framing a face which looked rested and glowing after only a few hours in the sun.
There were no pavements so Kira walked carefully, side-stepping over the deep drain at the roadside each time she heard a vehicle approaching. Cars, buses, carts, mopeds, bicycles passed her, all rattling and noisy, stereos blaring. She felt safer standing still till they had gone by. Rows of black faces stared and grinned at her from the bus windows, the pop music from the in-bus stereo deafening. They were interested in visitors, particularly those who chose to walk.
The traditional chattel houses were fascinating; so small, doll-like, with neat curtains at their windows and flowers by the centre door, and each one was different in some architectural aspect. As the family grew, they built a similar unit onto the back. In some homes the roof stretched back several units, going up and down at odd slopes.
She paused by a ramshackle house built of wooden planks with wide shutters and a red corrugated iron roof, a tottering veranda all round. It had been built on a rise of ground and a well-swept path led to the open front door. There seemed to be something special about the house because a woman in a brightly-coloured dress and straw hat was sitting outside and showing people in. Surely such a tumbledown place was not a tourist attraction? Kira went closer and read a notice nailed to a wall.
THIS IS THE HOME OF ANDRÉ LA PLANTE, FAMOUS
ARTIST. 1918- 1970. ALL VISITORS ARE WELCOME.
Kira went in, glad to be out of the heat for five minutes. She stood in the darkened hallway and realised that everything had been kept as it once was, as if it was still lived in by this André La Plante. The house was a capsule frozen in time.
She wandered through the rooms, looking at the ornaments and photographs and old copies of newspapers strewn on tables. His pipe was still by his chair, a faded patchwork cushion dented as if by the weight of his back. It was uncanny and Kira shivered for no reason.
The lean-to kitchen was almost primitive with an earthenware sink and a single cold water tap. Mrs La Plante, if there had been one, had had to cook on a kerosene stove and her pots and pans were battered and ancient. Kira looked with interest at the contents of the larder, the packaging outdated and brown-stained.
She went out into a backyard and followed other visitors into another open-sided wooden building. This was the artist’s studio and the walls were hung with his paintings. An easel stood in the sunlit doorway, a half-finished painting on display, his paints and brushes still on a high table at the side.
Kira took a closer look at the paintings. They were vibrant and full of colour and light, mostly native pictures, every aspect of the island and its people. One canvas in particular caught her attention. It was of a young girl, about sixteen or seventeen, running through the waves, sarong wet, her hair flying. He had caught the enthusiasm for life on her radiant face.
"That was his daughter," said another house custodian, from her rocking chair by the entrance to the studio. "Dolly La Plante, when she was a young ‘un. André was always painting her. Pretty thing but a headstrong handful of trouble, I’ve been told."
The woman grinned, her teeth large and berry-stained. She went on talking, gossiping, glad to have an audience, but Kira was hardly listening, her attention transfixed on the painting of Dolly La Plante.
* * *
Dolly ran along the beach, kicking up the powdery white sand with her bare feet. Her hair was flying and her loose cotton dress falling from one shoulder. She clambered over a rocky peninsula into the next bay, which was quieter and had not yet been developed.
She’d heard there were plans to build hotels all along this part of the coast. A tourist boom was predicted for Barbados now that the war was over and there were more flights from Europe and America. She did not like the idea of the privacy of the beaches
There were no pavements so Kira walked carefully, side-stepping over the deep drain at the roadside each time she heard a vehicle approaching. Cars, buses, carts, mopeds, bicycles passed her, all rattling and noisy, stereos blaring. She felt safer standing still till they had gone by. Rows of black faces stared and grinned at her from the bus windows, the pop music from the in-bus stereo deafening. They were interested in visitors, particularly those who chose to walk.
The traditional chattel houses were fascinating; so small, doll-like, with neat curtains at their windows and flowers by the centre door, and each one was different in some architectural aspect. As the family grew, they built a similar unit onto the back. In some homes the roof stretched back several units, going up and down at odd slopes.
She paused by a ramshackle house built of wooden planks with wide shutters and a red corrugated iron roof, a tottering veranda all round. It had been built on a rise of ground and a well-swept path led to the open front door. There seemed to be something special about the house because a woman in a brightly-coloured dress and straw hat was sitting outside and showing people in. Surely such a tumbledown place was not a tourist attraction? Kira went closer and read a notice nailed to a wall.
THIS IS THE HOME OF ANDRÉ LA PLANTE, FAMOUS
ARTIST. 1918- 1970. ALL VISITORS ARE WELCOME.
Kira went in, glad to be out of the heat for five minutes. She stood in the darkened hallway and realised that everything had been kept as it once was, as if it was still lived in by this André La Plante. The house was a capsule frozen in time.
She wandered through the rooms, looking at the ornaments and photographs and old copies of newspapers strewn on tables. His pipe was still by his chair, a faded patchwork cushion dented as if by the weight of his back. It was uncanny and Kira shivered for no reason.
The lean-to kitchen was almost primitive with an earthenware sink and a single cold water tap. Mrs La Plante, if there had been one, had had to cook on a kerosene stove and her pots and pans were battered and ancient. Kira looked with interest at the contents of the larder, the packaging outdated and brown-stained.
She went out into a backyard and followed other visitors into another open-sided wooden building. This was the artist’s studio and the walls were hung with his paintings. An easel stood in the sunlit doorway, a half-finished painting on display, his paints and brushes still on a high table at the side.
Kira took a closer look at the paintings. They were vibrant and full of colour and light, mostly native pictures, every aspect of the island and its people. One canvas in particular caught her attention. It was of a young girl, about sixteen or seventeen, running through the waves, sarong wet, her hair flying. He had caught the enthusiasm for life on her radiant face.
"That was his daughter," said another house custodian, from her rocking chair by the entrance to the studio. "Dolly La Plante, when she was a young ‘un. André was always painting her. Pretty thing but a headstrong handful of trouble, I’ve been told."
The woman grinned, her teeth large and berry-stained. She went on talking, gossiping, glad to have an audience, but Kira was hardly listening, her attention transfixed on the painting of Dolly La Plante.
* * *
Dolly ran along the beach, kicking up the powdery white sand with her bare feet. Her hair was flying and her loose cotton dress falling from one shoulder. She clambered over a rocky peninsula into the next bay, which was quieter and had not yet been developed.
She’d heard there were plans to build hotels all along this part of the coast. A tourist boom was predicted for Barbados now that the war was over and there were more flights from Europe and America. She did not like the idea of the privacy of the beaches
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