Chapter 15 Chalfenism versus Bowdenism

It was Me Jones all right. Six years older than the last time they met. Taller, wider, with breastsand no hair and slippers just visible underneath a long duffle coat. And it was Hortense Bowden.

　　Six years older, shorter, wider, with breasts on her belly and no hair (though she took the peculiarstep of putting her wig in curlers) and slippers just visible underneath a long, padded baby-pinkhousecoat. But the real difference was Hortense was eighty-four. Not a littleoldwoman by anymeans; she was a round robust one, her fat so taut against her skin the epidermis was having a hardtime wrinkling. Still, eighty-four is not seventy seven or sixty-three; at eighty-four there is nothingbut death ahead, tedious in its insistence. It was there in her face as Me had never seen it before.

　　The waiting and the fear and the blessed relief.

　　Yet though there were differences, walking down the steps and into Hortense's basement flat,Me was struck by the shock of sameness. Way-back-when, she had been a fairly regular visitor ather grandmother's: sneaky visits with Archie while her mother was at college, and always leavingwith something unusual, a pickled fish head, chilli dumplings, the lyrics of a stray but persistentpsalm. Then at Darcus's funeral in 1985, ten-year-old Irie had let slip about these social calls andClara had put a stop to them altogether. They still called each other on the phone, on occasion. Andto this day Irie received short letters on exercise paper with a copy of the Watchtower slipped inside.

　　Sometimes Irie looked at her mother's face and saw her grandmother: those majestic cheekbones,those feline eyes. But they had not been face to face for six years.

　　As far as the house was concerned, six seconds seemed to have passed. Still dark, still dank,still underground. Still decorated with hundreds of secular figurines ("Cinderella on her way to theBall', "Mrs. Tiddlytum shows the little squirrels the way to the picnic'), all balanced on theirseparate doilies and laughing gaily amongst themselves, amused that anyone would pay a hundredand fifty pounds in fifteen instalments for such inferior pieces of china and glass as they. A hugetripartite tapestry, which Irie remembered the sewing of, now hung on the wall above the fireplace,depicting, in its first strip, the Anointed sitting in judgement with Jesus in heaven. The Anointedwere all blond and blue-eyed and appeared as serene as Hortense's cheap wool would allow, andwere looking down at the Great Crowd who were happy-looking, but not as happy as the Anointedfrolicking in eternal paradise on earth. The Great Crowd were in turn looking piteously at theheathens (by far the largest group), dead in their graves, and packed on top of each other like sardines.

　　The only thing missing was Darcus (whom Irie only faintly remembered as a mixture of smelland texture; naphthalene and damp wool); there was his huge empty chair, rstill fetid, and there washis television, still on.

　　The, look at you! Pickney nah even got a gansey on child must be freezin'! Shiverin' like aMexico bean. Let me feel you. Fever! You bringin' fever into my house?"It was important, in Hortense's presence, never to admit to illness. The cure, as in mostJamaican households, was always more painful than the symptoms.

　　"I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with'

　　"Oh, really?" Hortense put Irie's hand on her own forehead. "That's fever as sure as fever isfever. Feel it?"Irie felt it. She was hot as hell.

　　"Come 'ere." Hortense grabbed a rug from Darcus's chair and wrapped it around Irie's shoulders,"Now come into the kitchen an' cease an' sekkle. Runnin' roun' on a night like dis, wearin'

　　flimsy nonsense! You're having a hot drink of cer ace and den gone a bed quicker den you everdid in your life."Irie accepted the smelly wrap and followed Hortense into the tiny kitchen, where they both sat down.

　　"Let me look at you."Hortense leant against the oven with hands on hips. "You look like Mr. Death, your new lover.

　　How you get here?"Once again, one had to be careful in answering. Hortense's contempt for London Transport wasa great comfort to her in her old age. She could take one word like train and draw a melody out of it(Northern Line), which expanded into an aria (The Underground) and blossomed into a theme (TheOverground) and then grew exponentially into an operetta (The Evils and Inequities of British Rail).

　　"Er .. . Bus. ni/. It was cold on the top deck. Maybe I caught a chill.""I don' tink dere's any maybes about it, young lady. An' I'm sure I don' know why you come'pon de bus, when it take tree hours to arrive an' leave you waitin' in de col' an' den' when you getpon it de windows are open anyway an' you freeze half to death."Hortense poured a colourless liquid from a small plastic container into her hand. "Come 'ere.""Why?" demanded Irie, immediately suspicious. "What's that?""Nuttin', come 'ere. Take off your spectacles."Hortense approached with a cupped hand.

　　"Not in my eye! There's nothing wrong with my eye!" "Stop fussin'. I'm not puttin' nuttin' inyour eye.""Just tell me what it is," pleaded Irie, trying to work out for which orifice it was intended andscreaming as the cupped hand reached her face, spreading the liquid from forehead to chin.

　　"Aaagh! It burns!""Bay rum," said Hortense matter-of-factly. "Burns de fever away. No, don' wash it off. Jus'

　　leave it to do its biznezz."Irie gritted her teeth as the torture of a thousand pinpricks faded to five hundred, thentwenty-five, until finally it was just a warm flush of the kind delivered by a slap.

　　"So!" said Hortense, entirely awake now and somewhat triumphant. "You finally dash from thatgodless woman, I see. An' caught a flu while you doin' it! Well .. . there are those who wouldn'tblame you, no, not at all... No one knows better clan me what dat woman be like. Never at home,learnin' all her isms and skis ms in the university, leavin' husband and pickney at home, hungry andmaga. Lord, naturally you flee! Well.. ." She sighed and put a copper kettle on the stove. "It iswritten. You will flee by my mountain valley, for it will extend to Azel. You will flee as you fledfrom the earthquake in the days ofUzziah king of judah Then the LORD my God will come, and allthe holy ones with him. Zechariah 14:5. In the end the good ones will flee from the evil. Oh, IrieAmbrosia ... I knew you come in de end. All God's children return in de end.""Gran, I haven't come to find God. I just want to do some -quiet study here and get my headtogether. I need to stay a few months at least till the New Year. Oh .. . ugh ... I feel a bit woozy. CanI have an orange?""Yes, dey all return to de Lord Jesus in de end," continued Hortense to herself, placing the bitterroot of cer ace into a kettle. "Dat's not a real orange, dear. All de fruit is plasticated. De flowers areplasticated also. I don't believe de Lord meant me to spend de little housekeeping money I possesson perishable goods. Have some dates."Irie grimaced at the shrivelled fruit plonked in front of her.

