The Day I Fell Off My Island

by Yvonne Bailey-Smith

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Monica nodded. ‘Like you fell off your island and there was no one there to catch you.’

  ‘Exactly!’ I said.

  ‘I think the reasons why people hurt their own children are complex,’ Monica said, returning to her original theme, ‘but at the bottom of it, I’m convinced it’s to do with their own unresolved traumas. It’s like anything, I suppose, some people are very conscious about not repeating things that have happened to them, and others less so…’

  Monica left the statement hanging. I guessed she was referring to herself, and I was considering whether to press her further when Jennifer appeared in the doorway, yawning widely.

  ‘How long have you two been up?’ she said.

  ‘Hours,’ I replied. ‘Come and get some breakfast.’

  As I watched Jennifer tuck into the remaining toast, I thought about what Monica had just said. I was pretty sure my mother had suffered enough trauma, starting with how she got pregnant with me at the age of thirteen. But maybe the ugly Satan devil man had too.

  An hour or so later, as we were leaving and thanking Monica for her hospitality, she reminded me of her offer to stay with her in Jamaica.

  ‘I’m going back in a couple of weeks,’ she said, ‘and my home in the mountains is less than an hour from the airport, so, if you’d like a pit-stop before going to visit your grandfather, please come and be my guest. Just give me a ring once you’ve decided on a date and I’ll have someone meet you at the airport. The offer is there!’ She handed me her card, which had her name, number and occupation – psychotherapist – etched on it.

  I looked up at her and fanned the card before placing it inside my purse.

  Chapter 44

  On our way back from Notting Hill, Jennifer broached the idea of moving in with me.

  ‘Much as I love my mother,’ she said, ‘I’m fed up with living at home, and now Patsy’s moved out of yours, it seems like the perfect solution, don’t you think?’

  I did think. I could not have been happier and agreed without a second’s hesitation.

  And so it was that the following weekend Jennifer and Yvette turned up in Yvette’s Morris Minor. We had grown up enough, it seemed, that we had transitioned seamlessly to first name terms all round. Soon Jennifer’s belongings were piled in the front room and Yvette left us to do the unpacking with a cheery wave that rather undermined my sense that she was sad to leave her only child behind.

  As soon as the front door closed, I turned and gazed at Jennifer’s mound of belongings with concern. I wasn’t expecting her to have quite so much stuff, or to be quite so bossy about how to proceed with unpacking it all. She’d already said she liked my house because it had so many bookshelves, but before we could even stop for a much-needed cup of tea, she demanded that we start stacking her book collection, under her careful instructions.

  ‘Alphabetical order, please,’ she said, ‘and all my black writers must stay together. No mixing.’

  The irony of that statement seemed to escape her, or maybe it was intentioned, but her attitude made me laugh out loud.

  ‘Okay, I understand,’ I said, ‘no mixing! But how about colour coding them? Like all the orange Penguins together, or these green Viragos?’

  ‘Hmm,’ she pondered, ‘yes, I like that idea. But make sure you still order them alphabetically,’ she insisted. ‘And my Women’s Press books should all be totally together, like give them an entire shelf to themselves. Most of them are life-changing books, Erna.

  Each time I picked up a book I didn’t recognise I scanned the author’s page and back cover, making a mental note of anything that piqued my interest. I was just about to open one with a yellow cloth cover, intriguingly titled Their Eyes Were Watching God, when Jennifer grabbed it from my hand.

  ‘Zora Neale Hurston,’ she squealed, ‘that book should have a handle with care label on it!’

  ‘Oh, well, I’d love to read it,’ I said.

  ‘Not that one, Erna,’ she said firmly, and she placed Zora Neale Hurston very gently on the shelf between Lorraine Hansberry and Nella Larsen, as though she were dealing with a delicate flower. ‘It actually belongs to Mum. It was out of print like forever ago, and she’s only lent it to me on the understanding that I would like to live a long, happy life. But seriously, Erna, we’re going to be doing this for days if you keep stopping to check every book. Can you just put them up please!’

