1902-1969
Tony hung back at a respectful distance as I cleared away the weeds, and I discovered a glass vase in which I placed the wild flowers that I’d gathered on our way to the graveyard. Then I knelt down at the edge of her grave and took a deep breath.
‘Oh, Grandma,’ I whispered, ‘I hope wherever you are, everything is alright with you. I went to England after you died and this is the first time I’ve come back to our island since. I hated it at first, because I had to live in the same house as the ugly Satan devil man. I know you would not have liked that at all. But it’s okay, he’s long dead now. Miss Violet died too, Grandma. I’m sorry to be the one to be telling you this. Her life was hard, but she’s at peace now. She believed she would live on in heaven and, if such a place exists, I’m sure that’s where you are, and perhaps Miss Violet is there with you, after all. But not him. The ugly Satan devil man treated Miss Violet very badly, Grandma, and he treated Patricia even worse. It caused her no end of trouble, but she seems to be through the worst of it now. At least, I hope so.’ I felt tears starting to come and I wiped them away with the back of my hand. ‘Clifton and Sonny are fine, though. They’re both very clever, handsome young men. Oh, and I nearly forgot – Miss Violet’s last children are twin girls. Doretta and Barbette. I thought you’d be really happy to hear that we have twins in the family.’ I paused and looked at Grandma Melba’s grave as if I could see through the weeds and earth into another realm, where she was listening to me. I imagined I could see her lovely gentle face, and how good it felt when she smiled. I was trying not to mention Miss Blossom, but I felt it had to be said. ‘I’m sure you know that Grandpa Sippa married Miss Blossom,’ I continued, ‘he needed someone to look after him once you were gone. I hope you don’t mind too much. I still miss you every day, Grandma. I don’t really know how to stop missing you. I want to believe that you know all the things I’ve told you already. Maybe you do. I love you, Grandma Melba, I always will. And one day, when my time comes to leave this earth, it would be lovely to think I will be reunited with you somewhere.’ I stood up and dusted my knees off and looked around for Tony, who was standing in the shade of a dogwood tree, watching me.
Seeing that I was finished, he walked over. ‘Miss Melba was a sweet woman,’ he said.
‘She certainly was,’ I agreed.
I started to walk back the way we came, following the path we’d made through the long grass. ‘I was wondering if you could take me to see Dorcas?’ I said. ‘We were such good friends, but unfortunately, once I got to England, I didn’t write to her as I’d promised.’ I looked round at Tony. ‘I’m embarrassed, now that I’m here, and worried that she won’t want to see me.’
‘I see her all de time, man, and mi kyan tell yuh now, Erna, Dorcas would dead fi see yuh.’
He walked past me and led the way. When we reached a fork in the path, we took a different track from the one we’d followed from Grandpa’s house.
‘I don’t remember those!’ I said with some astonishment as a low mountain range appeared over the tree line. The entire geography of the place seemed different.
‘Well, they’ve always been there,’ Tony laughed. ‘Dem is the Porus Mountains.’
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with my memory, so much about this place just doesn’t look familiar any more. And look,’ I cried suddenly, ‘how did the parish tank get so small? Come on, that was a real big tank, Tony, really huge!’
‘Same ting we talk about yesterday, man. When yuh little, every ting look big and when yuh big tings nuh look so big any more. The Porus Mountains dem was big doah and dem still big!’ he laughed.
After about half an hour of trudging along the dirt track a small ramshackle house appeared in a clearing. As we got closer, I saw a woman, her hair in three old-fashioned plaits, seated on a large grey tarpaulin surrounded by a group of children. I counted six in all. The woman and the children were shelling dried corn. It was the children who spotted us first, and all but the smallest got up and started running towards us.
‘Mama, Mama, is Uncle Tony, is Uncle Tony!’ screeched a barefooted boy dressed in yard clothes.
Moments later I was standing in front of the woman, who was on her feet now, and we leant into each other and hugged for a long time.
‘Dorcas, I don’t know what to say,’ I cried.
We stood for a while just holding each other’s hands. When we parted we looked at each other. I didn’t know what she made of me, but it was hard to see how worn down my friend looked.
‘You look good,’ I said.
She laughed out loud at this. ‘Erna, dere’s no need fa yuh to lie to me,’ she said. ‘But yuh sure is looking good yuhself mi see, yuh got big, girl!’
