The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  His gaze lingered on her mouth. ‘I doubt that very much.’

  Becky laughed. ‘Well now I can definitely read your mind.’

  Matthew grinned then looked past her and frowned. ‘What are they doing here?’

  Becky turned round to see Francesca holding an umbrella over an elderly man, as he hung on to the banister of the short wooden stairs leading to the covered terrace and levered himself up. Francesca saw him safely to the top and he looked around him disapprovingly as she disappeared down the steps again. At least Becky thought he looked unimpressed – his frown may just have been the stock expression of an elderly person trying to adapt to unfamiliar surroundings.

  Francesca reappeared with a similarly disapproving-looking elderly woman who also looked around as though she found everything wanting. Their gazes flickered over Matthew and Becky without interest but Francesca, once she had dealt with her soaking umbrella, looked up and first smiled then scowled as she saw Matthew, then Becky.

  ‘Mum, Dad, look. It’s Matthew.’ She came over and gave Matthew a peck on the cheek while her parents peered at Matthew with apparent lack of recognition or, at any rate, a complete lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Huh? Matthew? Have we met him?’ said her father.

  ‘Yes, you remember Matthew,’ said Francesca loudly.

  ‘Oh, Matthew,’ said her mother. ‘Yes, of course we do.’ She obviously had no idea whether to smile, shake hands or turn away. She smiled awkwardly.

  ‘And this is Becky,’ said Matthew.

  ‘She’s working for Matthew’s mother,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Hi,’ said Becky, brightly.

  ‘Hwuh?’ said Francesca’s father, which could have been a greeting or an outward expression of his internal confusion, which had been made worse by being introduced to a girl he’d never seen before, who worked for the mother of a man he still couldn’t place.

  ‘Shall we join you?’ asked Francesca. ‘My parents are over from Philadelphia for a few days so I thought I’d bring them here. All my friends are raving about the food.’

  ‘It’s certainly an excellent restaurant,’ said Matthew with bland politeness.

  ‘Is there a table inside?’ asked her mother.

  The maître d’ shook his head and regretted they were absolutely full up inside so the choice was either to take one of the unoccupied terrace tables or to come back in half an hour.

  ‘It’s going to have to be outside then,’ said Francesca. Becky could see her eyeing an empty table a few feet away. ‘Can you move that table over here and –’

  But just then the waiter brought out Matthew and Becky’s coffees. Francesca looked disappointed. ‘Ah, you’ve already eaten.’

  Whatever Francesca’s motives for getting the two parties together, her mother had already sat down at the table which was furthest away – though the terrace was too small for this gesture to be very meaningful. Francesca’s father followed her, sat down, and said ‘Hwuh?’ again.

  ‘It’s Matthew. Matthew,’ hissed his wife.

  Francesca’s father buried his head in the menu the waiter handed to him and shouted to an unspecified audience, ‘Why can’t you get turtle soup any more? Can get it in Philadelphia, can get it in Singapore, but Barbados – not even a turtle head.’

  Francesca smiled at Matthew, rolled her eyes then joined her parents. ‘Because it’s illegal, Daddy,’ she said loudly.

  ‘Hwuh.’

  Matthew and Becky swapped a look and quickly drank their coffees.

  ‘Bill, please,’ Matthew said to the waiter. He leaned forward to Becky. ‘I really do want an early night tonight. Not just because of the unexpected floor show but because Alex will be round at nine tomorrow morning and I want to make sure I have the bid ready to go.’

  ‘So tomorrow’s the big day?’

  ‘And midday’s the time.’

  He paid quickly and they ran through the rain and got into his car. Matthew had called a brief ‘goodnight’ as they passed Francesca’s table but even if a response had been forthcoming they were moving too quickly to hear it. He drove off promptly.

  ‘So they’d have been your father and mother-in-law?’ asked Becky, then remembered Matthew had never admitted to her that his first love had been Francesca.

  He just made a ‘disgusted’ face. ‘Hwuh.’

