After, I slip through the back door of the Great House kitchen. Greet Melon, the big-arm cook with dimples in her cheeks. Always wear a blue dress, yellow head-tie, white apron tight round her waist. She have a sister, Winnie, slaving for a family up in Montego Bay. Don’t have no pickney, except for little orphan Mary. Mary mother die giving birth and she get passed round and round, hut to hut, till Melon say she going raise her. Get permission from Mistress Margaret to bring her into the kitchen. Teach her how to scrub pots, get food ready for cooking. Mary not so pretty, but she always chatty-chatty, keep Melon spirits up, sing like them pea doves. And when Melon not looking, Mary roll her eye them, stick her tongue out behind Melon back.

Sometimes, when Melon have a visitor, Mary come sit on the floor beside me. We huddle in the corner listening in on gossip bout who doing what to who. Who selling what where, in the busy Sunday markets. Melon don’t bother bout clothes and linens, all the fancy thing them women like. She only bother bout her herbs and spices to make food taste better. Specially when hurricane season is pon us and the weather turn fierce and the rain set in and is too wet to make a move anywhere.

Melon only let me linger in the kitchen come morning time. One day is a short time. Next day is a long time and I come to know which, by the look on her face. Short if she tired, stay up half the night cooking for Massa and him guests. Long if Massa off the plantation or head out early to the canefield them.

If is short, she start yelling before I even come through the door.

‘Lazy, good-for-nothing b’woy. Come ’ere to waste time in’a me kitchen? Clean up dis mess,’ she say, handing me a broom. ‘When you done, tek garbage down’a the dunghill. Mek haste.’ She pick up her mixing spoon. Give me a good slap.

I do any jobs Melon want doing quick. The sooner them done, the sooner I get a little reward. A juicy wing of chicken. A piece of plantain she bake in the skin. If I hang round too long though, she shoo me out the door.

‘G’wan bout you business, little Will. Time you do some work round ’ere.’ Then she pinch me arm, shake her head. ‘Still scrawny. Need to fatten you up.’

‘Just like the piglet dem?’

‘Just like the piglet dem,’ she say, before she turn her back on me. Nudge Mary to hurry up with them pots, and I know is time to go.