by Sunshine
‘Okay, Princess Pout, your ordeal is over. We’re here.’
Millie couldn’t get out of her seat fast enough. She muttered thanks, then slammed the passenger-side door with a resounding thud and stalked away without saying goodbye. What had she done to deserve this onslaught of mockery? Next time she would insist on calling a taxi. Even if she had to walk up the hill in the daily deluge of liquid sunshine, it was better than being subjected to Zach’s personal brand of humour at her expense.
Castries market presented a kaleidoscope of local produce. Every stall was stacked with the best St Lucian horticulture had to offer. All around her Millie found inspiration; from the abundance of fresh fruit and salad vegetables, to the herbs and spices for the sauces and flavourings she was keen to experiment with. She spotted Ella and Denise lingering over a basket of mangoes and they gestured her over. They squeezed and sniffed the flesh – neither overripe nor underripe – perfect. Millie snatched up a curved fruit that looked like a green banana, exclaiming at her amazing discovery as though she had never set eyes on such magnificence before.
‘Do you know what that is, Millie?’ asked Denise, indicating the green fruit Millie was waving in the air.
Millie searched her jet-lagged brain for the name of the banana-like object but couldn’t drag it from its slumber.
‘Well, I know it’s not an underripe banana,’ she laughed, running her fingers through a basket of fresh cinnamon sticks and inhaling the aroma that screamed Christmas.
The two childhood friends smiled, clearly enjoying their role as gastronomic guides of the picturesque market that teemed with locals and tourists alike. The intoxicating fragrance of nutmeg, vanilla, mango and jasmine rippled through the air, so thick with humidity that Millie thought she could slice it into segments and serve it with a splodge of mascarpone – and perhaps a dribble of her favourite amaretto added for flavour.
‘It’s plantain – we eat it pan-fried in a dollop of butter and sprinkled with soft brown sugar and cinnamon. It features in lots of Caribbean recipes, along with sweet potatoes, cassava, dasheen and okra.’
The three women moved on to the next stall, greeting the proprietor with an enquiry into her husband’s health. The tabletop was heaped with pyramids of multicoloured spices and bunches of freshly cut herbs – some Millie recognized, others were unfamiliar. She stuck the tip of her finger into a paprika-like powder and touched it to the tip of her tongue. A myriad of flavours burst into her mouth and her brain whirred with possibilities – fish, tick, lamb, tick, courgettes, tick, bitter chocolate soufflé, tick…
Next, they chatted to a fisherman about his daily catch of seafood, landed fresh in Castries harbour that morning. Tuna, swordfish, red snapper and shark, all fought for prominence alongside lobster, crab and shrimp. Then came a stall crammed with examples of local craftwork – wooden carvings, woven shopping bags and baskets, garish souvenirs and T-shirts, hand-crafted jewellery.
As the early afternoon heat intensified, the market throng thinned to housewives contemplating that evening’s supper and restaurant owners bartering for a good price. A smattering of tourists sat on the wall outside, cooling down with a fresh globe of coconut water or indulging in a lunch carton of dorado in tangy Creole sauce topped with tomatoes, onions and mashed green figs, swilling it down with the tart, green mango juice on offer from a sun-shrivelled gentleman at the entrance to the market.
Millie could have spent all day meandering the market pathways, questioning the vendors, fingering the intricately carved masks and brightly coloured scarves and kaftans. The sun smiled down on their shopping expedition and the conversation flowed easily as she chatted about her job at the patisserie and her excitement at being involved in Claudia’s brand-new venture.
‘It’s going to be a push to achieve a fully functioning kitchen in time for the arrival of the wedding students, you know,’ Ella said to Denise, surreptitiously casting a glance at Millie’s face for her reaction.
‘I’m sure it’ll be okay, Ella,’ said Millie, with more optimism than she felt. ‘As long as all the appliances, cabinets and worktops are with us on Monday morning and the tradesmen start work straight away, we should finish on time. Although, we might still be cleaning the floors when the first guests arrive.’
Ella and Denise exchanged looks and a soupçon of anxiety gnawed at Millie’s abdomen.
