by Marie Evelyn
Francesca must have pushed past Maureen and headed for the only lighted area visible from the veranda because within seconds she was in the same room as Becky and dropping a bag on the table over Clara’s notes. A woman in her late thirties, she was stunning rather than beautiful, attractive rather than pretty, very tall with brass-coloured shoulder-length hair, brown eyes, white but tanned. She looked as if she had arrived for a cocktail party, wafting a mix of perfume and hairspray – and confidence.
‘So you’re Becky!’ Francesca looked her up and down.
Becky had no make-up on and was dressed in short trousers and an old shirt whose faded flowery pattern was only bright in the places where Zena had happily rubbed hibiscus petals into the cheap material. She could see that Francesca was pleased with what she saw, as if it confirmed a previous opinion.
‘Francesca.’ Becky held out a hand, which Francesca squeezed rather than shook. She pulled up a chair.
‘Now what are you doing here?’ she asked, picking up bits of paper and barely glancing at them before putting them back on the table.
‘Just typing up some of Clara’s notes.’
Becky could see Maureen standing in the doorway, cursing herself for letting this dragon over the threshold, though Becky thought even a shotgun would have failed to repel Francesca.
‘One of Clara’s little projects. God, I wish I had a secretary; life would be so much easier. When Clara’s finished with you come and work for me, Becky.’ Francesca looked round. ‘Maureen, I’m sure one of us could do with a drink.’
Maureen came in and picked up Becky’s half-drunk coke. ‘I imagine you’ll be needing some rum in that.’
‘I meant for me,’ snapped Francesca. ‘I’d like a G & T.’
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ said Becky. ‘I think Maureen should already have gone home.’ But Maureen made a ‘Don’t worry about it’’ gesture and went out. Possibly she was curious about Francesca’s arrival.
‘Are you allowed to drink?’ asked Francesca. ‘I mean, are you on duty?’
‘I’m pretty much finished for the day,’ said Becky. She had hoped to type up more notes but that was clearly out of the question now. Not that she could expect anything like a conversation with Francesca, who had already established a pattern of disengagement by asking a question and then looking bored when the answer came.
‘You’re from England are you? I haven’t been there for years. My ex-husband was always keener on America than Europe. In fact I’ve left him in Florida. Best place for him, really.’ She picked up the bag she’d unceremoniously dumped over Clara’s notes and looked inside.
‘Has Clara eaten yet?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Becky. ‘She’s been in bed all afternoon.’
‘Well, she’s probably desperate for some good food and some company. Can you go and get her? Tell her I’m here.’
Becky paused awkwardly. ‘I’m afraid Matthew said –’
‘Never mind what Matthew said. I notice that he isn’t here to look after his mother.’
Becky was spared further argument as Clara walked into the morning room, clutching a dressing gown round herself, just as Maureen brought the drinks.
‘Ah Maureen, bless you. You’re still here,’ said Clara.
‘Just wanted to know if I could get you anything,’ said Maureen.
Clara pulled the dressing gown round herself more tightly. ‘Actually I would love a hot –’
‘Clara! You poor thing.’ Francesca rose and gave a startled Clara a distant hug, air-kissing either side of Clara’s expressionless face.
‘Francesca,’ said Clara, with no enthusiasm. ‘I’m afraid I –’
‘I’ve brought you some lamb chops. You probably need some protein.’
‘Cook is cooking,’ Maureen murmured.
‘That’s sweet of you, Francesca,’ said Clara. ‘But it sounds like we already have a meal on its way.’
‘Yes, but Cook must be over a hundred by now,’ said Francesca. ‘Look, I’ll cook the chops myself. Or maybe Becky or Maureen could do it.’
‘Maureen should already have gone home,’ said Clara. ‘And Becky is not here to cook.’
‘OK,’ said Francesca, dropping the bag on the table again. ‘How about we have a quick drink on the veranda and then I’ll leave you to it?’
‘Maybe I could manage a little sherry.’ Clara sighed. ‘But I warn you I can’t talk too much. I’ll have to just listen. Are you coming to join us, Becky?’
