The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  Most nights she sat alone on the veranda staring into the darkness that lay beyond the reach of the house lights. Despite the nearby laughter and the bidding of rum-warmed female voices, it felt almost as if time had stopped beyond the edge of the light.

  Chapter Seven

  It was the middle of Becky’s third week in Barbados and there was still no indication from Clara that they were going to start on the book. As usual Becky was sitting on the veranda waiting for Clara to appear and list all the things they had to do that morning, which Pitcher either couldn’t or wouldn’t or shouldn’t. She’d nodded to Matthew – on his way to his car today – and would have exchanged pleasantries with Alex had the latter not dozed off in a cane chair the moment Matthew had driven away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ said Clara, appearing in her dressing gown. ‘I’m going to have to give the garden a miss today. Renee’s car has broken down and she needs a lift to the care home to see her mother.’

  ‘OK,’ said Becky. ‘I don’t suppose it’s near Bridgetown?’

  Clara frowned. ‘Nowhere near, I’m afraid. Josey Hill’s up this end.’

  Becky’s spirits sank as Clara went back into the house. Gardening in the morning was the only meaningful event in her daily schedule other than helping mind little Zena in the afternoon.

  She had to get away from the plantation house. She would just have to walk until she found a bus stop; it must be possible to get a bus to Bridgetown. In her first week Alex had insisted she be given two hundred Barbadian dollars out of her first month’s wages as ready cash and it was still sitting up in her bedroom, untouched, so paying the fare wouldn’t be a problem as long as the bus driver took notes.

  Alex opened his eyes and yawned. ‘I’ve got to go to Bridgetown. Is there anywhere in particular you want to go?’ he asked.

  ‘Is there a public records office? I need to start doing something instead of just sitting round here all day.’ She could see Alex was surprised at her tone of voice but she couldn’t be bothered to disguise her frustration.

  ‘There’s the main library,’ he said. ‘I could drop you off on the way but I’ve got to warn you I won’t be able to pick you up for hours. I’ve got the bank manager and lawyers to see and a stack of messages to do.’

  ‘Messages?’

  ‘I just mean things. Errands. Boring stuff.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Becky. ‘I’ll be ready in two minutes.’ She ran upstairs to fetch her rucksack, and also asked Maureen to let Clara know she was going out with Alex, then waited by his car until he appeared carrying a briefcase. He put it on the back seat and they both got in.

  ‘You seem a little vexed,’ he said as they pulled out of the yard and into the lane.

  ‘I am a bit fed-up,’ said Becky. ‘Actually, I’m really fed-up. Clara seems to find any excuse not to work on the book and I’ve yet to see the notes she’s apparently been making for years. I’m beginning to wonder …’ She paused, unsure how to explain her concerns to Alex.

  They had reached the end of the lane and he turned on to the road. ‘What are you beginning to wonder?’

  ‘If she’s had second thoughts about writing the book after all. I suspect she felt sorry for me and offered me a job on impulse but now she’s embarrassed about the subject matter and wishes she had never mentioned it.’

  ‘And what is the subject matter, exactly?’

  ‘The fate of the Monmouth rebels who were sent here to work on the plantations.’ Getting a blank reaction from Alex, Becky added ‘the Redlegs.’

  Alex whistled. ‘That’s a difficult one. She could be having second thoughts, as you put it.’

  ‘I already have the names of some of the men sent out from England to work –’ Becky was going to say ‘on the Darnley plantation’ but thought it impolitic to spell out Matthew’s family’s involvement, ‘on one particular plantation.’

  ‘OK,’ said Alex. ‘And what will you look up at the library?’

  ‘I don’t quite know to be honest. I assume there are records of what happened to them when they arrived. Or maybe they just disappear from history. In which case, I might as well fly back home.’

  ‘There are still little communities,’ Alex said. ‘So they can’t have disappeared entirely. In fact there’s a tiny settlement on the edge of Matthew’s land.’

  ‘Is there? Could you take me there? One day, I mean.’ Becky could see Alex instantly regretting what he’d said.

