Island Songs (26 page)

Searching in her suitcase for her best frock, Jenny, trying to imagine how English ladies dressed, said to Hortense. “As soon as we reach Sout’ampton, me ’ave to write ah letter to Papa. Tell him we reach safely. An’ Gran’papa Neville will affe stop sacrificing fowl fe we deliverance.”

Jenny laughed at her own jesting and Hortense sensed that her sister had left her doubts and worries somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. She took hold of Jenny’s left hand. “Me did tell yuh everyt’ing will be alright. We’re starting ah new life inna de motherland an’ our children will be born
English
. Cyan yuh imagine dat?”

Embracing her sister and fantasising of the good life that the country may offer her, Jenny replied, “yes, so dey will. Cilbert will mek ah great fader an’ me sure his mighty ambition an’ determination will pass on to him children.”

“An’ Jacob will pass on him devoutness an’ fait’ to ya children,” returned Hortense.

Jenny didn’t add to Hortense’s praising of Jacob.

Twenty-two days out of Kingston,
The Genovese Madonna
, under an overcast sky, skirted the Isle of Wight, bypassed the coastal town of Gosport and steamed serenely up the Solent. Yachts and other small vessels dotted the murky-green sea. In dry docks, ships were being constructed and repaired by burly men wearing boiler suits and hard hats. Looking around her, Jenny remarked. “Everyt’ing look so grey. Even de people who ah work ’pon de ships dem – grey like hurricane sky. Me never see ah cloud so broad. Don’t it ever move? An’ it cold! De north pole mus’ be close.”

Hortense found herself nodding her agreement. Cilbert, who had half-expected to be welcomed by marching bands and a jovial local mayor dressed in all his finery, stared out blankly, trying his best not to display the sense of disappointment he was feeling. He turned to look at Jacob and figure out if he shared the anti-climax.
But Jacob was no longer standing by his side. “Where Jacob gone?” he asked.

Cilbert imagined London to be much brighter, full of happy smiling people who would be fascinated to learn about Jamaicans and their traditions. He convinced himself that he would be greeted in the street and asked, ‘how do you do’. In his letters, Lester had described the bustling streets of the West End and Cilbert could foresee Jamaican restaurants, bars and clubs that played Caribbean music. He chuckled to himself as he imagined white people jiving to calypso and dining on chicken, rice and peas.

Disembarking from the ship and taking her first step upon English soil, Jenny felt that she had been severed from a part of her identity and history. She couldn’t help but think how out of place her father and her grandfather would be in her present surroundings. Recalling childhood suppers she remembered how her father made such a big deal if he happened to sight a ‘sweaty white mon’ mounted on his horse, continually swabbing his forehead with a soiled handkerchief. Now, she felt girdled by these white people, all walking so quickly, brushing past her as if they were all trying to locate misplaced cash or in need of a toilet. They appeared so grim and passed each other without offering a greeting or a nod of acknowledgement. She noticed Hortense squeezing the colour out of Cilbert’s right hand.

“
Englan
’!” Cilbert exclaimed, not noticing the bemused looks from the natives. “Land of opportunity!”

Smiling nervously, Hortense glanced behind her at the sea and for a moment considered a return to the ship. She tried to summon up courage but the tears welled up in her eyes. She imagined her brother David stepping ashore in New Orleans over a decade ago but at least there had been a significant number of black people there already. In his letters to Cilbert, Lester may have eloquently described the port of Southampton and the city of London, but he failed to relate the fear and sense of loneliness upon arrival.

Not relaxing her grip on Cilbert’s hand, Hortense now knew how that Chinese family felt when they first arrived in Claremont. They were ignored by almost everybody. Nobody would purchase
their groceries and one night, someone set fire to their shop front. Hortense recalled the look of the Chinese mother the morning after the incident. She didn’t say anything but her eyes were desperate, pleading to be accepted. From standing at her family stall, Hortense made four steps towards the Chinese woman with the intention of offering ‘ah good marnin’. But sensing the eyes of other Claremontonians upon her, Hortense paused and stepped back. She now wondered if the English would treat her the same.

Anxiety written over his face, Jacob wondered if Bruce Clarke had survived his plunge into the Solent. Jacob, after failing to collect enough cash from other immigrants to secure Bruce’s passage, had counselled Bruce to give himself up and perhaps the authorities would let him remain on English soil, but Bruce would not yield. “Me nah gwarn to return to Jamaica,” he insisted. “Not’ing der fe me apart from de dutty Dungle! Me will tek me chances inna de sea water an’ swim to de shore.”

