by

                       ALBERT WILLIAMS

© 2005 by Albert Williams.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by

any means without the prior written permission of the

publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief

passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine

or journal.

First printing

At the specific preference of the author, PublishAmerica

allowed this work to remain exactly as the author intended,

verbatim, without editorial input.

ISBN: 1-4241-0680-X

PUBLISHED BY PUBLISHAMERICA, LLLP

www.publishamerica.com

Baltimore

Dedicated to

my son, Isaiah Williams

in whom I am well pleased

ACKNOWLDEGMENTS

First it would be remiss of me to not to acknowledge

the Creator who bestowed on me the gift of creativity.

Also, to the facilitators of the journalism/short story

writing course of Harcourt Learning Direct, for teaching

me the craft of fiction writing.

To the editor and staff of PublishAmerica for

underwriting all the expenses associated with the

project.

To Paul, Laura and Tfff of Bognor Housing Trust for

support.

To close friends, Andre Joseph, Jacqueline Royer, Ian

Jackson, Harry Sealy, Erica Joseph and Carole Robinson

who always knew that I had more in me than was at first

visible.

My Son, Isaiah; Father, Victor; brothers, Franklin and

Davidson; sisters, Deborah, Elizabeth and Jennifer and

their families. You are always in my thoughts.

And most of all thank you to all those readers who

have read my work throughout the years, and to so many

other persons that if I would to name them all, the

manuscript would be considerabe.

Sincerely

Albert Williams

Bognor Regis

August 2005.

CONTENTS

Goddess 9

Haunted Heritage 41

I’ve seen it all before 68

Baby in the middle 76

Dear sister 84

Nature Guide 91

Recipe for murder 99

The little lamb 109

The storm 116

A Christmas story 128

G O D D E S S

11

-1-

life

we

must once hold

realms to

the

prelude of death

preferences we

should

hold none

12

-2-

when love

is

true

it is

blacker

than

midnight

13

-3-

among the trees you are the greenest

between the flowers you are the prettiest

among the poems you are the sweetest

between the songs you are the loveliest

among the rocks, the one I lean on

between the sunset, the day I long for

among the birds the one who flies highest

between the stars the one that sparkles

14

-4-

how lonesome you are in that

warm blue ecstasy

warmer than a first

kiss on valentines .

this crescent curve

the joy of my days, your sweet

respite more desirable

than the sun at its zenith

15

-5-

oh, pretty little flower

little tender rose

how resplendent you are

in this broken vase

for my true love

where she may give

you water

that when she sees you

smiling she remembers

how heaven really is

16

-6-

in the re-awakening

we discover ourselves

besides the face

upon her raft in the ocean

drawn into the bossom

of the watery earth

until

my twilight zone

17

-7-

for the joy that she brings to me

for the attractiveness that attracts me

for that cute little smile

for that queenly bearing

for her understanding

for her elegance

for the love that flows

for the intelligence

for her delightful nose

for the etiquette

i’ll always be true to her

18

-8-

she’s a flower that blooms

every hour

my blazing anthurium

her tassels flicker

violet and amber

against my verdure stem

summer zephyrs chills

our trembling attire

leaving trails onwards

19

-9-

here

she

comes

swaying

upon

a melody

so

gracefully

finally

we

join

in

rev

el

r

20

-10-

kneeling before her presence

my altar of flesh

together we offer this innocence

21

-11-

my fountain, my beloved

her heart an open book

our light illuminates our dream world

overlooking scott’s head

she reads our favorite poems

22

-12-

then

we fell free from fear

that this sudden descent

would end

in an

emerald pool

that our day

dreams

are made of

23

-13-

and

then

time

was

swept

from under our feet

where nature once reigned

green and

supreme

kissed

our hungry eyes

on

moon-less nights

mountains stand stripped

tawny

as

mahogany

rivers

now dry as sticks

24

-14-

that morning we woke

to another day as if it

was creation morning

the

sun shone shining golden

just for us

we felt its ebullience

for the first time

25

-15-

waves

breaking

on

her

face

clouds

floating

in

my

eyes

26

-16-

records and novels

cups and saucers

streams bubbling

over rocks, to the

arms of my beloved

27

-17-

listen!

how she tells of

mankind

why the moon goes round

the earth

because jah made little girls

from spring

but little boys from surf

28

-18-

we thought to boast of

our special friend

ever so sweet. Sweeter

to us than our skin

ever so sweet

nearer to us than

our shadow

ever so close

we thought to boast of

our special friend

29

-19-

in

perfect solitude

the self

dives

into

the self

this peace, this serenity

blessed are

you

children of God.

30

-20-

she requesting

poems of friendship

speaking the

language of the kingdom of love

I with wistful face

yet

brighter than bright

meander through

little poems

31

-21-

behind the rain-forest

lies a genuine soul trading

counterfeits for sweet little lies

such honesty from a captive spirit

an imprisoned spirit

an imprisoned self yearning to release

from this human jungle

mortal biped chained to a lamp post

squatting in shafts of immortal light

we witness victims of their own deceits

32

-22-

the heart that knows depths of love

may never be deceived

no matter what befalls the heart

it softly onwards proceeds

beneath the reefs, through rugged rocks

beset by sudden storms and gales

for only they who truly love

may survive these joyful pains

33

-23-

some crave experience

plunged into death-traps

only

the sagacious escape

some

fabricate alibis

encountering maxims in

crushed hearts

waiting endlessly

to release the law

to set the life-blood

free

34

-24-

can one purchase friendship

save it for a rainy day

do friendships forgive and forget

endure all things without regret?

35

-25-

i’m all alone

just i and I

maybe

because that fate

has alighted on me

i

wonder

what goes on in

your juvenile mind

for indeed

i

know

you are all alone

too

36

-26-

my loving respect that’s all

i want to give

forget your troubles tonight

it’s price is high above justice

forget your riches tonight

place your bodies right next to mine

forget your privacy tonight

come let’s build a home together

forget your loneliness tonight

37

-27-

i beloved and i

listen to the power of

the wind’s triumphant

serenade

as we linger

for the final climax

we kiss

then

turn our

backs on yesterday

38

-28-

without her

i can do nothing

without her

my spirit is weak

without her

a fish out of water is safer than me

without her

i am a lost continent

without her

days are kilometers of sand

without her

evenings grow colder

without her

this life is a snare

39

-29-

the

burden with

youth

is

that we hardly perceive

until enlightenment dawns

40

-30-

i

man

born of woman

a

sugar apple

invented from the steak of

an angel’s breast

wings

of one bird soaring

heaven-ward

a

single hand

stretches forth

touching

the

sacred

HAUNTED

HERITAGE

43

Chapter one

The ginger bread fretwork was still as she

remembered; it ran along each window frame like a

green iguana. As a child her father had recounted to her

the story of how the two story wooden building had

become family property, purchased by her aunt, an

obscure novelist, from a white plantation owner who left

the island in quite a hurry following the abolition of

slavery and the subsequent emancipation of the slaves.

When Margaret trunk and her husband arrived, they’d

let themselves in through the front door.

“Leah!” Margaret called out in the open space.

“Maybe she not at home,” coughed her husband.

“At least she knew that we were coming,” she replied.

Margaret to took Phillip by the hand and slowly took him

to the kitchen where they found Leah turned towards the

44

sink in the deft preparation of a huge Mountain Chicken

that still kicked in frequent spasms as she patiently

removed the entrails. She was about seventy-five, of

African descent and was probably deaf.

“There you are, “ Margaret said.

Leah spun around dropping the calabash of dissected

frog. “ Oh I didn’t mean to scare you!” Margaret

apologized as she stooped to retrieve the delicacy.”

“What did you say? Speak up I’m short of hearing, you

know.” Leah said, and then focused her attention on

Phillip who up until now had not said anything other

than gasp at the quivering wild life.

“And who is that?” Leah asked eyeing him with a

mixture of hostility and curiosity.

“Eh, eh, I find you something else, in my father’s own

house, I think you must have forgotten something, don’t

you.”

At this Leah sucked hard on her teeth, then said, “You

know that…”

“That what…that I’m not welcome here!” Margaret

screamed.

“That’s it, “Phillip said at last,”I told you to let the old

maid have the old house. You have everything you could

hope for in England. “Phillip was all reddish in the face

45

and he twitched his nose continually. “I’m on the next

plane back to England.” Phillip was obviously mad with

rage.

“So you didn’t even want to see your father before he

died.” Leah’s dark face registered an utter dislike for

Margaret and her English husband.

“Leah” said Margaret as she stepped towards her.

“Don’t touch me “she said in patois, your just another

ungrateful child, seventeen years and not even a visit,

just leave me alone “she said as she reverted to English to

the relief of Phillip. “Just leave me alone,” Leah cried

between the sobs.

For a moment Margaret felt as if the ground had

melted beneath her feet. The realization struck her that

coming home was not off to a very good start.

46

Chapter two

The evening was hot and sticky, not even a wisp of air

filtered through the building. Margaret tossed and

turned, settling down to a good night’s sleep after a long

tiring sea journey was proving to be extremely difficult.

In the stillness, however, it wasn’t only the incessant

drone of the mosquitoes that kept Margaret awake.

“Phillip,” She whispered as she pushed against her

husband’s arm.

“Phillip,” she said again this time a little louder. Phillip

slowly stirred from the depths of sleep.

“What is it honey?” he asked.

“Listen, can’t you hear it?”

“I can’t hear a thing except for those blasted bugs. It

must be the spirit of the West Indies getting to you.”

47

“I swear, as if I heard some one using…”

“Aw you’re just imagining things. “ The husband said

turning on his side like a great whale. He finally

convinced his wife that it perhaps a nightmare that she

had experienced and soon she had drifted off into a flat

black land with no features.

Hours later the sun rose with blinding heat, golden

beams shot through the dining room flooding it with it’s

warmth and wry humor. It was a Tuesday, just turned

7:30 am. Margaret, Phillip and Leah were sitting in the

dinning room discussing the events of the past evening.

Leah expressed shock to learn of tapping on the roof.

She said that she had lived in the house for 36 years and

she had never heard any tapping.

“Well, last night I heard tapping as if someone was

using a typewriter,”

“Tap tapping on the roof, uh!” Phillip said

exasperated. “Perhaps it’s the after effects of losing a

loved on,” He offered.

“That’s strange,” Margaret mused.

“I honestly think you should see a doctor.” Phillip

coughed slightly.

“Honey, do you think I’m losing my mind?”

48

“No, not at all, but darling you seem to be so restless

these last few days. You perspire profusely at nights, and

talk to yourself quite a bit. Some times it frightens me.”

“True!” exclaimed Leah.

“She scares me out of my wits,” Phillip said laughing.

Margaret listened unbelievingly, and was even begin

to brush it off as a bad experience. Perhaps it was the long

two-month journey at sea that had taken it’s toll on her,

“yes maybe it is,” she reasoned to her self.

Meanwhile, Leah had excused herself and had gone to

the kitchen. She returned minutes later carrying a

wooden tray; “ I’ve prepared some thing for all

you…Margaret, I sure you have eaten this in a long

time.’’ She carried in a tray with two large enamel cups

loaded with steaming cocoa tea, the strong pungent

aroma of vanilla very evident. “If you want the rest of the

breakfast, then don’t just sit there,” she said glaring at

Phillip as if he was a school child.

