As Flies to Whatless Boys Read online

  You know who Captain Vincent is, don’t you, son?

  It must’ve been clear from the look on my face that I didn’t have a clue.

  Well, he said, he happens to be that same bareback young boy who met the Tuckers when we arrived here in Trinidad. Thirty-six years ago it is now. My father turned to point his chin over the water. Right there on that boardwalk at the top of the shore. The same young Vincent who directed us to Mr. Johnston’s house.

  My father turned back to the captain—

  Though it looks like he’s putting on a little bit of a paunch these days, eh, Vincent?

  He smiled at my father—

  I was hearing some kinda ole-talk giving out behind here. I figured it couldn’t be nobody but you, Willy. At this damn hour!

  The captain crouched to take a seat on the deck between us, reclining against one of the coils of rope too. He recognised my father’s briefcase, there beside the pitch-oil lamp—

  Like you boys having youself a business meeting!

  He uncorked his bottle and poured us out a finger each, the three of us taking up our glasses, touching them together, firing them back.

  We sat in silence a few seconds, feeling the soft burn of the rum at the back of our throats, contemplating the moon and the handful of lights that remained tinkling round the curve of the bay. With the two brighter lights at the end of Kings Wharf reflecting at us over the water.

  The captain rose to his feet again, yawning—

  You boys could tief Bazil time if you want, but duty calling pon me foreday-mornin!

  With that the captain reached down for his bottle and poured himself out another finger. But he didn’t drink it. He turned and walked to the edge of the deck, tossing the rum cleanly over the stern. So quiet we heard it splash down below into the water—

  Sleep good, ole lady! Don’t give me no cumbruxions tomorrow, you hear?

  He came back and set his bottle and glass down at my father’s feet, turning on his heels and striding off towards the wheelhouse again, disappearing into the shadows.

  After a minute my father took up the bottle and poured us out another finger. We touched our glasses together and fired them back.

  Then he reached to his feet again for his slightly battered cigar box. With me still studying the extra empty glass sitting there at my father’s feet, cupping its neat little fistful of light. Like an invitation. Or a promise.

  My father took up a folded and ragged-looking piece of paper from his box. He opened it out, careful—

  Here, he said—

  We passed between the two wrought-iron gates, left propped wide-open. Now we followed our porters down the long drive, gravel crunching beneath our boots. Carefully manicured gardens at both sides. At the end of the drive a roundabout circled the trunk of a mammoth tree, perfectly symmetrical. It stopped us in our tracks, this tree. We’d never seen nothing like it before. The thick lower branches stretching out horizontal, covered over in lush lichens and lacy ferns. Brightly blooming orchids and bromeliads sprouting from the forks of each branch, a giant mushroom-cap of leaves overtopping the massive trunk. Son, not even the grandest oaks back in England, the loftiest pines, could raise up a finger to this tree!

  Behind it stood the Johnstons’ home. Modest in size, though highly elaborate in the island’s French style. Its roofed-in front gallery framed by gingerbread fretwork, potted ferns hanging at intervals between the posts. Our porters coming to a halt at the bottom of the steps, shifting they loads to the ground. Now—having directed us successfully to our destination—Vincent returned Papee’s slip of paper. Like if it’s a ticket he needed to get inside the house.

  Papee stepped up onto the front gallery, the main door left open like the front gates, only a rusty screen blocking the entrance. Papee attempting first to sound the brass knocker, managing only a silent, awkward shifting back-and-forth of the big door. Flustered, he proceeded to scratch his fingernails cross the screen, two or three times. Making a startling set of racket.

  Papee removed his straw hat, holding it behind his back, navy ribbon round the brim dripping down. And after a second a woman appeared, opening out the screen door with a rusty squeal. Revealing to us a hefty figure clad in black down to the flooring, starched white apron tied up round her waist. Beneath the frock’s hem we saw her yellow toes peeking out.

  Vincent was the first one she addressed, which struck us as odd enough—

  Best carry you lil bamsee round to de kitchen, hear, Vincen? she says. Let you mummy give you one good cut-tail. Runnin roun de place since foreday-mornin, n’ bareback too!

  She steupsed—a long loud suck-teeth.

