I knew it. Abigail would return with Betty, I knew. Three weeks had passed making them more eager, waiting for more. They’d had something to look forward to. I settled in my chair knowing that they would hang on to my every word . I could sense that Betty thought she had lost something, her possession of me. Dear Betty, she had to learn she could not hang on to people. The girls settled down, Betty at my feet.

‘Funerals, that’s what I spoke about last time. At funerals, there’s a lot of wailin’s and shoutin’.’ I sat still thinking of my dead baby long, long ago.

‘I’m sure you were unhappy when you lost your baby,’ said Betty.

I stayed silent and still, in another place. Seeing Betty’s eyes, I sensed in them the same impatience Abigail had. That was unusual for Betty. Her excitement had overcome her sympathetic nature. But the girls waited patiently until they could bear it no longer.

’Tell us more, tell us more about Barbados,’ said Abigail.

I threw my head back. Funerals were not all sad. Many people congregated together and ate good food, lots and lots of it. They were alive … there is nothing to make you feel so alive than when you face death.’

‘You said that last time,’ said Abigail.

‘Did I? Well that’s because it is true.’

I caught my breath. ‘Laughter — I can still hear it.’ But there was a croak in my voice.

I watched Abigail and saw that she was beginning to understand that I knew pain. I had simply hidden it.

‘We were open to the beauty of the island,’ I went on with my story. ‘Laughter rippled the air. That sound was a massage on the skin. This was Barbados — an island among many, all encircled by a warm ocean.’

I watched Abigail again, realising she had little idea what this island could look like but was too proud to ask.

‘We worked hard but on Sundays we played. We used kettles as drums, and sang on Sundays, together in the same rhythm. Then we danced with the men in one group and the women in another, using our hands and hips. Then the men would do a fight dance, knocking their heads together and grabbing each other’s waists. We would dance for hours. We women would watch men wrestle when the dancing finished.’

‘I know Barbados is far away but where exactly is it?’ said Abigail.

‘It’s one of many islands far away in another ocean, an ocean blessed with warmth.’

‘I want to go back to Barbados,’ said Betty.

‘Ah my lovely, my Betty, the land is good but man can be evil. When I was a young girl then, there was much violence. The plantation managers were always fightin’ amongst themselves. They lived in lovely white houses on the sugar plantations while their servants and slaves worked hard. Planters and the managers began to steal each other’s land. Then the land started to give less.’

‘My father was a planter,’ said Betty. ‘I was very, very little when I left Barbados.’

‘Yes, my cherub. You were the sweetest young’un. Your father was good to us and gave us bone meat; slaves with other masters just ate potatoes. Other slaves just had loplolly.’

‘What’s that?’ said Betty.

I laughed. ‘It tastes very good. It’s made up from crushed Indian corn and turned into a paste with water. You ate it cold. It’s refreshing but not very good for you.’ I paused. ‘Anyway, your father had a smaller plantation than many others. He made less money and lost everything when a hurricane hit the island.’

‘What’s a hurricane?’ asked Betty. Abigail looked at her cousin Betty in disdain.

‘My love, it’s when nature is very angry. The sugar cane lay flat on the ground, broken. Houses and mills fell down. Then the rain came, lots and lots of it. We thought it would never stop. The store houses lost their roofs and the food and sugar was spoilt. Thousands left Barbados, small planters and workers. They were finished. I remember your father’s face.’ Tituba stopped, stared vacantly into the fire. ‘Your father kept the plantation going for as long as he could before we came to Boston and then here. I wept when I had to leave.’

‘You said that men were wicked. What did they do?’ Abigail asked.

‘Well, I have to go back to the tales from my mother. Wars followed with the French and the Dutch. Supplies could not come in. We was starving, nottin’ much to eat. To make things worse, fightin’ between two groups in the governmen’ started. I don’t remember their names. But one lying man invited a group of men from the other side onto his boat, the Carlisle, and when they were at sea, he rounded them up and stripped them and tied them to the ship’s mast. They were left in the sun and sea for a month, with gruel and beer thrown down their throats once a day.’

‘A month!’ cried Betty.’

‘A month is a long time,’ Abigail said.

‘Yes, there those poor souls were, before a Spanish ship captured the Carlisle.’

‘That’s terrible, a whole month,’ whispered Betty.

‘Are you all right?’ Her face was paler than usual but Abigail was enjoying the tale.

‘And the man who had done that to them took thousands of acres from them,’ I said.

‘Did they all die?’ asked Betty in a whimper.

‘No, they survived to fight hard to get their land back.’

‘Did they get their land back?’ asked Abigail.

‘No, they did not.’

‘There’s little law and order there, then?’ said Abigail.

‘Barbados was a platform for greedy men,’ I said.

‘I had a greedy stepmother. She took my father’s house and kicked me out,’ said Abigail.

Betty interrupted and said, ‘Tituba, you told us about dances in Barbados. Dancing and singing. Can you dance and sing for us?’

‘Yes, please do,’ said Abigail in a coaxing voice.

I smiled and began to shuffle in rhythm with a sound and a song from my lips.

The girls were entranced but edged towards the door and waved me goodbye.