My Weakness for Marilyn

At 14 years old I enjoyed my first taste of recognition as a writer - I won a prize in the annual Post Office Letter Writing Competition. 

The theme was: write a letter to someone you admire, so I wrote to Marilyn Monroe. 

She is mesmerisingly beautiful and a joy to behold, so it’s not immediately obvious why a lank-haired, flat-chested English teenager might feel moved to write to a bosomy blonde American sex goddess. Yet, the moment I saw her on screen and then found myself caught by those bewitching eyes staring down at me from the shelves of the Athena poster art store, I sensed a connection. 

Reading about her unsettled and deeply unhappy childhood and her estrangement from her mother, I discovered the common ground we shared, and what I (and countless others) had recognised in Marilyn’s eyes. To the teenaged me she was a beacon of hope - she had survived suffering and become a star!

Marilyn Monroe’s gift for connecting with people has transcended her death, not just through her stunning photographic portraits. Year after year, memoirs of her briefest affairs and friendships have ballooned into books and films to feed the public appetite for all things Marilyn.

A few weeks ago, decades after my teenage crush, a paperback of Lois Banner’s Marilyn: The Passion and the Paradox caught my attention, and once again I found myself bitten by the Marilyn bug. 

Banner, a scholar rather than a fan, pinpointed Marilyn’s mysterious and untimely death as a chief reason for her continued popularity. She argues that people are free to make of her story what they wish, depending on how they believe she died. And, had she survived, given the extraordinary decade of race and gender politics that unfolded following her demise, there are almost endless permutations of how she might have become.

But, for me, reading about Marilyn again was an uneasy trip back to my former self, as well as an examination of  where I am now. 

Banner’s scrupulous exploration of her highly nuanced character, the sheer drudgery and sexual exploitation that lay behind the glamour of Hollywood, her extraordinarily fast-paced, demanding life and the debilitating demons that dogged her to the last, all served to make me feel far more informed about Marilyn than ever before. But it was also difficult to distinguish where the research ended and my wisdom had grown. 

At 14 I eagerly read anything about her I could get my hands on. It was usually disappointing. Most books about her seemed to be by men who claimed to have slept with her. The experience of having sex with Monroe was not something that particularly interested me, and I was too young to appreciate the self-harm that her promiscuity signified. I was far more intrigued by the dichotomy that her meteoric success crowned by such tragedy represented. 

In fact, it went deeper than that. To some extent I wanted to be Marilyn. I didn’t see how just being me would get me anywhere. Being told on a daily basis I was a Plain Jane and I needed to ‘work on my personality’ proved that. 

But, if the physical transformation lay beyond the realms of possibility, playing the part wasn’t. I spent my Saturday afternoons listening endlessly to a cassette of Marilyn’s songs, learning every word of them down to the last boop boopy doop. Desperately hoping some of the magic would rub off. 

Marilyn’s magic is inimitable. Michelle Williams in My Week with Marilyn, came close to portraying it. But as I grew older I began to understand that I did have something that Marilyn had in spade loads  - and that was sex. 

It seemed like magic when, despite everything my mother had said, I realised that men found me attractive. And it easily became addictive as my shredded ego sucked up male attention like a drunk hoovering up dregs at the end of a party. 

But as intoxifying as it is, it also becomes its own trap. If your currency is sexual attraction, then age can only devalue your net worth. As your bum and your boobs shift southward and your complexion becomes less than pristine, you need to search your soul for something else to cherish. 

I wonder if she would have managed?

I no longer have a copy of my letter to Marilyn, but I think I probably asked her, why oh why, when you had everything that is supposed to make you happy in this world - beauty, success and fame - were you clearly not? Surely you are the proof of their fraud? 

Thirty years after writing that letter, I realise that she is also the proof of something else. To be absolutely yourself is by no means easy. It is a work in progress and the hardest thing you will ever do. To find yourself without being taken in and taken over by the fake promises of money and drugs and vanity is a momentous task. 

You might just die before you do it. 

