by Marie Evelyn
Clara did show some interest in that. ‘Ah, that could be the ancestor of our Pitcher.’
‘Our Pitcher?’
‘You’ll meet him soon enough. That is when Alex sorts out the tickets. He and Mr R have gone very quiet on me.’
That meant so as far as Clara was concerned Becky was still going to Barbados but Becky thought Alex and Matthew’s lack of communication didn’t bode well.
She mentioned her worry to Joe when he came in that night, feeling a little guilty at offloading her concern.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that was what the phone call was about?’ he said, following her into the living room.
‘I didn’t want to spoil the day.’
‘You’ve got to go to Barbados. One of us has to go. It’s closure on Dad.’
Becky smiled. The word ‘closure’ sounded as incongruous coming from Joe’s mouth as would ‘embroidery’.
‘Why are you laughing at me?’
‘I’m not,’ said Becky. ‘Do we need closure?’
‘I still have dreams – even now – that he comes back. He walks through the house but he doesn’t look at us; he just walks right through and disappears into the garden.’
Joe said this without any trace of self-pity, which gave Becky an even more acute stab of sympathy. ‘Look, I’m probably worrying for nothing,’ she said. ‘I expect I’ll get a phone call later.’
‘If what’s-his-face says you can’t go to Barbados, tell him you know the real reason is he doesn’t want you to write the book.’
The landline rang and brother and sister looked at each other.
‘Quick,’ said Joe. ‘Before Mum gets it.’
Becky reached the phone just before their grim-faced mother but did not pick it up until her mother returned to the kitchen.
‘Miss Thomson?’ It was Matthew.
‘Mr Darnley.’
‘I’m sure you know why I’m ringing. Alex told you about the results of the background check?’
Becky’s heart raced. The gravity of his voice and the fact he was ringing instead of Alex meant he had made up his mind.
‘Yes, Alex rang when I was in Somerset.’
‘Then you know –’ Matthew faltered slightly. ‘Somerset? Was that anything to do with my mother?’
‘Yes. I was at the Heritage Centre doing research for her book.’
‘Ah. I’m afraid that makes what I’m about to say more difficult.’ He paused. ‘Just out of curiosity, did you find out anything interesting?’
Becky decided she had nothing to lose now and might as well take Joe’s advice. ‘Quite interesting, yes. I found out why you don’t want me to do this book.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t want me to come to Barbados because you don’t want your family history exposed.’
There was a hint of a splutter down the phone. ‘What gave you that idea? I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘I didn’t say you have. All I’m saying is that I understand the problem now.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’
She didn’t really want to spell it out for him. ‘I think I know why your mother wants to write this book and I understand why you don’t want it to see the light of day. It isn’t going to make for a good working environment.’
‘I’m rather intrigued now,’ Matthew said. ‘So you don’t want to come to Barbados?’
‘I would love to come to Barbados and I would love to do the research Clara wants me to do. But clearly you want it to be a closed subject. And I don’t see how we can work like that.’
‘I don’t know where you’ve got that idea from,’ said Matthew, sounding genuinely puzzled. ‘My mother can write a book on any subject she likes.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He went quiet for a moment. ‘OK. You’ll come to Barbados and let’s see what you come up with. Alex will be in touch.’
Becky put the phone down and realised both her mother and Joe were hovering in separate doorways, eavesdropping. She looked at Joe and simply said ‘yes’ and their mother glared disapprovingly at his triumphant ‘just scored a goal’ dance.
Alex rang a few days later and sounded his usual harassed but kindly self. ‘Congratulations. I don’t know how you swung it with Matthew but you obviously changed his mind. You must tell me the secret.’
‘I just told him I didn’t want to go to Barbados.’
Alex chuckled. ‘So maybe if I told him I really wanted to travel to England at every opportunity he would stop sending me over. I must try that sometime.’
‘You’re in England now?’
‘Yes, at the Monmouth. I’ve got your ticket here for Tuesday. I’ll meet you at Heathrow by the British Airways check-in desks. I’ve arranged for a car to pick you up at eight. That’s eight in the morning.’
