by Marie Evelyn
He fixed his eyes Becky. ‘Has she now?’
Clara looked at him, clearly confused by his unfriendly tone.
‘Actually, you know, it’s getting late,’ said Becky, with no idea what the time was. She picked up her handbag. ‘I must go.’
Matthew stepped aside so she could pass but an agitated Clara gave him a look of annoyance. ‘Oh, don’t leave, Becky. We still have lots to discuss.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Becky promised as Clara, no doubt trying to make up for her son’s abrasiveness, gave her a particularly effusive and affectionate hug goodbye. Becky just wanted to escape but she didn’t want to hurt Clara’s feelings so she returned the hug, conscious that Matthew was standing ready to shepherd her to the front door.
‘I’ll show Miss Thomson out,’ he told his mother, leading Becky by the elbow as if once again escorting her from the premises.
As soon as they were in the hall Becky angrily shook him off. ‘We’re not in one of your hotels now,’ she snapped.
He lowered his head so his voice wouldn’t carry back into the living room. ‘How did you trace her?’
‘Trace her?’
Matthew looked like he was barely keeping a lid on his fury. ‘This is not a game; I need to know. Did someone at the hotel talk?’
‘I didn’t trace her,’ Becky hissed. ‘She had a gardening open day. I came around to interview her.’
She could see Matthew mentally processing this information, testing the truth of it, looking for loopholes. ‘And when did you find out she was my mother?’
‘I had no interest in knowing who your mother was. I found out you were her son when you walked in just now. If your mother used her real surname, and referred to you by your real forename, I just might have been in with a chance of working out the relationship.’
His sceptical expression was replaced with a grimacing smile as Clara came into the hall to see why it was taking so long for Becky to reach the front door.
‘Everything OK?’ she asked, an edge of concern to her voice.
‘All fine,’ Matthew assured her. ‘I was just warning Miss Thomson about the mosquitoes in Barbados.’
‘Oh, Matthew,’ cried his mother with annoyance. ‘They aren’t that bad.’
He opened the door and looked at Becky, unsmilingly. ‘Drive safely.’
Becky nodded another goodbye to Clara, walked out and around the corner to wait for her bus. A job in Barbados: of course it had been too good to be true.
Becky spent the rest of the day wondering how much of the Monmouth ‘freeloading’ saga Matthew would share with Clara to dissuade her from taking Becky to Barbados. She was not sure she wanted to spend three months under the same roof as him anyway but she didn’t relish the prospect of telling her mother she might not be going to Barbados after all. Besides, she needed a job and she was sure Clara knew her better than Matthew did and would not be persuaded by his opinion. Still, when the telephone rang mid-evening she half-thought it would be Clara calling to say she no longer wanted Becky to work for her. Joe took the call and handed over the receiver carelessly. ‘It’s some man.’
Had Clara been so appalled by what her son had told her she’d asked him to deliver the news? It was Matthew but he didn’t tell Becky her services were no longer required. Instead he sounded sardonic. ‘I’m a bit baffled, Miss Thomson. I wondered if you could help me out.’
‘Can you just call me Becky?’ she said, taking the phone into the hall so her mother and Joe could not overhear the conversation.
‘No. I think we’ll stay formal.’
Becky sighed. ‘OK, Mr Darnley. How can I help you out?’
‘I’m trying to understand in what capacity you see yourself working with my mother. Will you be a reporter, snooping around, or do you see yourself on a freebie trip to Barbados?’
‘Neither,’ said Becky, wearily. ‘I’ll be working on your mother’s book. Doing whatever she wants me to do.’
‘I see.’ There was a pause while he presumably considered this. ‘I’m not sure what I think about this book.’
‘Surely you should be asking your mother about that, not me.’
‘Sounds rather nice to have an all-expenses-paid job in Barbados.’
‘That wasn’t my idea.’ Becky felt herself getting annoyed at his implication she was freeloading again. ‘I didn’t even know your mother lived in Barbados. I would be more than happy to work on the book here.’