Phillip not quite sure what he should do, nevertheless

obeyed and stomped over to the kitchen. He returned

shortly carrying a large wooden tray, this time laden

with slices of roast breadfruit and smoked herring.

“What’s this?” Phillip asked baffled not sure what he had

been so rudely asked to bring in.

“It’s a traditional recipe,” replied His wife.

49

“You Dominicans are always coming up with new

ways to surprise me,” he replied. Smoked herring never

heard of it “

“Anyway,” butted in the maid, “the lawyer coming

this afternoon to read the will.”

“Of course, the will…yes the will,” responded

Margaret. “Why don’t we go for a walk in the village,

Phillip? By the time we come back we will be all ready to

receive this lawyer.”

“Good idea let’s get some fresh air,” he said as he

brushed the tip of his long white nose with an equally

long index finger. He took his wife by the hand and

without another look at Leah stepped out into the

Tuesday morning.

The warm currents of the salty Atlantic wafted in from

the bay as the couple strode past a dozen or so fishermen;

some preparing their nets and boats for another day’s

expedition, others were hauling in the canoes filled with

flying fish. They followed the rough unpaved road and

soon arrived at the government school. The couple

paused for about an hour watching a group of girls

playing netball on the adjoining hard court.

“Phillip, I think we better hurry back home, we’ve an

appointment, remember.”

“Of course,” Phillip said.

50

Margaret seemed to be in high spirits as she

approached the family home. “ It was my father who

taught me how to feed the chickens, and how to plant

vegetables in the back yard,” she reminisced. Just then

Margaret stumbled and seemed to be fainting.

“Is something wrong?” Phillip asked. But Margaret

only groaned as she fell to the ground foaming at the

mouth, as her body jerked and writhed. “Leah! Leah!” he

shouted. The maid had been at the kitchen window and

saw Margaret fall. “Call a doctor Margaret must be

suffering some sort of size sure.

“But we doh have a phone!”

“Then do something quick!”

“Leah hobbled out of the house as fast as she could,

then down the street, across the market square where she

met Otis, a bus driver who transported her to Dr.

Alston’s home somewhere among the maze of cluttered

houses that made up the landscape of the town.

51

Chapter Three

“Let me see now,” the doctor was a short-bearded

man with a shining bronze head and a tuft for a

mustache. His brown-colored suit had an odor as if it had

not been dry-cleaned for years. Dr Alston was reading

the gauge of his blood-pressure reading apparatus. “ You

seem to be in fair condition,” he nodding to Phillip with

an air of professionalism.

“My wife was fine up until we returned to this Godforsaken

place!” Phillip said.

“God forsaken, Lord no! “Exclaimed the doctor

raising his eyebrows in a comical manner. “We are ninety

percent Catholic, and we adore the saints.” He said and

broke into a long discourse on the hagiography of the

Catholic saints, even reciting a list of the saints one for

each day of the week. “Are you a Catholic?” he asked

Phillip suddenly.

52

“I never cared much for church, but I believe in God,

but now tell me about my wife!” Phillip said raising his

voice a decibel or two in irritation.

“I think Mrs. Trunk should be given a lot of rest at this

time” said the doctor.”

“Yes Doc.”Phillip replied. He was stroking Margaret’s

head ever so gently as she gradually came round.

“Ooh!” She said

“It’s alright honey, I’m right here.” Phillip assured her,

as he helped her to sit upright. He explained the events of

the last two hours to her as she listened feebly.

“I feel…I feel…as if I’ve visited…,”she muttered.

Margaret seemed to have difficulty speaking,”as if…a

strange place.” She squinted her eyes now her gaze fixed

on her husband Phillip. “There was this lady in a white

dress…what if it is not done?”

“If what is not done?” asked the doctor.

“I think my wife needs the rest that you spoke of,

doctor,” Phillip whispered.

“I think so too,” replied the doctor Alston.

Leah at this tine was administering some pungent

smelling alcolado to Margaret’s forehead as the doctor

and Phillip withdrew from the room. Doctor Alston had

53

a worried look on his face, “ your wife may be suffering

a serious nervous breakdown…I think that she should

see a psychiatrist.”

“Are you saying that my wife is a nut?”

“I’m not going that far, but…”

“This whole thing is stranger than fiction,”Phillip said

with exasperation.

“You know, it’s a common problem with returned

nationals from England, they seem to lose it,” he said

pointing to his temples. At the suggestions a peal of

laughter broke out from behind the row of hibiscus trees

that lined the flower garden lawn. An old man leaning on

stick, two schoolgirls and another middle-aged woman

clutching a bag of groceries who was fortunate to be

passing by as the incident were happening. However,

they quickly disappeared when the stony glance of both

the doctor and Phillip beamed in their direction. In the

distance you could hear the two schoolgirls giggling.

“What are they laughing?”Phillip thought to himself,

he shook his head at the doctor who eyed Phillip

sympathetically.

54

Chapter Four

The appointment with the lawyer was postponed for

the following day although the doctor advised that

Margaret was not well enough to give attention to such a

matter. However, Phillip later agreed it and Leah that

Margaret needed this to be over as soon as possible.

Mrs. James and her husband arrived at 10 Long Lane,

at exactly 3 pm according to plan. Margaret was still

recovering from the odd incident yesterday when the

couple arrived, announced by a loud rapping on the

door.

“All right, I coming, I coming,” Leah shouted over the

banging as she cussed under her breath.

Mrs. James and her husband made a stately entrance.

It was obvious that they had been made accustom to

being treated with a certain amount of awe. Without

55

invitation they proceeded to make themselves comfortable

on the only two armchairs in sight. “The purpose of my

visit as you are all aware,” she began, “ is to make known

the final wishes of Stedman Ezekiel, as expressed in this

the last will and testimony signed on the 15th of May 1969

and sealed with my own seal.”

She smiled slightly as if she had offered a scrumptious

lunch. “Firstly, I must inform you that his entire estate

will go towards his only and closest of kin Margaret on

one condition.”

“One condition?” Margaret asked weakly.

“Yes, Mrs. Trunk, that you retain the services of Leah,

who in his own words ‘has served the family well for

over forty years.’ “

A deep silence fell on the room, and for a moment it

seemed as if the world had stopped turning.

“Is there anything else?” Margaret asked.

“Actually there is,” Miss James replied, “that if you

were to relieve Leah of her duties that she should be

compensated with a $10,000 cash, severance pay.”

“$10,000 in cash?” gasped Phillip.

“That seems very much like it, Mrs. Trunk”

56

“But where I am I going to $10,000 in cash? Margaret

asked, as she slumped in her chair. She felt as if a frog was

trying to get out of her throat.

“Your father had quite an inheritance, you know.” The

lawyer explained that Mr. Ezekiel had been very thrifty

in his time and had also inherited quite a lot of wealth

from his own father, but had never disclosed that to

anyone but me,” the lawyer said smugly.

“Well,”

“Well what, Leah?” Margaret asked

“I’ll take the money,” she said.

“What do you mean, I’ll take the money…that’s if I

dismiss you.”

“You doh has to dismiss me.”

“Then you will lose everything,” the lawyer butted in,

“Mr.’s Trunk is now your new employer, and only if she

decides to send you away is she obliged to honor her

father’s wishes.”

“I’ll see about dat!” the maid hissed, but she is in no

condition to make a decision.”

“Why is that?” the lawyer asked.

“I think that is enough. Thank you, Mrs. James,”

Phillip said suddenly springing to his feet.

57

“I think so too,” said the lawyer, “I think so too. I’ll let

you all think about for a few days.” Mrs. James said.

Leah glared at Margaret.

“Good bye Mrs. Trunk, I hope to hear from you of

your decision as soon as possible.” The lawyer said as she

beat a hasty retreat to the door through which she had

entered.

58

Chapter five

Reagent Town was built along the River Zombie

named after a maroon slave, or the negres maroons as

they were referred to in the local parlance. It had become

the industrial center of the island, but had retained its

traditional ways of life. It was a town where everyone

knew everyone else. It wasn’t long before the town folk

began to circulate rumors that another crazy woman was

in Reagent. Mentally ill persons usually were the butt of

cruel jokes and or did others regard other wise as being

posed by the devil.

Days passed into weeks and things were not getting

any better. Phillip was getting scared. He confided in the

psychiatrist, Bronchial.

“Hmm, I think your wife needs all the emotional

support that she can get from you,” he said sternly.

59

“You think I should stay here and become a laughing

stock,” Phillip croaked. “So this is why you asked me out

here to this restaurant so that you can spoon feed me this

advice.” Phillip began to shake uncontrollably.

“In the present circumstances, that is perhaps the best

line of approach.” the Doctor said as he stared at his

palms. “I strongly suggest that you ask her to spend a few

days at my clinic.”

“At your clinic…Good Lord, what will the people say

now?”

“Why should you worry what people say?”

“Doctor you must be out of your mind!” replied Phillip.

“I think,” said the doctor,” your wife may be suffering

from deeply rooted quilt or may indeed be hearing voices

from beyond the grave.”

“Are you saying that my wife is hearing voices in her

head?”

“Something like that…but she might be unwilling to

yield to the spirit’s power, as for this obsession to write?”

“It beats me, Phillip said.

* * *

60

Two weeks passed, on and off Margaret continued to

exhibit unexplained behavior. One morning Phillip

awake to find his wife writing on the walls of the

bedroom with a piece of crayon.

“My dear,” he interrupted quietly, “what is the

meaning of this?” he asked politely.

“These are the words of my aunt.”

“Your aunt, which aunt?”

“I will not have you questioning me like this in my

father’s house!” Margaret bellowed.

“OK, “ Phillip replied shaken,” but why write on the

walls?”

“Because its important to read,” she said as she

seemed to be concentrating on her writing. She wrote

quickly in tiny characters, legible to no one but herself.

“Honey, would it help if I bought you some paper and

pens too, if that’s what makes you happy?” Her husband

asked.

“Leave me alone, Phillip. You know what you have to

do!” she said and then dismissed him.

Phillip turned, hurt and crestfallen. He felt as if he had

just been used, crumpled and trashed. But Margaret was

his wife of 22 years. He loved and wanted to make her

61

happy, or if God Forbid, get as far away from her as he

could. Phillip thought secretly, that he was beginning to

get very embarrassed. Weeks passed and Phillip was

kept busy supplying paper and bush tea to Margaret

who wrote all day and even into the early hours of the

morning.

62

Chapter Six

that writing. But you never show any of it to me,” Phillip

said baffled by Margaret incessant urge to write, and

even more so by, by her refusal to allow him to read the

material. “Are you writing a novel?” he asked.

“What a really stupid thing to ask!” she replied,

“when you can see that for yourself.” Margaret had taken

control of the bedroom and had made Phillip place the

large dining room table in a corner of the room. She only

tore herself away from her labors to answer nature calls

and her occasional bush tea. It was a Monday morning,

about 10:30 am when Phillip appeared at the doorway.

“Honey, there is a Mr. O’Neal and some students here

to see you.”

