It soon done anyway and afterwards I didn’t feel no better, but it turn out she get pregnant. So I couldn’t say nothing ’bout how she angry and didn’t want nothing to do with the baby. It was inside her and she was glad when it come out.
I went up to the hospital to fetch them back and I swear she would have left the baby there if I didn’t pick it up and put it in the car. I just rest the little basket thing on the back seat because Fay wouldn’t even hold it for the drive back to Matthews Lane. And even three week later the doctor is ringing me up asking what the baby name is because we supposed to register the birth. But I can’t get no sense outta Fay so I just look at the little thing laying there and I say into the phone, ‘Mui.’
‘Mui?’
‘Mui. Little sister.’ And I spell it for him. ‘M-U-I.’ And then I just hear the click when Dr Morrison hang up the telephone. Maybe I even hear him sigh before he put down the receiver. I dunno. I could just tell he was none too pleased with having to ring me up like that, a busy man like him, come all the way from Scotland to help us out here in the islands.
Although what these people still doing here I dunno. But we seem to be grateful for something because even while Mr Manley is busy campaigning for self-government we still busy organising all sorta things to celebrate three hundred years since the landing of Penn and Venables. Why we want to do that I don’t know. It was like we think the English give us something to be proud of, something more than slavery and a government that still running the place from four thousand miles away. It didn’t make me feel proud to be Jamaican. More like it remind me that we was still colonised, and what was there to celebrate about a thing like that? But it no matter, all this eating and drinking was good for business and that at least was alright with me.
Then one day I come ’cross Dr Morrison stand up in the hot noonday sun in the middle of King Street. Right out there with the cars and carts, and sweat and noise like him willing someone to come run him down. So now I am in two minds ’bout whether to go drag him back or just let fate take its course. Maybe Dr Morrison tired of being a doctor, maybe the hospital wearing him down, maybe he just think this is a quick and sure way back to Edinburgh. That is his business, but then I start think ’bout the poor man that is going to go to jail for running down this white man in broad daylight and I decide that I better go fetch him. So I run out ’cross the street and I grab him.
After I drag him off the street I take him and sit him down in a bar and order some Appleton. The barman look at me like ‘What the hell you doing with a white man in here?’ like maybe I am about to fleece him and he don’t want no trouble in his bar. But whatever he think he bring the rum anyway and pour out two glasses.
Morrison gulp down the whole lot in one swallow and put the empty glass on the table and say to me, ‘I am a Presbyterian, I don’t drink alcohol.’ So I just stare at him and reckon that I must be looking at a desperate man. I don’t say nothing, I just motion to the barman to bring the bottle and I pour Morrison another drink. When he pick up the glass him say to me, ‘It would have been better for you to have left me there.’
‘Is that bad, eh?’
‘Yes.’ And he take a sip from the glass and then catch a little drip with his finger and lick it off like a real professional drinker. I just wait because sooner or later this man is going to tell me the whole sorry story ’bout how he come to be in the middle of King Street dancing with death. That is how people are. They want to tell anybody who have the time and patience to listen.
So it turn out Morrison got a wife, good Presbyterian woman who volunteer at some church place for young mothers and I think so what so special about that in a place like this and he say, ‘No, I mean young. Children. Some of these girls are nine or ten years old.’ So I shake my head like I think OK. Mrs Morrison come all the way to Jamaica to bring the word of God to these poor unfortunate girls. Back in Scotland she see an advertisement in her church magazine and decide that she have to come help. Morrison just follow after her because he think she such a Christian woman, and he want to be as good a Christian as she. But he not. He weak because he can’t give her the one thing she really want. The one grace that God has bestowed on every woman – that she should hear the patter of tiny feet. That is how he say it. And I have to think to myself what the hell is this man talking about before I realise that he mean she want a baby. That is it? That is what all of this is about? Some damn fool woman want a baby? No, I think it can’t be, but I don’t say nothing, I just pour him another drink and wonder why she don’t just adopt one. She certainly in the right place for it. But then I think maybe this good Christian woman didn’t reckon on raising no dark-skin baby so maybe that is why she still unfulfilled like Morrison say.
And as I am sitting there looking at Morrison with his ginger hair and flabby white hands I start thinking ’bout how having a baby just don’t mean the same thing to a Jamaican woman. Maybe never been the same, and sure as hell not since slavery. Because to a Jamaican woman having a child is just the continuation of life, maybe even the continuation of misery. She don’t see it as her personal achievement. She just see it as something she got to do. Well that is how it seem to me anyway.
When my eyes focus I see Morrison is almost crying into the glass what with all the rum he been swallowing. And I realise that all I am waiting for is him getting to the part ’bout King Street and the traffic. But instead he go all quiet and start get himself together like he about to leave. So I stand up with him and I say, ‘Is OK, you know, whatever you want to talk about.’
But he look at me like he don’t quite believe and he say, ‘Thank you for your kindness today but I really must be going. Margaret will be wondering what has happened to me.’ And so I let him go even though he almost fall down when he open the door and the sunlight hit him in the eye.
A few days later I find out from Judge Finley that Morrison got tabs all over town that he can’t pay. The man is a gambler. The horses especially. Seem like the totes at Caymanas Park rub their hands together when they see him coming, he is such a big-time loser. Then he also got bookies downtown and the worst thing, he now got Louis DeFreitas on his tail trying to collect.
‘You mean that slimy piece of half-white boy from over Tivoli Gardens?’
‘Yah, man.’
‘How Morrison get mix up with him?’
‘Just accident. Morrison just looking for anybody that will take a bet from him. He don’t know nothing ’bout who connected to who and who is running what. He just looking out for the next race. So now DeFreitas send some boys to talk to him the other afternoon and things get sorta rough. That is what I hear anyway. And afterwards he go to cross King Street and then halfway he just stop and stand up there just like you find him. Me think maybe he didn’t mean nothing serious by it, he just sorta stop in the street.’
When I get back to Matthews Lane the place is crowded. This is the same routine Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Zhang is up the top of the yard playing dominoes with Tartan Socks McKenzie and Round Chin and Mr Lee from the Chinatown Committee. Ma and the old women packing up the mah-jongg tiles and the little Formica table they sit at down the bottom of the yard. The baby is laying in her cot wearing a old T-shirt of mine and sucking on a mango stone. There is no Fay and no Xiuquan, because just like always wherever she go she take him with her.
I pick up the baby and coo her a bit while I say goodbye to Madame Chin and Madame Fong and I watch Tilly running fresh water over the ham choi and rinsing it for dinner. After dinner when the house empty and Ma gone to temple I tell Zhang ’bout Morrison and DeFreitas and he say to me, ‘So what you want with this doctor anyway?’
‘I paying out a lot of money to doctors, what with Fay and the children and Gloria and the baby, and then there is the normal things to do with the girls.’
‘You mean your whores?’
‘Why you always got to call them that?’
‘Because that is what they is.’ And I just look at him because even after all these years he just can’t stop drawing attention to it and reminding me how he feel about it even though it is the money from these girls that is helping to put food on the table. Somehow the two things don’t match up in his head. Maybe because he still getting everything he want for free – the herbalist, the barber, the pharmacy, clothes, shoes – hell he still even eating in Chinatown when he want to for free.
‘Well it cost me a lot of money and I just reckon that if I can get me a doctor then I can make some saving.’
‘You no pay him?’
‘No, he work for a favour to me.’
‘What favour you do him?’
‘I write off his gambling tabs.’
