Swimming with Fishes - free sample

Swimming with Fishes Rasheda Ashanti Malcolm

First published in Great Britain 2017 by Jacaranda Books Art Music Ltd Unit 304 Metal Box Factory 30 Great Guildford Street, London SE1 0HS www.jacarandabooksartmusic.co.uk Copyright © 2017 Rasheda Ashanti Malcolm The right of Rasheda Ashanti Malcolm to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-909762-45-9 eISBN: 978-1-909762-46-6 Printed and bound in Great Britain

by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

One

Katherine ‘Kat’ Lewis Jamaica Kat Lewis wanted a baby more than she wanted to live.

Ever since her mother, Miss Ruthie, explained that she should never have a baby because of the risk it posed to her life. It didn’t matter that folks told her any child she conceived would probably never survive, the slightest chance of success meant there was hope.

Kat had never been an observer of limits, and the restrictions put on her because of her illness were never adhered to, especially in her head. Her daily trek to the beach in protest against being constantly viewed as an invalid was especially true on this day, her twentyeighth birthday.

Kat walked deep in thoughts, savouring the feel of the warm white sand between her toes, her sketch pad and pencils in a cloth bag flung over one shoulder while her flip-flops hung loosely between two fingers. Her hair, long, thick and black, was tied up in a ponytail away from her slim oval face, gently swinging from side to side as she walked. Her nose was straight and

flared at the nostrils and when she smiled, her wide, full lips revealed a gap between her two top teeth. She had been told that she had inherited her father’s brown eyes, huge and almond shaped, his proud angular chin and her mother’s bronze, smooth skin. She was slender, no matter how much she ate, weight never stuck to her, one of a series of reasons why her health was such a concern to some Meadow folks, but she had curves in the right places and her walk was innate royalty.

With each step the soft-grains gave way beneath her bare feet. She shaded her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun, which had transformed the beach into a sheet of shimmering silver. Some days it took a great deal for her to make these walks, but she did so religiously, making her way from her mother’s house to the line where the road ended and the beach began.

Only a crisis—a sickle cell attack—could prevent her daily trek, forcing her to take to her bed.

Kat was born with sickle cell anaemia. Her early childhood was a hazy mist of white hospital walls, doctors, morphine, drips, folic acid, penicillin and pain, rendering her a mere spectator of life. Like many people who’ve faced death and lived to tell the tale, she was fully appreciative of each second. This is the reason why her daily walks to the beach were so important. They gave her the chance to feel fully alive and often free from pain. She could watch children play and young pregnant women reclining on the beach, their bellies revealed, smooth and hard. She loved to watch those women the most, to marvel at the miracle happening inside of them, to hope, wish, dream and pray that one day she would have her own.

She had been like a sponge in water soaking up the

old adages of the folks in her small rural town regarding childless women. Over the years she had witnessed that no childless woman escaped ridicule or the malicious lash of the gossips’ tongue as to the reasons God had withheld the fruit of her womb. The older women believed children were paramount to a holy marriage, that children somehow made it impossible for Satan to tempt a man away from his wife. The men also lived by this, even in the twenty-first century, and if their wife could not give them an offspring, then they were justified in maintaining a mistress who could provide a home for their seeds. This fable had gained cultural status among the folks in the Meadows, where everyone knew everyone and in the church yard your genealogy went back generations; and where things were always in-keeping with traditions.

The Meadows could easily be called Jamaica’s forgotten gem, with its culture of retaining these oldfashioned ideologies. It was a small fishing village on the coastal west of the island, framed by the ocean and four miles of powdery white sand and scattered with trees of every kind; palm, coconut, almond, avocado.

Turning off the main road led you onto the dusty lanes and into the hills, where goats and cows could be seen roaming along the roadside, independently or being led by their owner, who was usually a farmer. The town’s main income came from fishing and tourism. God and the church was the glue of society and a respect that held the elders in high esteem was unwritten policy.

