I. The Fisherman
MOISE SAT ON THE ROCK, his fishing line trailing beneath the surface of the water. The sea was calm this morning but he had caught nothing, although he had been sitting out since four- thirty. This was his favourite time to fish because the beach was usually empty. The fish would be on or just beyond the reef, foraging for an early feed. Later, he would take his rod, net and the pail with whatever he had caught and leave them under a nearby sea-grape tree while he went in for a swim. A faint light was slowly creeping over the brow of the hills in the east. He heard a laugh, like a tinkle, a happy sound. He thought of the word tinkle because it was a clear sound, like that of a bell he could hear when he passed in front of the church on his way home around seven. He boasted to his friends that he had a superior body clock because without ever checking the time he always seemed to find himself in front of the church when the acolyte would be ringing the bell. He turned around to where the sound came from. A couple emerged from the stand of sea-grapes lining the beach. The young woman was laughing as she ran ahead of the man. She was twirling, leaping and spinning across the sand. Moise could tell she was a dancer. The man followed with a lumbering gait. He stopped and watched her, a smile on his face.
“Such grace! I would say, grace and beauty in motion.” He applauded. She twirled, leaped, twirled again, her arms above her head, and curtsied in front of him.
“For a writer, you are prone to using clichés.” She reached up, pressed her palms against his chest and turned her face up to his. He cupped her face in his hands and deliberately kissed her forehead, eyes, nose, each cheek and then her lips. “You are my never hackneyed, never overused, ever renewing cliché, so I can rediscover the unfolding wonder of who you are.” She spun away from him, laughing.
“That’s a contradiction.” She pulled off her wrap, danced to the water and dived in, her body arching above a breaking wave. He shed his clothes and followed, walking into the surf, his legs pushing against the waves. She had surfaced and was looking at him, a broad smile on her face.
“Just dive in, you won’t notice the cold then.” She scooped some water in her hands and threw it in his direction. He plunged beneath a wave and surfaced beside her, his arms held stiffly at his sides. She laughed, a prolonged tinkling that made Moise smile. They swam out together.
As Moise walked along the beach, he noticed their clothes thrown carelessly above the shoreline, and their shoes, slip-on sandals, set neatly side by side in front of the pile. He nodded, smiled and made his way further down the beach to have his swim.
II. The Mother
“IMOGENE.” Her mother turned towards her from the stove. “You seem very happy these days. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re in love. What’s up?”
Imogene laughed.
“I’ve met someone rather nice. I met him at the creative writing workshop.”
“How’s that going? Are you finding it useful?”
“It’s great, Mother, and I’m learning new stuff. The people are interesting.”
“So who is this interesting person you’ve met? Is it someone I know?”
“I don’t think so. At least, I’ve never heard you or Dad mention him or his family.”
“So who is he?”
“He’s a writer, and a brilliant one. At least, I think so. He works for one of the local newspapers. The one you call a scandal sheet.”
“If he is one of those writing or contributing to the articles in that rag, then I’m not sure how brilliant….”
“Don’t be like that, Mother. See? You’re already beginning to think badly of him. He needs a job, so he works with that paper. That’s where he got the job, but he’s a novelist and he’s just finished his first novel. It’s brilliant. I read some of it.”
“I see. So you’ve been seeing each other for a while, then.”
“Only since the workshop started. He read some of his work there, and because I asked so many questions he offered to let me read some more of it. We met a few times outside the workshop.”
“You don’t know much about this person, do you? You’re so impulsive. What did you say his name is?”
“I didn’t tell you yet. It’s Grant. Grant St Esprit.”
“Oh! I know the St Esprits. They live at Vigie, don’t they? I sometimes see Mrs St Esprit in church.”
“No, Mother. His family doesn’t live there. He and his mother live in the Conway. I don’t think there’s a relationship….”
“Goodness! The Conway. That’s a slum area.”
“Well, his mother raised him on her own and he lives with her there. His dream is that his writing will make him well off so they can move out of there.”
“Well, you need to be careful, Imogene. You never can tell with these…with…with people.”
