The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  Maybe Clara would have some ideas about how to bring more vitality and individuality to the descriptions.

  Unfortunately Clara’s technophobia extended to reading from a screen so Becky had to read the first chapter to her.

  When she had finished Clara frowned. ‘Can you read it again please?’

  Becky began to read aloud once more but Clara stopped her after a few paragraphs. ‘It sounds more like some parish council’s dull annual report than a battle, don’t you think?’

  Becky didn’t want to upset Clara so she chose her words carefully. ‘It’s quite technical.’

  ‘Technical? It’s leaden. Do you think we should remove all the information about weapons?’

  ‘No,’ said Becky. ‘I think you need to compare the weapons of the two armies and I thought some of the details were quite interesting. I’ve always wondered where the expression “flash in the pan” comes from. Now I know it’s a reference to flintlock guns.’

  ‘Yes, but something’s wrong with the way it’s written.’

  ‘I think the problem,’ said Becky, ‘is that there is no emotional involvement. People need to follow a character on the battlefield, to understand how he came to be there and then to care enough to know what happened to him.’

  Ah,’ said Clara. ‘You mean: one death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Becky. ‘But our problem is finding one person to follow. I know the names of some of the men who were sentenced to death or exile for fighting, but the trail runs pretty cold when they reach Barbados. I know when they died. I know they were worked into the ground as they weren’t a long-term investment and the plantation owners had no incentive to ensure their survival for longer than ten years.’

  ‘You’ve found out a lot,’ said Clara, with admiration.

  ‘But it’s still dry facts.’

  Clara thought. ‘Yes. Yes, I see. And do none of my notes give a hint of individual lives?’

  ‘Not unless your notes in French reveal something. I still have some of your notes in English to read but so far they seem to be snippets from the nineteenth century. The nearest we have to a continuous line is the Pitchers. The original Pitcher was called Daniel and he was a woolcomber, which makes sense, as south-west England was – and is – sheep-farming country. He was sentenced for transportation and arrived in Barbados in January 1686 to work for this plantation.’

  ‘So he definitely is an ancestor of our Mr Pitcher?’ said Clara.

  ‘Seems likely. And here is Pitcher – three hundred and thirty years later – working the same land. Isn’t that incredible?’

  ‘Not working it,’ said Clara, with an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Whatever. But the point is that I don’t know what happened in between.’

  ‘Becky, I’m ashamed to say I have never even asked him what he knows,’ said Clara. ‘I can’t imagine that he knows anything.’

  ‘I have asked him.’

  Clara leaned forward. ‘And?’

  ‘He does have some notion that his ancestors came from England and why. But I suspect that’s it.’ Becky chose not to share Pitcher’s outburst on Sarah Thomas – at least not until she had tried the ‘Nicole Kidman’ experiment.

  Clara leaned back again, wearily. ‘We’re asking too much, aren’t we? No one records the lives of servants or slaves.’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘I really thought I’d collected more,’ said Clara. ‘My mind playing tricks, obviously.’

  ‘But the person who intrigues me the most is the one I mentioned before: Sarah Thomas, the only woman to get off a ship with the rebels. You know, she was probably Matthew’s great-times-nine grandmother.’

  Clara looked confused. ‘That would be interesting but I’m afraid I’d never heard of her before you mentioned it.’

  ‘But she married a Darnley. She would have lived in this very house. She could have slept in this very room.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise the house was that old. But actually I have no idea how old it is.’ Clara yawned. ‘I think I’ve had enough Monmouth rebels tonight.’

  Becky felt quite deflated. She now seemed to be far more fired up about the fate of the exiles than Clara was. Clara must have seen her face fall because she added quickly. ‘Becky, I am interested, really. I’m a bit tired now but maybe you could leave me what you’ve typed up so far.’

  ‘I’ll leave you the French notes but I’m afraid that for the first chapter I’ll have to leave you the laptop,’ said Becky.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Clara. ‘Becky, I’m sorry, my dear – you’re going to have to print this off.’

