Dare to Love

by Penny Dixon

  Morning beach training with Carlisle becomes a regular part of my routine. I like routines. They help me know what to do next; steady me when my head’s scrambled. Order allows me to deviate. It’s one of the principles I work with. I tell my clients we need a balance of certainty and uncertainty. Too much certainty and life’s boring. Too much uncertainty and we can’t think straight, can’t make real plans, can’t follow through. Live in chaos. Most of them come looking for certainty in some part of their lives – career, business, children – but mostly they come looking for certainty in their relationships.

  After the beach I go back to the apartment to shower and eat. Some days, when Celia’s working late, I go back to the beach in the afternoon, pay the ten dollars for a sun bed and lay on it reading till sunset. Sometimes men wondering if I’m looking for a little adventure stop by, sometimes others with big issues – usually they want to know why a woman is on her own. Other days I get a bus and do a little bit of sightseeing or shop and prepare a meal till Celia gets home.

  Although Celia never mentions it, my silence about what had happened between me and Richard hangs in the air like a fine mist. There’s no pressure from her, but we both know there’s something to be said. It’s a wall we go round. It’ll be easier when I find an opening through the wall, or better still, when I dismantle it.

  Celia finishes early on Friday. We go to visit an aunt in St Philip she wants me to meet, and to collect bagfuls of mangoes from the tree in the back garden. It’s a small house with a neat veranda which leads into the living room. A floor to ceiling display unit in rich mahogany houses all kinds of ornaments and crockery. Commemoration plates of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer’s engagement, wooden carvings of African masks and figures, plastic and glass snow globes, glass ornaments of all kinds of animals. Models of the Statue of Liberty, the CNN tower, Big Ben. Vases displaying an array of plastic and silk flowers. And photographs.

  The room’s a historical gallery. Sepia stills of stiff-lipped people posing with hands on vases of flowers or perched on the edge of a table. Women and girls in wide skirts, men and boys in suits or long-sleeved shirts and bow ties. All looking like a visit to the doctor to hear bad news is imminent. Around the walls are photos from all decades; black and white, sepia, washed out colour becoming more vivid, more vibrant, the subjects increasingly relaxed. There are photos of children in school uniforms in cardboard frames, others are beautifully framed. Someone’s taken great care to match the subject and activity to an appropriate frame. A small two-seater sofa sits opposite the display unit, a deep rich green velvet with cream lace antimacassars draped over the back and the arms. Beside that, a small table, also covered in lace, provides lodgings for a vase filled with freshly cut marbled crotons and rich pink hibiscus. On the floor, a simple multicoloured rush mat provides effortless sound proofing.

  Celia’s scrutinising one of the photos.

  ‘This is new,’ she says almost to herself.

  ‘Your aunt must be well travelled,’ I observe.

  ‘Nope, never left the island. In fact, haven’t left St Philips that often.’

  ‘So what about all this?’ I wave at the display unit.

  ‘Presents from those more travelled,’ she smiles. ‘That’s why I want you to meet her. Aunt Enid is one of the most remarkable women I know.’

  ‘Well, she certainly keeps an interesting house.’

  ‘And raised eleven children from here.’

  ‘From here?’ I echo. There’s hardly room to swing the proverbial cat.

  ‘Another world, another time. These Chattel houses were once des res, I’ll have you know.’ She’s laughing at me.

  ‘Chattel?’

  ‘I’ll tell you another time. Here’s Aunt Enid.’

  I turn, expecting to find someone who’s borne eleven children and lived almost all her life in the same village. Someone bowed by the burden of child-rearing, plump from being distended so often, and a little slow mentally from never having travelled. Instead I look up into calm brown playful eyes; a smile that reflects all over her face and percolates through her pores as bouncing happy energy, spreading out to embrace me and Celia. I imagine her doing that to anyone in her presence.

  She’s the same height as Celia and as erect. Her slender body’s lost some of its hour-glass definition but is still lean and firm. Both women have their hair in buns. On one it gives the appearance of freshness and innocence, on the other, with its liberal sprinkling of grey, it’s distinguished, regal. Aunt Enid’s simple emerald shift dress is belted at the waist. Thin black leather to match her sandals, expensive looking like Celia’s.

  I reach out to shake the extended hand. ‘Welcome to my house chile. You waa somein a drink?’ she asks in a heavy Bajan accent.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ She repeats her question and I look at Celia for a translation.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘I got some mauby. Yu waa dat?’

  ‘Mauby?’ Celia says.

  ‘Yes please.’ I’m not a huge fan of mauby but it can be refreshing when ice cold.

  I understand ‘get it’ as she turns and leaves the room.

  ‘She looks fantastic.’ I’m incredulous.

  ‘Told you,’ Celia says smugly.

  ‘And you two look so alike.’

  Enid’s back with the mauby in long glasses with gold flowers. With translation, the conversation goes something like this.

  ‘How long you here for?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘You married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Three boys.’

  ‘You strong woman.’ Generosity itself considering she’s got eleven. ‘Where you husban?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Looking after the children?’

  ‘No, working.’

