Chapter 5: A Friend at Last PDF

# Chapter 5: A friend at last By lunch time my stock had risen pretty fast and I had won myself a friend, Roy Penner. He was the smallest boy in our class. "Where you from?" he asked. I told him. "And you?" "Portland," he said, adding that it was in Eastern Jamaica. After a second, he asked, "Do...

# Chapter 5: A friend at last By lunch time my stock had risen pretty fast and I had won myself a friend, Roy Penner. He was the smallest boy in our class. "Where you from?" he asked. I told him. "And you?" "Portland," he said, adding that it was in Eastern Jamaica. After a second, he asked, "Do you it here?" "You bet, Roy." He had somewhat of a rat's countenance, that went rather well with his milk-white and small teeth. He was dark-complexioned but smooth. There was not a pimple anywhere on that boy's face. Many a girl could covet him for his skin alone, but that alone, as I couldn't see any of them wanting to look like him. His trademark was standing with both his hands so deep in his pockets that the tips of the pockets showed peeping below the cuffs of his shorts. He smelt of urine and I supposed he wet his bed at nights. "Do you like it here Roy?" I asked. "Oh yes, but Mrs Jenkins is cross. Know what I mean? Miserable. She whips me sometimes". Maybe that was when he wet himself. I soon found out that he was attracted to me, not so much because I had dethroned George Kirby, but due to the fact of our being in the same boat, so to speak. He also was an adoption. When I use the word adoption, I am not doing so in the correct sense, because, in seeking a child to adopt prospective parents enter into lengthy negotiations and sign papers and the adopted are usually babies who never or rarely find out whom their true parents are. But not so with Roy and me. We were given away, so to speak, by a simple word-of-mouth agreement and we knew all right whom our parents were and where was home. The Old Man had met my father at a cricket match in Santa Cruz and one word having led to another and, according to my father, the Old Man had said: "I say, Joe, you don't happen to know anyone around here who has a boy he'd like to give away?" Yes, the words, 'give away', usually replace nicer ones. Well, my father was having enough trouble feeding and clothing and keeping us in school, working his fingers off, migrating to work in the cane fields of St Elizabeth and Westmoreland. He had been looking forward to such an opportunity to get one of us off his hands and, since the Old Man seemed the right sort of man kind and understanding, he had mentioned me. The Old Man had come home, looked me over, liked whom he had seen and the deal was clinched. I was packed off the selfsame day. Given away. Regret it? Me? No, sir. A finer man than the Old Man was hard to locate. Just as my father had described him. My new life was heaven to me. From abject poverty a catapult into comparative wealth. But Roy Penner had been given away under slightly harsher circumstances. His mother had taken him along with farm produce to Kingston with the express hope that on returning, neither produce nor boy would accompany her home. The produce was sold. Roy was donated. While she was the Coronation Market on Spanish Town Road in Kingston's West End she had run into Mrs Jenkins, a widow from our village, who had been on the look-out for such a boy as Roy. Small enough for her to handle, she taking into consideration her advancing age and waning strength. The adoption was swift, a bit swifter than mine, and here was Roy, old man. With his hands still deep in his pockets he looked covertly around. "Were you afraid?" he asked. "When?" "When George challenged you". "No," I lied "Boy", he said. "What a fight! Where'd you learn to fight like that?" Taking his hands from his pockets, he did some shadow-boxing, saying: "A pow! A pow! Boy Where did you learn?" "I took lessons from a boy in Santa Cruz" I said, hoping that all this would filter back to George and the others and drive uncommon fear into them. "I know quite a few tricks," I added "Tricks I didn't use". "Want to teach me some?" I didn't know any, so I said "Why, are you threatened too?" "Not really, but I could be in trouble". "Why?" "By talking to you. They're all ganged up". "Nonsense," I said. But he was right because just then we were the centre of attraction. "Let's go", I told him, and began to walk down the hill from the school and towards our respective homes to eat lunch. Behind us was a throng but they followed at a respectful distance. Daphne was one of them. However, we reached home without incident. The Old Man noticed nothing of my bruises and I told him nothing. After lunch, I had several looks at myself in the mirror. I had hoped that a few hairs would at least be peeping through but nothing was happening yet. With the problem of my bald head and my fight with George, I decided to return to school with as little time to spare as possible. So I timed it right and entered the school yard just when the bell rang for the afternoon session. Nothing happened during class but by recess I noticed a new development. Nowhere could I find Roy Penner. But I soon found out why he was missing and where he was. He had been 'captured' by Daphne and George who were showering friendship on him and feeding him candies. They were keeping my only friend from me. Isolating me. And they were making sure, too, by having him participate in a game. I drew nearer. The game involved a mongoose - the villain - and a hen and her chickens. Naturally, George was the mongoose and Daphne the Mother Hen. Among the poor little chickens was Roy, old man. The mongoose is a burrowing animal which has a soft spot for chicken meat. The game: 'Chicks, chicks, chicks,' called villain mongoose, George Kirby, holding out a hand which was supposed to be full of corn. "We don't want your corn," said Mother Hen Daphne, Roy Fenner and other chicks, who were standing in a file behind