‘Everything all right, Dot?’ Barb asked as her friend sniffed back her tears.
‘Yep, everything’s fine.’
The two linked arms and made their way to the docks, where they perched on the flat-topped bollards. The wind started to bite as it skimmed the choppy water. They pulled their cardigan sleeves down over their hands and with shoulders hunched forward shouted to each other as their voices navigated the wind.
‘I’m bloody freezing!’
‘Me too! Dot, look – my fag’s stuck to my lip!’ Barb opened her mouth wide, to show her mate that her roll-up was indeed hanging free of assistance from her gob. They laughed loudly. This wasn’t unusual, they laughed at most things, sometimes because they were funny, but mainly because they knew that life was pretty good.
Dot felt a pang as she remembered the last time she had laughed like that, a time before she had loved, a time before she had suffered loss. Her mum was right about one thing: life was a bucketful of memories and regrets, it weren’t no fairy tale. She considered the life that stretched ahead of her, a different life from the one she had once planned, but a good life nonetheless. She would take comfort in the small things and be thankful for her calm heart and clear mind. Dot was a survivor. She knew she could get through just about anything, with a little love and luck.
Epilogue: Forty-five Years Later
Simon slowly trod the brick path that led through the wrought-iron gates and up to the majestic front of the Jasmine House. He took in the wide, white-wood terrace with its clusters of rattan furniture and vintage fans operated by pulleys suspended from the awnings. The large sash windows allowed a glimpse into this mansion from a bygone era; the polished wooden floors, brass ceiling fans and wooden louvered doors reminded him of the pictures he had seen of the plantation houses in history books. The ancient palms swayed overhead, providing cool shade from the heat of the midday sun. Conch shells peppered the flower-bed borders and the beds themselves were so beautiful that they drew your eye, planted with a luscious display of variegated shrubs and bursts of flowers in fiery shades, arranged with colour-coordinated precision.
The sweeping lawn was of the deepest green, with none of the bare patches that blighted most grass on St Lucia. Simon recognised the patient hand of a dedicated gardener. Jasmine plants climbed over trellises and arches, filling the place with their heady scent. The delicate white flowers hung in drooping bouquets, clustered around entrances and walkways, giving the whole garden an air of matrimonial elegance. Where the blooms littered the path, Simon squashed them underfoot, releasing their perfume with his every step. He looked down at the path and there under his sandal he spied a brown metal hair pin, the sort that would hold a bun in place. It was rusted, old. Its V-shape looked like a little arrow, pointing towards the front door, guiding him home. He stooped and picked up the fiddly little thing and for some reason decided to pop it into his pocket, a memento.
He coughed as he approached the front door and noted the slight tremor in his right hand. He was nervous. He reached out and curled his fingers around the brass bell pull, hesitating slightly before releasing it. The action was so much more than the simple ring of a bell: it was a summoning across decades, an echo back to the past and the levering open of a chest of memories that might have been sealed a very long time ago. He hadn’t planned what he would say, but prayed that God would loosen his tongue and give him the words when the time was right.
He heard the bell tinkling inside as he hovered on the step. He smoothed his shirt to rid it of any creases, but also to soak up the sweat that peppered his palm. He exhaled through bloated cheeks, trying to calm his erratic pulse. After what felt like an age, the door was opened briskly and widely. Simon lowered his eyes until his gaze settled on the face of the diminutive housekeeper. The woman had to be in her nineties, with a bird-like demeanour and bright, fearless eyes that shone from her crêpe-skinned face; her dress was of the palest pink cotton and was starched to within an inch of its life.
‘Yes?’ Her tone was brisk. Simon wasn’t sure if this was because she had been in the middle of doing something or because she’d taken an instant dislike to his face.
‘Hello, I’m Simon Dubois, Reverend Simon Dubois. I’ve just opened the mission up at Dennery and wanted to come and introduce myself.’
She seemed unmoved by either his speech or his status. Simon smiled at her and opted for a different tack. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping for a word with Major Arbuthnott, if it’s at all possible.’
