“I thought Hortense was gonna scream the place down,” added Stella.
“Hortense, yuh mus’ ’ave truly cried tough,” said Cilbert. “But me did tell yuh so it would be ah bwai. Me did tell yuh so! Prophet me ah prophet.”
“So what you gonna call him?” Stella wanted to know. “You said you would keep his name secret until the baby is born. Well, the baby’s in your arms. So what’s his name?”
Still gazing at his new son’s face, Cilbert didn’t answer, instead he stroked his son’s face with the baby finger of his right hand. “Him look so fine!”
“Come, Cilbert, mon!” Encouraged Jacob. “Don’t keep we inna suspense! Wha’ is de pickney’s name? I hope it is Biblical.”
“Booker,” Cilbert answered. “Booker T.”
“Wha’ kinda foolish name is dat?” argued Hortense. “Yuh cyan’t give him dat name. When him go ah school de children dem will tek de mickey. Nuh, sa! De name yuh give him sound like me give birt’ to ah blasted dictionary!”
Everyone laughed. “But, Hortense,” Cilbert protested. “Me name him after ah great black American revolutionary. Booker T Washington! Me papa did tell me stories about dis great mon. Him raise up de black race. Famous inna America Booker T was.”
“Me nah care,” said Hortense. “Booker T is outta de question. Now, him middle name is David, after me sweet brudder. So, Cilbert, t’ink of somet’ing nice. Somet’ing appropriate.”
“Alright, alright,” nodded Cilbert. “Wha’ about Marcus? Yes, mon. Marcus David Huggins.”
“Wasn’t he de rebel rouser who was sold fe ah bag of rice?” questioned Jenny.
“Yes, ya right, Jenny,” Jacob affirmed.
“Great though de mon was,” said Hortense. “But me don’t waan me son to be named after ah mon wid bad luck.”
“But Marcus Garvey was born inna St Anne, nah far from where
yuh
was born, Hortense,” pleaded Cilbert.
“But Marcus Garvey suffer nuff tribulation inna him life,” replied Hortense. “Gran’papa tell me him get boot outta America an’ spend time inna jailhouse.”
“Yuh cyan never satisfy,” accused Cilbert. “Every name me come up wid yuh ah complain!”
“Den pick somet’ing nice,” chuckled Hortense.
“We are studying American history at school,” revealed Stella. “And the American Civil War. I learned that Abraham Lincoln abolished slavery. Why not name the baby after him?”
“Yes, me like dat,” Hortense cooed. “Yes, Lincoln. Lincoln David Huggins. It sound important, official.”
Jenny and Jacob offered concurring nods and even Cilbert expressed a certain pleasure as he whispered the name to himself.
“Alright,” he said. “Lincoln David Huggins
is
me son’s name. Yes, sa. It sound like de name of ah Prime Minister or somebody who win ah Nobel Prize!”
Remaining in hospital for four more nights, Hortense and Lincoln were visited by Cilbert every evening during their stay. He never paid a visit without bearing gifts. Firstly, he presented Hortense with a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates. Then he purchased small toys and baby clothes for Lincoln. “See wha’ Papa buy fe yuh,” cooed Cilbert, shaking a baby rattle and showing off a pair of soft baby boots while flashing a silly smile. Not impressed, Lincoln only wanted the comfort of his mother’s generous breasts. Meanwhile, Hortense, who never failed to display perfect politeness to the nurses and to those who fed her, whispered to Jenny upon her second visit, “Jenny, de people are very nice but me cyan’t tek de food! Dem don’t use nuh seasoning an’ der food ’ave nuh flavour. It taste like soggy paper! Me beg yuh, Jenny. Bring me some Jamaican food before me shout down de hospital!”
“Alright,” laughed Jenny. “Me will cook up somet’ing fe yuh every day an’ bring it come inna de evenin’. But don’t mek dem know dat yuh hate dem food. An’ Hortense, me tell yuh fe de las’ time, Lincoln
look
like Cilbert. Yuh cyan see it inna him small nose an’ de twinkle inna him eye!”
“Jenny, yuh ’ave talked ah whole heap ah fart since yuh born but ya insistence dat me son look like Cilbert is de mightiest fart yuh ever talk. One of dem nasty black crow mus’ ah shit inna ya eye dis marnin. It’s clear to everybody dat Lincoln look like sweet David.”
“Hortense Huggins! Sometime yuh so stubborn inna ya t’inking!”
“Me don’t care!” replied Hortense. “When yuh write Mama, tell her Lincoln look like David. It will sweet her an’ everybody else. Mek dem day.”
Arriving back at home, Hortense discovered that Cilbert had bought a second-hand cot from Miss Mary. For the first few weeks of his life, Lincoln rarely slept in his own bed, instead he lay between his mother and father, sometimes listening to Hortense’s gentle singing of Jamaican folk songs to help him sleep. Whenever
Jenny babysat she told Lincoln tales of fearless Maroons, great sea adventures and of the ‘mighty men’ who built the Panama canal. Hortense still insisted that Lincoln was the spitting image of David, and Cilbert and Jacob, not wanting to upset the new mother, agreed with her. Mary Skidmore was not so diplomatic, however. “Hortense, yer talking rubbish! I’ve never seen a baby boy look so much like his father. Yer should rejoice in that fact because in most Proddy families that I know of, the sons don’t look like the fathers.”
When Lincoln reached three months of age, Cilbert managed to purchase a pram and he insisted upon taking Lincoln for walks in nearby Ruskin Park on Sunday mornings. It wasn’t as beautiful as Hope Botanical Gardens in Kingston, but at least it was an open, green space.