How to be Friends with a Tory

Lib Dem Norman Baker. Sad to see him go. 

The result of the election in Britain which took place May 7th 2015 has been the most divisive of any election I’ve participated in. 

In the town of Lewes, the collective reaction to the Conservative victory has been amplified by the local results. For the past 18 years we’ve had the pleasure of a dogged and dynamic local MP in the shape of Liberal Democrat, Norman Baker. But on Friday we woke up to find we had lost him for good. For the first time since I moved to this town in 2001, we have a Conservative (Tory) MP, Maria Caulfield. 

Politics is one of those subjects which, like religion, is looked upon as something to avoid if you don’t wish to offend. But all such caution has been thrown to the wind around here. Everyone’s talking about politics, and every left-leaning citizen feels as if they are part of a  Tudor court conspiracy, where every neighbour they once trusted, every friend they’ve taken for granted, could be one of the secret Tory voters who have betrayed them. 

The truth as I understand it, from the remarks I’ve read and a perusal of Caulfield’s plan, is that it’s not the town voters who have suddenly turned blue (in fact there has been a swing to Green). It’s in the outlying areas such as Newhaven and Seaford where people perceive nurse and farmer’s daughter, Caulfield, as someone who is working in their interests for local hospitals and causes, as opposed to republican rebel Baker who they see as preoccupied with Lewes Town issues. 

The most notorious Lewesian backlash, so far, has been from a local plant-shop owner, Matt Woodruff, whose polite notice informing Tory-voting customers they will be charged a 10% tax on their purchases prompted photos of his message to go viral, and he was even featured in The Guardian.

For my own part, I was startled on Sunday morning when I saw the responses to my Saturday evening status update: “Heartened by the news of protests in London #Toriesoutnow”. Two friends had responded - both with the same argument - though one was clearly angrier than the other. That was the idea that by supporting the protesters in London, I might also condone the vandalism of the war memorial which took place during the demonstration. 

I do not condone vandalism. It’s ugly, it can be inconvenient and even dangerous. But as another friend of mine put it, “... people are very,very angry ...” about what a Conservative victory means to them - loss of benefits, loss of public services such as buses and hospitals, loss of facilities to care for disabled children and adults. 

It was vandalism of the memorial that gave the victors a stick to beat the protestors. Yet, I find it extraordinary that some people can take such high umbrage at graffiti on a piece of stone (which was cleaned up the next day) and yet care so little about the vandalism of our society at the hands of a self-serving government. 

Another point is, if defacing a memorial to the war-dead is so offensive, we have to remember for what reason these people died. Surely not to see their grandchildren queuing up at food banks? For their descendants to think twice about a visit to the dentist because of the expense, or to have to lie for hours on a trolley in a corridor because a hospital is overrun and understaffed?

I thanked my friends for their comments and my ensuing discussion with one of them. It’s instinctive to turn away from opposing opinions and judge our political opponents as much as we feel judged. It’s far more challenging to seek a common ground rather than draw conclusions about people’s values and insult and objectify them.  

I love and appreciate biting satire and heartfelt, articulate diatribes. I find some views of humanity distasteful and bizarre. Yet, if we insist on only being friends with likeminded people we only perpetrate the animosity of an ‘us and them’ mentality.  How are we ever to celebrate diversity if we continue to draw these lines? How are we to be prompted into examining our opinions and see if they are worth defending (and vice versa)? 

And, even if our political opponents are so dyed in the wool that they believe they are absolutely in the right, perhaps for one tiny moment, because you are friends and you like - or even love each other - they can see that even a leftist, would-be protester is a human being. Just like them.

A Bloody British Shame: Let’s See the End to Tampon Tax

Gender equality is often measured by opportunities - to be educated; to work ; to be paid the same money for the same work. Education and wage inequality get a lot of attention in the Western world where the school system seems to favour female learners, yet women often experience the very opposite out in the working world. 

However, societal attitudes to gender can be more subtle; more fundamental. When countries choose to tax menstruation, for example. 

