By Daryll Goodchild
Arthritis licked Mr. Greaves from head to toe. Even so, it never stopped him from three very important things, the things he had done for the ninety-two years of his life.
One, buy and read newspapers. Mr. Greaves knew every piece of news in all the major papers. From early morning right through breakfast and close to noon, with the aid of his spectacles, magnifying glass, pen and marker, he scrutinised every happening and ‘tsk-ed’ at every parliamentary discussion and death announcement. As he read, the stray “never in me time,” or “Wait, so-and-so dead? Not me next at all, at all…” could be heard muttered beneath his breath. Truly, for Mr. Greaves claimed to be at the pinnacle of good health.
Two, he would sing songs as he worked on pain-riddled knees in his garden. In the afternoons, just as the sun goes down, he’d pick up his watering can and basket and sing tunes for, and at, his neighbours. The dreaded ‘Morning neighbour’ song always came out for Ms. Jacqueline next door, who was known for “borrowing” sugar and flour. Nicer songs were reserved for good children passing from afterschool lessons who called out to him with waves. They were met with “Small days” and bid goodbye with “Auntie Bess”.
And three, Mr. Greaves always had a story to tell. A story that often began as a pretty tale, only for you to later realise that he was talking about you, or referring to life. Such a story might begin like this…
“Story does always get out when yuh live in small village. Pot know kettle business, ’cause he figure fire does burn both o’ them. Is true suh, nah? Just suh I know from since meh born and grow up in Corentyne. We used to call she Pokenose.
One day Pokenose jus happen fuh be round wey fight bruk out over cook-book. Two naybah seh they see the lady ’cross the road with matty book deh mekking cake fuh de chrissmas, and me matty know is she book ’cause she de lend am out longtime and never get am back. So is war. Guess who get the most cuff and kick?” He paused to nudge little Keri, who had a tendency to get involved in all manner of things not concerning her. Wide brown eyes stared at the owlish little man, made hunched by age. “Same Pokenose get beat-up,” Mr. Greaves confirmed with a wicked smile, then he looked up at Keri’s mother with a similar predisposition to that of her daughter’s. “Is suh when dog buy rum, cow drink am, and hog in sty get drunk.”
With the moral made clear, Mr. Greaves popped his joints and leaned back in his chair, drinking his tea of boiled lemongrass leaves. He never bothered his mind about his listeners’ being offended. After all, if they were offended, why did they listen? “Too much coddling and handholding,” he would claim about the younger generation, “With delicate feelings that need to be massaged.”
“Paps,” Benny called out to his aged grandfather one day, “You have got to leave people alone. You know that your brew is too strong to swallow.” Benny was determined to modernise the stubborn old man. The new generation was a different breed altogether, and he feared it would be the end of his grandfather, who with his sharp words cut the thin skin of most visitors.
“Two ting mark fragile in this house… meh fine china and the egg in ’fridge,” Mr. Greaves replied to his grandson with a bark of a laugh. Benny gave a frustrated sigh. There were days he really could give up on the old man ever being able to change.
Once, Mr. Greaves had asked for his tablet and Benny’s son, Julian, ran to his room, only to return with his own electronic tablet. The resulting tirade of Mr. Greaves questioning the sanity of his own household only caused grief. How could ‘tablet’ mean this thing with the delicate glass screen that showed ‘pitcha’ and ‘fancy games’? He had obviously meant the pain-killers, and the pills he took for high-pressure. Don’t even get him started on Facebook, which he had assumed meant the photo album.
“Young people these days. Evryting, evryting electronic, never mind meh medication for ting trying fuh kill meh out,” he had muttered. Mr. Greaves firmly believed that all things irritating equated to his “untimely death”.
Benny placed his breakfast on the table and his grandfather never looked up, though he thanked him from deep in the morning news.
“Gary dead, boy! Gary from Corentyne. We went to school and play cricket on the road together,” Mr. Greaves informed his grandson.
Benny made a concerned noise. “When is the funeral?”
“This Saturday.” Mr. Greaves took a long draught of tea and made a face. He was on restrictions. No coffee, no milk, no sugar. What was left to him but bitter leaf juice?
“You probably want to go pay your respects since he was your friend…” Benny prided himself on showing due concern about everyone’s feelings, especially since his own father’s death two decades ago, and his wife that followed five years past.
“Yuh lie! Is dead yuh wan me dead now? Funeral is wey Death does mark he next target. Not me, at all, at all…” Mr. Greaves shook his head and turned the page with an irritated glance at his grandson. When did he ever go to funerals? He was sure that it was his non-attending ways that had kept him alive this long, while those of his generation withered away and died one after the other. It was no easy thing to hear, but each announcement did feel awfully like triumph. He had determined that he would outlast every one of them.
“Superstitious nonsense, Paps,” Benny replied sternly, before placing the pills Mr. Greaves needed into his wrinkled palm. “You really should visit the country again and see some of your old friends…”
Mr. Greaves frowned, doing the mental calculation. “Who? Jeanie, Beryl and Fitz?” For they were the only three remaining.
