Memories
The vagaries of primary school boys in a multicultural society at Christmas time in colonial Guyana in the bauxite mining town.
By Jeff Trotman
Guyana Journal, December, 2006
“Today we’ll discuss Christmas, the most universally celebrated birthday.” The teacher’s eyes swept across his young charges. “In recent general knowledge classes we discussed Guy Fawkes and Halloween – important events in the British calendar. Now, we’ll talk about Christmas, the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ.”
Mr. James not only spoke of Jesus’ birth in the manger, the Pilgrimage of the Three Wise Men as they followed the star to the location of the newborn babe, whose parents were fleeing the wrath of a Roman emperor, who had decreed that all boys beneath the age of two be killed in his zeal to defuse the Jewish hope of a King being born around that time to emancipate them from the wrath of Roman over rule; the teacher also spoke of the increasing emphasis on the Christmas tree, mistletoe and the growing popularity of Santa Claus with his reindeers and bags of gifts, sliding down the chimney in the dead of night to surprise little children with stockings full of toys.
Gordie could not understand what the birth of Jesus Christ and the Pilgrimage of the Three Wise men had to do with Santa Claus and Old Saint Nick. He had often looked in wonderment at the framed picture of the white man with long straw colored hair and beard; the Son of God, looking slightly upward through blue eyes to that special light. He was so different from Gordie or his father, or anyone Gordie knew personally, except for the white staffmen of the bauxite company across the river.
“CHRIST IS THE HEAD OF THIS HOUSE”, written boldly on the picture was frequently read aloud by Gordie’s mother who insisted that Gordie and his sister attend church and Sunday School every Sunday.
His Sunday School teachers stuck to the Biblical story as written in the Gospels but Gordie could not help thinking that if Jesus was the example for all to follow why did his mother insist that Gordie cut his hair instead of wearing it long as Jesus did. Why did she disapprove of men wearing beards? Of course, he did not dare ask her those questions.
He could not see himself being born among cows and donkeys much less a white man – the Son of God. That puzzled him at Sunday School but he was not brave enough to question Mr. Thomas, his Sunday School teacher. Now, Mr. James’ tale of the birth of Jesus Christ and the Pilgrimage of the Three Wise men was as entertaining as an Anancy story or Fairy Tale of Peter Pan and Wendy.
Gordie had never put up stockings or socks to receive his Christmas toys, and the only chimneys he knew were those of the bauxite plant across the river. He told himself that Mr. James’ story was a fib, which though puzzling was welcome respite from the everyday drudgery of school work. He enjoyed singing “Frosty the Snowman’, ‘Jingle Bells’, and ‘Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer’ as much as reciting ‘Jack and Jill’ and other nursery rhymes.
Not far from the school, chimes and tinkles in the Wismar Market heralded the festive season. Unsold toys of previous years were dusted and repacked on shelves to be joined by new stocks, artificial flowers, myriad fabrics, carpets and kitchen utensils.
Gordie and his bench mates headed for the market as soon as it was recess.
“Wuh you want fo Christmas?” Albert’s question came from nowhere as he popped boiled channa into his mouth.
“Every year me father does buy a gun and socket for me,” Gordie said.
“Whey you las’ year one?” Nelson asked, his mouth full of bara.
“The gun spoil,” Gordie said disappointedly.
“And the socket?”
“I don’t know,” Gordie wondered why Nelson was asking those stupid questions.
“I like Apache,” Albert said.
“Nah,” Gordie disagreed. “Lone Star fo me.”
“Wuh you getting?” Nelson asked Jaipaul.
“Me ah Hindu,” Jaipaul said.
“Wuh is duh?” Nelson asked.
“They don’t celebrate Christmas, stupid!” Albert pounced on Nelson.
“None alyou can spin a gun better than me,” Gordie tried to ease the sudden tension.
“Wuh!” Nelson and Albert responded almost simultaneously.
“You mad! I is the fastest draw in we area.” Albert boasted
“Don’t worry with he,” Nelson said. “He ain’t nutten on Henderson Road.”
“You only giving Jaipaul and Gordie talk ‘bout electricity and water in the Constabulary Compound but alyou poor. Is plenty big brothers and sisters you get. You want beg Gordie fo he ole gun and socket. Everybody come to school with brand new books. Only you come with dog ears and you ain’t get book bag fo hide it.”
“At least I don’t come to school barefoot, though,” Nelson said teasingly.
“Not me you teasing. Is only Jaipaul does come barefoot but he geet all he books and he brighter than you,” Albert replied.
“Brighter than me?” Nelson said. “He brighter than all ah we.”
Gordie did not like the turn the conversation was taking. He wanted to tell Nelson and Albert about the fun he had playing cowboy in the fringe of the forest in Silvertown; how he hid among the bushes like a star in a western movie, hiding himself where the others took ages to find him and, when his hiding place was eventually discovered, how he rolled and somersaulted while shooting in dramatic fashion, dodging imaginary bullets that ricocheted off buildings and rocks.
