Black Heart of Jamaica

by Julia Golding

  ‘I will.’

  Jenny moved off a few paces to give us some privacy for our final farewells. Pedro and I hugged for a long while, both silently remembering the last few years and the friendship that had given us two orphans someone to love like family.

  ‘When my task here is done, I’ll come find you,’ Pedro promised, his voice hoarse.

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Don’t let Billy bully you on the journey home.’

  ‘He doesn’t stand a chance – those days are gone.’

  Pedro squeezed my upper arms, then set me apart. ‘Do you mean I should feel sorry for the poor brow-beaten villain?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ I couldn’t help a watery smile at the thought. ‘A month with me will certainly kill or cure his attachment, don’t you think?’

  ‘If you really put your mind to it, there’s no contest. He’ll be crying mercy before you leave port.’

  ‘I love you, Pedro.’

  ‘I love you too, Cat.’

  With that, he turned and walked away before he disgraced himself with a display of tears. Jenny gave me a final hug and ran after him. It was good to know that I had left him with a friend. I felt no embarrassment as I wept. Pedro was really gone.

  ‘Well then, Cat, time to get you back where you belong, don’t you think?’ Billy hooked my arm and led me up the gangplank.

  I blew my nose on the handkerchief he offered me and straightened my shoulders. In truth there was nothing to grieve for: my friend was only doing what he felt he had to do, making a free choice as all men should.

  ‘Yes, Billy, I’m ready to go home.’

  Curtain falls.

  (Including many Creole terms)

  ALL MY EYE – what a load of rubbish (hopefully not your conclusion about my story)

  ANNE BONNY – famous female pirate, not my role model

  BAM, BAMMING – to tease or hoax someone (what, moi? Never!)

  BLIND AS A BRICKBAT – very dense or blind about something

  BLOCKING – planning of moves on stage

  BONA FIDE – Latin for genuine, in good faith

  BOSUN – sailor in charge of sails and rigging, right-hand man to captain

  BUCKRA – white man or woman

  CHICHONA BARK – treatment for malaria, a Godsend

  CHILLEN – children

  CUT DIRECT – to snub or ignore

  DONS – university tutors

  DUPPY – A spirit or ghost

  FIDDLER’S JIG (to care a . . .) – not care a jot

  FLAT – person who it is easy to fool

  GUINEA BIRD – term for newly arrived slave from Africa

  HOYDEN – boisterous girl

  INDENTURED SERVANT – someone legally bound to a master by contract, sometimes used in place of a prison sentence

  MASSA – master

  MICHAELMAS TERM – first term of academic year at Cambridge University

  MISSIS – mistress, a swear word in my vocabulary

  MULATTO – a person of mixed origins

  OCTOROON – a ridiculous – and I think insulting – term for a person with a black great-grandparent

  PACERS – smart carriage horses

  PENN – an estate or a plantation in Jamaica

  POLINCK – small-holding for growing of extra food

  QUADROON – a person with a black grandparent (I hope you will never use this word in my hearing or you risk having your ears boxed!)

  QUARTERDECK – raised deck to the stern of a ship

  RED-LETTER DAY – special or holy day, referring to the custom where such dates are highlighted in red in almanacs and calendars.

  SAN DOMINGO – French colony in a spot of bother

  SALT-WATER NEGRO – slave that has just stepped off ship

  SEGAR – a strange tube of tobacco for smoking, much liked by Jamaican gentlemen (I can’t believe it’ll catch on)

  SHARP COVE – clever gent

  STEVEDORE – man who loads/unloads ships

  STRIKE THE SET – dismantle scenery, pack up

  SURE AS THE DEVIL IS IN LONDON – to be very certain of something

  TATTA – father

  THOMAS GRAY’S, SACKVILLE STREET – top-notch jewellers

  TOGS – clothes

  THE TON – Society, the top people, only apply if you have a title or stacks of money

  TOPGALLANTS – topmost sails

  TORTUGA OR ILE DE LA TORTUE – lawless island off north coast of San Domingo

  London, October 1792 – Curtain rises.

  BOLT FROM THE BLUE

  Many people are fortunate to have a family tree that stretches back hundreds of years. My friend Frank, for example, can point to a sprig and say, ‘That was Great Uncle Timothy who died at the Battle of Blenheim,’ or, ‘That’s Great Great Great Grandma Eustacia who smoked a pipe and bred rare pigs.’ For him, history is a hop from stepping-stone to stepping-stone of notable or eccentric relatives all leading up to the present time – to him.

