She claps again. ‘Mmhmm, wat a story!’ she says in her molasses voice, snapping her fingers with a broad-handed flourish. So I do speak Creole, she says as she totters a bit, preparing to settle back into her seat. I tell her that I’ve already said pretty much everything I know. I’m sure my imitation is laughable.

‘Well, I know your ruuks, mami, tus raíces. And it’s not your fault.’ She twists from the torso with some effort and smooths her beige dress, stamped with small purple flowers. She slips a hand into her left pocket, pulls out a tiny pale green cake, breaks off a piece and holds it out to me.

‘Try this, mama,’ she says. She breaks off another bit and pops it into her mouth.

I sense vanilla as it melts. Cloves, hints of chocolate and ginger. Herbs. It feels like tasting the smoky scent of wet earth.

‘You look like the Lynton women, you know. They’re white like you. One was even whiter – pink!’ Josephine lets out a nearly hysterical cackle.

‘Yeah!’ I clear my throat. ‘What’s this sugar cake?’ I ask, licking a finger.

‘Ah! Dat di special one, mami… I remember Ione,’ she continues. ‘She was tall and pink,’ she repeats, then pauses. ‘Did you know she was a nurse in World War Two? She went to England and never came back. Violet went to the United States, got married, and never lived here again, either. Miss Cass still has children on the island, though,’ she says, as if the Miss in question were still alive. ‘But you’ – she leans towards me – ‘you’re more like Rossilda with that chin of yours, those big eyes.’ She spreads her palms to show me.

‘Rossilda, that’s right, my great-grandmother.’ I take another warm sip. Branches and roots, branches and roots start to sketch themselves in my mind. ‘You said I look like her?’

‘Ah remember dem, yeeh, mami, tienes la misma forma.’ That hard English r again. You’ve got the same shape. She flutters a hand close to my face, as if she could trace their features onto me. She’s so close that I can smell her biscuity breath.

‘I have a brother who said he’d get beat and locked up if he spoke Creole in the school your great-grandfather founded, so he always kept quiet, wouldn’t say a word. That’s why you don’t speak Creole, either.’ She’s giving me something I can use as an excuse. I look at her in silence, tilt my head, shrug my shoulders, wide-eyed.

I too remember by grandmother’s admonishment: British English!

‘Yes, I know my great-grandfather José Alberto Munévar was the founder of the Colegio Bolivariano, which used to be an all-boys’ school. They hit the kids for that?’