  I eyed my best friend wryly. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on,’ I said, walking towards the kitchen.

  For a moment Jennifer didn’t register what I’d said, then she put the book down that she’d just picked up and came after me.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m sorry, Erna,’ she said. ‘I’m behaving like an absolute tyrant. You must be wondering what on Earth you’ve let yourself in for!’ Jennifer studied my serious expression with concern, until I burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Luckily I already know what a nutter you are.’

  Jennifer breathed a sigh of relief and came over and hugged me from behind. ‘I’m so glad we’re doing this,’ she said, ‘really, I couldn’t be happier.’

  I looked out of the kitchen window at the little garden beyond. The colourful blooms that I’d planted in spring had gone over already. I filled the kettle and clicked it on. ‘Me too,’ I said.

  A few days later, I gave my work notice that I would be taking ten days holiday at the end of the month, and in my lunch break I went and booked my return flights to Jamaica at a travel agent’s around the corner on Tottenham Court Road. As I walked out of their office clutching my precious tickets, I thought about the city that I’d been so desperate to escape from for so long. London has a way of putting even the most resistant non-believers under its spell. In the end, it matters little where you come from, the city will envelop you and make you one of its own. In no time at all you will find yourself convinced that there is no other city like it anywhere in the world, even if you’ve never travelled to any other city. London had definitely worked its charm on me. It had become familiar, a home from home, and apart from lacking wall-to-wall sunshine, pretty much everything else that I had on my island could be found somewhere in the city. There were thousands of fellow islanders living and working here, and we had found ways of keeping our island culture alive and vibrant. Most of our island foods could be found in markets and convenience stores across the city – although they were not freshly picked or dug straight from the land – and there were dance clubs and shebeens tucked away in every neighbourhood that had a sizeable population of Caribbean people. And even though I still hadn’t been to it myself – something I planned to correct when I got back from my trip – every August bank holiday the drama of the Notting Hill Carnival unfolded, bringing all the disparate communities together. Almost without noticing it, my attachment to my island had been slowly chipped away. But my decision to make the return journey had also brought back a yearning for my island culture. I was looking forward to the simple things, like not being in a minority, waking up in a country where no one stared at my black skin. Where strangers wouldn’t reach out to touch my hair without invitation. Where I wouldn’t be asked foolish questions, like ‘Why did you come here?’ or ‘Why would you leave all that sunshine behind?’ I was looking forward to not being an exotic, or a statistic, and not feeling the need to define myself through the eyes of another community. I had forgotten what it felt like to be in my world, where everything was familiar. I was looking forward to feeling normal again. And then, of course, there was Grandpa Sippa. Dear God, if you really exist, I prayed, please keep him safe and well until I get there. Then I realised that I needed to let him know as soon as possible about my plans. I had missed my Grandma Melba’s death and I didn’t want my grandfather to leave without saying goodbye too. As soon as I got home that evening, I called a cousin on the island whose number I’d got through the offices of Auntie Madge’s family network. He was able to pass on the message that
I was coming back to the island, and two days later he called to relay my grandfather’s response. It was a joy just to hear a pure island accent again.

  ‘Uncle Sippa seh fi tell yuh dat im know you wouldn’t let im dead before yuh come see im,’ he said down the crackly line, ‘and him seh once im buckup pon yuh again, im can dead in peace. I am sure de ole man waiting for you, Erna.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I replied, tears misting my eyes.

  I spent the last few days at home going through everything I needed to take with me, checking I had presents for Grandpa Sippa and Miss Blossom, and enough left over for everyone else who I might bump into, and marvelling at the size of the two suitcases that I’d mananged to fill to the brim.

  The day before I was due to travel, Patsy turned up at the house. It was a Saturday morning and I was in the kitchen making breakfast. Jennifer answered the door.

