The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

‘Becky,’ the lady cried. ‘Long time no see. Come in.’

  Clara Babonneau was one of several people Becky had interviewed while covering an ‘Open Gardens’ event and by far the most interesting. A very lively lady in her mid-sixties, she was like an exotic migrant who had apparently ‘flown in to England to see what English gardens were about’, having been informed – or misinformed – that the English were obsessive gardeners.

  Exasperated by the sanitised English front garden, Clara had self-published a book on designing ‘wild gardens for suburbia’ and had been so endearingly appreciative when Becky plugged her book in the Open Gardens piece, that she insisted Becky came round for dinner one night. Despite the age difference and the fact the two could not have been more different – Becky had seldom left the UK whereas Clara was well travelled – it had been a fun evening and a friendship had been formed. Neither had talked much about their own families: Clara revealed she had been widowed when she was relatively young and, perhaps sensing Becky’s ambivalence about her own home, had insisted Becky drop round whenever she needed a break. But aware from their conversation that Clara seemed to have a vibrant social life, with bridge nights and visits from old friends who were passing through England, Becky had been reluctant to take her up on her offer – until today.

  Becky followed Clara into the living room and sank into a sofa.

  ‘I was going to offer you tea,’ said Clara, ‘but you look like you need something stronger.’

  ‘To be honest, I think I do.’

  ‘Then let me have a look in the medicine cabinet.’

  Clara rootled through the drinks cupboard, eventually holding up an unopened bottle wrapped in yellow cellophane. ‘I picked this up in Paris last month. I’ve been dying to try it out with someone.’

  A few minutes later they were sitting side by side on the sofa and wincing over something that tasted like peppered sherry.

  ‘It’s, um, warming,’ said Becky.

  ‘It’s revolting,’ said Clara, cheerfully, ‘but I think the English believe that medicine has to taste horrible to be effective.’

  Becky laughed as Clara topped up both glasses. She was elegantly dressed but with a hint of ‘something other’. Her eyes were very dark, her skin dusky and, though her hair had turned silver, Becky thought that today it was tinged with a rebellious lilac rinse.

  ‘So,’ said Clara. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ve been sacked,’ said Becky.

  Clara had the foresight to put down her glass before reacting with a dramatic hands-to-face action accompanied by some French words which Becky assumed were expletives; she sensed that Clara thought it unladylike to swear in English.

  Becky started to explain about Ian but then stopped. ‘Actually, it’s a really tiresome story. I won’t bore you with the details.’

  ‘Idiots; their loss. But let me think – we’re in June now.’ Clara frowned and pushed her sherry glass round the table, as though she were at a séance. She beamed. ‘But this is amazing timing. Serendipity. I’m going back home.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Becky, crestfallen. ‘You’re leaving Essex?’

  ‘I only meant to stay a year and it’s been almost eighteen months.’ Clara patted Becky’s hand. ‘I need someone to help me with a new project. How about working for me?’

  ‘Working for you?’ said Becky.

  ‘I have a little – venture, let’s call it. Something that’s been bugging me for years. There’s a book I must write before I lose the energy. I need help with research and editing, and –’

  ‘A gardening book?’

  ‘No, dear. A history book. On a subject very close to my heart. Now have you ever heard of the Battle of Sedgemoor?’

  Becky smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not. Where did it take place?’

  Clara rolled her eyes. ‘England, of course! The Battle of Sedgemoor was the last pitched battle to be fought on English soil. 1685. Now who was King?’

  ‘Er – a Charles. Um – or a James.’ Becky hoped this wasn’t a job interview; her knowledge of history was pretty gappy.

  ‘Well done. Charles II and James II were both king in 1685.’ Clara’s eyes gleamed with something akin to passion. ‘King Charles II died without having a legitimate son so his heir was his younger brother. James was a staunch Catholic and not a popular man whereas the Duke of Monmouth – that’s Charles’ illegitimate son – was by many accounts a charismatic man. And a Protestant.’

  Becky tried not to wince at the mention of Monmouth; after this morning’s ejection from the hotel it wasn’t a name she particularly wanted to hear again but, as Clara went on, it seemed she would have to adjust to hearing it quite a lot.

