by Marie Evelyn
‘I don’t think she’s aware,’ said Becky. ‘Poor old Cook makes lunch and then falls asleep.’
Zena’s mother promised she would make alternative arrangements as soon as possible and then put her daughter in the car with more care than usual.
Becky headed back inside to find Matthew on the phone in the hall.
‘Matthew! What a lovely surprise.’ Francesca’s voice on the other end was so loud Becky wondered whether the phone was needed at all. However by the time she reached the morning room only Matthew’s side of the conversation could be heard.
‘I was sorry to hear about the divorce.’ He paused. ‘Oh well, sorry to hear about it, all the same.’ Becky smiled. Obviously Francesca was saying that she wasn’t sorry about it.
‘I was wondering if you’re free this evening? No, it has to be at the hotel and you’d be doing me a favour.’ Francesca must have asked for clarification. ‘I need the protection of a strong woman,’ Matthew said and laughed. ‘I had a really embarrassing experience last night. I got mobbed by single women. It was very odd.’
Becky hovered by the door of the morning room curious as to what exactly had happened last night.
‘It’s Casino Nights,’ continued Matthew. ‘I have a brilliant compère who teaches people the games but he needs someone to act as the pupil. I have to play this ridiculous James Bond character who turns up in Casino Royale but doesn’t know how to play. Then the guests watch me learn and they have a go themselves. We ham it up quite a bit and usually it goes well. But last night – let’s just say that a few women took the James Bond character a bit too seriously.’
Francesca must have said something teasing about his virility because Matthew laughed again and said: ‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t anything to do with me. Single women see a man on his own and decide he needs a mate. I blame the full moon.’ He paused again. ‘No, really, all I need is an escort. I think if I have a beautiful woman on my arm it will be enough to put off the desperate and drunken dames. Though obviously you can slap them if you really feel the need. That was a joke by the way. I’d rather you didn’t slap the guests.’
Becky closed the door to the morning room. She had no interest in participating in whatever happened on Casino Nights. No wish to encourage a gambling habit in people who had probably bought their holidays on creaking credit cards, from a man who could afford to bid over two million dollars for a plot and ruin another patch of Barbados’s tiny land mass with one of the new hotels her father had despised. She had no wish to grasp Matthew’s arm in a predatory hold, no wish to slap the faces of teary women who threw themselves at his feet. But nor did she wish to picture Francesca doing all these things.
She spent the rest of the afternoon online, trying – without success – to find a reference to Randolph Darnley and Sarah née Thomas. Rather annoyingly images of the present Mr Darnley – dressed up like James Bond – kept breaking her concentration. A more welcome distraction was an email from Joe. He was delighted she had finally got online and brought her up to date with life in Brentwood: the kitchen cupboards were now a minefield of mousetraps, he had accidentally run over a hedgehog on his bike, and the garage was paying for him to study for the next NVQ level in motorbike maintenance. He finished with a one-liner about how Thomas Gehalgod swam back to a beach in Weymouth, hitched a lift on a manure cart to his village and was now considering a career in accountancy. Becky laughed out loud – it looked like this was going to be a shared surreal saga. She emailed back Accountancy!!? Ploughing NVQ, surely.
She heard Matthew and Alex leave and, after working for a bit longer, decided to check how Clara was by taking up her dinner tray. She was shocked to see poor Clara looked years older than her age. Even sitting up in bed seemed to cause discomfort in her chest.
‘Is it really uncomfortable?’ asked Becky.
‘Well, dear, you know that joke: it’s only painful when I breathe? It’s true.’
Becky kept Clara company while she tried to eat something but she didn’t manage very much before she fell back asleep. Becky took the tray back downstairs and ate her own dinner alone in the kitchen. Cook had retired early and the house felt like a morgue.
Becky cleared up and went to sit on the veranda, listening to the frogs sadly whistling for a mate. She rather missed the normal laughter that spilled out of the windows on bridge nights. She decided to turn in early but found it hard not to lie there imagining what Matthew and Francesca might be doing. Eventually she fell asleep.
