The children of Windrush parents form two camps: those who remained in the Caribbean with grandparents and later joined their parents in England and those born in England but sent to live with grandparents in the Caribbean.
Of the latter group, I was sent from England at the tender age of three and a half. But my grandmother would reiterate that neither she nor my grandfather were my parents. Intermittently, she would show me a picture of my mother I thought was beautiful.
I was a picky eater and only liked sweet potatoes, green bananas, and dasheen. I loved the multitude of fruits, particularly sea grapes and guavas. Stripping the fibrous outer layer of sugar cane with my teeth, I chewed it to release its sweetness, sometimes long after it had petered out. I equally loved eating freshly roasted hot cashews and peanuts. I shunned them for years in the UK, being cold and salted.
Shortly after I arrived from the UK, I developed a skin rash, which, on occasion, developed into oozing sores. Visiting a series of doctors resulted in no diagnosis nor a cure. A succession of diets ensued, which entailed eliminating certain foods and, at one stage, necessitated eating nothing except spinach. When none of the diets proved successful, my grandmother continued her remedy. This consisted of a combination of ‘sea baths’ and ‘bush baths’ (cooled boiled medicinal plant leaves). Both soothed the oozing sores and offered temporary relief. The skin rash, though, instantly ceased when I returned to live in England at age eight.
The rash returned when I returned to see my grandparents at age twenty-one at temperatures of 34°C. It was to reappear at temperatures of 32°C, finally diagnosed as ‘Miliaria’ (prickly heat) at age 40. My grandmother’s diagnosis that I had ‘hot blood’ was correct. Sweating cools the body temperature, but if this does not occur efficiently or sufficiently, the result is prickly heat.
Nature was my toy and playground, and I would spend hours touching a plant called ‘sleepy head’, which would fold but straighten after a few minutes. I made my own tea set from white clay and made patterns in the dirt from the white underside of ferns. I would find a comfortable grassed area to gaze at the formation of cumulus clouds, identifying an array of pictures, human features, and silhouettes and creating imaginary stories about these scenes. Equally amazing was watching the approaching rain as it cascaded down the mountainside. As well as ‘starlight night’, the sky is awash with stars akin to daylight.
My favourite game was stoning mangoes. I recall my gym teacher in the UK extolling my good eye-hand coordination, which I attribute to my mango stoning.
Equally, I excelled at sports, and I attributed this to the amount of running I did, particularly chasing butterflies and the amount of walking I did. My grandparents walked everywhere: to church, to the shops, and to visit family and friends. My only recollection of getting on a bus carrying animals and people was going to the capital, Plymouth, to visit a doctor for my skin complaint or to the market to see my grandmother’s friend who sold the farms’ produce.
Allotted tasks were to collect mail from the post office, intrigued by everyone’s wish to get a registered letter, which was indicative of money from family abroad. Unlike airmail (blue adhesive enveloped letter) with no money, this would instantly stir tittering and gossip. Another task was the daily collection of eggs, which, on occasion, was tedious waiting for the hen to leave the coop. I learned from being pecked she was protective of her eggs.
I would occasionally take food, dasheen, bananas, sweet potatoes, or milk to an elderly neighbour, Miss Ceil, half a mile away. She would welcome me with a beaming smile into her home. I accepted once but declined further invites, finding the one-roomed house on stilts dark, eerie, dank, and musty. She often offered me the cashew fruit that grew in her yard. Up to today, the memory of this elderly neighbour never fails to serve as a reminder of gratitude and kindness.
Other childhood memories include the prepping of black pudding, witnessing the slaughter of the goat, catching the blood, watching my grandmother clean the intestines, and making the black pudding. Or watching with fascination, a recently beheaded chicken continued running for several minutes. Eating fresh honey from the honeycomb, I watched how my grandfather harvested it on one occasion. Oiled and trussed in ropes, suspended over a precipice, he gathered the honey from an overhanging ledge. I would also help my grandmother stir the pot of sugar cake and the anticipation of eating it.
Attending church on Sundays was a ritual. I only looked ahead to it for one reason: to wear the lovely clothes my mother sent from England. My dresses, shoes, and beloved umbrella for sunshade depicted the English seasons of summer, autumn, winter, and spring. But I became impatient at the slow pace my grandparents walked and the lengthy, tedious service. I eagerly awaited the recess when most people went outside. Equally to my grandmother’s treat, be it cake or sweets.
As well as memories of the cornucopia of greens and scenic landscape, living at the foothills of a mountain range, was the variable noises from cocks crowing, insect cries, chirping birds, barking dogs and croaking frogs. Today, I still associate the incessant croaking of frogs with imminent rain. Smells evoke memories; for me, it’s the smells of rotting mangoes and lilies. In particular, the lilies’ cloying scent was overpowering; my grandmother had to move them away from the house.
Those memories are unforgettable, to the point that when my husband and I decided to immigrate to Tobago, I wanted to enact some of those memories – in the main, buying land with a sea view and growing varied fruit trees.
I am grateful for my childhood Caribbean experience, knowing it was magical. I experienced the exuberance of childhood, the wonder of nature, learning and the explorative freedom to roam at will on my grandparents’ seven acres of land and village at large in innocence, which should be every child’s prerogative.
