As Flies to Whatless Boys Page 10

  With me standing just outside our cabin door—waiting for my own chance to dress—only wishing for a porthole big enough to disappear my bony backside through.

  Now I heard Mum cry out—

  Mon Dieu! she says. Un voleur a volé ma robe!

  By this time Papee had finished dressing. He’d taken up his top hat. And reaching down to pull out a handkerchief he found Georgina’s brassiere. Tucked in under the stack. A couple more kerchiefs balled up mysterious inside the cups. He pulled out Mary’s bloomers, stuffed inside the other cup.

  Finally Amelia spoke up—

  Willy knows where everything is, she says. Ask him.

  Willy? Mum says.

  ___________________

  As if on command a Moroccan scythe-of-a-moon had positioned itself above the ink-black water. Laying down a milky trail cross its slippery surface. On the shore, not far away, long flat swells rolled up in resonant crashes. Receding with a glassy tinkle of shells colliding together. Meanwhile, on the deck of the Rosalind, the Tucker clan took we seats at a long table with two other families, the Woods and the Hemmingways. Fellow members of Mr. Etzler’s Society.

  Captain Damphier, wearing the kilt and leather pouch of his native Scotland, rose to his feet at the head table. Seated between the comte and Mr. Whitechurch, he wife and Marguerite seated in turn beside him—

  ’Ere ’ere! the captain says.

  He knocked his fork against his glass with a set of loud clinks—

  I’d beg ye all to raise tall ye glasses. En commemorate with me the termination o’ the first en most arduous leg o’ our journey!

  Here everybody cheered aloud.

  Eee-ditionally, the captain says, we need give thanks to our neighbourly Azoreans. ’Oose gracious serviceability provides fer this fine feast!

  Now we all let loose a next cheer.

  The captain continued—

  But before we break bread, let me state that prospects peer excellent-well in onwards fair weather. En aye-briskly trade, en speedy voyage ’enceforth down to Trineedad!

  At last we touched our glasses together and drank up hearty. Everybody. Me & Mary & Georgina & Amelia & the three Wood daughters too. All our glasses filled to overflowing with sweet Azorean wine, though watered down some for the youngest girls.

  Now the small orchestra assembled atop the Satellite’s crate commenced to blowing into they fifes, strumming they mandolins and tinny banjos. And the islanders hired out by Captain Damphier began bustling amongst the tables, they trays laden with food.

  But even before dessert was served Marguerite and me had sought each other out in the darkness behind the Satellite’s crate. Orchestra playing-way above our heads. A caper we’d planned that afternoon at Marguerite’s bidding—a soft retaliation against the notorious comte. Now we made we way sternward, towards that part of the ship farthest removed from tonight’s banquet. Ducking beneath railings, shimmying along narrow plank bridges, climbing over piles of rope & nets & canvas sails.

  Bouncing up all-in-a-sudden with a nightmarish group of passengers, a dozen in number, most of them men. Crowded into a barricaded portion of the deck alongside the starboard rail. We’d never seen them before. Not a one. The lone woman amongst them holding in she arms a toddler, the little girl staring-way into the night as stony and eerie as all the rest. She own dull eyes incongruous to her youthful face, little cap with its fuzzy red ball at the peak looking more sprightly than she did.

  A most severe stench emanated from they ragged clothes, from the open hatch beside they filthy bare feet. Son, these passengers appeared to us so bizarre and disconcerting, at first they seemed apart from this ship and the voyage we’d undergone. Like if they’d only just been brought aboard. But these passengers were clearly, unmistakably, English people. As might be encountered in any basement or sewer-dwelling of the city we’d left behind.

  They didn’t stir. Neither did they utter a sound as we hurried past.

  Finally we reached the stern railing. Facing a short stretch of dark sea, with the still-blacker shadow of the island rising behind. I lit the pitch-oil lamp I’d stashed behind the crate, raising it up, taking a good look round. This was the only part of the ship completely unknown to me. Since up till now I’d never ventured farther astern than my own cabin. But after a minute I found a hatch, hidden behind some half-barrels of sweet water, hoisted aboard by the sailors that afternoon. Ropes of a davit-and-pulley left draping against the stern.

