Song Page 11

  Jingy didn’t looked pleased when Song walked through the door. ‘Where you been so long ?’

  ‘Just looking around,’ Song said.

  ‘You be careful just looking around,’ Jingy said. ‘Never know what can find you first. What d’you make of the place then ?’

  ‘I like it. I like it a lot.’

  ‘Good. There’s a lot of bad things said about Bartica but it ain’t all that way. There’s a lot of deep down kindness. Everyone looking out for everyone else. Until someone breaks the chain. Not breaking the chain, that’s the thing.’

  Song thought he understood. He wanted to be part of Bartica, looking out for everyone else, everyone else looking out for him. He wanted to believe what Jingy said.

  She started to take off her apron. ‘We goin’ catchin’ crabs now. You ready ? I’m going to take a roundabout way to the river so I can introduce you to a few people.’

  As they stepped out, Jingy raised her hand and waved at a man on the other side of the street. ‘That there is Don of Golden Don’s,’ she said. ‘Gold merchant, obviously. Not to be trusted but he won’t do folks like us any harm. Ah, but here’s one you can trust, at least with your dirty clothes. Afternoon, Mr Chow.’

  The man was small, both short and slight, in fact not much taller than Song. He nodded towards Song. ‘Afternoon. And who’s this ?’

  ‘Song,’ she said. ‘Boy that came with Father Holmes.’

  ‘You’re a lucky boy. You got the best washerwoman in town, you know that ? No gossip and doesn’t leave a shadow of a stain. Too good for me. I’ve been offering her a job as long as I can remember but the lady thinks she’s too good for this here ’stablishment. And she’d be right.’

  Jingy smiled. ‘Quit that.’

  ‘Mr Chow runs the best laundry in town,’ Jingy said, after they passed. ‘And that there is Louis’. Town’s main storekeeper.’

  Song stared at the brute of a man by the doorway. ‘Is that Louis ?’

  Jingy laughed. ‘Louis is smaller than me. That’s Bronco.’

  ‘What does he do ?’

  ‘Helps look after the store.’

  Song looked at the scars on Bronco’s face. The left side of his mouth had been split at one time and hung lower than the right. ‘Is he a fighter ?’

  Jingy tsk-ed. ‘Nothing exciting about fighting if he was.’

  A few doors down was a colourful shack painted sky-blue with yellow window frames and a pink sign which read ‘Josie’s’. The door and windows were wide open. Inside Song saw two young girls slopping the floor clean with mops and buckets of soapy water. He recognised one as the girl with the puppy that had stuck out her tongue at him. They both waved at Jingy.

  ‘Hi Maia, hi Clio,’ Jingy called. She lowered her voice. ‘Rough bar. Josie’s had it hard. Banged about all her life. She’s done well to bring up three sweet girls alone. Poor mites. They don’t stand much chance in life. It’s hard to change the stripes of your family. You be friendly to them. They live only one down from us.’

  Song thought of his own family. And how he had left them for a chance in life. ‘Every boy should travel,’ Zhu Wei had said. ‘Go and see new places. See the world.’

  Jingy interrupted his thoughts. ‘You watch and do what I tell you,’ she said. They had arrived at the edge of the river.

  Song watched in amazement as the wiry old woman clambered down the side of the dock. She wedged the bony fingers of one hand into the niches between the wooden planks while with the other she snatched at crabs with a long net. Some got away, scuttling out of reach or falling into the water with a splash. Jingy swore blue each time she lost one.

  Once she had one netted, it snapped and twisted, trying to untangle itself from the mesh. Jingy scooped the net upwards, passing the handle towards Song who, in turn, tried to flip the crab out into the basket.

  ‘Use your hands,’ Jingy shouted, as she watched Song banging the net against the side of the basket. ‘It won’t come out that way. And crabs with headaches don’t taste good.’

  Song obeyed, and yelped as the creature’s snapping claws drew blood. He sucked the nicks on his hands.

  Jingy laughed. ‘You’ll learn. Catch it on its back where it’s smooth. Behind the eyes.’

  Song tried again but another claw caught him.

