Song Page 10

  Fowl Man was right. It took two full days to reach Bartica. Father Holmes and Song passed much of the time bird-spotting.

  ‘A rufescent tiger heron, no ?’ Father Holmes said.

  Song nodded and made a note in their book.

  ‘Ah, it’s good to be on the move,’ Father Holmes continued.

  Song wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Or is it not ?’ Father Holmes said. He must have detected Song’s hesitation.

  ‘Yes,’ Song said. ‘But I liked the vicarage in Georgetown, too.’

  ‘You’ll like this vicarage even more,’ Father Holmes said. ‘Bartica’s fascinating. Not so polished as Georgetown, but that makes for a more interesting place to call home.’

  Song watched the water splash over the rim of the boat, but it didn’t rock, instead gliding steadily through the rough water.

  ‘Actually Song, I don’t know Bartica myself. That’s only hearsay. But what makes this an adventure is that neither of us do. We’ll discover it together. It won’t be you joining me in my home but us making a home together.’

  Song thought hard about that idea: us making a home together. The words sounded sweet. ‘I like the idea of that,’ Song said, ‘but how do we do it ? How do we make a home ?’

  ‘We just live, Song. It’s the easiest thing in the world. We just live out our lives, make friends, get to know the place, dream up new adventures. That makes for a home.’

  Fowl Man might have been right about the duration of the crossing, but Amalia was wrong; it was nothing like an ocean crossing. They hadn’t come close to capsizing, or falling foul in any way. When the opposite bank came into sight, the oarsman turned to Song and pointed. ‘Bartica.’ He spat out the word like chewed tobacco. ‘For dreamers.’

  ‘Not just for dreamers,’ Fowl Man contradicted him. He winked at Song. ‘There are real dreams there, too.’

  Song studied the bank of mangroves. Even as they neared he could not see much of a town. There were three or four whitewashed houses with tended gardens rolling down to the river. A dozen men sat on the jetty, some playing dominoes, two with a fishing rod. He noticed another had a line looped around his big toe. He lazed back on his elbows and tipped a brown-glassed bottle to his lips. Song was fascinated at how the man might catch something with so little effort; he knew Amalia wouldn’t approve – ‘I know that type, drinking in the day, nothing to show for it’, she’d say – even if the man had gotten a tug and a fish.

  Fowl Man threw a rope and it landed on the planks of the jetty. One of the men sauntered up to it and stood on the frayed end. Another fended off the boat.

  The man on the dock was grinning. He had three gold teeth. ‘Welcome to Bartica.’

  ‘City of gold,’ another said, wiping his wet hands on his cut-offs.

  ‘Enough of all your welcome talk nonsense,’ Fowl Man said. ‘Where’s the damn cart I ordered ?’

  ‘Take it easy, man,’ the man with gold teeth said. ‘Cart’s coming now.’

  ‘And when’s now ?’

  ‘Now’s late.’

  ‘Damn right it’s late. I could have told you that. This here gentleman ain’t waiting around all day for a late cart.’

  ‘Welcome to Bartica, sir,’ another said.

  Fowl Man corrected him. ‘It’s Father. Don’ch you know nothing. Look at his collar. This here is Father Holmes, new vicar in town. Young fella is Song.’

  He turned to Father Holmes and Song. ‘Gentlemen, please meet Joseph and Basil and Dory; they might seem slow in getting things done, but they’ll share their last beer with you.’

  ‘Been a long time since we had a Father around here,’ Joseph said. ‘Need some forgiveness in this town. Low on forgiveness, Bartica.’

  Song listened closely. He’d need to toughen up even more quickly.

  ‘I’m here to help however I can,’ Father Holmes said to Joseph.

  ‘You coming to St Ethelbert’s ?’ Dory asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Father Holmes said. ‘Hope to see you there.’

  The men shrieked with laughter.

  Song felt sorry for Father Holmes. Fowl Man scowled. ‘Let’s have some respect, boys.’

  ‘Know why they call him Fowl Man ?’ Joseph asked Song.

  Song shook his head. ‘Maybe because his laugh sounds like a chicken ?’