He grunted in disbelief. ‘I can tell you now you won’t like it.’
‘I won’t like what?’
‘Barbados. Has my mother mentioned our house is in the most remote part of the island? It’ll be very dull.’
Becky had toyed with the idea of telling Clara she no longer wanted the position but Matthew’s attempts to warn her off were stirring a rebellious reaction.
‘Remote and dull sounds perfect,’ she said, sweetly. ‘It means I’ll get a chance to work on the book without distractions.’
‘Really? So you’ll drop your job, just like that, and swan off to Barbados?’
‘If you hadn’t got me sacked I wouldn’t have had to accept your mother’s offer.’
Matthew did not answer. Maybe he hadn’t known that she’d been fired – and because of him. He tried a different tack.
‘I hope your boyfriend isn’t planning on appearing for a free holiday.’
‘As I told you before he isn’t a boyfriend. Just a work colleague who was trying it on.’
There was another grunt of disbelief followed by a long pause. ‘I want you to tell my mother you’ve changed your mind.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Darnley,’ said Becky and hung up.
Chapter Four
The morning after the unpleasant phone call from Matthew Darnley, Clara herself rang: ‘I hope you don’t mind that I gave Mr R your number yesterday. He seems concerned that you won’t like Barbados but I told him I knew you would. Anyway, dear, apologies if his behaviour was a little unfriendly. Sometimes he lets his worries about his business affect his disposition.’
‘So you still want me to come to Barbados?’ Becky asked.
There was an explosion of assent down the line. ‘Of course, I want you to come! Our original arrangement still stands.’
‘Actually Clara, exactly what is the arrangement?’
Clara sighed in exasperation. ‘That’s what I asked him to tell you. Six thousand pounds for the three months. He was supposed to be asking you for your bank details. And we leave on June the thirtieth. I hope that’s OK?’
‘Sounds fine.’
‘I’ll get Mr R to ring you with the details.’
Becky did not relish the thought of another conversation with Matthew but it turned out he had delegated someone called Alex Wilson to deal with the rest of the arrangements. Alex was pleasant on the phone, with a more pronounced Bajan accent than Matthew’s. Despite sounding in a rush, he certainly seemed more kindly disposed towards her than his boss.
‘Slight change of plan,’ he said apologetically when he rang later that day. ‘Matthew’s suggested we pay you two thousand a month rather than six thousand up front. I hope that’s OK?’
Becky grimaced. Clearly Matthew Darnley was not expecting her to last the course. ‘That’s fine,’ she said.
‘I’ve arranged for you to receive some paperwork to fill in. Sorry for the bureaucracy but I’ll need you to send a copy of your passport and a couple of other forms of ID. And I also need your mobile number if you want to give me that now.’
‘OK,’ said Becky. ‘Although I need to buy a new mobile. I haven’t got one at the moment.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded surprised. ‘Well, just write the number on the paperwork and send it back as soon as you can.’
The paperwork arrived early on Monday morning by courier. It consisted of a single, official-looking form containing a non-disclosure agreement about Matthew’s business (which Becky was comfortable signing as she had no interest in learning about his work,
let alone disclosing it) and also a clause requesting her consent to submit to a background check. She put her head in her hands.
‘What’s up with you?’
Becky raised her head to see Joe, already dressed in his oil-stained jeans. She looked beyond him.
‘Don’t worry. Mum’s got her head in the oven.’
‘What?’
‘I mean she’s cleaning it or something. She can’t hear.’
All the same Becky lowered her voice. ‘This job I’m going for. They want to do a background check on me.’
Joe uttered a four-letter expletive. ‘Just to work for a woman in Barbados?’
‘It’s complicated. Her son doesn’t seem to think I’m serious about the book.’
‘Christ. He sounds like a complete pillock.’
Becky listened out for their mother, whose auditory range often had a special extension for blasphemies. Still no sign of her. It would be a very clean oven.
‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Joe.
‘I’ve got to agree to it, haven’t I?’
