Those funny pictures upon the wall that the massa called maps were just like the marks that patterned the missus’s white blouse after she had dribbled her tea. They were not pictures really, for there were no scolding eyes within them to follow where she walked. Unlike that portrait of the dead missus in the drawing room; she watched July all the while and did tut when July threw the missus’s chair cushions upon the floor to jump from one to the other so she might feel the soft silk yield between her toes. July had to leave the room under that dead missus’s scorning.

And the mirror within the bedchamber gasped when July’s dark face appeared within it. Only white skin with pitiless blue eyes usually preened there. July, flouring her face with a puff of the missus’s face powder, sneezed away the stink from up her nose before she ran from that peeping mirror’s gaze.

If this were her house, July decided, she would not have a cupboard so tall-tall that it did not allow her to look with ease upon all the pretty plates displayed there. She had to carry a chair from across the dining room, and stand upon her tiptoe to reach the first shelf alone. She would have those pretty blue and white plates resting near at hand so that at any time she might tangle herself within the story that lay upon them—fly with those birds that soared above the tree that shaded the house, that sat near the bridge, that spanned the river, that carried the boat. July, sipping the air from one of the cups, stuck out her little finger, just as white people did when they tipped that heavenly porcelain to their skinny lips.

But oh, July was exhausted—all this freedom did tire her out. Landing herself upon her missus’s daybed she cried, ‘Marguerite, come fetch me some tea.’ Her voice, running around the room, found no one to obey the order. ‘Marguerite, where is my tea?’ Still no one came. She sighed. Oh huff, oh puff—what a difficult life it is to be a white lady upon this island.

Then, as she rested, quite forlorn, she heard, ‘Ah, Miss July,’ cough, cough, ‘greetings.’

She nearly bit the birds off the fancy cup for Nimrod startled her so. Her little finger was still raised as Nimrod, grinning, carried on saying, ‘What you doing there, Miss July?’

Nimrod’s white waistcoat was smeared with something green, while his trousers carried sooty prints from his hands. And this man’s legs were bowed so July could still see the closed door behind him as he stood before her. His few-few-tooth-grin tried to muster some sort of charm, but was hindered—for while his one eye looked firm upon her face, the other roamed up and down her body and everywhere it pleased. But still, it was a freeman who stood over her, seeming ready to gobble her up. July put down the cup and, looking firmly upon the eye that needed to be taught to stare, said, ‘Bring me some tea and be quick.’ Nimrod, scratching his head, frowned for the briefest second before those lonely teeth once more set out to enchant. Then he bowed low.

The knife, fork, spoon and blue and white plate that Nimrod laid at the end of the dining table for July were placed well enough, but still she had to punish him. For he was too slow. He was a dull and indolent nigger. She took the spoon and hit it upon his head. He yelped—oh—at the sharp pain, then promised her he would do better. Yet he did not pull out the chair far enough for her to sit, nor push it in close enough for her to eat.

‘You are a very stupid nigger and I will see you whipped,’ July cried.

And Nimrod cringed, ‘Sorry, missus,’ before her.

The orange upon the plate was not peeled. ‘How am I to eat this?’ July asked him. As Nimrod leant forward to splice the fruit with a knife, July hit him once more upon the head with her spoon. ‘You are too close to me, nigger,’ she told him. And, as he jumped back from her, she yelled, ‘What about this fruit? Am I to peel it myself?’ When he leaned over to attempt a second splice, she slapped him about the ear. ‘Are you disobeying me?’ she asked him.

‘No missus,’ he said, breathless.

‘How dare you speak to me while I am at my table,’ she said, before striking him again with her spoon.

The glass Nimrod filled with red wine overflowed, the dark-plum contents dribbling upon the table. ‘Be careful, nigger, that is our finest wine,’ July was forced to yell.

Nimrod fell to his knees before her pleading, ‘No beat me, missus, no beat me.’

‘But I must,’ July said, slapping his head, ‘or you will never learn.’ Her fingers, still sticky from the orange, wrapped the stem of the glass, then lifted it to her thirsty mouth. She gulped two mouthfuls before the pungency made her splutter and cough. It was disgusting. She had never tasted anything so renk. ‘Are you poisoning me, nigger?’ July said.

Nimrod’s fearful face was all July could see through her watering eyes. She coughed again and again and again. But then the wine gradually soothed to a warmth at her throat. She licked the sticky drops from her lips. Then took another sip that tasted a little sweeter. And then another. Until Nimrod, inclining his head, asked her if she would like him to pour her some more.

And soon July had the urge to tickle Nimrod under his chin. She leaned to grab his little beard so she might feel those spiky hairs, but her elbow slipped from the table—her hand clutching nothing. This was very, very, very, funny to her. So funny that her wriggling and giggling slipped her from the chair to land her upon the ground. And suddenly all was dark, for her head kerchief had fallen across her eyes.

Under the table was as gloomy as a stormy sky. ‘Come, put me back,’ July cried out, for she did not have the strength to lift herself from the floor. She was stuck to it. As Nimrod caught her around the chest to raise her, she said, ‘Bring me more wine, nigger.’ And as he sat her back upon the chair, she made grab again for his chin. But missed. He handed her the wine glass, which swayed until the sweet and precious wine did spill wet upon her skirt.

‘Is me pretty, Mr Nimrod?’ she asked as he took the glass to fill it again. He did not answer which was so, so, so vexing to her. This man was fussing—he was around her this way, he was around her that way. He was making her dizzy. ‘Sit, sit, Mr Nimrod. Sit still so me can know your answer,’ she said. And Nimrod, not sitting as she commanded but fretting still with something, called out that she was prettier than any white woman he knew.

‘Prettier than Miss Clara?’

‘Miss Clara. Cha. You is prettier than Miss Clara,’ came a reply from across the room. Which was very, very, very pleasing to July because Miss Clara was not dark like she and so she was pretty. Oh yes, Miss Clara was fine.

And Nimrod had plenty women in town, for Miss Hannah did talk of them, but only when Nimrod was nowhere near. One, a sour-faced woman, owned a house that had little bow-legged pickney everywhere, Miss Hannah said.

‘Mr Nimrod, how many pickney you have?’ July called out to him.

He was in the room but she could not see him. But she felt the breath he blew out on the back of her neck for he was behind her, holding up more wine. ‘Tell me,’ she said. But he just sucked long upon his teeth and began speaking about . . . he was speaking about a pony. A pony. A Shettlewood pony. His Shettlewood pony. Nimrod was speaking of his Shettlewood pony. Not even white people can own such a fine beast, he said. And he looked so serious, staring his obedient eye upon July while the other gazing upon her chest looked so comical. July could not help but giggle. And her nose did run with snot. So she wiped it upon her skirt. And July wanted to ask if she might get a ride off him—the pony. She opened her mouth to ask, but forgot what she was to say, for Nimrod said that if she was his woman she could come and visit him in town. Which was very, very, very funny, yet July could not remember why.