by Sharon Maas
On May 26, 1966, British Guiana became an independent country and was renamed Guyana. The PPP was forced into retreat; as a member of the Opposition Party, Dorothea Quint became the Shadow Minister of Women’s Affairs. Years of racial unrest, economic mismanagement, and finally chaos followed. Guyanese fled the country in hordes, emigrating to the Promised Lands of the UK, the USA, and Canada in a brain drain that would rob the country of many of its best and brightest. But not Dorothea. She stayed, and fought on.
* * *
As Shadow Minister Mummy, a Leftist by nature, grew ever more involved with matters of greater import than Rika and her concerns; she fought on a thousand fronts for women, the poor, the downtrodden, and was more outside the house than in it, seen only at mealtimes and then only occasionally.
As ever, Rika and Marion were close, as close as sisters could be who were so radically different: Marion down to earth and practical, outgoing towards others and loved by all; Rika withdrawn, introverted, awkward, impractical. Rika, the quintessential dreamer, was deemed unfriendly and unapproachable by others, whereas it was only that she lacked the skills of small-talk and feared judgment.
Towards her brothers she felt nothing but alienation. Recently, alienation had turned to rancour. This was because of Devil. Rabbit, Rika’s beloved dog (though he was actually the family dog, not specifically hers) had died of old age; and a few days later a new puppy entered the house. Rika was overjoyed; a puppy all her own, to train and love and cuddle! But to her shock Mummy insisted the puppy be given to the twins: it was their birthday after all. Rika had complained to Daddy. The twins knew nothing about raising a dog! They did not even like dogs!
‘Mummy thinks it will help them,’ said Daddy. ‘She thinks giving them the responsibility of caring for a puppy will steady them and make them more conscientious. I think she might be right. It was our joint decision, Rika. Please accept it. Rabbit was yours all these years; give the boys a chance.’
But Rika knew the boys would be terrible as dog-owners, and she was right. For a start, the horrible name they chose for the puppy. Their first choice was ‘Satan’, but Granny put her foot down.
‘No Satan is coming into this house!’ she insisted, and since Granny always had the last word, the boys grudgingly agreed on ‘Devil’. And Granny grudgingly allowed it. After which the boys proceeded to train poor Devil to live up to his unfortunate name.
How did they do it? Rika had no idea, as it was done secretly at the back of the yard, behind the highest bushes and too far away to be heard from the house. The boys would disappear there every afternoon with Devil. Sometimes, they took household articles with them, like the pointer boom and the cobweb pole. Once, Granny caught them stealing a chunk of meat from the kitchen. Rika herself only found out when, on her way to Rajan through the back yard, she heard the angry yells, the excited frustrated yapping emerging from the bushes, eventually turning into nervous barking and then growling, snarling, howling.
She had tried to intervene, though she knew intervention was useless. Years ago she had tried to stop the boys pulling out flies’ wings, too:
‘How would you like it,’ she had said, ‘if someone pulled out your arms?’ The boys had only teased her. This time, she said: ‘You’re devils yourself! That’s wicked, what’re you doing to that poor dog? ’ But the boys only laughed at her and sneered.
‘No more sissy Rabbits in this house!’ said Neville.
‘You’ll see what a real dog is like!’ said Norbert.
And that was that. She longed to report them to the grown-ups; but the Quint adults did not approve of tale-telling. She tried visiting Devil herself, to counteract the wickedness with love; but all she got for her trouble was snarls and bared teeth, and she backed away quickly.
The final result was a dog so vicious he could not be left to run free in the yard but had to be kept leashed in the Bottom House. There, Devil would greet every person that entered the gate or came down the stairs or went up them or walked past him with the most blood-curdling snarls, his lips drawn back to reveal fangs that looked ready to rip the flesh from any living being, without distinction between friend and foe; the only exceptions to this treatment being Neville and Norbert.