“Bueing, bueing!” In his mind he replayed his imitation of the sound of the ricocheting bullets.
“Me mother does mek bad roas’ pork,” Nelson smacked his lips.
“Po’k nah good,” Jaipaul interjected.
“And you father selling beef?” Nelson challenged Jaipaul.
“Dah nah me father,” Jaipaul turned to Gordie for support. “Dah ah me uncle. To besides, he does Hallal the meat, and he don’t sell po’k.”
“Wuh is duh word?” Nelson screwed up his face.
“Hallal?” Jaipaul asked.
Nelson nodded. “Me uncle ah Fullah man. When them kill cow them ah pray over ah meat before them cook or sell it.”
“Christmas pepperpot bad,” Gordie said.
“Yes,” Jaipaul agreed.
“I thought alyou don’t celebrate Christmas,” Albert said. “Wuh you know ‘bout pepperpot. Alyou does eat dohl and rice.”
Jaipaul swallowed heavily. He impatiently flicked his head to whip back a few stray strands of hair, and remained silent.
“Boy,” Albert rolled his eyes. “Sausage and cheese, slice ham with spice and clove, mustard, mmmmmmmmhh!”
“The only thing I don’t like ‘bout Christmas is the housework,” Gordie said.
“You right,” Nelson agreed. “All the muck fo the whole year we does have to clean.”
“Whole year?” Gordie teased.
“You know wuh ah mean,” Nelson said. “Mildew on them aluminum walls hard fo come off!”
“You living in aluminum house, too?” Gordie asked.
“How you mean?” Nelson said. “Is not only Silvertown get aluminum house. The Constabulary Compound get, too. We living in one.”
“And the company putting up some more in a new housing scheme behind the police station not far from the Alumina Plant.”
The school bell sounded as Albert spoke, “Who las’ reach in the line is a slow coach,” he said, taking first jump.
Nelson and Gordie took off after him. As they sprinted past the Police Compound towards the school gate.
“My name is Rumpeltinskin,
Masquerade is my t’ing,
De sun hot, me voice can’t tek de strain,
T’row a shilling, help me ease de pain.
Music!”
Kettle rattled. Flute joined it in frenzied music in quick time. The strapping kettle player, who had made the recital, smiled at his shorter flute-blowing companion. Mother Sally flounced. The butting cow flounced.
“Go Three O’clock, go! Go Three O’clock, go!” The onlookers prompted the dancer in his wild fling.
Three O’clock smiled widely, baring black gums. His face crinkled into a million wrinkles. Perspiration dripped from his chin. His costume was wet from the neck down to just below his knees where the skin-tight pants stopped. Perspiration made patterns like spider web on dust accumulated on his calves, shins and feet. His frenzied rhythm was uninterrupted as he picked up coins – thrown by onlookers – from the dusty street and placed them in a string bag slung around his shoulder.
Suddenly Three O’clock shouted: “Batto!” and stopped dancing simultaneously as the music stopped. A fraction of a second later Mother Sally and the butting cow stopped their dance. The flautist gasped for breath as he pulled a half filled half bottle of brown rum from his right back pocket, gazed at the liquor for an instant before unscrewing the cork and pouring the liquor down his throat without touching the mouth of the bottle with his lips. “Good liqah!” He grimaced, hawked and beat his breast before passing the bottle to the kettleman, who lifted the bottle to eye level for measurement.
“More, more,” the crowd called on the masqueraders. “We want more.”
The five masqueraders walked slowly, conserving their energy in the hot sun, each in turn pouring the liquor down his throat without letting his mouth touch the bottle. The adults trickled away but the children close by marched with the masqueraders.
Suddenly Three O’clock stamped his feet and went into jerky spasms. “Music!” he commanded the band into another spell of masquerade music. The butting cow rushed at a group of children. Gordie, like many others, fell to the dusty street, the cork of the large rum bottle flew off and the cooking oil his mother had sent him to trust from Mr. Mason trickled unto the loose sand. He quickly picked up the bottle but much less than the quarter pint was saved.
Gordie was in ‘pucketery’. As he grudgingly walked away from the immediacy of the masqueraders and the shrieking children, who were enjoying the scary thrill of being chased by the butting cow, he saw Jaipaul and his younger brother and sister watching the spectacle from their front verandah while their mother mockingly laughed at a window.
The Amerindian family had come from up river to occupy their house, which was vacant for most of the year. It was a large family, spanning four generations from silver-haired Mr. Spencer to Buds, who at six, was two years younger than Gordie. Their yard, adjacent to Jaipaul’s, was directly opposite Gordie’s. The Spencers curiously watched from their front windows and front gate.
