Karen Barrow

1

Trinidad, 1978

I used to think the past was dead and gone, that the passage of time erased memories. But as a stranger approached my house, their features distorted by the shimmering heat rising from the winding tarmac, a door long shut in my mind creaked open.

It was the merest crack as I pondered why a lone white female—cropped hair and bell-bottomed pants notwithstanding—would be coming up my driveway. Then something about the stride and how a raised arm wiped the sweat off the forehead gave me pause, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I hoped it was my failing eyesight playing tricks, but when the stranger stopped and turned, hands on their hips, to survey the property, the door to my memories opened wider. I saw images of a time long past when another stranger once stood in the same place in much the same way. His gaze also swept the jungle-clad hills that encircle the valley, then drifted over the cocoa trees, coming to rest on the saman tree, the canopy of which, even then, dominated the front garden. And just as his attention finally shifted to the Great House, so did this stranger’s, their gaze turned upward to where the fronds of three moriche palms, which once tickled the lawn, swayed lazily in the midmorning breeze more than a hundred feet in the air.

I winced as the stranger’s gaze raked the old estate house, well aware the epithet “The Great House” was a misnomer these days, a faded watermark of the house Mister Robbie first laid eyes on more than eighty years ago. The Great House had been less than ten years old, a sprawling single-story house that replaced a more modest structure which had squatted on the property for decades. Back then, when Europe’s insatiable demand for chocolate had reversed the fortunes of sugar barons in favour of cocoa planters, the house’s galvanized roof had been a vibrant red, trimmed with fancy white fretwork. The slatted jalousies glistened with fresh green paint, and the wooden railing along the length of the open verandah gleamed bright white. I’d stood mere yards from where Mister Robbie stopped to peruse the house, the air heavy with the tang of the grapefruit I’d picked. Surprise softened to appreciation as he stared at the house perched on a series of stone pillars, the verandah shaded by baskets of hanging ferns that twirled in the breeze. Then his lips tightened as another emotion darkened his gaze, one harder for a naïve eleven-year-old boy to comprehend.

Standing on the now-enclosed verandah, I was grateful I wasn’t close enough to see the stranger’s reaction to the railings ribboned with peeling paint, the patchwork of rusty galvanize that served as a roof, or the fancy fretwork broken and missing in places. The profusion of tree ferns, palms, and hibiscus that once enclosed the Great House, offering spaces for a precocious boy to hide, are long gone. The pillars on which the house rested are exposed now, as is the crawl space between the timbered flooring and dusty ground, a wasteland of discarded tin cans, lumber, and broken implements. With neither chick nor child to accommodate and needing nothing more than a secure roof and a comfortable bed, I chose to ignore the house and focus my retirement years on running what is essentially a hobby estate.

As the stranger continued to advance, I confirmed my initial impression that it was a woman who approached, welcomed reassurance that it was my mind playing tricks and not my clouded vision. Her pale complexion, several shades lighter than the golden brown of our local whites, and her above-average height marked her as a foreigner even before she opened her mouth.

The front door creaked as I pushed it open, drawing the young woman’s startled gaze upward as she hesitated at the bottom of the steps.

Her lips curved in a tentative smile. “Hello, there. Sorry to bother you, and I apologize for being presumptuous, but the gate was open, and no one was in sight …”

A Yank, older than I first thought, just past the prime of youth.

I closed the door behind me and, holding on to the railing, I negotiated the short flight of steps to the driveway. I instantly regretted not fetching my hat as the midmorning sun bore down on the close-cropped thatch of sliver hair that still covered my scalp.

“Can I help you? Are you looking for the waterfall?”

I glanced toward the gate to see if a car full of foreigners awaited directions. Given how deep into the valley and far off the main road Palmyra was, it seemed the only explanation for a white woman to be coming up my driveway. But there was no car in sight. Probably parked behind the tall hedge that lined the property.

She squinted up at me. “Waterfall? No. I … that is … is this Palmyra Estate?”

