Can your heart belong somewhere that you’ve never called home?
When Erica gets a phone call to say her mother, Ione, is ill in St Lucia, she knows she must go to her. Though the island – the place of her mother’s birth – is somewhere that Erica has never seen as her homeland.
Even when the plane touches down in the tropical paradise, with its palm trees swaying in the island breeze, the sound of accents so like her mother’s own calling loud in the air, Erica doesn’t find herself wanting to stay a moment longer than she has to.
But stepping into her mother’s house, she is shocked by what she finds. Her mother’s memory is fading, her once-immaculate house is now dirty and messy, and she’s refusing help from anyone but family. And Erica knows she must stay with her, even though it means leaving everything else behind.
What she doesn’t know is that – even as her mother’s memories get worse – Ione still has a final gift for her daughter. Because the unspoken secrets of their past are about to emerge, changing everything Erica thought she knew about her mother, her home, and who she really is…
A captivating tale of grief, love, and what it means to find home, perfect for fans of Andrea Levy, Jojo Moyes and Amanda Prowse.
When Erica gets a phone call to say her mother, Ione, is ill in St Lucia, she knows she must go to her. Though the island – the place of her mother’s birth – is somewhere that Erica has never seen as her homeland.
Even when the plane touches down in the tropical paradise, with its palm trees swaying in the island breeze, the sound of accents so like her mother’s own calling loud in the air, Erica doesn’t find herself wanting to stay a moment longer than she has to.
But stepping into her mother’s house, she is shocked by what she finds. Her mother’s memory is fading, her once-immaculate house is now dirty and messy, and she’s refusing help from anyone but family. And Erica knows she must stay with her, even though it means leaving everything else behind.
What she doesn’t know is that – even as her mother’s memories get worse – Ione still has a final gift for her daughter. Because the unspoken secrets of their past are about to emerge, changing everything Erica thought she knew about her mother, her home, and who she really is…
A captivating tale of grief, love, and what it means to find home, perfect for fans of Andrea Levy, Jojo Moyes and Amanda Prowse.
Steffanie Edward was born in St Lucia, brought up in London and now straddles between the two.
Anancy, Crick-crick and other Caribbean folk stories have been a part of her life since childhood. In her late teens she enjoyed reading Susan Howatch and books on slavery. Her absolute favourite reads have been Wild Seed by Octavia E Butler, and Woman At Point Zero by Naawal El Saadawi.
Her writing career started with short stories, five of which have been published. Her first attempt at writing a novel was over twenty years ago, whilst living and working in Abu Dhabi. That novel, Yvette, didn’t make it into print, but the main protagonist, Yvette, has muscled her way into Steffanie’s debut novel, This Other Island.
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The warmth and dazzle from the sun hit me. Eyes half-closed, I looked down, thoughts leaping to the shades in my bag as I navigated the narrow metal steps of the plane. ‘My waist troubling me,’ Auntie Barbara had said, fore‐ warning that she might not be there, but expectation and hope stayed with me all the way through the formalities phase of arrival, until I was outside again and Cousin Headley – with, sadly, no Auntie Barbara nor Mum beside him – shouted, ‘Eri‐ ca!’ and waved me over. ‘You cut off all your nice hair?’ he said, when I got closer. ‘Oh, yeah.’ I touched my head. ‘How are you, cousin?’ I gave him a light hug. ‘Fine. Fine,’ he said, taking my suitcase, though he didn’t have to. My four-wheeled case had been gliding over surfaces like grease on a marble floor. Lifting was the problem. Espe‐ cially this case, packed as it was with mosquito repellents, a four-pack of Heinz baked beans, special M&S tea, butter mintoes, shortbread biscuits, the ginger snaps that Mum loved, and other stuff including shoes for Cousin Headley, Mum and Auntie, and countless other family requests I’d daren’t say no to – even though the list represented three-quarters of the contents of my suitcase. I followed him, away from the hustle and crowd, towards the car park. ‘Leave dat an’ go inside,’ he said, as he lifted my case into the back of his minibus. I did as he asked, leaving my hand luggage next to him and made for the front seat, where I took a deep inhale, mentally preparing for what lay ahead. That aside, it was good to be in St Lucia, the place Mum always referred to as ‘back home’. Today wasn’t the hottest of days. It was rainy season, but as gratifying as a glorious summer’s day in England. Cousin Headley was my second cousin, though no one identified cousins in levels here. First, second or third, you were simply a cousin. Blood. He was around ten years younger than Auntie. They’d grown up together in the same house with my grandmother, grandfather, Mum’s other siblings, plus nieces and nephews. Their closeness meant he was always at hand to help Mum and Auntie out, especially with transport. Although his level of formal education hadn’t gone beyond fourteen and he’d never lived abroad, thanks to the acres of farming land his father had left for him and his two brothers, who were settled in America and didn’t care for farming or coming back home, Cousin Headley was wealthy. He employed people to work on what he, Auntie, Mum and others referred to as his ‘estate’. His main role was coordinating everything, then shipping his tons of green bananas, plantains and other fresh foodstuff like turmeric and ginger, and ground provisions – cassava, yams and sweet potatoes – to the local supermarkets and to the women who ran market stalls in and outside of St Lucia. Driving his old minibus, wearing jeans, slightly worn-out shirts and sandals – gave nothing away about his financial status.
Once seated, we did the ‘good flight?’ thing, and talked about the weather because outside was still puddley from the on-off rain. ‘But better dat dan storm or hurricane. An’ de plants need it,’ he said, as we began leaving Vieux Fort behind. I sat back, taking in the views of surrounding mountains and hills in the distance; trees, lush greenery, houses and eating places set back from the road. Hiding in amongst all of that were some less presentable, wooden houses with rusty galvanised roofs and fencing – if they had any. These were houses belonging to poorer families, some living on what they grew and sold in small quantities. If they were lucky, relatives here or abroad could slip a little something their way. It was all part of surviving in the Caribbean. I’d left too young to remember ever living here, but the visits I’d made since my twenties – even more since Mum had come back to live – some‐ times made me feel more emotionally anchored here than in England, the country I’ve lived in practically all of my life.
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