“What happen to the oil?” Rachel asked as soon as she saw the bottle.
“I fall down,” Gordie said guiltily.
“These blasted people bringing up their children like if they don’t have owner,” Rachel grumbled. “Ah sure they been running wild and knock you down.” Gordie was silently relieved. He could not tell his mother that he was in the thick of things, enjoying the rush of the butting cow before he fell down.
Before long the frenzied procession reached in front of Gordie’s home.
“Pure stupidness,” Malcolm muttered.
Curly haired Malcolm was the darkest in his group of his family members on the front verandah of their house adjacent to the Spencers’ on the other side. This family prided itself in having Portuguese blood. Some adult followers of the masqueraders looked up long enough for the recipients of the stares to get the message. Their attention reverted to Three O’clock, who was prancing around some coins in front the opposite gate that had been thrown by Mrs. Alleyene. She applauded as Three O’clock essayed a flourish, picked up the coins, placed them in the sling bag and continued flouncing up the street with the band moving slowly behind him.
In this time when yards were weeded, silver and brass polished, artificial flowers cleaned and placed on verandahs, every home seized the opportunity to show off as much of its accumulation of consumer durables and household fineries without appearing to do so. Even the Li-Loos participated in the communal indulgence of cleaning things and putting them outside to dry and air out.
On Christmas Eve, Belanfonte’s solemn Christmas Anthem, ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ as well as Kitchener’s celebration of drunken abandon added sunshine to Johnny Mathis’ ‘White Christmas’ and Nat Cole’s ‘Christmas Song’.
Confusion reigned in the Chapmans’ house. Books were scattered about the floor. Bundles of partly sewn linen dominated the big bedroom. Furniture were in the wrong places. Two cardboard cartons were on the kitchen table – one containing purchased goods, the other a gift food hamper from Mr. Mason for Rachel’s loyal patronage during the year. An almanac of the New Year was rolled atop the open food hamper. An assortment of aerated drinks, Banks Beer, a gallon bottle of brown rum, and a number of unopened one-pint cans of paint were under the kitchen table. Pots and pans of various sizes containing beef, pork, chicken, chicken foot, cow face, cow heel, and tripe crowded the kitchen table along with large paper bags of flour and sugar.
It was a marathon day of chores for Rachel, scrubbing the floor of the whole house – kitchen, hall and chambers; baking sponge and black cakes, pastries and bread; preparing ham, roast pork, pepper pot and Indian sweet meats; complete sewing new window blinds and putting them up; fixing and decorating the house; and putting each piece of furniture in a newly appraised position.
Everything had to be done before daybreak. As was the pattern of previous years, Rachel expected her husband to dust the bookshelf in the big bedroom, repack the books and varnish the wooden furniture.
Purring of the machine awoke Gordie to cocks crowing and a combination of new smells within the house. In the graying darkness, sleep refused to return to him.
‘Pai, pai, pai,’ a cap gun sounded in rapid succession. ‘Pai, pai pai.’
“Christmas!’ someone shouted. The gun went off again followed by shouts of ‘Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!’ and the rapid reports of cap guns in the neighborhood.
Gordie jumped out of bed and rushed past his father, who was varnishing furniture in the hall.
“Don’t make no noise here!” his mother snapped when he reached into his parents’ bedroom. He took the gun and holster from the top drawer of the vanity. Cradling his toy like a fragile infant, Gordie returned to bed and soon fell asleep.
His mother did not seem tired when Gordie awoke on Christmas morning. She served coffee, pepper pot, and bread for breakfast. Lorna had already eaten and she played with her new doll and kitchen set in a corner of the living room.
The coffee was a treat for Gordie. Normally his mother did not allow him to drink coffee because she claimed that it would make him stay awake at night.
“Don’t leff this yard,” Rachel ordered as she placed a piece of home pickled onion on Gordie’s saucer.
“Christmas is fo spen’ at you own house.”
Gordie’s father was not at home. He returned about two o’clock with friends, most of whom lived across the river. They offered Rachel “compliments of the season”. Some of them caused her to blush with ribald teases of how juicy she looked, and that was probably the reason Randolph was ‘a one woman man over the years’.
“Fix up,” Randolph proudly told his wife as he hastily moved benches to the hall and rearranged the chairs. Rachel took decanters and some glasses from the safe and passed them to her husband who handed out the glasses to the guests. He poured XM Rum from the gallon bottle into the decanters.
Rachel removed the Christmas cards, the crocheted center-spread and the vase of artificial flowers from the coffee table before returning to the kitchen to prepare cutters.
Mr. Li-Loo’s presence precluded any argument on local politics. He contributed little by way of conversation as the other men argued cricket, whether Jesus was born in September or December, the feats of the ‘Brown Bomber’, Al Capone and the Mob, Rocky Marciano’s exploits, and Sugar Ray Robinson, who Randolph described as the greatest ever pound for pound fighter.
