When I got back to the house, Miss Iris informed me that my father would not be back until later that evening, so I resigned myself to sitting on the porch with her and Adana and chewing the fat. But the talk waned as the sun set and the dusk deepened into night and still he didn’t return, so with a yawning ‘Good night’ to Miss Iris and Adana, I took myself off to the bedroom that they had made ready for me and fell immediately into a deep sleep.
The following morning, I woke to the smell of frying food coming from the kitchen. I quickly dressed and found my father outside on the porch. He looked up from his breakfast and smiled at me.
‘Papa, can we have a chat after breakfast?’ I said.
‘Sure ting, Erna,’ he said, wiping the grease from his face with a red handkerchief. ‘Mi have to go over to Frome, so we can talk while we walk.’
Once we had got going, I could hardly hold in the subject that had been weighing on my mind. ‘This might sound strange,’ I said, as we made our way towards the hill that marked the southern boundary of his land, ‘but you know, I never really got to know my mother properly. I mean, who she really was. And I don’t feel like I know who you are, either.’
My father looked at me curiously. Clearly no one, and most certainly no child of his, had ever spoken to him in this way before. But now I’d started I had to keep going in case the moment was lost.
‘So, how did you meet my mother?’ I asked, as casually as I could.
He stopped walking, tilted his baseball cap back and scratched his head. ‘She was working for dis family, the Dees I tink dem name, helping dem wit dem children. I would see her every morning when I ride my horse out to the land. Man, she was young and pretty yuh see!’
‘So, how did you come to have a baby with her?’
‘Mi did beg har a few times, but she always run weh! Soh, one morning mi waylay har and mi catch har!’
His reply was so frank that I was taken aback. I hadn’t expected him to be quite so candid about what was basically the rape of a child.
‘Your mada was a pretty young gal,’ he continued, smiling at the memory. Then his expression changed to one of sadness. ‘Mi sorry to hear dat she gone, Erna, it must be hard for you,’ he said.
‘Yes, it was hard. It still is. Did you know she took her own life?’
He looked down at the dusty earth beneath his feet. ‘Mi did hear someting fi dat effect,’ he said. ‘Lard, that is a terrible ting, Erna. De poor woman mussa been in some awful pain fi do such a ting.’
‘I don’t think she ever got over what happened to her,’ I said. He looked up at this and I thought I saw a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but I pressed on. ‘Did you know she had a baby before me?’ I said angrily. He shook his head. ‘By another man, who also chased her down?’ My voice began to crack with the intensity of my emotions. ‘She was only a child. Imagine if that happened to me, or one of your other daughters, at such a young age. Do you know, Papa, she was never able to show me one iota of love because I was a constant reminder, every striking day, of what you did to her.’
My father looked away, allowing his eyes to rest on the mountains in the distance. Then he turned back to me. ‘Dat was de way tings was back then, Erna,’ he said. ‘Mi not proud of what mi did do, but it nuh someting me can change. Yuh can either accept it, or yuh can let it nyam you up, but you kyaan change it, girl.’
‘But haven’t you ever thought that what you did to Violet was wrong?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘I kyaan change how tings happen all dem years back, chile, and, God knows, mi glad seh yuh is me daughter still. Me kyaan be sorry for dat.’
I saw compassion in his eyes now and, even though anger was still boiling in my chest, I knew that my father had spoken the simple truth as he saw it. It may have been a crude and brutal truth, but in a sense he was right: whatever the circumstances were that had led to my birth, I was here, now, and I was grateful to be alive, and my anger would change nothing. And I had to accept that my father wasn’t a sophisticated or educated man; he came from a very different world to the one I now inhabited. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, waiting until I felt I had enough control of my feelings to continue the conversation.
‘This has been a hard thing to hear, Papa,’ I said, finally. ‘You have to know that I feel very angry about what happened to my mother, it literally ate up her entire life. I have never known anyone to be as unhappy as she was. But I don’t want it to do the same to me, because I cannot regret my own existence. It’s true that you can’t change what you did, but I wish you’d found it in your heart to apologise to her. Who knows? It may have made the difference to her living a happier life. She may even have still been alive today.’
My father remained quiet for some time and then he too took a deep breath and pointed towards the top of the hill.
‘Come, Erna,’ he said, ‘mi want fi show you someting.’
I scrambled after him as he climbed at speed through the stony scrub towards the summit. When I caught up with him, he was standing on a rocky outcrop, shading his eyes with his hand and gazing out across the flatlands that stretched towards the coast. He turned to look at me and smiled when he saw that I was panting with the exertion of climbing the steep hill.
‘Hinglan life mek yuh soft, Erna,’ he laughed.
I had to bend over, hands on my thighs, to catch my breath. After a moment, I stretched upright and looked at him, then I followed his gaze towards the misty horizon.
