The sun was already over the hill behind the farm in Saint Andrews. Magdalena was standing at the window in the hall. She got her first sight of Master Toby as he came around the bend at the far side of the hollow. She knew it was him by the way he made his way along the track. “Lord God, look at you boy!” the woman muttered. “Lookin' this way, lookin' that, you is just like your father.” Handsome too, she thought. And big. You a man now, got to be more than twenty-five year. Funny how Mister Edward say his daughter be the one to come. And now it too late for he to know. Magdalena shook her head. Such a thing The Lord take Mister Edward before he see his boy all grown up. The young man walked on past the gates, studied the note in his hand, hesitated, then turned back. He stood at the end of the carriageway for a good while, shielding his eyes from the sun as he stared up towards the house. Magdalena stepped back from the window. What is you thinkin', boy? It too untidy? Too much a mess to be your father’s house? Mister Edward use to say his house in London like a palace. All loved and cared for like you would care for a baby, he’d say. Magdalena sucked through her teeth. That all well and good when you got servants to make it nice. She gave a quick glance around the hall; linen sheets covered the few remaining items, grey and mysterious behind the closed shutters. A layer of fine sand, brought in by the storms, covered the floor. How can I keep this all nice by myself when I have a child to care for? I ain’t getin' no help here; all the land boys run away to the hills after Mister Edward gone. And they don’t come back too, not one of them. Magdalena pressed her face to the slats of the shuttered door. Mother of God, he coming now! She stepped back and hastily tidied her skirts. The noise above her head made her heart jump. Magdalena looked up at the bell above the door. Long time since that been shakin'. She was waiting for the spring to settle when a young boy came running into the hall, his bare feet slapping against the stone floor. “Mama, c’est hombre a la puerta! (A man at the door!)” Magdalena quickly swept up the boy into her arms. “Hush child!” she whispered. “Parla nada! Stay quiet Edo!” The figure on the porch loomed close to the door. Magdalena moved quickly to the side and pressed a finger to her lips. Both she and her son listened to the grating of iron as the bell chain settled inside its casing.
Toby pulled the bell-chain again and waited… no reply. The sign at the gate definitely indicated that this house was La Bruma. He frowned at the broken strut on the shutter, and glanced down at the dark green shoots pushing their way through the decking. The place looked as if it had been abandoned, yet he was sure he heard a child’s voice calling. Toby peered through the slatted door; too dark to see inside but it could be possible there was someone there. He stepped down from the porch and was half way down the path when the grating of a metal bolt made him turn back. The door opened a fraction, then jammed. Fat fingers wrapped around the frame and yanked. Toby moved forward to help. “No, leave it! It come,” came a voice from inside. A final tug and the heavy wooden door gave way onto a dark hall. The woman, a Negro with a child at her side, filled the doorway with her large frame. Toby was about to explain the reason for his visit when, without a word, the woman vanished into the darkness. She must be the housekeeper, he thought; gone to find her master. But then she didn't even venture to ask his name: not been properly trained. A moment later the woman reappeared. “You not comin’?” she frowned. Toby stepped into a large entrance hall, difficult to see on account of the shutters being closed. He followed the echo of the woman’s sandals as they shuffled across sand-dusted tiles towards an open doorway to the right. The child following close to his mother, kept a suspicious eye on Toby as he was led down a long narrow passage to the kitchen at the rear of the house. While of good size, the room was sparsely furnished; a workbench, a plain table and two chairs. There was a door and a window which looked out onto a barren field rising from the rear of the house. The woman told her child to play in the corner where various wooden toys littered the floor. She turned and pointed Toby to a chair. “You like molasses water?” “Yes I do.” Toby sat down. “If it not be too much trouble for you.” The woman chuckled as she took