Every Christmas, Randolph and friends went from house to house, making merry – dismissing grudges and old feuds, if only for a day. Three O’clock had joined the group as it approached Randolph’s home. The others accepted his company in the spirit of the festive season.
“Let’s take one for Spike.” Randolph poured liquor into his glass.
“Why me?” Mr. Alleyne’s gold bicuspid cap sparkled his smile.
“For your gun and socket,” Randolph teased. “You like Roy Rogers.”
“I wearing this gun and socket every Christmas, sixteen years now.”
“Wuh!” Randolph opened his eyes in exaggerated surprise.
“How many alyou know I grew up in the orphanage?”
The other men were stunned. They gaped at Mr. Alleyne. He drew the gun from the holster like a fast draw in a Western movie and broke the dumb silence with rapid firing of caps, then, holding the handle with the tips of his right thumb and index finger he dropped the toy Apache pistol into the holster and said, “I bought this gun and socket with the first money I worked for, learning trade at Sprostons Foundry. I was sixteen then. It was the first brand new toy I ever owned. The money I used was my first pay from my first job after I left the orphanage.”
Randolph lifted his glass and uttered, “Cheers! Let’s have a toast!” The men clinked glasses and toasted. Then Randolph raised his favorite Christmas song: The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot’.
His rusty voice was joined by those of the other men. When the song ended, they all stood up and applauded. As the merriment continued, expletives became increasingly frequent followed by apologies and chides. Rachel’s smile shortened. Randolph’s friends from across the river said that they had a far way to go and left. Mr. Li-Loo mumbled something and trailed them. He had been uneasy throughout the spree. He was at the front of his yard when Randolph and the others were passing and Randolph had impulsively called him across. It was the first time over all those years that Mr. Li-Loo had entered any of his neighbor’s yard or house.
“Well, Chappy,” Mr. Alleyne said. “I didn’t expect spending Christmas up here but, as you know, the white people send for me and the wife. You know this is the festive season and they wanted her to sing at a number of concerts in Watooka. Is a lucky thing I didn’t sell the house. We ain’t decorate as usual but we could go across by me.” He raised his glass for a toast.
“Yes,” Randolph poured a drink. “One for the road.”
“There’s no music like masquerade music,” Three O’clock slurred. He picked up the decanter with a shaky hand. When he poured, he missed his glass. The rum went to the floor.
“Time to go,” Randolph said. He and Mr. Alleyne – with much bad talk – struggled with Three O’clock through the front door and carried him home.
After the men had left, Rachel gave her children black cake and ginger beer. It was a long day and there was much more time before it got dark but Gordie had experienced a surfeit of contentment. His father’s friends from across the river had given him and his sister coins. Gordie’s total was a dollar and twenty-five cents.
He placed the coins into his left pocket along with the four dollars and one cent he had saved during the year in an empty ‘My Fair Lady’ powder tin which had been nailed to a wooden ledge in the small bedroom. He liked the feel of the coins in his pocket.
With his gun and holster hung low on his right side, he went into the small bedroom glowing with contentment. The bed was neatly made up. The Christmas card stared at him from his pillow. He had been shocked when the card had arrived on Christmas Eve Day. Although Jaipaul had sent him a card the previous Christmas and he had reciprocated, he had not expected one this year.
This card had arrived too late for him to purchase one and post it to reach Jaipaul in time for Christmas. So, Rachel had purchased one for him to hand deliver to Jaipaul. In the heat of the action they had forgotten all about that card. Now, Gordie was reminded.
“Mammy,” he shouted. “Jaipaul card.”
“Carry it for him.”
Gordie picked up the signed card in its envelope and bounded down the front steps across to the Li-Loo’s gate and called for Jaipaul. When Jaipaul pushed his head through a front window, Gordie told him that he had something for him.
Jaipaul came downstairs and Gordie gave him the addressed envelope.
"Thanks,” Jaipaul said. Without another word, Gordie retraced his steps.
Gordie was really struck by Jaipaul’s gesture of friendship. Jaipaul had never hinted that he would have done such a thing. Further, although the two friends lived obliquely opposite each other, they never entered each other’s yard nor did they engage in much conversation across the fence.
Long after the holiday season, well into the new year, Gordie gazed at the cherished token of friendship; at the Three Wise Men over the baby in the crib, a bright star shining over them.
He learned the poem inside the card by heart, then he found himself reading the lines in his mind. He was overjoyed. He boasted about his newly acquired competence to his bench mates. Fired by his new skill, Gordie tried to make sense of every reading material he placed his hands on and he completed the West Indian Reader ahead of the class.
(Excerpts from an unpublished novel, “Memories Measure the Years” by Jeff Trotman. Jeff is a journalist, a creative writer/playwright. He also writes poetry and short stories.)
