The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  Matthew parked in the designated area and helped his mother out of the car. There was a stack of folding chairs nearby. Matthew picked up one for each of them and led Clara and Becky towards a grassed area beyond the main school buildings.

  ‘The competition is held on the school playing fields now,’ he said to Becky. ‘Probably not what you expected.’

  Becky thought there was something accusing about his tone. ‘Actually I was expecting a cocktail bar and a string quartet,’ she said. ‘We always have those at kite competitions in Essex.’

  Matthew looked a little surprised. ‘I just meant that it’s a shadow of what it used to be.’

  ‘It used to be the highlight of Easter,’ said Clara, seemingly oblivious to the tension between her son and Becky. ‘It was held at the Garrison Savannah.’

  ‘Where the horse racing happens?’ asked Becky. Her father had mentioned it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘It was a major event. You should have seen it before.’

  The school playing fields were edged with spectators and although the atmosphere was sober – compared to the Crop Over festivities Maureen and Cook had described – it still had a pleasant and expectant buzz. Matthew opened up the folding chairs for Clara and Becky and, murmuring something about needing to talk to some people, walked off.

  Becky was glad to see him go and hoped when he came back he’d be less moody. He headed off towards a clump of men and women clustered around a table bedecked with silver cups of various sizes. Near them stood a reporter with a camera bouncing on his stomach. Becky felt a pang of deprivation: Ian was still happily ensconced in his job at the Essex Gleaner but who knew if she was going to have a career in journalism when she returned to England? At the moment she didn’t even know if she had an alternative career as a researcher and co-author – although Clara had promised they would discuss the book once today’s event was out of the way.

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Clara. ‘Is that Richard Carrington?’

  Becky looked at the group of people who were now hailing Matthew. Although they were all dressed smartly, like Matthew, most of the men were wearing short-sleeved shirts with no ties. However, one of them, a fair-haired man standing a little apart from the welcoming committee, was dressed in a full suit with jacket and tie, which must have been stifling under the midday sun.

  ‘It can’t be,’ said Becky. ‘He always looks so scruffy.’

  ‘You know, I think it is. I’ve never seen him wear a tie before.’

  ‘Why would he come to a kite flying competition?’ asked Becky. She didn’t know anything about Richard Carrington but from what she’d seen he wouldn’t be a natural attendee at an event that involved wearing a suit and drinking no alcohol. Looking around she could see several respectable hawkers selling soft drinks but no stalls for beer or rum.

  ‘All the Carrington brothers are members of the Rotaract Club,’ said Clara. ‘Though I don’t think Richard is very active. Whereas you can see that Matthew does quite a bit for them. I wonder what Richard’s up to.’

  Becky didn’t care what he was up to. She just hoped she might be able to have a cheerful and straightforward conversation with him later as opposed to putting up with Matthew’s resentful reminisces and Clara’s unwillingness to discuss the Monmouth rebels.

  Not that Richard was looking too cheerful at the moment. He was stomping away from the Rotaract Club group.

  Becky saw Matthew point her and Clara out to a plump Bajan. The man gave Matthew a slap on the back and then headed their way to greet Clara – obviously an old acquaintance.

  ‘And this is Becky from England,’ said Clara. ‘She’s helping me to write a book.’

  If only, thought Becky, wincing inside.

  ‘Wow,’ said the middle-aged man, whose face was a study in wrinkled cheerfulness. ‘Do you live in London?’

  ‘No, but not too far away.’

  ‘So,’ said Clara, with a mischievous face. ‘Why is young Richard wearing a tie for the first time in his life?’

  The man laughed so much he had to put his hands on his knees to stay upright. ‘Oh Lord,’ he cried. ‘Young Carrington wanted to hand out the big prize. He pretended he didn’t know Matthew had bought all the prizes and was lined up to present them.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Clara. ‘I do hope the Club isn’t going to listen to him.’

  ‘Don’t you worry. Matthew offered Richard the chance to hand out the prize for the youngest kite-maker.’ The plump Bajan held up a hand with his thumb and forefinger a few inches apart. ‘It’s a little, bitty silver cup.’ He laughed some more. ‘I think the man is insulted. He go storming off.’

  ‘Oh, Mr R is naughty,’ said Clara with indulgent pride.

  The man went back to join the committee and, as the competition got under way, various other people came up to Clara to exchange greetings and gossip and find out who Becky was.

  A woman from the Rotaract Club announced each category over a PA system and then children in school uniforms took to the field with wonderful home-made kites. Becky could only imagine the children in the youngest category were being taught kite-flying in primary school as they just about managed to totter out holding beautiful home-made creations. The sight of them trying to launch their glued together sticks and coloured paper was both funny and moving. She was surprised to see that Clara was in tears.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Clara said, dabbing her eyes. ‘They are so sweet.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Becky remembering Zena’s fierce determination when she was trying to launch the little kite a few days earlier. ‘They are gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh heavens,’ said Clara. ‘And the little boy over there is from the children’s home. Let’s hope his kite just soars.’