an akimboed mother. "What fat, fat chicks!" said villain George, jumping to one side, the better to select and snatch one of them. (The idea was he should catch as many of them as possible and so eliminate them from the game.) "We don't want your corn," said Mother Hen and chicks. So as to block mongoose in his strategy, Mother Hen, of course, jumped in the way, the chickens lining up behind her for protection. I watched them for a time. They knew that I was watching but pretended, as though I wasn't there. "What are you doing Roy?" I shouted without knowing why. The game stopped - brups! All eyes turned on me. I didn't why I had interfered, but I had, and here I would go the whole hog. "Playing a game," Roy called back. "With your friends," Daphne said, expecting Roy to add that. But he did not. Jeez, what a devil of a girl! She made me mad. "That's sissy game!" I said. "What?" said Daphne. "You...!" She stamped one foot. "Call me anything, I said, "but that's a sissy game". "Keep out of this, Egg head!" said George Kirby. "Sissy game," I said, taking a bit of bite out of my voice, "Look at him!" Daphne said, akimbo and preening around as though she were a peacock or a queen. "Look at him, the give-away." The others laughed "What did you say?" I shot back at her. "You're a give-away, I said! You're nobody!" And she stamped another Daphne Belmont foot. "Your parents gave you away", she added. And to increase the insult she spat on the ground, and swung herself on tip-toe in such a way that her skirt flounced up. How they laughed. Boy, was I mad! I felt like running up and beating out her brains and plucking that pony tail from her head. Roy jumped at her with little fists, but he did not hit her. "What did you say that for?" "Oh, oh, said George Kirby, "We forgetting about him. Two of a kind. Another give-away boy." I was deeply, hurt but could find nothing to say. The other children kept out of it, too. They were mainly riffraff led by these two school viragos, laughing whenever anything, anything at all, was said about us, but saying nothing of their own. Leslie Barber, Sonia Thompson, Mark Dunn, Leona Perez... the lot of them. Even Marcia Donaldson, a fat girl who preferred to live in and by herself, rarely associating with others. But she was with them now. And laughing. Well, smiling. Roy was sufficiently hurt too, hurt enough to abandon his silly status as a chick in the now-stalled game. With his hands deep in his pockets he walked slowly over and joined me. He would have liked to pout but his mouth - being more rodent-like than snouty - did not lend itself to this kind of action. As he joined, me they began, at the instigation of Daphne, the brains of the group, to chant: * Their parents gave them away! * They're poor as a church mouse! * Their parents gave them away! * Poor as a church mouse! Singing has always appealed to children, and the younger and sillier they are, the deeper the attraction. Their little chant soon paid off, handsomely disrupting other games around the playground and drawing new members. Soon, the volume of the thing was even worse than the words. And they had even added a refrain. * Their parents gave them away! * Poor as a church mouse! * Poor as a church mouse! * Poor as a church mouse! Listening with fever-heat but taking it like a man. That was my way. But Roy began to cry. It was the strangest thing to see this boy cry. The normal child, who does not have to unconsciously cultivate a trademark, gets his hands around the regions of his face in general and the eyes in particular in order to hide such sissy stuff; but not Roy. His hands remained stiffly in his pockets while the silver tears, rolled down his cheeks. I had an idea. I would have to drive a wedge between George and Daphne and everything, no doubt, would crumble. I would start a chant of my own. * Daphne is George Kirby's girl friend! * Daphne is George Kirby's girl friend! With the din they were making I am sure they couldn't have heard a word that I was saying, but they knew that I was retaliating. Daphne hushed them. All the time, Daphne. I repeated the chant. When she heard what I was saying, she screamed: "What?" Frankly, I had never before seen a girl so horrified. Her eyes doubled size and she went limp. "Jeez!" said some of her girl friends. "It's not true," Daphne said, "You...!" I chanted: * Daphne is George Kirby's girl friend! * Isn't that a funny thing...? The other boys began to laugh, much to the embarrassment of George. As for Daphne, she went away, supported by most of her girl friends, went away to cry her dear heart out. Served her right. The boys milled around George, laughing, patting him on the shoulder in the way of congratulations for his good fortune with Daphne, but he soon recovered sufficiently from his shock to snap at them and you should have seen those boys shut up mighty fast and saunter off to safer distances. "Watch what you say about me, you give-away," George said to me, but he showed no belligerence. If anything he seemed confused: * Daphne is George Kirby's girl friend! * Isn't that a funny thing? When he realized that for as long as he was prepared to call me a give-away I would chant his name in courting rank with that of Daphne, he merely said, and quite lamely at that: "You lying...!" I didn't take it any farther because I had achieved my aim and from now on Daphne might be afraid of being seen with George. And of course the fact still remained that George could whip me, only he didn't know it. If he were teased into severe anger he might attack me blindly. When you know that you don't take unnecessary chances. Roy Penner was heartened by my style and strategy. He was drying his tears. "What're you crying for?" I asked. "I didn't like what they said". "Nevertheless you can't cry like this at each little setback! Are you a cry baby?" "No. But I'm not as tough as you". It was so good to hear him, say that I said, "That's true, Roy. Cry if you want to".