Feather Your Tingaling , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Cecil Browne

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87 pages

English

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This collection of short stories from the Caribbean and England brings to life characters who are part of Caribbean folklore. Some serious, others delightfully humorous, the characters will remain with the reader for a long time. This book is essential reading for those interested in Caribbean folklore and history. Who is the 'brown-skin' girl, and why does her 'sailor man' advise her to stay home and mind baby? Why is eighteen-year-old Helen Wiley's mother concerned when her daughter is late? After spending a night with Basil Lincoln, why does Lorna Toney feel lucky? When he finds thousands of dollars in a trunk in the mountain, why does Lionel burn the money? As a founding member of The Circuit, an organisation that meets every Saturday night in a small town to the west of London, Cunningham is shocked when new members suggest enlivening proceedings with a stripper. On the way home after school sixteen-year old Caroline Chatoyer bumps into Raymond Pilgrim singing a lewd song at the top of his voice. They meet again at the district sports, become friends, Raymond suggests that she applies to join the prestigious Telfer Grammar School. Is Caroline brave enough, or good enough for Telfer? And finally, when fifteen-year old Melanie loses her aunt's cutlery in the river, why does her aunt's boyfriend suggest that she goes and 'feather her tingaling?' The stories give a fresh insight into Caribbean life at home and abroad. Even those familiar with Caribbean literature and folklore will find something new and surprising here. The stories are modern and draw on the eclectic mix that define the West Indies.