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing. Don’t mind us.’
Ella took Millie’s arm and guided her through the narrow alleyways of Castries to a tiny restaurant, no more than a wooden shack, squeezed in between a barber’s shop and an Irish-themed bar. A group of elderly men lounged in the shade on the pavement in red plastic chairs, putting the world to rights around a bottle of rum.
‘Let’s get some lunch.’
A huge platter of food appeared as if by magic – she wasn’t even aware they had ordered. Stuffed red snapper finished with a flourish of thyme and lemon balm, a timbale of fragrant rice and a tangy mango salad – a mixture of spring onions, red and green peppers, cucumber and fresh basil. The meal produced a delicious symphony on the tongue and her taste buds zinged with appreciation.
‘Here, try some of this,’ offered Denise, holding a silver spoon aloft.
‘Mmm,’ said Millie, licking her lips.
‘It’s green bean salad – onions, sweetcorn, red peppers with a dressing of soy sauce, thyme, garlic, chilli and a hint of lemon juice. And wait until you try the roasted sweetcorn spread with butter whipped with fresh coconut.’
They polished off lunch, washed down with a jug of fresh, home-made lemonade, and Ella ordered a chocolate mousse.
‘What do you think?’
Millie dug in her spoon and wrapped her tongue around the sweet, smooth dessert. The flavour was velvety yet bitter. When she allowed the mousse to slip down her throat she gasped as an intense heat invaded her mouth and she had to take a glug of her lemonade.
The women burst into laughter, delighted at her reaction.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s Michael’s special recipe – a family secret, I’m afraid. Of course, the main ingredient is fiery red chilli,’ chuckled Ella. ‘Goes well with dark chocolate, don’t you think?’
‘I think his hand slipped preparing this batch!’
A sudden scraping of chairs on the pavement warned Millie it was three o’clock and the daily downpour was imminent. Right on cue the raindrops arrived, smashing down from the sky with a ferocity she had never encountered on the streets of London, or Oxford for that matter. It was as though the sluice gates of heaven had opened, tipping the contents onto the unsuspecting ants milling around down below.
They lingered over tiny cups of black coffee, which tasted to Millie like rancid petrol – same consistency, same appearance. They chatted about favourite family recipes, new ingredients that had become fashionable, whilst watching the continuous slap of rain on the tarmac outside. They shared their respective childhood aspirations, which for all three of them, had inevitably centred around the preparation and consumption of food.
‘It’s only now, in my sixth decade, that I’ve come to understand that food is more than just a compound with which to replenish the body. That to savour the exquisite flavours on the tongue is akin to a lover tasting his sweetheart’s lips for the first time,’ Denise mused.
Millie had never forgotten that first sweet infusion in her veins of the beginnings of a lifelong passionate relationship with the culinary arts; the dream to be fortunate enough to make it her living, a career which she could enjoy and not feel it was work, never moan about the monotony of routine – for a chef there was never such a complaint. Every day, every recipe, every ingredient presented a different challenge, one which taxed not only the brain and the nimblest of touches, but the heart and the extent of her passion.
‘I love to see the smile on diners’ lips as they curl the tip of their tongue around a spoon or a fork and then the look on their faces as the flavours burs
t onto their taste buds. That is my all-consuming passion – to witness the delight in others over something I have created.’
Why had she given all that up to run away to London to work in a tiny patisserie? But, of course, she knew the answer and had no intention of going there. The science behind the melding of ingredients to produce ecstasy had always fascinated Millie. Or it had until recently when she had felt paralysed by misery and shame. But she enjoyed working in the café with Poppy at her side and the return to hard work proved to be the sanctuary she needed. Whipping up a soufflé or a meringue made her happy – that fleeting emotion so pursued by humans in its many guises, like the holy grail of existence. However, reality always lurked in the wings, waiting to push its unwelcome nose into her fantasies.
Millie glanced out of the restaurant’s colourful shutters. The downpour had freshened the oppressive humidity and allowed her the chance to breathe in the crisp freshness of cooler air before the onslaught of tropical heat resumed its dominance.
