Night Calypso (39 page)

Again, Vincent pulled the young man to him and embraced him. Then, he turned to Sybil. ‘Sybil, you did right.’

Then, with his arm still around the young man’s shoulder, he said, ‘Yes, your grandmammy is right, I am your father. You are my son.’

The young man smiled. He looked thrilled. He laughed. He did not seem to have any of the sorrow that that secret had meant to Vincent. He did not have any of the stoic concealment that Sybil had carried.

‘Your name?’ Vincent asked.

‘Vincent.’

‘Vincent!’

‘Yes. They call me Vin.’

‘You christen him Vincent, Sybil?’

‘Is the mother. She insist at the time. At the time, Odetta say, no matter what people say, she naming him Vincent. We does call him Vin.’

‘Odetta? Where’s Odetta?’ Vincent looked at the young Vincent when he said his mother’s name.

‘She gone America. Is I that mind the boy. I tell her, girl go and get your future. I go stay here and mind the boy for you. And you know, Mister and Madam was good, eh?’

The information and the meeting began to overwhelm. Vincent turned to Madeleine, who had stood in her study and watched the scene, as if it were a play. He beckoned to her to join them. ‘My wife, Madeleine.’ Madeleine shook their hands and smiled. ‘I’ve told Madeleine everything.’

‘They say you is a good nurse. The people in the village, the women. They say you is a good nurse.’

‘She’s an excellent nurse.’ Vincent pulled Madeleine to him. ‘What’re you doing now. School? Work?’ Vincent turned to his son.

‘I entering for the Island School at Immaculate Mary.’

‘Wonderful. That’s my old school.’

‘I know. I see your name in the roll of honour.’

‘In the roll of honour?’ Vincent laughed, mocking himself.

Then the group on the verandah stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do next.

‘Where are you living now, Sybil?’

‘Two houses pass Le Poy shop. Is there you will find me. I ent move all these years. Where I is to go, but here? The boy home for holiday. But he does be boarding in town.’

Vincent shook his head, reflecting on a life that had flown by. An image of Odetta and himself in the cocoa house flashed through his mind. Here was his son. He saw the girl in the boy’s face.

‘You must come again. Sybil, I’ll come and look for you.’

‘Yes, Mister Vincent. I there. I not going nowhere.’

‘We’ll talk.’

‘I know you‘ll take up your responsibility, Sir.’ Vincent looked at Madeleine. She smiled reassuringly at him.

‘Yes, Sybil. You did the right thing to come here this morning.’

‘What you want to study?’ Vincent turned to his son again.

‘Medicine.’

‘Well, we’ll definitely have to talk.’

As Madeleine tidied up after the morning surgery, Vincent stood on the verandah looking at his son and his grandmother walking down the gap back to the village. He was now his responsibility.

Another life was beginning. The surgery, the school, the young boy, Vin, were all signs pointing to a hopeful future, an island and its people yearning for self-government and independence. But Madeleine and Vincent knew that it was not going to happen tomorrow. The lessons of El Caracol had been well learnt.

Only this morning, they had been told that the two big trade unions had joined, led by Krishna Singh and Jonah Le Roy.

Theo was coming up on the train to Flanagin Town. Vincent went with the buggy to meet him. On the way back he told him about Vin, he told him about the talk that he and Madeleine had had. Theo listened in silence. ‘It won’t make any difference to what we feel about you Theo, about what you mean to us. You know that.’ Theo looked across at Vincent, trying to smile. Then he looked away. ‘Theo, you must know that.’

‘I’ve got dust in my eyes.’

‘Here take my handkerchief. It’s the road, this dry season.’

Later, back at the house, Theo talked with Madeleine alone. He checked that she was all right. Then he went into a flood of stories at dinner about how he was in touch with Jonah and Krishna. And he told of a big political meeting in Brunswick Square the night before. ‘Jonah’s last big speech begin with, “Massa Day Done!” People say the crowds bawled the place down.’ Theo ended by saying, ‘We making history.’ He told them about how his work with the rehabilitation of the patients was going, how he had met Mr Lalbeharry and Ma Cowey.

Theo went off to bed early.