It was the one and only time Rika had ever seen her mother express anger or even mild displeasure at the boys. Mummy loved dogs, and somehow the boys had kept their specific training from her until it was too late to intervene. The result was a tongue-lashing to make the real devil, if he existed, smile. Rika smiled too, to herself; she had recently come across the word ‘Schadenfreude’ in a novel, and looked it up, and found it described brilliantly her feelings.
They could not get rid of Devil, since no one wanted him; they were stuck with this beast in the Bottom House. The episode, for Rika, had revealed the basic nature of the twins. There could never be any closeness with them, for, it seemed, they lived on a different planet to her – one where kindness and compassion were foreign words, untranslatable.
Finally, it was Rajan who came to the rescue. Rika, complaining to him about the boys in general and their training of Devil in particular, said, in passing, ‘I can’t even walk through my own yard without that dog barking his head off. If he wasn’t tied down I’d be in mortal danger! I wish I could send those boys and the dog to the moon!’
‘Well, I don’t know about the boys, but you could send the dog to the Pomeroon. I know a man there who retrains bad dogs. Gets them as tame as lambs.’
‘Really?’
‘True. He’s famous for it up in Essequibo. No matter how vicious the dog. I’ve seen it myself. They call him ‘the Dog Man’ up there; he just has a way with dogs. They all love him and he treats them well and somehow, like magic, they change. He lives just outside Charity; his name’s Balram Singh. My grandparents know him well. The retraining takes about six months.’
‘You think you could ask him … about Devil?’
‘My grandparents could ask him. I’ll find out for you.’
And so it was that Devil left the Quint household and went to the Pomeroon to be turned into a lamb. The boys sulked; it was the only time, in Rika’s memory, that they had been forcibly denied a thing they wanted, or punished for any misbehaviour. It was good to see the twins howling with rage and nobody taking any notice. Yes: unabashed Schadenfreude. But most of all, she was happy for Devil. When he returned to the household all sugar and spice, she, Rika, would become his friend and, maybe, rename him ‘Angel’. In a rare moment of collaboration, Mum had promised her: the rehabilitated Devil would be hers.
* * *
Granny Winnie, as always, was the adult pole in Rika’s life, the guiding steady light. Together with Granny she had finally worked out what she wanted to be: a Librarian. That meant she could work in the most hallowed building in Georgetown, the Public Free Library, surrounded by the most precious objects life had to offer. She could pair people up with books, change their lives with literature. What could be better?
True, Granny had been sceptical at first.
‘The thing is, Rika,’ she said, fetching the pestle for the foo-foo. Rika had joined her in the kitchen; in the background, Pat Boone crooned on about ‘April Love’. ‘There’s really only one Library to speak of in Georgetown, and only a few librarians; they are all well-established women who have been there for donkey’s years and I doubt there will be another job available when you’re ready to start work. Librarian jobs are limited in Guyana.’
The cooked and peeled green plantains lay in the stone mortar on the floor. Granny began pounding them, solidly, rhythmically. Pat Boone sang of April showers.
‘Well, I could – maybe …’ Rika thought for a while. ‘I could go to England! There’re tons of libraries there! And bookshops! I could easily find a job there!’
Granny stopped pounding to give Rika a big smile and some serious attention. She switched off Pat Boone and put both hands on Rika’s shoulders.
‘That’s a wonderful idea, Rika! But you know,
you’ll need a bit more than O Levels to get a librarian job in England. You’d have so much competition! You’ll need a few more qualifications!’
‘A Levels?’ Rika looked doubtful. It was bad enough having to sit for her O Levels next year; she had hoped that that would be the end of school. Should she continue on to the next stage? Extending the torture of sitting to attention in front of a teacher?
‘Definitely. You could do English Language, English Literature, and French. Or even Latin, or Spanish. Why not?’
‘Do you really think I could? Could I drop maths?’
‘Yes, of course! And then, you know what, Rika? You could maybe even get into University in England! Study English! Nothing but books, all day long!’
‘Wow!’ Rika was stunned into silence. Then she looked up, and smiled. ‘Really?’
‘Really! Wouldn’t that be wonderful!’
It sounded like paradise. And besides: Rajan would be there.
