The Stowaway

XXII

"What happens when people open their hearts?"
"They get better." Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

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XXII.

The sight of the large plantation house never ceased to amaze Tom. It was American in style, modelled after the palatial homes in the Deep South of the Colonies, or rather, the United States as they were. It did, however, look remarkably out of place in and amongst the natural beauty and simplistic living of the Jamaican people, but Tom knew Mr Kerry wouldnever live simply.

Tom climbed the two dozen steps to reach the front door, which stood two storeys high. Most of the sugar plantations on the island were about nine hundred acres. Mr Kerry's property was double that size, which meant his income and power, were also doubled. He was the richest man on the island and boasted over two hundred enslaved African people.

Tom knocked on the door, and it was opened moments later by an African woman wearing a housemaid's uniform. This was why he was trying to learn Creole. The African people spoke French and Portuguese as their colonised languages, and now spoke a blended Creole language in order to communicate with each other.

Tom had once heard that Mr Kerry liked to own slaves from varying backgrounds so that they would not be able to communicate with each other and run away. He honestly hoped that wasn't true.

"Good morning," Tom greeted, "Mr Kerry is expecting me." He hoped that his Creole was acceptable. It was bar far the most difficult language he had tried to learn, and he was certain he would never fully get the hang of it.

But she seemed to understand him as she opened the door properly for him. The atrium of the house was open to the two levels above, perfectly suited in such a hot climate. Every wall was painted white, which only emphasised the rich wall hangings and floor coverings.

Tom knew his way, and politely told the housemaid as best he could that he would show himself to Mr Kerry's study. The study was upstairs, at the back of the house. This was because the room had three large windows and a balcony overlooking the plantation and its workers.

Tom knocked on Mr Kerry's door and he heard a subsequent invitation to come inside.

Tom had first encountered Richard Kerry as a nine-year-old boy abandoned on that dock in Plymouth. He had been there for three days before anyone thought to ask after him. Tom had been sent away from the tavern, and so had been starving. Mr Kerry had bought him a loaf of bread and Tom had never eaten so quickly in his life. So quickly that he had promptly thrown it all back up two minutes later.

He had been an intimidating man then. Tall and stocky, with a fine coat and a black top hat. His chest had been adorned with gold chains connected to his spectacles and pocket watch. But he had a trustworthy face, or, at least to a starving child, any man willing to feed him was trustworthy.

Now he looked as though he had never done a day's work in his life, which was probably accurate. His skin was pale, and not at all weathered from the sun outside or the sea on his ships. His large moustache was perfectly combed and trimmed, as was his hair, which was nearly entirely grey now.

He smiled at Tom, the skin at his eyes crinkling. "Tom, my boy," he beckoned. "So good to see you."

"You as well, Mr Kerry," Tom greeted stiffly, shaking his hand as it was offered. Tom sat down in front of Mr Kerry's desk and produced his notes ready for their meeting.

"How was your crossing? Same as always," Mr Kerry assumed, raising his eyebrows in question.

Aside from the addition of a stowaway troublemaker, "A typical crossing, sir," he replied. "We were boarded, though, by Mary's Damnation. I had a list here of everything that I surrendered in order to keep the peace. There were no shots fired."