‘Oh, OK,’ said Becky. ‘I just assumed I would be travelling to the airport with Clara. She’s not that far away from me.’
‘She’ll probably get there with Matthew. She – how shall I put it?’ Alex chuckled again. ‘Clara doesn’t travel lightly. There’ll barely be room for Matthew in the car plus all her suitcases. Speaking of which, you’ll end up gardening, so do pack accordingly.’
‘Gardening?’
‘Trust me on this one.’
The morning of thirtieth June came round almost too quickly. Becky tried to relax in the grand car Alex had sent to take her to the airport but trepidation about the weeks ahead kept rising up in cycles. By the time they reached Heathrow she was sure she’d made the wrong decision. The chauffeur must have noticed her nervousness because he said, ‘You’ll be fine; it’s safer than the M4’ as he hefted her suitcase on to a trolley.
Her first concern – that she would have trouble identifying Alex at the airport – was immediately allayed as he somehow clocked her as soon as she pushed her trolley into the check-in area. He rushed over, a sandy-haired, brown-eyed white Bajan with a pallid, blotchy, complexion. He was fiddling with an airline envelope and looked very tired.
‘There’s a problem with your ticket,’ he murmured, uneasily.
Half relieved that maybe she wouldn’t be able to travel and could go back home, Becky took the ticket from his hands, which she noticed had a slight tremor. The ticket looked fine to her: her name was spelt right, it was the right date, the destination said ‘GAIA, Barbados’.
‘I can’t see anything wrong,’ she said, following him further into the check-in area where she soon saw Matthew and Clara having an urgent and angry discussion. Becky heard the words ‘upgrade’, ‘economy’ and ‘good enough for her’. Alex cleared his throat and Matthew and Clara – like mirror images – turned towards them then immediately back to face each other. They continued their quarrel in French and Becky couldn’t recognise any of the words, though Clara’s furious hand-waving gestures spoke volumes.
‘Look, I’m really happy with economy,’ she said, ‘if that’s the problem.’
Clara gave Matthew a last blast in French and the argument terminated abruptly, with Matthew taking the ticket from Becky’s hands and thrusting it at Alex with a terse ‘sort it, please.’ Alex walked off, without a word, evidently accustomed to Matthew’s orders.
Clara turned to Becky and gave her a hug. ‘No problem, Becky. It’s just our tickets were booked ages ago and booking your ticket at the last minute led to a little misunderstanding.’ Becky doubted that was remotely true but appreciated Clara’s attempt to smooth things over.
‘You’d better go with Alex,’ said Matthew.
Becky hurried after Alex’s retreating back, weaving her trolley through clumps of irritatingly in-the-way travellers. By the time she caught up with him he had already upgraded her ticket. They checked her suitcase in and he led her to the priority queue through Departures.
‘Matthew and Clara will be in the Business Class lounge,’ he informed her.
‘Do I go there too?’ Becky asked, realising immediately how naive she must sound.<
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‘We both do,’ Alex confirmed. ‘Then we can all relax.’ Although he didn’t appear very relaxed himself.
‘You don’t look like you’ve slept for a week,’ Becky said.
‘Tell me about it.’ He sighed. ‘I only flew here four days ago. And now back to Barbados. Again.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Becky. ‘I thought this was the age of electronic communications.’
Alex rolled his eyes. ‘I had to bring some papers. Matthew doesn’t trust the post service.’ He must have felt disloyal because he added quickly, ‘And fair enough. It’s often quicker to jump on a plane with a briefcase.’
Becky didn’t think it sounded fair at all.
‘Do you want to browse the shops or shall we join the others?’
‘I’ve got all I need,’ Becky said and followed him to the elegant lounge where Clara greeted her effusively as if it was the first time they’d met that day and Matthew ignored her.
