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  Coffee, Cream and Curry

  The hawk stood there, silent, watching her. A snake coiled in her stomach.

  Then Mr. Henley’s mood changed. A smile crept across his lips and he spoke gently. “I know what the problem is. You’re nervous. Don’t worry about it, Beth. Nobody has to know. Let’s just have our own little fun.”

  He cocked his head to one side as he watched her. The snake wound itself tighter. “You make me feel good and I make you feel good. You know I have money, and that’s all you need, isn’t it?” The voice was sickly sweet syrup – taunting, repulsing. “You could get anything you want. I’d make sure of it. Just share some pleasure with me and we’ll both be happy. So, what about it?”

  As he spoke he moved closer…and closer still. The snake coiled tight, tight in her belly, twisting her insides. The man lifted his hand to touch her and she spun around, teeth bared, the knife pointing straight at his chest.

  “If you touch me I sink dis knife right in you belly.” She spoke through clenched teeth, fighting to keep the snake inside. Her chest heaved with the rising urge to strike. “I prepare fi go to prison before I let you put your nasty han’ on me.”

  Copyright © 2011 Judy Powell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise (mechanical, photocopying, recording or stored in a retrieval system) without the prior written consent of the Publisher. Such action is an infringement of the copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  www.judypowell.com

  [email protected]

  Praise for Judy Powell’s novels

  Hot Summer

  ...steamy sexual tension and strong willed, intriguing characters; this incredibly engrossing novel is sure to keep the reader's attention.

  THE WEEKLY STAR, NA EDITION

  Some Like It Hot

  The tropical setting, the steamy love scenes, the conflict between the characters, the dynamics of family and culture - everything came together to create a page turning story that left me wanting more even when it was done.

  AMAZON REVIEW

  Hot Chocolat

  Jealousy, passion and a whole lot of misunderstanding make for a drama that's hard to put down.

  CANADA EXTRA

  Dedicated to the memory of my dear mother and friend, Evelyn May Powell.

  Her love of the English Language fostered the same in me. I will always be grateful for her example, her love and her guidance.

  Mama, this book is for you.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  Byron “Bobby” Treasure, it all began with this story, and it all began with you. I will always be grateful to you for giving me the ‘kick in the seat of the pants’ that I needed to get my writing career going.

  Thank you for believing in me and for giving me the confidence to get my work out and into the hands of readers around the world.

  Coffee, Cream and Curry

  Judy Powell

  PROLOGUE

  At the time of her birth the island had been gentle and kind, populated by a nation of peace-loving people who knew little of wars and violence. They were simple fisher-folk who spent their days raising gentle-spirited children with flattened foreheads. Every day the small-bodied men would take their narrow canoes out to sea while the boys snared wild birds and the women cleared the land and planted sweet potatoes and maize. In the evenings they would gather together to eat roasted fish and cassava cakes. The women were well-practiced in the proper preparation of their staple food, cassava, which was poisonous in its natural state and required great care before the flour into which it was pounded could be formed into flat cakes and baked. They were experts in communal living. Everyone shared in the work to provide for the tribes’ needs and at the end of the day they retired to large thatch houses, each of which was shared by several families. Under the leadership of the Cacique the people fished and farmed by day, and relaxed and smoked tobacco by night.

  Although the island had been home to these Arawak Indians for centuries, imperial documents would state that the official year of her birth was 1494, the year Christopher Columbus landed on her northern shores. He had been told that she was rich in gold but her riches lay in her lush, green beauty and her peaceful nature. In the east the invaders found rolling green hills and a mountain reaching into the clouds. In the west were open plains bordered by white sand and a translucent blue sea. The visitors were unimpressed by the island’s serenity and beauty. Instead of embracing her children they raped and tortured them, infected them with diseases, and attacked them with dogs – for sport.

  Within eighty years of the Spaniards’ discovery of Xaymaca all her gentle inhabitants were dead. The brown-skinned Arawaks made way for white Spaniards and black Africans. The black slaves were rebellious. Some ran off and sought refuge in the island’s bosom where they established their own settlements – the Spanish called them Maroons. By 1655 the poorly protected island was captured by the British and became a jewel in the English crown. More slaves were brought in from Africa, sugar plantations flourished, and tobacco and rum were in good supply. The island’s nature changed over the years from peaceful, to violent, to wicked. She became the harlot of the Caribbean. With the British came the buccaneers who settled in the small sea town of Port Royal. They drank rum, ate smoked wild pig, and pirated Spanish ships. Within a decade and a half of the arrival of the British, Port Royal was known as the wealthiest and wickedest city in the world. Henry Morgan, the greatest pirate and buccaneer captain, was appointed Lieutenant Governor of the island in 1673. Port Royal’s wickedness was finally swallowed up by the sea when most of the town was destroyed by earthquake in 1692.