  I turned to Marguerite—

  We’ll make good use of this in a few minutes, I say, nodding towards the davit.

  Whilst Marguerite held up the pitch-oil lamp, I tilted one of the half-barrels onto its edge, shifting it out the way. Then a next barrel. The hatch was hinged along the top, secured at the bottom by a brass padlock. I tried my keys. One-by-one. Till the lock sprung open, Marguerite smiling down at me from above the lamp. As I lifted the hatch a pungent odour issued forth, faintly familiar, and we peered together into the black hole. Making out only a rickety ladder descending into the gloom.

  Marguerite down it first—she didn’t flinch—handing me the pitch-oil lamp as she slipped past. When she got to the bottom I motioned for her to step back, dropping in the heavy coil of a rope ladder, thudding to the floorboards before her feet. I started down the ladder behind her, loop of the lantern clenched between my teeth. Closing the hatch overhead, my fingers feeling through the crack till I heard the padlock click shut.

  We found weself locked inside a narrow, dark passageway. Ceiling not sufficiently tall for us to raise our heads. I shined the lantern forward, then behind, the passageway veering off like a rodent’s underground maze. Taking hold of Marguerite’s hand, I led her in the direction of the stern. But after a few steps the passageway ended abrupt in front of my face, Marguerite indicating another hatch, just below my boots. We backed up, and I lifted the hatch by its rope handle. Finally we detected the odours of close-packed animals—damp wool, urine, caca, mouldy straw—a flurry of muffled noises. Hoofs scraping against floorboards.

  I shined the lantern down into the hole: at the bottom, huddled against the far bulkhead—they coal-black eyes shining up at us—we made out the comte’s five remaining sheep.

  Marguerite climbing down first again, already caressing one of the startled sheep by the time I reached her side. This pen triple the height of the passageway above, its ceiling several feet above our heads. Hayloft at the front. With a latticed window stretching cross the stern, heavy plank shutters latched open against the bulkheads. A faint checkerboard of light seeping in though the lattices.

  I hung the lantern on a nail at the front of the hayloft, studying the pen. Facing the window, I took hold of the crossbeam above my head, raising my feet off the hay-strewn floor—hanging there, swinging my full weight against the lattice-struts. Kicking my boots. And after a few solid blows they began to give-way. I continued swinging, kicking, splintered fragments splashing down to the water. Till I’d opened the entire window, darkly forested shore of the island looming up before me.

  I let the crossbeam go, looking over the water at the dark island, catching my breath. Then I turned to Marguerite—

  Off to fetch the rope ladder, I say.

  I climbed up and dropped it into the pen, lugging it over beside the window. And after making the two loose ends fast to a crossbeam below the opening, with a grunt, I heaved the bundle out. The ladder uncoiling as its wood rungs bounced hollow against the hull, like sticks knocking together, bottom end splashing down solid into the water.

  With the first rush of adrenaline I began stripping myself. Not stopping neither till I’d stripped myself down naked.

  I turned to Marguerite, finally admitting something I’d been contemplating all afternoon—

  I haven’t been swimming since the age of six. Not since we left Ventnor!

  Marguerite reached towards me. Placing her palm flat against my pale chest.

  Don’t worry, I say, raising my eyes to meet hers.
If I don’t surface in a minute, you’ll have to come in after me!

  And with that I hoisted myself up onto the crossbeam again, glancing down for a second at the ink-black water. I sucked in a last breath, squeezed my eyelids shut, swung my legs out the window.

  At first, with the shock of the cold hard water, my legs locked up beneath me. I felt myself sinking, immobile, down into the depths. But after the first moment of panic, first mouthful of saltwater burning inside my throat—and seemingly of its own accord—skin-water-memory returned. Taking hold of my frantic limbs: I kicked hard, my long limbs reaching up to grab armfuls of water. Pulling them down along my bursting chest. Till my head popped like a champagne cork out the surface.

