shade. Some of the women were combing their hair with a languid air while the girls watched, their arms fine and elegant. But Boydâs attention was dragged towards the centre of the courtyard. On the raised platform, two slim, hairy coolies held down, on its back, a crusty black pig with a savage snout, the biggest pig Boyd had ever seen. He thought with horror that they had undressed and were holding down a
higgler
, one of the strapping, large-breasted marketwomen with enormous
bankras
on their heads who came to the house
selling red beans. The pig was constantly breaking loose, shaking them off. A third coolie, shirtless and brandishing a long knife with a sharpened blade that flashed in the sun, stood a little apart, waiting his moment. That moment came as the pig, weakened momentarily, was forced down in a final burst of violence. The knife flashed once, came out red and plunged in again, swift and deep, killing deep. The pig, surprised, gave a hoarse cough as thick blood splashed everywhere. Other men jumped forward, keen to join in the butchering.
Quickly the coolies poured hot water over the black body. A horrible stench erupted. With sharp knives they set to work to skin the animal in swift, practised flourishes. Each swipe of their knives revealed white strips of the pigâs under-skin. Boyd inhaled terrible odours and retched. If only he had stayed with the butterfly.
âMe name Ramsook. Me kill the pig.â The tall, shirtless coolie pig killer was standing next to him. Coolie children and a few old women, fine-boned and elegant, approached. Boyd smelled their coolie smell. He couldnât speak.
âYou live in big house?â The man pointed towards the hill.
Boyd nodded. The children stared, not saying anything.
âYour father big man at factory, make sugar, make rum,â the coolie said.
The coolie women had a philosophical air and did not look at Boyd directly but at something just over his shoulder. They had small faces and a beautiful demeanour. He could see them sitting in the Lloyd Loom chairs at the club sipping Babycham. If only they were clean, wore nice frocks and shoes and didnât sit as they did on the porch with legs wide apart. Some might even appear as pretty as Miss Chatterjee.
âYou tell your father we want work. No work for us in cane-piece. Tell him to give us work. We cut cane, plant ratoon, dig trench, cart manure, hoe, weed.â
Boyd backed away, not understanding. Poppy was struggling defiantly on the ground with a coolie dog twice his size.
âStop it!â Boyd cried out, imagining Poppy lying dead in the dirt.
âAway, Cutthroat!â the coolie said, waving his arms. A small coolie boy chased after Cutthroat, a dog with a slinking tail and a wicked eye. Poppy got to his feet barking vigorously, his coat covered in red dirt.
âYou want pig meat?â It was the pig killer again. âTake up to the house?â
âNo,â Boyd said quickly, backing away, now that Poppy was no longer preoccupied.
âTell your father what Ramsook say,â Ramsook reminded him as he left the courtyard with its smells, smoke and blood. The disgraced pig lay naked and white on the block, mouth open, showing discoloured teeth and a pink slit in an arc at its throat.
A light wind sprang up, shifting the red dust as Boyd made his way back out into the dirt road. A dozen silent coolie children and their dogs followed him, stopping as one when they got to the fence. The sultry coolie girls gave him lingering looks and one, the dead stamp of Estella, appearing as if she meant to go after him, stared haughtily, hands on hips. Boyd wrenched his gaze away. The air in the pastures was clean, the grass luscious underfoot. He ran all the way up the hill, not looking back until he reached the summit. Back down the hill, the coolie girls were still standing by their rusting barbed-wire fence. The vast cane fields behind their houses were blue-green,
higgler
, one of the strapping, large-breasted marketwomen with enormous
bankras
on their heads who came to the house
selling red beans. The pig was constantly breaking loose, shaking them off. A third coolie, shirtless and brandishing a long knife with a sharpened blade that flashed in the sun, stood a little apart, waiting his moment. That moment came as the pig, weakened momentarily, was forced down in a final burst of violence. The knife flashed once, came out red and plunged in again, swift and deep, killing deep. The pig, surprised, gave a hoarse cough as thick blood splashed everywhere. Other men jumped forward, keen to join in the butchering.
Quickly the coolies poured hot water over the black body. A horrible stench erupted. With sharp knives they set to work to skin the animal in swift, practised flourishes. Each swipe of their knives revealed white strips of the pigâs under-skin. Boyd inhaled terrible odours and retched. If only he had stayed with the butterfly.
âMe name Ramsook. Me kill the pig.â The tall, shirtless coolie pig killer was standing next to him. Coolie children and a few old women, fine-boned and elegant, approached. Boyd smelled their coolie smell. He couldnât speak.
âYou live in big house?â The man pointed towards the hill.
Boyd nodded. The children stared, not saying anything.
âYour father big man at factory, make sugar, make rum,â the coolie said.
The coolie women had a philosophical air and did not look at Boyd directly but at something just over his shoulder. They had small faces and a beautiful demeanour. He could see them sitting in the Lloyd Loom chairs at the club sipping Babycham. If only they were clean, wore nice frocks and shoes and didnât sit as they did on the porch with legs wide apart. Some might even appear as pretty as Miss Chatterjee.
âYou tell your father we want work. No work for us in cane-piece. Tell him to give us work. We cut cane, plant ratoon, dig trench, cart manure, hoe, weed.â
Boyd backed away, not understanding. Poppy was struggling defiantly on the ground with a coolie dog twice his size.
âStop it!â Boyd cried out, imagining Poppy lying dead in the dirt.
âAway, Cutthroat!â the coolie said, waving his arms. A small coolie boy chased after Cutthroat, a dog with a slinking tail and a wicked eye. Poppy got to his feet barking vigorously, his coat covered in red dirt.
âYou want pig meat?â It was the pig killer again. âTake up to the house?â
âNo,â Boyd said quickly, backing away, now that Poppy was no longer preoccupied.
âTell your father what Ramsook say,â Ramsook reminded him as he left the courtyard with its smells, smoke and blood. The disgraced pig lay naked and white on the block, mouth open, showing discoloured teeth and a pink slit in an arc at its throat.
A light wind sprang up, shifting the red dust as Boyd made his way back out into the dirt road. A dozen silent coolie children and their dogs followed him, stopping as one when they got to the fence. The sultry coolie girls gave him lingering looks and one, the dead stamp of Estella, appearing as if she meant to go after him, stared haughtily, hands on hips. Boyd wrenched his gaze away. The air in the pastures was clean, the grass luscious underfoot. He ran all the way up the hill, not looking back until he reached the summit. Back down the hill, the coolie girls were still standing by their rusting barbed-wire fence. The vast cane fields behind their houses were blue-green,
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