Song Page 6

  ‘Jinda,’ Song called out. ‘Watch out.’

  Jinda raised his eyes, saw the figure of Mr Carmichael and then let his head fall.

  ‘Come on,’ Song begged him.

  Mr Carmichael strode towards them. He was swatting at flies about his face.

  Song heard the thud of his boots come to a stop. ‘What the devil do we have here ? Taking a day off are we ?’

  ‘He’s sick, sir,’ Song said.

  ‘You again.’ Mr Carmichael said. ‘Am I talking to you ?’

  Song ducked the blow the man threw at his head. Then Mr Carmichael kicked out. He stumbled as he tried to bring the boy down. Song knew better than to dodge him again. He felt the hardness of the man’s boot on the side of his knee.

  ‘The rest of you, get back to work.’

  On that warning there was a frenzy of thrashing cutlasses.

  Mr Carmichael turned his eyes on Jinda. He kicked the cutlass out from under him. The boy thumped to the ground.

  ‘Think you came here to take a rest on my plantation ? Is that what you think ?’

  Jinda did not move.

  Mr Carmichael pushed his boot beneath the boy and turned him over. ‘What’s wrong with you ? Get up.’

  Song willed his friend to get to his feet.

  ‘I said, get up.’ Mr Carmichael looked around him and saw the boys had stopped working again. A new and terrible expression twisted his face.

  ‘Think you can bring the whole plantation to a standstill with your tricks, do you ?’

  The man grabbed at Jinda’s shirt, pulled him to his feet and thrust him in the direction of the canal. Song looked down at Jinda’s cutlass in the dirt, then up at the giant figure of the man dragging the crumpled boy along the track.

  He ran after them. ‘Mr Carmichael, please. He’s sick.’

  Mr Carmichael turned to face Song. His eyes were like an animal’s. On the hunt. But from where he stood, he was unable to strike Song again. ‘You get back to work, or you’re next,’ he snarled.

  Song watched as Mr Carmichael hauled Jinda to the water’s edge. He tossed him into the shallows. Song moved closer to watch what was happening. He could see one of Jinda’s outstretched limp arms. And then Mr Carmichael put his hands upon him, holding him down and waiting. Song could barely breathe himself. He ran forward three or four steps, then stopped almost as quickly as he had started.

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ he cried.

  It didn’t take long. Mr Carmichael pulled back, wiping his hands dry on the back of his trousers. Song saw Jinda’s back float up to the surface of the water. Then the back of his head bobbed up, his wet black hair reflecting the sunlight.

  From that day forward Song kept to himself and the other boys were mindful to keep a distance. From little Binu to big Jun, everybody wanted to do right by Song – the one who had tried to stand up for Jinda.

  Song lived by his own rhythm. He awoke early to lie in the cool darkness, listening to the cicadas subside and the birds waken. He ate breakfast alone. As the other boys were only stirring in their beds Song was already waiting for the morning call to move into the fields. He would have started working earlier, if he’d been allowed. He wanted to get on and earn a wage.

  Song no longer needed to work as hard as he’d done when Jinda was alive and he’d cut cane for both of them. But Song preferred to push his body, bringing down the cutlass against the rigid shafts of cane, to feel the pain shudder through him. Sometimes the tears rose up and squeezed out of his eyes until he could no longer make out the shapes around him; there was only the glint of his cutlass and a blur of green. But he wouldn’t let anybody see him cry.

  As the days passed by like the swell of an open sea, Song became increasingly frustrated that they had seen no pay. Eventually he found the courage to speak to Mr Nichols.

  ‘Sir, please may I ask when we are to be paid ?’

  Mr Nichols smacked him across his shoulder with his stick. ‘Shut your mouth,’ he said.

  Song tried Father Holmes instead.

  ‘Father, do you know when we are to be paid ? I asked Mr Nichols but he wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Have you not been paid yet ?’

  Song shook his head.

  ‘Not since you’ve been here?

  Song shook his head again. ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll find out.’

