They say when trouble come close ra

They say when trouble come close ranks, and so the white people did. But we were not in their ranks. The Jamaican ladies had never approved of my mother, ‘because she pretty like pretty self’ Christophine said.
She was my father’s second wife, far too young for him they thought, and, worse still, a Martinique girl. When I asked her why so few people came to see us, she told me that the road from Spanish Town to Coulibri Estate where we lived was very bad and that road repairing was now a thing of the past. (My father, visitors, horses, feeling safe in bed – all belonged to the past.)
Another day I heard her talking to Mr Luttrell, our neighbour and her only friend. ‘Of course they have their own misfortunes. Still waiting for this compensation the English promised when the Emancipation Act was passed. Some will wait for a long time.’
How could she know that Mr Luttrell would be the first who grew tired of waiting? One calm evening he shot his dog, swam out to sea and was gone for always. No agent came from England to look after his property – Nelson’s Rest it was called – and strangers from Spanish Town rode up to gossip and discuss the tragedy.
‘Live at Nelson’s Rest? Not for love or money. An unlucky place.’
Mr Luttrell’s ho was left empty, shutters banging in the wind. Soon the black people said it was haunted, they wouldn’t go near it. And no one came near us.
I got used to a solitary life, but my mother still planned and hoped – perhaps she had to hope every time she passed a looking glass.
She still rode about every morning not caring that the black people stood about in groups to jeer at her, especially after her riding clothes grew shabby (they notice clothes, they know about money).
Then, one day, very early I saw her horse lying down under the frangipani tree. I went up to him but he was not sick, he was dead and his eyes were black with flies. I ran away and did not speak of it for I thought if I told no one it might not be true. But later that day, Godfrey found him, he had been poisoned. ‘Now we are marooned,’ my mother said, ‘now what will become of us?’
Godfrey said, ‘I can’t watch the horse night and day. I too old now. When the old time go, let it go. No use to grab at it. The Lord make no distinction between black and white, black and white the same for Him. Rest yourself in peace for the righteous are not forsaken.’ But she couldn’t. She was young. How could she not try for all the things that had gone so suddenly, so without warning. ‘You’re blind when you want to be blind,’ she said ferociously, ‘and you’re deaf when you want to be deaf. The old hypocrite,’ she kept saying. ‘He knew what they were going to do.’ ‘The devil prince of this world,’ Godfrey said, ‘but this world don’t last so long for mortal man.’

She persuaded a Spanish Town doctor to visit my younger brother Pierre who staggered when he walked and couldn’t speak distinctly. I don’t know what the doctor told her or what she said to him but he never came again and after that she changed. Suddenly, not gradually. She grew thin and silent, and at last she refused to leave the house at all.
Our garden was large and beautiful as that garden in the Bible – the tree of life grew there. But it had gone wild. The paths were overgrown and a smell of dead flowers mixed with the fresh living smell. Underneath the tree ferns, tall as forest tree ferns, the light was green. Orchids flourished out of reach or for some reason not to be touched. One was snaky looking, another like an octopus with long thin brown tentacles bare of leaves hanging from a twisted root. Twice at year the octopus orchid flowered – then not an inch of tentacle showed. It was a bell-shaped mass of white, mauve, deep purples, wonderful to see. The scent was very sweet and strong. I never went near it.
All Coulibri Estate had gone wild like the garden, gone to bush. No more slavery – why should anybody work? This never saddened me. I did not remember the place when it was prosperous.
My mother usually walked up and down the glacis, a paved roofed-in terrace which ran the length of the house and sloped upward to a clump of bamboos. Standing by the bamboos she had a clear view to the sea, but anyone passing could stare at her. They stared, sometimes they laughed. Long after the sound was far away and faint she kept her eyes shut and her hands clenched. A frown came between her black eyebrows, deep – it might have been cut with a knife. I hated this frown and once I touched her forehead trying to smooth it. But she pushed me away, not roughly but calmly, coldly, without a word, as if she had decided once and for all that I was useless to her. She wanted to sit with Pierre or walk where she pleased without being pestered, she wanted peace and quiet. I was old enough to look after myself. ‘Oh, let me alone,’ she would say, ‘let me alone,’ and after I knew that she talked aloud to herself I was a little afraid of her.
