The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  As if on autopilot Becky crossed the room and pushed open the window. She was learning more about Matthew in this one night than she had during the weeks they had been sharing a house.

  ‘So what happened?’ she asked. ‘Was Francesca not interested?’

  ‘Oh she was interested, all right. They were engaged. At the time I was worried – just because they were so young. Matthew’s father was delighted, though. I think it broke his heart as much as Matthew’s when the engagement was called off.’

  ‘Francesca changed her mind?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. Francesca’s parents put a stop to it. They refused to let her marry him.’

  ‘But why? Couldn’t they see he was going to be successful?’

  ‘No,’ said Clara with disgust. ‘They couldn’t see anything beyond their own snobbish noses.’

  ‘Because he was the son of a gardener?’

  Clara cast a slightly surprised look at Becky. ‘Yes. And because he was the son of a –’ She sighed. ‘A Redleg.’

  ‘What? Matthew?’

  ‘I’m afraid I just assumed you’d realised that. That’s the point of the book. I want to write it for Matthew’s father – for his memory.’

  ‘But Matthew is so driven; he’s so dark.’

  Clara gave her a look. ‘As am I, obviously. My parents came to Barbados from Martinique. They were completely oblivious to the island snobbery. My husband, in his youth, was what my mother called un bel homme. Tall, blue-eyed – just wonderful in every way. Far too easy-going, of course.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Becky. ‘Now I know why Matthew named his hotels “Monmouth”.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But how come Matthew and Francesca didn’t marry when he was getting successful? Surely her parents would have had a job objecting then?’

  ‘Francesca didn’t wait for him, that’s why. Now two husbands, and two divorces later, it seems she’s decided that her first love is the one after all – whatever her elderly parents now think.’

  Clara yawned. ‘It’s not that I don’t want him to get married. Actually, I wish he would hurry up. I would love grandchildren. But he’s shown no serious interest in any woman – apart from Francesca.’ She groaned. ‘I can’t believe it’s starting all over again.’

  ‘Hang on, Clara. This makes no sense. None of the Monmouth rebels had the surname “Darnley”. In fact, fifteen of them were handed over to work for a William Darnley. Darnley was the name of the plantation owner.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘No way, Becky. This is a small island with long memories. When it suits people,’ she added, with bitterness. ‘Matthew’s father was definitely Redleg stock.’

  Clara looked so tired that Becky was reluctant to keep her talking and let her get into bed. She went to her own room but found she could not sleep. It could have been because the social chatter and Francesca’s laugh seemed to run through the night with all the longevity of a super-strength battery. Or maybe it was the sound of car doors banging and engines revving up to leave the yard beneath her window. Maybe her lack of sleep was due to trying to solve the puzzle of how Matthew’s ancestor had ended up with the same name as a plantation owner. Or maybe it was simply the thought that Matthew – gardener’s boy and Redleg – had been reclaimed by Francesca.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Becky woke up to the sound of someone banging on the front door. Still in her PJs, she hurried down the stairs and went through the laborious process of drawing back the bolts. She opened the door to find Cook standing on the veranda.

  ‘Sorry you couldn’t get in. I’m afraid everyone has overslept.’

  But Cook didn’t come straight in. She was looking at the veranda and her expression was very weary. ‘Who’s going to clean all this up?’

  Becky stepped out to see what Cook meant. Glasses (empty, half-empty, on their side, broken) perched under chairs, on windowsills, on the balustrade. Flies landed repeatedly on plates, marching over the leavings of fish and salads.

  ‘Not you,’ said Becky.

  They went inside and did a post-party tour with Cook looking more miserable as they inspected every room. The lounge and morning room were liberally sprinkled with food-smeared plates and dreg-soiled glasses but they saved the worst until last. The dining room looked like the fish equivalent of a massacre – eviscerated carcasses with knives and forks scattered over the table like discarded weapons. Flies were joyfully using each serving dish as a landing pad. And there were cockroaches. To Becky’s horror she could see a couple of the antennaed beasts playing happily with the bits of fish and salad careless diners had let fall on the floor. She even noticed the resident gecko had glued itself to a blank stretch of wall so it could gaze, bog-eyed, at the scene of devastation.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Cook. It was a prayer, not a blasphemy.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Becky. It was a blasphemy though she found herself praying that Francesca’s caterers were on their way back to clear up.