  I don’t add the children are old enough to look after themselves. The youngest is at university and no longer in need of babysitting.

  ‘What you doing here on your own? Looking for mischief?’

  ‘No, just need a break.’

  ‘In my view, when a woman need a break from her husban this far from home, she ready for mischief. You husban don’t mind?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He mind. He just saying that to make heself feel better.’

  I don’t know what to say. Seems she has an answer for everything.

  ‘Be careful. There’s plenty Bajan man happy to get you into mischief. I have a little advice fo you. If you get into mischief, spare you husban de details.’ She winks at me. She puts her arm around my shoulders and leads me out to the back garden.

  ‘Whatever it is, a sure you can work it out. Life too short to be unhappy.’ Well she’s testimony to happiness. It isn’t just a word she uses, it’s in the tilt of her head, in the length of her neck, the straightness of her back, the sureness of her foot, the gentleness of her arm around my shoulder. I want to ask her what she would do in my situation, but I doubt my issue’s one she’s ever encountered.

  ‘You wa pick some mangoes?’

  I hadn’t realised when Celia said we were coming to pick up mangoes that it was pick your own. There are two trees in the back. Walking past the croton hedges I see where she got her cut flowers. There are seven different types of crotons forming a colourful hedge around the house, a hibiscus and small frangipani trees. The two mango trees are laden with low hanging fruits. Enid produces two plastic carrier bags.

  ‘Take as much as you want,’ she instructs us.

  ‘Bags e the Julies,’ I say to Celia.

  ‘You can have them. I like the stringy ones better.’

  During the fruit picking, I discover that Enid was with her husband, Cecil (Celia’s namesake), for over sixty years. He died ten years ago. She’d already had five children when they got married and went on to have another six. Her secret for a long and happy marriage? Never let him think
he’s the only one interested in you.

  I do a double take.

  ‘What about love and security?’

  ‘Love him yes; but never let him tink he have every part of you. Do things he don’t do, keep your friends, keep a part of you for you and always smile when he come home.’

  ‘What, even if you’re mad at him?’

  ‘Especially if you’re mad at him. No man want to come home to a sour face. Wait till he at home before raising your issues. Choose your time well. Learn what please him and always make him see that what you want will be good for him.’

  ‘And what if it isn’t? He may be convinced at first but when he finds out he won’t trust you. Have you never lied?’

  ‘Only if it was for his good.’

  I set my full bag of mangoes on the ground and look at her. She could have been a diplomat. Maybe I’ve been reading the wrong books, the wrong magazines. One final tip. ‘Don’t put your mischief in his face.’

  ‘Did you ever do mischief?’

  She smiles her big smile and makes her way back into the house.

  Oistens is only a ten minute walk from Celia’s apartment and one of my favourite night outs. I choose a little floral skirt; large red, white and blue flowers, lycra and easy to wear. It shows of my legs, strong and muscular, probably my best feature. I don’t have Celia’s hour glass figure. I’m only five feet three inches so have to be more careful with what I wear, but I’m trim; flat stomach, toned arms. I still turn a head or two, often mistaken for much younger than my fifty years. Last time I was here, Celia and I flirted mercilessly with some of the young men. But it never goes beyond that.

  I team up my little skirt with a black and white tank top that displays my neck and shoulders to my liking. Dangly real white feather earrings, a heavy silver feather necklace and black strappy Roman sandals complete the outfit. I apply a little make-up. It’s too hot for foundation. A little eye shadow and a touch of lipstick will have to do. I’m feeling a bubble of excitement as we set off. I remember the party atmosphere, the delicious barbequed fish dinners, people dancing on the stage in the centre of the complex. Bold, colourful, flamboyant men. There were a few women brave enough to take to the stage but they appeared to be there at the invitation of one or more of the men. I couldn’t remember any freestyling women. I’d asked Celia about that. She’d put it down to the fact that women had more sense, less ego, didn’t need to flaunt themselves in public.

  ‘So are you going to tell me about these changes?’ She hasn’t even hinted at them since that drive back from the airport.

  ‘You’re nearly there now, you’ll see for yourself soon enough’

  ‘Do you like the changes?’

  ‘Whatever answer I give you is going to influence your opinion, so best I keep quiet.’ She won’t budge.

  ‘How long since they made the changes?’

  ‘About a year now.’

  ‘And you like them?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I give up. Prising anything out of Celia is like using a plastic fork to dislodge a limpet from a rock. I switch the conversation to a client she began to tell me about before she was interrupted by the phone.

  ‘Sometimes I think I should be given a medal for patience.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I tell you, this man’s been to look at this property eight times in the last two weeks. Three times by himself, twice with his brother, once with his sister, once with his friend and today with someone he says is his niece. But I tell you, if any uncle of mine ever looked at me like that, I’d stick a fork in his eyes.’

  ‘You don’t believe him then,’ I laugh. Celia has a side to her that I believe would use the fork if she had it.

  ‘The girl couldn’t be any more than fifteen, the way he was letching at her was disgusting.’ She’s welling up to a full outburst when I hear the insistent rhythms and Bob Marley’s invitation to “Lively up Yourself”. We’ve arrived at Oistens. It’s time to leave the issues of the day behind and eat, drink and party. We start bopping to the music, stepping in time to the beat, moving closer to where it vibrates in our bones and fills our heads.

