I’m scared. Truly afraid. Suddenly, I regret sending Robbie Barnes to the garden. He’d rush to my rescue. Or is that just what I want to believe? That someone, somewhere, cares enough to risk themselves to save me.
I try to yank away from Jerry, but suddenly his enormous fist comes at me, and all I can do is close my eyes.
“Excuse me, young lady, are you okay?”
Is someone here to help me? My eyes flutter open. Oh God. It’s Vivian Jean and Katherine.
“Young man, what’s happening here?” Katherine says loudly, attracting the attention of nearby guests.
“None of your business, lady,” Jerry growls as he lowers his fist.
“How dare you talk to me like that?” Katherine responds defiantly.
Jerry shoves me aside, and I fall to one knee, hoping to attract the attention of bystanders while he bolts through thecrowd toward the nearest exit. The last thing I need is for Jerry to be caught. He’ll expose who I really am—and I can’t have that.
Vivian Jean helps me stand. “Child, are you all right?” she asks again.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I reply, speaking the truth for a change.
A crowd gathers around us, everyone staring and whispering. Vivian Jean wraps a protective arm around my shoulders. “Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?” she asks.
“He was a pickpocket, ma’am, and he tried to take my brooch—” The lie slips smoothly from my lips. “Thank you for saving me.”
I hug Vivian Jean, careful not to squeeze too tightly. I don’t want to dislodge the item hidden in my brassiere.
CHAPTER 9
ZINZI
Allan Coombs’s Office, King Street, Kingston
The next day, after my shift at the Constant Spring Hotel, I make the forty-five-minute trip to Allan’s office on King Street.
“Glad you could make it,” he says. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“I would love one.”
He’s the only person I know who makes my coffee just the way I like it—with more cream than coffee and several generous teaspoons of sugar. Three years ago, when I met him, I was nervous and popping candies in my mouth, filling the room with the scent of peppermint. He asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee. We were discussing the labor movement, but without a second thought, even though the movement was the most significant thing I’d ever considered doing, I blurted out, “Never mind. I can make my own.”
“You have quite the sweet tooth,” he remarked. “Are you positive you want to go into battle against sugarcane?”
“There is little connection between the two,” I said, then continued. “I might crave homemade tamarind balls, coconut drops, store-bought peppermint candy, and rock cakes,but what happens on sugarcane plantations is an atrocity. I will fight plantation owners even if I never have another drop of sugar.” I shared all this while pouring a third spoonful of sugar into my cup.
Allan and I have gotten along quite well since that first day.
He hands me a cup of coffee and sits behind his desk, surrounded by a stack of papers, pamphlets, and a ledger that he opens, closes, and opens again. “Molasses is a by-product of sugar.” He taps the ledger. “And the main ingredient in rum. I never thought about that connection until I moved to Jamaica.”
Allan was born in London, but his military family moved to Kingston after the Great War. He traveled back and forth between the island and Britain until his father died in 1928. After that, he decided to try working on a sugar plantation, but he only lasted a few months. “When I worked at the Tynesdale Estate, Byron was out of the country, and even if he was home, there’s a considerable distance between the plantation house, the sugarcane fields, and the processing plants. But you already know that.”
Allan and I had discussed our individual sugar plantation stories early on in my involvement with the union activist. “Byron says he wants a labor union at Tynesdale Estate.”
“His father, like all large plantation owners, is against unions.”
“He says his father is very ill.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” Allan replies. He closes his ledger. “For the labor union to succeed, we need lawyers, government officials, and a few sugar plantation owners wouldn’t hurt.” Allan exhales. “We could use a Byron Tynesdale.”
I shrug, but I’m unsure what to say.