  I thrashed about, spitting, catching my breath. And after a minute my muscles relaxed. I began to tread water. Turning round to wave up at Marguerite, there holding the lantern fifteen-feet above my head.

  I ducked my shoulders into the dark surface. Swimming round to the leeward side of the ship where the Azoreans’ dinghies were tied up, somewhat haphazard. Two and three abreast of each other. I swam towards one of the dinghies on the outside, reaching up and grabbing hold of the gunwale, catching my breath, hoisting myself in.

  Head low, dripping, I clambered forward, untying the line from the stern of the dinghy in front. Son, in my excitement I didn’t feel even the slightest chill. The tide pulling slow, steady, drawing my dinghy sternward. And after a few seconds I sat up, adjusting the oars in they rowlocks, working my way round to the Rosalind’s stern.

  I signaled up to Marguerite, motioning for her to climb down.

  My heart giving a jump as I watched her reach to hang the lamp from a piece of broken-off lattice: she’d stripped sheself down naked too. Down to the smoothness of she burnt-sienna skin. Her arms slender in the soft light, hair loose and draping over her shoulders. As I watched her turn round and reach her foot down for the first rung. Making her way, one wood rung after the next, till I helped her step into the shifting dingy.

  Marguerite’s eyes flashing excited at me over her shoulder.

  I smiled too—

  With a bit of luck, I say, Captain Damphier won’t let us back aboard!

  I turned and climbed up to the pen again, pulling cross the ropes and pulley, davit stretching forth from the deck above my head.

  Now I passed the belt of the harness under the first sheep’s belly, snapping the eyehook in position above its back, tightening the straps. And leaning my weight into the davit above I hoisted the sheep into the air. Smooth and easy, up and out the window.

  And as the orchestra continued playing at the other end of the ship, I lowered the first bleating sheep to Marguerite. Reaching up her slender arms to ease it into the dingy.

  ___________________

  After dinner came the most anticipated event of the night’s festivities. The Azoreans cleared the tables, shifting them to the front of the deck and piling them up. Only the head table remained in place, atop which they set a quantity of cocktail glasses, together with an ample bowl of the captain’s punch.

  Beneath the flickering stars, Moroccan moon spilling its milky trail cross the water, the Rosalind’s deck was transformed to a formal ballroom. And the first of the elegantly costumed couples, my father and mother no doubt included amongst them, strode out onto the floor—the seven broken hooks at the back of Mum’s gown repaired at the last minute. They danced the first waltz together. Followed, a short time later, by the rest of the passengers. Not excluding Georgina and Mary, changing off to take a turn with we younger sister.

  But it didn’t take the orchestra long to exhaust they repertoire of sedate European waltzes. Switching to they own more energised Azorean music. And the passengers—having shed they inhibitions earlier in the day, fortified by a glass or two of the captain’s punch—embraced the night and the music with scant restraint.

  ___________________

  By the time we’d transported all five of the comte’s sheep to the island, in two separate trips, the sky was already showing traces of purple on the eastern horizon. We’d watched the sheep set off on trembling legs, cautious, picking they way amongst the coarse undergrowth a few yards up from shore. Stumbling over the loose ground. Like they’d forgotten how to walk. Then, a few seconds later, we heard them bleating content as they trotted off, scampering-way to join the others.

  Now Marguerite and I lay side-by-side, soaking in the shallow water. Much warmer than it had been over beside the ship. Our borrowed dinghy beached on the gray-shelled shore beside us. We looked out over the water at the Rosalind’s tall shadow. The vessel having swung broadside to us with the shifting tide, scythe-of-a-moon still decipherable behind her mainmast. Stars blanketing the sky. From cross the water we heard the gay music—a little tired-sounding by this hour of the morning—the occasional muffled cry of a passenger or sailor.

  Son, as we lay there soaking in the warm water the Rosalind seemed a world away. Separated from us by a pane of glass.

  All-in-a-sudden a rocket—launched from the ship’s foredeck—shot screaming into the air. Leaving behind its smoky corkscrew trail. Bursting with a loud pap! above the ship. It scattered a hundred bright blue sparks cross the sky, descending through the air in the pattern of an overturned, slowly opening flower. Another rocket followed behind. Exploding in its overturned flower of tiny yellow lights: red, blue, green, yellow.

