ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many people helped to make this book. Id like to thank Adrian Camps-Campins for unlimited access to his personal library and photographic archives; also Dr Hamid Ghany, for arranging access to the West Indiana Collection at University of the West Indies in St Augustine, Trinidad, and for his enlightening conversations about politics in Trinidad. Thanks also to Dr Selwyn Ryan for keeping our eleven oclock appointment at UWI. I owe a debt of gratitude to Dr Jo Baker and Dr Lindsey Moore at Lancaster University for their meticulous guidance while writing this novel. I would like to thank my friend Katie Sampson and also Gilly Stern for their critical editorial feedback; also my editor, Francesca Main at Simon & Schuster UK, for her forensic editorial skills. Thanks to Steve Cook and the Royal Literary Fund for its generous financial support, likewise the Arts and Humanities Research Council. Linda Anderson, once again, provided instrumental support early on. The Black Sheep Housing Co-op, though now defunct, must be thanked for sheltering me, this time in the aftermath of a hurricane. Id like to thank Sarah McCloughry for her advice and wise counsel at a most critical juncture; also Stephanie Anderson for cutting me free. Thanks also to my lovely agent Isobel Dixon at Blake Friedmann, always full of ideas and inspiration. Thank you, John and Antoinette Moat and the late John Fairfax, for giving me the Arvon Foundation, a place I have returned to again and again over the last ten years. Lastly, I would like to thank my mother and muse, Yvette Roffey, for a place to write and call home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Monique Roffey was born in Port of Spain, Trinidad, and educated in the UK. Her highly acclaimed debut novel, Sun Dog, was published in 2002. Since then she has worked as a Centre Director for the Arvon foundation and has held the post of Royal Literary Fund Fellow at Sussex and Chichester universities. She currently lives in Harlesden, north London, where she spends most of the day in her pajamas, writing.
Read more at: wwwmoniqueroffey.co.uk.
CHAPTER ONE
THE BLIMP
Every afternoon, around four, the iguana fell out of the coconut tree. Bdup! While sunbathing, it had fallen asleep, relaxing its grip, dropping from a considerable height. It always landed like a cat, on all fours, ready to fight. The dogs always went berserk, gnashing and chasing after the creature as it fled, scuttling across the grass, a streak of lime green disappearing off into the undergrowth.
It never remembers the day before, Sabine remarked. Never remembers its dreams, either, I suppose. Brain like a peanut.
The lizards daily plummet acted like an alarm clock, prompting Sabine to make their afternoon pot of tea. She went to put the kettle on.
Jennifer, tell your son Talbot to come and kill that damn lizard.
But Jennifer only rolled her eyes. Shed dominated the kitchen all day, baking gooey cakes and sweet-breads, stewing chicken with brown sugar. Shed been making pellau for the weekend. On the kitchen table, two halves of Madeira sponge were just out of the oven, cooling on racks.
Why?
It upsets the dogs.
So?
Its driving me crazy.
Let de dog go bite it, nuh, den dey go see somptin!
I dont want it to bite the dogs.
Dem dogs chupid.
Not my little one, ma petite.
She de woss.
Oh Jennifer, how can you say that?
If dat lizard go fall on she, she go dead.
Dont say that.
Jennifer chuckled, enjoying the thought of the lizard falling on Katinkas glossy Pomeranian head.
I want Talbot to kill it.
He wont kill it.
Why not?
Talbot fraid dat lizard too bad.
Dont be ridiculous. He can cook it, or do whatever he wants with it.
Put it in a pot, Jennifer teased her.
Uggghhh.
Stew it up.
Sabine flinched, making a wincing-chewing face.
It taste nice, boy. Jennifer stifled a laugh.
No, thank you.
You never taste it?
Of course not, eh, eh, Sabine steupsed, sucking her teeth.
Jennifer laughed and Sabine poked out her tongue in response.
Jennifer was mostly African, mixed up with some Spanish blood, or so she claimed. Her arms were heavy and her hips had spread, but she was proud of her heart-shaped face, her round polished cheekbones. She waxed her kinky hair and pinned it up. Jennifer smelled rich, coconut oil and Paramin mountain herbs, fresh rosemary, wild thyme, scents she knew well. And yes, these days Jennifer was much too fresh by half, never did what she was asked any more; did what she liked and when she liked, in her own time. Jennifer hoovered when she wanted to, polished the silver and cleaned the crystal only when she felt like it. Jennifer ran things now: good for her.
Oh Gyaaaad, Sabine complained loudly. The heat! Jennifer, I cyan take it. She lifted up her voluminous house dress and fanned it up to her face, exposing her pink cotton knickers.
Phhhhhut! She made a loud hissing sound, fanning herself. Cest un fourneau.
Jennifer shook her head. Take cyare Mr Harwood ent come in and ketch a fright.
Ha ha, Sabine cut back. As if George looked at her any more; as if he cared to look.
You can talk. Youre almost as fat as me.
Jennifer gasped. I not fat.
You were skinny once, like a piece of spaghetti when you first came to us. Now look at you.
Jennifer pursed her lips. I does look healthy.
Youll get fatter if youre not careful. Your daughter Chantal is already getting fat.
Jennifer stopped her mixing at the stove; she turned and fixed her hands on her wide hips. Oh gorshhh, nuh. I dont want to see your panties.
Sabine kept fanning herself. Oh, dont be so prudish. Who cares?
I does care.
Oh! Its too hot to wear clothes.
Jennifer stared as if Sabine was crazy.
Sabine smiled and slowly fanned her dress downwards. She made the tea and carried the tray out to George, who was reading out on the porch, researching his next article for the Trinidad Guardian. Reading, reading, reading, he was always reading, sometimes not speaking for hours. But at four, hed put down his book. They would discuss their plans for tomorrow. It was about all they had, these days, this teatime catch-up. But at least her husband wasnt boring. Or short. Sabine detested little men and boring people. George was still brilliant, somehow, despite it all, maybe even more so. He turned heads, George did, with his skin turned red as rum and his hawk-like nose. In his later years, hed come to resemble a totem pole. And his eyes shone brighter, his blue eyes were turquoise now, like a wild liqueur. No, despite it all, shed never stopped wanting to talk to George.
Jennifer is baking cakes in the kitchen, she told him.
Oh, good. What kind?
Banana.
The best.
I know you like to eat banana cake when its still warm. Shell bring it out.
Thank you. Give an Englishman cake, tea and cake every day of his life. George rubbed his hands with impending pleasure, trying to catch her eye, his gaze shy of hers.
Tea. At 4 p.m. every day on the porch out back. Tea and cake and the keskidees swooping to drink from the swimming pool. Earl Grey. White sugar in lumps. No one else around drank tea like this, no one on the island cared for tea, not like them. Allyuh white people crayzee wid all dis tea. Thats what Jennifer always said.
So. Whos next to be interviewed? Sabine pressed; George often didnt say.
The coach. His voice was hesitant.
