Song Page 9

  But the governor didn’t seem to be listening to him or Father Holmes. Song quietly retreated into the house, but he was still in hearing distance of the men’s conversation.

  ‘Tell me more, Governor,’ he heard Father Holmes say.

  ‘Ah, yes. I will come directly to the point. Bloody hot, isn’t it ?’

  ‘The good thing about this weather is I get a full house on Sunday. The church is the coolest place in town.’

  The governor laughed. ‘Sounds like God’s own work. Now where was I ? Unfortunately this is all rather sudden. I’ve just been informed that a new vicar, by the name of Father Francis, is – as we speak – sailing to British Guiana with his family. He’ll be taking over your position here in Georgetown.’

  There was a pause. The loopy whistle of a screaming piha filled the silence.

  ‘And this is the first we’ve heard of it ?’

  ‘For some time there have been discussions in London about whether the colonies would be better staffed by men with families. We’ve been trying to get more families out here but haven’t had a lot of luck. Too many bachelors, or married men on short-term postings who leave the family back home. All getting up to mischief, that kind of thing. London thinks we need to make the place more attractive to families. You know, ladies shopping, kids in school, a proper ladder at the tennis club. The kind of thing that will keep people here.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘If we speed up the handover period it might mean you’ll be back in England for Christmas. You’ll have to remember us all sweltering here . . .’

  Song could hear his own breathing above the clock chiming in the hallway.

  ‘So this is nothing to do with my work ?’

  ‘Not at all. Although if you want to know the truth, Father, there have been some rumbling complaints from a few corners of the community. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. Educating houseboys and all that. But let’s not bother ourselves with any of that now. I’ll be putting in a very good word for you back in London. Where would you like to go ? Back to Wales ? Or overseas again ? How about India ? I hear Ceylon is very popular now.’

  ‘I can’t imagine leaving Guiana. Not now.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear that, Father.’

  ‘How about the interior ? Bartica or Lethem ?’

  ‘You can’t be serious ?’

  ‘Quite serious.’

  ‘It’s no Georgetown.’

  ‘There’s even more work to be done out there.’

  ‘Interior, eh ? It’s a wild place.’

  ‘I’m really not ready to leave.’

  ‘I can hear that.’

  ‘And think of the birds.’

  ‘I was thinking of the mosquitoes,’ the governor said.

  ‘I feel a real calling here.’

  ‘You are a special man, Father. A transfer, huh ? Let me look into it.’

  For so long Song hadn’t let himself dare hope that his time with Father Holmes might last beyond tomorrow. But now he was suddenly afraid of losing him, that there was a real chance of them being torn apart. Song closed his eyes and willed them to be together for all time.

  Malaria broke out in the east of the city. It started as a few cases of high fever, uncontrollable shaking, a drifting into unconsciousness. Not everyone died from it, but some did. The disease began to spread, moving across neighbourhoods like the shadow of dusk. The gloom was felt on every street. Whole households were left sweating and shaking.

  Song knew about disease like this. And he knew about surviving. What had his mother once said ? ‘Song’ll make it. He came to us in a good year.’ Song had beaten a fever once before. He could beat it again if he had to. But he worried about Father Holmes.

  Father Holmes was hardly ever home at the vicarage during that time. Day and night he accompanied Dr Hew, the chief medical officer, on his house calls. They worked around the clock: Dr Hew recommending poultices and cold wraps; Father Holmes offering comfort and prayers.

  Song tried to wait up for Father Holmes but sleep often overtook him. In the morning he would know if the vicar had passed by, however briefly. He would see with relief a partially eaten plate of food or carefully selected books laid out for him to read.

  Amalia preferred Song to stay around the house rather than to be out exposing himself to the fever. ‘Nursed you enough in my life already. There’s no need for you to be to-ing and fro-ing around town for no reason. You stay put ’less I tell you otherwise.’

  The only errands he was allowed to run were to the homes of the bereaved.

  ‘Don’t enter the house,’ Amalia instructed him. ‘No lingering. Be quick without being rude.’