So I spent most of my time in the kitchen which was an outbuilding some way off. Christophine slept in the little room next to it.
When evening came she sang to me if she was in the mood. I couldn’t always understand her patois songs – ­she also came from Martinique – but she taught me the one that meant ‘The little one grow old, the children leave us, will they come back?’ and the one about the cedar tree flowers which only last for a day.
The music was gay but the words were sad and her voice often quavered and broke on the high note. ‘Adieu.’ Not adieu as we said it, but à dieu, which made more sense after all. The loving man was lonely, the girl was deserted, the children never came back. Adieu
Her songs were not like Jamaican songs, and she was not like the other women.
She was much blacker – blue-black with a thin face and straight features. She wore a black dress, heavy gold ear-rings and a yellow handkerchief – carefully tied with the two high points in front. No other negro woman wore black, or tied her handkerchief Martinique fashion. She had a quiet voice and a quiet laugh when she did laugh), and though she could speak good English if she wanted to, and French as well as patois, she took care to talk as they talked. But they would have nothing to do with her and she never saw her son who worked in Spanish Town. She had only one friend – a woman called Maillotte, and Maillotte was not a Jamaican.
The girls from the bayside who sometimes helped with the washing and cleaning were terrified of her. That, I soon discovered, was why they came at all – for she never paid them. Yet they brought presents of fruit and vegetables and after dark I often heard low voices from the kitchen.
So I asked about Christophine. Was she very old? Had she always been with us?
‘She was your father’s wedding present to me – one of his presents. He though I would be pleased with a Martinique girl. I don’t know how old she was when they brought her to Jamaica, quite young. I don’t know how old she is now. Does it matter? Why do you pester and bother me about all these things that happened long ago? Christophine stayed with me because she wanted to stay. She had her own very good reasons you may be sure. I dare say we would have died if she’d turned against us and that would have been a better fate. To die and be forgotten and at peace. Not to know that one is abandoned, lied about, helpless. All the ones who died – who says a good word for them now?’
‘Godfrey stayed too,’ I said. ‘And Sass.’
‘They stayed,’ she said angrily, ‘because they wanted somewhere to sleep and something to eat. That boy Sass! When his mother pranced off and left him here – a great deal she cared – why he was a little skeleton. Now he’s growing into a big strong boy and away he goes. We shan’t see him again. Godfrey is a rascal. These new ones aren’t too kind to old people and he knows it. That’s why he stays. Doesn’t do a thing but eat enough for a couple of horses. Pretends he’s deaf. He isn’t deaf – he doesn’t want to hear. What a devil he is!’
‘Why don’t you tell him to find somewhere else to live?’ I said and she laughed.
‘He wouldn’t go. He’d probably try to force us out. I’ve learned to let sleeping curs lie,’ she said.
‘Would Christophine go if you told her to?’ I thought. But I didn’t say it. I was afraid to say it.
It was too hot that afternoon. I could see the beads of perspiration on her upper lip and the dark circles under her eyes. I started to fan her, but she turned her head away. She might rest if I left her alone, she said.
Once I would have gone back quietly to watch her asleep on the blue sofa – once I made excuses to be near her when she brushed her hair, a soft black cloak to cover me, hide me, keep me safe.
But not any longer. Not any more.

These were all the people in my life – my mother and Pierre, Christophine, Godfrey, and Sass who had left us.
I never looked at any strange negro. They hated us. They called us white cockroaches. Let sleeping dogs lie. One day a little girl followed my singing, ‘Go away white cockroach, go away, go away.’ I walked fast, but she walked faster. ‘White cockroach, go away go away. Nobody want you. Go away.’
