Caribbean (100 page)

“Amazing,” Millard said. “How do you tell the difference?”

“The copy falls apart in three months. The real one lasts forever.” And it was then that McKay discovered one of the secrets of doing business in the Caribbean: Boncour’s shop had exquisite jewelry and
gifts for sale to the island’s white trade, but also hordes of low-cost imitations for tourists, local blacks and sailors off passing ships.

At this point Boncour was called away by an entering customer, and Millard was left alone to study the shop. Before he could see beyond the high-priced display cases and the low, he was distracted by the two golden-skinned girls who tended the shop, and they were so refreshing, so graceful with flowers in their hair, that he thought: It’s not fair to young unmarried Englishmen to have girls as beautiful as that around, and of the wrong color.

When Boncour returned he said seriously: “I know what it is to want a really good watch. That’s how I got into the business. I have a Rolex here, not new, but nearly so. Man brought it in to be fixed, and he may have stolen it, because two weeks later he was murdered. The police and I advertised everywhere, even on other islands, but I never found the owner. I want to get rid of it. I want my expenses for the replacement parts I had to send for and the advertising. I’ll let you take it off my hands for thirty-two dollars.”

Millard stepped back and looked at Boncour. As a newspaperman in Detroit he had investigated every kind of scam: the supposed millionaire who had died intestate in the Nevada gold fields, the bait-and-switch sales, the cruel deception in which widows deposited their savings. He not only knew the old angles, but he had also learned to be on the alert for those new tricks which had not surfaced before.

“That’s a good watch. Worth a lot more than thirty-two dollars.”

“Right on both counts.”

“But I’d want police clearance on it before I could be interested.”

To McKay’s surprise, Boncour said: “You’d certainly get it! I want a record too … of having cleared up the case,” and, pocketing the watch and some papers relating to it, he led McKay to the police station, which could have been a fake, except that it had a permanent sign outside and two uniformed officers behind the desk.

“The chief in?” Boncour asked, and one of the desk men indicated with his shoulder that the inner door was open. Inside, McKay faced a colored police sergeant in a natty twill uniform, who asked jovially: “Who’s done what?”

Boncour spoke, placing watch and papers on the desk: “It’s that watch the murdered man left. I have about thirty-two dollars in it, new parts and those advertisements. Mr. McKay, newspaperman from Detroit, needs a watch and is willing to pay the thirty-two dollars.”

“So what do you want?”

“Police verification that I didn’t steal it. A receipt so that Mr. McKay can take it back with him to the States.”

“Why haven’t you looked for a buyer here?”

“Thirty-two dollars is a lot of money for most of my customers. And it is essentially a used watch.”

The sergeant shuffled the papers on his desk and was about to sign the prepared receipt, when he looked past Boncour and McKay and cried with huge affection: “Sir Benny! Come in!” and into the office came a most unusual man. He was jet-black, about five feet six, slightly chubby, beautifully relaxed and wreathed in an ingratiating smile.

Nodding graciously when introduced to McKay, the man greeted Boncour and the sergeant as old friends, then said in a low, soft voice with an impeccable English accent: “Sergeant, I’ve got to tell you before you go any further, my sister found the wheelbarrow.”

The sergeant laughed: “I told you she would.” Then turning to McKay, he said: “This criminal type is Sir Benny Castain.”

McKay, thinking
Sir
Benny to be one of those calypso singers who favored names like
Lord
Invader or
Emperor
Divine, made a tremendous gaffe: “Have you recorded any of your songs?”

“No, no!” the station sergeant laughed. “He’s a real knight. Sword of the King himself. Our greatest cricketer, batsman and/or bowler.”

“He wouldn’t know about cricket,” Sir Benny said apologetically, but Millard corrected him: “Indeed I do. Don Bradman. Douglas Jardine.”

The three island men gaped, and Sir Benny asked: “Now, how does an American know those names?”

“At Rutgers University, near New York, there were always West Indians playing cricket in some park. I read about it in a book by Neville Cardus. Part of my course in English.”

“I cannot believe this!” Sir Benny said, and the men sat down while the sergeant recalled the glory of All Saints’ cricket: “Lord Basil Wrentham, him who’s to serve as our new Gee-Gee, brought a first-rate English team to the West Indies, 1932 it may have been. Four matches. They won handily in Jamaica, had a better challenge in Trinidad, and won again by a big margin in Barbados. We’d never had a topnotch international match in All Saints, but for that occasion we’d built a new oval, sodded it well, and could offer a first-class pitch.