  ‘More like sense of humour of a chicken,’ Joseph said. The men fell about laughing again.

  ‘You don’t listen to them, Song,’ Fowl Man said. ‘You more right than them. Father had a chicken farm. I grew up with chickens. I probably do sound like one, come to think of it.’

  Basil slid up to Song and put his arm around the boy. He smelled of shrimp and sweat. ‘See them posts ?’ he asked. ‘That’s wood of the greenheart tree. Strongest wood in the whole world. Been holding up this dock since before Jesus was born.’

  ‘How do you know that ?’ Song asked.

  ‘My father told me,’ Basil said. ‘And his father told him. And his father’s father told him. Right back to Jesus.’

  A cart pulled up at the end of the dock. Joseph smiled his three gold teeth. ‘What did I tell you ?’ Joseph said. ‘Gotta be patient in Bartica, Fowl Man, or your heart gonna stop young. Things take their time around here but they ’ventually get done. Can’t hurry them up. Get to work, boys.’

  The men on the dock raised themselves and began to unload the boxes from the Marie Christine.

  The man with the cart shook hands with Father Holmes. ‘I’m Short John, Father,’ the man said. ‘On account of my height.’ Song smiled. The man was a good head taller than Father Holmes, broad-shouldered and with a thick crop of hair that made him seem even bigger. ‘Welcome to Bartica,’ he said.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Short John.’

  ‘Sorry ’bout running late, especially seeing you’se a Father. Been working all night. I’se a drummer. We be the B Town Troubadours. B Boys everyone calls us. Steel music and smokin’ songs. You’d be welcome any time at Ruby Lou’s. Play there most nights. It might not be the kind of ’stablishment you usually show up in but Bartica’s a colourful kinda place. Like pretty church glass. If you really want to get to know the town come one night to Ruby Lou’s. Rest your head on our music.’

  Song didn’t understand what Short John was talking about but he loved the way his words fizzed. He wanted to go to Ruby Lou’s and hear the smokin’ music. Melodies, he imagined, that could make you feel like you were somewhere else, like Hai’s or Jinda’s stories, or Father Holmes’ books.

  ‘You’ll be welcome anytime at St Ethelbert’s,’ Father Holmes said.

  ‘I might just take you up on that, Father. Been a while since I stepped foot in a church and it wouldn’t do the soul no bad to do so once in a while.’

  Short John turned to Song. ‘And you are ?’

  ‘I’m Song.’

  ‘With a name like that you can join me on stage. I bet you sing like an angel.’

  Song pulled a face. ‘I can’t, but I can whistle.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ Short John said. ‘The best songs don’t have no lyrics. Lyrics just make the world a sad and lonely place.’

  Once the cart was loaded Father Holmes sat up beside Short John and Song squashed himself behind them both. He did not want to miss a word. He loved the way this man spoke so melodically, like the poetry he and Father Holmes read together, but this was even more soulful because it was real life.

  ‘Not an easy town for a man like you, Father, no offence mind,’ Short John said, shaking the reins. ‘Tinkers, traders, two-timers. Loan sharks who like to keep it in the family. Kill you for a tin pot. You’ll get a lot of the brothel women down your way I should imagine. Wailing on your doorstep.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Father Holmes said. ‘My door is open to anyone who wants to walk through it.’

  ‘Nice to hear that, Father. There’s goodness even in the bad folks, but not everyone ’preciates that. Hope. That’s what makes Bartica special. Might be a tough to
wn but it ain’t low on hope. Surprisin’ really. So many people let down so many times. Hard to imagine there’d be any hope left here but they keep on going on hoping. And that’s why they keep on listenin’ to us B Town Troubadours, I reckon. That’s my theory anyways. We dream up songs so sweet no man alive could fail to hope they might at least come part true.’

  Short John turned his head to Song. ‘That’s what I mean about lyrics and songs, boy. You carry on whistling.’

  Song smiled back at the big man he already liked. Short John talked enough for a congregation. Song thought about what he’d said about Bartica: tough but not low on hope. Like Song wanted to be.

  The light was fading as they reached the bungalow beside St Ethelbert’s. Short John pointed at the building. ‘That’s it. That’s your new home.’

