When Lily Ponds Ripple

By Anne-Marie Fitzwilliam

ENTWINED LIVES

A SECRET THAT RIPS THEM APART

TWINS ON A TURBULENT VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY

A sugar plantation, a waterlily pond, and a decades-old deception are the backdrop for When Lily Ponds Ripple. It is a forceful narrative about the West Indian twins, Florence and Charlotte Montague. Their rivalry for the same man underscores just how close loyalty and betrayal are.

The revelation of a family secret takes the Barbadian sisters from their sheltered island to London and Germany. In Frankfurt, Florence becomes a notable author, while Charlie’s career leads her from the London stage to Hollywood. Despite their geographical separation, the sisters cannot escape one another, far less their shared history. To face the future, they must confront the past together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398475632

Anne-Marie Fitzwilliam

Born in Trinidad, Anne-Marie Fitzwilliam grew up in Barbados. At the age of twenty-one, she emigrated to Germany where she read English and German at the Wolfgang Goethe University. She holds degrees in both subjects. The author lives in Frankfurt. This is her first novel.

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About the Author

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Born in Trinidad, Anne-Marie Fitzwilliam grew up in Barbados. At the age of twenty-one, she emigrated to Germany where she read English and German at the Wolfgang Goethe University. She holds degrees in both subjects. The author lives in Frankfurt. This is her first novel.

Dedication

To my father, whose love of literature and tenacity I inherited.

To Nadia, who insisted I write this novel.

Copyright Information ©

Anne-Marie Fitzwilliam 2023

The right of Anne-Marie Fitzwilliam to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398475618 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398475632 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781398475625 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Many thanks to my girlfriends who accepted I had little time for them and were there when I did.

Without Jeff, my layout and spacing would have been a mess. Time and again, he helped me format the manuscript of When Lily Ponds Ripple. Sir Jeff is my Lancelot of Tabs and much more.

I am grateful to dear Ladle, my other half, who was the first person to meet Florence and Charlie. Her invaluable insights helped me rethink many aspects of the narrative.

Thank you, Thomas, for putting up with my moods and giving me enough space to get this project off the ground. Without his support, I would never have finished When Lily Ponds Ripple.

Prologue

It is as easy to keep secrets as it is to hold water. Life taught me that lesson more than once. Looking back, I search for parallels and remember the dynamics of our lily pond. It supported my mother’s waterlilies and a colony of frogs. Except for the noisy amphibians, the pool slumbered quietly in a corner of our garden. Or so we thought. In truth, it was waiting on an opportunity to flow over the top, or seep through some chink.

In the rainy season, the pond was brim-full. Any unexpected movement caused it to overflow. When we threw our gnawed mango seeds at the frogs, the water changed its shape. It raced to the edge, escaped over the top, and splashed to the ground below. The rest backed up, waiting on another chance to get away.

Secrets follow a similar pattern. They bide their time until something triggers their release. When that happens, they flow outwards in urgent ripples. Some leave splatters on the wall. Others are more benign. But no matter how great or small their impact, they change who we think we are.

The revelation of our secrets burst on us like those furtively hurled mango seeds. They were exposed randomly. On an ordinary day. And altered the course of more than one life.

Chapter 1

Close to dawn, a jagged noise dragged me from my dreams. It was the telephone on my bedside table. I opened my eyes to inky shadows. No one called at such an ungodly hour unless it was bad news.

Hello, I said groggily.

The voice at the other end was as familiar as my own. As I listened, my heart stumbled into high gear.

Where? When? I questioned shakily. I’ll book the next available flight.

The line went dead. Hello? Hello? My voice boomed back at me. There was no answer.

I was wide awake. As my pupils dilated, I recognised the silhouette of my desk and the China lamp with its wide shade. I could barely see them, but I knew they were there. They were as tangible as the memories that circled the room. All supressed thoughts eventually surface, like a swimmer coming up for air. On that chilly morning, I was forced to remember the person I had done my best to forget.

There were so many arrangements to be made, though that was impossible at this hour. Wrapped in a warm housecoat, I padded downstairs to see a fainthearted sun poke through a bank of clouds. I put on the kettle and peered through the back window. Yesterday’s bright autumn weather had given way to rain. It poured like a leaky colander, in blobs and spurts. Water filled two empty pots on the flagstones below.

The property was surrounded by a leafy hedge that spoke of a mild summer. With each minute, the scene became clearer. The symmetrical back garden was a perfect example of ordered vegetation. It was clipped box hedge borders, pruned into submission. It had cost me years to acquire such evenness. Pleasing though the scene was, I realised it bore little resemblance to the gardens of my childhood. There was no room for exuberance here.

A sharp whistle from my Alessi kettle interrupted all contemplation. The occasion called for tea. The telephone call sat in my stomach like an indigestible meal. Tea was my best bet. The ordinariness of spooning Darjeeling into a teapot kept my thoughts from sliding sideways. In socked feet, I took the tray into my living room and waited for the liquid to turn its unique shade of amber. Standing in the bay window, I watched the rain slow to a drizzle. There was not a car, far less a pedestrian in sight, just a few falling leaves chasing one another in mid-flight. Below me, the street was eerily quiet. Roads like this were where journeys began. I had travelled far, but not far enough. Just as I felt safe, the past had reeled me in. I was still flapping.

I returned to my island after years of exile. It was the kind of day that entices tourists to fly thousands of miles in a cramped aircraft. Its beauty taunted me. This is what you’ve been missing, it seemed to say. The sun was low on the horizon, spewing orange into the cerulean sky. I wondered whether exile is any easier for being self-imposed. With a gentle bump, the aircraft touched down at Grantley Adams Airport. There was enthusiastic clapping, expressing a mixture of relief and impatience. After being cooped up for ten hours, no amount of persuasion would force the passengers to wait for the seatbelt sign to be turned off. Long before the engines fell silent, they sprang from their seats to retrieve assorted belongings from the overhead compartments.

When the door of the aircraft opened, a wave of warm, humid air invaded the cabin. My hair responded by curling mutinously. The heat activated the sebum glands of my face, and I dabbed my forehead with a tissue.

The tanned young man next to me declared, Not accustomed to the heat, are you?