  Meantime, Song was forming an idea about their Sunday uniforms. Instead of letting Mr Carmichael swap around their clothes and dock their pay, Song thought they could go about it themselves. It would be one less excuse to delay paying them their wages, he thought.

  The following Sunday, Father Holmes stood in front of all the boys with an answer to Song’s question.

  ‘Good morning everyone. I wanted to address something that’s probably been bothering a number of you for some weeks. About pay. I asked Mr Carmichael and he explained to me that many of you came here without paying for your passage – the boat journey – which means that your wages will be docked until that charge is cleared. In arrears, as it were.’

  ‘How much is that ?’ one boy asked.

  ‘How long will it take ?’ asked Song.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I did ask, but Mr Carmichael said that every boy had a different set of circumstances. I guess that means you came from different places. Some had shorter passages, some longer.’

  Song wasn’t satisfied with that answer. He tried Mr Nichols again.

  ‘Sir, I wondered how long it might take for me to pay for my boat passage ? And when I can start sending money home ?’

  Mr Nichols snorted. ‘Do you know how lucky you were to get a free passage in advance ? You’d never have been able to afford to come here. Count yourself one of the lucky ones. Then there’s your beds, your uniforms, your food. We’re not a charity, you know. You’ll see a wage when I say you’ll see a wage. No sooner than that.’

  Hai had been right. There was no money to send home. Song struggled to believe it. They had been lied to. Tricked. And there was no escape from that truth.

  At the close of the day, he went to bed before the others to try to think of a way out. Under his breath, he made a promise to his dead friend Jinda that he would break out of this place and live twice as hard for the both of them. He would yet live a life that was a story worth telling.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was a Sunday and they were putting on their uniforms before Father Holmes arrived. Song watched Jun struggling to fit into his clothes.

  ‘It looks like you need a bigger size,’ Song said.

  Jun looked down at his clothes. ‘Do you think ?’

  Song could feel his own shirt tightening across his upper back, pulling at his shoulders and puckering the cotton around his collar bone. His feet hurt, too. He had to curl up his toes inside the hard leather shoes.

  ‘How about I get you a bigger uniform ?’ Song paused. ‘It won’t cost you a thing.’

  Jun frowned. ‘How are you going to do that ?’

  ‘Same way Mr C does. He just swaps our uniforms around and charges us for new ones. We should do it ourselves.’

  Jun looked worried. ‘I don’t know. What if he finds out ?’

  ‘What’s he going to do ? Get rid of the lot of us ?’

  ‘How about beat the lot of us ?’

  ‘He can’t beat all of us. Think about it. Who’d be left to work ? Come on, Jun. I’ll find you a uniform in your size.’

  Jun was reluctant but agreed. ‘I don’t know why I have to go first. I’m going to be beaten first.’ But he started to unbutton his shirt anyway.

  ‘Thanks, Jun,’ Song said. ‘Who’s next ?’

  ‘I think we’re going to get caught,’ Binu said.

  ‘We’re not doing anything wrong,’ Song replied.

  ‘That’s not how Mr C’s going to see it,’ Jun said.

  ‘You might be right,’ Song said. ‘I’ll take the hit. It’s my idea.’

  ‘You already took the hit for Jinda,’ one of the younger ones
said.

  ‘Jinda took his own hit.’

  ‘Let’s do it for Jinda,’ Binu said.

  ‘Jinda wouldn’t do it if he was alive,’ Jun said. ‘He was too nervous about everything.’

  ‘That’s probably true,’ Song said. ‘But it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want us to. We deserve to see our money.’

  Suddenly everyone was undressing.

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Maybe he won’t even notice.’

  ‘No chance of that.’

  The boys switched around clothes to find the best fit. If there were sizes missing, Song said they’d have to buy that uniform collectively and share the cost. It was only fair. He hoped to ask Father Holmes to buy those uniforms on their behalf. What they’d have to pay would be a fraction of what they’d otherwise have docked from their wages, under Mr Carmichael’s system. Song counted in his head how much they would be saving and felt a lightness for the first time in weeks.