“Did I ask for visitors?” she snarled in reply.

63

“ He said that he is from the Regent Secondary School

‘s literature class…”

Margaret considered the request then consented. She

seemed to be in a rare cooperative mood this morning.

Her face though was pale and thin, and deep hollows

housed her deep brown eyes.

Phillip led the visitors to the living room, providing

seats for the children 3 girls and 2 boys who looked

anxious to meet the mysterious writer. Margaret entered

the room dressed in a long white evening gown, her hair

tucked beneath a white towel.

“Mrs. Trunk, is it true that you are writing a novel?”

asked the teacher, “

“If you call this writing a novel, then yes I am!”

“Have you published any of your work before?” one

of the girls asked.

“What is this? Some kind of documentary?”

“These are students of the literature class, and we

thought that it would be educational to have them chat a

little with a real author,” the teacher said.

“Ah so you want to learn my secrets, my method of

writing, my research capabilities,” replied Margaret

crossly, adding,” I’m sorry, I don’t have time to answer

your questions.” She paused for a moment, and stared

64

across the room eyeing each of the individuals in turn.

“Thank you for coming. Phillip please makes sure that

the guests leave, ok.”

Phillip had no choice, but to comply. The teacher and

the students left mumbling to themselves obviously not

satisfied with the results of the field trip. But the larger

rumor spread all the more, that the English Lady was

posed with some kind of spirit and that she was involved

with some kind of spirit writing.

Phillip and the psychiatrist were under constant

verbal attack by members of the community, especially

from the school children who regard her as a little

unusual.

65

Chapter Seven

A week later, another quest appeared at the front door

of the Williams’ home, his name was Mr. Potter.

“I am Anthony Potter from Hard-line Publications,

based in the United Kingdom.” the man said.

“Are you serious? “Gasped Phillip

“Oh yes, we have heard that your wife is doing some

splendid work.”

“ But how can you know that,” Phillip asked.

“ We have our methods,” he smiled as he drew out

some papers from his brief case, “ If you would be so kind

to review these documents, together with your wife.

Here is my card. “ The gentleman left, his vehicle letting

off a series of loud bangs and a trail of a carbon monoxide.

66

It suddenly dawned on Phillip that his wife was

actually recognized as an author. He smiled slightly, and

began to imagine all the attention he would be getting as

the man behind the successful woman. His next problem

was how was he to break the good news of the offer to

Margaret. She was not really herself these last few days

and even in her most cooperative moments, she was

difficult to deal with. Still he felt deep inside that surely

something would work out.

Margaret continued to write everyday, until one

evening she lay on the bed next to Phillip, something she

hadn’t done foe months.

“It is finished,” she told him softly.

“ What is finished?” Phillip asked half asleep.

“The book”

“Really, what’s it called”?

“ The River Clear Revelation.”

“Ah! Is it a mystery novel?”

“You will have to read it, honey. But I need to get it

published.”

“ Honey…that’ s easy. I know just the person to talk

to.”

67

“Ok, then we’ll talk about it in the morning,” Margaret

said a dozed off into a deep sleep.

THE END

68

I’ve Seen It

All Before

“Do I have to take another day of this?” an impatient

Joel whispered in the ear of his schoolmate as he pressed

his elbow deep into King’s ribs.

“Ouch! Watch what you’re doing!” King blurted out,

his shrill voice cracking the grave-like silence of the

quadrangle where his uncle, the Head teacher Mr.

Hailstone, was addressing the assembly.

“You are the future of this country…and who was

that?” Mr. Hailstone snapped in mid-sentence. He had

been concentrating of giving his best speech before the

visiting education inspector’s few words. He raised his

head abruptly, peering through his spectacles in a

manner that Joel thought gave him a predator

appearance. “Who was it?” Mr. Hailstone asked again,

this time moving away from the lectern.

69

The entire assemblage shuffled noisily, all eyes falling

on Burton King. “Well Mr. King, will you please come

out here to the dais?” King’s face drained of its colour.

Joel stared him in the face as he made his way through the

rows of students, smartly dressed and well groomed.

“So, Mr. King,” Mr. Hailstone was a very formal

individual, a principal who took no nonsense from his

students, “are you the one who so rudely interrupted me

in your usual abominable manner?”

“Please proceed to my office,” he said, “I will deal with

you accordingly. The uncouth behaviour of the youth!”

Mr. Hailstone sucked his teeth, childishly, cleared his

throat

And adjusted his tie before resuming his introduction.

The visiting education officer was a large, fat, black

man who sounded as if he had been thoroughly bred on

a diet of Oxford grammar; while he was extolling the

virtues of a sound education. Joel was lost deep in

thought—what if, he mused, and King told his uncle that

it was he who had purposely distracted him? What if he

didn’t? Either way a gloomy outcome was imminent he

concluded. Joel scratched his head ruffling the little

corkscrews that shot out from his brush-back, and then

tore a page from his pocket book, which he always

carried around with him. He hurriedly scribbled

something on it then passed it on with a sly look on his

face. Joel always had that look on his face when he was up

to something. Before long a snigger rose up from a certain

quarter of the gathered students as the unsuspecting,

70

visiting education officer ended his lecture. Mr.

Hailstone was about to dismiss the students and staff

when he caught sight of a student passing on Joel’s

mysterious missile.

“Ah! Excuse me young man,” he said, “and what good

tidings is this that you are so dutifully distributing

among my students?”

“Nothing Mr. Hailstone,” the frightened boy replied,

“It’s just a worthless piece of paper.”

“Is that so!” responded Mr. Hailstone, “In that case I

would be happy to have a read myself; here pass it to

me.” The Principal signalled to the Head boy who was

President over the team of prefects.

Fifteen minutes later, the school was dismissed. Some

girls held their breath as they passed Mr. Hailstone,

others pondered on the fate of the two boys, King and

Joel were not the most popular, but on the other hand

they were not the least admired, Joel in particular had

earned himself the reputation of being a shrewd

prankster. Mr. Hailstone, nicknamed “the draught” was

known to be a man with fondness for what he called

compulsory, corporal punishment, necessary of the souls

of straying and habitual miscreants could have any hope

of social redemption.

When Joel entered the office Burton King was staring

at a large framed photograph of an ancient looking

Headmaster, a white man with a long drooping

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moustache. It was on top a filing cabinet covered with an

inch thick of dust. “What are you doing here?” King

asked in alarm.

“I’ve come to save your butt from…”

Without warning Mr. Hailstone pushed open the

office door and strode in rather elated. He even seemed

to be smiling, a rare occurrence; stepping gracefully with

his large brown hands concealed in the pocket of his

tweed jacket. He sat down at his desk with a sigh, then

stared at the ceiling and finally acknowledged the two

boys standing like two wet chickens in front of him.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “this may be your final year

with us…I would like to think you would have received

the basic skills to prepare you for the world of work, and

even further education.”

“Yes Sir,” the boys replied.

“When I was your age,” he demonstrated with his

hand the exaggerated height of the boys, “we teenagers

thought that we had the answers to the age-old problem

of society; yes we were brash about it all.”

Joel was miles away, hardly aware of the principal’s

soliloquy—what a bare!—He thought.

“…And do you that those students who took a deep

interest and pride in their education fare better in life,

they are better able to make meaningful contributions to

society?” Mr. Hailstone was in an expansive mood, brain

72

now clicking in high gear. “I admire, mark you, some

young people, particularly a select few of my students.

They may be brash, but they’ve got the spirit of inquiry.”

He squinted his eyes behind the glare of his glasses. “To

question the impossible, that is necessary to survive and

achieve in this dog-eat-dog world,” he affirmed. At this,

he removed his glasses, wiped them with a sanitary

napkin then placed them on his desk delicately in front of

him. He was still smiling slightly.

King chocked back the tears welling up in the corner of

his eyes, his thyroid gland felt miserable. It was the first

time that he had ever witnessed his uncle speaks so

compassionately to anyone, let alone himself. It was a

side of his uncle he had never, in his wildest dreams,

expected. King felt crushed by this sudden change of

disposition.

“You are the future of this country,” the headmaster

continued. “I repeat, you are the future of this country, I

can’t ever emphasize this…in the next ten, twenty, thirty

years from now, it will be students like you who will be

the leaders of society.”

“Can you imaging what life in the world will be like

then?” Mr. Hailstone replaced his spectacles on his face.

“Don’t waste your time here. Gentlemen, there is much

more knowledge that you will need to acquire than this

institution can ever hope to offer, so make good use of the

opportunity that your parents have gone to great

sacrifices to provide. Youth fades quickly, like the tender

flower that no sooner has its bloom then it fades in the

heat of the day.”

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The teacher let the background static raise a level or

two—passing students, the low growl of distant vehicles

and the interminable ticking of the small alarm clock on

his desk, he seemed to be in a self-induced trance-like

daze.

“Mr. Hailstone!” Joel intervened, “Thanks for your

advice and…”

“Actually, think nothing of it…I’m always on the look

out for bright students like you, who take themselves

seriously,” he replied with a wink.

Joel rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“If only…Oh never mind!” Mr. Hailstone now seemed

to be taking less interest in the two boys, and was

reaching for a stack of cardboard files to his left. The

clang of the period bell sounded, it was already 10.30am.

“O.K then,” said the principal, “it’s time to dismiss you

two, I’ve got a literature class.” He glanced through his

timetable on the side of the filing cabinet…”Ah yes, Form

402 it is.” He then said in a low voice, “Try not to let

something like this happen to you two again!”

The boys shrunk from the presence of the teacher,

smiled, turned and left the office without another word,

for fear that it was all a dream and that the real Hailstone

would reappear. A few paces away King asked, “I don’t

get it, what came over him? I was sure I was going to get

a good taste of the cane, or at least a thousand lines—my

fruit is better than gold, my fruit is better than gold…”

74

“Things happen, my boy,” said Joel coolly.

“But what did you do? Why did you have to come to

this office? I would never sell you out, you’re me partner,

you know?—And since when are you and the draught

buddies?”

“A note!”

“A note? What note?”

“Yes, I passed a note.”

“You passed a note? Are you taking music lessons or

what?”

“I circulated a piece of paper, you blockhead.”

“Circulated a piece of paper saying what?”

“That Mr. Hailstone is a better speaker than Mr.

Donaldson.”

“Is that all?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s deep, man.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah man, you’re cool man, a real cool man.”

75

King gave Joel a knuckle knock and they thumped

their chest in unison.

“You’re cool man, you should be a writer.”

“What would I write about?”

“Oh! I don’t know—maybe life in the fast lane.”

THE END

76

Baby in the Middle

She had instructed the gardener to mow and rake the

lawn just as he would have done; Raleigh loved his front

garden lawn trimmed every two weeks. Six months

following their marriage, he has accepted a seven-year

scholarship to study medicine. She only saw him once a

year. Then for six weeks they would enjoy each other’s

company, and in the evening have passionate sex all

night long.

In the sixth year, Mrs. Gamely announced to her

husband over the telephone that she was expectant with

child. Her husband of course received the news joyfully.

“I can’t wait to leave the University to hold little

Bernard if it’s a boy,” he said “or little Bernadette if it’s a

girl.”