‘I’m afraid it will be very boring for you, small island gossip,’ said Francesca. ‘Though of course you’re welcome to join us and hear me talk about people you probably haven’t heard of.’
‘I’ll do a bit more on the computer,’ said Becky. ‘And then I’ll see how Cook is doing.’
‘I’ll get the sherry,’ said Maureen. ‘But then I’ll be off.’
‘Thanks Maureen,’ said Clara as she and Francesca headed out to the veranda. Becky tried to type a few more notes but felt she may as well have been sitting on the veranda with them, for, with the window open, Francesca’s voice carried through and banished any chance of Becky concentrating on her work.
‘– and after Barbara ran off with the pilot, I’m afraid that Simon was caught making hoax bomb calls to the airline. Such a shame he took it so badly.’ The sound of Maureen’s car departing could barely be heard above Francesca’s gossip.
Becky wanted to shut the window but it would have seemed like a very purposeful statement. There was no way she could carry on working so she typed an email to Joe and wrote a postcard to her mother. She knew her mother would have preferred another letter but there really wasn’t much new to say. Even by the standards of most bland postcards this one would have won the ‘Blandest Postcard posted in Barbados’ competition: the weather was still nice, the flowers were pretty, she had been to a kite festival. Her mother would have been interested to hear that Becky had met a lord but Becky didn’t feel she could put the Lord Fotheringham anecdote on a postcard.
An hour later Barbara was with a chef, Simon was in prison for threatening to torch a restaurant and a host of other people had got married, divorced or were facing tax-evasion charges. The only name she recognised was Richard Carrington and apparently he was being pushed to take a paternity test by a single mother. Becky realised that Clara’s responses – initially monosyllabic – now seemed altogether absent, which was surprising as Francesca was now talking about how wonderful Matthew was, a subject normally close to Clara’s heart.
‘Everyone is talking about how amazing his Casino Nights are. Such a brilliant idea.’
Remembering she’d said she would check on Cook, Becky went to the kitchen where sumptuous smells came from the oven, which had been left on a low heat. She presumed Cook was tired and had retired to her room. Becky turned the oven off and plated up for three, though she left her meal in the kitchen protected by a fly cover.
‘How sweet,’ said Francesca, when Becky appeared on the veranda with two trays. She took one tray from Becky, looked at the heaped plate and placed it on the cane table. Clara did not say anything. Her eyes were closed. How could Francesca have failed to notice her hostess had apparently dozed off?
‘Clara?’ said Becky, softly. ‘Clara?’
After a few seconds Clara opened her eyes and looked at the plate, confused.
‘I think I’ll have to have this is my room,’ she said, struggling to her feet. ‘Francesca, it was lovely to see you but I’m afraid my energy has deserted me.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Francesca. ‘I do hope I haven’t tired you out.’
Clara gave no answer and headed slowly upstairs. Becky followed with the tray assuming Francesca would see herself out.
Once in her room even the action of slipping her dressing gown off seemed to tire Clara and she got straight into bed.
Becky hovered uncertainly with the tray. ‘Where would you like me to put this?’
Clara just murmured ‘Poor Cook�
� and fell asleep.
Becky returned to the kitchen, hurriedly ate her own meal and threw away Clara’s uneaten dinner. She went back out to the veranda and was surprised to find Francesca still there, looking out into the dark garden as if willing Matthew’s car to appear.
‘Is there anything I can get you?’ asked Becky.
‘No. No, I’d better be on my way.’
‘Oh hang on,’ said Becky. She fetched the bag with the lamb chops from the morning room and handed it over to Francesca who took it wordlessly and walked down the steps with not a backward glance; she was certainly not into saying goodbyes. Or thank yous. Becky watched her reverse her car out of the yard and was left with another heaped plate of Cook’s lovely beef stew to feed to the rubbish bin.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day, concerned that Clara had still not surfaced by ten o’clock, Matthew asked Maureen to go up to her room to check on her. Maureen reported that Clara had refused breakfast and her breathing was ‘raspy’. Matthew immediately called a doctor, who arrived at the house soon afterwards – a Bajan woman of about his age, graceful and sombre, she seemed to know the family well. Matthew and Becky followed her upstairs and waited while she examined Clara.
