The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  Chapter Eight

  The veranda was not a peaceful place the next morning as Matthew – in his normal office attire of black shorts – was shouting into his mobile while Alex sat opposite, looking pained. Becky hung around long enough to realise that this wouldn’t be a brief conversation and raised her eyebrows quizzically at Alex.

  ‘One of the hotel guests is blaming our swimming pool for giving him Hepatitis A,’ said Alex.

  ‘Yuck. Could it be true?’

  ‘Doubt it. He’s probably gorged himself on shellfish at one of the Crop Over events but of course there’s more money to be made from suing a hotel.’

  Becky had heard Maureen and Cook talking about Crop Over, which sounded like a bacchanalian equivalent of the Harvest Thanksgiving celebration in the UK – except that it celebrated the sugarcane harvest and seemed to take up much of July.

  ‘Too much drinking and carousing,’ Cook had said disapprovingly.

  ‘That sounds serious,’ Becky said to Alex.

  ‘You’re not joking. We may have to close the pool until we can get an independent quality check of the water.’

  ‘So now isn’t a good time to say that I need a laptop?’

  Alex gave a rueful smile. ‘Not a good idea. I’ll try and remember to ask him later when things have calmed down.’

  Resigned to not being able to check the lists of deaths and marriages today, Becky thought she could at least update Clara on her trip to the library yesterday. However that turned out not to be possible either as no sooner had Clara surfaced than she cried off gardening that morning, saying she had to drive Renee to the garage to pick up her now-mended car. Becky didn’t bother to conceal her disappointment.

  ‘I promise we’ll do something nice tonight,’ Clara said, which did nothing to lift Becky’s spirits, as Clara’s idea of doing ‘something nice’ usually involved a pack of cards.

  Clara did not return for lunch and the day passed slowly until Zena arrived with her childminder. Becky decided that today she and Cook’s granddaughter should explore the area behind the house. She was feeling braver after her excursion to Bridgetown and also wondered if she might get a glimpse of the settlement where Pitcher lived.

  This area of scrub hadn’t received any attention during Clara’s garden renovations and looked generally uncared for. The rough grass bumped over the uneven ground until it reached a high wall ‘decorated’ with broken glass secured in place with concrete – no doubt another example of Matthew’s paranoia about break-ins. But a strange little visitor had made it over the wall. Becky approached the flat cream-coloured hexagon lying in the grass and picked it up carefully. It was about eighteen inches long and wide and made of thick paper sewn roughly on to strips of light wood; it felt both rough and delicate.

  ‘What’s this?’’ she said. It looked like a hat for a person with a flat head.

  Zena giggled and took it from her, toddling off at quite a pace and flinging the flimsy object into the air. She screamed with delight as it came down to earth again.

  ‘Careful, Zena,’ Becky called. ‘We don’t know what it is.’

  Zena stopped and regarded her with pouty disbelief. ‘Kite.’

  Becky sighed. What an idiot she’d been. Of course it was a home-made kite: one that had broken free from its tether to land in their little patch of the world. She rather envied it its freedom for, though the wall was low enough in places to see over, Becky couldn’t spot anything resembling a settlement in the distance. Even if she were adventurous enough to venture further she had to get Zena back in time for Cook’s daughter-in-law to pick her up.

  Despite Zena’s comedic attempts to get the kite airborne as they headed back to the house, the afternoon had compounded Becky’s feeling of isolation. She half-wished Richard Carrington’s assertion they would bump into each other would be proven right.

  But at least Clara kept her promise.

  ‘Renee’s going to drive us to the cinema to see a play,’ she said happily when Becky got back.

  That sounded odd but any change in routine would be good.

  Sure enough Renee arrived in a saloon car a couple of hours later and Becky recognised her as one of the friendlier members of the bridge group, A nice middle-aged Bajan she greeted Becky warmly as they waited for Clara to walk decorously down the veranda steps.

