Hartley NeitaWHEN I was in my late teens, my first date with a girl was to a matinee show at the Carib Theatre in Cross Roads, St. Andrew. We had first met at the sweet 16 birthday party of a mutual friend. After that first meeting I made tentative telephone calls to her home during the day when her parents were at work and after she came home from school.
We also made arrangements to call each other when she visited friends. Then we could talk as long as we wished, as calls were not then metered. For our matinee dates she arranged to go to the theatre with friends, then separated from them. Naturally, this could not go on for long without someone talking, and it was her mother who first heard.
"He's nice, Mummy," she confessed.
"Well, you know of course your father has to meet him."
So, I had the dreaded meeting with her parents.
"I hear you're working for the Government," her father began.
"Yes, sir," I replied
"What school did you attend?" was the first question.
"Jamaica College," I said.
I could see I earned pluses with him. Jamaica College was then the prime school in Jamaica. After all it was the national educational institution. Other schools were named after towns - like Kingston College, or after counties like Cornwall. Munro and Wolmer's were named after some forgotten dead, with the first coming a little behind JC with Wolmer's a distant third. JC was named for Jamaica! It was the Jamaican College.
"Where do you live?"
"Vineyard Town," I replied. I could see from the pursing of his lips that he approved. I was from a nice respectable middle-class area.
ANOTHER NOTCH
"Who are your parents? Where do they work?" were the next questions. When they discovered my father was a school teacher I went up another notch in his estimation. And the fact that my favourite sport was cricket and that I had played on the Sunlight Cup team added credits to my examination.
The questioning was pleasant, but I could see her father was waiting for a weakness. In fact, he almost caught me when he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one. I politely refused. Her mother approved.
Their daughter broke the tension. "Wouldn't you like to sit on the veranda? It's so hot in here." I stood up quickly and followed her outside.
I was perspiring, of course, and it was not only from the heat of the drawing room. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked. I believe I must have said the word "Yes" a thousand times.
She brought two glasses of Coca Cola. We sipped the drink silently. It became cooler. I heard her mother and father talking in soft tones inside and knew they were discussing me. Perhaps I was too good to be true.
Shortly after, her mother came on the veranda with a watering pail. There were a score of potted plants, ferns, crotons, a large coffee rose in a corner, and a miniature palm
"The plants must be thirsty in this heat," she said to no one in particular. She went from pot to pot, slowly sprinkling the plants. She went inside for more water and returned to continue the cooling.
Her husband must have instructed her to get rid of me before I got too comfortable. When the watering was finished she sat in a rocking chair at the edge of the veranda. The chair rocked and rocked, slower and slower. She fell asleep.
"I think I should leave so you can take your mother to bed," I said.
We went to the Carib on a few more afternoons and met at other parties. Our telephone calls became fewer and fewer. And I never returned for another inquisition.