‘Still full of stories. I suppose it’ll take time,’ Madeleine said.

‘Yes. He’ll need time, a lot of time, a lifetime,’ Vincent reflected.

‘We all need time to tell our stories,’ Madeleine added.

They stretched out to each other, standing and embracing.

I wait for the other client this morning to leave. They always pass me on the steps, heads bowed, never a word, a smile, a hello or a good morning. I sit on the top step in the sun and watch and wait. I watch
congoree
worms. I watch ants with their umbrella of leaves. I always have to wait, because I always arrive early. The brightness is too shocking for the darkness in my mind!

An iguana has crept to the edge of the steps and grows green in the sun. Its look is the gaze of the Sphinx. Dry almond leaves scuttle like crabs, blown by the wind across the yard. Everywhere, I hear the rustle of palms. An orchid exudes its perfume.

Then, I know it’s my turn, because she’s come onto the verandah, pushing one of the French windows out. The long white muslin drapes soar to the ceiling and then settle again. She bends to secure the latch in a groove on the pitch pine floor. I look up, and she smiles, and I walk along the verandah towards her. She’s still bending, her long body in a profound bow, a kind of swoon, draped by the soft cotton or linen she so often wears. As she rises, I catch a glimpse of the nape of her neck beneath her hair which is swept up into a roll, or a bun, and lies there on her smooth brown neck; a
chignon.
As she turns, she emits the scent of
vertivert
, an old fashioned scent, the sort Madeleine wore, the kind I smell when I remember Chantal, my sister.

Come on in.

It’s her opening line. It’s our weekly ritual. She hardly betrays any emotion, only the beginning of a smile at the corners of her mouth, trembling on her lips which she bites. It’s not a pleasantry, it’s a prompt to begin the week’s work.

She motions me to the couch. I lie down. She sits behind me.

I pause and then begin. There is a chorus of
keskidees
from where they are perched on the electric wire out in the yard, puffed up with their questions.
Qu’est ce-qu’il dit?

What
am
I saying? About myself. Where should I start?

Wherever you like.

I was a child then…

Yes.

There’s an island blazing in my mind…

An island? The one you talked about last week?

Yes. I’ve got all these feelings and I don’t know what to do with them.

Hmm.

I stare at the ceiling.

Is that why you’re here?

I’ve got all these stories. I’m tired of stories. I could tell you so many stories. I could go on and on and on.

But maybe there is another story, another kind of story which you’ll tell here, a new story. It might not be so coherent, so fluent and all there, ready to be told, but nevertheless, a story. Maybe, even the story which will tell us something new.

New?

Yes, maybe all the stories in your head conceal, rather than reveal what we’re trying to get at.

What’s that?

Well, we don’t know, we don’t know as yet, we’ll have to wait and see.

I was helped by this doctor, when I was twelve, between twelve and sixteen. He said I used to tell these stories at night. Like as if in a dream, or nightmare, or sleep-walking…during the war.

Do you remember anything about them?

Yes and no.

There is a war going on inside of you.

Well, there was the war.

Yes, but you said earlier you have all these feelings and you don’t know what to do with them. There’s a confusion, like confusion in war. Conflict, maybe.

I found the war exciting. Well, what I made of it.

Yes, you’ve told a lot of stories about what happened, but maybe you’ve not told how you feel about what happened. There’s a kind of absence of feeling. You say, what you made of it. That’s like making a story of it. You’re good at that, making up stories. Maybe telling all these stories is your way of dealing with all these feelings you don’t know what to do with.

I stare at the ceiling.

I was only a child then…

When?

I was a child. How could I be responsible? They made me…they hid me away afterwards. They should’ve punished me.

Punished you? You want to be punished?

No.

Well, that’s what you said.

He punished me. Do you want me to show you. Do you want me to take my clothes off and show you? I’ve got a scar right down my back, and yet another scar you cannot see.

Is that what you feel like doing? Showing me your scars? You’re telling me that you’re scarred.

I am. He beat me. Beat me till I bled. He…

Who did this to you?

My father. Well, I knew he was my father, but it wasn’t clear… I wasn’t ever sure. I can’t talk about this.