  Jingy laughed again. She had caught half a dozen females before the hour was out, throwing the males into the water in disgust. ‘Make sure you get them with that triangle,’ Jingy said, pointing at their soft underbellies. ‘You don’t want the males. Flesh’s not so sweet and no eggs neither.’

  They walked home with a full basket of six large crabs, each deep violet in colour. Song kept tapping at them with a stick as they tried to clamber out.

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ Jingy said. ‘Let them be. One climbs up, another pulls it down. Crabs don’t like other crabs getting up. Bit like folk. Gotta fight your way up against everyone.’

  That night Father Holmes and Song ate crab backs for supper. ‘Lovely,’ Father Holmes said. ‘Good job out there.’

  ‘Jingy caught most of them. She’s so quick.’ Song lowered his voice. ‘How old is she, Father ?’

  ‘You can’t ask that, Song,’ Father Holmes said. ‘It’s not polite.’

  Jingy carried in a plate of pine tarts. ‘Two hundred and thirtyseven.’

  Song blushed.

  ‘Serious,’ she said. ‘Oldest washerwoman in town but with the softest hands.’ She put down the plate and spread out her pink palms for them to see. ‘Only one sure thing you’ll die with is your body. Got to look after it. Warm coconut oil every night.’ She rubbed her hands together.

  Before they’d finished dinner, two men had arrived at the house.

  ‘Good timing, gentlemen,’ Father Holmes said. ‘We’re just finishing up. Song, this is the police chief, Tom Jameson, and Mr Edward Hoare, who works at the taxes and weights office.’

  Song looked at the two men. Tom was too slight to be convincing as the PC and his white uniform was a size too big, which shrunk him even more. He smiled a warm lopsided smile out of one corner of his mouth.

  Edward Hoare was in better proportion except for his ears, which stuck straight out of the side of his head. His hair was slightly too long, perhaps to disguise the imperfection. He was wearing brown slacks and a cream shirt with the initials E.F.H. sewn on the breast pocket.

  ‘Good evening,’ Song said, rather overawed by the station of the two men.

  ‘Bring us some crab backs out to the front porch, will you, Song ?’

  Song carried some plates to the three men, who had already arranged themselves on the porch and begun their conversation. Song retired back into the house but didn’t go far. He wanted to listen in and find out more about the ins and outs of Bartica life.

  ‘Gave up on this district long ago,’ Tom sighed. ‘Haven’t given up on God, but gave up on Bartica a long time since. I’m afraid to say it straight, but this city’s wasting your time, Father.’

  ‘It’s a city like this that needs me most,’ Father Holmes said.

  ‘He’s right, Tom,’ Edward said. ‘It might be bad for a policeman but it’s not the same for a vicar. And there’s a kindness here you won’t find in many places in the world.’

  ‘Kindness ? Are you kidding ?’ Tom said. ‘Listen to me, Father. I know this town better than most. There might be only two hundred people living here officially but there’s about five thousand passing through. We got thirty-nine licensed drinking stations. That’s licensed mind you, imagine the real number. There’s fifty brothels at least, and rum shops, bottle shops, late-night music halls, gambling houses, liquor windows. Liquor’s cheaper than rainwater.’

  ‘There’s no point me working among a town of angels,’ Father Holmes said. ‘My door is open to anyone willing to walk through it.’

  ‘Too busy whoring and gambling and killing to walk through your door,’ Tom said. ‘I’m being straight with you, Father. This town don’t need a man
like you and it don’t need a man like me neither. That’s the truth. Bartica takes care of its own troubles. Revenge. That’s the law. Bobbing up and down in the river the next day, carved across the throat.’

  Song remembered how people said that of the Pearl River, too. Perhaps it was true of all rivers.

  ‘This man deals too much with murder, Father,’ Edward said. ‘It’s eating him up from the inside.’

  ‘The job can’t be easy, Tom—’

  ‘Just hate to see you wasting your time, that’s all I’m saying. So many good folk out there. Who knows why they sent you here.’

  ‘I asked to be moved here.’

  The police chief whistled. ‘Must be a man of God. No gentleman would come here of his own accord. Not who didn’t have killing in their blood already. Some say it’s the worst posting of anywhere. In the whole world.’

