The Day I Fell Off My Island

by Yvonne Bailey-Smith

  We followed her into the kitchen, where she handed us each a tray of hard dough bread to butter.

  ‘Best to keep yourselves busy,’ she said, picking up a knife and starting to butter a slice herself. ‘I know this is probably a hard time to think about anything,’ she continued, ‘but what kind of send-off you think your mother would want? I mean, did she want to be buried, or cremated?’

  ‘I don’t know, Auntie Madge,’ I replied. ‘I think Mother’s original intention was not to die at all. She used to go on about being one of the chosen few.’

  Auntie Madge looked at me with a slight smile.

  ‘But, seriously, if you feel it matters, I would say she would want to be buried. Cremation isn’t an island thing. What do you think, Pats?’

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy either option,’ Patsy replied. ‘But if I absolutely had to choose then it would be to be buried. At least we can go visit then.’

  ‘I agree,’ Auntie Madge nodded.

  ‘But the manner of Violet’s death is most disturbing,’ said Uncle Herbie, who had joined us in the kitchen. He shook his head vigorously. ‘I hope it doesn’t preclude a proper Church burial.’

  ‘Now, now, it will be fine. The Lord knows she was an innocent woman,’ Auntie Madge scolded him.

  The fact was, as Auntie Madge went on to explain, my mother died from internal haemorrhaging, two hours after jumping from the roof of the psychiatric wing she was housed in.

  ‘How on earth did she even get up there?’ Patsy asked me later, when we were alone in the front room.

  ‘Apparently, she escaped from her ward while the staff were dealing with another patient. Then she climbed to the top of the fire escape and jumped before anyone could reach her,’ I said.

  It was a horrifying death to comprehend, and for the first time I felt I had a glimpse into the agony that my mother must have been going through to take her own life. At the same time, I felt angry that life had failed her so badly.

  ‘Surely there’ll be some kind of enquiry?’ Patsy said. ‘Something like that shouldn’t happen in a hospital.’

  ‘Oh, yes, they’ll have to do an inquest,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, at least Mum is out of her misery now,’ Patsy said, with a shrug of her thin shoulders.

  I looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I wish we could go back to a time long before all of this,’ she said. ‘Back to our island. Back to our grandparents. Long before we even knew that the ugly Satan devil man existed.’

  ‘I have wished that almost every day since I arrived here,’ I said.

  I returned to our little house in Streatham later that night, leaving Patsy to help Auntie Madge. She had complained bitterly, but I desperately needed to be on my own for a while and, in the end, she seemed happy to be remain with Clifton, Sonny and, particularly, the twins, who always showered her with affection.

  As soon as I got home, I went straight to bed and fell into a troubled sleep.

  Sunday morning, I was up bright and early. I had got into the habit of writing to Grandpa Sippa on a Sunday. I went downstairs and made a coffee, before settling on the edge of the bed, with notepaper and pen.

  June 1975

  Dear Grandpa Sippa,

  I hope when these few lines of mine reach you they will find you well. I know Auntie Madge sent you a telegram about Miss Violet passing. It makes me sad, Grandpa Sippa, that I hardly ever seem to have any good news to tell you. It’s a terrible time for us here at the moment. With Miss Violet gone, it means my brothers and sisters are orphans now, but Auntie Madge and Uncle Herbie are doing a great job of looking after Clifton, Sonny and the twins. Patricia and I are living on our own now, in a lovely house that my friend Jennifer’s mother found for us, and we can look after ourselves, although, if truth be told, Patsy can be difficult sometimes, Grandpa. But I don’t complain because I am sure things will work out for the best, despite everything that’s happened.

  We haven’t started planning Miss Violet’s burial yet because we have to wait for the inquest to be completed. I feel bad, Grandpa, because even though I am sad that Miss Violet has gone, I know that I didn’t love her like a daughter should love a mother. In fact, I never really thought of her as my mother. She was not like Grandma Melba, who felt like she was my real mother, and this has never changed, Grandpa. I still miss her every day.