He told his wife that he would be coming home to stay,

in the summer of 1989. That summer arrived sooner than

Mrs. Gamely would have liked, but he was already here.

77

Raleigh had hired a taxi, arrived at 8:30am at the Canfield

airport two hours ahead of time. “At least he could have

telephoned to say that he had arrived,” Mrs. Gamely

thought to herself.

“I see you have managed to keep the keep the lawn

and garden under control,” he said.

“Whilst you were away,” she replied, “the neighbour’s

son offered to do the gardening for us, you don’t mind,

do you?”

Mr. Gamely sat down on one of the upholstered

chairs; he reached into his shirt pocket pulling out a

packet of cigarettes.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” his wife asked. “You

haven’t even asked to see the child, it’s a boy.”

“I know it’s a boy! How many times do you have to tell

me that!”

“Come-come-Raleigh, there’s no need to be upset

now. What you need is a long rest after your journey

home.”

“What I need is some good advice,” he replied stiffly.

Mrs. Gamely had gone to fetch the child who had been

asleep, but was crying full guns. “Voila!” She thrust the

little child on him.

78

“He doesn’t look a bit like me,” Raleigh said. “Come to

think of it he doesn’t look like either of us.”

“Raleigh! What has gotten into you, first you arrive

two hours ahead of schedule…”

“Are you afraid of something?” Raleigh asked raising

his voice

“You’re not getting swell-headed, are you doctor?”

Mrs. Gamely rocked the baby in her arms gently.

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean you have changed so much these last few

years, you’ve even taken up smoking. Surely doctors

shouldn’t smoke especially in the company of women

and children.” She left the room with the baby crying

loudly.

Later, Mrs. Gamely prepared a supper for her

husband consisting of his entire favourite dished dishes

and liqueurs. ”Honey, you’ve hardly taken a bite, is there

something wrong?”

“Yvette, I need to talk to you.”

“That’s hat I’m here for,” Mrs. Gamely replied, “all

those years.”

“All those years I trusted, provided for you and…” his

voice trailed off to a whisper, “you’ve done this to me.”

79

Mrs. Gamely grew as white as a sheet. “I can’t take it,

I can’t take it.” She stormed from the table.

“Yvette! Yvette! Get back here at once!” the Dr. called

out to her. He got up from the table and rushed to catch

up with her. Yvette was in the room gazing at the little

boy, her __expression one of puzzlement. “Yvette, can

we talk this over like two adults.”

“What is there to talk about,” Mrs. Gamely sobbed.

“You’ve got what you wanted, you’re doctor so and

so…”

“I had a sperm count,” the doctor said coldly.

“A sperm count?” Yvette repeated doubtfully.

“Yes,” replied the doctor. “You see…It was optional,

for our own benefit. Reproductive cycles forms part of

human sexuality, you know that much, don’t you.”

“How could I not have,” Yvette replied. “Your studies

made quite a difference in your love making, all that

frantic stuff and…”

“And the results,” broke in the doctor, “were negative.

“Negative, what do you mean negative?”

“I mean that according to the specialist, the number

and quality of these little wrigglers in my scrotum are

very low and unable to produce a child.”

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“Unable to produce a child!” replied his wife.

“Unable to impregnate a female’s ovary,” the doctor

explained.

“Are you telling me that…”?

“I’m impotent.” The doctor crumbled to the floor, his

head resting on the edge of the bed. The room swirled

around him in contrasting emotions.

“I don’t believe this nonsense.” His wife hoped that he

was joking.

“According to my results I could not have fathered a

child, not even if I wanted to.” Raleigh stood up, and

drew the window curtains letting in the moonlight. In the

distance of about ten yards, the neighbour’s house stood

out with its high railings and red galvanized roof.

“Are you serious?” asked his wife. “Then…Then”

“Then you have been unfaithful to me.” The doctor

turned round, his light brown eyes focused and cold. He

suddenly grabbed Yvette and shook her violently. “You

were unfaithful to me.”

“You’re hurting me,” Yvette screamed. At the sound

of his mother’s voice the baby began to wail even louder.

Mr. Gamely let her loose. For a split second he had lost

his sanity. His wife’s shrieking had brought him back to

81

his senses. “Tell me the truth woman!” he growled, “or

else.”

Mrs. Gamely realized that she could not play the game

any longer. She confessed that while he had been

studying she had been rather lonely. “I tried to keep

myself occupied,” she explained. “I went to church

meetings, to the gym, I even started taking computer

lessons, but at nights…At nights.”

“Go on,” demanded the doctor, “go on.”

“O.K. Raleigh, I’ll tell you the truth. I had Roger come

over a few nights to keep me company,” she said softly.

“Roger? Who is Roger?”

“The young man who looked after the garden,” she

replied.

“Is that the truth?”

“Yes I swear Raleigh, I swear.”

The doctor ran his hand over his head, then over his

favoured brow where a light sweat had broken out. “But

did he have to go all the way. At least he could have had

a little respect for you,” he said finally.

“I tried,” defended his wife, “to explain to him that all

I needed was company, but he didn’t listen I suppose.

The doctor summarized.

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“At least he could have used protection, you could

even have contracted AIDS.”

“Oh Raleigh, what are we going to do. I’m so

embarrassed. The child should have a father and a home,

but what about our reputation?”

He said, “I need to think.”

After a period of fifteen minutes Mr. Gamely broke his

silence. “We’ll have to keep this under cover.”

“Under cover? What do you mean?” asked Yvette.

“I mean, I know you always wanted to have children,”

he began. “And since it’s been clinically tested that I can’t

produce sufficiently healthy sperm to impregnate you,

we’ll have to adopt the little bastard.”

“You mean,” exclaimed Yvette.

“I mean, having considered all the options, and the

scandal this would cause if it were to leak out to the

public,” he concluded, “We’ll have to raise him as if it

were my very own.”

Yvette gazed at the month-old infant sobbing on the

bed, his head was turned to the left, and the profile bore

a strong resemblance of Roger. “And what about Roger?”

“What about him,” he replied. “I/’m sure that you

don’t expect him to claim the child and face a lifetime of

shame.” Raleigh was breathing evenly now. “And

83

besides, he has not got the wherewithal to provide for a

child.”

“Oh Raleigh, what have I done to you.” Yvette moved

closer to Raleigh and sobbed on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,

so sorry.”

“AS I said the best plan of action is to accept the

circumstance,” declared the doctor. “So much for

bedroom manners and respecting your neighbour’s

wife!”

“And what about Roger, do you think he’ll agree?”

“Don’t worry about him from today. Tell him he’s

been fired; we’ll give him a handsome severance pay. I’m

sure he’ll find somebody else’s garden to mow and tend

to.”

Two weeks later Mr. and Mrs. Gamely christened the

babe, Bernard. He grew up in their household unaware

of the irregularities surrounding his true identity. Roger

was forbidden from seeing the child, and the doctor kept

his secret for the rest of his life. After all which one is

worse: to be unable to father children, or to raise an

illegitimate child from an adulterous union. Neither the

doctor nor his wife needed any prompting here.

THE END

84

DEAR SISTERS

The car wound it’s way through the mountainous

highway from the capital to Melville Hall. As they

traversed the island, the temperature gradually cooled,

rainbows formed colored bridges from mountain to

mountain.

Up and up the asphalt road, at last the motorcar

swung a curve into Margot. In a few moments,

Londonderry would be in sight. At Melville Hall, a

number of vehicles were already parked all along the car

park. The blue Levin easily navigated a small space about

ten feet from the main entrance, a trickle of other persons

stood near by, presumably awaiting the 3:30 pm flight or

one of any other reasons.

PA7273 had on board a plumb looking, dark skinnedyoung

lady dressed in blue jeans, and a white and black

blouse her name Jane Waters, one of two daughters of

Mr. William Waters now deceased. Her sister and her

husband both dressed in business type suits clutching

black leather bas and Mrs. Waters, a middle age woman

85

with large, expressive eyes that eyed the world with

suspicion. She seemed to have a permanent seriousness

to her features. It was the climax to a two week vacation

for Mr. & Mrs. Punjab that promised to be one of great

enjoyment until cut short by the sudden death of Mr.

Waters who had been ailing for some time just one week

prior to his 68th birthday.

With Mr. Waters now in his final resting place, it was

time for the living to carry on. Jane was in a somber

mood, partly because her father was now dead but more

so because she had learnt that her father had left

ownership of h is chain of department stores to Susan, his

eldest child. Susan however had spent the better part of

15 years overseas migrating between Canada, England

and India where she met her husband. A bright child,

with keen academic abilities that proudly possess a

degree in Political Science and were heading for a

doctorate in International Relations.

Jane on the other hand was slow at learning. She failed

at attempts of passing the Common Entrance Exams.

When she reached third form at Goodwill School, she

automatically entered her father’s business as, among

other things a check out clerk.

The drive to Melville Hall had been long and tiring

and only twenty minutes remained for the relatives to

say their final goodbyes. Light drizzle had begun as

Susan embraced her mother. A trickle of tears in her eyes,

“Well mum” she began “You know I love you but we

have to go back to India. I must finish my dissertation but

by the end of year I’ll be back.” She choked back tears.

86

“You do what is best,” replied Mrs. Waters. “When

you come back preparation for your new management

would have been completed.” she smiled a motherly

smile. Susan then turned to Jane who was looking out

across the Atlantic oblivious to the tearful sequence.

“Jane, I want you to take care of mum until I’m back.

There is much I want do for you. Just is patient. I’ll be in

touch, if anything gives me a call. You have my telephone

number.”

Jane was silent, as she had been over the last two

weeks since their father had died. She simply nodded her

head and with eyes now searching the ground gave an ok

that was hardly audible.

Minutes later, Susan and Jeff were airborne, the

aircraft veering in a wide curve to the left, disappeared

out of sight beyond the blue of the horizon.

The next day, Mrs. Waters woke up at 5am, her usual

waking time, she a devoted woman, who loved the Lord

always began her day with prayers. She would sing

favorite hymns adoring God, whilst praying for her

children and departed husband. There was an angel like

appearance about her, as she knelt with arms upraised by

her besides, praying for God’s people.

It was a week now since Mr. Waters had passed into

the great beyond. Jane was due to be back at work today.

At the breakfast table, Jane was still in another mournful

mood although she tried her best to be as companionable

as possible.

87

“Hi Mum,” she addressed her mother much like a

familiar friend.

“Hello my dear,” replied Mrs. Waters, “how are you

feeling?” I’m feeling ok, is just that I,” she stammered.

“What is it?” her mother said.

“I’m well! What do you think is going to happen at the

store now daddy is gone?”

“I know…The staff loved William. I’m sure it will take

some time for them to get over this.” Minutes later Jane

and her mum were finished eating their breakfast of

brown whole wheat bread, eggs, passion fruit juice and

salad. At approximately 7:45, she was out the door

behind the steering wheel of her motorcar that was given

was the custom always stood at the door to see her

daughter off with the exchange of smiles. Jane drove

down Federation Drive towards the city.

