The Polished Hoe (10 page)

“‘Ma’am,’ he say to me, ‘where you going with that?’ His two eyes rested on my two hands behind my back. He couldn’t see what was in my hand, though.

“‘Just stretching my two legs, Revern Dowd, sir,’ I say. ‘Tekking a lil stroll. Is such a lovely evening, though it dark!’

“And
blam!
he put the Morris Minor in first gear and roar off.

“‘Church,’ he say, holding his head out through the window. ‘I late!’

“And the Pucker-Pucker disappear round the corner, in smoke and exhaust, thick-enough to choke me.

“The second car that pass was Manny.

“‘Jesus Christ, Tilda!’ Manny shout-out for everybody to hear, in case there was somebody listening. Manny’s mouth doesn’t have any cover. And knowing this, I kept the hoe behind my back. And succeeded. ‘Where you going this time o’ night, Miss Mary-Mathilda, ma’am? I could give you a lift?’

“‘No thanks, Manny-boy!’ Manny possess the eyes of a hawk.

“‘I just stretching my two legs, Manny-boy!’ I tell him. ‘Just tekking a lil constitutional, boy, before it get more darker.’ And before Manny move-off, he say, ‘I went down Oistins Market for flying fish, but them fishermens so blasted thiefing! Sargeant dropping-round for a snap, later . . .’ And like the Vicar, before him, Manny was gone!

“I continued my journey, slow; taking my time.

“If you have a weak heart, even on a moonlight night, the canes have a way of shaking themselves, and making noise in the wind, that could put the fear of God in your heart. And on a dark-night, like tonight, if your heart weak . . .

“But I was a woman of determination.

“The smell of bourgeanvillea flowers, even the crotons, and specially the lady-of-the-night, followed me all the way from here, to where I was heading.

“And over and above those scents, the smell of burnt canes and cane trash filling my nose. With cane fires occurring every other night, you bound to smell the smell of trash and burnt canes, rawliquor and crack-liquor. And the syrup . . . and the canes themselves burning.

“No lorries were running this time of night, taking canes to the Factory, on a Sunday.

“You couldn’t see no moon! I used to like moonlight nights so much, on a full moon; when I was a lil girl, oh-Lord! how Ma would take me and Clotelle and Golbourne and Sargeant and Pounce for long walks! Sometimes two miles. Sometimes three. Oh-Lord! The times we used to have! Walking to the Factory, and seeing the steam from the engines, and the smoke climbing outta the chimneys, rising to touch the clouds up in the skies . . . Crop-Season, Constable, Crop-Season! Days of glory ’pon a Plantation! We thrildren would steal a piece of cane from a pile in the Yard; the sweetest cane that we called ‘Juice-nine-tray-five’ . . . and the juice running down the two sides of our mouth, oh-my-God . . . and later on in life, I now am a lil older, on nights like tonight, black-as-sin, that Mr. Bellfeels used to take me in the canes. In any field of canes. Just so it was out of hearing distance from the chattel house where me and Ma and Gran lived. I would hear Mr. Bellfeels motor-car, a lil red Vauxhall, and he would press the horn,
beepbeep
, soft-enough to alert me: not loud-enough to alarm Ma; and I would tell Ma I going to the Standpipe for a fresh bucket of water to wash my face-and-hands with. And once, in my excitement, I left the bucket in the house! But Ma knew. Ma did-know. Ma had to know. How couldn’t she not know, when she-herself had to dreamup similar strategies to get away from her own mother?

“And through those encounters, mostly on dark-nights, I started to carry this lasting smell of mould; a smell with the tinge of sweetness; the smell like cane juice and burnt trash; this smell in the pores of my skin and on my clothes. But it is the smell of mould, that closeness to the soil, that can’t be separated from natural things, nor from the stench of the soil itself. You understand what I saying?

“The closeness to the mould and the dung and the horseshit and the cane trash and the hard ground, and the soft muddy ground— in the rainy season—this closeness left their taint on my acts with Mr. Bellfeels, and on my clothes, on my skin, on my natural smell, on my mind. In my pores.