‘I’m afraid it’s the usual,’ the doctor said, as she came out of Clara’s room. Matthew uttered a string of harsh-sounding words in French.
‘The usual?’ asked Becky, wondering whether she was in any way to blame for not being more assertive with Francesca.
‘Pleurisy,’ said Matthew.
‘Well, it’s the most likely cause,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ve given her an anti-inflammatory and I’m leaving some antibiotics. I’ll come in a couple of days; sooner if you think I’m needed. We could give her an X-ray but I think for now just rest – and make sure she doesn’t talk.’
Poor Clara. Becky wanted to see her but if the older lady wasn’t meant to talk Becky ought not to look in on her. She headed downstairs after Matthew and the doctor and could hear them discussing how often Clara should take the antibiotics and in what quantities. Matthew showed the doctor out and then gestured for Becky to join him on the veranda.
Alex was in his usual place squinting at some paperwork and they joined him at the table.
‘Did anyone come round last night?’ said Matthew, quietly.
‘Francesca.’
‘Francesca?’ He looked confused.
‘Oh damn,’ said Alex, rubbing his eyes. ‘Sorry, I forgot to pass the message on. Becky told me, oh, ages ago that she had rung and wanted you to ring back. It completely slipped my mind.’
‘So she came out to find me,’ said Matthew.
‘She said she’d come round to see how Clara was,’ said Becky. ‘But she did wait for a while after Clara had gone to bed.’
Matthew gazed out at the garden, apparently looking at a crooked-tailed black bird strutting across their lawn. ‘Was it just her or was her husband with her?’
‘Just her. She said that her ex is in Florida.’
‘Ex?’ He looked at Alex, who nodded. ‘You knew this? So her last marriage failed as well?’
‘Marriage?’ said Alex. ‘It was more like a flash in the pan.’
‘I’d better get to work,’ said Becky. Alex smiled as she got up but Matthew seemed oblivious to her leaving.
Becky fetched herself a coffee and went into the morning room. She fired up the laptop and took out another wodge of Clara’s notes, picking out the ones in French to type up so Matthew could do all the translation in one go. She was distracted by the low voices of him and Alex on the veranda – such a contrast to Francesca’s shrill tone the previous evening. Now and again she’d pick up a few words but mainly it was a low rumble.
‘You need an escort.’ Alex said. ‘We don’t want a repeat of last night.’
Matthew’s reply was indistinct.
‘How about Becky?’
Again Matthew’s reply was impossible to pick up.
‘Becky is better at talking to people,’ Alex said and then they must have moved from the veranda for the next thing Becky heard was Alex’s car pulling away. She wondered what that exchange had been about.
By early afternoon Becky had typed all the French notes into the computer. It was time to get them printed off. She saved them to the memory stick and went to the office at the back, where Matthew was typing at his computer.
‘Matthew?’
He looked round and gave a half-smile. He looked tired.
‘Now who’s the ninja?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘Sorry. I was wondering if I could print out what I’ve typed up?’
‘Sure. Sit down.’ He got up, took the memory stick from her and plugged it in the back of the base unit. It was a fiddly operation as the computer base was wedged close to the wall with a mass of wires protruding. She found herself fascinated by the way his thick hair whorled from the crown of his head. He didn’t go for Richard Carrington’s neglected hippy look but he wasn’t short, back and sides either. As usual he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt.
Trying not to examine his bare torso as he fumbled on the floor, Becky looked at the screen. Matthew had been typing a document:
With respect to the sealed-bid auction for the land near Shermans: plot 106.85B, I Matthew R Darnley of Copper Mill, Cowcross Lane, St Lucy bid US$2.3 million.
She looked away guiltily as Matthew got to his feet.