The Waters lived at the top of Federation Drive in a

simple but beautiful 4-bedroom house, sprawled out in a

lavishly cut lawn. A wide verandah circumvented the

southern side facing the road. Mrs. Waters ventured back

inside the homestead, standing for a moment in the

spacious living room as her eye caught a framed

photograph of Susan and Jane hung on the opposite wall.

All visitors to the house remarked that Jane looked a lot

like her father, his oval shaped head unmistakably.

Susan on the other hand was the picture of her mother.

Before Susan had gone to the states to study, although

much older by seven years, she and Jane had an enviable

88

relationship. Somehow things had changed. Mrs. Waters

shook her head in disbelief.

She sauntered over to the settee, her frail form on the

soft comforting cushions with her mind again

wondering. This time she recalled her washing day and

how happy she was locked in her husband’s embrace

reciting the marriage vows. For some reasons, she could

recall almost every detail of that wedding day almost

thirty years ago. She had met William when he was a

jovial entrepreneur, young, energetic and ambitious. So

ambitious, that he turned his retail store into the leading

supermarket and department chain in Dominica. Twenty

years later, he had opened branches in Portsmouth,

Margot, La Plaine, and Grand Bay and began to build in

St Joseph. It must have been 45 minutes since Mrs. Waters

had been sitting there, lost in her reverie when she was

rudely awakened by the telephone.

Jane had arrived at the supermarket just as the seven

pips of the Greenwich Mean Time signal squeaked from

the built in speakers of the car stereo, signaling that it was

8:00am in the Nature Isle. She brought the vehicle to a

halt in one of the vacant spots in the car park. “Water

Land” was the only supermarket that had a fairly large

parking lot for its staff and customers. The building that

was three stories high was in the middle of Casmir Road,

occupying a whole block.

She scooped up her side bag, a novel and a birthday

gift wrapped in silver paper tied with a red ribbon. She

had been reminded that it was the birthday of Mr.

Deharin, Assistant Manager of t he store, when she

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scanned her birthday book. She thought that an electric

razor machine would be the ideal gift for him. She really

wanted to get off to a good start on this her first day back

on the job. Jane loved her work and her co-workers

admired her just as much.

She walked past the automated mat that activated the

electronic doors. The first person she greeted was James,

the security guard. “Good morning James” she said

cheerfully.

“Morning Miss…Good to have you back, sorry I

couldn’t attend the funeral, but please accept my

sympathies.” James said.

She continued to the back of the store passing a

number of employees who all acknowledged her

presence by kid remarks, hand shakes, kisses and hugs.

She knocked on the glass door of the main office and

entered. Miss Silverson, the secretary, was already on her

desk punching at the keyboard of her Apple Macintosh.

She stopped and stood up.

“Good morning, Miss Walters”

Good morning, Miss Silverson” she replied without a

second glance. She went round to her desk putting her

bag on the metal file cabinet. The novel and gift she

placed on the corner of the desk. After taking a seat, she

clasped her hands, her fingers under her oval chin.

“You know, Miss Silverson, it seems like ages since

I’ve been gone. I see Mr. Deharm has not yet come in. I

have a little surprise for him: Miss Silverson cocked her

eyebrows.

90

“A surprise!”

“Yes, don’t you know that today is his birthday?”

“Oh!” Miss Silverson burst into a giggle. The two

exchanged small talk. Jane was brought up to date on

happenings at the store for the last two weeks before she

went back out to take her place at the check out counter

among the five other young ladies towards the exit.

The office was elevated some four feet above the

ground floor. One could see clearly through the five

passages between the shelves. It was twenty past the

hour. Patrons had already began to browse the many

commodities—pushing wheel, carts, carrying wire

baskets or simply strolling to and fro. “Water Land” was

beginning to bubble.

THE END

91

Nature Guide

“Your country is so beautiful, so unique,” Mandy said

to her guide. She sniffed in the cool air of the

undergrowth, then shivered slightly as a trickle of a gust

blew against her sweaty skin.

Mandy steadied herself; the rocks beneath were

slippery and jagged.

“That’s what all you visitors say,” responded the

young man. He was of dark complexion and slightlybuilt,

and he wore a smile like a wristwatch. “Hey!” he

stretched his arms towards Mandy, “let me help you

with your bag.”

“How sweet,” she swung the backpack at him,

grabbing at a cluster of nearby saplings for support.

“This is exhilarating.” She rubbed her hands over the

surface of a full-grown Gommier tree, its branches

spread out like mighty arms. “How long will it take to

reach the lake?”

92

“By midday,” the guide answered nonchalantly

flashing another of his wide grins. “How come,” he

continued, “a pretty lady like you would go through all

this trouble just to see a lake in the middle of Dominica.”

He stood still for a moment.

“because Dominica is a World heritage site?” she

replied raising her eyebrows.

“Really, I didn’t know that.”

“You know it’s almost a crime to be invading the

privacy of the wild-life like this.” She sighed deeply.

“We’ve been on the trail now for almost an hour…”

“Don’t you panic,” butted in the guide, “where I’m

bringing you, you’re sure to say this is the Garden of

Eden.” He motioned Mandy along the footpath as she

contemplated on what lay ahead. The undergrowth

eventually gave way to a leafy-green Savannah about

half the size of a football field.

“I’m really tired,” the tourist declared, “this is the first

time I’ve been on such a long hike, I think I’ll have a rest

right here.” She dropped down on the vegetation.

“You look so beautiful sitting there,” Ralph said

admiring her, “let me take your photograph.”

“Since it’s my own camera,” she replied “I think that

would be quite an honour.” She leaned back into her

pose. In the distance a clump of young bamboos spread

out like the plumes of a peacock’s tail.

93

“Can you just hold.” The guide clicked the camera

then let it dangle about his chest. Then he placed a finger

to his lips. “Shh,” he whispered, “I can hear parrots!”

They looked up

“You must get a shot of this. While you’re resting I’ll

take a few shots for you.” He started in the direction of

the birds.

“Remember, don’t point the camera to the sun.”

Mandy called out to him, but Ralph didn’t respond.

Either he was too preoccupied with his mission to

capture thee winged ones on film, or the rustle of the

trees on that breezy mountain top had drowned her

American lilt sweeping it back down the mountain side

from which she had come.

Ten-twenty, then 40 minutes passed. A deep sense of

dread now befell Mandy. Deciding that her guide had

gone long enough, she set off in the direction she had

seen him disappear beneath the edge of the Savannah,

returning again to the thick undergrowth. Sunbeams

shining eerily between the thick boughs of the Gommier

and White Cedars, played tricks on her. “Ralph is that

you?” but only the soft rustle of the tropical rain forest

answered her.

Mandy plodded on for over an hour, then she heard

the sounds of drums being played. A few metres ahead,

she came upon two men who were sitting in the shade of

a small bamboo house. “Hello,” she said “would you by

change have seen a young man pass this way? His name

is Ralph.”

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“Ralph?” the elder of the two asked in surprise.

“Yes Ralph, he’s my tour guide. We’re going to see the

Freshwater Lake. He went to take some photographs of

the parrots over two hours ago and he hasn’t returned

since.”

“Did I hear you say Freshwater Lake? The Freshwater

Lake is miles and miles away from here Sister,” the

younger man explained. “How come this Ralph that you

speak of doesn’t know that you don’t go to the

Freshwater Lake by passing through Morne Negre.”

“Yes Sister, how come your tour guide don’t know

that.” The young man tossed his head back sending his

cocoa-coloured locks flying in an arc, then began to tap

on his goatskin drum. She stared at the two men.

Presumably they were Rastafarians. She thought that the

little hut and the surrounding rows of fruits and

vegetables of all descriptions were picturesque, but she

decided that they, the two Rastas, looked as if they

needed some attention.

“Anyway,” she replied, “are you going to help me find

him or not?”

The elder dread seemed to be thinking, the he said

“O.K Sister, I and I will help you find this tour guide, but

first you must be sanctified.”

“Sanctified? What are you, some kind of preist?”

Mandy retorted.

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“Yes Sister,” the younger dread joined in, “you must

smoke the sacrament in order that your far Eye can be

opened .”

“Yes I,” the elder dread agreed, “so that the Most High

can reveal where and who this tour guide really is.” He

then commenced to bless the water pipe, before passing

it to Mandy who refused.

Meanwhile, Inspector Cockrane had picked up the

smokey trail by coincidence while on a routine petrol of

the area. He was accompanied by a dozen officers.

“Freeze!” an officer shouted as the squad surrounded the

tourist and the two Rastafarians.

“Well, what have we here?” Inspector Cockrane

stepped out from the shadows.

“Oh Jah!” exclaimed the younger.

“Shut up! It’s the same jah business that does land you

young men in trouble, “the Inspector shouted. “Now

everyone put your hands up high where I can see them!”

he shouted again.

“Officer I’m sure I can explain all this.”

“Oh yes, then let’s hear you.” The Inspector listened to

the woman’s story intently before speaking with the

Sergeant in hushed tones. Finally he said, “You should

always ensure that you hire a registered tour guide from

a reputable agency. These days are not what they used to be.”

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“Now you know the truth,” the elder locksman butted

in, “you can let us off.”

“Is true,” the younger one said, “I and I was minding

I and I business when this sister appear…we were going

to help her when…”

“You were going to help her, help her,” snarled the

Inspector. “Before I can let you and your follower off you

will have to assist us with our search for this tour guide.”

“Inspector,” Mandy responded, “I’m sure that they

will be happy to do that.” She cast a comforting smile

across at the two dreads who still had their hands in the air.

“Well I guess it’s a deal big man,” they said.

“O.K. then, that’s it,” and with a nod of the head the

Inspector ordered his men to commence the search.

Mandy felt like a hostage, as it turned out. It certainly

wasn’t her idea of a relaxing hike to see a Dominican

scenic spot. She dragged on silently. Then she heard an

officer say, “Sir, I think I hear someone calling for help.”

A second officer confirmed it. “Yes Sir, I too Sir.”

“Where on earth…,” began the Inspector, but before

he could finish his sentence a third officer shouted.

“Look here Sir!” Hidden from view the officer had

discovered a pit about 6ft deep. At the bottom lay

Mandy’s tour guide.

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“Ralph, are you alright?” Mandy peered down the

hole. The Inspector’s jaw dropped as he gaped at the man

below.

“Well, well, well, guess who’s this, the famous Kojoe.

McIntyre get on the radio, we found our last escapee. Tell

them to send a helicopter,” snarled Inspector Cockrane.

“O.K. Kojoe, it seems,” he told the man in the hole, “that

you didn’t dig the pit, but you fell in it!”

Mandy at hearing the Inspector’s sarcasm asked, “Did

you say that this man is Kojoe?”

“Yes Miss Parketta, Ralph Mason alias Kojoe is one of

three escaped convicts who broke their cells two days

ago. The prisoner must have been unaware of one of the

pits the local hunters dug to catch the wild boar.”

“The wild boar!”

“But don’t you worry Miss Parketta, we’ll soon have

this little piggy in custody where he belongs,” the

Inspector assured her. “I simply love a good chase.” He

smiled at Mandy. “Now you two,” he frowned at the two

dreads. “Get out of here before I change my mind and

have you arrested for cultivation and possession of

marijuana.” The dreads made themselves scarce.