  ‘I just know you’ll love it,’ said Renee. ‘As soon as I heard the film was on I told Clara we have to take Becky. Remind her of home. Shakespeare, Becky!’

  ‘Shakespeare? A film?’ asked Becky, bemused, getting into the back seat.

  ‘Othello. It’s supposed to be really good.’

  Clara got in the front and shut the passenger door. ‘You’ve probably seen the play loads of times I know but hopefully the film will be good too.’

  ‘Actually I haven’t seen it,’ said Becky, amused they should think being English conferred some sort of expertise. She wasn’t actually a big fan of Shakespeare but she was pleased to have an opportunity to see the island after dark. Renee was a sedate driver but the slow rushes of the landscape in the headlights were as engaging as any film.

  ‘So where is the cinema?’ Becky asked, having lost any sense of whether they were driving south, west or east.

  ‘Holetown,’ said Renee, adding, ‘on the west coast.’

  Becky recognised the name. She’d read that the town had a monument commemorating the first English landing, when the island was claimed for James I. She would have liked to see it but now was not the time.

  The layout of the cinema was familiar enough but the rest of the experience was new to Becky. When she went to see a film in Essex she might recognise one or two people and give a little nod of acknowledgement but Clara and Renee seemed to know at least half the people in the audience. There was much hubbub of chatter and exuberant waving.

  ‘Oh there’s Richard,’ said Clara. ‘Richard!’

  Three rows in front a fair-haired head turned to wave at Clara and Becky recognised the beach bum from the airport. Tonight he was dressed in a smarter (though still casual) shirt – presumably a concession to his date for the evening, an attractive Bajan, who turned round and smiled at them before resuming her conversation with someone in another row.

  ‘Hey, Becky,’ Richard shouted, waving at her with a big grin. ‘They’re not working you too hard?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said and returned the smile.

  ‘How do you know him?’ asked Clara.

  ‘Bumped into him at the airport.’

  ‘And how’s Matthew?’ Richard called to Clara. ‘Any special plans for Crop Over?’

  ‘Oh, he’s busy at the hotel,’ said Clara. ‘Though he’ll be at Queens on Sunday for the competition.’

  ‘For the Rotaract Club?’ asked Renee. ‘It would be great if they could get the competition going again.’

  ‘I know,’ said Clara.

  ‘What competition?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Judging kites. It used to be a traditional event on Easter Sundays,’ said Renee. ‘It was great fun and a big proper competition. Nerves stretched to breaking point trying to get some of the larger ones off the ground. There would be competitions for the silliest kite or the biggest kite – quite a few categories.’

  ‘It’s a real shame it died away,’ said Clara. ‘I think the Club are hoping making it part of the Crop Over celebrations will revive the tradition.’

  Becky saw Richard was still watching them although he wouldn’t have been able to hear the exchange.

  ‘Hey,’ he called. ‘Has Matthew made his own kite?’ He laughed.

  Becky sensed some annoyance in Clara though her mouth soon returned to a smile. ‘No,’ she called back. ‘He’s handing out the prizes.’

  Becky noticed a strange look cross Richard’s face – ‘crestfallen’ would probably describe it best but it was soon replaced by another grin. ‘Then I’ll see you there,’ he shouted. ‘You’re going, Becky, right?’

  As Becky had no idea whethe
r she would be going she just smiled. The film trailers were starting and Richard turned back and slipped an arm around his date’s shoulders as the lights dimmed.

  ‘Did you see that look?’ asked Clara. ‘Or did I imagine it?’

  ‘He’s envious,’ said Renee. ‘Not surprising really.’

  Becky wondered what they meant but soon forgot about it as she discovered that watching a film in Barbados was a different experience from England as well. A trip to her local cinema at home was hardly a rarefied event – people constantly checked their mobiles, struggled with supersize cartons of popcorn and chatted to each other – but they didn’t interact with the film. In this cinema people were shouting advice to Othello, groaning when the advice was ignored and then got bored when Othello went on and on to Desdemona about a handkerchief. Becky’s attention wandered too. She saw Richard’s date shrug off the arm round her shoulders; maybe he had done something to irritate her. When Becky’s eyes returned to the screen Othello was still going on about a missing handkerchief.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ shouted a Bajan voice from the back row. ‘Use your sleeve, man, so we can get on with the story.’