“That is what I am telling you, Constable. So, write it down
so
, please.

“Perhaps your age prevents you from handling the
ironies
of my life. But I am talking to you this way for a purpose, since I already decide that you are not too young to hear the ironies of life. It is better for you, as a young man, and a police Constable, to hear these things from the mouth of a woman old-enough to be your mother than from a woman more younger in age and attitude. Yes.”

She looks up, and sees that the Constable is sleeping; and snoring mildly; and his face is serene; and he looks so innocent; and she ignores him, and goes on talking, as if he is not in the room with her; and she seems to gain confidence in talking these personal “woman-things,” as Gertrude calls them; and it is as if she is really talking out aloud to herself.

“I remember the first night, oh-my-God, how I hurt and hurt. I think I had a lil blood flowing. Not from my menses . . . though, I hope this doesn’t frighten nor embarrass you, a Constable and a man, to hear me talk this way. But you are sleeping, anyway . . .”

The Constable is still snoring.

“I have to give you a Statement, even although it is a preliminary Statement, keeping the pot warm till Sargeant come, more or less . . . certain things I have to state whilst I still have the memory . . . in case they are important.

“I do not mean to frighten nor embarrass you. You and me are bound by duty. And obligation. The same duty. The same obligation. Me to talk. And you to listen.

“Yes, I know that most men can’t take such plain talk. Specially from a woman. They love women. Men say they do. Most men. Would even tell you that they like women. But they don’t like to know too much of the close, personal ‘woman-things’ that make a woman a woman. Or what makes a woman tick.

“I am not .Welling on this to scare you. It is merely the
ironies
of my life. And life itself.”

The Constable is still sleeping. A gentle snoring comes from him; and a smile paints his face.

“For no reason at all that I can find, right-now I am remembering how the cane blades would be biting into my skin as Mr. Bellfeels grinding and grinding himself into me. And you know, in spite of that, in spite of my present attitude about that, there was a certain niceness to those nights . . . a sweet taste. At the beginning.

“At the very beginning. I was a lil girl then. But I am not ashamed to say to you that I liked it. I liked giving myself to a man. Yes.

“At the beginning. In a way I enjoyed it. I was being made a woman of. And I knew the power of the man who was turning me into a force-ripe woman. I wasn’t so young not to also know that the man fooping me by force was a man of means, and privilege, able to put me in a category which
not one
of the boys I grew up with, and who, later on as men, were after me, could: Golbourne, Pounce and Sargeant, Manny and even the Headmaster of Sin-Davids Elementary School. Not one of them could put me in a house. Not in the same category certainly as this Great House. Not on the same peg as Mr. Bellfeels could. And did. Not on their bottom-dollar!

“Sargeant? No.

“Golbourne? No.

“Pounce? Forget Pounce.

“The Headmaster of the Elementary School? He come closest . . .

“Your own father, Granville, before he met the accident, no.

“So, you see, Constable!

“Not one of them could lift me up outta the mud; outta the thick, black soil and the hot-sun that me and them lived in, and toiled so hard in, so long in, in the North Field, and in other jobs on this Plantation. Yes.

“Mr. Bellfeels made a woman of me. I was made a woman of. Not in the proper manner. Of matrimony. Family-life. And hearthside-bliss. Such as we learned in
Bible Stories for Little Christians
, taught by Miss Smith in Sunday School. Or that I started seeing in the
Illustrated London News
magazine. No!

“It was robbery.

“And you ask yourself, year after year, as I have, for years,
Why you let him do this to you? Why you let Mr. Bellfeels crawl-all-over you, Mary-girl? And only now, in the last three months, decide to take matters into your two hands?

“You want to ask me that question?”

Just then the Constable wakes. He rubs his eyes, roused from a dream he was having, and not knowing where he is, he looks around stupid, for a moment. His eyes are bloodshot. But she is kind and sweet to him; for she likes him; and does nothing to make him more uncomfortable.