  It was a small sleepy-looking building with a crumpled pitched roof. There was a hammock slung across the corner of the broad porch and rocking chairs on either side of the door. A woman came out, skinny and dark like molasses. She wore a white apron over a faded blue dress and her skin sagged in creased folds around her knees.

  ‘Welcome, Father. And you must be Song. I’m Jingy. Now come in and eat. It’s on the table. You can unpack tomorrow. Don’t think about your things tonight. Short John will bring the boxes in. Short John, bring the boxes in. You must both be exhausted. It’s good to have you here finally. Welcome to your new home. We’ve been waiting for you.’

  Home. Song looked around at the dark wooden walls, the white-washed ceilings, the big open windows, and thought with relief, with joy, how this was to be his new home. A place they would discover together, Father Holmes had said, where they could dream up new adventures.

  That next morning after breakfast Song went out to explore his new neighbourhood.

  ‘Don’t go far, Song,’ Father Holmes called out from his study. ‘Be back by the top of the hour.’

  Song set out, noticing first St Ethelbert’s and its cemetery. The church was much smaller than the one in Georgetown. It wouldn’t take him long to sweep the floor or tidy the books in the pews.

  He continued down to the river where there was a row of shops: Golden Don’s; Everlasting Street Stores; Ruthie’s Best Roti Hut; Mickey’s Perishables. There were sacks of rice outside Mickey’s and Song picked up a few grains to chew on. Short John clattered past in his cart.

  ‘You just wakin’ up and I’se goin’ to bed,’ he yelled at Song. ‘Long night playing songs with no lyrics.’

  Song waved back and then crossed the road to another line of shops. Song peered into the darkness of the first. A man looked up. ‘Buying or selling ?’

  ‘Just looking,’ Song said.

  ‘No use to me then,’ he snorted.

  On the back shelf of his shop Song looked at the large glass jars. They were filled with tiny clear stones.

  ‘Diamonds, boy. I’ll tell you something.’ The man beckoned to him and opened his clenched hand. There were a dozen stones in his palm. ‘The eight-sided cut. Light dances like flames. Take one.’

  Diamonds. This is what Song had been looking for. He imagined his sisters’ and brothers’ faces as he might have reached into his pockets to share with them handfuls of these gemstones. They were more beautiful than he could have imagined. Transfixed, Song reached out to touch one, but the man snatched back his hand, laughing. Song blushed, grateful for the darkness in the room.

  ‘No one’s going to give you a diamond, boy, remember that. Don’t come so easily.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to give me one,’ Song said. ‘I’m going to find my own someday.’

  ‘I like that,’ the man said. ‘Then you come and find Old Ivor and I’ll give you a fair price. I’m a gold and diamond merchant, not interested in nothing else. Nothing else worth being interested in.’

  ‘Can I see some gold ?’ Song asked.

  ‘You don’t know much, do you ? Boy who’s never seen gold, heh ?’

  ‘I’ve just arrived from Georgetown. With the new vicar, Father Holmes.’

  ‘A lot to learn then, I’ll say,’ Old Ivor said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled-up swatch of cloth. ‘Always keep gold on me,’ he said. ‘Can’t trust your own brother in a town like this.’

  Old Ivor unpeeled the cloth and Song watched on, hardly breathing. Inside was a misshapen lump of gold. Song was trembling inside.

  ‘This here’s a good-sized nugget. Keeping it on me till the price goes up. Don’t want to keep it on you too long though. Set yourself a price, and sell it as soon as it comes around. Don’t hang on to it for a minute longer. That’s the difference between a good merchant and a bad merchant, being alive or dead.’

  Gold. Finally. Gold and diamonds. This was what Zhu Wei had been speaking about all those years ago. This was the place. Now he had to find a way to put both in his own hands.

  Song looked around Old Ivor’s shop. A set of scales hung from string above the counter with small weights loaded on each dish. There was an open ledger on a table; written inside were long columns of numbers, and there was a sharpened pencil and an eyepiece resting on the page.

  Old Ivor seemed to read Song’s mind. ‘You don’t need much to set up as a merchant,’ he said. ‘That’s the beauty of it. Just need to know when to buy and when to sell.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I can smell the right time.’