Among those countries is Britain.  

A Value Added Tax of 5% is added to sanitary goods in Britain. True, it's certainly not the biggest menstruation tariff in Europe, and it was reduced from 17.5% in 2000. However, why do these essential items need to be taxed at all?

It's no secret that the British General Election 2015 is just around the corner, and politicians are thrashing it out on issues they hope will inspire us to vote for them.

And here's an issue that is important to me because it affects me, and millions of women. 

Oddly enough, if I want free condoms, I can get those from my doctor. If I want free contraceptive pills, I can get them from my doctor. Am I being too cynical to view these as things that are for the benefit of men, as much as me?

And, of course, how do homeless women cope?(Read this informative article to find out more, and how you can help).

Interestingly, similar items that may be used by both sexes, such as incontinence pads, are exempt. However, sanitary goods AND maternity pads are both subject to taxation. Fair? I think not. This, as campaigner Laura Coryton argues, reflects the attitude of an era when women used old rags to soak up their menstrual blood and then discretely burned them. Perhaps back then the concept of a disposable sanitary towel  - let alone a tampon - was seen as a luxury. 

But Mr Osbourne, this is the 21st century! Today's news is that the Labour Party candidate, Ed Miliband has declared any tax on sanitary products as "ridiculous". But his disappointing caveat is, "I can't promise I will go further because there are these rules in place..."

But I’m excited to see that an issue that has bugged me for a large proportion of my life is finally being addressed by Laura Coryton, a 21-year-old student who, along with her supporters, took a petition voicing their objections to the government. Only time will tell if the noisy protests against this blatantly sexist tax has fallen on deaf ears.

Perhaps they were too discrete and polite. Just as girls and women are supposed to be about this subject. Perhaps to really make an impact a crowd of women standing in blood-stained pants brandishing blood-stained bed sheets should turn up at 11 Downing Street and demand to know why sanitary goods aren’t available free, let alone why women are taxed on these essential items.

Meanwhile, to check my facts, I find the www.gov.uk website on taxable goods makes for interesting reading. 

Children’s car seats and booster seats (a legal safety requirement) are also taxable to the tune of 5%, but …

Physical education and sports activities: exempt.

Betting and gaming, lottery games, bingo: exempt.

Cess pools and septic tanks: exempt. 

But this has to be among my favourites:

Helicopters - for sale or charter: exempt. 

At the bottom the page, I’m asked, ‘Is there anything wrong with this page?’

Well, no. I suppose not, if it all this data is entirely accurate. However, there is something wrong with this tax system. Because while children may be entitled to tax-free clothes and shoes, tax-free reading material and a tax-free education, as soon as a female begins her periods she is taxed for the necessity of her basic hygiene and comfort requirements. 

That’s just wrong. Period. 

Knowing the Drill: Why I Hate Going to the Dentist

Aaah! The relief. Half an hour of mild discomfort and two weeks of pain is gone. 

I love modern dentistry. At least, I should.

It still took me over a week after cracking my tooth to pluck up the courage to book an appointment. 

I hesitate to say I’m actually dental phobic, because I think there’s a rational explanation behind my anxiety.

I recall the utter disbelief I felt when an Australian work colleague mentioned  - not boasted - just happened to drop into the conversation -  that she didn’t have any fillings.

Yeah, right, I smiled knowingly. 

But she didn’t. Not a single solitary one.

We were the same age. She was not on a sugar free diet. How could this be?

It took me a while to figure it out. Years, actually. Probably not until I had my own child and took her to the dentist. And heard gentle, coaxing phrases like, “We don’t want to scare her, so we aren’t going to drill out that cavity. It’ll fall out soon enough.”

Then the penny dropped. I’d had the dentist from hell.

There was some pretty stiff competition in the 70s. I think most British friends in my age group suffered filling after filling after filling. The dentists drilled like children’s teeth were hiding some secret golden elixir that only two fillings a visit would procure. 