She was woken by the sound of Matthew’s car pulling in – around his normal time a little after midnight – and found it comforting to know he was home and had not gone on anywhere with Francesca. She heard him slide the bolts across the door and set the alarm and tried to picture him moving through the rooms but, as his first action was always to dispense with the hated shoes, there was no further evidence he was there at all.
Chapter Fifteen
The doctor came in to check on Clara and afterwards told Becky that she was doing OK but ‘in need of rest, rest, rest.’ She gave Becky a comically fierce look. ‘If she gets up you hide the gardening tools.’
Becky laughed and waved as the doctor drove off. As she was finishing her coffee on the veranda, Alex drove into the yard. There was no sign of Matthew’s car – he must have gone to the Monmouth earlier.
‘Has Matthew left you to it?’ she asked, as Alex reached the veranda and sat down, sighing – presumably in anticipation of the day’s work that lay ahead of him.
‘He’s flown back to the UK.’
‘This morning?’ Matthew must have snuck out of the house before dawn. Did the man not need any sleep?
‘He should have left you a note. I don’t think he trusts me to pass on verbal messages any more.’ Alex gave a wan smile.
Becky went in to check the hall table; sure enough there was a folded note. It was roughly scribbled on Matthew’s business stationery. He apologised for his sudden departure and left the phone number of the doctor – should his mother need medical attention before the next scheduled visit – and a few instructions to pass on to Maureen. He thanked Becky for looking after Clara. The final paragraph read simply ‘I am sorry that I didn’t take you to the Casino Night as I said I would but there is always next month. I look forward to seeing you again, Matthew’.
She took it out to the veranda, where Alex was now poring over some paperwork.
‘Is he gone for a whole month?’ The disappointment in her voice surprised her.
‘No,’ said Alex. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d be gone more than a week or so. He has an idea of who can act up to the manager’s role in the Essex hotel while Chris is off; hopefully it won’t take too long to sort out.’
‘Oh.’ Becky looked at the note again. ‘Does he only run the Casino Nights monthly then?’
‘Pretty much. If there’s a full moon.’ Alex turned back to his paperwork clearly assuming this was an adequate answer.
Becky was still intrigued to know why there was a connection between gambling and the lunar cycle, though knowing Matthew he’d probably read some research which concluded weak punters would splash out more when the moon was full. She was also curious to know why Alex had driven out to Matthew’s house to work when Matthew wasn’t there. Surely there would be more convenient places for him to work? She had her answer shortly afterwards when she brought them both a coffee and, not finding Alex on the veranda, headed for the office. Alex was just opening it up. The process involved conventional keys but also entering numbers into two keypads.
He saw her with the coffee and smiled gratefully. ‘That for me? Thanks. Just what I need.’ The door clicked and he pushed it open. ‘Like Fort Knox in here.’
‘I haven’t seen the opening ceremony before.’ Becky followed him into the office to put his coffee down and noticed there were industrial-size bars on the windows and several fixed safes on the wall. She was embarrassed to think she had been too preoccupied with looking at Matthew to be awa
re of them before. ‘This must be one of the most secure places on the island.’
‘It is. Matthew is paranoid about security.’ Alex fired up the computer. ‘And with good reason: you’ve heard of industrial espionage – you know, companies stealing each other’s designs? Well there’s also hotel espionage.’
‘What does that involve?’ said Becky, genuinely interested. Or maybe she was interested in knowing what made Matthew so paranoid.
‘If you want to find out what a competitor’s hotel is like you can send in a mystery shopper – you know, pay for a friend or an employee to stay at the hotel and report back. Or just go yourself. It’s an open secret: competitors expect to see each other acting like hotel guests.’
‘If it’s an open secret what’s the problem?’
‘People are also desperate to find out what their competitors are planning to do –what land they are looking to buy. What they would pay for it.’
‘Like the sealed bid?’
Alex looked surprised. ‘Did Matthew tell you about that?’
Becky cringed. She could hardly say she had read a private document. ‘Not as such,’ she answered, hoping Alex wouldn’t probe. Fortunately, he didn’t.