I was born on this island and spent my youth here, I felt obliged to say.

His rejoinder was lost to me. We were pushed forward by impatient passengers from the rear. Walking over the tarmac towards the arrivals area, I was assailed by smells stored deep in my olfactory memory. The pervasive stink of fuel did not quite obliterate them. I inhaled the tangy scent of salt and the odour of overheated soil. And there was something sweet dangling in the air. Sugar and salt, I thought. That’s what it smells like.

Gone was the functional construction that used to be called Seawell Airport. The open visitor’s gallery bordered by unruly red bougainvillea had also vanished. There were no spectators waiting to glimpse family members and friends, to shout at, even touch them, before they disappeared into the modest building. In my mind’s eye, I saw cousins hanging on the railings and screeching a loud welcome from that visitor’s gallery.

The airport was hardly recognisable as the one I had known decades ago. In its place was a modern hub that accommodated jetsetters on luxury aircraft like the Concorde. The airport had come of age behind my back. In all those years abroad, my memories of home were those of a young adult. This was a mocking perspective. The world had not stopped turning in my absence but was twirling towards the first decade of a new millennium.

The new arrival’s area was impressive. The immigration officers sat in a row behind state-of-the-art desks in glass cubicles with little microphone for safe communication. I should not have been surprised. It was standard security procedure in the UK and Europe. However, I missed the innocence of the wooden schoolroom desks that were open on all sides. They had proclaimed that nothing untoward was going to happen, so you might as well step up and get your passport stamped.

It took the better part of half an hour before the revolving belts coughed to life, spewing luggage on the conveyor belt. I hoped mine would not be lost yet prayed for some respite. I began to perspire, and it was not from the heat. This modern airport was admirably air-conditioned. It was a gnawing apprehension that I might be too late.

My thoughts were disrupted when I saw the signature grey of my Samsonite suitcase float past me. I bent over to pluck it from the belt and heave it over the side. Willing hands helped me pull my valise clear of the rubber snake. I smiled in a gesture of thanks and hailed one of the porters standing along the walls of the terminal. They, at least, were still here. Apparently, some things never change, even in this era of wheeled suitcases. I opted for a porter, because I wanted to be unencumbered when I walked through the exit.

With every step, I sensed the blood rise from my neck to my cheeks. My face felt hot. The automatic doors swished opened at my approach. I saw nothing but a sea of faces, waiting, watching. Then I picked out features. Moving forward to a vantage point, I saw two people detach themselves from the crowd. One was a stooped man, the other a trim elderly lady, grey with fatigue. Anxiety had diminished them to pale copies of my parents. When my father smiled, joy brimmed from his eyes in their nest of wrinkles. My mother was harder to read, but that had always been so. She looked exhausted. The straight line of her mouth said she was trying to pretend she was not afraid. All my carefully rehearsed words vanished as I enveloped first my mother then my father in a clinging embrace. Their scent was still the same.

I heard my father’s muffled voice say into my hair, Welcome home, little one!

Holding on to their ageing bodies, I wept. My father gave me his handkerchief, and patted my back soothingly, as he had when I was a child. I asked the question that had been tormenting me since the phone call. How is she? When can I see her?

My parent’s young chauffeur, whose name I did not know, dropped me off at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Bridgetown. They returned home for some much-needed sleep. It was now past eight o’clock, and the wards were ghostly quiet. Yards of linoleum floor glistened in the lighted corridor. A brisk nurse escorted me to a private room at the end of the passageway. Before opening it, she said the patient was still in an induced coma, though they had been reducing the medication slowly in preparation for waking her up.

Speak to her, but please be positive. Patients often hear us while unconscious, she continued in a Barbadian cadence.

I nodded mechanically, swallowing the bile that had crept up my throat. The nurse pushed open the door. At first, I saw nothing but shadows. Gradually, I identified a supine form surrounded by machines. Surely that was not her. The tube protruding from her mouth was connected to a respirator that made a wheezing sound; up and down it went, in the rhythm of mechanical ventilation. Beep, beep rang the dissonant chorus. Looking at her bandaged body, I was overwhelmed by panic. One eye was covered with gauze. The other was closed. It was not right that I could see while she could not. I drew up a chair to sit close to her bed.

You’re strong, don’t give in. Fight the way you fought my battles. My voice broke and I buried my face in cold hands, hoping to find release in tears. My eyes remained dry. The helplessness was unbearable.

This is what being home means, I reasoned. You regress to the vulnerability you fight all your life to overcome.

Intermittently, I stopped to say something. You showed them. Barracudas indeed! But you always loved colourful metaphors.

Gazing at the patient in the hospital bed, I whispered dreamily, I can still remember the scent of Royal Palms in the rainy season. There’s no aroma like it. Each place has its own unmistakable scent. I can even recall the tang of London all those years ago. That whiff of river overlaid with big city pollution, I chuckled. I know, you said it was the smell of freedom. You and your melodrama!

Words had always been my refuge. I was convinced she would not leave me while I wrote our story. Grabbing my ever-present notebook, I scribbled down the memories that floated past me. They returned as rhythmically as the machine pumping oxygen into her lungs. Up and down. Hiss and drop. Beep, beep.

Yes, I said, looking at her masked face, we know everything is decided at the beginning. That’s where I’ll start. I poised my pen mid-air und muttered, If we could begin again, would we act differently, or make exactly the same mistakes? Perhaps we’re stuck in an emotional blueprint.

Chapter 2

Barbados, 1966

The twins sat in an airy chamber surrounded by books in sober brown paper. History, arithmetic, and geography textbooks jostled for space on the polished table. The girls peered at the volume of poetry in front of them. They had passed the stage of reading about Rover. Said Rover was a sleek Labrador that fetched balls someone had thrown across a lawn. In their first illustrated readers, he had carried it to rosy-cheeked boys and girls. In Charlie’s opinion, chubby Rover with his black coat would die a quick heatstroke death in Barbados. Though now that they had progressed to more abstract thoughts, they missed poor Rover. Charlie saw the poems of Tennyson and Wordsworth as a personal insult, especially the interminable The Lady of Shalott.

Why can’t she die right away? It would make it easier to learn, she moaned. Come to think about it, this is nastier than that funny Wordsworth with his daffodils and vales. Even his wondering clouds are better than this.