  They still hadn’t appeared when the phone rang a little later. Neither Matthew nor Clara had yet surfaced. Becky answered the call and heard a sigh of disappointment.

  ‘I suppose Matthew’s not up?’ said Francesca.

  ‘Haven’t seen him,’ said Becky. ‘Do you know what time the caterers are coming back to pick up the plates?’

  There was a pause. Presumably Francesca had forgotten what the scene after a party looked like. ‘I suppose it will be Monday.’

  ‘Monday?’

  ‘I don’t know what it’s like in England, Becky, but the caterers here aren’t going to be working over the weekend.’

  Becky could not believe what she was hearing.

  Francesca must have conjured up a post-party scene in her mind. ‘Is it really that bad?’

  ‘It’s pretty bad.’

  ‘All that’s needed is to stack up the plates and cutlery in one room; it will be gone on Monday. Can’t Maureen do that?’

  ‘She doesn’t work weekends.’

  ‘Cook?’

  ‘Is over eighty years old.’

  ‘Well then, can’t you –?’

  ‘Actually, Francesca,’ said Becky. ‘I’m kind of overstepping the mark here. Probably best if you ring back later and have this conversation with Matthew or Clara.’ Becky put the phone down, quietly triumphant. Francesca wasn’t the only one who could end a conversation without a goodbye. She turned round and saw that Matthew had padded up silently in his infuriating manner, dressed in just his pyjama bottoms. He still looked a little tired but he was pretty much back to his natural, rugged-looking self.

  ‘Did you just put the phone down on Francesca?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He didn’t seem annoyed or even surprised. ‘Was she suggesting that you clean up after the party?’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  He shook his head and laughed. ‘She’s a character, isn’t she?’

  Becky could think of much better words to describe Francesca but kept her response to a non-committal ‘yes’ and her expression deadpan.

  ‘I was a bit ungracious last night, wasn’t I?’ he said.

  ‘I suppose it was a surprise birthday party,’ said Becky, ‘and you certainly seemed surprised.’

  ‘Still I should apologise for my rather miserable attitude in the office. I’m afraid all I’ve been thinking of for the last few weeks has been getting back to –’ he paused, ‘this house. Then to come home to find it full of people and that I was expected to perform.’ He groaned.

  ‘I was told that you love being centre stage.’

  He looked pained. ‘Who on earth told you that?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Becky. ‘Anyway, the caterers aren’t going to be here until Monday and I don’t think we can let Clara come down to this mess.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Miss Thomson. But what can this poor gardener’s boy do?’

  Becky winced. So he had heard what Richard had said. But he had also solved the problem. ‘Can
he hold a garden hose?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, obviously,’ said Matthew. ‘Do you have a plan?’

  Becky looked at his PJ bottoms. ‘Change of clothes, maybe?’

  Becky would love to have taken a photo of Francesca’s appalled face when she drove up a little while later. She had clearly come to the rescue, for – stacked neatly on the jeep’s passenger seat – were plastic gloves, aprons and antibiotic wipes, ready to deal with any unclean plates that came her way. But instead she found the job very much in progress – along with a water fight. Becky and Matthew – now in swimsuits – had moved the cane furniture inside and turned the veranda into an outdoor wet room. They had brought out the plates, arranged them over the veranda floor and were in the process of hosing them down and each other. There was plenty of childish squealing and dodging the jet of water.

  ‘Matthew!’ cried Francesca, getting out and waving a fistful of plastic gloves at them. ‘Don’t worry with that. Leave it to me.’

  Matthew turned, hose in hand and the spray caught her shoes, which made her do a strange little dance. ‘Sorry,’ he called, cheerfully. ‘Actually, I think we’re almost done here. We just need to stack the plates.’

