Authors: Amanda Prowse
Dot looked at the woman she had known her whole life and realised that she did not know her at all.
Joan ran out onto the pavement in her slippers. ‘Here they are! Reg, they’re here!’ Taking the pram by the handle, she manoeuvred it into the hallway, then whipped her granddaughter out from beneath the covers and took her into the back room, where a nice fire roared.
‘What did she want, the nosey cow?’ Joan enquired as Dot shrugged her arms from her mac.
‘Oh, the usual, Mum, just passing the time of day.’
‘I’ve made Wally a nice stew with a bit of fruit cake for his afters.’
‘He’ll be happy.’ Dot smiled. ‘He’ll be here soon as he’s finished work.’
Twenty minutes later the door bell rang and in rushed Barb. ‘Blimey, it’s taters out there! Right, where is it?’
‘Gawd, give me a chance! You’ve only just walked in the bloody door. It’s upstairs.’
The two girls thundered up the stairs as they had a million times before and flung open the door of Dot’s old room. And there it was, hanging on the back of the door.
Barb stared at the creation in the most vibrant blue she had seen. ‘Can I try it on?’ she whispered.
Dot nodded.
Barb slipped the silky material over her head and felt it fall down over her body. The single strap ran over one shoulder to attach to the gathered bodice at the front. The fabric seemed to drape itself around her form, its elegant folds accentuating her tiny waist. It was part Grecian, part haute couture. It was perfect.
‘I love it, Dot, I really love it. How do I look?’
‘Like a bloody film star, mate.’
‘Like Grace Kelly?’
‘Yep, like GracebloodyKelly.’
‘Fancy a walk up the docks, Dot?’
‘Yeah, I’ll get me coat.’
Barb changed out of the frock and the two thundered back down the stairs.
‘Jesus Christ, you sound like you’re coming through the bloody ceiling!’ Reg shouted from behind the newspaper.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
‘Sorry, Mr S.’
Joan, sitting opposite her husband, held the sleeping Cheryl in her arms. ‘And where might you two be off to?’
‘We’re just off for a walk, Mum. Won’t be long.’
‘That’s a good idea, you two go and catch up. I need to get Wally’s dumplings in, but your dad can look after the baby.’ With that she rose and plonked the sleeping infant in her husband’s awkward arms.
‘Oi! I can’t look after a bleeding baby! It’s woman’s work!’ Reg hollered as he shifted his elbow to make sure Cheryl’s little head was properly supported.
‘I shouldn’t worry, Reg, Dee’ll be in from school in a bit and you won’t get a bloody look in. I’d make the most of it if I were you.’
Dot and Barb slipped from the room. Dot peeked through the tiny gap and spied her dad kissing his granddaughter’s scalp.
‘You is a right little bobby dazzler, nearly as lovely as your mum, but not quite, but then I’m biased, aren’t I? She stole my heart on the day she arrived and she ain’t given it back yet.’
‘Everything all right, Dot?’ Barb asked as her friend sniffed back her tears.
‘Yep, everything’s fine.’
The two linked arms and made their way to the docks, where they perched on the flat-topped bollards. The wind started to bite as it skimmed the choppy water. They pulled their cardigan sleeves down over their hands and with shoulders hunched forward shouted to each other as their voices navigated the wind.
‘I’m bloody freezing!’
‘Me too! Dot, look – my fag’s stuck to my lip!’ Barb opened her mouth wide, to show her mate that her roll-up was indeed hanging free of assistance from her gob. They laughed loudly. This wasn’t unusual, they laughed at most things, sometimes because they were funny, but mainly because they knew that life was pretty good.
Dot felt a pang as she remembered the last time she had laughed like that, a time before she had loved, a time before she had suffered loss. Her mum was right about one thing: life was a bucketful of memories and regrets, it weren’t no fairy tale. She considered the life that stretched ahead of her, a different life from the one she had once planned, but a good life nonetheless. She would take comfort in the small things and be thankful for her calm heart and clear mind. Dot was a survivor. She knew she could get through just about anything, with a little love and luck.
