Five voices tackle Bermudian society
This week, Bookshelf features Bermudian writer Angela Barry, whose novel, The Drowned Forest, was published by Peepal Tree Press in June 2022.
The following is the commentary on the novel by Peepal Tree Press’s publisher and editor, Jeremy Poynting.
“Bermuda tends to be left out of the reckonings of the essential Caribbean as an island dominated by a white elite, the haunt of rich Americans in absurd shorts. Its literature is summed up by the famous 17th-century poem of Andrew Marvell about the escape of persecuted Puritans to the “remote Bermudas” to an isle where the creator “hangs in shades the orange bright,/ Like golden lamps in a green night”–lines borrowed by Derek Walcott for the title of his first collection.
“Angela Barry’s The Drowned Forest is the novel for which Bermudans (and other Caribbean readers) have been waiting. Without pushing a prosaic history lesson on the reader, it is a dynamic picture of an island which is among the earliest sites of English colonisation and almost certainly Shakespeare’s inspiration for The Tempest.
“Angela Barry would not claim to be the first serious Bermudan novelist– that title belongs to Brian Burland, author of several novels from 1960s80s and wrote predominantly about the white elite.
“In The Drowned Forest, Angela Barry encompasses the full range of Bermudan society through the voices of five characters from different spaces– class, race, gender and age. Her fictive device is to bring these characters together around the crisis of a troubled black teenage girl, Genesis, who, as the extract indicates, avoids a custodial sentence only because three ill-assorted women are brought together to mentor her.”
Excerpt from the opening chapter of The Drowned Forest with full permission from Peepal Tree Press exclusively for The Sunday Guardian WE magazine.
“Nina hesitated on the doorstep of Sweet Airs and watched as Tess, in full hostess mode, looked Genesis up and down and then pulled her inside. Setting foot on the estate for the first time, Nina had expected to feel what she always felt when confronted by conspicuous wealth– a pleasant sense of superiority over those burdened with privilege. History was not on their side. But all the sharp comments she’d managed not to make to Tess during the past few weeks and the flashes of irritation she hoped had not been visible on her face had all receded and been supplanted by concern for all things Genesis.
Nina could see it, feel it. That day in Family Court. The magistrate, a woman with a severe grey bun at the nape of her neck, made her pronouncement. ‘You …’ She cast steely eyes on Genesis, ‘are at a crossroads and you …’ glancing at the three women, ‘have stepped forward to try to guide her onto the right …’ The girl’s head was down. Was she listening? ‘Miss Smith, stand up!’ Genesis stood, tugging at the hem of her school sweater. Finally, she looked up. ‘Miss Smith … Your assault on a fellow student involved a degree of violence that merits severe punishment.’
The girl’s hands stopped fidgeting, but her face was blank. The magistrate leaned forward. ‘I could lock you up.’ She paused. ‘I should lock you up!’ The girl’s body swayed, and Nina could see her hand trembling as she grasped her sweater. The thought Not so tough sounded in her mind. The magistrate sat back in her chair. ‘But I’m not going to.’
She leaned forward again, forcing the girl to meet her eyes. ‘But let’s get this straight. Mrs Nina Fox has agreed to act as your legal guardian until you are eighteen, and Mrs Alexander and Ms Pereira have committed to play an active role in your life until then. They are giving you the chance to be different. To be better. Without them, it’s jail time at the Youth Facility and after that … They are the ones giving you the chance, not me!’
They had all known Genesis at different times and in different ways. Lizzie was first when she had become the troubled 11-yearold girl’s ‘Big Sister’. As a young woman making her way in the island’s business community, Lizzie’s participation in the Big Brothers and Sisters of Bermuda was the sort of thing that looked good on a resume, Nina thought. She had been next, meeting fourteen-year-old Genesis when she’d shown up at the clinic wanting to avoid getting ‘knocked up’.
Finally, Tess had only recently become involved but brought with her the full weight of her women’s organisation. In the time since the court hearing, Nina had struggled to find common ground with the other two. Last week’s meeting with the probation officer had reminded her of how different all other relationships were. Genesis’s only hope was for the three of you to work together, the probation officer had said. It would be an act of will.
As Nina stood there, hesitating, she felt nothing but uncertainty about this gathering, which was supposed to seal their commitment.
End of excerpt
Bermudian by birth, Angela Barry lived abroad for more than 20 years–in England, France, The Gambia, Senegal and the Seychelles–before returning to Bermuda, where she worked as a lecturer until retiring in 2016. She holds a PhD in Creative Writing from Lancaster University, where she reflected on her connections with the African diaspora. She is the author of Endangered Species and Other Stories (2002) and the novel Goree: Point of Departure (2010).
IRA MATHUR is a Guardian columnist and the winner of the non-fiction OCM Bocas Prize for Literature 2023.