The first time I experienced a pain-free drilling was as an adult. So didn’t novocaine work so well in the 70s? Or was it that they didn’t want to use too much? Perhaps the terrifying haitus that anticipated the nerve-shattering agony of drill-hitting-nerve was thought to be character-building. 

But on top of all these generic dental delights, there was my dentist. A practitioner of such supreme awfulness, I think he modelled himself on Orin Scrivello in Little Shop of Horrors.  

You tend to take things for granted when you’re a kid: the huge dog, the blood on the apron, your mother laughing at the skid marks the dentist had on his overall when he pulled it out from the back of his trousers - yes, you read it right -  there was an actual dog in the room where I got my teeth filled. Hell, I didn’t care! Who wouldn’t want a distraction like that while having their teeth drilled?

Clearly hygiene was not a big issue (which is the only reason I haven’t mentioned the Nazi dentist of Marathon Man yet. He was cruel, but he was clean) and neither were the finer points of administering anaesthetics. 

For the kind of major tooth-yanking that a pair of pliers down the fairground couldn’t manage, it was gas, back then. Rubber mask over the face, psychedelic designs heralding your imminent unconsciousness and the vomiting of blood and bile that meant you were waking up again. 

That’s if you did. 

Because not one, but two people died in that grubby black chair where I’d had my teeth pulled and drilled, due to the inexpert administration of anaesthetics. 

Interesting that it took two lives to get him finally struck off. Even more interesting for me that my mother was disappointed not to be able to take her child there any longer. 

Poldark: More than Just a Pretty Face

OK. I admit it it. It’s all too easy to be distracted by the Grecian form of Aidan Turner; the brooding angst of his knitted brow and perfect cheekbones. But in all truth - Poldark is immensely popular - is that really the only reason why?

 I remember the original BBC Poldark with Robin Ellis and Angharad Rees. Yes, I was knee-high to a grasshopper, but that just goes to show what a whopping impact this TV drama had. Attracting 14 million viewers and supposedly charming entire church congregations away from evening worship, it was a sweeping romantic epic during one of the most austere periods of British postwar history.

Let’s put it into perspective. 

Between 1950 and 1975-1977,  when Poldark was broadcast, hundreds of coal mines in the North East and the West Midlands had closed due to declining production. We had a national shortage of coal compounded by the 1973 oil crisis which drove prices - and inflation - sky high. The shortage was so critical that the government opted for a three-day-week to ration the commercial use of electricity. 

One of the most vivid memories for those of us who were kids in the 70s is the power cuts. Yet, though the cosy intimacy of those candlelit evenings huddled around paraffin heaters sipping Bovril might stoke a rosy glow of nostalgia for the kids of that time, our dads were nervously working to rule in the shadow of the unions and mums were struggling to prepare hot meals after queuing for hours to get basic provisions.

Could it be that the abandoned tin mines of Poldark’s Cornwall struck with its audience as familiar? And how many viewers identified with those country folk huddled around frugal candlelit meals when, in those unreliable times foreshadowing the Winter of Discontent, they might any day expect to do the very same thing. 

Almost exactly two centuries before, in 1773, the Boston Tea Party tipped British imperialism into a dispute that erupted into the American Revolution. 

Why do I mention this? 

Because this is the struggle from which Captain Ross Poldark returns, to find his father dead, his heritage in jeopardy, his beloved in another’s arms. But no less significantly, in the latest BBC adaptation, Poldark returns no longer loyal to his nation’s agenda. He casts bitter aspersions on the rationale of war, and his sentiments echo Thomas Paine’s Common Sense: the cause of America is …the cause of all mankind.  He is a moral man at odds with the amoral climate that confronts him,  personified by scheming financiers who pick profit over people. 

As a war ‘hero’ he stands as part of the powers that be, but by disputing the legitimacy of this label, he puts himself at odds with the establishment and its forces, consequently garnering suspicion, contempt and violence.