It’s ‘wandering’ not ‘wondering’, her blond sister corrected and earned a sharp look.

I don’t care what word he uses. Can you imagine someone wondering on a cloud? He must be a real ninny. Unless it’s a magic carpet. That would be fun.

The landscape described by both poets was alien to them. Their local vegetation was more colourful. Florence looked out of the window towards the hedge of red hibiscus, close to a wall covered with orange bougainvillea. Its vibrancy pleased her.

Besides, the poems were boring compared to the plays they listened to on the colonial BBC. They, at least, were exciting, even if the players said stupid things like Steady the buffs, old chap. And the characters spoke as if they had been to the dentist, and it hurt to open their mouth more than a crack. Their elongated vowels and clipped consonants were as foreign as the straggly rose bush their mother had brought from England several years ago. It had not survived.

Meanwhile, Charlie pressed her pencil into the soft paper, inflicting as much damage as possible on Tennyson and The Lady of Shalott.

Why should we have to work during the holidays? The school term is over. Let’s go to the river for a few minutes. The poem will be here when we get back, she said forcefully.

Her sister ogled her other half sceptically. Dad said we should work during the holidays. We missed two weeks because of that itchy Chicken Pox, remember? We’re supposed to work for another hour. Then we can play, she said it with little conviction.

It’s not fair. We didn’t ask to be sick, did we?

Those are Dad’s orders. Not mine, Florence recited.

Don’t be such a spoilsport. You can sit here! I’m going to the river. Nanny Silvia and Elaine won’t miss us for a while.

She flung the poetry book none too reverently in the corner, sauntered to the door and threw a backward glance at her sister. Florence wavered for another second, before closing her textbook.

As she bent to pick up her slippers, Charlie hissed, Leave your slippers, silly, they’ll make too much noise on the stairs.

They headed towards the back stairs close to the servants’ quarters. United in crime, they walked hand in hand through the drizzle. As they passed the lily pond, Charlie picked up a mango and flung it into the water. That was her special script. They negotiated the clump of bamboo trees that formed a natural barrier between the end of the track and the river. The rainy season had turned the modest trickle into a torrent that rushed through the confined riverbed. The girls stood at a respectful distance to watch flotsam swirl by. An old tire bobbed past, followed by branches of all sorts, and any number of leaves with stranded caterpillars. A dead fish, belly up, floated downriver. The raven-haired girl was too curious to remain at a safe distance. She inched closer to the swirling mass for a better look.

Charlie, don’t, hissed her sister, tugging at the other’s dress. If you get wet, Nanny will know we’ve been here. It’ll be poetry for the rest of the week.

Her halo of yellow hair looked like a saturated cap. She yanked at her sister, pulling her away from the fascinating sight of a dead dog caught in a clump of twigs. Its bloated body was waterlogged and stiff-limbed. Charlie picked up a long stick to poke at the carcass.

Charlie, look! Over there! Coming towards us!

Her twin’s excited voice interrupted Charlotte’s prodding. Florence pointed to a branch floating towards them. Perched on one of its twigs was a mewing kitten. Charlie stepped closer to the river and held on to an overhanging bamboo branch. With the help of her stick, she re-directed the bough towards their side of the embankment. When the branch swerved, she grabbed it.

Hold my hand, Florry!

Her sister seized the outstretched hand and pulled the branch with its occupant up the bank. Both girls collapsed, muddy but elated. Looking up, Florence saw her sister holding the kitten to her breast.

It’s all wet, Florry. How thin it is! We’ll take it home and dry it off, she said, putting it into her pocket.

It’s my kitten. I saw it first, hollered her twin disapprovingly.

But I pulled it from the river. You were too frightened to go near the water! Left to you, it would have drowned, replied Charlie.

Brushing off their muddy dresses, they walked towards the plantation. Reluctantly, Florry followed, unable to think of an argument that might persuade Charlie of her right of ownership.

Looming through a wall of green, their home sprawled somnolent in the muggy heat. They ran towards the servants’ quarters behind the kitchen.

We’ll sneak into the linen cupboard where Nanny Silvia won’t see us, dictated Charlie, furtively opening the side door to the laundry. Florry trailed behind her into the room that smelt of fresh linen and detergent. Through the partition, they saw Nanny Silvia and Elaine sitting at a round table with steaming mugs of tea between them. Raj, the gardener, sat at a respectful distance, eating a penny loaf with corned beef. Florence rooted about in the cupboard, looking for something to dry themselves with. Voices floated towards them. Elaine, the cook, was just airing her feelings on some injustice.

That Miss Julia such-and-such just arrive with a lot of bags. She expect us all to bow and scrape. Not me! Mr Bruce don’t like her at all, at all. But all the men crazy over that Miss Julia. She always turning heads. Ira say she was married to Mistress Nell’s cousin, Elaine expounded. They quarrel on the way home from a party ’cause all the men looking at her. What happen? The car drive into a ditch. He died and she only have a scratch and a black eye. That don’t sound funny to you? Silvia nodded but refrained from commenting. She had just helped unpack Miss Julia’s clothes.

Men and women always fighting. Can’t live with, can’t live without the other, philosophised Elaine, a tall Barbadian of African descent. You remember that good-for-nothing Celest I told you about? Elaine asked Silvia. Well, she got some bad revenge on her man. He was stepping out with her best friend. Celest gone and buy cement and put it in his drink. Well, talk about trouble. Everything clogged up and he had to go to hospital. Elaine cackled with obvious glee. The lurid story made the girls snigger. Abruptly, there was complete silence on the other side of the partition.

All right, Miss Charlotte. I know you there. Come out! requested Silvia. The girls entered the servant’s room, sodden clothes caked in mud. Observing the state of her charges, Nanny Silvia lamented loudly, Oh, my Lord! She ran to the linen cupboard and pulled out a big white towel. Madame going to kill me if she see you like that! She enveloped them in the fluffy towel and rubbed vigorously.

Don’t, Nanny! said Charlie indignantly, I have something in my pocket! She whipped out the bedraggled kitten and presented it like a trophy. I saved it from the river!

