wheels when they drove over that bridge, which was said to be the highest in the island. That afternoon all they could hear was the roar of the river as it rushed over its rocky bed, far below.
So if Zackie couldn't come home on the Rainy Ridge truck, what would he do? Would he stay with his mother in town, maybe?
It was dark when the little English car rolled into Kilmarnie's garage. All but exhausted from driving with the rain streaming down the windshield and long stretches of the road hidden by rushing water, Mr. Devon let him self go limp behind the wheel and let out a long "Whew!"
Through the continuing downpour, father and son ran from the garage to the house, where Miss Lorrie had the door open before they reached the top of the veranda steps. "Zackie don't come with you?" she asked, peering out at the yard.
"He'll be on the truck," Peter said.
She waited until they were inside, with the door closed. Then she looked at them and said, "The truck? There will not be no truck in a rain like this, if the driver have any sense."
Looking worried, and perhaps even feeling a little guilty, Mr. Devon said, "I guess we should have waited for him, Peter. I'd better drive down to the village to pick him up when the truck does come." He turned to Lorrie. "What time do you think that might be, Lorrie?"
"Who could even guess, Mr. Devon? Anyway, him can walk. That boy is no stranger to rain." Gazing at both of them, she shook her head. "And look at you two. You must change into some dry clothes whilst me fetch dinner."
Peter went to his room to change. When he returned to the living room, he found Miss Lorrie putting food on the table. "You really don't think the truck will come, Miss Lorne?"
"No, me don't," she said. "Zackie could take the bus to the Bay, though."
Zackie had said the same thing, Peter remembered. But, of course, he might have trouble getting up from the Bay in this weather, too. Nobody liked to drive the island's roads in a hard rain.
Peter and his father ate supper to the sounds of the power plant chugging and the rain relentlessly pounding the roof. Miss Lorrie cleared the table and said she would have to stay the night or drown trying to get home. Mr. Devon made a fire in the fireplace, and then sat in front of it with a loose-leaf notebook. He and some of the other plantation owners were to meet soon to discuss their common problems, and for quite a while now he had been writing down things that he thought ought to be brought up at the meeting. He had to be well prepared, he had said, because he would be the only one present who was not a Jamaican.
Dad looked tired, Peter thought. No wonder, after spending the whole day in Kingston and driving back in such a rain. And, of course, stopping at the cemetery.
Miss Lorrie, coming up from the kitchen, looked at them and shook her head. "If you two waiting for Zackie, you may be sitting here all night," she said. "So me better say good-night and go look me bed."
An hour later Mr. Devon finally stopped studying his notes and rose from his chair. "Perhaps we should leave the front door unlocked, Peter," he said. "I don't believe Zackie would wake us up if he found it locked. What do you think?"
"All right, Dad. Nobody would come prowling around on a night like this, I guess."
"Then let's do it and go to bed," Mr. Devon said. "I'm about as tired as I can get."
T here was no sign of Zackie when Peter awoke in the morning. The rain had stopped. Miss Lorrie was singing a Jamaican folk song as she set the table for breakfast. "Every time me 'member Liza, water come-a me eye," she sang. "Come back, Liza, come back, gal, water come-a me eye."
Still in his pajamas, Peter looked in his father's room on his way to take a shower and saw that the bed was empty. Good, he thought. Physically, Dad was in great shape from all the walking he had to do on the plantation, and being tired was a thing he could get over fast. What wore him down for days at a time was being
So if Zackie couldn't come home on the Rainy Ridge truck, what would he do? Would he stay with his mother in town, maybe?
It was dark when the little English car rolled into Kilmarnie's garage. All but exhausted from driving with the rain streaming down the windshield and long stretches of the road hidden by rushing water, Mr. Devon let him self go limp behind the wheel and let out a long "Whew!"
Through the continuing downpour, father and son ran from the garage to the house, where Miss Lorrie had the door open before they reached the top of the veranda steps. "Zackie don't come with you?" she asked, peering out at the yard.
"He'll be on the truck," Peter said.
She waited until they were inside, with the door closed. Then she looked at them and said, "The truck? There will not be no truck in a rain like this, if the driver have any sense."
Looking worried, and perhaps even feeling a little guilty, Mr. Devon said, "I guess we should have waited for him, Peter. I'd better drive down to the village to pick him up when the truck does come." He turned to Lorrie. "What time do you think that might be, Lorrie?"
"Who could even guess, Mr. Devon? Anyway, him can walk. That boy is no stranger to rain." Gazing at both of them, she shook her head. "And look at you two. You must change into some dry clothes whilst me fetch dinner."
Peter went to his room to change. When he returned to the living room, he found Miss Lorrie putting food on the table. "You really don't think the truck will come, Miss Lorne?"
"No, me don't," she said. "Zackie could take the bus to the Bay, though."
Zackie had said the same thing, Peter remembered. But, of course, he might have trouble getting up from the Bay in this weather, too. Nobody liked to drive the island's roads in a hard rain.
Peter and his father ate supper to the sounds of the power plant chugging and the rain relentlessly pounding the roof. Miss Lorrie cleared the table and said she would have to stay the night or drown trying to get home. Mr. Devon made a fire in the fireplace, and then sat in front of it with a loose-leaf notebook. He and some of the other plantation owners were to meet soon to discuss their common problems, and for quite a while now he had been writing down things that he thought ought to be brought up at the meeting. He had to be well prepared, he had said, because he would be the only one present who was not a Jamaican.
Dad looked tired, Peter thought. No wonder, after spending the whole day in Kingston and driving back in such a rain. And, of course, stopping at the cemetery.
Miss Lorrie, coming up from the kitchen, looked at them and shook her head. "If you two waiting for Zackie, you may be sitting here all night," she said. "So me better say good-night and go look me bed."
An hour later Mr. Devon finally stopped studying his notes and rose from his chair. "Perhaps we should leave the front door unlocked, Peter," he said. "I don't believe Zackie would wake us up if he found it locked. What do you think?"
"All right, Dad. Nobody would come prowling around on a night like this, I guess."
"Then let's do it and go to bed," Mr. Devon said. "I'm about as tired as I can get."
T here was no sign of Zackie when Peter awoke in the morning. The rain had stopped. Miss Lorrie was singing a Jamaican folk song as she set the table for breakfast. "Every time me 'member Liza, water come-a me eye," she sang. "Come back, Liza, come back, gal, water come-a me eye."
Still in his pajamas, Peter looked in his father's room on his way to take a shower and saw that the bed was empty. Good, he thought. Physically, Dad was in great shape from all the walking he had to do on the plantation, and being tired was a thing he could get over fast. What wore him down for days at a time was being
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