‘You’ve chosen one of the wettest months to come to St Lucia,’ said Denise as she dumped three heaped teaspoons of demerara sugar into her second cup of coffee.
‘Typical,’ said Millie, rolling her eyes at her new friend.
‘Ah, here’s my Henri.’ Ella rose from her seat to greet her son with a bear hug and place two noisy kisses on his cheeks. ‘How are Leon and Travis?’
‘Leon’s exhausted – but that’s what studying for your sergeant’s exams does to you. He’s already talking about the changes he intends to make when he’s in charge of the police station in Soufrière. Heaven help the criminal fraternity!’
‘Always was ambitious that Leon Hamilton, just like his father,’ said Ella. ‘What about Travis? How’s his foray into wood carving progressing?’
‘Not sure about his woodcarving but he got two new commissions for his artwork last month from a Swedish guy who’s just bought a place over in Rodney Bay. Wants an oil-on-canvas of the Pitons for his den and a smaller pastel piece for his kitchen. Business at his gallery is brisk, he says. He’s worried about Carlton, though.’
‘And so he should be,’ snapped Denise, slurping the dregs of her coffee as she collected her straw shopping bag and tucked escaped tendrils of curls into her headscarf. ‘That boy’s a menace.’
Ella raised her eyebrows to her son in question but, wisely perhaps in the presence of Denise, Henri remained silent.
They left the café and sauntered through the streets together, dodging puddles and a battalion of stray cats quenching their thirst whilst they could. The air smelled of coconut oil, fried fish and relaxation, causing Millie’s spirits to increase a further notch.
‘Okay,’ said Denise. ‘I’ve still got a few things left on my shopping list. See you next Saturday, Ella, and make sure you keep those idle builders on their toes.’
Denise left them, tutting and shaking her head as she trotted on her kitten heels down a narrow alleyway between two beach-side shacks, her ample backside rocking in tune to the calypso music spilling out onto the pavement from the bars.
Henri rolled his eyes at his mother’s best friend and Ella tapped his arm. ‘She means well.’
‘Oh, yes, Auntie Dennie may have a heart of gold, but her armoury is diamond-tipped.’
They arrived at his dilapidated Fiat and piled in. It was a squeeze, especially with the plethora of shopping bags Millie and Ella had managed to amass during their trip around the market. A lexicon of recipes was already swirling around Millie’s brain and the familiar curl of excitement burst into the pit of her stomach as she contemplated getting started on triple-testing Claudia’s chocolate recipes as well as experimenting with her exotic purchases in her tiny kitchen above the garage.
Chapter Five
They left the sprawl of the town behind them and headed south along the coast towards Soufrière. With the infinite expanse of the Caribbean Sea on their right and the aquamarine of the sky above, the scenery on the journey back was picture-postcard perfect. Not a cloud marred its perfection. A cool breeze streamed through the car windows, licking the tips of Millie’s ears and lifting the fringe from her forehead. Coupled with the soft sound of reggae on the stereo, she felt her eyes begin to droop until Henri swerved heavily to avoid a cyclist and she tumbled to her right, knocking her temple on the door handle.
‘Oww!’
‘Sorry, I should have warned you. These roads are lethal.’
Millie swallowed a slug of water, allowing the liquid to trickle slowly down her throat. She turned her face to the breeze and stared at the twin peaks of the Pitons rearing up out of the sea in the distance like the spines of a sleeping dinosaur. Lowering her gaze, she had to blink to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. Anchored at the base of Gros Piton was an old galleon-style sailing ship at full mast, flying the Jolly Roger flag.
‘Hey, look, pirates!’ Millie exclaimed before she could stop herself. Then she giggled – obviously they weren’t pirates.
‘No, just tourists, although I suppose they are the modern-day equivalent,’ said Henri, laughing. ‘That’s the Unicorn. The owners use her for excursions, treasure hunts and, sometimes, mock battles. She even played a starring role in Pirates of the Caribbean!’
Henri glanced across to the passenger seat where his mother snoozed, her head lolling from side to side as he navigated the bends, her cheery face serene in repose.
