by Marie Evelyn
If he was expecting a reaction he would be disappointed. Becky wordlessly put on her sandals, crossed the gravel yard and came up the steps. She could see that at any sign of enjoyment he would appear behind her with another dark warning.
‘We’ll have to take you to the beach,’ said Matthew. ‘Walking on the sand will toughen your feet up then you won’t have to bother.’
‘No doubt the beach is also fraught with danger,’ Becky said and went inside.
Feeling a sudden bout of homesickness she took out her mobile to text Joe. But her phone simply said No service. She cursed her stupidity. It had not occurred to her to check which regions her provider covered. There would be no easy communication with her brother.
A couple of hours later Clara appeared and to Becky’s amazement announced that the book was going to have to wait.
‘I’ve just been looking down at the garden from my bedroom window. Quelle horreur! It needs a bit of attention.’ Clara looked at Becky with a hopeful glint in her eyes. So Alex had been spot on.
Becky took the hint. ‘Clara, if you’d prefer to work on your garden first that’s fine by me. But you’ll have to tell me what to do. I’m no gardener.’
Clara beamed. ‘Thank you, dear. I know I never mentioned gardening to you back in England but now that I’ve seen the state it’s in I’d really like to get it straight before we do justice to our poor Monmouth exiles.’
‘The Redlegs?’ Becky immediately regretted saying the word because she could see Clara was taken aback. Matthew had warned her it was politically incorrect. But then again she wanted to know exactly whom they were writing about.
‘Yes,’ said Clara, frowning. ‘Though that’s not a word I use to be honest.’
They had breakfast in the dining room and then, armed with shears and protected by a shady hat, Clara led the way to the garden.
‘Hi Alex,’ said Becky, as they passed Matthew and Alex on the veranda. The two men were obviously having a business meeting though in rather unconventional dress: Matthew wore nothing but a pair of dark shorts; Alex, also in shorts and a ruffled, creased shirt, was spreading papers over a cane table. He seemed genuinely happy to see Becky though the fleeting happiness on his face could not hide his bloodshot eyes. Presumably whatever shut-eye he’d had on his first night back in Barbados wasn’t enough to repay his sleep deficit.
Becky waved a pair of secateurs at him and he grinned.
‘Told you.’
‘You did,’ said Becky.
‘Anyway,’ said Matthew impatiently and Alex’s attention was pulled back towards the papers.
‘We’re going to have to be totally ruthless,’ Clara said, when they reached the garden. ‘The trouble is neither Matthew nor I have the heart to get a new gardener but really all Pitcher can manage these days is the watering and taking out the more obvious weeds.’
‘Pitcher?’ said Becky. ‘As in the man you thought might be a descendant of Daniel Pitcher?’
‘Yes,’ said Clara, apparently too distracted by the garden’s shortcomings to take the bait. ‘I’m not sure he’s that steady on his feet. He probably shouldn’t climb up ladders.’
‘I can,’ Becky assured her. ‘What would you like done?’
‘Well, for a start, just look at that poor bougainvillea.’
The ‘poor’ bougainvillea looked glorious to Becky but she bowed to Clara’s superior knowledge that the growth around the inner stems needed ‘lightening up’ if it was to continue flourishing. ‘And all those long shoots thrashing about wildly need to be cut right back.’
For the next few days, under Clara’s direction, Becky weeded, pruned and fastened, revelling in the outdoor work. She would love to meet Pitcher – presumably a genuine descendant of a Monmouth rebel – but she was starting to wonder if he really existed. She had seen no sign of him and the weeds seemed to be luxuriating in his absence.
Matthew’s work schedule did seem relentless but, as his main office appeared to be the veranda, they were bumping into each other every morning. Though Becky hadn’t previously thought of herself as a prude she wondered, rather glumly, if she had inherited a little of her mother’s sense of propriety. She was finding it increasingly difficult to walk past Matthew in his natural state: studying papers over the cane table he was always unshaven, bare-chested and barefooted (the jiggers were obviously no match for his calloused feet). A pair of black shorts were his only condescension to decency. He seemed to be oblivious to the same morning sun that had Alex constantly shifting his own chair into the ever-drifting shady patch.
