Island Songs (35 page)

Raising her eyes over the pages, Jenny stared blankly at the wall. Five minutes later she finally nodded her acceptance of Jacob’s terms.

“We will start afresh,” Jacob continued. “An’ as yuh said. Cilbert
is
dead. An’ perhaps ah liccle piece of all of us dead since we reach here. Dey say dat ah chile should not ’ave to pay fe de fader’s sins. But my God.
He
meks sure we pay. Ya paying fe Joseph an’ I’m paying fe my fader.”

Norman Manley International Airport, Kingston
September, 2003

Jenny watched two male Jamaican deportees, accompanied by three British police officers, being met by the Kingston constabulary as she descended the steps of the British Airways flight. “Dey give we decent Jamaicans ah bad name,” she whispered to Hortense. “If it’s crack or gun dem ah deal wid, den me hope dey t’row dem inna jailhouse an’ fling de key inna de deepest pit toilet dey cyan find.”

Not paying attention to her sister’s comments, Hortense felt the burning Kingston sun upon her head and pulled off her white cardigan. Using her right hand to shield the sun from her eyes, she looked out to a shimmering Kingston harbour in the distance and in her memories saw herself and Cilbert stepping aboard
The
Genovese Madonna
over forty years ago. Now, she would not admit it to her sister or anyone else but she felt like a foreigner. “Me forget how Jamaica so hot,” she smiled, masking her apprehension.

“Yuh soon get used to it again,” replied Jenny.

Waiting for what seemed an eternity to collect their luggage, the now silver-haired sisters, passed through customs; caution marked Hortense’s steps. “Ya sure Junior will be here to greet we?” Hortense fretted. “Me hear stories about returning Jamaicans being kidnapped an’ killed by bogus taxi driver!”

“Stop fret, Hortense. Junior
will
be here.”

They went through the concourse of the airport and out into the noisy, bustling forecourt where expectant families and friends jostled for room against the barrier rail, awaiting their loved ones and the chance of foreign currency. Porters, not wearing any recognisable uniforms, approached the sisters and offered to carry their luggage in hope of financial reward. “Do me know yuh?”
Hortense challenged. “How me know yuh nah run off wid me t’ings? Go’long, beggar mon an’ find yaself ah proper job!”

Linking arms, Jenny whispered, “
stop
being so nervous. Come, Junior waiting fe we inna de car park.”

Junior, thirty-two years old and Joseph’s great grandson, had inherited the now dead Maroon’s genes and he stood by his taxi, towering over everyone at an impressive six foot five. Hortense looked upon him in astonishment, her mind not quite coming to terms that she was looking at her brother David’s grandson. He took their baggage and placed it in the boot of his car and watching his every move, Hortense recognised David’s ready smile. She felt she was observing a ghost. “Somet’ing de matter?” Junior asked.

“Nuh, sa,” Hortense replied. “Ya jus’ remind me of me sweet brudder. How is ya papa, Daniel?”

“Oh, him alright. But he did withdraw himself ah liccle when de old mon Neville pass away. Ah sore loss was dat to him. Neville reach de mighty age of ninety-eight.”

“Yes, me know dat, Junior,” replied Hortense. “Me ’ave been away fe ah very long time but me cyan read letter!”

Weary from the nine hour flight, Jenny and Hortense napped in the back seat. Driving through Kingston, the sleeping Hortense never witnessed the Americanisation of Jamaica’s capital. Advertisements for Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonalds and Coca-Cola seemed to appear on every highway, food stores sold American rice, and the Jamaicans queueing outside the American embassy for the chance of visas seemed to be all wearing baseball caps. They stretched over two blocks with little hope expressed in their eyes. The music sounding out from Junior’s car radio was laced with Hip Hop, R and B and just a small serving of reggae.

Waking up when Junior sped through Linstead, Hortense gazed out the window. She could now see the misty-cloaked hills, lush green valleys and the road-side vendors. Old, silver-bearded men with few teeth went by on donkeys and Hortense greeted them all, her feeling of trepidation now floating away. She ordered Junior to pull up and she bought some water coconuts and a jackfruit. “Yuh sure dem sweet an’ fresh?” she challenged the vendor.

“Of course, Miss. Me would never sell anyt’ing stale, especially to someone old. Dat would be ah mighty disrespect.”

“Ya words better ring true becah if me discover dat de fruit bad me gwarn tell me driver to turn around an’ me will fling ya fruit inna ya face an’ mosh up ya cart. Good day to yuh an’ live good!”

“Hortense! Yuh nah easy,” grinned Junior as he checked his rear view mirror and saw the vendor shaking his head and laughing. “As ah liccle bwai me hear about ya nettle tongue but me never imagine yuh still possess it now yuh head turn grey.”

