Michael had lost weight. And he looked tired and drawn as we strolled around the birds of paradise in Hope Gardens.
‘Bishop Langley has been very good to me.’
‘You told him everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said the Lord moves in mysterious ways. There was a reason for what happened. My task is to fathom what that reason was and understand the lessons to be learned from the experience.’ He paused. ‘And we prayed together.’
‘And the doctor.’
‘He helped but mostly my body mended itself. The healing power of faith, Fay.’ He laughed. ‘We’ve talked about that before.’
Things were different between us after that. Mainly because, despite what Papa said, I still knew I was responsible for what happened to Michael and I didn’t know how to make it up to him. Not that I ever could. How do you appease for something like that? Nonetheless, the more I tried the worse it got because I felt so unworthy of his company and friendship. After all, Isaac was right. I thought I could do anything I wanted.
Michael said that brutality had been bred into the Jamaican psyche from slavery; beaten into every African who had been made to work the fields, gasping for air and water in the blistering heat, tearing their hands to shreds on the sugar cane, surviving on next to nothing and being whipped for every imagined infraction. Men, women and children of all ages, regardless of their state of health.
‘Even pregnant women, lying on a concrete floor with their swollen bellies resting in a hole specifically dug in the ground so their bodies remained flat as some massa or overseer brought down a lash on their naked back.’
Lashes, Michael said, made of leather or tipped with wire that would flay a person alive, or leave their torn and bloodied body to be eaten by dogs if the massa thought they were getting out of hand by running away or causing trouble talking about the injustices. Because, of all the islands, Jamaica had the most troublesome slaves, with uprisings every two minutes. Why? Because that was the policy. Disobedient, unmanageable slaves were deliberately sent to Jamaica, especially the rebellious Ashanti from the Ivory Coast. So always, the regime in Jamaica was more cruel, more malicious. Metal collars with protruding spikes; headpieces with metal tongues to insert into a person’s mouth; shackles and chains; whipping, hanging, beating, burning, mutilation, branding, confinement. All of it trying to keep down a people who constantly resisted.
What I knew of this? Nothing. Because history in school meant learning about the kings and queens of England. And Christopher Columbus, of course, who discovered Jamaica. Like it didn’t exist before 1494.
‘What does this have to do with Back-O-Wall?’
‘The brutality warped and eroded the slave’s sense of his masculinity. He was not a man. He could not do the things a man should be able to do. Reap the benefits of his labour. Make a home. Protect his woman. Hold on to his children. Control his life. There was nothing within his domain. Not even his own agency. So once he escaped from that he had to be more man than man. Independent, dominant, self-regulating, beyond the control of any other human being or social system. He had to be free to spread his seed, and develop the swagger of doing exactly as he pleased, including beating down on anyone who opposed or threatened that sense of self.’ He paused. ‘Because beating is what he knew.’
So that was how Michael saw it. As I had seen Isaac and Pao, as the result of their history.
‘And what threatens is any woman who questions that state of masculine being or any man who fails to live up to the machismo that is the protective shield of the lost and lonely. Because safety lies in numbers. A united front.’
‘So you forgive them for what they did to you?’
‘Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” But we are also responsible. The past is an explanation, Fay, not an excuse. In the end, we are the sum of our actions.’ He laughed. ‘Free will has its consequences.’
I looked at him enviously as I sat there motionless in the swing. Jealous of his calm, his self-control and his cool, relaxed openness. It made me want to reach out and touch him. Hold him. Feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. The firmness of his body pressed to mine.
But what I did instead was set the swing moving. ‘That is all about the man. What about the woman?’
‘The woman, Fay? She has yet to be freed.’
It seemed unbelievable to me that a person could be so dispassionate. Especially after what he had been through. That he could still have kindness and compassion in his heart when all I had in mine was anger and resentment over the way Mama treated me. Feeling sorry for myself when, really, what did I have to complain about? A few strokes of the cane; a locked door; some horrid words. A lot worse was happening to other people.
After Michael left I went back into the house, only to find Mama in the middle of another one of her tirades.
‘As the Lord is my witness, may He strike me down dead. Dead, O merciful Father for the heathen daughter I brought into this world. Sinner of sinners. Jezebel that she can be cavorting with a holy man of the cloth.’
She was sitting at the piano with her arms raised to heaven. I came to the door and leant against the frame.
‘Yu still not finished with this?’