  By contrast, I had always thought of myself as a lone shoot. Abandoned as an infant on the doorstep of Drury Lane theatre twelve years ago, I was the acorn dropped carelessly far from the parent plant. I had been left to grow (or not) as fate decided, with no knowledge of the tree that produced me. That was, Reader, until I arrived back in London after my adventures in the Caribbean. Out of the blue, my past caught up with me and sprouted in a most unexpected way.

  The post-chaise rattled down Oxford Street, but I was in heaven. Finally, after a year of exile, I could see, hear and smell my city in all its grimy glory. I was home.

  ‘Gawd almighty, girl, can’t you sit still for a moment?’ Billy Shepherd, my friendly enemy and travelling companion, gave a tug to the back of my skirt. ‘You’re like a jack-in-the-box.’

  I ignored him. ‘Look – there’s the turn to Grosvenor Square! And that’s the way to St Martin-in-the-Fields! And look – there’s Scratch Harry.’

  Billy rolled his eyes at my enthusiasm. Rumpled by months of travel, everything about him, from his limp cravat to his scuffed boots, looked weary, more than ready to exchange continual motion for a seat by a comfortable fireside.

  ‘You know who I mean, Billy – the fake legless beggar, the one who has his legs concealed in that cart – he’s still sitting on the corner!’ I called the tramp a cheery greeting and flipped him an expertly aimed penny. It plopped into his bowl with a satisfying plink. Catching sight of the donor, Scratch Harry gave a bark of laughter and doffed his cap.

  ‘Course ’e is, you idiot,’ grumbled Billy, tugging fretfully at the frayed end of a cuff. ‘Works for me, doesn’t ’e? ’E knows ’e ’as to put in the hours.’

  I’d momentarily forgotten Billy had this part of London well and truly under the control of his gang.

  ‘If you’re going to get a cut, I want my money back.’ I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers.

  With a pained sigh, Billy dug in his waistcoat pocket and slapped a shilling into my palm. ‘Don’t carry small change,’ he muttered.

  ‘Your loss is my gain.’ I smiled sweetly and turned back to my examination of the streets. After a short pause, I began drumming my fingers restlessly on the sill, beating a tattoo guaranteed to annoy Billy. ‘Do you think everyone else got home safely? Frank and Syd, I mean?’

  Having waved off my friends in Philadelphia, I expected them to have returned some months ago. Unless my letter to Frank had arrived before me, they would not be anticipating me landing on their doorstep so soon. They’d left me pursuing a career as an actress with a troupe touring the Caribbean. That enterprise cut short by brief spells as enslaved servant, pirate and rebel soldier,* I had finally taken passage back across the Atlantic with Billy. Our ship had carried the taint of the slave trade, having just unloaded its cargo of human captives from Africa. Mercifully, on this eastbound leg, it had only transported cotton and sugar to the manufactories of northern England and Scotland. There had been no other ship willing to take us, so we had had to
make do. After a swift sailing, Billy and I disembarked with the cargo at the port of Liverpool and had spent the last few days jolting down the turnpike to make our grand entry into the capital.

  Billy’s temper was hanging by a thread; my spirits were high. He had given me to understand that I made an infuriating fellow passenger in the close confines of cabin and carriage. Excellent news all round.

  My drumming reached a crescendo.

  ‘’Ow many times do I ’ave to tell you? Stop tappin’!’ Billy ran his fingers through his brown hair, making it stick up like a bristling hedgehog. Smoky grey eyes flashed a warning – he was about to lose his composure. ‘And ’ow the ’ell do I know if your friends are ’ere, Cat Royal? What you think I am? A bleedin’ gypsy or somethink? With a bloomin’ crystal ball?’

  I collapsed back on the seat opposite him and grinned. ‘The question was rhetorical, Billy.’

  ‘What the Devil does that mean?’ He massaged his temples with his long fingers. ‘You’ve given me the ’eadache, but do you care?’

  ‘That last one of yours was an excellent example of a rhetorical question,’ I commended him as if he were a star pupil. ‘It means that I wasn’t expecting an answer, merely speaking my thoughts aloud.’

