The Return

By Cecly Ann Mitchell

Astral Le Noireau and Desmond Roche, are two dispossessed immigrants longing to return to the security and warmth of their West Indian homeland, and unburden the secrets they hold for each other.
When their carefully crafted worlds start to unravel with the death of their homeland’s Prime Minister, Astral and Desmond realize to be free, they must open Pandora's box and catapult forty years of mayhem back into their lives.

The Return is an intriguing prequel to Scotland Bay the Return series and includes excerpts from each of the novels.
The Legacy
Chateau on the Hill
The Remous
Fire Dance
A Cocoa Panyol Christmas
The Macquarie Beach Club
Dame Lorraine
The Midnight Robber
Petit Carême

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cecly Ann Mitchell
• Release date: Aug 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201873097

Book preview

ABOUT THE RETURN

*Intriguing and Interesting*

Secrets can only be hidden for so long.

They came together every March 29th, to reminisce.

Astral Le Noireau and Desmond Roche, are two dispossessed immigrants longing to return to the security and warmth of their West Indian homeland, Scotland Bay, Trinidad, and unburden the secrets they hold for each other.

When their carefully crafted worlds start to unravel with the death of their homeland’s Prime Minister, Astral and Desmond realize to be free, they must open that Pandora's box and catapult forty years of mayhem back into their lives.

The Return is an intriguing prequel to Scotland Bay the Return series and includes excerpts from each of the novels.

The Legacy

Chateau on the Hill

The Remous

Fire Dance

A Cocoa Panyol Christmas

The Macquarie Beach Club

Dame Lorraine

The Midnight Robber

Petit Carême

THE RETURN

Chapter 1

1981

29TH MARCH

WASHINGTON DC

ASTRAL

Astral Le Noireau rest her elbow on the banquette table, and propped her chin in the upturned palm of her hand staring vacantly as the snow tumbled in heavy clumps outside. 

What wouldn’t I give to be back on the beach at Scotland Bay now.  a long sound, liking to a raspberry, emanated from her.

Or jumping up to a good steelpan on the Savannah stage. Desmond Roche’s strong baritone rasped from across the banquette table, bringing her back to Washington DC and her dinner companion.

His long fingers tapped out the melody of ‘Ethel’, on the vinyl table top, beating the rhythms of the most popular calypso of  Trinidad’s Carnival season, which had ended just two weeks before. Every West Indian radio station in Caribbean diasporic communities scattered along the east coast in America was blasting the calypso, never mind  those same communities were decidedly Roman Catholic, and it was Lent. 

Carnival, the reign of the merry monarch, with its colourful costumery and free-letting of the creative spirit had just concluded in Trinidad and the thousands who travelled to the island for the festivities were now returning to cold wintry Washington with sun tans, rum in their bellies and raunchy calypso lyrics on their lips. 

Desmond could not resist humming to the catchy ‘Blue Boy’ rendition which walked away with the island’s Road March title.

The melody eased the melancholy of sitting in a dinner with Astral during a snowstorm thinking about home, Carnival and Scotland Bay.

Do you remember the year we got Gus in trouble? She gawked.

How can I forget? Your grandfather banned you from coming down the hill by us for two months and I had cow-pen duty for three. But that jump-up was worth it.  He laughed shaking his head.

The silence dawned between them.

Desmond reluctant to ruffle the laid back ambience that cocooned them.

Astral had something on her mind.

He knew her best.

For all the years of their friendship Desmond Roche had been her confidante. Not his sister Avril, who was Astral’s classmate and closer to her age.

Outside snow fell in clumps, not the feathery snowfall of Christmas carols and movies, but the angry rigid snowfall of a Washington DC winter.

Opposite her, Desmond sat taking in her exquisite beauty.

Where did the years go?

He was hitting close to 60 and Astral, vivacious and still beautiful was high-stepping into her 56th year. 

Her golden Le Noireau eyes shone with unshed tears.

Those eyes could express anger or pleasure with a shift in the shade of her irises.

Her delicate straight nose, that belied the Afro-Caribbean heritage, which she hid so well.

Her full lips, now coloured in a rich shade of purple. Her defiant chin, and the tumble of blue-black hair that no hair colourist could emulate.

This woman, the perfect chameleon walking with ease the fine line between the black and white communities wherever she lived.  

Astral, his restless millionairess who fled Trinidad just after the war ended taking her infant twin son and daughter, to Britain where she quickly and easily assimilated into the lifestyle her grandfather planned for her.

