I grew up in Jamaica from the age of five. We arrived there in 1960 on the cusp of independence. My father, David Augustus Nöel, had graduated from Manchester university with a medical degree. He completed his internship at Stockport Royal Infirmary then decided to emigrate to Jamaica where, in his own words, “I can give something back to the West Indies.” My mother, Vera, a nurse, had a pioneering spirit and always fully supported her husband. She’d been working when they got married but when she fell pregnant with her first child, my sister Christine, matron had said to her “ you know, you can’t carry on working after your child is born.” So Vera packed in her job. I wonder how she felt about this? It never crossed my mind to ask her, and along with a host of other things I will never know. Ah well, such is life. What amazes me is how some of my children invent stuff about me, like my daughter Myfanwyn telling her sister Charlotte that I have rheumatoid arthritis. “No! Wherever did she get that idea from? I queried.
My earliest memory of Jamaica happened not long after we’d arrived there. My parents joined the Senior Common Room, a club catering for people working for and associated with the university. I was a lively, curious child. So there I am, in my bathing suit. «Ooh, water, » I think gleefully. It looks so inviting. I stand on the edge of the pool. « Careful Fra…» my mother doesn’t get to complete her sentence as I’ve just jumped in feet first. « Good grief child, » she exclaims, jumping in after me. I couldn’t swim but have no fear. Water is my natural element. Very soon I’m a competent swimmer having basically taught myself. Another enduring memory of that swimming pool is the occasion when my mother’s parents, Alice and Fred, came on a visit. Alice, my grandmother, was a practical, down to earth, no nonsense type. She didn’t suffer fools gladly and called a spade a spade. (Very similar personality to my mum.) So we took them to the swimming pool. Fred was wearing an old-fashioned, all in one black swimsuit. They got into the shallow end of the pool, Amy trying to encourage him to swim. What a cuffuffle! Spluttering, splashing, flailing around in the water. « Come on Fred, you can do it! » exhorts Amy, grabbing hold of the back of his swimsuit, trying to hold him up as he gurgles and spits out water. All the while the rest of us – me, my mum and dad, my sister and brother were gasping and wheezing with laughter.
That was the one and only visit from my grandparents, neither did any of my mother’s sibling come out to Jamaica. Aunty Mary came at one point. An honorary aunt, she was an old friend of my parents. I don’t know where my parents met Mary and Brian. Maybe Brian studied medicine at Manchester and that’s where they met. Brian was a bully and a wife beater so Mary was deeply unhappy. Thus a holiday in Jamaica would have been like respite care for her and think I she stayed quite a while. She was an intelligent, cultured woman, slim, dark-haired. If she hadn’t been tied to her husband’s yoke, I’m sure she could have been a successful interior designer. Their house back in England, in Kegworth , was beautifully decorated, with floral Laura Ashley floor length curtains and matching fabric on deep seated sofas, deep pile cream carpets, wall-papered walls picking up some of the green, gold, yellow and red accents from the curtains. Brian, Mary’s husband, was a boor. They had four children, all girls, Vicky, Sally, Jill and Jane, twins. I remember a chaotic household, lots of shouting and swearing and Brian stumbling back home drunk after the pub. I used to stay with them during school holidays and I was astounded by all the goings on. I remember Mary complaining to my parents once because I’d dared to make a comment about the screaming heeby jeebies and Mary deflecting onto me (just as Myfi has done), so that rather than owning up to to the dysfunctional aspects of one’s relationships, someone else becomes the target.
My father always had a soft spot for pretty women, and Mary was no exception. He’d spend hours listening to her grieviences, no doubt attempting to console her and offer advice. He really relished that role and acted as unofficial counsellor to different women over the years. I wonder how my mum felt about this? Was she jealous of all the time he’d give to these women?
Jamaica, land of wood and water. Of my earlier life in England I have no recollection whatsoever. As far as I’m concerned, I died and was reborn in Jamaica. Colours, pure, bright light, the sweet cloying scent of frangipani, luscious oranges and mangoes, emerald green and iridescent blue hummimg birds, lizards darting up and down walks, changing from green to yellow and back again, fire flies and cicadas winking yellow on off in the grass at nighttime, the crrr crrr of crickets, the deep indigo blue of the domed nighttime sky, winking and twinkling with myriads of stars. ‘A tropical night isn’t a quiet place. Oh what a world is this that has such people [and things ] in it!”
I’m 72, my husband died six years ago and I’m in a relationship with a Trinidadian man. He’s sixty six and lives in New York. We met in February and so far have spent six weeks together – he came to see me.We have a full on sex life. I’m having some of the best sex of my life with him, probably more sex than my kids are having. What a thought! However, it’s life affirming for us both. We’re also deeply in love. So far, Charlotte is the most accepting of my relationship with him. After meeting him once, both Myfi and Oisin have done confusing about turns and appear to harbour feelings of resentment and hostility towards him. Even Richard has weighed in on the act calling him all sorts of names. Again these are classic deflection tactics. Because Wayne witnessed Richard’s drunken behaviour when we went to Margate with them.