a cup and poured out water from a large jug. “You talk like your father,” she laughed. Toby watched her stir in the molasses with slow deliberate movements. He frowned. “How do you know who I am? I did not –” “Bea say you is comin’. She not tell you how to find me?” “Beatrice? Well, yes she did.” “Then, that how I know.” The woman placed the cup in front of Toby and returned to busy herself at the workbench. Like so many Negroes of her age, she had let herself go; wide hips and well padded rear, thick shapeless ankles protruding beneath her shrunken skirts. And that dress! The woman must have had it for years; seams split at the back, and the pattern, once set with bright colours was now washed out to an ochre grey. Does she not wish to purchase new clothes? He took a sip of the sweetened water. “You spoke of my father. I have been trying to discover where he is. I only learnt a week ago that he lives here in Jamaica.” “He live?” She turned to look at him. “You not know?” “Not know what?” The woman didn’t reply for a while. From a bucket on the floor she took what looked to be a cassava. Her arms, which at first seemed as firm as leather, shook with every movement as she scraped away at the husk . “The Lord take your father away.” “What Lord?” Again, the woman didn't respond but continued her scraping until the white of the root was completely exposed. Using the weight of her upper body, she rubbed the tuber vigorously against a metal grater reducing the core to a pulp. The whole process was then repeated. It was more than a minute before she spoke again. “Your father, he dead.” Toby stared at the cup turning in his hands. “Was he afflicted with an illness?” “No. It not that.” The woman came to sit at the table. “He killed by maroons in the hills.” “Maroons?” “Them that fights for freedom.” She looked down at the floor. “But they not all bad. Only some.” She told Toby how his father was called up to protect the folk in a village. How some maroons had been killing innocent slaves who refused to join them. A rebel who had been waiting in ambush, fired a single shot. Toby’s father died instantly. “When was this?” “Six year past.” Toby tried to estimate the age of the boy playing in the corner of the room. “How did you know my father?” The woman made a sucking noise through her teeth. “I live with him two year before he taken from me.” She looked towards the boy playing quietly with his toys. “This his son.” His skin was a tone lighter than his mother. His hair, dark and a little wavy, was not unlike his father’s. But he had his mother’s eyes; dark brown, thoughtful. “What’s his name?” “Eduardo.” So, his father’s name lives on. Toby was touched. “Did my father choose that name?” The woman had her back to him. She took a deep breath. “His father not know him. He born after Mister Edward die.” She stumbled with her words. Toby shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He could tell this was difficult for her, but what should he do? Toby remained seated and hoped that she would soon regain her composure. “Did my father tell you about my family… his family, in England?” “Yes, he think...” She cleared her throat. “He think you all dead in a fire. He love you. Love you like you all was his angels.” She put her work to one side and sat at the table. “He always tell me ‘bout you.” She nodded to the boy in the corner. “Eduardo your brother now.” She made a move to take Toby’s hand, but then withdrew. Toby stood up and moved to the kitchen window. Outside, a field of flattened cane covered the hill, dried to a cinder by the baking sun. He considered what this woman had been saying: that she and her son were now his closest living relatives. This was not what he expected. He needed time to take it aboard. Could this woman be trusted? He turned from the window and studied her. “I don’t know your name?” “Magdalena.” “Is this your land?” he asked. “Your father’s… yours now.” The woman got up and resumed her work at the bench. “What your little sister name?” she asked. “Sister?” Toby was puzzled. He glanced at the boy playing in the corner. “Do you mean, Eduardo?” “No, no,” Magdalena laughed. “Your sister in England, what her name?” “Oh, you mean Ann… and Mary. Two sisters.” “That it, Mary.” The woman turned back to her work. “I remember now, Ann and Mary,” she repeated. “It break Mister Edward heart when he hear about the fire.” Toby shuffled his feet. The last thing he wanted to do was recount the subject of the fire. Related