The Day I Fell Off My Island Read online

  Grandpa Sippa would tell two or three stories each night, embellishing them each time one of us children would ask, ‘So a what de duppy do next, Grandpa?’ He would always finish the last story the same way he started the first, with a ‘mi seh crick, an yuh seh crack!’ And with that we knew the evening had ended and it was time for bed. ‘You children, memba yuh have school innah de morning,’ Grandpa would say, as we scurried off.

  Chapter 4

  Rose Hill School was a two-roomed Victorian structure that sat at the top of a rocky outcrop opposite the Anglican church. It seemed a strange place to build a school, or a church for that matter, given that there was plenty of empty land at the bottom of the hill, but I suppose that God and education deserve the highest elevation.

  The daily walk to school was a seven-mile round trip, if you took the main road. The alternative, shorter route featured a series of rocky dirt tracks lined with overgrown vegetation that took you directly through neighbours’ yards. Invariably, this meant that any child who chose to use the shortcut ran the risk of being bitten by snarling, ill-tempered dogs. Thus, dirt track walking was often accompanied by a chorus of ‘Hold yuh dog, mi a beg yuh, hold yuh dog!’ in the hope that the owner, or someone who knew the dog, would be nearby to save us.

  Once the school came into view on its perch high on the hill, I had to decide whether to divert to the main road, or scramble up the steep rocks which would take a good fifteen minutes off my journey. My greatest fear was arriving late, because even with the best of excuses lateness was not tolerated.

  The headmaster, Teacher Palmer, was a stern man. He had the kind of face that looked as though it had never broken into a smile. He ran Rose Hill school like a military camp. Every rule had to be followed, no matter how obviously pointless, and he meted out punishment at every opportunity with his infamous leather strap – which he affectionately named ‘Staffos the Killer’. I sometimes noticed what looked to be glints of pleasure in Teacher Palmer’s face when he used Staffos to beat the boys on their bare backsides. To us girls, he’d give no less than six mighty whacks straight on to the palms of our hands. I suspected that he would have liked to beat our backsides as well, but then he would have had to do so through our clothing, and it appeared that his preference was to hear the lash of Staffos directly on bare skin.

  With no village clock or even a watch to guide me, I learned how to use the position of the sun to estimate the time. On rainy or cloudy days, it was a green silver-backed leaf plucked from a particular tree that I used to predict the time. I would throw the leaf into the air and, if it landed green side up, I was good for time; silver side up meant lateness!

  Teacher Palmer often took up a position at the top of the hill, where he could see every child as we clambered up the rocky path. He would then direct us into separate lines: the ‘registration and inspection’ line for those who were early; the ‘inspection and beating’ line for latecomers.

  By the time I turned nine, I was expected to get myself organ ised for school and help Grandma get the boys ready, before walking them twenty minutes out of my way to Miss Lucy’s basic school. (Strangely, on school days Patricia would get herself up, dressed and out of the house in record time.) Sometimes, the extra chore caused me to be late for school and, on such occasions, rather than face Teacher Palmer and Staffos I would spend the day hiding in the nearby woods, where I’d read and re-read the story of David Copperfield. At the end of the school day, I would return home pretending to have been at school all day. The trick was either to avoid the other children or to make up an elaborate lie to avoid being caught out.

  But, one day, it was my third time late in a week and there was no question of hiding out in the woods three times in a row. For sure the news of my absence from school would get back to my village; there was always a loudmouth who might spill the beans. When I arrived, Teacher Palmer was already part way through his morning talk, which always came across as more of a fervent sermon. As I approached, I could hear his booming preacher denunciations from outside the two-roomed school building. There was only one entrance for late comers: the door nearest Teacher Palmer’s lectern. I snuck in and tried to merge my body into the space held by another girl, but Teacher’s eagle eyes spotted me instantly. He darted me a look which left little doubt of my punishment to come.

  ‘So, Erna, yuh mek it to school again today! Mi sure seh Teacher Palmer was happy to see yuh, man!’ said Tony, at our first break. Tony was my friend Dorcas’s brother, so, like Dorcas, was a cousin several times removed. He was always in trouble with Teacher Palmer for looking scruffy – even first thing on a Monday morning, his uniform looked like he’d slept in it all night.

