The Long Song (14 page)

As July uttered the words, ‘Mr Nimrod,’ her missus stopped dead as if suddenly stiffened by salt.

‘Nimrod is here?’ she said with a gentle frown.

Thinking the missus now calmed at the thought of Nimrod being near, July nodded. But her missus, almost quietly, began, ‘He made start on my garden, Marguerite. Took all the money for the work, of course, yet I have not seen him now for weeks. All manner of weeds are growing upon that ground now. My brother says Nimrod must have more pressing work than my garden of vines. But I had paid Nimrod to complete it and now my brother won’t hear a word from me upon the subject. Is Nimrod come to finish my garden?’

‘No, missus,’ July said, ‘him never mention your garden.’

The fierce sigh the missus let forth blew out two more candles. ‘I am forgot,’ she wailed, ‘I am forgot and left with only negroes.’

Caroline Mortimer bounced upon her toes, muttering over and over to herself, ‘Oh, I am forgot! Must I go? Should I go,’ as she waited with her packed belongings by the door for Godfrey to bring the carriage. ‘Where is Godfrey?’ she asked July, then yelled, ‘Come on, Godfrey, let us be gone.’

Godfrey, slowly ascending the steps at the side of the house, was carrying a lamp which he set down so he might have both hands free to scratch the back of his head.

‘Hurry along, Godfrey. Pick up these things,’ Caroline said. Godfrey stared at the sack, the small trunk and the cloth valise that stood between him and the missus. His missus, with an exasperated sigh, indicated again at the items she wished Godfrey to transport.

But Godfrey, still scratching upon his head said, ‘You wan’ me put these on the cart and take you into town?’

‘Of course, into the gig. And I am in a hurry to be gone.’

‘So you wan’ me lift them into the gig and then drive you to town?’

‘Godfrey, do not play the fool with me. You know I must go to town for my own safety until all this trouble is past. Now, let us be gone.’

And Godfrey, looking down on the missus, sucked loudly upon his teeth before saying, ‘Then you must pay me, missus.’

July cupped her hands over her mouth so her gasp and giggle would not escape. While all Caroline managed to utter was, ‘What did you say?’

‘Me said,’ Godfrey began, ‘that me will need payment if me is to take you into town.’

‘Payment?’ the missus repeated. She frowned upon Godfrey, then looked quizzically to July for some explanation of his behaviour. But July was silent—her mouth fixed with a grimace of a child in the thrill of a game.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Godfrey,’ Caroline said, ‘Now, pick up the things or I will see you punished for this.’

Godfrey sighed. He then walked past the missus into the hall and sat himself down upon one of the massa’s wooden chairs. ‘Then punish me, missus,’ he said as he lifted first one leg, and then the other, over the arms of the planter’s seat and sat as if waiting for someone to remove his boots.

Caroline Mortimer stamped her foot hard upon the ground. ‘When my brother hears of this, you will be whipped in the yard.’ Godfrey picked at one of his fingernails. ‘I will tell him to spare you nothing. The cat-o’-nine. I will say, use the cat-o’-nine-tails. He’ll whip you like a nigger. You’ll see.’

Godfrey leisurely rested his head upon the chair back. He took a deep breath and spoke to the ceiling saying, ‘Missus, if them fighting for free niggers find me ’pon the road with you, then me throat will be cut, sure as yours. So me wan’ payment for taking you.’

Caroline suddenly pulled July roughly to stand her in front of Godfrey. ‘Tell him, Marguerite, tell him I am quite forgot here and need to get to town.’

She shook July so briskly that Godfrey said, ‘Leave her, missus. Let her go.’

‘Then are you ready to lift my belongings on to the gig and take me into town?’ she demanded.

And Godfrey said, ‘Of course.’

Caroline pulled upon her skirt to compose herself and said, ‘Good,’ as Godfrey carried on with, ‘Soon as you pay me, you may be on your way.’

‘Get up, get up!’ Caroline jumped twice in her fury. ‘Do as you are bid,’ then made to strike Godfrey with her closed fist. But Godfrey seized both her wrists with so tight a grip that the missus’s face contorted into a wince. Her mouth fell open in wordless agony as Godfrey raised himself from the chair. As he stood higher, he bore down upon the missus’s wrists until the pressure of the pain impelled her to kneel in front of him. As the missus, overwhelmed by him, went limp upon the ground, Godfrey let go her wrists.

July made move toward the missus, but Godfrey shouted, ‘Stop!’

He sat once more, and began playing with his fingernail, while Caroline Mortimer, quivering at his feet like a fish newly landed from the water, slowly lifted her head, wiped her snivelling nose upon the back of her hand, and quietly asked him, ‘How much?’

