Dare to Love (3 page)

During the fruit picking, I discover that Enid was with her husband, Cecil (Celia’s namesake), for over sixty years. He died ten years ago. She’d already had five children when they got married and went on to have another six. Her secret for a long and happy marriage? Never let him think he’s the only one interested in you.

I do a double take.

‘What about love and security?’

‘Love him yes; but never let him tink he have every part of you. Do things he don’t do, keep your friends, keep a part of you for you and always smile when he come home.’

‘What, even if you’re mad at him?’

‘Especially if you’re mad at him. No man want to come home to a sour face. Wait till he at home before raising your issues. Choose your time well. Learn what please him and always make him see that what you want will be good for him.’

‘And what if it isn’t? He may be convinced at first but when he finds out he won’t trust you. Have you never lied?’

‘Only if it was for his good.’

I set my full bag of mangoes on the ground and look at her. She could have been a diplomat. Maybe I’ve been reading the wrong books, the wrong magazines. One final tip. ‘Don’t put your mischief in his face.’

‘Did you ever do mischief?’

She smiles her big smile and makes her way back into the house.

Oistens is only a ten minute walk from Celia’s apartment and one of my favourite night outs. I choose a little floral skirt; large red, white and blue flowers, lycra and easy to wear. It shows of my legs, strong and muscular, probably my best feature. I don’t have Celia’s hour glass figure. I’m only five feet three inches so have to be more careful with what I wear, but I’m trim; flat stomach, toned arms. I still turn a head or two, often mistaken for much younger than my fifty years. Last time I was here, Celia and I flirted mercilessly with some of the young men. But it never goes beyond that.

I team up my little skirt with a black and white tank top that displays my neck and shoulders to my liking. Dangly real white feather earrings, a heavy silver feather necklace and black strappy Roman sandals complete the outfit. I apply a little make-up. It’s too hot for foundation. A little eye shadow and a touch of lipstick will have to do. I’m feeling a bubble of excitement as we set off. I remember the party atmosphere, the delicious barbequed fish dinners, people dancing on the stage in the centre of the complex. Bold, colourful, flamboyant men. There were a few women brave enough to take to the stage but they appeared to be there at the invitation of one or more of the men. I couldn’t remember any freestyling women. I’d asked Celia about that. She’d put it down to the fact that women had more sense, less ego, didn’t need to flaunt themselves in public.

‘So are you going to tell me about these changes?’ She hasn’t even hinted at them since that drive back from the airport.

‘You’re nearly there now, you’ll see for yourself soon enough’

‘Do you like the changes?’

‘Whatever answer I give you is going to influence your opinion, so best I keep quiet.’ She won’t budge.

‘How long since they made the changes?’

‘About a year now.’

‘And you like them?’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’

‘Yeah.’ I give up. Prising anything out of Celia is like using a plastic fork to dislodge a limpet from a rock. I switch the conversation to a client she began to tell me about before she was interrupted by the phone.

‘Sometimes I think I should be given a medal for patience.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I tell you, this man’s been to look at this property eight times in the last two weeks. Three times by himself, twice with his brother, once with his sister, once with his friend and today with someone he says is his niece. But I tell you, if any uncle of mine ever looked at me like that, I’d stick a fork in his eyes.’

‘You don’t believe him then,’ I laugh. Celia has a side to her that I believe would use the fork if she had it.

‘The girl couldn’t be any more than fifteen, the way he was letching at her was disgusting.’ She’s welling up to a full outburst when I hear the insistent rhythms and Bob Marley’s invitation to “Lively up Yourself”. We’ve arrived at Oistens. It’s time to leave the issues of the day behind and eat, drink and party. We start bopping to the music, stepping in time to the beat, moving closer to where it vibrates in our bones and fills our heads.

The air’s filled with a rainbow of fish flavours. Goat fish, marlin, king, dolphin, flying fish. Succulent white flesh sizzling on hot coals or caught up in the drama of the flames, leaping two feet high in front of skilled chefs. People are everywhere, seated at tables in neat rows under marquee style coverings, waiting to give orders or having them delivered by scurrying waiters. Gone are the queues waiting to be served then overcoming the challenge of finding somewhere to perch while they tuck into their delicious fare. This is orderly eating; I’m instantly nostalgic for the nomadic event it’s replaced. Celia’s watching my face.

‘I see,’ I say slowly as I take it all in, ‘interesting.’

‘You don’t like it. Didn’t think you would.’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it.’

‘You said it was interesting – same thing.’ There’s a reason this is where I come when I need to be myself, to let my guard down, to show the warts. She knows me in a way I wish my husband did.

‘OK you got me there, but is the food still good?’

‘You want to eat?’

‘Let’s get a drink first.’ All week I’ve been looking forward to a Mount Gay rum and coke, saved myself for this moment. I’m not a big drinker, worked with too many people who let it control them, but I like a drink when I’m relaxed, and I’m relaxing into the night.

On the way to Lexis’s Bar, I take in the other changes. The small stage has been replaced with a much larger version, housing the massive speakers whose output called us so effectively to the womb of the revelry. There are only a couple of men on the stage doing their thing to “Could you be Loved”. Seems like the DJ’s doing a Bob Marley set as he goes straight into “Small Axe”.

As we make our way past the mini restaurants we step into another gentler, less frenetic world, where gyrations are out and waltzes are the order of the night. An open air dance floor marked only by the number of people on it. Couples hold each other at arm’s length, move in harmony; men lead, women follow. The music is less singular, more cooperative. As we stop to watch, Celia raises a questioning eyebrow.

‘Haven’t had time.’ I’d promised myself I’d take ballroom dancing lessons so I could join in.

‘You?’

‘Same here. I muddle through. Plead ignorance and get them to help me.’

