The Polished Hoe (12 page)

“You giving me evidence, and at the same time, you holding-back evidence from me, Manny, man.”

“I not giving you
shite
, Sarge! And I not holding-back one shite from you, neither, man! Me and you grow up in Flagstaff together. Me and you went-school together. Me and you play cricket together. Was in the Cubs and the Scouts together. You joined the Police, I emigraded to Cuba and Amurca, return-back here, and went in business-for-myself. I sells rum, be-Christ, and kills pigs! Together through thick and thin. Your life tek you one way. Mine a next way. But never have we stood in the way of one another path. Not even with regards to fooping the same woman. Or running after the same piece o’ pussy. We is men, man! Men, Sarge! So, why at our fecking age, after forty-something years o’ close friendships, would you come in my rum shop with this load o’ shite, on a Sunday night? Why? Would I jeopardize our friendship? To save a son-of-a-bitch like Bellfeels?”

“Well . . .”

“Well-my-arse! . . . Or even to hold-back evidence from you, in regards to Miss Tilda, who stand a good chance of being suspected for doing something, just in case the thing she was carrying in her hand, was—”

Sargeant’s hand strikes the truncated, stubby shot glass, knocking it over. The strong-smelling, rich brown liquid flows over the table, like a shy laughter, like an exhalation of wind and voice, and then dies as quickly as it had come out. The glass rolls in a kind of arc, a short, rough, clumsy movement that matches its ugliness.

Sargeant is now staring at Manny.

Manny stands with his own glass to his lips, not touching the glass, his lips not seeking to touch the glass; and all Sargeant can see are Manny’s eyes fixed upon him.

Manny’s eyes are bloodshot. His eyes are asking a question by their penetrating gaze and focus. At the same time his eyes are withholding the question they are eager to ask.

Sargeant continues looking at Manny. And then he fastens the thick brown leather belt with its silver buckle, with the Imperial Crown on it, round his waist. “Must cut down on my fats,” he says to himself. “Got to follow Dr. Wilberforce orders.”

His own concern with blood pressure, and his doctor’s, passes through his mind like a sharp reminder, just like the cold touch of water from the public Standpipe for his bath in the wallaba tub, first thing in the morning.

“Well, I never thought,” Sargeant says.

“How long you going-grieve over Tilda? And after all these years, you still smelling behind her?”

“What you trying to tell me, Manny?”

“How long you going grieve over Miss Bellfeels, alias Mary Gertrude Matilda?” Manny says. “Listen to the Gospel, man. Let the Gospel be your guide, Sargeant. You don’t have to listen to me. Not now. Not ever. But you got to face the question, even if you can’t find no answer.

“So, I put it to you, a second time. How long are you going to grieve over Mr. Bellfeels kip-woman?” Manny says. And for no reason, he starts to sing:

“‘Mah-til-dah! Mah-til-dah!
Mah-til-dah, she tek muh money
And run Venezuela!”

“What you mean, Manny?”

“‘Mah-til-dah . . .’”
Manny sings.

“Manny, come right out and tell me what you mean.”

“Is a serious thing, Sarge. And a serious thing must get serious consideration. You got to face facts. After you face facts, then you could plot your strategies, to get a piece offa Tilda, if that is what you want. Or to forget she. If it is what I think it is, she was carrying something in her hand. I am here to assist you. In anything. Be it legal, or un-legal. But as I tell you, when you meet a woman walking alone-by-herself, on a Sunday night, going in the direction opposite from where her Great House is, you have to consider two things. Number one, she looking for a man to foop; or, number two, she going to feck-up a man.”

“Thanks, Manny. Good night.”

“Good night, Sarge. Follow the Gospel.”

“As man, Manny!”

“As man, Percy. As man! I here to help, legal, or un-legal!”

“You haven’t call me Percy in years!” Sargeant says. “Why you calling me so, tonight?”

“A man should be address’ by his proper name, once in a while.”

“Thanks, Manny. As man!”

“Good night, Percy.”

“Good night, Manny.”

