Paulette must ride two buses to reach her job, first the 61 into the city, then a stroll across Cathedral Green to catch the 18 heading north. Just beside the stop stands a newly opened children’s shop, its window filled with prams and cots. She checks her watch—ten minutes left before the bus arrives. She moves up to the doorway and pushes it open.
The place carries a scent of freshness, cleanliness, and novelty. Three different prams line the wall, plus a white highchair equipped with a loop of colored balls that attaches to the front, and when it’s time to feed, it slides aside. Not overly expensive either. At the back, there’s a tiny pretend nursery with an ABC rug and a rocking chair accompanied by a footstool for nursing. In the center sits a cot that converts into a small bed when you pull the levers on the side. Paulette has never seen anything like it. A cot for a baby and a bed for your son or daughter all in one. A bright yellow gingham quilt on top, and a white-and-yellow tiger pillow. Simply gorgeous. Smooth wood, not churned out in some distant factory. No, this is the handiwork of a proper carpenter with half-moon spectacles and a little chisel in his hand.
A girl steps up beside Paulette. “Adele” reads the badge on her chest.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” she says.
“Beautiful,” Paulette replies. “How much is it?”
“It depends on whether you want natural wood or white wood. Or we do a limed oak finish. We also have an introductory deal—the whole package with the bed, the linens and the covers.”
Paulette appreciates the idea of a package that covers everything in one go, so there’s no waiting.
“And we offer finance,” the girl adds quickly. “Is it for you, or…?”
“Yes,” Paulette answers, and without thinking, almost instinctively, her hand travels to rest on her belly. The girl copies the gesture and whispers, “I’m three months along. Not showing yet, really.”
“Nor am I,” Paulette says, and because she’s begun and wants to hear it aloud, because she wants to feel that it could be true, that it might as well be, she continues. “I’m three months as well.”
“Oh, congratulations!” says the girl. “What’s your due date?”
But Paulette doesn’t have a date at the tip of her tongue, so she settles on, “Summertime.”
They both fix their eyes on the cot that morphs into a bed until Paulette asks, “I’d like the baby’s room ready early. How much did you say it was?”
When the bus arrives, Paulette sits at the front, alone. She faces the window and sees nothing: not the weaving of cars, not the veiled women shopping for vegetables, not the rain tearing down the glass, not the dark sky threatening more downpours that will soak her before her shift begins. No, Paulette’s mind is already at home, at the doorway of her second bedroom, picturing a mint-green carpet she would rip up and replace, and purple curtains so sheer you could glimpse the morning sun through them. Change them to pale green velvet with tiny silver moons and stars for the baby to study as it drifts to sleep. She sees the cot that becomes a bed and wonders whether she should go ahead and make a down payment. But perhaps that would invite bad luck. No, better to wait until she’s actually pregnant. Whenever it happens, her baby will have the finest, and won’t wake early because the mattress is uncomfortable or because she didn’t invest in proper blackout curtains. But on the other hand, a baby will do as it pleases, and the mother has to adapt. So Paulette has learned.
Paulette had luck in childhood. She shared a bed with her grandmother until she turned six. A small house at the foot of Basseterre’s hill, a verandah all around the front, and two steps down to a trickle of a river that would dry up each summer. The scent of the Caribbean sea, the night rain beating down on the corrugated iron roof, soft as a lullaby, fierce as a fight. Grandmother slept hot, just like Denton, and the little Paulette would slide to the far corner of the bed to keep clear and get some sleep.
Sometimes when she woke in the morning, Granny would be looking at her and smiling, calling “My Sweet Pea” in her sing-song way. Then breakfast of scrambled eggs with chopped onion and pimento, Johnny Cakes, and tea in Paulette’s special enamel cup—three sugars with condensed milk. Paulette would sit on the floor between Granny’s legs to have her hair oiled and plaited.
“What time is it, Paulette?” her grandmother would ask, and Paulette would recite the Lord’s Prayer before heading off to school.
“You hear that? Lead us not into temptation. That’s the most important one, Sweet Pea. And then love. And forgiveness,” her grandmother would say. “Remember that now.”
Okay, so Paulette told the girl in the shop a white lie, but really it felt like telling the truth ahead of time. Sooner or later she will have a baby. She doesn’t nag Denton about it because he likes to take things slowly, but she knows he wants children; he has told her so many times—just not yet.
When Paulette’s baby arrives, she pictures it being christened in the cathedral in town, where the upstanding folk gather, where good families walk in step, arm in arm, in suits and hats and handbags. That’s where Paulette will thank the Lord and welcome her child into the Christian faith, followed by a small celebration. With her own hands she’ll bake an iced white fruitcake with pink edible roses circling the edge. She’ll probably be married by then, but if not, their child could be a bridesmaid or pageboy, scattering petals on the floor.
