THE funeral was small and entirely dignified. Disappointingly, though, for a place like Barbados, I counted but three hats. This included the one on the deceased (pink with feathers – fancy). She (the deceased, not the hat) also wore ivory lace gloves. Before leaving home, I tried to find a hat that was both stunning and packable.
This was to be my tribute to a woman who, all my life, had called me three names: Kitten, Duppy and Beloved. A woman, I realised, I’d rarely seen hatless.
The hat I had in mind apparently existed only in my imagination. Or 1950s Paris. My tribute was a dull read thing compared to Miss B’s celebratory pink hat.
I’ve probably been to more funerals than parties in my life – not showing off, just stating facts – but never before have I been in the presence of a church saxophonist. He wasn’t there to break into a jazz number or play Miss B’s favourite Coltrane hits. He was just there. As if all churches had such things.
Barbados, I tell you.
Barbados, land of few pavements and countless roundabouts. The funeral was for someone I love, but also for a time I loved. Aren’t all important funerals?
Barbados is, in some ways where my true-true self lived before life and world engulfed me. I like to think we all have such a space and time, but I’m starting to realise this may be more of a wish, like wishing for an end to world hunger. What I had was a sort of truly privileged, magical time and no, not everyone has that.
Nor do I mean everyone has to leave the country to have it. But to have a space where you felt safe and free and that you could be just who you are is a luxury unparalleled. There are lots of things and places we associate with well-to-do-ness that did not at all feature in my life in Trinidad, but a fluke of history and family gave it to me on another island.
If I go to a place, island or landlocked, and there is a body of water large enough for me to swim in – it could be the size of a giant turtle – I will find a way to swim. Or float. By far, it is the Bajan sea that wins every time. From the untroubled surface of Carlisle Bay (more on that soon) to the crashing, thrashing that is Soup Bowl, I will swim.
I am a menace to the coast guard patrol who think they are there to stop irresponsible jet-skiers, only to be confronted with the bizarre task of having to send a swimmer back to non-boating areas. But it’s not all my fault. I was not exactly raised differently.
The house on Bay Str, a few minutes outside of Bridgetown, was not in a touristy spot, not trendy, not posh. The house was spacious but plain, apart from the rampant bougainvillea. Clean and functional and near to everything. That’s what the owners needed from it.
And just behind it was Carlisle Bay, one of the great under-appreciated joys of the world. Because, as the Cats’ Father said, “Who thinks there’s going to be an amazing beach in the middle of town?”
The house had one brilliant feature: windows set so deep you could sleep in them. And I did. You get out of the water after hours and hours
