The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q (41 page)

I
did
all that Mum had said. There was a heap of post for her and countless phone messages. I checked her email but there was nothing in particular, except from some woman called Nora Docherty who said she’d call, and she did, no less than five times, each time leaving a voice mail saying she’d try again. When next I rang Mum I casually mentioned it. Mum let out a shriek that rendered my left ear deaf, or almost so.

‘Nora Docherty, she’s only just about the top agent at the top agency in London!’ she cried when she finally found her tongue. ‘Inky, phone her at once and give her my number over here.’

So I did that and next thing we knew, Mum had a literary agent who thought her book was ‘marvellous, fantastic, unputdownable, and yet so full of insight and wisdom’, with ‘characters who crawl into your soul and take possession of your heart’. (That’s what she said in an email to Mum, who forwarded it to me.) In other words; mega-wicked.

And next thing we knew, four big London publishers were hungry for Mum’s last novel and Nora Docherty was holding an auction for it, and
next
thing we knew, Mum accepted what is known as a ‘major deal’ which I learned in publishing terms means a six-figure advance, but Mum wouldn’t tell me the exact amount; and she came back to England to meet with agents and publishers and various business people.

I haven’t read it yet, Mum won’t let me, but will do so as soon as we get the ARCs – that’s Advance Review Copies, as I now proudly know.

With that deal in her pocket, Mum made another decision. The Quint was set to bring us a small fortune at auction; we’d set some of that money aside for ourselves, for boring things like investments and pensions and getting my career started, and we’d give some to Marion to renovate the Lamaha Street house; we no longer needed to sell it. Renovated, it could be rented out, and stay in the family. If there was anything left over we’d found a charity, which was to be named ‘The Dorothea Quint Trust for Women in Need’ which Marion was to run in Guyana, and which would be a financial fund for Guyanese women who needed help, ‘WIN’ for short. Mum breathed a deep sigh of relief. Yes, that’s what we’d do.

F
inances all sorted
, Mum returned to Guyana again, and that’s when she told me her decision, over Skype. She would move back to Guyana, live on the Pomeroon River with Rajan. She had already spoken to his brother, who lived in the big house; she would add an extension to the blue cottage, or maybe add another storey, a room at the top, in the canopy; a little blue room, with windows all around.

‘A room of my own,’ she said.

I was shocked.

‘Mum! You can’t just throw your life away like that! I mean, it’s all very noble and self-sacrificing and everything but why should you take on such a burden? Think of yourself! Why should you give up your life for him? I mean, with all due respect, he’s just a …’

‘Stop it, Inky. Just stop it!’ interrupted Mum. ‘Not another word!’

‘But, Mum. What kind of a life will it be? I just don’t believe in women sacrificing themselves for men. I mean, you’re a feminist too, aren’t you?’

Mum’s eyes were fierce now. ‘No, Inky, just no. Just leave it.’

I couldn’t leave it.

‘But, Mum …’

‘Listen: don’t come with
you have to think of yourself
first
nonsense, because that’s not my philosophy. And it's not a sacrifice or a burden. I'm not giving up my life for him. This
is
my life. This is what life is calling me to do now, and that means it's exactly the right thing. I won't lose myself. I'll find myself. Do you think that life in London is particularly fulfilling? It’s not the circumstances that define who we are; it's how we handle them. And this is it, for me.’

She took a deep breath, then said:

‘I never told you this, but I’ve always been a fish out of water in London. I guess I’m one of those back-to-nature freaks at heart. I’ve been thinking for a long time about where I’d go on retirement, which isn’t so far away. The only problem was that huge debt – I couldn’t have left you with that. But I’ve longed for somewhere tropical, somewhere without a winter, a garden, overflowing with bougainvillea and hibiscus, mango and coconut trees – oh, for years! I’ve always missed that sense of Home. What could be more perfect than this?’

‘But – what will you do all day? Read stories to Rajan?’

Mum looked annoyed for a moment, but she caught herself, and answered calmly.