Nanny’s eyes took on that look that meant she was deadly serious. Miss Charlotte, you crazy or what? You go into that water to save a cat? If Madame hear about this, is not only you who going get in trouble, she spoke, sucking her teeth loudly. I know you, Miss Charlotte; you drag Miss Florence to the river and get into mischief. What I do to deserve such a wayward child like you? After a moment’s hesitation, she plucked the cat from Charlotte, and put it on the ground. Elaine, get some milk for this here cat! It nearly killed them, so we could as well feed it!

Such paradox logic was typical for Nanny. She was a proud East Indian who had been with the family even before the twins were born. Her sing-song voice betrayed her origin, just as the use of words like ‘Madame’ indicated she had lived in Trinidad, where the English had not eradicated the last remnants of French culture. Sylvia’s warm skin smelt of coconut oil. Her hands were rough, but her touch gentle. She was their guardian, kind rather than stern. Silvia was always polite but not particularly overawed by her employers. She exuded the dignity of an essential member of the household.

You two strip off them clothes and let me dry you! she commanded, picking up the brown garments and rubbing the girls dry.

I hope you don’t catch cold from this stupidness! What about worms? There is worms in the river! What I going to tell Madame?

Raj made a silent exit. He did not want to be around if the twins told their parents what they had overheard. Besides, it was time to work on the flower beds at the rear of the plantation where he could smoke to his heart’s content.

The kitten was now lapping up the milk that Elaine had produced from the pantry.

Nanny, you don’t have to tell Mummy. We’re still alive. I know we’ll not get sick. Isn’t that so, Florry? Silvia doesn’t have to tell Mummy, does she? Charlie spoke in the dulcet voice she used when she needed support.

Florence thought before replying. Well, all right then. I won’t tell Mummy if you let me have the kitten.

I saved it. Why should I give it to you? Charlie’s eyes narrowed.

You don’t have to, but I’ll tell Mummy you took me to the river, and we nearly drowned. And I saw it first. You were poking at that stupid dead dog.

Charlie mulled over the turn of events before giving in.

All right, she conceded, but I get to name it! We’ll call it Tinkerbell!

That’s a stupid name. It doesn’t have wings like a real Tinkerbell.

Charlie had to admit that her sister was right. The skinny thing did not look as if it could fly.

Well, maybe we could call it Tiger. It has stripes, revised Charlie. Florence nodded approvingly.

"Miss Charlotte, you better call it Tiger Lily. This isn’t no boy cat. He is a she!" their nanny proposed.

Silvia was their committed ally, especially when Madame decided the task at hand was too embarrassing to undertake herself. Like the time one of the unmarried maids got pregnant. Saying God gave babies to married couples wouldn’t quite cut it! Silvia was asked to explain the facts of life using a booklet the mistress gave her. Even for those better versed in the wiles of the world, it was confusing. They could make nothing of the diagrams, or the Latin terms. Silvia came to the rescue by translating the jargon into plain Pidgin English. The egg, she insisted, was released every month. It was not laid once and for all, as the twins had hoped. There were other signs of being a woman that caused the girls to gasp. Charlie said her friend at school had told her about terrible gripes. This did nothing to allay Florence’s fears. Wading through the booklet with Silvia’s help, they came to the part about how babies were made. Florence gave her a quizzical look. It sounded like one of Elaine’s tall tales.

Explaining the facts of life was by no means the only delicate task Silvia was entrusted with. She oversaw the regular doses of worm medicine and Kepler’s Malt. Their nanny treated their bruises and bouts of diarrhoea caused by the overindulgence of mangoes. Silvia woke her charges every morning and helped them start the day. That included ensuring they were bathed and dressed before breakfast. She supervised the maintenance of their clothes and school uniforms. Nanny Silvia understood them as few others did. She had her own inscrutable description of the twins’ characters. The light one is dark and the dark one pretends to be light, she told Elaine.

That morning, Silvia and Elaine colluded to bathe and dress the muddied twins. They exchanged their stained dresses for crisp cotton shifts. Leaving the laundry, the girls climbed the steps to the first floor. Royal Palms was no longer a working plantation, but its foundations hailed from the 17th century. The original structure had been diluted by hurricane damage and the need to expand the premises. Indigenous materials like coral stone and tropical wood were much in evidence. The high-ceilinged parlour boasted four generous overhead fans that swished languidly. It was a house that was grand without pretension, generous, but not sprawling. It exuded a dignity that did not need to succumb to modern badges of wealth like swimming pools. It spoke of old money and good taste.

Following the sound of female voices, the twins scampered across the smooth mahogany floorboards, picking up momentum as they recognised the speakers.

Aunty Julia! squealed Charlotte, running into her aunt’s arms. Is Max with you? she asked breathlessly.

No, my pet! cooed Julia, stroking Charlotte’s dark hair. He’s at school. The German holidays start later. He won’t arrive for another ten days.

Florence held back shyly. Noticing her twin was getting all the attention, she went to her mother’s side. Mrs Montague, the twins’ mother, was what was widely termed an English Rose. She had fair hair and blue eyes to go with it; Florence was her mirror image. Charlie, on the other hand, had black hair that set off her lilac eyes to dramatic effect. Everyone agreed she took after Granny Maud. The domestic servants said the twins were black and white sea eggs. They were as different in appearance as in personality.

Remembering Elain’s words in the laundry, Florence observed Aunt Julia from afar. She was a handsome brunette with the physique of a tennis player. Julia von Eppsteins was her mother’s intimate friend. Originally from Australia, she had met Nell as a child when her father was sent to Barbados by the World Health Organisation.

Julia looked at Florence and said, Darling, come and say hello.

Hello, Aunty! The girl stepped forward to shake Julia’s hand.

What? Why don’t I get a big hug? Her mother’s friend said in mock gravity. Getting out of her armchair she embraced Florence in a powdery cuddle. There, that’s better. How you’ve grown! she said predictably.

People always said that, reflected Florence. What did they expect? If we didn’t grow, we’d be sick, and Silvia would give us cod liver oil morning, noon, and night. But she was too polite to say so.

If you go to my room, you’ll find presents on the bed. They’re for you and your sister, said Julia.

Charlotte took off at a run and headed to the guest room Julia always used when visiting Royal Palms. Florence trailed at a sedate pace.