‘Mi fada was a hard man,’ he said, not looking at me, but staring towards the shrouded ocean. ‘He use to beat me bad. Beat me for any damn ting I did wrong, and mi was always gettin tings wrong,’ he added with a wry chuckle. ‘But him did teach mi de rules, Erna, de basic rules of life. Wi run tings, tings nuh run wi, yuh understan what ahm saying?’
I nodded, still breathing hard. I did understand.
‘An because of him teachin, mi run dis whole dyam place,’ he said, encompassing the extent of his land with a sweep of his arm.
Apart from the gentle breeze and the thin cries of the swifts that swooped above us, the whole wide world was silent. I breathed deep of the clean island air and gazed about me: at the river curling far below and the smoke rising from behind my father’s house in the distance. We are in control of our own destiny. It was a profound thought that stayed with me long after I had left my island and returned to England.
By the time we’d got back from Frome, it was late afternoon and Tony was sitting on the verandah chatting to Miss Iris and Adana, who were shelling peas into a large steel bowl. As soon as he saw me, he stood up and walked down the steps towards us.
‘Are yuh ready to get going, Erna?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I’m really worried about Grandpa, he was in such a bad way when we left.’
Tony nodded, and with a wave to Miss Iris and a nod to my father, he climbed into his truck. I turned and looked at my father, conscious of the unsettled emotions inside me. He smiled.
‘Mi proud to have such a strong daughter,’ he said. ‘You know how to say tings straight, an dat is a gift fa sure. Mi know mi don’t need to worry bout yuh in de world, Erna.’
He held his hand out to me. For a second I hesitated, then I took it and he pulled me into his arms and hugged me.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m glad I came back to see you.’
‘Me too, Erna,’ he said.
He held the truck door open for me and I climbed in next to Tony and wound the window down.
‘Bye, Papa,’ I said.
‘Walk good, Erna,’ he replied.
Tony started the engine with a roar and I barely had time to wave to my father and Miss Iris before we disappeared down the track in a cloud of dust.
Chapter 49
Miss Blossom was sitting in her rocking chair on the verandah when we arrived back at Grandpa’s house in the early afternoon. She watched as we clambered from Tony’s truck and walked towards her. There was an unnatural stillness in the a
ir that seemed to permeate everything. Even the usually noisy sows and chickens were quiet. The only movement came from a doctor bird that hovered in the slanting light as it nosed into a red poinciana, its wings humming so fast they were just a shimmering blur.
‘Mi glad yuh get back safe, Erna,’ Miss Blossom said, as we climbed on to the verandah, ‘but, chile, mi sarry fi tell yuh seh, yuh nuh come back fi good news. Yuh Grandfada nat in a good way at all. De doctor come out yesterday. Him give im a few days at most. Pneumonia, de doctor seh, an nutting kyan be done.’
I dropped my backpack and sat down next to her. Miss Blossom stretched out her hand, which I took in mine.
‘Is it okay if I go and see him?’ I asked.
She gave my hand a squeeze, then looked away, shaking her head as tears came to her eyes. ‘Yes, chile,’ she said, her head still turned away from me. ‘He would like to see yuh, fa sure.’
I excused myself and found my way to the bedroom at the back of the house. The shutters were closed, but I could still make out Grandpa’s form in the dim light. Peter had washed and shaved him and dressed him in the cotton pyjamas I’d brought. He was standing just inside the door when I entered the room.
‘Mi wi do dat, Miss Erna,’ Peter said, bringing over a chair, which he placed next to Grandpa’s bedside. I thanked him and, when he left the room, I set about moving the chair as close to Grandpa Sippa as possible. I reached out and took his scrawny hand in my own. Grandpa’s breathing was laboured and his eyes remained closed.
‘Grandpa, it’s me, Erna. I’m back again,’ I whispered, ‘but it looks like you’re planning on leaving us already.’ I had intended not to cry, but the tears rolled silently down my cheeks as I spoke and I couldn’t keep the tremble out of my voice. I wasn’t certain, but I thought I detected the tiniest squeeze of my hand from Grandpa. ‘I am so glad you waited for me to come back home to see you, Grandpa,’ I continued, ‘thank you so much. Eighty-seven years, Grandpa, what a journey you’ve had! I can’t tell you how happy I am to have been born with you and Melba as my grandparents. You’ve been the best grandfather I could have wished for, and I wish I could spend more time with you now, but I know you have unfinished business with Grandma Melba. You two have a lot of catching up to do and she is going to love having you around.’
Grandpa let out a deep, ragged sigh and I rested my other hand on his forehead.
‘It’s okay, Grandpa Sippa, I don’t want you to go, but that’s just me being selfish. I know it’s time and it’s fine, Grandpa. We’ll all be okay. And you and Grandma Melba will live on in my heart for ever. Just you remember to give her a big hug for me when you finally catch up with her.’