  The lad was one of only a couple of boys not in school uniform and was doggedly trying to keep his kite airborne. Every time it fluttered to the ground there was a collective sigh from the crowd. The boy would work out which way the breeze was blowing then lay out the line again and try to lift his kite by running along with his arms raised a few feet in the air. He was the smallest on the field and must have been no more than five or six.

  ‘Remember the kites must be in the air for one whole minute,’ said the lady over the loudspeaker.

  Other children’s kites had been flying for a good ten minutes but this little boy was presumably the only one still in contention in his age category. At last his kite took flight. The crowd cheered and started counting. When the collective voices shouted out ‘sixty!’ and the little boy’s kite was still in the air there were more huge cheers and for the first time his expression changed from worried concentration into a sparkling grin.

  He came forward proudly to collect his prize and Matthew bent down to say a few words to him, making the boy giggle, before taking the microphone to announce him as the winner of the youngest kite-flyer category. The boy seemed delighted with his little cup.

  Becky looked around for Richard and saw him chatting with a group of men. She wondered if he regretted not taking Matthew up on his offer.

  She was enjoying herself. The venue may only be a school playing field but she drank in the colourful kites and bright Bajan outfits and loved the easy-going nature of the crowd. The Sno-Cone man occasionally advertised his wares with the tinkle of a bell and, in the afternoon sun, crowds quickly grew by his handcart. Becky watched him dispense cones of shaved ice saturated with syrups the colours of ruby and topaz and decided she would buy one when the queue had gone down.

  Matthew had presented several cups, in ascending order of size, and now there was just one trophy left. It dazzled on the table, drinking in the sun. Already impressed by the home-made kites and the skills of the schoolchildren in their neat uniforms, Becky wondered what the last category would be. The Rotaract lady announced the Large Kites section.

  ‘Let’s hope it lives up to tradition,’ said Clara, fanning herself with a hand.

  There was an expectant hush as everyone stared at the empty playing
field. Becky looked over to the presentation table. The Rotaract group was looking slightly jittery and the female announcer held her hand out as Matthew had done earlier that morning, testing the breeze. Matthew just stared ahead, expressionless.

  Five teams of schoolchildren, either all male or all female, started trooping on to the field. Resplendent in their uniforms they were carrying kites the size of several dinner tables lashed together.

  ‘Do these things ever get off the ground?’ said Becky to Clara.

  ‘We’re occasionally lucky.’ Clara laughed. ‘Let’s just say this is usually when the gambling starts.’

  The teams laid down their masterpieces and cast sideways looks at their rivals’ creations, all of which looked rather vulnerable set on the turf.

  The Rotaract lady declared the ‘skies open’ and immediately the atmosphere changed from sedate charm to naked competitiveness. Knots of malicious youths cranked up the aggro from the sidelines with helpful comments such as ‘All you gon need helicopter to get dat one up’. Presumably this was aimed at teams from other schools.

  ‘Some of these will never have been in the air before,’ said Clara.

  ‘What? No test run?’ said Becky.

  ‘They don’t often have enough room where they live.’

  There were a few near-disasters, though from the reaction of the spectators this was what they wanted to see; had all five kites flown immediately there would have been little humorous tension.

  One group of young boys charged along the grass pulling their kite, accompanied by confused shouts and conflicting instructions, while their stouter companions tugged desperately at the other end of the nylon line. For a moment the great structure seemed to hover on the edge of rising airborne but the brave endeavour ended as a sad jigsaw of balsa and bamboo.

  Three of the kites did eventually make it into the air and the winning team, whose kite was almost twenty feet long, drew the largest applause of the day when Matthew presented them with the giant trophy.

  It was all huge fun.

  Becky wondered what happened now as she watched the photographer attempt the near-impossible task of getting the winning team and their kite all in one picture.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Becky started. She hadn’t heard Matthew approach and was surprised he wasn’t still needed for official photographs.

  ‘I’d love a coke,’ said Clara. ‘And I’m sure Becky would like something too.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Becky. It would be good to stretch her legs even if it did mean a few minutes in Matthew’s company. Despite being all smiles when handing out the trophies he was looking serious now.

  ‘Were you bored?’ he asked, as they walked towards a drinks stall.

  ‘Not at all. And as far as I could see it was very successful. I can’t imagine most children in Britain being this well turned out. I’ve never seen so many school uniforms.’

  ‘But that’s the problem,’ said Matthew. ‘It’s just children. You can always tell when a tradition is declining because all that’s left is the children.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have Maypole Dancing in England, right?’

  ‘I suppose so. Our school never went in for it but –’

  ‘Exactly. I mention Maypole Dancing and you immediately think in terms of schools and children.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  He looked at her. ‘It’s a fertility rite, isn’t it? So it wouldn’t have been children doing it, at least not in the days when it meant something.’

  Becky had no idea what to say to that – and felt slightly awkward discussing fertility rites with Matthew – but she was saved from having to reply by a chorus of wolf whistles. They came from the group of men Richard was with, who sprawled on their seats looking good-naturedly tight though no beer was evident.

  ‘Hey Becky, ecky-Becky,’ called Richard, cheerfully.

