Eyubea Girls: Growing Wild, #1

By Palessa

Bartered into marriage, Lisbette Caldwell becomes the hero in her own life and the lives of 6 young women

 Lisbette locked the door and backed up until she was forced to sit on the bed. As long as she looked at the door, it wouldn't open. He wouldn't dare open it. If all she had were her two hands, she would use them to fight for her life.
Eyubea wasn't Edamton or Shaffshire and she was no longer the innocent daughter of a school teacher. She was now the wife of Graham Tate-Fuller, a man who had a secret nature that revealed itself only when the distance between the two continents widened. 
But Lisbette was also the daughter of a school teacher who taught her to use her wits and fight for what she believed in. And that she would do for these Eyubea Girls, somehow, someway. 
First, she needed to protect herself from the darkness of a marriage she never wanted. She wasn't one who played the odds but she knew that if she survived the night, she would make it after all.
Set in the early 1900's, during England's Edwardian era, Eyubea Girls is a story about a young woman's coming of age as she creates a life for herself in a land not her own despite treachery and lies. 
If you're familiar with the movie Out of Africa based on the book by Isak Dinesen, you're sure to enjoy Eyubea Girls. It's a different flavor of historical women's fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palessa
• Release date: Jan 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781524277086

Palessa

Palessa is the author of the Baxter Family Saga series as well as other stories. Her very first published book (aka author's trial by fire) is the interracial romance Unchained Hearts (Baxter Family Saga Book 1) . This crazy soap opera in a book is two love stories in one that opens the door to the life, love, tragedy, and legacy of the Baxters, a powerful, influential South Florida family. Jamaica-born, Miami-raised, Palessa currently lives and writes in the mountains of western Jamaica. In between working on a few other books and marketing projects, she farms, markets, and guffaws at her doggies and chickens and pigs (coming soon). Check out her blog, AuthorPalessa.com to see what she may be up to these days.

Book preview

Foreword

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Writing this story was an adventure, especially since it was inspired partially by the 2014 World Cup. While the initial outline I came up with was simple, when I started writing it, this story was anything but that.

In the mid-17th century, the British captured Jamaica from the Spanish, leaving some settlements of African slaves, known as Maroons. These slaves organized themselves into independent communities and unleashed serious guerilla warfare tactics on their British conquerors. During the late 1730’s, the British signed a treaty promising the Maroons 2,500 acres of land to establish their communities and those five areas still exist today. Of course, there were other conditions to this treaty but the point was that they fought for their independence and got it. The fictional community of Eyubea is based on the spirit of the Maroons. During the early 1900’s most of the African countries were colonized by European nations, such as England, Belgium, Italy, Germany among others and Eyubea managed to set its own rules. They have had many leaders but their current one is a man who is less than honorable, which makes for some tension among a few of the characters.

In researching the history of some of the African cultures of the time as well as the settings, I was mindful that while Eyubea had a mixture of those traditions, they were independent enough to establish their own ways, means, language, and rules. This meant they were both similar and dissimilar to many of their neighboring communities in southern Africa. That assumption gave me a lot of leeway to really explore how Eyubea would be if it really existed. They were still tribal in their thinking, including their laws but were starting to embrace some more modern concepts and ideas, especially when it came to gender roles. The problem was that with the dawn of a new century, change was inevitable and much like Okonkwo in Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, there’s only so much you can fight for so long.  This story is a snapshot of Eyubea as it faces the kinds of changes many fear in a time that’s passing, no matter how much they try to stop it.

It was a lot of fun looking at old photos from the era and reading about De Forest’s Eiffel Tower experiment as well as the vehicles of the time in an effort to understand how characters could function and do what they needed without the benefit of modern conveniences.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story for what it is: a work of fiction that hopes to transport the reader as it did the author.

Cheers

Palessa

Prologue

Edamton, England, 190?

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I. Do. Not. Need. A. Wife. Graham Tate-Fuller looked at his father Samuel who expertly flayed the raw meat in front of him. Samuel Tate-Fuller was known as the best butcher in three towns, Edamton, Shaffshire and Percymory. He was a precise man who worked hard to maintain two butcher shops and a green grocer that worked with local farmers to sell to the public. All of these little ventures made him rich and his family more than comfortable. His wife Miriam and his sons Graham and Ian wanted for nothing. But Samuel's public face was only a shade lighter than his darker, more private one.

He could raise his hand as easily and as expertly as he could raise a cleaver to meat, and Graham knew well enough his father's ways and moods. Graham could see his father’s lips flatten as he maintained a trained silence after his elder son's ground out declaration. Samuel chopped again, scraping and moving pieces of meat to the side.

You take up with whores, find whatever passes for God after you run aground in Camden and declare you want to change your life. Chop. In Africa of all places.

There is this town, Eyubea that wants to teach their children.