  Becky didn’t manage to catch Alex the next morning before he had to dash off to the hotel. He had religiously locked up the office when he left so she would have to wait until he was back before going in with her memory stick. Alex was unfailingly pleasant and accommodating but she baulked at having to disturb him with a request to print off something when he was clearly so busy. In the meantime she carried on scouring the internet for any clue as to what happened to the rebels who remained in Barbados.

  She was looking after Zena when Alex finally returned and had to wait until the three-year-old’s mother had collected her before she could speak to him. He had looked shattered when he drove in so she made him some coffee and took it to the office. There were no sounds of activity as she pushed open the door and she felt a flash of irritation with Matthew when she saw Alex literally asleep on the keyboard. There was a faint smell of alcohol. He woke with a start as she put the coffee cup down and rubbed his red eyes.

  ‘Why doesn’t Matthew get someone to help you?’ she demanded.

  ‘He doesn’t trust anyone else.’ Alex grinned ruefully. ‘We were at school together.’

  ‘That sounds rather sweet.’ Becky held out the memory stick. ‘Would you mind if I printed off a few pages?’

  As they were waiting for the printer to finish, a thought occurred to Becky. ‘How did Matthew know Chris Harris?’

  ‘Chris? He was at school with us before he moved to Britain. Poor old Chris, nice guy, but I don’t think he was ever really cut out for the hotel business.’

  ‘You mean Matthew just appoints people because he was friends at school with them?’ Becky regretted saying it instantly; she hadn’t meant to imply that Alex wasn’t up to the job. Fortunately he didn’t interpret it as a personal slight. In fact he chuckled, though somewhat bitterly. ‘Us poor boys have to help each other.’

  Becky suspected that he was maudlin with drink.

  Becky had not needed to follow the doctor’s instructions to hide the gardening tools as Clara barely had enough energy to come downstairs let alone go outside. Her chest did not seem to be as painful though so Becky trusted the antibiotics were working.

  On Tuesday morning Pitcher turned up at the bottom of the veranda steps, the floppy Fedora hat on his head and the note from the nurse in his hand. Becky sighed inwardly when she saw him. Maureen was off with family commitments and Alex was at the hotel. Clara had seemed quite tired when Becky took a breakfast tray up so Becky was reluctant to bother her but she was out of ideas regarding getting Pitcher to the clinic.

  ‘Oh, poor Pitcher. I’d forgotten about him,’ said Clara.

  ‘He seems to be OK,’ said Becky. ‘But I think today is when he has his stitches out.’

  ‘It will have to be our transport man, Mr St John, then,’ said Clara. ‘I hope he’s got a car free. He’s more used to collecting hotel guests from the airport but, well, he’ll just have to do it. I’ll give you the number. Just explain that I asked.’ She gave a mischievous smile. ‘You’ll have to say it’s hotel business.’

  Becky followed Clara’s instructions and was relieved when Mr St John said he could provide a car but there would be a delay. She went out to where Pitcher was still waiting and told him Mr St John would take him to the clinic but there would be a wait of several hours. Pitcher nodded stoically and sat calmly on the veranda
steps.

  Becky returned to her work. Half an hour later she broke off from the computer and went out on the veranda to give her eyes a rest. The sun seemed more relentless than usual and, although Pitcher had positioned himself on a higher step so that his head was in the shade, his sandalled feet were in a sheet of light; he had solved the problem by positioning the Fedora over them.

  ‘Why don’t you come and sit on the veranda?’ said Becky.

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s cooler up here.’

  He turned round and looked at the veranda as if considering the offer but resolutely shook his head again. He seemed to think there was a demarcation line that he couldn’t cross, though Becky was certain this was not the result of anything Clara or Matthew had said: they treated Cook more like family and their relationship with Pitcher clearly went back years. She wondered if his self-exile ‘down the steps’ owed more to a race memory.