Reluctantly, Jacob led Bruce to a secluded area of the stern of the ship. There he offered Bruce a few bank notes and a fistful of change. Bruce placed his right hand upon Jacob’s left shoulder in a gesture of thanks and smiled. “Pray fe me, preacher-mon? Yuh is de bes’ friend me ever had.”

Without hesitation, lacking style or grace, Bruce plummeted into the sea, carrying a small bundle of clothes wrapped up in a plastic bag. Jacob, his heart thumping furiously, didn’t spot Bruce’s head emerge above the waters until after five seconds, bobbing with the trailing wake of the ship. Jacob couldn’t help but think he had helped a man to his death.

Having passed through customs without as much fuss and questions as he had expected, Cilbert saw an impressively tall black man wearing a dark blue suit, skinny red tie and a black pork-pie hat waiting by a newspaper stand. He had the ready smile and confidence of a lead singer from a doo-wop band. “Lester! Over here, sa!”

Cilbert caught a glimpse of Hubert and Almyna meeting two white men and a mixed race woman. For a short second, Almyna offered him an over-the-shoulder, regretful glance before she was led away.

Lester Hibbert swaggered to meet his old friend.

“He look like ah joy bwai,” Jenny whispered to Jacob. “Like dem mon inna Trenchtown who ’ave plenty, plenty women an’ even more kidren. Dey never sleep inna de same bed two nights running an’ dey always ketch crab-louse ’pon der
business
.”

“Don’t judge by appearance, sweetheart.” replied Jacob. “Give him ah chance. After all, he come down from London to greet we.”

Cilbert and Lester embraced and remarked on how each other looked since their days at university. Hortense soon drew Lester’s attention. “So dis is de beautiful Hortense? Well, Cilbert, yuh strike gold fe true! Nuh wonder yuh never invite me back to Claremont an’ introduce me.”

Hortense felt her cheeks warming as Jenny whispered into Jacob’s ear, a hint of envy germinating in her mind. “Me told yuh so! Dis Lester is ah joy bwai. Me gwarn to watch him closely in case him try an’ corrupt me sweet sister.”

With the introductions concluded, Lester led the new arrivals to the train station. Struck by her new surroundings, Hortense marvelled at the way people queued at bus stops and taxi ranks. Everything was so orderly. Crossing the roads without motorists blaring their horns was a pleasure. She felt she was being stared at by the natives but this only encouraged her to lift her chin and walk tall. Yes! Look ’pon me people of Englan’, she wanted to shout out. Me’s ah proud Jamaican woman born inna Claremont where de fields an’ leaf so green!

“Jacob! Jacob!” Jenny nudged her husband. “See how de white people ah look ’pon we? Don’t dey ever see black people before? Dey look ’pon we like ah city mon look ’pon ah bull grining ah cow. Ungodly dem ah ungodly!”

“Everyt’ing will be alright,” calmed Cilbert. “Inna Sout’ampton dem nuh used to black people. Inna London it will be different. People will come up to we an’ introduce demselves. Watch an’ see!”

“Haven’t our people been arriving at dis port fe many years now?” queried Jacob.

“Well, dat true,” answered Cilbert. “But nuh too many Jamaicans live here. Once yuh live inna area de people der get used to yuh.”

“Me hope so!” remarked Jenny.

“Wha’ do yuh say, Lester?” Hortense asked. “Do de people like we?”

“Well, er. Cilbert is right when him say dat de places where Jamaicans don’t live, de people look ’pon we funny. But inna London we don’t ’ave dat problem. Jus’ ah few small minded people don’t like we presence.”

“Jus’ ah few!” Jenny wondered. “Yuh sure it jus’ ah few?”

Lester failed to answer again.

They caught the ten a.m. train from Southampton to Paddington, London. Feeling exhausted, Hortense rested her head against Cilbert’s shoulder and tried to catch some sleep. Sitting opposite her with a biro poised over a notepad, Jenny peered out of the window, marvelling at the train’s speed and the green countryside that flashed by. She imagined how her father would enjoy trodding the flat lands and for a moment wondered about the fate of the family donkey.

Meanwhile, Jacob was pouring over his newspaper. There was an article about Francis Chichester who had just set a new sailing time record of forty days from Plymouth to New York. Jacob chuckled at the name of Chichester’s yacht,
Gypsy Moth the Second
. He wondered if the first
Gypsy Moth
had sunk in the Atlantic. Another front page lead was about an agreement between the British and French governments that work could commence soon on the Channel Tunnel. A smaller news item near the foot of the front page detailed the end of British rule in Cyprus. Jacob wondered when Jamaica would enjoy her independence.