  Song was glad to obey Amalia. He hated hearing the sounds of the grieving, the wailing, the smell of medication, even the smell of death. Song knocked on the front doors offering condolences from the vicarage, bearing cut flowers and trays of sweet pine tarts, and then he swiftly left.

  The rest of the time Song stayed at the vicarage reading the books Father Holmes had chosen, thinking up the questions he might ask him. He sometimes made up dialogues between himself and an imaginary Father Holmes, going back and forth, sitting in Father Holmes’ chair, even speaking in the vicar’s deeper voice, then switching to sit opposite, back as Song, to talk about what he had learned and what he didn’t understand.

  One quiet, muggy evening he was eating supper alone when there was a noise on the porch. Amalia called out from the kitchen. ‘Go on then. Must be him.’

  Song ran into the hallway. Standing in the frame of the door was a pale-skinned woman wearing a dark roll-necked dress. Her face glistened with sweat. Song recognised her immediately. Mrs Boyle – with the most beautiful voice in the church choir. They stared at each other through the screen door. Even in the dark Song could see that she had been crying.

  ‘Where is he ?’

  Song looked at Mrs Boyle’s hands, clenched tightly by her side, and felt wary.

  ‘Where’s that coolie-lover of yours ?’

  Song was shocked by the woman’s language and her tone. He knew only her sweet, light voice, as the woman who sang the starting note in choir practice for everyone to follow.

  ‘Please, ma’am ?’ Song said.

  ‘Good-for-nothing coolie-child.’ She spat out the words.

  Song felt himself recoil. ‘Father Holmes isn’t here.’

  ‘You fetch him, you hear me. You tell him I want to talk to him.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ Song repeated more firmly. ‘He’s visiting the sick with Dr Hew.’

  Mrs Boyle let out a shriek of laughter. ‘You’re a liar. That’s what you are.’

  Mrs Boyle pulled open the screen door. ‘I’m coming to talk to him. You get him.’

  At that moment Father Holmes’ voice came out of the darkness from behind the woman. He was just arriving home.

  ‘Is that Mrs Boyle ?’ he asked. ‘I was planning to come around this evening but you’re already here. Will you come inside and join me ?’

  Mrs Boyle turned to face Father Holmes. ‘Don’t you “will you come inside” me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Boyle. I’ve just learned about your loss. I’m terribly sorry I could not be there.’

  ‘You’re not sorry.’

  ‘We are trying to see everyone we can but we are living through a truly dreadful time.’

  ‘Who is ? You and your coolie-child ?’

  ‘Go inside please, Song,’ Father Holmes said.

  Song did as he was asked, but stayed in the shadows of the hallway. He heard Father Holmes steadying his voice. ‘Mrs Boyle, perhaps you need some rest. Let me—’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what I need. You wouldn’t know what any of us need. You spend all your time with a yellow-bellied coolie. He should be out cutting cane, not reading books.’

  Song saw Father Holmes peer through the screen door and look down the hallway for him. He pulled himself back from the light. He didn’t want Father Holmes to know he’d heard
any more. He knew it would upset him. But Song himself didn’t care what Mrs Boyle had to say. She could not stop him reading books now. He would always have the power to read.

  ‘Mrs Boyle, please control yourself. I know you are upset but so are we all—’

  Mrs Boyle’s voice had risen to a scream. ‘My baby’s dead and you tell me to control myself. You didn’t come to the house, did you ? Not when you were needed ? Too busy teaching that stinking coolie how to read. What about your own people ? You forgotten why you’re here ?’

  ‘That’s enough, Mrs Boyle.’ Father Holmes reached out for her hand. ‘Let me accompany you home.’

  Mrs Boyle took a step forward, raised her arm and struck Father Holmes across the face. ‘Stay away from me,’ she said. ‘Don’t you come near me.’

  Song gasped. He could not believe what she had done.

  ‘I’m not coming near you.’ There was frustration in Father Holmes’ voice. ‘I want you to stay away from us, too. Go home, Mrs Boyle. It’s late.’

  Song was equally shocked at Father Holmes’ response, even if she had hit him. His was the same tone he’d used on Millie that night at the sea wall when Song had watched on in horror, and Scott had told Father Holmes not to be so hard on his girl.