“Don’t talk about me age!”

Following a three-hour journey, they had reached the Fish On The Mount restaurant, Levi and Carmesha’s home and business. They had renovated and built extensions to Isaac’s old house. Where the pig pen and the chicken coop once stood, was now a paved area for outside dining. White umbrellas shaded every round table and the tang of roasting fish flavoured the air.

David’s son, Daniel, now fifty-two years old, was the first to greet Hortense and Jenny from out of the car from the crowd that had gathered. His hair was as black as the rural Jamaican night and no cares and stresses had yet to touch his forehead. Feeling overwhelmed and a little frightened, Hortense had to be cajoled out of the car. David escorted his two aunts into the house and there inside, a crying Carmesha, now into her seventies but looking much younger than Hortense and Jenny, rushed up to them both, hugging them warmly. Even Jenny could not deny her tears and the three of them remained holding one another for five minutes. No words were necessary as numerous cousins looked on, clapping happily, many of them blessing their eyes upon Hortense for the first time. “Welcome home, Hortense!” Carmesha finally said. “An’, Jenny, t’ank yuh fe bringing her home.”

His steps unsure but his stance upright, the grey-locked Levi emerged from an adjoining room. His heavy-lidded eyes sparkled with memories and his lips curled into a warm grin. “Nettle Tongue!” he rasped as a greeting to Hortense. “Yuh don’t change at all. Yuh still ’ave fire inna ya eyes!”

Walking over to Levi, Hortense fingered his locks and caressed
the bald pate upon his head. She then broke out into a knowing grin. “Levi, didn’t me tell yuh dat yuh could nah live near mountain top all ya life? Dis place is magnificent! Now, me hungry! Where de food der?”

Hortense and Jenny feasted upon a mackerel and snapper dinner with ackee, bammy, breadfruit, spinach, peppers, scallion, ardough bread and rum cake. This was washed down with the finest Appleton rum, mixed with mango juice and goat’s milk. Hortense was introduced to all the relations she had yet to meet and she was soon overcome at the generosity and goodwill showered upon her. She couldn’t stop crying. How Cilbert would have loved this homecoming, she thought. Jenny was in deep discussion with Levi, Jacob’s name surfacing time and again. They seemed to come to an agreement upon something as Levi nodded and embraced his sister-in-law.

As the sun began its descent into the western sky, Hortense, her fears and doubts of returning home for good now forgotten, helped Carmesha with the washing up. “Carmesha, before me res’ me head an’ go to de old house, me waan go up to de family burial plot. Yuh t’ink Junior coulda drive me?”

“Of course, Hortense. Nuh problem. Me forget dat yuh never bless ya eyes ’pon Amy an’ Joseph burial plot. Junior!”

Passing through Claremont market, Hortense thought it hadn’t changed much, save for a few shopfronts that advertised Jamaican rum and the tarmac road that had replaced the dusty route. But the far-off hills were specked with new houses, many of them as impressive as any she had seen back in London. Only a handful of men worked in the fields, Hortense found, and none of them were young. Goats still walked their own sure-footed paths, skinny dogs still yapped their unnecessary barks and chickens still wandered with a carefree abandon, utterly unaware of their fate. Radios tuned into the BBC’s
World Service
and ghetto blasters seemed to sound out from everywhere, and Hortense wished her old bones could dance like she used to one more time. She closed her eyes and saw herself jigging at Elvira’s birthday night party almost fifty years ago. “Me was de best,” she whispered to herself. “Oh yes! Me was de best!”

Finally reaching Joseph’s old plot of overgrown land, Hortense and Jenny climbed out of the car and gasped at the sheer natural beauty that surrounded them. For Hortense, Junior’s car instantly became an unwanted intruder as she blessed her eyes upon many shades of green, browns and bright yellows. Untouched valleys, cast in lengthening shadows and ripe in mangroves, seemed to be holding on to some long-held secret and the glittering stream that sliced through the uplands, banked by sentinels of Blue Mahoe trees, only added to the mystery. The hills stretched and rose into the distance, as if they were seeking a meeting with the heavens and the natural mystic, ebbing and flowing in the gentle, Caribbean breezes, rekindled Hortense, Jenny and Carmesha’s memories of their treasured past and prompted imaginings of their children’s and grandchildren’s great futures.

Leading Jenny and Hortense to the family burial plot, Carmesha reminisced of her years living in the misted hills. Blissful times, she thought, and such a good upbringing for her sons. Amy had been Carmesha’s best friend and confidante and her death was a particularly harsh blow for her. Indeed, it was Amy who suggested that Levi and Carmesha should invest their money in a business venture to capitalise upon the returning Jamaicans from abroad. The Fish On The Mount restaurant was an instant success and it was
the
place to dine in the area.

