places.
"Why have you stopped?" said Dolly, leaning up on one elbow, tickling his face with a stem of dry grass. "Please kiss-kiss me some more."
"I can’t. You know what it does to me. Drives me crazy. We shouldn’t keep meeting like this, secretly."
Her hand went down to the hardened shape between his legs, curious as to what it meant. Reuben pushed her away, rough and impatient, and sat up.
"Don’t touch me," he choked angrily. "Don’t you know anything?"
"No, I don’t know. I haven’t got a mother, you know that. Please, Reuben, I can’t stand it when you’re angry with me. What have I done?"
Tears welled in her eyes and Reuben couldn’t stand that either. He kissed away the tears and held her more gently, stroking her hair and her face. The tempest in his loins subsided and he pulled the shoulder of her frock back into place.
"Now you are all neat and tidy again," he said, as if he was dressing a child for Sunday church. Sometimes Dolly was like a child to him. An enchanting child in a woman’s body. He would not find the strength to resist her forever.
* * *
Kira stared at the painting of the girl flying across the sand, bridging time with each caught breath. Was this her grandmother? There was something familiar about the girl’s face, almost as if Kira was looking at herself. Tamara had told her that her grandmother’s name was Dolly. Kira didn’t remember exactly. It could have been in a dream.
She left the painter’s house and continued walking. Some of the chattel houses had been abandoned to the elements and rotted away. There were quite a few fire-gutted ruins. Wooden homes were a fire hazard.
The concrete houses were newer, mostly built in the plantation style with a central flight of steps up to the front door, raised to escape the rain.
Kira lost herself in trying to remember exactly what her mother, Tamara, had said. But it had been a difficult time and there was nothing she could do to clear the fog. And now she desperately wanted to know. It was like a pain in her side. She wanted to know so much.
Seven
Kira delighted in the wild flowers blooming everywhere; they lightened the moment of gloom. Every nook and cranny was a cascade of blossom, hibiscus, wild orchids, bougainvillea, the delicate frangipani, the flamboyant poinsettia growing wild. It was a riot of colour, such a contrast to the grey London she had left behind. She noticed many trees on the leeward-side of the beach, on which warning signs had been nailed:
"These green apples are poisonous."
The trees were heavily laden with small crab-like frui t.
"They’re manchineel trees," said a small boy, kicking stones. "Very bad to eat, miss. Make stomach bad."
"Thank you," she said. "I won’t eat them."
Kira asked several times for directions to Fitt’s House. The answers were pleasantly vague but she gathered that she was going in the right direction. Walking the leafy lanes, she could think herself back in England, except that no English hedgerows were laced with such exotic blooms.
Benjamin Reed must be influential, if not rich, if he was the President of the Sugar Growers’ Association. He would have bought his property and land before the prices soared with the tourist boom. Kira imagined a grand colonial house with an imposing entrance and flight of steps; her thoughts momentarily bitter with her own memories of damp bedsitters.
She wandered along a lane looking for house names, but there were none. Two square gate posts flanked a pair of rusty ironwork gates and beyond was a garden that was a disordered tangle of trees and shrubs and flowers. A winding central drive led to a house that was built of pink coral, the coral bleached and faded by years of sunshine and rain.
She caught sight of a wide flight of steps that led up to a blue-green veined stone archway, decorated with diamonds of turquoise stones. A jungle of plants and flowers in terracotta pots fought for places on the steps. Two
"Why have you stopped?" said Dolly, leaning up on one elbow, tickling his face with a stem of dry grass. "Please kiss-kiss me some more."
"I can’t. You know what it does to me. Drives me crazy. We shouldn’t keep meeting like this, secretly."
Her hand went down to the hardened shape between his legs, curious as to what it meant. Reuben pushed her away, rough and impatient, and sat up.
"Don’t touch me," he choked angrily. "Don’t you know anything?"
"No, I don’t know. I haven’t got a mother, you know that. Please, Reuben, I can’t stand it when you’re angry with me. What have I done?"
Tears welled in her eyes and Reuben couldn’t stand that either. He kissed away the tears and held her more gently, stroking her hair and her face. The tempest in his loins subsided and he pulled the shoulder of her frock back into place.
"Now you are all neat and tidy again," he said, as if he was dressing a child for Sunday church. Sometimes Dolly was like a child to him. An enchanting child in a woman’s body. He would not find the strength to resist her forever.
* * *
Kira stared at the painting of the girl flying across the sand, bridging time with each caught breath. Was this her grandmother? There was something familiar about the girl’s face, almost as if Kira was looking at herself. Tamara had told her that her grandmother’s name was Dolly. Kira didn’t remember exactly. It could have been in a dream.
She left the painter’s house and continued walking. Some of the chattel houses had been abandoned to the elements and rotted away. There were quite a few fire-gutted ruins. Wooden homes were a fire hazard.
The concrete houses were newer, mostly built in the plantation style with a central flight of steps up to the front door, raised to escape the rain.
Kira lost herself in trying to remember exactly what her mother, Tamara, had said. But it had been a difficult time and there was nothing she could do to clear the fog. And now she desperately wanted to know. It was like a pain in her side. She wanted to know so much.
Seven
Kira delighted in the wild flowers blooming everywhere; they lightened the moment of gloom. Every nook and cranny was a cascade of blossom, hibiscus, wild orchids, bougainvillea, the delicate frangipani, the flamboyant poinsettia growing wild. It was a riot of colour, such a contrast to the grey London she had left behind. She noticed many trees on the leeward-side of the beach, on which warning signs had been nailed:
"These green apples are poisonous."
The trees were heavily laden with small crab-like frui t.
"They’re manchineel trees," said a small boy, kicking stones. "Very bad to eat, miss. Make stomach bad."
"Thank you," she said. "I won’t eat them."
Kira asked several times for directions to Fitt’s House. The answers were pleasantly vague but she gathered that she was going in the right direction. Walking the leafy lanes, she could think herself back in England, except that no English hedgerows were laced with such exotic blooms.
Benjamin Reed must be influential, if not rich, if he was the President of the Sugar Growers’ Association. He would have bought his property and land before the prices soared with the tourist boom. Kira imagined a grand colonial house with an imposing entrance and flight of steps; her thoughts momentarily bitter with her own memories of damp bedsitters.
She wandered along a lane looking for house names, but there were none. Two square gate posts flanked a pair of rusty ironwork gates and beyond was a garden that was a disordered tangle of trees and shrubs and flowers. A winding central drive led to a house that was built of pink coral, the coral bleached and faded by years of sunshine and rain.
She caught sight of a wide flight of steps that led up to a blue-green veined stone archway, decorated with diamonds of turquoise stones. A jungle of plants and flowers in terracotta pots fought for places on the steps. Two
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