She opened the door wide and beckoned the reverend inside. ‘Wait here,’ she said and, without turning her head, strode purposefully towards the back of the house.
The great hall in which Simon found himself was vast, almost as big as the entire footprint of the mission in which he now resided. The dark mahogany floor was polished to a high sheen; the same wood formed the treads of the wide stairs that wound their way up, forming a wide gallery that ran to the left and right at the top of the staircase. The history of Simon’s ancestors was all around him, if only he’d known where to look. Each stair had a rounded dip in its centre, eroded by the daily tread of feet across a hundred and fifty years. The anxious fleeing feet of Sarah Arbuthnott, desperate to return to her native Scotland; the light bare feet of the beloved Mary-Jane, eagerly skipping from the bedroom to the kitchen; the dancing steps of Patience, up and down countless times a day at the behest of the charge to whom she was devoted; and the weary booted steps of Simon’s father, each touch leaving the imprint of a heavy heart, laden with what if’s and echoing into the silent rafters of an empty house. Vida Arbuthnott had many years to reflect on her words: ‘When you marry the girl that you are supposed to and the Jasmine House is full of tiny children, you will thank me then.’ She passed away without being thanked or becoming a grandma. Sadly, Solomon’s ex-wife had miscarried their child and they divorced very quickly after. Angelica had returned to Martinique, where she remarried, this time to a man that loved her, and went on to become mother to twin boys, and then a grandma.
A giant fan whirred half-heartedly from beneath the domed ceiling, chopping at the heat of the day and sending it downwards to bathe the beautiful objects that had been placed on half-moon tables – vast, ornate china lamps with woven conical shades, silver-framed photos of broad-chested military men, and sparkling crystal decanters with silver name-plates looped over their fat necks.
The housekeeper reappeared. ‘Follow me.’
Simon did not have to alter the stride of his six-foot-three frame to accommodate the old woman; she was nimble. Double doors led into a huge study that was dominated by a desk that sat centrally, surrounded by shelves that bulged with leather-bound books and journals. Here, more small tables, placed beside leather wing-backed chairs, were littered with beautiful sparkling things: a crystal fruit bowl sat alongside heavy brass curios that looked like ships’ instruments.
The leather-topped bureau was ordered, despite its clutter. A stack of papers sat neatly and squarely in a wire basket. A large leather-bound blotter had a Mont Blanc pen set and a chunky glass-and-brass inkwell lined up along its top edge. An oversized brass lamp shone from the corner and various pots held a selection of pencils that Simon noted were all perfectly sharpened. Simon stared at a glass shadow box on the wall, approximately eight inches wide and double that in length. It contained nothing more than a length of velvet ribbon, once red, but now faded with age and sunlight into the colour of a dark rose.
The room was open to the garden; tall shutters were pushed back to the sides, making the space at one with the outside. Some of the more daring ferns were growing inwards with their pointed tips dipping into the cool shadows. The deck continued around the back of the house and on the top step, with his back to the room, sat Major Solomon Arbuthnott. His arm was extended and with his palm cupped he beckoned towards the peahen that strutted majestically in front of him.
Simon hadn’t known what to expect
, had tried, in fact, not to conjure an image that was too detailed, or to imagine the interaction; that would surely be a path to disappointment. Solomon Arbuthnott was smaller than he might have expected – muscled but slim, and with none of the bulk or height that gave Simon his presence.
‘Come and sit down.’ The major spoke over his shoulder in a tone that was neither welcoming nor dismissive.
Simon took his place on the top step of the deck and pulled his knees up under his arms; his large feet, comfortable in deck shoes, hung over the edge. He studied his father’s profile, old but still in good shape, with the line-free face of a man half his age. His hair was white and close cropped, his shoulders still had good definition, but were let down by the slight bow of a spine that had spent too long bent over a desk into the wee small hours. His cream linen trousers were bunched up around his thighs, revealing cotton-socked feet inside tan-coloured Oxfords.
‘You feed her like this?’ Simon was curious.