  On a more positive note, I am still studying hard and really enjoying my course, although this does mean that I haven’t had time to find myself a husband yet. I hope some day that I do meet someone, because I would like to have a long, happy marriage like you and Grandma Melba. But it’s not easy to find a husband in England, Grandpa. All the nice men seem to have girlfriends, or they’re already married, and the single ones seem nothing but trouble. I don’t know why I am even telling you this, it’s not like you can do anything about it. But I do want you to know that my happy memories of you and Grandma Melba are what keep me going through all the dark times.

  I have enclosed ten pounds for you. I hope it can help with something you need. I will write again soon, hopefully with some good news. Please say hello to Miss Blossom from me.

  May God bless you, Grandpa.

  Your loving granddaughter,

  Erna

  I put the pen down and stared out of the window at the street, tears blurring my eyes. My heart ached for Grandma Melba’s comforting presence. She would have known how to deal with Fitzroy and Miss Violet’s death, and everything else. No matter what the situation, Grandma Melba had a practical way of handling it. The only other person I knew like this was my best friend and I couldn’t believe I’d waited this long to speak to her. I picked up the phone and called her straight away.

  ‘Jen, I need to see you right now,’ I said as soon as she answered. ‘Can you come over?’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she replied.

  Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. I ran to the door and flung it wide open.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter, Erna?’ Jennifer said as soon as she saw my face.

  ‘Oh, Jen,’ I cried, collapsing into her arms, ‘it’s all too much.’

  ‘Come on,’ Jennifer said, guiding me to the sofa. She sat down next to me, put an arm round my shoulder and handed me a scrunched up tissue that she found in her jacket pocket.

  ‘Tell me what’s happened,’ she said.

  Between violent sobs, everything poured out of me: Fitzroy, Sean, my mother’s suicide, Patsy, the ugly Satan devil man – I held nothing back. When I’d finished, Jennifer stared at me, shaking her head.

  ‘It’s almost too much to take in, Erna,’ she said. ‘But what I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me any of this before?’

  ‘I couldn’t, Jen,’ I replied, wiping my eyes. ‘While I was in the middle of it, I felt like I just had to keep going and, somehow, I’d get through it all, but if I stopped, then I’d break down. Do you understand?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said, with a small laugh.

  I looked at her smiling face and then I laughed too. It was such an incredible tale of woe it all felt suddenly ludicrous, as if it had happened to someone else and not to me.

  ‘Come on,’ Jennifer said, standing up, ‘I’m taking you out for a treat.’

  ‘Oh, God, I must look a right state,’ I said.

  ‘You look as beautiful as ever, Erna.’

  On Streatham High Road we found a Wimpy that was open. We sat down and without hesitation ordered knickerbocker glories and coffee. The huge ice-cream desserts arrived in glasses that were nearly as high as our heads. After a minute of silence, during which we demolished these fantastic creations of sweetness, I put my spoon down with a contented sigh and stared at my friend.

  ‘Did you ever read Tess of the D’Urbervilles?’ I asked her.

  ‘No,’ Jennifer said, ‘should I have?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that I feel like I’m mirroring her life, in a weird kind of way.’

  ‘Oh, is that bad, then?’ Jennifer said.<
br />
  ‘Well, yes,’ I replied, ‘she gets hung in the end!’

  ‘Hmm, definitely bad then,’ Jennifer agreed, licking her spoon.

  We paid our bill and then strolled arm in arm through the quiet streets to Streatham Common. Its green spaces were busy with gaggles of young men playing football and people strolling along like us or walking their dogs. I looked up at the cloudless blue sky and sighed.

  ‘Life always goes on, doesn’t it, Jen,’ I said.

  ‘It always does, Erna.’

  Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me towards one of the impromptu football matches.

  ‘Come on,’ she cried, ‘let’s show ’em how to do it!’

  ‘No!’ I cried, resisiting her pull, as tears started to run down my face. But they were tears of laughter, not sadness.

