The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q

by Sharon Maas

  ‘Oh Lord, oh good Lord, is he! Hurry, hurry!’

  Dorothea took a deep breath and her fear fled. ‘Why should we run away with this child?’ she said to Basmati. ‘You’re his mother. You are leaving that man; he has no right to you. Your body is enough evidence. Let’s have this out right here with him. I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Oh, mistress, mistress, you don’t know that man, come let we go!’

  But Dorothea stood her ground. Arms folded across her chest, she turned to face the man bounding towards them shouting abuse.

  He wore a dirty singlet and a frayed pair of limp trousers open at the fly. His hair was long, greasy, hanging over a forehead shiny with sweat. His face was distorted with rage. He flew at Basmati with an animal roar. Basmati cried out and turned her back to him, clasping the child to her bosom. He kicked her, sending her and the boy flying. She managed to hold on to Baby, twisting to protect him from the fall with her own body. Still roaring, the man lunged towards Dorothea. The stench of stale rum encircled him in a putrefying aura. Rage, feral and deadly, burned in his eyes and she yelled out as she too, turned her back to him.

  Freddy pounced forward, and with a mighty right-hand blow caught the man on the side of his head. The man staggered backwards, tripped on the metal bucket, and fell to the ground. Stunned, he stared at Freddy, but only for a moment. He glanced to the side, where the garden tools lay rotting, grabbed one of them and leaped to his feet.

  Dorothea too leapt forward, aiming for his waist, her arms reaching out to grab him, hold him back. But she was too late. With a brutish bellow he lunged at Freddy, brandishing a pitchfork. Freddy parried, dodged, ducked; there was no way he could get closer. And then he tripped. His foot caught in the battered old bucket, it was Freddy’s turn to plummet to the ground. With a roar of rage the man raised the pitchfork high and slammed it down on Freddy. It plunged into his abdomen. Basmati’s husband let go of the pitchfork handle and sprung away; he flung open the gate and pounded down the road. The neighbourly spectators stared, some at him, some at the commotion within the yard.

  Dorothea’s scream was a single frenzied howl. She lurched towards Freddy, fell to the ground beside him. Blood spurted from his belly. She tugged at the pitchfork, trying to remove it, but then thought better of it and ripped off her blouse and shoved it up against the pitchfork prongs; in a matter of seconds it was soaked red.

  Everyone screamed: Basmati, Aunty, Dorothea, the child. The little dog strained against its rope in a volley of hysterical barking. Only Freddy, his head now cradled in Dorothea’s arms, did not scream; he barely croaked. His eyes groped through pain to catch Dorothea’s, questioning, puzzled eyes. His lips mouthed words he could not speak, like a dying fish.

  Attracted by all the screaming, more neighbours came to watch. Domestic upsets always made good theatre. Hysterical sobs wracked Dorothea’s body, but she managed to look up and scream at the gapers: ‘What you-all staring at! Call an ambulance! He’s going to bleed to death!’

  She turned back to Freddy. Blood continued to leak from his abdomen. She mopped at it helplessly with her skirt. ‘Freddy! Hold on! Please stay with me! Don’t go! Oh my love, my darling, stay with me! Oh God, oh my Lord! Help him! Help him, please! Don’t take him away!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  RIKA: THE SIXTIES

  Everything was ready and prepared. The Granny dress lay ironed and waiting in her room. She had bought some white patent-leather go-go boots to go with it, on the sage advice of Trixie, who said they were ‘all the rage in America’. Jag had phoned her up earlier that week to say he would pick her up at seven forty-five. Rika had a shower (wearing a plastic cap to protect her hair) and put on her new make-up the way Trixie had explained to her (and as it was described in Teen magazine which was now her Bible), and was ready and waiting at seven-thirty, sitting beside the front window.

  She was worried. The Granny dress was six inches above the knee, on Trixie’s recommendation, and the skirt, gathered in an Empire-line at the bust, was not too wide. She had never been on the back of a motorbike before. She would have to hike up the dress and that might be an awkward moment. Would her panties show? What if she slipped and fell in the effort to raise the hem almost up to her crotch and get one leg over the motorbike seat?