  ‘The Duke of Monmouth had much support from the people in the West Country, particularly the poorer farming folk. They fought the royal army armed with farm tools, scythes, billhooks – whatever they could get their hands on.’ Clara paused, lost in reverie, and Becky wondered if she was picturing herself there on the battlefield, whacking a royal soldier with a pitchfork.

  ‘So what happened?’ Becky asked.

  Clara returned to the present. ‘Well, they lost, of course. Those who weren’t executed were exiled. It was tragic.’ She sighed. ‘I often wonder how many people in Somerset could trace their ancestry back to those poor men who were dragged from their families.’

  ‘Can I ask why you’re so interested in the subject?’ said Becky. She couldn’t recall Clara mentioning any English ancestors.

  Clara seemed momentarily lost for an answer then shrugged and said, ‘let’s just say I feel sorry for the underdog. And that the Duke of Monmouth was a fine man.’

  Becky felt Clara was holding something back but was reluctant to probe more; perhaps the reason for Clara’s interest in the subject would become apparent later. ‘It sounds interesting,’ she said, carefully. ‘So how would I be helping?’

  ‘Research: collating the hundreds of scrappy notes I’ve made over the years, typing it all up, and – well everything really. My son has bought me a laptop and done everything possible to entice me to use the thing but I can’t be doing with it.’

  ‘This sounds almost too good to be true,’ said Becky. ‘You promise you’re just not feeling sorry for me?’

  Clara blinked. ‘I promise there’s a real job.’

  ‘OK,’ said Becky. ‘So this would be a book about the Duke of Monmouth?’

  ‘No,’ said Clara. ‘This will be a book about the poor people who fought to get him on the throne. Effectively, they became white slaves.’

  How ironic that on the day of her second encounter with Matthew Darnley the S-word should come up again. But here was a lady of colour wanting to write about white slaves. Becky was intrigued. ‘I’m up for it.’

  ‘As I say, I’m packing up here,’ said Clara. ‘So how about you come away with me. Let’s say – I don’t know – for three months?’

  ‘Away?’ said Becky.

  ‘We need to be where the primary sources are. I want to rely on the original documents. You do have a passport, don’t you dear?’

  ‘For Somerset?’

  ‘No, dear. We’re not going where they came from; we’re going to where they went to.’

  ‘Where is that exactly?’ said Becky tentatively.

  ‘My home. Barbados.’

  Barbados. Of all the places in the world Clara would choose the one tiny scrap of land that had claimed Becky’s father’s affections – and from which he never returned. Heaven knows what her mother would say.

  ‘Are you all right, Becky?’ Clara looked concerned. ‘I thought you’d be pleased but you look like you’ve seen a duppy.’

  ‘Duppy?’

  ‘A spirit, a ghost.’

  Becky tried to calm herself with a deep breath. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why but I assumed you were from France. It never occurred to me you live in the West Indies.’

  ‘I do love France, it’s true, but Barbados is home. Or at least it’s where I’ve made my home.
’ Clara gave Becky a stern look. ‘And I hope you’re not worrying about the airfare. All included.’

  Becky could hardly believe it but judging by how much Clara must have spent to create a mature garden in a matter of months, money was not an issue. ‘It sounds very exciting,’ she said. ‘Actually it’s an amazing opportunity. Thank you for offering it to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t really difficult, dear. I’d been remembering how well we got on and how uncomfortable I’d be if I left the choice to Mr R.’

  ‘Who on earth is Mr R?’

  ‘My son. It’s what I call him, which he hates.’ Clara giggled. ‘Anyway, when I did my gardening book, I just wanted a girl to type the thing into a computer, stick in the photographs and sort out the self-publishing. Not much to ask, surely.’

  Becky laughed. ‘Actually Clara, that sounds like a lot of work.’

  ‘Well, maybe. Anyway, he got me some high-powered young woman with superior airs who thought she knew more about gardening than me; we didn’t gel at all. I think at one point I threw a handful of mimulus seeds at her. That’s why my monkey flowers are all over the place in the west corner of my garden. You probably noticed?’