As John Buell writes in his essay ‘Politics of Heroism’, if anyone today questions the heroism of soldiers, they are treated to a barrage of abuse and disdain, “Typical of right wing efforts to use such controversies as an opportunity to question the patriotism and morality of those who oppose [the occupation of Afghanistan and Iraq]”. 

Centuries on, governments continue our involvement in wars we do not understand or agree with. And the rich and powerful are still squeezing those with the least to give. 

I believe Poldark may serve, yet again, to remind us of the economic subsidence created by our nation’s evolution from one of industry and manufacture to one of services and finance. Rents and house prices in the South East continue to rise at a mind-boggling rate. Banks, hedge-fund managers and private investors are the movers and shakers. Our pyramid of needs is peaked with tax-avoidance schemes and squats on a base of the food-bank fed. 

So, how we crave a hero like Ross Poldark! A man who gets his own hands dirty, who eschews bribes and money-lending sharks for real industry, a man who takes responsibility for his employees, and takes in those in need - not as charity, but as an opportunity to work for a living and gain independence. 

The Telegraph good-humouredly describes the new series as ‘glossy but empty headed’.  To be sure, I’m not suggesting that at face value it’s any more nuanced and many-layered than the contents of The Great British Bake-Off. However, it’s a mistake to dismiss anything as popular as this without looking more closely. 

The press may choose to joke over the catatonic wonderment brought about by Mr Turner’s stunning physique, but just what is it that lodges Ross Poldark so firmly into the public’s affections?  Is it merely his perfect pecs, or is it that deep down we recognise a hero who could save us from those who would beat us and cheat us? 

Hometown Blues

Can you honestly say you love your hometown? The one where you were born? Do you? And do you still live there? 

I rarely meet people in this country who can answer yes to any, let alone all, of those questions. Even here in Lewes, where the Bonfire Societies represent the most loyal local protectionists you are ever like to meet, the natives I encounter generally have an ambiguous relationship with their hometown, albeit because of the influx of DFL (Down From London) interlopers and a growing uneasiness at the incoming tide of gentrification and lack of ‘proper shops’. 

I, too, am an interloper here, having migrated from the Midlands. And, thanks, in part -  I believe - to the diversity of regional accents in the media these days, I no longer have to brace myself for a tirade of derision when I reveal this information. 

That wasn’t always the case. 

The first thing I learned at university was that the Brummie (Birmingham) accent - my accent - was to be ridiculed and derided at every opportunity. During this era of Liverpool super-soap Brookside and the ‘Madchester’ music scene, the Northerners received a free pass on accent bullying, and it was left to us Midlanders to accept that not only did our accent make us sound like lobotomised chimps (one would gather from the obligatory effort at imitating Black Country/Brummie which was deemed an appropriate conversation gambit), but our cities (Birmingham, Wolverhampton, Coventry etc.) were the crappest in the country, lacking culture, and beauty (in fact, anything of interest) and were an abomination to the very concept of architecture and civil engineering. 

Naturally, that’s not quite the memory I have. And despite Birmingham’s magnificent recent renaissance with its blitz on the Bullring, a sexy Selfridges and the awesome Central Library building, I miss its dirty-ugly past, its grunginess, the stained concrete and tatty edges. I remember with fondness the rotting veg stink of the Bullring as I flitted from pub to pub, the massive unapologetic slabs of 60s neo-brutalism which housed bars and night clubs rammed with rockabillies, goths, Chicago house DJs or be-fringed, cardigan-swinging indie chicks.  That’s the Midlands I remember - rich with history, art, music and street fashion. 

Its history is part of my family’s story. Escaping the collapse of Northampton’s rural economy, its steam-belching railway and booming factories provided desperately needed jobs. The magnificently dark, dirty, industrial landscape of this era provides the backdrop for the BBC’s hit drama Peaky Blinders. Never have the grimy back-to-backs of Small Heath been so touched with glamour, the deafening foundries of Deritend so dramatic…

But just hold on there a moment.