  Francesca stood – clutching her redundant plastic gloves – and watched Matthew and Becky do this. When they started to bring the cane furniture back out on to the veranda she seemed to realise she should offer to help. ‘I’ll just put these down first,’ she said, waving the gloves and heading to her car. By the time she got back they had finished the job.

  She looked from Matthew to Becky obviously wanting to stay but no longer having an excuse to. ‘Some friends of mine are having a soiree this evening. Why don’t you join us, Matthew?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m giving myself this weekend off.’

  Francesca stared at him, baffled. ‘This is a social occasion, not business.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m still rather tired.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ she said. ‘Well, do you fancy a little light lunch later? Mangos have a new Carib-Asian Fusion menu.’

  Before Matthew could reply Cook came out with a plate of stacked pancakes. She gave Matthew one of her restrained smiles. ‘If you were here yesterday morning I would have given you a birthday breakfast so you have it today.’

  Matthew beamed like a little boy. ‘Thanks Cook; you remembered my favourite meal of all time.’

  The sight of towering pancakes drenched in maple syrup evidently did not tempt Francesca in the same way it tempted Becky as she declined Matthew’s invitation to join them and walked back to her car without even a ‘goodbye’.

  ‘Come on. I think we’ve earned breakfast,’ said Matthew, sitting down. ‘You do like pancakes, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve only had them on Shrove Tuesdays.’ Becky joined him and took a bite. These were not Shrove Tuesday pancakes. These were a syrupy homage to pure heathen pleasure. ‘Wow. Nothing could beat this.’

  ‘I agree. This is a banquet for a gardener’s boy.’

  ‘On that subject,’ said Becky. ‘If you’re happy discussing it, and please say if you’re not, I only found out last night that your father was –’ she hesitated.

  ‘A Redleg?’ said Matthew, scooping up stray maple syrup with a fragment of pancake. ‘It’s no secret.’

  ‘But here’s been me trying to find someone with a Redleg history to talk to and getting little sense out of Pitcher’ – Matthew raised an amused eyebrow – ‘and all along there’s been a genuine rebel descendant under my nose.’

  Matthew chuckled. ‘I’m afraid you’re not going to get much sense out of me, either.’

  ‘No stories? Nothing handed down at all?’

  ‘Knowledge of working the land, I suppose – though as you can see, I don’t get much time to garden.’

  ‘No family history then?’

  Matthew licked his fingers. ‘Sorry, no. I got the sense from my grandfather that there was a sort of shame that hung over the family – which I think was partly imposed by other people and partly carried by the family themselves – but he didn’t talk about it.’

  ‘I’m baffled. None of the rebels had the surname “Darnley”. Darnley was the name of one of the plantation owners who took on some rebels.’

  ‘Really? You know more than me. I can’t see how that squares with us being Redlegs.’

  ‘Unless,’ said Becky, ‘the Redleg side of your family comes from a woman. All the rebels were men but there was a servant girl who was taken off the boat as well. Someone called Sarah Thomas.’

  ‘What did she do wrong?’

  ‘That’s the trouble; I don’t know. It’s very possible she was convicted for helping a rebel. Even if she had just brought food to someone who was hiding that would be enough to be executed, let alone transported. There’s no record of her getting on the ship in England. But she walks off it here and goes to work for William Darnley. And then a few years later she marries someone called Randolph Darnley, William’s son, presumably.’

  ‘So she did OK for herself?’

  ‘Well, hopefully,’ said Becky. ‘But maybe that’s where the Redleg element comes into your family.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Matthew stopped eating and frowned. ‘It’s a great theory –’

  ‘But?’

  ‘No offence to the fairer sex, people would have discounted her. If she married into a planter’s family I think her children would have been seen as coming from that social level.’

  ‘Ah, but I think they were disowned by the Darnley family. I’ve looked at William Darnley’s will online. He left everything to his wife and daughters. No mention of his son Randolph.’

