The Long Song Page 6
Mary, the servant girl, was laid a short walk from the back of the kitchen, near the provision ground of Florence and Lucy. For Caroline decided, on behalf of her grieving brother, that a Christian burial would not be necessary for her erstwhile maid-of-all-work. So the two negro women dressed in their finest red kerchiefs and, arguing all the while whether a white girl would need rum for her journey home, sang not only a dirge but the melody from a newly learned hymn as they laid her in a hole that delivered her into the proud arms of Godfrey’s late wife. Godfrey did not attend the burial for he feared—as the earth became thin upon his wife’s bones—that she might find reason to scold him from beyond.
And, oh how, Caroline Mortimer had wept in those days. Not in sorrow for the sudden loss of her sister-in-law, nephew and servant girl, for she was scarcely familiar with any of them. No. She sobbed, ‘I hate this house and I hate this island, Marguerite . . . What am I doing here? . . . Did I leave England for this? . . . My brother hardly knows me . . . Oh why must I stay? . . . Because I have no choice, that is why . . .’ for finding herself with not a companion, nor a friend, in the whole world, let alone the wretched island of Jamaica, except one little negro girl named Marguerite.
So menace it all she might, but Caroline Mortimer would never have commanded a militia man, nor redcoat, to take July away from her to break her upon the wheel or lock her within the stocks. July was now sixteen and never spent time in fretting that her missus might return her to the field, no matter on how many occasions that fool-fool white woman did warn it. For what would Caroline do?
Who but July could help the missus with her morning burden of sifting the skulkers from the sick amongst the negroes. With Agnes deceased, Caroline’s brother in such ill humour that he rarely left his chamber or his bed, and the overseer insisting it was a task for a master or mistress to perform, it fell to Caroline to inspect those field slaves that hoped sickness might find them relieved from their work. Dusted grey, limping, their clothes all awry, straggling in a long line, that most pitiable rabble coughed, whined and limped with their assumed ailments up to the great house upon Monday mornings to stand for inspection before Caroline, who trembled and sweated at the very sight of them. Always she insisted that July remain at her side. And with each negro that presented their complaint, July would whisper into her missus’s ear, ‘No. Him jus’ have sore head from too much rum,’ or ‘That black tongue not be sickness, it can be wipe off,’ or ‘Caution missus—yaws!’ whilst holding out a violet-scented handkerchief for her missus to waft back and forth under her nose during this endurance.
And who but July would know to tip a near hogshead of sugar into her missus’s morning coffee? For anything less would see her grimace with the pain of a child flayed or squeal that it was too sour. Or that she liked her sangaree, not with the juice of a lime, but embittered with the peel from a lemon. And that she required salt fish, yam and cured pork at her breakfast table, but no pickled tongue; she could not abide the look, nor taste of it. And that her back needed to be rubbed after she had drank her Epsom salts so as to release, into a belch or fart, the wind that so plagued her. Who but July could the missus call upon to pull her from the cane-bottom dining chair when, once more, it split under her ample strain? And it was only July she requested to nurse her when, with a persistent pimple upon her chin, she was forced to take to her bed.
So when July lifted her head from her sobs that day finally to obey her missus’s command and show her the degree of spoiling the fine muslin dress had undergone, her face was damp with real tears, her imploring hands trembled, her breath whimpered in trepidation, yet, just like Godfrey, our July was not really fretting.
CHAPTER 7
‘WE MUST HAVE BOTH turtle and vegetable soups.’ This was how Caroline Mortimer began commanding Hannah, the cook, over the Christmas dinner that must be prepared. ‘Mutton and pigeon pies and guinea fowl, of course,’ she went on.
Perhaps, reader, you are familiar with the West Indian planters and their famed appetites. You may have had cause to entertain them at your own table and watched your house servants dash and scurry to attend upon them. If this be true, then you will also know that the flesh of many a poor creature needed to be sacrificed to satisfy their greedy-guts.
This dinner was to be a party of twelve seated at John Howarth’s table to celebrate that Yuletide and perhaps, in this year of 1831, bring about the change within his spirits that his sister Caroline had so prayed for. For he was—these many years after his wife, Agnes, had howled in that final useless childbirth—still the saddest widower upon the whole island.
