was embarrassed – her white cheeks flushing.
And that mischievous Michael made it worse by laughing at my employer saying, ‘Was it in a grocery store?’ which made her glow like a lantern.
Mr Ryder shook his head when I enquired if he knew Michael. ‘I don’t believe I have met Mr Roberts’s son since his return. Although I have heard people speak of him.’ But then, without a word, he turned back to stamping books when I remarked that Mrs Ryder thought she had met Michael at church.
‘Oh, Hortense! What does it matter where I first met the woman?’ Michael was vexed when we walked home. ‘It is no concern of yours. Just hush now.’
Michael frequently chaperoned me along the dirt road from town. He always made some feeble excuse to be there with me – on a little business or an errand. Sometimes he held out his gentleman’s elbow for me to slip my arm through and we would catch the stares of people who thought we looked a fine young couple. At other times I would find him hiding – pretending he had not come to see me at all. He would feign surprise when I tapped his shoulder or waved at him from a distance. And I played along by giggling gracefully at the joke.
A hurricane can make cows fly. It can tear trees from the ground, toss them in the air and snap them like twigs. A house can be picked up, its four walls parted, its roof twisted, and everything scattered in a divine game of hide-and-seek. This savage wind could make even the ‘rock of ages’ take to the air and float off as light as a bird’s wing.
But a hurricane does not come without warning. News of the gathering storm would sweep the island as swiftly as any breeze, scattering rumours of its speed, the position of its eye, the measure of its breath. I was too far from home to return safely on the day of the hurricane and Mrs Ryder needed my assistance. Luckily no children had yet arrived for the school term but the building had to be prepared for the onslaught to come. And her husband was nowhere to be found. ‘He’ll be somewhere safe – I know it,’ Mrs Ryder told me, without concern. ‘This will be my first hurricane and I don’t mind telling you, Hortense, I find it quite exciting.’ She skipped like a giddy girl, bolting the shutters with a delighted laugh. She hummed a song as we stowed chairs and desks and locked cupboards. She looked in the mirror, combing her hair, before we secured the doors. And turning to me she said, ‘Wouldn’t it be something to stand in a hurricane, to feel the full force of God’s power in all its might?’ But I was saying a prayer that the schoolhouse roof would stand firm and did not bother to answer such a ridiculous notion.
It was no surprise to me when Michael knocked at the door of the schoolhouse. For how could he stay at home during a hurricane? After leading the agitated goats and chickens, flapping and straining, into the safety of the barn; after securing the shutters, shaking them as ferociously as a man could, then checking them again – twice, three times; after leading Miss Jewel and Miss Ma to gather up lamps, chocolate and water, he would have to sit confined in the windowless room at the centre of the house with Mr Philip. And the rage inside would have blown as fierce as the tempest outside. So Michael ran two miles to be with me on the day of the hurricane. Two miles through an eerie birdless silence that scared as much as the wind that followed.
Was his shirt wet from the rain or the exertion of running? It cleaved to the muscles of his body, transparent in patches, revealing his smooth brown skin underneath. His chest was rising and bulging with every lungful of panted breath. Sweat dripped from his forehead, down his cheek and over his full lips. ‘Michael Roberts,’ I told him at the door, ‘I am capable of looking after myself. You do not have to come all the time to protect me.’ Looking in my eye without a word he pulled the clinging shirt from his body,
And that mischievous Michael made it worse by laughing at my employer saying, ‘Was it in a grocery store?’ which made her glow like a lantern.
Mr Ryder shook his head when I enquired if he knew Michael. ‘I don’t believe I have met Mr Roberts’s son since his return. Although I have heard people speak of him.’ But then, without a word, he turned back to stamping books when I remarked that Mrs Ryder thought she had met Michael at church.
‘Oh, Hortense! What does it matter where I first met the woman?’ Michael was vexed when we walked home. ‘It is no concern of yours. Just hush now.’
Michael frequently chaperoned me along the dirt road from town. He always made some feeble excuse to be there with me – on a little business or an errand. Sometimes he held out his gentleman’s elbow for me to slip my arm through and we would catch the stares of people who thought we looked a fine young couple. At other times I would find him hiding – pretending he had not come to see me at all. He would feign surprise when I tapped his shoulder or waved at him from a distance. And I played along by giggling gracefully at the joke.
A hurricane can make cows fly. It can tear trees from the ground, toss them in the air and snap them like twigs. A house can be picked up, its four walls parted, its roof twisted, and everything scattered in a divine game of hide-and-seek. This savage wind could make even the ‘rock of ages’ take to the air and float off as light as a bird’s wing.
But a hurricane does not come without warning. News of the gathering storm would sweep the island as swiftly as any breeze, scattering rumours of its speed, the position of its eye, the measure of its breath. I was too far from home to return safely on the day of the hurricane and Mrs Ryder needed my assistance. Luckily no children had yet arrived for the school term but the building had to be prepared for the onslaught to come. And her husband was nowhere to be found. ‘He’ll be somewhere safe – I know it,’ Mrs Ryder told me, without concern. ‘This will be my first hurricane and I don’t mind telling you, Hortense, I find it quite exciting.’ She skipped like a giddy girl, bolting the shutters with a delighted laugh. She hummed a song as we stowed chairs and desks and locked cupboards. She looked in the mirror, combing her hair, before we secured the doors. And turning to me she said, ‘Wouldn’t it be something to stand in a hurricane, to feel the full force of God’s power in all its might?’ But I was saying a prayer that the schoolhouse roof would stand firm and did not bother to answer such a ridiculous notion.
It was no surprise to me when Michael knocked at the door of the schoolhouse. For how could he stay at home during a hurricane? After leading the agitated goats and chickens, flapping and straining, into the safety of the barn; after securing the shutters, shaking them as ferociously as a man could, then checking them again – twice, three times; after leading Miss Jewel and Miss Ma to gather up lamps, chocolate and water, he would have to sit confined in the windowless room at the centre of the house with Mr Philip. And the rage inside would have blown as fierce as the tempest outside. So Michael ran two miles to be with me on the day of the hurricane. Two miles through an eerie birdless silence that scared as much as the wind that followed.
Was his shirt wet from the rain or the exertion of running? It cleaved to the muscles of his body, transparent in patches, revealing his smooth brown skin underneath. His chest was rising and bulging with every lungful of panted breath. Sweat dripped from his forehead, down his cheek and over his full lips. ‘Michael Roberts,’ I told him at the door, ‘I am capable of looking after myself. You do not have to come all the time to protect me.’ Looking in my eye without a word he pulled the clinging shirt from his body,
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