Julia addressed her friend. Nell, they’re adorable, but they’re beginning to sound like Nanny Silvia. Isn’t it time you thought of boarding school abroad? I’m sending Max to Salem next year.

Good grief, Julia! They’re only twelve! I don’t think Bruce will approve. He likes to keep them near him, replied Nell in a shocked voice. Once children go away, they never come back the same. They’ll return like little English girls, looking down their noses at us colonials.

It doesn’t have to be that way. Julia sipped her tea. What about their education? Girls have more opportunities nowadays. If you sent them to an English boarding school, they could spend their holidays with me in Kronberg, she said, listing the advantages.

Nell Montague pressed her lips together in a manner that said she was absorbed. When the time is right, I’ll speak to Bruce. Until then, I’ll just have to make sure they don’t go too native.

Julia’s reply was cut short when Bruce Montague entered the room. A distinguished man with good bearing, he looked at her with vigilant eyes.

Hello, Julia! Have you left your sophisticated salon for our island? How is Frankfurt? He gave her a cursory peck on the cheek.

Well, I don’t know about sophisticated. More than two decades after the war and the country is still occupied. Luckily, Frankfurt is in the American sector. The Yanks do a good job. She bit into her biscuit. As to the city, there are still craters all over Frankfurt. Every time they lay the foundations for a new site, they discover another undetonated bomb. But that’s too dreary to speak about. I’m here because I need Nell’s company and Barbadian sun. Royal Palms is my Paradise Found.

The post-war rebuilding of a city must be good for business. Manfred probably has his hands full. By the way, where’re the children?

As if on cue, the twins returned from their aunt’s bedroom. Charlotte rushed to her father.

"Daddy, look! Aunty Julia brought us Dirndl dresses. I’ll take the red one. Florry will have the light blue dress. Isn’t that so? Blue suits you better. Mummy, look!" She held up the Dirndl.

Lovely, darling! What do you say, girls?

Thank you, Aunty Julia! they said in unison.

Bruce went down on his haunches to inspect the presents.

Daddy, we rescued a cat from the river. It’s striped like a tiger, Charlotte piped up in a clear voice.

Her father frowned. You didn’t go near the river, I hope. Where was Silvia? he asked.

Oh, it wasn’t exactly in the river. It was sort of alone on the bank, all wet and shivering. Wasn’t it Florry? Charlotte sought her sister’s assistance to cover up the lie.

Florence obliged and steered the conversation to safer ground by asking her father if they could stay up for dinner. Bruce, always lenient with the girls, said he saw no reason why not. The moment passed without any further talk about the river. Florence sat next to her mother, listening to the talk about independence.

I hear there’ll to be grand celebrations in November. How are the plans for independence going? asked Julia.

Everything is under control, he replied, though not all of us are in favour of independence. After three hundred years as a colony, we’re being set adrift. No more English subsidies, no more protection. We’ll just be another little country trying to survive on its meagre resources.

Nell looked at her husband. I am not accustomed to such doom and gloom from you, darling. The island will manage fine, she added. On another note, we were talking about boarding school for the children. Julia thinks it’s time we sent them to England.

Bruce Montague frowned. It’s too soon. Once they leave, we’ll have no influence on their upbringing. It’ll be Oxford Street and Flower Power.

The girls sat upright, riveted by the mention of something relating to them.

Yes, but they should see more of the world. Twins, would you like to go to England? questioned Julia.

It would be a big adventure, wouldn’t it, Florry? Charlie shouted.

The other twin disliked the idea of leaving home. Before she was required to answer, her father replied in a voice that meant the proposal was not negotiable.

Julia, I’ll thank you not to discuss this matter until Nell and I have made a decision.

Sorry! You’re right of course. Twins come with me. Max has sent you a letter. It’s in my room. She stood up and steered them from the drawing room.

Bruce looked at his wife and hissed, What’s this, Nell? A palace revolution the moment she arrives. She has no right to discuss our domestic arrangements.

Sorry, Bruce! We shouldn’t have discussed it in front of the girls. I don’t want to lose them any more than you do. But we’ll have to think of their higher education at some point. Let’s not think of it just yet. She stretched out an elegant hand, enclosing his fingers in hers. Her touch calmed him, as she knew it would.

Elaine has done something special for this evening. She’s cooked all of Julia’s favourites. She’s also baked banana bread for you. She patted his arm affectionately. Bruce had been besotted with Nell since he spied her across a dance floor at the Crane Hotel. She pulled him towards the terrace that overlooked the front garden.

Look, the rain has stopped, and the sun is out. Raj cut the grass this morning. They observed the acres of green that surrounded the house. It was dotted with frangipani, mahogany, and flamboyant trees. Ferns of every description clung to the base of the larger trunks. A giant of a Ficus squatted next to the roundabout, deformed, but oddly majestic. It threatened to overshadow the sun dial that was as old as the building. The royal palms on either side of the driveway had given the plantation its name. In the distance, they saw cane fields swaying in the breeze. There was not an elevated spot in Barbados from which you could not see either sugar cane, or the sea.

In a pensive voice, Bruce spoke to no one in particular. Cane was once the foundation of Barbados’s wealth. Nowadays, there’s too much competition. His words hung in the damp air. He was overcome by a premonition of change. He could feel it, just as a tingling in his left knee announced rain, long before the first dark clouds were visible.

Change is life’s only constant. We’re forced to part with so much we start life with. He ran one hand through his hair. When the twins were born, Royal Palms was a working plantation. This scene has changed in under a decade. They gazed towards the twisted Ficus. But it’s not just that. I want to be part of their lives while we’re still their heroes. I love their sweet adoration. That’ll stop when they go away. They’ll return grown up and we’ll just be adults they find slightly embarrassing, said Bruce wistfully. Florry is such an innocent. Give her time to grow up.

The twins were thankful their mother was busy with Aunty Julia. It meant she would have no time to test them on their poetry. It left them free to indulge in their afternoon ritual. It was their custom to walk around the lily pond in the late afternoon when the sun had lost its glare. Hand in hand they walked, talking about the day’s events, homework, or an upcoming birthday party. The lily pond heard everything. It listened with stony indifference.

