The Polished Hoe (20 page)

Yes, this heaviness of limbs and eyes and lips and features, in the paintings, do not remind her of the women in the Village, and the women working on the Plantation; and these portraits bring back her own memories of back-stiffening labour in the North Field.

“What was I about to . . .”

And before she finishes her words, she closes the two louvres, and the light changes, and her beauty is outlined both in the shadows that have crept into the room, and from the light from the two electric bulbs. The bulbs each hang on a single strand of plaited electrical cord, like the tits of a cow. In the changing light, it looks also like two strands of her hair, plaited in three streams with two ornaments at each end. Her hair which was once black and thick and long, is now black, streaked with silver and white.

The number of years these electrical cords have been hanging here, holding the single naked bulb, has caused the original black colour to change, also through age; and the habitation of flies and mosquitoes and moths; and from paint leaked onto them, when the ceiling was painted white, now a colour similar to tints in her hair.

She passes her hand, the left hand, through her hair; and then she uses her right hand to remove a strand of hair from the ruffles in the design of her white dress. And when she is sure that she has picked up the strand of hair, almost invisible against the whiteness of her dress that reaches to the floor, she flicks the hair off, and it falls unseen on the carpet. Wilberforce calls her hair salt-and-pepper.

She moves her neck and her shoulders the way people do, to take stiffness from their joints; and as if this jerking of her neck has succeeded in removing the kinks, she moves with a sprightlier gait to the large Victrola grammaphone, and fits the crank-handle into the hole, to wind it. The brown rich leather of her laced-up boots is seen from the ankle to the sole, and then is afterwards covered by the fall of her dress.

Sargeant watches her shoulder stiffening against the tension of the cranking; as she turns the handle, as her entire body moves; and he can see how the flow of her long dress catches the laces in her leather boots that expose the richnesss of the leather, up to her ankles. He can count the “eyelits,” as he calls them, in each boot.

She turns the handle, now more easily and with greater smoothness. She does this in the same way he imagines how, on a Saturday afternoon, she would turn coarsely ground yellow Indian meal-corn in a pot with water, made greenish and slimy from ripe, fresh okras in which it is being boiled; how she turns and turns and changes the yellow blobs into an appetizing paste, into cou-cou, rich and mellow and slippery in the throat: now a yellow substance speckled with green pieces of okras; and he imagines sweat from her face, the sign of her labour and her carefulness in the turning of the cou-cou, falling into the pot with the slowly bubbling Indian meal-corn, like a gentle geyser, to add to its taste. He imagines that his hand is touching hers, relieving her of her fatigue in the turning and the turning and the turning; resting on her wrists. For cou-cou, like the making of a glide, a stroke in cricket to fine leg, or the landing of a stinging jab, all these activities in sport that demand the expenditure of sweat, require even before that expenditure the knowledge that it is the wrist which adds subtle power to the natural expression of beauty in the cricket stroke, in the deadliness of the jab, and also to the turning meal-corn in order to make the mellowest cou-cou.

His hand moves from her hands, and travels all that nervous, trembling distance up from her wrists to her shoulders, over the white sleeves of her dress. This approach takes place in his imagination. He evades through his nervousness, even in his fantasy, touching her breasts. He feels, however, that to touch her breasts, without forethought and foreplay, might awaken a hurricane of passion and sex he might not know how to deal with; so, he moves his hand away from her breasts, as her breasts move with her breathing, beneath the demure cut of her bodice.

Yes, his hand moves from her hand holding the cou-cou stick, all its trembling slow progress up her arms, over the carefully laundered sleeves until at last, they reach her shoulders.

The emotion this touch of her body causes, like an explosion, brings with it the caution of pause. But then, his hand takes a detour and moves under her armpits. He can feel the stutter of his blood. The loss of breath. Then the regaining of breath and grown confidence. The warmth of her flesh. And he feels also the dampness of her armpits. The scent of Johnson’s Baby Powder rises suddenly to his nostrils, from under her armpits, and this gives his hand greater courage, and adds force and roughness to his caresses. When she moves away from him, she leaves a different perfume behind her. The scent that fills the room, is the smell of Eau de Cologne No. 4711 . . . He has smelled this cologne before, merely once, in a bottle with a gold and green label, in the Perfume and Fragrances Department at Cave Shepherd & Sons, Haberdasheries, in Town. He had blinked his eyes in disbelief, when he saw the price; and a woman, “the clerkess,” seeing his unease, and understanding his interest in the perfume—it was the week before Christmas—came to his rescue; and when he saw her coming towards him, he raised his arms above his head, as men do, who want to confess, or to surrender . . . He was in his policeman’s uniform. He was a private . . . and then he smiled; and the woman smiled with him, and said, “Constable, hold your hand out, nuh.” And he had held his hand out; and received the squirt; and his eyes started to burn; and he held his hand out a second time, this time palm-up; and received another spurt of vapour; and his mind went wild, for he was smelling the cologne in the bottle, and the fragrance of lust that lay heavily in the woman’s eyes, and in her hands as she passed them softly, slowly over his hands; and hours later, he held this same hand out, his left hand, in the barracks in Central Police Station, on Coleridge Street in Town, where he was stationed, across one narrow street from Cave Shepherd & Sons, Harberdashers; and he thought of the blue veins in the woman’s hand that held the bottle of Eau de Cologne No. 4711.