“‘. . . and the second is like unto this, that thou shalt love they n’ighbour as thineself, ’cause on these two Commandments heng all the laws and the prophets . . .’”

“Manny, you been tekking Communion on the sly?”

“The laws and the prophets,
Sarge.
The laws and the prophets,
Percy DaCosta Benjamin Stuart.”

They could hear the ticking. Mary-Mathilda and the Constable stopped talking.

“Yes,” she said. “It gotta be Sargeant, this time.”

“Is Sargeant now,” the Constable said.

A smile came to his face. A smile of relief. He was free to leave now, and go back to the sub-station; and the night was still not too old; and change into mufti, khaki short pants, pink T-shirt and leather thong slippers; and he would jump on his bicycle and ride to the Church of the Nazarene, which was having its annual Rejoice in Harvest services and Revival meetings; and he could sit on his bicycle bar, in the darkness, just outside the span of sharp light from the powerful acetylene lamp . . .

There was a soft tap on the door nearest where they were sitting. The side door. The Constable had chosen this door, too. And he was surprised, but glad, that Sargeant’s tap was no louder than his had been; and that Sargeant, too, had not chosen the front door. It was Sargeant’s respect for Miss Mary-Mathilda, and the symbol of the Great House, that controlled these two actions of his. This respect had also been bred into the Constable, as indelibly as the custom of doffing his cloth hat to the Vicar; and as a little boy, to the Headmaster of his elementary school; and now as a policeman, tipping his cork hat, in the daytime, and his peak cap in the evening, to Mr. Bellfeels, and to the Solicitor-General, and to the other powerful men in the Village. Yes, the Constable knew the respect he had to give both to this powerful Great House, and to its mistress, Miss Mary-Mathilda, alias “Miss Bellfeels.” Sargeant had accepted this, too, and it was his acknowledgment of power that caused the respectable, soft rap on the side door from his knuckles.

It was so soft that the Constable could barely hear it.

The wind was high. The leaves of trees overhanging the roof of the Great House were scraping its red tile shingles; and the Constable thought he could hear the branches scratching those parts of the roof made of galvanized tin.

Mary-Mathilda remained in her chair.

She was now “Miss Bellfeels” to them.

For she, too, having been placed into this Great House for all these years, had got to know the value of her position.

Miss Mary-Mathilda remained in her straight-backed chair, while Gertrude went to the side door. When the door was opened, the cool air came in first; the Constable could feel the chill in the wind, and then see the rectangle of blackness painted by the opened door. And then he heard the scratching noise Sargeant’s bicycle made as it was being leaned against the side of the house. Metal scratching stone.

“Sargeant, sir,” Constable said, standing at attention. But before he could say more, Sargeant waved his hand to dismiss him, and also to denote thanks; thanks for taking the preliminary Statement.

Sargeant knew that if he made one blunder investigating this case, in the way he took the Statement from Miss Mary-Mathilda, whom he has known all his life, if he should question her in the wrong way, in spite of the circumstances, his job would be in jeopardy. And to make matters worse, he was about to take evidence from a woman he had loved all his life, from a distance.

His mind went back to those nights, long ago, but different from this night of such thick and velvety blackness, when the moon was shining brighter than even the most powerful electric bulb in any room on the Plantation; to nights when he and Golbourne, and Manny and Pounce, and Miss Mary-Mathilda herself, would sit in a ling and play Ship-Sail, Sail-Fast, and stand and jump and dance as they dramatized London Bridge . . . and how Tilda, now Miss Mary-Mathilda—or Miss Bellfeels, depending—always the love of his life, the girl he felt faint and helpless over whenever he looked at her; and whenever she looked at him; when she would say to him, “How you, boy?”; and his heart would melt; all this going on through the years they attended Sin-Davids Elementary School; she, for girls: he, for boys; and they both left school in Standard Seven . . . She was a brighter pupil than he . . . All these years now culminating into this night, ending in this black, moonless night, this Sunday night when he would have preferred to be in the Choir beside Manny, singing tenor; loving the descant in psalms.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . . ;
and hymns, his favourite hymns, all of which he liked better than the psalms, which he knew by heart.