  The journey home took slightly longer than the outward one because the roads were awash with water in parts though the rain had stopped by the time they reached St Lucy. There was no goodnight kiss tonight as Clara’s three bridge-playing friends came out to see how Becky was after ‘her ordeal’ at Richard’s house. While Becky could see Renee was genuinely appalled Becky had had such an appalling experience, (which she insisted was ‘very rare in Barbados’), Becky felt the other ladies were more interested in some gossip.

  ‘And do you know why he was attacked?’ asked one of them.

  ‘No idea,’ said Becky though Matthew was watching her with rather mischievous eyes. To his credit it seemed he had not divulged details of sawn-up beds and scattered Viagra tablets to Clara.

  In front of the bridge-ladies, Becky formally thanked Matthew for the dinner and he formally thanked her for helping with the ‘restaurant review’. Then he went off in the direction of his office and Becky went upstairs to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Becky woke up later than usual – nine o’clock, which she put down to the sleep deficit from two nights before. There was no sign of Clara – presumably having a post-bridge night lie-in, so Becky had some breakfast and exchanged a few words with Cook before going to the morning room. She looked through the window and marvelled at how the sun bounced off Matthew’s Nissan Sedan: what a contrast to the previous grey day. Then she was surprised Matthew’s car was still in the yard – and there was no sign of Alex’s. Maybe they had already headed off to Bridgetown in Alex’s car.

  She went out to the veranda and found Matthew sitting quietly, head bowed, holding a sealed envelope in both hands. He was oblivious to her, checking his mobile, staring at the envelope and checking his mobile again. Something was wrong.

  Becky went back in to get him a coffee and, when she brought it out for him, he looked at her and smiled a ‘thank you’ but then immediately turned back to the yard.

  ‘Alex isn’t here yet?’ she asked.

  Matthew shook his head. ‘He’s late.’

  Becky’s one experience as a passenger in Alex’s car had shown him to be a competent driver but she worried that, when negotiating the sinuous single-lane roads in this area, he was very much at the mercy of boy-racers like Richard coming in the opposite direction.

  ‘Have you tried his home?’ she suggested. ‘Find out what time he left?’

  Matthew got up and Becky followed him into the hall, watching while he dialled a number. It must have been answered immediately. His voice was quiet but there was no mistaking his concerned tone. ‘He’s not there? No, he’s not here either. And he’s not answering his mobile.’

  He listened to the person on the other end and his voice became graver. ‘OK, let’s not worry yet. He was at the hotel last night. He probably worked too late and stayed over rather than waking you up. I’ll ring them.’ Becky thought she could make out a woman’s voice coming through the receiver, not shouting but definitely a tone of distress.

  ‘Of course I’ll call you straight back, Deborah.’ Matthew ended the call and immediately dialled another number.

  Becky looked up and saw Clara coming down the stairs. She waited for her to reach the bottom then told her what was happening.

  ‘That’s worrying,’ said Clara. ‘No matter how late Alex works I’m sure he always makes a point of getting home. Poor Deborah must be beside herself.’

  ‘So Matthew’s got two hours to get to Bridgetown?’

  ‘Which of course is doable,’ said Clara. ‘But it leaves no contingency time.’ She sighed with exasperation. ‘I wish Mr R wasn’t so paranoid. I’m sure everyone else simply
posted their bids days ago rather than leaving it to the last minute.’

  Matthew appeared behind them, obviously furious.

  ‘Would you believe it? Today of all days Alex’s crashed out at the hotel. He’s OK but they’re having a job trying to wake him up.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ said Clara.

  ‘They think he’s just very tired.’ Matthew looked at his watch then at Becky and Clara.

  ‘Would you two like to be my bodyguards instead?’ He gave a slight smile. ‘Mum, I thought you could be a decoy while Becky holds the envelope and fends off any would-be attackers as she’s had the practice recently.’

  ‘Matthew,’ admonished Clara. ‘Poor Becky.’

  ‘No,’ Becky laughed. ‘It’s better to joke about it.’

  ‘I must change,’ said Clara, worriedly.

  ‘No, Mum. What you’re wearing is fine. No make-up, no formal dress, no time. It’s just if I can’t park the car properly at least I can leave you two in it while I deliver the bid.’