  Now, in a more reserved tone—yet speaking as though she’s known him all his life—she addressed Papee—

  Come come come, she says. Mastah Johnston been waiting pon you all geegeeree since yestaday-evenin-self. Soon as news come de Rosalin reach!

  She turned again, looking down the steps at the rest of us—

  Come, everybody. Toute famille! Leh-me run wake Mis’ress Johnston, fix all-you-all up wid some nice cool guavajuice!

  In the same breath she addressed Vincent again. Altering her initial instructions—

  Vin-cen, you hurry you bamsee quick-quick to Mastah Johnston office. Tell him de Tucker family done reach. Tell him dey waitin pon he up to Samaan Repos.

  Now she addressed the other boys—

  N’ de rest of you whatless scoundrels, carry dem bundles in de back. Let Vincen mummy give you each a fie-cent. Fix you up wid a piece of hot dinner!

  ___________________

  We took our seats round the settee in the front parlour, waiting for Mr. Johnston to come from his office at Brunswick Square, Mrs. Johnston to descend from her bedroom. According to Berty—as we now learnt the housekeeper was called—she’d been taking her siesta. Meanwhile, Berty brought us out a tray of icechip-tinkling glasses of guavajuice.

  Mr. and Mrs. Johnston arrived at the same moment, approaching the parlour from opposite sides of the house. All of us standing together—a small confusion following, everybody turning this way and then that to shake each other’s hands. Papee pronouncing each of our names two times in succession.

  They introduced theyself as Reg and Heather. Mr. Johnston resting his hand cordial on Papee’s shoulder—

  William, he says, Sir Robert’s instructed us to give you a good welcome.

  He paused—

  N’ we shall endeavour to do our very best!

  Lunch followed in the Johnstons’ formal dining room, served by huffing Berty. Fricassee chicken & fried plantains & steamed christophene. Little mounds of rice shaped like overturned bowls, leaves of shadowbenny pressed in at the top. Soursop ice cream for dessert. All these flavours new and exotic to us—and I couldn’t tell you how good they were tasting neither—after our weeks and weeks aboard ship. Only at the end of we lavish meal did the cook, Vincent’s mum, make she appearance. So that we all can sing her our lavish praise.

  Now, under Mr. Johnston direction, we went for a tour round the grounds. Mr. Johnston offering Papee a cigar, lighting up one for heself as well. So now we were followed by they puffs of smoke. Floating up amongst the tall trees. At one side of the house he showed us the vegetable garden and orchard. Then Mr. Johnston led us between two cedar trunks at the back of the property, into the entrance of a hidden path. Winding down the hill in several switchbacks, passing beneath thick wet forest. At the bottom we stepped out from under the canopy of leaves, into hot sun again. Arriving at the banks of St. Anns River.

  In the late afternoon the water was coloured a gilded olive-green, deeply black in the shadows of the overhanging trees. Long limbs reaching down like fingers scratching at the still surface. We continued behind Mr. Johnston, along a path that followed the river upstream another hundred yards. We crossed over, stepping careful from one boulderstone to the next, the women and girls with they skirts bunched up in they arms. We climbed the bank on the far side by another steeply switching
path, Mr. Johnston directing us first to the Stone Quarry—and after another still more strenuous climb, to the Observatory at the peak. Right the way up at the very top.

  Winded, we turned round to look down over lower Port-Spain. Past the La Basse, with its handful of cobos circling perpetual above. All the way down to the bay in the distance—a dazzling blue.

  And amongst the ships at anchor there, like toy boats, we made out our tiny Rosalind.

  ___________________

  The sky already turning a soft pink as we arrived back to Samaan’s Repos. The temperature, even at this hour, still considerably warm. We’d worked up a good thirst—though by now we’d accustomed weself to the tropical heat. Mr. Johnston led us first to the small grotto at the side of his property, with a siphon splashing down into the pool beneath it. And we each took a turn hopping onto the boulderstone at the centre of the pond, leaning forward to drink from out our cupped palms. My sisters shrieking with the first touch—the water so cold it burnt our fingers and lips.

  We wandered round the house again, up the front steps, onto the wide gallery. Now followed a moment of awkward confusion, the Tucker clan looking round at each other bobolee. Not knowing what to do next, where-the-arse to go: all-in-a-sudden our afternoon had come to an abrupt halt.