  ‘I’ve never been there myself to be honest,’ he said. ‘I think it’s just a couple of little houses, shacks really. You’d be disappointed.’

  ‘But I’d love to talk to them.’

  ‘They might not want to talk to you,’ said Alex, adding quickly, ‘or to anyone. They’re Bajan now. I could be wrong but I don’t know if they’d be that interested. Or even if they would have much to say. It was hundreds of years ago.’

  ‘I could at least try.’

  Getting no response from Alex, Becky looked where they were going and noticed a signpost for Bridgetown. It made her think of her father – who had mentioned it often – and she wished he could see her now, seeing the same sights as he had seen.

  ‘I think the man who does the gardening lives there,’ said Alex.

  Becky tried to remember where their previous exchange had left off. ‘You mean Pitcher?’

  ‘Yes. If you really want to talk to someone you could try him but I don’t think you’ll have much luck.’

  Becky recalled Pitcher walking ahead of her down the lane a few days earlier. She hadn’t even wanted to catch up with him, let alone attempt a conversation.

  ‘So you don’t think he’ll want to talk about it?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’ll understand what you’re asking. Most people only have the shakiest idea of where they come from. And from what Matthew tells me Pitcher’s grasp of the present is shaky enough.’

  Becky sighed. ‘How about you, Alex? Do you know where your ancestors came from? If it’s not too personal a question.’

  ‘It’s not too personal but I don’t really know the answer. I’ve no idea where Wilson came from. My mother’s maiden name was Campbell, which I believe is Scottish, but there was nothing Scottish about her. She’d never even been to Scotland.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you want to go?’

  ‘Never occurred to me. England’s cold enough. No offence but when I’m over there, I can’t wait to get back home. Aren’t you missing your home?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it to be honest.’ Becky grimaced. ‘I sort of miss my brother.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘I guess.’ Apart from wondering what to put in a letter to her Becky had barely thought of her.

  She turned her attention to the landscape. The flat green land was furnished with the odd single-storey house or ruined mill or well. Alex occasionally pointed out some landmark but she was pleased Matthew had chosen a more scenic route for her first glimpse of the island. Not that she minded the comparative lack of scenery.

  ‘Thanks, Alex. It’s lovely to get away from the house.’

  ‘Has Clara not taken you anywhere?’

  ‘No.’ This sounded a bit disloyal so Becky added, ‘the gardening seems to tire her out and then, after she’s had a rest, it’s time to get ready for her bridge friends.’

  ‘Do you play bridge?’

  ‘No.’

  Alex gave her a sad smile. ‘Poor you.’

  ‘That’s part of the problem. Most people would think I’m nuts to complain. I’m getting paid but I’m not doing what I came out for. I’m sure Matthew isn’t happy about it.’

  ‘I wish you could take on some of my tasks. You’d probably be better at them than me.’

  ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t be.’

  She realised they were entering a more built-up area. This must be Bridgetown. She could see palm trees and grand, colonial buildings – all quietly boasting municipal pride. ‘Are we here?’
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  ‘Sorry, yes – welcome to Bridgetown.’ Alex dutifully turned into a tourist guide, albeit one on a tight schedule. ‘Look out for Nelson’s Column – built years before your one in London. There’s the Parliament buildings. Parliament was established in 1639 –’

  ‘They’re seventeenth century?’

  ‘No, most of the buildings in this part are nineteenth century. And this is Coleridge Street.’ He pulled in to the side of the road. ‘That’s the library and that building over there is the courthouse so don’t get them muddled up. I’m probably going to be busy until five o’clock. Have you got your mobile?’

  ‘I left it at the house. My provider doesn’t seem to cover Barbados.’

  ‘OK. No problem. When I’m done I’ll come in and find you.’

  ‘Thanks, Alex.’

  Becky got out of the car and walked towards the imposing library building. She went to what appeared to be a reception area and asked the young Bajan lady where she could find documents relating to the Monmouth rebels. The young woman looked as blank as Alex had done earlier.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The records of the political exiles from England who were sent here in 1685.’

