Free The Long Song by Andrea Levy Page B

understanding.
    The mulatto woman who had bought her own freedom and a cart upon the same day and sold cedar boxes full of sugar cakes frosted in pink, white and yellow—the one who was saving for a donkey so it was no longer she that had to push-pull the produce—she had heard that it was the King who said there were to be no more slaves.
    The fisherman with his barrels full of blue-grey shrimp that slopped puddles of water over Hannah’s feet as he lifted up the squirming crustaceans for inspection, had heard nothing. Come, this skinny man with one leg shorter than the other, did not even attend the chapel in town. But that free coloured woman with brown skin scoured to light, who informed any who would listen, ‘Me never been no slave’, the one who rode in a cart, pulled by a ready-to-dead mule, and twirled upon her parasol as her jars of guava and lime pickle, ginger jelly and pepper sherry were lifted to the light to be inspected, said all this chat-chat was nonsense—that the white massas were correct, the King-man had said nothing about them being free.
    Many came to the kitchen that morning with their yam, plantain, artichokes, pineapples, sweet orange, green banana, cheese, and coffee beans. They came to grind the knives, mend pots and bring the dozens of boxes of beeswax candles. Yet Hannah had no time this day to chat gossip about what was heard at the Sunday chapel—the one held outside the blacksmiths in town where everyone gathered to hear preacher-man talk about free. Come, with all these hucksters arriving, she barely had time enough to puff her pipe through several bowls of stringy tobacco with them.
    Godfrey, sitting upon his chair by the kitchen, carefully attended to the parade of hucksters for he had to pay for their produce and service from his purse. His cupped hand cautiously guarded the leather pouch which he held close within his lap. After each transaction he counted the money that remained—his lips wordlessly miming the sum without looking upon the coins. It was fortunate that his hair was already white, for this day was a trying one for Godfrey. Where was Byron? It was a long time ago that Godfrey had sent him to fetch water and the boy had not yet returned. And there was still the table to be laid, the candles to be placed, the yard to be swept, the dogs to be tethered.
    When July appeared saying, ‘Mr Godfrey, this cloth you give me be a sheet for the bed, not for the table,’ he, with a careless flick of his hand, told her, ‘Go lay it ’pon the table.’
    ‘But it be a bed sheet, Mr Godfrey.’
    ‘How you know that?’
    July inhaled the breath. She intended to respond to this very simple question—for the difference between a fine quality linen for a table and a simple cotton sheeting for the bed was within a field nigger’s grasp to understand—but instead she began to smile, for she scented Godfrey’s mischief.
    ‘Miss July, is that a bed sheet you be holding?’ he asked once more.
    ‘No, Mr Godfrey, it be a fine tablecloth,’ July replied.
    ‘Then go put it ’pon the table,’ Godfrey told her as a hog ran past him, chased by the dog. ‘Wait, the hog not dead yet?’ he suddenly cried. ‘Catch up the hog, where is Miss Patience? Catch up the hog.’ All at once, Patience was there, bending low, her apron outstretched as she sought to corner the squealing pig against the walls of the kitchen. While Miss Hannah, at the kitchen door with a pan in her hand said, ‘What, the hog not dead yet, Mr Godfrey?’ And Godfrey, kicking the dog away from the confusion called, ‘Byron, where is that boy? Why the hog not dead yet? Byron!’

CHAPTER 8
     
     
     
     
    C AROLINE MORTIMER WAS RESOLUTE; nothing would be allowed to mar this Christmas dinner for her. Mrs Pemberton of Somerset Penn and her two cousins from England had sent word that they were unable to grace her table. Why? Caroline was never to know, for the small negro boy who had been despatched had tucked the