  Waiting was agony. She tried reading a book – she hadn’t read much in the last three weeks and the due date at the library was looming – she’d have to renew next week or else return the books unread, which she had never done before. But that’s what being in love does to you, she thought. It changes your life completely. She couldn’t get into the story at all. She forgot what the character had done and said in the previous page and had to keep going back, because half of her mind, or more, was channelled to the street outside, listening for the chug of a motorcycle. Every time one approached, she strained to hear if it would slow down and stop; but none did, and seven forty-five came and went. Her chest tightened as the clock ticked.

  The drawing room radio played in the background: Dion and the Belmonts, crooning away. Why must she be a teenager in love? It brought tears to her eyes, and fear to her heart. Was this what it was like? A roller-coaster of emotions, elation and agony, up and down.

  He was late. It was already eight o’clock – past eight, actually, as the dining-room clock she kept glancing at was five minutes behind – and still no sign of him. Perhaps he had forgotten – but no. If he had called to actually set a time he couldn’t have forgotten. But something else could have happened. An accident! Maybe he had gone back to Jen, who Rika knew was very angry (she knew this because several girls had been only too anxious to tell her; girls these days were extraordinarily friendly to her, and just wait till they saw her hair, on Monday at the latest; though one or two of them would be at the fete tonight, the lucky ones with boyfriends).

  Little Anthony sang ‘Tears on my Pillow’. What was this, Heartbreak Hour on Radio Demerara? By the time the Platters came on with ‘Smoke gets in your Eyes’, the tears had left Rika’s eyes and were trickling down her cheeks. Those who love are blind, said the song. Yes. She had been blind. Jag didn’t love her and he wasn’t coming. She had been stood up. But no; she had to keep faith.

  She looked at the clock again: eight twenty-two (eight twenty-seven, actually)! Something must have happened. She wished she could ring him up, but that would be inappropriate. She already knew his family’s phone number by heart; she had looked it up in the phone book. She knew his address, too, and had longed to ride up to Bel Air Gardens and find the house and look at where he lived, but what if he came out and saw her? And Bel Air Gardens was right on the edge of town, past Kitty on the East Coast Demerara. Not exactly a place where you could just happen to casually ride past. And it was a private, gated community. And it was essential to appear casual at all times. That’s what Teen magazine said.

  Eight forty-five. She had been stood up, definitely, Dumped. Or else – maybe – something bad had happened, because surely he would have called to say he was going to be late. He’s had an accident! That motorbike! Granny had raised her to be punctual at all times. Of course, she knew of the concept of ‘Local Time’ which meant that everyone was always late as a matter of course, but surely not Don DeSouza, the son of a High Court Judge?

  Ben E. King, with ‘Stand by Me’. That was the last straw. She couldn’t take it. Would there never by anyone to stand by her? Someone to fill her heart and never leave it? The tears flowed freely now; her insides had turned to stew, and her dress had two wet patches under the arms. Never mind her face; it must be a mess, tear-streaked and smudged. She didn’t want to leave her seat by the gallery; what if he came when she was gone? But she couldn’t possibly let him see her this way, eyes red and cheeks tear-smudged. She ran to the bathroom, washed her face, scrubbed it clean. He wasn’t coming. What was the point?

  ‘Rika! There’s someone at the door!’

  * * *

  She needn’t have worried; Jag came in a car. He didn�
��t apologise for being late, and he didn’t notice her new hair. In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice her at all. He stood in the open doorway as she rushed into the gallery, not having had time even to apply lipstick. He wore tight black pants and a red open-necked shirt, and a glower which Rika understood to be vexation at her not being ready and waiting; he even looked at his watch, so it was she who ended up apologizing for tardiness. He said nothing to that, so probably he was cross. Probably because she wasn’t wearing any make-up. Jen’s make-up when she went out with him was probably always perfect. Boys noticed things like that; they wanted their girlfriends to look beautiful. She’d have to do something about that the moment they arrived; she had managed to stuff her compact and mascara and lipstick into her handbag before leaving.

  The car, a rather battered white Vauxhall Victor, was parked in the driveway.