‘Let’s get that drink.’

Whether it’s the anticipation, the smoothness of the rum, or the atmosphere in the bar, I feel any residual tension drain away. We flirt with a couple of men at the bar. Men who hear the accent and rightly deduce at least one of us is foreign.

‘You visiting?’ the man on my left asks.

‘Yes.’

‘How long you here for?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘How long you got left?’

It’s beginning to feel like an interrogation. ‘Just over two.’

‘Let me welcome you to our beautiful island.’

‘Thank you sir.’ I give him my best flirty smile. Mount Gay on an empty stomach’s not ideal for keeping a level head; but I’ve been level for too long.

‘May I have the honour of showing you some of this lovely rock?’ He looks directly into my face, like he’s known me a long time.

‘Where exactly have you in mind?’ I look across at Celia but she’s talking to the man on her right. The music’s too loud to hear what she’s saying but she’s laughing at something he’s said.

‘You from England, right?’ It’s more a statement than question.

‘Yeah, you been there?’

‘No. I hear the men are cold.’ Did I hear him right? People usually comment on the weather.

‘Yes, it’s been quite cold this year.’ I answer the question I want to hear.

‘So you could do with a little warming up from a hot-blooded Bajan maaann.’ He leans back on his stool and stretches himself as if to say, ‘Look at what I’m offering you.’

I look at Celia again but she’s still engrossed.

I’m not impressed with what’s on offer. Five foot ten, thick shoulders, thick waist and thin legs; like an upside down martini glass. Hard to tell his age as his head’s shaved – a sure sign he is trying to hide some grey. A large pointed head sits on top of a thick neck with ears that would look more at home in
Lord of the Rings
. I look at his feet and find no reassurance there. Looks like a size seven. I don’t like the offer but as he’s so polite I decide to be charming.

‘Good of you to offer but I haven’t had time to work out where I want to go yet.’

‘Well, give me you number and I can always call you when I’m going somewhere, see if you want to come.’

‘Tell you what,’ I say, leaning into him conspiratorially, ‘why don’t you give me yours and I’ll call you.’ I’ve found this the most effective way to extricate myself from unwanted attention. He must be aware of it too because he tilts his head to one side and gives me a quizzical, disbelieving look. Maybe it’s the rum but I start to giggle as I focus on his pointed ear. I want to stroke them and say, ‘Come to me my precious.’

‘You got some paper?’

Trying to suppress the giggle, I shrug my shoulders. ‘Wasn’t expecting to be collecting numbers tonight.’

He looks around the bar, sees someone he knows.

‘Hold on a minute.’ He slides off the stool and heads across the room. Brisk, purposeful steps. I nudge Celia. She breaks off whatever she’s saying and looks at me. I nod. That’s our code for “lets get out of here”. She ends her conversation and we’re just getting off our stools when Gollum returns. He’s written in large capitals VICTOR followed by a phone number. He presses the bit of paper into my hand, his palm’s slightly damp.

‘Call me.’

‘Sure.’

‘When?’

‘When I’ve decided where to go.’

I smile at him, feel his eyes on our backs as we leave.

Celia and I giggle like teenagers, bumping each other on the shoulder. We’re used to the pick up lines, used to the games; comes from looking younger than our age.

‘How was yours?’

‘Wondering why this vision of loveliness is out on her own. If I was his he wouldn’t let me out on my own. Ready for some food?’

‘Yes, need something to soak up that rum.’

We go to George; although he has a queue, we’re prepared to wait. We place our order, include another rum and coke and sit down to wait for our food. I have the marlin steak dinner and Celia the snapper. We make light work of the breadfruit, roast potato, plantain, coleslaw and salad, helped down by the rum and coke. I’m not sure of the measures but this one tastes even stronger than the last. I’m in a happy alcoholic haze, that state where I decide to leave my responsibilities in a tightly zipped bag and step away from it. I know they’re there to be opened up and attended to again, but for now they’re safely locked away. It feels like a lifetime ago since I was this free. Apart from Celia, no one here tonight knows me; lost in the anonymity of this pulsating crowd I can be anyone I want to be.

We make our way back to the gentle dancers and watch for a while before we’re approached by two elderly gentlemen. They could be twins. Both wear black pointed toe shoes polished to a shine and dark trousers tightly belted over white short sleeved shirts opened at the neck. Both have shaved heads with clean sharp features, as though time had chiselled their features rather than worn them down. They both walk briskly, purposefully toward us, their bright eyes hold ours as they hold their hands out to us. At about five foot, nine one’s the same height as Celia, the other slightly taller than me. The only other difference is that one’s nearly twice the width of the other.

I wonder how they made the decision who’d approach who, because the slim one – who can’t be more than nine stone – holds his hand out to Celia and the eighteen stone one asks for mine. His smile pushes his cheeks up towards the corner of his eyes and displays teeth so even I guess they must be dentures.

‘Can I have this dance please?’ His voice is like pebbles sliding across each other as the tide goes out, a kind of swishy whisper.

I take his hand but lean forward to tell him I’m not a ballroom dancer.

‘That doesn’t matter dear, just follow me. I’ll take care of you.’

Holding one of my hands out in front of me, he places my other on his shoulder and lightly rests his other in the small of my back. ‘Just follow me,’ he says softly as he steps off. I’m focusing hard to follow him, foot forward when he goes back, trying to keep in time when he moves forward and I have to move back.

‘Relax dear,’ he advises and squeezes my hand. ‘It’s OK to make a mistake.’

‘Sorry.’ I feel embarrassed. I should have said no to the dance. He must be laughing at me.

‘You visiting?’

‘Yes.’

‘From England?’

‘Yes.’ Hard to focus and talk at the same time.

‘I was there last year,’ he says