Like they did in Antigua

Wesley taught his Godson how to shave on a Sunday after church. The
old man had a huge grey candyfloss beard that shone against his black
skin. Garfield had spent the morning sat on the back pew, watching his
Godfather preach. The volume of his voice made Garfield laugh, at home
he had always been softly spoken, a voice of cotton wool, yet when he
stood in front of the church his voice boomed, like God himself. He had
been the only twelve year old there, the church was small, the choir,
who sang at length before and after Wesley spoke, outnumbered the
congregation. Garfield had no interest in anybody else there, he just
watched his Godfather singing loudly at the pulpit. While applying the
foam to his face,
"If I didn't shave, how long would it be before I had a beard like
yours?"
"Many, many years."
"Do you think I will talk in church one day like you do?"
"Only you can decide that." Wesley gave the blade to Garfield, who
brought it to his cheek and started to slice away the foam.
"And one day do you think I will sing as loudly as you do in
church?"
"I never sing." Wesley said, and laughed, as though to himself. "I just
move my mouth to the words. If I sang, the church would be full of
empty seats!"
"But I hear you sing." The sink filled with foam. Wesley took the blade
and wiped it clean. There was not one scratch or cut on the boys face.
The light hairs that had started to grow had disappeared. Wesley gave
his Godson a hug. From that day Garfield never sang another word in
church again.

On Garfield's thirteenth birthday, Wesley took him outside and
presented him with a large parcel. He watched his Godson unknot the
string and tear off the brown paper.
"This is the only cricket bat you will ever need" Wesley told him, as
Garfield held the bat in his hands. "When I took you last year to see
the West Indies play. Not one of those players had a bat as powerful as
this one."
"Wesley took it, wrapped his old wrinkled hands around the handle and
stood as though he was facing the first ball of a test match. He glared
across the garden, and fixed his eyes on the plot of banana plants by
the stream, lifted the bat off the ground and pushed it forward,
planting his left foot next to it, executing a perfect forward
drive.
"This bat was made by your great grandfather, Mosely Sampson, who died
on the day I was born. He carved it himself from one of the willow
trees that still grow in this garden."
Wesley pointed at the trees, behind which, the sun was rising.
"He used to make cricket bats for the whole of the island. One day he
chopped down a piece of wood juicier and riper than any he had ever
touched before. From it, he made this bat. The rest of the willow, he
used as firewood, destroyed so that no other person on the island would
ever have a bat as powerful as his."
Wesley showed the face of the bat to his Godson.
"Look at the cherries on it!"
Garfield touched one of the many red marks.
"Each of these are from when either your father, your grandfather or
your great grandfather struck the ball so hard that it made a mark on
the wood. I, myself, have never used it. On making the bat, Mosely
declared only a chosen few would ever use it. I have honoured that
decision, as have my brothers. On the day your eldest son turns
thirteen, you must hand him this bat, complete with more red markings
and more stories. Before then, only you must use this bat."
He handed the bat to Garfield. In his own hands, the bat had seemed
small, as tiny as Garfield had looked in his arms when he was two weeks
old. Wesley handled it with the exact same care, as though the bat was
as brittle as a twig, or the little finger of a new born baby.
Garfield, though, could hardly lift the bat. He ran his finger down the
splice as he said thank-you.

At weekends, Garfield would put on the red cap that used to be his
brothers. He wore the white t-shirt his Godfather had bought him the
first time they had gone to watch the West Indies. Garfield would put
rolled up newspaper down his trouser legs and use them as pads. There
was an empty tin of cocoa essence in the kitchen, the two of them drank
cocoa every Sunday evening before Garfield went to bed for school. He
would take the tin outside and balance it on top of a tree stump. Every
weekend, he stood in front of it and waved his bat around, pretending
there was somebody bowling.