  She fetched him a glass of cold water and he raised his Fedora in acknowledgement. It would be nice to think that gesture had been handed down over the generations but it could just as easily be behaviour learnt from seeing an old Hollywood movie; if indeed, Pitcher ever had. That reminded her of something.

  ‘Have you heard of Nicole Kidman?’ she asked him.

  Pitcher made a show of thinking about it then shook his head.

  ‘Have you heard of Sarah Thomas?’

  He grinned and tapped his head. ‘I hear she. I see she too.’

  ‘You see her?’

  ‘At night. I see her here’ – he tapped his head – ‘but really she in that other place.’ He looked at Becky though, as usual, avoided meeting her eyes. ‘She know you tryna find out about she but her don’t like it.’

  Becky stared at him. There must be a logical explanation for what he’d said. She just couldn’t think of one right now. She went back to the morning room.

  It was early afternoon when Mr St John pulled up in a fine saloon, which gleamed in the high sun. He got out and immediately extracted a large white handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed his face.

  ‘Hi,’ called Becky.

  Mr St John raised a hand in greeting and then looked at Pitcher on the steps.

  ‘Is this the patient?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr St John put the handkerchief away, removed some plastic sheeting from the saloon’s boot and laid it over the back seat.

  He turned to Becky. ‘Are you coming too?’

  She was tempted by the thought of an excursion out of the quiet house but wasn’t confident they would get back in time for Zena; with no Maureen to keep an eye on the three-year-old Becky thought it best to stay to look after her in case Cook fell asleep.

  ‘No, sorry,’ she said to Mr St John and watched them drive off.

  The rest of the day slipped by, uselessly. Even Zena seemed subdued by the blazing afternoon heat and was half-asleep when her mother collected her.

  Clara did not venture downstairs at all and when Becky took up her dinner she saw the older lady had found a use for the French notes – she was fanning herself with them.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to translate them?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Sorry, not really,’ said Clara sadly. ‘As soon as I try to read I get a headache.’

  Becky wasn’t surprised. The day had started without promise and delivered just that at the close. And still no word from Matthew.

  The next day seemed even more hot and airless. Becky sat in the morning room feeling quite depressed. She was feeling trapped on the plantation again, wishing she had gone to the clinic with Pitcher yesterday after all.

  But at least she had found something promising on the internet: a link to a collection of old wills; she was delighted to discover one for the William Darnley who had died in 1701. Becky called up the transcribed document and read through it, her mood gradually sinking again. William Darnley had left Copper Hall to his wife with separate bequests to his three daughters. There was no mention of Randolph and Sarah.

  So they had been disowned. What other reason could there be for excluding them than their society-defying marriage? Sarah Thomas/Darnley had probably never been in this house, which meant that Becky’s recent heightened awareness when moving through the rooms had been a fantasy. The realisation brought her a small pang of loss, as her dual awareness had added some depth to her days. Plus she was really annoyed that she had indulged herself in a childish fairy tale: the servant girl who had become lady of the manor.

  Most of all Becky was depressed to imagine the fate of Randolph and Sarah Darnley. There was no entry in the Wills section for either of them – because (she suspected) they had nothing to leave anyone. Sarah Darnley née Thomas had not only been exiled from England; she had also been rejected by society in Barbados.

  Desperate for escape from the house, Becky found Maureen in the dining room and told her she was going for a walk.

  ‘A walk? In this heat?’

  Becky nodded and smiled when Maureen rolled her eyes and twirled a ‘mad woman’ gesture with her finger at her head.

  Becky headed out through the yard and on to the mahogany-lined lane. The morning was so hot even the wildlife seemed to have been parched into extinction. The casuarina trees were as still as cacti. Becky felt like she was the only living being outside.

  Not quite. There was a rustle and Pitcher appeared on the lane in front of her, probably not deliberately blocking her path but certainly in her way. Ironic that in this heat he was moving with a strange urgency. After her recent discovery Becky didn’t want to play the ‘Sarah game’ today but she could not get past him without saying something so she picked what she hoped was a safe topic.

  ‘Your shin’s healing really well, Pitcher.’