The vagaries of primary school boys in a multicultural society at Christmas time in colonial Guyana in the bauxite mining town.
By Jeff Trotman
Guyana Journal, December, 2006
“Today we’ll discuss Christmas, the most universally celebrated birthday.” The teacher’s eyes swept across his young charges. “In recent general knowledge classes we discussed Guy Fawkes and Halloween – important events in the British calendar. Now, we’ll talk about Christmas, the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ.”
Mr. James not only spoke of Jesus’ birth in the manger, the Pilgrimage of the Three Wise Men as they followed the star to the location of the newborn babe, whose parents were fleeing the wrath of a Roman emperor, who had decreed that all boys beneath the age of two be killed in his zeal to defuse the Jewish hope of a King being born around that time to emancipate them from the wrath of Roman over rule; the teacher also spoke of the increasing emphasis on the Christmas tree, mistletoe and the growing popularity of Santa Claus with his reindeers and bags of gifts, sliding down the chimney in the dead of night to surprise little children with stockings full of toys.
Gordie could not understand what the birth of Jesus Christ and the Pilgrimage of the Three Wise men had to do with Santa Claus and Old Saint Nick. He had often looked in wonderment at the framed picture of the white man with long straw colored hair and beard; the Son of God, looking slightly upward through blue eyes to that special light. He was so different from Gordie or his father, or anyone Gordie knew personally, except for the white staffmen of the bauxite company across the river.
“CHRIST IS THE HEAD OF THIS HOUSE”, written boldly on the picture was frequently read aloud by Gordie’s mother who insisted that Gordie and his sister attend church and Sunday School every Sunday.
His Sunday School teachers stuck to the Biblical story as written in the Gospels but Gordie could not help thinking that if Jesus was the example for all to follow why did his mother insist that Gordie cut his hair instead of wearing it long as Jesus did. Why did she disapprove of men wearing beards? Of course, he did not dare ask her those questions.
He could not see himself being born among cows and donkeys much less a white man – the Son of God. That puzzled him at Sunday School but he was not brave enough to question Mr. Thomas, his Sunday School teacher. Now, Mr. James’ tale of the birth of Jesus Christ and the Pilgrimage of the Three Wise men was as entertaining as an Anancy story or Fairy Tale of Peter Pan and Wendy.
Gordie had never put up stockings or socks to receive his Christmas toys, and the only chimneys he knew were those of the bauxite plant across the river. He told himself that Mr. James’ story was a fib, which though puzzling was welcome respite from the everyday drudgery of school work. He enjoyed singing “Frosty the Snowman’, ‘Jingle Bells’, and ‘Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer’ as much as reciting ‘Jack and Jill’ and other nursery rhymes.
Not far from the school, chimes and tinkles in the Wismar Market heralded the festive season. Unsold toys of previous years were dusted and repacked on shelves to be joined by new stocks, artificial flowers, myriad fabrics, carpets and kitchen utensils.
Gordie and his bench mates headed for the market as soon as it was recess.
“Wuh you want fo Christmas?” Albert’s question came from nowhere as he popped boiled channa into his mouth.
“Every year me father does buy a gun and socket for me,” Gordie said.
“Whey you las’ year one?” Nelson asked, his mouth full of bara.
“The gun spoil,” Gordie said disappointedly.
“And the socket?”
“I don’t know,” Gordie wondered why Nelson was asking those stupid questions.
“I like Apache,” Albert said.
“Nah,” Gordie disagreed. “Lone Star fo me.”
“Wuh you getting?” Nelson asked Jaipaul.
“Me ah Hindu,” Jaipaul said.
“Wuh is duh?” Nelson asked.
“They don’t celebrate Christmas, stupid!” Albert pounced on Nelson.
“None alyou can spin a gun better than me,” Gordie tried to ease the sudden tension.
“Wuh!” Nelson and Albert responded almost simultaneously.
“You mad! I is the fastest draw in we area.” Albert boasted
“Don’t worry with he,” Nelson said. “He ain’t nutten on Henderson Road.”
“You only giving Jaipaul and Gordie talk ‘bout electricity and water in the Constabulary Compound but alyou poor. Is plenty big brothers and sisters you get. You want beg Gordie fo he ole gun and socket. Everybody come to school with brand new books. Only you come with dog ears and you ain’t get book bag fo hide it.”
“At least I don’t come to school barefoot, though,” Nelson said teasingly.
“Not me you teasing. Is only Jaipaul does come barefoot but he geet all he books and he brighter than you,” Albert replied.
“Brighter than me?” Nelson said. “He brighter than all ah we.”
Gordie did not like the turn the conversation was taking. He wanted to tell Nelson and Albert about the fun he had playing cowboy in the fringe of the forest in Silvertown; how he hid among the bushes like a star in a western movie, hiding himself where the others took ages to find him and, when his hiding place was eventually discovered, how he rolled and somersaulted while shooting in dramatic fashion, dodging imaginary bullets that ricocheted off buildings and rocks.
