Remy: A Short Story

Tuesday 15th October 1985

Wickie Wackie Beach, St Andrews, Jamaica

The Earth’s breath was a tender warmth over the night fallen skies. Though hot with weariness, the air was relieved with lightened sighs from the sea, the ripples a rush, an echo among the ambient extravaganza ensuing behind Kamala’s back. She stood in silence, watching the soft tides flowing with ease into the shore, the luminous full moon reflected in the darkened water. A band played at the bar, a member urging spectators to gather around the makeshift dance floor, where the saxophone and bongos began a salsa number. Kamala sat on the stool behind the bar, ordering a fine rum punch. She ought to ease the depletion within her, for her father reprimanded her for rejecting a proposal. Indeed, she tried to lighten the heaviness within, still reeling from the loss of her mother, who had passed away six months prior, leaving her and her father to be deserted. The very father who very so stubbornly maintained his Indian traditions from when he was uprooted from India to work on the plantations in Jamaica by a British colonel. He decidedly settled down on the Island once he encountered Kamala’s mother, Jhanvi. In utter delight, he was to have found another Indian amidst the African descendants with whom he was cordial. With promptness, he married her, and though he lived in Jamaica for many decades, Kamala’s father, Laksh, upheld the Indian traditions and values which were sent down to him from his parents. For him, it was his way of staying connected and grounded to his ancestral roots. It was true that marriage held significance within the Indian household; it was believed that it protected the family’s honour and dignity while continuing to plant more seeds to enrich the Indian culture and heritage with future generations. Kamala believed marriage was simply the Indian’s way to cast their children aside once they had grown into maturity, especially women. It was presumed so when in witness of how children caused friction with their parents when they were adults, thus creating a clash in the hierarchy. It was deemed shameful for women to live alone or move away from home unmarried; thus, marriage was perceived as the way to maintain a woman’s dignity and honour. Certainly, Laksh pondered that it was Kamala’s time to marry and embark on a life of her own. The burden fell arduously over him now that Jhanvi had left them. He felt it to be his duty to set his daughter up with a decent man from a good family, assured that he would be reprieved and at peace once he settled his only child down in life. This had dejected Kamala; in vehemence, she declined such a proposition, for she believed it was in her fate to fall in love. She surmised that the person she fell in love with was the one she would be tied to in matrimony. To hear her father speak so callously of her life compelled her to tears, moving her to depart the house in an instant, upon which she found sound relief near the waters. In the bar, she mulled over the scene with the drink tipping on the edge of her fingers, her shoulders sagging as her head roamed among the heads of dancers.

His eyes were a darkened brown. Upon catching her in the crowd, they became fixated. The room zoned out of focus with a tunnel vision on her. He thought her to be a beautiful woman. During the course of the set, Remy and Kamala locked eyes, and once they had concluded, he set the saxophone down gently near the leg of the stool and with a charismatic smile, he approached her. When the bartender shouted, whether he craved a drink. Very kindly so, Remy said, “no, thank you, Darren.” In brazen confidence, he settled on the stool beside Kamala and said, “you’re beautiful.”

Kamala chugged the rest of the drink and shot back with sass, “is that what you say to all women?”

“No, only you.”

“Is that so?”

“Very much so.” In a fore, his hand drew to her border. Kamala took a gander at the hand with mild caution to look back up at him. He patiently awaited her move until she put her hand on him, and when she did, he firmly held onto it, caressing the back of her hand, enticed by the softness. “I’m Remy. What’s your name?” His lips edged close to her ear. Such a brass move from him had her mouth part, her breath shortening in pants. His proximity to her provoked a swell to expand in her womb, and her fingers tingled from Remy’s tender touch.

“Kamala.” Her voice was breathless. “My name is Kamala.”

Remy beheld her gaze, keenly regarding her eyes to have darkened. His face a reflection before him on the twinkle of her brown eyes. “Care for a dance?” He said, his blood pulsing unevenly upon her response to him.

She tightened her grip on his hand, her heart flogging her chest when her skin continued to sparkle from the touch of his. Indeed, she felt abnormal and feverish, for she hadn’t known such sensations to be. She pert her head in an indication of a yes, then he led the way into the dance floor, finding a small space in the middle. Though their set had finished, the members of the band played lastingly into the night. Remy had seen her before. She would sit near the waters, scarcely ever coming into the bar. Quite frankly, she intimidated Remy, which caused hesitation to sink into his bones in the manner of approaching her. He found her to be a wonder, her beauty to be a marvel. He knew how Indians perceived African descendants of the Island. Despite his many efforts to restrain himself and discard those feelings, he felt the gravitational pull towards her, and when her eyes caught his and sealed her gaze on him, he was assured that she felt something for him too. Such a sombre act was an indicator to him to go to her, and like tunnel vision indeed, he drew close.

