The Polished Hoe (65 page)

“The smells of early morning in Crop-Season!

“I grew up to like the Plantation Main House. And though time have passed, with no change of heart on my part, it is still something I feel so shamed about.

“I can hardly raise my head in certain circumstances, as I contemplate my transformation . . .

“The lights were on in every room.

“I knew from experience, they had come to the end of their Sunday supper. I-myself, over the years, cooked and served those Sunday-night meals. And before my time, Ma. Yes.

“I knew what they would be eating.

“Mash potatoes imported from Englund. And when, because of the War, English potatoes was scarce, we got our English potatoes from Prince Edward Island up in Canada, on the East Coast. I used to take so much pleasure watching Mr. Bellfeels eat mash potatoes. Table manners is the only thing he retain from the training he must have had at his father table. Mr. Bellfeels-Senior was a white man from Englund. A Englishman. But to see Mr. Bellfeels-this-one, with fork pointing down to the plate; and not moving a inch from where it is placed. Knife in right hand. Knife moving into the rich, white landscape of the mash potatoes shining from the Australian butter that I basted them with; and then to be pasted on to his fork; now knife rested on the side of the plate. Back straight. White damask napkin placed on the table. And the food lifted to his mouth. And the mouth covering the fork, and the jaws moving slow-slow, as if Mr. Bellfeels had-memorize the number of chews Mr. Bellfeels-Senior had instructed him to chew his food. It was a sight! Yes.

“English mash potatoes, green pigeon-peas and a piece o’ roast pork. The two girl-thrildren, Miss Euralie and Miss Emonie, would be served carrots instead of sweet potatoes. After the main course, which Mr. Bellfeels would have three servings of, his appetite was always without limits, and big in all manner of ways, he would walk out to the verandah, and stretch out in the Berbice chairs. It would take two to commodate his bulk, magnified now by the amount of bittle that he had-eaten. Two Berbice chairs. One chair to commodate his two feet in; and the other for his bloated body to squeeze-in. And beside him, on the concrete of the verandah floor covered in straw mats, or spread-over with a tarpaulin, if it was the rainy season, his bottle of overproof white rum which he bottles himself on the Plantation. Bellfeels Special Stades White Rum.

“And with the radio on. To the
BBC
. The radio would be playing Church services from Sin-Martins-in-the-Fields, up in Englund. Or the Choirs of Westminister Abbey. Or some other place in the Commawealth. But preferably, a Church service. From Englund. Eveningsong-and-Service.

“And he would doze-off a minute after dropping his weight in the two Berbice chairs, plunked in a heap of flesh, from the food and from his gluttony.

“And in no time, the rest of the Main House, including the verandah, would be in darkness.

“Mistress Bellfeels, the wife, have to have her sponge bath and wash her face-and-hands before the
BBC
programme
Calling the Wessindies
start, at nine o’ clock; and she have to make herself look nice and smell sweet for that bastard—pardon my French— dozing in the two Berbice chairs; and yes, he would remain in the Berbice chairs, dozing-off with the glass in his hand, and start one snoring like a water buffalo till the wife ring the bell to summonse-him-in. It is the same bell that the servants ring to call the family to meals. Sunday after Sunday, and for years, I ring that same bell. This time, though, it was like a gong to raise him from the dead. Yes.

“But, this evening earlier, I pause for a moment, remembering; picturing things that I am seeing in front of me that come to me all of a sudden, without rhyme or reason. With ironies, ironical things. And I found myself surveying the whole place, the circular driveway of white marl and loose gravel; and the path-walk to the front door; and the verandah on three sides of the Main House. And in the darkness, I am just barely able to make out images . . .

“Mainly the greenness on a dark night like tonight turning into a deeper green like the sea round this Island; and the sheds and pens for the animals, the stables—no horses in sight—donkeys and mules sleeping; and even the bloodhounds, those Alsatian brutes and Doberman-Pincers, beasts that Mr. Bellfeels keeps, were covered in this blackness of night. Everything is quiet. And in my hand is my hoe. My polished hoe. The blade shining even in the dark. Yes.

“My only fear was not the fear of what my intention was. Twas not the fear of being alone in this big place, with the circular driveway and the front yard as big as the Pasture where the Flagstaff First Eleven plays cricket. Nor because of those three vicious Alsatian dogs and the two Doberman-Pincers, now come awake. The brute-beasts. Those dogs didn’t make a whisper. After all, those dogs was part of
my
family, too. Those dogs know me. But they are still vicious bastards. Guard dogs.

“And I stand up there, between two croton trees, in the darkness, not ten yards from him. Watching him. Looking at Mr. Bellfeels as he light the first cigar. The strength and the smell came at me. Powerful. And nearly knocked me out. I sneeze; and barely covered my nose in time. Mr. Bellfeels cigar smoke burn my nose, as it used to burn my nose during his conjugal visits, when he still pined after me.” . . . That Sunday afternoon, after Church, in the Church Yard, comes into her mind . . . and the leather riding-crop is travelling down her body, as it has just lifted, barely touched, the cotton dress at its hem; and raised it . . . Never, in all the time that has passed since she left her house and walked up the road has she dismissed reason.

“His head was turned from me, when I walked slowly up to the two chairs, his favourite Berbice chairs; and he was looking out towards the sea, in the direction of the Crane Beach Hotel, from the lofty rise of the land, where I-myself had sat when I was nursemaid to his two daughters, when I played with those two girls, Miss Euralie and Miss Emonie, when I was regarded as part of the family, as workers on the Plantation sometimes are . . . yes! . . . he was looking out to sea.