Whatever you please, Graham. But if I am to put my money, nothing short of a king's ransom, I might add, and the money of other business men to fund this holier-than-thou about-face of yours, you will not enter that continent without a wife.

Graham knew that his father was about keeping up appearances and keeping his name associated with the well-to-do. As a man who worked with his hands and not beholden to legacy money, he would use the ends of his manual means to blind them for as long as it took to maintain their approbation. Samuel Tate-Fuller was a slave to his reputation and his family was nothing short of a slave to his vainglory.

I do not— Graham jumped when his father brought down his cleaver so hard that it stuck in the wood. Samuel wiped his hands with the towel that hung from his flesh-splashed apron. After decades of butchering, he had gotten used to the musky sweet smell of raw meat. Graham however, didn't quite have the stomach for this part of the business, like his younger brother, but he made no bones about enjoying its fruits.

Samuel walked up to his son, who was only one or two inches taller. He coldly held Graham's gaze and could see the film of sweat forming on his upper lip. You consort with whores and haven't got the decency to keep them in their rightful place. His voice was coarse and biting, causing Graham to flinch. You think others don't know something of your Camden troubles? There were rumors, and now that you have returned all penitent and changed, you are a boy who failed at handling your private affairs. Giving Graham one last look, he walked past his eldest son to get some needed items from the other side of the room. No amount of Jesus or mercy will change that, no matter what you claim. You have always had that devil in you, ever since you were a boy and your mother always coddled it. And you. 

Graham swallowed hard at the bitterness in his father's low tone. As a child, he had feared his father. His hands were thick and heavy, they felt like stones pummeling skin when he beat him. His arms were like trunks that gave any switch or belt more than enough momentum to draw blood and stripe skin. Graham's jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists as he stared straight ahead remembering how his skin burned at the slightest breeze and how he swore vengeance against his father one day. That day would never come.

Samuel continued. Those native women, I've heard stories about their blatant nakedness, their wild ways and the way they connive and trap and trick. They will make no bones about latching themselves on to a man of means without a wife.  To them you are a prize, a fat calf, and I will not have you dragging down this family's good name in the African mud.

Samuel walked back to the meat and dressed it the way that had become his signature. You need a girl, someone young who will do as you say, as you please. She needs to be a virgin, obedient, so she won't stray and she needs to be decent enough for you to look at every day. Your mother was that which made up for all her other failings. Graham's nostrils flared as he flinched at Samuel's unkind characterization of his mother. Focused on the meat, he continued. We will call on churches and make announcements. We will emphasize this as a mission of religion and education...whatever is called for. You will have your choice of women fawning over you, yes. He nodded. Once she is your wife, you may do whatever you wish to her, with her and she will not go against you. But you will marry before you step foot on the Gray Line to the African continent.

Graham's fist collided with a table, rattling the contents. Samuel continued with his tasks, failing to acknowledge Graham's outburst.

The matter was closed.

Graham lowered his chin to his chest and turned on his heels, stalking from the room.

He had made his bargain with Almighty God as penance for Mary. He would make his bed with the Devil if it meant he would leave Edamton for the duration.

It was done. He would get a wife.

Let Her Dream

Shaffshire, England 190?

Three weeks later

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Lisbette looked at the field in her native town of Shaffshire. The sky was gray but there were hints of whitish yellow beams streaming through, which she took as a good omen. This was where they would have the trials for the football teams later today. It had been set up just like she had imagined. At that moment, when there was no one else around, she closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like to hear the people cheer. To move across the field dribbling the ball, kicking it straight into the goal, it would be heavenly. She and her father had a deal. If her grades stayed up, she could add one fun school activity. For Lisbette, it was an easy deal. She took to lessons quickly and enjoyed learning new ideas. And football would be her fun.

The signs that had been posted in school and all around Shaffshire used a word she had never really seen before:

Intramural.

She didn't exactly know what it meant, but it also said, ‘All were welcome.’ She counted herself as one of the all and had her heart set on this chance.  She had loved football ever since she was seven or eight, maybe even younger, when her father had brought home books and manuals about this sport that a Scotsman introduced to a distant nation. As her father, Patrick, was a Scot and she loved him dearly, she looked at the pictures. As she read, her mind's eye saw the positions of the players. Lisbette imagined herself on the field, how her body would move, how the ball would react as it was dribbled down the pitch towards the netted goal. She traced her fingers across the black and white sketches of players in action and relentlessly bombarded Patrick with question after question as she slowly fell in love with the sport. 