‘There you go,’ he said. He looked at the screen, frowned, quickly closed down his document and opened the memory stick folder. ‘So how much have you typed up?’
‘It’s probably just a few pages actually. It’s all the notes that were in French. I thought it would be easier for you to correct the translations if you saw them on paper.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I won’t manage it today now. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘Sure, whenever. It can wait until Clara is better if you’re too busy.’
Matthew’s mobile went off and he wandered away to answer. Becky located her document and started printing. She tried to imagine what two million and three hundred thousand dollars would look like if it were spread over a table. And this wasn’t Barbadian dollars but US dollars. A massive amount considering that he would still have to bear the cost of actually building the hotel. He was clearly certain that his bid would be successful. She wondered if he had any other competitors apart from Richard Carrington.
Matthew came back, strangling his phone with one hand, his face like thunder.
‘Problems?’ said Becky.
‘Chris Harris has been signed off with stress. I can’t believe I didn’t see that coming.’
Becky wondered how much Ian’s little stunt with the freebies had contributed to Chris’s angst. She felt a stab of guilt then angrily pushed it away; it had hardly been her doing.
‘Will you have to go to London?’ she asked.
‘Probably. I could do without it right now.’
‘I can look after Clara if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘Thanks, Becky. That is one factor. But there are others too.’
Yes, she thought: the sealed bid and a newly divorced Francesca. She collected the printed pages, closed down the document on the computer and made the memory stick safe to eject. ‘Thanks, I’m done. I just need to get the stick.’
But he’d already forgotten she was there. He was staring into space, tapping his mobile with one hand. It was only when Becky knelt down to try and find the memory stick that he snapped out if it and knelt down, extracting it immediately.
They looked at each other for what seemed to Becky to be an uncomfortably long time though in truth it was probably a few seconds. She took the stick from his outstretched hand, stood up and walked away.
As she passed the kitchen she could still smell the wonderful eddo soup they had had for lunch. She inhaled then had a thought and checked the clock in the hall: Zena should have arrived by now. Becky rushed into the kitchen to find Cook’s granddaughter stand
ing on tiptoe trying to reach a saucepan on a back ring – still bubbling gently – while her grandmother dozed soundly at the kitchen table. Becky switched off the heat and swept the child away.
Becky hugged Zena to her with rather more intensity than usual and still had hold of her when Maureen walked back in a few moments later.
‘Oh Lord, I was checking if Clara needed anything. Cook was awake when I left. Did Zena burn herself?’
‘No but she was reaching for the pan.’
Maureen closed her eyes in horror at what might have been.
‘I’ll take her outside,’ said Becky.
The little girl was soon squatting on the yard poking what Becky initially thought was a centipede, which might bite her.
‘Oh, it’s just a Christmas worm,’ she said with relief, watching the poor little striped beast curl around to avoid Zena’s rather harsh prods. ‘No, don’t hurt it, Zena. Just let it lie in your hand.’
Zena spent a few happy minutes watching the worm undulate over her fingers and then have to do a balancing act as Zena turned over her hand.
‘Choose one of them.’ Becky heard Alex say from the veranda. She hadn’t heard his car come back though now noticed it in the yard. ‘It’ll keep the silly girls away. Becky or Francesca. Either that or don’t bother going tonight.’
‘You know I have to go.’
Becky realised that Matthew and Alex weren’t even aware she was in the yard, below and to the side of them. Matthew leaned over the balustrade, deep in thought. If he turned his head, he would see her but he just stared ahead at Clara’s well-pruned garden.
‘It will have to be Francesca then,’ he said. He sounded weary.
Alex’s sigh was so loud Becky heard it.
‘Well, I can’t leave my mother alone,’ said Matthew, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
Becky had no time to try and fathom this strange conversation, as Zena’s mother pulled into the drive. Becky took Zena over and quietly shared her concerns about Cook’s ability to look after Zena in the afternoon. Zena’s mother was concerned but surprised. ‘She’s never said she was tired.’