Clover's Child (33 page)

When she was small she used to lie on her back in the garden and stare up into the clouds looking for those same gaps, trying to peek at heaven. She fully expected to see fat-bottomed angels draped in bed sheets directing thunderbolts and volleying Cupid’s arrows. She could now see this wasn’t true. Come to think of it, she knew that space was beyond the sky, so where exactly was this heaven that she had searched for so fervently? Maybe it didn’t exist and if it didn’t exist, where had her nan gone? Where was Jude’s baby now? Was that it? A few years or seconds on the planet, then, poof!, you just disappeared forever? Surely not, otherwise what was the point? Dot realised that she knew very little, including why she was schlepping halfway around the world in this metal tube. What did she hope to accomplish? If she was being honest, she hoped to run into his arms and never leave. That was what she hoped to accomplish. Poor Wally would eventually find someone else and when he was old and grey with a clutch of grandchildren running around his knees, he would thank her for setting him free. Barb’s tear-stained face ducking behind a tree flashed behind her eyes.

As she descended the aircraft steps in St Lucia, surveying the concrete strip, Dot felt elated at having finally arrived. She had expected to feel exhausted – it had been a long, draining journey – but instead she was alert, already registering in her mind each new feeling and sensation. Tiny homes with tin roofs sat only a few feet away on the other side of the runway. The London airport had had a rather grand red-brick terminus with comfy seats and a cafe, but here in St Lucia there was a long, low bungalow and a stall selling refreshments under a hand-painted sign. A gust of hot air filled her lungs: new smells, new sights and a new temperature. Her stomach tightened in anticipation; she was getting closer to him, they were once again in the same country. Reunion was only a fingertip away.

She was transported from the airport in a little green open-topped Land Rover with bare metal doors and a steering wheel that grew from the floor like a tiny sapling. It bounded up and down the steep, dusty tracks, through dense jungle where the fronds of giant palms tickled her arms as they drove past. The flowers were such vibrant colours – fiery reds and electric blues. Nothing like the little gold chrysanthemum that occasionally popped its head up from the grey dirt mound at Ropemakers Fields. She hadn’t known that flowers like this existed. Bananas hung from trees in big, fat bunches and the heavy-looking rounded green fruit on the other trees were mangoes, apparently.

An hour later, the car broke out onto the coastal road and there it was in front of her, framed by lush forest and jungle-covered mountains – the sea! Dot pulled herself up against the door frame and stood, despite the protestations from her driver. She didn’t care; she wanted to see it all, unable to take her eyes from the pale blue ocean that went on forever and the clusters of giant palm trees that fringed the beach. Yachts peppered the horizon, and the sun smothered everything with a hazy glint of heat. It was beyond beautiful, it was just as he had described; it was paradise.

Dot’s rose-print summer dress clung to her sweaty skin, and her hair, which she’d gathered up into a neat chignon, now hung limply in strands around her face, the rest of it blowing backwards in the breeze. She could never have imagined the temperature; it was so strange to be breathing in hot air, like when you accidentally opened your gob under the dryer at the hairdresser and got a lungful.

The car wound its way through the streets of Castries en route to Reduit Beach. Small crowds of children pressed forward as they passed, some snickering into their palms, others reaching with outstretched arms. Dot stared at them; she had only ever seen the occasional black person and felt a slight frisson of anxiety to find herself the only white person among the crowd. The kids were fascinated in return; for most, it was the first time they had seen anyone white and they wanted to touch her hair and stare at her face.

She thought of Barb, remembering their conversation, it seemed like a lifetime ago,
‘Don’t be daft, Dot. If theirs was normal hair, everyone’d be walking around with it, wouldn’t they?’ ‘Well of course! And they do where he lives, you dozy cow!’

It was late afternoon when she arrived at her little beach hut at Reduit Beach. She grinned at the sight: it was pretty and perfect. It reminded her of a gingerbread house in a fairy-tale book. It was wooden and painted sugar pink with bright blue curtains in the little windows. A wide wooden step led to the front door – perfect for taking in the mesmerising view. The key, as promised by the travel agent, was taped under the mat. Her little home comprised two rooms. In the bedroom stood an old brass bed that sagged in the middle; it was covered with a pristine white counterpane on which four fat feather pillows were stacked high. She considered the bed she shared with Wally, the greasy mattress in the curtainless room, but then checked herself. How many fancy beds would her ticket have bought? Quite a few probably. She was still in awe of his act of kindness and surprised by the eloquence with which he had summed up their dire situation, almost giving her permission to abandon him, possibly forever.