According to his notes, her father was working on making modifications that allowed for play on a much smaller field, like Akers Field. Instead of the regular eleven players on each side, which would only congest the field, his strategy called for only five or six on each side with one substitute ready. Lisbette read about the penalties, the different kinds of kicks, movements and was fascinated by how simple, yet challenging the game was. Eventually she got the courage to beg her father for a ball, not really knowing or caring about what it would take to get one. Being one who couldn't say 'no' to his little girl, Patrick found a way to fashion one. He used their meager back yard as a makeshift field and started teaching her how to implement the basics she already knew. When he was too busy with his classes and teaching, Lisbette practiced on her own. Before school, after school, weekends, her objective was to understand every step, every shift of the game and in so doing, she developed a deep love for the game.

Over the years, she had joined a group of local children and played. When they didn't follow the rules, she would let them know. She was the football sage. No one knew the rules better than Lisbette Caldwell. But as with many things in life, they change. By the time they were eleven and twelve, the girls became more interested in boys than football, and the boys thought it less than honorable to play with a girl. Much to her disappointment, her group faded and it was her father whom she turned to for comfort.

There, there, Lass. These things happen. It's a part of growing up. They have different ways of fun now that they're older. Things change. Patrick consoled her with a kiss on the crown of her head. He rested his chin on her thick hair and listened patiently.

But, Da, she pleaded as she leaned against her father's shoulder. They don't have to.

Ay, Lass, but it does. Patrick lifted his chin and looked at her apologetically, knowing she felt that things were less than fair. You'll ken one day. That change will grab a hold of you too.

Lisbette scoffed. Boys? They are messy, rude and smelly.

Patrick Caldwell let out a hearty laugh at Lisbette's defiant pout. His little tomboy would just as soon spit in a boy's eye as go near him. In his heart, he hoped she would be this way just as long as she could but when he looked at her, he knew it was a losing proposition. Her curly brown hair and big gray-green eyes would lure the boys soon enough. Mother Nature wouldn't be stayed or denied not even by a father's wish. After that conversation, she continued playing by herself, coming up with new tricks and ways.

Now that she was sixteen, she had a chance to be a part of a real-life team, to put her practice to use. She bubbled with excitement and breathed in her chance. As the field filled with people, lines were made at a table where they took names. Her hair was pinned back, her shapely frame was buried underneath boyish overalls. This was her normal dress and anyone not paying attention to her name, face, or even her voice, which spoke with more boldness than demure lightness, would easily have passed her onto the boy's section.

And that's exactly what happened.

It was her turn. The man hurriedly took her name, handed her a piece of paper with a number on it, and pointed blindly towards the side of the field where the boys congregated behind the coach. She walked over and like Moses, the sea parted, most with confused looks, others wryly amused.

Lisbette tapped on the coach's shoulder.

Hold your horses, boy, he barked as he finished writing something down. He turned and jerked his head back at the sight before him. When he gathered his wits about, his posture became more rigid. Are you lost? he asked, annoyed.

That question aroused some snickers, which confused Lisbette. No matter. I'm here to try out for the team. That elicited all out laughter from the crowd of boys behind her as they looked on eagerly, wondering how the coach would handle this.

Listen, young lady, the girls cheering is on the other side. This is for the boys. He turned away from her, believing he had made his point.

Lisbette tapped him on the shoulder again. When he turned, he was genuinely surprised to see her still standing there.

The sign said all were welcome to try out. Her tone was sure as she said simply, I want to try out.

Technically, he couldn't deny her the chance to try out but he didn't have to add her to the team as the feminists would take issue. He probably wouldn't even need to worry about it. A bit of entertainment couldn't hurt, could it?

Fine, the coach grunted.

He signaled to one of the boys, who came bounding over. After some whispers, the boy gave Lisbette an open look of disdain as he stepped off, shaking his head.

She tacked on her number and got on the field. While she didn't have the chance to play with others, when the whistle blew, she took off running. It didn't take her long to get possession of the ball. She bobbed, moved and dodged a lot of the cheap hits the boys were trying to make.

The coach was transfixed. What the...?

Some of the other players who had laughed at the audacity of this girl were now silent. In fact, many of those on the field stopped to behold the spectacle as Lisbette deftly navigated a path down the field, dodging, weaving, jumping over outstretched legs. She was within striking range of the goal, her eyes focused on the goal keeper, who was bent and ready.  As she positioned herself to kick, a blunt force collided with her side, leaving her breathless as she roughly hit the cold damp grass.

Her assailant stood over her sneering, Stupid cow, he taunted.

Oy! the coach angrily yelled. You, boy. You're off the team. Get out.

He put his hands up in incredulity. What you mean? This little bitch doesn't belong here.

The stout man walked over to the boy and confronted him squarely. The boy's braggadocio was somewhat muted as he came face-to-face with sure authority. You're a nasty little git and I don't want you on my team. Get out.

The coach yelled the boy’s number and the word Strike afterwards.

The boy bared his teeth and stalked off, muttering a string of curses under his breath. The others looked at him with a mixture of derisiveness and sympathy, neither of which seemed to matter to him. Although they wouldn't admit it publicly, more than a few thought he got what he deserved.