or not, the woman was hardly someone with whom he was sufficiently acquainted to discuss such personal matters. “Did my father not remember anything about us, other than that?” Toby made no attempt to hide his sardonic tone. “Oh Lord yes! He tell me all 'bout how you all learn good and 'bout all the games you play together.” “Games?” “Yes, games you play when you was little.” Magdalena cocked her head to one side. There was a long pause as she fixed her look on him. “You not remember?” Toby tried to think back. The woman shook her head and took another cassava root from the bucket. “How long you stay here?” she asked. “The last ferry boat to Port Royal returns just before nightfall. I need not return until then. But if I am being an intrusion –” “No, it fine you stay,” she chuckled. “I not ask that. I say, how long in Jamaica?” “Oh, I see. I intend to leave before the next week… if I should find a suitable vessel.” “You is a sailor?” Toby told his story; a similar account to the one he told to Elizabeth at The King’s Rose the evening before. He mentioned the fire. However, as soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t, for bringing up these details evoked some painful emotions upon himself. He searched for a change in topic. “How old is your niece?” he asked. “Bea?” “Yes.” “She twenty years come December.” Magdalena smiled. “She a good girl, very clever.” Toby considered this appraisal of the girl with whom he had spent the previous night. Is she clever? Maybe she is. But is she good? Toby concluded that Beatrice might not be telling all to her aunt. Eduardo, now tired of his game stood beside his mother and tugged at her skirts. She handed him a cup of molasses and nodded towards their guest. “Esta Toby, seu frère. (This is Toby, your brother).” “He can speak French?” Toby asked. “Frañol, I teach him some English too.” “Frañol?” “Francaise-Español. French some, Spanish some.” She turned to the boy. “Say hello to Mister Toby, mi petit.” Eduardo, who had not said a word to Toby since his arrival, responded with an air of confidence. “Ola.” “Hello, young soldier,” Toby shook the boy by the hand. Eduardo beamed and went back to playing quietly in the corner. His mother picked another cassava from the bucket. What did his father see in this woman? She is no different to any other of her kind: lazy to the bone! What has she done about the upkeep of the estate over the years? Nothing! Just left the place to ruin. Here was an opportunity to improve herself, to rise above her station. But no, as soon as her master is gone, she does nothing but shuffle from room to room. And what will become of her son? His father’s son, Toby’s half brother. What kind of future will he have?
The young man walked on past the gates, studied the note in his hand, hesitated, then turned back. He stood at the end of the carriageway for a good while, shielding his eyes from the sun as he stared up towards the house.
Magdalena stepped back from the window. What is you thinkin', boy? It too untidy? Too much a mess to be your father’s house? Mister Edward use to say his house in London like a palace. All loved and cared for like you would care for a baby, he’d say. Magdalena sucked through her teeth. That all well and good when you got servants to make it nice. She gave a quick glance around the hall; linen sheets covered the few remaining items, grey and mysterious behind the closed shutters. A layer of fine sand, brought in by the storms, covered the floor. How can I keep this all nice by myself when I have a child to care for? I ain’t getin' no help here; all the land boys run away to the hills after Mister Edward gone. And they don’t come back too, not one of them.
Magdalena pressed her face to the slats of the shuttered door. Mother of God, he coming now! She stepped back and hastily tidied her skirts.
The noise above her head made her heart jump. Magdalena looked up at the bell above the door. Long time since that been shakin'. She was waiting for the spring to settle when a young boy came running into the hall, his bare feet slapping against the stone floor.
“Mama, c’est hombre a la puerta! (A man at the door!)”
Magdalena quickly swept up the boy into her arms.
“Hush child!” she whispered. “Parla nada! Stay quiet Edo!”
The figure on the porch loomed close to the door. Magdalena moved quickly to the side and pressed a finger to her lips. Both she and her son listened to the grating of iron as the bell chain settled inside its casing.
