After that, I decided to join in Celia’s war effort by starting to knit the only thing my talent would allow – long plain strips (which were always useful) – while Celia, tiring of socks, added hats to her repertoire. We tipped as much money as we safely could into the collecting tins that sat at the door to the dining hall. A picture, cut from the Daily Gleaner, of the fighter planes our money had helped to buy was pinned to the noticeboard. And every time Celia and I passed we pointed to the part – sometimes a wheel, sometimes a window – we decided our coins had purchased.

Marching in disciplined rows through the streets that afternoon, these men, dressed entirely in thick blue cloth, looked as uniform and steely as machinery. On their heads every one of them wore a strange triangular hat that was tipped at an impossible angle. I followed Celia as she nudged and poked her way through people come to stare. Women mostly, who pushed and jostled us back. Wives, mothers, sisters, aunts lining the street. Some were there just to see the spectacle, while others strained anxiously for a glimpse of a man they loved. But close to this fighting machine was merely composed of line after line of familiar strangers. Fresh young boys who had only just stopped larking in trees. Men with skin as coarse as tanned leather, whose hands were accustomed to breaking soil. Big-bellied men who would miss their plantain and bammy. Straight-backed men whose shoes would shine even through battle. It seemed all the dashing, daring and some of the daft of the island walked there before me.

So many men.

‘Why must so many go?’

I thought I had spoken these words only in my head but Celia, facing me sombrely, replied, ‘You must understand, if this Hitler man wins this war he will bring back slavery. We will all be in chains again. We will work for no pay.’

‘Celia, I work for no pay now,’ I said, thinking of my worthless class.

Perhaps she did not understand my joke, for she did not laugh or even smile. A look of distaste passed carefully across her features. I made no attempt to placate her. I could understand why it was of the greatest importance to her that slavery should not return. Her skin was so dark. But mine was not of that hue – it was the colour of warm honey. No one would think to enchain someone such as I. All the world knows what that rousing anthem declares: ‘Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.’

A woman heavy with child, recognising a man she knew on the march, howled, ‘Franklin, where you goin’?’ And weeping loud she held her arms up to him like a child waiting to be carried along. Her companion wrapped two hands tight round her big belly to keep her from running to him. Franklin, turning his eye to her as he passed, broke his step, tripping forward as if he had been struck, before regaining his soldier’s composure and moving on.

And Celia, looking distressed by the trouble this woman was creating, turned away, asking me, ‘I wonder who has on my socks?’

Pleased at her change of mood I replied, ‘Celia, it is possible that every one of those men and most of the crowd are wearing them.’

She smiled at this joke and, locking her arm through mine, she leaned in close to whisper, ‘Hortense, let me give you a secret. When I am older, I will be leaving Jamaica and I will be going to live in England. I will have a big house with a bell at the front door and I will ring the bell, ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling.’ Her black hair caught by the sun shimmered golden strands in the light. ‘I will ring the bell in this house when I am in England. That is what will happen to me when I am older.’

It was another commotion that brought Celia’s dreaming to a halt. A woman’s voice rising louder than the marching feet, more clamorous than the chattering crowd. One and all turned to follow the approaching cry – even airmen’s eyes swivelled to where the noise was emanating from. It became clear to me that this woman’s voice was shouting the name ‘Celia’. Everyone who was not called Celia strained to look at the caller. The only motionless person was Celia herself who stood lifeless as a cadaver.

Walking towards Celia was a tall, dark-black-skinned yet elegant woman. Her back straight, her head high, she carried the imperious air of a proud white lady. As she came closer the crowd parted, some almost jumping out of her way, some looking on her with pity, because it was obvious that this graceful woman was wearing two dresses. One dress had black skirts flowing along the ground and sleeves buttoned to the wrist. With just this dress she would have received only the comment that she was a little old-fashioned. But over the top she wore what looked from a distance to be a pretty blouse, but was revealed as a lacy pink frock made for a small girl. The short puffed sleeves were pulled up achingly taut over the sleeves of the other dress, while the tiny bodice stretched and gaped across her adult frame. She raised her hand, waving a white handkerchief, and shouting, ‘Celia,’ so vociferously it sounded to be coming from a deity not from the mouth of a mortal such as she. I looked to Celia for an explanation as to why this strange woman was trying to attract her attention.

But Celia’s eyes were tight shut, her lips mumbling, ‘Oh, no,’ and a fresh tear was running down her face to her Cupid’s bow.

This woman was now upon Celia, chattering noisily as if she had been at her side all afternoon. ‘Celia, you will see . . . he will be along soon. You must just wait, me dear, and I will show you him. You will see . . . you will see.’

She waved her handkerchief in front of her nose. ‘Oh, this heat . . . this heat, I will never get used to this heat.’ Her perfume was so sickly pungent that I coughed with the taste of it in my throat. Her hair, which at first impression looked a distinguished grey, transpired to be a brown wig soiled with dust. Slipping slightly to one side this wig revealed a patch of the matted black hair it was trying to conceal. Oblivious to the spectacle she created she stood fanning herself as haughty as nobility. Yet there was no spirit in her eyes: they remained as expressionless and unengaged as the simulated gaze of a doll.

Celia gently took this woman’s arm and leaning close to her ear she said, ‘Mamma, hush.’

Even though this woman was chattering loudly, ‘Now where is that man? . . . Where has he gone? . . . He is always missing,’ she stopped as suddenly as if a control had been turned to off.

I did not need to ask if this curious woman was Celia’s mother, it was there to see. Dark skin on a once-pretty face and lips that carried the same pronounced Cupid’s bow. Celia avoided my eyes as she spoke closely and carefully to her mother: ‘Mamma, you should not have followed me here. We must go home now. I will take you back. They will be worried for you.’

Her mother, heeding Celia as if in a trance, let her gently guide her by her elbow away from the crowd. Until without warning she came to life once more. ‘He is here, Celia. He is here! Look.’

The crowd responded readily to her cry – some watching her antics while others, more curious, looked to where she was indicating. Celia’s soft hand on her mother’s arm became a grim-faced knuckle-clenched grasp, which her mother wrestled violently away from. Unfortunately the procession of airmen momentarily stopped and Celia’s mother ran to one airman and, pointing him out like a dress in the window of a shop, called, ‘Celia, this is your daddy. I told you he would come.’ The airman had obviously never seen this woman before. This young boy – younger even than Celia – glanced around confused while his compatriots jeered.

‘Winston.’ Celia’s mother examined his face. ‘Don’t you know me?’ The airman would have shaken his head, would have said, ‘Oh, no, madam, no,’ but, before he could reply, Celia’s mother threw her arms round his chest constricting him with a hug that could have taken the breath from a bear. He looked to be choking and unsure whether to hit this madwoman or surrender to her clasp.