  It was early one Sunday morning when Song saw Mr Carmichael pull up on his horse. He had never come to the plantation on a Sunday. The boys were already amassed, waiting for Father Holmes.

  Song watched as Mr Carmichael roughly tied his horse up to a post and then leaned forward as he paced across the yard. He swished his leather switch in front of him as if he was clearing a path. Song knew he knew. He felt his chest tighten.

  Mr Carmichael stood in front of the rows of boys. ‘So who’s responsible for this little game, then ?’

  Nobody moved. The boys did not even exchange glances with each other. There was not a sound.

  Mr Carmichael tapped the strap against the side of his thigh. ‘Who’s going to be the first to do the right thing ?’

  He slowly took off his jacket and threw it over the table they used as a makeshift altar. Underneath his shirt was transparent with sweat. He pointed his whip at Binu. ‘You. Tell me what’s going on.’

  Binu was one of the youngest. Song could see his lips trembling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Carmichael,’ Binu said. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know ? Of course you bloody know. I’m talking about your uniforms.’

  Binu had started to whimper.

  ‘Do you really want something to cry about ?’ Mr Carmichael waved his whip in front of Binu’s face. ‘If you don’t tell me now who’s been selling you your uniforms . . .’

  ‘It was my idea, sir.’ Song heard the voice and barely recognised it as his own. ‘But I didn’t sell them. We swapped them around. We just wanted to be able to save some money to send home.’

  For a moment Mr Carmichael did not move. Song let himself hope that everything might be all right.

  Parakeets squawked overhead, bursting through the silence.

  Then Mr Carmichael suddenly came at him. He felt the man’s rough hand grab his collar. Song’s head was spinning as he was dragged out to the yard and felt the first strike come down on the side of his head. He curled himself up. He could see Mr Carmichael’s boots, the thick soles, the pale laces pulled tight, one frayed at its end. The switch cut through the air before he felt the second blow. There was a third. And then Song closed down.

  *

  Song felt the stinging cool on his back before he opened his eyes. He could smell lime and wood and mould. He peeped out between his eyelashes. There was a white blur of sheets, a green glass bottle upon a table and the smudged shapes of large furniture. Across from him Father Holmes sat in a red armchair, reading. Dressed in his usual cream suit he did not look as flushed as usual. He was more than halfway through the book in his hand. Beside him was a small wooden table, highly polished, with elegant curved legs. Upon it was a teacup and saucer. Through the window behind the vicar, the light was fading. Song could see some pink flowers growing close to the house.

  Father Holmes reached out to feel for the cup and at the same time glanced up. ‘Song, you’re awake. Why didn’t you say so ? How are you feeling ?’

  Song scrunched his eyes shut. ‘Sorry, Father.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about. I brought you to the vicarage this morning, after I found you. But I don’t want you to worry about any of this. I want you to use your strength to get better.’

  He walked to the door and opened it a crack. ‘Amalia. He’s awake.’

  He turned back to face Song. ‘I admit you had us worried. You’ve taken a beating, Song, but the doctor’s already had a look. He says you should heal.’

  The memories were fuzzy but they started to come back to Song. Mr Carmichael’s swearing. The flicking of the switch. A taste of dust in his mouth. But nothing more. He didn’t know how he had come to be here.

  A woman walked through the door, carrying a large white jug. She was huge about the hips but with a tiny bosom. A white apron covered her white dress. She panted into the room, steam billowing about her face. Like the angels Father Holmes talked about, Song thought.

  ‘Are we pleased to see you with your eyes wide open and some life back in you,’ she said. ‘You’ve given us a scare all right.’

  She poured hot water into a deep bowl, splashing some on the table before wetting and squeezing out a rag. She leaned over Song, gently wiping his face and around his neck and shoulders. Her soft touch reminded him of Ji Liu, and he was glad of it. But she also made him feel more fragile, caring for him this way. Song saw the light catch some flecks of gold in her eyes. Amalia took another cloth and dried Song’s shoulders. He winced. ‘You’ll be all right soon enough,’ she said.

