Left: Maas Rumble is defiant as he makes a point to Sister Gatty.   Right: This tiny shop has stood up to the test of time. - Norman Grindley/Deputy Chief Photographer

In a tiny shoemaker's shop on a lonely street in rural St. Thomas, there's an argument raging between a stubborn old shoemaker called Clifton Rumble and an even more headstrong, churchgoing woman called Sister Gatty.

It was early afternoon when Sister Gatty, a slim, bespectacled woman wearing a hat, strolled into Maas Rumble's tiny wooden shop with a black plastic bag in her hand and greeted the gangly man.

He was fast asleep on a chair at the time.

Noticeably peeved

"Mawning" she shouted, using the bag in her hand to hit the man's foot, giving him a good jolt. "Ahhh" was Maas Rumble's response as he opened his eyes. "You caan seh mawning? You a big man. You fi ha mannas!" Sister Gatty's nostrils seemed to flare as she shouted. "Evey day a di same sinting. Why you won't learn?" Maas Rumble was by now, noticeably peeved.

"Anyway, is mi old boot mi carry fi you patch up," Sister Gatty said, reaching into her plastic bag and taking out a pair of white sneakers.

"All right, just siddung mek mi do it," Maas Rumble mumbled as he reached for a small can containing a yellow paste.

It was then that photographer Norman Grindley and I introduced ourselves to the pair.

"Well, I am the original one and only shoemaker in town. But mi soon lef it and go tend to mi pig dem. Mi caan badda wid di baddaration," were Maas Rumble's first words to us.

"You hear di man dem ask you bout you and you pig dem?" Sister Gatty interjected.

"Woman kirout!" Maas Rumble shouted and then turned back to us. "Shoemaker work get really slow right now. It nuh mek nuh sense again. So mi soon decide fi go raise two goat and two hog and take a hard life easy," he said.

We asked Maas Rumble to tell us a bit more about himself.

"Well, I born and grow right here in Seaforth. I am really a butcher, but things slow up now. Mi fix lantern too. Mi have 21 pickney, nine slut and 12 bull. Dem big now and move out. So is me one deh here now a gwaan banga banga," he said. Sister Gatty sent a disgusted look his way.

"Me is a man love drink mi white rum. Rum bar a di greatest college. It teach you more than any school and any church," said the man. It was then that all hell broke loose.

"You a sin yuhself! You a call down judgement pan yuhself!" Sister Gatty pointed her finger in the air as she shouted. She wiggled in her chair as if she had suddenly been taken over by an outside force. "There will be weeping and moaning. Nuh sin yuhself so!" But Maas Rumble would have none of it.

"Mi seh rum bar better than any church. You learn more bout God inna rum bar," he said. "God is inna yuh heart. Him nuh inna nuh building."

This sent Sister Gatty up the roof. "But you need place fi assemble. What kinda foolishness you chatting? Mi a go church fi nearly 30 years and nobody caan tell mi seh mi nuh fi go. Look yah, just mek haste fix mi boot mek mi gallang!" she shouted back at him.

Lost in memory

Maas Rumble shook his head and then turned to me. He explained that as a child, he was a frequent churchgoer, until one rainy Sunday afternoon when he was 12 years old, his pastor approached him after services. "Him gimmi a note and ask mi fi deliver it to Miss Cherry. Him seh mi should not tell anybody about it and mi should not read it. Anyway, I was a young boy and very curious, so I take the note and go one side to read it. I remember what that note say until this day," Maas Rumble gazed at the sky as if lost in memory.

According to the shoemaker, the note said "I don't have much time. I cannot let my wife find out, but leave the back door open and I will see you in a little while."

Maas Rumble chuckled. "From mi read dat, mi seh mi not going back inna nuh more church."

Sister Gatty was livid. "Stop tell di man dem lie and make haste wid mi shoes. Smaddy down a yard a wait pan mi!" she said.

The woman grabbed the shoe from Maas Rumble's hands and in no time was off down the road. The last thing I heard her mumble was something about fire and weeping.

"Nuh pay har nuh mind. Is mi friend," Maas Rumble said when the woman was well down the road. Always the talker, the shoemaker started to tell us more about his tiny shop. It was made of wood and sheets of zinc that were brown with rust. "I been here fi so much years. This place get lick by di 51 storm, Gilbert and Ivan and it never damage yet. Is it mek mi survive fi so many years. When I was younger I used to fix lantern alone. Then I was a butcher and then mi leave dat fi go drive taxi. Now mi a fix shoes and lantern and soon start raise back some more pig," he said.

There were several lanterns hanging in the small shop. I asked Maas Rumble if they were all given to him to be fixed. "Some of them is mine. I don't believe inna electric light. No sah. That will blind you. I only use lantern. Di electric light only dazzle yuh eye dem," he said.

We asked him to tell us how he found life in Seaforth. "Well, things quiet here for di most part. But when I was a bwoy it was more better. Mi used to ride mi donkey go anywhere at anytime. Dem was di days," he said, smiling.

Just then, an elderly man rode up on a bicycle. He was clutching a small lantern in his hand. "Maas Rumble!" he shouted. With another customer turning up, we decided to bid Maas Rumble farewell. "All right, we will link up one day and drink two white rum," he shouted after us with a chuckle.

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