The sitting room had a wicker sofa with plump sprig-leaf-patterned cushions on it and a cream and green tartan rug thrown over the back; she couldn’t imagine needing that. There was a multi-coloured rag rug on the floor and a small stove and a sink in one corner with a square of mirror above it. Local prints of beaches and palm trees hung randomly in clusters. Most were at jaunty angles, having shifted on their hooks. She fought the need to straighten them. Her bathroom was at the back of the hut with a shower pipe jutting from the wall; the water was warmed by the sun while it sat in a small tank on the roof. It ran straight onto the sandy floor, where there was a latrine hole – her loo. She was shielded from view by walls of rush matting that formed a cubicle of sorts. It was perfect.

Dot placed her little suitcase on the floor and kicked off her shoes. She pulled out the remainder of the pins from her hair and, shaking it loose, stepped out of the front door and onto the hot sand. She dug her toes in and savoured the way the small mounds of salt-like grains piled up to fill the arches beneath her feet, cushioning her every step. She tentatively walked forward. After only a few minutes, she felt the sting of the sun against her skin, her hair lank against the damp sweat on her neck. She remembered Sol shivering and rubbing his palms together for warmth as he waited on an East End street corner with the frost beneath his heavy shoes.
No wonder he’d looked so bloody cold.

Tiny translucent crabs shot down minute holes as her footsteps approached the shoreline. White bubbling waves fizzed on the sand before disappearing to leave a jagged, darkened line.

She ignored the stares of fellow beach goers, dark-skinned locals whose muscles rippled and dripped with sea water. Their comfort in this intense heat would have made her feel foolish had she considered how much of an outsider she was. Instead, she looked straight ahead and took small steps until the Caribbean Sea washed over her feet and lapped at her ankles; it was warm and welcoming. Dot grinned. She was really here; she was really in the sea! Bunching up the skirt of her dress with one hand, she held it just below her knickers and strode forward until the water pushed past her knees; tiny fish darted around this new object in their territory. Tomorrow she would put on her new bathing costume and she would sit in the sea. She couldn’t wait.

Dot showered, washing away the sweat and fatigue of the day and night she had spent travelling, then pulled on her cropped trousers and a sleeveless top, and strolled along the beachfront to the cafe from which music pulsed. It took all of her courage to go in alone, but then she told herself it was no different from Paolo’s cafe, just a bit warmer. Choosing a table outside, Dot slid onto a bench and watched the sun sink down into the ocean. As it did so, flaming torches and strings of light sprung to life along the shore and beach road. She had no idea that places like this existed; it was like a different planet.

‘What can I get you?’ The woman spoke with the same gentle roll as Sol. She was petite, like an elf, with close-cropped hair, high cheekbones, large, hooped gold earrings and brass bangles around the tops of her arms. She was wearing a tiny, triangular halter-neck top, without the need for a bra, and a floor-length patchwork cheesecloth skirt. She looked amazing.

‘Oh, can I have a Coca-Cola?’

‘Sure. And to eat?’

Dot thought of eating conch and her stomach flipped. In fact, the thought of eating anything made her wince, but it had been a long time since she’d had food and she knew that when the fatigue kicked in, she would need something in her stomach. ‘What is there?’ She bit down on her bottom lip. Wednesday night in the flat was chippy night – was it Wednesday night? She couldn’t be sure.

‘We got a callaloo special?’

‘Sounds lovely.’

And it was, just as Sol had described it, warm and peppery.
‘Oh, it’s so tasty and filling that you will eat until you can barely move.’

‘How long you staying?’ the woman asked as she cleared Dot’s empty bowl.

‘Truthfully, I dunno, maybe a week, maybe forever!’

‘Forever, eh? I better make another batch then. I’m Cilla by the way.’

‘I’m Clover.’

