Free The Pink House at Appleton by Jonathan Braham Page B

minute.
    â€˜If him not careful him will end up at Black River,’ Melvyna warned.
    â€˜But this is the Black River,’ Yvonne told her, pointing into the dark, swiftly moving water and glancing at Poppy with some concern. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Boyd seemed hypnotised by the silent power of the water. None of them could swim and she didn’t think Poppy could either. He was just a small dog. Maybe when he was a grown-up dog he would learn to swim.
    â€˜Black River is a town where the river go,’ Melvyna told them. ‘They sell ice cream in little white boxes from a white van in the street down there. And you eat the ice cream with wooden spoons.’
    â€˜Wooden spoons!’ Yvonne was disgusted.
    â€˜Let your Papa drive you down there and you will see.’
    â€˜Ice cream spoons,’ Barrington informed them authorita-tively. He had been to the estate manager’s garden party for big children. At that party, Geraldine Pinnock, in her white silk dress, dark plaited hair and black patent leather shoes with the button at the side, had played the piano. Everybody had eaten ice cream, not with boring old silver spoons but with cute little wooden spoons like they used in America. It was the latest thing. They even had Coca-Cola, that new dark drink in the curvy bottle.
    â€˜You know nothing,’ Barrington told Yvonne.
    By the time they got in sight of home, Yvonne was doubled up in pain. She was moaning and holding her stomach, her forehead contorted and sweating.
    â€˜Eating green roseapple,’ Melvyna deduced, with a look of sadness. She knew her fate and was resigned to it. She would be blamed for letting the children eat unripe fruit while she was in charge. It was a sacking offence.
    Mama put Yvonne to bed and told off Melvyna, mostly with bad looks.
    â€˜But ma’am, but ma’am,’ Melvyna protested. She dreaded Papa coming home and finding Yvonne in her wretched state.
    Melvyna went to bed early, but not before she begged Mama, almost on bended knees, to let her prepare hot
Cerasee
tea, a special concoction she knew of. Yvonne, the poor chile, would be better in no time. If that didn’t work she knew how to make a
Fever Grass
drink, another special concoction. Mama said no. But, Melvyna desperately wanted to know, what about a little
Bissy
tea
,
or
Leaf of Life
tea with nutmeg? Certainly not, Mama told her. Not even a little
Bush
tea
,
ma’am? Melvyna was persistent: Yvonne would be better before you could say
hallelujah, tenk you Jesus
! Mama again told her no. Depressed, she sat up in bed reading her Bible. She and the house were fast asleep when Papa finally arrived well past ten o’clock. So she escaped his wrath that night.
    â€˜Man not made to fly in plane,’ Melvyna told them, as she served dinner the following evening. There was a story in the newspapers about rich Jamaicans, especially those from Upper St Andrew, flying regularly to Miami to shop. It was all the rage. Buying clothes at
Couture Jamaique
or
Issa’s
was not good enough for them. Melvyna seemed really put out. ‘If God want man to fly he would give him wing, like bird.’
    â€˜You plan to go abroad, Melvyna?’ Papa asked.
    â€˜No, sar!’ Melvyna exclaimed, astonished. ‘But if ah was to go to Englan’ ah would go by boat.’
    â€˜By boat,’ Papa smiled. ‘So, that’s okay with God?’
    â€˜You can laugh, sar,’ Melvyna said, seeing the funny side. ‘When God come we all have to answer, sar.
When the roll is called up yonder ah will be there.’
    â€˜Another Bible woman,’ Papa said under his breath when Melvyna returned to the kitchen. ‘Where do they come from?’
    â€˜You should know,’ Mama replied, knowing that Papa’s contacts at the factory supplied the maids.
    â€˜I have nothing against a Bible-reading person,’ Papa mumbled. ‘I just don’t want