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From The Stirring of the Water Series
The Stirring of the Water
A Family Story
Sequel to The Stirring of the Water A Novel of Four Sisters
The story continues.
The sisters have faced the stirrings of the past, but family ties run deeper than secrets alone. As old wounds resurface and new questions arise, the bonds between them will be tested in ways they never expected.
Because some stories do not end when the water settles.
Sometimes, that is only the beginning.
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The Stirring of the Water A Family Story
The story continues…
They crossed an ocean in search of something more. They found friendship, love, faith and a place to call home. But putting down roots does not mean the storms have passed.
In The Stirring of the Water A Family Story, the lives of Del, Rose, Lucy and Mirry continue to unfold as marriage, motherhood, ambition and the pull of two homelands begin to shape the women they are becoming.
London is home now, but Jamaica has never truly released its hold.
As the family they have built grows, so do their responsibilities, their dreams and the quiet struggles each carries. Some journeys will take them back to familiar ground. Others will lead them into territory none of them expected.
Through laughter, hardship, faith and the ordinary moments that bind a family together, they discover that life does not always grow in a straight line.
Sometimes it bends.
Sometimes the waters are stirred.
And sometimes, it is the depth of the roots that determines what survives the storm.
A story of family, friendship, migration, resilience and belonging, spanning two homelands and a family still finding its way.
The Stirring of the Water A Family Story continues the journey begun in The Stirring of the Water A Novel of Four Sisters.
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“Suh Myrtle.” Del said.
“How yu teet?”
“Well, it feel much better dis marning.”
“How was de dentist?”
“Laard, mi ah tell yu. Im sey mi nuh clean mi teet proper, suh im clean it, mi never know im ah gu charge mi fi clean it, nuh im suggest it?”
The force of the laughter made each baby stir, and one cried out in its sleep.
“Anyhow,” Myrtle continued. “Im bring one big needle, fraid tek mi, an jook mi mouth bout tree time.”
More laughter.
“Den im sey mi ah gu use de time while yu ah numb, fi clean yu teet. Bwoy, dat dey clean hurt up mi gum. Im jook, poke, all sort ah noise mi ah hear an water ah splash every weh! De nurse, poor ting, ah try dry mi face an suck out de water from mi mouth, but she cyaan keep up. Im sey rinse, mi spit out de water, pure blood ah run from mi mouth. Im sey sit back, ah get mi wyan fi get out ah de chair an run weh!”
“Laard Myrtle, if yu nuh wyan fi gu ah dentist, bes yu clean yu teet.”
“Aunty, all tree time ah day mi brush.”
“Den yu nah brush it proper.”
“Well mi ah gu learn. De man start fi drill an ah push dung pan mi jar, mi tink ah bruk im wyan bruk mi jar! Wen im dun im sey bite dung pan dis. Mi try close mi mouth an fine sey mi mouth cyaan close. Panic tek mi, mi open mi eye dem wide. De man laugh an sey, nuh worry, ah lack yu jar lack. Im den start rub mi cheek an sey try again. An doh it hurt, mi cud close mi mouth. But bless Gad dis marning, teet alright, likkle pain yes, but by Gad it alright.”
She remembered one day playing in the yard, feeling sad a while after her grandmother had died. So, she decided to use the pot lid as a tambourine as she had done so many times in her grandma’s presence, spinning, laughing, dancing. For a few moments she forgot Grandma was gone. In her mind she was back beneath the mango tree, her grandmother clapping in time, laughing as Mirry beat the pot lid and twirled until she grew dizzy. She couldn’t remember if she felt the pain first or the wetness of the blood dripping. She looked on the ground and saw a large stone glistening with her blood, then fainted.
Spanish Town.
The name alone stirred something in her chest.
Mirry watched the buildings begin to gather.
Some stood proud even in weariness. Others leaned into their
own age, paint faded, wood darkened, stone marked by heat and
rain and neglect. There were streets with names that seemed to
carry echoes, King Street, White Church Street, Red Church Street,
Monk Street. Names laid down by people who had claimed,
conquered, governed, prayed, punished and traded as if the land
and its people existed only to serve them.
Outside, the cold cut through wool, shirt and vest before they reached the end of the road. Snow pressed over their boots and hid the kerb. Greg went first, testing each step, Cliff behind him carrying a bag of tools as though refusing to arrive empty-handed would force the day to cooperate. Sonny and Glen followed, both carrying some tools, shoulders bent against the wind.
The journey took more than twice as long as they had expected. When they reached the properties, snow had gathered against both front doors. The locks resisted. Inside, their breath clouded the air.
“Well,” Cliff said, stamping his feet. “Wi reach.”
“Dat ah de easy part,” Glen stated.
Greg ran a gloved hand along the wall. “First ting, wi need heat.”
“First ting, wi strip out,” Cliff corrected. “Movement wi warm wi. But mek wi look pon bout ah dem den mek decision.”
They walked through both houses. “Suh, mek wi start strip back dis yah one den move to de nex. Weh unu tink?”
“Well, mi tink sey yu right. Wi systematic. Yeah…” Glen answered, nodding his head as if in deep thought.
All eyes were on him.
“Systematic?” Greg asked. He then gave a deep belly laugh. All three fell about with laughter as Glen looked at them, perplexed.
“Ah weh wrang wid unu?”
“Sys-te-ma-tic?” Cliff asked, shaking his head. “Well, dat warm wi.”
Now Glen joined them.