When they reached that corner of the garden, Raj was working on the pond’s stonework. He sat on his haunches, shoring up the cracks in the wall. It was a responsibility he took seriously, for he feared the water might find a way to get out. Worse still, that one day he would discover the pond dry, the pink blossoms and rubbery leaves withering in the heat. Water, he said, was wayward. It tried to escape every time he turned his back.

Raj seemed ancient, though he was not yet forty. The illusion of old age was reinforced by his posture. Raj was seldom seen standing. He preferred to sit on his haunches, the better to hack at the weeds that tried to reclaim the garden. Sun and cigarettes had turned his skin into a tracery of wrinkles. He chopped, cut, clipped, and weeded the extensive garden into a semblance of order. He was the garden’s champion, doing battle with snails, caterpillars, and the regrowth of what he called wilful weeds.

Disappointed they could not walk around the pond without being overheard, the twins begged him for avocados.

They not ripe yet. But Twinnies, I can show you some bad creepy-crawlies, he pointed to a few striped caterpillars, hanging from a tree. Those greedy fellows eat all Madame’s frangipani. That’s why they so fat.

That evening, the twins were permitted to stay up for dinner with the adults. The long mahogany table was set with the Wedgewood crockery Nell Montague had inherited from her grandmother. Crystal shone in the light of the overhead chandelier. The mood was festive, yet intimate. Spontaneous banter and high-pitched children’s voices reverberated around the dining room.

What, Florry! Another piece of banana bread? That’s your third slice. Where do you put it? Don’t complain if you feel sick afterwards, warned her mother.

Oh, leave her, Nell. You know it’s our favourite. Isn’t it sweetheart? said her father.

Florry did not answer. She nodded, jabbing her fork into the soft banana bread soaked with ice-cream. Charlotte was uncharacteristically silent, moving the dessert from one side of her plate to the other.

What’s wrong with you, darling? enquired her mother.

Nothing! Not hungry, was the subdued reply.

That’s something new. You have such a sweet tooth. Maybe you’re coming down with a cold. She got up to feel her daughter’s forehead. You’re slightly feverish. Perhaps it’s over-excitement.

Nell Montague decided it had been a long day, and told the twins to go to their bedroom, where Silvia would get them ready for bed.

The adults retired to the living room for coffee. The talk turned to the island’s economic situation, and the hotel project Bruce Montague had decided to invest in. They were weighing up the advantages of building on the South Coast when Silvia entered the room.

Excuse me Madame. Is about the Twinny. She brought up her food! Nell looked slightly flustered.

Oh dear! She had too much dessert. I’ll look in on her, said Nell, rising to leave the room.

But Madame, is not Miss Florence, is Miss Charlotte. And she have fever too. I worried about her, added Silvia uneasily. I believe she could have get something from the river. She and Miss Florry went there today.

Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier, Silvia? Nell was annoyed.

Her husband looked up from his drink. It’s no time for accusations. Let’s look at the child.

The adults followed Silvia into the twins’ room with its vast four-poster bed covered by a mosquito net. Charlotte lay on her side of the bed, red-faced, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Glassy eyes turned to her mother. It hurts!

The child was curled up into a foetal position with her arms around her abdomen. Gently, her mother pulled aside the sheet. The reddened skin was stretched tight. She touched her daughter’s lower abdomen, feeling the distended stomach. Charlotte groaned and squirmed away. Nell replaced the sheet and told her not to worry, everything would be fine. She signalled the others to accompany her.

Will Charlie be all right, Mummy? enquired Florence’s small voice.

Of course, darling! Dr Gilbert will make her better.

They left the room with Silvia, closing the door behind them. The four adults stood in the passageway.

I believe it’s her appendix, Nell said quietly. She’s feverish and sensitive on that side of her stomach. I’ll call Dr Gilbert immediately. In the meantime, keep her as comfortable as possible, Silvia.

Her husband beat her to the telephone, dialling the number that headed the ‘important numbers’ list.

Dot, this is Bruce Montague speaking. We think Charlotte has an appendicitis. Could I speak to Neal? He listened. What do you mean he’s not at home? This is an emergency. What patient? Mrs White from Belleville? Do you have the number? Thank you! He banged down the receiver with unusual rudeness.

He dialled the six-digit number. Mr White, I was told Dr Gilbert is attending your wife. Could I speak to him? It’s an emergency. Thank you!

Bruce waited as the man’s footsteps disappeared down what must have been a long passageway. Presently, Dr Gilbert picked up the receiver.

Neal, thank God. It’s Bruce Montague. We’re worried about Charlotte. We think it’s her appendix. She’s vomited, has a temperature. The doctor must have asked him a question for he answered, Yes, she’s in pain. It’s her right side and it’s swollen. More mumbling. What do you mean you can’t come? What if it ruptures? We need you here, now. There was a pause while Bruce listened to the physician. No, I don’t want to go to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Two years after its opening, and it’s still understaffed. Dr Gilbert said something that incensed Bruce. Are you suggesting Soames should attend Charlotte? He’s only just qualified. I don’t trust him with something like this. His voice was loud. If your protégé bungles this, I’ll hold you responsible. Bruce listened. All right, it seems we have no choice. Replacing the receiver, he turned to his wife and Julia.

Neal Gilbert is in Bellville delivering Cecelia White’s child by Caesarean Section. He can’t come. He suggests we go to his consulting room in Holetown. It has a fully equipped surgery. Neal says Soames can deal with this, but I don’t like the idea at all. He stopped for a moment. You get the car, Nell. I’ll carry Charlie downstairs.

Bruce Montague returned to the twins’ bedroom.

Mr Montague, Miss Charlotte vomit again! I clean her up and put on a fresh nighty, said Silvia, covering the child in the blanket they kept for chilly nights.

Thank you, Silvia. Take care of Florry until we get back. Florry, don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything’ll be all right.

Bruce carried his daughter down the front stairs. The air outside was thick enough to cut. Whistling frogs and crickets had commenced their nocturnal symphony, chirruping loudly in the damp air. Tonight, it seemed indecently raucous. His wife was waiting at the wheel of the car. Julia held the car door open. She tucked the blanket tidily around the recumbent girl and got in without being asked to do so.

You can support her from one side. I’ll be on the other, said Julia.