  ‘I don’t want to be buying or selling,’ Song said. ‘I want to do the finding.’

  ‘Ah, a pork-knocker, that’s what you’re in the making, and you don’t even know it.’

  Song furrowed his brow.

  ‘Pork-knockers. That’s what we call gold prospectors here. Don’t know why. Funny name come to think of it, must be the diet of salt pork upriver. Anyway, the name’s stuck. They’re a funny lonesome lot. Spend most of their lives in the interior, only coming back once in a while to cash in.

  ‘Where do they go ?’ Song asked.

  ‘Upriver, that’s all,’ Old Ivor said. ‘Can’t be more specific than that. A place for dreamers.’

  ‘I’m going there,’ Song said.

  ‘You do that. You hurry up so you can come back with your diamond or nugget and sell it to me before I peg out. I’m getting on, you know.’

  Song walked back outside into the bright light of the street and thought about the place Old Ivor called ‘upriver’. He wanted to know how to get there. He had come this far, but there was further to go to make good on his promise.

  Song carried on down the street. There was another shop with a sign that read: ‘Old Copper Pence, Moneylender’, followed by a dank rum shop. Heat billowed out from a blacksmith. Clunk-clunk-clunk, hiss. Song watched a glowing rod cool in the inky water. It smelled of tar and ash.

  Stray dogs wandered the streets. One was almost bald and its pink skin was speckled black. A little girl carried a puppy close to her chest. She stuck her tongue out at Song. He smiled, and she pouted.

  There was one very large house with its shutters pinned right back. A woman sat outside on the balustrade. She wore a green dress and her fingernails were painted.

  ‘Hey child, what you doing out of school ?’

  ‘I don’t go to school, ma’am,’ Song said.

  ‘How old are you, not to go to school ?’

  ‘I’m twelve.’

  ‘Then you should be in school. School’s more important than you might think.’

  ‘We only arrived last night.’

  ‘Where d’you arrive from ?’

  ‘From Georgetown.’

  ‘Big city child, huh ? What your father do ?’

  ‘I’m with Father Holmes at St Ethelbert’s.’

  ‘A preacher ?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘If this town don’t need one thing— Say, what you make of this town ?’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘What you like about it ?’

  ‘Short John. And Jingy. Everyone talks a lot. Fowl Man with the chicken laugh. And Joseph’s gold teeth’

>   ‘What’s your name ?’

  ‘Song, ma’am.’

  ‘You sing ?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘That’s not much good then, having a name like Song. You should be a singer. Ever tried ?’

  Song shook his head. ‘But I can whistle.’

  ‘Can’t make a living whistling,’ she said. ‘No lyrics in a whistle. I’m Lady. And this here is Ruby Lou’s. If folk want to hear a song this is where they come. Sweet folk, tired folk, folk ’bout ready to finish up living – they all come here.’

  ‘I know about Ruby Lou’s,’ Song said, pleased with himself. ‘This is where there’s smokin’ music.’

  ‘Smokin’ music, that’s one way of calling it. Burns you up inside all right.’

  Lady started to hum, clicking her fingers, before she opened her mouth to sing.

  ‘Life got you by the throat,

  Life got me by the throat,

  Life got us by the throat,

  And then we all lie down and die.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ Song said. He thought of his own family.

  ‘People don’t want to hear happy songs, you’ll learn that. They want to hear how it’s worse for someone else.’

  ‘I want to hear happy songs.’

  Lady laughed. ‘You’re a bit different, Song. With your pretty name and your pretty ways. You be careful about this town. It ain’t always kind to boys like you.’

  ‘Why’s that ?’

  She lifted her left hand and showed him a ring. ‘Diamonds,’ she said. On her middle finger was a silver band. The clear stones caught the light. ‘They say people drown in that there river for a single stone. I say, pushed more like. Pushed in for diamonds.’

  ‘No one’s going to push me in,’ Song said.

  ‘I believe it.’

  Song walked home a little lighter of step. He liked this town. Coloured with all sorts of folk, living all their different ways. He felt all right here. Like he could call this place home.