‘Thanks!’ I said, uncertain about the compliment. ‘I have to say how sorry I am that I didn’t write to you.’
‘Erna, mi just glad to see yuh again,’ Dorcas said, ‘mi nevah tink seh de day would com. Some people come back often and some nevah come back. Dats ow life stay,’ she added with a sigh.
‘And who are all these little people?’ I asked.
‘Dem is all mine,’ Dorcas said. ‘God bless mi wit a big brood, but im figet to give mi one decent fada fi dem.’
I was trying to work out how she could have become a mother of six already, but there they all were. I wondered what miracle might need to occur to give Dorcas’s children more of a chance in life than she had. Dorcas was clearly not given to self-pity, though, and there was something about her that had remained strong and undiminished. I looked over at Tony who was busy playing with the children. Dorcas followed my gaze.
‘How many children yuh ave, Erna?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid I have not been blessed in that way, Dorcas,’ I said. ‘At least not yet. But I haven’t met that special someone, if such a person even exists, and anyway, I’m not sure I have the patience to be a mum. I think teaching kids might be enough for me.’
‘Lard, Erna,’ Dorcas cried, ‘talkin bout coming a teacher, you doing good fa yuhself, sista!’
‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ I smiled. ‘But I can see how good you are with your children, and how much you love them.’
Dorcas smiled a tired smile. ‘Mi not saying it easy, Erna, but despite everyting mi can’t imagine life without dem. But I don’t mind telling yuh, Erna, after dat last little one born,’ she said, pointing to the baby boy sitting on the tarpaulin, ‘mi ask de doctor down a Black Hill Hospital to tie off mi tubes. And mi done wit man, Erna! Mi nuh lucky wit dem.’
‘I think maybe I’m the same,’ I laughed.
I gave my friend another hug and reached into my backpack and dug out an envelope, which I folded in half and tucked into Dorcas’s hand.
‘It’s not much, Dorcas, and I hope you don’t mind, but I hope it’s a help.’
‘Erna, yuh don’t know how much it will help,’ she said in a voice full of emotion.
Tony seemed to be happy to carry on playing with the kids, so we went inside her shack, where she offered me water mixed with cane sugar in a tin cup. I accepted it gratefully. Then we chatted at length about all the people who had left the village; who had moved to other parts of the island; who was living in America and who was living in Canada. Who was married, who had children, who did not. Who had become famous and who had died.
‘Mi did sorry to hear seh Miss Violet dead,’ Dorcas said. ‘Both of mi parents dem dead, one after de other about three years ago.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear of your loss too, Dorcas,’ I said. ‘I’m going to try and turn over a new leaf, though. I will keep in touch from now on, and, if it’s okay with you, I will send you a little something when I can. Oh, by the way, I left a suitcase of children’s clothing with Miss Blossom. It might be worth going to see what she’s willing to part with, it’s not like she has any grandchildren to give them to.’
With that we stood up and hugged again, before walking outside, where I bid Dorcas farewell. I couldn’t promise to see he
r again, because I didn’t know when, or even if I would be coming back.
I was still pondering this as Tony and I made our way back to the village. There was still one more person I wanted to see before I left the island. When we got back to Grandpa Sippa’s house I found another small crowd had gathered and Miss Blossom was handing out the things I had brought with me to all and sundry. Thankfully, I managed to salvage the cotton pajamas I had bought for Grandpa and the three very nice shirts I’d bought for my father – for I still planned to visit him.
I mentioned this to Grandpa when Peter brought him out to the verandah. I also told him a little about life in England and some of my future plans. Grandpa Sippa mostly responded with a simple, ‘Dat is good, Erna.’ I was worried by how weak he seemed to be and how much difficulty talking caused him. When the sun began to set, Peter took him back inside. I wondered how long he had left before he would be joining Grandma Melba in that peaceful, overgrown graveyard.
Chapter 48
I spent another uncomfortable night in the baking heat of the spare room and woke early again. After a makeshift breakfast on the verndah that Peter kindly prepared for me, Tony appeared. I was keen to get going, so after a cup of coffee, we left for my father’s house before the rest of the household had emerged. Tony drove as fast as his truck would go, as if he was as eager to get there as I was. It was a hair-raising journey and by the time we pulled up outside my father’s store I felt like I’d spent two and a half hours inside a tumble dryer. My father was sitting on the verandah nursing a soft drink. He stood up and peered through the truck windows, which we’d closed as we approached his village to keep the dust out. When I stepped from the cab, he looked like he was going to fall over.
