The Long Song (11 page)

Of all the servants that had come from around and about—including the two from Windsor Hall, Frederick from Unity, the housekeeper of Tam Dewar from just down the path—it was Clara that July could not take her eyes from.

‘Is me dress you like or me pretty fair face that make you stare so?’ Clara asked July.

July shrugged nonchalant at Clara’s words, yet persisted to gawp upon her like Clara were a blue flower blossoming upon a bush with only yellow blooms. For the tip of Clara’s nose pointed upwards like a white woman’s—no matter that she were peering down that slender feature to sneer upon July, the black pips of her nostrils could still be seen. Her lips were so thin they looked to have been embroidered upon her face in padded satin stitch. And when she lowered herself upon a chair, it was with the gentility of a missus perching side-saddle upon a delicate horse. July was wearing her best—a new blue kerchief upon her head, her pale-blue cotton blouse stitched with lace and two pearl buttons, recently fallen from her missus’s garment—yet within the shade of Clara’s distinction, she felt as ragged as a half-plucked turkey.

It was a thought escaping when July exclaimed, ‘Me missus give me cloth to make a new dress,’ into Clara’s proud face.

‘Cast-off ?’ replied Clara wearily. ‘I cannot abide to be dressed in cast-off. ’

The cloth July had been allowed was indeed her missus’s discards; a worn-out cotton dress drained away from bottle-green to an exhausted grey. And, because it had once wrapped all of her missus, unpicked and pulled out, the ugly fabric stretched for yards!

‘No,’ July snapped, ‘it be the finest white muslin from a ship that just come in from England.’

The sound of Clara sucking upon her teeth was as delicate as the chirp from a tiny bird. ‘You no tell me true,’ she said, ‘Your massa have no money for white muslin for you.’

‘Me massa have plenty money,’ July replied.

‘Me hear that not be so,’ Clara said.

‘Is so true,’ July said. ‘Him make plenty hogshead. And they do come from town and buy them. And him does take all the money in a big chest. Him can hardly lift it. Him must call Mr Godfrey to help. But not even them two can carry this chest, it be so full up with coin.’ July stopped to look upon Clara’s face and saw two scoffing green eyes staring back at her.

‘You no be telling me true, for what your missus be wearing is bad. No worthy white missus be wearing cotton printed with stripes,’ Clara said, flicking her hand to shake July from her.

‘But your missus does have an ugly face,’ July retorted.

‘How dare you impudence me missus,’ Clara said. Her umbrage rose her from out of her chair, so July quickly sat down upon it. Folding her arms, July then planted her feet down firm as a tap root so she could not be moved. Clara, even more piqued, shouted rough as a washerwoman, ‘Well, your missus has a big-big batty.’ And oh, how July desired those gold buttons upon Clara’s waistcoat as they shimmered in the skirmish. She may have made grab for one or bit it off with her teeth, if it were not for Byron running to her to say, ‘Them finish with first course. Mr Godfrey say come.’

Despite all the candles that lit up the group of servants as they entered the room, none of the guests at that table, not even Caroline Mortimer, paid any heed to that parade of gentle scavengers as they began lifting the plates from around them. Godfrey, standing by the table, ordered with a silent sweep of his hand what was to be lifted and taken where. Leaving only fruit in the centre of the table and laying down two platters of cheese, he bowed and left the room, walking backwards. (He may have somersaulted or jumped high, clicking upon his heels, reader, but there would be none to report it, for no one did see him.)

The feast of food was then carried from that high table within the dining room and laid out upon a low table that rested upon four large stones in the yard by the kitchen, until the makeshift table—wilting with the weight of food—had to be propped with a fifth stone before it snapped in the middle. And Molly again did slop the soup over the floor—the turtle soup this time—while looking for somewhere to place the tureen.