“Great excitement when the ship brought the two teams over from Barbados. The English players, so white-skinned, so gentlemanly, won all hearts as they trooped off the ship behind Lord Basil and Douglas Jardine, both men tall and imperial. Then the great batsmen, Patsy Hendren and Walter Hammond. And the bowlers, Leslie Ames and Bill Voce.” As he uttered each of the revered names, the other two islanders nodded approvingly. “That really was a great team,” Boncour said, but Sir Benny said quietly: “You forget the best bowler of them all, got me three times before the game at All Saints, Hedley Verity,” and the others agreed.

The sergeant, eager for this interested American to understand the greatness of Sir Benny, began to recite the details of that memorable four-day match. But as he started, McKay had a happy inspiration: “Why don’t we all go over to the Waterloo and discuss this? Drinks are on me.” The men instantly agreed. Leaving the police station, the sergeant said to McKay: “Don’t forget your watch,” and Boncour nodded: “It’s yours now.”

At the Waterloo, Bart Wrentham greeted them with enthusiasm, bowed to Sir Benny, and asked if he might join them. McKay said: “Yes, if you’ll send out for the kind of picnic we had yesterday,” and he handed Wrentham some pound notes. “You buy the food,” Bart said. “I’ll treat for the beer,” and shortly he was back with another feast.

“England batted first,” the sergeant resumed. “Brutal. Scored 352, with the loss of only six wickets.” Turning to McKay, he asked: “You know what ‘declaring’ means?”

“Yes. If England already has 352 runs, a huge lead, they figure they’ll be able to get your team out quickly and then make you follow on—that is, go right back in and do so poorly that your combined score will be less than 352. So with England batting only once, they swamp you and win the match, 352 to something like maybe 207. Great victory.”

“Amazing,” Sir Benny said. “Never thought to see an American who understands cricket.”

“Lord Basil had made a daring gamble on behalf of England’s team,” the sergeant said, “but he stood to win, because our side didn’t have great batsmen.” He paused, and everyone looked at Sir Benny, who smiled smugly as he recalled yet again that glorious day. “But Lord Basil hadn’t counted on this fellow here. He was plain Benny Castain then, grandson of a former slave, but a lad with a good education
obtained in our schools. I shall never forget him coming out to bat. Not big. Not powerful. Two of our wickets down for a total of only 29, and England with that formidable 352. But Benny dug in, knocked the ball all over the oval, never saw such an innings. Finally clean bowled by Verity yet again, but he had put 139 on the board, and England was nervous, I can tell you that, when our innings ended at 291. Any desire to make us follow on was lost, thanks to Benny.”

Then Bart Wrentham interrupted: “There were eighteen or more of us colored Wrenthams in the oval next day, and the rest were like me. Immensely proud that a white Wrentham was captain of the all-England team, but also excited that our crowd had put up such a fine showing against the best.”

“Did you think,” McKay asked, “that All Saints had a chance of winning?”

“Wait, wait! This wasn’t an All Saints team. It was players from all our islands. Benny here was the only All Saints man. And having inflamed his home island with his batting, he now took to bowling, and when England’s great batsmen came out, Hammond and Hendren and Jardine, they weren’t so cocky, because they knew they had to put a lot of runs on the board to make their side safe. Had to have maybe 250 more, something like that.”

The sergeant wanted the honor of reporting Sir Benny’s immortal bowling that afternoon: “He had a mix of three, a fast ball, a right-arm chinaman, and a googly, and believe it or not, he put down seven of England’s greatest batsmen for a total of only 57 runs. The fourth day of the match ended with the score England 409, West Indies 291, but with a fighting chance to overtake.

“I cannot tell you how we felt that night, here in All Saints. I had to get up five times to pee, and at dawn I was still awake. That day, at eleven in the morning, I think the entire population of All Saints was at the oval or near it. When play started, England had three more batsmen, but this tremendous fellow”—and he patted Sir Benny’s knee—“dismissed them for only 21 additional runs. England 430, West Indies 291.”