But, now that she had Granny’s attention, there was something more she had to ask; something more important, even, than Rajan.
‘Granny?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Why does Mummy hate me so much?’
‘Oh, darling!’
Granny carefully leant the pestle against the wall and gathered Rika into her arms. ‘Is that what you think? It’s not true! Oh, that woman! Lord, have mercy upon her! She doesn’t hate you, Rika, I promise! She loves you! Deep down inside she really, really loves you.’
‘But then why is she so cold and so horrible to me? She loves the boys much more. Look how they got Devil! I really wanted a puppy of my own, but they got Devil. And she just wants me to be different. Bright, and forceful, like she is.’
Granny just kept hugging her, kissing her cheek. It felt so good, to be hugged.
‘I don’t think she even knew how much that hurt you – giving the boys the puppy – but it’s not because she loves the boys more! Don’t ever believe that!’
‘But then why? Why? Mothers love their children. I don’t know any mother as cold as she is.’
‘Oh darling! Why d’you … look, she might be a bit harsh sometimes, but it’s not deliberate; not personal. She’s also been good to you lots of times. You’ve maybe forgotten. Remember the bicycle?’
Yes. Rika did. Christmas Day, when she was eight years old. Running down the stairs in excitement, and there, next to the tree, completely wrapped in bright red wrapping paper, her very first bicycle – the best present she had ever had. She had whooped with joy, throwing herself on Mum, who had responded with the rarest of smiles – almost a better present than the bike; and then given her a big warm hug. Christmas in general was a time when Mum seemed to soften and relax and be more – well, more like a real Mum. She couldn’t deny it.
‘Yes,’ Rika conceded. ‘That was nice. But it was the exception. Mostly …’
‘And the Pony Club? You know it was your mother who really supported that expense? Your father is so frugal and he didn’t know if it was worth it. Your mother insisted. She said it would be “a wonderful experience for you”. Her exact words.’
‘Oh!’ said Rika. She didn’t know that. She had been nine, and, inspired by her favourite book of all time, My Friend Flicka, she had developed a burning desire to be among horses and learn to ride. Yes – she recalled now that Mum had been in favour of that hobby. The one thing she and Mum shared was a love of animals; and Mum had even come out with her the first couple of times, walked with her through the stable, stroked the horses’ noses. The Pony Club had closed down a few years later for unknown reasons, leaving a vacuum in Rika’s life.
‘Still,’ said Rika now, ‘Mostly she’s just cold and mean. She really acts as if she hates me.’
‘Oh Rika. It’s awful that you feel that way. She has her reasons – it’s just, well, it might be too hard for you to understand, but I think she’s just afraid of love. Afraid of loving too much.’
‘But why? Why? Love is beautiful, Granny. There’s no such thing as loving too much. It’s just impossible!’
‘The thing is, once you love – really love, I mean – you’re vulnerable. You’re susceptible to getting hurt, to losing the one you love. And some people protect themselves by trying not to love. They built a shell around themselves so that the love doesn’t get out. But it’s there. Deep inside it’s still there.’
‘Did Mummy lose someone she loved?’
‘Yes, darling, she did. And one day I’ll tell you the story; it’s a long one and I’ve got to finish the cooking but I’ll tell you. Because I want you to know: you should never be afraid of love, or getting hurt. You have to understand that love doesn’t come with a guarantee certificate. Once you love you’re open to loss. It’s only when you’re prepared to take the risk of pain along with the joy of love that you truly understand what love is. That’s when you really become worthy of love, and truly strong: when you can take the pain and face it bravely, grow through it. Your mother, I’m afraid, has let her pain make her bitter. And withdrawn. And unjust. And it seems you feel it the most of all her children. But now – run along, I have to work. Think about what I said!’
She switched the radio back on. It was Nat King Cole singing ‘Mona Lisa’.
Rika ran straight to Rajan. Granny would never have time to tell her the story; she had once promised to tell her own love story, the story of how she met Granddad; but like all other stories it had drifted into the background. Practical matters always took priority with Granny. ‘We can’t dwell in the past,’ Granny always said. Rajan, on the other hand, always had time for her; and Rajan had already dropped hints on this very matter.
