The Polished Hoe (5 page)

“There were always gifts, expensive gifts that really could not buy-me-off, even with the generousness buried inside the gifts themselves. Gifts were not enough.

“That old Steinway there, been standing like a dumb person, with no power of words. Mr. Steinway’s tongue cut out. Ten-fifteen years, now.

“Wilberforce learned to play on it. And Miss Grimes smacked Wilberforce knuckles three evenings a week, learning his scales. Every four o’clock, Monday, Wednesdays and Friday, straight from Harrison College.

“One night, during this time, Mr. Bellfeels came over, and I offered him something to drink; and he took a Tennents Stout. That was his drink, when he was a more younger man. In later life, he switch to white rum. And that, plus a few more things, was what I couldn’t stomach in him. Belching as he swallowing the Tennents. No class. A few coppers rackling-’bout inside his pockets, yes. But no class. The right complexion and colour of skin for living high-on-the-hog, in this Island, yes. But class? Not one bloody ounce. The man would break wind, pass gas in front of me, and his son—fart, then!—even carrying on this behaviour home, in front o’ Miss Euralie and Miss Emonie. Mistress Bellfeels, his wife, in one of the few exchanges we ever had, told me such.

“I have seen Ma, whilst she was his maid, iron dozens of handkerchiefs, every Friday evening, rinsing-and-starching them on the Thursday; white cotton ones, with a light-blue border in all of them. And never-once Mr. Bellfeels used a handkerchief. Index finger gainst one nostril, and
phew!
Splat in the road, and watch the thick green stuff slide over a rock and disappear in the ground.

“I don’t know how I managed to stomach his weight layingdown on top of me all those years; breeding me and having his wish; and me smelling him; and him giving-off a smell like fresh dirt, mould that I turned over with my hoe, at first planting, following a downpour of rain, when all the centipees and rats, cockroaches and insects on God’s earth start crawling-out in full vision and sight, outta the North Field.

“And a man of his means! To live like that! And never think of dashing a dash of cologne, or some Florida Water over his face and under his two armpits . . .”

She stops talking, as she dabs a handkerchief at her mouth; and then at her right eye; and then at her left eye. The Constable sits and wonders why women always wipe their lips first, when it is their eyes that express the emotion they no longer want to disclose.

Her body shakes a little. In his eyes, she is a woman past desire; a woman who wears her dress below the knee; a powerful, rich, “brown-skin” woman; a woman to fear. He remembers her screaming at him when he was her yard-boy, because he had not swept the garbage clean from the yard; that was years ago; and he can still hear her high-pitched voice that sent chills down his back. But each evening, when he was leaving, she placed a brown paper bag into his hand, told him, “Tell your mother I say how-d.” The paper bag contained large and small tomatoes, cucumbers, red peppers, three eggs and leftover chicken legs for his mother; a brown sugar cake and a penny for himself.

He pulls himself together now; puts all thought of Gertrude, and thoughts of this rich, brown-skin woman’s plight, out of his mind; and recaptures the dignity of being a Constable in the Constabulary of the Island of Bimshire Police Force.

He must not let this woman’s personal appeal and her physical attractiveness affect his concentration.

He must not, under the circumstances, let her soften his duty to conclude his preliminary Statement; nor, considering the act in question, have her ruffle his thoughts on Gertrude.

He is once more a Constable in the Constabulary.

So, he straightens his shoulders and sits erect in the straight-backed tub-chair.

She does the same thing with her posture, in her chair, and smiles with him.

She looks very beautiful to him, at this moment. Tempting as his grandmother told him she was, as a little girl.
“Many a man’ heart skip a beat after that Tilda, before she even reach her teens. Any man would want to ravish Tilda’s beauty and virginity. But she save everything for Bellfeels.
”

“. . . And the nights Mr. Bellfeels came over, I remember how Wilberforce, then in Third Form, beginning to take Latin and Greek, the boy was so happy to hear his father play those lovely old tunes. In foxtrot time, mainly. And ‘Ole Liza Jane.’ ‘Carry Me Back to Ole Virginny.’ And the one that Wilberforce liked best, ‘Banjo on My Knee.’