He did not wash that hand, his left hand, for three days.

Miss P. Wilkinson
was printed on a small rectangle of metal that looked like gold, that was pinned above her right breast. Her nipples came clear through her salmon-coloured jersey to his eyes.

Yes, it is Eau de Cologne No. 4711. And the room is turning, slowly; spinning like the revolutions of the grammaphone record when the song has ended. His hands are travelling, as his breathing is racing. Now, they have stopped for breath above her breasts; and his fingers, the thumb, index and second fingers on each hand wander to and feel the softness of her nipples; and a shudder comes through his body, weakening him. He is stiff as a piece of iron. His hands now stray farther afield, to find the richer, the sweeter, the more churning and turbulent downward climb in his travelling, to the heat between her thighs. And then, he hears the voice of a woman.

It is the voice of the singer, saying: “‘. . .
My brown-and-yellow basket
. . .’”

“You haven’t heard a word I been saying to you for the last five minutes, haven’t you, Percy?”

This is her voice. Not the voice he thinks he is hearing. The grammaphone is playing; and the other voice is the voice of Miss Ella Fitzgerald.

“I was going over things,” he says.

“Sometimes I sit here, and my eyes would travel over the canes, and I would imagine that the canes are the waves in the sea, or the Atlantic Ocean; and I am travelling over all that saltwater; and the currents leading me away from Bimshire, this Island; and I am one of the tourisses, visiting those places that Wilberforce is always ranting about. Countries. Cities. Civilizations. Places where they speak different languages from me and you. Englund. Germany. Sicily. Austria. Italy. Sicily.”

“You mention Sicily two times.”

“Yes? Sicily. Rome. London-Englund. And Paris! Oh boy! Paris! The things I have heard about Paris! And seen! In magazines knockingaround this house!

“If I could only choose. Percy, if I only had the power of choice to change my life, even at this late stage, under the present circumstances, Paris would be the destination in my first-and-only overseas-European-travel.

“Yes. Going overseas to Europe! Going away!”

“Yes. But gimme Amurca! Any day! The bigness of Amurca. And the money of Amurca. The cars and the clothes of Amurca. And the idea that a man, if he don’t like going to work in the daytime, could choose his working hours to night. And tek the night shift. That is a pretty thing, Miss Mary-Mathilda, a thing of freedom. Just to hear about. It is a thing that we don’t have in this Island. Not yet. But we need to learn to work at night. Yuh got to be big, big-minded, to give a fellar that choice. Between day-work and tekking the night shift? A fellow who lived in both Amurca and in Englund tell me that they haven’t arrived at that big-mindedness yet neither, in Englund. The night shift. Known also in Amurcan vernacular, as the graveyard. Even the words,
night shift
, sound so pretty. You don’t think so, Miss Mary?”

“You haven’t listened to one word of Miss Ella Fitzgerald song!”

“I was travelling with my thoughts.”

“Travelling overseas. Gimme Paris, any morning . . .”

“You don’t mind winding the Victrola again, do you, Miss Mary? And playing ‘A Tisket, a Tasket’ a second time? If you don’t mind, please?”

She winds the grammaphone, until the handle gives a slight kick back, warning her that the spring is tight; and she takes the thick vinyl record off the turntable, and passes it in a circular motion over her left hand, and then she places it closer to her face and blows upon it. It is a loud, strong, exhaling of wind. And she goes back to sit in her chair just in time, as Miss Ella Fitzgerald, who has been waiting for the opening notes of the orchestra, begins “A Tisket, a Tasket.”

“What really is a
tisket
, Percy?”

“A
tisket
?”

“You ever come across one?”

“Not to my knowledge, Miss Mary.”

“My boy would know. If he was home, I would ask him.”

“Yes, Mr.Wilberforce would know. We should axe Mr. Wilberforce.”