  ‘No good coming here then. You’ll have to go to the Department of Archives. We don’t have much before the nineteenth century.’

  Becky was a bit taken aback by her bluntness but realised the woman didn’t mean to be rude. ‘Is that in Bridgetown?’

  ‘No. Black Rock. In St James.’

  Becky’s heart sank. She had no idea where that parish was or how she could get there. Even if she could get a bus, there was a chance she wouldn’t get back in time to meet Alex. The young woman must have seen her disappointment for she picked up her glasses from the desk and came round.

  ‘There’s one book you could try. You go through there and sit down and I’ll bring it to you.’

  Becky walked into a larger room, sat down at the table the librarian had indicated and shortly afterwards the young lady – now wearing gloves – brought over a musty tome and placed it carefully on the table. The cover was thrillingly old – faded green with a gold letter inscription: Records of the Trayterous Complices with intent to overthrow the Crowne.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ commanded the lady and walked off, leaving Becky wondering how she could examine the contents without X-ray spectacles. The librarian returned with a pair of disposable gloves and gave them to Becky to put on.

  ‘You’re not going to trash this book, now?’

  ‘I promise not to trash it.’

  ‘OK. You just show me first what you’re going to do.’

  Becky opened the cover and stared at the yellow, mildewed page, on which the title ‘Records of the Trayterous Complices with intent to overthrow the Crowne’ was repeated in faded ink.

  ‘And the next one.’

  Becky dutifully turned the first page, with all the care of a surgeon performing open-heart surgery on a new-born baby. She almost gasped. The pages inside were handwritten. While this was going to be a pain to read, she felt a buzz of awe at the thought these lines had been written three hundred and thirty years earlier.

  ‘So what are you looking for?’ asked the librarian, presumably still seeking some reassurance that Becky was a bona fide researcher and not a book-trasher.

  ‘I’ve got a list of some of the rebels who were sent from England in 1685 and which plantation owners they were assigned to. I just want some information about what happened to them when they reached Barbados.’

  That was evidently good enough for the librarian for she said ‘good luck’ and walked back to her desk.

  Becky began to read the introduction but found it tough going and was grateful Alex was going to be a long time. There were many spelling mistakes – if one could describe unstandardised pre-Samuel Johnson English as containing ‘spelling mistakes’. It also took her a while to realise the word she was reading as ‘Matey’ referred to ‘Majesty’:

  A moƒt Horrid wicked and Execrable Rebellion was raiƒed and proƒecuted within his Ma ties Dominions by James Scott late Duke of Monmouth and by his Trayterous Complices with intent to destroy his Majesties moƒt Sacred person and Royall family, to overthrow his Crowne and Government. The Rebells and Traytors were utterly Defeated, ffor which many of them have Deservedly ƒufferred the Paynes of Death, while the reƒt were granted clemency by his Ma tie in his Princely and unparrelled Grace.

  This was followed by several pages of further sanctimonious twaddle, the author being obsequiously keen to hammer home the message that King James was just and merciful and the rebels barely worth saving from a hangman’s noose.

  Becky carefully leafed through until she came to what interested her more: the fate of the rebels once in Barbados.

  Anyone endaevouring to eƒcape before their terme of tenn years was ended should receive 39 lashes on his bare body in publique.

  Becky remembered the rebels had been given sentences of four years in England. Apparently some punitive inflation had struck while they were crossing the Atlantic.

  There were further proscriptive rules controlling their lives: they were not allowed to marry or have children.

  She turned to the list of prisoners arriving and compared the names with the list she had made in Somerset of those dispatched on the Betty. The names tallied except there was no mention of Thomas Gehalgod or of the others thrown overboard, which made sense if the records were only of those who walked off the ship. Why would the Barbadian authorities have been interested in the men who were buried at sea and therefore unavailable to work on the plantations? Daniel Pitcher and Randolph Randerwick were listed, along with another thirteen men assigned to William Darnley of what looked like Copper Hall plantation. The writer must have meant Copper Mill or perhaps the name of the house had changed slightly in the past three hundred odd years.

