Dare to Love

by Penny Dixon

  DARE TO LOVE

  Penny Dixon

  Copyright © 2012 Penny Dixon

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  Troubador Publishing Ltd

  9 Priory Business Park

  Wistow Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Typeset by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Acknowledgements

  Many people helped to shape this book, but it was Kemmerick Harrison who first inspired me to write it. Camella Riley-Pilgrim offered me her home on my visits to Barbados and kept me going when my spirits flagged, even from a distance, via Skype and emails. I am grateful too to Andrew Dixon, Annette Alleyne, Elaine Carter, Janice Price and Sandra Walton for taking the time to read my first draft and, more importantly, for their honesty, and to Maureen Ledeatte for sharing the journey. A special thank you to the many people I met on Miami (Enterprise) Beach in Barbados, who shared their time and their stories and made me feel very at home.

  Josi

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to begin our descent into Grantley Adams Airport,’ the captain begins. I know the rest of the spiel. I reach for my seat belt. ‘It’s thirty degrees and very sunny. Local time is 1.55 p.m.’

  I close my eyes. It feels like I’ve been travelling for days but it’s only twelve hours since Richard dropped me at the airport. I can still see his tall tense body bend over to peck my lips. I hadn’t resisted. I’ve learnt how to accept these rituals, remnants of our former loving selves.

  ‘Have a good holiday,’ he’d said quietly.

  ‘I’ll try.’ I hadn’t meant for it to sound so flat, but I was tired. It was two o’clock in the morning and I was going to get away from him. Trying to deal with what he’d done had drained me. I made another attempt, hoping to inject a little enthusiasm into my voice. ‘I’ll give it a good go.’

  The coach journey from East Midlands Airport to Gatwick was four and a half hours, but I preferred it to sitting with Richard and his aura of hurt and suffering for the two hours it would have taken him to drive me there.

  ‘Ten minutes to landing,’ the captain’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I shake my head to clear it and focus on the preparations for landing. Blanket folded, book put away, chair returned to upright position, bag stowed under seat. I mentally prepare to meet Celia, who eight months ago made the journey in the other direction to my wedding. Celia’s the kind of friend that doesn’t need explanations. When I called and asked, ‘Can I come and see you?’ she’d said, ‘Yes, sure.’ When I’d added ‘on my own,’ without hesitation she replied, ‘I said sure.’

  Now the plane’s landing and I’ve some explaining to do. I know she won’t press me, and will allow me to say as much or as little as I want. I have three weeks but feel I want to get things out into the open as soon as possible.

  I catch my breath as a wave of heat, like smelling salts, hits me as I step off the plane. I breathe out slowly and allow myself a smile. ‘Well, Josi,’ I tell myself, ‘you’re here now. You need to make this worthwhile.’

  Celia looks radiant in a turquoise vest and blue jeans, waving and smiling as she runs towards me. A full six inches taller than me with a perfect hour glass figure, she still turns heads. Poking out from the end of her long legs is a hand crafted pair of tan leather sandals. We hug, smile and spin each other around. It’s always the same when we meet, but this time I know she feels my unspoken gratitude for her friendly embrace. We look at each other at arm’s length, laugh and hug some more.

  ‘Girl, it’s good to see you,’ she says eventually.

  ‘Good to be here.’ I can feel the smile stretch from one ear to the other, like a taut elastic band that I don’t have control of.

  ‘Good flight?’ She takes one handle of my case.

  ‘Long. We took off late.’

  ‘Landed on time though.’

  ‘Must have made up the time. I slept a lot.’ In fact I’d fallen asleep within seconds of fastening my seat belt; hadn’t even been aware when the aircraft took off. The first time I’ve ever slept through take off.

  ‘Refreshed now?’

  ‘Still knackered girl. Is month’s worth we’re talking about here.’ It’s easy to slip right into parlance. I feel myself relaxing.

  ‘You can sleep when we get home. We’ve got the place to ourselves. Kenny goes to Trinidad tomorrow for a few weeks. He just stayed to welcome you. Said he think we girls will have a lot to catch up on, and he doesn’t want to eavesdrop.’

  ‘I love your man.’ I laugh.

  I envy the easy relationship Celia and Kenny have, the way they understand each other’s needs, aren’t afraid to be apart from each other. That’s not something Richard understands. He resents the time I spend on my own, feels discarded and always has that look of abandonment when I come back from a night out with my friends. I found it endearing at first, flattered that he missed me so much, but after a while it became irritating and I’ve learned to ignore his very unsubtle attempts to make me feel guilty.

  We reach the car. ‘Need to go in the trunk,’ she says. ‘Back seat’s full of Kenny’s stuff. I had to bring his because I know you don’t travel light.’

  ‘I do when I’m not bringing half of England to leave here.’

  ‘Says you.’

  ‘It’s true, half the stuff in here’s yours.’

  It takes both of us to lift it into the silver grey Toyota Corolla. Celia opens the door. It’s like a fan oven.