‘Finish my novel. Write new novels. Learn to paddle a canoe, drive a motor-boat. Get into gardening, my hands in the earth. Grow flowers. Learn to play the guitar. Perfect my Spanish and Portuguese, read novels in those languages. Read
lots
of novels, in fact. Practice Yoga. Meditate. Teach Amerindian children, read them stories. Be with Rajan, learn his language. Just Be.’

She grinned. ‘I always had the makings of a hermit. An ascetic. But with that list …’

But I wasn’t giving up that easily. As romantic as it all sounded, I hated the thought of her throwing away her life like that. I’d always thought Mum would find some nice middle-aged man to settle with, to grow old with. I had to say something.

‘But, Mum – it’ll mean looking after him for the rest of your life!’

‘I won’t be looking after him. He’s got a personal carer for the hard bits of looking after him; the physical bits.’

Still. I had other plans for Mum. Once, back in Guyana, a nice middle-aged man had come to visit, an old friend of Mum’s, apparently. An old boyfriend? He’d taken us out to dinner at the Pegasus, which is Guyana’s best hotel, and it turned out he was divorced. His name was Don, and he must have been good-looking in his day, though now he was balding and had a paunch, and he kept gazing at Mum, in a flirty sort of way, but admiring rather than lusting. I don’t blame him; Mum was positively luminous

The thing is: it seemed to me her radiance came not because of Don, and not even because of Rajan. She was glowing because she’d dropped that huge heavy burden she’d been schlepping around for decades, and now she was light and free, the way she was supposed to be. And at the Pegasus she just glowed and sparkled and looked so special, and Don looked so old and tired. Still. Why not? At least he was a man, presumably healthy.

‘What about that guy Don? I bet he’s interested. I bet you could catch him like that.’

I snapped my fingers.

Mum just laughed mysteriously and shook her head. But I still wasn’t giving up.

‘But, Mum! Rajan! I mean, in all respect … what kind of a marriage will that be? What about communication? You can’t even talk to him!’

‘Who said anything about marriage?’ A wave of relief swept through me.

‘So – it’s more of a platonic thing?’

She nodded. ‘I suppose you could call it that. Inky, when I was young, Rajan practically saved my life. He pulled me out of a deep hole of insecurity and self-doubt. I owe everything I am now to him – truly. I feel such gratitude – I just want to be able to give back. I’ll be happy here, believe me.’

Silence descended between us, and then she grinned cheekily.

‘I guess you could call this dropping out, like people did in the Sixties, like I did. Just with a bit more financial security! One of the perks of middle age is that you don’t feel the pressure to be normal and live normal lives. The bane of my teenage years! Oh yes! Thank goodness that’s over. Who cares what people say!’

Another silence as I tried to digest all this. My voice broke when I spoke again.

‘But, Mum! You can’t just – just
disappear
like that! It’s like – like – running away again! I mean, what about, about –
me?
Won’t you miss me?’

She laughed, and even through the Skype screen her eyes twinkled. ‘Inky, why don’t you be honest and say what exactly you want to say? That
you’ll
miss
me
?’

I hung my head. It was true. That was the core of the problem.

‘I’m too
young!’
I finally wailed.

‘Inky! You’re nineteen, adult, about to start University. That’s the age young people move out anyway. Just about all of my cousins were sent by their parents to the UK or USA or Canada to study, and they were younger than you, going to a foreign country, where they knew no one! It was an adventure! You’re in your hometown, and you’ve got Sal. And you’ve always insisted on how independent and reliable and responsible you are.’

That, too, was true. How often I had teased her in the past, after I had taken care of something she’d forgotten: joked that I was the parent and she the child. How condescending I’d been. How arrogant, even.

‘I suppose we can visit each other,’ I said, reluctantly, after a while. ‘Often. But I’ll still miss you.’

She chuckled. ‘Inky, I think you’re suffering from Empty Nest Syndrome! Who would have thought it! But you’ll get over it. You’ll see. And you’ll end up loving it.’