  ‘Er, I’m afraid I didn’t.’ If there were patterns to the flowers in Clara’s front or back gardens, they were not apparent to Becky’s untrained eye.

  ‘Anyway, back to the matter in hand,’ said Clara. ‘It’s a lot to take in so how about coming over on Friday and we’ll talk in more detail? By then I’ll have a better idea of possible dates.’

  The rest of the week passed slowly. Apart from receiving a sweet card signed by Patsy and the other women from work, Becky had little to show for her year with the Essex Gleaner. It was almost as though she had never worked there. Occasionally she would find herself brooding over her unfair dismissal, or her humiliating ejection from Mr Darnley’s hotel, but these miserable thoughts were rather overtaken by worry about how to broach the subject of ‘Barbados’ with her mother. She kept deferring that conversation in favour of lying on her bed and reading up about the Duke of Monmouth.

  Why had she never liked history at school? She had thought it was irrelevant – useless, over and done with. But she recalled how passionate her socialist cabbie had been about it and she had seen something similar when Clara spoke about the Battle of Sedgemoor. If Clara felt a battle which had happened in 1685 was relevant to her then Becky wanted to know more. Maybe it was something to do with religion. Clara had mentioned the Duke of Monmouth was a Protestant and the library book told her people had feared James II would drag the country back to the days of Bloody Mary, a hundred and thirty years earlier. Hardly something within their living memory but then Becky remembered walking by ‘Martyr’s Elm’ on the other side of Brentwood. The tree had been planted to commemorate the burning to death during Mary’s reign of a young man – still a teenager – for preferring to read the Bible rather than attend Catholic masses. Who would want a return to those days?

  Whatever Clara’s reason Becky also found herself on the side of the Duke of Monmouth; compared to the vindictive James II he was certainly the better man.

  The book was yanked roughly to one side so Joe could look at the cover.

  ‘The Stuarts? Why are you reading that?’

  ‘It’s interesting.’ Becky quietly despaired of her younger brother. He was bright but had worn his refusal to study at school as a badge of honour. Now he worked in a garage by day and seemed to spend most of his wages trying to service his motorbike so he could get to the garage the next day.

  ‘I must read it sometime,’ said Joe.

  ‘You could try reading something.’

  Drawn to Becky’s room by the exchange of voices, their mother appeared in the doorway. ‘You’ve always got your head in a book nowadays.’

  ‘Why is everyone suddenly in my bedroom?’ said Becky.

  ‘Since you were fired you just seem to lie around reading,’ complained her mother. ‘Shouldn’t you be looking for another job?’

  Becky sat up; she’d been putting off this conversation but now was the time. Her mother wasn’t cooking, which meant she couldn’t drop anything hot, and she wasn’t gardening, which meant she couldn’t say her back had ‘gone’ – as it was liable to do at times of unexpected news.

  ‘I’ve got a job.’

  ‘Hey,’ cried Joe, launching himself onto the bed. ‘Well done. What, how, where?’

  ‘It’s a little unconventional,’ said Becky. She could see her mother was already mentally fumbling with a large casserole dish. ‘And it’s only for a few months. I’m going to be working for a female author helping her write a history book.’

  ‘But you don’t know anything about history,’ her mother said.

  Becky waved The Stuarts in the air. ‘That’s why I’m reading.’

  ‘It’s good news.’ Joe looked defiantly at their mother. ‘Isn’t it, Mum?’

  ‘So where does this author live?’ she asked.

  ‘Her name is Clara Babonneau and –’

  ‘She’s French?’

  Becky realised she still didn’t know where Clara originally came from. ‘She certainly speaks French but she seems to move between houses and, er, countries.’

  Becky visualised a casserole dish slipping from her mother’s grip.

  ‘So where will you be working?’

  ‘Barbados.’

  Smash. If this conversation had happened in the kitchen Becky would now be sweeping up shards of glass and lumps of beef.

  ‘Barbados?’ Joe and their mother cried in unison.

  ‘Yes. It’s relevant to the book Clara’s writing.’ Becky searched for some familiar words with which to soften the surprise. ‘Look, I’ll just be like a secretary. And it’s only for three months.’