‘I hope to, one day, yes. But maybe not today. Slowly, slowly…’
The major turned to face the new reverend sitting on the step next to him. ‘So, reverend, eh?’
Simon nodded.
‘I read about your project up at Dennery; it’s a noble thing. How many kids you have up there now?’
‘About twenty, sir, but that can change on a weekly basis.’
Solomon nodded. ‘I’m sure. You after funding?’
Simon gave his deep, throaty chuckle. ‘Always! But that’s not why I’m here today.’
Solomon smiled. ‘Well, good for you. Is it a happy place?’
‘Yes, it really is. We don’t have much, but it’s happy!’
‘It takes more than bricks, mortar and money to make happiness,’ Solomon stated.
‘I agree. And community support is vital, which is why I thought I would come and introduce myself—’
‘And then the next visit you ask for funding?’ Solomon interrupted.
‘Something like that, yes.’
The two laughed in the same throaty chuckle.
‘I didn’t want to impose on you and your family, I just thought—’
‘Oh, there is no family to impose on.’ Solomon interrupted again. ‘Just me, Patience and Mrs Harrison here.’ He pointed at the peahen.
‘Mrs Harrison?’
Solomon smiled. ‘Oh yes, it’s the law at the Jasmine House, all peahens have to be called Mrs Harrison.’ He pulled a white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.
Simon drew breath. This was the moment to come clean, to tell the major the true nature of his visit. To introduce himself and express his desire to, in some small way, get to know the man that had fathered him.
‘Do you like gardens?’ The major’s question rather threw the moment.
Simon considered his response. ‘Yes, of course. But I have never lived anywhere long enough to plant anything and watch it grow and now we are planting food for practical and economic reasons and so there’s little time or room left for the luxury of flowers.’
‘It’s been my greatest joy, this little patch of heaven here, my oasis.’
Simon nodded. He looked at the old man and realised that there was no value in bringing the past to his door, no reason other than personal curiosity to shatter the peace of this man’s existence, to upset the delicate balance of the life that he shared with Patience and the latest Mrs Harrison.
He stood and dusted at the seat of his pants. ‘I should be getting back. I really just wanted to say hello and I’ve disturbed you enough already. Sir, it was a pleasure to meet you.’
The major stood and outstretched his hand. Simon shook it gently. He looked at their wrists so close together, wrists that carried the same blood.
‘Please call me Sol – it’s short for Solomon, it means bringer of peace.’
Simon smiled. ‘Is that right?’
Neither of the men knew that for the want of a more composed mouth, less clogged by the tears of heartbreak and frustration, and a less spiteful nun, they would both be called Solomon.
Sol looked at the face of the reverend and continued to hold his hand; it was a second that would change the course of both their lives.
He placed his other hand over the hand of the one he already held, cupping the large palm of the reverend inside both of his. His words were considered, slowly delivered, as his tears pooled.
‘Oh my goodness, you have her eyes, my son.’
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This story is set in the 1960s in London. How does the author evoke the place and time in her writing?
Lyrics of the Etta James song ‘At Last’ can be found throughout Clover’s Child. What role does music play in the novel? Why do you think this song is so significant?
The prologue of the novel is set long after Dot and Sol’s romance. What effect does this have on the way you see Dot and Solomon when you first meet them?
Dot’s family have firm views about race and class. Do Dot’s opinions differ to those of her parents? If so, why do you think that might be?
Solomon’s mother also has firm opinions on race and class. How does Vida’s own background affect her feelings about Dot?
Solomon’s mother forces him to make a terrible decision. Did he do the right thing? Do you think Dot would have done the same thing if she were in his position?
Dot never tells Solomon that she is carrying his child. If she had been able to tell him, would it have changed his decision?
Why is Joan so angry with Dot when she learns she is pregnant?
Wally knows that Dot is in love with Solomon. Why does he marry her? And why does he encourage her to visit Sol after they are married?
Do you think Dot made the right decision to go back to her life with Wally? Do you think she is content with the way her life has turned out?
