What Have I Done?

by Amanda Prowse

  It was only once he had left that Kate realised she might still be very far from her destination. She walked along the road looking for a clue, but without really knowing what she was looking for. A small crowd of people were sheltering under an elaborate pyramid-shaped bus shelter with yellow walls and an ocean-blue roof. The hourly rain showers could be quite fierce and as the bus might come along in five minutes or forty-five, depending on the driver’s mood, the hazards he encountered en route and how many of his mates stopped him for a chat, these shelters were well used.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Kate spoke to no one in particular. ‘I’m looking for the Reverend Dubois, Simon and the youth mission. Am I heading in the right direction?’

  Two women, one resplendent in a yellow floral headscarf and the other carrying an enormous purple plastic laundry basket, broke away from their conversation.

  ‘Whatya want with the Reverend? He a friend of yours?’

  The two winked and laughed.

  Kate laughed too; clearly she was not alone in her admiration of his beauty.

  ‘Not exactly, no, but he invited me over and I’m afraid I’m a bit lost.’

  ‘Y’aint lost girl, you need to keep goin’ and keep goin’ and y’ask again.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  Kate carried on up the hill, still none the wiser.

  She followed the road’s twists and turns. Gigantic fern fronds and banana leaves brushed her face and legs. She peered once into the jungle, her stomach jumped at the knotted trunks and hanging vines, imagining each one to harbour faces and the lurking shadows of wild animals. Instead, she kept her eyes firmly on the road ahead, navigating the potholes and cracks, aware that she was climbing higher still. Her T-shirt stuck to her back and her hair lay flat against her head in spiky tendrils. She was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea, when a small white sign with black lettering caught her attention on the road ahead. It read ‘Prospect Place’ and beneath the words a child had painted a sun with a smiley face on it. Next to it was a quote: ‘Faith makes things possible, not easy’. This had been written by a more adult hand. Kate wondered not for the first time if this whole venture was a bit of a mistake.

  She turned down the narrow lane and followed the tyre tracks until she reached a clearing. The view was magnificent. There were jungle-covered mountains on either side of the valley, with the azure ocean twinkling in the distance. It was breathtaking.

  In the middle of the clearing sat a dilapidated building. It was single storey, wooden and had been painted bright green. The sun, however, had bleached it in places to a paler shade, and where the panels met windows and doors the paint was missing entirely, hanging in thin strips to reveal bare wood and knotty grains.

  The main structure had smaller wooden additions tacked on to its sides, forming an irregular shape that from space might have looked like a poorly drawn pentagon. For poor it was. The whole construction seemed to be listing to the right and most of the windows were without glass, but instead had fly screen tacked over the frames. Kate hadn’t known what to expect, but would have guessed at something solid, brick, possibly hospital-like. This was very different. Welcoming and bright, but without any of the grandeur or sturdiness that she had hoped to find.

  ‘There you are, Kate. You found us!’ Simon clapped his hands together as he appeared from the side of the building.

  ‘Only just, it was more luck than judgement!’

  He took both her hands inside his own. ‘Welcome. And what perfect timing, you can join us for lunch!’

  Kate smiled, that did indeed sound perfect. She noted his lack of surprise at her arrival, as though he had been expecting her at that precise moment.

  Inside the main building was a large T-shape of tables covered with a peony-patterned oil cloth and encircled by thirty metal-legged chairs. They were the same chairs that you might find stacked in any English village hall or being scraped along tessellated wooden floors by a Brownie pack on a Thursday night.

  The hubbub of conversation stopped rather abruptly as Kate walked into the room. Each seat was occupied by a child. First glance revealed their ages to be between two and fourteen. The girls had ribbons in their plaited hair and the boys were radiant in yellow-and-orange checked shirts.

  ‘Everybody! This is Kate. Would you like to say hello?’

  Some waved, others smiled and a couple giggled into their palms at the sight of this strange lady standing in their dining hall.