‘Clover, that’s a pretty name. Well, I’ll see you around, Clover.’

‘Yes, I hope so.’

‘Honey, I know so! How many girls like you d’you think are strolling around a small place like this?’

‘I guess not many…’

‘You’d be right, not any! Where ya from?’

‘London.’

‘Hey, my uncle is over there, working on the Tube. His name is Grayson Amable, he lives in Ealing – do you know him?’

Dot laughed out loud. ‘Course I don’t! Ealing’s miles away from where I live and there are millions of people!’

Cilla looked more than a little offended.

Dot did her best to make amends. ‘But if I do see him, I’ll send him your love.’

Cilla sniffed, smiled and nodded, satisfied, before leaving.

Despite the excited bubbles that grew and burst in her stomach, sleep was fast in arriving. Dot was lulled to sleep by the gentle sound of the small waves lapping the shoreline, the rustle of trees and the chirps and trills of insects and frogs around her. It was like magic.
I’m here Sol, I’m right here.

Without a clock or watch, she had no idea what the time was, but judging from the sounds of laughter and chatter on the beach, it had to be waking-up time. Dot stretched on the large brass bed and leapt to her feet, then peered through the little curtain, just to make sure it wasn’t an elaborate dream. No, it was real! The sea lay in front of her on this beautiful beach, just as she had left it the night before.

A quick splash in the shower and Dot squeezed her shapely form into her new bathing suit. She was glad there was no tall mirror to dent her confidence; had there been the opportunity to study her lumps and bumps, she would have chickened out of wearing it in public. Slipping her frock over the top, she donned her sunglasses and made her way down the beach to the cafe, feeling quite at home for a girl who had previously travelled only a handful of miles in any direction from the neighbourhood of her birth. In truth, she felt like a different person; she felt like Clover.

Cilla was dancing on the deck to the strains of a slow beat with her arms raised above her head. Dot wondered what it must feel like to be that happy, that abandoned.

‘Don’t you love Laurel Aitken? Morning, Clover, sleep good?’

‘Yes! Thank you. Phew, it’s hot!’ Dot fanned her face with her hand.

‘You’ll get used to it, especially if you’re staying forever. What you having for breakfast?’

‘Have you got any fresh pineapple juice?’

‘Coming right up.’

Dot sat back in her chair and let her eyes wander along the shore. Families dumped their towels and bags in sandy heaps on the beach and ploughed into the sea. Everyone seemed so confident and familiar with their surroundings – there was no tentative toe dipping required. She watched as old and young, big and small dived headlong into the small breakers, disappearing only to emerge feet away like interested seals popping their heads above the water.

Cilla placed a large glass of pulpy juice in front of her.

Dot held it between her palms. ‘Can I take it down to the beach?’

Cilla nodded and shrugged, indifferent.

Dot ambled over to the group of palm trees that threw their spiky shade out across the sand and sat with her back against a ridged trunk. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, all very Natalie Wood, and took a sip. It was sweet and cold and utterly delicious. ‘So that’s what this feels like.’ She smiled.

A little boy aged about two waddled across the sand and into view, pursued by a slightly older brother who looked none too pleased to be on child-minding duty. Dot watched as the toddler’s fat little feet pounded the sand, revealing a glimpse of pale sole each time he lifted his foot. With arms pistoning up and down either side of his round tummy, he ran as fast as he was able until a small rock that lay hidden from view tripped him. He fell down and wailed, with a mouth full of tears and a curly head full of sand. She didn’t realise she too was crying until she felt the hot tears drip onto her arms as they lay across her drawn-up knees.

‘Simon… My Simon…’

Dot returned to the cafe and ordered a coffee. Sitting with her back to the sea, scanning the little beach cafe that already felt familiar, she decided to make a plan. She couldn’t hide away down here for her entire stay, so once she was acclimatised she would seek out her lover.

‘You look miles away.’ Cilla placed the coffee on the table and sat down opposite her.

‘I’m just thinking, I need to go and see someone, a friend of mine. I’ve come all this way just to see them, but now I’m here I’m not sure how to find them.’ Dot was unsure of how much to tell.

‘Well, if they live around here, chances are I know them. It’s a small place and I’ve lived here my whole life! What’s their name?’