‘Lawd God, Erna, a how you come frighten mi soh!’ he exclaimed. He removed his trademark baseball cap as if its removal would help him to be certain it was me he was seeing. ‘Why yuh nuh tell mi seh yuh a come, man? As God a mi witness mi nevah expect to see you hereso again! A wen yuh come?’
‘Morning,’ I said. ‘It’s been a long time! I was in the mountains for a day and then I stopped in the village with my grandfather. And now, here I am.’
‘Well, Lawd, mi glad to see yuh, man,’ he said, giving me a great big bear hug.
My father was still tall and still handsome and little seemed to have changed about his appearance, apart from a small bald patch, which was revealed when he removed his baseball cap. He was dressed in linen trousers and a bold flower-print shirt.
‘Tony, come and meet my father,’ I said. He stepped away from the side of the truck where he’d been leaning and walked towards us. ‘This is Tony, my cousin,’ I said
‘How yuh duh, sarh,’ Tony said, as they shook hands.
‘Come, come, sit down,’ my father said, gesturing to a wooden table and three chairs at the front of the store. Smoke rose from behind the store and curled along its side, and the unmistakable smell of barbecuing chicken and fish permeated the air, along with the pungent scent of green island wood.
‘That smells good!’ I said, sitting down next to my father.
‘De shop turn house now and a hereso Hazel she stay wit har bwoy pickney,’ my father said, looking over his shoulder at the store. ‘Is she round back a mek barbecue chicken and grill fish fa market. A little business she a do fi help harself and har pickney.’
A small boy appeared from round the back of the store and my father immediately dispatched him to get us some drinks.
‘Nathan, run and ask yuh mada for soda for yuh auntie.’ He looked at Tony. ‘Driver, yuh want someting fi drink?’
‘Soda good for mi too, sarh.’
‘Two soda, and mek it quick, bwoy!’
Nathan ran off at speed towards the back of the store.
‘So how is life down here?’ I asked.
‘Same as yuh find us, Erna. Wi nuh always get de rain when wi need it and dat can cause problems for de crop and de animals. But still wi kyaan complain down hereso too much, cause some part a de island ave problem worse dan us and mi still a supply de government with limestone, so wi better off dan most.’
As we drank our sodas, my father explained that, unlike my old village, his village was still a bustling place, although the majority of his children had left and just two of my half-sisters remained. Hazel was living in the shop with her son, and Adana was still living in the house with Miss Iris and my father – when he chose to be there. Alvita, who was the feistiest of the girls, had had the good fortune to meet a wanderlust Australian schoolteacher who had instantly fallen in love with her and whisked her off to his country. ‘No, sarh, mi nevah hear one striking word from har again from de day she left dis place,’ my father said, with a slow shake of his head.
All but one of his sons were now living in America, apparently, apart from Elsworth, the son my father had had at the age of fifteen, who was still living in the village. It seemed that Elsworth had never quite managed to do anything with his life. The little ganja farm that he’d started in the nearby bushlands had been discovered by the police after a tip-off and burnt to the ground. But my father seemed resigned to his eldest son’s failures, given that the rest of his children were doing alright for themselves.
‘Hinglan look like she a treat yuh good, Erna,’ he said.
‘I can’t complain. It took me a few years to get used to the cold winters and their strange ways,’ I laughed, ‘but I’m settled now. That’s not to say it doesn’t have its problems, but I’ve made a life for myself there.’
‘Mi did sorry fi hear seh Violet dead,’ my father said out of the blue, resting a big hand on mine, ‘she was young still.’
I gulped and shifted my hand out of my father’s reach and looked directly ahead of me as I fought back tears of anger.
‘But dat a how life go sometime,’ he added, unperturbed.
I made no response. I had plenty to say to my father about my mother’s death, but now didn’t feel like the right time.
‘Com an seh hello to Miss Iris,’ my father said, standing up, ‘she wi be shock fi see yuh!’
