At last I was actually going to see Tituba in her bungalow. As the shadows lengthened and formed patterns on the ground, Betty and I made our way through the vegetable patch, to the tiny home of Tituba and her man, John Indian. He was still working, digging up new ground for vegetables before the sun went down. We entered a space that was bare of furniture yet the glowing fire made it cosy and inviting. I could see mats on the floor in their sleeping room.

‘Ah, my angel, come on in,’ she said to Betty. She saw me and gave me a languid smile.

‘And you’re welcome too.’

Tituba sank into an old rocking chair that creaked when it moved. She stroked Betty’s golden hair as she sat close to her dark legs, almost hugging them. I kept my distance and sat on the only other chair.

‘Betty tells me of your stories, Tituba. I want to hear them too.’

‘What story would you like to hear?’

I didn’t know, but Betty piped up excitedly, ‘About Barbados!’

Barbados! My world of knowledge was of Old England and New England. Boston was the height of glamour to me and glamour was exciting. Where was Barbados? I listened intently.

‘Barbados,’ purred Tituba, ‘is far, far away.’

Was Tituba able to read my mind and answer a question that I had only thought of? I was entranced.

‘You can see the colours, the green of the land, the blue of the sea and the white of the sand. And the sunsets slash the sky with red and gold streaks. Now how often do you see a sunset like that here?’ Tituba’s eyes glistened. She was smiling at her memories. ‘In the daytime you can hear the scream of the wheeling birds. The ships and ketches come up the Port of Bridgetown as far as the chalky mountains.’

‘Is the port bigger than the one at Salem Town?’ I asked.

‘Much bigger.’ Tituba laughed her earthy laugh. ‘The land is green with sugar canes. But it’s also aflame with flowers as you have never seen before; golden blooms and Ixia, the flower of the woods, green and white with a red rod inside.’

Our mouths were open.

‘The streets of the town are narrow.’ Tituba’s voice drifted on. She turned her face and looked across the room to the only window. Her eyes, however, were not looking at the scene outside. She was back in Barbados. I nudged Betty’s foot and winked at her. Tituba’s voice came over with a dreamlike quality.

‘The coast is rugged but the wind is soft and the rain gentle.’

She paused, and then laughed gaily. ‘I remember when I was a very young girl, there was music, dancing, and singing and tales,’ she said distantly. ‘I loved the celebrations. You know even funerals are exciting. Death is celebrated. Here, it is brushed under the mat. Much food is eaten. How we sang with high voices. Death made us feel more alive.’

Tituba looked at Betty and then at me.

‘Can you see it? A line of people yellin’ and shoutin’. The coffin is carried by four strong men windin’ through the jungle to a mound of earth. Then they bury the body. These things probably still go on there.’

‘Jungle?’ asked Betty.

‘It’s your forests gone wild and thick, and juicy green.’ Tituba’s face suddenly grew grave. ‘An obeah man, oh, that’s a kinda doctor who told the group whether the death was due to malaise, accident, or people. If by people, he called up the spirits of the dead to ask them who had killed them.’

Well, this was far more exciting than any of my uncle’s sermons. I envied Tituba’s past. It was colourful and I could almost hear their pagan songs raucously sung and see their dances and their hips rolling as the tide in the sea.

‘The bearers of the coffin then point to people who the spirit says were responsible for their deaths.’

‘What happens to those people?’ asked Betty.

‘The people are visited in the night by dead spirits.’

I saw Betty gasp.

‘I think of the times when I was a young girl, sitting by the wharf next to a fisherman’s wife. It was she who had told me a tale but it was just the bare bones like those of gutted fish lying on the wharf. I rounded out the story and made it my own. ‘

I drew closer to her.

‘Those dead spirits are none too friendly.’ She paused. ‘Once, there was this woman. She have a lovely garden and was very proud of it. She work there in her free time. A young girl passes her garden and asks, “What magic do you use to make the garden so good? I’ll tell the boss on you.” The woman gets angry because she a hard worker and only works in the garden in free time. One day, the woman goes to garden to see which new flower has opened; when she see the garden, she drop to ground and sob, like a child. All her flowers were dug up. She knows it was the young girl who dug it all up. She went round yelling at young girl. The unhappy woman forgets to eat, becomes ill and by the end of that year, she’s dead.’

‘Oh dear!’ said Betty.

