tek up him long foot an’ disappear to nuhwhere. Some people inna town still call him Black Duppy .”
Resuming her trek, momentarily leaving Jackie yards behind, Amy countered, “yuh woulda like dat, Jackie. Den yuh coulda spread rumour dat Old Screwface ah kidnap me husband an’ tek him down to work inna hell fire.”
Jackie opened her mouth but no words came out. Old Screwface had never appeared in a cussing joust with her sister before. Amycontinued, her tone full of injustice, her voice raised. “Jackie, me don’t understan’ yuh becah me never blaspheme or slur ya husband. Although me always sight him down ah liquor bar near ah market wid ah drink of somet’ing inna him hand, talking pure fart to anybody who care to pass while him crops ah wonder where him der.”
Now grinning, Amy went for the kill, knowing if it would come to a fight she always had the upper hand. “Lazy him ah lazy. Licky licky ya husband licky. Me surprise de rum him ah drink nuh turn him into sugar cane. Him coulda grow ah new sugar plantation if him piss ’pon de land. Even people who suffer from cold fever an’ ah live inna St Anne’s Bay cyan smell de rum offa ya husband breat’! Jackie, ya de one who should start fret !”
Priming her tongue for a reply, Jackie thought better of it. The remainder of their trek was completed in silence.
Mr Welton DaCosta, a lean light-skinned man, owned a sizeable plot of sloping land where he raised cows, bulls and goats; one of his forefathers was the child of a Spanish captain and a slave. To quell the gossip and the scandal, when this child reached his teenage years, he was dispatched with his mother to the backwoods of Claremont, accompanied by a bull and four cows. The days leading up to harvest time was Mr DaCosta’s busiest and most lucrative of the year; there was no red soil staining his land so he hadn’t been tempted by the corporate cash wads like other farm owners had been. He saw Amy and Jackie approaching him. They had a fearsome reputation in the village. Welton knew there was no way he could tempt the harsh-mouthed sisters into purchasing one of his cheap ‘maaga’ goats.
The sisters left Mr DaCosta’s land with a fat-bellied goat walking dejectedly behind them, as if it knew of its fate. A noose was around its neck and Jackie gave it no time to nibble on grass or inspect anything with its nose. The siblings reached their father’s home forty-five minutes later; Jackie paused at the post office where she collected her father’s mail. Neville lived just outside the village near a tambarine grove, a mile away from Amy and her family. The location offered a grand view of the descending hillsthat led to the sea. On fine mornings, Neville and his family could detect a shimmering horizon tinted with shades of light blue.
His house, containing three rooms, was impressive by Claremont standards. It was made of white-washed breeze blocks. Jackie lived with her immediate family in a small hut on the same plot separated by a chicken coop and a pig pen. They all shared the nearby kitchen. Four of her other sisters were now married and had moved away from Claremont. Many shrieking children, whom Neville was babysitting, formed a circle playing some game in the yard that involved a rotten mango and a water coconut. “ Brown girl in de ring, tra la la la la !”
Wearing an unbuttoned cotton shirt of check pattern that revealed tight grey curls upon his chest and brown three-quarter length pants, Neville was sitting on a wooden chair outside his front door. A beige, cloth cap hid his silver hair and the thick smoke from his pipe was soon lost in the hot afternoon sun. His forehead was lined and appeared wise and his countenance commanded respect. Some Claremontonians said he had ‘spirit’ in his eyes and called him ‘Custos’ – a title of deep respect. But he seemed weary of his exertions keeping the ‘kidren’ in line. He pulled his pipe from his mouth and gave Amy a stern
Resuming her trek, momentarily leaving Jackie yards behind, Amy countered, “yuh woulda like dat, Jackie. Den yuh coulda spread rumour dat Old Screwface ah kidnap me husband an’ tek him down to work inna hell fire.”
Jackie opened her mouth but no words came out. Old Screwface had never appeared in a cussing joust with her sister before. Amycontinued, her tone full of injustice, her voice raised. “Jackie, me don’t understan’ yuh becah me never blaspheme or slur ya husband. Although me always sight him down ah liquor bar near ah market wid ah drink of somet’ing inna him hand, talking pure fart to anybody who care to pass while him crops ah wonder where him der.”
Now grinning, Amy went for the kill, knowing if it would come to a fight she always had the upper hand. “Lazy him ah lazy. Licky licky ya husband licky. Me surprise de rum him ah drink nuh turn him into sugar cane. Him coulda grow ah new sugar plantation if him piss ’pon de land. Even people who suffer from cold fever an’ ah live inna St Anne’s Bay cyan smell de rum offa ya husband breat’! Jackie, ya de one who should start fret !”
Priming her tongue for a reply, Jackie thought better of it. The remainder of their trek was completed in silence.
Mr Welton DaCosta, a lean light-skinned man, owned a sizeable plot of sloping land where he raised cows, bulls and goats; one of his forefathers was the child of a Spanish captain and a slave. To quell the gossip and the scandal, when this child reached his teenage years, he was dispatched with his mother to the backwoods of Claremont, accompanied by a bull and four cows. The days leading up to harvest time was Mr DaCosta’s busiest and most lucrative of the year; there was no red soil staining his land so he hadn’t been tempted by the corporate cash wads like other farm owners had been. He saw Amy and Jackie approaching him. They had a fearsome reputation in the village. Welton knew there was no way he could tempt the harsh-mouthed sisters into purchasing one of his cheap ‘maaga’ goats.
The sisters left Mr DaCosta’s land with a fat-bellied goat walking dejectedly behind them, as if it knew of its fate. A noose was around its neck and Jackie gave it no time to nibble on grass or inspect anything with its nose. The siblings reached their father’s home forty-five minutes later; Jackie paused at the post office where she collected her father’s mail. Neville lived just outside the village near a tambarine grove, a mile away from Amy and her family. The location offered a grand view of the descending hillsthat led to the sea. On fine mornings, Neville and his family could detect a shimmering horizon tinted with shades of light blue.
His house, containing three rooms, was impressive by Claremont standards. It was made of white-washed breeze blocks. Jackie lived with her immediate family in a small hut on the same plot separated by a chicken coop and a pig pen. They all shared the nearby kitchen. Four of her other sisters were now married and had moved away from Claremont. Many shrieking children, whom Neville was babysitting, formed a circle playing some game in the yard that involved a rotten mango and a water coconut. “ Brown girl in de ring, tra la la la la !”
Wearing an unbuttoned cotton shirt of check pattern that revealed tight grey curls upon his chest and brown three-quarter length pants, Neville was sitting on a wooden chair outside his front door. A beige, cloth cap hid his silver hair and the thick smoke from his pipe was soon lost in the hot afternoon sun. His forehead was lined and appeared wise and his countenance commanded respect. Some Claremontonians said he had ‘spirit’ in his eyes and called him ‘Custos’ – a title of deep respect. But he seemed weary of his exertions keeping the ‘kidren’ in line. He pulled his pipe from his mouth and gave Amy a stern
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