The Polished Hoe (28 page)

“We are passing cornfields, now. Fields o’ Indian corn. Fields as big as from one end of this Island, Sin-Lucy in the North, and you drive straight-straight down South, passing the hotels for tourisses on the West Coast, and come, come, come-right-down to the other end of the Island, the South Coast, to Oistins Town, in Christ Church. I never knew such bigness before! Couldn’t contemplate that bigness. In anything. In the fields. In the size of the cows. The cattles. Or in the land. That a field of Indian corn could be more bigger, seen from a train, than the whole o’ Bimshire! My God-in-heaven, Percy! Amurca is such a pretty place. Such a lovely place—”

“Not meaning to interrupt you, Miss Mary, but what the time is?”

“Check the hour gainst the grandfather clock there, Percy.”

“Nine.”

“Nine? Only nine?”

“I have to keep an eye on the clock.”

“I know, Sargeant. But we just sat down.”

“I still have the Statement, and my report to . . .”

“We have time, Percy, we have time.”

“I know we have time, Miss Mary-Mathilda, we have time. Not that I rushing you . . .”

“Nine o’ clock, though!”

“And I listening . . .”

“So, going north, now . . .”

“From Miami-Florida?”

“. . . and we stop at a place called Atlantic. No, not Atlantic. Atlanta! Atlanta-Georgia. I knew Georgia. I knew about Georgia. From the title of a Negro spiritual, I think it is. But I didn’t know Atlanta. Georgia is also the place where they had the most slaves. And the worst slaveholders and slave-drivers. Wilberforce studied that in the History of the Laws of Slavery, at Oxford. In all the years he went-school at Harrison College, one of the most reputed and best institutionals in the British Empire, not one Master who teached him ever mentioned to him a word about this History of the Laws of Slavery! He left without knowing the history of . . . what-you-call-it? . . . the history of himself.

“But getting back to Georgia. And Wilberforce. His name, Wilberforce, you may or may not know, is a historical name.

“And it was the history in his name that cause him-himself, he told me, after he went up to Oxford, to vestigate his name in relation to history and slavery and the Laws of Slavery. Yes.

“But when that train was passing through Georgia, all I could think of was the refrain that we used to sing almost every Saturday night, right here in this front-house, when Mr. Bellfeels played the piano. ‘Georgia.’

“We would sing that song, sometimes in the presence of Mr. Bellfeels and his friends, like the Solicitor-General, the Vicar, Revern Dowd and them-so, when they visited, to gamble and drink rum; and to see how Wilberforce was progressing, prior to his going-away. And sometimes, Mr. Bellfeels sang ‘Georgia’ along with we.

“All those years, and all those times, me and Wilberforce put on that performance for Mr. Bellfeels and his friends without knowing what the hell we was really doing. Yes.

“It is only then. Travelling through Georgia, Atlanta-Georgia, on a train, on that serrigated train, that I knew, then-and-there, what the hell that song mean.

“And the history of that song.

“For the first time.

“And a funny thing happen. All the people in the part o’ the train with me . . . Mr. Bellfeels by now comfortable, in the part of the train called the Private Car, by himself. But I didn’t mind that, cause it was a place where the smoke from the Cuban cigars those men were smoking was thick-enough to choke a hog . . . the coloureds, as I got to know was how they were addressed. Yes. Coloureds. All the people in the comportment, compartment of the train with me . . . I was very happy to be numbered with these coloured people who spoke as if it was Spanish coming from out their mouth.

“And as I said, a funny thing happened. No, not a funny thing. It was not funny. These things aren’t funny. Even in appearances. Or even after they happened to happen.

“A announcement came over the thing in the top of the roof . . . the loudspeaker in the ceiling of the train . . . informing us sitting in that comport, compartment, that the car with food was now open and available. Down the aisle of the train where I was, sitting with all the coloured people, of black and fair-skin complexions, sudden-so, there came so many, so-many-people in droves, that I didn’t even know one train could hold summuch, hundreds o’ passengers! Droves and droves of people. Yes.

“And all these people coming down the aisle of the train into our compartment—the compartment of the coloureds—with me, now numbered amongst them, cause by that sociation, I was classified suddenly as a coloured-Amurcan—the hordes o’ people marching-through, was
white
. Yes, boy.