  Talk about continuity. Mr Pitcher might now be working the very same land his ancestor had hundreds of years before.

  At the very end of the list of prisoners was a name she hadn’t expected: Sarah Thomas. In all of her reading Becky had not come across an account of a woman fighting in the Battle of Sedgemoor so it was reasonable to assume Sarah Thomas had been convicted of aiding the rebels. Becky had read previously of the harsh penalties handed out to people for hiding fugitives after the battle, even if they were unaware the men they were helping were rebels. Judge Jeffreys had even sentenced one such woman to be burnt alive.

  But in that case why wasn’t Sarah Thomas recorded as boarding the Betty in Weymouth along with the other prisoners? Unless she was smuggled aboard – willingly or unwillingly – by the crew. Whatever her reason for being on the ship her fate on land was a little more definite: she was described as a ‘servant girl’ and assigned to William Darnley.

  After reading for three hours, Becky was left feeling intrigued but frustrated. There was no more information in the book. Sarah Thomas could have acted as a servant in the Darnley household or she could have ended up working the fields with the men. She might have lived a relatively easy life or she could have been horribly abused.

  Still wearing the gloves Becky took the book back to the librarian and thanked her.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a record of deaths and marriages?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Not from the seventeenth century. You need the church parish registers.’ The young woman tapped into a computer and searched a screen. ‘There’s quite a bit online. You could try the Anglican church records.’ The young woman wrote the website address down. Becky was about to ask if there was a computer she could use when she heard a voice call her name and looked round to see Alex, briefcase in one hand, phone in the other. She had to hide her disappointment at his early appearance.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘It’s gone like a dream today. I’ve sorted out the bank and done all my messages. You ready to go back?’

  ‘Yes,’ Becky lied, sensing Alex wanted to make a quick getaway. Sure enough she ha
d to up her pace as she followed him to the car.

  Becky spent the drive back deep in thought. She wondered whether some oral history could have been passed down the generations of Redlegs to the present. Wouldn’t it be amazing if she could say something to Pitcher that would trigger a rhyme or a story from over three hundred years ago – carried through time like a spoken gene? It may be a forlorn hope but Alex had already demonstrated the possibility. During the Scottish referendum on independence, the Essex Gleaner had attempted to be topical by publishing a tongue-in-cheek glossary of Scottish words. Becky could only remember a couple: piece meant a snack, message meant groceries. Alex had almost certainly heard his mother or grandmother say she was ‘doing the messages’ when she was off out to shop and had interpreted this to mean ‘doing errands’. Over how many generations had that phrase been relayed?

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said Alex.

  ‘I really need access to the internet,’ Becky replied. ‘I’ve asked Clara if you have broadband at the house but she just looked blank.’

  Alex laughed. ‘Of course Matthew has broadband, but, I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s practical to use the computer in the office. Look, tell him you need a laptop. I’m sure he’d buy one tomorrow if it would help you.’

  Becky didn’t share Alex’s conviction. Knowing Matthew he would assume she was after freebies rather than trying to do any genuine research. Still it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  ‘I guess that means the library wasn’t much use. Did you find out anything?’

  ‘Pitcher’s ancestor was working for the Darnleys over three hundred years ago. That’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? I mean the continuity.’

  Alex didn’t answer and she was surprised to see his face screwed up in puzzlement. She had been about to tell him that a girl had walked off the Betty who had never (apparently) boarded the ship in England. But his silence put her off. She felt a little sad. Here she was getting fired up by Bajan history and no one else seemed interested.

  That night, as Becky tidied her room, it occurred to her she might be performing the same actions, in the same space, as Sarah Thomas had three hundred and thirty years ago. She looked out of her window at the yard and garden gently illuminated by the lights on the veranda. At least she could assume Sarah had been familiar with this window, though whether as a plantation worker looking up, or a servant girl looking down, Becky had no way of knowing.