Epilogue: Forty-five Years Later
Simon slowly trod the brick path that led through the wrought-iron gates and up to the majestic front of the Jasmine House. He took in the wide, white-wood terrace with its clusters of rattan furniture and vintage fans operated by pulleys suspended from the awnings. The large sash windows allowed a glimpse into this mansion from a bygone era; the polished wooden floors, brass ceiling fans and wooden louvered doors reminded him of the pictures he had seen of the plantation houses in history books. The ancient palms swayed overhead, providing cool shade from the heat of the midday sun. Conch shells peppered the flower-bed borders and the beds themselves were so beautiful that they drew your eye, planted with a luscious display of variegated shrubs and bursts of flowers in fiery shades, arranged with colour-coordinated precision.
The sweeping lawn was of the deepest green, with none of the bare patches that blighted most grass on St Lucia. Simon recognised the patient hand of a dedicated gardener. Jasmine plants climbed over trellises and arches, filling the place with their heady scent. The delicate white flowers hung in drooping bouquets, clustered around entrances and walkways, giving the whole garden an air of matrimonial elegance. Where the blooms littered the path, Simon squashed them underfoot, releasing their perfume with his every step. He looked down at the path and there under his sandal he spied a brown metal hair pin, the sort that would hold a bun in place. It was rusted, old. Its V-shape looked like a little arrow, pointing towards the front door, guiding him home. He stooped and picked up the fiddly little thing and for some reason decided to pop it into his pocket, a memento.
He coughed as he approached the front door and noted the slight tremor in his right hand. He was nervous. He reached out and curled his fingers around the brass bell pull, hesitating slightly before releasing it. The action was so much more than the simple ring of a bell: it was a summoning across decades, an echo back to the past and the levering open of a chest of memories that might have been sealed a very long time ago. He hadn’t planned what he would say, but prayed that God would loosen his tongue and give him the words when the time was right.
He heard the bell tinkling inside as he hovered on the step. He smoothed his shirt to rid it of any creases, but also to soak up the sweat that peppered his palm. He exhaled through bloated cheeks, trying to calm his erratic pulse. After what felt like an age, the door was opened briskly and widely. Simon lowered his eyes until his gaze settled on the face of the diminutive housekeeper. The woman had to be in her nineties, with a bird-like demeanour and bright, fearless eyes that shone from her crêpe-skinned face; her dress was of the palest pink cotton and was starched to within an inch of its life.
‘Yes?’ Her tone was brisk. Simon wasn’t sure if this was because she had been in the middle of doing something or because she’d taken an instant dislike to his face.
‘Hello, I’m Simon Dubois, Reverend Simon Dubois. I’ve just opened the mission up at Dennery and wanted to come and introduce myself.’
She seemed unmoved by either his speech or his status. Simon smiled at her and opted for a different tack. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping for a word with Major Arbuthnott, if it’s at all possible.’
She opened the door wide and beckoned the reverend inside. ‘Wait here,’ she said and, without turning her head, strode purposefully towards the back of the house.
The great hall in which Simon found himself was vast, almost as big as the entire footprint of the mission in which he now resided. The dark mahogany floor was polished to a high sheen; the same wood formed the treads of the wide stairs that wound their way up, forming a wide gallery that ran to the left and right at the top of the staircase. The history of Simon’s ancestors was all around him, if only he’d known where to look. Each stair had a rounded dip in its centre, eroded by the daily tread of feet across a hundred and fifty years. The anxious fleeing feet of Sarah Arbuthnott, desperate to return to her native Scotland; the light bare feet of the beloved Mary-Jane, eagerly skipping from the bedroom to the kitchen; the dancing steps of Patience, up and down countless times a day at the behest of the charge to whom she was devoted; and the weary booted steps of Simon’s father, each touch leaving the imprint of a heavy heart, laden with what if’s and echoing into the silent rafters of an empty house. Vida Arbuthnott had many years to reflect on her words:
‘When you marry the girl that you are supposed to and the Jasmine House is full of tiny children, you will thank me then.’
She passed away without being thanked or becoming a grandma. Sadly, Solomon’s ex-wife had miscarried their child and they divorced very quickly after. Angelica had returned to Martinique, where she remarried, this time to a man that loved her, and went on to become mother to twin boys, and then a grandma.