  Cousin or not, I didn’t really take Tony seriously. He was a boy and he didn’t have half the chores that I had to complete before setting out for school, so getting to school on time was never a problem for him.

  ‘Lef me, man, unless yuh want mi fi buss yuh backfoot again,’ I said in response to his sarcastic remark.

  Tony had always had too much to say about things that were none of his business. I’d beaten him in two fights the previous week after he’d stolen a penny from Patricia, which she had saved specially to buy sweets. I’d sent him home with his khaki uniform ripped up in several places. When he told his mother, Miss Clara, what had happened, she gave him another hiding for letting a girl beat him up. Then I fought him again when he commented on my buck teeth.

  I was late that third morning running because I’d chosen to use the short cut, despite the risks. As I made my way through the village, accompanied by the growls and barking of dogs, I heard the most terrifying screams. At first, I thought it was Mass Calvin beating his wife, Miss Gina, again, but then I remembered that Miss Gina had run away from the district after one beating too many – apparently Mass Calvin had hit his wife with a chair leg, busting her head open. She’d sent a message from the hospital telling him to take care of their daughter, because she wasn’t coming back. I soon realised that the screams had to be coming from their daughter, Delphine, another of my cousins, at least three times removed. She hadn’t been seen at school or out and about in the village for several months. Questions about what had become of her had died down when a rumour spread that she’d run away to live with her mother. But now I was worried that Mass Calvin had turned his angry self on his daughter and was trying to bust her head open too.

  ‘A dead mi a go dead! Dis a too much pain! Lard a dead mi a go dead!’ It was clearly Delphine that I could hear shouting. ‘Murder woe! Murder woe!’ she wailed, ‘Mi kyaan tek no more a de pain, Miss Melba!’

  She must have come back to the village without anyone knowing.

  ‘Mi know it hard fi yuh, chile, but yuh kyan do it,’ I heard Grandma Melba reply, ‘yuh hafi persevere. Yuh nuh ave choice now! Mi nuh know who did dis ting to yuh, but God willing everyting wi come right. Yuh jus push hard when mi tell yuh.’

  Grandma had left the house very early that morning, telling Grandpa that she had some business to attend to, and now she was at Delphine’s house – so clearly it wasn’t Mass Calvin beating Delphine, it was my Grandma Melba helping her with… I didn’t know what. I waited for a while at the end of the path listening to Delphine’s screams get louder and more anguished. Sometimes it sounded like she was having trouble breathing, then she would let out a loud groan and go silent for a while. Suddenly, Delphine started screaming again, ‘Miss Melba, yuh might as well kill mi now! Mi prefer fi dead. Mi nuh waan fi do dis!’

  I silently prayed that whatever was happening to Delphine never happened to me, and I also prayed really hard that my Grandma wouldn’t listen to her and kill her. I lost a lot of time standing at the bottom of Delphine’s yard and by the time I finally got to school I was tired and upset and ready for a fight. Tony didn’t help himself by getting on the wrong side of me that morning; I hardly even noticed the six licks that I had to endure from Staffos. On my way back through the village that afternoon, I noticed Grandma Melba sitti
ng on the verandah of Delphine’s house. There was total quiet. Grandma’s head was slumped on to her chest and I could see that she was more tired than usual. I approached on tiptoes, but somehow she heard me and lifted her head with a start.

  ‘A weh yuh creep up pon mi like dat fa, child?’

  I realised she’d been catching up on some much-needed sleep.

  ‘Yuh hereso all day, Grandma Melba?’ I asked.

  ‘Since marning!’ she replied. ‘Mi whole day dun yasso.’ Grandma lifted herself with some effort from the old wicker chair. ‘Come wit mi, Erna. Mi waan fi show yuh de kind a trouble yuh mus keep yuhself fram.’

  She led me by the hand into a room lit by a Tilley lamp hanging from the ceiling on a hook. Delphine was sitting propped upright on a wooden bed holding the smallest baby I’d ever seen. She was much fatter than the last time I’d seen her. On her previously flat twelve-year-old chest she now had two enormous woman-sized breasts. The baby’s tiny mouth was clamped firmly to a nipple.