  The air’s filled with a rainbow of fish flavours. Goat fish, marlin, king, dolphin, flying fish. Succulent white flesh sizzling on hot coals or caught up in the drama of the flames, leaping two feet high in front of skilled chefs. People are everywhere, seated at tables in neat rows under marquee style coverings, waiting to give orders or having them delivered by scurrying waiters. Gone are the queues waiting to be served then overcoming the challenge of finding somewhere to perch while they tuck into their delicious fare. This is orderly eating; I’m instantly nostalgic for the nomadic event it’s replaced. Celia’s watching my face.

  ‘I see,’ I say slowly as I take it all in, ‘interesting.’

  ‘You don’t like it. Didn’t think you would.’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it.’

  ‘You said it was interesting – same thing.’ There’s a reason this is where I come when I need to be myself, to let my guard down, to show the warts. She knows me in a way I wish my husband did.

  ‘OK you got me there, but is the food still good?’

  ‘You want to eat?’

  ‘Let’s get a drink first.’ All week I’ve been looking forward to a Mount Gay rum and coke, saved myself for this moment. I’m not a big drinker, worked with too many people who let it control them, but I like a drink when I’m relaxed, and I’m relaxing into the night.

  On the way to Lexis’s Bar, I take in the other changes. The small stage has been replaced with a much larger version, housing the massive speakers whose output called us so effectively to the womb of the revelry. There are only a couple of men on the stage doing their thing to “Could you be Loved”. Seems like the DJ’s doing a Bob Marley set as he goes straight into “Small Axe”.

  As we make our way past the mini restaurants we step into another gentler, less frenetic world, where gyrations are out and waltzes are the order of the night. An open air dance floor marked only by the number of people on it. Couples hold each other at arm’s length, move in harmony; men lead, women follow. The music is less singular, more cooperative. As we stop to watch, Celia raises a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Haven’t had time.’ I’d promised myself I’d take ballroom dancing lessons so I could join in.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Same here. I muddle through. Plead ignorance and get them to help me.’

  ‘Let’s get that drink.’

  Whether it’s the anticipation, the smoothness of the rum, or the atmosphere in the bar, I feel any residual tension drain away. We flirt with a couple of men at the bar. Men who hear the accent and rightly deduce at least one of us is foreign.

  ‘You visiting?’ the man on my left asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long you here for?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘How long you got left?’

  It’s beginning to feel like an interrogation. ‘Just over two.’

  ‘Let me welcome you to our beautiful island.’

  ‘Thank you sir.’ I give him my best flirty smile. Mount Gay on an empty stomach’s not ideal for keeping a level head; but I’ve been level for too long.

  ‘May I have the honour of showing you some of this lovely rock?’ He looks directly into my face, like he’s known me a long time.

  ‘Where exactly have you in mind?’ I look across at Celia but she’s talking to the man on her right. The music’s too loud to hear what she’s saying but she’s laughing at something he’s said.

  ‘You from England, right?’ It’s more a statement than question.

  ‘Yeah, you been there?’

  ‘No. I hear the men are cold.’ Did I hear him right? People usually comment on the weather.

  ‘Yes, it’s been quite cold this year.’ I answer the question I want to hear.

  ‘So you could d
o with a little warming up from a hot-blooded Bajan maaann.’ He leans back on his stool and stretches himself as if to say, ‘Look at what I’m offering you.’

  I look at Celia again but she’s still engrossed.

  I’m not impressed with what’s on offer. Five foot ten, thick shoulders, thick waist and thin legs; like an upside down martini glass. Hard to tell his age as his head’s shaved – a sure sign he is trying to hide some grey. A large pointed head sits on top of a thick neck with ears that would look more at home in Lord of the Rings. I look at his feet and find no reassurance there. Looks like a size seven. I don’t like the offer but as he’s so polite I decide to be charming.

  ‘Good of you to offer but I haven’t had time to work out where I want to go yet.’

  ‘Well, give me you number and I can always call you when I’m going somewhere, see if you want to come.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ I say, leaning into him conspiratorially, ‘why don’t you give me yours and I’ll call you.’ I’ve found this the most effective way to extricate myself from unwanted attention. He must be aware of it too because he tilts his head to one side and gives me a quizzical, disbelieving look. Maybe it’s the rum but I start to giggle as I focus on his pointed ear. I want to stroke them and say, ‘Come to me my precious.’

  ‘You got some paper?’

  Trying to suppress the giggle, I shrug my shoulders. ‘Wasn’t expecting to be collecting numbers tonight.’

  He looks around the bar, sees someone he knows.

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ He slides off the stool and heads across the room. Brisk, purposeful steps. I nudge Celia. She breaks off whatever she’s saying and looks at me. I nod. That’s our code for “lets get out of here”. She ends her conversation and we’re just getting off our stools when Gollum returns. He’s written in large capitals VICTOR followed by a phone number. He presses the bit of paper into my hand, his palm’s slightly damp.