“Boy, I was classified through sheer sitting-commodation as a coloured-Amurcan. Yes, man! You hear me?

“One of the white-gents looked at a woman in the seat ahead o’ me, and says to her, ‘Jane, y’all sure enjoying your first trip Nawth, now, ain’t you now, girl?’

“Or so it sounded to me. The white-gent was using the
same
language o’ speech as the coloured lady!

“As if he was talking in a foreign language. In Spanish. And this Jane . . . when I tell you a pretty woman? A pretty, fair-skin woman of about forty years,..Well, Jane just held her head down, as if she was searching for something important in her lap. Yes. In pure embarrassment.

“I couldn’t figure it out no better than that. Nor, no plainer than that. The other people on the train, in the comportment of the coloureds, in the compartment with me, they-all just kept quiet. Quiet-quiet. While this troop of white-gents passed. Yes.

“And not one woman who was white passed. Not one white woman walked with the troops o’ white-gentlemen! Isn’t that something!

“Right down the middle of the aisle of our compartment, these white-gentlemen marched on their way to the Club Car. Such a strange thing! And such a strange place! This Georgia. This Amurca.

“And the last white man passed. And quick-so. Afterwards. As if they was acting in a play. Reacting to stage directions. Brown paper bags. Plastic bags. And hand towels of blue-and-white cloth, and red and white, like dishtowels. Started coming out. Yes.

“And the smell! A smell like you never smelled in your whole life before. The smell of chicken. I learned afterwards that those coloured ladies have a special way of fixing chicken. That only former slaves in the Amurcan South, places like Atlanta-Georgia and Alabama could make it.
Southern-fry chicken.
Southern-fry chicken, yes!

“This lovely smell took us straight north, north straight outta Georgia, until the conductor-man announce that we were entering North Carolina.

“But he didn’t pronounce it as North Carolina. He said something like ‘
Naaaawthcarlie-nah! Nawthcarlie-nah!’
Sweet-sweet, so!

“God, how I like to hear Amurcans talk! All shades.

“Having just passed through Savannah. Another sweet name.
‘Charlessss-ton! Charleston! Next stop, Charlessss-ton!’
Charleston. That sent me back to the dance. Doing the Charleston. You know that dance, don’t you, Sargeant? The Charleston?

“It was my first trip on a train. And my last. But what a trip! Charleston–South-Carolina. And before I knew it, the conductor-fellow announce Williamsburg-Virginia. And then, the biggest shock.

“The biggest shock I ever had in my born-days.

“‘Lynchburg! Lynchburg, next! Next stop, Lynchburg!’
the conductor-man announce.

“And when the conductor announce, ‘
Lynchburg!’
I found myself looking at this Amurcan coloured woman sitting-cross the aisle from me. Watching her close. I watched her close-close to see her reaction whilst the conductor-fellow coming down the aisle announcing,
‘Lynchburg next! Lynchburg! Next stop, Lynchburg!’

“I don’t know what I was expecting. Whether I was expecting that all the coloured Amurcans were going to stand up and walk straight to the door and step down the metal step, and get off, jump off, at Lynchburg. Or, if they were going to stand their ground. To protest against retaining a name awful as that.
Lynchburg.

“Can you imagine those Amurcans, of any stripe, and complexion, living-through that history, while white Amurcans, like the white-gents who marched down the aisle . . . and listening to that name, naming a town on a train line, a train station
Lynchburg
?
Lynchburg
? After all the lynchings that goes on in Amurca? My God-in-heaven!

“It is the same thing as naming a residential district in Israel Auschwitz Boulevard, in these present times, now that we know more about the Nazzies and the Jews. You don’t think so? It is a ironical thing to do. As if somebody is making a joke. Yes.

“Lynchburg
!

“After that, I lost interest in watching the places we were passing in that train journey. And in Amurca.

“So I took out my Bible, at
Philippians,
and read . . .

“‘. . . whatsoever things are true,
Whatsoever things are honest
Whatsoever things are just . . .’

“Fields fly-past, and I didn’t notice them; nor like them; and I didn’t pay them no mind. Field after field of Indian corn. And other things that I didn’t know the names thereof. And all I could think of was Lynchburg. And the coloured Amurcans sitting in the coach with me, in the compartment of the coloureds, eating their delicious Southern-fry chicken, in a serrigated train.