With the brass and drums in play, the Caribbean night enlivened into gladdened elation. Remy pulled Kamala staunchly against his body; chest on chest, pelvic bone on pelvis, their breath a synthesis of a kiss with lips utterly inches away. With a hand on Kamala’s lower back, their hips began a rhythm in beat with the music. Kamala followed Remy’s lead; his feet shifted in a forward and backwards motion just as their hips moved to the music. With their fingers interlocked, Remy pushed Kamala down, her spine jolting in surprise, flutters swarming her stomach from his proximity to her. Their eyes fixed on one another. She felt his presence had enamoured her. Her heart rendered to a relentless throb pulsing in her chest while her teeth bit her bottom lip upon feeling the unsteady heartbeat of the man before her. Kamala leaned her head on his chest with her arms reaching over his shoulders to run her hands through his braids, binding her fingers behind his neck as they moved with the slow music. Remy’s face buried deeper into the curve of her neck, providing her reprieve from the heat of the night with his breath. He nipped her neck when she ground her arse on him. Soon after, she turned around, rather lethargically, bringing him closer. She was so close she saw the black irises of his dark brown eyes; her nose turned upwards for a brush of skin. She enjoyed the vision of his laughter, for he laughed with the entirety of his face, and such imagery warmed her heart. However, now the air was stiff between them with a mystification of thickened passion. She felt a delicious sensation twining around her bones when he tightened his grip on her body. An emotion so severe washed over her upon perceiving an expression of contemplation on his face.

“I’m going to make you my wife,” expressed Remy in severity, pressing his forehead to hers.

She thought such words would be revolting; however, a sense of serenity devoured her, and such a response to such frank words hadn’t scorned her to a scare. “Come to my home. Ask my Baba for my hand in marriage. Get with you trays of gifts; bridal clothes, jewels, and Indian sweets.” Kamala said in an airy voice, for she felt that she had entered another dimension with the one surely to be her one and only lover. 

by Kalina 

Beverley: 10 things I bet you didn’t know about me.

1. I have been working as a receptionist in the probation service for twenty-two years. I have worked at offices all over London and I even did a spell at headquarters. I was gobsmacked when the chief executive sent me an email informing me of my 20-year service. My award of £250 went towards purchasing another designer handbag. Every manager wherever I have been based, has tried to convince me to train as a probation officer, but have you seen the state of some of them? I mean they work so hard, working way over their contracted hours, taking work home or coming into the office at the weekends. And all of those home office targets they have to meet and all. I don’t know how they do it. I wouldn’t last 5 minutes. Nope, that’s not for me, but I get the point; the length of time I have been around, I could have been chief exec myself by now. Patti, on the other hand makes it all look so easy. When she joined the office, in her power suits and high heels, one of the first things she did, was bring in a dress code. No ripped up jeans or tee shirts with slogans on them. Of course, some of them tried to threaten the managers with the union, but Patti, Steve and Jerome, stood their ground and won the staff group over. Patti and I bonded; over a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes I wore to work. Thereafter, she was always complimenting me on my clothes, hair or make-up saying “I see you, Queen!”

   
   2. Speaking of royalty, I was awarded an OBE by Princess Anne at Buckingham Palace for my contributions to the probation service. The announcement of my Queen’s Award put a lot of noses out of joint at the time. Well, I hardly nominated myself, Patti was involved in nominating me for that award via the Association of Black Probation Officers. The event at Buckingham Palace was an elaborate affair. All that pomp and ceremony. I took my former social worker with me. Miss Marilyn and I loved every minute of it. So, I have letters OBE after my name. The fellas are well impressed when I’m out on the pull.