  Becky thought that was the best bit of the evening.

  As they drove home she warmly thanked Renee for taking her.

  Renee beamed. ‘I knew you’d enjoy it. A bit of Shakespeare’s good isn’t it? I didn’t understand half of what they said but never mind.’

  ‘Nor me but I think we got the gist,’ said Becky.

  Becky’s effusive thanks to Renee must have sparked some guilty reaction in Clara. She was quiet for a while before exclaiming ‘poor Becky’ and turning round to face her in the backseat. ‘I haven’t really taken you out anywhere, have I?’

  ‘No worries,’ said Becky. ‘After all I am supposed to be working.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly not working this weekend,’ said Clara.

  ‘Clara, I’m not really working at all. I’d much rather get on with the book than –’

  ‘Next week, Becky, I promise,’ said Clara. ‘But on Sunday you and I are going to go to Queens to see Matthew hand out the prizes.’

  ‘OK,’ said Becky, pleased she was going to get to go to the festival.

  Although it was Saturday, it was still a working day for Matthew and Alex and Becky found them in their usual places on the veranda when she came down in the morning. Matthew looked a little calmer; presumably his swimming pool was open for business. Alex took one look at her and slapped his head in annoyance.

  ‘Sorry, Becky. I forgot to ask him.’

  ‘Ask me what?’ said Matthew.

  ‘Becky needs a laptop for her research.’

  ‘And internet access,’ said Becky.

  Matthew stared at her. ‘Hasn’t my mother given you her laptop?’

  ‘No,’ said Becky.

  Matthew gave a grunt of frustration. ‘She’s probably left it behind in England.’

  ‘To be fair I think I asked her about internet access rather than about the laptop specifically.’

  ‘Can you check with her first?’ He returned his attention to the papers in front of him.

  Becky couldn’t tell whether he was being deliberately unhelpful or was genuinely distracted by work concerns. She headed back into the house.

  ‘Try Maureen,’ Matthew called after her. ‘If she can’t find it when she’s back on Monday let me know and I’ll sort out a replacement.’

  Becky was so stunned by his answer she could barely get out the words ‘Thank you.’ Perhaps Alex had told him about their trip to Bridgetown and he now realised she was serious about researching the Monmouth rebels.

  Clara came down about an hour later, clearly tired after her day out with Renee, but she insisted on working for a couple of hours in the garden anyway. Becky told her some of what she’d discovered at Bridgetown library but didn’t feel the time was right to bring up Sarah Thomas or mention talking to Pitcher. She mentioned the laptop when they were having lunch but Clara went vague.

  ‘I just can’t remember. ‘I’m sure I’d have brought anything that looked important.’ She smiled at Becky. ‘I almost forgot. You’ve got two letters.’

  The household custom was for mail to be placed next to the phone on a small table in the hall. Becky had long given up looking – used to seeing nothing but a stack of official-looking envelopes for Matthew – but sure enough today there were two envelopes for her – one from her mother, one from Joe.

  She opened the one with her mother’s handwriting first. It was somewhat joyless: the gutter was blocked, there were mouse droppings in one of the kitchen cupboards, and someone had fallen in church – literally rather than morally, Becky assumed. The letter made no reference to Becky being in Barbados.

  Joe’s letter was a welcome contrast, his handwriting a little chaotic but energy leaping from the page. He asked questions about the climate, the wildlife, and did boys really play cricket in the street? (Becky had hardly been out enough to answer that one). Had the pillock tried it on with her? (This was accompanied by a rather rude diagram of where to hit him if he did). Had she learnt anything about their father? (That made Becky feel guilty for she had barely thought about tracing him). There was also evidence Joe had been doing some research of his own though clearly he favoured the Horrible Histories approach: he wrote that the Duke of Monmouth’s execution was so botched it took multiple axe chops to finish him off and in the end the executioner had to be whisked away before he was torn to shreds by the furious public. Joe finished the letter with a drawing of a tombstone with the words ‘Thomas Gehalgod lives’ scrawled over it.