“See what I mean? I bet if I said he was from Vigie or Cap Estate, you wouldn’t have a problem or said what you just said.”
“I don’t have a problem, child; and I’m just cautioning you so you don’t end up with one. You’re only seventeen. How old is this Grant, anyway?”
“He’s thirty.”
“Almost twice your age! And more experienced, I bet. You’re probably a moth to his flame. And you’re smitten.”
“You’re making a drama of this, Mother. He’s a nice person. Anyway, I feel more like a butterfly than a moth when I’m with him. He makes me laugh and I feel like dancing. Maybe I’ll take up dancing as a career. What do you think?”
“Well, you’re good at it and I know you like it. But your father will probably object. He’d say it’s a career with a short life. No sustainability.”
“Not if I become a professional and prosperous dancer. Anyway, I’m not sure, so don’t tell him anything.”
“I’ll have to mention St Esprit if he asks what you’re up to. These days, you’re rarely here when he comes home and if he asks, I won’t cover up for you.”
“There’s nothing to cover up, Mother.”
“Be careful, anyway. I hope this Grant has been granted the saintly spirit he needs to treat you well.” Imogene chuckled.
“That’s funny. You translated the good things in his name. ‘Saintly spirit.’ And he does have a good spirit. One of these days, I’ll bring him over to meet you and dad.”
III. The Beach
MOISE CAST HIS NET. There was a school of minnows in the shallows and he could see another school of twi twi beyond the lip of the reef. If he could catch most of them, he would have a good sale because the housewives always asked him about twi twi. They were the best for making fishcakes. He heard the tinkling laughter, turned around and saw the couple, arms entwined, looking at him. The girl greeted him with a musical “Good morning,” which he acknowledged with a nod and a wave of his hand. They left their sandals, side by side above the high-water mark, where the sand was loose and blown about in eddies by the wind. They walked down the beach.
“We don’t see enough of each other since the workshop ended,” he complained.
“What?” She laughed. “Didn’t we see each other just the night before last?”
“Just what I mean. It isn’t every day.” He pulled her closer to his side. “I have good news.”
“What? Tell me.”
“Remember when the workshop started, Mr Lee suggested that I send my manuscript for publication and submit it for the London Academy Fiction competition? Well…the publishers accepted it and it will be out later this year. Aaaand guess what? They’re offering me a contract for a second novel.”
“I’m impressed. Now you can write full-time and not have to worry about ‘earning pennies.’ So are you going to give up your penny job?”
“I can’t yet. Don’t know if I’ll be able to depend on income from the book. At least the offer of the advance for the next book is generous, so I can work part-time and spend more time writing. I haven’t heard anything yet about the competition.”
“Your mother must be happy.”
“You know her, she looked up to heaven, lifted her arms and said, ‘Mèsi bon Dyé. God, you answer my prayers.’ And she went on in a paean to God in French Creole.”
“Oh, I wish I’d heard her. French Creole is musical. I’m learning it.”
“Really? Don’t you know it already?”
“No. My parents didn’t speak it to me when I was small, even though they both speak it. They switched to it when they didn’t want me to understand what they were saying.”
“You poor thing! Deprived of a fundamental part of your culture! Not to worry, I’ll speak it with you so you’ll learn faster. I’ll teach you many things.”
“Deprived? Says who? Bet you can’t do this!” She pulled away from him, twirled and, humming a local tune, she stepped delicately across the sand. “This is La Commette, one of our folk dances. Bet you can’t do it. Who’s deprived?” She laughed. “Race you back to the cove. Last one in is deprived.” She ran down the beach. Moise looked up and smiled at the image of Imogene sprinting, curls of her Afro windswept, while the man trundled behind her, some distance away. She tossed her wrap in the direction of the shoes, ran toward the sea and dived, a clean arc into the incoming wave.
IV. The Father
IMOGENE'S FATHER LOOKED UP when she rushed into the kitchen and sat at the table.
“Sorry I’m late. Went for an early swim.” She reached for one of the mangoes in the bowl on the table.