The door to my memories widened further as I stared into a pair of familiar pale green eyes. My breath caught. “It is. Who’s asking?”

She stuck out her hand. “Vivienne. Vivienne Wood.”

I let out my breath. The name meant nothing to me.

“And what can I do for you …” I stole a glance at her ring finger as I shook her hand, noting the circlet of pale skin. “Ms. Wood?”

As she glanced at the house, more memories of a bygone era stirred. Miss Isabelle, striding around Palmyra in her navy skirt and straw boater; Miss Jeannette, swathed in white muslin, lounging in her pavilion, the ribbons on her bonnet fluttering in the breeze; and Mr. Cadett astride his horse, a wide-brimmed hat shading his long, lean face, with sleeves rolled up and tie tucked, his hunting rifle secured at the side of his saddle. A typical white French Creole family, so we all thought.

“I’m from Canada …”

Ah, I was wrong. A fellow colonial.

“And I have reason to believe that a relative of mine once worked here.” She peered at me. “Are you the owner?”

My face warmed with pride. “Yes, for the past eight years. The estate sat idle for decades and was overgrown when I bought it. Prior to that, it changed hands a couple of times. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help.” I exhaled and gently closed the door on my past.

Her gaze dropped as she breathed a sigh of disappointment. “I see.”

She glanced up as a lawnmower roared to life. Phillips was late … again. Well, he’d have his work cut out for him in this blazing heat.

“Is there anyone else who might be able to help me?”

I considered for a moment. “No one on the property, sorry. Anyone working here is as new to the place as I am. But you could ask in the village. Someone there might be able to help.”

Sensing that this trip to the land of hummingbirds and calypso was no lighthearted lark, I summoned the manners Ma had pounded into me.

“If you’d like, I could give you a tour of the estate,” I said, hoping she’d refuse. “Part of it anyway. It’s well over a hundred acres.”

She hesitated, her stolen glance hinting that she wondered if I was up to the task. I tried not to take offence. As much as I avoided the mirror these days, my creaking bones didn’t let me forget that my best years were behind me.

“I wouldn’t want to bother you, Mr. …?”

“Chang, Joseph Chang, but everyone calls me Joe.”

A loud screech startled her, and she tracked the flight of a large black bird, its bright yellow tail flashing in the sunlight. A smile lit her face.

“What kind of bird is that?”

“A crested oropendola, commonly known as a corn bird.”

“What’s it eating?”

The bird was perched on a swaying pendulum of woven fibres hanging from a branch of a towering shade tree.

A smile tugged at my lips. “That’s its nest. It’s likely feeding its young.”

She shaded her eyes as she peered upward. “Really? Never seen anything like that before.”

The pure delight on her face was my undoing.

“Did you drive here or come by taxi?”

She blinked at the sudden change in topic. “I … rented a car.”

“Feel free to bring it up the drive and park around back while I go in and get my hat.”

***

An hour later, Ms. Wood’s face glistened with perspiration, and the plethora of questions she’d initially fired at me as we tramped around the estate had faded to polite nodding. When all I got was a mumbled, “Is that so?” to my boast that the island’s indigenous Trinitario cocoa produced the highest quality chocolate in the world, I took my cue and steered us back toward the house.

I instructed Philipps to set up two folding chairs and a small table beneath the broad canopy of the saman tree, then offered Ms. Wood a refreshing drink and a slice of the sponge cake my cleaning lady had made the day before. Though she tried to decline my offer, protesting that she was taking too much of my time, I played the sympathy card we older folk do for company of any kind, especially that of a charming member of the opposite sex.

As she lowered herself onto her chair, Ms. Wood eyed the glasses streaked with condensation. “Is it alcoholic?”

I shook my head and smiled. “No such luck, sorry. Lime juice, soda water, and a splash of Angostura bitters. We call it a Bentley. It’s a Trinidadian staple.”