“Bueing, bueing!” In his mind he replayed his imitation of the sound of the ricocheting bullets.
“Me mother does mek bad roas’ pork,” Nelson smacked his lips.
“Po’k nah good,” Jaipaul interjected.
“And you father selling beef?” Nelson challenged Jaipaul.
“Dah nah me father,” Jaipaul turned to Gordie for support. “Dah ah me uncle. To besides, he does Hallal the meat, and he don’t sell po’k.”
“Wuh is duh word?” Nelson screwed up his face.
“Hallal?” Jaipaul asked.
Nelson nodded. “Me uncle ah Fullah man. When them kill cow them ah pray over ah meat before them cook or sell it.”
“Christmas pepperpot bad,” Gordie said.
“Yes,” Jaipaul agreed.
“I thought alyou don’t celebrate Christmas,” Albert said. “Wuh you know ‘bout pepperpot. Alyou does eat dohl and rice.”
Jaipaul swallowed heavily. He impatiently flicked his head to whip back a few stray strands of hair, and remained silent.
“Boy,” Albert rolled his eyes. “Sausage and cheese, slice ham with spice and clove, mustard, mmmmmmmmhh!”
“The only thing I don’t like ‘bout Christmas is the housework,” Gordie said.
“You right,” Nelson agreed. “All the muck fo the whole year we does have to clean.”
“Whole year?” Gordie teased.
“You know wuh ah mean,” Nelson said. “Mildew on them aluminum walls hard fo come off!”
“You living in aluminum house, too?” Gordie asked.
“How you mean?” Nelson said. “Is not only Silvertown get aluminum house. The Constabulary Compound get, too. We living in one.”
“And the company putting up some more in a new housing scheme behind the police station not far from the Alumina Plant.”
The school bell sounded as Albert spoke, “Who las’ reach in the line is a slow coach,” he said, taking first jump.
Nelson and Gordie took off after him. As they sprinted past the Police Compound towards the school gate.
“My name is Rumpeltinskin,
Masquerade is my t’ing,
De sun hot, me voice can’t tek de strain,
T’row a shilling, help me ease de pain.
Music!”
Kettle rattled. Flute joined it in frenzied music in quick time. The strapping kettle player, who had made the recital, smiled at his shorter flute-blowing companion. Mother Sally flounced. The butting cow flounced.
“Go Three O’clock, go! Go Three O’clock, go!” The onlookers prompted the dancer in his wild fling.
Three O’clock smiled widely, baring black gums. His face crinkled into a million wrinkles. Perspiration dripped from his chin. His costume was wet from the neck down to just below his knees where the skin-tight pants stopped. Perspiration made patterns like spider web on dust accumulated on his calves, shins and feet. His frenzied rhythm was uninterrupted as he picked up coins – thrown by onlookers – from the dusty street and placed them in a string bag slung around his shoulder.
Suddenly Three O’clock shouted: “Batto!” and stopped dancing simultaneously as the music stopped. A fraction of a second later Mother Sally and the butting cow stopped their dance. The flautist gasped for breath as he pulled a half filled half bottle of brown rum from his right back pocket, gazed at the liquor for an instant before unscrewing the cork and pouring the liquor down his throat without touching the mouth of the bottle with his lips. “Good liqah!” He grimaced, hawked and beat his breast before passing the bottle to the kettleman, who lifted the bottle to eye level for measurement.
“More, more,” the crowd called on the masqueraders. “We want more.”
The five masqueraders walked slowly, conserving their energy in the hot sun, each in turn pouring the liquor down his throat without letting his mouth touch the bottle. The adults trickled away but the children close by marched with the masqueraders.
Suddenly Three O’clock stamped his feet and went into jerky spasms. “Music!” he commanded the band into another spell of masquerade music. The butting cow rushed at a group of children. Gordie, like many others, fell to the dusty street, the cork of the large rum bottle flew off and the cooking oil his mother had sent him to trust from Mr. Mason trickled unto the loose sand. He quickly picked up the bottle but much less than the quarter pint was saved.
Gordie was in ‘pucketery’. As he grudgingly walked away from the immediacy of the masqueraders and the shrieking children, who were enjoying the scary thrill of being chased by the butting cow, he saw Jaipaul and his younger brother and sister watching the spectacle from their front verandah while their mother mockingly laughed at a window.
The Amerindian family had come from up river to occupy their house, which was vacant for most of the year. It was a large family, spanning four generations from silver-haired Mr. Spencer to Buds, who at six, was two years younger than Gordie. Their yard, adjacent to Jaipaul’s, was directly opposite Gordie’s. The Spencers curiously watched from their front windows and front gate.