Before I left my island again, I returned one last time to Grandma Melba’s grave to let her know that her beloved Sippa had left to join her. As my return flight was only two days away, I was unable to stay with Miss Blossom and the rest of the villagers who had turned out to pay their respects to Grandpa Sippa during the nine-night ceremony. But I was able to say a proper goodbye to those I loved this time, and I especially thanked Tony for looking after me so well. He even took it upon himself to drive me all the way back to Monica’s for my last night on the island, although I suspected that was as much to see Monica’s housekeeper, Angela, as it was to help me out. Monica seemed delighted to see me again and welcomed me into her home as if I’d been away for a month, not a few days. It was lovely to spend one more night in her beautiful house and to enjoy the pleasures of my island without any stress.
In the morning, Conrad took me to the airport and, almost as soon as I’d arrived, I was gone again. But this time the journey back to London felt right. This time, there was no fear. I was returning to England with my heart sad, but full of good memories, especially of Grandpa Sippa and Grandma Melba, and all my huge extended family, and the beautiful paradise that is my island.
As soon as I’d cleared customs at Heathrow, I went in search of a phone box and, when I found one without a queue, I took a ten-pence coin from my purse and called Jennifer. After several rings she answered.
‘It’s me,’ I said, ‘I’m home.’
Acknowledgements
My first debt of gratitude goes to Margaret Busby OBE. When I first mentioned to Margaret well over twenty years ago that I liked writing, she told me, ‘Then, Yvonne, you must write.’ Over the years, whenever we met up, she would gently ask, ‘How’s the writing going?’ It mostly wasn’t. However, without a hint of nagging, her gentle encouragement never wavered.
When Margaret suggested that I might like to submit a piece of writing for her New Daughters of Africa anthology, I was totally astonished and utterly delighted. I was more than a fan, having followed her wonderful career and having been gifted a copy of the first Daughters of Africa by my then-teenage daughter. Margaret Busby is, simply, one of the most generous women I know when it comes to encouraging budding writers to believe in themselves. I join my fellow contributors to New Daughters of Africa in saluting her.
In order to try and write this novel, I gave up full-time work and rewired myself. Heartfelt thanks goes to Hud Saunders, who appeared at the very time I made my decision. He knows how to teach and I thank him whole-heartedly for patiently mentoring me through this process. Like Margaret, Hud believed I had something. Twice he put me on the stage at the Queens Park Book Festival, and he called me a writer! He spent many hours working with me on developing my second, third and fourth drafts. He often knew what I wanted to say when I couldn’t quite figure out how to say it, and he never failed to let me know what was working and what wasn’t.
Big shout out to my first readers: my brother Andi McLean; my niece Zoe McLean; friends Penny Layne, Sally Oldfield, Elizabeth Lowton, Becky Armstrong. All came back with the same constructive criticisms: ‘The first few pages could work, but the rest reads like a travel guide.’ When I returned to the manuscript, I decided to run with the idea of developing the story from those first few pages. Thank you to Verna Wilkins, who cast a writers’ eye over the first page or two of my manuscript and reminded me of the importance of bringing my characters to life on the page. My sister Carly, friends Ruth and Wendy, thank you for believing I could do this. Every family member and friend who has supported me through the process, I appreciate you all.
Another big shout out goes to Mary Daly, my fellow writing mentee, who patiently listened and critically commented on every new section I wrote.
To the two halves of the Jamaican Massives – Sharon McLeggan and Sandra Williams, all the way from Harrow and Toronto, respectively – our daily patois talk made me laugh and cry. You kept it real and live as I attempted to use some of our lyrical language in my manuscript.
Special thanks go to Candida Lacey, Publishing Director, and the team at Myriad Editions, for so boldly making the decision to publish my novel. Candida, thank you for that fateful email which has become my most precious thing. Thank you to Emma Dowson, publicist, and Vicki Heath Silk, editor, for your patience in working with a novice writer. Vicki, your eye for detail is much appreciated.
Finally, I must not forget all my fictional characters, who took over my head and propelled me to write this story. I hope that it captures the silent voices of many who have been impacted by a separation or transition for which they were ill-prepared. Immigrant children, whatever their journeys. Anyone who has experienced loss, whatever that might be. I celebrate every one of you, with your drive to exist and not be victims. You’re all unsung heroines and heroes.
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About the Author
Yvonne Bailey-Smith was born in Jamaica and came to the UK as a teenager. She trained and worked first as a social worker before becoming a psychotherapist. She is also a Water Aid Supporter and passionate about providing clean water and sanitation in developing countries. She is the mother of three children: novelist Zadie Smith; actor, musician and children�
�s book author Ben Bailey Smith; and lyricist and writer LucSkyz.
Copyright
First published in 2021 by
Myriad Editions
www.myriadeditions.com
Myriad Editions
An imprint of New Internationalist Publications
The Old Music Hall, 106–108 Cowley Rd,
Oxford OX4 1JE
Copyright © Yvonne Bailey-Smith 2021
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN (hardback): 978–1–912408–95–5
ISBN (trade paperback): 978–1–8383860–1–6
ISBN (ebook): 978–1–912408–96–2
The Day I Fell Off My Island Page 34