South London, March 1963
. The snow had drifted to two feet deep against Mary Skidmore’s front door. Those who dared to employ their cars found themselves slipping and sliding on the unnegotiable ice. The screeching sounds of wheelspinning added to the morning din of commuter travel. On the main roads, frustrated motorists simply abandoned their vehicles and left them to the mercy of London’s most savage winter since 1947. Trains were not leaving their stations, coal trucks struggled to make their deliveries, water pipes exploded, paraffin heaters sold out, outside toilets froze over, the entire professional football programme was postponed and Cilbert found himself working sixteen-hour days to repair telephone lines. Doggedly he went out every morning, his feet clad in Wellington boots and his head covered in a black balaclava. He would walk to his depot, three miles away in Stockwell. On many occasions, his fingers were too numb to perform the intricate rewiring. He would reach home after 10 p.m., announcing his arrival by stamping his feet upon Mary’s outside doormat to rid himself of the snow. A large bowl of Jamaican soup, containing yams, diced beef, peppers, dumplings and green banana, awaited him in the kitchen. After consuming his dinner he would troop wearily upstairs to see his family and more often than not,
find Lincoln blissfully asleep, his mother gently rocking him beside the paraffin heater. “Inna dis cold time,” Cilbert would remark. “Me never see Lincoln’s eyes open. Me hope him remember who me is. Me cyan’t wait ’til de sun ah shine bright inna de summer an’ when de mighty Frank Worrell will lead we West Indian cricket team against de English. Everybody is excited an’ talking about it, Hortense. When dey play Englan’ at de Oval me planning to tek Lincoln wid me. To let him see inna de flesh heroes from our part of de world. Yes, sa. Ah great occasion dat will be.”
“Are yuh ah madmon, Cilbert?” replied Hortense. “Lincoln is only ah baby. Him will never understan’ wha’ is happening aroun’ him. Besides, de noise an’ bangarang will mek him nervous an’ will upset him.”
“But, Hortense. It will be ah chance fe Lincoln to be surrounded by
our
people.
Our
music an’ we own heroes. Inna dis country who do we ’ave to look up to? Nuhbody! Dat’s why every West Indian mon me know is planning to forward to de Oval. Right about now it’s de nearest t’ing we cyan show him dat is close to home an’ give him ah taste of de Caribbean.”
“Well, Cilbert. Yuh go to de Oval an’ watch mon inna white shirt lick ah stupid red ball. But Lincoln is too young. Mebbe when him get ah liccle older.”
Before Hortense finished her sentence, Cilbert, sulking in the hallway, was already pulling the bedroom door closed behind him.
One Sunday morning, Hortense denied Cilbert his custom of taking Lincoln for a walk in Ruskin Park. “But it’s somet’ing me love to do,” protested Cilbert, as Lincoln was enjoying a Rich Tea biscuit. “Me will wrap him up good. Lincoln cyan wear dat new bobble hat me ah buy fe him.”
“
Nuh
, Cilbert!” Hortense asserted. “It
too
damn cold. It so cold me sure even Mama back home inna Jamaica feel it.”
“But me don’t get nuh time to spend wid me son ’pon me own,” Cilbert remarked.
The couple hotly argued the matter for ten minutes until Cilbert, accepting defeat, stormed out of the room and slammed the door.
He found Jenny walking up the stairwell, a mug of cocoa held in her hands. She smiled at him. “Cilbert, yuh an’ Hortense affe stop ya contention. De walls are thin here an’ everybody cyan hear. Miss Mary will nah say it to ya face but she ah complain about it too. Anyway, why yuh don’t let me mek yuh ah cup ah cocoa an’ it might mek yuh cool off?”
“Yes, Jenny,” Cilbert nodded, his anger fading.
They sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. Jenny stole glances at Cilbert whenever she brought her mug of cocoa to her lips. She sensed he was troubled as he stared vacantly through the window at the back yard. He coughed erratically, a dry chesty cough that stretched the skin upon his neck.
“Yuh know, Cilbert,” Jenny started. “Argument an’ contention is
not
good fe de soul. An’ it’s not good fe Lincoln too. Nuh pickney should affe lissen to contention. It create ah bad vibe fe ah pickney to grow. Y’understan’?”
Cilbert sipped his cocoa as he pondered Jenny’s words. “It’s always been de same,” he coughed. “Dat is jus’ how we are. We argue about stupidness, we cuss cuss each udder an’ usually, Hortense get her own way.”
“Yuh should nah let Hortense walk all over yuh,” said Jenny. “She’s always been headstrong, independent. Yuh affe stan’ up fe yaself.”
Injured by Jenny’s implication that he was weak, Cilbert replied, “Hortense
don’t
walk all over me. Me always say wha’ me waan to say. But someone affe back down becah de argument will never stop.”
“Is dat de way ah couple should live?” asked Jenny, lowering her voice and leaning in closer to Cilbert. “Why should yuh always back down? Hortense is not always right. Cilbert, if yuh an’ Hortense carry on dis way den me don’t know how ya marriage will survive. An’ if dat did happen it would tear up me heart. Me promise yuh. Couples should live inna harmony. Yuh don’t hear Jacob an’ meself ranting an’ raving at each udder.”
“Hortense an’ meself are very passionate people,” said Cilbert. “Sometimes we say t’ings to each udder dat we don’t really mean.
We always say sorry afterwards. De nex’ day everyt’ing is fine.”
“Is dat how yuh waan live ya full married life,” questioned Jenny, her voice now a little over a whisper. “Arguments every day an’ ah sorry inna de evening?”