Godfrey, looking to finally fill his glass with a big slop of forget-all brew, sucked his teeth as Giles, James and two of the musicians—numb with rum and slurring words about them soon to be free men—passed his now empty bottles between them. Godfrey called July to him, ‘You can take Byron and get us some rum?’ July, her cheeks swollen with pigeon pie, nodded and ran off as Godfrey called after her, ‘Or anything that you can get. No come back with nothing. You hear me, nah?’

July usually performed her pilfering within the dining room when, with only the brass candelabra upon the table, the two candlesticks upon the sideboard, and her massa and missus chewing their food in silence, the room was quite gloomy. With the massa’s stock of drink unlocked for this big-big dinner, July thought to slide herself invisible as a duppy towards the cabinet that held it. But all those candles saw her dark corners chased away. She had to step cautious—pressed flat as the pattern upon the wall. At one step she stood still when she thought her missus did spy her and the tip of her kerchief was singed within the flicker of a candle flame. But her missus’s head was merely resting upon one hand, her eyelids drooping with the effort of staying attentive to the talk from that wearisome old man from Unity. Her massa, although nodding to this man’s chatter, idly banged a spoon against an empty decanter in front of him. While the other guests, paying this man no heed at all, continued to nibble and drink at what they could. Except for one, for if July’s eye was seeing true, the massa from Windsor Hall was sound asleep.

The fiddlers, now playing in the yard for the servants’ gathering, began to strike up a song. No more clatter or unrecognisable tune—the sound of a sweet melody came whispering through the open window. For, like most slave fiddlers, it only amused them to play bad for white ears.

July had been promised by Patience that, when the fiddlers struck up a good quadrille, then she would teach July all the steps to the Lancers. And it was a quadrille July could hear. It was just the confusing question of which was her left hand and which was her right, that stopped July from skipping this dance very well. Once she had that matter learned, then she would dance it better than Molly—for with only one eye Molly did lose her partner on every spin; it did mess up the set for everyone. July yearned to return to the kitchen before the dance was done for Cupid, the old fiddler, had promised her that she might get a bang of his tambourine, and she was hungry for more pie.

Byron hissed at the window, ‘Miss July, you there?’ so loud that July feared Tam Dewar had heard. For suddenly the overseer declared, ‘Not so. We won’t have trouble with negroes here. There are good negroes and there are bad . . .’ Although Byron was hidden deep as a shadow upon black velvet, still July held in her breath, then waved her hand out of the window as signal for him to hush up and wait.

Hordes of night creatures lured to the candles’ open flames dropped upon the wooden top beside her—scorched and smoking, they whiffed of baking food. As the talk-plenty old man from Unity said, ‘Well, I hope you’re right, Mr Dewar . . .’ July whipped a bottle from the cupboard top and passed it quickly out of the window. Another bottle she picked up was already empty. She shook it, then placed it back. But two more that were full, soon sailed over the window’s ledge into Byron’s tiny grasp.

Not too many, and all must be open, Godfrey had instructed July when first teaching her this little deception. That way the massa never knew what had been drunk by his guests; so any accusation of thieving was made with a hesitation from the massa which allowed Godfrey to perform his well-used, big-eyed display of affront.

July was waving another bottle—was it heavy glass or was it full? Hearing the slop of liquid, she was about to pass it through the window when the man who was sleeping suddenly awoke. He stared upon her with a look so keen that July felt it like a finger poking within her forehead.

‘What are you doing there?’ he shouted. July stood as still as her quickening breath would allow, in the hope he would think her just a likeness from a portrait upon the wall.

‘What are you doing?’ he said again. And the whole table turned to see where July was standing. July, stepping out of the meagre shadow, held the bottle as if she were about to pour it for these guests.

‘Oh, Marguerite, thank goodness,’ her missus said. ‘Are you bringing the second course, we’ve been waiting an age?’

‘Yes, where is the second course?’ her massa said, ‘Tell Godfrey the ladies have been waiting quite long enough for their sweet.’

But the man from Windsor Hall said, ‘Can’t you see that she’s stealing from you?’