She turned to face me. ‘Nothing will be finished with until I am in the grave.’ And then she thought some more and said, ‘Unless of course you beat me there, which would be a blessing for everyone in this house. And the Father too. Poor, weak, misguided soul he must be.’
I felt my anger flame. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about. So just shut yu mouth before yu say something we both regret.’
Mama shot off the piano stool so fast I couldn’t believe a woman of her age and generous proportions could move like that. Like a jack pouncing out of the box. Only the face on her wasn’t painted cheerful and happy. It was pure rage as she raced up to me, pulled back her hand and slapped me square across the cheek.
I stared at her coldly as she stepped back. And then I said, ‘Do you know brutality has been bred into the Jamaican psyche since slavery? All you are doing now is continuing that tradition. The same way every Jamaican parent does when they beat and beat their children.’
‘What do you know about slavery? All you ever worried about your whole life was how to parade yourself as white. Making your father board you at Immaculate even though the school only little way ’cross town. Running all over the place with your rich friends, dancing and partying and playing tennis and God knows what. Like tennis is any kind of pastime for a girl like you.’
I felt the boiling blood throbbing through my veins.
‘I blame your father,’ she yelled. ‘That is the God’s truth. Giving in to every little hoity-toity whim yu have. Spoiling yu rotten since the day yu born. So now yu think yu better than everyone else in this house. Better than me because your skin light. Not black like this.’ She thrust her arms out towards me, stroking one and then the other to show me just how black she was. And then, waving her hands in the air as she flounced back to the piano stool, she sat down and started to bang out some awful hymn to demonstrate to me the righteousness of her life.
I felt like a dismissed servant.
‘My light skin? Is that what worrying you? More like you doing battle with how you so black. Sitting on that veranda with your embroidery and crochet. Is that what the slave used to do on the plantation? In her spare time after she finish working in the field, or cleaning the great house, or cooking the massa’s food or serving at table. Seeing to the laundry. Tending to the mistress and the children. And lying on her back for whoever wanted to defile her. Is that what she did? Embroidery and crocheting? And drink Earl Grey tea in the afternoon? Is that what the slave did that you are following in her footsteps?’
Mama didn’t even turn around to face me. All she did was play the piano louder and louder so that I had to scream in order to be heard. ‘So who is the one that is ashamed of her colour, Mrs Airs and Graces from Lady Musgrave Road?’
That is when Mama’s fingers stopped moving and silence descended on the room. And then, turning to me, she said, ‘The slave lived in misery and that is why I pray to the Lord Our God each and every day I breathe to have mercy on my soul.’
‘Well maybe you could have shown some of that mercy to me.’ And I walked out of the room.
Daphne was sitting on the veranda reading a book.
‘When will the two of you stop arguing like that?’
‘You asking me?’ I went towards the steps.
She shouted after me. ‘Something not right between you and the Father. Any idiot can see that.’
I didn’t feel like discussing anything with her. So I just kept going. Into the Dodge and reverse gear. And away.
* * *
Then Papa told me he wanted me to buy a car and teach Daphne to drive.
‘Time Daphne learn drive car so she can get away from her mama.’
‘Really?’
‘She go work, follow man, take photograph, but what kind of life that? She drive car, she can go about own business. Not rely on anybody for what she want to do.’
‘You ever think that maybe she is happy doing what she’s doing?’
He looked at me through the steam from his soup. Unconvinced. ‘You tell me which one better. Drive car or always telephoning taxi cab. What you choose? Which one say freedom to you?’
He’d made his point. ‘What kind of car do you want me to buy?’
‘Not just buy car, Fay. Teach sister drive.’
He removed the protective white-cotton napkin. Tucked as it was into his shirt collar. Folded it neatly and placed it on the table. Then he took me squarely in his gaze.
So I just said, ‘I hear you.’
‘Mercedes-Benz,’ he said, matter of fact. Because that was the only make of car Papa knew.
‘You drive too. Like it your car. Dodge too old to be running round di place.’
When I went to the showroom I didn’t know how to choose. Knew nothing about cubic capacity or brake horsepower. So all I could say was automatic because I thought that would make it easier for Daphne to learn. And maroon because in that moment I remembered what Papa said about the freedom the car would give to Daphne, and thought of Nanny rebelling against the Spanish and the English, and the word ‘maroon’ popped out of my mouth. Besides, I couldn’t see myself driving a black Mercedes. Not like every other Chinese man and woman in Kingston. The salesman looked surprised. More than that. Shocked. Especially after I said cream leather upholstery. Thinking of the seats in Michael’s Chevy. That was when his eyebrows almost went through the roof.
