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Chapter One

I got to know all the secrets of the house — like I knew all the trees in the yard. Flipped over the back of the Morris chair, my head sunk into the seat, I spent a long time walking on the smooth ceiling, stepping over the little partitions in the upside-down doorways and sitting on the fretwork. No furniture cluttered those rooms. No dust. And if I wanted, I could even fill up a room with water to make it a pool.

    The white paint that flaked off the windowsills would stick to my chin and the undersides of my arms. And the bare grey wood smelt sweet like skin, not mouldy like the black skirting board by the bathroom that was always damp and eaten away at the bottom. Morning sun made long dazzling doorways on the polished living-room floor that shrank slowly until only the dwarfs could pass through them. As I swept the floor in the morning light, the dust would just rise up and float twinkling out the windows. The broom stroked every plank, some of them slightly rounded, some dark; some had a hole in them, perfectly round to peep through. All smooth. So smooth my sister could pull my feet and I'd slide fast till my bum got hot or my skirt slipped up and I stopped with a squeaky bump. But other parts of the floor — where the putty had come out — you couldn't even play jacks on and my broom could never get the dust out of those cracks.

    Start by the screen door to the kitchen, sweeping across the planks not along them, rippling past the big bookshelf — sweep, sweep, sweep, stamp the broom. Sweep, sweep, sweep, stamp, stamp. Then into my mother's room — bed always made up with the blue knitted spread with little bumps that you could sit and pick off if you had something serious to discuss. Sweep, sweep, sweep, stamp. Join up with the rest of the dust by the armchair. Sweep, sweep, sweep, stamp, stamp. Stop by the hanging womb-chair. Middle bedroom had a bunk bed and some tentesse shelves, packed with my brother's things — wires, pieces of radio. Smelt of chemicals, salts and burnt copper. Sweep, sweep, sweep, stamp. Past the built-in shelves and the rows of paperbacks, most of them poetry, orange-cover Penguin classics, books about Buddhism and Zen. The small front room belonged to our househelp Miss Mary. Didn't have to stroke the floor in there. She didn't like no one going in. Always burning candles, wailing and praying.

    Now along the floorboards. Through all the dazzling doorways by the windows. The sssweep of the broom going slow, flicking at the end, before the stamp. Now the dust floated differently. You could see it touching the glistening arms of the chairs and the edge of the low polished table — just touching gently before drifting away. Push into the corner of the living room, by the stairbox, where more bookshelves sagged with encyclopedias and an aquarium. Magazines and old newspapers from Cuba piled up to the windowsills. Light coming through the frosted panes made the whole corner bright. Sweep, sweep, sweep, stamp, stamp — between the iron legs of the sewing machine and around the corner to the big empty centre of the room where the dust trap lay. Fold back the Tibisiri straw mat and the gleam of the floor disappeared. A steady sweep, stamp, sweep, stamp, now, to shift the lazy dust. Made it satisfying, though, replaced the happy flecks that had floated up and out. Sweep, stamp, sweep, stamp, the other half. Now all the dusty creeks joining the main river to flow past the settee and down the steps into the dark depths at the bottom of the front door.

    The river runs easy — me standing with my feet in it, sliding it along every step and on to the one below. At the bottom, stamp and climb out of it. Now standing above it, hitting the door with the broomhead, frothing up the river on the last darkest step. And now fling open the door — saving everyone from the flood. See how much dust flying. Everything just disappearing in the hot bright light. The dust that can't fly, melting into the bare concrete steps, some slipping off the edge. Even my skin, damp with sweat, disappeared that dust. And the rest settled in the crevices of my big toes between dull nail and skin.

Tamarind Grove had four mad people. Uncle Joe was the safe one, the soft madman. He could help you with any homework, sums or spelling. When school over, children in blue uniforms would clump up around him by the roadside. Soon as they read out the sum, he'd be whispering the answers. Grubby little hands, gripping stubs of lead pencils flying over the exercise page, would fill in the numbers. And spelling. Any word you call he could spell. Some children'd be poking him, prodding him, pulling his shirt, calling out words while others tried more sums.