  Becky smiled and gave a wave. The men waved back, grinning. ‘Ecky-Becky,’ they chorused.

  ‘Hey Matthew,’ one of them called out. ‘I hear you’re living the high life. Sitting in the front row now.’

  Matthew either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the comment.

  He carried on walking and the group retreated into angry whispers, their previously cheerful dispositions turning sullen.

  Matthew forged ahead and Becky had a job catching up with him. ‘That was a bit unfriendly,’ she said, as she joined him at the stall.

  ‘Yes, they were.’

  ‘I meant you.’

  Matthew ordered three cokes and didn’t respond until he had completed the transaction and they were headed back to Clara. ‘You don’t know what they were saying.’

  ‘They were just playing with my name and I’m not worried about it.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ snapped Matthew although he obviously had no intention of giving her an explanation.

  Becky sipped her drink and mentally counted to ten. It had been such a pleasant afternoon. Why did Matthew have to spoil everything?

  Chapter Eleven

  Becky slept late on Monday morning and when she came down Matthew and Alex had already left for the day. Clara was not down yet either. The sleepless night on Saturday and the afternoon out yesterday had probably caught up with her too. Becky took her breakfast into the dining room and found Maureen there, polishing the table.

  ‘Hi,’ said Maureen. ‘I’ll have a look for the laptop as soon as I’ve done my chores.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Becky felt a bit guilty about adding to Maureen’s workload. ‘You know I’m happy to help you search.’

  Maureen shook her head. ‘Matthew’s quite particular about who goes into certain parts of the house.’ Becky could believe that.

  Maureen stopped polishing. ‘Cook told me about the Mad Bulls.’

  ‘Oh, yes it was horrible,’ said Becky. ‘We got no sleep at all until Matthew and I pulled them down.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Kids presumably,’ said Becky. ‘They probably didn’t intend to disturb our sleep. Maybe just some boys having a competition. You know, whose kite could stay up overnight.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Maureen. ‘So these kites were home-made?’

  ‘No, they were shop bought. Though they’d been – customised.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Maureen, again and resumed her polishing.

  ‘You think it was intentional,’ said Becky. That might explain why Matthew had been in such a bad mood yesterday. ‘Can I ask you something else?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Is “ecky” a bad word?’

  Maureen frowned. ‘Ecky? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything, I don’t know, sexual?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Why?’

  ‘When we were at the kite competition yesterday some men called out “Ecky-Becky” to me. I thought they were just being friendly but Matthew got quite annoyed. I thought maybe they’d insulted me.’

  Maureen looked at her unsmilingly. ‘They weren’t insulting you.’

  ‘So if someone shouted “Ecky-Becky” at you, you wouldn’t be insulted?’

  ‘If someone was so stupid to say that to me I’d ask him why God bothered putting eyes in his head,’ said Maureen, picking up the duster and polish and heading for the door. She paused on her way out. ‘They weren’t insulting you.’

  Becky took her coffee on to the cool veranda feeling even more confused than before. It was like she had been given a puzzle to put together by people who had deliberately removed the key pieces. Exasperated she looked out over the yard towards the now-very-well-tended garden.

  There was a strange discolouration on the gravel – a little patch of red or brown. And another, and another – each one nearer the house. Becky leaned over the balustrade. There on the bottom step sat Pitcher, minus his floppy Fedora. His feet were bare and he was clutching his right leg. As she headed down the steps
to see if he was all right he turned and Becky could see his shin through his torn trousers. She stifled a desire to scream and forced herself to speak quietly.

  ‘That looks a bit nasty, Pitcher. No, no, sit down –’ He was starting to lever himself up. ‘Stay right there. I’ll get some help.’

  Becky ran into the house and shouted for Maureen who came running from the kitchen, closely followed by Cook. Clara appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘It’s Pitcher,’ said Becky. ‘He’s put a hoe or something through his shin. It looks pretty bad.’

  ‘I’ll go check,’ said Maureen heading out the front door. Becky waited at the foot of the stairs for Clara to come down. ‘We need antiseptic,’ she said. ‘And something we can use as a bandage.’

  ‘I’ll fetch the witch hazel, said Cook, heading back to the kitchen.

  A minute later Pitcher was surrounded by four clucking and concerned women.

  ‘Why you don’t take more care?’ grumbled Cook, handing Becky a bottle of witch hazel and a tea towel. Becky gingerly placed the makeshift bandage over the massive gash on Pitcher’s leg. She still thought a proper antiseptic would be better but Cook had resolutely held forth the witch hazel.

  ‘Oh Pitcher,’ said Clara. ‘How did you do that?’

  Pitcher made a hacking or chopping gesture with his right hand.

  ‘He needs stitches,’ said Maureen.

  ‘And a tetanus injection,’ said Clara.

  ‘He needs to go to hospital,’ said Becky.

  Pitcher started to fidget, craning his head to look at Clara and shaking it.

  ‘It’s all right Pitcher,’ said Clara. To Becky she said more quietly, ‘The hospital is miles from here. He’s not happy being away that long.’

  ‘How about the clinic in Speightstown?’ said Maureen.