Song Page 7

  ‘And ?’

  ‘Mrs Carmichael is a highly committed member of the congregation. It must be hard for her living so far out of town with no female company, especially when the girls are at school.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this, Father, and I hate to disappoint you. But I can’t trade a boy for a committee position for my wife. With all due respect to your committees.’

  ‘Well, then, Mr Carmichael, how do you suggest we make progress on this matter ?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say there doesn’t seem to be a way, Father. I guess we can’t always have what we covet, can we ?’

  ‘The vicarage only has a small budget, but I can ask the governor for some extra funds for a houseboy and to compensate you for the trouble. I’m sure he’d agree if he knew how much help this boy might be to the church – and what a nuisance he has been to you.’ Father Holmes had slowed down his speech. ‘If I explained the situation clearly.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be threatening me, Father, would you ?’

  ‘I am sure London wouldn’t want to hear about the methods of discipline in the plantations of one of its finest colonies.’

  ‘Fortunately, Father, I’m a man of favours and I’m in a good mood tonight,’ Mr Carmichael said. ‘You put Mrs Carmichael on the committee and I’ll send the boy over. Think of it as a favour to you.’

  ‘I’d be delighted if Mrs Carmichael accepts.’

  ‘Pleasure doing business with you, Father,’ he said. ‘First time I’ve done a deal with a vicar.’

  ‘There won’t be any need to send the boy over,’ Father Holmes added. ‘He seems to have found his way to the vicarage already. I’ll send someone tomorrow to collect his things.’

  At that point Song stopped trying to hear the two men’s conversation. He exhaled, letting himself breathe normally again. Burying his face into the pillow, lying front down because his back was too sore, he wondered what this all meant for him.

  As Song grew well Father Holmes began reading with him. He followed the words on the page as the vicar recounted tales from the Bible: the turning of water into wine; how lakes became instantly full of fish; Lazarus brought back from the dead. Miracle after miracle. They all seemed ludicrous. But then Song wondered about his own miracle, ending up staying in a house like this one and being taught to read.

  Song liked the stories but he preferred to hear Father Holmes speak about Wales, the country he was from. The vicar described how the weather was so cold the rain could turn to snow, falling like soft cotton or petals off a tree. He explained how water in ponds became hard enough to walk on; how there were fires inside the houses to stay warm with chimneys to carry away the smoke, and glass in the windows to stop the wind; the sun rose for only a few hours each day, skirting the horizon, before sinking again beneath the edge of the earth.

  That is what Song loved so much about stories. A description of a place so real that he could smell or taste or feel what it must be like to be there. It allowed him to be taken somewhere else, even for a moment.

  Father Holmes also described the birds which lived around his parents’ house, sketching them for Song, detailing their plumage and the colour of their eggs. He impersonated their calls and Song learned to whistle like the thrushes and blackbirds that nested in the hedgerows of north Wales. He was pleased with the new sounds. So simple, so haunting. So different to the birds of Guiana. More throaty, strident, more powerful.

  When Song was allowed out of bed Amalia brought a loose cotton shirt for him to wear.

  Song looked at it. ‘That’s not my shirt.’

  ‘It is now.’ She held it up for him to see. ‘I made it for you.’

  ‘But where are my clothes ?’

  ‘You won’t need your uniform any more, Song,’ Father Holmes said. ‘I’ve had a word with Mr Carmichael. You’re going to continue to stay here with us. That is, if you’d like to ?’

  Song swallowed hard. ‘But what will I do here ?’

  ‘You’ll live with me and Amalia,’ Father Holmes said. ‘We’ll read books. We’ll study birds.’

  Song began to feel nervous. ‘But I have to work. I need to send money home.’

  Father Holmes smiled kindly. ‘Of course you do. You’ll be paid for your work here. There’s a lot to do around the vicarage and at St Andrew’s. You won’t be bored.’

