Serenading Joyce

Joyce was on every boy’s lips; the object of their every confessed and secret desire. She was dark and ravishing and – even before she reached her teens – possessed of that hypnotic grace in her hips and upper body so characteristic of West Indian women and girls. The deeper than normal timbre of her voice had a throaty quality to it that heightened her attraction and the aura of sensuality that surrounded her drove the New Village boys mad.

It wasn’t that there were no other pretty girls in the community; it was just that Joyce was in a league of her own. There was nothing shy or coquettish about Joyce. She had a direct manner that would unnerve an introvert and her smile and brazen laughter were loaded with future promise that lifted boys’ hopes to dizzying heights. And although the promise was never fulfilled, the hope was always there.

Joyce lived with her mother and sister Irma in a small wooden house, just beyond the dead-end road where Mister Calixte regularly road-tested the old motorbikes he resuscitated. Sometimes, she visited and spent the night with some relatives living in an area called Peart’s Gap that bordered with New Village on its western side. It was to one of these two areas that Arthur (who was New Village’s daredevil), Marquis my older brother, and me, would come on many an evening to court Joyce in song.

Whether it was on the concrete steps leading to the short cut connecting New Village to Morne Du Don, or atop the derelict vehicle near Joyce’s Peart’s Gap relatives, the song was always the same: “There’s a Kind of a Hush.” We always started the same way: I would lead off for the first two or three lines then the others would join in the song when Joyce’s beaming face appeared at the window to grace us with her performance-inspiring presence.

She never said anything to us nor did we say anything to her. She just remained at the window with a huge smile on her face while we sang. The song and her presence were all that mattered as the melody blended with Joyce’s aura and our aspirations of conquest. "There’s a kind of a hush…"

Our “stage” and immediate environment become our entire world and everything else fades away. We exist in a tiny microcosm of streetlight and shadow, escapism and boyish idealism, unfulfilled passion and undefined longing, where our discordant voices hold sway. "All over the world tonight…"

The window where Joyce will inevitably appear becomes the focal point of our intense attention. My best croon touches the night and invades the privacy of households. Arthur and Marquis wait bright-eyed with expectation, to join their voices with mine when Joyce appears. The moment is pregnant with barely restrained enthusiasm as I begin the third line. "All over the world, you can hear the sound of lovers in love…"

Fire and ice are in our chests. Arthur or Marquis coughs nervously into the taut pause between the third and fourth lines. This is the moment of truth and time seems to stand still. Then Joyce appears at the window like she was conjured and our three voices roar in triumphant discord. "You know what I mean, just the two of us…"

The mood is gentler now as our initial anxiety subsides. The jagged spikes of our inner turmoil have been replaced with the smooth contours of triumph. Our connection with Joyce has been made and her unfailing response energizes us. Each one of us – like dozens of other New Village boys – imagines himself a suitor; each one of us runs amok in his febrile imagination. "And nobody else in sight…"

The face that launched this serenade wears its radiant smile like a prize offering. Our unharmonious melody bridges the short distance to caress the prize in wistful ecstasy as the night moves on. Joyce does not only hear the sound of our voices; she also hears and looks upon our souls as the pure, sweet strains of our adolescent longing adorn the night. "There’s nobody else and I’m feeling good just holding you tight…"

Our parent-appointed curfew has come and gone. However, this oft’ repeated experience transcends the mundane, unfulfilling occurrence of a mere curfew, so we persevere beneath a watery moon. With a start we realize that an adult inside Joyce’s household is hailing her and this results in a frantic quickening. The whole song must be sung before Joyce disappears into the darkened interior of the house…

"So listen very carefully…
Close your eyes and you will see what I mean.
This isn’t a dream.
The only sound that you will hear…
Is when I whisper in your ear “I love you.”
Forever and ever…
There’s a kind of a hush…"

Joyce waves a smiling goodbye and shuts the window. We slowly get off the derelict vehicle and begin discussing improvements to our technique as we make our way home. Simultaneously, we think about our parents and a credible explanation for breaking their curfew.