The hymn the Vicar selected for tonight, Hymn 568, in
Hymns Ancient & Modern,
is his favourite. He even liked the title of the book—
Hymns Ancient & Modern, Standard Edition, and The Book of Common Prayer.

“Lamb of God, I look to Thee,
Thou shalt my example be;
Thou art gentle, meek, and mild,
Thou wast once a little child.”

He had sung this same hymn standing beside his mother, in the pew that engulfed him, and that reached his mother to her waist; holding his small hand with her hand soft and sticky from the humidity of the morning; and he had also sung this hymn in Assembly at school every morning; and then in Sunday School, so many times; and later, in the Choir, and at services-of-songs; and on Friday nights at the social evenings in his home, when he invited friends, and played the piano, and fed them cake and pudding and coconut bread and baked pork. So many times, and on so many occasions, had he sung this hymn that he knew all seven verses by heart. But he especially liked the tenor descant for which the choirmaster and organist Mr. Charles DeB. Straker,
L.R.C.M.
(London), a native of Bimshire, always chose him to demonstrate his voice, rich as the taste of molasses, clear as the bell that started labour on the Plantation; a voice announcing the end of labour, tidings of great joy and of Island disasters; singing at weddings and funerals.

Each time Sargeant sang the solo, he was overcome by a sensation he could not explain, nor describe.

His tenor voice sent chills through the body. Manny dubbed him “The Voice.”

“‘Thou wast once a little child.’”

He must pull himself together now. He is on duty. He is a Crown-Sargeant. And a detective. A member of the Island’s loyal Police Force. The Royal Bimshire Constabulary Police Force, or as Wilberforce liked to tease him, “Sarge
ipso
of the Constabulary of the Island of Bimshire
facto!
” He is, in his mind, singing the descant of the seventh and last verse of this hymn, as he holds his hand out and takes Miss Mary-Mathilda’s, as she welcomes him into her home; and he notes that her hand feels the same way as his mother’s, soft and sticky from the humidity of the night; and it is “hot-hot” tonight, in more than one way, as he had told Manny earlier. . . . “Come in, come in, man. You seem so distant,” she is telling him. “Come, Sargeant. Siddown, siddown, and . . .”

“I don’t like imposing on your horspitality under these circumstances, Miss Mary-Mathilda,” he says, “and I hope . . .”

“. . . take the weight of the world off your feet, Sargeant.”

“Thanks, Miss Mary-Mathil . . .”

“Come in, Sargeant.”

“I hope we could get through with this . . .”

“As soon as we can,” she tells him.

“I shall then show forth Thy praise,
Serve Thee all my happy days;
Then the world shall always see
Christ, the Holy Child, in me.”

And only after this verse has passed entirely through his mind does Sargeant continue to speak with her.

“Good evening, Miss Mary-Mathilda. I hope you understand how I feel over this.”

“Don’t worry, Sargeant-boy,” she tells him. “We can’t-all-have all happy days.”

He wonders if she is reading his mind.

This is one of the things that had attracted him to her, like the magnet the Village carpenter uses to find nails buried in the sawdust on the floor of his shop . . . her knife-like perception.

From the time they were young, playing children’s games, like Ship-Sail, Sail-Fast, she was always the one who won: always able to guess the correct number of kernels he held inside his closed fist, when she challenged him, “Hommany men on deck?” And he was equally happy when she knew the number, for that would give him the excuse to touch her, even though it was only touching her hand. But a touch was a touch. And touching Mary-Tilda’s hand sent shivers through his entire body. It was a sensation he could not explain, nor describe.

Yes, Mary Gertrude Mathilda always had this effect upon him.

“Your Constable comported himself like a gentleman,” she tells him.

“Well-train,” Miss Mary-Mathilda, “Well-train.”

“I could see that.”

“Well, Constable,” Sargeant says; and nothing more. His voice is louder, and firmer than he intended. And the Constable reacts, suitably. He stands at attention; and then, at ease.