Godfrey, who had been standing all the while through these instructions, had his head inclined. This dutiful gesture gave the impression that he was listening to his missus’s words when, in truth, he was peering out of the window at a distant tree. For, amongst its branches, he could clearly see the missus’s white cotton petticoat. It had flown up there this morning after July had carelessly left it lying upon the ground. It had been picked up by a strong breeze and was now caught within that tree, flapping bold as an ensign from the mast of a ship. His eyes soon returned to his missus as she said, ‘We must have the best cheese,’ for he did not wish her to follow his gaze to see Byron, under July’s command, feebly trying to pluck down the forlorn garment with a stick.
‘A boiled ham and a turkey, or maybe two,’ the missus carried on, ‘and turtle served in the shell, if we must, but could we not enquire after beef in town? Stewed ducks—four if they can be got. And cheese, did I say cheese?’
These were not the only instructions the missus had delivered upon the matter of the Christmas dinner. Come, if it were, no Jamaican planter would think this a spree. Candles were to be amassed in every corner of the room. ‘I have seen it done at Prosperity Plantation,’ the missus told Godfrey. ‘Upwards of two hundred lit in a room smaller than our dining hall. And Elizabeth Wyndham’s husband produces fewer hogsheads per year than my brother. There are to be as many as can be got. And has the pig been butchered?’
‘Oh yes, missus.’
‘Then let us have it roasted, not salted, if it will keep.’ There was to be malt liquor, wine, porter, cider, brandy and rum, watermelon, mango, pawpaw, naseberry, soursop, granadilla fruit. ‘And make sure the preserve has come from England. Strawberry or damson. Do not serve guava, ginger or that ghastly sorrel jelly. I’m so tired of Jamaican jams.’
Hannah had stopped listening, for the need to shout, ‘And me to fix-up all this? You a gut-fatty, cha!’ at her missus was becoming overpowering within her. Hannah had trudged that vast distance from the kitchen into the long room of the great house to stand, weary and miserable, just inside its door. The sunlight that floated sharp shadows across the wood floor—flashing through the crystal glasses and flaring across a silver salver—made her eyes blink and water, for she was unaccustomed to this dazzling light. She did not look upon Caroline Mortimer’s face, but kept her eyes fixed firmly on her own crossed hands—for these two calloused and worn claws were the only things within that room that were not annoying to her. But as her missus spoke to the ceiling, as if reading a list from some celestial sheet an angel held there, Hannah lifted her eyes now and again, for she became entranced by the blond curls at each side of her missus’s head that bounced like small birds pecking at her shoulder.
‘We will need plum pudding,’ she told Hannah before adding, ‘Now, do you remember how to make it?’
Plum pudding, Hannah thought. Plum pudding . . . plum pudding. Come, let me think. How you make plum pudding? A little fruit, a little molasses, some cornmeal, eggs, plenty rum. Mash it up a bit. Put this mess in that silly round mould the missus did give her the first Christmas she arrived, and boil it until the water does run dry. And when the thing hard, then it is done.
‘I do not want it to be like last year’s, for that was not plum pudding,’ her missus pleaded. ‘It should be light, not hard as a medicine ball. I could show you if it were needed,’ the missus said.
This impudence coming from the missus’s mouth nearly caused Hannah to look up into her face. The last occasion that the missus did cross that breach betwixt the house and the kitchen was to show the cook how pastry could be light, edible and not as tough as a stone that edged the garden, if the fingers that lifted and raised the flour fluttered air into the mix, then folded and rolled in the fat with as gentle care as a mother tucking a baby into a cot. Hannah had sucked in her breath and held it there for the whole of the missus’s instruction. For, like an ember spat sizzling from a fire on to a silken rug, until the missus was returned to her rightful place, Hannah could not exhale that wind. And she had not lungs enough for that wretched missus to sputter once more into her domain.
‘Oh, Miss Hannah will make it real nice for you, missus. You see. The plum pudding will be just right,’ Godfrey assured, while calming Hannah’s fiery dread with a sly wink.
