This Other Island

by Steffanie Edward

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Things between me and Papa are so different to what me and Mum have. It’s been that way since the first day. An invisible bond. Papa was the one who never stopped encouraging me to strive for my goals. ‘Take every opportunity dis country give you, ich mwen,’ he’d always said… When Yvette receives a call to say her estranged father Joe has been attacked in a seemingly random act of violence, she rushes to his side. She’d stayed with her mother after her parents separated, but never forgot her father’s kind and caring ways. Memories of his wide smile and loving embraces – so different to her mother Doli – have always sustained her. But when she arrives, ready to make peace and help him in any way she can, she finds a man different to the larger-than-life father she remembers. Joe is fighting for his life, but is also haunted by memories of his past. He begs Yvette to help him find out the truth… About the journey that brought him and a beautiful young woman called Doli together, as they both travelled – as part of the Windrush Generation, to start new lives in Britain. About the lives they left behind in St Lucia. And about a dark secret – one that he has carried with him since stepping off the ship that wet and chilly August day. That threatened his and Doli’s marriage from the very beginning… Only Yvette can find out what really happened on that crossing. Because, for forty years, Joe has believed that he killed a man. A man who had had feelings for Doli too. And who – as Joe knows – might hold the key to Yvette’s own story… What follows is a heart-stopping debut novel about family, identity, secrets, lies, and the journeys that define us. It will grip you, challenge you, and ultimately break you into a thousand pieces. Perfect for fans of Small Island and Girl, Woman, Other. Readers are loving This Other Island : ' What a beautiful book! I enjoyed the heck outta this one! The writing was flawless. Characters amazing! I loved the setting! I just absolutely adored this one.’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ This Other Island is a beautiful debut novel – masterfully written and enchanting… Brought me to tears.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘ Spectacular. I could imagine myself in many of the situations… Steffanie Edward painted a picture with her words.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘Through her impressive use of dialogue, diction, dialect, and a blend of the past and present, Edward gives her readers unforgettable and realistic characters.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘ A fantastic debut novel… authentic and enjoyable’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ A great story… The story is so intriguing and full of twists and turns… I highly recommend this book.’ Goodreads reviewer

Release date: May 21, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

2000

October. Not even deep into autumn, but the outside temperature was close to freezing and the wind was shuffling dirt and leaves everywhere.

Stepping out of the lift and out through the main doors of his block of flats, Joe sniffed the cold air, then turned his face away from the stench of sour food coming from the huge bins to his left. Joe was no fan of the cold. The shivering, the runny nose. The thing got right inside of your bones. He shuddered, adjusting his scarf to make sure it covered more of the back of his head and fitted tighter around his neck.

Already, he couldn’t wait to get back inside, but buying his daily newspaper at seven in the morning had become part of his ritual. Gave him a reason for getting dressed. Today he needed to get fresh milk – sugar as well, for the coffee he’d need once back inside.

Out of the entrance and into the street, Joe pushed down on his trilby and lowered his head to avoid a head-on with the flying bits in the air, then shoved his hands in his pockets.

A force stopped him in his tracks. An arm was around his neck, pressing against his windpipe. He struggled to breathe.

‘Who…?’ He tried to speak, but the pressure on his neck got tighter.

‘Shut it, old man,’ the person behind him said, his voice vicious, direct, and so close, Joe felt hot breath touch his ear. ‘Don’t say a word.’

Joe was being dragged backwards on his heels, down the side alley that drunks and the like used as a toilet.

‘What de—?’ he started.

‘Keep your mouth quiet, or you’ll be meeting your maker.’

‘What de—? What you think you doing? Let me—’ Joe said loudly.

‘What did I tell you?’ the voice said.

Something like a fist was pressing into his back. Joe turned to get a glimpse of his attacker.

The fire in the young man’s honey-coloured eyes took Joe by surprise. For a moment he forgot about the imminent danger he was in. He wasn’t in a pissy alley, headlocked by a stranger with too much strength for this old Joe to match. He was somewhere else: forty years into his past, on the top deck of the ship making its way to England. The man tackling him wasn’t a stranger, either. It was a rival. Ian.

‘Keep moving,’ the voice said.

It’s him or me, Joe told himself, and jabbed his attacker with his bony elbow, hoping to destabilise him.