　　"So you lef Archibald wid dat woman.. . poor ting. Me always like Archibald," said Hortensesadly, scrubbing the brown scum from a teacup with two soapy fingers. "Him was never myobjection as such. He always been a level-headed sort a fellow. Blessed are de peacekeepers. Healways strike me as a peacekeeper. But it more de principle of de ting, you know? Black andwhite never come to no good. De Lord Jesus never meant us to mix it up. Dat's why he made ahoi' heap a fuss about de children of men building de tower of Babel. "Im want everybody to keeptings separate. And the Lord did confound the language of all the earth and from thence did theLord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth. Genesis 11:9. When you mix it up, nuttin'

　　good can come. It wasn't intended. Except you," she added as an afterthought. "You're about deonly good ting to come out of dat.. . Bwoy, sometime it like lookin' in a mirror-glass," she said,lifting Irie's chin with her wrinkled digits. "You built like me, big, you know! Hip and tie and rhas,and titties. My mudder was de same way. You even named after my mudder.""Irie?" asked Me, trying hard to listen, but feeling the damp smog of her fever pulling her under.

　　"No, dear, Ambrosia. De stuff dat make you live for ever. Now," she said, clapping her handstogether, catching Irie's next question between them, 'you sleepin' in de living room. I'll get ablanket and pillows and den we talk in de marnin'. I'm up at six, 'cos I got Witness biznezz, so don'

　　tink you sleeping none after eight. Pickney, you hear me?""Mmm. But what about Mum's old room? Can't I just sleep in there?"Hortense took Irie's weight half on her shoulder and led her into the living room. "No, dat's notpossible. Dere is a certain situation," said Hortense mysteriously. "Dat can wait till de sun is up tobe hexplained. Fear them not therefore: for there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed," sheintoned quietly, turning to go. "And nothing hid, that shall not be known. Dat is Mat-chew, 10:26."An autumn morning was the only time worth spending in that basement flat. Between 6 and 7a.m. when the sun was still low, light shot through the front window, bathed the lounge in yellow,dappled the long thin allotment (7 it x 30 it) and gave a healthy veneer to the tomatoes. Youcould almost convince yourself, at 6 a.m." that you were downstairs in some Continental cabana, orat least street level in Torquay, rather than below ground in Lambeth. The glare was such that youcouldn't make out the railway sidings where the strip of green ended, or the busy everyday feet thatpassed by the lounge window, kicking dust through the grating at the glass. It was all white lightand clever shade at six in the morning. Hugging a cup of tea at the kitchen table, squinting at thegrass, Me saw vineyards out there; she saw Florentine scenes instead of the unevenhiggledy-piggledy of Lambeth rooftops; she saw a muscular shadowy Italian plucking full berriesand crushing them underfoot. Then the mirage, sun reliant as it was, disappeared, the whole sceneswallowed by a devouring cloud. Leaving only some crumbling Edwardian housing. Railwaysidings named after a careless child. A long, narrow strip of allotment where next to nothing wouldgrow. And a bleached-out bandy-legged red-headed man with terrible posture and Wellington boots,stamping away in the mulch, trying to shake the remnants of a squashed tomato from his heel.

　　"Dat is Mr. Topps," said Hortense, hurrying across the kitchen in a dark maroon dress, the eyesand hooks undone, and a hat in her hand with plastic flowers askew. "He has been such a help to mesince Darcus died. He soothes away my vexation and calms my mind."She waved to him and he straightened up and waved back. Me watched him pick up two plasticbags filled with tomatoes and walk in his strange pigeon-footed manner up the garden towards theback kitchen door.

　　"An' he de only man who made a solitary ting grow out dere. Such a crop of tomatoes as younever did see! Me Ambrosia, stop starin' and come an' do up dis dress. Quickbefore yourgoggle-eye fall out.""Does he live here?" whispered Me in amazement, strugglingto join the two sides of Hortense's dress over her substantial flank. "I mean, with you?""Not in de sense you meaning," sniffed Hortense. "He is jus' a great help to me in my of' age.

　　He bin wid me deez six years, God bless 'im and keep 'is soul. Now, pass me dat pin."Me passed her the long hat pin which was sitting on top of a butter dish. Hortense set the plasticcarnations straight on her hat and stabbed them fiercely, then brought the pin back up through thefelt, leaving two inches of exposed silver sticking up from the hat like a German pickelhaube.

　　"Well, don' look so shock. It a very satisfactory arrangement. Women need a man 'bout de house,udder wise ting an' ting get messy. Mr. Topps and I, we of' soldiers fightin' the battle of de Lord.

　　Some time ago he converted to the Witness church, an' his rise has been quick an' sure. I've waitedfifty years to do so meting else in de Kingdom Hall except clean," said Hortense sadly, 'but deydon' wan' women interfering with real church biz ness Got Mr. Topps do a great deal, and 'im let mehelp on occasion. He's a very good man. Butim family are nasty-nasty," she murmuredconfidentially. The farder is a terrible man, gambler an' whoremonger ... so after a while, I arks himto come and live with me, seem' how de room empty and Darcus gone. "Im a very civilized bwoy.

　　Never married, though. Married to de church, yes, suh! An' 'im call me Mrs. Bowden deez six years,never any ting else." Hortense sighed ever so slightly. "Don' know de meaning of being' improper.

　　De only ting he wan' in life is to become one of de Anointed. I have de greatest hadmiration for him.

　　He him proved so much. He talk so posh now, you know! And 'im very good wid de pipin' an' plumming also. How's your fever?""Not great. Last hook .. . there that's done."Hortense fairly bounced away from her and walked into the hall to open the back door to Ryan.

　　"But Gran, why does he live '

　　Me 1990, 1907"Well, you're going to have to eat up dis marnin' feed a fever, starve a col'. Deez tomatoes friedwid plantain and some of las' night's fish. I'll fry it up and den pop it in de microwave.""I thought it was starve a fe '

　　"Good marnin', Mr. Topps.""Good mornin', Missus Bowden," said Mr. Topps, closing the door behind him and peeling off aprotective cagoule to reveal a cheap blue suit, with a tiny gold cross pendant on the collar. "I trustyou is almost of a readiness? We've got to be at the hall on the dot of seven."As yet, Ryan had not spotted Me. He was bent over shaking the mud from his boots. And he didit formidably slowly, just as he spoke, and with his translucent eyelids fluttering like a man in acoma. Me could only see half of him from where she stood: a red fringe, a bent knee and the shirtcuff of one hand.

