Then we pass a low stone wall that go right round a wide grassy lawn, bright green ferns hugging up the edge. Long-stalked bird of paradise, standing up in pots. Purple flowers, under a shady lignum vitae tree. Reach a wooden gate, pull up the latch. Step inside a big kitchen garden.

‘Yam, chocho, sweet potato and orange. Guinep, custard apple, pawpaw, soursop and mango. Everything that grow here belong to Massa, to Mistress Margaret,’ she tell me, tightening up the sling because me wriggling too much. ‘Is them provision ground. Don’t steal or you get into a whole heap of trouble.’

When we reach the back steps, Stella stop. Look up at the big, big stone house, have two floors, plenty rooms, long wide verandah. Many tall windows, front and back. And I come to sense she always stop to gather strength, wrap it tight round her shoulders.

‘Great House,’ she say with a little bit of pride. ‘Never ever go in here alone unless somebody tell you to,’ and she give me legs a little slap to make me remember, before she turn the handle on the thick wooden door, march right in.

Mama don’t need to be told if she can go into the Great House. She not one of the field slave them. She is what you call house slave. And I come to understand she might be a little bit special.

Every day is the same thing, till the next time Massa come to the hut, hold me up for inspection. Him too pleased with himself and me too young to know. Stella have this old-time god inside her. An Ancestor god. A wrathful god. And she not done with him yet. She smile. A thin snake smile like she getting ready to strike.

‘What name to give the little fellow?’ Massa ask.

Stella say nothing at first.

‘Johnnie? Peter? Sammy? James?’

Stella still say nothing.

‘Come, speak up, girl,’ Massa say, touching him riding crop against her neck.

Stella look at Massa, look at me, and veil her eye them.

‘Little Will,’ she say quietly.

‘Little Will? William?’

Stella nod. Smile her snake smile again.

Soon it feel like dark storm clouds gathering round the hut. The quiet world I been living in, suddenly wheel and turn, till the soft edges of me little life spin rough, twist jagged.

After that day, Massa turn mean, always picking on Stella, ordering her bout. Telling her what to do every minute. Shout at her, call her ‘uppity’. Tell her she turn too ‘wilful’ and him going beat it out of her. Even so, him still come to the hut many times, in the dead of night. Sometimes show up drunk. Push the door open, walk straight in. Stare at her with him pale caneleaf-colour eye them. Beat her, then throw her on the dirt floor, have him way with her.