For the next hour he continued to study the Financial Times while Alex constantly checked his phone and Clara dared Becky to try this drink and that snack. For a rich woman accustomed to the good life, Clara was cheerfully ingénue-ish about helping herself to the freebies though Becky couldn’t decide if this behaviour was genuine or just intended to make her feel at ease.
At last they were ushered on to the plane and Becky found there was no need to worry about getting stuck next to Matthew: the seats were more like pods, arranged side-on to the direction of flight.
She put her small rucksack in the overhead locker and arranged herself in her pod. With the cheerful strains of Handel‘s Water Music flooding the cabin, Becky put her head back and closed her eyes. After his surprising decision to let her go to Barbados she had thought Matthew might be more friendly but if his behaviour this morning was anything to go by that wasn’t the case. All she could hope was that the demands of his business would mean he was often away travelling to Europe or America or preferably Mongolia.
As soon as they reached cruising altitude the stewardesses came round with more drinks and snacks. Becky wasn’t really hungry but she took some to keep Clara happy. Her friend had settled back with a book and Becky decided to do the same.
After about an hour Clara got up to go to the toilet and Becky rose to stretch her legs too. As she walked up the aisle, she noticed a little pantomime taking place, a few pods away. Presumably Matthew’s looks had not gone unnoticed by one of the stewardesses; a stunning young woman with laser-blue eyes, she had been charming to Becky and to Clara but she hadn’t served their drinks by leaning into their pods and delivering an eyeful of breasts, nor had she spent a few minutes fiddling inconsequentially with the items in their overhead lockers so they could admire her chest. Becky wondered what Matthew made of this behaviour but she couldn’t see his expression to know what he thought.
He couldn’t have been that enamoured because no sooner had Becky returned to her pod than Matthew appeared beside her. She hastily picked up an in-flight magazine and leafed through.
‘Where’s the lady who reckons you’re sugar and spice and all things nice?’ he enquired.
‘Your mother’s gone to the ladies’ room,’ she murmured, trying to find a page in the magazine that didn’t scream ‘Retail’.
‘I hope they’re looking after you?’
She looked up. It wasn’t obvious whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. ‘Oh they are, thank you. Of course it isn’t such a breast-fest over here.’ Immediately she wished she hadn’t said that – now it sounded like she was bitchy, or, worse, jealous when she was really neither.
He looked surprised and then chuckled. ‘In that case I should try and claim a discount on your ticket. We’re paying a premium for breasts.’ He bent down to look out of the window. ‘I wish I could get excited about crossing the Atlantic. Really it’s amazing to think that only a thin sheet of metal is between us and all that water.’
Becky turned back to an article about jewellery and responsibly sourced coral. ‘I’ve memorised the location of the emergency exits should we crash mid-ocean.’ It would need a little more than that to scare her.
Matthew frowned. ‘Better not say that to Alex. He hates flying.’
‘Then why do you make him do so much of it?’ said Becky, giving him a hard look.
Matthew glared back then straightened up as his mother approached. Becky could see Clara was pleased to find them apparently enjoying some mild banter. Matthew wished Becky ‘a pleasant trip’ – with a hint of menace, Becky thought – and returned to his seat.
Becky returned to her book – a second-hand one she’d ordered online called The Monmouth Rebels – and read until she and Clara were interrupted with a gourmet lunch. But despite all the comforts of Business Class travel the flight still seemed interminable. She soon fell into a fitful sleep.
When she awoke for the final time they were approaching Barbados. There was a palpable air of excitement in the cabin. Flagging stewardesses seemed to summon hidden reserves of energy and hurried along the aisles with brisk step and cheerful chatter – both among themselves and with passengers wanting to know how many hours they should set their watches back or what temperature they could expect on arrival at Grantley Adams airport.
‘It’s 80.4 degrees,’ the breast-fest stewardess announced and faces lifted and smiles broadened in response. Clara leant over Becky’s pod, looking as excited as a child on Christmas morning. ‘It’s just so good to be back,’ she gushed. ‘It will cheer up Mr R to come home.’
‘Has he been in England long?’
