Extract from ‘The Meadow’

by Vanessa Walters, our writer in residence

"Nice Over," remarked Papason graciously, as the crowd burst into rapturous applause and Gayle went off-pitch swinging his bat in disappointment.

"Nice Over? You battyskunk. What we going to bat with now? Gayle de best one we have in de field."

"He might be de best one," Papason said. "But he always get caught by a left handed swing bowler."

"What you chattin bout man? Who better den Gayle?"

"Is it my fault dat dere's no serious batsmen left, man? After the Patrick Patterson crop, they are not producing cricketers who has a drive for the game." And with that he slung back the last of the bottle of rum and put it back on the table with an emphatic thump.

"Anybody hear from Clivesy?" warbled Man-man his toothless mouth gaping open slightly.

"This is de third time you askin me dat question," barked Pappason. "How can I see him if you don't see him, huh?"

"You have two eyes to my one," lisped Man-man.

"You see too much with that one eye as it is," retorted Pappason. We laughed

"Test will be over before dat battyskunk reach," I added.

Man-man tried to kiss his teeth but seeing as he had none the sound was like someone blowing a raspberry. We laughed. Man-man never spoke but rather complained in high-pitched lisping tones, poor toothless ole git that he was. His impatient gnarled hands trembling over his dominos as he waited for his dominoes partner. Man-man was a man just hanging on to life by his brown fingernails. In addition to his age, which no-one knew, his toothlessness and jerky muscles, he had only one good eye that saw everything.

The other looked like the colour had seeped out from the iris and run across the centre like dark clothes over white.

"So where were we, Oh yes, de only positive I see coming from Jamaican cricket besides after Gayle is the bowling of Jermaine Taylor," Papason continued.

"So what, you 'tink de other islands doin any better?" I shot back. "What about Barbados? Name one Bajan cricketer! Just one! Or St Vincent? – can't bat to save their life! Everyone goes on and on about Bajan cricket. In 20 years name just one!"

"Yes, we can talk all day about other cricketers from the sister nations in the Caribbean but – "

"There is not one Bajan batsman worthy of walking past a West Indian dressing room," I said.

"But - Jamaica's problems are too glaring. The disappointments in JA cricket are too numerous to name here."

"Sammy actually is more talented and you saw a glimpse of it in the tournament against GT. He made it look easy and was the danger man; the problem with Sammy is between his two ears. If he mentally put it together watch out! If Gayle had better foot work he would be the full package as de Lord is my Shepherd and mek me down to lie IN!"

"Yeah Stories, I hear yuh but everything with Jamaica is "if" this and "if" that. I think we have been waiting too long for these fellas to develop. I would hope that they would come good one day but I am not going to hold my breath."

"Hey!" Piped up Man-man. "Where Clivesey deh?"

"Will you shut up about Clivesey. He will come when he's ready."

"Who gwarn play dominoes den?" asked Man-Man hopefully.

"See dat's the problem wid you battyskunk small islanders," I said, making a diagram with my figures, real easy for Man-man and Pappason to comprehend. "De mind is always on small things."

"Lara could still win dis for us," said Pappason deliberately avoiding my gauntlet.

"Lara – always Lara! Lara is just a man, not God!"

"God is a Trini tho," said Papason with a chuckle. "Now shut up and watch de cricket."

Cha! I kissed my teeth loud as you like and instead of watching Lara bat I fixed my eyes on the peeling orange walls of Pappason's rum shop which is behind Pappason's Caribbean takeaway. I could hear out front the accents of the customers, the crazy young boys laughing or arguing the price of a plate of rice and peas and Papason's wife, daughter and niece arguing right back. Pooh! Small islands, small minds.

I was annoyed too that Pappason had finished off the bottle of rum and not brought us out another. Of course he would eventually but he was longing it out, knowing that my tongue was licking the roof of my mouth like flames licking a tin roof. Its not like it was even a proper rum shop. Just a place for Pappason's friends to come by an shoot the breeze. Watch a bit of cricket. Get out of the hustle and bustle and pretend we back home on a verandah watching the world go by.

My, when I think back how this room used to be full. Twenty years ago you didn't go nowhere without passing Pappason's first for a beer and a head's up. You'd dip your head to mind the low doorway and step into the smoked out room. Somewhere in the cloud of smoke you'd find yourself one rickety chair if the sofa was taken. The rum would be on the table. The TV would be on, the dominoes out and the air would be leaning to one side from the smell of ganja.

Nico, Bartley, McCleod, the Nelson brudders, Porky, Gatsby they'd all be in there – showing off about some car or some girl or some big money spinner they'd found. We'd be chatting bout everything from the ….time stuff… All showed their faces here. Now dey gone. Nico went back to Trinidad. Porky's opened a bar in Montego Bay. The Nelson brothers are in jail, McCleod remarried a white woman and they moved to Bristol. Bartley died of lung cancer five years ago. Gatsby. He use to be the big man but these days he's just a shadow on de wall. Now its just us four keeping memories alive. Papason with his rum shop, Man-man with his dominoes, me with my stories and Clivesey who is good enough company but keeps time like water in a sieve. Always running out.

"He-he God is Lara," chuckled Papson as Lara hit a century and for one second humbled the British crowd. "That is the real truth and anything else is blasphemy."

Suddenly, Clivesey flew into the room, promptly knockin his dirty baseball cap off on the low doorway. Huffin and a puffun he stood in the centre of the room holding his chest for breath.

"Clivesey!" said Man-man annoyed. "Is dat you? I been waitin ages man."

"Ah wha you run for?" Pappason said, who hadn't run in over 30 years. "Siddown man".

"Its Gatsby," gasped Clivesey.

"What he's back in town?" I asked – smiling already at the thought of no longer being dependent on Papason for free drinks. Gatsby was always free and largesse. He would sort a man out.

Clivesy flopped down into a plastic chair wheezing.

"Out with it man," barked Papason. "What is he married again?" But Clivesey just gasped for air, his sweaty cheeks puffing in and out like a fish on deck.

"As God is my shepherd and mek me to lie down in – I swear dis man gonna choke and dos words. Lie down pon ‘de floor man."

I rolled Clivesey off the chair and onto the floor. He lay there for a few minutes while Papason grunted impatiently. Finally he sat up and fitted his dirty cap back over his matted locks. He climbed back onto that chair.

"I need a drink," he announced.

"What about Gatsby?" Pappason insisted. "Where him deh?"

"He's dead," Clivesey said. "Can I have a beer?"

Contact Vanessa

You can contact Vanessa on virtualmuseum@rbkc.gov.uk.