“But at last. Buffalo! Our final destination. The final solution to Mr. Bellfeels problems! Buffalo, where Mr. Bellfeels had come to buy second-hand Amurcan equipment for the Factory. And machineries. And cane-grinding engines.

“And it was in Buffalo, a pretty little town, near the Falls of Niagara, that I tasted my first Buffalo wings.”

“A buffalo don’t have wings, Miss Mary!”

“Try them!”

“Buffalo wings? A buffalo don’t have wings, Miss Mary. A buffalo is a animal!

“They are named after the City of Buffalo. The wings, that is. Nor after water buffaloes, Percy. Chicken wings!

“Oh!”

“You eat them . . .”

PART TWO

“
THAT EASTER MONDAY
, twenty years ago . . . twenty years ago? . . . when I noticed you noticing me, my right hand had-in a water jug I was carrying, on orders from Ma to Mr. Bellfeels. The jug had-in rum. Bellfeels Special Stades White Rum. My closeness to him, through Ma, and later as he started to have me, first as house servant, and then as kip-miss, this closeness to him came with a smell, and a taintedness. It came strong from him, and became my own. I started to smell like him.

“All these years, from servant passing into kip-miss, I brought him his waters, at the dot of three o’ clock. Cocktail hour. A saying he picked up in Buffalo.

“This smell of white rum. Yes.

“Wasn’t long-after that first Sunday, when I looked upon the face of that man that looked so tall, with the sun shining in my face, facing Mr. Bellfeels; looking up, looking up to the top of the water tank, as if I was looking to trace the plight of a kite caught in a tree.

“Kite-season was times of love and niceness, colours and the humming of kite-tongues, laments of joy and fear. The kite-season was the first act to the tragedies of the hurricane season. The hurricane season. With a different humming sound. Not the kite-tongues this time. A greater humming. The humming of the wind. And the licking of the lightning, fork-lightning lighting-up the skies, and coming at you like a knife aiming for your throat. Death and murder. Misery and loss.

“In the kite-season, a poor boy loss a kite. And he break down in tears. A simple, cheap penny-kite, made from shop-paper. But to that poor boy, a priceless jewel.

“In storms and hurricanes, the loss is much more greater. Life. Deaths. Stragedies. I mean, tragedies. Water and wind. Winds and water turning into floods covering the land, covering the fields, the North Field of canes just planted; eddoes, yams and sweet potatoes, and the South Field planted up in corn, Indian corn, washed-away.

“The water was like in the Great Flood. When God was vex with this world. This time, God was vex with Bimshire. A deep layer of death and misery and drowning. It started on the Friday afternoon, just as the labourers had come in from the fields, and were lining-up in the Plantation Yard, under the tamarind tree, waiting to hear their names call-out to get their wages. Waiting for the bookkeeper to call-out their names. And a flash, Percy. When I tell you a flash? Of lightning. Like a sword. The Sword of Damocles henging over Bimshire. That was the first sign of dreadful things to come. Then, all o’ we stanning-up under the tamarind tree . . . one wondering if the Shop have mackerel from Canada in stock, as promised; another woman wondering if her child-father coming round this weekend with any money; the third woman, poor soul, just wondering, wondering where the hell she going-get the balance of the money for her rent. It overdue three weeks now. Yes. We were there, lining-up for wages, with our minds on other things. What storm? What hurricane? Life this Friday afternoon is no different from other Friday goings-on, as per usual. Then, Percy, when I tell you without warning, a clap o’ thunder! It shake the earth. The big tamarind tree in the Plantation Yard shudder. As if it was going to uproot itself, by itself. The half-ripe tamarinds start falling outta the tree. The labourers start to scatter, not waiting for their wages they were so frightened. And the rain came down in buckets-o’-drops. Men and women scamper for safety under the verandah of the Plantation Main House the minute the bookkeeper, scared as everybody-else, drop the few coppers in their hand. And then, they beat it cross the gap; cross the fields; for those who the fields was a shortcut to their house, and would take them home more faster; cross the long road of loose marl and gravel, heading for the tenements, and the junction of Highgates Commons and Reservoir Lane, bounding home. For shelter and safety. And that was the moment when the men and the women fleeing in all directions, like ants, that was the moment when the deluge of rain poured down upon our heads.