‘Months. Too long. It took him ages to get the manager of the Monmouth up to speed.’
Becky wondered if Chris Harris really was ‘up to speed’.
‘Right,’ said Clara. ‘I’d better belt up. You must look out of the window. The approach to Barbados is always worth seeing.’
Becky twisted in her pod to look down on a sea whose colours ran the full gamut of blues on an artist’s palette. Cobalt gave way to turquoise until nearer the shore, and abruptly, turquoise became aquamarine. The sand looked as white as every holiday brochure maintained it was. Her eyes were caught by a candy-striped lighthouse withstanding a ceaseless barrage from the sea, then by a white crenellated castle standing like a chess piece on a board of green.
The plane touched down as smoothly as if it had stepped on to the runway. They walked out into brilliant sunlight and headed towards the airport.
‘One of the better flights,’ said Alex, walking beside her. ‘I hate turbulence, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t flown that much, to be honest.’
Alex looked at her with incredulity.
At immigration control, he offered to stay with Becky in the ‘aliens’ queue, which was creeping forward with the speed of a snail leaning on a zimmer frame, but she insisted he go ahead with Clara and Matthew and then regretted it when she realised she did not have a work visa.
Fortunately Barbados Immigration had no problem with the length of her proposed stay and the time waiting meant there was no delay in baggage reclaim. Becky collected her luggage, went through Customs and emerged from the main hall to find another quarrel in progress – this time between Matthew and a man who seemed to be in charge of transport. Becky couldn’t work out if Mr St John, (if she’d heard the name correctly), worked for Matthew or was hired by him. Either way he was an unfortunate man because it was quickly obvious that the four of them, their combined luggage, plus Mr St John himself, were not going to fit in the car he’d brought for the transfer to the house. And it would have been better, Becky thought, had he not made his blunder worse by offering the excuse that he would have come to pick them up in the company’s roomier Suzuki Carry but it was ‘in for service’.
‘In for service?’ Matthew repeated heavily. ‘On the day we were coming back?’
‘I was expecting to collect three of you,’ Mr St John protested.
‘Ah,’ said Alex, grimacing. ‘Sorry, that was my faul
t. I forgot to tell you that we were one extra.’
Matthew glared at him.
Becky hoped she could travel with Clara in the estate car but by the time Clara had been installed in the front passenger seat, and the suitcases loaded, there was just an uncomfortable-looking little space left.
‘Can you fit in there, Alex?’ asked Matthew.
Alex’s face was expressionless as he wedged himself next to the suitcases on the back seat.
Clara sitting in splendour in the front seat gave Becky and her son a teasing, regal, little wave and the weighted car departed.
Matthew turned to Becky. ‘I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. I had to let Alex go with my mother to unload at the house.’
They returned to the terminal building. She left him at the counter displaying a ‘drive yourself’ notice while she kept out of the way by looking at a carousel of postcards.
The rack she was twirling stopped abruptly. Becky looked up quickly. Who could be so rude, so impatient?
The white man grinning at her had sea-blue eyes and was about Matthew’s age, maybe a few years over thirty. He was almost as tall as Matthew, too, but fair. Quite good-looking, she supposed but, wearing the scruffiest shorts and shirt, he looked like he should be on the beach selling bad jewellery made from shells.
‘You’ll get a far better selection in town,’ he told her. ‘You’ve got hardly any choice with these.’
It sounded like a bad chat-up line. Becky started twirling the rack again. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said, coldly polite, ‘but I’m just looking.’
‘Oh, so am I,’ Blue-Eyes said feelingly, ‘and very nice too. Just off the London flight, are we?’
‘Yes.’
‘Staying here long?’
Becky didn’t answer.
‘Would you stop bothering my mother’s secretary, Richard?’ snapped Matthew, who had materialised silently beside her and the scruffy man.
‘Matthew. You’re back; what bad luck. I thought I had the field clear, both businesswise and – well, introduce me to this gorgeous creature, for heaven’s sake,’ Blue-Eyes said in a voice of injured reproach.