  Despite several slave rebellions the number of sugar plantations grew so that by 1739 the island housed almost four hundred and thirty of them. By 1807 when the trading of African slaves was abolished the island was teeming with black people. The slaves were emancipated in 1834 but continued to serve their masters under an apprenticeship system for four more years until slavery was finally abolished in 1838. For the next one hundred years the black people toiled on the land, surviving for the most part as small farmers. They were joined by the brown ones from India who came in from 1845 – 1917 as indentured labourers, then by the pale-skinned ones from China and Syria who came in as traders and merchants.

  Now over five centuries old, the island has seen peace and violence, bondage and freedom, struggle and triumph. She has been mother to the children of the world; their customs and creeds have blended to form a rich mélange of culture, music and cuisine.

  This island, so rich in physical beauty, so complex in personality, is no child but a woman who smiles at the world through eyes misted with tears, seducing onlookers with promises of pleasure, paradise, no problem – hiding her diamond heart, so hardened by the tears of her offspring. This is Jamaica’s story.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1814

  The boys’ shouts rang out as they kicked the grapefruit around the dusty clearing. Chickens dashed away trying desperately to avoid the flying legs but they were oblivious, shouting at the top of their lungs, totally immersed in the game. The sun beat down on their bare backs, black and glistening with sweat, but the scorching tropical heat seemed only to feed more energy to their active bodies.

  Suddenly, the smallest of the group snatched the grapefruit and, with the lithe agility of a tiger, spun around with it on his toe and drove towards the makeshift goal. With a snap of his foot he sent it flying between the palm leaves.

  The w
hoops and cheers from his team deafened the shouts of the white-haired woman who was just exiting a nearby shack. She leaned heavily on a wooden walking stick and with each step she took her ponderous body shook. Her massive skirts swayed in the dust and she almost seemed in danger of tripping over them. By the time she got close enough for them to notice her the boys had their teammate high on their shoulders, laughing and shouting, enjoying the moment of celebration.

  “Oonu be quiet now! Me tell you already.” The woman’s voice was much stronger, firmer than her stooped body bespoke. Hands on her hips, she scolded, “You know today be the Lord’s day! I doan’ waan hear no more noise out here, you hear me?”

  A stocky boy turned to her and said, “Aw, Mammy, de game soon done. We soon come”.

  The old woman glared at him then turned, grumbling, and shuffled back into the hut.

  Joseph sat silently in the shadows of the thick bushes, chewing on a stalk of sugar cane. As the sweet nectar ran down his chin he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He had been watching the boys for close to an hour, almost as captivated by the game as they were. He had been rooting for the underdogs and when that team scored the only goal the taste of victory was just as sweet on his tongue. A slight smile softened his thin lips as he lay back into the soft bed of ferns and looked up at the patches of blue sky through the lush, green foliage, enjoying the cool breeze on his face.

  When he heard the boys heading back to the barracks he sat up again and watched his team, still laughing and hugging one another, while the losers brought up the rear, mumbling amongst themselves. This was the norm. Joseph knew that the boys would regroup next Sunday and there would be another game, another challenge, another chance for victory.

  He had seen it often enough. He had been coming here for the past four weeks, watching the boys from the bushes, sharing their game from a distance. His Sunday afternoons had gone by slowly, drearily, until that afternoon when he had dared to go down to the slave village. He had set off for the rows of huts, partly out of curiosity but mostly out of sheer boredom.

  It was hard being a lone white boy on a West Indian plantation. Outside of his parents his only companion was a sister who, as far as he could see, thought him nothing but a pest and therefore had little use for him. Of course, there were other white people on the plantation, but it would never do to get too friendly with the employees. He knew that would be his father’s position on the matter so he never even bothered to try. Furthermore, the white plantation staff – an overseer, two foremen, a bookkeeper and a carpenter – were all far more advanced in years than he so he doubted that he would have much in common with any of them.

  Hence, he set off for the nethermost end of the plantation, not in search of the companionship he lacked, but in a desperate attempt to break the monotony of his existence. He felt that if he had to open another of the works of Dickens, or the goodly Bible which his father never ceased to press upon him, he would go mad.

  That first Sunday he had pretended exceeding interest in a history text and had retired to his room only to slip out once the rest of the family was otherwise occupied, and made his way stealthily through the trees to the Negro compound. He felt that here, at least, there would be some sort of life and, more importantly, boys his own age. His pleasure was great when he arrived to find the group hard at play. He remained in the shelter of the heavy foliage at the edge of the clearing, breathing in the strong green scents and drinking in the lively scene. The envy he felt surprised him.

  Ever since then this had been his weekly entertainment. He looked forward to it but knew that he had to be very careful. His father must never find out that he spent his Sunday afternoons watching slave boys at play. At sixteen he was expected to become serious about his school work. He was to be heir to this great plantation and needed to spend more time with his books, his father told him repeatedly. As the boys walked away Joseph rose and stretched his lanky body then turned in the direction of the plantation house. It was almost time for dinner and he was tired of being scolded for lateness.