  Her mother did not move or speak for what felt like several minutes. ‘You can say hello to your father,’ she said at last and walked out.

  ‘Bit of a weird reaction but actually she took that quite well,’ said Joe.

  Nothing more was said on the subject but it was still a relief to get out of the house on Friday. Becky received the warmest of welcomes from Clara, who led her into her bright living room and settled herself on the sofa, patting the seat beside her. ‘So, you’ve told your mother you’ll be going away?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Becky, sitting down. ‘It’s fine. Well, she’s OK. She asked me if you were French. I guess your name sounds French.’

  Clara laughed. ‘No, Becky. I’m from Martinique. Anyway, Babonneau is my maiden name. My son prefers me to use that.’

  Becky frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Shall we have another go at that peculiar sherry?’ said Clara. ‘It wasn’t so bad after the first mouthful.’ Becky nodded and Clara poured them a glass each, then sat back down with a sigh.

  ‘I want you to know that Barbados is not dangerous but –’ Clara took a sip of peppered sherry and made a comical eye-screwing expression, ‘the truth is my son has made a bit of money – which he works very hard for – and the police in Barbados discovered a plan by some despicable people to kidnap me and get my son to pay a ransom. This was a few years back.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Becky. This was casserole-dropping information.

  ‘Fortunately it was all very amateur so nothing bad happened. It was my son who then encouraged me to use a different name in public. Pointless in Barbados, of course, where everyone knows me, but I suppose it might confuse people when I’m abroad. I think he got a little paranoid but there we are.’

  ‘I can imagine he was paranoid – with good reason.’

  ‘But, trust me, the house in Barbados is as secure as a prison.’

  An unfortunate simile, thought Becky. No doubt Clara was trying to put her mind at rest but she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in a jail.

  ‘Who else is in this house?’ she asked.

  ‘It will be us, Mr R of course, our lovely old cook and people drop by all the time. It’s very relaxed.’

  That sounded be
tter.

  ‘My son is due sometime today, back from – oh I can’t keep track of him – France, was it? Anyway, it would be good if you can meet him before we all end up in the Bajan house together.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea. And Bajan is short for Barbadian?’

  ‘Yes indeed. You’ll hear it all the time when you’re there.’

  The doorbell rang, closely followed by the sound of a key turning.

  Clara beamed and got up. ‘I wasn’t expecting him back this early. I’ll be able to tell him right away I’ve found the co-author of my book.’ She laughed at the grandness of the title and went out to the hall.

  Becky could picture her giving her son an effusive hug as she greeted him. ‘When did you get back from – wherever it was? I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.’

  ‘Shall I go away, then?’ a jocular voice enquired. Becky sat forward on the sofa: that accent was familiar.

  ‘Certainly not. I see little enough of you as it is. Now come on in.’

  There was a clunk and Becky assumed Mr R’s head had collided with the potted fern suspended from the ceiling in the hall; Clara and Becky had passed it under safely but evidently he was that bit taller.

  ‘Ouch. I should wear a hard hat in here,’ he said, dolefully.

  ‘Oh, that reminds me,’ said Clara. ‘Can you water that later? Saves me getting out the stepladder. Now come and meet my lovely new co-author.’

  ‘Co-author?’

  ‘For the book I keep talking about.’

  ‘Book?’

  There was no mistaking that voice now and Becky looked round hurriedly but the only way out of the room was the door Clara was walking back through, followed by Matthew Darnley. He was wearing an expectant smile but the grin vanished as soon as he saw Becky and his outstretched hand was withdrawn.

  ‘This is Becky Thomson,’ said Clara.

  ‘What a co-incidence,’ Matthew said quietly, in a tone that revealed he thought it was anything but.

  Clara chose that fraught moment to begin singing Becky’s praises, telling Matthew just ‘what a find she was’.

  ‘How long have you known Miss Thomson?’ he said grimly.

  ‘Oh, months,’ Clara said vaguely. ‘Becky’s the clever young woman who wrote that charming piece about me in the local paper. I showed it to you,’ she added. ‘Anyway now she’s agreed to come out and work with me on my book in Barbados.’