Song Page 5

  ‘My father died in a flood. We lost our crop and there was nothing to eat. So I came to find work.’ Song paused. ‘I might go home when I’m rich.’ His voice broke as he spoke.

  ‘You’re a long way from home now.’

  ‘I’m a long way from being rich, too.’

  Jinda laughed again, which gave rise to another fit of coughing.

  Song frowned. ‘Are you all right ?’

  ‘I don’t breathe so well,’ he wheezed. ‘Runs in the family.’

  ‘Listen up.’ There was a booming voice from the end of the building. Song looked up to see the hulking shape of a man against the light.

  ‘I’m Mr Carmichael, the plantation manager, and I’m not interested in anyone who can’t cut cane till their body buckles. There’s work to be done around here. You’re here to get on and do it.’

  He paused and nodded at the man by his side. ‘This here is Mr Nichols, your supervisor.’ Mr Nichols could have been Mr Carmichael’s younger brother. Both men were burly, with thick necks which seemed to melt into their rounded shoulders and slope off down to strong sunburned arms. Their large callused hands looked more like paddles. Song couldn’t deny the pair of them were intimidating. ‘Mr Nichols will be reporting to me on who’s behaving right, and who’s not,’ Mr Carmichael continued. ‘I advise you to choose the right way.’

  Song was aware that most of the kids in the room wouldn’t understand Mr Carmichael’s words. But he knew Jinda had. He looked across at him, and Jinda gave him a knowing smile. Song thought how much braver he was than himself. He didn’t feel much like smiling.

  ‘Not all of you are going to understand what I’m saying,’ Mr Carmichael continued, almost as if he had read Song’s mind. ‘That is no excuse in my book. Anyone that understands, you tell the others. If any of you step out of line, you will all be punished. I worked hard when I was young and you’re going to work hard too. You’ll thank me for that later in life.’

  Song wasn’t worried about hard toil or long days. He knew all about field work. Whether the crop was rice or cane mattered little. But seeing these two men, he knew there wouldn’t be much room for kindness in this place. And he’d do well to remember his father’s words: keep your head down; don’t say too much. Yet he also knew this wasn’t always enough. There were people on the boat who hadn’t drawn attention to themselves, but still failed to make it to the end of the trip.

  The boys filed out of the buildings and were led up to the cane fields. Each was given a machete. ‘You get one of these at the start of every day,’ Mr Nichols spat as he spoke. ‘And you return it at the end. We don’t trust you not to put a blade in each other. So don’t be taking one of these back to camp with you. You hear ?’

  That day Song learned how to cut cane, how to stack it in alternate directions and lift it onto his back. It was harder than rice. By nightfall his arms were aching and his hands rubbed raw, but somehow he felt renewed. On their way back to the camp, he and the others sucked the splintered, frayed ends of chopped cane. It tasted coarse and sweet, and Song’s hands were sticky with the juice. He looked at the other boys, who were all savouring the taste of this crop. The fear hanging in the air had gone, at least for now. With his feet on solid earth, Song had not been this happy for a very long time. The land was sweet like he had been told, exactly as he had hoped.

  In the half-light of morning when the boys awoke the air was still milky-cool. They rose, pulled on their clothing and stumbled out of the door, traipsing along the canals, past the fishing ponds to the cane fields beyond.

  Song liked the freshness of the early hour and the birdsong. His skin felt tight from the previous day’s sun but his limbs were rested and ready.

  Song stayed close to Jinda. He had quickly realised that the boy, with his strained breathing, wasn’t able to work as quickly as he needed to. Mr Nichols made regular visits to check on the boys’ progress, poking their bundles with a stick and uttering sharp words if one looked smaller than the rest. Mr Carmichael also came up from time to time with a switch in his hand. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to.

  Song cut more cane than boys twice his size and wanted to help Jinda. He felt sorry for him with his laboured breathing. And he loved his stories. He’d ask Jinda to tell him again and again about his mother’s cooking, even when Song had belly cramps. Especially when Song had belly cramps.