  Seven minutes later he was sitting at the mahogany dining table, picking at the chicken on his plate. The table was laden with bowls full of food – steaming green pepper pot soup, rice and red beans, boiled yellow yams, stewed carrots and fried plantains. The spicy aroma from the tray of fried chicken filled his nostrils.

  Normally he would have wolfed down the mouth-watering fare but today he found himself strangely without appetite, not able to shake his low spirits. He wondered how long it would last. Back in England his spells of depression took days to dissipate but the vivid green of the Jamaican landscape, the cloudless blue of the sky and the brilliance of the sun usually had him back to his normal self in quick time. Somehow, today was different.

  “Joseph! Are you listening?” Rachel Gordon’s nasal voice brought him back sharply to the present. Her thin lips were pursed in annoyance.

  “Yes… yes, Mother.” He pushed his spectacles higher up his nose and blinked, turning his full attention to the thin woman who sat frowning at him. Her brown hair, with its strands of grey, was pulled to the back of her head in a severe bun which made her narrow face seem even bonier. Her long nose added to the skeletal image. The only pretty part of her face was the eyes, light brown and fringed with thick, black lashes.

  Joseph had always been told that he resembled his mother. He had inherited her narrow face and brown eyes. He was grateful that she had not passed on her nose to him. He knew that his father had not married his mother for her looks, or even out of love – he had overheard his Aunt Millie discussing it with her husband when they had visited four years ago. It was Rachel’s inheritance of a prosperous plantation in the West Indies that had allowed her to pick from multiple suitors. She had chosen Adam Gordon, they said, because he was the handsomest of the lot.

  “You have totally ignored me for the last few minutes,” his mother complained. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “He’s been daydreaming again,” Katherine broke in. “He always has his head in the clouds. That’s why he almost got kicked out of school last term.”

  Joseph glared at his sister but said nothing. Katherine was in one of her troublesome moods and he knew better than to engage her in a quarrel. Furthermore, she was a master of words. He did not stand a chance against her. Besides, this was a subject he had no desire to discuss in any detail with his parents.

  “What is this about?” Adam Gordon was frowning at him.

  Before he could reply Katherine blurted out, “He got into a fight, father.”

  “Joseph, that is not like you.” The bearded man stared across the table at him. “Explain yourself, my good man.”

  Joseph’s heart sank. His father was never so formal as when he was angry. Lately his falls from grace had been frequent even though he tried his utmost to remain in the favour of the man he admired so much. After his sixteenth birthday his father began to demand much more from him. He chided him often for not being more serious about life, for not getting more involved in the affairs of the plantation, for not being more mature. Now he would have to defend another demonstration of his immaturity.

  Joseph looked down at his plate and spoke in a low voice. “I didn’t want to fight. They were picking on me.”

  “I heard it was because he was defending the nigger slaves,” Katherine smirked then yelped as he gave her a sharp kick.

  Joseph’s face felt warm and he knew that his pale skin was flushed. “Will you be quiet?” he muttered as Katherine rubbed her leg, scowling.

  “Joseph, we have gone through this before.” Adam Gordon’s voice was stern. “There is no need for you to always jump to the defence of the slaves. I have already explained to you how things work in this world.”

  “But I was not talking about slaves, father. The argument was about a free black man.”

  “What are you talking about, boy?”

  “It’s just that…well, the other boys were saying that even though
he was not a slave he shouldn’t be allowed to vote like a white man can.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said…” Joseph sucked in his breath, then continued in a rush, “I said that he was a free man so he had every right to vote if he wanted to.” He stared at his father’s stern face and set his mouth in a defiant line.

  “Be very careful about what you are out there defending. All this is yours,” Adam waved his fork in the direction of the open window, “so don’t be stupid and say anything to jeopardize that.”

  “But I was talking about a free man!”

  “Joseph, this discussion is closed. We have enough trouble with those bloody missionaries sticking their noses into the plantation business. If it were up to them we would have an island full of Blacks running around free, tearing up the place. Put us out of business, that’s what the damned lot of them are trying to do. Well, it won’t happen, not in this lifetime.” He paused for breath then glared at Joseph. “Don’t let me get any more news that you are defending Negroes. Do you understand me, sir?”

  Joseph knew when to yield. “Yes, sir,” he sighed.

  He knew that there was more to his father’s anger than was being expressed. The planters in Jamaica had been complaining for years about the steady increase in the price of slaves. Ever since the bill was signed in 1807 for the abolition of the African Slave Trade the value of slaves had increased and the missionaries, particularly the Quakers, were the targets of blame and abuse. It seemed that all the problems on the plantation were being blamed on them – if the slaves were slow to the task, if they asked for time to mourn their dead, if they had any association with the free Blacks, the missionaries were blamed.