Song Page 8

  When Song had free time he climbed up the mango tree to sit on the branches and take in a chapter. Sometimes, when Father Holmes was out for lunch, Amalia let Song read at the table while he ate. ‘I never learnt so you gotta be reading for the both of us,’ she’d say.

  Song was taken all over the world with Father Holmes’ books, from smoky London streets to the winding lanes in a county called Dorset to the church towers of medieval Paris. He read about pirates and pilgrims and pickpockets. Song felt like he was travelling, no longer in a hold of a boat, but like a bird up among the clouds, to wherever he wanted to go that day. And yet he’d be back at the vicarage in time for supper.

  Every evening Father Holmes and Song sat together in the study and discussed what Song had read that day. He loved Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. The black spot, Ben Gunn, the mutiny. Like Jim Hawkins, Song knew about nightmares of the sea and the lure of gold.

  The pair spoke long into the night about, for example, why Stevenson chose Jim as the storyteller: a naive young boy who grew up to become a free-thinking, charismatic man. ‘You’re not fresh like him, Song, but there is still a lot to learn,’ Father Holmes said. ‘You have a great appetite for life, and a huge capacity to love; it’s how we choose to use that life, that love.’

  They discussed the complexities of a boy becoming a man, the forming of identity, and what it is to be human. Song found himself challenging Father Holmes, and sometimes even noticed a subtle smile on the vicar’s face when he spoke up. ‘But I disagree, Father. Long John Silver is not all villain. I think Stevenson is trying to tell us that it’s not as simple as good or evil. Sometimes the two are mixed up together.’

  On Sundays, Song arrived with Father Holmes at St Andrew’s several hours before a service. Song placed a hymn and a prayer book at every place, and ensured the correct numbered hymns were displayed on the board.

  He had begun to know where everyone sat, and who was who. There was Mrs Stewart, who helped arrange the flowers at the church. On one side was her husband, who worked in the tax office, and in between sat their daughter Millie. There was the governor’s wife, Mrs Johnson, who ran the church choir, but it was Mrs Boyle who had the most beautiful voice. Mr Carmichael sat at the very front with his wife and daughters.

  For the service itself, Song sat out of view of the congregation, but he could see Father Holmes. Song was becoming familiar with the language Father Holmes used, the refrains. He knew if this religion could make a man like Father Holmes it must have some good in it. But he also knew that there were people there, sitting in front of Father Holmes, who were just pretending to live a life faithful to the church’s teaching.

  One Sunday, the service had been particularly slow. The hush was as oppressive as the heat, and everyone was uncomfortable. Between the buzzing of flies was the constant flapping of painted paper fans. Song saw Mrs Burford, the committee secretary, approach Father Holmes. She had a pinched, determined look about her. Song moved closer but kept himself out of sight.

  ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about, Father. Now.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Burford, of course.’

  Song noticed the droplets of sweat blooming on Mrs Burford’s forehead.

  ‘It’s that houseboy of yours.’

  ‘Song, you mean ?’

  ‘Everybody’s talking about him.’

  ‘How curious. I can’t imagine why a slip of an eleven-year-old could be the subject of so much attention.’

  Mrs Burford leaned forward and dropped her voice. Song missed what she said.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs Burford, but why might that be ?’

  ‘You haven’t been here long, Father, and you don’t know how things work. I’m going to help you by explaining things. The problem is you’re being too good to the boy—’

  ‘Too good ?’

  ‘People aren’t happy about it.’

  ‘Not happy about me being too good to a boy ? You can’t imagine how puzzling that sounds to me.’

  Mrs Burford dropped her voice again but Song could still hear. ‘He’s living with you. Houseboys should not be, well, living in a house the way yours is. It’s not right.’

  ‘Where do you think a houseboy should be living, if not in a house ?’

  ‘Houseboys don’t sleep upstairs in our houses.’

  Even if Father Holmes didn’t understand what Mrs Burford was saying, Song understood completely. She didn’t want Father Holmes to care about him.