“McIntyre, radio to base to make it quick, it seems as if

the prisoner may have broken his right leg, and they’ll

have to take this young lady along for the ride, a little sky

view of the Freshwater Lake wouldn’t hurt her and the

98

view from above is really nice.” He smiled gently at

Mandy. She only shook her head and blushed.

THE END

99

Recipe for Murder

When I arrived on the crime scene, Suite 109 on the

third floor of the Bense Hotel, the Managing Director,

Mrs Hopper, was speaking with the elderly maid that

had discovered the body of the 24 year old American

journalist. “Who was she?” I asked, pointing to the dead

woman.

“Rosemond Holmes, a journalist from the states,”

replied Mrs Hopper.

“How long had she been at this hotel?”

“She checked in two nights ago.”

“Did you or anyone of your staff observe anything

strange or unusual. Visitors perhaps?” I asked, drawing

out my notebook.

“Miss Holmes had many visitors.” She replied, I

presumed they were all connected in one way or the

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other with her work.” She paused, “She did seem,

though, to be sort of unusually friendly.”

She appeared to gloat at the body of the slain woman,

“And as you know there’s this opening of the art

exhibition of this famous African artist, Joseph Olanbago

from Ghana. He is…to…er unveil his latest masterpiece

commissioned by the United Nations”

She spread her hands as if she was holding up a

painting. I then asked her, “Do you have any person in

mind who could have done this?” “No! Absolutely none!”

I looked Mrs Hopper over from head to toe before

sweeping my eyes across the room. The drapes were

drawn, the room was as orderly as one could expect,

showing no signs of violence. The maid was smoothing

her apron with her hands as I spoke. “The men from the

Homicide Unit will be here shortly.”

“I want this room kept closed until they arrive. We

don’t want anyone tampering with the evidence. I expect

that you and your staff will co-operate fully with us over

the course of the investigation, Mrs Hopper?”

“I’m quite sure that helping the police would not be

much of a problem, Inspector Rusell” she replied.

I shot a glance at the dead woman on the wide bed. She

was a coloured girl. Apparently she had been strangled

with a scarf. It was about 9:30pm when I left the hotel

with only one unanswered question left dangling in my

mind.

101

The following afternoon the lobby of the Bense Hotel

was the venue for Joseph Olanbango’s art exhibition.

Dominica’s artistic elite was present. The crews of a

number of media houses were also set up all over. A host

of security personnel were visible, eyed the guests with

interest. Diana Whit-Cliff, daughter of an eminent art

critic was among the invitees. She was in the company of

a male adult. “I’m glad that you decided to come,” he

said to her.

“I don’t really have an interest in art. I only come to

please you” she said.

“I’m a hard man to please.” He replied.

“You’re very strange. I don’t know why I like you!”

She replied “but I am enjoying this much more than I

expected. You know, I used to think that art exhibitions

were boring, that only stuffed up people, like my father,

were into!”

Meanwhile, I had caught up with her famous father,

who was admiring one of the exhibits. When she noticed

him speaking with me, she and Jarrette, her companion

came across, “Hi Dad! Impressive, eh?”

“Certainly, my dear. You seem to be really enjoying

yourself. I haven’t seen you appreciate a piece of art

before. Congratulations!” he turned toward me, winking.

“Have you seen the ‘weeping woman’?” his daughter

asked.

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“Not yet,. By the way, I’d like you to meet a friend, Mr

Russell.” How are you?” I asked politely. “This

exhibition surpasses my expectations,” she said. “My

friend here, Jarrette, encouraged me to come.” She

sprawled her palm over his chest while he simply stood

there grinning.

I asked him, “Are you an artist of some sort?” “Not

really,” he said. “but I really admire fine art.”.

“That’s interesting, very interesting.” Moments later,

we were shuffling along the gallery, literally being

pushed forward by the swarm of spectators that had all

come out to witness Joseph Glanbango’s masterpiece—

an African woman thrusting a spear though the belly of a

young ion. “This is cruel,” remarked Diana. “Senseless”

offered Jarrette.

“As senseless as the murder of Rosemond Holmes a

night ago in this very hotel,” I said gasping at him as he

opened his eyes. “Did you know that she was a

celebrated journalist?”

“She was a photo-journalist, here to represent ‘Ebony

Highlights,” Diana replied. “I heard about her on the

news this morning.” I let her words carry in the air. At a

predetermined sign, four men, two in police uniforms

approached Jarrette.

“Excuse me, sir,” said one of the men, “could you

accompany us to Police Headquarters?”. “What have I

done?” protested Jarrette. “We have reason to believe

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that you may be able to assist us in the investigations of

the murder of Rosemond Holmes.” The spokesperson

said as the two uniformed police officers laid hold on

him, grabbing him at the elbows.

“Now don’t do anything stupid,” I cautioned. “You’ll

only make the matter worse.” I produced a leather-cased

identification card, showing it to the suspect as the men

hurriedly lead him through he unsuspecting guests who

were now engrossed with the main attraction—the

unveiling of the famous artist’s masterpiece. Minutes

later, a waiting unmarked police vehicle outside in the

quadrangle carried him away.

I was about to leave the station after completing the

process of Jarrette Simon, when an angry Diana Whitcliff

stormed in accompanied by her father. I told them,

“Jarrette has been arrested and charged with the murder

of Rosemund Holmes of the United States. He is to

appear before the magistrate tomorrow, for a preliminary

inquiry. Most likely, bail will be denied.”

“But that’s outrageous! I can’t believe I,” sobbed

Diana “there must be some mistake .” She clutched her

father, crying openly. “Of course, a man is innocent until

proven guilty,” I told her. “My job is to supply the

evidence.” Can we visit him?” asked Mr Whitcliff.

“I’m afraid not until the PI has been heard. No there is

nothing more I can tell you.” I walked away leaving them

lost in their thoughts. I did not turn back as I jumped into

my jeep. As far as I was concerned, the man-hunt was

over.

104

At the PI, the prosecution established beyond doubt

that the evidence leading to the arrest of one Jarrette

Simon was sound, corroborated by the findings of the

forensic experts who determined that finger prints on the

victim’s telephone receiver were identical to the

suspect’s, who’d been identified as an intruder caught on

several of the hotel’s security cameras impersonating a

room-attendant.

The presiding magistrate, Peter O’Neil ruled that the

reviewed tapes were admissible.

He listened thoughtfully to the Medical Examiner’s

statement of Maggie, the elderly maid who had

discovered the body that fateful evening. The accused up

to this point had refused to be coerced into signing a

prepared statement and was adamant that he was

innocent. He insisted the whole affair was nothing but a

farce and a frame up. But his protests were not enough to

persuade his worship to grant him bail, in spite of the

number of sureties present nor was he able to dissuade

the magistrate from having him remanded to the State

Prison for a full week before his case would be brought

before Judge Eagle back at the Dominica High Court of

Justice.

Seven days later, I met Diana on the steps of the court.

She was alone, dressed ina simple grey skirt and white

blouse, clutching a little brown lady’s bag.

“This is very unpleasant business for you,” I said, for

want of conversation.

105

“I still don’t understand,” she replied. “I can assure

you we have the right man, confession or not. When we

were convinced that your friend was the perpetrator we

set up a 24 hour watch.”

“But how did you arrive at that?” she asked. “From

the hotel’s surveillance cameras.” We were now inside

the courtroom, where a large gathering waited

anxiously. “We then followed him night and day. When

he led us to the exhibition, our concern for your safety

grew.” I told her, my eyes glued to hers. “It’s common,

you know, for criminals to return to the scene of the

crime. God knows what he may have had in his mind.”

We sat on one of the mahogany benches to the rear of the

room, as I did not want to be preparing this witness who

was scheduled to take stand. “Did you even suspect from

his behaviour that he may have been involved in

something already?”

“Not really,” she said “but he was very tense lately, so

I thought he wanted to view the exhibition in relax.” She

turned her eyes up to the ceiling. “I just don’t get it…it’s

too peculiar. A man murders a woman and he’s walking

casually in the streets of Roseau, as if nothing amiss has

happened,” I said to her, “Well, we’ll just have to wait to

hear what he has to say,” she replied. “I know he’s

innocent, you’re going to have to pay for this.” She stood

up, then moved away without another word before

loosing herself in the throng of curious on-lookers

waiting for the trial to begin.

“Why…I didn’t know what to do at first.” Mrs Hopper

was the last witness to take the stand on behalf of the

106

prosecution. Replying to a question posed to her by the

defendant’s government appointed lawyer she appeared

to be somewhat nervous. A rather plump woman, her

many years in the Caribbean had given her face a golden

tan that now was turning a pale orange as the lawyer

brought to bear on her his years of experience.

“When did you call the police?” he asked. “After I was

sure that she was dead, I called the police.”

“Approximately what time do you figure this crime

took place?” “I would say about 7:30.”

“In the morning?” “No, in the evening,.” She said, her

face now fully flushed. Producing a white handkerchief

from the top pocket of the blue executive suit that she

wore, she wiped her face and forehead, relieving herself

of the beads of perspiration that had begun to form.

“What time did you call the police?” the lawyer asked,

his eyes focused on the witness. “About 9:13pm,” she

replied. I swung my head around the courtroom. The

gallery was filled with many young persons. Also

representatives of Ebony Highlight were seated, not too

far from me. Obviously, they were here to receive justice

on behalf of their murdered colleague. The defendant,

Jarrette Simon, stood in the prisoner’s dock, hand

handcuffed behind his back, h is chin resting on his chest.

“Had you known Miss Holmes prior to this?” “I first

heard of her last August at a Hotelier’s Conference in

Barbados. She created quite a stir.”

107

“Why was that?” “She claimed in one of her articles,

that certain hotels in Dominica discriminated against

blacks,” A muffled gasp arose from the gallery. “Do you

know the defendant?”. The lawyer asked her, pointing to

Jarrette. Mrs Hopper paused for a moment, then to my

surprise, I saw her slump, then collapse unto the wooden

rail that ran along the witness box.

“Ma’am are you all right?” the lawyer asked. The next

minute Mrs Hopper was actually crumpled in the box,

looking quite ill.

Judge Eaglebeck intervened. “Mr Thomas, do you

intend to further question this witness?” “No further

questions Mi Lord,” The lawyer said, before approaching

the prisoner’s dock, where he spoke to his client, who

glared at the spectacle of Mrs Hopper being led away by

two female police officers. It was almost midday;

incredibly hot and humid. The judge cleared his throat

before he addressed the jury, seven men and three

women. “Members of the jury, you have listened to the

evidence as presented in this case, the State versus

Jarrette Simon.” He nodded at Jarrette who stared right

back at him “One thing is clear that as long as I continue

to occupy this seat horrendous crimes of this nature will

bring upon the perpetrate of such the fullest extent of the

law. Justice will be served.”

Judge Eaglebeck now had his eyes fixed on the tenman

jury who, I imagine, were very uncomfortable

under his gaze. He continued “The defendant will be

remanded in custody. Members of the jury you will now

retire for one hour to consider your verdict.” And with

108

that he slammed his gravel, stood up and then regally

strode off to his adjoining chambers.