‘I said—’

The sharp burn from a thrust in Joe’s side sent his thoughts crashing into pain. Raw. Stinging. Scorching pain. He was falling, voices mumbling, feet were running. A warmth ran down his right side.

He was bleeding.

1967

Me and Pattie were playing outside when Auntie Agnes called us in and announced that I was going to England. My parents wanted me – the six-month-old child they’d sent to St Lucia, five years ago, returned to them.

‘But why?’ I asked.

‘I would rather you didn’t go too,’ Auntie Agnes said, looking over my head, blinking like something was troubling her eyes.

‘And what about Pattie? She can come too?’

Me and Pattie were only months apart in age. We were like sisters and shared everything, except knickers and a birthday. If one of us got into a fight, the other one jumped in to defend her. When a box came from England, neither of us could wait to see what sugary treats, toys and nice clothes we were in line for that day.

‘No. No,’ Auntie answered. ‘Pattie cannot come. Your mother an’ father want you back. It’s their right,’ and she walked away.

I couldn’t imagine life without Auntie Agnes or Pattie. Apart from seeing my parents in the flesh, I couldn’t see a reason for going to England. I was happy where I was. ‘I will come back, as soon as I can,’ I told Pattie.

On a school day, before it was light, Auntie Agnes sent Pattie off with our playmate Antoine’s mum, whilst me and her went to town. It felt strange because I’d never been to town without Pattie. I was wearing a pretty red dress with a can-can skirt and ribbon at the waist that had come in one of the parcels from England. I had special pictures taken, which I saw later in a little book Auntie Agnes said was my passport. I would need it to travel, she told me. The only thing I recognised about me in the book was my picture.

‘Where’s my name?’ I asked Auntie.

‘Here,’ she said, closing the book to show me the words: Yvette Angelina Francis printed in a white space at the bottom of the hard navy cover.

‘But I’m Ruthie,’ I said.

‘From today, you will use your real name. Yvette.’

‘It’s not as nice as Ruthie,’ I said, and she told me that from now on, Pattie was going to be called by her real name too: Dionne.

‘What’s a ci-ti-zen?’ I asked Auntie, when I came across the word in my passport.

‘It tells people which country you belong to. Dis,’ she said, taking the book from my hand, ‘means you belong to Englan’. You are English. It’s the place you was born. An’ when you come back to see us, you will be speaking English, just like the queen.’

The queen? I had no idea who that was or why I’d be speaking like her. Anyway, me and Pattie decided we didn’t care what Auntie Agnes said: we’d never stop calling each other by our home-names: her Pattie and me Ruthie. I didn’t see myself as an Yvette, nor Pattie as a Dionne, and that was that.

Then before I could ask any more questions, or accept what was coming, I was off – on my way to England, lost on a ship with others similar to me. I missed Pattie more than anything. And after what felt like months – instead of the fourteen days I later found out it was – I was there, dressed in layers of clothes, thick socks and shiny new shoes, which didn’t take the cold away. And they – the parents who’d sent for me – were waiting by the big boat.

Mum looked everything like the picture Auntie Agnes had shown me: slim, light skin, small nose and painted lips.

‘Well, look at my little girl,’ she said, grabbing my arm. ‘She skinny.’ She was talking to the man standing behind her, wearing a dark coat and a trilby hat. My papa. Her eyes fell back on me. ‘Who is your mother?’

‘What kind of question is dat to ask de chile, Doli?’ Papa said.

But she carried on staring at me, waiting for an answer.

‘Dor – Dolina,’ I said.

‘Dolina?’ she repeated, leaning over me, her thick lashes flicking in my face. ‘Mummy. You must call me Mummy. Mummy or Mum.’

‘Mummy,’ I repeated, looking at her.

‘You don’t see you confusing de poor chile?’ Papa told her. ‘Come on, ich mwen, my child. She must be cole, Doli.’ He put the red coat he was holding over his arm on me and picked me up, relieving the pinch I was feeling from the new shoes the woman taking care of us on the boat had made me put on.

England was a big country, crowded with buildings. There was too much to get used to. My new home was strange. We had to share everywhere, except our bedrooms, with other people Mum told me were tenants, like us. Not family or friends.

There were no goats, sheep, lizards or frogs. Only dogs and cats who lived inside people’s houses. I wasn’t even allowed to play outside. It wasn’t safe, Mum and Papa said. There was no one to play with out there anyway. Days came and went when the idea of making my way back to St Lucia – to Pattie and Auntie Agnes – wouldn’t leave my head.