  ‘Shoot! Kenny’s always telling me to crack the window open. I almost never remember. I’ll put on the air conditioner.’

  ‘Do you mind if we drive with the windows down? I’ve been cooped up with AC for hours. I want to feel wind on my skin.’

  ‘Sure thing. I like it too.’

  I drink in the brightness of the passing landscape. I leave my shades off. I’ve left enough dullness behind. I want the full experience of hibiscus, bougainvilleas, crotons and the magnificent flamboyant. Although it’s only my second visit, it feels like I’m home. Whoever said home is where the heart is knew what they were talking about. This N7 feels an easier place to be than my four bedroom cottage in Lockington.

  ‘Is Oistins still there?’ I ask as we pass a sign.

  ‘Yeah, Oistins’s still there. Was last time I looked, hadn’t fallen off into the sea or anything.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I turn to look at Celia.

  ‘You mean Friday night Oistens?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s still there… but it’s a bit different,’ she emphasises the ‘different’.

  ‘How different?’ I’m intrigued. Celia is not one for mysteries and guessing games; she’s one of the plainest speakers I know. She’ll always let you know what’s on her mind. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

  �
��You’ll have to see for yourself,’ a soft smile dances on her lips. I know there is no point pushing. Trying to prise anything out of her against her wishes is pointless. That’s why she is my best friend. My secrets are safe with her.

  ‘Can we go Friday?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  I spend the rest of the twenty-five minute journey quizzing her about the state of my old haunts and the people I met last time. Is the Rastaman still working out on Miami beach? Is St Lawrence Gap still buzzing? What about Hole Town?

  I’m happy to be back in my old room in Celia’s three bedroom apartment, happy to get out of my travelling jeans and into a small denim skirt, freeing my legs to absorb the rays of sun floating in through the half open blinds. Happy to hand over the gifts I’ve brought, things she can’t get easily in Barbados: Walkers crisps, Typhoo teabags, crystallised ginger. I lie down on the double bed fully clothed while she adjusts the air conditioning. Fatigue hits me like a juggernaut in a cul-de-sac. I’m asleep before she’s finished asking what I want to do later.

  I tell her I’m here for a rest and she doesn’t have to organise things for me to do, or feel guilty if I spend all day every day on the beach.

  The next day I head to the beach. I have plenty to read and plenty to think about. I drop my bag with water, towel, swimsuit, and phone on one of the blue picnic tables under the wide leafed almond trees and the long row of arched bearded trees. They’re a perfect wedding aisle.

  I take a deep lung-full of the sea air and breathe out slowly. This is what I need, room to breathe, time to allow the Caribbean breeze to blow through all the cobwebbed compartments of my mind. All the places I’ve been trying to avoid in the last six months. A few more lung-fulls and I’m ready to step onto the sand and join the army of marchers pacing backward and forward; gym on the beach.

  I feel good in my black leggings and red and white vest, grateful for the time I put into keeping myself looking good. I attract attention, the way any newbie does in a settled community. I begin with my warm up stretches. I’m going to ease myself in gently, no running today, get the legs used to being on sand instead of a treadmill or the Derbyshire village lanes. Give my ears time to replace rustling corn fields with crashing waves, my eyes time to notice that greens fields are now turquoise waters, shimmering and glinting like a bejewelled bride.

  I get a few polite nods, some smiles, the odd ‘hello’, ‘keep going’, ‘you doing well’. Half an hour of this and I’ve worked up a sweat; partly from the walking, partly from the heat as the sun wakes up and stretches out over the island. It’s hot at eight; perfect for a dip in the sea. I head for the sheltered area, so calm it’s known as the ‘pool’. It’s too early for families, too early for the squeals and laughter to drown the gentle sighs of the lapping waves. I’m not a strong swimmer; it’s one of those things I’ve neglected. There were always other more important things to do. I get by. The water welcomes me like a returning lover. Puts its arms around me, caresses me and whispers, ‘Relax, you’re safe with me.’ I float on my back, the sun warm on my closed lids. I release my tension, murky ink oozing out of every pore into the patient, ever cleansing sea.

  I get into a happy routine. Training on the beach, reading on the beach, talking on the beach – mostly to men interested in my accent and want to know more about me – but they mostly want to tell me about them and why they’d be so good for me; people watching on the beach, watching the sun go down on the beach. I’m content, even though I find myself, occasionally, wondering if any of these men could do what Richard did. I’ve spoken to him twice. Once to let him know I arrived safely and once when he called to say he’s missing me.

  After the first day I begin jogging. I’m four or five laps into my ten laps when a set of legs appear alongside me.

  ‘Morning.’

  It throws me off stride. I look up. He’s about late thirties with a wide open face and an even wider smile. Shaved head on top of a thick neck and spacious shoulders. His skin, the colour of milk chocolate, is all on show except for the bit his yellow and orange Bermuda running shorts covers. His feet, on the end of strong, robust legs, are bare. My eyes naturally come to his nipples with three or four hairs growing out of each. It’s hard not to stare at the tight hairs on his chest tapering to where his shorts begin. His slight paunch is firm.