  ‘Hi, hello everyone.’ Kate waved back.

  ‘Mind your backs!’

  Simon and Kate swerved to the right as a short, fat man wearing a chef’s hat swung around them both to place large platters of chicken patties on each of the tables.

  ‘This is Fabian – the chef, as denoted by the hat. He is also the driver – he wears a cap for that – and when he’s the maintenance man…’

  Fabian nodded at her as he made a return swoop in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘A different hat?’

  ‘You got it!’

  ‘And again, folks! Hot food coming through!’ This time Fabian was loaded with a large bowl of rice and what smelt like hot bread rolls.

  The children sat patiently, hands in laps, waiting. Kate compared the scene to the unruly bun fight that used to ensue each morning at Mountbriers as the pupils clamoured for French toast and bacon. The bigger boys would elbow the smaller ones out of the way and girls of all ages would moan about the lack of fat-free yoghurt and demand blueberries. This was much nicer.

  ‘Kate, please take a seat.’

  Simon pulled out a chair between two younger children who found it hilarious that this stranger was to be seated between them and could barely contain their laughter. Kate shook hands with them both. The little boy to her right reached up and stroked the ends of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, before collapsing in giggles onto the table. She smiled, having never before considered her limp, mousy hair that funny.

  Simon stood centrally, raising his palms towards the roof and bowing his head with his eyes tightly shut. His big voice filled the space.

  ‘Lord, we thank you for the gift of food that you have bestowed upon us on this day…’

  There were a few impromptu shouts of ‘Praise be to the Lord’. Simon was not finished.

  ‘We give thanks for all your mighty gifts, not least the gift of forgiveness. We are thankful that when we need shelter, when we need escape, we can find refuge under your mighty wing.’

  A large chorus of ‘Amen’ echoed around the ceiling and then the bun fight started.

  Kate noticed that when Simon opened his eyes he was staring straight at her. It made her feel a little uncomfortable.

  Lunch was boisterous and exciting. Kate had difficulty keeping up with the many strands of conversation that flew across the room; the speed of the kids’ speech and the heavy patois meant she could only participate with nods of encouragement and smiles of vague understanding. She threw Simon many a furtive glance and was fascinated to watch him engage with the children, clearly interested in their snippets of news and gossip.

  When their tummies were full, the children went out to play cricket and Kate was given the top job of dishwashing.

  ‘Is this what they mean by no such thing as a free lunch?’

  Simon laughed. ‘You got it!’

  ‘The atmosphere here is amazing, Simon. I expected the place to be a bit sad, lots of little children without parents, but this is anything but. It feels hopeful.’

  ‘You are exactly right, it is hopeful. That’s why it’s called Prospect Place. Most people think “Prospect” refers to the spectacular view, but it’s the dictionary definition that best defines us: the “possibility of something happening soon, a chance or the likelihood that something will happen in the near future, especially something desirable”. These kids have had enough sadness in their short lives and it stops when they arrive here. Each has his or her own story, but they are not all without parents. Some
have one or both still living on the island, but they are maybe not in a position to look after their kids right now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, many reasons. Addiction, poverty – the two are often closely linked, and there are no social services here like there are in the UK. If your parents are living hand to mouth on the street, then so are you.’

  Kate pictured her English class at Marlham. Addiction and poverty: she knew how that story ended.

  ‘I feel foolish, Simon. If I think of the Caribbean, I picture yachts, private jets and large cocktails being sipped through straws. I’ve only ever associated St Lucia and islands like it with luxury and wealth.’

  ‘And you are right; you will find both here in abundance. But sometimes, Kate, this comes at a cost. This afternoon I will take you on a little trip, I want to show you something.’

  ‘How lovely! We could go a lot quicker if you had a dishwasher!’

  Simon laughed as they transferred the scrubbed crockery covered in suds to a waiting bucket full of clean water for rinsing.