“What happen to the oil?” Rachel asked as soon as she saw the bottle.
“I fall down,” Gordie said guiltily.
“These blasted people bringing up their children like if they don’t have owner,” Rachel grumbled. “Ah sure they been running wild and knock you down.” Gordie was silently relieved. He could not tell his mother that he was in the thick of things, enjoying the rush of the butting cow before he fell down.
Before long the frenzied procession reached in front of Gordie’s home.
“Pure stupidness,” Malcolm muttered.
Curly haired Malcolm was the darkest in his group of his family members on the front verandah of their house adjacent to the Spencers’ on the other side. This family prided itself in having Portuguese blood. Some adult followers of the masqueraders looked up long enough for the recipients of the stares to get the message. Their attention reverted to Three O’clock, who was prancing around some coins in front the opposite gate that had been thrown by Mrs. Alleyene. She applauded as Three O’clock essayed a flourish, picked up the coins, placed them in the sling bag and continued flouncing up the street with the band moving slowly behind him.
In this time when yards were weeded, silver and brass polished, artificial flowers cleaned and placed on verandahs, every home seized the opportunity to show off as much of its accumulation of consumer durables and household fineries without appearing to do so. Even the Li-Loos participated in the communal indulgence of cleaning things and putting them outside to dry and air out.
On Christmas Eve, Belanfonte’s solemn Christmas Anthem, ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ as well as Kitchener’s celebration of drunken abandon added sunshine to Johnny Mathis’ ‘White Christmas’ and Nat Cole’s ‘Christmas Song’.
Confusion reigned in the Chapmans’ house. Books were scattered about the floor. Bundles of partly sewn linen dominated the big bedroom. Furniture were in the wrong places. Two cardboard cartons were on the kitchen table – one containing purchased goods, the other a gift food hamper from Mr. Mason for Rachel’s loyal patronage during the year. An almanac of the New Year was rolled atop the open food hamper. An assortment of aerated drinks, Banks Beer, a gallon bottle of brown rum, and a number of unopened one-pint cans of paint were under the kitchen table. Pots and pans of various sizes containing beef, pork, chicken, chicken foot, cow face, cow heel, and tripe crowded the kitchen table along with large paper bags of flour and sugar.
It was a marathon day of chores for Rachel, scrubbing the floor of the whole house – kitchen, hall and chambers; baking sponge and black cakes, pastries and bread; preparing ham, roast pork, pepper pot and Indian sweet meats; complete sewing new window blinds and putting them up; fixing and decorating the house; and putting each piece of furniture in a newly appraised position.
Everything had to be done before daybreak. As was the pattern of previous years, Rachel expected her husband to dust the bookshelf in the big bedroom, repack the books and varnish the wooden furniture.
Purring of the machine awoke Gordie to cocks crowing and a combination of new smells within the house. In the graying darkness, sleep refused to return to him.
‘Pai, pai, pai,’ a cap gun sounded in rapid succession. ‘Pai, pai pai.’
“Christmas!’ someone shouted. The gun went off again followed by shouts of ‘Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!’ and the rapid reports of cap guns in the neighborhood.
Gordie jumped out of bed and rushed past his father, who was varnishing furniture in the hall.
“Don’t make no noise here!” his mother snapped when he reached into his parents’ bedroom. He took the gun and holster from the top drawer of the vanity. Cradling his toy like a fragile infant, Gordie returned to bed and soon fell asleep.
His mother did not seem tired when Gordie awoke on Christmas morning. She served coffee, pepper pot, and bread for breakfast. Lorna had already eaten and she played with her new doll and kitchen set in a corner of the living room.
The coffee was a treat for Gordie. Normally his mother did not allow him to drink coffee because she claimed that it would make him stay awake at night.
“Don’t leff this yard,” Rachel ordered as she placed a piece of home pickled onion on Gordie’s saucer.
“Christmas is fo spen’ at you own house.”
Gordie’s father was not at home. He returned about two o’clock with friends, most of whom lived across the river. They offered Rachel “compliments of the season”. Some of them caused her to blush with ribald teases of how juicy she looked, and that was probably the reason Randolph was ‘a one woman man over the years’.
“Fix up,” Randolph proudly told his wife as he hastily moved benches to the hall and rearranged the chairs. Rachel took decanters and some glasses from the safe and passed them to her husband who handed out the glasses to the guests. He poured XM Rum from the gallon bottle into the decanters.
Rachel removed the Christmas cards, the crocheted center-spread and the vase of artificial flowers from the coffee table before returning to the kitchen to prepare cutters.
Mr. Li-Loo’s presence precluded any argument on local politics. He contributed little by way of conversation as the other men argued cricket, whether Jesus was born in September or December, the feats of the ‘Brown Bomber’, Al Capone and the Mob, Rocky Marciano’s exploits, and Sugar Ray Robinson, who Randolph described as the greatest ever pound for pound fighter.