    Big people called out even bigger words — trying to find him wrong. Uncle Joe was never wrong. Bright. Genius we'd say. Years ago he'd been postmaster, studied so hard he went off. You could see the signs of studying too. His left wrist had a big lump — big as a ping-pong ball — where he used to brace his head on it. And his right hand, the pen-gripping fingers, had plenty corns. Thick and hard. Grown there from writing too much. Too many hours gripping that pen tight must send a man off. And for some reason, Uncle Joe couldn't talk loud or even normal any more, only whisper. Must be the self-same reason made him smile all the time and shake his head to the side. Always trying to be nice. If your basket too heavy coming home from market — he'd take it gently out'a you hand and carry it. If you step out'a taxi on Mainroad in blazing sun, loaded down with bags and a sleeping child, he'd carry the bags all the way home and never ask for money. You dropped a dollar and didn't know it — he'd scramble up from the dust somewhere, and chase you down to give it back, bowing and scraping all the time. People gave him food, cigarettes, money. He'd never take rum. Sometimes he'd come in the yard and sweep the whole bottom-house, wash down the open drains and, if nobody was around, he'd eat the rice left over in the dog's bowl. Made you shamed when he did that though, wished you was around to give him a sandwich or some sugar water.

    Today he eat and done already. When we came down from lunch, the four a'we girls, he was sprawled-off under the house, snoring on the in-breath, he two knees crooked and flapped open, his stain-up khaki pants taut between them. In the middle of his crotch, where the stitching had bust, was a lovely big hole, just skinning up at us. Straight there we headed, pushing and jostling, gulping down our squeals and squeaks to get a better look, peeping down that hole into the darkness of his pants. Inside, the curve barely visible, was a wrinkled, wrinkled, thick dull brown almost black skin. A few glints showed was hair there too. Plenty behind the curve and some curling out of the balls. Wasn't like no skin I'd ever seen. Too thick and wrinkly, not smooth and shining like my brother's young balls. To see them good, you had to lean right down and hold your breath. One thing Uncle Joe didn't like doing was bathing. And from that hole, Uncle Joe's pure smell came straight at you. That real vagrant smell — sweat, pee, stale cigarettes and crotch smell. Was that made you know he was mad too. Gasping for breath and pushing to take turns, we skinned-teeth like fools, blubbering around on the ground. My hand clamped over Rachel's mouth, my sleeve wet from corking my own bawling. Judy collapsed, she couldn't take it no more. Stupidy grinning face, red and shaking, she jammed Uncle Joe's foot. His legs clapped shut so fast. One hand fly down to his crotch and he sitting up straight now, rubbing his booboo eyes with the other hand. We was just rolling. Stamping and slapping the ground. Running up and down in front of him. Holding on to each other and folding up laughing like we had hinges everywhere. When his red eyes could see, he started laughing too, legs straight out in front of him clamped tight. His sideways, shake-head laugh. Making five of us in the foolishness under the bottom-house.

* * *

The front room downstairs had a stale piano, a baby grand — the third leg a packing chest and the cover cracked. In this yellow room, even on the hottest, driest day the pungent smell of damp newsprint, books and mouse-eaten felt lay like a blanket floating at the height of the windowsills — sliding out when you opened the front doors. Piles of music books, cardboard boxes, wooden chests and crates were the piano's only audience. All underneath the piano was packed with audience. The only empty space left in the room was an L-shaped piece of pocky concrete floor.

    `Ann, Uncle Joe. Ann. Remember she?'

    `She coming back from Suriname just now you know.'

    `You like she nuh, you wicked t'ing you.'

    `Ow, Uncle Joe — how you could like a big-shot girl like dat?'