  Song looked at the white shirt Amalia was holding up for him. His head filled with memories of the plantation. Jinda dragged away. His friend’s lifeless body in the canal. He remembered the hot sun, the ridged cane, the calluses on his hands, the tired walk back to the huts. He pictured Mr Carmichael’s creased skin and thick boots. Song was glad to be out of there, but couldn’t help remembering the faces of all the boys left behind. Row upon row of them. Lining up on a Sunday morning waiting for Father Holmes to show up.

  Song put his hand up to cover his eyes and could not stop the tears. Amalia came to put her arms around him. He noticed how careful she was not to touch his wounds, but he still pushed her away. He didn’t want to let himself crumble, not visibly. He remembered Li Bai’s words: ‘You got to start thinking harder about surviving.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Mornings, Song lay in the darkness. He pulled up the white cotton sheets to his nose, smelling the lime detergent Amalia used for laundry. The material was soft and worn from years of scrubbing. He listened to the aracaris in the gloom. As their chirruping grew louder he slipped out from under the mosquito net, folded back the sheet to air, and tugged on his overalls.

  Down the stairs he padded softly on the polished floors and skirted around the rugs. He slipped out of the kitchen door to fetch eggs from the chicken coop, collect water for Amalia, and then took Father Holmes’ large bicycle to Belle’s bakery, happy to know he was trusted with money in his pocket to buy warm bread for breakfast. This was Song’s favourite time of day, alone and carefree, before town had fully woken.

  By the time he was back Amalia was boiling water for tea. She told him he moved more quietly than a shadow. Song polished Father Holmes’ shoes and left them by the study door. Then he went to the church with fresh flowers, to sweep the floors, and to organise the prayer and hymn books. He loved being there in the cool emptiness, with all the responsibility on him to keep the church presentable – that’s how Father Holmes had expressed it. It was up to Song to make sure that it was in a perfect state for every service and for every member of the congregation who might stop by at any time of the day or night. Song took huge pride in his work there. He came to know every dark recess, every loose hinge, every nick in the wooden pews, every crease in the cloth worn across the hips of the carving of Jesus Christ on the cross, which Song polished daily. He wanted it to be perfect for Father Holmes and anyone else who walked through the church’s doors.

  At the end of the month Father Holmes handed Song an envelope. ‘You’ve worked hard, Song. Thank you.’

  Song felt the hard coins through the paper. ‘Can I send it home ?’

  ‘You can do whatever you want with it. It’s your money. You can save it, you can spend it, you can send it home – whatever you choose.’

  ‘Please can you help me send it home ?’

  ‘Of course. How have you sent it before ?’

  ‘I haven’t yet. I was still paying for my passage.’

  ‘How long was that going to take ?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Father Holmes shook his head. ‘Slavery’s over,’ he muttered. ‘What do they think they’re up to ?’

  Song didn’t know if he was meant to reply. ‘Who, Father ?’

  ‘Never mind. What did the other boys do when they sent money home ?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know anyone who had.’

  ‘Do you have an address ?’

  ‘Lishui. That’s my village.’

  ‘Any more than that ?’

  Song shook his head. ‘I didn’t know how to write the name of my village. I’m sorry. I never learn
ed.’ He began to realise the impossibility of what he was asking. He had come all this way to find work, to save his family, but he’d never understood how far he would be going.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll figure it out. I know Malcolm at the post office well. He’ll help us. When the next boat sails we can find out where it’s going and see how this all might work.’

  Song felt the coins in his wage packet again and imagined his family waiting, hoping to see him walk back into town leading a pair of laden buffaloes. He thought of Xiao Mei and San San tangled together on the wet ground while he slept at the vicarage with a full stomach between white sheets. He was so far away now. Too far away.

  ‘I want you to take the day off today,’ Father Holmes said. ‘No more chores. Go and do whatever you like.’

  ‘Whatever I like,’ Song repeated softly. He knew what he wanted to do. He slipped into the backyard and began climbing the mango tree until he was so high the chickens scratching in the dirt below were only brown and white smudges. He could cover the surface of the water in the vat with his thumbprint.