Cilbert, studying the back page of Jacob’s newspaper, couldn’t wrestle his eyes from a car advertisement; a newly designed three litre Rover with all the modern appliances priced at £1,715.10. If me work hard me will get meself one of dem, he promised to himself. Yes, sa, an’ when me get it me gwarn to tek ah photo of meself inna de car an’ sen’ it back to Trenchtown an’ mek de people me know realise dat me doing well fine inna Englan’.

The train came to a halt at Paddington. Hortense got out blinking the sleep from her eyes. Seeing that she was weary, Cilbert linked
arms with his wife and took the small suitcase she was carrying. Once Hortense’s train ticket had been accepted by an unsmiling barrier guard, Hortense saw a sobering sight. A middle-aged white woman, wearing a headscarf and a light blue overall, was pulling a grey metal bucket containing a mop, towards the train station’s public toilets. Her hands were protected by pink rubber gloves and her grim expression matched her task ahead. “Cyan yuh imagine dat?” said Hortense, pointing the woman out. “Me see some t’ings today but dat mus’ be de strangest sight of de whole day.”

Cilbert looked and the cigarette in his mouth almost dropped from his lips. An image of Miss Martha relaxing upon her verandah came to his mind and he shook his head, blinked and gazed again at the cleaner. “Mebbe she doing some kinda punishment,” he guessed.

Watching people going about their business, Jacob remarked, “so much fe ah greeting! People jus’ walk by yuh an’ say not’ing! Nuh manners! All me see is de same resentful faces me see inna Sout’ampton.”

“It’s jus’ ya imagination,” returned Cilbert who forced a smile.

“Yes,” Lester agreed. “Everybody catching dem train or going ’pon business. Sometimes inna London people don’t ’ave nuh time to stop an’ greet people.”

“Dat is
still
bad manners!” asserted Jenny. “Even in Trenchtown people say good marnin. Me don’t know how we cyan live wid ah people so cold. Mebbe dis was ah bad idea.”

Lester led the new arrivals to the bus station and the sheer weight and noise of traffic seemed to unnerve them. They felt everybody was watching their every move. Hortense held on tight to Cilbert’s hand and even Jenny surprised Jacob by gripping on tight to his left hand.

Declining Lester’s offer of a trip on the underground, they took a bus to Victoria. “Lester, we jus’ reach an’ yuh waan to tek we underground?” rebuked Hortense. “Me don’t know how de English live but underground is fe de dead an’ where de shit ah drop. Above ground is fe de living!”

Lester couldn’t help but laugh and Hortense’s jesting seemed to
relax the obvious fear and tension they were all feeling.

Seated upon the top deck, Cilbert, Jacob, Hortense and Jenny enjoyed their view, not knowing which window to look out of. They all felt a lot safer upon the top deck of a bus than walking the streets. Passing Marble Arch and travelling down Park Lane, they gazed in amazement at the plush hotels and the strangely dressed men who stood outside them. “Is dat where de Queen live?” Hortense wanted to know. “An’ yuh ’ave to dress like an uptown clown jus’ to open door fe people? Yuh could tek der hatwear or whatever dey call it an’ give it to de shanty people dem fe furniture. Everyt’ing so
big
. An’ Duke Reid coulda hold ah lawn dance in some of dem car. Even de roads wide like Mr DaCosta field back inna Claremont. An de buildings! Me don’t know how people cyan live so high. Mebbe dem ah learn how fe speak wid de birds. Mebbe dey t’ink dey cyan fly.”

Lester pointed out the perimeter wall of Buckingham Palace and Jenny asked, “if yuh climb de wall do dey put yuh inside de Tower of London? As ah girl chile me did read about de torture inna dat wicked place. Everyt’ing so big an’ frightening here! Even de roundabout we jus’ pass is like ah park! Yuh could raise cows ’pon dat land an’ grow scallion.”

“Dat is true,” concurred Jacob, feeling overwhelmed. “It kinda mek yuh feel so small. So insignificant. De first time I go to Kingston it really open me eyes. But dis place! How cyan black people live up to it? It mek yuh t’ink wha’ cyan we offer dis land. Wha’ is our role? How cyan we mek de English feel dat we ’ave somet’ing to offer?”

“By working hard,” answered Cilbert. “After all, it’s only buildings. If Jamaica had plenty money den we would ’ave buildings dat yuh see around we.”

“Me disagree wid yuh, Cilbert,” cut in Hortense. “Jacob right. Everyt’ing here do mek yuh feel like ah cockroach looking ’pon herd of stampeding elephants. Me eyes so full of wonder dat me cyan’t blink.”