No, Godfrey decreed, her house girl Marguerite could not accompany Caroline Mortimer upon this journey into town. Why? Because Godfrey said so. And, oh yes, a point the missus must remember, her house girl was not named Marguerite—her name was July. Three times, Godfrey made Caroline speak that name. July giggled the first time of hearing the missus commanded to say it, but then bit her lip and looked to her feet when Godfrey insisted the missus repeat it into July’s face, louder, and then louder still.

And the gig with the chestnut horse that Caroline requested for her carriage was waved away by Godfrey, who decided that the mule and cart would do better and called Byron to bring that contraption around instead. When ordering the missus to lie herself down in the back of the cart, the missus had asked Godfrey, ‘Is this necessary?’ He did not reply, but the vicious eye he turned upon her, gagged her as sure as if he had clamped his hand across her mouth.

‘Bring a blanket to cover the missus,’ Godfrey requested of July. No, not the one from her closet, but the old one which was used in the kitchen and . . . well, get the dog off it then. The missus and her belongings were lying, hid under the stinking cloth in the cart when, in a muffled squeak of sneezing and snivelling, Caroline complained of extreme discomfort to Godfrey. But mounting the cart with a youthful bound, he merely bellowed on the whining white woman to hush up and remain as still and silent as death.

‘Move along,’ Godfrey commanded the mule. But the sleepy beast did not obey until it felt the crack of a whip upon its back. ‘Move on,’ Godfrey called, as the mule began to clop a slow progress away from Amity.

And if July had known then—as Godfrey, straight-backed atop the cart, slid that lumbering buggy along the path into the pink-purple mist of the morning—that she would never see Mr Godfrey again, then perhaps—oh, reader, perhaps—July may have raised her hand to wave him goodbye.

 

 

 

 

O
H, WHAT A HUSH did settle upon that house. With no missus nor massa within it the wooden planks of the floor did stretch and yawn, as no heavy foot was about to pound them. The chairs did breathe a sigh, for no fat-batty was about to crush them. The moats of grime that swirled within the gleams of sunlight floated softly down to rest. And, no longer required to look their best, the drapes at the windows drooped.

July slid the length of the polished floor within the hall upon her dirty apron. She had never before reached so far in one glide. She thought to call Molly to witness this daring . . . but stopped. For with Godfrey away, looking upon mischief other than hers, if she kept far from the kitchen and the gaze of Molly’s good eye then, at that moment, she was free.

So. Peering upon the lid of the silver salver within the dining room, July’s nose appeared to her as big-big as a boiled ham, her pursed lips plump as rolls of Miss Hannah’s chocolate. And in the large serving spoon she, and the whole world, was reflected upside down, then back upon the ground in the spoon’s other side. On her head, on her feet, on her head, on her feet. And the spoon made the glasses upon the sideboard tinkle with tune when she tapped the metal upon them. The big ones went bong and little ones sang ting. Bong, ting, ting, bong.

Those funny pictures upon the wall that the massa called maps were just like the marks that patterned the missus’s white blouse after she had dribbled her tea. They were not pictures really, for there were no scolding eyes within them to follow where she walked. Unlike that portrait of the dead missus in the drawing room; she watched July all the while and did tut when July threw the missus’s chair cushions upon the floor to jump from one to the other so she might feel the soft silk yield between her toes. July had to leave the room under that dead missus’s scorning.

And the mirror within the bedchamber gasped when July’s dark face appeared within it. Only white skin with pitiless blue eyes usually preened there. July, flouring her face with a puff of the missus’s face powder, sneezed away the stink from up her nose before she ran from that peeping mirror’s gaze.

If this were her house, July decided, she would not have a cupboard so tall-tall that it did not allow her to look with ease upon all the pretty plates displayed there. She had to carry a chair from across the dining room, and stand upon her tiptoe to reach the first shelf alone. She would have those pretty blue and white plates resting near at hand so that at any time she might tangle herself within the story that lay upon them—fly with those birds that soared above the tree that shaded the house, that sat near the bridge, that spanned the river, that carried the boat. July, sipping the air from one of the cups, stuck out her little finger, just as white people did when they tipped that heavenly porcelain to their skinny lips.

But oh, July was exhausted—all this freedom did tire her out. Landing herself upon her missus’s daybed she cried, ‘Marguerite, come fetch me some tea.’ Her voice, running around the room, found no one to obey the order. ‘Marguerite, where is my tea?’ Still no one came. She sighed. Oh huff, oh puff—what a difficult life it is to be a white lady upon this island.