Chapter 9
ZINZI
Allan Coombs’s Office, King Street, Kingston
The next day, after my shift at the Constant Spring Hotel, I make the forty-five-minute trip to Allan’s office on King Street.
“Glad you could make it,” he says. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“I would love one.”
He’s the only person I know who makes my coffee just the way I like it—with more cream than coffee and several generous teaspoons of sugar.
Three years ago, when I met him, I was nervous and popping candies in my mouth, filling the room with the scent of peppermint.
He asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee.
We were discussing the labor movement, but without a second thought, even though the movement was the most significant thing I’d ever considered doing, I blurted out, “Never mind. I can make my own.”
“You have quite the sweet tooth,” he remarked. “Are you positive you want to go into battle against sugarcane?”
“There is little connection between the two,” I said, then continued.
“I might crave homemade tamarind balls, coconut drops, store-bought peppermint candy, and rock cakes, but what happens on sugarcane plantations is an atrocity. I will fight plantation owners even if I never have another drop of sugar.” I shared all this while pouring a third spoonful of sugar into my cup.
Allan and I have gotten along quite well since that first day.
He hands me a cup of coffee and sits behind his desk, surrounded by a stack of papers, pamphlets, and a ledger that he opens, closes, and opens again.
“Molasses is a by-product of sugar.” He taps the ledger.
“And the main ingredient in rum. I never thought about that connection until I moved to Jamaica.”
Allan was born in London, but his military family moved to Kingston after the Great War.
He traveled back and forth between the island and Britain until his father died in 1928.
After that, he decided to try working on a sugar plantation, but he only lasted a few months.
“When I worked at the Tynesdale Estate, Byron was out of the country, and even if he was home, there’s a considerable distance between the plantation house, the sugarcane fields, and the processing plants. But you already know that.”
Allan and I had discussed our individual sugar plantation stories early on in my involvement with the union activist. “Byron says he wants a labor union at Tynesdale Estate.”
“His father, like all large plantation owners, is against unions.”
“He says his father is very ill.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” Allan replies. He closes his ledger. “For the labor union to succeed, we need lawyers, government officials, and a few sugar plantation owners wouldn’t hurt.” Allan exhales. “We could use a Byron Tynesdale.”
I shrug, but I’m unsure what to say.
“Did you know I met Byron at a boarding school in London?”
“You went to boarding school?” I say, surprised.
“No, my mother worked in the school kitchen and my father was a soldier,” Allan explains.
“Byron’s mother was alive back then. She visited him often, but I never met his father.
Despite our different backgrounds, we became mates of a sort.
He occasionally wrote to me about his adventures.
We were both back in Jamaica when his mother passed away, but after her death, our paths didn’t cross—until recently. ”
“Is that when he asked about joining the movement?” I glance at the posters on the wall. “Can one person really make that much of a difference?”
“The right man might tip the scales once or twice,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Besides the obvious, what else bothers you about him, Zinzi?”
My mind flashes to the recipe on his typewriter. “He wants more than just to bring the labor union to Tynesdale Estate.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps he’s seeking vengeance and his father is the target.”
“Well, we need to find out, then, don’t we?” Allan thumbs through a few pages of his ledger. “How about you invite him to join us for the Victoria Park rally?”
“That’s an important rally. Are you sure?”
“If he doesn’t work out, we can move on. No point in wasting time. We’ll find another dissatisfied heir to a kingdom to join our cause,” Allan says with a cryptic smile.
I sigh.
“Talk to him about the rally, okay? When will you see him again?”
I gulp down the rest of my cold, sugary coffee. “We’re having dinner this evening.”
Edna’s Diner, Jubilee Square, Kingston
Edna’s Diner is a small, family-owned spot near Jubilee Square and one of my favorite places to eat. Fishermen, sponge divers, factory workers, hotel employees, and market hawkers agree, and grub on a tin of good food, a cup of wine or rum, along with friendly service and conversation.
When Byron picked me up at the Constant Spring Hotel, I made it clear: We are dining at a place of my choice, not at one of his fancy tourist spots.
“Plantation workers don’t respect a man who looks and sounds more like a Londoner than a Jamaican.
You’ll have to prove that you know your way around sugarcane fields, not just inside a plantation owner’s mansion. ”
Byron and I now sit on simple wooden benches at a long, narrow table, just a slab of wood placed over a stack of bricks.
