The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  ‘I could help you up,’ said Becky gently.

  The old lady considered this then shook her head. ‘Thank you. I could get up, but I don’t think I would come down again.’

  She wandered back to the kitchen muttering about her ‘old, old legs’.

  Nor did Cook have the pleasure of her granddaughter’s company. Cook’s daughter-in-law had decided it was better to take time off work to look after Zena at home rather than to risk the drive to the childminder. Becky was surprised at feeling a pang of deprivation; she hadn’t realised how much pleasure she got from the little girl’s antics.

  With Clara ensconced upstairs, neither Alex nor Maureen risking the journey to the house, and no Zena to play with, Becky’s world consisted of the laptop – and the seventeenth century. She had decided to widen her research into the people who made up Barbados’s population.

  It seemed there were few Bajans – black, white or mixed – whose ancestors had come willingly to the island. Redlegs was a generic term which covered the Irish people who had been sent to Barbados by Oliver Cromwell, the Scottish – who were the first to be brought over as indentured labourers – and the West Country folk who had ‘backed the wrong king’. Now she knew why she sometimes heard a hint of Irish in the Bajan accent, at other times, a hint of the West Country. And she learnt that there was even an area nearby called ‘Little Scotland’.

  At least one mystery was solved. Becky read that the drystone walls, which had caught her eye when she was out with Matthew collecting errant kites, were probably built by the Redlegs using techniques remembered from ‘home’.

  The plantation owners had soon realised the white people they had ‘imported’ to work the land were as unsuited as could be and turned their attention to the west African coast for slaves, dragging people from their roots and re-planting them in a tiny island thousands of miles away from home. Ironic that now people were desperate to live on the island and willing to pay millions of dollars for a chunk of real estate.

  But it was true, no matter how horrendous the facts, they had to be wrapped around a few individuals to have real impact. She went back to Clara’s odd scraps of paper. Some were copied from gravestones, others from rich landowner’s wills:

  ‘To my son I grant 10 head of cattle, 2 horses, my servant Blue-eyed Boy, 2 copper stills …’

  Useless, thought Becky. If the landowner had bothered to name ‘Blue-eyed Boy’ she might have been able to determine if this was a descendant of a Monmouth rebel but, without a name, he could have been anyone.

  Against a soundtrack of near-ceaseless rain she trawled the net for personal stories but caught little. One could get a glimpse of individual tragedies back in Dorset and Somerset: of the widows and wives left behind in poverty (their land and homes often confiscated), of land left untilled because there were insufficient men to work the earth.

  But in Barbados, once the prisoners were brought off the ships, little remained. Pitcher was a rarity – very few of the old surnames could be found on the island today.

  ‘You seem very engrossed, dear.’ Clara certainly didn’t move around the house as quietly as her son but Becky had been so focused on her reading that she had not heard her approach.

  ‘I’m sorry, Clara. I was far away.’

  ‘Oh Becky, I do hope you haven’t been working all this time?’

  ‘It’s interesting. Anyway, it’s not like I could go outside.’

  Clara gave her a funny look. ‘Well, you can now.’

  It was only then that Becky noticed there was sunshine streaming through the slats in the window blinds. She hadn’t heard the rain stop.

  ‘Any news of Matthew?’ asked Clara.

  ‘Er, no more than that one phone call,’ said Becky, surprised. Clara must have known that if Matthew had rung again it would have been to find out how his mother was doing rather than to have a private conversation with Clara’s ‘secretary’ (as Francesca would have it). ‘Anyway, Clara, how are you?’

  ‘Much better. I was just finding the rain so oppressive.’ Clara sat down. ‘Do you drive, Becky?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Why? Is there something you need?’

  Clara looked through the window. ‘No, not really.’

  Her face brightened as the phone rang. Becky rushed to answer it.

  ‘Do you not let anyone else answer the phone?’ snapped a familiar voice. ‘Or do Matthew and Clara pay you to do it?’

  ‘Hi Francesca.’

  ‘Is Matthew there? Or is he in a meeting?’