Honeymoon would be obvious. Jamaica for Denton and St Kitts for Paulette. A few old aunts and a couple of cousins there. Not people she keeps in close touch with, but if she had to lean on family, they’re the ones left out there. So a couple of sun-soaked weeks while someone looks after the baby. But wait—there is no one on this Earth Paulette would trust with her child more than herself, not a single soul, so the baby would come along too. Perhaps by then there would be two children. Or three, who knows? Either way, they would all go away together, turning it into a family holiday as well as a honeymoon. Sweet Pea, Denton, and their growing clan.
Princess Alexandra Hospital, Men’s Ward, day shift. Every auxiliary nurse arrives with their own methods. For instance, Paulette doesn’t mind feeding patients, making beds, and cleaning, but she can do without bedpans and washing. If she’s paired with Marcia and Tanya, they work out a good routine, swapping tasks and supporting each other until the shift passes smoothly and quickly, finished before you know it. Sister McKenzie always says that when the three of them are on shift, the world feels brighter, and she knows how to pull the best out of her staff.
Marcia just got married last month. Paulette was invited, and Marcia said she could bring a guest, but Denton had a job in Amsterdam, so she went alone and told Denton all about it while he was eating his dinner. Stew-down chicken, yam, green plantains, sweet potatoes, and coleslaw on the side.
Paulette loves to eat quickly and then bustle around the kitchen, chatting with Denton as he finishes his plate.
“Who is Maria again?” he asks.
“Marcia, Denton. She works with me. The one whose boyfriend bought the BMW. Well, now it’s her husband.”
“The Three Series?”
“I don’t know. It’s green.”
She refills his glass, sweeping a few grains of rice from the plastic tablecloth.
“She looked lovely, Denton. They must have spent a lot of money, that’s what I can tell you. White Rolls-Royce, six bridesmaids with tiny silver shoes and ribbons in their hair. And one pageboy at the front. Flowers everywhere. It’s a pity you couldn’t come. Food, as much as you could eat, and a DJ all night. I saved you a piece of the wedding cake for later. There was a superb sound system, so I even had a little dance, though some of the guys got a bit too forward. You know what they’re like when there’s a lot of drinking. Anyway, I didn’t stay out too late, but it was a great night. I wish you could have been there, Denton.”
“Three Series is a decent car, but the Six or the Eight is better. Garfield and I spotted a nice one on Baldwins Lane last week. Garfield wouldn’t stop talking about it. It looked sharp, man. Good shape.”
He reaches out and slides his hand along the top of her thigh.
“Speaking of good shape…,”
He drags her away from the sink and onto his lap. “You’d look stunning in the passenger seat of a Six Series with a fold-down roof, Paulette.”
She spears the last piece of yam on his plate with his fork and offers it to his lips, but he pulls away.
“No, P, please don’t.”
Paulette picks up his plate and sweeps the remnants into the bin. “Marcia wore a dress they call ‘blush,’ with delicate embroidery along the edge of the veil. Tight here at the chest. Her hair was straightened, too. And a tiara.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She watches him loosen his belt. “But you know what, Denton? Like you said, I can think of better ways to spend that money.”
He drains the last sip of Appleton’s rum, watered down, and settles back in his chair. “My God, Paulette, don’t give me so much next time. My stomach hurts.”
“You don’t have to eat it all, you know.”
“I can’t say no to anything, Paulette, you know that,” he says, pulling her closer, “I always want more.”
Marcia, who is thirty, and Tanya, who is thirty-four, are both married, while Paulette remains unattached. Yet they both had the sense to choose men who don’t work in European construction and who can come home every night.
Not a man who still keeps a room in his best friend’s flat, especially when that same best friend, Garfield, happens to be reckless with women and morals. And Paulette has never set eyes on this room, never been there once. Denton says he would be embarrassed to bring her there, because Garfield beds different women every night, low-class ones Paulette wouldn’t want to meet, and anyway, the place isn’t kept nice. Denton’s own bedroom is stuffed with records and his hi-fi, not much else, things that would clutter Paulette’s tidy house. And it’s cheap. Garfield doesn’t charge much, and it’s useful to have somewhere to crash when he and Garfield go out late and return making a ruckus. Garfield is a drinker and a playboy, and Denton is good for keeping him nearby. All in all, Denton will hold onto that little room until they’re ready to move into a proper home together.
If you want the truth, Paulette is growing impatient. It’s hard not to. Tanya has a child, eight years old, and Marcia will become pregnant in no time because she’s that kind of person, a touch ambitious and a bit superior. Paulette will come last. And they keep saying that Paulette should demand that Denton prove he’s serious, that he should be introduced to their homes so everyone can meet him. Or at the very least, set a moving-in date. She’s thought it all through herself, but at the end of the day, Denton isn’t like other men. He’s better looking, funnier, a big thinker with grand plans and a generous heart. And that’s all that matters.
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From Sweet Pea by Kit de Waal. Used with permission of the publisher, St Martin’s Press. Copyright © 2026 by Kit de Waal.
