“But they all have coffee or oranges to sell?” I queried.
“Yes, mem; but all de summer dey get so little for der coffee, only trepence or twopence a pound, and only one and trepence for a large barrel of oranges, bery little indeed.” I had already learnt that agents from the United Fruit Company buy up all the produce of the smaller cultivators in this district.
“They are so poor, mem, dey can’t pay de taxes,” she proceeded to inform me.
“What happens then?” I enquired.
“Den dey goes to prison, mem, or sometimes get time given dem to make up what dey can’t pay.”
“I suppose you have to pay rent too,” I suggested.
“No, mem; we live in our own house and only pay taxes, twelve shillings and twopence ebbery year, six and a penny ebbery six munts; we go up and pay it at de Court House.”
I elicited from her that she and her family had always lived in Jamaica, that once or twice she had been to Kingston, but what amused me most was her conversation upon dress.
“Bery good stuff, mem,” said she, pointing to the gown which scarcely covered her knees. “I gave one and trepence a yard, and it cost four shillins for making. Last year it was Sunday frock, but when it wast it swinked up.”
“I see! You like a smart frock for Sundays?” I volunteered, having learnt that the first day of the week is special frock competition day amongst the negresses. This woman was very superior to some I met in my morning walks, who generally said, “Good morning, missus.” Probably she had at one time been a domestic servant and had learnt to say “mem” for “ma’am.”