‘Actually, it’s the drug smugglers who are the modern scourge of the Caribbean,’ said Henri, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles bleached white. ‘And things are getting worse for us in St Lucia, not better. Cocaine gangs are rediscovering the old routes up the eastern Caribbean and I’m worried about what the future will bring.’
‘I thought South and Central America were the major problem,’ said Millie, her interest piqued.
‘Sadly, that’s changing. I’m a journalist and I’ve reported on all sorts of news items for the Soufrière Tribune, but in my spare time I’ve been researching an extensive thesis on the activities of the drug cartels over the last five years – ever since I got back from France where I studied for my degree. They call it the ‘balloon effect’ – when one drug route is squeezed, a bulge simply emerges elsewhere. Now that the authorities are closely monitoring the airspace of South America and starting to make inroads into the transit of supply over Central America, the frequency and size of the seizures in the Caribbean has tripled.’
Millie noticed the frown on Henri’s face as he concentrated on the twisting road ahead but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
‘It’s smaller but more frequent “jumps” are being made now – a “micro-trafficking evolution” they call it. All the old routes used back in the eighties have re-emerged. The drugs are loaded onto “go-fast” speedboats and taken up to the eastern Caribbean islands to St Vincent, St Lucia, Martinique. There’re lots of crafts in the waters round here – yachts, fishing boats, ferries, commercial ships with exports such as bananas bound for the US and Europe. Sadly, our customs department is more lax than in the US and the UK, for instance, and some of it’s getting through. It’s the suffering of the families that upsets me more than anything, though.’
Henri paused to draw in a deep steadying breath, his expression reflecting his passion about the negative effects this global menace was having on his community.
‘So what are the authorities doing to stem the flow?’
‘The law-enforcement agencies here are doing a very difficult job in economically strained circumstances. They’ve increased coastal surveillance, improved human and electronic intelligence and detected illicit planes in our airspace. Drug smuggling and money laundering are big business and awash with easy bribes, especially potent in a country that has a high youth-unemployment problem and entrenched poverty. There’s corruption too. Salaries are relatively low compared with what the drug barons can pay. And the gangs are violent; drugs flow in, but so do guns for the protection of their precious merchandise and sometimes
the drug violence spills over into the local communities.’
Henri’s eyes hardened. ‘The gangs have no fear, no scruples. Life is cheap. Crimes are committed in broad daylight in front of families and children. The only talent they exhibit is cruelty. Greed is an insatiable mistress. These men would sell their grannies for a few dollars.’
Henri’s shoulders relaxed as he looked across at his mother still snoozing in the sunshine. ‘What we need is increased investment in youth employment and training to counteract the lure of the easy money offered by the drugs trade. But it’s a multi-layered problem. Cocaine use is not a huge issue in St Lucia, but marijuana is, especially amongst the younger generation. There are large sectors of idle young people with limited skill sets to provide for their daily upkeep. The police maintain a zero tolerance of cannabis use, so they may spend a brief period in jail, which causes them to descend further into the criminal lifestyle. The inevitable stigma attached to being labelled a criminal makes it even harder to find work and often they are disowned by their families. What chance do they have?’
‘And is what you’re doing at the Tribune to highlight the problem working?’
‘Sadly, we are like ants fighting a rabid dog. Only if we work together, in numbers, will we stand any chance of being successful. There should be more emphasis on education about drugs in schools, more involvement between parents, teachers and mentors from local businesses. Kids need direction, especially when they don’t get it from home.’
Henri averted his eyes and paused before mumbling, ‘And many of them do not have the benefit of a male role model in the household to emulate.’
Millie had a sudden impulse to reach out and touch Henri’s hand, but she resisted. In profile, he possessed a strong, confident tilt of his chin with a smattering of trendy stubble, but his chocolate-brown eyes, so like his mother’s, held sadness. However, his eyelashes instilled a twinge of jealousy in Millie; long, curled and dark, drawing the onlooker into the depths of his soul. She knew Henri’s father wasn’t around and she didn’t want to press him on his upbringing.