“You shouldda seen the three of us! Father. Mother. And child. And then, Wilberforce and me! Jumping-round on the carpets in this front-house! Skinning our teet, and imitating the rhythms of dancing like if we were Amurcan Negroes. Doing a jig.

“Years later, Wilberforce who had-spend time in France and Germany and Rome-Italy, was now at Oxford and the Imperial College, in Tropical Medicines, studying to be a doctor, learning about malarias and sleeping sickness, from-where he would write letters to me, usually once a week, though they didn’t reach these shores till months later, sometimes, specially during the War; nevertheless, in two letters, in two consecutive weeks, flashing-back to those nights when Mr. Bellfeels play ‘Ole Black Joe’ on the Steinway, Wilberforce tell me in the two letters . . . and these are his own words . . .
‘We carried on like slaves
’—Wilberforce exact words—
’like slaves on a plantation, we put on that pantomine to entertain that man, and were ignorant, and did not know the ironies in our behaviour.’

“Wilberforce loves the dirt his father walk on. That much you must know. But, for me to see and to hear the chastisement in the tone of his words . . .

“Since those letters arrive, this Steinway never had its lid lifted again after those words of reproach.

“It hurt my heart to know what betrayal of life we lived without knowing it! And had to live!

“Those evenings, Mr. Bellfeels would throw in a waltz; and a piece of the Classics, now and then. But he played ‘Banjo on My Knee’ every Saturday night. And ‘Ole Black Joe.’

“Yes. Those Saturday nights were nights of Amurcan Negro songs, mainly. And even if I was in my vexatious moods, I still learn a lot from listening. Both in this Great House where he put me in, as the mother of his three thrildren, to live, even although only one of the thrildren survived past childbirth, and when I worked in the Main House. Yes, William Henry, named after two kings. Decease soon after birth. Rachelle Sarah Prudence, named after English ladies-in-waiting. Decease likewise, following birth. And Wilberforce. The living boy. Wilberforce Darnley Alexander Randall Bellfeels. W. D. A. R. Bellfeels,
M.D
., Doctor of Tropical Medicines, as Revern Dowd like to address him. Yes.

“I mothered Mr. Bellfeels outside-thrildren, and for that he put me in this Great House, and he gave them the name of Bellfeels, even to William Henry and Rachelle Sarah Prudence, before they dead.

“That is something in his favour, I suppose.

“Mr. Bellfeels never-even suggest I use his surname, to mean whatever the use of that name mean, in these circumstances. But I know what it could mean. I also know that behind my back, the Villagers call me Miss Bellfeels the Outside-woman. Gertrude told me. I forced it out of her. But praise God, he make my three thrildren, two dead and one still in the quick, legitimate and respectable citizens of Bimshire, bearing the name of Bellfeels. The name Bellfeels, for all the badness it conjure up, and mean to me personally; and the reputation it have in Flagstaff Village, is . . ..Well . . .

“On Sundays, when the sun cool-off a bit, you could find me in the Church Yard, looking down at the two slabs of white marble covering the graves of my two thrildren who passed-way.”

William Henry Bellfeels, R.I.P. Rachelle Sarah Prudence, R.I.P.

“One Sunday evening, near seven o’ clock, just before Eveningsong-and-Service is to begin, I see the back of this man, in the Church Yard, bending down looking at the same two white marble slabs. Him. Mr. Bellfeels! Years ago that happened.

“Write-this-down in your black notebook, what I was saying, before I got sidetracked by talking about my three thrildren . . . Yes. Write-this-down . . .”

She looks up from her lap, and sees that the Constable’s eyes are closed; and she stops talking for a moment, waiting to see if he will stir from his slumber; but his eyes remain closed; and his breathing is a bit loud; and she concludes with some resignation that he is asleep. The night is long. It moves at a slow pace. The night takes on the desultory pace of her words and of her recollections. Realizing he is fast asleep, she continues talking, nevertheless.

“Serving at Mr. Bellfeels table, my first elevation from out the fields, when I was a more younger woman, and was only bearing his weight on my belly, every Saturday night, regardless to whether I was having my menses, or not . . . Yes!

“That low-class bastard! Pardon my French, Constable, although you fast-asleep.