  He stopped on a branch where there were a pair of yellow kiskadees. They cocked their heads from side to side, looking at him.

  The branches hung heavy with fruit, just like Zhu Wei had described. Song plucked a mango and pierced an end, sucking out the sticky juice. Then he kicked his legs around and hung upside-down so that everything turned the other way and his mind was clear of anything except that the sky was the ground and the ground was the sky, and the mango tasted sweet in his mouth.

  That evening, Song heard Father Holmes open the door to someone.

  ‘Ah, Huw, I’m so glad you came.’ Then he called for Song.

  Song quickly padded into the hallway. ‘Yes, Father ?’

  ‘I want you to meet my friend, Mr Rees-Jones. He heads up St Mark’s Preparatory School – and is one of the more free-thinking men in Georgetown. He happens to be a Welshman, too, by the way.’

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ Song said. Mr Rees-Jones was a well-lined but handsome man with thick brown hair and dark-rimmed spectacles. He had a kind expression and engaging eyes.

  ‘Good evening, Song. And how old are you ?’

  ‘Ten. Nearly eleven, sir.’

  ‘Got some growing in you, I think.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, off you go,’ Father Holmes said. ‘I’m going to talk to Huw about something important – your education.’

  Song didn’t really know what Father Holmes meant but he felt honoured that these two men were going to be discussing him and that it was important. ‘Thank you,’ he said, although neither man heard. They were already inside Father Holmes’ study.

  Song could hear their conversation from the kitchen table where Amalia had sat him down to clean rice. He began to pick out the dark specks.

  ‘So, Father, tell me what plan you’re hatching.’

  ‘I want him in school.’

  ‘I can’t deny I’d like him in school, too.’

  ‘So ?’

  ‘I think you know the answer to that.’

  ‘He’s eager to learn. You can’t shut the door on a boy who wants to better himself.’

  ‘This is why I love you, Father. For your idealism. Your hope. Your faith in humanity.’

  ‘Who’s going to object ?’

  ‘Everyone! Everyone will object. The councillors, the teachers, the parents. They’d take their children out of school until the boy was removed. The whole affair would be a mess. Not least for Song.’

  Song wondered what Mr Rees-Jones meant. Why might everyone object to him going to school ? A plantation boy, that must have been it . . .

  ‘They wouldn’t dare speak out against you,’ Father Holmes said.

  ‘You flatter me, Father, but you don’t know Georgetown as well as I thought. There’ll be a queue outside my door all the way to St Andrew’s.’

  ‘It’s not right.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s right.’

  ‘Shall I go to the governor ?’

  ‘I’d be more careful if I were you. His answer will be a much stronger no.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘You know I’d do something if I could,’ Mr Rees-Jones said. ‘Keep him at home, Father. Teach him yourself. He will do as well under your guidance as he would under any of my teachers.’

  ‘I don’t know the first thing about teaching a boy. He barely even speaks to me. He needs to be around other boys his age—’

  ‘Like it or not, no one in Georgetown is going to want their son mixing with a plantation boy. Your efforts will fail, and will only make life more difficult for Song.’

  ‘What kind of community is this, which refuses an education to a boy who cannot change the circumstances of his birth ?’

  ‘I don’t know. In truth, it doesn’t feel like my community. It’s definitely not yours.’

  ‘But we can change it, Huw. If I can’t ask you—’

  ‘Please don’t. It pains me to say no to you.’

  ‘This isn’t just about Song. This could change—’

  ‘Change what ?’ Mr Rees-Jones interrupted. ‘Georgetown society ? You think they’ll be happy to send an entire plantation to school ?’

  ‘Is that so crazy ?’

  ‘Perhaps not. There have been rumours of a preacher heading down to Diamond every Sunday to teach the plantation boys to read. Just imagine, plantation boys reading. Whatever next ?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m doing a very good job there.’

