Conquering Kilmarni (5 page)

"I'll show you."

Peter glanced at the watch on his wrist, a present from his father on his last birthday. It was almost two o'clock. "Look. I have only two more numbers to put up. But it's way past lunch time, and I'm hungry. You had any lunch?"

"Uh-uh." Zackie wagged his head.

"How about some of mine? I have plenty. Then you can help me finish what I'm here for, and I'll go with you and help you. Okay?"

"Okay. But mek we finish the numbers first."

"How's your leg?" Peter asked.

"No problem. Your dad did fix it real good."

"Don't forget he wants to see it again."

"All right. When we go down."

With Zackie helping, Peter made short work of changing the last two numbers. Then they sat under a tree and ate the rolls and corned beef Peter had brought—"bully beef," the Jamaican boy called it—sharing some with Mongoose. Peter had to laugh at the way Mongoose begged. The little dog sat up straight and stiff as a statue, with his eyes unblinking and his mouth open, until you offered him a tidbit. Then he put both front paws on your wrist while eating out of your hand.

"Him always do that," Zackie said. "And, believe me, him nuh hungry. Me feed him."

Peter remembered the shack with only a table and two mattresses in it. "What do you feed him?"

"Same thing all of we poor people feed our dogs. Cornmeal porridge and scraps of whatever we have around.

Rich folk buy dog food in tins, but we nuh can afford that kind of stuff. Country shops don't carry it, anyway."

Peter said carefully, "Your dad was at the house this morning, Zackie."

"Me know."

"You mean he told you?"

"Not him. Some people going to them field did hear him yelling and knocking the fire alarm. Them say him drunk." Zackie looked off into space and shook his head. "A little after me did get back from walking with you up to house, him wake up and go out. Most likely him have a bottle hid somewhere. Then when him drunk enough, him did go up to call you daddy out."

"He thought we still had the pig."

"Yes, and him could make trouble, Peter. You must have to be careful."

"My dad was real angry about the fire alarm. Nobody is supposed to touch that unless there's a fire."

"Him did tell me daddy that?"

"He sure did."

"Me just hope it don't give him an idea," Zackie said. "About making trouble, me mean."

The sandwiches finished, the two boys left the last of the coffee fields behind and continued climbing. Although other parts of Kilmarnie were heavily forested, the land there was open. Tough, sticky grass about a foot high covered the steep slope. Zackie said some foolish person, years ago, had brought that particular kind of grass to the island, hoping to feed cattle with it, but the animals
wouldn't eat it and the wind had carried the seeds all through the mountains. "It hard to root up when you make a garden," he said. "Then it hard to keep out afterward."

He had done both successfully, though, Peter saw a little later. The "secret garden" occupied a shallow gully between gentle slopes, and was bigger than any garden Peter had seen in Mango Gap. Zackie must have spent hours preparing the soil and planting it, and now had to spend hours more keeping it free of weeds and grass so the vegetables would have a chance. And, as Dad had remarked, he must have to spend a lot of time just walking up here and back, too.

Peter studied the garden and recognized all kinds of vegetables in it: scallions, carrots, cabbages, beets. At one end there was even a small forest of yam sticks, with the vines already reaching the tops of the sticks.

Going to a little shed that had bamboo walls and a sheet of old zinc for a roof, Zackie came back with a machete and a hoe. He handed the hoe with its homemade handle to Peter. "If you will use this in the carrots, Peter, me can dig some yams and scallions to take back down. If it too heavy—"

"I'll be okay," Peter said quickly, and went to work with enthusiasm.

They labored for an hour or so, stopping often to talk. In the beginning the talk was of nothing in particular, with Peter asking questions and Zackie either answering or trying not to. How often did Zackie come up here?

About three times a week, the Jamaican boy said. Didn't anyone know he had a garden here? No, not a soul. What about the higglers who bought vegetables from him—didn't they ever ask where he grew them? No, the higglers didn't question him.

There was one question Peter really wanted to ask, but didn't. It was, "How come you trusted me enough to show me this garden, Zackie?" The answer, maybe, was that Zackie needed a friend as much as he did.

"You say you want to move to Kingston, Zackie, to go to school and find work. Where will you live if you go there?"

"Me will find me mother."

"But she left you with her mother soon after you were born, Mr. Campbell told me."

"Only because me father drinking too much and using ganja all the time, Granny did tell me. That was in Seaforth, near Morant Bay. Then Granny dead, and me father find the house we in now. Nobody did live in it or even want it. Him bring me here."

"So he could look after you."

Zackie's low laugh had a kind of sneer in it. "No, Peter. So me would look after him."

"But if you haven't seen your mother since she went away, how will you find her?"

"She name Elaine Grant and she in Kingston somewhere. Don't worry. Me will find her."

"What if—" Peter was about to say, "What if she doesn't want you to find her?" but changed his mind.

That might hurt too much. "What if you can't?" he asked instead.

"Well, me nuh know. Me will think about that if me have to."

Between spells of talking, Peter had finished hoeing the weeds between rows of carrots and Zackie had gathered up the vegetables he wanted. They left then, with the Jamaican boy carrying the load of vegetables in a basket on his head, the way the country women carried almost everything. Once Peter had even seen a woman carrying a single egg on her head, in a little nest of grass she had put together to hold it. "You know, I envy you being able to do that," he said to Zackie. "It must be a lot easier than carrying a heavy basket in your arms or on your shoulder. If you don't get a headache or a sore neck, that is.”

The Jamaican boy's laughter was soft as a bird cry. "Country people do it to leave them hands free. Mostly women do it, though, not men."

"Then why do you?"

"Well, it seem to me women are smarter than us about some things. Look, is you daddy at home?"