Aren’t you going to stay with Silvia and Florry? Bruce looked askance.

No Bruce! My place is with Nell. We have basic medical training. Dr Soames may need assistance. Drive on, Nell. There was a stubborn edge to her voice.

Nell swerved past the roundabout and coasted down the driveway. As they approached the gates, Julia jumped out to unfasten the heavy wrought iron bar.

Don’t drive via Trents. It’s closer, but there’s been a landslide. We could get stuck, Bruce said tersely.

Nell gripped the steering wheel, her face a mask of concentration. She drove slowly, occasionally looking back at Bruce and Julia who were on either side of Charlie. They passed the deeply rutted junction that that would lead to the coast and the village called Holetown. She knew this road intimately and could anticipate the uneven sections long before they were visible in the headlights’ white beam. Every now and again, Charlie groaned softly. It is all right, darling. We’ll be there soon! soothed her father.

The five-minute trip felt excruciatingly long. They drove past the fabulous expatriate villas on the Sandy Lane estate. Some were pseudo-Mediterranean palaces; others resembled opulent South American haciendas. In the moonlight, the mansions looked like ghostly ships marooned on manicured lawns. The car’s headlights bounced off the grand edifices to pick out the small ribbon of road that led to Holetown.

At this time of night, there was barely any traffic. Soon they arrived at the modest building just off the main coast road. The lights were on, and by the time Nell switched off the ignition, a tall, black man approached the car. He had the ascetic look of an intellectual who spends more time at his books than in the fresh air. Glasses dominated his face; the starched doctor’s coat hung loosely around his waist.

Mr and Mrs Montague, I’m Dr Soames. Dr Gilbert called to say you would be bringing your daughter in. Suspected appendicitis, I’m told. Please, follow me!

His voice was confident. The refined accent spoke of many years in Southern England, but a Bajan intonation perched on the edge of his sentences. An almost imperceptible clearing of the throat betrayed his tension. He guided them into a room behind the empty receptionist desk. While he examined her, Dr Soames spoke gently. All the while he probed the area on the right side of Charlie’s abdomen. She cramped in pain and emitted a little mewing sound.

It’s all right, little lady. You’ll soon feel better, I promise. But first we’ll take a picture of your tummy.

While a clumsy X-Ray machine was wheeled into position, Dr Soames covered Charlotte with a metal blanket that left only her lower abdomen exposed. He told the adults to leave the room.

When it was over, he asked brightly, That didn’t hurt, did it? Your aunt can stay with you while I speak to your parents.

The doctor led the Montagues to his office. When he closed the door, Nell Montague ventured a theory.

Dr Soames, in case it’s relevant, the twins were near the river today. Could it be related to that? You know, dirty water and the like?

Dr Soames shook his head. No, Mrs Montague, the symptoms are straightforward. The x-ray shows a definite enlargement of the appendix. Your daughter has an acute appendicitis. The sooner we operate the better. I don’t think we should wait. I’ve called Nurse Bowen. She’ll be here any moment.

An abnormally silent Bruce Montague asked the questions he had been brooding over. How many times have you performed an appendectomy? Could we not wait for Dr Gilbert?

Dr Soames look at the agitated father through his large glasses. It’s difficult to say, but there’s a risk if we don’t operate. The appendix could rupture tomorrow, or within hours. Should it rupture, it would be extremely serious. As to your other question, I have performed five appendectomies, and assisted my tutor, Dr Masters, at the Great Ormond Street Hospital in London, at least twenty times. The decision is yours, Sir.

Forestalling her husband’s answer, Nell Montague blurted out, I don’t want to wait. It’s too dangerous. Dr Soames, please prepare to operate on Charlotte as soon as your nurse arrives. If need be, I could assist you. Mrs von Eppsteins and I have basic medical training.

I don’t want to be harsh, but as a mother, you’re too emotional. You needn’t worry. Nurse Bowen qualified as a registered nurse in England. He looked at Bruce Montague. Do you agree with your wife’s decision?

It appears I’ve been overruled, said Bruce peevishly.

Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll prepare for the operation.

There was the sound of a door being opened and closed, followed by a flurry of feet on the linoleum. Nurse Bowen had obviously arrived. They could hear a low conversation between them. The Montagues returned to Charlotte and Julia, who was trying to make light of the situation by saying they would have a lot to tell Florry when they got home.

Nell approached her daughter. Charlie, just imagine, Dr Soames will give you something to make you sleep, and when you wake up, that dreadful stomach-ache will be gone. Isn’t that something? Look, this is Nurse Bowen.

The black nurse was close to retirement age. Well, what a pretty thing you are. You’ll feel better in a moment. Let’s put you in this gown. Charlie looked on with wide eyes as Nurse Bowen inserted a needle into her lower arm. Apart from a slight intake of breath, Charlie gave no indication of having felt any pain. Nell held her daughter’s hand and carried on a banal conversation about the cat they had rescued. The child’s eyes fluttered as the anaesthesia invaded her bloodstream.

Pretty Charlotte, I want you to count to ten, instructed the nurse.

She counted indistinctly. One, two, three, four, five, six, six… Her voice trailed off to nothing.

They wheeled Charlie into the adjoining room. The closing door blocked out the sight of Charlie’s sleeping face. Nell Montague felt unbearably tired and used the wall for support. The others were next door, sitting in the waiting room with its inevitable pot plant and well-leafed Women’s Own magazines. Six sturdy rattan chairs with thin cushions inhabited the room. The chintz curtains had blue and white stripes. Despite their gay pattern, they looked drab in the inadequate light. The room’s only window was on the seaside. Nell opened it with unsteady hands.

I need air, she explained unnecessarily.

Immediately, a murmur of waves was audible. The sound of the sea cuddling Holetown Beach was reassuring. Whiffs of salty air entered the room and offset the smell of disinfectant.

She’s under! All we can do now is wait and pray! said the distraught mother. Does anyone have a cigarette? she asked, fishing around for the cigarettes she had not smoked in ten years.

You gave up that habit ages ago, was her husband’s reply.