　　But the voice was a visual in itself: cockney yet refined, a voice that had had much work doneupon it missing key consonants and adding others where they were never meant to be, and alldelivered through the nose with only the slightest help from the mouth.

　　"Fine mornin', Mrs. B." fine mornin'. Somefing to fankthe Lord for."Hortense seemed terribly nervous about the imminent likelihood that he should raise his headand spot the girl standing by the stove. She kept beckoning Me forward and then shooing her back,uncertain whether they should meet at all.

　　"Oh yes, Mr. Topps, it is, an' I am ready as ready can be. My hat give me a little trouble, youknow, but I just got a pin an '

　　"But the Lord ain't interested in the vanities of the flesh, now, is he Mrs. B.?" said Ryan, slowlyand painfully enunciating each word while crouching awkwardly and removing his left boot.

　　"Jehovah is in need of your soul.""Oh yes, surely dat is de holy troot," said Hortense anxiously, fingering her plasticatedcarnations. "But at de same time, surelya Witness lady don' wan' look like a, well, a buguyaga in de house of de Lord."Ryan frowned. "My point is, you must avoid interpretin' scripture by yourself, Mrs. Bowden. Infuture, discuss it wiv myself and my colleagues. Ask us: is pleasant clothing a concern of the Lord's?

　　And myself and my colleagues amongst the Anointed, will look up the necessary chapter and verse ..."Ryan's sentence faded into a general Erhummmm, a sound he was prone to making. It began inhis arched nostrils and reverberated through his slight, elongated, misshapen limbs like the finalshiver of a hanged man.

　　"I don' know why I do it, Mr. Topps," said Hortense shaking her head. "Sometime I tink I couldbe one of dem dat teach, you know? Even though I am a woman ... I feel like the Lord talk to me ina special way ... It jus' a bad habit.. . but so much in de church change recently, sometimes me kyankeep up wid all de rules and regulations."Ryan looked out through the double glazing. His face was pained. "Nuffin' changes about theword of God, Mrs. B. Only people are mistaken. The best thing you can do for the Truth, is justpray that the Brooklyn Hall will soon deliver us with the final date. Erhummmm.""Oh yes, Mr. Topps. I do it day and night."Ryan clapped his hands together in a pale imitation of enthusiasm. "Now, did I 'ear you sayplantain for breakfast, Mrs. B.?""Oh yes, Mr. Topps, and dem tomatoes if you will be kind enough to ban' dem over to de chef."As Hortense had hoped, the passing of the tomatoes coincided with the spotting of Irie.

　　"Now, dis is my grand darter Me Ambrosia Jones. And dis is Mr. Ryan Topps. Say hello, Irie, dear."Irie did so, stepping forward nervously and reaching out her hand to shake his. But there was noresponse from Ryan Topps, and the inequality was only increased when on the sudden heMe 1990, 1907seemed to recognize her; there was a pulse of familiarity as his eyes moved over her, whereasMe saw nothing, not even a type, not even a genre of face in his; the monstrosity of him was quiteunique, redder than any red-head, more freckled than the freckled, more blue-veined than a lobster.

　　"She's she's Clara's darter said Hortense tentatively. "Mr. Topps knew your mudder, long time.

　　But it all right, Mr. Topps, she come to live wid us now.""Only for a little time Me corrected hurriedly, noting the look of vague horror on Mr. Topps'sface. "Just for a few months maybe, through the winter while I study. I've got exams in June/Mr. Topps did not move. Moreover nothing on him moved. Like one of China's terra cotta army,he seemed poised for battle yet unable to move.

　　"Clara's darter repeated Hortense in a tearful whisper. "She might have been yours."Nothing surprised Me about this final, whispered aside; she just added it to the list: AmbrosiaBowden gave birth in an earthquake .. . Captain Charlie Durham was a no-good djam fool bwoy.. .

　　false teeth in a glass .. . she might have been yours .. .

　　Half-heartedly, with no expectation of an answer, Me asked, "What?""Oh, nuttin', Me, dear. Nuttin', nuttin'. Let me start fryin'. I can hear bellies rumblin'. Youremember Clara, don't you Mr. Topps? You and she were quite good .. . friends. Mr. Topps?"For two minutes now Ryan had been fixing Me with an unwavering stare, his body heldabsolutely straight, his mouth slightly open. At the question, he seemed to compose himself, closedhis mouth and took his seat at the un laid table.

　　"Clara's daughter, is it? Erhummmm .. ." He removed what looked like a small policeman's padfrom his breast pocket and poised a pen upon it as if this would kick start his memory.

　　"You see, many of the episodes, people and events from my earlier life have been, as it were,severed from myself by thealmighty sword that cut me from my past when the Lord Jehovah saw fit to enlighten me withthe Truth, and as he has chosen me for a new role I must, as Paul so wisely recommended in hisepistle to the Corinfians, put away childish things, allowing earlier incarnations of myself to beenveloped into a great smog in which said Ryan Topps, taking only the smallest breath and hiscutlery from Hortense, 'it appears that your mother, and any memory I might 'ave of her, 'avedisappeared. Erhummmm.""She never mentioned you either," said Me.

　　"Well, it was all a long time ago now," said Hortense with forced joviality. "But you did tryyour best wider Mr. Topps. She was my miracle child, Clara. I was forty-eight! I taut she was God'schild. But Clara was bound for evil .. . she never was a godly girl an' in de end dere was nuttin' tobe done.""He will send down His vengeance, Mrs. B.," said Ryan, with more cheerful animation than Mehad yet seen him display. "He will send terrible torture to those who 'ave earned it. Three plantainfor me, if you please."Hortense set all three plates down and Me, realizing she hadn't eaten since the previousmorning, scraped a mountain of plantain on to her plate.

　　"Ah! It's hot!""Better hot clan lukewarm," said Hortense grimly, with a meaningful shudder. "Ever so, ha men"Amen," echoed Ryan, braving the red-hot plantain. "Amen. So. What exactly is it that you arestudy inT he asked, looking so intently past Me that it took a moment before she realized he wasaddressing her.