  ‘No. Well, he probably is in a meeting. But in the UK.’

  A pause, then: ‘He’s flown off without a word to anyone? Just like that?’

  Becky resisted the urge to say Matthew had left her a note, even if he hadn’t contacted Francesca, but she responded politely. ‘There was a crisis with the hotel in England.’

  ‘Silly man. Why doesn’t he appoint proper managers instead of sticking these idiots into jobs they aren’t up to.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Becky, noting that while Francesca might be superficial, self-centred and bitchy, she was no fool. Clearly she would never value friendship and loyalty above aptitude.

  ‘When is he back?’

  ‘Alex thought sometime in the next week. I don’t think there’s an exact date.’

  ‘So probably back by the twenty-first. Hmmm. Is Clara there or is she in bed?’

  Becky realised Clara was standing right behind her. ‘She’s here,’ she said, raising her eyebrows at Clara who nodded and held out a hand for the receiver.

  ‘Francesca,’ Becky mouthed, silently.

  ‘I guessed,’ Clara mouthed back and then out loud: ‘Hello Francesca. Much better, thank you. Just starting to get a bit of cabin fever but I don’t fancy driving at the moment.’ She paused. ‘No, she doesn’t drive.’

  Becky left them to it and wandered out to the veranda to marvel at the blue skies. The weather of the past few days seemed like a fading bad dream.

  It seemed that Clara had barely put down the phone and joined her on the veranda than Francesca pulled up in a different car to last time: this one seemed to be a roofless jeep. She carelessly spun the steering wheel with one hand so that by the time the car stopped, it was pointing the right way to take off. With an elbow draped carelessly over the door, she used her other hand to raise her sunglasses. ‘Fancy a spin?’

  Becky realised the extent of Clara’s boredom when she beamed at Francesca. ‘Oh yes, that sounds fun.’

  ‘Tell old Cook to take the afternoon off,’ said Francesca, merrily. ‘We’ll grab a crab salad at Shermans.’

  ‘OK,’ said Clara. ‘And I’m sure Becky needs to get out of this house too.’

  After the briefest of pauses Francesca flashed her teeth at Becky. ‘Of course she’s welcome.’

  ‘Do we go anywhere near Holetown?’ asked Becky.

  Francesca wrinkled her face. ‘Not really; that’s further down the coast.’

  ‘Actually, would you mind if we did, Francesca?’ asked Clara. ‘I need to go to the bank.’

  ‘OK. Holetown then Shermans it is.’

  Sitting in the back, with the wind pouring over her (a lovely sensation), Becky had no chance of hearing what Francesca was telling Clara, though the latter was certainly responding with laughter or nods or headshakes as was appropriate to the tenor of the anecdote. Becky marvelled at how Francesca could keep up a stream of light gossip so effortlessly: surely Barbados simply wasn’t big enough to generate so much tittle-tattle?

  Anyway right now Becky was feeling almost positive towards Francesca. It was lovely to be an al fresco passenger, watching the greenery and small wooden chattel houses flow by. Then suddenly the sea was on their right – just a few yards away – separated from the road by a thin strip of yellow beach. Becky stared – so this was supposed to be the tame west coast? The sea had obviously crossed the inconsequential barrier of sand during the recent storm, as the road was flooded in parts, but that had no be
aring on Francesca’s speed. She splashed several people walking along the road – either oblivious to or dismissive of their presence – though, if she had bothered to look in her rear view mirror, she would have seen what Becky saw on turning round: soaked people waving their fists at the retreating car.

  Once in Holetown, Francesca parked near the bank and Clara got out and walked off with a steady stride.

  ‘She’s looking much better,’ said Becky, relieved.

  ‘She just needed to get some fresh air. It’s a real shame you don’t drive.’

  ‘I’m going to nip out for ten minutes, if you don’t mind,’ said Becky. ‘I think the monument is just over there.’

  ‘What monument?’

  ‘The Holetown Monument. Apparently it’s near where people first arrived in Barbados.’