  ‘I’d be halfway down the street but could already smell the good smells of my mother’s kitchen,’ Jinda would say. ‘Ah, the lamb curry with apricots, so tender and so sweet. Perfumed basmati rice with strands of saffron. Shiny okra with chilli; you think it’s soft and then it kicks you in the throat. Cooled by cucumber diced in white buffalo yogurt and sprinkled in paprika.’

  Song loved Jinda for the world of fantasy he painted. A world coloured in saffron and turmeric. Jinda drew elephant-gods in the dust and built up images of shore temples with congregations wading waist-deep in the surf. He conjured the sweet smell of rose water on the necks of women who danced with a hundred sparkling bangles on their wrists.

  Song discreetly added some of his cane to Jinda’s bundle. At first they both ignored it, as if Song had merely made an error. But in time, Jinda said something.

  ‘You know I wouldn’t make it without you,’ he said.

  Song shrugged. ‘You’d find a way.’

  Jinda shook his head. ‘You do it so quiet, nobody even notices.’

  ‘I know field work. It’s the only thing I know how to do.’

  ‘Couldn’t make it without you. If my mother knew, she’d fix you up a feast.’

  ‘Just tell me about that feast now and then. Feed me with your stories.’

  ‘I will,’ Jinda said.

  The truth was Song was worried about Jinda. He noticed how his breathing worsened at all the wrong times: if Mr Nichols approached, or Mr Carmichael; there were even some older plantation boys who could send Jinda into a spasm. At night, Song was woken by the noise of his friend’s high-pitched wheezing. Song lay still, listening out for the next breath, afraid it might never come. He often fell asleep with the sound of Jinda’s whistling in his head, mixing it up with the noise of his nightmares, whether it was the desperate screams or high winds of a storm.

  ‘Watch out,’ Song warned. Mr Nichols was walking down the line.

  Jinda was leaning on the wooden butt of his cutlass, the point of the blade drilling into the dirt. ‘Help me,’ he panted.

  ‘I can’t, Jinda,’ Song’s voice was sharp. ‘Stand up. Cut out that wheezing right now.’

  Jinda made a great effort as the heavy footsteps of Mr Nichols passed by. Then Song watched as the boy’s eyes fluttered and he keeled over.

  In a panic, Song pulled Jinda to his feet. He slapped him about the face. ‘Jinda, Jinda.’

  Jinda half opened his eyes. ‘Yes, I’m here.’ He was still gasping for breath.

  Another time Jinda wasn’t able to pretend. It was Mr Carmichael walking up and down the line, flicking his switch in the air. Jinda was sitting on the ground trying to slow down his breathing.

  ‘Get up,’ Song whispered.

  Jinda looked up and shook his head.

  Mr Carmichael was getting closer. Without thinking, Song shouted out the word ‘snake’ to cause a distraction. There was pandemonium as the boys all fell over each other trying to get away.

  Mr Carmichael was livid. ‘Who’s responsible for this ?’ he shouted.

  Song lifted his arm. ‘I saw a snake, sir. I thought it could have bitten any one of us.’

  ‘Do I look like I care ?’

  ‘I was afraid it might bite you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll take care of me. You take care of your work. Got it ?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And where is this goddamn snake now ?’

  ‘I think it’s gone.’

  ‘How inconvenient. We’ll never know if it was ever here. Down on your front.’

  ‘Sir ?’


  ‘You heard me. Down on the ground. Stomach down.’

  Song did as he was told. He held his arms stiffly by his side, his eyes closed. The first blow came down harder than he expected. Song lost his breath. Another. Then another. Four. Five. Six. There wasn’t a seventh.

  ‘Get up.’

  Song crawled to his feet. He didn’t look Mr Carmichael in the eye.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to all of you,’ Mr Carmichael said. ‘Disrupt the working day and you’ll be thrashed. Now you know.’

  Song was in pain, but he didn’t show it. The other boys looked at him with horror, with pity. It had been the first beating.

  Back at camp that evening, Song caught Jinda’s eye. Jinda mouthed the words ‘thank you’; Song shrugged his shoulders, as if to say it was nothing.