  Perhaps Tom Jameson hadn’t seen life on a boat, Song thought. He knew about men with killing in their blood. On the Dartmouth, just before the end of the voyage. Killed playing cards after months of scraping by. A quick knife in the chest and it’s all over. Could it be as bad as that in Bartica?

  ‘I’m here,’ Edward said. ‘Of my own accord.’

  Edward’s words made Song feel better. Another one of the surprising folk who made up this town, he thought. Edward Hoare wasn’t a big man, nor a strong man, but he was clearly unafraid.

  ‘That you are,’ Tom said. ‘And there are some things in life with no rhyme and no reason. You’re one of them, Edward.’

  There was a laidback looseness to the conversation between the three men, and Song wished he could join them eating crab backs in the evening cool. Perhaps in a few years, he’d be allowed to sit there rocking on the porch, talking back and forth like they were. Father Holmes asking him his thoughts, all of them sharing news of their day.

  ‘You’re here too, Tom,’ Father Holmes said. ‘Why are you still here ? It sounds like you’ve done your time. You could get a transfer if you wanted.’

  ‘You’re right, Father. I’m ashamed to say I’m another one who can’t explain their choices in life. I just can’t imagine myself anywhere else now. Seven years. Seven years and it’s worse than when I started. What does that say about the effectiveness of this police chief ?’

  ‘And the DC ?’

  ‘Nobody sees much of William Wright,’ Edward said. ‘He’s a nice enough man but keeps himself to himself. He must be counting the days. He hates it here.’

  ‘Waste of a salary, between you and me,’ Tom added.

  Jingy approached, and jumped when she spotted Song in the shadows.

  ‘What you doing ?’

  ‘Just listening,’ Song said.

  ‘You be careful just listenin’,’ Jingy said, dropping her voice. ‘Nothing less interesting than some rumour circulating like a roundabout breeze with no sense of direction.’

  ‘They’re just talking—’

  ‘Maybes. Perhaps. Did you hears. Every whisper becomes a half-truth and a town’s no good if it’s built on half-truths,’ Jingy said. ‘It’s time for your bed. You’ve done enough just looking and just listening for one day.’

  Jingy’s voice was firm and Song wasn’t sure if he was going to be punished. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Then Jingy pulled Song to her and hugged him close. ‘You ain’t had much affection, had you ? Squeeze ’em like a lime, my sister used to say. Add enough sugar and they’ll taste sweet.’

  Song felt relieved Jingy wasn’t angry. But he also squirmed in her arms. She let go and pushed Song towards his room.

  ‘You make sure you shut your window, don’t forget. Or the bats’ll come in and suck your blood.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The first Sunday in Bartica was not that different to Sundays in Georgetown. Father Holmes and Song arrived at church several hours before the start of the service. Song ensured the correct numbered hymns were displayed on the board, and placed a hymn and a prayer book at each place.

  The difference was that the congregation here was small. Jingy sat in the front pew in a dress printed with tiny purple flowers and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a matching band of the same material. She pointed out the diminutive figure of Paul Nutt to Song, ‘a weary, lonely, educated man’ who, she told him, taught history and French at the elementary school. There was also Edward Hoare and the district commissioner, William Wright, who Song thought disappointingly ordinary; he would have been tall if he had stood up straight, but he was slightly hunched over and with a distant look in his eyes. Tom Jameson showed up; Song remembered how he’d said that he hadn’t given up on God. Song didn’t know himself if he had taken on God. He wanted to believe what Father Holmes believed to please him. But the idea of a single man being the son of God seemed too strange, too far-fetched. He preferred the idea of praying to his grandparents, his own father, to help him through life.

  Halfway through the service, Short John turned up. He didn’t arrive quietly but knocked into a pew with his big frame, calling out ‘sorry’ to Father Holmes mid-sermon, to apologise both that he was late and loud.

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t tell you, Father,’ Tom said after the service.

  ‘It’s only the first week, Tom,’ Father Holmes replied.

  ‘Hate to tell you this, but the town is still drunk from the night before. Church couldn’t be scheduled on a worse day. Sunday morning after a Saturday night. Whose idea was that ?’

  Father Holmes smiled. ‘The same one who created the world and needed a day of rest.’