“I see you’re making these early morning swims a habit, Genie. It will keep you healthy.” Her father sipped his coffee and looked at her over the rim of his cup. “I notice you set off while it’s still dark. Be careful.”
“Exactly what I’ve been telling her,” her mother chimed in. “Coming in late and going out again before the crack of dawn. Burning her candle at both ends; that’s what she’s doing.”
“It’s a long way to the beach and I like to get back before the sun’s too hot. It’s great exercise walking to the beach and swimming. See how fit I am?” She got up and spun around. Her father smiled.
“Good idea to have some company.”
“Yeah, I’m doing that. My friend Grant goes along, too.” Her mother placed a plate of eggs in front of her father and sat down.
“George, I guess you’ve noticed this is a new fad. It only started when Mr Grant-in-Aid came along.”
Her father paused, the fork midway to his mouth. “Does that mean you don’t approve?”
“Approve? Me? How can I approve? I’ve never met this person. All I know is that he lives in some corner of town. Imogene seems to be completely taken up with him.”
“He’s very nice, Dad. We met at the workshop and he’s a soon-to-be-famous novelist.”
“Interesting. I’d like to meet him sometime.”
“Sure thing. He works long hours but I’m sure we can arrange something.”
“Do you know anyone from Conway, George? That’s where he lives.”
“Mildred, you know I meet people from all over in my line of work. Of course, I do.”
“But do you know the St Esprit family? From what I gather, it’s a two-person family. He lives with his mother.”
“Don’t think I know them. I would remember. But I’d like to meet them. I look forward to it, Genie. Gotta go, it’s getting late.” He kissed her mother’s forehead, returned Imogene’s high five and left.
“As I was saying, Imogene. You need to be careful. First of all, it isn’t seemly for a young lady to go walking to the beach with a man before it’s light. What will people think?
“Not again, Mother. Please. People aren’t waking up at that hour of the morning to spy on anyone, let alone me.”
“You never know who might be around. It’s just not proper.”
“That’s so old school, Mother. Who cares?”
“I certainly do, and I don’t want our name and your reputation dragged through the mud
because of some silly flirtation. Think of your future.”
“I am. Just let it be, please? I’m sure you’ll like Grant once you meet him.”
“We’ll see. Just take care.”
“Don’t worry. Got to go.” She was up and out through the door before her mother could get another word out.
V. The Harbour
“MISS G. Nice of you to come see me. Grant not here, you know.”
“I came to see you, Miss Rose. Not Grant. He told me you were sick. How you feeling now?”
“Better, child, better. Look how much work I do already this morning.” She gestured towards the table on which there were trays of turnovers and pastry puffs with custard inside.
“You made choux à la crème! Yours are the best.”
“I know you like them. Here, take one. If you like, I will show you how to make them.”
“I’d like that. Then I’ll be able to make them for Grant sometimes.”
“I sure if you make it, he will eat it.” She untied her apron and sat in the chair across from Imogene.
“This morning, he leave in a hurry. I never see him so excited. He get a letter and he say he win the prize. I think he was going by you to tell you. You didn’t see him yet?”
“No, not yet. Sunday was the last day I saw him when we went to the beach. That’s when he told me you have the flu. You sure you better now?”
“Yes, child. Today I feeling good, and I happy for Grant, too. These days all he talking about is leaving here. Now he going away, I will stay right here. This was my mother’s house, you know. Her spirit still here.” She turned her head and looked toward the harbour. They sat silently while Imogene nibbled around the edges of the pastry puff.
“What happen, it not tasting good?”
“I like to leave the custard in the middle for last. It’s delicious. See the Grenville Lass coming in? Must be with people on excursion from Martinique. Is a nice view, Miss Rose. Must be nice to wake up to see this every morning.”
“Yes, is nice. I like the view. Only thing with here is when it rain a lot and the tide is high, the water does come right up in the drains and sometimes the yard does get flooded. They can fix that if they want, but is poor people living here, so the government not doing nothing about it. Is only that would make me leave here. I like watching the sea and the boats coming in. Look, see the Lady Joy coming in now?”