“Yes. You may not want to see the dead, but some of your friends are still alive, so why wait?” Benny looked at the time and sighed, it was time for him to leave for work. “I’m going now. Ms. Jacqueline will check in on you. And don’t you go breaking your back in the garden! I told you Julian would help you with your plants.”
“Ha! Ha-ha! Dat boy don’t know nothing ’bout plant, only fuh tell yuh bout Cloro-filla (Chlorophyll). He cyan’t tell a peppa from a plum.”
Benny cast him a glare. “Teach him, then. I’ll be back in the evening.”
Mr. Greaves ignored the boy. He knew Julian would be up the stairs because it was the only place he would be safe from Mr. Greaves’ sharp knuckles. He’d be on the internet and ‘the YouTube’ all day watching science videos and studying book, book and mo’ book. The children these days never looked out the window and saw science in the world, only on paper.
By the time it was afternoon, he gathered his garden tools, basket and watering can as usual and started singing “Way down Demerara” as he watered his plants. He sang it twice, his rich tones choked only by the years but loud nonetheless. He especially enjoyed this one for its upbeat pace, since it got him moving, even on bad, rainy days.
Ms. Jacqueline came through the sliding iron gates to greet him and he immediately switched to her theme song. The woman ignored his not-so-subtle message and waltzed towards the house with a carefree, “Hey Grandpa Greaves, ah borrowing some milk.”
“Sure neighbour,” the old man muttered sarcastically beneath his breath, for indeed she had not actually asked. Julian appeared a few seconds later, bright-faced and holding up his great grandfather’s magnifying glass. He appeared to be spying on the ants crawling up the wall of the large, painted concrete home. “What are you singing grandpa?”
Mr. Greaves paused. The youngster couldn’t be serious. Surely he recognised ‘Itaname’. “Yuh don’t sing dem song in school?”
The boy shook his head, then said, “No, sir.” When Mr. Greaves muttered angrily, the boy hastily added, “Not songs like that. The teachers want us speaking proper English.”
“Proper English.” Mr. Greaves narrowed his eyes dangerously. “I’ll have you know that singing and speaking creoles does not mean that you do not know ‘proper English’. Is all about cull-cha (culture),” The old man switched fluidly back and forth from creole to Standard English. “What songs do you sing? Who does mek them up?”
The boy, smart with eleven years, frowned and said quickly, “They are different, but I don’t think lots of them are made here.”
“And the books yuh does read?”
His face turned down like a withering flower. “Not Guyanese.”
“The stuff yuh buy? Made in China and USA, right?”
The boy nodded, while racking his brains to find something that was Guyanese. Something unique to his country.
Meanwhile, Mr. Greaves started up a story.
“Jack used to like cross de border back in de day too. He went Suriname, Venezuela, Brazil, America, England and all dem place.” Mr. Greaves pruned his lime plant with the shears as he spoke. “Mind yuh, he grow up road corner wid we, and he grow up on split peas and shine rice. Yuh know what is duh?”
The boy nodded. His father had told him about shine rice, a strangely satisfying dish that you made when you had nothing but seasoning, rice and coconuts.
Julian had never had shine rice.
“Al’rite, so yuh know is real food fuh de poor. But Jack get stepfather and he start travel, eh? He always had nuff story fuh tell when he come back. Big clocks and tall building – up and touching sky. Building mek outta glass. And every time he come back, he had he hair different, he clothes different, he talk different too. When he see cook-up, he ain’t know is what anymore, and he ain’t waan eat from matty either. Till Jack ain’t come back to school, ’cause he couldn’t really fit in no wey. Is a sad thing when mango think it come from guava, plum and coconut tree. Yuh understand me?”
Julian was looking at his grandfather, eyebrows furrowed. Deep at the back of his mind, he was sure that he understood the old man, but his mind questioned what it all had to do with fruit trees anyway. He couldn’t understand why grandpa Greaves always spoke in proverbs and riddles. “Yes grandpa,” he nodded slowly.
Mr. Greaves sighed, rising from his crouch and surveying the boy from head to toe. He saw confusion in the little face, and so he said, “Cook-up pot can’t tell yuh if he’s peas and rice, or rice and peas. It means, sonny boy, that yuh forget who yuh be, when yuh get mixed up in all body culture, but yuh own.”
This time Julian understood. “So we should learn our own culture first?”
Mr. Greaves smiled. “Bright boy! Now come let this ole man teach yuh bout plant.”
When Benny returned from work he found dirt under Julian’s fingernails as the boy took his bag from him. Paps was snoozing peacefully in his chair in the living room. Further in the house, Benny heard Ms. Jacky turning around the kitchen. “Wash your hands properly Julian,” he half-heartedly scolded the boy, while pride swelled in his chest. Julian had actually gotten his hands dirty! Usually the boy didn’t touch anything that didn’t open an application software. Then Benny stopped the eye-roll that threatened to break his happiness as Ms. Jacky still tumbled his cabinets. “Can I help you, Jacqueline?”
The woman straightened and cast a flirtatious smile his way, “Ah de looking fuh de tea bag fuh Grandpa Greaves.” As if on cue, the old man’s snores floated from the living room to the kitchen.