  ‘It’s your sister,’ she called out.

  I was in the middle of stirring scrambled eggs. I pulled the pan off the heat and walked out of the kitchen into the hall, suddenly conscious that I was wearing only a large white t-shirt.

  ‘Hello, Erna,’ Patsy said, as she stepped inside.

  Jennifer was still standing by the door, holding it open. She closed it once she’d checked my face and seen that I was okay with this unexpected visitor. Then she walked past Patsy and sat down at the dining table, where she picked up a book and pretended to read.

  ‘Hello, Pats,’ I said.

  For a moment we stood facing each other from opposite sides of the room. Then I wiped my hands on the sides of my t-shirt and walked towards her, until we were a few feet apart. Patsy stood still the whole time, watching me. She was wearing a blue denim jacket over a red t-shirt and black jeans, and her hair was wrapped in a red, gold and green bandana. She looked over at Jennifer before speaking.

  ‘Auntie Madge told me you’re going back to the island,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘I’m going tomorrow.’

  ‘I wanted to say…’ she paused and looked around at the front door before turning back to me. ‘I wanted to say I’m sorry, Erna.’

  I thought I could hear the faint sound of reggae from outside.

  ‘Did Fitzroy bring you here?’ I said.

  Patsy looked about as uncomfortable as I had ever seen her. I had a flashback to when I’d found her standing over the ugly Satan devil man’s body. My little sister. I fought back the urge to hug her, because another part of me wanted to punish her.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  I looked at her – slim and beautiful and radiating health – and then I gazed past her to the window.

  ‘So, it’s working out for you then?’ I said.

  She nodded. I could see tears in her eyes. I stepped forward until we were face to face, and then I reached out and pulled her towards me and hugged her. She burst out crying then.

  ‘I’ve missed you, sister,’ she said through the sobs.

  ‘I’ve missed you too, Pats,’ I said.

  She stepped back and I released her from my embrace.

  ‘Will you say hello to Grandpa Sippa from me, and tell him that I love him very much?’ she said.

  ‘Of course I will!’

  ‘Thank you, Erna.’

  I nodded. ‘It does my heart good to see you looking so well, Pats.’

  ‘Me too,’ Patsy said, looking from me to Jennifer and back again. ‘You look happy, Erna.’

  ‘I am.’ I smiled and Patsy smiled back.

  She walked to the front door and opened it.

  ‘I’ll see you around, Erna,’ she said, and then she slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.

  I heard a car door open and the brief thump of music, then it slammed shut and the car drove off down the road. I turned to look at Jennifer who raised her eyebrows at me.

  ‘All’s well that ends well?’ she said.

  ‘Very funny.’

  As I walked back into the kitchen to finish making breakfast, I realised my heart was on another of its pounding missions. Thank you, God, I whispered inside my head, picking up the saucepan again. I believe Pats is going to be fine.

  Chapter 45

  Almost seven years after I had waved a nervous goodbye to my Grandpa, I boarded a huge British Airways jet and returned to my island. I was no longer a frightened, angry fourteen-year-old girl, but a fully grown twenty-year-old adult. Even so, the idea of flying home set the butterflies racing in my stomach.

  Ten hours later, I stepped out of the plane into the heat of the Caribbean sun – it felt intense but familiar as I shuffled down the steps that were secured to the second exit door of the aircraft. For a moment, I was tempted to get down on my knees and kiss the tarmac, but instead I took in the distant mountain range that seemed to wrap me in its embrace and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then I hoisted my small backpack over my shoulder and followed the line of passengers into the terminal building that, to my Londoner’s eyes, appeared small and provincial.

  Tightly clutching the blue passport that proved I was no longer a citizen of the country in which I was born, I took my place in the queue of returnees and tourists. A mosquito sang past my ears, avoiding my attempts to swish it away. The queue was painfully slow, but at last I was propelled out of customs into a noisy crowd of excited relatives and hopeful taxi drivers shouting out the names of the people they were there to meet. I stood there, dazed for a moment, until I became aware that someone was shouting my name.