David’s grave had now been marked by a headstone and the Egyptian Ankh cross. Hortense, who had returned to the faith of her childhood, went to David’s place of rest first and cleared away the leaves and dry earth that had rested upon it with her handkerchief. She then kissed the cross, closed her eyes and said a quiet prayer. Meanwhile, Jenny had dropped to her knees at her mother’s last resting place, a sense of guilt probed her conscience for she had divorced Jacob a year after her mother’s death. Finally meeting beside Joseph’s burial plot, Hortense said to Jenny, “me suppose der ways are gone fe ever, y’know, der old customs an’ traditions. Only we remember dem but soon we will join dem. An’ when we pass on our ways will be forgotten too.”

“Don’t yuh ever regret dat Cilbert isn’t bury at his place of birth?” Jenny asked.

“Nuh, sa. From de day me meet him he was talking about Englan’. Dat was his dream so he should res’ der. Me know he’ll be waiting fe me. Me feel bad about Jacob inna Englan’ though. At me son wedding him did look so alone, so old. Me try to deny it but me feel old too. Me Island Song will soon be over.”

“Oh, Hortense! Stop ya dead talk! Yuh ’ave many years left inna ya bones! An’ as for Jacob, me was talking about him wid Levi. Levi will send Junior to Englan’ to bring him home. For nuh matter our differences, he belongs here.”

Breaking out into a smile, Hortense said, “dat’s good of yuh, Jenny. Dat is good. Me still don’t understan’ why yuh two divorce but Jacob is ah good mon. Yuh never know? Inna de twilight of ya lives yuh might feel dat yuh waan keep each udder company?”

Returning Hortense’s smile, Jenny didn’t reply.

The house where Jenny and Hortense were born had also been refurbished and extended. An inside toilet had been constructed and the verandah was spacious enough for a family to eat their meals there and watch the setting sun dip beyond the western hills. The crickets in the fields still debated at night and the stars above seemed to shine brighter here than anywhere else. Joseph’s ring of flowers offered welcoming colour around the house and the mambay mango tree had grown strong and fruitful, its roots creeping under the stonework at the back of the building. Once inside Jenny complained that her nephews and other relations hadn’t kept the place as spick and span as they had promised while she had been away. “Stop fussing, Jenny,” Hortense rebuked. “Yuh should be t’ankful dat de place wasn’t burgled! It look lovely to me. Although it seem ah bit ghostly to me. So quiet.”

Finally retiring to a double bed with an accommodating mattress, Jenny unpacked her old Bible and turned to the pages of Genesis. Looking on from her side of the bed, Hortense remarked, “Jenny, me really an’ truly hope me pass away before yuh.”

“Hortense! How cyan yuh say such ah t’ing!”

“Becah me waan to meet an’ greet de angels before yuh come up an’ claim dem fe yaself, talking an’ nagging der ears off! As a chile yuh did always waan wha’ me ’ave.”

Smiling, Jenny replied, “only becah me love yuh, Hortense. Me waan to share everyt’ing wid yuh. Now res’ ya head. Yuh come home an’ me will look after yuh like me promise David.”

Closing her eyes, Hortense found a deep comfort in her sister’s words. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

ISLAND SONGS IS DEDICATED TO MY GRANDFATHER,

LOUIS ‘CHARLIE’ WHEATLE, 1900-1986

– A TRUE MAROON.

I would like to thank David Shelley for displaying faith in me as well as the team at Allison & Busby. My deepest gratitude goes out to Laura Susijn who has stood by me thick and thin – the drinks will soon be on me! Leo Hollis, you’re a ‘producer’ supreme! Thanks for your counsel, time and installing a belief in me. My appreciation goes out to the Arts Council of England for giving me support in the writing of this novel. My heartfelt thanks to my two aunts, Hermine and Lilleth, for sharing with me such vivid recollections of growing up in Jamaica in the middle of the 20
^th
century. Much credit to my father, Alfred, for giving me such a colorful memory of his own passage from Jamaica to England in 1954. Special appreciation to my sisters, Margaret and Hope, for offering me so much understanding and compassion. Big mention to my daughter, Serena – thanks for everything. A massive shout to my sons, Marvin and Tyrone – you are Jedis now! My cousins, Jackie, Debbie, Gary, Junior, Sharon, I have not forgotten you. Shout-outs to all the Wheatle’s out there – I didn’t realize there were so many! Special mention to those living in Old Harbour, St Catherine, where they serve the tastiest fish and bammy on the island. And big up to those dwelling in Papine, Kingston – I may be biased but Papine has
the
best market in Kingston. Respect to all those who have supported me during my writing career, especially the fan who came into the Index Book Store in Brixton whilst I was performing a signing and presented to me a chocolate herb bar!