  Matthew contemplated this then shook his head. ‘I think the snobbery lay more in bloodlines. Even if this Randolph Darnley was ostracised people still would have known he was of planter stock.’

  Becky leaned back, exasperated. ‘I give up then. It’s a mystery.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Matthew. ‘Right. We’re down to the last one. Half each.’

  Cook stepped forward bearing a plate with another stalagmite of syrup-doused pancakes. Becky realised she must have been standing by the door listening to their conversation. The elderly lady looked thoughtful as she placed the plate on the cane table, nodding slightly at Matthew’s effusive thanks and giving Becky a look as if she wanted to say something. She hovered for a second then walked back inside. Becky was intrigued but also distracted by the sight of Matthew happily spearing three pancakes with a fork and trying to deliver them to his plate without spilling buttery syrup everywhere.

  Clara came down and waved away Matthew and Becky’s questions as to how she was feeling. She looked surprisingly rested, Becky thought, considering that she could barely make it up the stairs the previous night. She sat down with a coffee and regarded them as Becky tried to wipe maple syrup from her chin.

  ‘What a sticky mess,’ Clara said, amused. ‘Cook remembered, then.’

  Matthew made an indistinct sound of agreement.

  ‘Was that Francesca’s car that left earlier?’

  Matthew nodded.

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what the caterers cost in the end. We’ll be invoiced at some stage.’

  Matthew laughed. ‘No surprise there.’

  Becky contemplated having a sixth pancake but thought better of it. ‘Clara, do you want to work on the book today?’

  ‘I shall finish translating all the French pieces you so nicely printed off for me. But, no, Becky, I want you to have the weekend off. I’m feeling very badly that you’ve had to put up with Francesca’s endless visits and my bridge friends and being stuck here without much to do while I wouldn’t get on with the book.’

  ‘I’m not working today. I could take you to see some places,’ said Matthew. ‘I’ll show you the land I’m going to buy.’

  Clara rolled her eyes. ‘Not business, Matthew. Take Becky somewhere nice.’

  ‘Actually, I would like to see it,’ said Becky. ‘But there’s also somewhe
re else I want to visit.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Matthew, leaning forward with interest. ‘Something to do with your father, maybe? Francesca told me last night he was a merchant seaman.’

  ‘Yes, it is to do with my father. I’ve only got the name of the cemetery but I think it’s quite far south. Southbury Cemetery, do you know it?’

  Matthew frowned and Clara was wide-eyed with shock. ‘My dear, I’m sorry. I had no idea your father was dead.’

  ‘I was told he was alive,’ said Matthew. ‘Or at least, I thought – let’s just say that I was given the wrong impression.’

  Becky shrugged. ‘It was my fault for not being more upfront about it.’

  ‘Southbury,’ said Matthew. ‘Yes, it’s down near Bridgetown but, hell, it’s a small island. Let’s go.’

  ‘Hmmm. Maybe dress first,’ said Clara and Matthew and Becky both looked down at their swimsuits and laughed.

  Twenty minutes later Becky was ready, more soberly dressed and clutching a card from Joe and herself. She’d been wondering when would be the right time to do this and it was ironic that her visit to her father’s grave was going to happen on what had been her happiest day in Barbados so far. She was also very aware that she was carrying some responsibility for Joe and wondered if this visit would bring the closure he needed.

  Either way the last chapter of their father’s life should never have been so casually dealt with. Perhaps one day their mother would tell her and Joe what had gone wrong with the marriage but so far there was no sign of her wanting to do so.

  As she came downstairs Cook appeared at the kitchen door. She signalled to Becky. ‘Come in.’

  Becky followed her into the room and waited while the old lady drew back a chair from the kitchen table and sat down.

  ‘Are you all right, Cook?’

  The elderly lady nodded. ‘Cook,’ she said. ‘Someone give me the name.’

  Becky sat down beside her. ‘Because you cook?’

  Cook shook her head. ‘My father was also called Cook. But it wasn’t his real name.’

  Becky was lost. ‘Then what is your real name?’