"He should be, unless Mr. Campbell got back early with the young coffee trees. Then they'd both be in field six getting them planted. The holes are already dug."

But when the boys reached the field that was to be made larger, there was no sign of Mr. Devon or the headman. And at the house they found Walter Devon seated at a card table set up on the veranda, working on the
plantation payroll, or "paybill," so he would know how much money to draw from the bank in Morant Bay in the morning. The workers were paid once a week, in cash.

As they neared the house, Zackie moved the basket of vegetables from his head to his right shoulder. At the foot of the veranda steps he ordered Mongoose, who had romped with them all the way from the garden, to sit and wait. He followed Peter up the steps and set the basket on a veranda chair.

Mr. Devon had stopped work to watch. "Well, hello," he said. "The two of you together again?"

"Zackie helped me put up the numbers, Dad."

"And Peter did help me in the garden," Zackie added.

"I see."

"Mr. Devon, me will glad if you take some of these vegetables." Zackie stepped aside to let Peter's father see what was in the basket. "Them is from me own garden, not me daddy's. Him don't have a garden. You will take some, please? For looking about me leg?"

"Well . . . How is your leg?"

"It ache a little, is all."

"May I see it?"

Zackie bared the wound so carefully that Peter guessed it must be hurting more than just a little. Leaving his chair, Mr. Devon came around the card table to examine it.

"Let's put on a fresh bandage, shall we?" Mr. Devon said.

Zackie shook his head.

"It won't take a minute. And I'll be more than glad to accept some of those scallions as payment. I'm very fond of scallions, and those are beauties. Peter"—Mr. Devon looked up—"would you get some warm water and the first-aid kit, please?"

Peter went for what was needed, then leaned against the veranda railing and watched while his father dressed Zackie's leg again. The Jamaican boy would not let Mr. Devon take only one bunch of scallions in payment, though. He emptied the whole basket in search of the two largest bunches and some handsome carrots, as well. "I did grow all these meself, Mr. Devon," he said with pride. "Until today, nobody ever did help me."

"And you sell your vegetables to the higglers?"

"Yes, suh. But me need more money than me can earn from a garden, Mr. Devon. Would you— You suppose you could have a job for me?"

"A job?" Mr. Devon was obviously startled. "What kind?"

Zackie looked thoughtful, and then shrugged. "Me nuh know, suh. Me can do most anything the coffee workers do, like weeding or pruning or spraying. Or me can run errands, or look after the tracks."

With deep frown lines on his face, Walter Devon seemed for a moment to be waging a silent war with his feelings. "Well," he said at last, "let me talk to Mr. Campbell. Can you come see me in the morning?"

"Yes, suh! Thank you! Because me truly need more money, Mr. Devon!"

To go to Kingston
, Peter thought as the Jamaican boy said good-bye and, with the basket again balanced on one shoulder, went down the steps. To go to Kingston, where they wouldn't be seeing each other again.

Peter went downstairs to return the kettle and basin to the kitchen. Miss Lorrie had been there when he went for them, but was gone now. As he turned to go back upstairs, he heard her voice and realized that again she had stepped out to intercept Zackie as he went down the path.

"You not to go home!" he heard her say. "You daddy is looking all over for you, to make you tell where the pig is. Him is already full of rum but wants the pig money for more."

Peter could not hear what Zackie said in reply.

"No, no," the housekeeper insisted. "Him will not let you help him, Zackie. Not drunk and mean like him is now. What?" There was a pause while the Jamaican boy again said something that Peter could not quite hear. Then, "No, no!" Miss Lorrie said again. "You must keep away till him over this. Go to my house instead. You can stay with me for a while."

Zackie must have come closer. "But me can't go-a your place," Peter heard him say. "Him know me stay with you sometimes. Him might look for me there."

"Oh, Lord, that is right," the housekeeper said. "So where will you stay?"

"Don't fret about me, Miss Lorrie," Zackie said. "Me will think of someplace and see you in the morning."

Peter heard footsteps then, and a single small bark from Mongoose as Zackie and his dog went on down the path. Not sure he should have been listening to such private talk, he turned quickly and went upstairs.

Later he realized he might have solved Zackie's problem by asking his father to let the boy stay with them, as he had wanted to do after helping Zackie with the pig. But then again, Dad was still so locked up in his own private world, he might have said no.

W
hen Peter awoke the next morning, he heard talking in the yard. The afternoon before, Mr. Campbell had not returned from the government coffee nursery in Portland early enough for the workers to do any planting. Now they had come to plant the young coffee trees he had brought.

The potted seedlings were still in the truck, Peter saw on stepping onto the veranda. The men were taking them out and placing them on shallow wooden trays, made at Kilmarnie for just that purpose. Then, as each man filled a tray with eight of the plants, he lifted it to his head the way Zackie had carried the vegetables, and strode off with it.

At Kilmarnie women did the actual planting. The men still carried the potted seedlings to the fields, though, because even eight of them on a wooden tray could be pretty heavy. That day each man would make quite a few trips from the yard to field six before the workday ended.

Dressed, Peter found his father eating breakfast and sat
down with him. Miss Lorrie brought him a grapefruit from one of Kilmarnie's own trees, then a plate of ackee and breadfruit. Both of those, too, grew on trees. To Peter the ackee tasted for all the world like scrambled eggs, and he was especially fond of breadfruit when Miss Lorrie roasted it first and then fried it in butter. He had learned at Knox that the first ackee seeds had come to the island in a slave ship, and the first breadfruit trees had been brought from the Pacific island of Tahiti by Captain William Bligh of
Mutiny on the Bounty
fame, six years after the mutiny.