Whilst attending to the missus’s instruction on this dinner, the sun had paused lifeless in the sky waiting on her to finish: Godfrey was sure on this. Not until all her commands were complete—including the tune the musicians should play as her guests changed from their stout travelling shoes to slippers—did the sun rouse itself to once more roam the heavens. Then, as Godfrey said, ‘Please, missus, I will need plenty money for marketing,’—counting upon his fingertips to ponder the sum before telling his missus the amount that was required—the sun began to gallop. Long shadows drifted silently across the floor like a magic lantern show as he waited for Caroline’s breath to return to her so she could whimper, ‘How much?’
‘Is what all will cost, missus. All this need plenty money. And there be a lot of rumble and fuss in town, so ship come in and people strip it like crows in Guinea corn.’ Godfrey told her.
‘But why so much?’
‘Hear me now, missus, hear me,’ Godfrey said, pressing his hands together beseeching. ‘The fine candles, the beeswax that missus do prefer, be six shillings and eight pennies for the box. Me must fill the room so plenty box must be brought. Now the tallow candle is one shilling and one penny for the same number . . .’
‘Tallow! Is my room to smell like an abattoir? This is to be a fine party, not a crop-over feast for niggers.’
‘Then is six shillings and eight pennies for the box.’
The missus stared upon Godfrey’s face, once more wordless. Yet he knew what was causing her worry; she would have to beg her brother for more money for this feast. Trip up the steps of the counting house. Tap lightly upon the door. Wait with negroes peering at her from the garden, from the kitchen. When finally allowed permission to enter, she would be bellowed at to close the door behind her. A moment would pass before all around would hear the massa’s voice blowing through the stone walls of the counting house as he found passion enough to thunder, ‘That is too much, Caroline, too much!’ No pitiable pleading about Prosperity plantation or beeswax candles would quell him. When the door of the counting house once more opened, the missus—red-faced and sobbing into a handkerchief—would slowly descend the steps.
‘My brother says you cheat me. How can everything be so expensive?’ the missus asked.
And Godfrey, holding her gaze, unflinching, answered softly, ‘It is not that things be expensive, it is just that you can not afford them.’
The missus suddenly swung her fist around and struck Godfrey hard upon his ear. Godfrey stumbled. The blow had caused him no hurt. Come, he had known worse than that. Nor was he weak—he could have snapped her wrist if he had needed. It was his surprise that his missus would strike that had him cringe like a fool. For it was done with a movement of such swift zeal, that even Caroline appeared stunned at its force. Yet it was what he glimpsed in the expression of Hannah’s eyes that caused him to feel its agony. That old woman—his companion of many years, whom he often shared a well-sucked tobacco pipe with at the end of each day—was looking upon him with pity.
‘How dare you question me,’ Caroline Mortimer said. ‘I know you cheat me. Now, just get me a good price or I’ll have you whipped.’ Godfrey straightened himself and, once more, inclined his head dutifully to his missus.
From a small linen purse she counted out money into her hand. Then, passing the coins to Godfrey, she said firmly, ‘And be sure to lay the best linen cloth upon the table. The Irish linen should raise Elizabeth Wyndham’s envy quite nicely.’
From the moment that July had opened her eyes upon that day, she had found herself put to work. She had had to wake Molly! Usually, Molly did wake her by slapping her flat palm against July’s ear until it rang like a bell. But this day, July stood above the sleeping Molly’s open mouth—her snoring releasing all manner of foul odour into July’s face—and carefully dropped a small stone into Molly’s gaping maw. Molly woke into that dark morning choking—too busy coughing to realise she had not breathed in the tiny object for herself.
July went to the kitchen where Patience placed within her busy-busy hands a tray of sour oranges. She required July and Molly to clean the hall floor. And July is a lady’s maid! There was no protest to make to Godfrey that was not met with his shaking head, for this was an extraordinary day. So, on her knees July had had to go. The cut upon her thumb filled with smarting as she rubbed the juice from the halved oranges into the wooden floor—it pained her bad as a lash-stroke rubbed with salt pickle, yet still she had to polish until the shine rose bright as sunlight upon water. And, all the while they polished, Molly insisted upon beating her coconut brush against the floor and singing loud in her no-tune voice, ‘Mosquito one, mosquito two, mosquito jump inna hot callalu.’ It made the nasty toil harder for July, not easier as the fool-fool Molly declared it would.