  ‘Heed my advice, Father, and don’t take this fight on. If this is truly about Song’s education, use your energy to teach him, not to fight the system.’

  Song longed for the opportunity to learn how to read and write. He would have loved to have gone to school, but maybe not like this, not with all of Georgetown objecting to him having an education. Perhaps Father Holmes would teach him. Or they’d find some way together, some way to better himself.

  Song saw Father Holmes jump when he saw him standing in front of his desk. ‘You move so quietly, Song, I don’t even hear you.’

  ‘Sorry, Father. Amalia told me to come and find you.’

  ‘That’s right. I wanted to tell you that we’re going to start studying together.’

  Song’s heart began to beat a little quicker. ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Would you like that ?’

  ‘Yes, Father. But I’m not sure what it means.’

  Father Holmes got up and strode across to the shelves. He picked up a slim weathered book.

  ‘We’re going to read Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. This was the first novel I ever read and it made me want to go to sea. Not that the voyage is an easy ride, nor the book an easy read. It’s a story of a shipwrecked man who washes up on an island and learns how to survive. Sound familiar ?’

  Song nodded. He could hear the storm in his head. The boat thrashing out of time with the rising sea and the shuddering wood.

  ‘It’s a good place to start.’ Father Holmes waved his arm across the shelves. ‘But you’re going to read every single book in this room, Song. What do you think about that ?’

  Song surveyed the room. There must have been hundreds of books, even thousands. Row after row after row. All unintelligible to him. But he found himself nodding, full of fervour. ‘I’d like that, Father. I’d like to know I could do that.’

  ‘You can. You will. We’ll do it together.’

  Song suddenly felt like this was his chance. Like the way he’d imagined Hai in Madras living in a large house overlooking the sea with an Englishman boss who paid him a good wage and gave him a breezy room. This was his chance: to stay here and learn to read every book in this room. To live a life that was a story worth telling, just like he’d promised Jinda.

  ‘It’s not only about reading,’ Father Holmes went on. ‘It’s about studying what we read. We’ll talk about the books. Discuss ideas. We’ll look at the language, the melody of the prose, the structure of the plot.
’

  Song was lost. He couldn’t follow what Father Holmes was saying. But he nodded again. ‘Yes, Father.’

  Father Holmes looked across at Song tenderly. ‘Let’s not worry about all that yet. All you need to know for now is that you’ll read every morning on your own. We’ll talk through the passages over lunch. I’ll set you some writing. You’ll have to fit in your chores. Then we’ll study together again in the evening. How does that sound ?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ he said, so softly he could barely hear the words himself.

  ‘One of the first things you’re going to have to learn, Song, is to speak up, to disagree with me. If you’re not sure about something, you have to ask. If you don’t agree, you have to say so.’

  Song nodded again. But to speak out against something this man, who was helping him so much, might say ?

  It was like Father Holmes read his mind. ‘Be brave, Song. Shout me down. This is the way you’ll learn and grow. Me, too. I’ll be learning from you too, you know. Right, let’s make a start.’

  Song read all the time. In the early light of morning, he reached out in his bedclothes to feel for the hard corners of the book he’d been reading the night before, and had inevitably fallen asleep with. He’d have a slimmer book in a back pocket during the day, to read a few pages between chores. On his bicycle he balanced a book on the handlebars, turning the pages with one hand, steering with the other. But he hid it away when he saw people approaching, aware that some believed it was not something he should be doing. Mrs Mills, one of the choir singers, had rebuked Song when she saw him the first time. ‘I can see that’s not a Bible, boy,’ she shouted across the road. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, reading when you should be getting on with the work of a houseboy.’

  But some were amused at how Song could read while he cycled. Scott, a houseboy for the governor’s first secretary, said he was going to learn to read just like Song. ‘Whatch you reading now ?’ he’d call out cheerily. ‘I’m goin’ to learn the same way as you, mark me.’