In all my twenty-nine years as a police officer, working

my way from a constable to my present position, I have

never been more anxious to hear a jury’s decision. The

curious onlookers mumbled continually until the clerk

called the room to order.

“have the members of the jury decided upon a

verdict?” the judged asked. “Yes Mi Lord, we have found

Jarrette Simon, guilty as charged.” The Foreman said. A

gasp emanated across the courtroom. Members of the

jury sat motionless in their seats; however, the two

women who were colleagues of the victim, hugged each

other weeping. Above the muffled sounds of the mixed

reactions, a woman’s shrieking voice surfaced.

“No-no-no, please” she said, “It was my idea…I

pushed him to it.”

“Order in court! Order in court!” The judge slammed

his gavel so hard, I thought that it had broken.

“Constable, restrain this woman.” The room was now

quiet, as everyone sought to make sense of the confession

that was coming from a most unlikely person, Mrs Hopper.

“Another outburst from you my lady, and I will

charge you with contempt of court.” The judge said. A

few moments passed before he spoke again, this time to

the accused. “Jarrette Simon of 21 Grassteaf St, Roseau,

you have been found guilty of first degree murder, do

you wish to say anything before I pass sentence?”

109

The Little Lamb

Heskeith Alphonse Cedrick Tamarind landed in the

village forty years ago. a little red-skinned, hunchedback

man, with a head too big for his body, walking up

the village road with only a suitcase in his hand. He set up

shop in a deserted house right in the middle of the

village.

A few days later he was seen driving what appeared to

be the essential components of a Bedford truck. In a few

weeks he had built a masterpiece of a passenger box,

painted it in yellow with red and green strips, the seats he

covered with black leatherette. Every morning before

day break he would awaken to inspect his truck, with

flashlight in hand, he would fuss over the engine, poke at

the tires, and lovingly run his hand over the wooden box.

Villagers thought that he was mad as it was rumoured

that he spoke to the truck in hushed tones, and quite

appropriately he nicknamed the truck ‘Little Lamb’.

110

Before dawn broke, Mr. Tamarind drove through the

village signaling with the horn that he was about to

depart for Roseau.

It was Wednesday and this weekend was the village

feast. Soon the passengers filled the benches; Miss Giles,

the schoolteacher with her daughter, Sussie; Ma Johnson,

a shop-runner; Fr. Bucket the village priest clutched his

black bag and finally Jake, the tailboard man, actually he

was a teenager that Mr. Tamarind had employed at the

bequest of his mother, to ‘keep him out of trouble.”

“Well it’s another beautiful day,” they heard him say.

But no one answered, because they knew he wasn’t

speaking to any one of them in particular, but to his little

lamb. The truck seemed to shudder in response as it

huffed and puffed up the long hill, and then whined as it

sped down the other side, sending its passengers

sprawling and cargo of ground provisions (for Ma

Johnson’s son, who attended the Dominica Grammar

School) gliding under the seats, much to the annoyance

of Fr. Bucket.

Suddenly, a loud bang came from the rear, “Papa

God,” says Jake, holding on to the post of the box.

“Stop the truck!—stop the truck—something is

wrong,” Fr. Bucket called out. Sure enough, the rope that

had been used to hold up the tailboard had snapped

under the weight of its cargo and cadet. Reluctantly, Mr.

Tamarind stopped the truck.

111

“It won’t be long, my little lamb, let’s see what’s the

matter,” Mr. Tamarind said.

He sucked his teeth hard and long. “This is very bad,

you could have damaged her parking lights, and oh!look

how you’ve scratched the paint,’ he scolded.

Red Boy from the neighbouring village happened

upon the scene, his new bus full of smiling passengers.

He stopped and offered to help.

“Well Mr. Tamarind,” he said, “I doh have a thick rope

but I have this.” He produced a long chain from under his

seat. “I always knew that it would come in ahndy,” he

chuckled. “But don’t you see its time to get rid of dat old

truck,” he ridiculed. “Dese are modern times, man get

with the style.”

“Nothing you say,” defended Mr. Tamarind will get

me to give up my little lamb—anyway thanks for the

chain, as soon as I can I will return it to you,” he said with

hardly a smile.

Jake reorganized the goods again on the tailboard and

gave Mr. Tamarind the signal to go ahead. For the rest of

the journey Mr. Tamarind told jokes of his days in

England, how he had served in the army and never been

to war, had married twice and divorced twice, and had

marched in African Liberation Day rallies, not because he

was convinced that this was the right thing, but because

all the black people in his part of Yorkshire were doing it.

His little lamb only shuddered and spluttered. Miss Giles

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and her daughter ate mangoes and threw the skin on the

road, Ma Johnson constantly fanned herself and Fr.

Bucket fidgeted with his black bag. As for Jake he was

sitting on a bag of what looked like cocoa beans for fear

that a similar tailboard incident would happen again.

Later, when Mr. Tamarind returned from Roseau, he

parked momentarily outside Ma Johnson shop while her

husband and son offloaded the goods; boxes of chicken

parts, crates of soft drinks, cartoons of cigarettes and

rum. Fr. Bucket hadn’t returned that evening as he had

an important meeting to attend, but he had picked up

Rufus and his girlfriend who had just come in from

Guadeloupe, also another young man and his girlfriend,

who had come to visit relatives.

Whilst there, BoyBoy came driving a Toyota bus, one

just like Red boy’s.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the children shouted, “you mean

business papa!”

“How you know dat,” he replied “all dem fellars from

Cocoa village, Deadman’s and Whilthaman, buying dese

buses,” he said breathlessly.

“dem truck out of style, you know” the children began

to jeer at Mr. Tamarind. “You old-fashion monkey, that

thing you driving slow, slow, slow!”

“I will never,” began Mr. Tamarind “abandon my

little lamb.” He patted the window screen lightly. “And

besides,” he continued, “My truck is more convenient to

113

carry the provisions for your brothers and sisters in

Roseau and to buy the groceries for your shop, you

ungrateful little things,” he barked.

But the children taunted him all the more, “Garcon dat

truck only good for the museum and to carry figs—ha,

ha, ha,” they laughed.

Night came and Mr. Tamarind removed his black

jacket shirt and tie, washed, settled down to a light

supper then went straight to bed, his little lamb parked

right outside his window where he could see her. Of

course, Mr. Tamarind eventually fell asleep. Even in his

sleep he would have dreams of his adventures with his

“little lamb”. He dreamt of the happenings of the day just

passed, the broken tailboard and the snide remarks of the

children and recently, newly owned bus drivers, Redboy

and BoyBoy. As his sleep deepened he heard a little voice

saying, “leave me alone you pervert!” Mr. Tamarind

awoke with a start.

At first he thought that it was one of the village girls

with a suitor on their way home after an evening of

moonlight frolicking. He saw the man, large and white,

like a giant Eucharist pined in the night sky. But,

strangely, there was no sign of his truck. Accordingly, he

slipped out of bed, threw his jacket over his pyjamas and

armed with a flashlight started for the front door. He

looked up and down the street, but there was no truck to

be seen. “Oh my God,” he screamed, “Oh my little

lamb—my little lamb!”

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The next morning, Mr. Tamarind’s disclosure that his

truck had been stolen was the talk of the village. “I

believe that something dreadful has happened to my

little lamb” he cried.

But the crowd of onlookers unsympathetically burst

out laughing “You’re too old fashioned.”

As could have been expected Mr. Tamarind was very

upset. He went about crestfallen, asking everyone he net,

“have you seen my little lamb?” But no one could help

him. He called the police but he was unable to help.

Finally, the chairman of the village council called a

meeting of the village to discuss the unfortunate incident.

“We all know,” he told the gathering “that ever since Mr.

Tamarind came to this village, he has been a civicminded

resident, doing no harm to anyone but doing

good to you all. I suggest that we all mount a search right

away for Mr. Tamarind’s truck and the culprits will be

brought before the law.”

The villagers agreed. For two days they searched

everywhere but no truck was found. They looked in

banana fields but found nothing, they looked along the

beach, but their search was futile.

The theft of Mr. Tamarind’s truck cast a gloomy

blanket over the village feast that weekend. Everyone felt

very sad that Mr. Tamarind’s truck had probably been

stolen. The villagers knew that Mr. Tamarind loved his

truck. It was all he lived for, he loved his truck with a

passion. Moreover, Mr. Tamarind offered a reward to

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anyone who could offer any information that would lead

to the recovery of the property.

Monday came, no truck appeared. Tuesday, still no

luck. Now it so happened that two young boys who had

gone fishing on the rocks beneath the main road by the

sea discovered what remained of the truck, in a crushed

heap, in it were Rufus and his girlfriend, dead.

News spread quickly that Mr. Tamarind’s truck had

been found by the two boys and a large crowd soon

gathered on the beach to witness the findings. The

mother of Rufus was crying pitifully, she couldn’t believe

that her son could have stolen Mr. Tamarind’s truck.

“What was he thinking?” the police asked her.

When Mr. Tamarind reached he immediately broke

down in tears. “The truck fell from a soft drop onto the

rocks below beyond repair,” the village mechanic

remarked. Soon the ambulance arrived. The doctor on

duty pronounced Rufus and his girlfriend dead on the

spot. But all Mr. Tamarind could say was, “My poor little

lamb, my poor little lamb, what have they done to you?”

Mr. Tamarind began to cry uncontrollably, soon

everyone was crying, but no matter how much they cried

no amount of tears could bring back the little lamb.

116

The Storm

Roddy Bane shakes his head as the weatherman

announces that a hurricane watch is in effect for the

islands. His wife Sheila-Anne is seated on a settee across

the room; his sixteen year old daughter, as beautiful as a

morning sun, is standing by the front door. Mr. Bane is

absentmindedly twirling a glass filled with rum.

“Can’t he find something proper to tell people?” he

mutters. “Good Lord, I’ve lived all my life here and no

hurricane ever…”

“Aw, won’t you hush up!” interrupts his wife who is

trying to make sense out of the weatherman’s

predictions.

“This is serious you know, they say this is a dangerous

storm,” she adds making a gesture with her hands to

silence him.

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“A dangerous storm…Bah” retorts Mr. Bane.

“Nothing but a little…”

“Well listen nuh,” chides Sheila-Anne, her eyes glued

to the TV set as the man on the television points out the

current coordinates.

“I wonder what’s it like to go through a hurricane,”

says Tarah, almost to herself, flicking a handful of her

dark-brown tresses over her right shoulder as she peers

out into the fading light.

“Not a very nice thing,” responds her mother, who

saunters towards the front door where Tarah is standing.

“I can remember my mother telling me that in 1935 a bad

hurricane hit Dominica and plenty people did get killed,”

she says nodding her head sagely.

“All this meteorological stuff……Bah!” interjects Mr.

Bane. “Never heard anyone talk about a hurricane in…”

he leans back into his favourite armchair frowning.

“Papa God, make this storm pass us,” utters Sheila-

Anne as she quickly makes the sign of the cross.

“All you not hearing,” ejaculates Roddy. “All you and

dat TV is two of a kind, I wish dat hurricane would come

for true and let me hear you talk bout storm coming.

“Roddy!” exclaims Mrs. Bane, her teeth clenched and

eyes glowering. “How can you say dat?” she spurts.