‘Yes, it’s particularly bad at the moment. I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to try and break in here – well, they wouldn’t get very far. But Matthew knows that there have been attempts to hack into our email accounts. He’s even reluctant to put in the sealed bid until the very last minute in case someone opens it and leaks the bid price to Carrington or someone else.’
Becky thought back to the document she’d seen on the screen; Matthew had been unusually unguarded with her around.
‘When does the sealed bid have to be in?’
‘Midday August thirty-first. Hopefully Matthew will be back well before then but if he isn’t I’ll have to deliver it to the realtors in person. Probably with an armed escort.’ Alex grinned. ‘Joke. Sort of.’
‘Is Richard Carrington really so bad? I met him at the airport. He seemed, – I don’t know – too laid back to be bothering with all that.’
‘I agree. I don’t think he’d have the brains or the inclination to be devious. But he has brothers who are a bit more savvy. Also Richard and Matthew – they have history.’ Alex did not elaborate and as he was clearly overwhelmed with the tasks his day held Becky didn’t push him further.
She went to sit on the veranda and discovered Pitcher standing at the bottom of the steps, his bandage still securely wrapped round his right shin. He waved a note at her.
‘One second, Pitcher. I’ll be right back.’ Becky ran inside and found Maureen and Cook. ‘I’d completely forgotten. Pitcher’s got to go back to the clinic today. We can’t ask Clara to drive him. He’s waiting outside.’
Maureen sighed. ‘What state’s he in?’
‘Well, actually, he looks pretty good.’
That was obviously enough for Maureen as she agreed to take them in her car. They settled him on the back seat with his leg up as before and headed for Speightstown.
‘Why’s he different today?’ asked Maureen, when they had driven for a few minutes.
Becky turned round in the passenger seat and regarded Pitcher who was looking out of the window. He had on a pair of cut-off trousers, a very faded shirt and some ancient-looking sandals but he looked clean. His eyes seemed a blotch-less blue and his demeanour suggested concentration rather than confusion. Or maybe it was simply that today he was sober.
‘Oh God,’ said Becky, turning back to Maureen. ‘I think he’s in love with the nurse.’
Maureen didn’t take her eyes off the road but her eyebrows rose like an impatient soufflé.
Maureen had no more luck than Clara finding a parking space when they reached Speightstown so she dropped them off outside the clinic before going in search of a space on the road.
As Becky walked with Pitcher to the clinic reception she warned him that he might be seeing a different nurse today. Pitcher looked bereft then shook his head, as if rejecting this scenario.
Fortunately the same receptionist was on duty and she remembered ‘Becky Thomson from England’ so Becky didn’t have to go through the same rigmarole as before.
They waited, Pitcher sitting upright with his eyes fixed on the treatment room door. Eventually the same Trinidadian nurse opened it and called out ‘Mr Pitcher’. Becky noticed with some amusement that his limp became a little more pronounced as he walked across the room.
She half-rose from her chair wondering whether she should accompany him.
‘You don’t have to come in,’ said the nurse, regarding her without any warmth, then she turned to Pitcher and ushered him into the treatment room with a pleasant smile. Pitcher beamed back at her.
Becky sank back on to the plastic chair. She wasn’t offended by the rebuttal but she was puzzled by the nurse’s unfriendliness towards her. Maybe Pitcher was going all out for the sympathy vote by telling the nurse Becky regularly beat him with garden implements?
Maureen appeared after fifteen minutes and promptly picked up a health leaflet with which to fan herself.
‘Long walk?’ said Becky, sympathetically.
Maureen rolled her eyes and nodded.
Less than five minutes later Pitcher re-emerged, a gleaming white bandage on his shin. The nurse didn’t come out this time. Poor Maureen had barely had time to sit down and enjoy the relative coolness of the waiting room before she had to go off again and fetch the car.
‘I got to come back next week,’ Pitcher said as they waited outside. Becky noticed he was still holding the note. Or maybe it was a different piece of paper; either way he was holding it as tightly as a love note. He made a scissors action.