When I was safely home I sat close to the old wall at the end of the garden. It was covered with green moss soft as velvet and I never wanted to move again. Everything would be worse if I moved. Christophine found me there when it was nearly dark, and I was so stiff she had to help me to get up. She said nothing, but next morning Tia was in the kitchen with her mother Maillotte, Christophine’s friend. Soon Tia was my friend and I met her nearly every morning at the turn of the road to the river.
Sometimes we left the bathing pool at midday, sometimes we stayed till late afternoon. Then Tia would light a fire (fires always lit for her, sharp stones did not hurt her bare feet, I never saw her cry). We boiled green bananas in an old iron pot an

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

Họ nói rằng khi gặp rắc rối đến gần bậc, và vì vậy đã làm người da trắng. Nhưng chúng tôi đã không ở cấp bậc của họ. Đô la jamaica phụ nữ không bao giờ chấp thuận của mẹ tôi, 'bởi vì cô đẹp như khá tự' Christophine nói.Bà là vợ thứ hai của cha tôi, quá trẻ cho ông họ nghĩ, và, tệ hơn Tuy nhiên, một cô gái Martinique. Khi tôi hỏi bà tại sao vì vậy, ít người đến để xem chúng tôi, cô ấy nói với tôi rằng con đường từ Spanish Town đến bất động sản Coulibri nơi chúng tôi sống đã rất xấu và sửa chữa đường mà bây giờ là một điều của quá khứ. (Của tôi cha, du khách, ngựa, cảm thấy an toàn trong giường-tất cả thuộc về quá khứ.)Một ngày tôi nghe cô nói chuyện với ông Luttrell, hàng xóm của chúng tôi và người bạn duy nhất. ' Tất nhiên họ có rủi ro riêng của họ. Vẫn chờ đợi cho bồi thường này anh đã hứa khi đạo luật giải phóng nô lệ được thông qua. Một số sẽ chờ đợi một thời gian dài.'Làm thế nào có thể cô ấy biết rằng ông Luttrell sẽ là người đầu tiên phát triển mệt mỏi của chờ đợi? Một buổi tối yên tĩnh ông bắn con chó của mình, bơi ra biển và đi luôn luôn. Không có đến từ Anh chăm sóc tài sản của mình-Nelson của còn lại nó được gọi là- và người lạ từ Spanish Town rode đến gossip và thảo luận về những thảm kịch.' Sống ở phần còn lại của Nelson? Không phải cho tình yêu hay tiền bạc. Địa điểm kém may mắn.'Ông Luttrell ho được để trống, cửa chớp đập trong gió. Sớm người da đen nói nó ám ảnh, họ sẽ không đến gần nó. Và không có ai đến gần chúng ta.Tôi đã sử dụng để một đơn độc cuộc sống, nhưng mẹ tôi vẫn lập kế hoạch và hy vọng-có lẽ cô đã có để hy vọng mỗi khi cô đã thông qua kính tìm kiếm.Nó vẫn còn vượt qua về mỗi sáng không chăm sóc mà người da đen đứng về trong các nhóm để jeer vào cô ấy, đặc biệt là sau khi quần áo ngựa của cô phát triển tồi tàn (họ nhận thấy quần áo, họ biết về tiền bạc).Sau đó, một ngày, rất sớm, tôi thấy mình cưỡi nằm dưới cây frangipani. Tôi đã đi đến anh ta, nhưng ông đã không bị bệnh, ông đã chết và đôi mắt của ông đã được màu đen với ruồi. Tôi bỏ đi và đã không nói về nó cho tôi nghĩ rằng nếu tôi nói với không có ai đó có thể không được đúng. Nhưng cuối ngày hôm đó, Godfrey tìm thấy anh ta, ông đã bị đầu độc. 'Bây giờ chúng tôi đang marooned,' mẹ tôi nói, 'bây giờ những gì sẽ trở thành của chúng tôi?'Godfrey nói, ' tôi không thể xem ngựa ban đêm và ngày. Tôi quá già bây giờ. Khi thời gian cũ đi, hãy để nó đi. Không sử dụng để lấy nó. Chúa làm cho không có sự phân biệt giữa màu đen và trắng, màu đen và trắng đó cho anh ta. Phần còn lại cho mình trong hòa bình cho người công chính không phải forsaken.' Nhưng cô không thể. Cô còn nhỏ. Làm thế nào có thể cô không thử cho tất cả những điều đó đã đi vì vậy đột nhiên, như vậy mà không có cảnh báo. 'Bạn đang mù khi bạn muốn được mù,' cô nói ferociously, ' Anh điếc khi bạn muốn được điếc. Hypocrite cũ,' cô giữ nói rằng. 