Toby pulled the bell-chain again and waited… no reply. The sign at the gate definitely indicated that this house was La Bruma. He frowned at the broken strut on the shutter, and glanced down at the dark green shoots pushing their way through the decking. The place looked as if it had been abandoned, yet he was sure he heard a child’s voice calling. Toby peered through the slatted door; too dark to see inside but it could be possible there was someone there. He stepped down from the porch and was half way down the path when the grating of a metal bolt made him turn back. The door opened a fraction, then jammed. Fat fingers wrapped around the frame and yanked. Toby moved forward to help.
“No, leave it! It come,” came a voice from inside. A final tug and the heavy wooden door gave way onto a dark hall.
The woman, a Negro with a child at her side, filled the doorway with her large frame. Toby was about to explain the reason for his visit when, without a word, the woman vanished into the darkness. She must be the housekeeper, he thought; gone to find her master. But then she didn't even venture to ask his name: not been properly trained.
A moment later the woman reappeared. “You not comin’?” she frowned.
Toby stepped into a large entrance hall, difficult to see on account of the shutters being closed. He followed the echo of the woman’s sandals as they shuffled across sand-dusted tiles towards an open doorway to the right. The child following close to his mother, kept a suspicious eye on Toby as he was led down a long narrow passage to the kitchen at the rear of the house.
While of good size, the room was sparsely furnished; a workbench, a plain table and two chairs. There was a door and a window which looked out onto a barren field rising from the rear of the house.
The woman told her child to play in the corner where various wooden toys littered the floor. She turned and pointed Toby to a chair.
“You like molasses water?”
“Yes I do.” Toby sat down. “If it not be too much trouble for you.”
The woman chuckled as she took a cup and poured out water from a large jug.
“You talk like your father,” she laughed.
Toby watched her stir in the molasses with slow deliberate movements. He frowned. “How do you know who I am? I did not –”
“Bea say you is comin’. She not tell you how to find me?”
“Beatrice? Well, yes she did.”
“Then, that how I know.” The woman placed the cup in front of Toby and returned to busy herself at the workbench. Like so many Negroes of her age, she had let herself go; wide hips and well padded rear, thick shapeless ankles protruding beneath her shrunken skirts. And that dress! The woman must have had it for years; seams split at the back, and the pattern, once set with bright colours was now washed out to an ochre grey. Does she not wish to purchase new clothes?
He took a sip of the sweetened water. “You spoke of my father. I have been trying to discover where he is. I only learnt a week ago that he lives here in Jamaica.”
“He live?” She turned to look at him. “You not know?”
“Not know what?”
The woman didn’t reply for a while. From a bucket on the floor she took what looked to be a cassava. Her arms, which at first seemed as firm as leather, shook with every movement as she scraped away at the husk . “The Lord take your father away.”
“What Lord?”
Again, the woman didn't respond but continued her scraping until the white of the root was completely exposed. Using the weight of her upper body, she rubbed the tuber vigorously against a metal grater reducing the core to a pulp. The whole process was then repeated. It was more than a minute before she spoke again.
“Your father, he dead.”
Toby stared at the cup turning in his hands. “Was he afflicted with an illness?”
“No. It not that.”
The woman came to sit at the table. “He killed by maroons in the hills.”
“Maroons?”
“Them that fights for freedom.” She looked down at the floor. “But they not all bad. Only some.”
She told Toby how his father was called up to protect the folk in a village. How some maroons had been killing innocent slaves who refused to join them. A rebel who had been waiting in ambush, fired a single shot. Toby’s father died instantly.
“When was this?”
“Six year past.”
Toby tried to estimate the age of the boy playing in the corner of the room.
“How did you know my father?”
The woman made a sucking noise through her teeth. “I live with him two year before he taken from me.” She looked towards the boy playing quietly with his toys. “This his son.”
His skin was a tone lighter than his mother. His hair, dark and a little wavy, was not unlike his father’s. But he had his mother’s eyes; dark brown, thoughtful.
“What’s his name?”
“Eduardo.”
So, his father’s name lives on. Toby was touched. “Did my father choose that name?”
The woman had her back to him. She took a deep breath. “His father not know him. He born after Mister Edward die.” She stumbled with her words.