‘To have the stitches out?’ asked Becky.
‘Yes.’
Becky felt the back of her neck burning in the sun and tried to pull up the neckline of her blouse to cover the skin.
‘Is England cold?’ asked Pitcher.
Becky felt a little surge of energy; had Pitcher been thinking about their previous conversation? ‘In winter it can be very cold.’
‘That’s what I heard. Have you met the Queen?’
Becky laughed. ‘Afraid not. Not for the likes of us.’ She frowned. She’d just parroted a typical phrase from her grandmother’s vocabulary. She could see Maureen’s car approaching in the distance. She wouldn’t have long but Pitcher seemed more ‘present’ than usual and it was worth a try.
‘Have you ever heard of a Sarah Thomas?’ she asked him.
‘Sarah Thomas.’ He paused then grinned. ‘Yes.’
‘Really? What do you know about her?’
‘I came on a boat and I was all alone, then I met a man and we mek a home. Then my poor love died, and …’ He stopped, as if he knew he’d once known the words but now couldn’t retrieve them.
Was it a song? It certainly sounded like a rhyme. She prompted him. ‘Then my poor love died and –?’
Pitcher seemed to go into a trance. ‘What does this Becky want from me? Will she leave me in peace?’
Maureen’s car pulled up and she got out to help Becky get Pitcher settled in the back. Becky greeted her cheerfully but her heart was thumping as if she’d just walked over the grave of someone who resented it.
Becky found Clara’s handwritten ‘first chapter’ and spent the afternoon typing it up. However her thoughts kept turning back to Sarah Thomas. She realised (with self-mocking amusement) that she was rather projecting her own situation on to Sarah for, although Sarah could have lived in this house from her teens to her sixties, in Becky’s mind Sarah was the same age as her – a twenty-three-year-old moving in the same space and not quite fitting into the fabric of the household.
The more Becky thought about it, the more she suspected she had misinterpreted Pitcher’s little display of spiritualism. Maybe he had some little rhyme lodged in his head, which he would have recited whatever name she’d mentioned. Next time she saw him she would ask
if he’d ever heard of Nicole Kidman and see what he came out with.
But when darkness fell Becky had to admit that Pitcher’s words had stirred up some rather odd feelings. When she had first learned that Sarah Thomas had married into the Darnley family, Becky had willed herself to try and sense Sarah’s presence as she moved through the house; she’d tried to imagine what Sarah would have seen when she walked into the kitchen or dining room, what she’d have seen when she looked out of a window or stood on the veranda. But since Pitcher’s little outburst Becky didn’t have to try so hard. She almost felt the presence of a young woman, fleeing from room to room ahead of her as if to escape her. Several times that evening Becky sensed movement in her peripheral vision; she switched the light on in the dining room and thought she saw the leaves on the potted plants tremble, as if someone had just walked by. Becky was a little unsettled: one English teacher at school – while being encouraging – would urge her to ‘let go’ and try and let her imagination run free. Now she would surely get full marks for imagination. Unless of course she wasn’t imagining things at all.
That evening Becky took the laptop up to Clara’s room to show her how the notes were progressing and go through the first chapter. It started with the Battle of Sedgemoor in Somerset and descriptions of the Royal and Monmouth armies; the Monmouth armies being the larger but worse equipped.
Becky didn’t know where Clara had sourced her information from but her own research confirmed what was in Clara’s first chapter: that portion of the Monmouth army who were armed with more than scythes used old-fashioned matchlock muskets, which always had to have a match burning, so revealing the fighter’s presence. The Royal army, by contrast, would have used the more efficient flintlock rifles, whose spark came from the striking of flint against steel. It was never going to be an even battle.
Becky wished she could travel back in time to discover what it had really been like. She could find all the technical detail she needed but neither her research nor Clara’s notes gave even a hint of what the experience must have been like for a poor young Monmouth rebel on a battlefield. Ironically Joe’s morbid interest and gory imagination would probably have helped here.