Henry, the diner’s cook, stands at a flat iron surface heated by a blazing firepit below, grilling meats, fish, okra, and pots of rice, along with callaloo, a leafy green vegetable.
Byron closely eyeballs the plate of food placed before him.
“Have you been away so long that Jamaican food feels unfamiliar?” I chuckle.
He takes a bite of jerk pork. “This is really good.”
“It always is,” I reply. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I never doubted you.”
“I doubt you. Considering your family’s businesses, I have every reason to question your commitment to the labor union movement.”
He doesn’t flinch at my serious tone. “That’s why I’m here,” he says. “To change your mind.”
“You think you can?”
“Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it,” he says, planting his elbows on the table too quickly, almost tipping it over.
“Careful. The table isn’t made of concrete.”
“Yeah, right.”
“We should have some rum, what do you say?”
“All right.” He exhales and tells the cook’s helper, “Rum. Two glasses.”
Two cups of rum appear on the table shortly after, served from a large clay jug.
While I sip my drink, I realize there’s no better moment to pose another question to Byron. “What was that recipe you had on your typewriter at the hotel?”
He laughs. “I was trying to recall the family rum recipe.”
“Do you remember it?”
“I’ve only seen it once, on my sixteenth birthday. Now, it’s locked away in the vault in my father’s office.”
“You could steal it and sabotage your father’s rum business,” I reply sarcastically.
“Certainly, if my goal was to harm my father, taking the rum recipe would be the way to do it. But you’re mistaken about the rum recipe. I’m not looking to destroy Tynesdale Estate or its operations—I genuinely want it to thrive under my leadership.”
“You’re saying all the right things, but it might not matter if sugarcane continues to lose ground to the United Fruit Company’s banana empires in twenty years.”
“You keep up with Jamaica’s economy?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Allan keeps us informed, and I read newspapers and listen to the radio,” I say proudly. “Besides, there’s much more to this island than what the upper class chooses to tell us.”
He raises his glass. “Touché.” His jaw tightens. “We’ve talked about me. Now tell me about you.”
“Abrupt change of subject.”
“Just expanding the conversation to include more about you, Zinzi.”
“There’s not much more to tell,” I say soberly. “You heard some of my remarks if you were paying attention.”
“I was,” he replies. “But I’d still like to know more.”
I shrug. “As I mentioned, there isn’t much to tell.
I grew up in Cockpit Country, Accompong, and briefly worked at your father’s plantation before moving to Kingston a decade ago.
In the city, I led a quiet life, making ends meet by working in harbour shops, cleaning floors, and taking out the trash.
I also studied and improved my reading, writing, and math skills.
For over five years, I have worked as a maid at Constant Spring Hotel.
” I exhale. “That’s about all there is.”
“How long ago did you join the movement?”
“Five years ago.”
“And in those five years, you’ve become one of Allan Coombs’s most trusted union organizers.”
“He trusts all the people he invites to join him in this mission.”
“He does?”
“Yes, he does.”
“What about me? Have you given me a thumbs-up?”
“As a matter of fact, Allan would like you to join us at a rally we’re holding tomorrow in Victoria Park. Will that work with your schedule? It will take the entire day.”
His face lights up. “Yes, of course I’m available.”
“I didn’t do anything. It was Allan’s decision. I’m only the messenger.”
“Whatever you say. I’m excited to get started.”
Byron’s boyish enthusiasm is somewhat contagious, and I smile, but then I become serious.
“We have a lot to prepare in advance. From writing and printing pamphlets and flyers to organizing volunteers, we expect a large crowd and potential trouble with the police. We must keep our enthusiastic supporters calm and focused. While we can’t control the constables, we can do our best to keep the workers out of harm’s way. ”
He raises his arms overhead, fists clenched like a victor in a sporting event. “Thank you, Zinzi.”
“Once again, this is Allan’s idea, not mine.”
“Well, thank you, Allan.”
We’ve finished our dinner, and I stand with my hands in my pockets, pulling out money to pay for our meal.
“Let me,” Byron insists, as I suspected he would.
“Thank you, and oh, no suits tomorrow. Find a pair of overalls and a Panama hat to keep the sun from turning your pale skin scarlet. And wear comfortable shoes. We have a lot of pamphlets to hand out.”
“Your wish is my command.”