'Ông biết những gì họ muốn làm.' 'Hoàng tử ma quỷ của thế giới này,' Godfrey nói, 'nhưng thế giới này không kéo dài quá lâu cho người đàn ông sinh tử.' Bà thuyết phục một bác sĩ Spanish Town đến thăm tôi em trai Pierre người Le khi ông đi và không thể nói rõ rệt. Tôi không biết những gì bác sĩ nói với cô ấy hoặc những gì cô ấy nói với anh ta, nhưng ông không bao giờ đến một lần nữa và sau đó cô đã thay đổi. Đột nhiên, không dần dần. Cô trở nên mỏng và im lặng, và cuối cùng cô đã từ chối rời khỏi nhà ở tất cả.Vườn của chúng tôi là lớn và đẹp như rằng Sân vườn trong kinh thánh-tree of life lớn có. Nhưng nó đã đi hoang dã. Những con đường đã được overgrown và mùi hoa chết trộn lẫn với mùi tươi sống. Bên dưới những cây dương xỉ, cao như rừng cây dương xỉ, ánh sáng được màu xanh lá cây. Hoa Lan phát triển mạnh mẽ ra khỏi tầm tay hoặc cho một số lý do để không được xúc động. Một là tìm kiếm snaky, một giống như một con bạch tuộc với xúc tu màu nâu dài mỏng trần của lá treo từ một gốc xoắn. Hai lần tại năm bạch tuộc phong lan Hoa-sau đó cho thấy, không phải là một inch của tua. Nó là một khối lượng hình chuông của trắng, mauve, sâu purples, tuyệt vời để xem. Hương thơm là rất ngọt và mạnh mẽ. Tôi không bao giờ đã đi gần nó.Tất cả Coulibri động sản đã đi hoang dã như vườn, đi bụi. Không có thêm chế độ nô lệ-tại sao bất cứ ai nên làm việc? Điều này không bao giờ buồn tôi. Tôi đã không nhớ nơi khi nó đã được thịnh vượng.My mother usually walked up and down the glacis, a paved roofed-in terrace which ran the length of the house and sloped upward to a clump of bamboos. Standing by the bamboos she had a clear view to the sea, but anyone passing could stare at her. They stared, sometimes they laughed. Long after the sound was far away and faint she kept her eyes shut and her hands clenched. A frown came between her black eyebrows, deep – it might have been cut with a knife. I hated this frown and once I touched her forehead trying to smooth it. But she pushed me away, not roughly but calmly, coldly, without a word, as if she had decided once and for all that I was useless to her. She wanted to sit with Pierre or walk where she pleased without being pestered, she wanted peace and quiet. I was old enough to look after myself. ‘Oh, let me alone,’ she would say, ‘let me alone,’ and after I knew that she talked aloud to herself I was a little afraid of her.So I spent most of my time in the kitchen which was an outbuilding some way off. Christophine slept in the little room next to it.When evening came she sang to me if she was in the mood. I couldn’t always understand her patois songs – ­she also came from Martinique – but she taught me the one that meant ‘The little one grow old, the children leave us, will they come back?’ and the one about the cedar tree flowers which only last for a day.The music was gay but the words were sad and her voice often quavered and broke on the high note. ‘Adieu.’ Not adieu as we said it, but à dieu, which made more sense after all. The loving man was lonely, the girl was deserted, the children never came back. AdieuHer songs were not like Jamaican songs, and she was not like the other women.She was much blacker – blue-black with a thin face and straight features. She wore a black dress, heavy gold ear-rings and a yellow handkerchief – carefully tied with the two high points in front. No other negro woman wore black, or tied her handkerchief Martinique fashion. She had a quiet voice and a quiet laugh when she did laugh), and though she could speak good English if she wanted to, and French as well as patois, she took care to talk as they talked. But they would have nothing to do with her and she never saw her son who worked in Spanish Town. She had only one friend – a woman called Maillotte, and Maillotte was not a Jamaican.The girls from the bayside who sometimes helped with the washing and cleaning were terrified of her. That, I soon discovered, was why they came at all – for she never paid them. Yet they brought presents of fruit and vegetables and after dark I often heard low voices from the kitchen.So I asked about Christophine. Was she very old? Had she always been with us?