With a gnarled trunk of fat knobs and twisted scowls, the sea grape tree squatted over the alley-way, the wrinkled branches laden with slender columns of ripening fruit. Leathery, glossy leaves the size of saucers, lined with fat, red veins, reflected the slivers of sunlight that slanted through the sloping canopy.
Always just beyond our reach in a tantalising corner of the neighbour’s yard, the tough plant would be laden each August, during our long annual school holidays. Unable to resist temptation, my three siblings and I would hurl small stones, swing skittishly with sticks or climb barefoot from above the sharp edges of the rusting galvanized fence that lined a dangerous side of our home, to snatch the best berries that stung the air with a strong, tangy scent, savouring rather soapy, salty seeds than satisfying, sweet flesh.
Maturing unevenly, the clusters would appear tightly packed with pale green balls, marked by the telltale pop of rich mauve and violet. We would rush to pick up the prized purples that smashed to the cracked ground of dry mud and dust, fighting the rush of sour flies, and pausing to toss those that the birds had stripped, cram our mouths and share.