　　"Chemistry, biology and religious studies." Me blew on a hot piece of plantain. "I want to be adentist."Ryan perked up. "Religious studies? And do they acquaint you with the only true church?"Me shifted in her seat. "Er .. . I guess it's more the big three. Jews, Christians, Muslims. We dida month on Catholicism."Ryan grimaced. "And do you have any uwer inter-rests?"Irie considered. "Music. I like music. Concerts, clubs, that kind of thing.""Yes, erhummmm. I used to go in for all that myself at one time. Until the Good News wasdelivered unto me. Large gatherings of yoof, of the kind that frequent popular conceits, arecommonly breeding grounds for devil worship. A girl of your physical .. . assets might find herselflured into the lascivious arms of a sexualist," said Ryan, standing up from the table and looking athis watch. "Now that I fink about it, in a certain light you look a lot like your mother. Similar .. .

　　cheekbones."Ryan wiped a pearly line of sweat from his forehead. There was a silence in which Hortensestood motionless, clinging nervously to a dishcloth, and Irie had to physically cross the room for aglass of water to remove herself from Mr. Topps's stare.

　　"Well. That's twenty minutes and counting, Mrs. B. I'll get the gear, shall I?""Oh yes, Mr. Topps," said Hortense beaming. But the moment Ryan left the room the beamturned to a scowl.

　　"Why must you go an' say tings like dat, hmm? You wan' 'im to tink you some devilish heathengal? Why kyan you say stamp-collecting or some ting? Come on, I gat to clean deez plates finish up."Irie looked at the pile of food left on her plate and guiltily tapped her stomach.

　　"Cho! Just as I sus peck Your eyes see more clan your belly can hoi'! Give it 'ere."Hortense leant against the sink and began popping bits of plantain into her mouth. "Now, youdon' back chat Mr. Topps while you here. You gat study to do an' he gat study too," said Hortense,lowering her voice. "He's in consultation with the Brooklyn gentlemen at de moment .. . fixing definal date; no mistakes dis time. You jus' 'ave to look at de trouble goin' on in de world to know weThat far from de appointed day."Chalfenism versus Bovcdenism"I won't be any trouble," said Me, approaching the washing-up as a gesture of goodwill. "Hejust seems a little .. . weird.""De ones who are chosen by the Lord always seem peculiar to de heathen. Mr. Topps is jus'

　　misunderstood. "Im mean a lot to me. Me never have nobody before. Your mudder don' like to tellyou since she got all hitey-titey, but de Bowden family have had it hard long time. I was barnduring an cart-quake. Almost kill fore I was barn. An' den when me a fully grown woman, my owndarter run from me. Me never see my only grandpickney. I only have de Lord, all dem years. Mr.

　　Topps de first human man who look pon me and take pity an' care. Your mudder was a fool to letimgo, true sir!"Irie gave it one last try. "What? What does that mean?""Oh, nuttin, nuttin, dear Lord... I and I talking all over de place dis marnin .. . Oh Mr. Topps,dere you are. We not going to be late now, are we?"Mr. Topps, who had just re-entered the room, was fully adorned in leather from head to toe, ahuge motorcycle helmet on his head, a small red light attached to his left ankle and a small whitelight strapped to his right. He flipped up the visor.

　　"No, we're all right, by the grace of God. Where's your helmet, Mrs. B.?""Oh, I've started keepin' it in the oven. Keeps it warm and toasty on de col' marnins. IrieAmbrosia, fetch it for me please."Sure enough, on the middle shelf preheated to gas mark 2 sat Hortense's helmet. Irie scooped itout and carefully fitted it over her grandmother's plasticated carnations.

　　"You ride a motorbike," said Irie, by way of conversation.

　　But Mr. Topps seemed defensive. "A G S Vespa. Nuffink fancy. I did fink about givin' it away atone point. It represented a life I'd raaver forget, if you get my meaning. A motorbike is a sexualmagnet, an' God forgive me, but I misused it in that fashion. I was all set on getting' rid of it. Butthen Mrs. B. convinced me that what wiv all my public speaking, I need somefing quick to getMe 1990, 1907around on. An' Mrs. B. don't want to be messin' about with buses and trains at her age, do youMrs. B.?""No, indeed. He got me dis little buggy '

　　"Sidecar," corrected Ryan tetchily. "It's called a sidecar. Minetto Motorcycle-combination, 1973model.""Yes, of course, a sidecar, an' it is comfortable as a bed. We go everywhere in it, Mr. Topps an'

　　I."Hortense took down her overcoat from a hook on the door, and reached in the pockets for twoVelcro reflector bands which she strapped round each arm.

　　"Now, Me, I've got a great deal of biz ness to be getting' on with today, so you're going to haveto cook for yourself, because I kyan tell what time we'll be home. But don' worry. Me soon come.""No problem."Hortense sucked her teeth. "No problem. Dat's what her name mean in patois: Irie, no problem.

　　Now, what kind of a name is dat to .. . ?"Mr. Topps didn't answer. He was already out on the pavement, revving up the Vespa.

　　"First I have to keep her from those Chalfens," growls Clara over the phone, her voice aresonant tremolando of anger and fear. "And now you people again."On the other end, her mother takes the washing out of the machine and listens silently throughthe cordless that is tucked between ear and weary shoulder, biding her time.

　　"Hortense, I don't want you filling her head with a whole load of nonsense. You hear me? Yourmother was fool to it, and then you were fool to it, but the buck stopped with me and it ain't goingno further. If Irie comes home spouting any of that claptrap, you can forget about the SecondComin' 'cos you'll be dead by the time it arrives."Big words. But how fragile is Clara's atheism! Like one of those tiny glass doves Hortensekeeps in the lounge cabinet a breath would knock it over. Talking of which, Clara still holds herswhen passing churches the same way adolescent vegetarians scurry by butchers; she avoids Kilburnon a Saturday for fear of streetside preachers on their upturned apple crates. Hortense senses Clara'sterror. Coolly cramming in another load of whites and measuring out the liquid with a thriftywoman's eye, she is short and decided: "Don' you worry about Me Ambrosia. She in a good placenow. She'll tell you herself As if she had ascended with the heavenly host rather than entombedherself below ground in the borough of Lambeth with Ryan Topps.

　　Clara hears her daughter getting on the extension; an initial crackle and then a voice as clear asa carillon. "Look, I'm not coming home, all right, so don't bother. I'll be back when I'm back, justdon't worry about me." And there should be nothing to worry about and there is nothing to worryabout, except maybe that outside in the streets it is cold packed on cold, even the dogshit hascrystallized, there is the first suggestion of ice on the windscreens and Clara has been in that housethrough the winters. She knows what it means. Oh, wonderfully bright at 6 a.m., yes, wonderfullyclear for an hour. But the shorter the days, the longer the nights, the darker the house, the easier it is,the easier it is, the easier it is, to mistake a shadow for the writing on the wall, the sound ofoverland footsteps for the distant crack of thunder, and the midnight chime of a New Year clock forthe bell that tolls the end of the world.