Late each morning Matthew and Alex would drive off in their respective cars, presumably to the hotel, and then Matthew might come back in the afternoon to shower and change into a light suit before heading out again. He always returned after Clara and Becky had gone to bed. Becky got used to hearing the hum of his Nissan Sedan’s engine pulling into the drive above the plaintive sounds of the nocturnal wildlife. It was closely followed by the sound of drawing bolts and turning keys, as he shut the house up for the night, and the musical beeping of the code he typed into the keypad to set the house alarm.
On her second day Matthew had warned everyone he was about to test this, which involved some readjustment of timings on a console, followed by a request – to a poker-faced Maureen – to ‘break in’ by walking through the front door. She then had to repeat the exercise via the back door. Matthew hovered over the console controls ready to silence the alarm the instant it went off as the sound was so piercing it virtually disabled mind and body. Apparently Matthew insisted on this drill once a week. Apart from this, the house routine was peaceful. The alarm, Becky learnt, automatically switched itself off at 5 a.m.; even Matthew and Alex’s working day didn’t start that early.
The only other live-in resident was the seemingly ancient Cook – which really was her second name and seemed to serve as her first as well. Despite her advanced years she produced wonderful meals three times a day. Maureen drove over on weekdays to keep the house tidy and take care of the shopping. Becky suspected Clara or Matthew had employed her to ensure Cook’s tasks were kept to a minimum.
Becky loved the mornings most, working in the garden with Clara. They would share a leisurely lunch after which Clara – often tired from the morning’s exertions – would disappear for a rest. It was in the afternoons that Becky most felt a pang of loneliness. With Clara asleep, and Maureen and Cook largely sequestered in the kitchen, she used the time to sit on the veranda and study the History of Barbados which Matthew had mentioned. However sometimes she longed for some human interaction.
At about three o’clock on weekdays Cook’s little granddaughter Zena would be brought over by her childminder for Cook to look after until her daughter-in-law finished work. The childminder never had time to say more than ‘Hello’ and deliver Zena safely to the door before she drove off again. Little Zena was a sparkling and engaging little girl but Becky, assuming this was special ‘Grandmother’ quality time, would immediately take her to Cook and then return to the veranda.
One morning, late joining Clara, Becky rushed on to the veranda just as Matthew was coming indoors to fetch something. She almost bounced off his wall of a chest.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You OK?’
‘Don’t you ever wear proper clothes when you’re working?’ she snapped and hurried off to the garden, embarrassed.
The next morning, as Becky passed him, she did a double take. As usual Matthew was wearing shorts – but today there was also a tie knotted around his otherwise bare brown neck. He and Alex dissolved into guffaws.
Becky had to laugh. ‘Actually that looks much better.’
‘Good,’ said Matthew. ‘I can take the damn thing off now.’ He hoisted it over his head and used it to lasso a mug of coffee and pull it towards him, then looked at Becky. ‘I take it you don’t mind that your first week has been spent gardening?’
How had a whole week gone by already? Apart from Clara’s cheerful explanations
about why this or that had to be done to a particular plant, Becky had enjoyed an almost Zen-like immersion in her simple manual tasks.
‘I don’t mind,’ she said.
Matthew nodded at the garden. ‘It is looking a little better, though I would prefer it if you could persuade my mother to get on with the history book or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.’ He turned back to his papers.
Becky was annoyed at his peremptory dismissal but couldn’t be bothered to think of a suitably cutting riposte. She really couldn’t make him out; was he comfortable with book project after all?
It was partway through her second week and Becky was wondering why she was in Barbados. She couldn’t see there was much more to be done in the garden but Clara still showed no inclination to discuss the book or track down the original sources she had mentioned. Becky had searched through the History of Barbados but found only a brief half page on the Monmouth rebels and just a one-liner about the Redlegs, saying the term was derogatory.