Joe nodded. ‘Looks less suspicious. Then maybe he won’t bother.’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s this book going to be about? The one you’re helping Madame Bonbon, or whatever her name is, write?’
‘The Monmouth rebels.’ Becky expected a sarcastic comment but Joe just nodded and walked out. Shortly afterwards she heard his motorbike pull away.
Becky read through and signed the agreement and went out to the post office to photocopy her passport, birth certificate, and a bank statement. The balance of her current account was alarmingly low and she was embarrassed to think of Matthew Darnley catching sight of it. She also bought a cheap phone on a pay-as-you-go basis.
As instructed on the form, she marked the envelope for the attention of ‘Matthew Darnley’ at the Monmouth Hotel and posted it.
Alex called again the next day, this time on her new mobile.
‘Thanks for filling in the form. Assuming there are no problems, I’ll give you a ring to sort out where we should meet at Heathrow in two weeks’ time.’
‘Thanks Alex.’
Two weeks. Becky had already decided she would not buy anything new for the trip – she couldn’t really afford it and anyway she didn’t want to tempt fate – so she would spend the time doing as much research as possible. Or at least she would once she had worked out what was going on with Joe. Her brother’s habits had changed over the last couple of nights and instead of spending his evenings tinkering with his bike or watching a football match at the pub, he was now to be found on the old PC in the study. Becky was alarmed. Last year she had fought a constant battle trying to remove temptation by blocking one online gambling site after another until in the end she had had to tearfully beg Joe to either break his habit or say goodbye to the computer. It was her tears rather than threats that seemed to do the trick and, until a few evenings ago, he had almost ceased using it.
Now no sooner was he home from the garage and changed out of his oil-stained clothes than he was sitting in front of the monitor. While their mother was busy preparing dinner, Becky sneaked into the study to see what he was up to. She was surprised to find him studying a YouTube clip of a battle re-enactment.
‘Battle of Sedgemoor,’ he said casually, as she peered over his shoulder. ‘You know, you should go to Somerset and check out the battleground.’
Becky smiled – an automatic response to her brother’s suggestions – but later when they were eating realised this was probably good advice.
As soon as the meal was over she rang Clara, who sounded harassed.
‘I didn’t think I’d bought that much since I’ve been in England but there’s so many things lying round the house that I realise weren’t here before. God knows how I’ve acquired them all. Furniture, plants. I swear my objets d’art have been breeding.’
Becky laughed. ‘Can’t you just leave them for the next tenants?’
‘The agent came round today to inspect the premises; you know, to check for any damage. The stupid man bashed his head on that hanging basket in the hall and I fear it put him in a bad mood. He said that all the clutter had to go. He was really quite rude.’
Becky gasped. ‘What about the garden, Clara? Did they mind you making, um, a few changes?’
Clara gave a mischievous giggle. ‘Making some improvements, you mean, Becky. And no, unless I had dumped a mattress in the garden, the silly agent wouldn’t have noticed what was outside the house. Now tell me, is it normal in England to leave a few things on the pavement with a sign saying ‘help yourself’?’
‘It would be normal in some areas but not Hutton, I’m afraid.’ Becky could imagine the middle-class neighbours’ horrified expressions at the sight of bric-a-brac – however expensive – on their illustrious pavement. ‘Can’t Matthew find space for things in Noak Hall?’
‘What’s Noak Hall?’
Having just signed a non-disclosure agreement, Becky knew Matthew was highly secretive about his business practices but was the neo-classical manor even a secret from his own mother? Hardly a family mansion, then. ‘I’ve probably got it wrong,’ she said quickly. ‘I thought he had a place in Essex.’
‘You must mean the Monmouth Hotel,’ said Clara. ‘Good idea. I’ll ask him.’
‘On the subject of Monmouth,’ said Becky. ‘I wondered if it was worth me spending a couple of days in Somerset. There’s a Heritage Centre which would have records of the people who were sent to Barbados.’
‘Records?’
‘Yes, I thought if I started off with a list of names of the people transported, and who they were indentured to, then when we get to Barbados, I could try and trace what happened to them.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Becky. You must have enough on your plate.’