  ‘You will with Amalia looking after you,’ Father Holmes agreed. ‘But you weren’t good when I found you. Unconscious face down in the yard. There’s one thing I need to know, Song, and then I want you to rest. Why did Mr Carmichael do this to you ?’

  Song felt the colour rising in his cheeks.

  ‘I need to know,’ Father Holmes said softly.

  ‘It was my fault, Father,’ Song said. ‘I really need to send money back to my family and I had an idea to swap uniforms between us, instead of having to buy a new set from Mr Carmichael. But I should never have done it. I think I’ve gotten everybody in trouble . . .’

  Father Holmes had raised himself from his chair and was reaching for his jacket.

  ‘It’s all right, Song. I’m leaving you with Amalia now. She’s going to look after you. Get some more sleep.’

  Song drifted in and out of a drowsy haze. He was puzzled by the soft voice of a woman above him. He felt someone fanning his back as he slipped into another semi-conscious drowse.

  ‘Who’s that ?’ Song asked, suddenly afraid. He recognised a voice in the next room.

  ‘That there’s Mr Carmichael,’ Amalia said. ‘Came here to talk to Father Holmes. Don’t you worry about a thing. Father Holmes will make sure everything’s going to be all right.’

  Song listened intently. The conversation was faint.

  ‘You try to get a good day’s work out of them. Lazy bastards, the lot of them. Always trying to pull one over you. Got to keep your eyes open.’

  ‘I’m sure you keep a firm hand,’ he heard Father Holmes say. ‘In fact that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve had word that the children working at Diamond are being beaten.’

  ‘Beaten ? Well, I’m sure some of the planters get frustrated from time to time, and I can’t blame them for that. There might be an odd thwack about the head for the cheeky ones. That’s only natural. Sometimes it’s the only way to keep order. Otherwise we’ll have a rebellion on our hands. Don’t want our wives and children being raped and killed, do we ?’

  ‘I’m not talking about thwacks to the head. I’ve seen bleeding welts on the back of one boy, Mr Carmichael. That is unacceptable. It is no better than slavery.’

  There was now a sharpness to Mr Carmichael’s voice. ‘Let me give you a history lesson, Father. Slavery was abolished fifty years ago. These boys are indentured labourers who came here of their own free will looking for a better life. They are paid a fair wage. They are treated well if they
work hard. They are disciplined if they do not.’

  ‘By beating them within an inch of their life ?’

  ‘We would all like to live in a perfect world, Father. You more than most, it seems. I live in the real world.’

  ‘A world where they beat children until . . .’

  ‘You’re a vicar,’ Mr Carmichael interrupted. ‘You could never understand the demands of running a profitable plantation. Labourers are rewarded for hard work. Not for slacking. This business wouldn’t survive a week if it was underpinned by your ideals.’

  ‘I’m not dreaming up a utopia. I’m asking for some basic, decent, civilised behaviour. We are talking about children as young as your own. The boy was almost dead when I got to him.’

  ‘Is that right, Father ? Well, rest assured I don’t want anyone dead on my plantation. Think about it. That’d be one less worker. Now, let’s put all this behind us, shall we, and look forward to better days.’

  ‘I see these boys every week. I don’t want to hear of, let alone see, another beaten boy.’

  Mr Carmichael cleared his throat. ‘Let’s get one thing straight here. You come to the plantation on my invitation to give these wayward boys some good Christian instruction. But they are there to work. And one of my many jobs is to make sure they work. You stick to your job, Father, and I’ll stick to mine.’

  Their voices fell silent. Song strained to listen in.

  ‘Now is there anything else ?’ It was Mr Carmichael again. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve brought me all the way here to rap me on the back of my hand.’

  ‘The boy we are discussing,’ Father Holmes said. ‘I want you to release him from his duties on the plantation.’

  Mr Carmichael laughed aloud. ‘Do you think I just give them away ? Valuable, these boys. Can’t farm them out for nothing.’

  There was a pause. ‘A position has come up on the church committee that would suit Mrs Carmichael very well. As you know, committee members are highly respected in town and a number of people have already approached me about it.’