that . . .’ But feeling him staring upon her intently, listening to her fool-fool reverie, July suddenly forgot all she was thinking and stopped. She held out the plate for him to take it back.
‘Keep it,’ he said.
July, sure she had not heard correctly, held the plate a little closer to him. But he shook his head. ‘Take the plate, if you like it. Keep it as payment for saving my life.’
Never before had July been given something so precious by a white man. It was now her turn for words to leave her. But then when he asked, ‘Tell me something, what is your name? Your mistress calls you Marguerite, but Elias called you . . .’ July interrupted to say clearly, ‘Miss July.’
‘Miss July? Then why does your mistress call you Marguerite?’
‘Her t’ink that pretty name to call a slave. Now her can say no other.’
‘Well,’ the overseer said, ‘May I call you Miss July?’
‘Surely, massa, for that be me true name.’
‘Then, Miss July, what is your message?’
July had almost forgotten the reason why she was standing before this man. ‘Oh yes,’ she began, ‘Me missus wan’ you come to dinner, for her has beef that must be eat up.’
‘Beef! I haven’t had beef in a while. Beef. Now that leaves me with a dilemma.’ Suddenly this man leaned back upon his chair to call out over his shoulder, ‘Joseph, what is it you are preparing for my dinner tonight?’
There came a little giggle from the kitchen before his man-servant yelled, ‘Godammies, massa.’
‘What on earth did he say?’ the overseer asked July.
‘Him say, godammies.’
‘And what is that?’
‘That be fish, massa.’
‘Fish! Oh, fish again. I think beef sounds much better—do not you think, Miss July? Please tell your mistress that I gratefully accept her invitation. I would like very much to eat beef . . . in her company, of course.’
And, as a broad smile lit upon his face, July realised then that, for once, her missus was right—he surely did have the bluest eyes.
CHAPTER 22
AT THE EDGE OF the town, upon a quiet street that is arid and dusty as a flour barrel, walks our July. Her task within the town upon this hot-hot and parched day is the purchase of some bright-yellow kid gloves for her missus—‘With a Bolton thumb, Marguerite, if they can be found.’ For now Caroline Mortimer has often to entertain a guest at her table, all her many pairs of gloves are just too mucky to wear.
Walking along the street, July passes a group of negro men wilting within the shade of a veranda and smoking upon pipes. One drowsily calls her name. And she, straining to recognise the caller under the shadow of the eaves, soon raises her hand to wave; it is Ebo Cornwall, that rascal African who often supplies her candles and earthenware. A ragged old negro woman fussing with a weary donkey that refuses to move, sits down upon the road fanning herself with a banana leaf before turning to stare with hungry eyes upon July. Two pigs start a little squabble at the corner that disturbs the crows into squawking and flapping upon the roofs above her. A dog raises itself in anticipation of a chasing but then, upon a second thought, merely stretches its legs in turn before curling back to sleep. A young negro man sitting at an open window wipes a wet cloth around his neck as he calls out, ‘Hey, miss, miss, pretty miss,’ but July certainly does not notice him. For a cart being pushed recklessly by a running boy passes her and its wobbling wheels churn up the dust to such a fog that it catches at her throat.
As July wiped the stinging grit from her eyes that day, there came from out of the dirty haze a startling apparition. From the other end of the street appeared a tall woman. A tall, graceful woman. A tall, graceful, coloured woman dressed entirely in white. She walked . . . no . . . she glided—for no heel nor toe of this golden beauty did seem to touch the solid earth—towards July. Atop her head she wore a white turban adorned with a long feather that pointed so high-high it did tickle the chin of God. The sleeves upon her muslin dress billowed like soft sunny day clouds. The cloth of the lavish skirt gushed from the band at her tiny waist to cascade like foaming water to the ground. And the