    Uncle Joe's aroma wafted around the piano room, mixing with the book and mouse-eaten felt smell. Sammy stood gripping the lock of the front door, eye open big — supposed to be locking him in with us and everybody else out but looked like she was going to run away any minute. I guarded the other door that led to the middle room. We had him cornered in the far end of the L space, against the piano. We was the ones frightened though, while he was gently dreaming of Ann, shifting slowly from foot to foot, still holding his embarrassed crotch.

    `Yes, Uncle Joe. You like she. Ah know you like she. Oh me gawd, what you would do wid a nice girl like dat?'

    That tickled him by one of his kidneys. He ginched and giggled jerkily.

    `Youall mustn't be talking bout Miss Ann like dat,' he squeaked. `Miss Ann is a decent lady. I like Miss Ann too bad.'

    `Well what you would do bout it, if she liked you too?'

    He jumped again, smiling wider. `Liked me? If she liked me?'

    `Yes, Uncle Joe, she like you. I hear she say so already!'

    `Marry she. She is a decent lady. I would marry she.'

    He whispered it over and over softly, rocking himself.

    `But Uncle Joe, what you would do after you marry she? What you would do, eh?'

    His head snapped up and his eyes scanned our faces. The worried flash faded from his face and he grinned at us.

    `Youall are very wicked. Wicked chi'ren. Not nice.' Wincing it out but smiling his shake-head smile all the time.

    `We not asking you to do no wickedness, Uncle Joe. Just show we what you would do to Ann after you marry she. Just show we, dat's all.'

    `You want to see what I would do to Miss Ann?'

    `Yes. Yes ... the piano is Miss Ann.'

    He turned round to the piano, leaning his waist against it, stroking the curve of its belly, muttering `Miss Ann? Miss Ann?'

    We touching the piano now too, crowded up by the keyboard end.

    `Miss Ann?' He bent down slowly, rested his dry lips on the wood, rubbed them in an arc on her chest, stroking her side with his hand.

    `Ow Miss Ann,' his voice trembling.

    `What he doing?'

    `Sssh! You can't see is kiss he kissing she?'

    `Ow Miss Ann. Miss Ann sweet, eh?'

    `You lolo, Uncle Joe. What you would do wid your lolo?'

    `Un humh? Miss Ann is a nice lady, eh?' His head hung right down on his chest while he caressed that piano cover. We could see the bulge of his khaki lolo growing between him and the smooth wood — just kept pushing up till it was straining at the string tied round his waist. He kept polishing.

    `Uncle Joe, what's dat? All dat's lolo? Miss Ann would like dat!'

    `Ow Miss Ann. Miss Ann nice, eh?'

    `Take it out, Uncle Joe, take it out!'

    `Uh huh. Nice Miss Ann.' He was still stroking her and now himself too. Scrubbing down his pants from the top of his lolo, with the heel of his palm. The zip had long gone and the front only lapped over, held down by the string. He reached in and brought his hand back out holding one huge thing.

    `Waagh! Donkey lolo!' Never seen a big man's lolo, much less one this huge, much less one this black, much less this close. Just kept looking. He held it like it didn't belong to him.

    `Donkey lolo! Donkey lolo!' Wasn't far from donkey lolo, stretched skin, with a dark sheen, pulled back behind the head the same way. Nodding the same way too, but hanging up instead of hanging down. Looked like it was moving by itself. Uncle Joe didn't even know what to do with it, with his embarrassed self. He watched it like us. As we all stared, it went down slowly. Right there in his hand, it shrivelled and got more black, till he was weighing it, bouncing it with a smacking sound in his palm and smiling his shake-head smile.

    `This is what Miss Ann would like? Nice Miss Ann?' Pinching in his bumsey, he pressed the end of his soft lolo against her, pushing the loose skin up with his fingers. We scrambled round the side to see the smudge it left on the wood. A new scent blended with that acid afternoon air. His dry hand rasping on mahogany was the only sound in the room now.

    `Youall play the piano nuh? Come nuh, play. Make Miss Ann sing for me. Nice Miss Ann.'

    We just had to. Made Miss Ann sing for one whole hour.