She took a sip. “Refreshing.” She emptied the glass and lowered it to the table, stealing a surreptitious glance at her watch as she did so.

“Tell me about this relative of yours,” I asked, more to detain her than out of any genuine interest. When she hesitated, I pressed further. “Do you know when they lived in Trinidad? Were they a local or an expatriate?”

She leaned back into her chair. “It was my grandfather. I recently came across birth certificates stating he and my mother were both born in Trinidad, along with a letter of employment from Palmyra Estate. Came as a complete shock. My mother never mentioned being born elsewhere, so I had no reason to think it wasn’t in Canada.”

“What part of Canada are you from?”

“British Columbia, a small town in the interior. Quesnel.”

“And your grandfather’s name?”

“Robert Carter.”

I should have known better; I should have kept my guard up. Then I wouldn’t have made such a fool of myself as I slumped back into my chair, winded by a geyser of long-suppressed memories, memories of the mysterious deaths that had rocked the estate when I was twelve years old.

“Mr. Chang? Mr. Chang. You okay?”

I forced my eyes open to find Ms. Wood leaning over me, her face full of fear I’d soon be joining my Maker. She pushed the glass I was fumbling for into my hand, and I guzzled the remainder of my drink, hoping it would help me catch myself.

Once I was sure the buzzing in my ears was merely cicadas singing in the midday heat, I summoned a weak smile. “I’m fine. Sorry to have startled you.” I sat up straighter. “You said your grandfather’s name was Robbie Carter?”

“As far as I know, he only ever went by Robert.” She frowned. “Why? Do you know that name?”

Something wasn’t right. The timelines didn’t add up. “When was your grandfather born?”

She reached for her purse and pulled out a thick piece of paper, yellowed with age. “It says here 1877.”

I frowned. “Pardon my rudeness, but you seem young to be the granddaughter of someone that age. I would have thought a great-granddaughter.”

Ms. Wood flushed. “My mother married late in life. She was forty-five when she had me. I was her only child.” Her lips lifted at the corners. “And I’m past thirty myself.”

One more question to make sure. “And your mother’s name?”

“Josephine.”

Tears sprang to my eyes at the memory of holding a wriggling bundle in my arms and the gurgles of delight whenever a flock of parrots flew overhead.

“A name fit for an empress,” I whispered.

Vivienne looked at me, a smile of surprise on her face. “That’s a coincidence. She said her father used to say the same thing. Wait ... you said your name is Joseph? Is there a connection between you and my mother?”

2

Trinidad, West Indies, 1898

“Joe. Where are you? Your mother looking for yuh. Yuh supposed to be at your studies.”

Knee-deep in cold water, our hands hovering over the surface of the flowing river, my friend Kermitt and I ignore the distant summons of the estate manager. My gaze is fixated on the crayfish ambling along the riverbed as I tense in anticipation of the speed I’ll need to grab the crustacean.

“There you are! You didn’t hear me calling or what?”

I slip on the mossy rocks and, with a splash, land chest-first into the water. I rise, soaked to the bone, Kermitt laughing to kill himself and my prey nowhere in sight.

“Oh gosh, Mister Tom, it get away.”

“Never mind ’bout that. Your mother been hollering for you these past twenty minutes. Now you gone soak yourself. You know you not too old to get your backside tanned.”

I glare at Kermitt as he belts out another peal of laughter. “You staying or what?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I late as it is for weeding the garden patch. Wouldn’t want my Ma sending out the posse after me.”

I run back to the Great House in my bare feet, my stomach churning with resentment that while the other boys are already working on the estate, I’m stuck at school, trapped by Ma’s dreams that I can do better than settle for the life of a labourer. I slip into the room I share with Ma in the servants’ quarters and hurriedly change into a dry pair of shorts and a shirt. After a dash to the clothesline where I hang my soaking clothes, I follow the aroma of stewing beef to the kitchen. Seeing Olive with her back to the stove as her dark, fleshy hands work a ball of dough on the kitchen table, I quietly lift the lid from the pot and take a whiff of fragrant curling steam.