  ‘Miss Mullings, over here!’ The male voice sounded deep and smooth, like melting molasses.

  I looked in the direction of the voice to discover a friendly faced, slim young man dressed in black trousers and a gleaming white short-sleeved shirt. The young man and his voice didn’t match at all. Somehow, I expected a more robust-looking chap. He was holding a card with my name on it. I waved my acknowledgement and, noting the oversized suitcases on either side of me, that I had managed to haul from the baggage reclaim, he rushed over.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Mullings,’ he said with a beaming smile. ‘My name is Conrad. Miss Monica sent me to collect you. Welcome back to our beautiful island! I hope you had a good flight?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, very good. A bit of turbulence here and there, but otherwise it was fine.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good to hear,’ he smiled, grabbing a suitcase in each hand. ‘The car is parked just across the road, Miss Mullings.’

  I followed Conrad outside into the wall of heat and stood fanning myself with my passport while I watched him force one of my suitcases into the boot and the other one on to the back passenger seat of his car. When he’d finished, I slipped into the front and Conrad got into the driver’s seat next to me. He leaned round and dipped into a cool bag, retrieving a plastic bottle of water, which he handed to me.

  ‘The weather is very hot here at the moment,’ he said, ‘but it’ll be cooler up in the mountains.’

  He started the car and joined a small traffic jam of tooting cars jostling for the exit, and then we were on our way. I opened my window wide and closed my eyes, breathing in a cocktail of petrol fumes and salty ocean tang. For a few minutes, we were enveloped in the dazzling light that danced off the sapphire Caribbean sea, and then we left it behind and began the slow, dizzying ascent into the mountains. On every side, deep gullies slashed through the lush green forest and enticing smells came wafting through the open windows. It was still mango season and now and then we passed groups of women sitting at the roadside, their baskets brimming with Julie mangoes, East Indian mangoes, green skins, bastards and number eleven mangoes, and suddenly I was transported back to my grandparents’ front steps with my tin pan full, devouring them like they were about to become extinct.

  ‘So, how is England, Miss Mullings?’ Conrad’s question cut through my thoughts.

  I sat up and blinked the drowsiness away. ‘Oh, good and not so good,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure you could say the same about anywhere.’


  It had been over fifteen hours since I’d left home and I was beginning to feel the effects. When I opened my eyes again, the last golden rays of sunshine were dipping behind the dark blue mountains. Conrad made a left turn on to a gravelled road – the wheels spun and the engine roared as the car made its final climb before coming to a stop beside a long, low wall draped with pink and orange hibiscus.

  ‘We are here, Miss Mullings!’ Conrad beamed.

  I opened the passenger door to deliciously perfumed mountain air. The winding road had taken us high above the city and we seemed to be floating between the thousands of twinkling city lights far below and the star-studded night sky above. Fireflies dashed madly about and I shuddered to recall how I used to catch and dissect the little flying bugs in my attempts to discover the source of their glow. Beyond the open gate and across an immaculate lawn, wide stone steps led up to an elegant two-storey plantation house, with yellow lanterns hung above the porch and along the ornate iron-laced balcony that ran the length of the frontage of both floors. Suddenly a huge tawny dog came bounding down the steps, barking furiously, and behind him a figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the porch lights.

  ‘Lion, stop that incessant barking,’ Monica’s distinctive voice rang out in the warm night.

  I watched her descend the steps as Conrad heaved my luggage from the car.

  ‘Don’t mind old Lion,’ she said, as she approached the gate, ‘he sounds fierce, but the only things he scares are the birds!’

  She looked incredibly relaxed and elegant in a blue tie-dyed dashiki, her long locks exposed.

  ‘Oh, Monica, it’s lovely to see you,’ I gushed.