  Chapter 41

  Mother’s funeral, organised with heartfelt enthusiasm by Auntie Madge and Uncle Herbie, turned out to be a typical Caribbean affair, attended by well over one hundred and fifty relatives and friends – some of whom I’d met at family get-togethers over the years, but many others whom I had no idea even existed. People came from as far away as Birmingham, Coventry, even Bristol. And they came in every shade of black and brown. The only people conspicuous by their absence were Mother’s church brethren, of whom not a single one showed up. There was no nine night like we had for Grandma Melba, because we’d waited nearly three weeks for the coroner to complete his report, and nine nights weren’t exactly allowed in England, anyway. But despite Mother’s antipathy towards the world she found herself living in, she was given a proper, food-filled, rum-soaked, reggae-rousing send-off. And, of course, her favourite tune – ‘Honour Your Mother and Your Father’ – topped the playlist.

  I wondered what she would have made of it all, since she was not a woman who saw much to be celebrated in life. I guess it’s a good thing the dead can’t talk, I thought. And, in happy contrast to her gloomy world-view, all her relatives that she’d grown up with had nothing but nice things to say about her.

  ‘I wish we could have known that side of her,’ Patsy said to me, after the speeches had finished and the dancing had started.

  ‘I agree, Pats,’ I said, ‘and I’m really glad to know that there was a time in her life when she was actually happy. I’ve spent so much time feeling angry with her and blaming her for choosing the life she did, but now all I feel is sorry for her.’

  Patsy stared at me over the rim of her glass of rum punch.

  ‘I feel sorry for her,’ she said, ‘but I can never forgive her for what she allowed to happen to me.’

  ‘No, I understand, Pats,’ I said.

  Nevertheless, as the evening wore on and the drinks flowed, and the conversation became lyrical, I began to piece together an entirely different picture of my mother – as an interesting and intriguing woman. In all my time of knowing her, she had never spoken about herself to me. But, despite having given birth to six children, being married to a maniac and being mentally ill for years, she had still managed to retain her youthful body shape and perfect skin. Her only exercise, which I didn’t think was undertaken in any conscious sense, was when she would go off walking for miles, although she mostly did this when she was suffering from some kind of breakdown. Patsy and I had often whispered to each other about the way men would look at her when we accompanied her to the market, or even to church, but she never gave any indication that she was aware of these admirers. It still came as a shock, however, when an older cousin, whose name I managed to recall was Pamela, took me aside and confided that my mother wasn’t quite as innocent as she seemed.

  She took a long drag from her cigarette and then fixed me with a serious look. ‘You know, Auntie Violet had a bit of a wild streak about her,’ she whispered.

  ‘What was that?’ I said, not sure I’d heard her right over the booming music. She also seemed to have partaken a little too freely of the punch.

  ‘Everyone has a little mystery about them, ain’t that so, cousin?’ she persisted.

  ‘Pamela, I wish I knew what you were talking about!’ I replied.

  ‘I’m not talking ill of Auntie,’ Pamela said, taking my hand and pulling me towards the garden. ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t do that, but I tell you that the only time I ever saw her happy was when she started something with this young guy called Barry. They really cared for each other, you know, even though she was years older than him. He was happy and she was happy. That wasn’t long before you came up.’

  I gazed at the other mourners in the garden to make sure no one could overhear us before I replied. ‘Are you saying that my mum was having an affair?’ I hissed.

  ‘Barry is the twins’ father, Erna. Auntie Violet got pregnant when your step-dad wasn’t even in the country.’

  For a moment I thought I was going to faint. I took a step backwards and reached out towards a handy branch to steady myself. ‘Jesus Christ, Pamela!’ I said.

  ‘Well, I thought you should know, now that you’re old enough to handle it and they’re both gone,’ she said. ‘No one can hurt her now, can they?’

  ‘You’re saying that my mother had an affair?’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes, she did, Erna. Auntie Violet had a really unhappy marriage, but then you know that. Everyone could see that, and when Mr Williamson realised that the twins weren’t his, well, if things could have become worse between them, that was like the final straw. I’m not sorry to say it, Erna, but I didn’t like him and could never make myself call him Uncle. Anyway, Auntie had to give up the man she loved. They hid the affair from their church people, but close family knew, and not everyone blamed her. It was after she finished the affair with Barry that the breakdowns started coming thick and fast and her hospital admissions got longer and longer, until, according to what Auntie Madge told my mum, her brain just scrambled.’