Stewed oxtail. My favourite.

“Ouch!” The lid drops with a clang, my knuckles smarting from Olive’s wooden spoon.

“What business you does have with my pot, young man? If you know what good for you, you better go find your mother. She been looking for you the past hour.”

I find Ma in the laundry room, sorting the master’s shirts and the mistresses’ dresses, which the laundress pressed earlier that afternoon. Her white cotton apron and floral skirts are as crisp now as they were this morning.

She looks up sharply from her task. “Where’ve you been? Gallivanting around, as usual, I suppose, instead of attending to your studies. How do you expect to better yourself if you don’t get that College Exhibition?”

I open my mouth to deliver a smart aleck reply, fed up with the continual reminders of what will happen if I don’t win a scholarship to one of only two boys’ high schools in the capital city, Port of Spain.

“And none of your backchat, you hear me?” She places her slender hands, the colour of milk cocoa, on her slim hips. “Did you pick the grapefruit for the master’s breakfast like I asked?”

I lower my eyes.

“Go do it right now … and make sure you don’t leave any lying on the ground. As soon as you’re done, come back here and open your books.”

***

I’ve just climbed down from the grapefruit tree and am placing the bruised fruit from the ground into a separate basket from the hand-picked fruit when I see a clean-shaven, white man walking up the winding grass-track driveway. Judging by his baggy khaki trousers, rolled-up sleeves, and wide-brimmed hat, I assume he’s another applicant for the overseer’s position. I’m about to call out when something about how he stops and looks around holds my tongue. With arms held akimbo, his gaze slides from the hills encircling the valley to the saman tree that dominates the sprawling front lawn, finally coming to rest on the freshly painted Great House, gleaming in the late afternoon light. Raised eyebrows swoop down to cover a glint in his narrowed eyes, and his jaw hardens. But when his gaze swings toward me, the furrow on his brow disappears, and his lips widen into a friendly smile. He tips his hat, exposing the sweat stains under his arm.

“Hello there. My name is Robert Carter. I’m looking for the estate manager, Thomas Harding.”

I place the fruit, still cradled in my hands, into the wicker basket. “I can take you.” I glance at the baskets, both heavy with fruit.

“Here, let me help.” He reaches for a basket. “My friends call me Robbie. What’s your name?”

“My name is Joseph,” I reply, “but everyone calls me Joe.”

“And what do you do on the estate, young Joe?”

“This and that.” I hesitate, wondering how much to tell this stranger, but the genuine interest in his pale green eyes loosens my tongue. “My mother is the housekeeper for Mr. Cadett and his two nieces, Miss Isabelle and Miss Jeannette. I’m still at school, but I do whatever is needed once I get home. We’re busiest in May and November, the harvest months.” I give him a sidelong glance as we walk toward the house. “You here for the job?”

He nods.

“You know cocoa, then?”

Another nod. “I grew up on a cocoa estate in Central.”

I look at him in surprise. “What you doing up here in the north? Did you take the train?” My voice bubbles with excitement.

He grins. “I did indeed. Two trains. One from San Fernando to Port of Spain, where I overnighted, then one this morning to St. Joseph. I hitched a ride on an ox cart making its way up the valley this afternoon. Took long enough to get here.” He frowns as he glances toward the setting sun. “Hope I’m not too late.”

When we reach the Great House, I show him where to deposit the baskets. As we continue through a grove of cocoa and banana trees to Mister Tom’s house, a flock of lime green parrots flies overhead in pairs, filling the valley with their screeching call.

“Blasted pests,” I mutter, unconsciously mimicking Mister Tom, whose greatest banes are the parrots and squirrels that feast on the cocoa pods and the woodpeckers that bore holes in the tree trunks.

Mister Robbie laughs. “You been here long?”

“Was born here.”

“And what does your father do on the estate?”