  Francesca made a face. ‘Is that what you wanted to see?’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’

  Becky jogged across the road and towards the beach, assuming the monument would be near a quay. She had imagined being able to stand in the same place as the prisoners and slaves had. She had pictured old stone wharves, unchanged in hundreds of years, and thought she would be able to visualise the ragged people, dragged up from fetid holds and brought ashore, blinking beneath a sun they hadn’t seen during their several months’ voyage. Instead the Holetown Monument turned out to be a large white obelisk at the side of the road and the commemorative plaque ‘celebrated’ British possession of the island rather than paying tribute to the poor unwilling souls who were brought onshore here.

  ‘Was it worth it?’ shouted Francesca.

  Becky looked up to see that the roofless jeep had pulled up opposite: Clara looking curious, Francesca amused. Becky walked over and got in the back.

  ‘No. I knew it commemorated the first Englishman to land on the island but I suppose I was expecting something more.’

  ‘What more is there?’ Francesca gave a tinkly laugh.

  ‘Well, I thought there might be something to mark the spot where prisoners landed.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s very little left,’ said Clara.

  ‘Move on,’ said Francesca. ‘History is history.’ She pulled away with a G-force that flattened Becky against the back seat and had her fumbling to engage the clip of her seatbelt.

  Francesca drove them to a beach restaurant and they got out and sat at a table on the sand. Francesca ordered for them (and insisted on paying) but Becky would have preferred to spend some of her still-untouched-cash if it had meant buying some peace while they were eating. Francesca’s gossip only paused when she was chewing a mouthful of crab while making ‘heavenly food’ humming noises. She would often think of some new information just after she’d taken a mouthful and would wave her fork like an excitable conductor might try and control an unruly band. Not that she paid too much attention to Becky, apart from asking her why she didn’t drive.

  ‘I never got round to having lessons,’ Becky said simply. She chose not to add she had saved up for and even booked them but had had to cancel when Matthew got her sacked from the Essex Gleaner.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Clara, who was probably thinking the next time she hired a ‘co-author’ driving would be an essential skill.

  Full of crab salad, they sat and watched the sea. Becky could see Clara had really benefited from the outing; her face looked bright and happy. Francesca also seemed contented, assuming silence indicated contentment although Becky sensed she was working up to something.

  ‘Poor Matthew,’ Francesca said, suddenly. ‘Missing this.’

  ‘He works too hard,’ said Clara.

  ‘What have you organised for his birthday?’ Francesca said this so casually Becky suspected it was the reason for the phone call and the outing.

  ‘That’s not until the twenty-eighth of August,’ said Clara.

  ‘But that’s only two weeks away. He’s going to be thirty-five, isn’t he? Quite a landmark really.’

  Clara’s hands flew to her face and even Becky understood her French expletive. ‘This blasted illness. Poor Matthew. His own mother not realising it’s almost his birthday.’

  Francesca inclined a head towards Becky. ‘You thought he’d be back by the twenty-first?’

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ said Becky. ‘That’s what Alex seemed to think.’

  ‘Let’s assume he will be back for his birthday,’ said Francesca, ‘in which case maybe we should organise something to welcome the poor boy home after all his hard work.’

  ‘What, like a birthday party?’ Becky couldn’t imagine Matthew liking that.

  ‘A birthday party! Clara, Becky has just come up with a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘It’s a great idea. What do you think, Clara? Let’s fill your house with Matthew’s friends. Of course I’ll help.’

  Becky could see Clara was excited at the prospect but also doubtful about Francesca’s suggestion.

  ‘I’m not sure. What do you think, Becky?’

  ‘I don’t think Matthew is a party animal,’ said Becky.

  Francesca snorted with contempt. ‘Becky, Matthew loves being centre stage. You won’t have seen him playacting at the Casino Nights but he has to pretend to be James Bond. He’s brilliant; he loves performing.’

  ‘Shall we see what Alex thinks?’ asked Becky.

  Francesca made a face. ‘Becky, I can promise you I know Matthew a lot better than Alex does.’