　　But Clara needn't have feared. Irie's atheism was robust. It was Chalfenist in its confidence, andshe approached her stay with Hortense with detached amusement. She was intrigued by theBowden household. It was a place of end games and after times full stops and finales; where tocount on the arrival of tomorrowwas an indulgence, and every service in the house, from the milkman to the electricity, was paidfor on a strictly daily basis so as not to spend money on utilities or goods that would be wastedshould God turn up in all his holy vengeance the very next day. Bowdenism gave a whole newmeaning to the phrase 'hand-to-mouth'. This was living in the eternal instant, ceaselessly teeteringon the precipice of total annihilation; there are people who take a great deal of drugs simply toexperience something comparable to 84-year-old Hortense Bowden's day-to-day existence. Soyou've seen dwarfs rip open their bellies and show you their insides, you've been a televisionswitched off without warning, you've experienced the whole world as one Krishna consciousness,free of individual ego, floating through the infinite cosmos of the soul? Big fucking deal. That's allbullshit next to St. John's trip when Christ laid the twenty-two chapters of Revelation on him. Itmust have been a hell of a shock for the apostle (after that thorough spin-job, the New Testament,all those sweet words and sublime sentiments) to discover Old Testament vengeance lurking roundthe corner after all. As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten. That must have been some eye-opener.

　　Revelation is where all crazy people end up. It's the last stop on the nut so express. AndBowdenism, which was the Witnesses plus Revelation and then some, was as left field as theycome. Par exemple: Hortense Bowden interpreted Revelation 3:15 - / know thy works, that thou anneither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou an lukewarm, and neithercold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth as a literal mandate. She understood 'lukewarm' to bean evil property in and of itself. She kept a microwave on hand at all times (her sole concession tomodern technology for a long time it was a toss-up between pleasing the Lord and laying oneselfopen to the United States mind-ray control programme as operated through high-frequency radiowaves in order to heat every meal to an impossible temperature; she kept whole buckets of ice tochill every glass of water 'colder than cold'. She wore two pairs of knickers at all times like a warypotential traffic-victim; when Me asked why, she sheepishly revealed that upon hearing the firstsigns of the Lord (approaching thunder, bellowing voice, Wagner's Ring Cycle), she intended towhip off the one closest to her and replace it with the outer pair, so that Jesus would find her freshand odour less and ready for heaven. She kept a tub of black paint in the hallway so when the timecame she might daub the neighbours' doors with the sign of the Beast, saving the Lord all thattrouble of weeding out the baddies, separating sheep from goats. And you couldn't form anysentence in that house which included the words 'end', 'finished', 'done', etc." for these were like somany triggers setting off both Hortense and Ryan with the usual ghoulish relish:

　　Irie: I finished the washing-up.

　　Ryan Topps (shaking his head solemnly at the truth of it): As one day we all shall be finished,Irie, my dear; be zealous therefore, and repent. OrIrie: It was a such a good film. The end was great! Hortense Bowden (tearfully): And dem datex peck such an end to dis world will be sorely disappointed, for He will come trailin' terror and Lode generation dat witness de events of 1914 shall now witness de turd part of de trees burn, and theturd part of de sea become as blood, and de turd part of de .. .

　　And then there was Hortense's horror of weather reports. Whoever it was, however benign,honey-voiced and inoffensively dressed, she cursed them bitterly for the five minutes they stoodthere, and then, out of what appeared to be sheer perversity, proceeded to take the opposite ofwhatever advice had been proffered (light jacket and no umbrella for rain, full cagoule arain hat for sun). It was several weeks before Me understood that weathermen were the secularantithesis of Hortense's life work, which was, essentially, a kind of supercosrnic attempt to secondguess the Lord with one almighty biblical exegesis of a weather report. Next to that weathermenwere nothing but upstarts .. . And tomorrow, coming in from the east, we can expect a great furnaceto rise up and envelop the area with flames that give no light, but rather darkness visible .. . whileI'm afraid the northern regions are advised to wrap up warm against thick-ribbed ice, and there's afair likelihood that the coast will be beaten with perpetual storms of whirlwind and dire hail whichon firm land thaws not... Michael Fish and his ilk were stabbers-in-the-dark, trusting to thetomfoolery of the Met Office, making a mockery of that precise science, eschatology, that Hortensehad spent over fifty years in the study of.

　　"Any news, Mr. Topps?" (This question almost invariably asked over breakfast; and girlishly,breathlessly, like a child asking after Santa.)"No, Mrs. B. We are still completing our studies. You must let my colleagues and myselfdeliberate thoroughly. In this life there are them that are teachers and then there are them that arepupils. There are eight million Witnesses of Jehovah waiting for our decision, waiting for theJudgement Day. But you must learn to leave such tings to them that 'ave the direct line, Mrs. B." thedirect line."After bunking for a few weeks, Me returned to school. But it seemed so distant; even thejourney from South to North each morning felt like an almighty polar trek, and worse, one thatstopped short of its goal and ended up instead in the tepid regions, a non-event compared with theboiling maelstrom of the Bowden home. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold norhot, I will spue thee out of my mouth. You become so used to extremity, suddenly nothing else willdo.

　　She saw Millat regularly, but their conversations were brief. He was green-tied now andotherwise engaged. She still did Marcus's filing twice a week, but avoided the rest of the family.

　　She saw Josh fleetingly. He seemed to be avoiding the Chalfens as assiduously as she. Her parentsshe saw on weekends, icy occasions when everybody called everybody by their first names (Irie,can you pass the salt to Archie? Clara, Archie wants to know where the scissors are), and all partiesfelt deserted. She sensed that she was being whispered about in the way North Londoners willwhen they suspect someone of coming down with religion, that nasty disease. So she hurried backto No. 28 Lindaker Road, Lambeth, relieved to be back in the darkness, for it was like hibernatingor being cocooned, and she was as curious as everyone else to see what kind of Irie would emerge.