  ‘Oh!’ said Rika, pleased, ‘I didn’t know you had a car!’

  ‘It’s my brother Paul’s,’ said Jag, and there was annoyance in his voice as if he didn’t like having to explain. He didn’t speak at all for a while after that, and didn’t look at Rika. He was obviously still vexed with her. She decided to apologize again, and clarify.

  ‘I’m really sorry I left you waiting. I had to go to the toilet… and …’ she stopped. Wasn’t it a bit uncouth to talk about going to the toilet? But if she said she was putting on make-up he’d think her vain, especially since she hadn’t put on any. When he still didn’t respond, she just mumbled ‘I’m sorry,’ again.

  ‘Oh, stop saying you’re sorry,’ said Jag, and fell back into his morose silence.

  What else had she done wrong? Rika tried to think back to any other mistakes she might have made. Maybe her dress was too short after all; not decorous enough for his taste. Really, she shouldn’t have listened to that Trixie MacDonald. She tugged at the hemline, wishing the dress was just two inches longer. It surely couldn’t be her hair. She was dying for him to comment on it, but he just ignored it, the way Rajan had done. Did boys really not notice girls’ hair? There was so much Rika had to learn about them. This silence of his, for instance; what did it mean? And why was he driving into town, instead of towards Bel Air, where the fete was being held?

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, and tried to add a friendly tone to her voice so he wouldn’t think it was a complaint.

  ‘I need to go and see this guy – he has a garage – my motorbike broke down today and they couldn’t fix it – need a baffle – this guy Bruce might have one, otherwise I got to wait till they import it. Damn!’ He cuffed the driving wheel. ‘Sorry for swearing.’

  Relief flooded through Rika. So, he wasn’t angry with her at all! Everything was fine.

  However, everything wasn’t fine. The guy Bruce didn’t have the baffle, whatever that was, and neither did another guy, Poker, and by the time they got to the D’Aguiar’s it was almost ten, and Jag was in a very bad mood. Rika hurried off to the bathroom immediately, hastily applied her make-up, and hurried back to their table. Jag sat there, glowering.

  It was, of course, an outdoors fete, held in the extensive grounds of the D’Aguiar property.

  The garden was ringed by various trees, some of which were in flower: a red frangipani just behind them released a delicious fragrance brought to them by a cool Atlantic breeze. The band, a popular one called ‘The Young Ones’, played various slow-dancing hits from America and England, and the floor was full of couples dancing cheek-to-cheek. Not really dancing even; just shuffling around in each other’s arms, in time to the music. It was so very romantic; Rika longed for Jag to ask her to dance. She imagined him holding her up there on the dance floor, swaying with him to Otis Redding’s ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’; but he didn’t ask her. In fact, soon after he had seated her, he shot off to speak to a fellow sitting a few tables away; it seemed that the baffling baffle was still on his mind because the glower had not once left his face; if anything, his scowl had grown darker. Rika felt it was up to her to change his mood, so when he returned she threw him a line to help him get into the spirit:

  ‘I just love this song, do you?’

  ‘What? Oh … no, I don’t really like the BeeGees.’

  So much for starting a conversation. However, for the first time Jag seemed to take note of her.

  ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please. A Lime Rickey.’

  So Jag shot off again, but when he returned it wasn’t with a Lime Rickey but with a rum and Coke. Rika looked at it doubtfully. She had sipped at drinks laced with rum now and again – Dad often invited her to try his Planter’s Punch of an evening – but never had a whole one to herself. However, she couldn’t give the impression of being too young for alcohol, so she stirred it with the straw so that the ice cubes clunked together, and then she drained the glass.

  By this time, Jag had taken his seat at the table and his expression had cleared a little. It seemed he had finally resigned himself to not finding the baffle. With some luck he might actually ask her to dance, and then everything would be fine. The band had changed direction and now they were playing calypsos, and the couples on the dance floor had all separated and were doing a jump-up, laughing and bouncing and wiggling their hips at each other. It wasn’t exactly what Rika had in mind but it was better than sitting here with Jag not knowing what to say or do. She wished she hadn’t finished her drink so quickly; at least she would have had something to hold.