One afternoon she took a little wander down the mahogany-lined driveway to stretch her legs. Ahead of her she saw a figure in a Fedora hat and torn clothes weaving an unstable path beside the trees. There was something tragicomic about the way he moved; his footing was very irregular, as if he were following a huge invisible hopscotch grid. The only clue that he was the gardener Pitcher was a hoe in one hand. Though he was surely harmless there was something about his chaotic ambulatory style that dissuaded Becky from continuing, as that would have meant overtaking him and having some sort of exchange. She returned to the house. No one had said she couldn’t take a walk but the long driveway was slightly forbidding, as though it were a passageway to an unsafe world. Becky almost wished that Richard Carrington would turn up with some cheeky excuse to see her.
She hadn’t been back long and was reading alone in the living room when the phone rang. Everyone else seemed deaf to its insistent tone so she thought she’d better answer it. The woman at the other end of the line was plainly disconcerted by the sound of an unfamiliar female voice. ‘And who are you?’ she enquired bluntly.
Unsure of how to describe her role Becky explained that she was doing some research for Clara. There was a heartfelt sigh of relief – and an immediate demotion of her role in the Darnley household. ‘Oh, Clara’s secretary, are you?’ the woman said. ‘Well, would you get Matthew? You can tell him it’s Francesca.’
Becky said that Matthew was out and Francesca insisted Becky tell him ‘the moment he got back’ that Francesca had rung. Then she rang off abruptly, without thanks and without a conventional goodbye.
Matthew was not likely to return to the house until midnight so Becky made a mental note to tell him the next day.
Maybe it was something to do with Francesca’s rudeness but Becky felt particularly blue that afternoon and when Zena arrived with her childminder she decided that, instead of delivering the little girl to the kitchen and then scuttling off, she would stay. Becky was attuned to any sign that she was not welcome but Maureen and Cook seemed to accept her presence and appeared grateful to have another person to help keep the three year old entertained.
‘Don’t leave it too late to have children,’ Cook warned Becky. ‘My son’s wife leave it too late.’
As Zena looked perfect Becky could only guess Cook meant she would rather be a younger grandmother.
After that Becky joined the two women in the kitchen most afternoons. When Cook dozed off at the table, as she frequently did, it was Maureen who had to prevent Zena from opening the cutlery drawer or trying to sample the leftovers from the semi-feral cat’s food dish. Her relief was evident when Becky took Zena out to examine the garden or simply sat her in a corner and sang songs to her. Sometimes Zena would fall asleep against Becky and if Cook was feeling more ‘present’ she would share a little gossip with Maureen. Without overtly prying, Becky learnt that Cook had lived in the same room in the house when she was a teenager. Widowed later in life, she had ended up back at Copper Mill and seemed to regard this as her final home. Though often clearly exhausted, the elderly lady enjoyed the female company and her habitual brief utterances would turn into a stream of gossip, descending into a Bajan accent so strong that Becky struggled to keep up.
‘Pitcher tek too much rum and now he see tings in de garden daint f’real but instead he cut down de drinking he go to Matthew and mek a request dat he deal wit dese perps and Matthew got bigger tings dealing with his hotel dan dese tings dat don’t exist.’
Becky looked at Maureen, helplessly.
‘Pitcher keeps telling Matthew that he sees people hiding in the garden,’ Maureen explained.
‘Could they be real?’
Maureen shook her head. ‘Pitcher drinks a bit. I’ve never seen anyone.’
No doubt it all fed Matthew’s paranoia, thought Becky.
She also answered their questions about England – about her own house and situation – though she was a little vague about her former employment status. Cook and Maureen seemed curious why she had, apparently, left a career in journalism to come to Barbados.
‘Wouldn’t most people?’ Becky said. ‘Given the chance?’ But their joint frowns signalled quiet dissent. She could hardly tell them Matthew had got her sacked from her job. Neither Maureen nor Cook ever said a word against him or Clara though the name Francesca often merited shaken heads and sucked air. Cook asked if the latter had come round again to see Matthew.