Kat had lived her whole life in the Meadows. She had gone to the best schools, where the majority of the teachers were white and the pupils came from wealthy families. Thanks to a trust fund left by her father for

her education, Kat was able to study Art and Design at university. After graduating, she started selling her paintings, taking on commissions and teaching art at the local community centre to make a living.

Kat continued making her way to the far end of the beach where few tourists ventured. At her destination she sat cross-legged on a large flat piece of stone embedded in the sand, shaded by the huge leaves of two palm trees. The stone was smooth and warm from the sun’s glow, as she knew it would be and she swore by its healing properties, feeling the heat spreading through her like a pan on a hot stove. Reaching for her bag she pulled out the sketch pad and pencils, her eyes scanning the area for possibilities. Afternoons were the busiest time of day on the beach. She observed the swarm of tourists from the hotels and guest houses, the vendors and natives coming up from the valley or down from the hills to sell their merchandise and memorabilia. The smell of the jerk chicken, and freshly seasoned fried fish was carried on the breeze to remind her to eat. The occasional group of tourists passed her.

A smiling couple, a child with his father, both smeared with white cream to fend off the burning sun, and a very large white lady who had turned pink and was accompanied by the thinnest young boy whose meagre arms struggled to fit around her. Kat knew him. He was the Post Office mistress Nellie Potato’s grandson and though it wouldn’t show in him, he would surely eat well this day. Some of the young men of the Meadows discovered a way of making a living out of pleasuring middle-aged overweight, white and sometimes black tourists who were only too willing to pay for their services. The vulnerability of these seemingly affluent

and professional women only went to confirm to Kat that women gave away everything for love.

Out of the blue her attention was caught by the gliding of a white and grey pelican as it swooped into the sea, emerging with its snack between its beak; a struggling fish that was swiftly swallowed.

‘Pssssssssssst.’

Kat startled, hearing the hiss but unable to see anyone.

‘It’s me, Miss Kat.’ Old Man Jaguar, the beach attendant, emerged from behind a coconut tree. He was dressed as though he had been or was going to a very important event, with a creaseless khaki shirt matching his classic trousers. His salt and pepper hair shone with hair oil and was neatly parted to the right. His bushy silver eyebrows met in the middle, partly concealing small dark eyes. He gave Kat a wide, friendly grin, revealing a gold tooth at the top. She smiled. Old Man was always a welcome sight for her.

‘Wishing you many happy returns, Miss Kat. Beg you a little of your time please. A word in your ears about Miss Rootie,’ he whispered as if it were a secret.

‘Oh, Old Man, come by the house later, you can talk to Miss Ruthie yourself.’

He flapped his arms in frustration. ‘I pass by earlier, but she chase me away like a dawg with rabies.’

She stifled a laugh knowing what a tyrant her mother could be, but also fully aware of Old Man’s adoration for Miss Ruthie. Her mother sold provisions from their front yard and Kat could not remember a time when Old Man did not pass by their home on the pretext of buying a few limes, onions or eggs. He came with the

crack of dawn, her mother would complain, although Kat knew Miss Ruthie deep, deep down in her soul loved his company as much as she enjoyed playing out annoyance at his presence.

‘You know how she is. Try again later, she may be in a better mood.’

Old Man didn’t seem to know which way to turn and it became obvious to Kat that he had more to say.

‘Twenty-eight… that’s plenty time left for a husband and babies. God has his plans, don’t you mind bad talk.’

Kat smiled knowingly. No doubt Old Man had been witness to some recent gossip surrounding ‘poor’ her, which was no surprise. She could imagine it: ‘Poor Kat, with no chick nor child. Poor Miss Ruthie, no grans to look forward to.’ Kat had become immune to this kind of talk. Most of the girls she went to school with had migrated to other countries, were married or living with partners and nearly all had families. Babies. Noone expected the same for her.

‘You know bad talk doesn’t affect me, Old Man, but thanks for the concern. See you later.’