Toby shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He could tell this was difficult for her, but what should he do? Toby remained seated and hoped that she would soon regain her composure. “Did my father tell you about my family… his family, in England?”
“Yes, he think...” She cleared her throat. “He think you all dead in a fire. He love you. Love you like you all was his angels.” She put her work to one side and sat at the table. “He always tell me ‘bout you.” She nodded to the boy in the corner. “Eduardo your brother now.” She made a move to take Toby’s hand, but then withdrew.
Toby stood up and moved to the kitchen window. Outside, a field of flattened cane covered the hill, dried to a cinder by the baking sun. He considered what this woman had been saying: that she and her son were now his closest living relatives. This was not what he expected. He needed time to take it aboard. Could this woman be trusted? He turned from the window and studied her. “I don’t know your name?”
“Magdalena.”
“Is this your land?” he asked.
“Your father’s… yours now.” The woman got up and resumed her work at the bench. “What your little sister name?” she asked.
“Sister?” Toby was puzzled. He glanced at the boy playing in the corner. “Do you mean, Eduardo?”
“No, no,” Magdalena laughed. “Your sister in England, what her name?”
“Oh, you mean Ann… and Mary. Two sisters.”
“That it, Mary.” The woman turned back to her work. “I remember now, Ann and Mary,” she repeated. “It break Mister Edward heart when he hear about the fire.”
Toby shuffled his feet. The last thing he wanted to do was recount the subject of the fire. Related or not, the woman was hardly someone with whom he was sufficiently acquainted to discuss such personal matters.
“Did my father not remember anything about us, other than that?” Toby made no attempt to hide his sardonic tone.
“Oh Lord yes! He tell me all 'bout how you all learn good and 'bout all the games you play together.”
“Games?”
“Yes, games you play when you was little.” Magdalena cocked her head to one side. There was a long pause as she fixed her look on him. “You not remember?”
Toby tried to think back.
The woman shook her head and took another cassava root from the bucket. “How long you stay here?” she asked.
“The last ferry boat to Port Royal returns just before nightfall. I need not return until then. But if I am being an intrusion –”
“No, it fine you stay,” she chuckled. “I not ask that. I say, how long in Jamaica?”
“Oh, I see. I intend to leave before the next week… if I should find a suitable vessel.”
“You is a sailor?”
Toby told his story; a similar account to the one he told to Elizabeth at The King’s Rose the evening before. He mentioned the fire. However, as soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t, for bringing up these details evoked some painful emotions upon himself. He searched for a change in topic. “How old is your niece?” he asked.
“Bea?”
“Yes.”
“She twenty years come December.” Magdalena smiled. “She a good girl, very clever.”
Toby considered this appraisal of the girl with whom he had spent the previous night. Is she clever? Maybe she is. But is she good? Toby concluded that Beatrice might not be telling all to her aunt.
Eduardo, now tired of his game stood beside his mother and tugged at her skirts. She handed him a cup of molasses and nodded towards their guest. “Esta Toby, seu frère. (This is Toby, your brother).”
“He can speak French?” Toby asked.
“Frañol, I teach him some English too.”
“Frañol?”
“Francaise-Español. French some, Spanish some.” She turned to the boy. “Say hello to Mister Toby, mi petit.”
Eduardo, who had not said a word to Toby since his arrival, responded with an air of confidence. “Ola.”
“Hello, young soldier,” Toby shook the boy by the hand. Eduardo beamed and went back to playing quietly in the corner. His mother picked another cassava from the bucket.
What did his father see in this woman? She is no different to any other of her kind: lazy to the bone! What has she done about the upkeep of the estate over the years? Nothing! Just left the place to ruin. Here was an opportunity to improve herself, to rise above her station. But no, as soon as her master is gone, she does nothing but shuffle from room to room. And what will become of her son? His father’s son, Toby’s half brother. What kind of future will he have?