Sujets

Short story

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	07 avril 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781780889634
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Cecil Browne was born in St Vincent and the Grenadines, SVG, in 1957. He attended Byera Anglican School and the Boys Grammar School. In 1970 he left for England to join his parents.
He has been a lecturer for twenty-seven years, ten as Head of Maths in a College of Further Education. His first book, The Moon Is Following Me , was published in 2010.
feather your tingaling
cecil browne
Copyright 2012 Cecil Browne
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador 9 Priory Business Park, Wistow Road Kibworth Beauchamp Leicester LE8 0RX, UK Tel: ( 44) 116 279 2299 Fax: ( 44) 116 279 2277 Email: books@troubador.co.uk Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 9781780889634
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in 11.5pt Sabon MT by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Printed and bound ind bound in the UK by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall
contents
Acknowledgement
foreword
brown-skin girl
business is business
feather your tingaling
late
the circuit
basil lincoln
the hole
pqr
Acknowledgement
Once again I thank my wife, Denise, and daughters, Ama and Sable, for their support and patience. To F Herbert, and my sister, Jean, who read the manuscript and made many suggestions, thanks for your critical advice.
Finally, to my family and friends-too many to mention-who helped in the promotion of TMIFM, hope you enjoy this one even more.
Foreword
This collection is a logical successor to The Moon Is Following Me . The stories continue the theme, but they also move into new territory.
In The Moon Is Following Me I suggested that the village is the centre of Caribbean life. Wherever we go, whenever we meet, the first question is invariably, Where are you from? Characters like Archie from Take For Two were recognisable to readers, hence the success of the collection. Feather Your Tingaling introduces new characters, and moves in another direction.
Older readers will remember moonlit nights, perfect for ring play , during which an entire village enacted stories for its own entertainment. Girl, go feather your tingaling, we sang as children, not knowing the meaning, but too enraptured to ask, or taking the song as a little piece of nonsense to enliven a beautiful night. Brown-skin girl, stay home and mind baby we advised, at the top of our voices, repeating the chorus of a song whose origin was hazy even to our parents. In this book I ve imagined the source of these two songs, and invented characters on whom the songs might have been based.
Then there s Basil Lincoln. Terrifying but ordinary sounding, who or what was he? Again, I ve attempted to bring him alive to readers. Those who don t know him will discover, hopefully, a rich addition to Caribbean folklore and literature.
Like Spanish Ladies from The Moon Is Following Me , The Hole, the penultimate story in this book, has elements of truth, the story, Late, also. But both are not based on any individual. Business is Business is loosely based on more austere times in the early seventies. The events were funny then and even now friends remember them affectionately.
Two of the stories, The Circuit and PQR, are set in England, but the Caribbean link is still there. I think you will enjoy them.
Once again I have taken liberties with the geography of SVG.
brown-skin girl
She was the youngest of four sisters, Judith boasted, the Monday evening we met at the bar by Kingstown harbour, they were from Greiggs on the windward side of the island. From her bedroom window you could see the Atlantic, she whispered, in the husky voice I sensed she was putting on for my benefit, the winds lashed their house during the rainy season, but she loved nothing better than a good storm with thunder and lightning
Dressed in a plain white shirt and loose wine-coloured trousers, exaggerating her courage, I watched her thin arms rise and fall as she told me this, and chuckled softly, wondering what she knew about storms.
I liked Judith immediately. Dark-brown, set well back in the narrow face, her eyes had the sparkling look I liked in women. Bright and alluring, they invited even as they begged to be kind and gentle with her. Her thick black hair, gathered and pinned at the back of her head, exposing the high forehead, her full but soft black cheeks glowing invitingly, I was hooked. Attractive, and knowing it, she played on her looks. She had the verve of a woman accustomed to compliments and knowing glances.
I liked her hair, the slight upturn of her nose, and the fullness of her lips, but her figure was even more impressive. She had shape . She was one of those women, tantalising, whose body easily assumed the contours of their dress, not filling it, but allowing the imagination full play. In shorts, trousers or dressed for dinner, she moved with an unforced elegance that made me glad I was a man. Her motion was easy and fluid, and did she flaunt it
Even on that first night it was noticeable. Thrice she grabbed her handbag, asked to be excused, and strolled outside for some night air . Each time the entire bar was treated to a performance. I didn t like it. She wasn t exactly my woman then, but her manner, which she later denied, made me uneasy. We had spent two hours eating, drinking and talking, I had answered every request for rum and black. Tucked away in a cosy corner of the noisy bar, in the half-darkness for most of the time, she hoped to see me again, she said. And, provided I wasn t married, she would await my return to SVG. So, even then I was beginning to think of us together. Why the style, then, I wondered, why invite other eyes?
On her last trip outside I began to see things from her point of view. The five minutes she spent clearing her lungs had given me time to think. I was a sailor after all, freshly docked, and I had done what we did on every Caribbean island: race to the nearest bar, find a woman and spend some dollars
In luscious St Lucia, in fritter-flat Antigua, in bewitching Martinique where our French patois was truly stretched, we scrambled for the first bar to the left of the dock like nomads to an oasis. To drink every bar dry was our mission. Where we failed, we put that right the night the ship was due to sail. So, the more I thought about it, as Judith escaped the fusion of smoke, liquor and stale perfume of Joey s bar, the more I grew to understand how she felt. But, I was to discover, drawing attention to herself was the least of Judith s problems.
I must meet her family, she suggested as she kissed me goodbye that warm Monday night, I would like them, and they would be delighted to meet me. Comfortable, not rich, not poor, theirs was a happy home, she boasted. Her father was brown and her mother black. Like the rest of the village, they were all mixed-up .
It was after eleven by then, Kingstown as quiet as a country village, hardly a vehicle on the street, the ancient cobblestones glistening in the moonlight. At the end of a long hot day the harbour was resting, the waves sliding silently to the shore. From the bar, at regular intervals, came raucous laughter and the screams of couples setting things up for midnight. Mixed-up people, she repeated, inhaling the night air, from Lauders to Greiggs, what a confusion I didn t fully appreciate the meaning of her remark at the time, for I thought Caribbean people had long since accepted that the entire region was an eclectic mix. Judith seemed to be one of the few who had an issue with this.
Neil, she said, as I took a stool next to hers outside the bar, thanks for a wonderful evening.
I m glad you enjoy it, I replied, taking her left hand to show her how much I had appreciated her company.
You make me feel special. I m glad I came here tonight.
You are special, I said, for it was rare to find a woman who didn t spend the evening talking about herself, but who was genuinely interested in life at sea. You don t know that?
You can t know some things unless someone tell you.
Well, I m telling you.
Thanks, she gave me a peck on the lips. You sailor boys full of sweet sea-talk: must be all that time you spend gazing at the stars.
You know a lot of sailors? I asked.
No: but I know men.
How you mean?
Men so predictable.
You think so?
I know so.
Really?
You don t have to pretend with me, Neil. Men full of talk, they treat you nice, they buy you whatever you want: but ask them to take the next step and they vanish like a rounce at three in the morning.
You must choose the wrong ones, I suggested.
Every man is the wrong man.
That s a bit strong.
But is true: you all over me tonight, but if you get what you after, Judith Neverson going to disappear from your mind until you in the middle of the ocean, or on a calm night when things quiet at sea.
So why you don t tell me to scarper? Why not say, Thanks for a good time and go home to your man or your family?
Because I m stupid, I suppose. And because I don t have a man.
You don t have a man? I was both surprised and glad.
No.
What happen to the men on this island, they blight or something?
I don t have a man because I don t want a man.
And why is that?
The moment you wish to take a relationship to a higher level is gone man gone: their bank balance erode, they remember they have wife, their baby catch malaria: I could wri