Trucks began to roar and rattle along the rutted roads, past the bending coconut palms, past the golden-plum trees whose fruit was never suffered to become ripe, lest the worms get at it, crushing under their wheels the violet flowers of the jacarandas. But these were either Government trucks or else the trucks of the Citrus Company: it made no difference to them what supplies Jack Limekiller wanted. And as to the privately-owned trucks, well.
“Well, sah. Mile 23? Well, sah. Me nevah go pahss Mile Ten, sah. Pahss dot p’int, sah, not ee-nahf business warrant de treep, de time, de gahs, sah.”
Ascander Haddad, who had the two or three sacks of cement at his house there, made the trip daily. But he made it in the smallest motor vehicle in all of British Hidalgo: and he made it with his widowed sister, who acted as his secretary-treasurer, and who was the largest woman in all of British Hidalgo. There was not even room for a bag of corn-starch, let alone sacks of cement.
Mount Maria? People lived at Mt. Maria, they were not recluses, not hermits, they came to Port, didn’t they? They transported things back, didn’t they? Yes. Yes, they did. And they did it according to a twice-monthly schedule involving the Mt. Maria Bethlehem Church and the Mt. Maria Bethlehem Church Vehicle (it surely rated a capital letter, being always referred to as “De Vehicle”). However, attend: Firstly, the twice-monthly trip of The Vehicle had just occurred. Secondly, the or The Vehicle had gone back to St. Frances of the Mountain for its annual overhaul.
There were rumors of mules, of ox-carts, or of horse-drawn drays. People assured Limekiller that they had seen them. But, then, people assured Limekiller that they had seen Jesus, too.
And so, speaking of which
— Or, rather. Whom.
The Anglican Church in Port Caroline, a fortress — for the most part — of old-time Methodism, was very, very small, and very, very white. Father Nollekens, on the other hand, though also very, very small, was very, very black. He was not a native of the colony, he had been born in Barbados, and educated at Coddrington College, that ancient (and, incidentally, also Anglican) foundation there.
“Why, yes, Mr. Limekiller. I had word from His Grace that you might be around. You are having difficulties in gathering the building supplies for His Lordship’s bungalow.” These were not questions, they were statements. “Now suppose that you give me a list of the places which you will need to visit. And we will inform you.” Father Nollekens did not say of what they would inform him
“Well, thank you, Father. Let’s see, I will be. 1 will be. ”
Father Nollekens waves his small hand. “Oh, do not concern yourself, sir. We will find you.”
Jack waited until he was outside before he shrugged.
He was moodily loading up on the fish-tea and country peppers at the My Dream Restaurant, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Proprietors, when a heavy-set man whom he recognized as Peter Bennetson, the trucker, approached, and said, “You muss eat fahster, Mr. Limekiller, as we do has quite a journey to mehk.”
Jack blinked. “I thought you don’t go beyond Mile Ten.”
“Well, sah, tell de truf, seldom does I do so. But when Fahder Nollekens mehk requess, muss obey.” Bennetson smiled. Limekiller left a tiny tip, paid for his meal, followed Peter out the door. The truck was enormous, it was not the same one at all which the man had been driving the last time. Had Jack underestimated the powers of the Church of England? “You’re an Anglican, then —?”
Bennetson was polite, but he was firm. He was a Catholic, a Roman Catholic. But he was also a member of the local Lodge of the Wise Men of Wales: not only was Rev. Fr. Nollekens also one, but he was also one of the Grand Chaplains of the Grand Lodge of the Wise Men of Wales, an organization not previously known to Jack — and perhaps equally unknown to Wales. “Yes, sah. When ah bruddah ahsk, ahl we uddah bruddah muss obey.”
It took the whole day, but they got it all, ever)' last bit of it. even the seasoned timber from Bamboo Point, which was connected to the known world only by what was termed, on the official map, a “Truck Pass” — a term not having anything to do with motor vehicles at all, as many a foreigner had learned the hard way — a truck pass, in Hidalgo, was a trail passable by ox-drawn wagons, of which one or two were rumored to survive, still, in the remoter regions. In the five years since this trail had last been used by anything larger than an iguana, it had been considerably overgrown. and, in Hidalgo, overgrowth grew over very, very rapidly. But it all yielded. Sometimes, more easily than others. Fortunately there were three of them; somewhere along the way, on or about Mile 20, they had picked up what would in North America be called a hitchhiker: here, there was not a name: one simply “hailed” a passing vehicle with a wig-wag motion, the car (or truck) either stopped or didn’t; and it was customary for the hailer to ask, at the conclusion, “How much I have for you?” It was customary for the driver to tell him. Limekiller never learned the young man’s name — he thought of him as Mile 20 — but the young man was a not-so-easy-rider and evidently thought the labor he helped put in was worth the free trip… to say nothing of the time. but perhaps, without this lift (“or drop”) he might have stood back at the milepost all the long, hot day.
The sun was declining behind the green mountain, if not the green sea, when they made their last trip through Port Caroline on route to the pier. Limekiller suggested that they stop at The Fisherman Wharf for a cool drink. No protests were received. Inside the bar-room, its massive arches made in a style of masonry no longer practiced locally (and perhaps nowhere else), a polite degree of polite interest was shown in their day’s work and its purpose.
“Eendiahn fof-shup going lo-cate een Curasow Cove.”
“Very good teeng, mon. Very good teeng.”
“Me weesh he ahlready dere noew!”
This sentiment, innocuous to Limekiller, seemed freighted with more meaning than was universally welcome; and the man who announced it was several times invited to hush his mouth: and did so.
“Say, that reminds me,” Limekiller said, looking up. Many eyes looked at him, waiting politely to hear what he had been reminded of. “I’ll need a crew. Say, two men? To help me? There’s no pier down there. Help me unload, and so on.” There was a slow silence. “Anybody interested?”
Suddenly, no one was looking at him. Much interest was for some reason developed in looking at the large picture of the Oueen, whose Royal simper Jack had long found insufferable — until visits into republican waters and their ports, and exposure to the prominently display photographs of, instead, sundry scowling generals with fat chests covered by medals, had gradually made Her Majesty, simper and all, look very, very good and innocent in contrast. “Two good men? Usual wages, and all found?”
No takers. Many men closely examining the labels on the bottles behind the bar as though they had never seen them before. To be sure there was much of interest to label-fanciers, particularly rum bottle label fanciers: but. still.
Jack turned to the man at his right. “How about you?”
“Well sah. I like to oblige you. But I muss go to Walker Caye for fetch coconut.” The man to Jack’s left would equally have liked to oblige him, but had to honor a standing agreement to go dive for crayfish. A number of the bar’s patrons simply did not hear the question, and, in fact, a number of them simply left the bar. Peter Bennetson tugged at Jack’s sleeve. “Best we be getting on, noew, Jock.”