Old Man walked away, one hand tucked deep in his pocket with the other swinging like a member of a military regiment. Suddenly Kat spotted a familiar generous figure in the distance, floating along with the grace of a catwalk model. She recognised Mother Cynthy, feared and revered by many because they believed her to be an obeah woman—a witch. As a child Kat was a frequent visitor to Mother Cynthy’s house, tucked away in the hills to the east. Miss Ruthie had been taking her to see the lady who lived in a house painted half purple ever since she could remember. The joke told by town folks was that after Mother Cynthy’s

divorce, the judge had said her husband was entitled to half the house. So she divided the house in two, keeping the half with the kitchen and the bathroom and covered every wall and surface including the floor in her half, various shades of purple. In that slightly eerie house that always smelled of the forest, Kat was given hot herbal and bush baths to soothe her joints and both sweet and bitter tasting concoctions to drink with the promise that it would improve her health. And whatever Mother Cynthy put into those concoctions of hers, whenever Kat sensed a sickle attack coming and started sipping those weird tasting liquids, she was somehow elevated from her body until the diminishing pain allowed her back in.

She watched Mother Cynthy walk towards her with a huge basket balanced on her head filled with bush teas, mangos, avocado pears and herbal medicines wrapped in brown paper bags. Tied around her wide waist was an apron sprouting many pockets filled with more packages. Kat’s eyes followed her movements as she removed the basket with ease and set it on the log. She then perched beside it and smiled with the knowledge of someone in possession of a great secret.

‘Happy birt’day. I glad I live to see you reach twentyeight! Plenty years is that, for a baby those fool-fool folks say would not live to see five.’

‘Thank you.’ Kat smiled, eager to hear Mother Cynthy’s next words.

‘The heat real today.’ She wiped her brow with her hand and removed her red head tie to smooth back her shock of dyed red hair. Her earth dark skin gleamed and three beads of sweat settled on her broad nose.

‘Summer comes earlier each year, Mother Cynthy—

it can only get hotter. What secret are you holding? I can see that sly smile of yours.’

‘How’s Miss Rootie?’ asked Mother Cynthy, deliberately ignoring Kat’s insinuation. ‘Still praying to sweet Jesus for a husband to keep you still, I bet.’

‘You know my mother.’

‘And still putting de fear of God in you to prevent you from ever having a child, I’m sure.’

Kat laughed, nodding, and repeated, ‘You know my mother.’

‘I also know I would find you here. You love this stone, eh. Been sitting on it and drawing pictures from you old enough to walk.’ Mother Cynthy smiled with genuine affection. Years ago, when the whole town had thought Miss Ruthie would never have a child she had predicted Kat’s conception.

‘Yes, ma’am. Columbus says stones are like bones, indestructible. This one has powers.’

‘It has whatever you believe it to have.’ She liked the fact that Kat practiced intuition, so unlike the youngsters of today.

Kat loved conversing with the bush woman. Mother Cynthy wasn’t one to ridicule a person’s beliefs, since her own were so peculiar. Miss Ruthie said Mother Cynthy had Maroon blood, which you could tell from her smooth black skin. Her piercing wise eyes and her knowledge of herbal plants was extensive, passed down to her by her Maroon mother, who received it from her own mother before that.

‘How you been, Kat? All is well in your world? Not seen you for a while.’

‘I’ve been right here, every afternoon, it’s you who’s been scarce.’

‘Yes, that’s true. I can’t always take de tourists. They come and expect to take pictures of us like monkey in a zoo. I get too mad sometimes.’

‘They don’t mean no harm, they’re just curious.’

‘They don’t mean no damn good either, they out to exploit!’

‘Old Man says life’s never been so good. He says plenty people have jobs now, more than when he was a boy. He says the twentieth, and now the twenty-first century has been good for our Meadows.’

‘Don’t talk to me about that old rum-head! If job so plentiful, how de only one he get is to pick up tourist rubbish on de beach? What he know about these foreign devils? He have no education!’