  And then they were there; a boisterous group of people who all knew Jag; a couple of Sixth Form girls she recognised from school, but the boys were nothing but vague faces she may or may not have seen at Bookers or hanging out here and there in Town, Pumpkin and the rest of them. Jag perked up immediately; it was embarrassing, how easily he swung into conversation with them, how much he enjoyed their company. He and the boys were immediately deep in conversation. Rika tried to listen in but she could make neither head nor tail of the conversation, which was all about motorbike parts, motorbike brands, and motorbike racing.

  So Rika turned her attention to the girls, who, now and then glancing at her, seemed to be discussing the new collection of dresses at Fogarty’s. It seemed they all bought, and wore, ready-made. Rika felt half-dressed in her Granny dress, and tugged at the hemline again. One of the girls noticed her go-go boots and snickered; at least, Rika thought that was what she was snickering at, but she couldn’t be quite sure. She felt as if the whole world was snickering at her. She wished she could just crawl into a hole and disappear.

  Jag didn’t dance with her, not once. After the barbecue chicken was served – Rika wasn’t able to do more than nibble at it, so heartsick she was – Jag seemed to have had enough and he proposed that they go.

  ‘Already?’ said Rika in surprise. It was hardly eleven, and she had ‘til twelve. She told him so, but he was already standing up and holding out his hand to her, so she took it and they left the fete, which was now rollicking with raucous calypso, the dance floor creaking with the strain of a hundred men and women jumping up and down. They left hand in hand, and at last Rika felt she was making headway with him.

  Jag drove back via the Sea Wall. At a lonely spot between Kitty and Kingston he stopped and parked the car. Rika’s heart began to thump; it was true! Now they could finally get to know one another.

  But Jag didn’t seem to want to talk. After switching off the ignition he turned to her and reached out, catching hold of her arm and pulling her closer. Rika suppressed a cry of pain.

  The next thing she knew he was kissing her, his mouth crushing down on hers, his tongue forcing her lips apart. His breath was hot on her cheek. She struggled, pulled away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘No! I – I didn’t want – ’

  ‘Why not? You like me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course! But— ’

  ‘Don’t play around with me, OK? I can tell by the way you been looking at me all night that you want this. Don’t worry, I got protection.’r />
  He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a packet of Durex.

  ‘Let’s go in the back seat – more space!’ He actually opened his car door, and before she knew it he was at her door, and it was open, and he was reaching in to help her out. She did not take the proffered hand.

  ‘No, Jag! I didn’t want – I don’t want – I didn’t mean— ’

  The door banged shut. In a trice, Jag was back in the driver’s seat. He switched on the ignition, flung back the gear stick and the car shot forward.

  ‘Jag, no! Stop!’ she yelled.

  The car squealed to a sudden halt. Her body slammed forward, crashing against the front panel. Jag looked at her, disdain in his eyes. She picked herself up, settled back into her seat. Her arm was hurting; tomorrow, she was sure, it would be bruised. But other parts of her, invisible parts, were hurting far more.

  ‘So?’ said Jag. ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘No,’ said Rika, and she was weeping now.

  The car sped forward once more; sped all the way back into town, around corners with squealing brakes, never stopping at red traffic lights. Luckily there was little traffic, and they arrived at her house unscathed. Jag pulled up with another screech of brakes.

  Without a word, Rika got out of the car and slammed the door, her only way of protest. Through the gate, up the stairs to the front door. Granny had given her a key; she turned it in the lock, the door opened. A minute later she flung herself on to her bed and sobbed as if her very soul had turned to water, and tonight was the very last deluge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  RIKA: THE SIXTIES

  She had read all about heartbreak. She’d imagined it, a hundred times. Heartbreak was a lovely word, a beautiful metaphor, a cliché, because of course the heart didn’t really break. It continued to beat as steadily and reliably as ever before. That was the irony of it all: that there was no actual physical reflection; that the utter devastation inside her did not somehow blow up her body, the way it did the soul. A heart was not just a physical organ. It was the centre of the soul, its very core, and nothing could describe hers better than the word shattered. She wept into her pillow all night long and the next morning even Daddy noticed the redness of her eyes and the blankness of her gaze.