self-deprecating smile for an orangeade. But today I’ve no time for this type of thing. Any minute, after all, that bloody girl may break her way out of the pot and – I can’t imagine what.
‘Yes, you can leave it in the Craft Centre,’ Sanjay said to Jim Davy when the beautiful thing was brought ashore, as exciting as finding a dolphin close-up. ‘But don’t forget it’s beyond value.’
‘What’s that great urn thing, Holly?’ Ford said too, when he came two months ago and he’d had to tell me who he was. And I realized he was just the same really. We kissed, as if that time with Teza all those years ago had somehow been the turning point of all our lives.
‘I have poems about beautiful great pots like this, you know, Holly,’ he said; and I felt embarrassed that everyone on St James had decided somehow to ignore the fame and talent of Ford – which you could understand with someone like Mrs Van der Pyck, but Sanjay reads Shakespeare and Tom Jones and things like that out on the verandah by his paraffin lamp. I suppose it took me a long time to figure out that Sanjay hears news from London too, and as far as he’s concerned, Ford has spent years fighting for his overthrow. Yet – you have to hand it to Sanjay – he’d laugh and joke with Ford if he turned up one day, like these little differences of opinion were miles below him.
‘It was found at Laughing Gull Bay,’ I said to Ford, and he turned and made a shrieking noise like one of those laughing gulls that keep me awake in my room at The Heights. For Ford was always merry – I remember that evening in the Coconut Bar, after our picnic at the Lagoon and before he and Teza slipped away in the canoe. He made you laugh when you weren’t expecting to. There was kindness and thought in there, too. He wasn’t a frivolous person even then, not Ford.
‘It’s a vessel for the blood of human sacrifice,’ he said then. ‘An ancient Mayan ritual, Holly. That’s where they camefrom.’ And he went over and stroked the belly of the pot. I felt a bit scared. I thought of one of Lore’s letters, where she described that Panther’s speech where he said that if things didn’t change, a lot of white blood would flow like water before we attain our rightful desires. Poor Ford – whose blood was it that spoilt the millionaire’s blue water half a mile away down Union Bay?
‘I’ll have an orangeade,’ says Sanjay, leaning a little closer on his patched elbow. ‘And an ice-cream,’ he adds hurriedly, for Pandora, dragging her steps like a tired child, stands crowned by the beads and shells in the curtain like she’s just been pulled out of the sea.
‘And how’s your baby, Ford?’ I said that time, and he said, ‘What baby?’ and we both laughed because there’s a way here, where the blooms never change and the sun is always up there or right down under your feet, that you can’t tell the passing of time. Yet, after he’d gone I thought maybe he meant she’s a big girl now, no baby, and you’re no chicken either, Holly. Or maybe he just couldn’t recall walking out on Teza – on purpose by mistake he’s forgotten the whole episode, so to speak. I certainly hope they don’t change the laws too quickly that the man need pay no maintenance in these liberated days, before the women get right on top.
There was a snuffle from the big brown pot and Sanjay swung round. He’s so relaxed in his manner, but he’s as paranoid as the rest of us, you bet. Then his face smoothed out again. My heart was in my shoes but it was OK because Sanjay thought the snuffle came from his daughter Pandora and God knows the wretched girl cries enough. She’s standing behind Sanjay now, with one hand on his arm and he’s trying not to look irritated. It’s a shame the gringos bombed the madhouse in Grenada, but it’s no reason for her not to be sent off somewhere else, I say. And she came up to me and said in that little-girl voice, ‘A Raspberry Ripple,
‘Yes, you can leave it in the Craft Centre,’ Sanjay said to Jim Davy when the beautiful thing was brought ashore, as exciting as finding a dolphin close-up. ‘But don’t forget it’s beyond value.’
‘What’s that great urn thing, Holly?’ Ford said too, when he came two months ago and he’d had to tell me who he was. And I realized he was just the same really. We kissed, as if that time with Teza all those years ago had somehow been the turning point of all our lives.
‘I have poems about beautiful great pots like this, you know, Holly,’ he said; and I felt embarrassed that everyone on St James had decided somehow to ignore the fame and talent of Ford – which you could understand with someone like Mrs Van der Pyck, but Sanjay reads Shakespeare and Tom Jones and things like that out on the verandah by his paraffin lamp. I suppose it took me a long time to figure out that Sanjay hears news from London too, and as far as he’s concerned, Ford has spent years fighting for his overthrow. Yet – you have to hand it to Sanjay – he’d laugh and joke with Ford if he turned up one day, like these little differences of opinion were miles below him.
‘It was found at Laughing Gull Bay,’ I said to Ford, and he turned and made a shrieking noise like one of those laughing gulls that keep me awake in my room at The Heights. For Ford was always merry – I remember that evening in the Coconut Bar, after our picnic at the Lagoon and before he and Teza slipped away in the canoe. He made you laugh when you weren’t expecting to. There was kindness and thought in there, too. He wasn’t a frivolous person even then, not Ford.
‘It’s a vessel for the blood of human sacrifice,’ he said then. ‘An ancient Mayan ritual, Holly. That’s where they camefrom.’ And he went over and stroked the belly of the pot. I felt a bit scared. I thought of one of Lore’s letters, where she described that Panther’s speech where he said that if things didn’t change, a lot of white blood would flow like water before we attain our rightful desires. Poor Ford – whose blood was it that spoilt the millionaire’s blue water half a mile away down Union Bay?
‘I’ll have an orangeade,’ says Sanjay, leaning a little closer on his patched elbow. ‘And an ice-cream,’ he adds hurriedly, for Pandora, dragging her steps like a tired child, stands crowned by the beads and shells in the curtain like she’s just been pulled out of the sea.
‘And how’s your baby, Ford?’ I said that time, and he said, ‘What baby?’ and we both laughed because there’s a way here, where the blooms never change and the sun is always up there or right down under your feet, that you can’t tell the passing of time. Yet, after he’d gone I thought maybe he meant she’s a big girl now, no baby, and you’re no chicken either, Holly. Or maybe he just couldn’t recall walking out on Teza – on purpose by mistake he’s forgotten the whole episode, so to speak. I certainly hope they don’t change the laws too quickly that the man need pay no maintenance in these liberated days, before the women get right on top.
There was a snuffle from the big brown pot and Sanjay swung round. He’s so relaxed in his manner, but he’s as paranoid as the rest of us, you bet. Then his face smoothed out again. My heart was in my shoes but it was OK because Sanjay thought the snuffle came from his daughter Pandora and God knows the wretched girl cries enough. She’s standing behind Sanjay now, with one hand on his arm and he’s trying not to look irritated. It’s a shame the gringos bombed the madhouse in Grenada, but it’s no reason for her not to be sent off somewhere else, I say. And she came up to me and said in that little-girl voice, ‘A Raspberry Ripple,
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