approval for making the engagement.
Eliza looked slightly taken aback, as if her mistress deemed it necessary to emphasize her unwritten commitment to Thomas. Nevertheless she nodded. “I am sure, your ladyship,” she replied.
Chapiter 9
P hibbah slipped out of the house as night fell, her heart pounding in her chest. The cook, Mistress Bradshaw, was more kindly than the usual English woman. She had heard her talk with some of the other white servants in the household, saying it was not right for the blacks to be enslaved and that every man and woman in England should be free to come and go as they pleased. But the others had laughed at her and told her it was none of her business and that as long as the Negroes were around they wouldn’t have to do as many dirty jobs like take out the slops, so they would not complain. She had shrugged her shoulders and tutted, but she had still shown a little kindness, although if she guessed the reason for her excursion, Phibbah knew Mistress Bradshaw would not be so forgiving.
The slave girl had still not fully recovered from yesterday’s punishment. Twenty lashes, the mistress had ordered, and Mr. Roberts, the footman, had relished delivering every stroke. Each crack of the whip was music to his ears. Each yelp, each sob, each cry of pain was a symphony to him. Patience had rubbed ointment on the wounds last night, but the cuts still wept and her back would remain raw as butcher’s meat for the next few days. In Jamaica, in the sun, the welts attracted the flies. Here, in London, she was forced to cover them with coarse clothes that chafed at her skin just like the manacles ’round her ankles on board the ship all those years ago.
She steadied herself by the back gate. Her head was light and sometimes her sight blurred. Ghosts would appear from nowhere, swimming across her vision, shrieking in her ears. They were the spirits of her ancestors, the ones who had not been buried according to tradition, the ones who had lived and died under the white man’s rules and not been accorded the right and proper ritual. They would roam this earth forever.
She unlatched the gate and slid through it, then slipped down the lane. High brick walls rose on either side, overhung by leafless trees. She did not like English trees in winter. Their black branches were arms, their spindly twigs fingers. A carriage passed. She kept her head down and quickened her pace. Not far now.
At the end of the lane she turned left. A church bell tolled nearby. Almost there. She rounded the corner and came to the lych-gate. Passing through it she found herself in the graveyard, an Englishman’s churchyard, with its cold mossy stones and its fine statues of women with wings. How strange, she thought, to honor the dead in this way. She had heard they were buried without their cooking pots and their jewelry. How would they eat? Did they not want to look their best when they rejoined their ancestors? Worse still, their graves were often sealed, so that robbers could not take their corpses. She had heard that the churchmen might sometimes set spring guns to ward off the sack-’em-up men. Sometimes they put cages over the graves and locked them with padlocks as big as coconuts. So how would the dead eat? How would they find their way home? It was all a puzzle to her. These places were strange and baffling and frightening. She would not loiter.
A lone woman stood praying by a new grave. She wore a black veil that covered her face. Hurrying over to the wall of the churchyard, where thick thorn bushes grew, their berries red as blood, Phibbah crouched low to watch her. The shadows were melding into the blackness as the first stars appeared in the sky. The widow would be gone soon. Only the evil ones would stay in a place like this after dark, she told herself.
Sure enough, after one or two minutes Phibbah saw the woman’s head bow reverentially and she retreated through the lych-gate and into the
Eliza looked slightly taken aback, as if her mistress deemed it necessary to emphasize her unwritten commitment to Thomas. Nevertheless she nodded. “I am sure, your ladyship,” she replied.
Chapiter 9
P hibbah slipped out of the house as night fell, her heart pounding in her chest. The cook, Mistress Bradshaw, was more kindly than the usual English woman. She had heard her talk with some of the other white servants in the household, saying it was not right for the blacks to be enslaved and that every man and woman in England should be free to come and go as they pleased. But the others had laughed at her and told her it was none of her business and that as long as the Negroes were around they wouldn’t have to do as many dirty jobs like take out the slops, so they would not complain. She had shrugged her shoulders and tutted, but she had still shown a little kindness, although if she guessed the reason for her excursion, Phibbah knew Mistress Bradshaw would not be so forgiving.
The slave girl had still not fully recovered from yesterday’s punishment. Twenty lashes, the mistress had ordered, and Mr. Roberts, the footman, had relished delivering every stroke. Each crack of the whip was music to his ears. Each yelp, each sob, each cry of pain was a symphony to him. Patience had rubbed ointment on the wounds last night, but the cuts still wept and her back would remain raw as butcher’s meat for the next few days. In Jamaica, in the sun, the welts attracted the flies. Here, in London, she was forced to cover them with coarse clothes that chafed at her skin just like the manacles ’round her ankles on board the ship all those years ago.
She steadied herself by the back gate. Her head was light and sometimes her sight blurred. Ghosts would appear from nowhere, swimming across her vision, shrieking in her ears. They were the spirits of her ancestors, the ones who had not been buried according to tradition, the ones who had lived and died under the white man’s rules and not been accorded the right and proper ritual. They would roam this earth forever.
She unlatched the gate and slid through it, then slipped down the lane. High brick walls rose on either side, overhung by leafless trees. She did not like English trees in winter. Their black branches were arms, their spindly twigs fingers. A carriage passed. She kept her head down and quickened her pace. Not far now.
At the end of the lane she turned left. A church bell tolled nearby. Almost there. She rounded the corner and came to the lych-gate. Passing through it she found herself in the graveyard, an Englishman’s churchyard, with its cold mossy stones and its fine statues of women with wings. How strange, she thought, to honor the dead in this way. She had heard they were buried without their cooking pots and their jewelry. How would they eat? Did they not want to look their best when they rejoined their ancestors? Worse still, their graves were often sealed, so that robbers could not take their corpses. She had heard that the churchmen might sometimes set spring guns to ward off the sack-’em-up men. Sometimes they put cages over the graves and locked them with padlocks as big as coconuts. So how would the dead eat? How would they find their way home? It was all a puzzle to her. These places were strange and baffling and frightening. She would not loiter.
A lone woman stood praying by a new grave. She wore a black veil that covered her face. Hurrying over to the wall of the churchyard, where thick thorn bushes grew, their berries red as blood, Phibbah crouched low to watch her. The shadows were melding into the blackness as the first stars appeared in the sky. The widow would be gone soon. Only the evil ones would stay in a place like this after dark, she told herself.
Sure enough, after one or two minutes Phibbah saw the woman’s head bow reverentially and she retreated through the lych-gate and into the
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