  Clara nodded. ‘OK, a birthday party. Maybe just a few guests.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Francesca was a frequent visitor over the next few days, arriving with guest lists and menus for Clara to approve though, in truth, it seemed to Becky that Clara had gone a little downhill after their outing and would often agree with Francesca’s suggestions without much engagement.

  ‘We can still call it off,’ said Becky, gently, when she brought Clara’s breakfast tray to the veranda one morning.

  ‘I’m not sure we can, Becky. Francesca’s sent the invitations out already. Anyway our main problem is we’re holding a party for Matthew when he probably won’t even be here.’

  That was true. Matthew had phoned his mother the previous night but had been vague about when he would return. He was presumably communicating with Alex, who confided in Becky that Matthew was having problems finding someone who could assume the role of hotel manager when there was a likelihood Chris would be coming back after a break. It would be much easier if Matthew could simply replace Chris but friendship and employment laws complicated the issue. Not to mention Chris’s wife, who was so angry at seeing her husband fall apart with stress that she was threatening Matthew with legal action.

  Matthew’s return on the twenty-first became the twenty-third, and then the twenty-sixth. Becky wondered if the best solution would be if he arrived back a few days after the party – unaware that it had happened. It would be embarrassing for Clara (as Francesca had sent out the invitations in her name) but everyone would surely understand the complexities of Matthew’s business. Well, all except Francesca.

  She arrived later that day and barged into the office where Alex was working at the computer. She seemed particularly annoyed to find Becky there although Becky had only brought Alex some coffee.

  ‘What’s keeping him in England?’ Francesca shouted.

  ‘He’s busy,’ said Alex.

  Becky left them to it and went back to the morning room. She tried to concentrate on Clara’s notes but the peace of the room was soon broken by Francesca storming in.

  ‘Alex seems very furtive. Have you told him about the party?’

  ‘No, but I think he should know.’ Becky was uncomfortable she had been expressly instructed not to tell Alex. It was ridiculous when invitations had already been sent to houses all over the island and someone else was bound to mention it.

  ‘Well, stop thinking,’ snapped Francesca. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise and that idiot wo
uldn’t be able to keep anything from Matthew.’

  Becky wanted to ask if Francesca’s real concern was that, if Alex told Matthew, the guest of honour would instantly put off any return to Barbados until well after his birthday. But she kept quiet.

  In the end, on Friday the twenty-eighth – the very day of his thirty-fifth birthday – they heard Matthew would be flying back that evening. The moment he received the email early in the morning, Alex delivered the news to Clara and Becky as they sat enjoying breakfast on the veranda. Before they could respond Francesca’s car swept into the yard.

  ‘She seems to be visiting very early and often these days,’ said Alex, drily. ‘I hope it is nothing to do with these rumours of a surprise party for Matthew later today.’

  ‘You’ve heard?’ said Clara.

  ‘From Richard Carrington, no less,’ said Alex. ‘He turned up at the hotel last night for dinner and asked me about it. I had to say it was such a surprise, even I hadn’t heard about it. That certainly amused Carrington.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alex,’ said Clara. ‘Francesca’s rather taken over. If it’s any comfort I think she’s mainly invited people she knows. Certainly my bridge friends haven’t made the guest list.’

  Alex shrugged and went back inside. Becky decided Clara could give Francesca the good news that Matthew would be at his own party and went after Alex. He was already back in the office. ‘I wanted to tell you,’ she apologised, ‘but I was – how shall I put it – expressly forbidden.’

  ‘Why? On the grounds I might turn up?’

  ‘No, I think on the grounds that you would tell Matthew.’

  ‘Francesca was right. I would have done. And Matthew would have probably stayed in England managing the bloody hotel himself rather than come home.’

  ‘So you think it’s a bad idea?’

  Alex momentarily shut his red-rimmed eyes and wrinkled his forehead as if visualising the scene that lay ahead. He reopened his eyes. ‘Becky, I cannot tell you what a bad idea it is.’