As the Chief Executive Officer of Coconel, the coffee, cocoa and chocolate brand with roots deep in the Gran Couva forest of Trinidad that before and after the war, graced the tables of high end tea rooms, offices and homes in Europe and countries in the Commonwealth.

She had done well, expanding Coconel’s reach after the end of World War 1,  into American and Canadian markets so much so that she was appointed to a similar role across the Atlantic in 1965.

Tonight though, her eyes held another mystery.

His restless princess Astral, with her golden eyes and blue-black hair and her perfect French creole manners, fidgeted, twisting the Le Noireau crest ring which she wore on the ring finger of the right hand.  

Desmond took a sip of the beer he was drinking, lifting the mug to is lips, enjoying the smoothness of the brew. He returned the mug to sit in the coaster thinking that no beer could beat the simple homeland brew.

What’s stopping you for going home, Le Noireau? he teased.

He knew she hated when he said her name like the Yankees did.

She cocked her eyebrow.

You know better Roche, it’s Lee-nor-ri-aye she drawled in her French creole accent that never wavered, no matter where she had lived.

He chuckled.

He knew she hated the Americanized pronunciation to her name. 

She was a proud descendent of free Frenchmen who had fought on Louverture’s side and then fled St Domingue, when the colour of their skin determined whether they could be trusted.

She delighted in the French pronunciation of her name, and over the years of their friendship, repeatedly corrected him, although she knew Desmond of all people, knew exactly how her family’s name was pronounced. Afterall, he was her Godbrother and best friend of more than fifty years.

They both were from the same battered village of Scotland Bay in Trinidad. The little coastal village on the north west peninsula of the tiny south Caribbean island, that Americans had overrun and from which they were evicted, this night 40 years ago.

They were together, as they did every year on Mach 29th,  since her arrival in America remember the people and village they both loved. 

A long sigh escaped her lips.

I will have to explain so much to the children, and I really don’t know where to begin.

He looked at her a question in his dark brown eyes.

I don’t think they know anything about the life we led in Trinidad, Desmond. It will mean I would have to tell them, everything. She huffed and continued.

Renee already hates me. she laughed but there was no mirth in the sound.  Can you imagine me telling her she is not British, or that she was born in the West Indies, on the island of Trinidad?

You never told them? His voice rose, his mouth fell open, the fork stopping midway between the plate and his mouth. He placed the fork back on the plate.

She shook her head.

I will have to tell them everything and I can’t pick or choose what to say.

She looked away.

Outside through the large storefront, the swirling snow cocooning them in the diner.

He threw his head back against the top of the upholstered chair, looking up at the ceiling as though the answers he wanted would come from there.

As your attorney, I am advising you to call your children and tell them your history.

She looked at him with tear filled golden eyes.

That’s easy for you to say. Your history isn’t as complicated as mine.

Across the room the woman behind the counter snickered, grabbed the coffee pot and noisily came around the counter, walking towards their table.

Everything okay here honey? She spoke to Astral, but glared at Desmond.

Yes were are fine. Astral responded.

The waitress slapped the bill on the banquette top in front of Desmond.

Desmond finished his meal, pushing the plate and cutlery to the side. 

That’ll be $16.15

He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket for his wallet but Astral beat him to it.

Pulling out a $20.00 dollar note, and resting it on top of the bill.

The waitress turned slowly and watched her.

Keep the change she murmured.

The woman grabbed up the note and the bill and hustled back to the counter.

Desmond shook his head.

I get the impression she thinks we are a couple and I’m breaking up with you. He chuckled.

These people are so judgmental.

Tell me about it.

After a long pause, where it seemed they both were caught up in faraway thoughts, like the beaches at Scotland Bay or searching the estate for mangoes and Pommecythere to make chow, or sapodillas and pomeracs to dry for the Christmas fruit cake, Desmond finally spoke.

Listen, you need to tell Rhys and Renee everything. They are old enough and I have all faith that Rhys at least will do the right thing.

What is the right thing Desmond? Have you told Annalise the right thing?

My situation with Annalise is different and you know it.

I know nothing of the sort. You are just like me, hiding from the truth by non-disclosure. Sooner or later she is going to find out and it best be from you.

Touché.

Again they both receded into their private thoughts.

I better be getting home. I have a long day tomorrow and a lot of thinking to do.

He nodded and stood.

She rose, bending over to grab her coat, hat, scarf