Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
IT WAS FINISHED ALMOST as soon as it began. Kitty felt such little intrusion
from the overseer Tam Dewar’s part that she decided to believe
him merely jostling her from behind like any rough, grunting, huffing
white man would if they were crushed together within a crowd. Except
upon this occasion, when he finally released himself from out of her, he
thrust a crumpled bolt of yellow and black cloth into Kitty’s hand as a
gift. This was more vexing to her than that rude act—for she was left to
puzzle upon whether she should be grateful to this white man for this
limp offering or not . . .
Reader, my son tells me that this is too indelicate a commencement of
any tale. Please pardon me, but your storyteller is a woman possessed of
a forthright tongue and little ink. Waxing upon the nature of trees when
all know they are green and lush upon this island, or birds which are
plainly plentiful and raucous, or taking good words to whine upon the
cruelly hot sun, is neither prudent nor my fancy. Let me confess this
without delay so you might consider whether my tale is one in which
you can find an interest. If not, then be on your way, for there are plenty
books to satisfy if words flowing free as the droppings that fall from the
backside of a mule is your desire.
Go to any shelf that groans under a weight of books and there,
wrapped in leather and stamped in gold, will be volumes whose contents
will find you meandering through the puff and twaddle of some
white lady’s mind. You will see trees aplenty, birds of every hue and
oh, a hot, hot sun residing there. That white missus will have you
acquainted with all the many tribulations of her life upon a Jamaican
sugar plantation before you have barely opened the cover. Two pages
upon the scarcity of beef. Five more upon the want of a new hat to wear
with her splendid pink taffeta dress. No butter but only a wretched alligator
pear again! is surely a hardship worth the ten pages it took to
describe it. Three chapters is not an excess to lament upon a white
woman of discerning mind who finds herself adrift in a society too dull
for her. And as for the indolence and stupidity of her slaves (be sure you
have a handkerchief to dab away your tears), only need of sleep would
stop her taking several more volumes to pronounce upon that most
troublesome of subjects.
And all this particular distress so there might be sugar to sweeten the
tea and blacken the teeth of the people in England. But do not take my
word upon it, peruse the volumes for yourself. For I have. And it was
shocking to have so uplifting an act as reading invite some daft white
missus to belch her foolishness into my head.
So I will not worry myself for your loss if it is those stories you
require. But stay if you wish to hear a tale of my making.
As I write, I have a cup of sweetened tea resting beside me (although
not quite sweet enough for my taste, but sweetness comes at a dear price
here upon this sugar island); the lamp is glowing sufficient to cast a light
upon the paper in front of me; the window is open and a breeze is cooling
upon my neck. But wait . . . for an annoying insect has decided to
throw itself repeatedly against my lamp. Shooing will not remove it, for
it believes the light is where salvation lies. But its insistent buzzing is
distracting me. So I have just squashed it upon an open book. As soon as
I have wiped its bloody carcass from the page (for it is in a volume that
my son was reading), I will continue my tale.