T
he Quint was eventually acquired
at auction by a mysterious anonymous bidder, by proxy, over the phone. The price was good; enough to change our lives forever.

About a week later I was in the kitchen cooking pepperpot when Sal called out from the front room, his voice urgent. I walked over and stood in the doorway; he was watching the news on TV.

‘What’s up?’

‘Amazing,’ said Sal. ‘Unbelievable!’

‘Well, tell me! What happened? Some new celebrity death?’

‘Well, I suppose you could call it that. The Quint is dead.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘It just came on the news. You know the anonymous purchaser? It happened to be the owners of the original British Guiana One-Cent Magenta – the Du Pont stamp. They bought it – and burnt it. Officially, with witnesses.’

My jaw dropped to the floor. ‘You’re kidding! Why on earth – oh! I get it.’

‘Now there’s still only one British Guiana One Cent in the world. The moment the second one turned up, the first one lost value. So they bought it, only in order to destroy it.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s just – Granddad would turn in his grave. He loved that stamp.’

‘No. I think he’d be OK with it. In the end, he chose to give it up for a greater good: for Rajan. For Rajan’s life. A sort of – freedom, maybe.’

I thought about this. And yes, it was true. As Mum would say: freedom and happiness come with letting go. It’s clinging that makes us miserable: clinging to things, and ideas, and our own little selves.

I nodded. ‘Yes. You’re right. Granddad would approve. And so would Gran.’

F
irst of all
, I want to say a huge thank you for choosing
The Small Fortune of Dorothea Q
. I hope you enjoyed reading Dorothea’s, Rika’s and Inky’s story just as much as I loved writing it – and I hope it took you on a voyage into another world, just as writing it took me back to days gone by!

I
f you did enjoy it
,
I would be forever grateful if you’d write a review.
I’d love to hear what you think, and it can also help other readers discover one of my books for the first time. Or maybe you can recommend it to your friends and family…

A
story is
a wonderful thing to share with others—it connects us in so many ways, makes us all part of the same world, unites us in spirit. I know I’m with YOU in spirit with every story I write; I feel I’m right there behind the words, between the lines, holding out a hand to you, hoping to cast a spell to draw you in. If the spell worked, well, I’d love to hear from you—drop me a line on my
Facebook
or
Goodreads
page, or through my
website
.

A
nd if you
’d like to keep up-to-date with all my latest releases, just sign up here:

Thank you so much for your support – until next time.

S
haron Maas

PS. You might also enjoy my debut novel,
Of Marriageable Age
- out now.

Connect with me:

• @sharon_maas
  
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A
spellbinding story
of forbidden love. Three continents, three decades, three very disparate lives

S
avitri
, intuitive and charismatic, grows up among the servants of a pre-war English household in Madras. But the traditional customs of her Brahmin family clash against English upper-class prejudice, threatening her love for the privileged son of the house.

Nataraj
, raised as the son of an idealistic doctor in rural South India, finds life in London heady, with girls and grass easily available… until he is summoned back home to face raw reality.

Saroj
, her fire hidden by outward reserve, comes of age in Guyana, South America. When her strict, orthodox Hindu father goes one step too far she finally rebels against him... and even against her gentle, apparently docile Ma.

But Ma harbours a deep secret… one that binds these three so disparate lives and hurtles them towards a truth that could destroy their world.

'A big book, big themes, an exotic background and characters that will live with you forever.' Katie Fforde

'
B
eautifully and cleverly written
. A wondrous, spellbinding story which grips you from the first to the last page… I can't recall when I last enjoyed a book so much.' Lesley Pearse

I
t's
a wonderful panoramic story and conveys such vivid pictures of the countries it portrays. I was immediately transported and completely captivated. A terrific writer.' Barbara Erskine

‘
A
vast canvas
of memorable characters across a kaleidoscope of cultures… her epic story feels like an authentic reflection of a world full of sadness, joy and surprise.'
The Observer