Don’t tell me the story. Tell me how you feel.

Well, I could kill him. My body, it’s
my
body…

What did you do?

What do you mean?

Well, did you kill him?

No, no! He died anyway. Mister.

What happened?

I killed her. I killed my mother. I was only a child. I wanted to kill them both. But, really I wanted to kill him. Punish her. She died. He wasn’t there.

So, it was an accident?

No, yes and no. A fire. I know all about this. I know this story, but I don’t know why I feel the way I feel.

Or, don’t feel. You don’t know what you feel. Maybe you’re so
angry. It’s like the war, like the worse thing in the war which could destroy everything. Your anger, if you allowed yourself to feel it, might destroy everything. That’s the confusion.

I destroyed my mother. I’ve already destroyed everything. I killed Mama.

You were a child. You were not responsible, this is what you say. You killed your mother and you’re left to have a feeling about that, which you’ve not allowed yourself to feel.

I tried to kill myself once. I thought I might fly to freedom.

You could not live with yourself and feel what you feel.

Yes.

Maybe this is the story you’ll tell here, how you feel about killing your mother, which seems like killing everything.

A new story, to save myself.

To live with yourself.

To live with myself. To live with my own body.

That’s what we might do here, allow you to live with yourself. In time.

I have called it, my calypso.

What?

My story, my night calypso.

I acknowledge my indebtedness to the following writers and their books: Paul Brand with Philip Yancey,
Pain: The Gift Nobody Wants
(Marshall Pickering) and Phyllis Thompson’s
Mister Leprosy
(Hodder & Stoughton); Ian Ousby’s
Occupation
(Pimlico) and Joanna Bourke’s
The Second World War
(OUP) for the response by journalists and writers signalled by quotations; Gordon Rohlehr’s
Calypso and Society
(Gordon Rohlehr) from which quotes of many of the calypsonians of the Second World War, including Atilla, Beginner, Lord Caresser, Destroyer, The Growling Tiger, Lord Invader, Lord Kitchener, Radio, were made; Gaylord T.M. Kelshall’s
The U-Boat War in the Caribbean
(Airlife Publishing Ltd); Sister Marie Thérèse Retout OP
Called to Serve
(Paria Publishing), (though, it must be said that the leprosarium and convent of this novel, with all its characters, is entirely fictional); Arthur Lewis’s
Labour in the West Indies
(New Beacon Books) and Susan Craig’s
Smiles and Blood
(New Beacon Books); Malcolm Barcant’s
Butterflies of Trinidad & Tobago
(Collins) for the names and language of butterflies; Ulric Cross’s account of being a member of the RAF (Trinidad Express). I wish to acknowledge the use of a quote from John Berger’s,
Afterword, Nineteen Nineteen
(Faber & Faber). I also want to thank the staff of the Imperial War Museum’s library; Gaylord T.M. Kelshall for an interview, and Sister Marie Thérèse Retout OP, and Matron Paul at Port-of Spain General Hospital for talking informally. I was very fortunate to be able to meet Simon Ramdeo and Joseph Suran, two members of the Trinidad & Tobago Hansen Society who were generous with their stories (whose confidences I’ve kept), and Inskip Andrews who organised the visits. I am also indebted to Wendy Hewing for
providing materials and films on the occupation of France and heading me in the right direction. I wish to acknowledge the support of The Author’s Foundation & K Blundell Trust for a research grant, and Ruth Bromley, the then Director of The Sixth Form Centre City & Islington College who allowed me to take the time out of teaching. Many friends were generous in the loan of their homes in the country as retreats: Chris and Robin Baron, Penny and Robin Bowen, Wendy and Bernie Hewing. I thank my agent Elizabeth Fairbairn at John Johnson Ltd. for her time, reading, and ever continuing interest; my new editor, David Shelley, for his keen judgement and encouraging, warm support; Debbie Hatfield for her careful and sensitive editing and Nemah Kamar, also at Allison & Busby, for her enthusiasm; Professor Ken Ramchand for his reading and discussion of a draft manuscript. Above all, I have to thank Jenny Green for her critical reading and discussion of the manuscript at all the vital stages.