I had no one to share my deepest thoughts with, thoughts only Pattie would understand. Her first letter came with one from Auntie Agnes. She wanted to know when I was coming back. All I could say was ‘soon’. Though I had no idea when soon would be.

Her letters lifted any mood I was in. I couldn’t wait to reply. I looked forward to them, but they couldn’t replace having her with me. I missed us making mud pies under the house for our dollies; stealing off to eat guavas in the bushes Auntie Agnes said we weren’t allowed to go to. I’d climb up and throw them down to Pattie. After filling our bellies, we’d wipe our mouths, pat our clothes clean and head back home before Auntie Agnes wondered where we were.

In one of my letters, I told Pattie about me watching snow fall from the sky like tiny feathers, how quickly each one melted once it touched your skin, tongue, even your eyelash. But if it fell on something else that wasn’t warm, it stayed for a while, one icy feather on top of another, painting the trees, cars, pavements, everything a glittering white. We agreed that, one day, she would visit me and we’d persuade Papa and Mama to let us play outside like I’d seen the white children doing: bringing a lot of the snow together and making a fat, round man, putting a scarf around its neck, a hat on its head, a pipe in its mouth. We’d make our very own snowman.

She told me she’d learnt to stand on her hands. I told her I’d tried, but kept falling sideways.

I never imagined life without Pattie’s letters, the precious link to the life I’d left behind; the connection that felt like my right to breathe, that kept me afloat, especially when things between Papa and Mum started falling apart. Then Mum never had anything nice to say about Papa anymore, though he was nothing but nice to me. His caring and thoughtful nature led him to pick up where Mum left off with me.

Often, he’d lie across the foot of my bed listening to me read. If he drifted off, I’d poke him.

‘Papa, you’re not listening,’ I’d say.

He’d raise his head to look at me. ‘Your voice so sof’,’ he’d say.

I’d giggle, but let him close his eyes again.

Other times, he’d drive me into fits of laughter, folding his eyelids so that only the soft, pink skin underneath it showed. Then he’d suck his cheeks in and make silly faces at me. And his tickles sent me into such hysterics, Mum would leave whatever she was doing to come and see what all the noise was about. That was when things were good.

But after I hit my teens Pattie’s letters stopped, and so did the constant arguments between Mum and Papa, because he left. I was alone with Mum, and Papa grew further and further away from me.

I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, face contorted, plucking a hair from my chin, when the phone rang. I went to my bedroom to answer it.

‘Angel?’

I sat on the bed. ‘Oh, Papa. It’s so good to hear from you. How you doing?’

‘I… I’m in de hospital.’

‘What? What for?’ I stood up. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s de Royal London.’ There was a ripple in his voice. ‘Whitechapel.’

‘Why, Papa? What’s wrong?’

‘You can come?’

‘Of course. But—’

‘Just come.’

I rushed around, squashing – one by one – the ideas popping up in my head about why Papa might be in hospital.

I had to cancel Mum.

‘An emergency?’ she asked, when I told her. ‘What kind of emergency?’

‘It’s… work. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later, Mum,’ I said, and hung up.

On the bus ride to the hospital, my mind drifted to the nights me and Mum used to stay awake in our beds, listening for the sound of the front door opening, Papa’s feet brushing over the door mat, his muffled footsteps climbing the stairs.

As soon as any of those sounds floated up the stairs, I’d exhale. Low tones from their bedroom would give me permission to sleep.

I walked into the hospital and checked my bag for the lavender-scented hanky I kept with me in case I came across unfriendly smells.

The only person at the nurses’ station was on the phone, the side of her face to me. I unzipped my coat. She shot me a glance.

‘Okay. Right… Right,’ she said, then put the phone down. ‘How can I help?’

‘I’ve come to see Mr Francis. Joseph Francis?’ I said.

‘Francis? Ah, yes. Second door on the right, before the main ward,’ she said, pointing.

Why was Papa in a side room instead of on the main ward?

I knocked lightly on the door. No response, so I opened it. Papa seemed to be asleep. I stepped closer to the bed. He was wearing a hospital gown, lying on his back, clean shaven, as usual. He coughed. I stepped back, almost falling into the armchair behind me.