  Song looked up in the branches at the astonishing bird. A huge beak, as large as the bird’s body, and an eye ringed in a teal band bordered by a yellow stripe against black, and flashes of red around the tail. Then Song noticed the movement of a second bird. They were a pair. The other equally beautiful. The sight of these two made him suddenly feel alone.

  ‘What are you looking at ?’

  Song jumped. There was an Englishman looking at him, not unkindly. He wore a cream suit, like the other men, except there was a black and white collar around his neck.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Song replied, embarrassed.

  ‘It’s a Guianan toucanet,’ the man said. ‘A medium-sized toucan. Part of the genus Pteroglossus. Lovely, isn’t it ? Extraordinary really. Not sure if there are birds where you come from but where I come from we have nothing like this.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Song said, overwhelmed by the way this man was speaking to him. As if the man cared about what Song thought.

  ‘Do you understand English ?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Song said emphatically, frustrated that it might have come across any other way.

  ‘Then tell me what you like about the bird.’

  Song hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ the man continued. ‘You don’t have to be afraid. And call me Father, don’t call me sir. My name’s Father Holmes. Yours ?’

  Song’s mouth was dry. ‘My name is Song, Father. And there are two birds up there.’

  Father Holmes looked up again. ‘So there are. Sharp eyes. Well, Song, tell me what it is about this species of bird.’

  ‘I like all birds, Father. I like them because they can fly away. They can fly anywhere they want.’

  The man smiled. ‘Freedom. That’s a good reason. Might be the reason I like them, too. Although I didn’t know it till now.’

  Song studied this man who was talking to him with such keen interest. He had reddish hair and his skin was as pale and thin as paper. The tips of his ears stuck out and were turning pink; his eyes were the same faded blue as the handkerchief which he now used to mop his perspiring face.

  ‘You’re going to be seeing rather a lot of me here at Diamond,’ Father Holmes said. ‘I stopped by today to see Mr Nichols and I’m going to be coming to the plantation every Sunday to teach you boys to read. Fancy learning to read ?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And where did you learn your good English ?’

  Song blushed. ‘On the boat. From a boy called Hai. He got off in Madras. I gave him half my food rations and he taught me English.’

  Father Holmes frowned. ‘Well, you look pretty skinny. But your English is good, so perhaps it wasn’t such a bad deal. Sounds like you’re a boy with plans. That right ?’

  Song didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Or a boy with hope,’ Father Holmes continued. ‘Have you got hope ?’

  Song still didn’t reply. But he warmed to the man and felt a great urge to please him. He was only ashamed that he had nothing to say.

  ‘In time, perhaps,’ Father Holmes said reassuringly. ‘We’ll get to know each other better in time.’

  *

  Father Holmes often arrived late on Sundays, running late on his way from church. The boys would gather at an opening of cleared ground where a pitched roof of banana leaves had been raised on stilts between their huts. On one such Sunday, they were sitting cross-legged in their pressed blue uniforms, waiting. Song looked around, noticing that some of the boys already needed clothes the next size up. Song did, too. But he didn’t want to have to buy a set off Mr Carmichael and have his wage docked. He wondered if there was a way around it.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Mr Nichols. ‘You’re getting into the carts today. Come on, hurry up.’

  The boys loaded up. It was their first time leaving the plantation. Nobody said much. Song had overheard that they were all going to be dunked in the river but when he said so, nobody believed him. They remained nervous though. They crouched in the back of the cart and watched the road pass under them.

  The cane fields drifted all around them. A light wind through the crop made the sound of a thousand sweeping brooms. Song looked out at the endless plantations and wondered if Mr Carmichael owned everything he could see.

  The road turned right and ran alongside a wide river. The water was a rich orange-brown. A log was being carried downstream with a small white bird riding upon it.

  They came to a halt and the boys set down. In front of them the riverbank was crowded with people from town. There were pretty women wearing long dresses in pink and yellow and pale blue. The men wore cream suits and hats. The boys huddled closer together.

  There was Father Holmes coming towards them. He stopped in front of the boys and smiled: ‘I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’re here on the banks of the Demerara.’

