Marriott
Louis Marriott, Contributor
This is the 15th in a series of articles reliving the years up to Independence by a journalist/broadcaster whose childhood and maturation coincided with Jamaica's.
THERE was a buzz in the community. Who was the better bicycle rider? Lloyd Marriott? Or Girlie Chin?
Girlie was the half-Chinese daughter of the local Chinese grocer, universally known as "Long Man" (Chin) because he was tall and slim.
Girlie, paradoxically, was a tomboy. A year or two older than Lloyd, she was the darling of the neighbourhood: congenial, pretty and charismatic.
Her physical fitness was reflected in a healthy muscle tone. This was accentuated especially in her legs below shorts that she habitually wore.
Girlie had been showing off her considerable cycling skills even before we moved to Berwick Road the previous year.
While Lloyd could ride a "fixed wheel" bicycle only when Daddy was at home, Girlie had her own bicycle which she rode up and down the road seemingly at all times.
Most importantly, her bicycle was a "down handle", like the ones the professional cyclists rode.
The sporting men of the neighbourhood proposed a match race between Lloyd and Girlie. It was set for Emancipation Day, Friday August 1, 1941, at 10:00 a.m.
The population of Berwick Road was out to witness the event. There were spectators too from the near parts of Maxfield Avenue and Galloway Road.
Daddy brought in some of his coterie of gambling friends who met regularly at Knutsford Park for horse-racing. They put their money on Lloyd while the neighbourhood men in general fancied Girlie's chances.
There was a Carnival atmosphere about the place. It was a brilliant, sunny morning and the spectators wore a wide variety of bright colours. There were many straw hats in the crowd.
The distance was about 160 metres. The race started at the corner of Maxfield Avenue and ended at the eastern gate post of Mrs. Vie Mendes, Principal of Jones Town Elementary School, who lived near an S-bend in the road with her sons Harry and Delroy.
FAMILY HONOUR
There was a great deal at stake. It was a battle of the sexes and of races. Family honour was also on the line.
Lloyd and I didn't always see eye to eye, and he was prone to big-brother arrogance and conceit. But when it came to a clash with the daughter of Long Man, whom I disliked, though I was one of Girlie's many admirers, I dreaded the thought of Lloyd losing to Girlie.
There was some dispute about the nature of the start. Some wanted the cyclists to start, without help, from an inert position.
Others agreed to an inert start but wanted an assistant to steady the bicycle. Still others preferred the assistant to give them a push start.
A few were in favour of the cyclists opting for their own mode of starting. The latter group won the day.
Girlie got a push start from one of the strongest and fastest young men on the road while Lloyd used his customary spring mount.
They were off. Girlie's pusher did a fantastic job for his charge, and she was pedalling strongly even before Lloyd landed from his spring mount.
My brother was in trouble. Was he overcome by stage fright? His feet seemed to fumble as they tried to take control of the pedals.
When the contenders passed our gate, some 40 metres or so from Maxfield Avenue, Girlie was about two bicycle lengths ahead. Her supporters were ecstatic and already celebrating victory.
Lloyd found his rhythm and seemed to be gaining ground, but was it too late?
We couldn't tell from where we were because the angles created a false perspective. They rode down into a big dip in the road. When they rode uphill out of the dip, we would know who won, for the point where the road levelled again was very close to the winning post.
As the cyclists emerged from the dip, a roar went up from the Marriott faction in the crowd, for it was clearly Lloyd's head that was first seen. The victory was later confirmed by the three judges posted at Mrs. Mendes' gate.
Girlie's cocksure supporters were stunned. They called for a rematch. Daddy's friends were interested only in collecting their winnings to give them a good headstart for the horse races at Knutsford Park later that day. They did not forget to give Lloyd a generous share of their dividends.
Before they left the scene, though, there was a little local business to do.
Daddy's regular friends -- Mr. East, Mr. Nalty and Mr. Johnson, brought into the house a stranger who was obviously their mutual friend. The strange man posed me an arithmetical puzzle. As soon as he uttered his last word, I shot back the correct answer.
Messrs East, Nalty and Johnson hugged me and pushed money on me. The stranger appeared stunned. He asked me how I did it. It was a ritual that was often repeated during our residence at Berwick Road; Daddy's gambling friends bringing strangers to the house to pose arithmetical puzzles and then rewarding me with money as I answered swiftly and correctly.
GENERAL CONSULTANT
As Daddy became more and more active in the PNP, not only expanding his group, which met at our home, but also encouraging his friends to form groups, he also became general voluntary consultant to the community.
Although his formal education was limited to primary level, people came to him for help in writing a wide range of letters to officialdom.
He read a great deal, and was village lawyer and village doctor.
One of his uncles, a chubby brown man named Alexander Marriott, occasionally rode his horse from Above Rocks in St. Catherine, some 30 kilometres away, to pay us a brief visit.
Uncle Alex sported a handlebar moustache, a khaki helmet, and khaki trousers the bottoms of which were stuck into black leather riding boots. He twirled a whalebone whip as he spoke in his deep, rich, rustic voice.
The fact that Daddy produced copious food on the two acres behind the house never deterred Uncle Alex from bringing him a crocus bag full of citrus, cocoa, jackfruit, otahiti apple, corn, yam and cucumber.
He always came unannounced, always on a Friday evening and, as a lover of fruits, I always hoped on a Friday evening to hear the clip-clopping of his horse's hoofs.
Uncle Alvin, who lived little more than a stone's throw from us, on Berwick Road, rarely visited. Of all Daddy's six siblings, I suspect that Uncle Alvin was the one he least liked.
By then, Uncle Alvin was gaining considerable attention as a sculptor and we sometimes visited his home to view the work he was doing.
AIR RAID
One evening we had a memorable visit from Uncle Alvin. Daft as it might seem, there was a fear that the Luftwaffe, the German air force, might bypass England, France and other obvious European enemies and fly their deadly aircraft all the way across the Atlantic to drop their bombs on tiny Jamaica, which had no known strategic materials.
To protect ourselves from this danger, we had frequent air raid drills. A loud siren sounded. All households were required, at the sound of the siren, to extinguish their lights immediately, lest we lit up the target for the Luftwaffe.
There were, then, Air Raid Precaution (ARP) Wardens to enforce the regulations. They were given District Constable status, a uniform, a baton, and power to prosecute.
Daddy, crafty as always, devised a scheme to have light constantly in the house and yet keep the Germans in the dark. His theatre experience served him well. He bought heavy black fabric. Mama made black drapes for all the windows, adding lining to make the drapes even more opaque.
One evening during a blackout there was a rap on the front door, followed by Uncle Alvin's voice. All lights were switched off, the door opened, Uncle Alvin let in, the door closed, and the lights switched back on. A perfect example of eating one's cake and still having it.
But not for Uncle Alvin, who was wearing a crisp new ARP Warden's uniform and carrying a baton.
He was livid.
"How can you do such a thing, Bertie?", he demanded.
Daddy, with feigned naivety, explained the process of buying the cloth and making the drapes.
Uncle Alvin was unimpressed by Daddy's argument that he didn't know when he was outside that there were lights on in the house.
Uncle Alvin retorted that it was embarrassing for him, as an ARP Warden, to have his own brother flouting the regulations. He told Daddy that it was a serious breach, and that he could be prosecuted.
Louis Marriott is a journalist and broadcaster, a former BBC radio producer/presenter and Press Secretary to the Prime Minister of Jamaica.