  Mr. Johnston turned to Papee—

  One moment, he says. Whilst I go n’ fetch . . .

  But he interrupted heself—

  Heather, now where did I leave that blasted key? Twice already today I’ve misplaced it!

  He looked round at Papee again—

  Some small arrangements I’ve taken the liberty of making on Prime Minister Peel’s instructions. And, I daresay, the Crown’s expense. A small home, round the corner from here on Charlotte Street—I trust you’ll find it suitable.

  He paused, padding the pockets of his shirtjack—

  If I can just find that confounded key!

  It was Mum who broke the silence now, smiling at the flustered look on Mr. Johnston’s face—

  Reg, she says. I’ve a feeling you and William are going to get along très bien.

  ___________________

  Only Vincent remained in the kitchen at the back of the house. Berty sending him straightway to round up the others. And after a few minutes they’d formed they train again, smiling Vincent out in front. Ready to lead us off to #7 Charlotte Street.

  A small, French-style house, considerably more modest than the Johnstons’ own. But son, I don’t have to tell you that this house was bigger and fancier than any we’d ever lived in. Including our country cottage at Ventnor, much as I remembered it. Of course it’s long gone, that little house halfway up Charlotte Street—knocked down to make space for something bigger—even before you were born.

  But in those days it stood five steps up from the street. Furnished by its previous tenants, Mr. Johnston’s former secretary and his family. With a settee in the front parlour, two tall wicker chairs, a writing desk with another chair. Three small bedrooms behind. Mrs. Johnston had seen to it that all the coconut-fibre mattresses were made up with fresh linens, Mary and Amelia smiling up at the mosquito nets funneling down from the ceiling. At the rear of the house was a screened-in porch with a dining table and benches. Behind it—five steps down—a small garden with only weeds at present. Two paths cutting through to the back corners. Standing in one, the little kitchen, privy in the other.

  Having shown us the house, Mr. Johnston took his leave. Reaching out to shake our hands one-by-one. And clasping his arm round father’s shoulder he asked him to stop by his office in the morning. After we’d settled in proper.

  He left us standing there, in the small front parlour, all our twine-tied bundles occupying the settee and chairs. Like they were our first houseguests. We watched the screen door clap shut behind Mr. Johnston. And he started up Charlotte Street again, into the falling dusk, surrounded by his little band of porters.

  Papee took off his straw hat for a brief wave through the window. Then he turned round to embrace Mum, holding his hat behind her back, its navy ribbon dripping down. And in silence, one-after-the-next, slowly, the rest of us approached. First Amelia. Then Mary, Georgina, me following behind. We wrapped our arms round our parents’ backs, and round each other. Still too stunned to smile. Listening to the little house creaking round us.

  9

  A Second Departure

  Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer refused to attend the small ceremony for Captain Taylor, held the following morning at Lapeyrouse Cemetery. Only a handful of members showed up. Though our poor attendance was due mostly to the difficulty of getting word round to the group, since we’d now scattered weself like a flock of frizzlefowls to every corner of Port-Spain. Papee and me the last two mourners to arrive. Having learnt of the funeral rites completely by chance, and only a half-hour beforehand. Walking through Brunswick Square on we way to Mr. Johnston’s office, we’d happened to notice the announcement penned by Mr. Carr, plastered with laglee to the pedestal of Sir Woodford’s statue.

  Our little group consisted of seven men. With the addition of Mr. Bundron’s young nephew, Billy Sharpe, and Mrs. Hemmingway, the sole woman present. For the occasion Mr. Carr had managed to bathe, shave, and dress heself in a suit borrowed from Mr. Hemmingway. The suit’s owner, however, was substantially shorter, so the jacket-sleeves rode several inches above Mr. Carr’s thin, bramble-lacerated wrists. Trousers exposing his knobby ankles above he stockingless brogues. Mr. Carr insisting upon wearing his battered straw hat—his ‘West Indian wife,’ as he affectionately called it—so despite all his efforts, he still looked like something of a vagrant.

