A Mango Tree Worth Guarding

There are some things country people never forget. A great flood. A famous cricket match. The year the big hurricane came through and bent the coconut trees like grass. And if anyone ever asked the older folks in the little district of Esher, St. Mary, about the sweetest mangoes that ever grew in the area, somebody would surely lean back, smile, and say, “Yuh never hear how Bingo try fi tief Miss Olive mango?”

In those days, the 1960s, boys ran barefoot along the hot asphalt road in short khaki pants and short-sleeved shirts, with scraped knees, quick hands and eyes that measured every fruit tree from the road. The little district of Esher was poor but the people were kind. Neighbors shared yam, firewood, gossip and advice. But one thing Miss Olive did not freely share was the mangoes from the tree that stood beside her veranda.

Miss Olive’s mango tree was not a large tree. It stood about twelve feet high, between the veranda and the fence, as proud as a queen in a small yard. Most years, the tree bore only fifteen or so mangoes but each fruit was large, golden, smooth and sweet as sugar. Nobody knew the proper name of that mango. In Esher, people named special fruit after the owner, so the whole district called them Miss Olive mangoes.

Miss Olive never picked a mango before it was fully ripe. The fruit had to turn golden and shine in the sun before Miss Olive would touch it. A few lucky people might receive one if Miss Olive was in a generous mood but everybody knew mango season changed her. Miss Olive could be loving all year but when the mangoes began to mellow, even church people joked, “Miss Olive kind, yes but don’t ask her fi hir mango.”

The guardian of the tree was Browne, a strong country mongrel with sharp ears, hard eyes and a bark that could stop a boy in the road. Browne was no fancy pure-bred dog. Country people in those days did not keep dogs for show. They kept mongrels that knew the yard, knew the family, knew the neighbors and knew trouble before trouble opened the gate. Browne knew every person who belonged near Miss Olive’s house and Browne believed no barefoot boy belonged under that mango tree.

Bingo Studies the Mango Tree

Hadrian “Bingo” Mullings lived three minutes down the road with Miss Mullings, his churchgoing mother. Miss Mullings loved her son, prayed over her son and carried him to Sunday school as if Sunday school alone could wash mischief from a boy’s mind. But every summer, when Miss Olive’s mangoes began to swell, Bingo felt temptation rise in him like fever.

One evening, Bingo stood outside Miss Olive’s fence with Lloyd and Cecil from Frazer Wood. The three boys stared at the lowest mango until their mouths watered.

“Bingo,” Lloyd whispered, “bwoy me wish me could a get one ah dem mango.”

“All ah we wish de same thing,” Cecil said. “But it hard fe pass Browne bwoy.”

At the sound of voices, Browne shot from under the veranda and slammed against the gate, barking so fiercely that Lloyd stumbled backward into the road.

Miss Olive stepped onto the veranda with both arms folded.

“Hadrian Mullings,” Miss Olive called, “why yuh standing at mi gate staring at mi mango tree?”

Bingo straightened his shirt. “Evening, Miss Olive. Mi jus a pass.”

“People weh a pass, keep walking. Dem nuh stop an feast dem eye pan people mango tree.”

Lloyd and Cecil snickered behind Bingo.

Miss Olive pointed toward the road. “All ah unno bwoy, gwane to unno house before me let out Browne pan unno.”

The boys hurried away but Bingo looked back once. The lowest mango glowed in the evening light and Bingo felt certain that no fruit in the world had ever looked so nice.

That night Bingo lay in bed while Miss Mullings moved about the kitchen humming a hymn. The house smelled of kerosene lamp, boiled green banana and discipline. Bingo closed his eyes but the mango floated in the darkness, golden and sweet. By morning, a plan had started to form.

Browne, the Yard Dog

At dusk the next evening, Bingo crept toward Miss Olive’s gate with a chicken bone wrapped in paper. Browne heard him before he reached the fence. The mongrel rushed forward, barking, teeth flashing white in the dim light. Bingo’s hand trembled but he flung the chicken bone over the gate.

Browne stopped. The dog sniffed the bone, grabbed it and crushed it between his teeth. For one short minute, Browne forgot Bingo existed. Then Browne lifted his head and growled, as if to say, “Doan think mi like yuh jus because yuh give a a likkle piece a chicken bone, yuh noo.”

Bingo backed into the road. “All right, Browne. Ah piece ah chicken bone not good enough fi yuh eh?”

On Saturday, Miss Mullings cooked beef soup. Bingo stared into the bowl and saw a nice beef stew bone resting beside the yam. When Miss Mullings turned away, Bingo slipped the bone into his pocket. That night Browne received the beef bone with more interest. Browne chewed longer, growled less and watched Bingo with suspicion instead of fury.

For two weeks, Bingo fed Browne bones. Chicken bones. Beef bones. A pork bone once, when good fortune smiled. Browne did not become foolish. Browne simply began to decide that this particular boy might not be an enemy. By the end of the second week, Browne walked to the gate when Bingo came and gave one low bark for formality before wagging his tail.

When Bingo told Lloyd and Cecil, Lloyd stared at him with awe.

“Bingo, yuh dangerous, man.”