  ‘Morning,’ trying to get my stride back.

  ‘Mind if I run with you?’ he asks in that singing, lilting Bajan accent.

  Is this a pick up attempt?

  ‘I’m not going very fast,’ I shoot him a glance, trying to work him out.

  ‘That no matter. I no going too fast meself.’ He slips easily into my stride.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ I’m struggling to keep my balance on the sand and wish he wasn’t watching me so closely, but I can’t think of a polite reason to say no.

  ‘How many laps you doing?’

  ‘I’m aiming for ten.’ I’m not good at running and talking.

  ‘What number you on now?’

  ‘Six,’ I pant.

  ‘How long it take you so far?’

  ‘Not been timing it.’

  ‘I’m Carlisle.’

  ‘Like the place?’

  ‘Is there a place name Carlisle?’

  ‘Yeah, near Scotland.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Josi.’

  ‘Hi Jooseee.’

  I’m grateful when he’s quiet for a few seconds. It gives me a chance to increase my strides again. I’m too focused on my legs and lungs to take him in, but his strides are easier and smoother than mine.

  ‘You from England?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How long you here?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘How much longer you have left?’

  ‘Just got here two days ago.’

  Another welcome pause. I’m on lap eight and wishing I hadn’t told him ten. My lungs are straining when he asks, ‘So what do you do in England, Jooseee?’

  I debate whether to tell him what I do and waste precious breath or tell him I’m a teacher. I opt for the latter as I still have two laps to go. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a police officer.’

  I slip him a sideways look. He doesn’t look like a police officer. I catch myself. What do police officers look like when they’re out of uniform? I don’t know any police officers socially and wouldn’t go out of my way to make friends with one. One of my clients had a very abusive police husband; it took her two years to leave him, handicapped by the fact that he knew the law, knew where and how to hit her so the bruises wouldn’t show; and, to add insult to injury most of their friends were in the force. She couldn’t face the embarrassment of being investigated by people she’d gone out with on social functions. How could she hold her head up if it all came out? Where could she go where he wouldn’t be able to find her? Who would believe her?

  Her sister eventually managed to get her out of the house; found her a safe place. But she was too terrified to function. Couldn’t leave the house, became depressed, found all kinds of ways to blame herself for what had happened. That’s when she was referred to me. It took months of intensive work to help her rebuild the self-confidence he had so effectively eroded. Bit by bit, she began to believe in herself again. First by gathering the threads of her life from where they’d been scattered and then beginning the slow process of weaving herself a new tapestry; one that didn’t omit him but placed him where he belonged, a ragged thread of the past that helped her find a deeply buried strength. That awakening to new possibilities is one of the things that makes my work so rewarding.

  I look at Carlisle again. How many times have I castigated others for stereotyping? Yet here I am summing up this stranger without knowing anything at all about him.

  ‘How long have you been a police officer?’

  ‘Twelve years.’

  Long enough to be skilled at deception and abu
se. I catch myself again.

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  I’ve slowed to little more than a fast walk. Using mental energy’s draining my physical resources.

  We’re just about to do the turn for the last lap. ‘Last one,’ he says brightly, ‘you want to speed up a bit?’

  I give him another glance. Where does he think I’m going to get the energy from for a sprint?

  ‘No, just want to get to the end of this.’ He hasn’t answered my question. I’m curious, want to find out what kind of police officer he thinks he is.

  ‘Do you enjoy being a police officer?’

  ‘Well, most of the time I do, but the job’s changing.’ He talks about increasing lack of respect for the role, especially among the young, about the sophistication of technology-based crimes and the international nature of criminal activity on the island. As he talks, I recognise I’ve been harbouring another stereotype; police officers are uneducated and inarticulate.

  We finish my last lap and he volunteers to do my warm down stretches with me. I have a better view of him as we stretch. He shows me how to do abs work using the benches. He smiles a lot, showing white even teeth. His lips part suddenly, almost without warning, a sunshine streak across his face.

  Patting his little paunch, he explains he’s been fitter. ‘Need to shift this.’

  ‘Don’t you have a work gym?’ Doesn’t the police force provide the means for keeping its workforce fit? Why does he need to work out on the beach?

  ‘Yeah, we have a small one, but I like to come dun here cause I get to know people; can stop little tings becoming big tings.’ He still believes in community policing. He tries to keep fit so he can ‘chase dun a man an arres him instead of pull a gun a shoot him.’ Too many of the unfit officers go for the gun but for him ‘every man I shoot is somebody’s chile.’

  I’m warming to Carlisle. He’s challenging my beliefs – shifting my thinking. I respect people who do that. When he asks if I want him to be my running partner to help me build my speed, I wonder again if he’s hitting on me. Are his questions about my marital status, length of stay, children (did I have any and how many) polite curiosity, professional inquiry or something else. I look into his deep brown eyes, see the smile spread across his face and say, ‘Yes, thanks.’ He’s easy on the eyes. I’ve just accepted a social engagement with a police officer.