  The headstone wasn’t finished yet. Only a bouquet of wild flowers lay on the ground at the head of the reticular hole, kiss-me-nots and cacashats picked by Mrs. Hemmingway on she way to the cemetery. The casket sitting to one side, pile of dirt at the other. Under Mr. Carr’s directions we lowered the coffin into the hole by two ropes passed beneath it. Each then taking a turn to toss in a spadeful of dirt—mixed with rockstones that tumbled down in a heart-wrenching clatter onto the lid of the cheap coffin—everybody flinching together with the fall of each shovelful.

  Now Mr. Carr attempted to say something by way of religious formality. Deterred not only by he own pent-up emotions, but the fact that—like everybody gathered there excepting me, due to Mum’s influence—he didn’t subscribe to no kinda spiritual persuasion a-tall. Except maybe socialism.

  Following a lengthy and uncomfortable silence Mr. Carr managed to mumble a few words—

  So long, old mate, he says.

  He turned to Mrs. Hemmingway, who took him into her arms. Mr. Carr bent to press his head against her shoulder—they difference in height somehow exaggerated by the miniature suit—and he proceeded to weep like a child.

  Meanwhile, two shoeless and shirtless gravediggers—sitting on a tombstone nearby, busy sucking the seeds of two mangoes—hurried over to finish filling in the hole. It took them a few minutes. Patting down the pile of dirt with the backs of they shovels, outlines of the seeds still visible behind they puffed-up cheeks.

  By this time Mr. Carr had recovered heself. He centred Mrs. Hemmingway’s bouquet of cacashats over the mound of dirt. Bowing his head. And he turned to lead his little band of grim mourners down the line of tombstones, in the direction of the exit.

  It was my first burial.

  ___________________

  Who should Papee and me find sitting before Mr. Johnston’s desk when we arrived at his office at Brunswick Square but Mr. Whitechurch! My heart giving a skip to see him sitting there. His cane with the shining panther-handle balanced against his knee. Son, I hadn’t heard a word about Marguerite, nor she aunt and uncle neither, since we’d disembarked from the Rosalind. Mr. Johnston and Mr. Whitechurch getting up together to greet us, everybody exchanging handshakes that turned to backslapping bear hugs, myself included.

  Mr. Whitechurch was deeply distressed to learn he’d missed the rites for Captain
Taylor. The very subject Mr. Johnston addressed, once we’d seated weself before his desk. He told us how shocked he’d been to read, in all the local papers, accounts of the circumstances under which Captain Taylor had lost his life. He was talking about the estate itself—Chaguabarriga. The descriptions of which he’d found worrisome indeed—

  Little surprise, he says, that your men managed to get hold of it for a pong-n’-a-song!

  But Mr. Johnston had decided to take matters into his own hands. He’d examined the deeds of sale for this estate, discovering a clause written in by Mr. Prescott—the gentleman responsible for selling the property, who resided on the adjoining estate. Only Englishman, far as Mr. Johnston could tell, who lived on that rather desolate stretch of the north coast.

  According to this clause Mr. Prescott had guaranteed to provide food and shelter in his own home—here Mr. Johnston quoted the document from memory—for up to a dozen members of the Tropical Emigration Society, until such time as they may become situated on their own property.

  In any case, Mr. Johnston was determined to make sure that this Mr. Prescott lived up to his promises—

  Let me assure you, he says. You’ll find accommodations of some sort in this chap’s home. Together with the other men going out with Mr. Etzler. Because surely he’s not ruthless enough to take along the women n’ children!

  Mr. Johnston went on in a similar tone. But I wasn’t listing. I didn’t want to hear another word: I was busy turning over in my head what he’d just finished telling us. And I assure you I wasn’t liking it too good neither. Son, before that moment in Mr. Johnston’s office, I’d never imagined that Papee and me might be going out to the settlement alone. Without Mum and my sisters. Had we made this lengthy journey cross the Atlantic, with such travail, only to separate weself soon as we reached the other side?

  But what Mr. Johnston said made proper sense. And that wasn’t all. Not by a long lag. Because now I realised something else. And the other thing distressed me even more than the idea of separation from my mum and sisters: now I understood that Mr. Whitechurch would most likely be going without the remainder of his family too. That for the time being at least, Marguerite and she aunt would remain in Port-Spain. Wherever-the-arse they happened to reside at the present moment.