Back in print: an extraordinary first novel by'a writer to watch and to enjoy.'* Told in the voice of a girl as she moves from childhood into adolescence, Buxton Spice is the story the town of Tamarind Grove: its eccentric families, its sweeping joys, and its sudden tragedies. The novel brings to life 1970s Guyana-a world at a cultural and political crossroads-and perfectly captures a child's keen observations, sense of wonder, and the growing complexity of consciousness that marks the passage from innocence to experience. 'A superb, and superbly written, novel of childhood and childhood's end . . . Kempadoo writes in a rich Creole, filling her story with kaleidoscopic images of Guyana's coastal plains . . . Her story is also one of sexual awakening, and she explores these new feelings with a curiosity and freedom that are refreshing . . . Kempadoo's novel, like the Buxton Spice mango tree, reveals its secrets, private and political, only sparingly until the bitter end.'--Patrick Markee, New York Times Book Review 'Oonya Kempadoo . . . has written a sexy, stirring, richly poetic semi-autobiographical first novel.'--Gabriella Stern, Wall Street Journal 'As juicy and ripe as the fruits drooping from the Buxton Spice mango tree . . . Kempadoo's Caribbean argot is precise and fluid, enriching this debut with bawdiness, violence, and raucous humor.'-- Los Angeles Times 'There is a salt freshness to Kempadoo's writing, an immediacy which makes the reader catch breath for pleasure at the recognition of something exactly observed . . . She is a writer to watch and to enjoy, for her warmth, her fine intelligence and her striking use of language.'--Paula Burnett, The Independent (London)* Oonya Kempadoo, author of Tide Running , was born in Sussex, England of Guyanese parents and was raised in Guyana from the age of four. She studied art in Amsterdam and has lived in Trinidad, St. Lucia, Tobago, and now Grenada. She was named a Great Talent for the Twenty-First Century by the Orange Prize judges and is a winner of the Casa de las Americas Prize. Buxton Spice By Oonya Kempadoo Beacon Press Copyright © 2004 Oonya Kempadoo All right reserved. ISBN: 9780807083710 Chapter One I got to know all the secrets of the house ? like I knew allthe trees in the yard. Flipped over the back of theMorris chair, my head sunk into the seat, I spent a longtime walking on the smooth ceiling, stepping over the littlepartitions in the upside-down doorways and sitting on thefretwork. No furniture cluttered those rooms. No dust. Andif I wanted, I could even fill up a room with water to make ita pool.     The white paint that flaked off the windowsills wouldstick to my chin and the undersides of my arms. And thebare grey wood smelt sweet like skin, not mouldy like theblack skirting board by the bathroom that was always dampand eaten away at the bottom. Morning sun made longdazzling doorways on the polished living-room floor thatshrank slowly until only the dwarfs could pass throughthem. As I swept the floor in the morning light, the dustwould just rise up and float twinkling out the windows. Thebroom stroked every plank, some of them slightly rounded,some dark; some had a hole in them, perfectly round topeep through. All smooth. So smooth my sister could pullmy feet and I'd slide fast till my bum got hot or my skirtslipped up and I stopped with a squeaky bump. But otherparts of the floor ? where the putty had come out ? youcouldn't even play jacks on and my broom could never getthe dust out of those cracks.     Start by the screen door to the kitchen, sweeping acrossthe planks not along them, rippling past the big bookshelf ? sweep,sweep, sweep, stamp the broom. Sweep, sweep,sweep, stamp, stamp. Then into my mother's room ? bedalways made up with the blue knitted spread with littlebumps that you could sit and pick off if you had somethingserious to discuss. Sweep, sweep, sweep, stamp. Join upwith the rest of the dust by the armchair. Sweep, sweep,sweep, stamp, stamp. Stop by the hanging womb-chair.Middle bedroom had a bunk bed and some tentesseshelves, packed with my brother's things ? wires, piecesof radio. Smelt of chemicals, salts and burnt copper. Sweep,sweep, sweep, stamp. Past the built-in shelves and the rowsof paperbacks, most of them poetry, orange-cover Penguinclassics, books about Buddhism and Zen. The small frontroom belonged to our househelp Miss Mary. Didn't have tostroke the floor in there. She didn't like no one going in.Always burning candles, wailing and praying.     Now along the floorboards. Through all the dazzlingdoorways by the windows. The sssweep of the broom goingslow, flicking at the end, before the stamp. Now the dustfloated differently. You could see it touching the glisteningarms of the chairs and the edge of the low polished table ? justtouching gently before drifting away. Push into thecorner of the living room, by the stairbox, where morebookshelves sagged with encycloped