  ‘Where yuh get a baby from?’ I asked her.

  ‘From the bogeyman,’ she responded.

  ‘Is your baby?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, a my baby. His name is Leslie.’

  ‘Where yuh did see de bogeyman and why him give yuh baby?’

  Suddenly Grandma Melba, who’d left me alone with Delphine and baby Leslie, bellowed from the verandah, ‘Erna! Stop wit yuh dyam foolish question dem. Yuh nuh see de pickney dead a tiredness?’

  The news had got to school the following day, long before I arrived. ‘Delphine ave baby! De bogeyman give it to har!’ someone shouted, as soon as I stepped into the school yard.

  Teacher Palmer’s lesson that morning went like this: ‘I want all you childen to open your ears and listen! Especially you girl children. I must warn you, the devil work in mysterious ways. When you put your mind to your learning,’ he beseeched, ‘you will not find time to go romping with the devil.’

  Delphine didn’t return to school. Her mother wasn’t around and her grandmother was too frail to help her. Instead, she remained at home and in between taking care of Leslie she worked on the family’s smallholding. When Leslie grew to a size where other children were comfortable to hold him, I would stop by Delphine’s house and play with him.

  Just under a year after Leslie was born, I was making my way to school one Monday morning through the village when I heard Delphine weeping from inside the same room where she’d given birth. This time there was no screaming, just a deep, dull wailing. I’d left my grandmother at home, so I was sure that Delphine wasn’t having another baby. I walked on slowly to school full of contemplation and dread. On my way back that afternoon I discovered Grandma in Delphine’s yard, along with a bunch of neighbours. Everyone had black bands around their wrists and some of the women were wearing black headscarves. I knew immediately that someone had died, but who?

  This time, it was my Grandma who called me over.

  ‘De baby bwoy dead,’ Grandma Melba said in a voice thick with emotion. ‘Who know why de good Lord bring dese kind a trial pon sumady so young?’

  Delphine could be heard loudly sobbing inside. I had no idea what I could say to her, so I remained outside with Grandma. It turned out that little Leslie had developed a terrible fever during the night and died before anyone could get him to a doctor.

  ‘De poor ting nevah had a chance!’ said one of the mourners.

  I felt overcome with sadness for Delphine. At the age of only thirteen she’d experienced the birth and death of her child. I was a whole three years younger than her but I was acutely aware of the profound nature of what had happened and I couldn’t get the knowledge of baby Leslie’s death out of my head. I’d only stopped to play with him a day earlier. His little round belly had vibrated with laughter as he watched my old wooden peg spin out of control and dig itself into the caked earth. I wasn’t sure why this had made him laugh so much, but it hadn’t mattered. It was lovely just to see his funny little face all scrunched up with enjoyment. Delphine had come over and sat down alongside her son, clearly enjoying watching him having fun. And now he was gone.

  The next morning, Teacher Palmer’s weekly inspection of our uniform and overall presentation was due. My heart felt ready to break for both little Leslie and Delphine, but I doubted that even the story of Delphine’s dead baby would have softened Teacher in any way. We all hated these inspections, because we knew that most of us would be called out on something. Teacher Palmer walked down the line, missing out the children whose presentation immediately met his approval. He came to a stop directly in front of me, and with his wooden ruler he carefully lifted the collar of my white blouse. He used the ruler to move apart the pleats of my pinafore, checking that each one was properly ironed into place. Then he whipped out a pencil from his breast pocket and poked it roughly through my plaits. I had head lice at the time and I prayed hard that he wouldn’t spot one of the horrid little creatures streaking across my partings. But it was my lucky day, not one single louse revealed itself, and cousin Petra, who was one of Grandma Melba’s nieces, had made a great job of my hair that morning, so when Teacher Palmer pushed his pencil into the three large plaits, it ran smoothly through. The boys’ inspections included checking that their hair was cut regulation short, partings were in the right place, and their khaki shirts and shorts were clean and stiffly pressed. My brother Clifton, who had now joined us at Rose Hill, had his hair with a high-top and shaved sides, yet somehow managed to pass Teacher Palmer’s inspection. Perhaps it was because – as I secretly believed – Teacher Palmer liked Clifton’s style as much as the neatness of the cut; for anyone else, such breaches would have surely incurred his wrath.

