Pynter Bender. Jacob Ross

his drunkenness. That it had not been made over a glass of rum, but over time. So that in the still grey hours of that morning, even while she stood on the top of Glory Cedar Rise and called out his name as they watched him walking down Old Hope Road, watched and called until the canes and distance swallowed him, she knew that all the pleading in the world would not make him turn around.

      She went back to her house, pulled the trouser leg from under the mattress they’d conceived their children on, emptied the contents on the floor, counted the money she had placed there over the years and began preparing for his wake. And while she prepared she cursed the canes. She blamed this shallow valley she had come to from the north, this long, blue gorge of sighing, coughing, whistling grass which consumed their men so casually.

      ‘But you can’t beat cane,’ Tan Cee muttered. ‘You can’t do much to hurt it back.’ Which was why, she said, Deeka retreated into a dark-eyed, watchful bitterness and kept reminding them of the miracle their father used to be.

      ‘And soon after,’ Tan Cee sighed and got to her feet, ‘Elena body start changin with y’all.’

      ‘And de baby girl – Anita?’

      ‘She wasn’ no baby girl de time de trouble start. I got a coupla things to look after.’ She dusted her skirt and walked away.

       13

      THE FOOD THAT Birdie brought back now was meant to last them longer. Peter confided that he’d even tried to bring along a cow but it wasn’t to be persuaded. Besides, the cow had horns that were long enough and sharp enough to win the argument.

      Peter talked with a look of puzzlement that brought the laughter out of them, all the more because he couldn’t understand what they were laughing at. Couldn’t see the joke either when Birdie sneaked off during the day and returned home with ridiculous things: a couple of giant plants sitting in heavy, white stone pots; an iron gate; three beach chairs; an aluminium oar; the two back wheels of a car; a child’s plastic bicycle.

      The women seemed to recognise this change in Birdie. They responded strangely: they touched him more, kept back the best of everything for him; made difficult dishes like cornki and farine which took them two days to prepare, and sat and watched him while he ate.

      He held their gifts of food between his fingers and brought them to his mouth as though the pleasure was not just his to have but also theirs.

      And during these nights of bright moon and still air, when voices and laughter travelled down the foothills to their yard, riding it seemed on the achingly sweet fragrance of the lady-of-the-night, he repeated the stories of his time in prison.

      It was only Peter who did not understand this ritual. Not even when his uncle tried to make him know by almost saying so. By leaving him at home without an explanation, by the quick flushes of irritation that left Peter tearful and ill-tempered, by not having time for him these days. Perhaps the women had spoken to Birdie. Perhaps he’d read their worry all along and was doing something about it now. Pynter wasn’t sure.

      And then one night Birdie took Peter away. It was close to morning when Birdie returned – a night of lashing rain and the kind of cloth-thick darkness that made it impossible to see ahead – but he did not have Peter with him. Birdie dropped his bag, pulled off his boots, took the cloth that Deeka held out to him and began wiping himself dry. He sat amongst them without a word.