The coach kneeled next to Lisbette who had recovered enough to sit up on her elbows. You all right, luv?

Aye. She shook her head and blinked.

He got up and extended a hand to help her stand. Lisbette wiped blades of grass from her clothes, the ache in her side dulling the more she breathed.

Look, girl, the coach started. You're good. You're probably the best I've seen out here. But that there is one of the reasons why girls can't be on the team. You're a target. They'll be playing you instead of the ball and the team can't protect you and the ball at the same time. You're a distraction. Go home.

No. Lisbette shrieked defiantly, feeling the opportunity she had been dreaming of about to slip through her grasp. Her eyes darted to the crowds in front of her and to the sides. I've been practicing for years. Her voice choked with emotion as she fought the ebb she felt coming. I've been waiting for this.  She ignored the look of pity in the man's eyes, not about to give in to it. What he did, it didn't hurt! I'm OK. I can take it.

He softly shook his head. Turning back he yelled Lisbette's number and struck her from the lineup.

That was it.

Lisbette felt tears burn in her eyes. She sniffed them away. The last thing she was going to do was give them the satisfaction of seeing her pain. There was some dignity left inside her. Ripping the number from her front, she slowly walked off trying to hold her head high. The mass of boys that reluctantly removed themselves from her path, parted for her for a different reason this time.

The coach cursed himself. She was a damn fine midfielder, he thought, maybe even a striker. In a moment of final frustration, he slapped the papers against his thigh and turned to walk back to his spot.

Next up, he bellowed, knowing that what he saw wouldn't even come close to what he just had to let go.

***

Lisbette didn't remember exactly what route she walked to get home. All she could feel were hot tears streaming down her cheeks. More fell quicker than she could wipe them away with the back of her hands. When she got home, she heard the slurred voice of her mother. Vivian Caldwell had been a drunk and a gambler for most of Lisbette's life. Patrick had bailed her out more than once, telling his daughter that her mother wasn't always like that. But when that's all you see, it's hard to believe otherwise. Lisbette opened the door and headed straight up the stairs without even turning her head to acknowledge her mother.

Vivian stumbled from another room and called after her daughter. She took a drink from her glass, placed it on something she thought looked like a flat surface and went up the stairs. She wasn't sure what she was going to say but she felt that as a mother, she needed to say something to the girl.

Holding steadily to the banister Vivian made it to the top and knocked on Lisbette's door. Sniffing and soft hiccups came from the body spread across the bed. With her shoes still on.

Lisbette, she spoke sharply, How many times have I told you to take your shoes off before you get in bed. Vivian grouched. It's enough that you get dirt and mud all over the house, but not on the sheets. Hearing no response, she sat on the bed clumsily, her hand hovering over the girl's head but then pulling back in uncertainty. What's wrong, luv? Some young bloke broke your heart?

No, I didn't make the football team.

Football team, Vivian sneered in disbelief. Who cares about bloody football! You are a growing young woman. You should be out with boys and chatting about all sorts of nonsense. Not crying your eyes out about some silly game.

Lisbette closed her eyes and heard her mother prattle on but not listening to a word Vivian was saying. She had never understood or cared about anything other than what she had in a glass or in the cards. I wish Dad were here, she whispered involuntarily.

What? Her mother's voice rose. I'm your mother, you spoiled little tramp. Your father has always coddled you and listened to your foolishness about sports...girls aren't supposed to be...look at you! You don't even dress like a girl. No wonder no boys come 'round. You probably scared them into thinking you're one of them funny ones. Football... she mused. You need to start thinking of your future and getting married to some bloke who's not poorer than the church mouse, that's what you need to do.

Swaying as she got up, Vivian muttered, Where the devil is my drink? I need it. She cursed as she walked gingerly to the door, muttering nonsensically, and left. Lisbette exhaled. She didn't know when she started holding her breath but it felt good to breathe clean air. There was a time when her mother's words slashed her, shattering the inherent belief that mothers loved their daughters. After more than a few of these drunken sessions, they didn't hurt as much as they used to because she no longer cared for the woman. Her father had been all she needed.

Hearing the door slam, she closed her eyes realizing that she was finally alone. If she believed in God, she would have thanked him as she stared into space replaying the heartbreak of the day.

Lisbette didn't know when she fell asleep but when she opened her eyes, it was dusk. She heard soft steps come to her door and open it, flicking on the light.

He walked up to the bed.

Lissy, hearing her father's gentle voice, started the tears anew. She got up on her knees and threw her hands around Patrick's neck, sobbing. Oh, what's this then? he cooed. It can't be all that bad.

Her crying abated slightly as she sank back into the bed, resting her cheek on the pillow. I didn't make the team, Da. She whimpered, turning her head in the direction of his voice. "The coach said I was