The Sugar Planter's Daughter by Sharon Maas

ascetic, immediately commented on it.
    â€˜That smells delicious!’ he said, making an exaggerated gesture of breathing it deep into his lungs. ‘Mulligatawny is my favourite!’
    â€˜His mother makes it too,’ chirped Winnie, smiling at Mama. This was her strategy, it seemed: to be constantly drawing attention to points in her new family’s favour. ‘And she’s taught me to cook it!’
    And, I might add, boasting of her newly found accomplishments in her new life. She never let me forget the fact that she was, apparently, an expert Morse technician and had even worked in the telegraphy office in Barbados – as if working in a public institution was anything to boast about! Perhaps she had forgotten one of the many German aphorisms Mama had taught us as children: Eigenlob stinkt – self-praise stinks. She had been far more modest before this affair with George; when we were growing up Winnie was the one who never seemed to believe in herself, and I was the star, the one everyone admired and praised. Yet here now was Winnie putting on airs, passing herself off as some kind of a gourmet cook.
    â€˜She’s good, too!’ said George, beholding her with shining eyes as if she were an angel with spreading wings floating above us all. Winnie beamed at the sycophancy.
    â€˜I like cooking,’ she said. ‘I never thought I would – I was never very practical as a girl – do you remember, Mama? You always said I had two left thumbs when it came to sewing and embroidery!’
    â€˜Tell her about your guava jelly,’ said George, in between sips at his soup. He held the soup spoon completely wrong, slurping out of the front of the spoon instead of nipping at the side. It was obvious he had not been brought up with any kind of table etiquette whatsoever, and that Winnie had not bothered to teach him either. A drop of mulligatawny soup fell on to his shirt, and I couldn’t help but titter. Clarence, too, noticed this, and we exchanged a secret smile.
    Winnie, of course, did not notice – she would probably never see any fault in her George – and now she took his encouragement as a cue for yet more bragging. Oh Winnie, Winnie – where did you leave your modesty?
    â€˜Yes, Mama – you see, we have two guava trees in the backyard and they bear the most delicious, huge, white guavas. They are far tastier than the pink ones – quite a delicacy! Well, on my first day as a married woman George’s mother – who can be quite formidable when she wants to be – taught me how to make guava jelly. And since then I’ve been going around Albouystown buying those white guavas from anyone who has a tree. I walk from door to door with a basket and I pay good prices. That way I also made a few friends among the women. And then I make the jelly, and sell it. You see, Yoyo – you’re not the only businesswoman among us!’
    I smiled and bowed my head in acknowledgement, but inwardly I fumed. How dare she compare guava jelly to a sugar estate? How dare she compare us ? How dare she!
    â€˜And you know what?’ said George. ‘Now people have started calling the white guavas “White Lady Guavas”. Not just in the neighbourhood – the name has stuck even in Bourda Market.’
    Winnie had the grace to blush.
    â€˜How lovely!’ I said, and caught George’s eye. He frowned, and I suspected he had read my sarcasm, but Winnie hadn’t – she was far too naïve to mistrust any praise I offered, possibly because it was so rare. She simpered and said, bubbling over with enthusiasm: ‘I’ve brought you some jars, Yoyo, so you can try it. And some pepper sauce, and tamarind chutney, and mango pickle! I brought them in the trunk of the car. Has Poole brought them up to the kitchen yet? I’ve been trying out all these wonderful recipes George’s mother taught me, and it’s such fun – I