I’m guessing that from what I’ve written so far, you might imagine that I hold my hometown dear. Trouble is, I didn’t actually live in Birmingham. I lived and was born in Sutton Coldfield, a half-hour bus ride away. So, the question is, do I feel the same affection and nostalgia for Sutton Coldfield? 

Absolutely not. 

I’ve attempted to rein in the contempt that has taken hold from the time of my teens. Surely, every place has a history, a personality, it’s not merely a bland suburban repository for football players and bigots obsessed with lawns, cars and property prices. Oh come, friendly bombs, fall on Sutton …No, Val, that’s not fair. 

But in even in Bradshaw’s travel guide of 1863, it’s described as “a place of no very particular note, beyond an occaisional pic-nic [sic] excursion”. 

My memories,  from over a century later, struggle to pick out anything of ‘particular note’ and certainly no picnics. However, I can pinpoint my dislike of suburban estates from this time. As a child in the relatively car-free 70s, the quiet, tree-lined streets provided the perfect arena for ambitious bike stunts, sledging and unsupervised excursions to friends’ houses. But, as I grew older, I would experience a post-apocalyptic horror at walking through deserted suburban streets (particularly around 2pm during the week) with their complete dearth of activity, blank windows and trimmed hedges concealing any signs of life. 

I tried to make a go of it socially, but my over-riding memory of a Sutton Coldfield night club is, “If this is what all nightlife is like, I will become a hermit; if this is what all men are like, I think I must be gay.” I was very glad to have Birmingham prove me wrong on both counts. 

I think you can gather why I don’t live in Sutton Coldfield anymore, but why not Birmingham?

Like most people, it’s a mixture of luck and choice, jobs and relationships. And like many people in my age group, I’ve grown out of city life. Brighton’s there if I want it, but it’s nice to leave it behind (and not for suburbia).

It’s true that I travel through places and I wonder why anyone would willingly live there (I am not naming names), but it’s not for me to question their choices. And so many people have no choice, such as those who face being shipped off to some random place because the land they currently occupy is too valuable an opportunity for development. 

I’m lucky enough to have a choice where I live, even if that choice is tempered by my family’s needs and wants. But, ultimately, I’ve changed, and so has Birmingham. I feel a loyalty to it because it was my stomping ground during a significant part of my life, and I had a brilliant time. 

It pisses me off when people mock the Midlands. Usually they have never even been there. Sarcasm may be labelled the lowest form of wit, but in fact laughing at places you’ve never been, and regional accents that are different to your own is scraping the barrel of humour. But, if that makes you feel better about where you live …laugh on. 

Afro-Jam and Jerusalem: How The Proof of the Patois is in the Re-writing

I faced something of a dilemma writing my latest novel set in the Caribbean. I realised as my black and mixed-race Jamaican characters began to spring to life that, to be authentic, they needed their own voices.  As a white British woman, did I have the skill, let alone the temerity, to create patois dialogue? 

I was determined to try. I pored determinedly over L.Emilie Adams’s Understanding Jamaican Patois and by extracting suitable phrases and following the grammar the best I could, I felt much closer to making the Jamaican dialogue real. Nevertheless, as a language teacher myself, I know the myriad pitfalls of such an approach, and I cringed at the prospect of anyone from the Caribbean actually reading my words. 

But fate stepped in by dropping an actual Jamaican into my life. I braced myself, first to plead for his help and then, when he agreed, to hope he would be merciful to someone who had possibly not only butchered his language, but also his national heritage. In my white, well-meaning, liberal-minded way I knew I risked at the very least, being patronising, at the worst clumsy cultural appropriation.

It’s a tricky line to tread. As Joanne Harris recently tweeted: “Diversity is not achieved by one author writing diverse characters. It’s by encouraging a greater number of different voices…” I agree. But I was writing about a diverse cast, because, despite what you might glean from watching Pirates of the Caribbean, Port Royal was not merely populated by gritty (white) commanders and fey (white) governors and their feisty (white)daughters, by the 18th century, according to a contemporary report: ‘sailors and negroes [were] on the most amicable terms’ enjoying ‘ mutual confidence and familiarity’.