Tony and I followed him along the path towards his big house, the two men chatting about cars like they’d known each other for years. When we reached the front porch, the shock was all mine: Miss Iris’s weight had ballooned so much that she appeared stuck to the same old wooden stool that I remembered, except now it could hardly be seen beneath her bulk.
‘How are you, Miss Iris?’ I asked, walking over to her.
‘It’s Erna dat?’ she replied. ‘Nathan tell mi seh yuh over shop, but mi did tink de bwoy talking foolishness. Come here, gal, let me look pon yuh good,’ she added, grabbing my hand. She scrutinised me with what appeared to be her one good eye, the other being milky and blind. ‘Yuh look good, Erna,’ she said, ‘but yuh fat eenh! A wah dem a feed yuh pon up in Hinglan?’
‘Thank you, Miss Iris.’ I smiled, even though the fat comments were starting to wear a little thin. ‘Hinglan life is treating me okay!’
The door behind Miss Iris opened and a young woman nearly as fat as she was came out.
‘Hello, Erna,’ she said, ‘nice to see yuh come back a yard.’
‘Adana, get yuh sista one soda,’ Miss Iris said, before I’d even had a chance to reply, ‘and one for this striking fella here! Who dis?’ she added.
‘This is my cousin Tony,’ I said.
‘Lard, im is one good lookin fella,’ Miss Iris chuckled.
Adana returned with the sodas, including one for my father
‘How long yuh a plan to stay wit us, Erna?’ he asked, as he joined Miss Iris sitting on the porch. ‘We have plenty room we kyan put yuh up in.’
‘Well, I was thinking of going to Santa Fe and booking myself into a hotel for the night,’ I said. I was secretly looking forward to spending a day at Black Sands Beach and enjoying some hotel lifestyle before I left.
‘Yuh nuh fi waste money like dat, Erna, when mi ave plenty room here! You too, Tony,’ my father added.
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sp; ‘Oh, no, don’t worry about me, sarh,’ Tony said. ‘I want to go and visit with my sister down the road. It’s longtime I don’t see har.’ Then he turned to look at me. ‘I will come back tomorrow to pick yuh up, Erna,’ he said, standing up. ‘Tank yuh for the soda, sarh,’ he added, ‘it nice to meet with yuh folks.’ He smiled, and with a wave of his hand he strode off back down the road, leaving me alone with my father, Miss Iris and Adana.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ I said, dipping into my backpack, ‘I brought you these.’ I handed him the shirts I’d bought him. ‘And here’s something for you, Miss Iris,’ I added, handing her the plain blue dress that I’d grabbed before Miss Blossom had given everything else away. Luckily it was an extra-large size, and she seemed very pleased with it.
My father handed the shirts to Miss Iris and stepped down from the porch. ‘Mi have to go about some business now, but mi will see yuh later, Erna,’ he said. And with a wave of his hand, he was gone.
I wasn’t sure that I wanted to stay the night here at all, but now it looked like I had no choice. My main concern, apart from the discomfort I was feeling about revisiting this place of so many mixed memories, was Grandpa Sippa – he’d looked so frail the night before and I yearned to get back to him. But then I asked myself why I had even come here in the first place? Was it really just to see my father, or was it something else? Either way, it was too late for regrets and I reconciled myself to spending the night with him and his family. Miss Iris looked like she was going to sit on the porch forever, so I decided to go for a walk to kill some time before my father returned.
I wandered across my father’s land towards the village, trying to enjoy the natural beauty of the place with its mountain backdrop and fast-flowing river glinting in the distance, but as I walked the words my mother had spoken to Auntie Madge about her encounter with my father jumped into my brain like an angry lyric: him just throw me down. I had spent years venting my anger at Patsy’s father for abusing her, and all that time she had wished that she had a father like mine. Now, here I was in this most beautiful of settings having to accept that perhaps my father was no better than the ugly Satan devil man. In that moment, it occured to me that I didn’t really know anything about my father. In the short time I’d spent with him, it was clear that everyone saw him as a kind and considerate man. All I really knew was that he had impregnated my mother, and that for the first thirteen years of my life I’d had no knowledge of his existence. I desperately wanted to ask him about the circumstances of my conception, but I was unsure whether I could be direct with my questions. What if he refused to answer, or worse, asked me to leave? After all, a part of me still wanted to know him, despite everything.
The Day I Fell Off My Island Page 33