“Yes. I remember ‘The Blue Danube.’ And all those foxtrots he would play. People in those days used to dance so formal and lovely, wearing long dresses, with the men in long swizzle-tail coats, looking like undertakers and penguins. But the elegance! In those days! The
ironies
of elegance! And at the Crane Beach Hotel where the really rich, the really white people, went; or at the Marine Hotel down in Hastings District, where the lower-class Plantation-people who were really not white, went. The Marine Hotel was the class to which Mr. Bellfeels belong, by birthright. To the red-nigger Marine Hotel crowd, down in Hastings.

“But you should have seen the tribes of them dancing! Those were the days! I wish those days would come back, for the sake of my son Wilberforce, who is approaching the age for marrieding. Is time he find a woman to spend his life with. Yes. For Wilberforce sake, and for the sake of the art of dancing, I wish those days would return-back.

“In those days, the men of this Island
knew
how to dance! The Aquatic Club on Bay Street, down in Town, was another popular place. In those days, a person even with a complexion such as mine, ‘a brown-skin bitch,’ as I happen to know is what Gertrude calls me, not even a brown-skin bitch like me, could get-past that iron gate. Unless I was working there, as a servant. And at that, they had a entrance for servants, with a hand-painted sign, saying SERVANTS ONLY. Yes.”

The Constable opens his eyes, looks around, convinces himself that he did not actually fall-off to sleep; and becomes alert, fiddling with his black notebook. She watches him; and smiles.

“Now, Wilberforce, being of a even more lighter complexion than me, don’t have that trouble. You see what I mean? Yes. The Aquatic Club. The place where the best dancing was danced to the best music. The Percy Greene Orchestra, plus the Coa Alleyne Orchestra. Big bands, boy! Led by two black musicianers from right here in Bimshire. Two of the
best
! In the whole Wessindies! Nor only in Bimshire.

“Did you know that the Percy Greene Orchestra played once for Majesty? Yes.

“Yes! The King, George-the-Fiff, was in the Island once . . . he wasn’t really King then, he was the Prince o’ Wales, to later become King . . . and they held a dance, a Ball, what am I saying? A Ball. At the Aquatic Club. Proper; and decent, for His Majesty, George-the-Fiff. I know all this because Ma who—God rest her soul—was now promoted from weeding in the North Field, to a position within the kitchen staffs of the Plantation Main House, having a more higher status and position, as a consequence, but getting the same field-hand wage; and the Bookkeeper at the time, none other than Mr. Bellfeels, was appointed Chairman of the Royal Ball, by the Social Events Committee of the Marine Hotel, to be stage manager of the Ball held at the Aquatic Club, plus being in charge of making arrangements for transportation in private cars and hiring hired cars from Johnson’s Stables; for making the banners and screamers, streamers; and buntings; for blowing up the red-white-and-blue balloons; for making-sure that the ballroom floor was waxed, and shining like dogs stones—as the saying goes—and slippery as ice; and just as treacherous; so that if a man step-off, and didn’t hold his balance, like Harry-on-the-ice, moving his body in time to the rhythm of some of the slowest pieces of waltz-music that the Percy Greene Orchestra would play; if that man wasn’t
good!
and didn’t have perfect balance, nor a knowledge of waltzes, how to move his body in time to the rhythm, how to make his footwork move in and out to the intricate movements, he was in
bare
trouble! A man wasn’t a man unless he could dance on that Aquatic Club floor, wax to a vexatious perfection! If he moved the
wrong
way, or turned too fast on that floor, wax like a sheet of ice,
brugguh-down!
Flat on his arse. In full view of the invited couples, and the eyes of the staffs looking-on through the glass hole in the swing-door leading to the kitchen.

“So, Mr. Bellfeels axe Ma to help-out that night, with the serving of the sangwiches and the eats and the drinks. Ma, and the other staffs of the Plantation, plus the servants of the rich white people; people like the two leading barsters-at-Law in the Island; the Solicitor-General; the doctors and business people; the Vicar, Revern Dowd; the manager-owner of Cave Shepherd & Sons, Haberdasheries down in Town, all of them-so contributed their personal staffs to the loyal service of the Royal Ball in honour and by Appointment to the King, George-the-Fiff. Ma and all of them were dressed in servant uniforms, black; with white aprons, white caps, starch-and-ironed; and hard-hard-hard like deal board. Black stockings and black leather shoes. Yes!