  After inspections were complete, Teacher Palmer surprised us all with one of his sermons.

  ‘Children,’ he bellowed from his platform, ‘this morning, I would like us all to come together and join hands. I want us to pray for the innocent soul of little Leslie Belton. Leslie was only one year old when the good Lord decided to take him away from the sins of this world. It may seem to some that his life was too short, or that his death was untimely, but we know different. The Lord does not make mistakes. But we are not all equipped to deal with the Lord’s decisions. We are lowly sinners! Today, oh Lord, we bow our heads in prayer and we pray, oh Lord, for his young mother, Delphine, a formerly diligent and respected student of this school. We know, oh Lord Jesus, that baby Leslie is without sin and so is due to take his place by your father’s feet in Heaven with the angels. Amen! Glory be to God!’

  ‘Amen,’ we all echoed.

  Within a week of little Leslie’s funeral, things were back to normal. Mass Calvin decided to send Delphine to stay with a relative in town who promised to get her a job as a housekeeper, and back at school talk of Leslie’s death quietened down. It was obvious that the whole episode of his birth and sudden death was something the rest of us, the girls in particular, struggled to comprehend, and certainly nothing Teacher Palmer had said in his sermon helped. Nevertheless, I couldn’t avoid the daunting possibility that some of these strange mysteries of life and death would also be visited upon me one day. It was girls and women whose stomachs grew full with babies. How, I wondered, did these babies get into their stomachs? And what exactly did my grandma do to help the babies get out again? And, as for death, everything about it seemed so frightening and final – was it just night-time when death stole folks away? I had so many questions, but didn’t know where to find the answers to these mysteries.

  Chapter 5

  The Pentecostal church in my village stood in stark contrast to the Anglican church, which was across the road from Rose Hill School and was the most beautiful building to be in, and to sing in. The Pentecostal church had no walls, just a zinc roof that was held up by wooden poles. The seats were makeshift and were never sufficient for the mass of people who would turn up from neighbouring villages on Sunday mornings. The congregation consisted mainly of older women, and the pastor, who was an eloquent speake
r, had a way of whipping up his flock into a frenzy. Not long into his sermons, one or two of the women would begin to shake violently. This would be followed by shouts of ‘Praise de Lord! Praise im! Praise his holy name!’ while the rest of the congregation would get louder, singing and clapping their hands, and the women would start speaking in tongues as the spirits entered them.

  ‘De Holy Spirit has entered sister Ivy and sister Julia!’ the pastor would scream, as he jumped up and down in front of his little podium like he was also possessed. ‘Praise God, praise be to de one an only mighty God! He is speaking truth through our dear sisters today! Praise him!’

  During these visitations, the affected women would throw themselves on the floor and writhe around, oblivious to any danger. Women who were entered by bad spirits foamed at the mouth and clutched at their crotches – the belief being that was the way the bad spirits got in, and that was the way they had to be made to leave. In contrast, the good spirits had the women behaving in a way that was – I reflected much later when I understood such things – almost orgasmic. The minister in the meantime would join the women writhing on the ground. It was a spectacle worth going to church for, particularly as no one could be sure which women would get what kind of spirit. In many ways, it was the best entertainment available for us villagers – we had never seen a television, and cinemas were something only the most well-travelled people had ever encountered. It was certainly far more entertaining than the Anglican church, but I’d joined the school choir, and choir practice took place there twice a week. Unlike the homely wooden school and the Pentecostal church, the Anglican church was built with granite and limestone. It had long, stained-glass windows that caught the sun and reflected vivid colours all around the inside of the building, solid shiny wooden benches with carved-out wooden pockets for holding Bibles lined the aisle, leaving a clear walkway to the altar. High above the altar a huge wooden cross took centre stage with a painting of the twelve white apostles beneath it. It was here that I felt most in awe of God and removed from the ordinariness of village life, but I was still unable to find answers to the questions that concerned me most, like the death of baby Leslie, or how Delphine had got him in the first place.