Imogene licked custard from her fingers.
“Mmm. This shou is the best, Miss Rose.”
“Thanks, Miss G. Grant say I should open a bakery, but I getting too old for that now. Mr Amar does come and buy everything I make and sell it in his shop, so I don’t have to worry. Now Grant have to go away, is not now I going open a bakery.”
“I sure he not going for long. Is just to collect his prize, not so? He’ll come back soon and help you.”
“I don’t know, Miss G. He so restless these days. He never use to complain about here before. Now nothing here good enough for him. He calling it a hellhole. My mother take good care of this house. I glad I don’t have to rent from nobody and I making a living. I don’t mind it but Grant keep saying we have to leave.”
“Telling tales on me, Ma?” Grant’s voice signalled his entry through the back door. “What are you telling Genie about me?” He pulled a stool next to Imogene’s and put his arm around her.
“Only the things you haven’t told me.” Imogene laughed.
“Seems like an eon since I saw you. I planned to visit you but you beat me to it.”
“I came to check on your Mom. Congrats. She gave me the good news.”
“I wanted to tell you myself and surprise you. I have to leave next week for the awards ceremony.”
“So soon. How long will you be gone for?”
“Not sure. I expect to meet with the publisher to discuss what’s possible. If I can get a part-time job there, I’d like to work on the second novel and submit it before I come back.”
“That’s going to be a long haul, then.”
“Don’t frown like that. It’s just an idea. I want to accelerate things so I can find Ma another place to live. This is the pits. The government won’t do anything, so we have to get out under our own steam.”
“Who knows? There’s lots of talk about developing the harbour area, so they might just clear this up and build a new housing complex somewhere else.”
“Huh! If it’s anything like the CDCs they have in the middle of town, we won’t be going there.”
“They aren’t that bad, you know. A friend of mine lives in one of the apartments. She says it’s comfortable.”
“Maybe she’s been lucky to get one on the second floor. No elevators to the third or fourth floors. All those stairs to climb! My mother wouldn’t make it halfway up. And the ground floor is a no-no. Everyone can look right into your house; no privacy. We need to find a better place.” He leaned across and squeezed his mother’s shoulder. “What you say, eh, Ma? He turned to Imogene. “It would be great if I could spend some extra time up there and write the second book. What I need is a sponsor.”
Imogene frowned. “In this day and age? You mean a patron, don’t you? You’d probably have to prostitute your talent or yourself for that. Give something to get something.”
“So young and so cynical. The world’s not as bad as you make it sound, Genie.”
“You should talk! Didn’t you just condemn this world we live in here?”
“Finding a sponsor….”
“A patron.” She turned away from him and looked across the harbour.
“OK, a patron, call it what you want. That’s a different thing from trying to get out of a slum. If I had a sponsor….” He paused a moment, smiling at Imogene. “If I had a patron, I could concentrate on writing. I would do anything…anything; whatever it takes to give me the chance to get ahead. If I had to work part-time here, or there, it would take me forever to write the novel. Things are difficult here. There’s nothing here for writers like me. There’s no future.”
Imogene frowned and looked away toward the harbour. The sunlight on the water was blinding. She closed her eyes.
“How come you lookin so sad, Miss G?” Rose reached across and put a hand on her arm.
“Nothing much, Miss Rose; was just thinking.” There was a long pause then she turned to Grant. “Next week is just two days away. You’ll soon be gone.”
“The sea is gloriously calm these days. I have time for another early morning swim. How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is good.”
VI. News
“YOU'RE GOING to have to find something to do, Imogene. You can’t sit around all day moping.” Imogene turned the page of the newspaper she was reading.
“I’m checking on stuff, Mother.”
“At this stage, it can’t be anything strenuous. You’ve got to take care of yourself.” Mildred glanced at Imogene over her shoulder. “Did you hear that they are going to clear the Conway and put in government offices there? They will build a new housing complex in the Cedars area and offer the homes to the people in the Conway.” Imogene did not answer. Mildred turned round and looked at her. “Does Mr Grant-in-Aid know this? You haven’t mentioned him in a long while. Have you heard from him?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that, Mother. He’s probably busy trying to write his second book.”