‘Mmm,’ he said, opening his eyes, then blinking. ‘Angel?’

‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ I said, coming forward again.

He pulled himself into a sitting position and pain deepened the two lines shaped like brackets around his nose and mouth. He cleared his throat and reached for his brown trilby on the bedside table.

‘Aaah,’ he said, his long, bony fingers adjusting the hat on his head. ‘Getting ole, ich mwen, my child. Your papa getting ole.’

‘So what’s going on, Papa? Why are you here?’

‘I get stab.’

‘What? What d’you mean? By whom?’

‘I didn’t want to tell you dat over de phone,’ he said. ‘Papa caa take a fight no more.’ He shook his head. ‘Eh-eh.’

My bum found the edge of the chair I’d almost fallen into, my eyes stayed focused on him. ‘How? How did it happen?’

‘It was just a newspaper I went to de shop to get,’ he began. ‘When, bam! – I don’t know where de fella come from. He grab me, pull me in de dirty alley. Next thing I know is pure blood. De fella stab me.’

‘Papa.’ The thought of someone shoving a knife into Papa sent a shiver through me. This wasn’t one of the scenarios that had run through my mind after his call.

‘After dat’ – Papa shrugged – ‘I find myself in here.’

‘Where did he stab you?’

‘Dere. Dere, in my side.’ He pointed to the ribbed area under his right arm. ‘Take my wallet – lucky he didn’t get my keys.’

‘How bad? Is… is there any internal damage?’

‘No. Dey say I was lucky.’ He put his hands to rest on his lap.

‘Thank God, Papa.’ I sighed. ‘That’s a blessing.’

We were both silent, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps.

‘So why have they put you in here, on your own?’ I asked, after they faded.

‘De post office. Insurance. Dey paying,’ Papa said, like it was trivial information.

‘Oh, and how long have you been here?’

He raised his thin eyebrows and looked towards the ceiling. ‘Two days now, I believe.’

‘And you’ve only just contacted me?’

‘I have your number at home amongst my papers an’ I caa keep too much numbers in my head dese days, Angel.’

‘If you used it more often, Papa, you’d—’

‘Ahh… I was going to call your mother, but you know how she is already.’

‘It was an emergency, Papa. Mum wouldn’t be funny about that,’ I said. But who was I trying to fool? We both knew how awkward Mum could be, especially if it was something to do with Papa.

‘Anyway, Bobotte manage to find your number for me.’

‘I can’t believe it, Papa. Stabbed?’

‘An’ in big, broad daylight – just going to get a paper.’ He sounded like he was still trying to accept it.

‘It could have been so much worse, though.’

‘Is true,’ he nodded. A dazed look crept over his face. ‘Even de police say dat.’

‘Yes, the police – what’re they saying? They caught anyone?’

Papa turned his head towards the wall and made a long hissing sound as he kissed his teeth. ‘Police? Police?’ he said, then turned to me again.

‘But they—’

‘Dey come here a while ago with some pictures for me to look at.’ His voice drifted.

‘You recognise anyone?’

He kissed his teeth again. This time short and sharp, like a bird’s tweet. ‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head. ‘No police ever going to find dat man.’

‘Somebody must have seen something.’

‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head again. ‘Nobody see nothing – nothing for de police to go on, dey say. Dat fella,’ he added, after a pause, ‘must be long gone. Bobotte tell me sometimes dese fellas target certain areas – certain people too.’

‘Who’s going to target you, Papa?’

‘Anyway, I tell de police everything I had to tell dem.’ He waved a hand in front of him. ‘Everything I know. But you looking well, Angel,’ he said.

I wished I could say the same about him. His face had aged since the last time I saw him, ten months ago. He’d get the rest he needed in here.

‘You got everything you need? Where’re your pyjamas?’

‘Dey say it’s better if I wear dis. Easier for dem.’

‘What about toiletries and stuff?’ I said. The surfaces in his bedside cupboards were empty. I hadn’t brought anything, in my rush to get here.

‘I have what I need.’

‘I’ll pop out and get you some fruit,’ I said, slipping into dietician mode. It was my job, after all. ‘No mangoes, though.’ We both smiled. It was our favourite fruit, but only the Caribbean ones. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Angel?’ he said, as I pulled the door open.

‘Yes, Papa?’ I turned to him.

