July was quick to snatch this ugly bug from the plate and dash it hard on to the floor. But this well-defended creature hit the ground clattering like a propelled stone, then merely flipped itself over and commenced to walk away. July had to stamp upon it with her heel. Its shell then shattered with the snap and splatter of a rotten coconut bursting.

The overseer fixed a gaze of wonderment upon July—he was speechless. Until slowly, upon an exhaled breath, he stuttered, ‘Thank you.’ Then he began to awaken back into this life, ‘There are just so many cockroaches in this house,’ he sighed. ‘They are simply everywhere. There was one on my pillow yesterday. As I was going to bed, I pulled back my sheet to find it sitting there.’

‘But them just be bug-a-bugs,’ July replied. ‘Plenty ’pon this island, massa, them have no harm in them. Me is no feared of them.’

‘No? Well, you now know that your master is very feared of them,’ he said. ‘And you may laugh at me now all you wish. Who could blame you? You may tell everyone you meet how ridiculous the new overseer is when there are cockroaches anywhere near him. I cannot hide it now, can I?’

Then, as he sat back down upon the chair at his desk, he said, ‘Look at this! It’s made a crack in this plate.’ He handed the blue and white plate to July. Now, July knew that the cockroach did not make the crack in the plate, but as she took it from him she stared upon the pattern, for it was one she recognised. And he asked her, ‘Do you like it?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. And, before she knew, she was telling him, ‘See upon this plate there be a tale. There be birds flying and the river has a likkle bridge that . . .’ But feeling him staring upon her intently, listening to her fool-fool reverie, July suddenly forgot all she was thinking and stopped. She held out the plate for him to take it back.

‘Keep it,’ he said.

July, sure she had not heard correctly, held the plate a little closer to him. But he shook his head. ‘Take the plate, if you like it. Keep it as payment for saving my life.’

Never before had July been given something so precious by a white man. It was now her turn for words to leave her. But then when he asked, ‘Tell me something, what is your name? Your mistress calls you Marguerite, but Elias called you . . .’ July interrupted to say clearly, ‘Miss July.’

‘Miss July? Then why does your mistress call you Marguerite?’

‘Her t’ink that pretty name to call a slave. Now her can say no other.’

‘Well,’ the overseer said, ‘May I call you Miss July?’

‘Surely, massa, for that be me true name.’

‘Then, Miss July, what is your message?’

July had almost forgotten the reason why she was standing before this man. ‘Oh yes,’ she began, ‘Me missus wan’ you come to dinner, for her has beef that must be eat up.’

‘Beef! I haven’t had beef in a while. Beef. Now that leaves me with a dilemma.’ Suddenly this man leaned back upon his chair to call out over his shoulder, ‘Joseph, what is it you are preparing for my dinner tonight?’

There came a little giggle from the kitchen before his man-servant yelled, ‘Godammies, massa.’

‘What on earth did he say?’ the overseer asked July.

‘Him say, godammies.’

‘And what is that?’

‘That be fish, massa.’

‘Fish! Oh, fish again. I think beef sounds much better—do not you think, Miss July? Please tell your mistress that I gratefully accept her invitation. I would like very much to eat beef . . . in her company, of course.’

And, as a broad smile lit upon his face, July realised then that, for once, her missus was right—he surely did have the bluest eyes.

CHAPTER 22

AT THE EDGE OF the town, upon a quiet street that is arid and dusty as a flour barrel, walks our July. Her task within the town upon this hot-hot and parched day is the purchase of some bright-yellow kid gloves for her missus—‘With a Bolton thumb, Marguerite, if they can be found.’ For now Caroline Mortimer has often to entertain a guest at her table, all her many pairs of gloves are just too mucky to wear.

Walking along the street, July passes a group of negro men wilting within the shade of a veranda and smoking upon pipes. One drowsily calls her name. And she, straining to recognise the caller under the shadow of the eaves, soon raises her hand to wave; it is Ebo Cornwall, that rascal African who often supplies her candles and earthenware. A ragged old negro woman fussing with a weary donkey that refuses to move, sits down upon the road fanning herself with a banana leaf before turning to stare with hungry eyes upon July. Two pigs start a little squabble at the corner that disturbs the crows into squawking and flapping upon the roofs above her. A dog raises itself in anticipation of a chasing but then, upon a second thought, merely stretches its legs in turn before curling back to sleep. A young negro man sitting at an open window wipes a wet cloth around his neck as he calls out, ‘Hey, miss, miss, pretty miss,’ but July certainly does not notice him. For a cart being pushed recklessly by a running boy passes her and its wobbling wheels churn up the dust to such a fog that it catches at her throat.

As July wiped the stinging grit from her eyes that day, there came from out of the dirty haze a startling apparition. From the other end of the street appeared a tall woman. A tall, graceful woman. A tall, graceful, coloured woman dressed entirely in white. She walked . . . no . . . she glided—for no heel nor toe of this golden beauty did seem to touch the solid earth—towards July. Atop her head she wore a white turban adorned with a long feather that pointed so high-high it did tickle the chin of God. The sleeves upon her muslin dress billowed like soft sunny day clouds. The cloth of the lavish skirt gushed from the band at her tiny waist to cascade like foaming water to the ground. And the hem of this glorious garment was so festooned with embroidered flowers that this lovely surely had walked through the garden of Eden and all that was pretty had attached itself there. Even the fringed parasol this fair-skinned maiden twirled could rival the sun for brightness.

No adjusting of July’s red kerchief upon her head made her feel worthy to linger within the wake of this fair-skinned beauty. In her ugly grey skirt, with the rip at the knee that was stitched so badly in black, her yellowing blouse with no button left upon the fraying cuffs, and her skin, of course, so nasty dark, July was shameful as a field nigger. But then as July, with her head bowed, stepped to pass that elegant miss upon that shabby street, she heard, ‘Ah, Miss July, you walking to town this day?’

It was with revulsion that July at once realised this coloured woman she was glorifying was Miss Clara. Come, if July had recognised her haughty figure before, there would have been no meeting. For our July would have dived into the cover of near bush, or stood skinny behind the pillar of a house, so Miss Clara could not find her.

Reader, you must remember Miss Clara? I have written of her before. Miss Clara, who was once the house slave at Prosperity? Who did feign to faint away at any rough word? ‘Is it me dress you like or me pretty fair face that make you stare so,’ Miss Clara. The quadroon whose papa was a naval man from Scotch land. Yes, that one! The dreadful Miss Clara. Come, let me tell you of her.