“I think the name suits him fine.” Mildred turned back to what she had been doing in the sink. “It suits him just fine. He gave you a lot of aid, didn’t he?”
“Mother, please. Not again.”
“You need to see things as they are, Imogene. Have you told him? When is he coming back? He’s been off on a jaunt for months now, and here you are, flaunting a pregnancy. How do you think we feel? I can imagine the talk around town. This is humiliating.” Imogene’s hand slapped the table sharply as she turned the page of the paper.
“Mother, I’m not flaunting anything. Do you think this is easy for me? The last few months have been tough. It’s bad enough that he’s—”
“It’s not right, and it doesn’t look good,” Mildred interrupted her. “Did he say when he’s likely to come back? And don’t be rude, Imogene. I know you’re frustrated, but you don’t have to scrape the legs of the chair on the floor like that.... Imogene?” She turned around, but Imogene was no longer at the table. The pages of the newspaper were fluttering in the breeze from the open window. Mildred muttered under her breath as she dried her hands and walked over to the table. She picked up the chair that had fallen and was about to close the paper when she saw the photograph and the byline above it. Our Boy Grant Does It. She read the brief paragraph below the photograph. Grant St Esprit impressed his audience at the launch of his award-winning novel. He read excerpts from it and from his second novel, which, he says, is on the way. After the official ceremony and the reading, fans who purchased the novel queued to get his autograph. Here we see St Esprit (centre), publisher’s representatives Clive Davis (left) and Gina Martin (second left), event hostess and patron Florence Tufton (right). Mildred noticed Grant’s left arm curled around Tufton’s waist. She was leaning against him, her head tilted back, and she was smiling up at him. She squinted to discern whether the slight glint on his left hand was a reflection from the angle from which the shot was taken or the glint of a ring on his finger. She couldn’t tell, but she knew that the photo was the reason Imogene had left the room suddenly. She began to fold the paper but changed her mind and left it open at the page with the photograph so that George would be sure to see it when he came in.
VII. The Sea
MOISE SAT ON THE ROCK, his fishing line trailing beneath the waves. The sea was choppy and every now and then he was splashed by the spray rising from the waves dashing against the rocks. He had caught nothing, but one never knew when a school of fish might drift in toward the reef. A faint first light was slowly creeping over the brow of the hills in the east. He thought he heard laughter, and he smiled in anticipation. He turned around to look at the stand of sea-grapes from which they usually emerged, but it was too dark there to make out anything. He turned back to his fishing. It was close to the time for low tides, but the waves remained high and the surge heavy. He thought he would skip his swim because the undertow might be strong and unpredictable with the sea so choppy. It was soon light and the sky in the east was aglow with the sun, a large orange ball rising above the brow of the hills. He gathered his gear, stuffed the net and line into the pail, picked his way gingerly across the rocks and stepped onto the beach.
It was empty this morning. He walked toward the stand of sea-grapes which he had named lovers’ grove because of the impression the two young lovers had made on him when they used to emerge from there every morning. It was several months since he had last seen them and he wondered what had become of them. Then he thought he had heard her laughter above the pounding of the waves earlier, but it wasn’t the usual lighthearted tinkle; more like a forlorn cry. He looked around expectantly as he walked along. He must have been mistaken because there was no one in sight on the beach. He noticed a wrap lying carelessly on the sand next to a pair of lady’s sandals. He looked around, saw no one; then his eyes were drawn to the footprints leading from the clothes towards the sea. The waves had washed over most of them, but some were discernible in the soft loose sand where the waves had not reached. The sandals and wrap looked like those the dancing girl used to leave on the high ground before entering the water.
He paused, looked at them and the footprints, then turned toward the sea. The beach was still empty, but the tide had turned and the sea was now a large calm pond with low gentle waves sighing across the sand.