  The rockets screamed skyward. One after the next. Bursting and descending through the air, they overturned flowers of brightly coloured sparks. And each time they exploded a cry of delight issued forth from the passengers gathered along the rail—

  Ooohhh!

  Aaahhh!

  And as the final blue flower dissolved into the sky before us, as it vanished-way, Marguerite and I turned to one other. Gazing into each other’s eyes. Happy as we were exhausted-out.

  4th Message

  7/9/10

  dear mr robot:

  i wish to broach a certain topic mr robot very important & i hope 2 EJUCATE u a lil bit 2 bout how we feel here in t’dad, & what is de proper attitude & etiquette involved on de subject of PUMS, cause last night when we did finish up we THIRD sweet jook 4 de night, & we was lying dere catching weself a cool & relaxing lil bit & i was feeling so NICE in trut mr robot, so comfortable & relaxed & i just let a good 1 fly, & stink lil bit 2 from all dem curry-crabbacks we enjoy so much from we dinner by ganeshhouse & fresh seamoss drink, & in trut mr robot when i let dat pum go & smelling up lil bit stink 2 as I have to admit it meself, dat straightway u pinch u nostrils & look at me all squeezeface like if i aint got no manners a-tall, but dat only go 2 show u mr robot how u dont understand noting bout how we feel here in t’dad, & what is de important HEALTH ISSUES involved on de subject of PUMS, same as belching as a matter of fac

  cause here in t’dad nobody would never cause such a fuss & make u feel shame & look pon u all squeezeface when u let a good 1 loose, just de OPPOSITE mr robot, here in t’dad de people understand how pums is a natural organic process & nothing to feel shame 4 a-tall being a true expression & celebration of de goodness of life, & mr robot why u want to hold DAT back? & not let it show how u feel happy & content in de selfsame moment & SHARE dat happiness wid other people 2? cause krishna-only-know human beings come out de womb pumming & we would all go 2 we graves pumming 2, so why u want to hide it way? & in trut mr robot de best ting dat could happen to u in my opinion, & de best ting dat we trinis could teach all of u stuck-up yankees is to set uself loose lil bit & free-up & let down u guard, & learn how 2 ENJOY DE SIMPLE PLEASURES OF A SWEET-SWEET PUM

  dat is my hope 4 u in dis life mr robot

  cordial,

  miss ramsol

  director, t&tna

  ps see u at pelo round 9

  pss & me or miss samlalsingh would be holding a article 4 u out de t’dad guardian weekly health advisement column of dr brito salizar plenty informative 4 u & prove just what i saying

  LISTEN TO YOUR BODY CAUSE IT KNOWS BEST


  The Guardian’s Weekly Health Advice Column

  Brito Salizar, MD, OBE

  Today, in response to a number of inquiries expressing deep and understandable concern to arrive of late at this PO Box, October being the official opening of châtaigne season (♫ châtaigne châtaigne, the musical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot! ♫) we shall consider, in some detail, the proper and healthful attitude towards ‘flatulence,’ or as it is called here in Trinidad in the local parley, pumming. Now: in a number of so-called ‘advanced’ societies, historically speaking, it is known that the unguarded and boldfaced expression of flatulence is widely frowned upon. This may be so. What must be understood clearly in the first instance is that these particular mores have never held any sway whatsoever for the health profession, and absolutely no subscribing to by medical science and/or practitioners of the same. They are purely societal conventions, inconvenient at worst and misleading at best, and should be dispensed with immediately.

  How can we say this, and with what surety? Well, do the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air, or the fishes of the sea strain so inexplicably to hold up their flatulence? This could and should never have been so for the history of human civilisation, and sad that it has ever come to pass! In fact, the restrained or incomplete expulsion of gases from the colon is known to cause a number of health issues, psychological and psychical, e.g., premature aging and mental blindness. It plays havoc with the entire circulatory system, including the heart. Where the gases collect, joint pains are frequently encountered. There is occasional osteopathy.