　　It wasn't any kind of prison. That house was an adventure. In cupboards and neglected drawers andin grimy frames were the secrets that had been hoarded for so long, as if secrets were going out offashion. She found pictures of her great-grandmother Ambrosia, a bony, beautiful thing, with hugealmond eyes, and one of Charlie "Whitey' Durham standing in a pile of rubble with a sepia-printsea behind him. She found a bible with one line torn from it. She found photo-booth snaps of Clarain school uniform, grinning maniacally, the true horror of the teeth revealed. She read alternatelyfrom Dental Anatomy by Gerald M. Cathey and The Good News Bible, and raced voraciouslythrough Hortense's small and eclectic library, blowing the red dust of a Jamaican schoolhouse offthe covers and often using a pen knife to cut never-before-read pages. February's list was asfollows:

　　An Account of a West Indian Sanatorium, by Geo. J. H. Sutton Moxly. London: Sampson, Low,Marston & Co." 1886. (There was an inverse correlation between the length of the author's nameand the poor quality of his book.)Tom Cringle's Log, by Michael Scott. Edinburgh: 1875.

　　In Sugar Cane Land, by Eden Phillpotts. London: McClure &Co." 1893. Dominica: Hints and Notes to Intending Settlers, by His HonourH. Hesketh Bell, CMC. London: A. & C. Black, 1906.

　　The more she read, the more that picture of dashing Capt. Durham aroused her natural curiosity:

　　handsome and melancholy, surveying the bricks of half a church, looking worldly-wise despite hisyouth, looking every inch the Englishman, looking like he could tell someone or another a thing ortwo about something. Maybe Me herself. Just in case, she kept him under her pillow. And in themornings it wasn't Italian ate vineyards out there any more, it was sugar, sugar, sugar, and next doorwas nothing but tobacco and she presumptuously fancied that the smell of plantain sent her back tosomewhere, somewhere quite fictional, for she'd never been there. Somewhere Columbus called St.

　　Jago but the arawaks stubbornly re-named Xaymaca, the name lasting longer than they did.

　　Well-wooded and Watered. Not that Me had heard of those little sweet-tempered potbellied victimsof their own sweet-tempers. Those were some other Jamaicans, fallen short of the attention-span ofhistory. She laid claim to the past her version of the past aggressively, as if retrieving misdirectedmail. So this was where she came from. This all belonged to her, her birthright, like a pair of pearlearrings or a post office bond. X marks the spot, and Me put an X on everything she found,collecting bits and bobs (birth certificates, maps, army reports, news articles) and storing themunder the sofa, so that as if by osmosis the richness of them would pass through the fabric while shewas sleeping and seep right into her.

　　As the buds came with the spring, so like any anchoress she was visited. First, by voices.

　　Coming crackling over Hortense's neolithic radio, Joyce Chalfen on Gardeners' Question Time:

　　Foreman: Another question from the audience, I think. Mrs. Sally Whitaker from Bournemouthhas a question for the panel, I believe. Mrs.

　　Whitaker?

　　Mrs. Whitaker: Thank you, Brian. Well, I'm a new gardener and this is my first frost and in twoshort months my garden's gone from being a real colour explosion to a very bare thing indeed .. .

　　Friends have advised flowers with a compact habit but that leaves me with lots of tiny auricula anddouble daisies, which look silly because the garden's really quite large. Now, I'd really like to plantsomething a little more striking, around the height of a delphinium, but then the wind gets it andpeople look over their fences thinking: Dear oh dear (sympathetic laughter from the studioaudience). So, my question to the panel is, how do you keep up appearances in the bleakmidwinter?

　　Foreman: Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker. Well, it's a common problem .. . and it doesn't necessarilyget any easier for the seasoned gardener. Personally, I never get it quite right. Well, let's hand thequestion over to the panel, shall we? Joyce Chalfen, any answers or suggestions for the bleakmidwinter?

　　Joyce Chalfen: Well, first I must say your neighbours sound very nosy. I'd tell them to mindtheir own beeswax if I were you (laughter from audience). But to be serious, I think this wholetrend for round-the-clock bloom is actually very unhealthy for the garden and the gardener andparticularly the soil, I really do ... I think the winter should be a time of rest, subdued colours, youknow and then when the late spring does finally arrive the neighbours get a hell of a shock! Boom!

　　There it is, this wonderful explosion of growth. I think the deep winter is really a time for nurturingthe soil, turning it over, allowing it a rest and plotting its future all the better to surprise the nosypeople next door. I always think of agarden's soil like a woman's body moving in cycles, you know, fertile at some times and notothers, and that's really quite natural. But if you really are determined, then Lenten rosesHelleborus corsicus do remarkably well in cold, calcareous soil, even if they're quite in theIrie switched Joyce off. It was quite therapeutic switching Joyce off. This was not entirelypersonal. It just seemed tiring and unnecessary all of a sudden, that struggle to force something outof the recalcitrant English soil. Why bother when there was now this other place? (For Jamaicaappeared to Irie as if it were newly made. Like Columbus himself, just by discovering it she hadbrought it into existence.) This well-wooded and watered place. Where things sprang from the soilriotously and without supervision, and a young white captain could meet a young black girl with nocomplications, both of them fresh and untainted and without past or dictated future a place wherethings simply were. No fictions, no myths, no lies, no tangled webs this is how Irie imagined herhomeland. Because homeland is one of the magical fantasy words like unicorn and soul and infinitythat have now passed into the language. And the particular magic of homeland, its particular spellover Irie, was that it sounded like a beginning. The beginning est of beginnings. Like the firstmorning of Eden and the day after apocalypse. A blank page.

　　But every time Irie felt herself closer to it, to the perfect blankness of the past, something of thepresent would ring the Bowden doorbell and intrude. Mothering Sunday brought a surprise visitfrom Joshua, angry on the doorstep, at least a stone and a half lighter, and much scruffier than usual.

　　Before Irie had a chance to express either concern or shock, he had flounced into the lounge andslammed the door. Tm sick of it! Sick to the back fucking teeth with it!"The vibration of the door knocked Capt. Durham from his perch on Irie's windowsill, and shecarefully re-erected him.

　　"Yeah, nice to see you too, man. Why don't you sit down and slow down. Sick of what?""Them. They sicken me. They go on about rights and freedoms, and then they eat fifty chickensevery fucking week! Hypocrites!"Me couldn't immediately see the connection. She took out a fag in preparation for a long story.

　　To her surprise Joshua took one too, and they went to kneel on the window seat, blowing smokethrough the grate up into the street.

　　"Do you know how battery chickens live?"Me didn't. Joshua explained. Cooped up for most of their poor chicken lives in total chickendarkness, packed together like chicken sardines in their chicken shit and fed the worst type ofchicken grain. And this, according to Joshua, was apparently nothing on how pigs and cows andsheep spent their time. "It's a fucking crime. But try telling Marcus that. Try getting him to give uphis Sunday hog-fest. He's so fucking ill informed. Have you ever noticed that? He knows thisenormous amount about one thing, but there's this whole other world that.. . Oh, before I forget youshould take a leaflet."Me never thought she would see the day when Joshua Chalfen handed her a leaflet. But here itwas in her palm. It was called: Meat is Murder: The Facts and the Fiction, a publication from theFATE organization.

