their small clearing like a spot of dried blood on the lush landscape. Boyd wished they had green grass instead of dust in their yard and that Mr Ramsook had not killed the struggling
higgler
woman in cold blood.
Boydâs worry was how to approach Papa about Mr Ramsook. He knew that Papa would not focus on getting Mr Ramsook a job. He would want to ask questions: âWhat were you doing down there? Didnât I tell you never to cross the fence? What is the matter with you? What if you caught lice and hookworm from those people?â
Papa would want to cloud the issue.
âThey just sit on their backsides all day and expect to get work. Lazy buggers. Ramsook wants work? Let him get work. And if I ever hear of you going down there again, Iâll whip you so hard youâll wish you were never born. Now, get out of my sight.â
Boyd knew that it was impossible to mention Mr Ramsook to Papa, nothing about his silent promise to the pig killer, nothing about the coolie girls with their slender, hairy arms, their dark Estella looks. And nothing about how the violent and bloody killing of the pig had erased much of the exotic imagery of the squaws from his memory.
As he slipped back under the fence of the pink house, he saw the familiar form of Vincent, like a pliant hunchback, on his knees planting banana suckers in the moist dark earth behind the garage. And he saw someone else too. Far to the left of the hill against an open sky, he glimpsed a fair figure gazing with riveting interest at the coolie barracks, the wind ruffling her hair. It was a white woman, her cotton skirts thrashing about her creamy legs in the lively valley breeze. As he watched, she walked rapidly away, round the hill, behind a clump of trees, towards the big houses down the lane. Boyd did not move but continued to stare silently, inquisitively, at the place where the woman had been.
* * *
At the end of the first week at the pink house, Barrington, sitting quietly on the windowsill and dreaming of Geraldine Pinnock, while simultaneosuly imagining himself playing for Jamaica against the rest of the world in the greatest ever football match at Wembley, raised his eyes level with the emerald green hedge at one end of the lawn and discovered Boyd standing there, staring up into a blue sky. Barrington watched him for a long time and counted up to a hundred, expecting him to move, but Boyd didnât. Barrington counted to a hundred and fifty and willed Boyd to move as he didnât want to count any more. He wanted to ride over to the Pinnocks and show Geraldine his gun. But Boyd stood still with his arms spread wide, taking the sun, his features swimming in the heat. Then, as Barrington stopped counting, frustrated, Boyd fell backwards, hands straight out in front of him, into the deep embracing grass. Sage-green birds flew up in a cloud.
CHAPTER 8
Birds flew up as Boyd fell down into the deep, fragrant grass. He lay as if dead against the breathing earth, feeling the tingling passions, the delirious quiet, the secret music. There were many days like this. But that day something new happened.
As he left the grassy embrace, he wandered off to the far end of the garden, where the periwinkle fence grew. Here, where the fence ended, the private road began, leading to the big houses of the Mitchisons and the Dowdings. The sunlight came through the trees in soft gold spots upon his face. He put the binoculars to his eyes and gazed out beyond the green, across the private road, over the fence. He saw figures moving about in the garden of the big house. It was the Mitchisons, the English family recently arrived from Monymusk sugar estate, the family about whom Papa had raged. The woman heâd seen on the hill overlooking the coolie barracks was Mrs Mitchison.
Boyd saw a small figure on a blue and white bicycle held upright by their maid, a woman in a starched blue uniform. The figure on the bicycle was pink, with light-brown, short-cut,
higgler
woman in cold blood.
Boydâs worry was how to approach Papa about Mr Ramsook. He knew that Papa would not focus on getting Mr Ramsook a job. He would want to ask questions: âWhat were you doing down there? Didnât I tell you never to cross the fence? What is the matter with you? What if you caught lice and hookworm from those people?â
Papa would want to cloud the issue.
âThey just sit on their backsides all day and expect to get work. Lazy buggers. Ramsook wants work? Let him get work. And if I ever hear of you going down there again, Iâll whip you so hard youâll wish you were never born. Now, get out of my sight.â
Boyd knew that it was impossible to mention Mr Ramsook to Papa, nothing about his silent promise to the pig killer, nothing about the coolie girls with their slender, hairy arms, their dark Estella looks. And nothing about how the violent and bloody killing of the pig had erased much of the exotic imagery of the squaws from his memory.
As he slipped back under the fence of the pink house, he saw the familiar form of Vincent, like a pliant hunchback, on his knees planting banana suckers in the moist dark earth behind the garage. And he saw someone else too. Far to the left of the hill against an open sky, he glimpsed a fair figure gazing with riveting interest at the coolie barracks, the wind ruffling her hair. It was a white woman, her cotton skirts thrashing about her creamy legs in the lively valley breeze. As he watched, she walked rapidly away, round the hill, behind a clump of trees, towards the big houses down the lane. Boyd did not move but continued to stare silently, inquisitively, at the place where the woman had been.
* * *
At the end of the first week at the pink house, Barrington, sitting quietly on the windowsill and dreaming of Geraldine Pinnock, while simultaneosuly imagining himself playing for Jamaica against the rest of the world in the greatest ever football match at Wembley, raised his eyes level with the emerald green hedge at one end of the lawn and discovered Boyd standing there, staring up into a blue sky. Barrington watched him for a long time and counted up to a hundred, expecting him to move, but Boyd didnât. Barrington counted to a hundred and fifty and willed Boyd to move as he didnât want to count any more. He wanted to ride over to the Pinnocks and show Geraldine his gun. But Boyd stood still with his arms spread wide, taking the sun, his features swimming in the heat. Then, as Barrington stopped counting, frustrated, Boyd fell backwards, hands straight out in front of him, into the deep embracing grass. Sage-green birds flew up in a cloud.
CHAPTER 8
Birds flew up as Boyd fell down into the deep, fragrant grass. He lay as if dead against the breathing earth, feeling the tingling passions, the delirious quiet, the secret music. There were many days like this. But that day something new happened.
As he left the grassy embrace, he wandered off to the far end of the garden, where the periwinkle fence grew. Here, where the fence ended, the private road began, leading to the big houses of the Mitchisons and the Dowdings. The sunlight came through the trees in soft gold spots upon his face. He put the binoculars to his eyes and gazed out beyond the green, across the private road, over the fence. He saw figures moving about in the garden of the big house. It was the Mitchisons, the English family recently arrived from Monymusk sugar estate, the family about whom Papa had raged. The woman heâd seen on the hill overlooking the coolie barracks was Mrs Mitchison.
Boyd saw a small figure on a blue and white bicycle held upright by their maid, a woman in a starched blue uniform. The figure on the bicycle was pink, with light-brown, short-cut,
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