Kat was fully aware of Mother Cynthy’s distrust of foreigners. She knew her arguments and beliefs were set in concrete. Over the years they had all witnessed foreigners buying the most valuable lands of the Meadows and building huge brick hotels and plantation-style houses. Land people had lived on for decades, taken back by the government or bought from them for pittance and sold to foreigners for a fortune.

‘The poor native can’t afford to buy an acre in his own land no more, and when we work for foreigners they pay us peanuts, jus’ like monkeys. A leopard can’t change him spots and a white man can’t change him greedy, oppressive ways.’

A stream of sweat sneaked down behind Kat’s ears.

She brushed it off with a flick.

‘Miss Ruthie loves to boast about the Meadows. She says we have a better class of tourists than any other part of Jamaica. She says tourism is good for our country.’

Kat’s chin lifted with a challenge. ‘It’s the tourists who

mostly buy my sketches and paintings. It’s because of them I’m able to make a living, I can’t be ungrateful for that.’

Mother Cynthy rolled her huge eyes until the whites showed and sighed heavily. ‘Your mother finished school and marry your daddy all by sixteen years old.

She and common sense are no relations.’

Kat chuckled but knew her own mother was right in one sense. People who came to the Meadows did not do so in search of a night life. They were neither young lovers out to experience pulsating love making on the beach, nor lager louts wanting their constant fill of alcohol. They were nearly always families with young children, anthropologists or archaeologists, spending their time in the numerous caves in the hills. On the other hand they were also the poets, painters and writers wanting the calm and tranquillity to complete a masterpiece. The middle-aged white ladies seeking young bucks were a recent addition and had come with the construction of a new hotel on the beach. Rumours had it that people walked around naked and had group sex in the sea, anywhere. She had heard the rumours but had never seen anything with her own eyes.

‘I dream you last night.’ Mother Cynthy’s smile, like her eyes, courted mischief. ‘Dream you were swimming with fishes. Let me see your hands.’

Mother Cynthy held out her plump ones, inviting Kat to do the same. Kat laughed lightly and raised her hands, palm up. Mother Cynthy peered quizzically.

‘Ahh! It’s here. See… It’s here now! Look! Look!’

Kat looked at lined palms, which told no stories.

‘Fishes in your palms! This can mean only one thing… one thing!’ Mother Cynthy was clearly excited.

‘I can’t see any fishes, Mother Cynthy.’

‘Yes, yes! Fishes, plain as daylight. I never wrong about these things. I wasn’t wrong wid your mother and I not wrong now!’ Her smile was soaked with satisfaction. ‘But of course Miss Rootie won’t like it.

She going to be afraid for you but don’t worry, it won’t be easy but it won’t kill you. I see complications with this man, though, he holds secrets,’ she warned.

Kat could not stop her heart from leaping. Mother Cynthy was a wise soul and hardly ever wrong. The old woman dropped Kat’s hands and stood up abruptly, looking frantically around.

‘What is it, Mother Cynthy? What do you feel?’

‘Someone watching you! I feel someone watching you!’

Kat looked towards the large crowd in the distance scattered along the beach front.

‘There are so many people—’ ‘Yes,’ Mother Cynthy cut her short, ‘but only one watching with the eye of interest. Somebody watching you now! I feel it.’

Kat exploded with laughter, throwing her head back in excitement. Mother Cynthy had read her palm on her sixteenth birthday and had told her about a male figure, one from across the ocean that would steal her heart and make her a mother.

‘So, the man you been telling me about, the one you saw in my palm from across the sea, the one who will have a baby with me, he’s here now?’ Her voice dripped with tease but her heart hammered with hope.

Mother Cynthy was still looking around suspiciously.

‘Uh huh! I feel him.’

Kat believed the old lady. She had to. For as far

back as she could remember she had been warned that although she was able to, she shouldn’t have a child.

But she refused to believe it was in her best interest not to become a mother. Over the years Mother Cynthy’s prediction had not paled in her mind, she was always reminded of it by the sight of a pregnant woman or a baby in arms. And now, Mother Cynthy was telling her her dream was about to come true.