  They were silent. Song saw Father Holmes’ eyes drawn to an iridescent green bird skipping in flight along the bank.

  ‘Now, there’s nothing to worry about,’ Father Holmes continued. ‘Today you’re going to become part of a big family. God’s family.’

  Song didn’t want to become part of another family. Not that he dared refuse. Families only break and are lost, he thought.

  The vicar bent down and began removing his socks and shoes. Song watched in astonishment as he rolled up his trouser legs high above his knees, revealing hairy calves, and waded into the river. As he did he lost his footing and his trousers became wet. Some of the children from town began to laugh. Song heard the higher pitched giggles of girls. It sounded like his sisters laughing.

  By now Father Holmes was standing knee-deep in the river. He reached his arms up to the sky. The men and women from town bowed their heads and mumbled ‘Amen’. Song saw Mr Carmichael with his pretty young wife by his side and two little girls in pastel dresses. There was also Mr Nichols with his family. He did not recognise anyone else.

  Father Holmes held his arms out like the Jesus he had shown them on the crucifix. Song thought how lonely he looked, cast out in the river like that. The vicar was staring up at the sky chanting repetitive sentences. His clothes were splattered in mud and there was water seeping up his trouser legs.

  ‘Take your clothes off, boys,’ Mr Nichols ordered.

  They looked around at each other. Song began to undress.

  ‘Move this way,’ Father Holmes said warmly. ‘Come towards me.’

  The boys filed down the riverbank. First in line was Jun, one of the bigger boys. Song watched as the vicar smiled at him, placed a hand on the crown of his head, and then suddenly pushed him down into the water. Jun lashed out, panicking. But Father Holmes wasn’t rough and he lifted him out of the water by his underarms.

  Song waited his turn. As the boys emerged from the water spluttering, the crowd on the riverbank clapped. Song didn’t understand or much care for what was happening.

  He looked across at Jinda, who had already started wheezing. ‘I’ll go first,’ Song said. ‘Follow me.’

  Song slid down the bank into the silty water. It was cold but felt good. He took Jinda’s hand and they waded in together.

  ‘My friend’s sick, Father,’ Song said under his breath.
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br />   Father Holmes looked across at Jinda.

  ‘He can’t breathe,’ Song said. ‘He won’t be able to breathe if you dunk him.’

  Father Holmes hesitated. He rested his hand on both boys’ heads. Song felt himself pushed under and resisted, unsure if both of them were going under, and there was a frantic explosion of splashing.

  ‘All right, Father ?’ Mr Nichols called out.

  Song heard the men’s voices and rushing air as he broke the surface. He looked across at his friend, who was still above the water line. Jinda smiled faintly.

  ‘Yes, Mr Nichols, everything’s all right,’ Father Holmes replied.

  Song caught his breath. He looked up at Father Holmes. His blue eyes were so pale they were almost colourless. They were fixed on Song; Song didn’t flinch. It was as if they each seemed to know something deeper about the other in that instant.

  When it rained in Guiana, work stopped. Song and the boys put down their cutlasses and sheltered under the thatching by the planter’s office. The rain never lasted more than a few minutes but the supervisor usually went inside at that time and they were left alone. They lay on the cool dry ground, resting their aching shoulders and watching the falling raindrops.

  The rain reminded Song of home. He used to leave the fields with his sisters and brothers, racing the rain until they reached the doorway of their house breathing hard and laughing. There they waited, watching the land stilled by the pounding raindrops.

  ‘The sky’s crying again,’ Xiao Mei would say. ‘Why is the sky unhappy ?’

  ‘Stop your nonsense,’ their mother would reply. ‘You’ll bring us more bad luck than you already have.’ She had always been hard on the daughter whose twin had not survived.

  Song wished again he had brought his little sister with him. But she would have had to endure the boat journey and Song worried that she would not have made it. Maybe she was better where she was: alive, but hungry, and with the rest of his family.

  That morning they had been burning the roots of cut cane in the next field. Song hated working in the smoke. His eyes stung and his throat itched. But Jinda had it much worse. He was doubled over, snatching breaths. Song saw he had propped himself up on the nub of his cutlass.