Cecil shook his head. “Yuh tame Miss Olive dog?”

Bingo lifted his chin. “A man haffi use him brain.”

The First Mango Disappears

The first theft happened on a Saturday morning. Miss Olive left for Highgate market at eight o’clock sharp, carrying her basket and walking with purpose. Bingo waited behind a breadfruit tree until Miss Olive disappeared around the bend. Then Bingo slipped through the little board gate with a bone in one hand and his heart beating in his ears.

Browne trotted over, tail swinging. Bingo gave Browne the bone, grabbed the long picking stick that Miss Olive kept near the veranda and reached for the lowest mango. The fruit bobbed once, twice, then dropped into Bingo’s waiting hands. The mango was warm, heavy and fragrant. Bingo ran home with it tucked under his shirt and crawled beneath the house, where the earth was cool and secret.

The first bite stunned him. Juice ran down both wrists. The flesh melted against his tongue. Bingo ate in silence, almost frightened by the sweetness. By the time Miss Olive returned from market, only the seed remained.

Miss Olive saw the empty stem before she even put down her basket.

“Mi mango!”

Browne sat under the tree and looked innocent.

Miss Olive counted the fruit three times but the missing mango did not return. She looked at Browne, then at the fence, then at the road. “Something not right. Browne, somebody fool yuh, or somebody fool me.”

The next Saturday, Miss Olive woke with a headache and decided not to go to market. Bingo did not know that. Bingo had no plan to steal another mango that day; he only came to keep Browne friendly. Miss Olive stood behind the curtain and watched as Bingo opened the gate, gave Browne a bone and patted the mongrel on the head like an old friend.

Miss Olive’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes man! Ah so unno dweet eh?” she whispered.

By evening, Bingo had told Lloyd and Cecil everything. He described the sweetness, the juice, the smell and the way the mango flesh melted like butter.

Lloyd pressed both hands against his cheeks. “Bingo, yuh wicked fi eat it aff eh man. An no even lef a likkle piece fe we eh.”

“It was only one mango,” Bingo said.

“One mango can cut in three,” Cecil argued.

The boys made a new plan. On Sunday, Bingo would pretend to be sick and stay home from Sunday school. Miss Mullings would go to church. Miss Olive would go to church. Most of Esher would be praying, resting, or too quiet to notice. Bingo would pick two mangoes and meet Lloyd and Cecil in the bushes behind his house that evening.

The boys shook their heads in affirmation like serious criminals.

Miss Olive Sets Her Trap

But Miss Olive had already sent for Mister Powell, the carpenter down the road.

Mister Powell came at dusk with a hoe, a crocus bag and a grin. Miss Olive pointed to the ground beneath the mango tree.

“Mister Powell,” Miss Olive said, “Ah nuh want fi break any pickney bone. But Ah want dem fi learn a lesson. An ah want dem fe learn it right here.”

Mister Powell laughed. “What kind of lesson, Miss Olive?”

Miss Olive looked toward the bushes. “The kind that itch.”

That very morning, Mister Powell slipped through Miss Olive’s gate with a bundle of cowitch vines. Every country child knew kowitch. The vine grew wild in the bushes and its fuzzy seedpods looked almost harmless. But the tiny hairs could set fire to the skin. Dem scratch like hell. Once the itching started, scratching it only drove the hairs deeper.

Together, Miss Olive and Mister Powell dug a broad, shallow pit beneath the mango tree. It was not deep enough to hurt anybody, only deep enough to surprise a thief. Mister Powell lined the bottom and sides with fresh kowitch, laid thin sticks across the opening, covered the sticks with an old sheet and scattered dried mango leaves over everything. Then he swept the yard clean until even Miss Olive could hardly see the trap.

Each morning Miss Olive tied Browne to the mango tree with a rope long enough for the mongrel to reach near the hidden pit but not long enough to fall into it.

“Whenever she was leaving the house she would point to Browne, “You stay right there,” she’d say to Browne. “We going find out who smarter than who.”

The Cowitch Lesson

That Sunday, at Bingo’s house, Miss Mullings adjusted her white church hat and placed the back of her hand against Bingo’s forehead.

“Hadrian, yuh sure yuh too sick fi Sunday school?”

Bingo gave a weak cough. “Yes, Mama. Mi belly hurting.”

Miss Mullings frowned. “Yuh doan feel hot.”

“Is inside, Mama.”

“Stay in bed. Doan leave this house.”

“No mama.”

The moment Miss Mullings disappeared down the road with her Bible, Bingo’s sickness vanished. He sprang from bed, pulled on his khaki shorts, pushed a beef bone into his pocket and hurried toward Miss Olive’s house. Church bells floated across the valley. Esher lay quiet in the Sunday morning heat.

When Bingo reached the gate, he saw Browne tied under the mango tree. The dog wagged his tail when he saw the boy.

Bingo almost laughed. “Miss Olive really think rope can stop me?”

Bingo opened the gate and stepped inside. Browne whined happily. Bingo tossed the beef bone toward the mongrel.

“Good dog -Browne.”