　　"It stands for Fighting Animal Torture and Exploitation. They're like the hardcore end ofGreenpeace or whatever. Read it they're not just hippy freaks, they're coming from a solid scientificand academic background and they're working from an anarchist perspective. I feel like I've reallyfound my niche, you know? It's a really incredible group. Dedicated to direct action. The deputy'san ex-Oxford fellow.""Mmmm. How's Millat?"Joshua shook off the question. "Oh, I don't know. Barmy. Going barmy. And Joyce is stillpandering to his every whim. Justdon't ask me. They all sicken me. Everything's changed." Josh ran his fingers anxiously throughhis hair, which just reached his shoulders now in what Willesdeners affectionately call a Jew-froMullet. "I just can't tell you how everything's changed. I'm having these real.. . moments of clarity."Irie nodded. She was sympathetic to moments of clarity. Her seventeenth year was provingchock-a-block with them. And she wasn't surprised by Joshua's metamorphosis. Four months in thelife of a seventeen-year-old is the stuff of swings and roundabouts; Stones fans into Beatles fans,Tories into Liberal Democrats and back again, vinyl junkies to C D freaks. Never again in your lifedo you possess the capacity for such total personality overhaul.

　　"I knew you'd understand. I wish I'd talked to you before, but I just can't bear to be in the housethese days and when I do see you Millat always seems to be in the way. It's really good to see you.""You too. You look different."Josh gestured dismissively at his clothes, which were distinctly less nerdy than they had been.

　　"I guess you can't wear your father's old corduroy for ever.""I guess not."Joshua clapped his hands together. "Well, I've booked my ticket for Glastonbury and I might notcome back. I met these people from FATE and I'm going with them.""It's March. Not till the summer, surely.""Joely and Crispin that's these people I met say we might go up there early. You know, camp outfor a bit.""And school?""If you can bunk, I can bunk .. . it's not as if I'm going to fall behind. I've still got a Chalfenhead on my shoulders, I'll just come back for the exams and then fuck off again. Irie, you've just gotto meet these people. They're just.. . incredible. He's a Dadaist. And she's an anarchist. A real one.

　　Not like Marcus. Itold her about Marcus and his bloody Future Mouse She thinks he's a dangerous individual.

　　Quite possibly psychopathic."Me thought about this. "Mmm. I'd be surprised."Without stubbing out his fag, he threw it up on to the pavement. "And I'm giving up all meat.

　　I'm a pescatarian at the moment, but that's just half measures. I'm becoming a fucking vegetarian."Me shrugged, not certain what the right response should be.

　　"There's a lot to be said for the old motto, you know?""Old motto?""Fight fire with fire. It's only by really fucking extreme behaviour that you can get through tosomebody like Marcus. He doesn't even know how out there he is. There's no point beingreasonable with him because he thinks he owns reasonableness. How do you deal with people likethat? Oh, and I'm giving up leather wearing it and all other animal by-products. Gelatin and stuff."After a while of watching the feet go by leathers, sneakers, heels Me said, "That'll show 'em."On April Fool's Day, Samad turned up. He was all in white, on his way to the restaurant,crumpled and creased like a disappointed saint. He looked to be on the brink of tears. Me let him in.

　　"Hello, Miss Jones," said Samad, bowing ever so slightly. "And how is your father?"Me smiled with recognition. "You see him more than we do. How's God?""Perfectly fine, thank you. Have you seen my good-for-nothing son recently?"Before Me had a chance to give her next line, Samad broke down in front of her and had to beled into the living room, sat in Darcus's chair and brought a cup of tea before he could speak.

　　"Mr. Iqbal, what's wrong?""What is right?""Has something happened to Dad?""Oh no, no... Archibald is fine. He is like the washing-machine advert. He carries on and on asever."Then what?""Millat. He has been missing these three weeks.""God. Well, have you tried the Chalfens?""He is not with them. I know where he is. Out of the trying pan and into the fire. He is on someretreat with these lunatic green-tie people. In a sports centre in Chester.""Bloody hell."Me sat down cross-legged and took out a fag. "I hadn't seen him in school, but I didn't realizehow long it had been. But if you know where he is .. ." "I didn't come here to find him, I came toask your advice, Me. What can I do? You know him how does one get through?"Me bit her lip, her mother's old habit. "I mean, I don't know . we're not as close as we were .. .

　　but I've always thought that maybe it's the Magid thing .. . missing him ... I mean he'd never admitit ... but Magid's his twin and maybe if he saw him"No, no. No, no, no. I wish that were the solution. Allah knows how I pinned all my hopes onMagid. And now he says he is coming back to study the English law paid for by these Chalfenpeople. He wants to enforce the laws of man rather than the laws of God. He has learnt none of thelessons of Muhammad peace be upon Him! Of course, his mother is delighted. But he is nothingbut a disappointment to me. More English than the English. Believe me, Magid will do Millat nogood and Millat will do Magid no good. They have both lost their way. Strayed so far from the lifeI had intended for them. No doubt they will both marry white women called Sheila and put me inan early grave. All I wanted was two good Muslim boys. Oh, Me ..." Samad took her free hand andpatted it with sad affection. "I just don't understand where I have gone wrong. You teach them buttheydo not listen because they have the "Public Enemy" music on at full blast. You show them theroad and they take the bloody path to the Inns of Court. You guide them and they run from yourgrasp to a Chester sports centre. You try to plan everything and nothing happens in the way that youexpected .. ."But if you could begin again, thought Irie, if you could take them back to the source of the river,to the start of the story, to the homeland .. . But she didn't say that, because he felt it as she felt itand both knew it was as useless as chasing your own shadow. Instead she took her hand fromunderneath his and placed it on top, returning the stroke. "Oh, Mr. Iqbal. I don't know what to say"There are no words. The one I send home comes out a pukka Englishman, white suited, sillywig lawyer. The one I keep here is fully paid-up green bow-tie-wearing fundamentalist terrorist. Isometimes wonder why I bother," said Samad bitterly, betraying the English inflections of twentyyears in the country, "I really do. These days, it feels to me like you make a devil's pact when youwalk into this country. You hand over your passport at the check-in, you get stamped, you want tomake a little money, get yourself started .. . but you mean to go back! Who would want to stay?