There was a quarrel begun at the table. July knew that she was its cause, but she could not follow what the white people were saying of her, for a noise like the rush of a wave over stones filled her ears. Her missus was blushing and flushed. Her massa’s eyes were rolling and peevish. Tam Dewar, looking to the window, began rising from his seat.

‘Come here, girl,’ someone said. But who? July was not sure. Was it her missus? Should she fall to her knees and beg her not to have her whipped?

‘I said, come here.’ It was the man from Windsor Hall. Him who had just woken to expose her crime. He beckoned her to him with an angry gesture, while her missus nodded for her to obey him. July wanted to run from this place and hide in the stables with the grey mare. Mr Godfrey, a scream within her head yelled, Mr Godfrey, come get me from here.

‘Come here now, nigger!’ The command came, once more, upon a vexed breath. July’s eyes were blind with tears and she took the smallest steps her feet would allow. Eventually she arrived by the side of this man. His drunken breath, blasting upon her face, rocked her giddy as he said, ‘What were you doing there?’ Then, as his ill-tempered spittle dried upon her cheek, she felt his hand, discreetly, out of all view of the other guests, searching across the back of her skirt. Fiddling at a seam, pulling upon the fabric, groping like a tiny rodent looking for a dark corner. His sweaty fingers soon found the opening to the garment and quickly burrowed in. Placing his full palm over her bare buttocks he squeezed her flesh and said quietly, ‘Well, what were you doing? Stealing, weren’t you?’

‘Me no steal, massa, me no steal.’ July said. His finger had a jagged nail that scraped across her skin as it probed to find other holes to fill.

‘You’re a little thieving nigger, aren’t you,’ he almost whispered into July’s ear.

‘Oh, come on, let her go so the ladies can get the second course,’ the Reverend Pritchard said from across the table.

‘Not until she admits she’s a thief,’ the Windsor Hall massa told him.

July kept as still as she could within this white man’s grasp, for the fingers upon his rude hand began to nip and pinch at her buttocks. But then, suddenly, there came a great commotion of running feet from outside.

The doors to the room suddenly swung open with a fierceness that extinguished most of the dying candles. Two men dressed in militia blue bounded in upon the room, bringing in the wood-smoke and dung stink of the night air. July was sure these men had come to take her away—to the stocks, or the wheel at Rodney Hall. She twisted herself from the man’s grasp and his fingernail tore the flimsy seam of her skirt as he snatched his hand from out of it.

July dashed under the sideboard and clung her arms around the wood of its leg. She gripped it tight as the snake that was carved there, lest someone made bid to grab her.

But no one came. They did not even glance her way.

‘There is trouble.’ A deep, hoarse voice began addressing all at the table. ‘A great deal of trouble. The negroes are burning plantations in the west. We need every man here to report for militia duty now.’

At once, many feet began passing by July in her hiding place—clattering around upon the wooden boards before her. Tam Dewar’s sturdy brown boots were out the door with the militia men’s muddy black shoes following. The massa from Unity’s slippered feet skipped a dance as he said, ‘The day is upon us. The day is upon us.’ Byron’s little bare feet slapped in upon the room, chased by the four paws of the dog, who barked and slid into furniture. The music stopped. Names—Clara, Giles, James, Bailey—were yelled upon fretting breaths. Beyond the window, horses’ trotting hooves shook the ground and cart wheels creaked.

Only July’s missus, Caroline, remained seated at the table. The massa, leaning down close to his sister’s face, whispered with urgent command that she should not worry; that all this would be in hand soon enough; that he would return to her as soon as he could; and that, until such time, he wished her to stay within the house. Did she understand him? he asked her. Yes, perfectly, came her resolute reply. ‘The negroes will see you come to no harm,’ John Howarth told her before pressing a small pistol into her hand and kissing her upon the forehead. ‘Now, where is Marguerite?’ he said. And, before July knew, her massa’s troubled face had breached her hiding place, ‘Marguerite, get up from there,’ he said, pulling at the cloth of July’s flimsy skirt. ‘Come and look to your mistress. She needs you with her.’ His feet then strode to the door in five long strides.