Twelve people for a fancy feast was enough to intrude upon the slow routine of the kitchen in the sad-to-hell massa’s house. But to snatch the two washerwomen, Lucy and Florence, from the province of their stream—to stand them shifting upon their bare feet in the corner of the sweltering kitchen, their wide-eyes staring perplexed upon the pile of massacred fowl, rabbits and turtles to be cooked—was a cruelty.
For these two women, trying to obey the peculiar orders that were barked upon them, ducked with each command as if the words were striking them. And, no matter how Hannah yelled upon them to raise the flour for the pastry from fluttering fingers and roll it soft with light intent, Lucy and Florence treated that dough like a soiled undergarment that must be cleaned. They banged it, they beat it, they swung it around their head and dashed it against a stone.
Hannah had little time for pastry, for all the hucksters came in upon the kitchen that day in an eager, yet lazy, line to sell their wares.
The negro woman with skin so black it was blue called ‘mango gwine pass’ as she strode to the kitchen door in her gaudy striped skirt with a basket upon her head. Showing Hannah the plumpest of the mangos from her provision ground, she bent slyly to the old cook to murmur what she had heard from the preacher-man about them all soon to be free. Whispered close, yet spoken fast, Hannah did not hear every word—something was lost about the king and the massa—but she nodded with feigned understanding.
The mulatto woman who had bought her own freedom and a cart upon the same day and sold cedar boxes full of sugar cakes frosted in pink, white and yellow—the one who was saving for a donkey so it was no longer she that had to push-pull the produce—she had heard that it was the King who said there were to be no more slaves.
The fisherman with his barrels full of blue-grey shrimp that slopped puddles of water over Hannah’s feet as he lifted up the squirming crustaceans for inspection, had heard nothing. Come, this skinny man with one leg shorter than the other, did not even attend the chapel in town. But that free coloured woman with brown skin scoured to light, who informed any who would listen, ‘Me never been no slave’, the one who rode in a cart, pulled by a ready-to-dead mule, and twirled upon her parasol as her jars of guava and lime pickle, ginger jelly and pepper sherry were lifted to the light to be inspected, said all this cha
t-chat was nonsense—that the white massas were correct, the King-man had said nothing about them being free.
Many came to the kitchen that morning with their yam, plantain, artichokes, pineapples, sweet orange, green banana, cheese, and coffee beans. They came to grind the knives, mend pots and bring the dozens of boxes of beeswax candles. Yet Hannah had no time this day to chat gossip about what was heard at the Sunday chapel—the one held outside the blacksmiths in town where everyone gathered to hear preacher-man talk about free. Come, with all these hucksters arriving, she barely had time enough to puff her pipe through several bowls of stringy tobacco with them.
Godfrey, sitting upon his chair by the kitchen, carefully attended to the parade of hucksters for he had to pay for their produce and service from his purse. His cupped hand cautiously guarded the leather pouch which he held close within his lap. After each transaction he counted the money that remained—his lips wordlessly miming the sum without looking upon the coins. It was fortunate that his hair was already white, for this day was a trying one for Godfrey. Where was Byron? It was a long time ago that Godfrey had sent him to fetch water and the boy had not yet returned. And there was still the table to be laid, the candles to be placed, the yard to be swept, the dogs to be tethered.
When July appeared saying, ‘Mr Godfrey, this cloth you give me be a sheet for the bed, not for the table,’ he, with a careless flick of his hand, told her, ‘Go lay it ’pon the table.’
‘But it be a bed sheet, Mr Godfrey.’
‘How you know that?’
July inhaled the breath. She intended to respond to this very simple question—for the difference between a fine quality linen for a table and a simple cotton sheeting for the bed was within a field nigger’s grasp to understand—but instead she began to smile, for she scented Godfrey’s mischief.