  He looked confused then followed Becky’s gaze down his leg, doing a double take as if he’d never seen the bandage before.

  ‘Have you had the stitches out now?’ tried Becky, wincing at how patronising she sounded but keen to keep the conversation in the present.

  Pitcher seemed to nod and shake his head simultaneously, as though any answer would do. ‘She get nothing from the Will, she want nothing from the Will. She asks what does this Becky want from me?’

  ‘Who said this?’ said Becky, dreading what she thought the answer would be.

  ‘Sarah.’

  Becky’s immediate impulse was to run but she forced herself to stand still as Pitcher went on.

  ‘She says she take his name, no more, just his name. She marry, she not really marry. She want nothing from the Will, she get nothing from the Will.’

  ‘She said this to you?’

  Pitcher blinked. ‘She take nothing from the Will, she get noth –’

  ‘Who did she tell this to? She said this to you?’

  Becky could see Pitcher’s attention fading in and out. ‘Who did she say this to?’ she repeated.

  ‘She marry, but she not really marry.’

  ‘‘Thank you, Pitcher,’ said Becky, deciding she was not going to get anywhere and wanting to cut the conversation short. ‘I’m going for a walk now.’

  ‘No,’ said Pitcher. ‘Go home.’

  ‘Thank you Pitcher, but no – I want a walk – alone.’

  His head started swinging from side to side. ‘Not now. Rain, rain, rain.’

  Becky ignored him and walked on, turning around after a few yards to see if he was staring after or, please no, following her. But he had disappeared. She couldn’t deny she was somewhat freaked by the encounter. What explanation could there be? She had discussed finding William Darnley’s will with no one so how could Pitcher’s imagined Sarah choose that as a theme?

  Becky had almost walked to the end of the lane, and was wondering if she should continue on to the road, when a warm breeze started as if warning her to turn back. There were a few drops of rain – just enough to make Becky halt – and then it was as though God had moved a weather-control to ‘violent storm’. The rain started pelting down,
the causarina trees writhing like souls possessed, shedding twigs, and the mahogany trees’ hard nugget seedcases were peppering her like flak.

  Becky broke into a run but could barely keep her eyes open for the stabbing rain. A car drove up and Becky made out Maureen beckoning frantically from within. She stumbled into the passenger seat and effusively thanked Maureen as they drove to the end of the lane and turned round in the T-junction. Maureen sucked her teeth when she saw the streams of water running down the sides of the little road.

  ‘I’ll take you back,’ she said. ‘Then I’m driving home.’

  ‘You think this will last?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maureen. ‘This will last.’

  Maureen was right. For the next two days, everyone at Copper Mill was stuck in the house. From the windows Becky could see the crowns of trees bowed so deeply that some snapped, while the rain chanted angrily at anyone who dared to set foot on the veranda. Matthew rang once and said he could hear rain in the background but Becky did not want to worry him by saying how severe the storm was. She was unable to persuade Clara to come downstairs and, as Clara’s technophobia extended to using mobile phones, Becky had to relay Clara’s answers to Matthew’s solicitous questions: yes, she was fine, she was not playing bridge or overdoing things and he was to look after himself rather than fussing about her.

  It felt a little bizarre being the conduit for this mother-son conversation but it was endearing to hear Matthew’s gruff concern. And not just for his mother.

  ‘And how about you?’ he asked.

  She could have said: I feel like a trapped animal and the situation is being exacerbated by Pitcher passing on messages from an ancestor of yours who’s been dead for almost three hundred years. But instead she said, ‘I’m fine. Plenty to read.’

  ‘Are you sure? The rain can get a little claustrophobic.’

  ‘No problem, really.’

  But Becky did feel as if she were in a prison cell with watery walls. In fact everyone seemed trapped in some sense: Clara confined to her room and Cook restricted to the ground floor. Yesterday she had found Cook hovering at the bottom of the stairs and realised with a stab of sympathy that the elderly lady wanted to check on Clara but was daunted by the staircase.