Bingo walked toward the tree, staring up at the golden fruit. He imagined Lloyd and Cecil waiting in the bushes that evening. He imagined their faces when they tasted Miss Olive’s mango. He imagined himself becoming the greatest mango thief in Esher.

Then the ground shifted beneath his feet.

The dried leaves cracked. The sticks snapped. Bingo’s legs dropped from under him and he crashed into the shallow pit with a shout that sent Browne barking in excitement.

For one confused second, Bingo sat in the hole blinking at the leaves falling around him. Then he saw the fuzzy vines touching his legs, hands, shirt, neck and bare feet.

“Cowitch!”

Bingo sprang from the hole as if the ground had exploded. The itching started on his ankles, then raced up his legs, across his arms, down his back and around his neck. Bingo scratched one place and three more places began to burn. He slapped his knees, rubbed his elbows, clawed at his shirt and bolted through the gate screaming.

“Lawd! Mi skin! Mi skin!”

Browne barked behind him as if cheering the fastest race ever run in Esher.

Bingo flew down the road, scratching and hopping. Old Mister Grant looked up from his veranda and nearly dropped his pipe.

“What happen to Hadrian? Bee bite him?”

A woman at the next yard called, “No, man! Why him a scratch himself so, like cowitch de pan him?”

Bingo heard nothing clearly. The itching had taken over his whole world. He reached home, threw himself under the outside pipe and turned on the water. The cold stream washed away some of the tiny hairs but not enough. By the time church ended, Bingo’s arms were scratched, his knees were swollen and his pride was lying somewhere beneath Miss Olive’s mango tree.

Miss Mullings came into the yard carrying her Bible and stopped dead.

“Good gracious, Hadrian! Wha happen to yuh?”

Bingo stared at the ground. “Mi go inna bush.”

“With who?”

“Mi friend dem.”

Miss Mullings folded her arms. “Everyone a yuh friend was in church.”

Bingo said nothing.

“Hadrian Mullings, tell me di truth.”

Tears filled Bingo’s eyes. “Mi did go fi teck Miss Olive mango.”

The Walk of Shame

That afternoon, Miss Mullings marched Bingo up the road to Miss Olive’s house. Bingo walked slowly, head bowed, with every few steps reminding him of the morning’s punishment. Miss Olive sat on the veranda shelling peas, calm as Sunday itself.

Miss Olive did not look surprised. “Ah was wondering when both a yuh coming.”

Miss Mullings sighed. “Miss Olive, di boy have something fi tell yuh.”

Bingo shuffled forward. “Mi sorry, Miss Olive. Mi teck one a yuh mango last Saturday. An mi come back today fi teck more.”

Miss Olive said nothing for a while. The silence felt heavier than any scolding. Birds rustled in the mango tree above them, and Browne lay under the shade watching Bingo with friendly eyes, still believing the boy belonged in the yard.

At last Miss Olive stood. The stern look on her face softened, and the lines around her eyes seemed less sharp.

“Hadrian,” Miss Olive said, “when Ah was about yuh age, Ah wanted somebody else guava so bad Ah could hardly sleep.”

Bingo looked up, surprised.

Miss Olive smiled. “But mi grandmother catch me before Ah get one.”

Miss Mullings tried not to laugh, but the laugh escaped anyway.

Miss Olive went into the house. Bingo expected a switch, a lecture, or both. Instead, Miss Olive returned carrying two enormous golden mangoes. The fruit glowed in the afternoon sunshine, and the sweet fragrance drifted across the veranda. Miss Olive placed both mangoes into Bingo’s trembling hands.

“Dis one,” Miss Olive said, touching the first mango, “is fi yuh.”

Bingo blinked.

“An dis one is fi yuh madda.”

Miss Mullings shook her head. “Oh no, Miss Olive. After all dis—”

“Hush now.”

Miss Olive smiled warmly. “Ah nuh want Hadrian remember only di itching.”

Miss Olive gently lifted Bingo’s chin until the boy looked into the older woman’s eyes.

“Ah want Hadrian remember kindness too.”

Tears gathered in Bingo’s eyes. “Mi really sorry, Miss Olive. Mi sorry, Mam.”

“Ah know.”

“Ah won’t tief again, Mam. Neva.”

“Ah believe yuh.”

Miss Olive nodded toward the mango in Bingo’s hand. “An since Lloyd an Cecil have dem share a di blame fi dis foolishness, yuh can cut yuh mango an share it wid dem.”

Bingo’s face brightened. “Really, Mam?”

“Yes,” Miss Olive said, laughing softly. “But tell dem exactly how yuh get it.”

Miss Olive winked. “Dem ago enjoy di story even more than di mango.”

The adults burst into laughter. Even Browne barked happily, as though agreeing.

The Sweetest Mango Lesson

Years later, whenever old friends gathered in Esher and mango season came around, somebody always remembered the year Bingo tried to outsmart Miss Olive. The laughter usually came before the story, because everybody knew how the adventure ended. Bingo had stolen one mango and earned a whole morning of itching, but Miss Olive had given him something sweeter than punishment.

Miss Olive had given him forgiveness.

And from that day onward, Bingo understood what every child in Esher came to understand sooner or later: a mango given with kindness tastes sweeter than any mango stolen in secret.