Heat rises to my face. “I never knew him.”

His jaw tightens, then he gives a nod of understanding. “I know how that feels.”

Unused to displays of sympathy, I dart him a glance and reply with my own nod.

I bound up the stairs of the estate manager’s house and knock on the bright yellow front door, which match the window jalousies. “Mister Tom. Mister Tom. Somebody here to see you.”

The door opens, and Mister Tom steps out, water droplets glistening in his greying mustache as he runs a comb through his damp, sandy-coloured hair.

I step back as Mister Robbie snatches his hat off his head, revealing a thatch of dark, wavy hair, heavily parted on one side and slick with macassar oil. He extends his hand.

“Robert Carter. I’m here about the overseer job advertised in the Gazette.”

Mister Tom looks the man up and down before pocketing the comb and shaking the extended hand. “Where you from, Carter? I know most of the men here in the north. Never heard of you.”

Mister Robbie shuffles the hat in his hand. “I’m from the central, sir, Rendezvous Estate.”

Mister Tom’s head tilts. “One of LeBlanc’s?”

“No, Henry Graham, sir.”

Mister Tom grunts. “How many acres?”

The hat turns again in Mister Robbie’s hands. “Two hundred and fifty.”

Mister Tom hitches his thumbs under his suspenders. “Two fifty. We have over four hundred here, the largest estate in the valley.”

“The work’s all the same, just larger crews. How big is the operation?”

“A fermenting shed with fourteen boxes and four drying sheds.”

Growing bored of the grown-up talk, I turn away. Movement in the hibiscus hedge lining the verandah catches my attention. A bright green praying mantis is perched on a leaf, a fluttering butterfly clutched between its long forelimbs.

“Look at that,” I whoop. “A praying mantis just bit off the head of a butterfly!”

Mister Robbie’s lips twitch in amusement while Mister Tom’s brows descend into a deep V.

“You still here, Joe? Shouldn’t you be at your studies by now?”

I dip my head. “I suppose.”

“Well, go on, then. Get outta here.”

I slowly descend the steps, then pick up speed at the thought of another boof from Ma over my tardiness. I emerge from the grove of cocoa trees and am heading across the open lawn to the Great House when motion catches my eye.

“Joe! How come you’re wandering about at this time of the afternoon?”

I glance at Miss Isabelle, surprised to see her stepping from the pathway that leads to the old family home. Replaced by the Great House when I was still in nappies, it is sparsely furnished, and though kept clear of snakes, rats, and bats, it’s not used for any particular purpose. Any curiosity I may have about why she was at the Old House is overridden by my eagerness to share my news.

“Miss Isabelle. You won’t believe what I just saw.”

“And what did you just see?” Her smile is indulgent as she pulls a large cotton handkerchief from the pocket of her navy skirt and wipes her brow, brushing back the wisps of honey-coloured hair that have escaped from the knot at the top of her head.

“A praying mantis eating a butterfly. You should have seen the way it ripped the head off.”

Expecting an expression of horror, she disappoints me with an absent smile, her gaze distracted as if she has something on her mind. She falls into step beside me.

“What type of butterfly was it?”

I grin. “A scarlet peacock.”

She nods. “Glad to see you pay attention sometimes. And where did you see this amazing sight?”

“At Mister Tom’s.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And what were you doing at Mr. Harding’s instead of sitting down to your books?”

I grimace at yet another mention of my laxness. “A fella came by, asking about the overseer’s job, so I took him to meet Mister Tom.”

“Any chance, you think?”

I shrug. “He’s big and strong. Cocoa man. He was nice to me.”

“Well, that’s good then.”

We stop at the stairs to the back door.

“You go along to the back office, Joe. Once I’ve freshened up, I’ll come and help you with your arithmetic.”

“Thanks, Miss Isabelle.”

It’s not until later that night, as I lie in bed thinking of the praying mantis that I wonder what Miss Isabelle had been doing at the Old House.