  ‘Oh, Kate, there are many, many things we need before we have the spare cash for a luxury like that! Regular, reliable hot water, a decent bathroom, computers and a playroom for when it’s rainy outside. The list is long and ever growing.’

  ‘How is the place funded, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. And the simple answer is it isn’t, not with any regularity. My adoptive parents back in Canada very generously send us a cheque when they can; they hold fundraisers in their church and at the university where my dad taught, but it’s often hard for them, they are not getting any younger. We sell any surplus produce that Fabian “the farmer” grows on our plot. We barter a lot, and people are very kind. The community here is small and when word gets out that we might need another room, a truck with some lumber will show up. It’s a small miracle every time!’

  ‘It’s a big responsibility for you, Simon. It must be hard with so many people relying on you and no guarantee for the future.’

  ‘I guess that would be difficult for some, but not for me. My load is light. The kids are my purpose and I feel it was why I was brought here. If I thought about the cost and what we don’t have, it would feel like a burden, so I don’t dwell on that. I concentrate on what we do have, which is an awful lot.’

  ‘Do you see your father… real father – your dad – here at all?’

  Kate blushed as she tried to make the distinction between the man that had fathered him, his adoptive dad and Jesus.

  ‘Oh, Kate, that is a very long and complicated story. I did see him for a while and then he died. We were never really reconciled. It was as if when I was in England and Canada I felt quite alien in those environments and longed to be here and when here, the exact opposite. Oddly, the older I get and the less time I have left on the planet the more I gain a sense of belonging right here.’

  ‘I get that. Age crystallises things in a way that’s hard to explain to anyone that hasn’t experienced it.’

  Simon laughed. ‘That’s because old age is what happens to other people! I know I don’t see myself how I used to view people of my age when I was young; goodness no. Anyone over fifty was ANCIENT!’

  ‘I feel old sometimes, Simon. Like I’m slowing down and everything I do takes slightly longer. The speed at which I take the stairs and even chew a biscuit is now sluggish, slightly laboured. I’m worried that one day soon I might come to a complete halt!’

  ‘You don’t look like a woman that is coming to a halt, Kate; you look to me like a woman that is on the edge, about to dive in, about to start over.’

  ‘Ooh, I like that. I like the idea of starting over and having new adventures before slipping gently into old age. Much better than suddenly hitting a geriatric wall and having the bricks rush up to meet me with such ferocity that I just want to shout stop!’

  ‘It won’t happen like that; you won’t have to shout stop!’

  ‘I hope not. What about you, Reverend Dubois, what does your old age hold?’

  ‘Oh that is definitely a topic for another day, over a cold beer.’

  ‘You drink then?’

  ‘Girl, you are so out of touch! I’m a preacher not a martyr! Everything in moderation, Kate, everything in moderation.’

  ‘You are an incredible man, Simon. The children are lucky to have you.’

  He ignored the compliment.

  ‘Ah, Matilda!’

  Kate turned from the sink to see her little friend hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Hello, Matilda, how are you? It’s lovely to see you again. I have put my little shell in a safe, special place and I look at it every day. It’s very beautiful.’

  The little girl smiled.

  ‘Are you not playing cricket with everyone else? Did someone get you out already? I could tell you a very funny story about an important cricket match and two naughty chickens called Nugget and Kiev, if you have the time?’

  Matilda hesitated, shoving the best part of her small, bunched-up fist into her mouth before deciding that no, she did not particularly want to hear that story. Besides, her best friend, Hans, had promised her a go on the tyre swing. She ran outside.

  ‘Is she shy?’ Kate was worried that she might have said the wrong thing.

  ‘No, far from it. But she hasn’t spoken since she arrived here. That was about nine months ago. She seems happy and settled, but we can’t get her to say a word. The doctor says there is no medical reason and so I’m confident that she will start talking when she feels she has something important enough to say.’

  ‘Did she used to speak?’