  Mrs Boyle suddenly threw herself at Father Holmes, beating him about the face. Father Holmes grabbed her wrists. Song was torn between going to Father Holmes’ aid, and remaining unseen. He watched in desperation. There was a struggle and Song saw the woman give up and collapse on the front steps. ‘God will judge you,’ she sobbed. ‘You’re a wicked, wicked man.’

  There was a man’s voice, out of breath and full of urgency. ‘Father Holmes. I’m so sorry.’

  Song couldn’t see him in the shadows but he guessed it was Mrs Boyle’s husband, George.

  ‘I’m glad you came. Your wife was just on her way home.’

  Mrs Boyle looked up at her husband. There was a fierceness in her voice as she pointed at Father Holmes. ‘He killed her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father. She’s very upset. The baby and all.’ He reached out to take his wife by the arm.

  ‘Don’t you touch me. You’re as bad as him.’ Mrs Boyle was still shouting.

  ‘That’s enough, Miranda. Come home now.’

  Song looked away from the fighting and down the corridor towards the back door. He watched the shadows dance as the lamplight struck the branches of the mango tree. He would never go back to the plantation, he swore that to himself. But he feared everything had changed. Mrs Boyle had tried to hurt Father Holmes. Father Holmes had ordered her home, even though she has just lost her baby, with a tone Song had hardly ever heard him use. Song’s faith in his new life was shaken. He knew he couldn’t risk staying. Even with Father Holmes by his side, there were too many people against him.

  Amalia walked down the hall to the front door mumbling to herself. She passed Song without noticing him. ‘What’s going on here ?’ he heard her say. ‘All this shouting so late at night ?’

  After she passed Song slipped out of the back of the house. He moved towards the swaying branches of the mango tree and into the darkness. The voices on the porch became fainter. Then he heard Father Holmes call out his name. He ran into the night, glad of the darkness.

  Song went straight to the church. He knew places there he could hide. There was a huge store cupboard where he could envelop himself between costumes used for the nativity play. There was also the altar, which was actually a table draped in cloth, that he could sleep under in the heat of the day. From there, he could hear footsteps, snippets of conversation, mumbled prayers, even the sound of a man sobbing. At choir practice, Mrs Boyle’s soprano voice rose high above the rest, and Song cursed her. After dark, he ventured out to find food, bringing back to the church a clutch of bananas, handfuls of guava, mangoes.

  Song had left the house so quickly, he had brought nothing except the book in his hand. Moby Dick. He read it slowly, studying the character of Ishmael, the outsider, the survivor. Someone without a family or a last name. The story underscored to Song that he didn’t want to run further away. In fact, he longed to go back to the vicarage. He wanted Father Holmes in his life. But he struggled to find the courage to return.

  By the time Sunday came around it had been four days. Song left the church early in the morning, before the hour Father Holmes left the vicarage. He walked up the steps, pulled at the screen door and winced at the whine. There was Amalia’s voice. ‘I’ll go, Father. You carry on eating.’

  Song padded quickly through the hall. Before Amalia had cleaned her hands on her apron he had reached the doorway to the dining room. Father Holmes looked up. Their eyes met like they had that day in the river. But this time it was more knowing. A bond already forged, there was a deeper understanding between the two of them.

  CHAPTER 7

  The cart heaved forward. Song sat atop their pile of possessions: boxes of books, rolled-up rugs, stacks of gloomy oil paintings, a typewriter. Up front Father Holmes sat next to Bento, whose donkeys strained forward with the weight of the load. Song thought back to the swing-basket of rice and the shirt on his back, the only two things he had when he left his family. It was so different now, yet he felt the same weighted sense of expectation, of a future unknown.

  They reached the muddy Demerara, running swiftly and high. Song sat quietly to the side and watched the unloading, and then the loading of their effects on to the boat; the short crossing, and then the same on the other side. Once, twice, then another time. It took all morning to do the transfer before Song and Father Holmes themselves crossed the river, and continued their journey west.