“He could see the tops of trees, and the very top of a sail of a yacht from the Aquatic Club, gliding back to port; and the sea, the sea, a wide unmoving—from his distance—sheet of peacefulness. That is the moment I struck him in the head with the handle of my hoe. And he lay harmless at my feet. He was wearing his khaki jodhpurs, starch-and-ironed; and instead of his.Wellington riding boots, he was wearing English felt slippers, lined in a white fluffy fur; and Scottish plaid socks.

“I held the hoe by the blade, and passed the handle over his khaki jodhpurs, intending to unbutton each of the five buttons of his fly; but I soon realized this was madness to try to open the five metal buttons, so . . . I would have to touch his fly, and touch him with my hands . . .

“He stirred once. And I panicked.

“But it was just a spasm, a stirring in the sleep that sometimes comes over a person’s body. Holding the handle, I moved the fly back. And exposed his white homemade sliders, his underwears. They were of cotton. Sea-island Cotton. And starch-and-ironed.

“Ma used to wash them, years ago . . .

“The dogs of the Plantation had come up to me, and kissed me; and one jumped on my body, and seemed to want to embrace me. They walked around, keeping me company, and greeting me; and it was at this point that he strained his eyes, in the blackness of the night, at the disturbance caused by the dogs in greeting me, to see if he could make out the intruder. And he must have guessed who it was, for the night where he was on the verandah was not too black that he could not see.

“‘
May? That you, May-girl
?’ he asked in a weak voice that no one inside the house could hear. This was before I struck him the first blow. ‘
What you doing here, at this hour? You want some—?’

“It was too late for him to complete his question.”

Sargeant is not writing down any of this. It is too much for him. He sits on the bed, still at the foot, with his notebook in his hand, with his index finger of his left hand between the pages of the book.

“It was easier than I thought, getting his instrument out of his fly,” she says. “It barely heng enough, in its limber state, outside his fly, it was so small . . .

“. . . But I knew it for many years. It was now the colour of liver left too long off the icebox, looking as if it was ‘tetched,’ as Ma called spoiled meat; and it was the same ugliness, with the circumcised head in the shape of half of a beach almond; yes, and having that colour too of the beach almond when it is dried.” . . . She closed her eyes, measuring the distance of his fly and the size of the opening and the length of the handle of the hoe; she closed her eyes, and delivered the first swing. A noise came from him. And two seconds passed—her eyes were now open—before the blood came spurting from his instrument. Time was against her now. The head was still left. And again, with her eyes closed, but knowing where the head was, she swung the hoe a second time, and a third, and a fourth . . . countless in her madness. This was the easier act . . . and it was very bloody, like a spoiled slaughtering . . . “One last blow. And more blood came. I panicked now. The dogs came closer to their master, lying on the floor of the verandah; and they began to smell his body, and lick his face, until they reached the blood pumping out from his severed instrument; and when they reached this part, they moaned; and I panicked again.

“And immediately, I regretted I had done it. And wished it was a dream. And I had dreamed about this so many nights in such graphic detail that I might very.Well have imagined I killed him; or that the dream had been so graphic, and so much like wishful thinking, that on waking from the dream, I did not have to carry out my intention that the dream had, by itself, already satisfied.

“I panicked. And fled. Dragging the hoe behind me. And thinking that I had gone mad.

“It was not murder. It was a sacrifice. And did not demand motive. Motive was born on that bright Sunday morning, in a Church Yard. Motive was the continuation of events through years of carrying the wishbone tucked into my cotton petticoat, in my cotton bloomers, in my blue school uniform, taken from the body of a pullet killed by a lorry carrying sugar cane to the Factory; carrying the wishbone through all these Easter Monday bank holidays, through all these interludes in the canes of the North Field, beginning with the Sunday after Matins, in the Church Yard, when for years I knew by heart the Collect that was read; and now, I can no longer remember a word of it to save my soul; or where in the Bible it comes from.

“But wait! It is coming back, in a whiff of its first reading by Revern Dowd: ‘
. . . and that through the grave, and gate of death, we may pass to our everlasting resurrection . . .’”

Sargeant closes his notebook.

“Please stay, Percy,” Mary-Mathilda says. “Stay with me till you get the end of my Statement. Please.”

“I will stay to the end.”

“The Collect for that Sunday . . . I will remember it better now, like The Lord’s Prayer. It will be my prayer for forgiveness, and I hope you will understand.”

The Plantation bell has just banged two times, to herald the start of a new, long day of toil, and labour in the broiling fields, just as the short-lived storm has come to its end. They can hear the bell over the fading roar of the thunder which roams throughout the tenantries of the Plantation.

“Clean and pure,” she says.

“What?” he says.

“The morning . . . I am ready, now, Percy. Take me, please.”

They hear Gertrude moving about in the large house; and they pick up the sound of her bare feet going down the steps; and Mary-Mathilda Paul opens the bedroom door and leads Percy down the stairs to the kitchen.

Going down, he counts thirteen soft, carpeted safe steps, watches the way her body descends, and he smells the fragrance of her perfume that lingers.

Austin Clarke
is the winner of the 2002 Giller Prize, the 2003 Commonwealth Writers Prize, and the 16th Annual Trillium Prize for
The Polished Hoe
. He is also the winner of the 1999 W.O. Mitchell Prize, awarded each year to a Canadian writer who has produced an outstanding body of work and served as a mentor for other writers. Clarke, who lives in Toronto, is the author of nine novels and six short-story collections, including
Choosing His Coffin: The Best Stories of Austin Clarke
.