I have some! said Julia, groping in her handbag to unearth a pack of Schwarz Gelb cigarettes. She handed over the gaudy black and yellow pack that had given the brand its name. Nell, Bruce, take one! She lit up their smokes and they inhaled together. Within seconds, the little room was filled with the pungent smell of tobacco. No one spoke for a few minutes. Julia crushed her stub in the pot next to her chair.

I hate waiting. How long is this going to take?

Her friend turned a drained face to the window, peering into the night.

Dr Soames thinks it’ll take about an hour and a half. The operation itself is only about half an hour, but then there’s all the rest. The words were as chopped as mincemeat. Funny how one minute you’re eating pumpkin fritters, the next you’re sitting in a doctor’s office. It was easier to share her feelings than dwell on them in silence. Charlie looked so small, like the baby she still is, her voice faltered. The nearly invisible capillaries on her cheeks were noticeable.

Look, Nell, it was your decision to let Soames go ahead. Now we must hope for the best!

Nell’s colour went from ashen to red. Listen to you, Bruce! If he’d been white, would you have made such a fuss? Your prejudice nearly endangered our daughter. She spat the words at him. Of course, Dr Gilbert is more experienced, but he could be in Bellville for hours. If he thinks highly of Dr Soames, that’s good enough for me.

Stop squabbling! said Julia. An appendectomy is a straightforward procedure. It’s not like open heart surgery. And Dr Gilbert trusts this doctor, she placated. I’ll drive to Royal Palms and get Silvia to organise a flask of tea and a few biscuits. A cup of sweet tea is just what we need. I shouldn’t be long.

Before she left the room, Julia stroked her friend’s hair in a gesture of solidarity. Her footsteps echoed through the hallway towards the door. A fresh gust of wind ruffled the cloud of smoke that hung in the air. It was eerily quiet, but Bruce and Nell said nothing. He tried to hold her hand, but she brushed it away. Only the slurping sound of the waves and the intermittent noise of a passing car broke the silence. Every now and again, they heard muted voices in the room next door.

Nell stood at the window and stared into the night. I never realised waiting rooms were such lonely places.

The clock on the wall became their whole focus. It was a cheap plastic timepiece with Epsom Salt written on it. Its hands moved jerkily with a pronounced tick at every movement. It sounded disproportionately loud. After a while, another noise joined the hypnotic ticking of the clock. Nell identified the purring of a car’s motor and the slamming of a door. A few seconds later, Julia appeared, laden with a basket of provisions.

Any news of Charlie? she asked. Nell’s silence was answer enough. "All right, everything will seem better after a cup of Silvia’s sweet tea. She also gave me the bakes that were left over from breakfast. Silvia is wide awake. She’s sitting in the kitchen, trying to read Pride and Prejudice. Can you imagine that? She’s barely literate."

The remark jarred on Bruce’s nerves. I let her use my books. She reads quite a lot. Why shouldn’t she?

Julia did not comment on Bruce’s remark. Florry is sleeping the sleep of the innocent, thank God. The cat they found near the river is lying on her bed.

She unpacked the flask, mugs, and bakes, talking about any, and everything, except the ongoing operation. Nobody wanted to eat, but they were glad of the tea. Julia was relating a long-winded story when the door opened. Dr Soames appeared in his gown and cap. He was smiling.

You’ll be pleased to hear the operation was successful. Charlotte’s doing well. She’ll soon regain consciousness. Youth is resilient. He beamed triumphantly. By the way, the appendix was so enlarged it would have ruptured within hours. He could not resist confirming his diagnosis. Nurse Bowen is with your daughter in the recovery room. You may look through the glass window.

Everyone stood up and walked towards the doctor. Bruce Montague said a stiff Thank you, Soames! before dashing into the passageway that led to the recovery room. Julia burbled an indistinct ‘thanks’ and hurried after him. Nell did not speak immediately.

She took the physician’s hands and squeezed them. Dr Soames peered through his glasses. Don’t you recognise me, Mrs Montague?

Yes, I do, Leroy. I hope I can still call you that? She grinned. "I remember seeing you in your mother’s parlour reading some book or the other. Was it The Secret Seven or Treasure Island? I can’t remember. Every time I went to collect my dresses, you had your nose in a book. That shy boy has become a confident professional. Your mother told me you won the island scholarship. It must have been just before the twins were born. She was so proud. You’ve come a long way, Leroy. Thanks for what you did tonight."

There’s no need to thank me. I did what I was trained to do. By the way, I appreciate your earlier vote of confidence. It was an antidote to your husband’s condescension. No one ever asks a white doctor whether he’s qualified. They just assume he is. He took off his cap. It’s made me bitter. But there’s one thing I do understand, and that’s a father’s fear. I can make allowances for that.

I’m sorry, she said for lack of something better to say. It sounded so trite. With a quick movement, she turned away and walked to the little window in the passageway. The three of them peered through the glass. They could see Charlotte on a bed with rails on either side. She looked surprisingly normal. Except for the hospital cot, she could have been sleeping in her own bed at home. After the tension of the past hours, the sight of a healthy Charlie made Nell feel helium light. She was soaring like a balloon on a windy day. She needed to hold on to something and grabbed Bruce’s elbow.

She’s come through with flying colours. I knew she would.

Dr Soames suggested they go home to refresh themselves while Charlotte was still asleep. Julia offered to stay at the clinic while they drove to Royal Palms.

A few hours later, Bruce and Nell were ready to return to Holetown clinic. The day yawned awake as they started the car. A gilded disk peeped above the horizon. Its light was so luminous it hurt. Nell saw a thick dewdrop fall from the Ficus tree and hit the windscreen. It magnified the light like a prism. This morning, she could see the whole universe in it.

It’s as if I’m experiencing sunrise for the first time, she thought. Nell turned her face towards the horizon and inhaled the scent of a new day.

Chapter 3

Barbados, 1972

It’s called Swinging London. That’s just another word for decadence if you ask me. A real Sodom and Gomorra, said Belle.

Nell had just informed her younger sister that she was sending the twins to London to complete their last school year. Belle did her best to dissuade her.

The city’s caught up in a cultural revolution, Bell thundered. Fashion and music have changed beyond belief. Whoever heard of names as outrageous as Pink Floyd? And the music is an insult to the ear. Why, the songs have less rhythm than a monkey playing on a steel pan. Then she