  ‘Is that what all this is about, Mrs Burford ? Where in the house he is sleeping ? I’m relieved to hear that, because I have a simple explanation as to why Song is sleeping upstairs. The thing is, I have a perfectly good room upstairs at the vicarage, and absolutely nowhere downstairs.’

  Song was moved by this man showing such loyalty to him.

  ‘The problem is it sets a precedent for the rest of us. Soon they’ll all want to be sleeping upstairs.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you now know the simple reason why Song is upstairs, Mrs Burford. It’s only a matter of space. I hope I’ve allayed your worries.’

  ‘But he’s a plantation boy, Father. He’s not even a houseboy. And you’ve got him reading too. We on the committee don’t feel, well . . . you know he has a book with him everywhere. We’ve seen him all over town with a book in his hand.’

  ‘Mrs Burford, you’re not telling me that the committee doesn’t want him to read ?’

  ‘It’s not just the reading. It’s everything. You’re making this very difficult for me, Father. I’m trying to explain how things work here and you’re refusing to understand.’

  ‘It is not a matter of refusing to understand, Mrs Burford. I am simply failing to see why the committee would prefer to see Song illiterate. After all, he organises the prayer books and hymn books in the church every day. I’m sure we’d all like him to know which was which.’

  Song detected Father Holmes’ slightly condescending tone and couldn’t help but be amused.

  Mrs Burford obviously heard it too. She raised her voice. ‘I would have thought you’d have been a little bit grateful for me passing on to you what people are saying. I’m not the only one. Try speaking to any of your congregation. Mrs Boyle. Mrs Stewart. They all feel the same.’

  ‘You tell the committee what I’ve told you, Mrs Burford. Song’s a good, hard-working boy. If I can give him a decent start in life that must be good in God’s eyes and it should be in ours too. Good day.’

  That night Father Holmes called Song into his study. ‘I’ve got some good news. I’ve heard of a man who’s going to Hong Kong. It’s a long trip and it’s not certain when he will get there but I think he is a good person to trust. He’s said he’ll do what he can to help you and carry money back to your family.’

  Back to your family. The words spun around Song’s head. His family seemed so far away from where he was now. Even if the man reached Hong Kong, how would he find them?

  ‘What do you think ?’ Father Holmes said.

  ‘Do you think it will work ?’

  ‘We can only try. I’ll give the man some recompense for his trouble and I’m sure he’ll do what he can. We need to tell him the name of your family, the village, and the names of important people in the village. Perhaps how long it took you to get from your village to Guangzhou, and so on. As much information as we can pull together to help him.’

  Song allowed himself to hope. Maybe it would work. He tried to imagine this man walking into his village with Song’s wage packet, asking for a woman by the name of Zhang Je, pressing the envelope into his mother’s hand, telling her it was from Song, and recording her surprise.

  ‘But I suggest you keep some money for yourself, Song, just in case,’ Father Holmes said. ‘It’s good to have something to fall back on. And a man cannot live on books alone. Talking of which, I have another project for us.’

  Father Holmes walked over to his shelves and reached for a book. He laid it open in front of Song. There was an il
lustration of a bird. Its feathers were burnt orange with black tips. Its delicate feet were criss-crossed in a fine filigree pattern. The eye – a piercing yellow – stared out from the page. It was as if it had caught a glint of real sunlight. Like a first sight of gold.

  Father Holmes pointed at the title on the page and Song followed his finger and read out the name: ‘Double-feathered whistling drongo’.

  ‘What a name,’ Father Holmes said. ‘And there’s more. They’re all as wonderful as that.’

  The pages flashed with colour as they flicked through the book. ‘Black-headed tiger finch,’ Song read out loud. ‘Salmon-jowled heron. Yellow-beaked fish hawk.’

  ‘Mr Matthews, the author, was an Englishman who lived in Tobago,’ Father Holmes told Song. ‘It’s an island not far from here and many of the birds in this book are the same ones we can see here in Guiana. I bought this book on Charing Cross Road in London and the man who sold it to me knew Mr Matthews personally. He was a great ornithologist who spent more than half his life in the West Indies. He died falling out of a hide he had built at the top of a mora tree in Antigua. Now that, Song, is commitment.’