At the end of the novel, Solomon guesses that Simon is his son. Why do you think Simon chooses not to tell his father who he is initially?
A Little Love — Preview
Read on for the first chapter of
Is it ever too late to find the love of your life?
1
Pru donned her dressing gown over her pyjamas, stretched the thick socks over her feet and tiptoed through the hall, closing the flat door quietly so as not to disturb her cousin Milly, who slept soundly in her bedroom further down the hall. She slipped down to the basement. This she did on occasion when the bakery was closed, usually in the dead of night when sleep proved elusive and always with the snap of excitement at her heels as she did so, covertly.
Her alarm would not pip-pip for another three hours, yet instead of resting her head on her plump, feather pillow there she was, wandering along corridors and punching alarm codes into locked doors, looking over her shoulder and tip-toeing like a thief.
Using only minimal lighting, eschewing the wealth of machinery around her and the complicated recipes that she and Milly had honed over the years, she set about doing what she always did on these night time jaunts, running up a batch of fairy cakes using a wooden spoon and a ceramic bowl, just as she had been taught.
Pru fastened the apron around her waist before laying her ingredients and tools in a row on the counter top. She felt the familiar jolt of happiness, knowing that she was about to begin and had everything she needed to execute her plan. It felt exactly the same now as it had all those years ago, casting her eye over the white flour, the bowl of sugar and the greasy lump of margarine splayed on the saucer where it sat next to the shining, clean bowl, awaiting her attention.
She smiled as she tipped the margarine and sugar togeth
er and began creaming them into a thick paste. She savoured the gritty crunch on the back of the spoon as it smashed the crystals against the crackle-glazed side of the china bowl, pushing and churning until the mixture billowed with tiny bubbles of air and her fingers ached. Next came the spoonfuls of plain flour, a drop of essence, baking powder, the egg and gradually more flour. Pru couldn’t fully describe the lift to her spirit or the bounce to her step as she watched the dry ingredients transform into a pale golden batter that passed the dropping test. There was no great science to knowing when the mixture was ready, instead she used this tried and tested method, lifting the spoon and watching to see how the cake mix fell, too quickly meant it was too thin, calling for more flour and more mixing. Whereas a blob that refused to shift from the back of the spoon, required more liquid and a light mix. The perfect consistency, meant the batter dropped slowly into the bowl with jaw clenching expectancy.
The anticipation as they baked filled her stomach with butterflies. While they cooled, she made a strong cup of coffee to go with, before decorating them true to her Nan’s instruction, sparsely, and with hundreds and thousands that sat on a tiny misshapen pond of white icing, both of which had been a luxury. She would then pop the soft, vanilla scented sponges into her mouth and allow the sugar to spread its warm satisfying sweetness across her tongue and the icing to stick to the roof of her mouth. She gobbled them greedily and quickly, all of them.
‘I know you are shaking your head and tutting at me, but don’t judge me, Alfie! I could have far worse habits.’ This she uttered into the ether with her eyes raised skyward and a smile about her mouth as she licked a stray blob of icing and a couple of sprinkles from her lip.
As proprietor of the world renowned Plum Patisserie, Pru had access to any number of delicate, iced fancies and sweet, sugar-dusted morsels each and every day, and yet none of them came close to the sensation of eating a warm fairy cake, gobbled illicitly in the wee small hours, made to her Nan’s exacting recipe and method. The parcel of moist cake not only made her mouth water, but if she closed her eyes, she was back in their grotty kitchen in Bow, a little girl again, working diligently at their wobbly enamel-topped table. It was a time before she knew of the world beyond their front door, before drive and aspiration had yoked her to the winding upward path on which she climbed. Her nan, stood at the shallow, china sink, wearing a pink wrap-around overall which had worn thin at the seams and her brothers, with pinched cheeks and a ring of grime against the back of their necks, hovering around the large, china mixing bowl, with dirty fingers scooping at fine lines of cake mixture that they deposited into their eager mouths. The smell of the fluffy, little ingots baking would almost drive them to tears. Clustering around the stove, unusually silent, waiting.
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