In the parlour of the parsonage, I heard my uncle’s wispy voice. It became worse when he strained to make his points in a sermon at the meeting house. There, it was comical watching him. But Betty, his daughter, looked up at him with adoring eyes.

‘Take care of Betty and DO NOT go out. The weather is foul. Take note.’

I knew the dampness of November but why was my uncle going out to make pastoral visits? The parlour was warm with a raging fire. It was empty except for Betty and me. Glad was I that he was out so I could revel in the freedom. We settled ourselves on the chairs and stretched out. I tore the white skullcap from my head and threw it into the air. I turned my head to my cousin to see her expected look of shock.

‘Abigail, you know you should keep that cap on at all times.’

I snorted.

‘Abigail, you sound like a pig. Shame be on you.’

Betty sounded a tad imperious then like her father. Generally, she was sweet but was only a child. Frankly, she annoyed me at times. There was nothing daring in her. She followed rules. Yet we were linked by blood being cousins. We had both lost our mothers in childbirth. At least Betty still had her father. I wasn’t sure I would want the pastor for a father though.

An aroma of warm biscuits wafted through the air.

Tituba appeared in the doorway holding a tray. She held her handsome head high. Her lips were full and parted in a smile showing white even teeth. A shell necklace graced her long neck. Her curly hair was long but did not reach her shoulders; instead it draped over that neck. There was an air of abandonment about her that I loved and wished I had. Her skirt was a dull crimson, decked with white apron. Her blouse was low enough to reveal the outlines of an ample bosom when she bent down. If only I could dress like that. The pastor did not seem to mind how Tituba dressed and yet he was so severe with us.

Tituba brought steaming hot chocolate and a plate of fresh biscuits and rye bread topped with soft cheese. We beamed at her. She disappeared back into the kitchen to prepare the evening meal.

Tituba’s evening meal was pleasant as always. We finished with stewed fruit. Betty and I took a stroll in the back garden to inspect the vegetable plot and listen to the cackling of chickens. Then Betty wanted to go to bed. I didn’t.

‘When do you meet with Tituba?’ I asked. I could see that Betty trailed after Tituba. I understood that she had replaced her mother. No woman would ever be the substitute for my mother. The way Betty followed Tituba like a duckling irked me. But I also noticed that Betty spent long periods of time with Tituba either in the kitchen or in Tituba’s own bungalow.

Betty squirmed.

‘I want to know.’

‘After midday dinner; or after tea time.’

‘I want to come with you tonight then.’

‘You don’t like her as much as I do.’

‘Nor do I dislike her. I want to know her more, understand her. I am going to go with you to see her tonight.

Betty gazed at me in resentment.

She didn’t see Tituba that night.

As we got into bed, I snuggled in and then sat upright.

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Nor can I.’

‘You spend a lot of time with Tituba, don’t you? What else does she do besides combing your long hair?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, does she tell you stories?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘What type of stories?’

‘I can’t remember. Let’s try and sleep.’

I nestled back into bed, letting my toes reach the warm bit where the iron had been put. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to know about Tituba. Persistently I said in the dark, ‘I can’t sleep. Wake up.’ Finally, I moved across and touched her on the shoulder.

‘What was that?’ squealed Betty.

‘It’s only me. I can’t sleep. I want to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘About Tituba and her stories.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s from Barbados. It’s late.’

‘Barbados?’

‘Before, when she was a slave there.’

‘What? You’re mumbling.’

‘Go to sleep.’

But I couldn’t. I wanted to know about Barbados.

I saw that Betty was soon asleep but my mind was racing. I wanted to hear stories from Tituba and I was determined to do so.

The next morning, I sat up in my bed.

‘Open the curtains.’ When she returned to bed I gave her a look she could not ignore. ‘I’m bored.’

‘So am I’

‘Not as much as I am.’

That day I pestered Betty till she finally agreed to allow me to go with her to see Tituba in her tiny bungalow. But I had to wait two more nights. The waiting would seem endless. What could I do in the meantime — look at clouds and see what animals there were in their shapes? Needlework was irksome to me. I wanted to go to see Tituba that very night. But I had to wait until Betty went. I was determined to get my own way. I looked forward to something interesting, exciting, and different to the sermons of my uncle.