Jean goulbourne

She cleaned the church; cleaned it so well that its otherwise coarse floors shone with the beeswax and the heavy scrubbing with the coconut brush. The pews were made spotless and the communion table was polished and made ready for communion service. Every Saturday she came, without fail, and her ageing voice could be heard as she sang:

'When the roll is called up yonder I'll be there.'

Auntie Mag loved the church. She loved to go and listen to the sermons, Sunday after Sunday; that is, when she was not tired after the cleaning on Saturdays, when she would be too sleepy to listen carefully. The money she got for cleaning the church was the pittance she lived on. What with that and the few goats, the pig, the laying hens, and the few fruit trees in her small yard, she had but little, and her position in the district was not without its problems. Auntie Nag, they called her, especially the children and those going into their teens: Auntie Nag. She hated the name.

Auntie Mag nagged incessantly.

'You, gal, wear bigger hat to cover you sins.'

'You, boy, you not coming to church again?'

'You, gal, you sure you not breeding? You not behaving, you know. Is so I hear the boy them say.'

'You, boy, chat in church again and I tell the pastor.'

'Mass Tom, the Lord Almighty know you son is a thief. Is thief you pickney thieving me eggs them. I know. Is the Holy Spirit tell me so and the Holy Spirit never lie.'

'Miss Julie, you nuh hear the news? Miss Simpson daughter pregnant and she nuh know who is the father.'

'Lawd a massy, Mass Charlie. Is how you belly so big. Mind is savannah them go for you, you know. You never can tell. You pickney pass for high school last month.'

So the nagging went, on and on. Nobody liked Auntie Mag to come for a visit, for she lapped her skirt and told the news in order to hear and bring back the news. Auntie Nag, they called her. But she sang whenever they called her that.

'When the roll is called up yonder I'll be there.'

Auntie Mag did something else, too; some people knew about it, others didn't. She washed clothes for the big-time farmer, Mass John. Mass John was a rich farmer in the district. He owned 50 acres of land and had many cows and goats. He cultivated cassava to make bammies and sweet potatoes to sell to the higglers. He had breadfruit trees and avocado pear trees, cedar trees and other lumber trees. He had a son in the States who sent him money now and again. Mass John was a church elder, something that Auntie Mag knew she would never be, even though she could read and write and do sums, like everyone else. She cleaned the church, so that was that.

But Auntie Mag had another secret. Auntie Mag was in love. She loved the very ground Mass John walked on. Mass John's wife had died many years ago and he had never married again. So many were after him. So many women, in the church and outside of the church. So many of the men had left the district for overseas, leaving just stragglers behind; so Mass John was a catch, and a big one at that. Auntie Mag knew she was about four years older than him. And she had been washing for him for years, from even when his wife was alive. She had known and loved Mass John for years.

She eyed him when he went to do the Bible reading in church, and when he drove his truck out of his yard on to the road. She eyed him when he came to the village shop for a drink. Lawd, it was sweet to dream. So sweet. She kissed his clothes as they hung clean and dry on the clothes line. Lawd, it was really sweet to dream. To be his bride, to walk up the aisle, to stand beside him in the wedding dress, to take the vows to love forever and forever. But then she had another secret - but wait 'til the end of this tale and you will know.

Auntie Mag went to church that Sunday with a song on her lips. She had been paid by the elders and she had paid the dressmaker for a new dress. She was wearing this dress to church and she was feeling glamorous. Oh Mass John, look at me. I am beautiful, even though I am getting older now. She sat where she always sat, somewhere in the back among the poorer people.

Church would have been good that Sunday, except for one big flaw: Mass John. He came with a woman and they sat in the front pew, just at the foot of the platform. Who was this lady? Because she was a lady. She wore white stockings and a yellow silk dress. Her chemically straightened hair was all done up in curls and she was beautiful, to say the least. People stared at her. Who was this stranger to the district?

It wasn't long before they all knew. The pastor read the banns of marriage. It was Mass John's fiancée.

They were to be married in two months' time. Auntie Mag held her anger, even though she could feel it welling up like a snake inside of her. At the end of the service she spoke to no one. She simply walked down the hill to the road. There were no tears. She was too busy thinking to cry. Vengeance. That was the word that described her thoughts. She must have revenge. Her way. There was no other way. While she walked she schemed.

'Jesus, help me,' she prayed.

It was not long before the annual rally, a church fund-raising event that had all the church members eager to contribute by begging money and then competing to see who had got the most. Auntie Mag had been just as eager as the rest and was even more so now under the circumstances. She begged in the town square and the village square, and she begged even schoolchildren for a small pittance, such as they could afford. But every mickle mek a muckle, as they always said, and Auntie Mag raised a lot this year. Maybe enough to go on the platform and declare how much she had made and make the annual speech as the winner.

She dressed her best that Sunday afternoon and put on her widest hat. She had on high heel shoes and stockings. She took her very best handbag, and she put the rally card and the cash in it. She would have her say, her way.

The start was smooth; the people had come out in their numbers and there in the front pew sat Mass John and his new-found love. There were hymns sung. There were speeches made, and even a small sermon from the pastor. Then it was time to figure out who had got the most money. The rally was there in earnest. Some had raised hundreds, others a couple thousand dollars. Auntie Mag sat, a smile on her face; she knew that none could beat her. She would make the speech.

And she did. When she hobbled up in her high heels to declare her funds of $15,000, and then hobbled down again, people gasped in astonishment. Auntie Mag to make a speech? Just before the end of the service? Before the Pastor said the final prayer and the service was ended? Some giggled. Others laughed outright.

When she was declared the overall winner of the fund-raising competition, Auntie Mag made her way up again. She stood straight as an arrow. Her happiness was complete.

'You know,' she declared, 'I clean the church. I prepare the communion table. I sit in the back benches during service and everybody knows that I do these things. But you know, I don't get much recognition. Is like I am the slave, even though I get the money for the job. So I wash clothes for people like Mass John. Mass John,' she addressed him now. 'I wash you clothes for you and I iron the very shirt you wearing now. I do them for you. I hope you new wife will have children, not like the many I had to throw away for you. I had to use the bush as medicine as I couldn't see a doctor. It illegal, but my mother told me when I was young how to do it. I hope you have a good marriage, Mass John, and that you will make you wife happy. See, I wear a big hat to hide me sins, but I can't hide them from God, I have to confess my sins before him and before the other people in the church. So I finish me speech. I can't really speechify. But I glad I say me piece.'

Mass John rose, and his fiancee walked with him through the door.

The congregation sat stunned. The pastor didn't know what to do. The rally ended in chaos.

The village was in disarray for about a week. Mass John's fiancee went home to her parish, never to return. Mass John's farm went to pieces and he died of heartbreak. Auntie Mag went on living for a good many years; maybe she died with this song on her lips:

'Now the roll is called up yonder and I'll be there.'

- Jean Goulbourne