  ‘Well, don’t.’ He clenched his fists on his knees.

  ‘Don’t what?’ I wrinkled my brow in innocent puzzlement.

  ‘Don’t speak another word.’ He chopped at his throat. ‘I’ve ’ad it up to ’ere with your thoughts, rhetorical or whatever. You’ve done nothink but jabber on since we left Tortuga three months ago. You’ve driven me to drink,’ he took a fortifying gulp from the flask of brandy at his side, ‘as well as driven me mad.’

  I smiled serenely. ‘You should count your blessings, Billy. Only a few more minutes of my company then you’ll be shot of me for good.’

  ‘About time.’

  Congratulating myself silently for routing the affection that Billy misguidedly felt for me, I sat back to enjoy the familiar sights. Billy had not finished; he continued to grumble.

  ‘You snored on my shoulder all the way from Liverpool. Anyone would think I was put on earth to be your pillow. And you dribbled all over my best coat –’

  ‘Did not!’ I protested, though I could not deny falling asleep on him.

  ‘On the boat you gave me a seizure, goin’ up the mast and ’angin’ off the yardarm like a monkey.’

  That had been wonderful: the only place on the ship I had felt free of the smell below decks. ‘Ah, happy days!’

  ‘You flirted with everyone in sight.’

  ‘You mean I talked to the other passengers.’

  ‘And the crew and every Tom, Dick ’n’ ’Arry at the inns on the way down from Liverpool.’

  ‘Jealous, Billy?’

  ‘Course not. You just . . . just don’t know ’ow to behave.’

  ‘Thus speaks that paragon of polite behaviour Mister William Shepherd, cut-throat and slave owner.’ I flourished my hand in a mock bow.

  ‘You were brung up bad – anyone can see that.’

  ‘I was brought up with you, Billy, on the streets, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, but you pretend to be a lady, and them kind of goings-on will get you into trouble.’

  I batted my eyelashes at him. ‘I thought you liked my friendly nature, Billy dear.’

  He scrubbed his hands through his hair. ‘Just stop it, Cat. Stop acting like a mindless ’alfwit who’ll flirt with anythink in breeches.’

  I had to laugh. I’d set out on this journey home planning to push Billy past the point of endurance, playing on his misplaced feelings of ownership towards me, and five hundred yards from his door I had succeeded.

  ‘Sorry, Billy, but this is me. Only cure is for you to jump out and leave me to meet my doom in my own way.’ I folded my hands in my lap, assuming a resigned expression worthy of a martyr.

  The post-chaise drew up outside Billy’s grand house on Bedford Square. He grabbed his hat and was out of the carriage and on the pavement in a trice, stretching his lanky frame with a groan of pleasure. He slammed the coach door shut and shouted for his belongings to be thrown down to his footmen who were dutifully filing out of the house. While this pantomime proceeded apace outside, I sat back, arms crossed, a smug smile on my lips. I’d feared that when we reached home he’d try and persuade me to stay with him – after all, he had come all the way to the Caribbean to find me – but it now looked as if that was the last thing on his mind.

  Possessions safely on the way into the house, Billy ducked his head back in through the open window.

  ‘You’ll be all right from ’ere, Cat?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘Yes, Billy.’

  ‘Where’re you goin’?’

  ‘Bow Street.’ I could not stop a triumphant grin at his expression of relief. I suppose he was living in dread of me inviting myself in.

  He gave a curt nod, turned to go, then stopped as a new thought struck him, prompted by my smile.

  ‘You . . . you’ve been doin’ this on purpose, ain’t you? You meant to make me glad to be rid of you.’

  I tapped on the ceiling and called to the coachman, ‘Drive on, please.’

  ‘You schemin’ little minx!’ Standing on the pavement, hands crushing the brim of his hat, Billy looked torn between admiration and fury.

  The carriage surged forward.

  ‘You could’ve just told me, you know!’ he shouted after me. ‘Spared me months of sufferin’.’

  I chuckled. I could’ve done, but this way had been far more fun.

  The butcher’s shop on Bow Street was just as I remembered it: cuts of meat hanging on hooks, sausages curled on platters, basins of quivering tripe, sawdust on the floor, the sickly sweet smell of blood. Figures moved around inside but I couldn’t make out who was serving. Why I thought the shop should have changed, I don’t know. Twelve months was nothing really; it was just that I had lived through so much, I expected to see signs of this reflected in the places around me.