“I should ask him. And
tasket
? Could that be a
tisket
with a
a
?”

“Your son would know.”

She takes the heavy arm off the record, and the weight of the arm, tricky in her own hand and unexpectedly heavy, drops too early on the black record and misses the groove, and the sound of the scrape that results reminds Sargeant of the noise of brakes late at night, at the intersection of the two roads, Highgates Commons and Reservoir Lane, which meet close to his house.

But this noise is a sweeter noise. And less jarring upon his nerves. This noise brings peace and a desire to travel, to walk, to stroll, loll about the narrow tree-lined lanes of the Village, winding around clusters of mahogany trees, of Guinea grass and Khus-Khus grass, cut out by the passage of time, and of bare feet, between fields of sugar cane. The lane he takes to lead Gertrude deeper into the green night, to lie on the padded brown trash. He can see the cane field from where he is sitting in a chair with a white doily draped over its back so that the heavy Vaseline grease for grooming his hair cut to suit a policeman, does not touch the rich, expensive velour material of the chair. He knows that the back of the chair is filled with horsehair. A strand of its stiff stuffing shows through in two places near his neck, like whiskers left two days on the chin. Sargeant travels over the land that surrounds him now, in thick green silence, as he listens more attentively to the words of the American woman coming through the speaker of the Victrola grammaphone. The speaker is in the shape of a large horn, a cornucopia, attached to the body of the grammaphone.

And his mind, and his body with it, go back over the years, searching as he had turned the pages of those out-of-date magazines in the equipment room of the Garrison Savannah Lawn Tennis Club, sitting amongst the long, black rubber hose for watering the lawns, the noisy lawn mower, and old, damp, stinking tennis shirts and shorts of the male members; going back over time, until it had rested on that Monday, a bank holiday, Easter bank holiday, when the sea was calm and the sand on the beach was fresh as if the waves had come in during the long black night and had used its quieter current to comb the sand clean of pieces of dried bramble, of flotsam and jetsam, empty Trumpeter cigarette boxes, and empty Swan Vesta wooden matchboxes, “the smoker’s match” . . . Sargeant knew these beaches and the sand on them, so often resembling a dump where the Villagers threw their garbage. Empty tots that once contained condensed milk, and young water coconuts, some still green on the outside, and used by small boys as cricket balls; and some riper coconuts chopped into two, exposing where the skin was left on the brutally chopped shell, and thrown away on a mounting pile of rot; and still some other water coconuts chopped into half or as near to half as hungry, impatient hands could perform the trick; and pieces of stick and twigs, blackened by age and the constant pounding of the waves. And Sheik french leathers.

Whenever he was on night patrol on this same beach, usually after midnight, which hour he assumed was best for catching criminals, he would find himself looking up into the darkened sky, always at this time, painted in blackness; and he would try to count the stars, and name the constellations; and sometimes the skies would be without stars; at least he could not see them, and could not count them; he was always uneasy when he looked at the skies without stars; but there was always enough light for him to see the coconut trees growing tall to almost touch the skies. This is why the Villagers called them “mile trees.” He always was in wonder at the guts it took for a thief to climb these “mile trees” in the blackness of night to pick the coconut from the highest branch of these majestic trees that grew almost straight as a cane arrow; and getting away from the watchman stalking him, invisible in the black night by means of his dress, the uniform of his profession: black jacket, black discarded policeman’s serge trousers—with the two twoinch red seams at the sides, removed—and barefoot. The night watchman in his tracking of the thief, had already discarded the pair of policeman’s black boots he had been given by Sargeant, because their creaking might reveal his presence and expose him to the thief; and his own black skin, the mark of his rank, the qualification insisted upon by the Plantation, the Solicitor-General, the leading barristers-at-Law, before anyone who needed a night watchman, would hire one, his black skin was discussed as the desirable testimonial for being “taken on” for this dangerous job.
Night watchman.
Flagstaff Village has more night watchmen than teachers, policemen and needleworkers put together. It is as if the Village has within its boundaries, valuables and trinkets and priceless jewels stored in safes in locked bedrooms, and in caves and in underground tunnels, that these have to be watched during the day, and continually and “vigilled-over” especially during the night.
Nighht waaatchman
. . . the Sin-Davids Anglican Church Annual Outing and Picnic, held this Easter Monday bank holiday on the beach at the Crane Beach Hotel, where the breakers were sometimes as tall as the night watchman himself; where the sand moves like a waltz along the beach, in places fifty yards in depth; where the pure, clean sand is the colour of a conch shell; and is swept by the hotel gardeners with brooms made from the spine of the leaves from the coconut palm, in preparation for the outing.