Now Bart spoke, slowly and reverently, for he was dealing with one of the spiritual climaxes of his island: “We opened our last innings against the great English bowlers needing 140 to win, and we gasped in anguish when the two V’s, Voce and Verity, took five of our wickets for only 41 runs. Defeat loomed, but then Benny took over. Defending his wicket as never before, and punishing every loose ball
that was bowled to him, he scored two sixes and thirteen fours. Never had we seen a West Indian punish English bowlers as he did that day, and in the late stages of the game, when it was obvious that we had a fighting chance to win the match, that damned Hedley Verity bowled Benny again. Stunned silence.”

The men paused to recall that tremendous moment in their island’s history, then Wrentham said quietly: “But our other batsmen picked up the challenge …” Here his voice rose to a roar, and he banged the table with his fist: “And we won! We had beaten England.” On impulse, both Boncour and the sergeant rose and embraced Sir Benny, the black man who had brought black majesty to their island.

“The part I remember best,” Wrentham said, “was when the players left the pitch. Lord Basil sought out Benny, threw his long right arm over his shoulder, and walked out of the oval with him.” He stopped, looked at McKay, and said: “I predict he will be a very popular Gee-Gee.”

Much could be learned about life in a British Crown Colony by observing the social laws governing Lord Wrentham’s XI, as the English cricket team was invariably called, since Wrentham had picked his men and assumed responsibility for their pay, which amounted to about $700 American per man for the entire tour, plus steamboat fare and meals.

Of course, only the professional cricketers received pay, for the team was rigidly divided between
gentlemen
, that is, amateurs of good family, and
players
, professionals, who played for a living. The distinction between them was rigid: On the passage over, gentlemen sailed first class, players second. At clubhouses there was one entrance for gentlemen, another for players. A gentleman was referred to by his initials and last name, such as W. H. B. Wickham, and addressed deferentially as “sir,” a player would be known and addressed simply by his last name, rarely even with the prefix “Mr.”

At evening functions the team also divided, gentlemen often attending parties given by county families, the players dining at their hotel, with the senior professional carving the joint and serving the junior man last. But such distinctions were so ingrained that they were taken for granted and caused little rancor.

There were other minor refinements, like that between capped
and uncapped members. Anyone who had been selected for his nation’s test team was awarded a “cap,” and professionals who were uncapped were unlikely to address directly a gentleman who had a cap. But it was a remarkable tribute to the pragmatic nature of Englishmen that these caste differences never impeded play on the field. Cricket was at the same time both the custodian of social principles and the arena in which men met as equals. A professional bowler who took the wicket of the finest gentleman batsman of the opposing team might well be roundly applauded … by both teams.

The day came when blacks thronged the streets, shouting: “The Gee-Gee, he ship in the
baie
!” and when the vessel from Southampton edged into the dock, McKay was there to watch the arrival of the new governor general, and he observed the present incumbent, a tall, slim, good-looking regimental officer in his sixties, waiting in the island’s only Rolls-Royce, an impressive Silver Ghost. Now the crowd cheered, for at the top of the gangway Lord Basil Wrentham appeared, almost a twin of the man waiting in the Rolls: tall, underweight, austere, with a military bearing and a haughty manner. They must have a factory somewhere in England where they punch out these cookies to impress the colonies, McKay thought.

The new Gee-Gee stood very erect, saluted the ship he was leaving, and came imperially down the gangway, but he did not go to the waiting Rolls; he merely bowed to his predecessor, acknowledged the salutes of the guard, and looked inquisitively about the crowd. Then, having located what he sought, he moved briskly forward, ignoring everyone until he stood face-to-face with Sir Benny Castain. Throwing his arms wide, he embraced the chubby black man as he had done years ago at the end of that resplendent afternoon. “I guess there must be something extra about cricket that they don’t tell you in books,” McKay said aloud as he watched, but he could hardly hear his own words, for the crowd was cheering wildly.

On the third day after Lord Wrentham’s arrival, the text of Millard McKay’s first article reached All Saints from Detroit, creating a favorable stir. The author, after explaining that in 1763 many thoughtful Englishmen had advocated keeping All Saints and giving Canada away, described the island as it existed today, and he painted a loving, faithful portrait. Anyone familiar with All Saints would have to acknowledge
that McKay had spotted the foibles, recognized the merits, and understood the role of a man’s skin coloration in determining his social level.