　　Cold, wet, miserable; terrible food, dreadful newspapers who would want to stay? In a place whereyou are never welcomed, only tolerated. Just tolerated. Like you are an animal finally house-trained.

　　Who would want to stay? But you have made a devil's pact ... it drags you in and suddenly you areunsuitable to return, your children are unrecognizable, you belong nowhere.""Oh, that's not true, surely.""And then you begin to give up the very idea of belonging. Suddenly this thing, this belonging,it seems like some long, dirty lie ... and I begin to believe that birthplaces are accidents, thateverything is an accident. But if you believe that, where do you go? What do you do? What doesanything matter?"As Samad described this dystopia with a look of horror, Me was ashamed to find that the landof accidents sounded like paradise to her. Sounded like freedom.

　　"Do you understand, child? I know you understand."And what he really meant was: do we speak the same language? Are we from the same place?

　　Are we the same?

　　Irie squeezed his hand and nodded vigorously, trying to ward off his tears. What else could shetell him but what he wanted to hear?

　　"Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, yes."When Hortense and Ryan came home that evening after a late-night prayer meeting, both werein a state of high excitement. Tonight was the night. After giving Hortense a flurry of instructions asto the typesetting and layout of his latest Watchtower article, Ryan went into the hallway to makehis telephone call to Brooklyn to get the news.

　　"But I thought he was in consultation with them.""Yes, yes, he is ... but de final confirmation, you understand, must come from Mr. CharlesWintry himself in Brooklyn," said Hortense breathlessly. "What a day dis is! What a day! Help mewid liftin' dis typewriter now ... I need it on de table."Irie did as she was told, carrying the enormous old Remington to the kitchen and laying it downin front of Hortense. Hortense passed Irie a bundle of white paper covered in Ryan's tiny script.

　　"Now you read dat to me, Irie Ambrosia, slowly now .. . an' I'll get it down in type."Irie read for half an hour or so, wincing at Ryan's horrible corkscrew prose, passing the whitingfluid when it was required, and gritting her teeth at the author's interruptions as every ten minuteshe popped back into the room to adjust his syntax or rephrase a paragraph.

　　"Mr. Topps, did you get trew yet?""Not yet, Mrs. B." not yet. Very busy, Mr. Charles Wintry. I'm going to try again now."A sentence, Samad's sentence, was passing through Irie's tired brain. Sometimes I wonder why Ibother. And now that Ryan was out of the way, Irie saw her opportunity to ask it, though she framedit carefully.

　　Hortense leant back in her chair and placed her hands on her lap. "I bin doin' dis a very longtime, Irie Ambrosia. I bin' waitin' ever since I was a pickney in long socks.""But that's no reason '

　　"What d'you know fe reasons? Nuttin' at all. The Witness church is where my roots are. It bingood to me when nobody else has. It was de good ting my mudder gave me, an' I That going to letit go now we so close to de end.""But Gran, it's not.. . you won't ever .. .""Lemme tell you so meting I'm not like dem Witnesses jus' scared of dyin'. Jus' scared. Demwan' everybody to die excep' dem. Dat's not a reason to dedicate your life to Jesus Christ. I gat verydifferent aims. I still hope to be one of de Anointed evan if I am a woman. I want it all my life. Iwant to be dere wid de Lord making de laws and de decisions." Hortense sucked her teeth long andloud. "I gat so tired wid de church always tellin' me I'm a woman or I'm That heducated enough.

　　Everybody always tryin' to heducate you; heducate you about dis, heducate you about dat .. . Dat'salways bin de problem wid de women in dis family. Somebody always tryin' to heducate themabout so meting pretendin' it all about learnin' when it all about a battle of de wills. But if I wereone of de hundred an' forty-four, no one gwan try to heducate me. Dat would be my job! I'd makemy own laws an' I wouldn't be wanting anybody else's opinions. My mudder was strong-willeddeep down, and I'm de same. Lord knows, your mudder was de same. And you de same.""Tell me about Ambrosia," said Irie, spotting a chink in Hor tense's armour that one mightsqueeze through. "Please."But Hortense remained solid. "You know enough already. De past is done wid. Nobody learnnuttin' from it. Top of page five please I tink dat's where we were."At that moment Ryan returned to the room, face redder than ever.

　　"What, Mr. Topps? Is it? Do you know?""God help the heathen, Mrs. B." for the day is indeed at hand! It is as the Lord laid out clearlyin his book of Revelation. He never intended a third millennium. Now I'll need that article typed up,and then another one that I'll dictate to you off the cuff you'll need to telephone all the Lambethmembers, and leaflet the-'

　　"Oh, yes, Mr. Topps but jus' let me tyake it in jus' a minute It couldn't be any udder date, couldit, Mr. Topps? I tol' you I felt it in my bones.""I'm not sure as to how much your bones had to do wiv it, Mrs. B. Surely more credit is due tothe thorough scriptural study done by myself and my colleagues '

　　"And God, presumably," said Irie, cutting him a sharp glare, going over to hold Hortense, whowas shaking with sobs. Hortense kissed Irie on both cheeks and Irie smiled at the hot wetness.

　　"Oh, Irie Ambrosia. I'm so glad you're here to share dis. I live dis century I came into dis worldin an cart-quake at de very beginning and I shall see the hevil and sinful pollution be hera sed in amighty rumbling cart-quake once more. Praise de Lord! It is as he promised after all. I knew I'dmake it. I got jus' seven years to wait. Ninety-two!" Hortense sucked her teeth contemptuously.

　　"Cho! My grandmudder live to see one hundered-and-tree an de woman could skip rope till de dayshe keel over and drop col'. Me gwan make it. I make it dis far. My mudder suffer to get me herebut she knew de true church and she make heffort to push me out in de mos' difficult circumstancesso I could live to see that glory day.""Amen!""Oh, ha men Mr. Topps. Put on de complete suit of armour of God! Now, Irie Ambrosia,witness me as I say it: I'm gwan be dere. An' I'm gwan to be in Jamaica to see it. I'm going homethat year of our Lord. An' you can come dere too if you learn from me and listen. You wan comeJamaica in de year two thousand?"Irie let out a little scream and rushed to give her grandmother another hug.

　　Hortense wiped her tears with her apron. "Lord Jesus, I live dis century! Well and truly I livedis terrible century wid all its troubles and vexations. And tanks to you, Lord, I'm gwan a feel arumble at both ends."