   
   3. I saved a service user's life last year. It was a busy day at Camden office, when Simone Thomas came to the window to request the key to the loo. I was happy to oblige. Simone was a regular to the office over the years, she was a prolific shoplifter with a horrid class A drug habit. There was something sad about the way she said “Thank you and thank you for everything.” which I thought was odd at the time. When I didn’t see her come back out after 5 minutes, I told Leah, the other receptionist, I was going to check on her. The first two cubicles were vacant but the last cubicle door was closed. There was no answer when I called out and banged on the loo door. I rushed into the adjacent cubicle, jumped up on to the toilet lid and peeped over the stall. Simone was slumped over leaning against the door with a cloth tied around her neck. I don’t know how I managed to scale the partition between us, but I landed in the tight space, screaming my lungs out, crying for help. I removed the scarf from the cistern and held Simone's limp body against me, so a frantic Leah could push the door open. The ambulance crew reckoned if we had left it a few moments longer, we would have lost her.

   
   4. I have type 1 diabetes. I was diagnosed at 7 years old.

   
   5. I have no family; they were all killed in a car accident. But that is another story for another time.

   
   6. I own several properties in East London and in Essex. I inherited a lot of money and I would have pissed it up the wall had it not been for my social worker. Miss Marilyn helped me to invest most of the money when I left care. She helped me buy my first flat; a rundown 2-bedroom flat in Ilford. Outside of work she was into buying and renovating properties, her motto was, “You buy the worst house on the road and you turn it into the best house on the street.” By the time I was 20 years old, I had another two properties under my Gucci belt. I now live in a four bed detached house in Debden, Essex. I own the land behind my property too. There was a rumour years ago, that some property developers were going to purchase it, evict the horse riding school and build low rise apartments, in my backyard. Well, I wasn’t having a bar of that, so I purchased the land. The owner of the paddocks was allowed to stay at a reduced rate, which then enabled them to offer more classes to children with disabilities. It was a win-win situation all around.

   
   7. I am 42 years old, but I lie and tell my love interests that I am 39. If I am attracted to a man and I feel a connection, I am open to jumping from first to fourth base in a heartbeat. This has led me into serious arguments with both Patti and my nemesis Antoinette when out on the lash, but I don’t care. Antoinette once said I am like the United Colours of f-ing Benetton, but as I said I don’t care. Yes, I have had more sexual partners than they have had hot dinners, but I’m over the double standards. Without a shadow of a doubt, if I was a man, I would be described as a f-ing legend and not a hoe.

   
   8. My best features are my breasts. The twins get me a lot of attention when I’m on a night out. I had breast reduction surgery last year, reducing my breasts from a double H cup to a double D cup, but I swear down they have grown back during this pregnancy.

   
   9. I have never been to the Caribbean before. My folks were Guyanese, but they never got the chance to take me as a child. I prefer to travel East. I have travelled all over Asia, so imagine my delight when Patti invited me to her wedding in Jamaica. I literally ran to Newmont travel to book my ticket and hotel before the office manager Toyin changed her mind. On my first night at The Cliff Hotel in Negril, after Patti’s hen party fizzled out, I got incredibly drunk. I knocked back one too many ‘Bob Marley’ cocktails at the bar and I met and slept with Carlos Morgan. I have to admit I don’t remember much about our interlude and I was highly embarrassed when I found out the next day, that he was the groom’s younger brother and not Britain’s answer to Buju Banton. Antoinette and Patti's mother Veronica, tried to shame me (not for the first time they team tagged me; calling me out for being slack) and for a hot minute I was caught in my feelings about it as I’m not one to poop on my own doorstep. I only swapped mobile numbers with Carlos knowing that I would never see him again, then to my horror I was going to see him and his wife, Charmaine at Patti and Marcus' wedding. Shame guy! But I styled it out, pretending to be cool with it, until she bowls off the dancefloor, heading in my direction. I almost pissed myself; I’m a lover not a fighter. The most humiliating thing to happen in my life was when that sket, chucked a glass of red wine all over the front of my white dress. Antoinette came running over to help me or so I thought, only to see her running behind that fat cow. I’ll never forgive Antoinette for that. She was supposed to be on my side.

   
   10. I sleep with married men. That is their wives problem not mine. But right now, Carlos Sweetboy Morgan is my biggest problem.

