Island Songs by Alex Wheatle Page A

cotton headscarf that exposed her silvering temples.
    “Yuh forget we ’ave to go up to Misser DaCosta to buy fat goat fe harvest night.”
    “Nuh, Jackie. Me don’t forget. Cool down ya fire an’ stop fret! Me jus’ ketching ah liccle res’.”
    The two sisters set off and took the winding goat’s path uphill, through water coconut and pimento groves that led to Mr DaCosta’s land. Sometimes the terrain was treacherous and unstable underfoot but years of experience allowed them to find a true path, Amy using long, elegant strides while Jackie employed short, hurrying steps.
    “Amy,” Jackie called, her tone over dramatic. “Preacher Mon come up to talk to Papa las’ night. When me sight him tie up him donkey, Preacher Mon face look like fiesty higgler slap him face wid wet callaloo. Him was vex me ah tell yuh.”
    “Isaac fussing?” Amy queried casually. “Wha’ is wrong wid him now? Him wife der ’pon her mont’ly cycle? Him donkey run away becah de poor beast cyan’t tek de beatings nuh more? Somebody t’ief de collection money?”
    “Why yuh always call Preacher Mon Isaac?” Jackie wondered.
    “Nuh Isaac him name?”
    “Yes, but yuh should nah call him dat. Anyway, Amy, yuh well an’ truly know why Preacher Mon vex. Joseph, ya brute of ah husband, ah lick him down. Me hear Preacher Mon ah tell Papa. Papa ah lissen an’ shake him head ’til him head get loose. An’ den Papa frown an’ frown ’til him face look like ah crushed old plum. Dis gwarn cause one mighty bangarang an’ de Most High himself might set curse ’pon ya family! De poor people dat live down ah hillside hate Joseph already an’ wid dis latest news some ah dem might seek der revenge. Mebbe dey will chop off more of Joseph’s finger dem!”
    “Jackie, yuh jus’ like dem leather-neck higgler ah market who cyan’t sell dem wares an’ dem spend dem time ah create rumour an’ susu while dem head top ah turn grey! Foolishness de higgler dem ah talk, but ya susu, Jackie, is ah whole heap worse. Cyan’t Isaac defend himself? Why him ah ride to Papa yard an’ start bawl like girl chile who cyan’t find her pretty dress to go ah church ’pon Sunday. Isaac mus’ fight him own battle an’ don’t drag anybody else inna it. Isaac like fowl who run away from craven dahg.”
    “Yuh know, Amy,” Jackie cooled her tone, not wanting a cuss cuss with her sister for her tongue was no match for hers. “Yuh t’ink Preacher Mon still ah feel it becah yuh turn him down all dem years ago?”
    Amy’s eyes betrayed a sour memory and she switched her gaze in front of her. Jackie seized on the opportunity and went on. “Him even ask Papa fe permission to marry yuh before yuh know anyt’ing about it. Amy, yuh coulda live inna Preacher Mon big house. Me remember dem time an’ Preacher Mon ah bawl ’til him tears run dry. Dat’s why him coulda never like Joseph.”
    The last remark cut Amy like a sharp stone on a bare-footed child. But she wasn’t about to display any hurt to her sister. “Well, if Isaac still ah feel it den me don’t care,” Amy shrugged, remembering the marriage proposal that came when she was only fourteen years of age. “All of yuh did ah laugh after me when me tek up wid Joseph an’ Isaac did ah t’ink dat me turning fool like fowl who lose dem head. So him only feel it becah Joseph prove him an’ everybody else wrong.”
    “But, Amy, yuh affe admit dat sometime Joseph gwarn strange. Him use to frighten me when me ah girl chile wid him wolf eyes. An’ yuh still don’t know where him ah come from after all dese years.”
    Coming to a halt, Amy caught Jackie with a fierce glare. “Dat is me business, nuhbody else’s!”
    The two sisters looked at each other for more than thirty seconds, both of them realising that they jousted verbally with each other as long as they could remember. Jackie wanted to win this particular battle. She went on. “As him turn up dat night outta nuhwhere any day him coulda