  I paused on the pavement, strangely hesitant now I had reached this point. There was one old haunt that I knew would have changed out of all recognition. Just around the corner was the building site of the new Drury Lane theatre. I couldn’t bear to look at it yet but I could see the clouds of dust and mason’s carts rumbling in that direction. Mr Sheridan, the owner, had promised that a new theatre would rise from the ashes of the old and he was keeping his word. But there was no place for me there now.

  This was a melancholy thought, but at least in Syd’s butcher’s shop I could be confident that he and his parents would be pleased to see me.

  The shop bell rang and a customer came out.

  ‘Mornin’, Cat. I ain’t seen you around for a bit, dearie. ’Ow ’ve you been?’ Mrs Peters, the cheesemonger from Covent Garden, patted me on the arm. Her full basket smelled of good strong Cheddar and onions. A ham nestled in the folds of a muslin cloth.

  I bobbed a curtsey. Little indeed had changed around here – I even recognized her old basket. ‘Mrs Peters! I’m well, thank you! How are Mr Peters and the boys?’

  ‘All doin’ same as ever, except the youngest. ’E’s joined the Butcher’s Boys.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t like our Jim ’avin’ anythink to do with gangs but I s’pose if ’e ’ad to run with one of ’em, that’s the one I’d choose. Syd’s a good sort – keeps the boys in line. So, you’re back, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’ve you been? I ’eard all sorts of wild rumours.’ She leaned nearer and dropped her voice confidentially. ‘Someone said you went all the way to Paris, but I didn’t believe ’em. “Not our Cat” I said.’

  ‘Actually, I have been to Paris – and a bit further too.’

  Mrs Peters opened her eyes wide. ‘Further than Paris! Well I never! I’m pleased to see you’ve come to your senses and are back with your own people.’

  With a nod that combined reproof for my wandering and approval for my return, Mrs Peters bustled
off to spread the word in the market that the prodigal daughter was among them once more. I wondered what she would have to say when she learnt the true extent of my travels. Smiling at the thought, I pushed the door open, bell ringing brightly. The shop was empty.

  ‘Be with you in a tick!’ shouted Syd from out the back. I could hear the regular thwack of a cleaver as he diced steak.

  ‘Well, if that’s how you treat your customers, I think I’ll go to the butcher on Long Acre,’ I replied loudly.

  Thump! The cleaver was buried in the chopping block and Syd erupted into the shop, vaulted the counter and lunged for me.

  ‘You’re back!’ he exclaimed gruffly. My bag went flying as he squeezed me tight against his chest. I could hardly move my arms to hug him. Almost as abruptly, I was set apart and big hands began brushing me down.

  ‘Fry my brains with onions – look what I’ve gone and done to your pretty coat!’ Syd gamely tried to remove the sawdust and red smears from my light blue pelisse but only managed to make it worse.

  ‘What’s a little damage between friends, Syd?’ I pushed him away and gave my coat a resigned shake. ‘It’s been on its last legs in any case after several months at sea.’ I smiled up at him, taking in his familiar face, skin still tanned from the voyage, blue eyes shining with pleasure. He’d had a haircut since I last saw him – blond hair now cropped short. ‘It’s so good to see you. Is everyone well?’

  ‘We’re good. And you?’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle – or I will be when I’ve had a cup of tea. Will you put the kettle on for a weary traveller?’

  ‘Tea’s on its way.’ Syd ruffled my hair, then glanced behind me. ‘Where’s Pedro?’

  My gay mood dulled a little. ‘It’s a long story, but he’s fine, really he is.’ I was trying to convince myself as much as Syd.

  ‘Tell me when you’ve ’ad a chance to catch your breath.’ Scooping me up with an arm around my shoulders, Syd led me into the kitchen.

  ‘Ma, Dad, look who it is!’ he announced.

  Seated at the kitchen table in front of a pile of half-peeled potatoes, Mrs Fletcher gave a little exclamation of surprise. Putting her work aside at once, she greeted me warmly and called for her husband to come in from the yard. Mr Fletcher, a giant of a man with a shy manner, strode in, patted my shoulder, then gave Syd a delighted grin.