  ‘Is it ?’ Song said. ‘That sounds pretty reckless to me.’

  Song saw Father Holmes’ smile. ‘You’re right, Song,’ Father Holmes said. ‘It is rather reckless behaviour.’

  He reached across his desk for another book. On the cover was embossed: Birds of the Coastal Regions, British Guiana, Volume I, Part I.

  ‘Now, Song, do you know what this is ?’ Father Holmes asked.

  Song shook his head.

  Father Holmes opened the book. There were some hand-drawn sketches and notes written in ink. ‘This is our book. I started it soon after I arrived here but haven’t had time to do much work on it. We’re going to document every bird we see in Guiana.’

  Song took it in his hands and leafed through the pages. Father Holmes had organised his book the same way as Mr Matthews. There was an illustration and detailed below were notes on the bird’s size, its habitat and call.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t draw so well as Mr Matthews,’ Father Holmes said. He turned to his last entry, about a quarter of the way through the book. Beyond, the pages were blank. ‘You and I are going to fill this whole book,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like that,’ Song said. He wondered if this might be a way he could prove himself to Father Holmes. To show him that he could take on something like this, something that mattered very much to Father Holmes, and to do it well. ‘I won’t be falling out of a tree for the book, Father, but you can count on my commitment.’

  The weather had been very hot and very still for several days. Everybody was suffering in the high temperatures.

  ‘Let’s go up to the sea wall tonight,’ Father Holmes suggested. ‘If there’s any breeze at all, that’s where we’ll feel it.’

  Song had never been up there after dark. He had only seen the boardwalk by day, when the sun was so hot the strip was empty except for the swooping gulls mewing like newborns. But in the evening, as dusk softened the glare, he knew this was where Georgetown came to lime – the term used to describe whiling away time, strolling, laughing, holding hands. You didn’t see English folk up there.

  The sea wall was nothing much to look at. It ran along the north shore of the city and was built of plastered brick and painted with advertisements for products such as Cadbury’s and Ovaltine, the chocolate powder and sweet malt he knew Amalia used to buy with her wages but he’d never yet tasted. Beyond the wall the silty water of the Caribbean Sea stretched out into the darkness.

  Song walked quickly to keep up with Father Holmes’ loping stride. The vicar addressed by name everyone they passed. Song copied him before casting down his eyes. ‘Strangers don’t like strangers. If nobody notices you, nothing bad will happen to you,’ his father had told him.

  The moon was barely a sliver but its reflection shimmered from the shore to the horizon. The rest of the ocean was as dark as ink. It purred against the sea wall, occasionally kicking up a spray.

  ‘I love it here,’ Father Holmes said. Song was surprised to learn that he’d been here previously.

  ‘Before you came into my life, Song, before we passed our evenings in the study reading, I used to come up to the sea wall to hear the water lapping at the shore and to remember how it was when I was a boy, standing on the docks with my father. That’s a long time ago. And now I’m here with you.’

  Father Holmes was immersed in his reminiscences when Song noticed the couple. They were sitting at the very end of the wall a good twenty feet ahead of them. The boy was holding the girl close to him and stroking her back. Song recognised her as Millie, the daughter of Mr and Mrs Stewart. Song knew the boy, too. It was Scott, the houseboy who wanted to read like him.

  As Father Holmes and Song approached, the couple jumped to their feet. Millie covered her face in her hands.

  ‘Father, I’m sorry.’ She began to cry. ‘Please don’t say anything. I beg you.’

  Scott tried to put his arm around her but she pulled away and ran across to Father Holmes, burying her face in his shirt. Her wailing became louder.

  ‘Be quiet, Millie,’ Father Holmes said. He peeled Millie’s fingers from his shirt and steered her away.

  Scott turned to leave.

  ‘We’ll all walk home together, please,’ Father Holmes said. ‘You too, Scott.’

  ‘Best I go,’ the boy said.

  ‘No, Scott. We’re walking back together.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Father.’