Tituba caught her breath and sipped some water.

‘She become duppy, a spirit. As she was a hard-working woman, she is a hard-working duppy. She visit the young girl who had laughed at her, spoilt her garden. The young girl got a fright and went to obeah man.’

‘What’s an obeah man?’

‘I told you before, Betty. He’s a kinda of doctor.’

‘Anyway, she learnt her lesson after many sleepless nights. She never laughed, reported a person or envied a person’s garden ever again.’

We were silent. I saw Betty shiver.

‘Would you like a hot drink, a milk drink and some rye toast?’

Betty nodded. I was ready to go. But I drank the warmed milk Tituba gave me. I looked at the toast and there were green flecks on it; it was mould.

‘Come on Betty, let’s go. Thank you, Tituba. When we come next time,’ I asked, ‘could you tell us more about the funeral and Barbados?’

Tituba smiled. I had never seen a smile like that before. She could see that l was hooked like a fish.

‘In three weeks’ time.’

Back in our bedroom, Betty still looked a little taken back.

‘Betty have you ever seen a spirit?’

‘No, that is from the Devil.’

‘I wonder if they know that in Barbados.’

‘I was too little when I left Barbados to know about those things.’

‘Tituba spoke of duppies but we call them spirits. I haven’t seen any but you know our friend’s mother?’

Betty nodded.

‘Well, she has. Talking to other girls, I found out that the mother sees the spirits of her dead sister, her sister’s dead children and her own dead children. Ann was her only child after a series of dead babies.’

‘Perhaps that is why they are close.’

‘Perhaps that’s why Ann looks the way she does.’ I pulled a face.

‘Don’t be like that, Abigail, Ann is a clever girl. Let’s go to sleep.’

I snuggled back into my bed and saw that Betty was soon asleep in hers. But my mind was racing. I wanted to hear more stories from Tituba.

The next morning, Tituba appeared as the cheery black slave we were familiar with, serving us breakfast of eggs and rye bread. She whispered to us that she couldn’t meet us for a while as she was busy cooking and had to do some gardening too. It seemed an age till we could meet her again in her small bungalow.

But I did get a chance to see Robert again in the town before that. Oh Robert! Every time I saw him, my mind would spin with imaginings of what could be. I loved the horse ride to the town. There he was, waiting, with a grin on his face.

He helped me off the horse.

I looked into his eyes before wiping my hands with cologne.

‘Hello Beautiful.’

We went as always to the same shop with its lovely cakes and scones, chatting about nothing and everything. When we had finished, he kissed me on my cheek. I breathed in the moment, a moment I didn’t want to end.

Again we were back in her bungalow . I loved it; our secret place, the place of tales from afar. Tituba, Tituba, Tituba. I never knew you had so much knowledge! I looked at her. She was beautiful in her own way. Her black curly hair was just long enough to drape over her neck. She sat in that rocking chair as if it were her throne, her head high.

‘Would you want to go back to Barbados?’ said Betty.

‘I got nuttin’ there, cherub; it ain’t changed. I don’t want to see no fighting no more. And would I have you pretty girls if I was still in Barbados? No.’

‘Tell us more,’ said Betty.

‘Now merchants are there who take sugar, salt and rum to here. New England sends fish, oysters and mackerel for the planters, and cod for the rest.’

‘I don’t like mackerel,’ said Betty.

‘It’s expensive, you know; it’s 16 shillings a barrel,’ I said, proud of my knowledge.

‘Well,’ said Tituba, looking a bit peeved at the interruption. She picked up the story again. ‘The New England merchants sell Barbados goods to England. With the money they receive, they buy things that have high price from England and Europe.’

‘So there‘s a connection between Barbados and New England?’ I asked.

‘Yes, most of the Boston merchants get goods form Barbados to sell to England.’

Hadn’t Robert said his father was a merchant in Barbados at one time? I hadn’t picked up on the connection before. It wasn’t that he was deceitful. I had showed no interest whatsoever. In Barbados my uncle had a small plantation. And for the first time I saw circles within circles and the connections between things I had not seen before.

I awoke from of my reverie. ‘You are a wonderful story teller, Tituba,’ I said.

She looked flushed.

‘I want to come again. ’

‘Same time next month,’ said Tituba.

Twenty-eight boring days to go. I would count each one off. I vowed to return to Tituba and her tales.