Karlene Morgan, Contributor

Men discuss affairs over a glass at Lim Shin's betting shop, while the women gossip; never mind that the subject matter is the same. The hike in fares on the market truck. The cutting up of government land for lease. Cuban doctors giving free health care. Men twirl their glasses on the counter and talk about 'who thief who'. Women with water pans at their feet sort their world into neat packets, akin to the flour, rice and cornmeal they buy every Saturday at Moore's Emporium and Grocery Store.

'Dem don't talk English. Imagine Sharon tell the black beard one that for three months now she don't see anything and the man send her to eye clinic!'

The subject of discussion is the Cuban doctor at the health centre. There are tut-tuts of amazement, even outrage, at the stupidity of a doctor, unaware that a woman's 'not seeing anything' had nothing to do with her vision and everything to do with gynaecology and, possibly, obstetrics.

'Is communist them bringing to Jamaica. Mark my words, five years from now the whole of we communist - can't pray as we like, can't talk as we like.' Chester, the lone man at the water tank, has misread the talk around him. Though the women are critical of the Government's flirtation with Cuba, theirs is the gentle criticism that a mother levels against a child she loves dearly. Bottom Burnside is decidedly supportive of the ruling party. There is a frigid silence - then a loud splash as Sharon (she of the gynaecological problem) chucks the contents of her bucket at Chester and follows up with an assault with said bucket.

'Who talking to you? You too damn free.'

A quick survey of the group indicates the un-wisdom of retaliation. A chastened Chester unhitches his donkey and beats a retreat, with empty pans.

Jamaica of the 1970s is a land in political ferment. Even on hillsides as remote as Burnside there is the thought that people should be getting more. Sweety Joe, Claudiene and Likkle Man, all of whom had 'out' school a decade before, not knowing how to read and thinking nothing of it, became aware of their shortcomings and registered for adult literacy classes. Rice and flour were in short supply, but in Burnside, where there were ground provisions aplenty, and where twice-monthly trucks appeared to sell Cuban condensed milk at a fraction of the cost of local milk, bellies were still reasonably content. Children got free uniforms and free lunches, and people had time to think.

Rubbing the 'matter' from the corner of her eyes (for she had not yet collected water to wash her face), Vivienne noticed the cracks in the catchment above the parish tank. The cracks had been there for generations, and from time to time small shrubs even sprouted from them. But that morning the fissures seemed worse than before. It occurred to Vivienne that as much rainwater was seeping away into the ground as was entering the tank.

'Is a damn disgrace, man! We have to do something 'bout dis.'

Betty looked balefully at her big toe, pulsing under a home-made bandage. She had stubbed it the night before on a rock in the middle of Parochial Road Number 26. Now she wouldn't be able to wear the new shoes she had bought for Pastor's installation service.

'Nobody don't remember 'bout we up here! We need we own representative.'

'We need somebody to talk for we.'

Miss Clara dug Mass Sam in his ribs for the third or fourth time as he teetered on the edge of sleep. 'Two years now they drop light post and we still can't get light, and the tank want to clean.'

The tank to which Miss Clara referred was not the parish tank, but the one in her own backyard.

Sensing that his wife was now finished with the public domain and was about to disrupt his sleep with more direct and private grievances, Mass Sam decided on a pre-emptive strike. He flung himself out of bed, unhooked his belt from the back of the door, and with it silenced all further complaints, for that night at least.

But the discontent spread like dengue fever. The day-wage for stone breaking was too low, the coffee bonus was not as expected, and, 'How come not one child from this district ever pass scholarship exam?'

And so the women at the water tank cast about for a representative in the next parish council elections.

'It have to be a man, for woman too small mind and cantankerous, plus, with the children and the washing and cleaning and planting, we have enough to do.'

Kenneth, whom they finally selected, had not passed 'scholarship' but had nevertheless gone to high school by dint of his being adopted by the postmistress. He had come out 'ducks' (A cricketing term corrupted to refer to someone who had failed at school), but he was now a successful businessman, having bought and fixed up three trucks, which he used to transport higglers to market. Even more to his advantage, he spoke the Queen's English.

On the downside, Kenneth was black, blue black. This compared him unfavourably with Finnikin, the sitting councilor and a man of Irish descent. Furthermore, Kenneth behaved like a chineyman; meaning that, despite his finances, he wore the cheapest canvas shoes and was generally unkempt.

'Him is the best one. We will just have to fix him up,' Vivienne said determinedly.

And so the grooming of Kenneth began. The approach was made first to his adoptive mother, who, having been disappointed in her desire to see him a doctor, now latched on to the idea of his becoming a political representative. After various proddings, Kenneth attended 'class meetings' where the women hammered into him the history and tenets of his party and stressed his responsibility.

'Red Finnikin don't come from here. We want somebody to look after we.'

They drew verbal maps and charts. Votes from Polling Division 12, running from Miss Dottie's cow pen to the Pentecostal Church, were secure. Number 16 was shaky but coming their way. Others had to be won over. Kenneth was dispatched to various rum bars, where he spent reluctantly; he visited women perched atop stone heaps, shouting above the sound of their hammers; he wrote off transport debts and carried higglers for free. His victory was clinched when, in an intemperate moment, Finnikin remarked that Burnsiders were without ambition, having chosen a man who was the same colour as his, Finnikin's, arse to represent them. One by one, the PDs in neighbouring districts swung.

No celebration in Bottom Burnside will ever match the one that exploded on election night. With the last ballot box counted, the women burst into the streets with their brooms and swept the square clean from one end to another. Fullmoon Moore, a legendary tight-fist, was seen distributing aerated water and chips of ice from his normally well-guarded ice box. The victor was hoisted and paraded and so slapped on his back that he felt more like a man chastised than a celebrant.

There was consensus: a proper party was to be held. Straightaway Vivienne organised the women into work teams-one group for cooking, another for entertainment, and a third, headed by herself (for business is business), to draw up a complete action plan to organise and realise the forward movement of Burnside.

But Kenneth couldn't make it on the first date set, having a sudden and important post-council meeting. They cancelled the butcher, who was forced to salt what meat he could and discount the balance. A new date was set; then another.

After several more puttings off, Vivienne disbanded the celebrations committee. In the meanwhile, Kenneth rented a small place in town because traveling over the bad roads to council meeting was taking its toll.

'Lord, you wouldn't know how hard him having it since this election,' Miss Millicent, his mother, offered, after the Christmas Cantata to which the councilor had again been a no-show. 'Every day he bring up our case in council and every day he get turn down. Sometimes I tell him to chuck it in.'

'Nice hat you wearing, Miss Millie,' Vivienne responded, looking past her at the coils of electric wire still waiting to be stretched from pole to pole. 'Look like you win election, too.'

And, with that, she made arrangements to go to town on the first van leaving Burnside the next morning.