   
   The big day is finally here, Friday 25th December 2015. I didn’t get out of bed until 9ish, determined to have a lie in as I knew it was going to be a long boring day. I tested my blood sugar. Thankfully, the reading 5.5 was spot on this morning. My blood sugar levels had been all over the place in recent weeks due to the pregnancy; another risk factor my midwife Janice mentioned during my very first antenatal appointment. Being over 40 years old automatically gave them cause for concerns and being an insulin dependent diabetic was also another issue. I was going to have to be very careful over the next 7 months if I wanted a successful outcome. I made a mental note to replace the glucose tablets in the bedside table in the event of my blood sugar levels dropping too low during the night and risk having a hypo. I sat intentionally on the edge of my bed and wriggled my toes into the shag pile carpet. I straightened my back trying to centre myself. I breathed through my nose for 5 seconds, holding my breath for a further 5 seconds and controlling my breathing, exhaling for 5 seconds more. I repeat my breathing exercises several times, imagining I am breathing in positivity and breathing out negativity. Today, like every Christmas day, I knew it was going to be difficult without my immediate family. Today I was going to be kind to myself. Next on my list was a swim in the basement. The pool was a major selling point when I decided to purchase the house, even though I couldn’t swim. After hundreds of private swimming lessons, I was a competent swimmer and I swam every day, completing at least 30 laps of the pool before work. After my swim was over, I went back upstairs and I took a long warm bath. I noticed small changes in my body already. My ankles were slightly swollen and my tummy was protruding ever so slightly. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to conceal my pregnancy at work for much longer. Leah was already giving me side eyes every time I asked her to cover reception for me whilst I raced to the loo. When I get to 15 weeks, I was going to tell Toyin I was expecting, because my back was killing me sitting in an ordinary office chair. I imagined my colleagues speculating who was the father of my child. But none of them would dare ask me my business. I patted myself dry with a large Egyptian cotton towel sitting back on my bed. I grab a bottle of bio-oil and lather up my skin, trying to prevent stretch marks appearing. I looked out of my bedroom window, past my garden into the stables. Everything was covered in a light dusting of snow. The sun was out and warming things up nicely, it was going to be a mild day for December. Clare was already on site with her small army of volunteers, mucking out the stables and feeding the horses. Clare was always the first person at the paddock and the last one to leave and she would repeat the chores in the evenings as well. She was dedicated to the riding school. But she has no idea I was her landlady and I had no plans to tell her either. I checked my phone for the first time today. My previous exes from yesteryear sent me Christmas Day text messages and e-cards. Thankfully, I only heard from these blokes once a year. It was Patti who started dragging me out to dinner Christmas week to have a meal together. She always extended an invitation to spend Christmas day with her at her mother’s but I always refused. If I cannot spend Christmas day with my mum, I’m not spending it with anybody else’s mother. I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and headed back downstairs. I was famished.

   
   If you saw the state of ‘The Manor' when I first viewed the property you would understand why the kitchen is my favourite room in the house now. We ripped out everything; lighting, cupboards and appliances that were last used in the ark. When I said ‘we' I meant my builder Dennis. He and his workman were the only men allowed in my home and the only men to make it into my bedroom were plasterers and decorators. It was one of my many rules when I first moved in. My home was going to be my space of tranquillity; my happy space. I broke my own rule once for a night of passion on the couch in the living room with a gentleman friend, who came indoors after a date, for a proverbial ‘coffee', but he never stayed the night. No man was going to see me with no make-up on and sporting my multi-coloured head-tie. My state-of-the-art kitchen was all white, immaculately clean, with a small laundry room to the side, housing the washing machine and dryer. I run my hand over the cool marble breakfast bar. It had cost a fortune to install and it was a bugger to keep clean, but so worth it. I took out everything I need out of the pantry and my huge American style fridge to make myself smashed avocado with crispy bacon on ciabatta toast. I really fancied eggs benedict with smoke salmon with a homemade hollandaise sauce. However, every baby book I bought advised me to avoid eating fish and runny eggs. I ate slowly at the breakfast bar, savouring the heat from the chilli flakes and saltiness of the bacon lardons dancing on my tongue. I washed everything down with a cup of decaf coffee, wishing it was a glass of champagne or Prosecco. I retrieved a pen from the fridge and injected 15 units of insulin into my thigh. I checked my phone which had been beeping continuously with notifications in my dressing gown pocket. I guessed they were more Christmas notifications. I kissed my back teeth. I bet all the ‘woke' black folk on WhatsApp were itching for Boxing Day so they could flood my phone with Kwanzaa greetings. I just wanted it to be all over, so I could shop online and pick up a few bargains in the sales. Roll on January 2016. It was going to be my year. I was planning to tell Carlos that I am pregnant and I would leave the ball in his court. My phone began to ring, jumping me out of my thoughts. Well, would you Adam and Eve it? My heart skipped a beat...it was Carlos.

by Pamela R. Haynes FRSA