“I’ll make it when he gets up. Thanks for keeping an eye on him.” Benny noted the disappointment in her face as she gave up the search. He knew she was really there to get tea for herself of course.
When the door closed with a click behind her, Mr. Greaves rose his head and promptly asked, “Free-loader gone?”
“That’s not very nice,” Benny scolded but the smile on his face softened it.
“True ting nah always sweet,” Paps intoned sagely. “Speaking of sweet though, suga gotta go in the tea, right?”
“Not a chance,” Benny returned almost gleefully. “But I am glad to see you getting along with Julian.”
“Getting along? The boy bruk off me green tomato from de stem. Green, green tomato yuh son reap…” Benny left him to mutter. Paps was never as happy as when there was something to mutter and fret about.
Benny made his tea under his strict diet rules, then gave it, steaming, to the old man. “Did you think about visiting your friends?”
“No.” Mr. Greaves responded without batting an eye, then sipped his tea.
“Don’t you want to talk to them?” Benny tried again. His perseverance at least was admirable.
Mr. Greaves appeared to be thinking it over. “Maybe. Ain’t got dey numba.”
Benny sniggered, then called Julian, who came back quickly, sprinkling his wet fingers infuriatingly onto the polished hardwood floors. Not having a number would be an easy problem to remedy. “Use my Facebook account to help your grandpa, look for Sheila Murray and send her a message.” He directed the next words to Grandpa Greaves, “You remember Sheila, right? Beryl granddaughter? You can tell Julian what you want to tell Beryl, or ask for her number.”
“Facebook, Facebook, Facebook,” Mr. Greaves muttered with his best old man sigh. Julian brought the tablet meekly and signed into his father’s account. He knew his Grandpa’s reaction to technology, and was wary of bringing on another lecture about smart devices being the only smart things left on earth.
“She’s online right now, Grandpa,” Julian informed the old man. “I’ll type the message if you tell me what to ask…”
Mr. Greaves turned in his chair with a heavy, grey frown, as he peered into the screen. “Ask fuh de landline numba,” Mr. Greaves directed sharply. The sooner he got away from the infernal device the better.
Julian’s fingers danced over the screen, tapping lightly as letters appeared quickly to form Mr. Greaves’ request. He touched the send button when he finished and gave a sound of accomplishment, then he spoke again. “She’s replying.”
“What? Already? We ain’t got to wait?” Mr. Greaves’ was surprised. This Facebook thing was fast!
“She said that granny Beryl is sitting next to her. She wants to see you…” Julian’s sentence trailed off.
“See me? How dah? Tell she me nah leffing meh house fuh go till ah Corentyne.” Mr. Greaves grumbled. People were so inconsiderate these days. Expecting an old, old man like him to leave his comfort.
“Grandpa… she means you can talk now. With the tablet. It’s called video chat.” Julian tried to explain it simply.
Meanwhile, Benny had returned. He eyed his grandfather’s apprehension then encouraged, “Just try it Paps. No one asking you to leave the house. You can see her from here, right now.”
Mr. Greaves gave a pained, irritated sound and nodded stiffly. “Al’rite, al’rite. What ah got to do?”
In answer, Julian tapped the video call button and angled the tablet so both he and Mr. Greaves could be seen. Benny came over and leaned down. He could be seen sticking out from the back of Mr. Greaves’ chair. Sure enough, two figures appeared on the screen. One woman was obviously older, with a head of thin, grey hair and a full round figure resting on the couch, while the other was a slim, middle-aged woman who had her hands held away from her, just as Julian did to hold up the tablet.
Granny Beryl spoke first in a voice like bricks grating against each other. “Eh, eh Benji, yuh looking ole!”
By now Mr. Greaves was still in too much shock to take umbrage. Clear as day he could see the familiar face from his childhood, aged and wrinkled. Her face looked like ruffled feathers but beneath it all he still saw young Beryl peering back at him. Mr. Greaves couldn’t help the wide smile of dentures. “How yuh do Beryl?”
“I deh hay… tryin,” the dry voice replied, “Yuh hear Gary dead rite?”
Benny shook his head as Paps broke into a long list of the people that had died during the past year. Mr. Greaves’ memory for that kind of thing always surprised Benny, especially since he still lost his spectacles on a daily basis. Benny left the old folks to their conversation with a small wave to Sheila and a shoulder squeeze applied sympathetically to Julian.
Much later, Paps came into the kitchen with Julian by his side.
“You were starved for conversation,” Benny observed simply, gesturing towards the food he had finished preparing half an hour ago.
“And now I’m just starved. Beryl could propah talk,” Mr. Greaves fretted with a smile on his face.
Benny and Julian shared a look of understanding before Benny drily remarked, “I can’t possibly imagine. So you like technology now?”
“Bah! You like trouble meh head, eh? I’d mek yuh fuh know that ole bone still got marrow, sonny.” Julian frowned at the new proverb, so Benny translated for him.
“He means that even old people can learn.” Benny looked approvingly at his grandfather. “Good to know, Paps.”
Mr. Greaves muttered about being kept waiting as he hobbled back to the living room with a sigh. “Juley! See if yuh could find Fitz on de Facebook!”