And Port Royal was not the only place where an embryo of racial integration had begun to take root. Take France, whose colony Saint Domingue was a hot bed of slave insurrection. The Code Noire may have formalised the right of white French to exploit Africans, but no rule could ever surmount the human desires and emotions that resulted in many a dual heritage baby making their mark in privileged white society. Among them, Marquis Alexandre Davy de la Pailleterie and a freed slave, Marie-Cesette Dumas, whose grandson, Alexandre Dumas went on to write The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers. 

And, while the BBC’s current lavish production of Musketeers might well overflow with heaving bosoms, swaggering leather-clad hotties and feature a Comte de Rochefort  villain cheesy enough to live up to his name, it has to be said, here is a popular historical drama whose cast includes a number of non-white characters. Including, Porthos, one of the eponymous heroes, played by Howard Charles. 

As Stuart Jeffries argues in his Guardian article , “it's worth casting a mixed-race actor as Porthos – to shake some Europeans out of their racist delusions.” Delusions that despite the imperial impositions made on so many races and cultures, European history can only be a sea of white faces and white achievements.  

But back to me, cringing in a cafe, as I attempted to read aloud my Jamaican characters’ dialogue to Duran Mitto-Duckett, a Jamaican academic and language teacher. Luckily, he has a very good sense of humour and much patience. He whittled down my awkward phrases and streamlined my odd sentences and ta-dah! My characters came alive!

We also Frenchified the words of the Saint Dominguan (Haitian) characters. Because, as much as I troubled over neglecting their French patois, I write in English. Patois based on your own language is challenging enough, but another language entirely? Apologies to the Haitians, for that omission. 

I now confidently introduce the Cole family: Pansy, Hepzibah, Isaac, Lorcan and Thomas; mada-woman, Folami, and long-suffering housemaid, Mitzy. You’ll find them in Kin’s Destiny, if you care to buy it. But here’s a little flavour of the Jamaican spice.

1674 Near Spanish Town, Jamaica

“You fool fool gyaal. You jus’ a come? Trouble tek you and dis pikney shirt fit you?” The mada-woman chided tearful Hepzibah who had waddled into the darkened room gasping for breath, her skin glowing with fevered perspiration. It was not merely her advanced pregnancy which took her breath away. She was terrified at what she had done; at what she had neglected to do. 

“But Madame, me sorry! You mussa help de baby dem,” she pleaded. “Is not dem fault dey muma ears-hard!”

Folami steered Hepzy over to a chair, then pulled up a low stool beside the panting girl, her almost-black eyes huge in her tiny, bony face. “Di bad spirit land where di obeah-man set di duppy,” she said, reminding Hepzy of the malevolent force the obeah man claimed lay behind the pregnancy. 

“Some wicked powerful duppy a stir up trouble in a you life. When di obeah-man say di duppy come make baby wid you, me did tell you no fi bother di obeah-man, but you never listen and gaan affa di obeah-man fi get you revenge!” Her advice to Hepzy had been to appease the spirits, not seek vengeance. But the obeah man had a different view. He had everything to gain from vengeance and spite.

All such things, whether for good or ill, were practised in secrecy.  There were planters who dismissed ‘Guinea ways’ as harmless play by ignorant heathens, but others were not so tolerant. To them, any god that wasn’t their god was the devil…

Hepzibah began to weep noisily, her eyes fixed desperately upon the mada-woman, her sobs growing more uncontrolled and hiccupping. Folami placed her hands on her narrow hips. 

“You muma never tell you say you must’n cratch up yourself when you full of fassy!” she continued, her tone softening. “Dem ago get bigger and full o’ pus, nex’ thing you ketch a fever – you might even dead? Just can’t lef di likkle scratch?”

Hepzibah’s chin shook as she managed a nod. Of course she knew not to fuss with a scratch or a scab, how it could become infected enough to kill if you did – but that such a thing also applied to bad spirits, she hadn’t understood – she hadn’t wanted to.