The rich ripe smell of avocados in Portland market made me remember the sunny Sunday when I chased a butterfly. I took it on my middle finger, then let it fly away. Blue skies. A gentle breeze. The smell of over-ripe mangos. Cashews and avocados rotting on the ground. The strong smell of lilies and roses.
I tripped over my Daddy as he lay in the long grass. His khaki shorts around his knees. His penis was pink at the top.
His voice was coaxing.
‘Come give Daddy’s teapot a kiss.’
‘No.’
‘Aunty Mavis will leave, if you don’t.’
I began to cry as he reached for my hand. ‘No. Daddy. No.’
‘Time to say goodbye,’ Aunty Mavis called from the veranda.
I stumbled into the house. Aunty Mavis handed me a set of clay kitchen toys.
‘Give back those toys,’ my father hissed.
I felt pee run down my legs.
‘Get a rag and wipe up that pee,’ he said.
I got a rag. Wiped the wet tiled floor.
I took the rag into the back garden. Washed it under the tap. Hung it on the line to dry. I took off my wet panty. Washed it under the tap. Hung it on the line to dry next to the rag.
‘I know what you are doing to this child Baz. I can’t prove a thing but I know she’s scared to death of leaving you.
Aunty Mavis was my father’s girlfriend. Now she was leaving.
‘I want to go with you. Don’t leave me with Daddy.’
The door bell rang.
‘Answer it,’ my father barked.
It was Sidney. He was a friend of Aunty Mavis and the reason she was leaving. He smiled a wide smile.
‘Hello pet,’ he said. ‘Like your gifts? I made them especially for you.’
‘Thanks Uncle Sidney.’
‘Baz won’t allow her to keep them,’ said Aunty Mavis.
‘Be a sport Baz,’ said Sidney.
‘You are taking my woman. Stay away from my child.’ My father looked at Sidney with ice in his eyes.
‘She can keep the toys,’ he said. ‘But not as long as she is under my roof.’
I went into the back garden. I took my panty off the line. I put it on. I took the rag from the line. I went back into the house.
I looked my father in the eye. ‘I’m leaving Daddy.’
‘If you do, never let me see you in this house again. Remember that.’
I gathered up my gifts. I put them in a carrier bag. Aunty Mavis held out her hand. But, before I took her hand, I walked over to my father and dropped the rag at his feet.
Veronica Robinson is Jamaican/British. She started writing in Jamaica for the evening newspaper, producing stories, articles and an advice column. She also contributed in two short films and a flash fiction story to City Lit magazine ‘Between The Line’. For the past 10 years, Veronica has been attending a writers’ group focusing on writing short stories and flash fiction.