  ‘Excuse me, but I have to sit down,’ I said.

  I fumbled for a garden chair and sat heavily on it, causing its back legs to sink into the grass, which nearly tipped me over.

  ‘Do you mind if I have one of your cigarettes, Pamela?’

  ‘Not at all, Erna,’ Pamela said. ‘It’s a lot to take in, I know that.’

  Suddenly my mother’s behaviour began to make some kind of warped sense. It was as though she saw in both Patsy and me something of herself that she didn’t like, or maybe even something of herself that she had lost. Weirdly, I began to feel a kind of respect for my mother. It was heartening to learn that she probably wasn’t okay living in a mentally and physically abusive marriage, and that she had found some sort of courage for a short time to do something about it.

  Pamela leant down and lit my cigarette with a silver lighter that she took from her handbag.

  I drew deep on the cigarette. The foul taste and the smoke hit me simultaneously. I dropped it to the ground, coughing and spluttering. ‘Well, that didn’t make me feel any better,’ I said to my cousin, when I recovered.

  ‘Its not the best habit to develop,’ she laughed.

  I reached out and took hold of Pamela’s hand. ‘Please, I beg you, Pamela, they might be dead, but the twins and my brothers and sister are very much alive, and I don’t think they ever need to know any of this,’ I said.

  ‘To be honest, Mum would never speak to me again if she knew that I’d even told you,’ Pamela said.

  ‘Thank you, Pamela. Thank you for telling me. You don’t know how much this has helped me.’

  ‘No problem, darling,’ Pamela said, patting my arm.

  I watched her totter back towards the house, still managing to look elegant in her black crêpe dress, and said a silent prayer of gratitude for being part of such a wonderful, rich, dysfunctional family.

  Chapter 42

  Patsy and I stayed with our aunt and uncle and the younger children for a few days following our mother’s funeral. We needed family around us. A feeling of profound emptiness had injected itself into my head and my entire body. Patsy appeared equally shaken up and un
happy.

  Our mother’s difficulties had weighed much heavier on us than either of us had realised. We had both battled in our own inept ways to try and look after her, even when she made it clear that she didn’t welcome any of our attention.

  ‘I know its hard,’ our aunt said, over breakfast on the third day of our stay. ‘She was my little sister.’ Her eyes were glassy with the tears she was holding back. ‘It shouldn’t have been her time yet, but God knows why he makes the decisions that he does.’

  ‘I think I’ll take the boys and the twins for a little run on the common,’ Patsy said, getting up from the table.

  ‘You go ahead, Patricia,’ Auntie Madge encouraged. ‘They could all do with some extra TLC right now.’

  As soon as Patsy disappeared from view, I turned to Auntie Madge. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you,’ I said.

  Auntie Madge raised an eyebrow.

  Taking a deep breath, I began, ‘I wondered if you know how my mother became pregnant with me?’

  She took a long sip of her coffee. ‘That’s quite a question,’ she said, after a moment. And then she began to tell me about how Mother had worked for the Dees, and how she’d come to be pregnant and had gone to see the Obeah man. ‘When it was clear there was no stopping you coming into this world, she told me all that happened on that day. Her exact words to me were, “Him just throw me down.”’

  It took Auntie Madge a long time to tell me all the details that my mother had told her, and as I listened tears fell freely down my face. By the end of her story, I was sobbing, and all Auntie Madge could say to me was, ‘Hush yourself, child. God has a purpose for us all. He knows why he sends us these trials.’

  Christmas came and went. Although our mother was no longer around to object to its celebration, Patsy and I had long accepted that Christmas just wasn’t done in our family. Like our mother, we pretty much ignored all the jollities that seemed to spill out everywhere around us. Instead, we decided to claim New Year as our own, so, on the thirty-first of December, Patsy and I stayed up to celebrate the arrival of 1976 at home with a bottle of cheap cava a colleague at work had given me as a Christmas present.