Every Christmas, Randolph and friends went from house to house, making merry – dismissing grudges and old feuds, if only for a day. Three O’clock had joined the group as it approached Randolph’s home. The others accepted his company in the spirit of the festive season.
“Let’s take one for Spike.” Randolph poured liquor into his glass.
“Why me?” Mr. Alleyne’s gold bicuspid cap sparkled his smile.
“For your gun and socket,” Randolph teased. “You like Roy Rogers.”
“I wearing this gun and socket every Christmas, sixteen years now.”
“Wuh!” Randolph opened his eyes in exaggerated surprise.
“How many alyou know I grew up in the orphanage?”
The other men were stunned. They gaped at Mr. Alleyne. He drew the gun from the holster like a fast draw in a Western movie and broke the dumb silence with rapid firing of caps, then, holding the handle with the tips of his right thumb and index finger he dropped the toy Apache pistol into the holster and said, “I bought this gun and socket with the first money I worked for, learning trade at Sprostons Foundry. I was sixteen then. It was the first brand new toy I ever owned. The money I used was my first pay from my first job after I left the orphanage.”
Randolph lifted his glass and uttered, “Cheers! Let’s have a toast!” The men clinked glasses and toasted. Then Randolph raised his favorite Christmas song: The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot’.
His rusty voice was joined by those of the other men. When the song ended, they all stood up and applauded. As the merriment continued, expletives became increasingly frequent followed by apologies and chides. Rachel’s smile shortened. Randolph’s friends from across the river said that they had a far way to go and left. Mr. Li-Loo mumbled something and trailed them. He had been uneasy throughout the spree. He was at the front of his yard when Randolph and the others were passing and Randolph had impulsively called him across. It was the first time over all those years that Mr. Li-Loo had entered any of his neighbor’s yard or house.
“Well, Chappy,” Mr. Alleyne said. “I didn’t expect spending Christmas up here but, as you know, the white people send for me and the wife. You know this is the festive season and they wanted her to sing at a number of concerts in Watooka. Is a lucky thing I didn’t sell the house. We ain’t decorate as usual but we could go across by me.” He raised his glass for a toast.
“Yes,” Randolph poured a drink. “One for the road.”
“There’s no music like masquerade music,” Three O’clock slurred. He picked up the decanter with a shaky hand. When he poured, he missed his glass. The rum went to the floor.
“Time to go,” Randolph said. He and Mr. Alleyne – with much bad talk – struggled with Three O’clock through the front door and carried him home.
After the men had left, Rachel gave her children black cake and ginger beer. It was a long day and there was much more time before it got dark but Gordie had experienced a surfeit of contentment. His father’s friends from across the river had given him and his sister coins. Gordie’s total was a dollar and twenty-five cents.
He placed the coins into his left pocket along with the four dollars and one cent he had saved during the year in an empty ‘My Fair Lady’ powder tin which had been nailed to a wooden ledge in the small bedroom. He liked the feel of the coins in his pocket.
With his gun and holster hung low on his right side, he went into the small bedroom glowing with contentment. The bed was neatly made up. The Christmas card stared at him from his pillow. He had been shocked when the card had arrived on Christmas Eve Day. Although Jaipaul had sent him a card the previous Christmas and he had reciprocated, he had not expected one this year.
This card had arrived too late for him to purchase one and post it to reach Jaipaul in time for Christmas. So, Rachel had purchased one for him to hand deliver to Jaipaul. In the heat of the action they had forgotten all about that card. Now, Gordie was reminded.
“Mammy,” he shouted. “Jaipaul card.”
“Carry it for him.”
Gordie picked up the signed card in its envelope and bounded down the front steps across to the Li-Loo’s gate and called for Jaipaul. When Jaipaul pushed his head through a front window, Gordie told him that he had something for him.
Jaipaul came downstairs and Gordie gave him the addressed envelope.
"Thanks,” Jaipaul said. Without another word, Gordie retraced his steps.
Gordie was really struck by Jaipaul’s gesture of friendship. Jaipaul had never hinted that he would have done such a thing. Further, although the two friends lived obliquely opposite each other, they never entered each other’s yard nor did they engage in much conversation across the fence.
Long after the holiday season, well into the new year, Gordie gazed at the cherished token of friendship; at the Three Wise Men over the baby in the crib, a bright star shining over them.
He learned the poem inside the card by heart, then he found himself reading the lines in his mind. He was overjoyed. He boasted about his newly acquired competence to his bench mates. Fired by his new skill, Gordie tried to make sense of every reading material he placed his hands on and he completed the West Indian Reader ahead of the class.
(Excerpts from an unpublished novel, “Memories Measure the Years” by Jeff Trotman. Jeff is a journalist, a creative writer/playwright. He also writes poetry and short stories.)
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