A giant fan whirred half-heartedly from beneath the domed ceiling, chopping at the heat of the day and sending it downwards to bathe the beautiful objects that had been placed on half-moon tables – vast, ornate china lamps with woven conical shades, silver-framed photos of broad-chested military men, and sparkling crystal decanters with silver name-plates looped over their fat necks.
The housekeeper reappeared. ‘Follow me.’
Simon did not have to alter the stride of his six-foot-three frame to accommodate the old woman; she was nimble. Double doors led into a huge study that was dominated by a desk that sat centrally, surrounded by shelves that bulged with leather-bound books and journals. Here, more small tables, placed beside leather wing-backed chairs, were littered with beautiful sparkling things: a crystal fruit bowl sat alongside heavy brass curios that looked like ships’ instruments.
The leather-topped bureau was ordered, despite its clutter. A stack of papers sat neatly and squarely in a wire basket. A large leather-bound blotter had a Mont Blanc pen set and a chunky glass-and-brass inkwell lined up along its top edge. An oversized brass lamp shone from the corner and various pots held a selection of pencils that Simon noted were all perfectly sharpened. Simon stared at a glass shadow box on the wall, approximately eight inches wide and double that in length. It contained nothing more than a length of velvet ribbon, once red, but now faded with age and sunlight into the colour of a dark rose.
The room was open to the garden; tall shutters were pushed back to the sides, making the space at one with the outside. Some of the more daring ferns were growing inwards with their pointed tips dipping into the cool shadows. The deck continued around the back of the house and on the top step, with his back to the room, sat Major Solomon Arbuthnott. His arm was extended and with his palm cupped he beckoned towards the peahen that strutted majestically in front of him.
Simon hadn’t known what to expect, had tried, in fact, not to conjure an image that was too detailed, or to imagine the interaction; that would surely be a path to disappointment. Solomon Arbuthnott was smaller than he might have expected – muscled but slim, and with none of the bulk or height that gave Simon his presence.
‘Come and sit down.’ The major spoke over his shoulder in a tone that was neither welcoming nor dismissive.
Simon took his place on the top step of the deck and pulled his knees up under his arms; his large feet, comfortable in deck shoes, hung over the edge. He studied his father’s profile, old but still in good shape, with the line-free face of a man half his age. His hair was white and close cropped, his shoulders still had good definition, but were let down by the slight bow of a spine that had spent too long bent over a desk into the wee small hours. His cream linen trousers were bunched up around his thighs, revealing cotton-socked feet inside tan-coloured Oxfords.
‘You feed her like this?’ Simon was curious.
‘I hope to, one day, yes. But maybe not today. Slowly, slowly…’
The major turned to face the new reverend sitting on the step next to him. ‘So, reverend, eh?’
Simon nodded.
‘I read about your project up at Dennery; it’s a noble thing. How many kids you have up there now?’
‘About twenty, sir, but that can change on a weekly basis.’
Solomon nodded. ‘I’m sure. You after funding?’
Simon gave his deep, throaty chuckle. ‘Always! But that’s not why I’m here today.’
Solomon smiled. ‘Well, good for you. Is it a happy place?’
‘Yes, it really is. We don’t have much, but it’s happy!’
‘It takes more than bricks, mortar and money to make happiness,’ Solomon stated.
‘I agree. And community support is vital, which is why I thought I would come and introduce myself—’
‘And then the next visit you ask for funding?’ Solomon interrupted.
‘Something like that, yes.’
The two laughed in the same throaty chuckle.
‘I didn’t want to impose on you and your family, I just thought—’
‘Oh, there is no family to impose on.’ Solomon interrupted again. ‘Just me, Patience and Mrs Harrison here.’ He pointed at the peahen.
‘Mrs Harrison?’
Solomon smiled. ‘Oh yes, it’s the law at the Jasmine House, all peahens have to be called Mrs Harrison.’ He pulled a white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.
Simon drew breath. This was the moment to come clean, to tell the major the true nature of his visit. To introduce himself and express his desire to, in some small way, get to know the man that had fathered him.
‘Do you like gardens?’ The major’s question rather threw the moment.
Simon considered his response. ‘Yes, of course. But I have never lived anywhere long enough to plant anything and watch it grow and now we are planting food for practical and economic reasons and so there’s little time or room left for the luxury of flowers.’