  ‘Oh yes! A lot! But she had a shock and it’s her way of coping. Children are wired quite simply and it’s her way of putting things in order, trying to make sense of her world.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Kate whispered, not sure if she wanted to know.

  ‘It’s a common enough story, but no less sad because of it. She was with her daddy in a bar when he was stabbed in a knife fight. He died. Her mummy is not in a good place right now, battling her own demons, and so Matilda is here where she is loved, and when the time is right, God will find a way to heal her.’

  ‘Oh, Matilda…’ Kate felt an unbearable wave of sadness. Her daddy was stabbed to death. The name Matilda had fallen from her lips, but it could just have easily been ‘Lydia’ or ‘Dominic’.

  ‘You miss your children?’ It was as if he read her thoughts.

  ‘Yes, yes I do, very much. I ache for them. It’s rather complicated, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can I assume it’s not only physical distance that prevents you from being with them?’

  She nodded.

  ‘They were going to come here with me, it would have been perfect, but they changed their minds, need more time… It’s difficult. I don’t want to force them into seeing me, but at the same time I find it so hard to let things take their course, it doesn’t come naturally to me. I think I can heal them quicker, if they’d just let me.’

  ‘You know, Kate, it will pass, everything does. Your children will come to realise just how much you love them and how much they love you, I am certain. I’m sure they will find the path back to you. My mum is amazing; I know that no matter how much time or distance separates us, she is only ever a heartbeat away from me. It’s very comforting and your kids will seek out that comfort when the time is right, when they need you the most.’

  ‘Did you ever meet your birth mother?’

  ‘No. She gave birth and pretty much abandoned me. I don’t know if she ever held or fed me. By all accounts she was just relieved that the whole sordid affair was over. I don’t know if she ever gave me a second thought. I have prayed for her and I do forgive her lack of interest; I don’t judge her, Kate. I’m grateful for the path she set me on. I have been blessed and she did give me life. That’s pretty amazing, eh?’

  Kate could only nod.

  Simon threw the tea towel onto the sideboard. All the dish
es and pots were now clean and in the cupboards ready for supper time.

  ‘How about that trip?’ he asked. ‘Your work here is done!’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’ She beamed.

  Simon’s open-topped jeep bounded along tracks that Kate doubted were wide enough to cope if a similar vehicle should come along in the opposite direction. The thick canopy of leaves dripped with the recent rainfall. Pale crabs the size of dinner plates scurried into the undergrowth and out of the path of the roaring engine. The car stopped abruptly at the edge of a small forest.

  ‘Here we are.’

  He smiled at Kate, his beautiful open smile that gave her a glimpse of the man behind it, a good man.

  Simon strode with confidence through the copse. Kate followed in his wake, tripping as her urban feet, more familiar with the grey slabs of English pavements, struggled with the alien terrain. She trod gingerly over tangled roots and fallen branches. She slapped at her skin, trying to squish the mosquitoes who tucked into the all-you-can-eat buffet that was her arms and legs. It was worth it.

  One more step forward and she knew how Lucy Pevensie in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe felt. Only Kate didn’t stumble into a snow-covered kingdom; instead she found herself in paradise.

  The bay was horseshoe shaped, on a gentle incline that allowed the crystal-clear blue water to lap its shore. The fine sand was undisturbed. The trees of the wood behind them cast gentle shadows and shady pockets over the beach. Mother Nature had dotted palm trees where the jungle met the sand. It was perfect.

  ‘Oh, Simon! I have never seen anything like it. This is so beautiful.’

  He lowered his bulk onto the sand and Kate sat next to him, bunching up her linen trousers to tan her calves. She never wore swimwear, preferring to keep her scars covered. There was no need for a towel or a blanket; this was the way to do beach life. She ran her fingers through the sand and let the gentle wind lift her hair and her spirits.

  ‘Not so very long ago, the whole island was like this. In the last twenty years I have seen many changes and not all of them good, Kate. I wanted to show you this bay—’