‘She was your father’s wedding present to me – one of his presents. He though I would be pleased with a Martinique girl. I don’t know how old she was when they brought her to Jamaica, quite young. I don’t know how old she is now. Does it matter? Why do you pester and bother me about all these things that happened long ago? Christophine stayed with me because she wanted to stay. She had her own very good reasons you may be sure. I dare say we would have died if she’d turned against us and that would have been a better fate. To die and be forgotten and at peace. Not to know that one is abandoned, lied about, helpless. All the ones who died – who says a good word for them now?’‘Godfrey stayed too,’ I said. ‘And Sass.’‘They stayed,’ she said angrily, ‘because they wanted somewhere to sleep and something to eat. That boy Sass! When his mother pranced off and left him here – a great deal she cared – why he was a little skeleton. Now he’s growing into a big strong boy and away he goes. We shan’t see him again. Godfrey is a rascal. These new ones aren’t too kind to old people and he knows it. That’s why he stays. Doesn’t do a thing but eat enough for a couple of horses. Pretends he’s deaf. He isn’t deaf – he doesn’t want to hear. What a devil he is!’‘Why don’t you tell him to find somewhere else to live?’ I said and she laughed.‘He wouldn’t go. He’d probably try to force us out. I’ve learned to let sleeping curs lie,’ she said.‘Would Christophine go if you told her to?’ I thought. But I didn’t say it. I was afraid to say it.It was too hot that afternoon. I could see the beads of perspiration on her upper lip and the dark circles under her eyes. I started to fan her, but she turned her head away. She might rest if I left her alone, she said.Once I would have gone back quietly to watch her asleep on the blue sofa – once I made excuses to be near her when she brushed her hair, a soft black cloak to cover me, hide me, keep me safe.But not any longer. Not any more. These were all the people in my life – my mother and Pierre, Christophine, Godfrey, and Sass who had left us.I never looked at any strange negro. They hated us. They called us white cockroaches. Let sleeping dogs lie. One day a little girl followed my singing, ‘Go away white cockroach, go away, go away.’ I walked fast, but she walked faster. ‘White cockroach, go away go away. Nobody want you. Go away.’When I was safely home I sat close to the old wall at the end of the garden. It was covered with green moss soft as velvet and I never wanted to move again. Everything would be worse if I moved. Christophine found me there when it was nearly dark, and I was so stiff she had to help me to get up. She said nothing, but next morning Tia was in the kitchen with her mother Maillotte, Christophine’s friend. Soon Tia was my friend and I met her nearly every morning at the turn of the road to the river.Sometimes we left the bathing pool at midday, sometimes we stayed till late afternoon. Then Tia would light a fire (fires always lit for her, sharp stones did not hurt her bare feet, I never saw her cry). We boiled green bananas in an old iron pot an