“Good boy. Time for church.”
Jason forced a smile, placed the large Bible and hymnal under his right arm, and took his place alongside Auntie Cleo for the short walk to the public road and into the hands of Brother Simpson and the Restoration Church of the New Testament.
The Sunday service was special. It was the fifth anniversary of the church. It was a packed church, choir bedecked in flowing white robes that conjured up in Jason’s mind a band of angels sent from heaven for the occasion, and a rotund, balding Brother Simpson shouting for all to hear, “We are here to stay! Praise the Lord!”
For the most part, Jason was bored. The Sunday ritual of praise and supplications and the occasional “Praise the Lord” and “Hallelujah” that emanated from Sister Jonas, sitting in front by the altar, gave pause to a wandering mind.
*****
“Daddy, it’s Sunday. Please take me with you to help sell the bread.”
John Allicock was reluctant to have his son along on those trips.
“Don’t want people to look at you as if you’re begging them. I’m old and nothing bothers me. I don’t want that for you.” But he welcomed the company and reveled in sharing the time with his growing son.
Jason recalled that for many Sundays, together, with large jute bags filled with freshly baked, platted bread, they traveled from Tenaboo Landing, riding the crest of a going tide on the back of a sleepy Demerara. His mind traveled from the sound of paddle on water, the chirping of parakeets seated on the branches of low-hanging trees that hung over the river’s edge, to the several small settlements that dotted the banks of the river, on the journey from Tenaboo to Dalgin.
“Hallelujah! Praise his name!” shouted Sister Jonas. The reverie was broken. Jason was back again at the Restoration Church of the New Testament.
Jason displayed scant interest in most of the service; however, he liked the singing. Brother Simpson made the altar call; the organ started.
Just as I am without one plea
But that Thy blood was shed for me
And that thou bid’st me come to thee
O lamb of God, I come! I come….
Jason could be heard above the chorus of the choir and the screeching of Sister Jonas.
*****
“John! I think a boat is pulling into the landing.” Mary shook her still-sleeping husband. He stirred.
“I wonder who it could be this early on a Sunday morning. All week I got to leave before cock crow. Only time I get a bit more shut eye.”
“I’m going to check who it is.”
Mary rose slowly and, with a faint groan, heaved her two-hundred-pound body from the bed. Peering through the open window unto the landing, she remarked, “It’s only Mr. Cornelius.”
“Tell him I’ll be with him shortly. I got to tidy up.”
Mr. Cornelius laid his paddle down on the portico before entering the open doorway.
“Mr. Cornelius, how you do? On the run early. John’s been catching up on a bit of sleep before heading out with the bread. He’ll be out in a moment. Come in. You ain’t no stranger.”
He sauntered in and sat lazily on the rocker. His well-trimmed beard and moustache belied a face which the wind, rain, and sun had chiseled for most of his seventy years. Everyone called him Mr. Cornelius. When asked for his first name, as frequently requested, he would reply, “I am Mr. Cornelius, okay?” And that would be the end of the matter.
“Nothing coming against me. I fine as best can be expected. I making a quick run to Clemwood to pick up the money I lend that vagabond Patrick, your husband cousin. Hoping to catch him before he drink out all the money from the coal pit he sell.”
John entered. Mr. Cornelius, with a shrug of the shoulders and a raised hand of acknowledgment, continued.
“How is the boy doing? My godson must be one big man now.”
“The last we hear, he doing well. Mary’s sister doing a fine job looking after Jason. He should graduate in a couple of years. He’ll make his mother proud one day.”
Mary was all aglow. She smiled that large infectious smile, followed by a moment of uncontrollable laughter, a trait she shared with her sister.
“I hope before my eyes are closed, Jason will make his mark. I ain’t know how long I got on this earth. The damn fever’s still bothering me, and besides, I find myself coughing every now and then. I am not feeling the best. I’ve been thinking of seeing a doctor in Georgetown. Only thing, while I’m gone, the bread business is going to suffer. Heavens know we need the money. And—”
With a wave of the hand, her husband interrupted her.
“Mr. Cornelius! I tell this woman, you only got one life to live, and the confounded bread will take care of itself.”
“Better said than done,” thought Mary.
“I can handle things when she’s gone. How long could she go for? Maybe three or four days the most.”
Mr. Cornelius jumped up hurriedly from the rocker.
“I’ve got to be going. Mary, I’ve got to pass here again tomorrow. I’ll bring some bush for you to make tea. Going to knock that fever and cough out of you in no time.”
*****
Mr. Cornelius did bring a paper bag full of bush for Mary as promised. Lemongrass it was. Mary made a fresh brew every night and drank a large cup before bedtime.
*****
John Allicock continued his daily tasks at Sadeo and bread selling with unceasing fervor. He was no stranger to hard work. At about age twelve, his father, Harry Allicock, took him to the family farm located on the other side of the landing, a stone’s throw up the Tenaboo Creek.
His father had remarked. “You big enough to know what hard work is. Some sweat under your brow would make you hearty and strong. Tomorrow you will start with your old man.”
John did not need any encouragement for the task. He was thrilled by the thought that his father had finally come around to the idea that he had become a grown lad.
“I’ll work toe to toe with daddy,” he muttered under his breath.
They crossed the half mile of water into Tenaboo Creek and onto the farm. The sun was hot, unrelentingly hot. Sweat bore down the back, neck, and hands of the young man within an hour of cutting the underbrush and small trees to provide a clearing for planting. His father, noticing his flagging effort, was quick to intervene.
“Take it easy, son. Have a break. It takes time to get accustomed to this hard work. In quick time, you will be working your daddy to the ground.”
Harry Allicock and his son toiled until the sun and made the final dip beyond the top of the forest trees.
“It is going to be dark soon. Let’s get going,” he exclaimed.
A bit later, father and son, carrying large jute bags laden with cassava, plantains, and eddoes, trekked the narrow trail down to their beached ballahoo astride Tenaboo Creek. They had rowed for about twenty yards without incident, then suddenly, without warning, the boat stopped moving. John became frightened and looked at his father in horror.
“What’s happening? It’s like massacuraman holding the boat.”
A smiling father responded quickly. “Don’t frighten. We stuck on a tacaba. I need to watch out for them at low tide.” Father continued to reassure