‘I’m glad you come.’

‘Me too, Papa.’

‘Don’t mind how bird vex—’

‘—it caa vex with tree.’ I finished the proverb he’d repeated to me since my childhood. ‘I know Papa.’ I smiled.

No matter how upset you get with someone you need in your life, you must keep returning to them.

Today, I sensed the ‘vexed’ bird was me. Papa, the tree.

Outside it was raining. Mid-morning. The lack of sun suggested a murky dusk was on its way. That would normally dampen my mood, but a good feeling was brewing inside me. It was horrible to see Papa in so much pain and scary to think how much worse it could have been, but it was comforting knowing exactly where he was.

This misfortune could turn out to be a turning point for us. We could spend lots more time together, doing stuff, like in the old days when we’d sit at the kitchen table tucking into our fish and chips, Papa splashing hot sauce over his, Mum’s accusations of us turning English. Or maybe we’d start meeting again at the club, for a catch-up and a drink.

An hour later, I was rushing up the hospital steps again, a carrier bag in each hand. The first had my dripping umbrella, some tangerines, pears and bananas; the second, water, juice, deodorant, some of Papa’s favourite Imperial Leather soap and a couple of wash rags.

I was turning the handle on the door to Papa’s room when a different nurse, with ‘Sister Lisa Thompson’ written on her badge, stopped me.

‘He’s left,’ she said, remorse and indignation stamped on her face.

‘But I—’

‘He’s discharged himself. Against our advice, I might add,’ she said, frowning.

I felt a complete idiot.

‘He asked me to give you this.’

I took the piece of paper she handed me and thanked her.

At least he’d had the decency to leave me his address.

The driver of the cab I picked up said he knew where Fairchilds Estate was. Once seated, I tried to calm myself. I’d never been to Papa’s new home. The last time I visited him, I hadn’t seen him for six months. That time, I expected to find him in his flat-share in Stamford Hill, but the person who opened the door told me he’d moved. So, I’d found myself in Tottenham, at his domino club, targeting Mr Bobotte, his closest friend.

‘It’ll be Father’s Day in a couple of weeks,’ I’d told Mr Bobotte, after the usual ‘nice to see’ you, stuff. ‘I’ve got to at least send Papa a card.’

Mr Bobotte’s querying expression had softened. ‘Of course. Of course,’ he’d said, in his baritone voice that brought melted dark chocolate to mind. And he’d given me a new address for Papa.

A light-skinned woman with a nose like a cabbage had opened the door to me.

‘Does Joseph Francis live here?’ I’d asked, as she looked me over.

‘Joseph?’ she repeated, greasy remnants of red lipstick around her mouth. ‘Come.’ She widened the gap in the door. ‘Joe?’ she started shouting, her bare feet going at a gallop up the staircase filled with the suffocating smell of burning fat. ‘A young lady here to see you.’

Papa had met us on the landing, wearing a green and white chequered lumberjack shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his slim, hairy arms.

‘Angel? Dat’s my angel! My daughter, Yvette,’ he told the woman, handing her the spatula he was holding. ‘Dis is my frien’,’ he’d said, referring to the woman as he hugged me. She’d eyed me some more.

Papa’s display of joy had made me feel special, but I knew I wouldn’t see or hear from him again until the next time I found him. Past discussions with him about this always turned out to be a waste of time. He’d make light of it, saying he knew I could take care of myself and if anything happened to me, he was sure someone would let him know. I couldn’t get him to see what his making an effort to stay in touch would mean to me.

That day, tears had been in my eyes even before I could get through the front door. After that visit, I told myself I’d had enough of spending days or weeks getting over the sadness and disappointment each visit left me with: burying the pain it caused, pretending it was okay. So, I’d stopped tracking him.

‘Fairchilds Estate.’ The cab driver’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I paid and got out.

According to the signage, number twenty-nine was on the third floor, which was where the lift appeared to be stuck. My experiences of home visits to clients living in places like this made me brace myself for the stench of stale pee. And only God knew what else I might stumble upon on my way up.

I took a deep breath, juggled the carrier bags around, exhaled and took a firmer grip of my hanky.

I hear the crying before I could even knock on the door. Then Bel standing in front of me holding a baby – face wet an’ stain with tears, even though it stop crying. The chile big, sad eyes take one look at me an’ i. . .