  Father Holmes turned to Millie, who was now sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘Pull yourself together and walk properly, like the grown-up you have been pretending to be.’

  Millie fell into a coughing fit. Song hung back from the party. He watched Millie move away from Scott and cross to the other side of Father Holmes. Her arms hung loose by her sides. She was kicking the ground as she walked.

  ‘What in heaven’s name were you two thinking ?’ Father Holmes said.

  Millie wiped her face with her handkerchief. ‘It’s his fault,’ she said, pointing at Scott.

  Father Holmes turned to her. ‘Do you know what you’re playing at ?’ he said. ‘What is the worst thing that could happen to you ? Think about it. Now what’s the worst thing that could happen to Scott ?’

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ Millie stammered.

  ‘Think a bit harder then,’ Father Holmes said. ‘You might get a telling-off. You might have to stay home for a week. This boy might . . .’

  Millie interrupted. ‘But he made me do it.’

  ‘Enough.’ Father Holmes’ voice was fierce.

  Millie broke into a sob. ‘Please, Father.’

  ‘Hush, Millie,’ Scott said. ‘We’ve got trouble enough.’

  ‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ Millie said sharply. She turned to Father Holmes. ‘See what he’s like. Always telling me what to do.’

  Song watched in horror as he saw Father Holmes suddenly grab Millie by her shoulders and shake her. ‘How dare you speak about him that way ?’ he said. ‘You mind your language. You mind your manners. If you can treat this young man half as well as he’s treating you, then maybe you can hold your head up again.’

  Millie flinched.

  Scott stepped forward. ‘Don’t be hard on her, Father. She’s frightened.’

  ‘It’s all right, Scott,’ he said.

  ‘You hurt me,’ Millie said to Father Holmes. Her voice had risen to a shriek. ‘If you say anything, I’ll tell them how you hurt me.’

  ‘You watch what comes out of your mouth, Millie Stewart. My, you have a long way to go before you deserve the attentions of this young man.’

  As they approached the first secretary’s house, Father Holmes turned to Scott. ‘Go on, Scott,’ Father Holmes said. ‘Don’t think about this any more tonight. Come and see me tomorrow, please.’

  Scott slipped away into the darkness towards the back of the house.

  Millie
whimpered the rest of the way home.

  ‘He forced me—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear another word. Go home.’

  ‘But are you—’

  ‘I hope you cannot sleep tonight, Millie, and that you do some hard thinking. Now go home.’

  Millie pouted. She turned and ran off up to her house. When she opened the front door, lamplight spilled on to the porch.

  Father Holmes waited a few minutes. He carried on staring at the house. ‘I didn’t hurt her, Song.’

  ‘Yes, Father. I know.’

  ‘There are injustices in this world, Song, and it is upon us to enable change. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You know a whole lot more about this than me.’

  Song did know. And he knew he was a Scott in this town, not a Millie.

  The man and boy carried on walking home, listening to the rise and fall of the cicadas, lifting to a crescendo, before droning out to a buzz.

  CHAPTER 6

  Father Holmes and Song were on the porch sitting in a pair of Berbice chairs when Governor Johnson stopped by. Song had long been curious about him. His word seemed to be law in town, and nobody dared cross him. Once when Song had asked Scott to tell him more about the governor, Scott had said that ‘he couldn’t risk his job by talking the truth’.

  But he looked a pleasant enough man standing there in front of the vicarage. Not tall, a ruddied face, a quick smile.

  ‘Ah, Father, I’m glad I caught you at home.’

  ‘Good morning, Governor. What gives us the good fortune of a visit from the busiest man in Georgetown ?’

  ‘In truth, some rather important business.’

  ‘We’ll have to get on with this later, Song,’ Father Holmes said. He turned to the governor again. ‘This is my houseboy, Song. We’re working on a bird book together. Song, Governor Johnson is a passionate bird man, too – with two full-time trappers and a large aviary behind his house.’

  Song looked at the governor, who was sheltering his eyes from the sun and studying the sky for birds. ‘Nice to meet you, sir,’ Song said.