I was stiff at first. Teaching Daphne to drive. Because I was still stinging from her comment about me and Michael. But sitting in the car with her, hour after hour, I finally discovered how incredibly lonely my younger sister was. Booking appointments; arranging the studio backgrounds for portraits of families, couples, individuals or babies; minding children who were bored or exhausted; carrying the lamps and stands and setting up in people’s homes or shops; keeping the records on location in this hotel or that beach, birds, flora and fauna; a wedding; a christening; a child’s birthday party. Did she like it? This job.
‘I’m not qualified to do anything. Anyway, who cares? If I dropped down dead no one would notice.’
She was turning right into Oxford Road, across the street from the telephone company. The smell of fresh bread wafting over to us from the bakery on Osborne Road.
‘You could get training. What do you want to do?’
She didn’t say anything. Concentrating on the green light turning to amber as she hesitated waiting for the oncoming traffic to ease. And in truth I heard the thump more than felt it. Quite a gentle little thud. Just enough to roll us into the car in front. A silver Continental stationary on the corner. The driver behind didn’t even stop. He just pulled out and passed us with his passenger leaning out of the window to tell us something about women who should get back into the kitchen where they belong. In graphic, unpleasant terms.
I stepped out of the car and let the noonday sun beat on to my bare head. The driver of the Continental was deep in conversation with her friend.
‘I’m sorry about that.’
She glanced disinterestedly at me as she tapped her pink fingernails on the steering wheel and chewed her gum. ‘Nuh matter.’ She continued to scrutinise the line of motionless cars ahead.
‘I checked your fender and it seems OK.’
‘Honey, this car been bashed and banged and scratched and scraped that many times I surprised there is anything left for you to check.’ Her friend laughed. Good-humouredly.
I rested my hand on the window as I bent down to say, ‘You don’t want to look at it?’
That is when she actually turned to me. ‘It doesn’t matter. Honestly.’ And then she shifted gear and edged her way forward.
But back in the car Daphne was horrified. ‘I don’t know how it happened.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Daphne.’
‘It does, Fay. I try so hard to be careful. Everything I do. Every little thing. I hate making mistakes. What if something worse had happened? A car wreck. Not just a fender bender but a real accident. People getting hurt. Other drivers. Pedestrians walking on the street. A child crossing the road.’ Her voice was shrill.
‘Nothing happened, Daphne. Don’t let your imagination run away with you. Just concentrate on what you are doing right now.’
At which point I reached out and tugged lightly on the wheel to bring us more centrally back into the left-hand lane.
But Daphne’s driving was never the same after that. Even after she passed the test. It was still full of apprehension and trepidation, which made her slow to move, slow to stop, slow to turn, slow to decide what to do. And she would never overtake. Not even a horse-drawn cart or a man on a bicycle if she could not take up the whole of the oncoming lane. So she was dangerous. And I wondered if it would have been better if she’d continued to call a taxi cab.
But, to be fair, Papa was right. It did give Daphne a new-found independence and a new set of skills to bring to her photographer, meeting him here and there, all equipment loaded into the Mercedes, or transported back to the studio. No longer relying on him to drive her home at the end of a long day.
Social life? Nothing that I observed.
‘What is it that you want to do, Daphne?’
‘Oh I don’t know. What is there?’
‘Are you serious? The whole world is out there. Parties, dancing, wonderful food, the beach, the mountains, movies, the theatre, tennis, water skiing and every other land and water sport you can think of. None of that appeals to you?’ She shrugged. ‘You have a driving licence and money in your pocket. You can go anywhere, do anything.’
‘Who with, Fay?’
‘Who with? You don’t know anybody?’
‘Where am I going to meet anybody?’
‘You meet people all the time.’
‘Not anyone who wants to know me.’ Tears welled up in her eyes.
I put my arm around her shoulder as we walked from the car to the veranda. Safe in the knowledge that Mama was at her Bible reading group all afternoon.
‘Not even from school, Daphne?’
She sniffed and drew a Kleenex from her bag just as Ethyl stepped out of the door to greet us.
Later, when I asked her about men, she remained silent. And when I talked about getting married she said, ‘Who would marry me?’
‘You don’t think you deserve to be loved? Deserve to be happy?’
‘What you deserve and what you get in this life are two completely different things. You of all people should know that. Look how happily married you are.’
‘That wasn’t my choice.’
‘It wasn’t mine either.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’