  The land opened up into miles of cane fields and Song watched the plantation workers burning the dried stubs. Searing sweet smoke clouded out the sun and rolled thickly across the fields. He blinked the scene in and out of his stinging eyes. He was acutely aware of the way the bodies moved of these men, how they raised their arms and slashed them downwards, something he knew how to do so well. He thought of Jinda. Then he thought of all the boys back at Diamond, toiling the same way, day after day. He felt sorry, even guilty. But then he thought of Li Bai’s words: You got to start thinking harder about surviving.

  The journey passed slowly. Song slept in bursts throughout the day. Sometimes his dreams crowded out the reality of where he was. He was running, out of breath, shouting his father’s name, searching, unable to find him. There was the noise of the ship, which so often thrashed around in his head. The switch flicking in the air, the beating on his back. When he woke, he quickly looked across at Father Holmes, just to be sure he was there.

  They stopped from time to time to stretch their legs. As they stood by each other’s side, Song turned to Father Holmes. Something had been worrying him.

  ‘Do you think we’ll hear back from the man who went to Hong Kong, if we’re in Bartica ?’

  ‘Course we will,’ Father Holmes replied confidently. ‘I’ve been checking with Malcolm regularly. He or someone else will send word.’

  ‘We haven’t heard back yet.’ Song’s voice was flat.

  ‘That’s true. Not yet. But it’s a long way to go and a long way back, you know that.’

  Song nodded because he thought it would please Father Holmes.

  The two of them clambered aboard the cart and went on their way. Fields gave way to sparse brush before the foliage thickened again with shiny green fronds of banana trees. They were planted in small groves each bearing hundreds of tightly clustered bananas. Men with machetes hacked at the thick stems to harvest the fruit. There was a splitting sound of vegetation.

  The road ended abruptly at the banks of the Essequibo. Song had heard about this mighty river. Amalia had told him it was as wide as an ocean with midstream islands as big as countries. A river, as strong as the rising waters of the Li, capable of taking away all the men of a village, yet also with the power and fury of the open sea. Song was afraid but he knew he had to keep going; he could not turn back.

>   He stood beside the boatman on the water’s edge and peered to see the other side.

  ‘How far is it ?’ he asked.

  ‘Two days,’ the man replied. ‘All day for two days.’

  ‘Without stopping ?’

  The man waved his arm across the great expanse of water.

  ‘It’s a long, long way.’

  Song thought how that was not a long, long way. He knew much longer.

  The boatman put out a hand, and Song shook it.

  ‘Call me Fowl Man,’ he said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Fowl Man,’ Song replied. The man was tall and scrawny but must have been strong given his trade.

  Song turned back to their course ahead. Unlike the Demerara, the Essequibo’s waters were clear, but they were rougher, too. Waves lapped against the bank, staining the shoreline with torn branches and shrivelled coconuts. Every so often a bigger one washed right up the muddy bank. Song felt a fear rising inside him.

  He looked at the long wooden dugout that Fowl Man had started loading. It seemed very small and unsteady to be taking them all the way to the opposite bank, two days away without stopping. The silver lettering of Marie Christine shimmered on the side of the vessel. It lowered into the water as it was filled with the crates of books and belongings, and Fowl Man stretched tarpaulin across the boxes. Song worried the rough waters might lap over the rim, or that the boat might split apart, that they’d sink. He tried hard to strike out those thoughts.

  ‘I’ll have to come back for the rest, Father,’ Fowl Man said. ‘That all right ? Bento will take care of everything until I can return.’

  Father Holmes surveyed the numerous boxes remaining on the cart and nodded. Then he and Song stepped into the boat and hunkered down. Song peered over the side. The water was almost above his eye-line.

  ‘Everything all right, Song ?’ Father Holmes asked.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Song replied. His firm answer made him feel a little better.

  They pushed out into the current. Fowl Man and his oarsman strained to dig their paddles into the river. Swifts angled across the surface of the water, catching flies. Father Holmes pointed out a grey kingfisher with a shaggy crest as they pulled away from the bank. Song was grateful for the distraction. The river stretched out wide ahead of them, restive and silver.