  ‘Day of hangover. You might get one or two women down here if they’ve had a slow night. They’ll probably come praying for more business. That’s what’ll be going on in their pretty heads.’

  ‘I’d be glad if they came, no matter the reason,’ Father Holmes said. ‘This town’s getting you down, Tom. Perhaps you need some help at the station.’

  Short John turned to Song and said in a lowered voice. ‘What do you think, Song ? I think he needs a woman.’

  Song allowed himself a smile. Short John made him feel like he was a man already. Song nodded. ‘I think he does.’

  Song looked down at his cold scrambled eggs.

  ‘You finish that,’ Jingy said. ‘You ain’t leaving till it’s all eaten. Nobody can think without food in his belly.’

  Song’s stomach was knotted. He rushed down the last few mouthfuls.

  ‘You go and see Father Holmes when you’re done,’ she called out from the kitchen.

  Song passed into the hall and glanced in the mirror. The knot in his tie was not sitting flat. He pressed it down, then licked his palm and parted his hair before he walked into the study.

  ‘You look fine,’ Father Holmes said. ‘Nervous ?’

  Song shook his head.

  ‘I have something for you.’ Father Holmes opened a drawer and took out a fountain pen. He held it out. ‘It’s a serious matter, a first day of school.’

  Song took it in his fingers. It was heavy, with a gold band around its middle. He gently removed the lid. The nib was fine like a needle. He felt a rush of gratitude, not only for this but for everything Father Holmes had given him. He managed a ‘thank you,’ but his voice broke as he spoke.

  Song felt Father Holmes’ hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t have to, but would you like me to walk with you ?’

  ‘That’s okay. I know how to find it.’

  St Peter’s was on the miners’ road leading out of town. It wasn’t a long walk but Song ran all the way; as he did, he beamed, and found himself shouting out loud: ‘I’m going to school, I’m going to school, look at me, a plantation boy, a houseboy, going to school.’

  He arrived early, so early that nobody else was there. The building was painted yellow with dark brown window frames and fretting along the eaves. Above the main entrance, painted in white, was a sign that read: St Peter’s Elementary, Middle and Secondary School.

  Song waited nearby in the shade of a rain tree until other children had arrived befor
e he walked through the gate and into the grounds. His heart was racing. Many of the other children seemed to know each other; Song kept to himself until a teacher assigned him to the class of Mr Nutt, who Song already knew from church. ‘Classroom M for Middle,’ the teacher said. Song passed E and S, peering through the doors at the students sitting in rows and waiting patiently for lessons to begin, before entering his own classroom.

  He took a seat beside a boy with a mass of black tangled hair – the kind Jingy would have warned was full of fleas – and a crooked mouth which made him look friendly. His uniform was clean but too small for him.

  ‘So you’re that vicar’s boy ?’

  Song nodded. He had started to feel itchy.

  ‘I’m Cecil Pereira. My ma owns Ruthie’s Best Roti Hut. What’s your name ?’

  ‘I know that place. I’m Song.’

  ‘Song what ?’

  Song surprised himself with his answer. ‘Song Holmes,’ he said. It felt good to say it out loud.

  Cecil nodded in approval. ‘Do you know Mr Nutt’s first name ?’

  ‘Isn’t it Paul ?’

  ‘Paul. Paul Nutt. P. Nutt. Peanut.’ Cecil grinned. ‘Get it ?’

  Song smiled back at him.

  Mr Nutt walked into the room and the children fell silent.

  ‘Open your books, please,’ he said. ‘First page. Everyone read on your own. Look up when you’ve finished up to the end of the chapter so I know when you’re all at the same point. Start now.’

  Song took his index finger and followed the words on the page, line after line, left to right, as quickly as he could. He could barely contain his excitement for where he was and what he was doing. When he read the last word on that first page, he quickly looked up at Mr Nutt. Nobody else had yet done the same.

  At break time Song sat on the wall and watched the boys play cricket. The bowler delivered a fast ball, and the batsman defended it. Cecil Pereira was wicket-keeping. As Song studied the game, a girl suddenly appeared before him who he recognised as Maia from Josie’s bar.

  ‘Hello. You’re the boy at the vicarage. Why aren’t you playing cricket ?’