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Mr. Bane doesn’t reply, instead he leans forward

reaching for the centre table where the bottle of D-Special

rum, newly opened, is standing. He tops his glass with

some more of the stuff. Without much of a thought he

dumps the contents into his mouth, swirls it around, then

swallows with a gulp. The stinging beverage makes his

eyes twinkle with redness, as his face contorts with a

hideous grimace. He coughs.

Mr. Bane is a sawmill operator at a local lumber yard.

This afternoon he is home earlier than usual as the

company has let the workers off since midday, so that

they could look after their families in the anticipation of a

direct hit by the storm. He had passed by Port-of-Call for

a drink or two with a few of his colleagues, and by the

time he reaches home he was thoroughly intoxicated.

Tarah, who herself would normally have been out

with her friends about this time, has taken the

government’s warning seriously. She has decided to stay

indoors, keeping periodic checks on the storm’s progress

via the radio and television for updates.

Mrs. Bane peering out of the window observes in the

distance huge masses dark of clouds, she says, “Boy! The

sky so ugly, I’m glad you are here with me. I’m going to

check the kitchen to see if we might need anything.”

As the afternoon wears on the sky changes drastically;

an otherwise red and orange sunset is obscured by the

foreboding cheerless clouds.

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Mr. Bane is propped up in his favourite armchair,

dressed in the same blue jeans and denim long sleeved

shirt that he wore to work today. His head is cocked to

one side as Tarah tries to wake him pleading. “Daddy,

come on, help me to nail some plywood over some of the

windows,” she begs. “They say the hurricane will hit us

at midnight,” she adds shaking him. Roddy’s reply is

blurred and angry.

“Aw leave me alone,” he chides, “can’t you see…Can’t

you see no hurricane, Bah!”

Tarah gives him a disgusted glance.

Suddenly a dazzling streak illuminates the evening

sky, plunging the villa into a thick darkness, followed

several moments later by a deafening roar overhead as

thunder pounds the already humid atmosphere.

Tarah covers her ears giggling while her father is

startled. “What the !…what was dat?” he says springing

to his feet in a daze.

At that moment Mrs. Bane returns from the kitchen

holding a long white candle, its warm flame casting

dancing shadows. “Hello dear,” she says “the lightning

must have cut the light. We have a flashlight nuh?”

“Yes Mum,” answers Tarah, “I’ll go and get mine.”

The contours on Tarah’s feminine silhouette recede into

the darkness. Mrs. Bane sets the candle on a saucer,

placing it on a shelf below the portrait of Jesus Christ,

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then she turns, walks over to her husband who’s still

sitting in his armchair. She touches him lightly on his

knee and sighs. After a pause she says, “so look at you,

Mr. Bane. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

She turns and continues speaking . “Drunk like a fish

when you should be helping us get things under control.”

Another clap of thunder rumbles in the heavens and

slightly rocks the house, followed by a burst of heavy

raindrops large as golf balls that now beat upon the roof.

Tarah returns with the torch, training its beam from

window to window. She says, “I really wish we had

boarded up the other windows.”

“Let’s just take it easy,” advises her mother trying to

sound comforting. “Maybe…Things won’t be as bad as

all that.”

Tarah complains further that she is feeling chilly since

the evening temperature had dropped a few degrees as

the evening thickened over the island. When she went to

search for the flashlight she had donned a thick woolen

sweater and a pair of slacks to keep her warm. She also

brought a small transistor radio which she has on a local

radio station, its soft music mingling with the feeling of

apprehension in the living room.

Roddy is still clutching his empty glass, but now he’s

singing a refrain of a reggae number; “When the rain

falls,” he croaks, “it won’t fall on one man’s house top,”

he runs his hand over his unshaven face, then points in

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the direction of his wife and child and adds, “Remember

that.”

Time draws by slowly. The evening is uneventful.

Tarah is sitting by the front door on a low stool. She is

thinking over what her mother has said about the

hurricane of 1935; then she shudders at the thought of so

many people being killed.

Mr. Bane has other thoughts as he peeps between half

closed eyes. He silently concludes that his wife was naïve

enough to expect a hurricane of some silly tale told by her

mother, perhaps to keep her quiet like a little girl, or

discourage her from playing outdoors in the wind and

rain. As the midnight hours arrives, Mr. Bane breaks the

gloomy silence.

“As you see, midnight, no hurricane,” he laughs, a

deep-belly kind of ridiculous laugh.

Mrs. Bane retorts defensively “well it’s better to be

prepared than to be not ready and wind and rain come

smashing up everything and you don’t know what is

going on.”

“But I want to see the wind and rain, like how they

does show it in the learning channel,” Tarah says with a

smug smile on her face, making the dimples in her cheek

stand out like two holes on either side of her mouth.

“Anyway,” replies Sheila-Anne, “you and your father

does really get under my skin.” She begins to walk

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around the room checking to see of everything is in

order, then she sits on the sofa and sighs, “well my dear,

we might as well try to get some sleep.” She tries in vain

to stifle a yawn. “Perhaps your father is right, dem

weather people always predicting.” She nods in the

direction of her husband who is already asleep in his

armchair.

Dawn breaks under the ferocious winds, a low

atmospheric pressure has created ideal conditions for the

deadly vortex that has developed into a category four

hurricane—a very dangerous storm. Roddy, Sheila-

Anne and Tarah listen to the extremely high winds

accompanied by torrential rains that are now pouring as

if all the waterfalls in the world had been diverted over

the Bane’s residence.

Roddy, who seems to have slept off the effects of last

night’s carousing is houting above the screeching

scenario. “All you,” he bellows “get buckets, bath

tub…anything to put where dat leaking,” he advises.

“This really looking bad,” says his wife. Roddy nods in

agreement, his mind now sober, but rather confused not

knowing what to do in the present circumstances. Roddy

has never experienced anything like this before. He turns

his head abruptly to what sounds like someone trying to

yank off the entire roof. Roddy Bane is a well built man,

having gotten plenty of exercise from handling loads of

lumber at his work place. He considers himself fearless,

afraid of no one; but at the moment he feels a painful ache

in his chest at the mounting concern for his dear family.

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Up to eight inches of muddy rain water flows freely on

the floor. An earthy odor permeates the air. Outdoors the

gale continues to blow from every direction. Suddenly,

Mrs. Bane screams, “Oh my God.” Through the open

front door she recognizes Tarah’s girlish figure

crouching against the weather as she attempts to record

the scene on her camcorder. “Tarah!” shouts Mrs. Bane

with tears welling in her eyes, “get back inside.”

Her order passes in vain. Tarah’s fascination with the

phenomenon has her trapped within its magical grasp.

Meanwhile, Mr. Bane himself is at the entrance in a trice.

He too shouts to his daughter. “Tarah!” he yells, cupping

his thick hands around his mouth, “what do you think

you are doing?” “Come inside,” he commands her.

At that frightening moment, to his horror, he sees his

daughter being lifted clean from her feet and being

hauled several metres along a slippery lawn before she is

lodged in a low-cut hedge that acts as a fence along the

perimeter of the front lawn where she nows hold on to

prevent herself from being blown further, as well as for

the fear of the loss of her life, her camcorder now carried

aloft by the powerful currents tumbling and smashing

before her eyes. Roddy is almost dumbstruck, he gapes

unbelievably as Tarh is obscured from sight by the screen

of leaves, dirt and other debris hurled between them.

“What!” exclaims Sheila Anne, “do something” she

shrieks, tears now streaming down her face.

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“God helps me utters Roddy, as he bites hard into his

lips, “I’m going to get her,” he adds, his hands trembling.

“Hurry Roddy!” screams his wife again, the strong

wind blowing her hair into her face. They gaze for

moments as Tarah wedged among the branches of the

shrub some forty feet away, stares back at them with a

look of utter surprise and terror in her beautiful brown

eyes.

Roddy crawls on all fours, gripping the earth as one

would grip a blanket, inching his bulk forward, pushing

against what seems like the strength of twenty men. He

curses under his breath, wishing he could say the word

and all at once still the storm, but Roddy realizes there is

no way out. He now fears for both of their lives. As he

closes in to Tarah he calls out to her, “don’t move—

Daddy is coming to get you.” A few more feet and he has

reached the bushy branches of the schrub.

He orders Tarah to hold on to him while he firmly

grips the young lady around her waist.

Tarah instantly obeys her father. She feels more secure

as Mr. Bane’s towering form acts as a human shield, and

together they retrace their tracks back along the lawn,

pausing at times on all fours as the cruel winds wipes

around them. All the time Tarah is thinking about the

power of the wind as she witnessed first hand a number

of fruit trees completely uprooted. She also saw portions

of the roof of roofs of the neighbour’s home flying in the

storm like kites. At last they reach the house where Tarah

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sees her mother waiting anxiously, her hand holding her

jaws like one who has a terrible toothache.

It’s all right,” purrs Mrs. Bane looking over her

rescued daughter.

“Mother,” Tarah says. “I never know wind could be so

strong.” She gazes fearfully over her shoulder at the

dramatic view of a hurricane in full force.

“I never knew,” says her mother, glaring at Tarah,

“that you could be so irresponsible to try something like

that.”

“All I wanted was to record some action,” confesses

Tarah, “so we could watch it later.” Meanwhile the storm

is unrelenting like a monstrous octopus, its tentacles

lashing the villa with a barrage of powerful gusts.

Hardly a minute has passed since the child’s return to

safety, when Mr. Bane realizes the roof of the house will

not hold. “All you,” he says “lets go under there,”

pointing to an open space beneath the counter in the

kitchen, as the gusts outside seem to intensify.

“Quick!” he shouts. Sheila-Anne and Tarah huddle

beneath it clutching each other, followed by Mr. Bane as

what sounds like a huge wave envelopes the area

spewing large chunks of the stonewall, almost enclosing

the three of them in a dark tomb.

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For the next few hours the family is utterly quiet. Only

the horrifying screech of the wind can be heard, that

echoes in their very bones. Finally the wind subsides and

the sun shines with a brilliance as if nothing disastrous

had taken place. It’s brilliant midday rays revealing total

devastation.

Roddy Bane, meanwhile is pushing against a slab of

the stone wall that has enclosed him and his family under

the counter where they had weathered the storm.

Finally succeeding, he climbs out, then helps Tarah,

then Sheila-Anne. “Well,” he sighs, “I’ll never doubt

another weatherman again. They knew what they were

talking about this time.” Roddy took his wife in his arms,

kissing her gently on the cheek.

“Hey, you two,” says Tarah, “I want to experience

another. This is fun but just a little rough, don’t you

think,” she added rubbing her chin.

“You and your adventurous mind,” teased Mr. Bane.

“one of these days you will understand the real

adventure.”

“You mean I’ll be on televsion reporting live from

Dominica for CBS!”

Amid the ruins of their home they all break out in tears

of joy to be saved from the worst of the storm.

“I’m not sure about that,” replies Mr. Bane, “but you

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nearly became a missing actor in a revised “Gone with

the Wind”.

“I guess that’s what they call riding the storm,” says

Sheila-Anne as she draws Roddy and Tarah towards her,

pressing them to her breast.

THE END

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