bottom of the gap. He didn’t invite them up to the house.
‘Ei, Jeansie, let us come and play nuh man?’
He kept on walking up to the house. He waved from the high verandah.
‘I’ve got to go in. My mummy’s calling me.’
‘You mummy calling you?’ Redhead and Ramnarine sneered.
Aelred stared. The portrait drew him into its world. It was a triumphant landscape of fields, lakes and mountains, dark and sombre, unfolding behind the figures, through arches and the rich folds of drapes. There was a town in the distance with towers and spires. This was England. There was a port from which a tall ship was setting sail. As he stared, he saw this little black prince, for so he seemed to Aelred, smiling up to the duke. The little black boy was dressed in red satins and gold silks. His coat and pants were made of blue taffeta. He mirrored and mimicked his master. He was a diminutive, his master’s doll. The boy was offering the duke a purse of jewels, or a purse encrusted with diamonds or pearls. The duke was accepting it nonchalantly. He was not even looking at the boy; he looked out over the world beyond the frame of the painting.
The admiration in the boy’s eyes was the same as that in the face of the master’s dog which knelt at his feet on the other side of the painting. It was looking up plaintively.
Aelred stared and wondered. Then he saw his own face reflected in the glass of the portrait. His face was superimposed upon that of the boy whose face shonefrom beneath, so that the black face seemed to be his own. ‘Who all you white boys think you is?’ It was Espinet at Mount Saint Maur. He was sitting in the pavilion alone. They weren’t letting him into the game of cricket. ‘All you think all you superior. You think this make a difference.’ He was jabbing at his face pointing to the colour of his skin. ‘And you, de la Borde, all you French creole!’ It was then that Aelred saw that the boy in the portrait wore a collar. Or was it a trick of the light? It looked like a dog’s collar. Then he thought it was a reflection of the light in the glass. It was tightly fastened like a choker. Now it seemed like a thick iron sphere. It seemed it encircled his neck and glinted above where his satin cloak shimmered and fell in folds like those of the duke above him. ‘Why all you so, eh de la Borde? One minute you nice nice, the next you with the others on your high horse.’
Aelred continued to stare. And as the boy’s face grew in his mind, so did the voice of Toinette, his nurse and his mother’s old servant grow in him, so he spoke to himself in her voice. ‘Dou-dou, come let me tell you a story.’ And she told a story she had heard from her great-grandmother. ‘This is what my great-granny tell me right up here in these cocoa hills overlooking them same sugarcane fields.’ The breeze whispered through the serrated leaves beneath the cool hills. Aelred looked down from the steps of the Malgretoute house to the village of Felicity. Aelred had heard this story from Toinette many times. ‘Tell it, tell it, Toinette, the one about the little boy.’
‘His name is Mungo and he come from Africa,’ Toinette began.
‘From Africa.’ Aelred heard his own boy’s voice repeat.
‘And they bring him here to Malgretoute.’
‘To Malgretoute.’
And so the story always started.
Aelred was behind in his housework. He saw Brother Patrick climbing the stairs with the hand bell in order to give the signal for the end of manual work. ‘Now, don’t you go and fall, brother,’ Brother Patrick warned as he passed by. Aelred stretched to dust the top of the picture frame and was intent on returning to his duty. He missed those friends: Redhead, Espinet, Ramnarine and Mackensie.
While he was in an awkward position to reach the top of the large portrait he became stuck for a split second. He noticed the intense silence of the abbey and himself there in this early hour of the day with Toinette’s story going
‘Ei, Jeansie, let us come and play nuh man?’
He kept on walking up to the house. He waved from the high verandah.
‘I’ve got to go in. My mummy’s calling me.’
‘You mummy calling you?’ Redhead and Ramnarine sneered.
Aelred stared. The portrait drew him into its world. It was a triumphant landscape of fields, lakes and mountains, dark and sombre, unfolding behind the figures, through arches and the rich folds of drapes. There was a town in the distance with towers and spires. This was England. There was a port from which a tall ship was setting sail. As he stared, he saw this little black prince, for so he seemed to Aelred, smiling up to the duke. The little black boy was dressed in red satins and gold silks. His coat and pants were made of blue taffeta. He mirrored and mimicked his master. He was a diminutive, his master’s doll. The boy was offering the duke a purse of jewels, or a purse encrusted with diamonds or pearls. The duke was accepting it nonchalantly. He was not even looking at the boy; he looked out over the world beyond the frame of the painting.
The admiration in the boy’s eyes was the same as that in the face of the master’s dog which knelt at his feet on the other side of the painting. It was looking up plaintively.
Aelred stared and wondered. Then he saw his own face reflected in the glass of the portrait. His face was superimposed upon that of the boy whose face shonefrom beneath, so that the black face seemed to be his own. ‘Who all you white boys think you is?’ It was Espinet at Mount Saint Maur. He was sitting in the pavilion alone. They weren’t letting him into the game of cricket. ‘All you think all you superior. You think this make a difference.’ He was jabbing at his face pointing to the colour of his skin. ‘And you, de la Borde, all you French creole!’ It was then that Aelred saw that the boy in the portrait wore a collar. Or was it a trick of the light? It looked like a dog’s collar. Then he thought it was a reflection of the light in the glass. It was tightly fastened like a choker. Now it seemed like a thick iron sphere. It seemed it encircled his neck and glinted above where his satin cloak shimmered and fell in folds like those of the duke above him. ‘Why all you so, eh de la Borde? One minute you nice nice, the next you with the others on your high horse.’
Aelred continued to stare. And as the boy’s face grew in his mind, so did the voice of Toinette, his nurse and his mother’s old servant grow in him, so he spoke to himself in her voice. ‘Dou-dou, come let me tell you a story.’ And she told a story she had heard from her great-grandmother. ‘This is what my great-granny tell me right up here in these cocoa hills overlooking them same sugarcane fields.’ The breeze whispered through the serrated leaves beneath the cool hills. Aelred looked down from the steps of the Malgretoute house to the village of Felicity. Aelred had heard this story from Toinette many times. ‘Tell it, tell it, Toinette, the one about the little boy.’
‘His name is Mungo and he come from Africa,’ Toinette began.
‘From Africa.’ Aelred heard his own boy’s voice repeat.
‘And they bring him here to Malgretoute.’
‘To Malgretoute.’
And so the story always started.
Aelred was behind in his housework. He saw Brother Patrick climbing the stairs with the hand bell in order to give the signal for the end of manual work. ‘Now, don’t you go and fall, brother,’ Brother Patrick warned as he passed by. Aelred stretched to dust the top of the picture frame and was intent on returning to his duty. He missed those friends: Redhead, Espinet, Ramnarine and Mackensie.
While he was in an awkward position to reach the top of the large portrait he became stuck for a split second. He noticed the intense silence of the abbey and himself there in this early hour of the day with Toinette’s story going
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