‘No, not really.’
‘You must have: I don’t know – packing to do, things to cancel.’
Becky felt quite deflated. Why was Clara so reluctant for her to find out this information? ‘I don’t really have anything to arrange,’ she said. ‘And no clutter to dispose of – unless my mother feels the need to rent out my room for the three months I’m away, which I can guarantee she won’t.’
There was a moment’s silence, which seemed unusual for a woman as bubbly and voluble as Clara.
‘It’s good you’re so enthusiastic,’ she said though Becky thought she heard a quiet sigh. ‘It shows I made the right choice. And, yes, maybe it would be good to know who was sent from this end.’
‘But I quite understand if you say no. I would need some money to travel there and back and maybe one night in a B&B. I think the Heritage Centre is free but I couldn’t do the trip in a day.’
‘No, of course, you must stay over. And in a proper hotel. I don’t know – would £500 be enough?’
Becky laughed. ‘Far too much. Halve that and hopefully I’ll have change to give you.’
‘I’ll get some money out. Come round tomorrow. Anything else you need?’
‘Names,’ said Becky. ‘I don’t know how many people were sent out there but I thought there might be some particular surnames you’d want me to look out for.’
‘Let me think about that.’
Two days later, Becky was sitting on a train, watching through the window as it limped out of Paddington before gaining speed and charging through green fields like a wild animal released into its natural element. She should be happy. It was a summer’s day, she had a job in Barbados to look forward to, working for a woman she liked, and right now she was on a mission – a paid mission no less. But every time Becky told herself she deserved a break, and this was it, she was aware of something mocking her from the shadows.
Maybe she was picking up on her mother’s discontent that she was going to Barbados, although, unusually, her mum had not said anything discouraging about it. She wasn’t worried about the trip herself. She was sure she and Clara would get on. The older lady certainly trusted her – when B
ecky had turned up to collect the funds for her trip, Clara had just handed over her purse with a careless ‘take what you need’ and seemed bemused when Becky insisted on counting out £250 in front of her.
No, her doubts were more to do with the project itself, following her employer’s apparent ambivalence when she had proposed researching in Somerset. Maybe Clara was just stressed about moving house? Or maybe Matthew was putting pressure on her as he was not sure about the book and did not want Becky to go to Barbados?
Becky tried to banish her forebodings by studying a chapter on the fate of the Monmouth rebels. James II had appointed Judge Jeffreys to dispense swift justice and it sounded like he had savoured the barbaric sentences he handed out, pronouncing death sentences with relish and taking pleasure in outlining the appalling fates that awaited the convicted.
By the time the train terminated at Taunton Becky’s dark mood had intensified. Clara had told her to ‘take taxis whenever she could’ but Becky’s natural distrust of extravagance, combined with a determination to counter Matthew’s impression of her as a gold-digging opportunist, made her ignore the cabs waiting hopefully outside the station. She caught a bus and walked the remaining fifteen minutes to the Heritage Centre, where she checked in and stowed her rucksack in a locker.
‘What are you interested in?’ asked the woman on reception.
‘Monmouth rebels,’ said Becky. ‘In particular the names of anyone transported to Barbados.’
She was directed to the Search Room and, within there, a series of volumes, which included lists of the men transported, their occupations and their new ‘masters’, who were presumably plantation owners or overseers. She discovered rebels had been sent to Jamaica, St Kitts and Nevis as well as Barbados but all were sentenced to four years’ indentured labour. Becky concentrated on the men shipped to Barbados. Surnames that were still familiar today (Parker, Dodds, Foot) were listed along with names rendered more exotic with the passage of time, such as the wonderfully titled Randolph Randerwick. Clara had only given her one surname to look out for – Pitcher – and Becky soon found a Daniel Pitcher listed as being dispatched in December 1685 on the ship Betty from Weymouth. She soon realised why Clara, or more likely Matthew, had been reluctant for her to carry out this research: Daniel Pitcher’s new ‘Master’ on the island was a William Darnley.