Jean L Goulbourne, Contributor

'Christmas a come me want me lama, Christmas a come me want mi lama'

It was two days before Christmas. Three old cronies walked down the road to the rum bar at the corner. Mass Cecil Riley, Mass Tom Saunders and Mass Hezekiah Simms were regular visitors to the bar. In fact, they were so regular, that scarcely a night passed when they were not seen, late after the bar closed supporting each other's clumsy steps back home to resigned and long-suffering wives.

Life was sweet as long as rum remained in the bar and glasses to drink it could be made full. The stars were high in the sky. The night was clear and there was not a hint of rain in the air. The only problem the three men faced were hard stones on the road beneath their bare feet. The year had grown old. In fact, 1945 had been a memorable year. It was the year the war ended and rum was flowing sweet and plenty down the gullets some more. Veterans were coming home and they came with some cash in hand and stories to tell.

The bar was full of young soldiers who had returned and they were sitting on tall stoold at the counter. None of the three old cronies had much money to spend that night but rum was flowing and they knew that none of the men in Pantaloon's Corner would deny them a drink at that time of the year.

Cecil Riley stepped into the rum bar first. The song was still on his lips.

"Christmas a come, me want me lama, Christmas a come me want me lama' the other cronies joined him. The song was on their lips too. The men at the bar looked at them.

"The man dem come. Come man, come drink with me. Give them a stool there."

"How you doing Mass Hezekiah?"

"Come Maas Tom, over here!"

The room was lit be a single lantern hanging from the roof. In one corner a domino game was in progress. In another corner, John Ploughman's talk mingled with Anancy tales and Bible prophecy came from a venerable old man who was an elder in the local church. His philosophy was, if you can't lick them, join them, but spread the word on every crevice of Pantaloon.

Suddenly, two teenagers burst on to the scene. They stood looking around for a while, then one broke through the noise with a loud bang on the domino table.

"Guess what, everybody," he said. He was ignored after a few angry glances. His name was Tim.

"Listen nuh man," said the other, whose name was Leroy. He too, was ignored. Tim went and banged on the counter. Some of the glasses jumped under the impact.

"Is what boy?" asked Maas Hezekiah.

"I have news for you," said Tim.

"News? Who dead?" asked Maas Cecil.

"We just hear it on the radio in town. Christmas put off until next year, January 21."

"But is what this?" asked the barman, who had so many drinks in his day that his belly hung over the counter.

All eyes were on the teenagers.

"Lie them telling!" said one of the young, returned soldiers.

"We heard it on the radio," said Leroy. No man in Pantaloon's corner possessed a radio and the newspaper scarcely was delivered to that area.

"Then why?" asked Maas Hezekiah.

"Them say that dem want time for all the soldier dem to return so that everybody can enjoy with them and dem family," said Tim.

"But what a piece of foolishness this! And me just done get mi brand new suit to wear to church on Christmas morning! Is just ion Jamaica that Christmas put off?" one man asked.

"No, the whole world," Leroy replied.

"Then is who make that decree?" a man asked.

"The King of England, the radio say."

There was silence for a while. The men in the bar had the greatest respect for Maas George, the King of England. His forces had just finished licking Germany. Suddenly, the sweetness of the evening was gone. The three drinking cronies were still sober when they went up the rocky roads to their wives. The domino game came to an abrupt end as everybody headed home. They had to tell their wives to hold on to the sorrel and spruce up the Christmas pudding to make it last until January 21 and to tell the little children that Santa Claus put off his trip and they had to hide their farm produce in the buttery from rats and spoilage. There was a lot to be done, and there was anger.

Since there were no radios in Pantaloon's corner and none in Hyde's Village, the story could only be checked out if someone went into town. In those days, only the mail van and the one truck that delivered goods to shops came into Pantaloon's corner.

The little village settled into a time of melancholy. The Christmas bush and the bitter bush seemed to have blossomed for nothing. The hogberry trees had dropped their November berries in vain. And of the delectable Christmas breeze that still came everywhere, no mention was made. Fathers hid their presents, housewives doused their cakes in pimento dram and children stopped playing marbles and hop scotch on the lanes. It was like the village was in deep mourning. Leroy and Tim were minor heroes. Wasn't it they who had carried the news?

"What the radio say?" some still asked.

"You sure you hear it right?"

Pastor was particularly piqued. It had been his wish to preach a rousing sermon on Christmas morning and now it had lost its power. He was angered too, that it had taken two boys to bring important news to the village. It was his affair and it should have been his prerogative to tell the congregation from the pulpit.

Pastor longed to own a radio. But radios cost a lot and he was so poor, that he depended on the handouts of food from the fields to supplement his meals. He was so poor that in order to keep the respect of the people, he always wore his white pastor's collar to remind people of his status. His meagre living was made, not from a monthly stipend, but from the pennies and three-penny bits made at church in the collection plates. The days passed by. The village suffered. Some had gone into the fields on the 25th and 26th as though they were like any other days and the meals were saltfish and dumplings, just like any other time of the year.

See next Sunday's Gleaner to find out what happens to the people in Pantaloon's Corner.