“Don’t you want to ask me why am I talking so much about my life, and nothing-much about my act?”she says. “Don’t you want to put that question to me?

“I would ask myself that question. Yes. And get this answer: ‘I am talking this way because I am really talking aloud to myself, and nobody is present.’ And even so, you are here and yet you are not here. Yes.”

“I would like to axe you a question, ma’am,” the Constable says. “Not as a means o’ curiosity. But as part of your Statement. A different question altogether, ma’am, that Sargeant axe me to axe you, concerning the . . .”

“But where Sargeant is, though?” she says.

“Sargeant had to visit . . . had to visit . . .”

“The rum shop, I know. Manny told me. He’s preparing flying fish . . .”

“The Selected Clienteles Room, ma’am.”

“Today is a funny night!” she says. The Constable has a blank look on his face. “You ever heard that saying?
Today is a funny night?
”

“No, ma’am.”

“
Today is a funny night
was used the first time by men who pull lighters . . . big-big boats the size of a barge . . . with foodstuffs from off merchant ships, which they on-loaded in the warehouse bonds; and also by “spidermen,” men pushing wooden barrels of molasses, in metal-things the shape of a spider, working on the Wharf and the Interior Careenage. These is the men who played a big role in the Riots. Who started the 1938 Riots. Ordinary men and women of this Island, the first to seek freedom and political franchises. Later, full independence. The Riots of ’38.

“A police, much like you or Sargeant, was the first to brand the statement I just used,
today is a funny night,
as a revolutionary statement, saying it contain a hidden code and meaning; swearing that
today is a funny night
contains threats against our rulers, people like Mr. Bellfeels, and the Vicar, and the Solicitor-General and the owners of Cave Shepherd & Sons, Haberdasheries, and the members of the Aquatic Club on Bay Street. And with that simple statement, which Wilberforce tell me is complete with bad grammar, you should have seen the throngs of men and women, who the rulers got the police and the volunteer-soldiers to shoot-down and kill; and lock-up for using incendary statements. So, I always guard against using incendary language, from that day in 1938. But the men and women came within
one
inch of burning-down the whole blasted Island, beginning with the stores in Town! Yes! What a beautiful sight it was to see, too. Yes!
Today is a funny night.
”

“Sargeant should be here soon,” the Constable says.

“Any minute.”

“He soon here.”

“You wanted to ask me a question.”

“I can’t remember the question now, ma’am.”

“So young and losing your memory?”

“Is the police work, ma’am.”

“Soon, Sargeant will be here. The lovely perfume from the lady-of-the-night, and there I was, walking along the track between the North Field and the South Field, flat for the most part, now that the canes’ cut; and all that is growing now is young canes and plants, yams and eddoes and a few holes of eight-weeks sweet potatoes . . . and the Plantation Main House, with its lights on, like the lights on a steamer, coming through the darkness, facing me. The bright lights reflected from the white marl and loose gravel, back onto me, was like a big wave coming towards me, and rolling over my head; and the feeling of weakness and being impotent that came over me tonight was the same feeling that I remember had-consume me that first Sunday in the Church Yard, when the position of the sun and the height of the man looking down from the saddle at me, knocked me to one-side, as if indeed I was struggling with a powerful wave.

“That big powerful house, which hasn’t lost its affect on me, and which to enter the driveway, and walk-up the white marl and loose gravel path, and approach the verandah, brought in my limbs that first trembling sensation. For a moment, I was exactly like Ma, turned into a pillar of salt.

“I remember thinking how the circumstances of my life hadchange, since from the time I was a field hand . . .

“I grew up liking the Plantation Main House. And though time have passed, with no change of heart on my part, it is something I feel so shamed about still, that I can barely raise my head in certain circumstances, as I contemplate the change in my life.”

Just at this moment, the ticking of a bicycle breaks in upon her words. Just then, they hear
cling-cling! cling-cling!

“Is Sargeant,” the Constable says.

“Is Sargeant!” she says.

“He come?”

“He come!”

“Let me look out, and see if . . .”