‘Not yet,’ said Maureen.
‘She rang,’ said Becky, making a rare contribution to the gossip.
‘When?’ asked Maureen.
‘A few days ago.’ Becky recounted the conversation.
‘That woman is trouble,’ said Maureen.
‘And what did Matthew say?’ asked Cook.
Becky had given Francesca’s message to Alex as Matthew was busy on his mobile when she walked past them to start work in the garden. Presumably the name Francesca meant something to Alex for he had just raised his eyes and agreed, with noticeable reluctance, to convey the message to Matthew when he got off the phone.
‘He was in a meeting,’ she said, having no idea whether Alex had remembered to pass on the message nor what reaction the news had elicited.
Now she wondered if Matthew’s late returns to the house were connected to Francesca. Not that she cared what he got up to but she felt envious that he had somewhere to go after the sun went down. She was starting to feel trapped in the old plantation house – never more so than at night when the building was ensnared in darkness and she was trammelled by lack of transport.
She sorely missed access to the internet, which would have allowed her to swap daily emails with Joe. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she and Clara had been making progress with the book but her employer seemed to have lost her focus.
In the mornings, out in the garden, Clara always sounded enthusiastic whenever Becky suggested they make a start on the book ‘that evening’ but every day the discussion had to be postponed because Clara wasn’t free. Word had got out that she was back in Barbados and her many friends were keen to see her – and even keener to rope her in for their shared passion: bridge. If Clara was not visiting one of their houses, then she was glad-handing coiffured women up to the veranda for drinks before migrating to the dining room to cut the cards.
Becky had joined them on the first bridge night and been introduced to a lady (whose hair was so set and eyebrows so pencilled that she looked entirely artificial) as Clara’s ‘co-author’. The artificial woman had asked Becky whether Clara was talented: a provocative question to ask when Clara was standing right there – and an impossible question to answer as Becky still hadn’t seen anything that Clara had written, apart from the gardening book.
‘Well, Clara’s certainly a talented gardener,’ Becky had replied and then said to Clara. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
Clara had laughed and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh no, Becky,’ she’d said. ‘Being a good gardener is like being a lady. If
you have to say you are, you aren’t.’
That had set the tone for the evening. Becky had felt completely out of place among this grand-seeming set of ladies and sensed her bridge partner’s frustration with her slowness to comprehend the rules.
When Clara invited her to join them again she’d politely refused, choosing instead to sit with Cook in the kitchen and encourage her to tell tales of duppies and other colourful malevolent beings that buzzed around at night seeking bodies to possess and torment.
Becky described some of these stories in a letter to Joe along with sharing her frustration that she didn’t have internet access. As she signed it she realised it would be the first handwritten letter he received since their father’s last note to him with its sketches of the ship.
The letter to her mother was much more difficult. Becky struggled to fill it with meaningful information, as if she were a young girl writing to an aged relative with whom she had little in common. The weather was ‘nice’, the people were ‘nice’, the garden was ‘nice, and the food was ‘very nice’. She went into detail about Cook’s dishes though aware her mother wouldn’t have a clue what eddoes, yam or plantains were. She was so desperate she even drew a plan of the plantation house as if she were a real estate agent and her mother was interested in knowing that upstairs there were five bedrooms – all en suite – and that downstairs there were three light and airy reception rooms, a bathroom and, further into the bowels of the house, a darker corridor off which lay rooms she hadn’t yet been able to explore: Cook’s room was somewhere back there and Matthew’s office (when he wasn’t on the veranda).
She struggled to find some personal anecdote to include and could only come up with the experience of the resident gecko (normally hidden behind a painting in the dining room) once using her head as a brief stepping stone on his peregrinations round the walls in search of insects.
Of her research and secretarial work – the reason she was there – she had nothing to report. And so the letter ended rather abruptly after the lizard story with ‘hope you’re well, love Becky’.