Island Songs by Alex Wheatle Read Free Book Online Page B

folk shared and the subsequent fear of embarrassment.
    Sighing wearily, Amy was much relieved that her morning chores were over; sweeping out the yard, scrubbing the cooking vessels in the stream, collecting wood for the fire and mending a pair of Joseph’s old cotton pants. She looked forward to this time of the day. Her daughters, meanwhile, were learning how to sing Rule Britannia at school and reading about the acts of bravery of Nelson at Trafalgar and the red-coats who thwarted the Zulus at Rourkes Drift. Amy thought it was a mockery for Jamaican children to sing the lines, ‘… Britannia rules the waves, Britons never never never shall be slaves …’ She felt her daughters should be taught to rely upon what the soil offered them rather than educated about the deeds of men who lived in a world her kin couldn’t comprehend. “ Rule Britannia cyan’t mek de yam grow sweet,” she whispered to herself. “An’ Rule Britannia cyan’t mek me daughters be dutiful wives.”
    Snoozing with his back against the mango tree, Kwarhterleg had earlier volunteered to decapitate, pluck and cook a chicken but Amy could not afford the luxury of stretching her own rest. She had yet to call on her sister, Jackie; buy a prize goat from Mr DaCosta, the local goat-herd; and then call in on her parents: she received a message while she was in the market that her fatherwanted a ‘strong word’ with her. She guessed it had to be about Joseph. It was always about Joseph.
    Amy drained the last drops of her cocktail and for a short second, considered refilling her mug. “Aaaahhh! Joseph. Where ever did yuh come from?”
    She reminisced to when she was eight years old. One quiet evening in the fall of 1915 Amy’s father heard a gentle tap-tapping upon his creaky front door. He opened the door cautiously and there was the fifteen-year-old Joseph, standing up straight with the setting red sun slowly dropping behind his right shoulder. The contours on the right of his head seemed to be glowing. He was nervously holding his tatty straw hat with both hands. His feet, apart from the blisters and sores, were the same colour as dried mud. His ragged, soiled vest and pants clung to him like an outer skin. His hair was dry, browned by over-exposure to the sun. Amy laughed when she recalled her father’s description of her future husband. “Lord me God, wha’ ah crazy sight me see dis balmy evening! Come look here family, der’s ah long bwai outside me door who black ’til him cyan’t black nuh more! Moonless night mus’ be him fader. Him ah dressed up inna him smelly reg-jegs dat even de curious dog dem would nah sniff.” Despite his words, Neville, Amy’s father, knew he was looking at a Maroon and he suffered a sharp pang of guilt; he knew that one of his forefathers had been conscripted by the English to spy on the Maroons.
    Bowing slightly, tipping his head, Joseph greeted, “goodnight, sa. Me really sorry to trouble yuh dis fine evenin’. Me walk far an’ wide an’ me liccle weary. Me jus’ waan to ask yuh, sa, if yuh ’ave any work to give me. Me ’ave ah strong back an’ de midday sun don’t trouble me strengt’ inna me shoulder dem. Me cyan plant, sow an’ reap anyt’ing, sa. Me know how to pluck fowl, skin goat an’ chop off ah pig head top. Me well ably, sa. Me don’t waan nuh money, sa. Jus’ somewhere to lie me head when de moon ah shine bright an’ me don’t care if me ’ave to ketch ah sleep wid de dog an’ fowl dem. Me used to dem smell an’ it don’t trouble me.”
    Inspecting the poor wretch, Neville gave him a strong ‘eye pass’. Neville’s family, Amy included, peeped from behind his back.“Where yuh come from, bwai? Where ya mama an’ papa? When de las’ time water ah rinse ya armpit? Where ya shoes? ’Pon ya travels yuh never t’ought to moisten ya skin wid coconut? Ya elbows are grey like vexed rain cloud!”
    Joseph’s eyes dropped to gaze at his scored feet and he emitted a sense of