  Becky smiled. The way things were going she would be better off posting her questions to Joe to have him trawl the internet and post back his findings.

  When Clara went up for her afternoon nap, Becky went through the History of Barbados again to see if there was any mention of the Darnley plantation but the book didn’t go into that level of detail. If she could just get online to check out the Deaths and Marriages websites she had been given at the library she would be in with a chance of finding something about Sarah Thomas. Maybe not marriage – if Sarah counted as a Monmouth rebel she wouldn’t have been allowed to marry – but she would have died at some point.

  It occurred to Becky that Cook had been in the household a long time and there was the slimmest of chances some folklore had been passed down by the people who worked for the Darnleys. She decided to ask Cook that evening when Clara was hosting her usual bridge session.

  Becky noticed that Cook sounded a little breathless when she dished out their stew. After eating Becky helped Clara get the dining room ready for the bridge party then carried the dishes out to the kitchen. Cook’s breathing sounded even more laboured than before.

  ‘I’ll clear up,’ said Becky, putting the plates in the sink and running the water.

  Cook nodded gratefully and sat down, leaning heavily on the kitchen table. After a moment or two she said, ‘I think I need one of my pills.’

  ‘Tell me where they are,’ said Becky. ‘I’ll get them.’

  ‘Thank you. On the table in my room.’

  Becky stopped washing up and hurried to Cook’s room. She knew it was at the back of the house but had never been down this corridor behind the main reception rooms before. She passed a downstairs toilet and a locked and bolted door which must lead to Matthew’s office and opened the door at the farthest end. Stifling heat hit her and she cursed Matthew for giving Cook a windowless room but, when she switched on the light, she could see there was a large window, tightly shut. She found a small pill bottle on a table by the single bed and brought it back to the kitchen.

  ‘It’s too hot in your room,’ said Becky. ‘Shall I go back and open the window?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Cook.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Becky, getting a glass of water for her. ‘I forgot that a duppy can get through the smallest crack. So what would it do if it got in?’

  Cook shrugged. ‘Me
ss up tings. Trow tings. Mek a fire.’

  ‘Well, your room is duppy-free. It’s the neatest room I’ve ever seen.’

  Cook made a face and swallowed a tablet. ‘Because I keep the window closed.’

  Becky resumed the washing up but did not feel she could raise the subject of Sarah Thomas now. She was pleased to hear Cook’s breathing gradually get steadier and before long the old lady heaved herself up and headed to bed.

  Becky finished clearing up and headed out on the veranda. Even a few minutes in Cook’s room had made her feel in need of air and she could not imagine how Cook got any sleep. Maybe that was why she dozed so much in the kitchen during the day.

  Becky sat down and looked out into the night. The laughter of Clara’s guests sounded far away, drowned by the whistling laments of the little beasts in the foliage below. A breeze picked up and woke the giant bamboo so that its usual gentle creaking turned into a more ominous sound – like that of an army of men cutting through a forest to approach the house. Another strange instrument joined the timeless orchestra that surrounded her – a whining, buzzing sound that filled the darkness and swelled until the sky seemed filled with malevolent angels. Becky had a sudden vision of transparent floating upper torsos – duppies – following the slave ships from Africa to the West Indies and America. She shook her head to dispel it but knew the sound wasn’t just in her mind when the conversation in the dining room died away and the bridge ladies ventured out on to the veranda.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ asked the Artificial Woman, who wouldn’t have been able to raise her eyebrows any higher without first rubbing off the old ones and drawing a new pair.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ said another, laying a hand over her heart. To Becky she said, ‘How can you bear to be out here alone?’