* * *
Rajan had not won the coveted British Guiana Scholarship; but it was still his goal to study Medicine in England. On leaving school with top A Level results he got a desk job at the Bank of Baroda. His plan now was to work at the bank for two or three years, take on gardening jobs, sell as much produce as he could at the Market, save all his money, and apply for a part-scholarship at the University of London. Hopefully, this one he’d win. Rika was certain he would, but, on the other hand, then he’d leave her here, alone. The thought was terrifying. She was still as far from being normal as ever; possibly worse, due to this strange friendship with Rajan, and the ideas he put into her head. But what if she, too, went to England, to study Literature and become a Librarian? Then she would still have her best friend.
In his spare time Rajan worked the garden and turned it into a lush paradise, a secret place hidden from the street by gigantic flowering hibiscus hedges lavishly spilling multi-coloured blossoms both within and without. Birds and butterflies made this garden their realm; Rajan, the ubiquitous cutlass as his sceptre, reigned over it with expertise and love. His subjects, the plants, thanked him with bright abundance; almost gaudy, the riot of colours bestowed by bougainvillea, frangipani and oleander. Other flowers – lilies, marigolds, roses, poinsettia – bowed low as if in adulation as he walked the sandy pathways of the front garden, digging up weeds with his cutlass tip or slashing away dead branches, sometimes even whispering to them with love as he bent to raise a bloom to peer into its depths, or to smell its fragrance.
The back yard, on the other hand, he had transformed into a farm. Banana and coconut palms lined the outskirts of the property, while citrus and local apple trees bestowed fruit in season: mammy-apple, golden-apple, custard-apple. There was a sapodilla tree and two mango trees and towering above them all, the genip tree. At the back of the property, Rajan had created his vegetable patch where he grew tomatoes, bora beans, and pumpkins, as well as herbs and spices: coriander, parsley, thyme and wiri-wiri pepper, and healing herbs whose secrets he had learnt from his farmer grandparents: arrowroot, aloe, sweetbroom, noni and more.
Now, Rika slipped through the palings into Rajan’s kingdom. She found him digging a hole, a young mango tree with its earthen root-ball lying on the ground beside him.
‘Hi,’ she said. He looked up and g
rinned.
‘Hi! What’s up?’
‘Umm – nothing.’
‘Liar! You’re just bursting with questions. What is it this time?’
‘You know me too well.’
‘No – it’s just that you’re so transparent. What is it? But make it quick – when I finish planting this tree I need to go to the market.’
She hesitated, and then jumped in feet first. ‘Well – you know I keep asking you to come over to my place and you keep saying no, you wouldn’t be welcome. And I asked Gran and she said she wouldn’t mind but Mummy would. And Gran says that Mummy had some kind of a tragic love-story. And you know that Mummy won’t visit her own parents. And you drop hints now and then about my Mum and your Dad – and – and … well, I just get the feeling there’s something there I need to know. A connection between all these things. Some story. Something people keep hiding from me. And I think you know it. And I want you to tell me.’
Rajan looked away, and stabbed the spade into the earth with violence.
‘I said make it quick, Rika, and that story would take all afternoon. Another time.’
‘Please!’
But Rajan stayed firm. It wasn’t often that he denied her anything. This was one of those times.
* * *
Rajan’s garden became a second home for Rika. No matter how hard he worked, he always had a moment’s time for her. Sometimes he would take a break; wash his hands and go into the house and return with a perfect golden mango, along with a plate and a knife. He’d cut the mango for her and they would eat it while he talked. Sometimes his mother Basmati prepared chow-chow for her, grated green mango with pepper-and-salt, brought out to her on a plate. Sometimes Rajan would hack a green coconut from the tree, toss it into the air while slashing off the top with three or four swift strokes; with a final flourish he’d cut away the top to create a hole in the nut. He’d stick a straw into the hole, and with a smile and a nod, hand it to Rika.
