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stub between thumb and forefinger and pulling the acrid smoke through his teeth. He squinted across at the new arrivals, looking for trouble; he could tell, from their face and bearing, which of these newly hatched Englishmen and women would end up on his wrong side before they had even reached the hotel. He was a connoisseur of the multifarious forms of disdain employed by whites in their dealings with blacks: the curled lip and up-tilting nose, the click of the fingers in place of a ‘please’. Scotty had seen it all, and so often that it didn’t rattle him any more: it wasn’t personal, he knew, and it wasn’t even their fault. These highborn English folk had simply lost their way when it came to manners and mutual respect. Scotty didn’t care. He relished the prospect of engaging them in battle.
    Down on the dockside Mr Silas was running back and forth like a man with bees in his pants, and two steps behind him was young Master Seth, who took his lead, always, from his uncle. Mr Silas in a stew, Master Seth in a stew. Mr Silas happy, Master Seth happy. It was as if the boy had no ideas of his own about how he could be. Neither of them had learned that the way to go in Jamaica was slow: you get there anyway, but you don’t break sweat. There were four charabancs belonging to the Whittam Hotel, but they were late – forced to wait, more than likely, for the congested harbour road to clear – and the bewildered gaggle of English passengers milled by the luggage, sticking close together for safety. They looked, thought Scotty, as though they fully expected to be robbed. He laughed aloud at their imagined predicament, and Edna, the mule, shot him a sideways look of reprimand.
    ‘Beg pardon, Your Ladyship,’ Scotty said with a small bow. He sucked the last scrap of flavour from the stub of his cigarette, dropped it and ground out its glowing end with his heel. He was barefoot as usual, but the skin on his soles was as good as boot leather. He could strike a match on the balls of his feet; he could walk over hot embers in a barbecue pit.
    ‘Scotty!’
    This was Mr Silas, shouting as usual. He dressed cool and casual, thought Scotty, yet he burned up with anger all the time. Today his face, beneath his panama hat, was taut with irritation.
    ‘Scotty, move your idle backside and get this luggage up the hill. Where the devil is Maxwell? And the charabancs?’
    Scotty gave no indication that he’d heard and stood where he was for a few comfortable moments longer, before moving in his rangy way towards the trunks and valises that were forming a sizeable obstruction on the quay.
    ‘Seth, you’ll have to help him load up the cart or we’ll be here all day.’ Silas spoke sharply, even to Seth, who had done nothing but oblige him all morning. The boy jumped to it and scowled at Scotty, a reflex he’d learned from his uncle.
    ‘Where’s Maxwell?’ Silas said again, and then, ‘Hands clean?’
    Scotty raised his brows and his broad, smooth forehead erupted into furrows. He didn’t answer either question, and he certainly didn’t hold out his palms for inspection. Instead he hauled a leather trunk up and onto his shoulder, and loped towards the cart that he’d left in the shade cast by the offices of United Exotic Fruits. This had been strategic, calculated to irritate.
    ‘What in God’s name are you doing, tethering the mule there?’ Silas had followed Scotty; he hissed at him under his breath, keen to disguise his discomposure.
    ‘Shadier shade,’ Scotty said. He smiled as he walked along, though to himself, not at Silas.
    ‘Tie the damn beast by the Whittam buildings in future,’ Silas said, trotting beside him. Behind, Seth staggered under the weight of two suitcases. His young face was set in a grimace of effort and rivulets of perspiration ran into his eyes. Scotty and Maxwell should deal with all the luggage, he thought; it reflected badly on him to be compelled to do their job. These episodes were