  ‘I’ll be ready in one minute,’ promised Clara. ‘Just need my handbag.’

  ‘I’ll ring Deborah,’ said Matthew. ‘Becky, can you tell Cook?’

  Maureen walked through the front door at that moment and seemed to pick up on the urgency in the atmosphere. She looked at Becky and raised her eyebrows quizzically.

  ‘We have to dash off to Bridgetown,’ explained Becky.

  She left Maureen to update Cook, grabbed her own bag from the morning room and shepherded a handbag-clutching Clara into Matthew’s car before getting in herself. Matthew ran down the steps after them, jumped into the driver’s seat and passed Becky the sealed envelope. She noticed, with relief rather than amusement, that his first action after starting the car was to engage the central locking; her experience at Richard’s had left her believing anything could happen. It was unlikely but still possible that someone could open the door when the traffic lights turned red and make a lunge for the envelope.

  Once they were well on their way and no landslides caused by yesterday’s rain or traffic accidents seemed to be hindering them they chatted more easily. Matthew was driving fast, but not recklessly, and Clara was enjoying the ride.

  ‘You know I think I’m almost back to normal,’ she said. ‘I shall start driving us around, Becky.’

  They pulled into Bridgetown at eleven-fifteen, giving Matthew ample time to park the car legally and disappear with the envelope.

  While Clara and Becky were waiting for him they were approached by two sandy-haired men in casual suits. Something about their fairish hair and blue eyes looked familiar.

  ‘Clara?’ said one.

  ‘Hello Bobby,’ said Clara. ‘Have you met Becky?’

  ‘No, but we’ve certainly heard of Becky,’ he said, sticking his hand through the car window for Becky to shake. ‘Hi, I’m Bobby Carrington.’

  These must be Richard’s brothers, looking business-like but cheerful. Becky assumed Richard’s condition wasn’t too serious.

  The other man introduced himself as Derek Carrington.

  ‘How’s poor Richard?’ said Clara. ‘Horrible business.’

  ‘He’s going to be fine,’ said Bobby. ‘We thought his skull was fractured but he seems to have escaped that. They’ll probably let him out tomorrow so long as we can promise someone will be around to look after him.’

  ‘Which means he’ll stay with me,’ said Derek. ‘Being waited on hand and foot by my wife, needless to say.’

  ‘We thought we’d see Matthew at the solicitors but figured he must have been earlier,’ said Bobby.

  ‘You’ve just missed him,’ said Clara. ‘We came a little later than we intended. Did you put in a bid?’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Derek. ‘Say hello to Matthew for us. Oh yeah and tell him that his cook or one of his cooks at the Monmouth is brilliant. I ate there last night with a friend. Really impressed.’

  ‘I shall pass it on,’ said Clara, whose delighted smile revealed her pleasure in hearing her son’s hotel praised.

  ‘See you then.’ The brothers waved goodbye and walked off at an unhurried pace.

  ‘The Carrington boys aren’t too bad, really,’ said Clara. ‘Though Richard is perpetually young.’

  Becky wondered how difficult meeting like that was considering Matthew’s father would have been known as ‘the gardener’ to the Carringtons but she had detected no awkwardness in the exchange.

  ‘Ah, here he is,’ said Clara, excitedly, as Matthew walked towards them looking more cheerful and relaxed than he had earlier. He got into the driver’s seat and let out a theatrical sigh of relief.

  Clara patted his shoulder. ‘Well done, dear. Everything went OK?’

  ‘Ten minutes before the deadline. It would have been earlier but there was a queue of people leaving it until the last minute. Amateurs.’

  Clara laughed. ‘Yes, dear, of course they are. Oh and we saw Bobby and Derek Carrington. They said they were looking out for you but hadn’t seen you.’

  ‘No doubt I just missed them. What a shame.’ He grinned.

  ‘Derek said your chef is superb,’ said Becky.

  ‘No surprise but always good to hear. Now, you two, I want to drop in on the hotel to make sure Alex is OK. And maybe lunch in the restaurant?’

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ said Clara. ‘I’d kill for a coffee.’

  Matthew took the more scenic route back. A couple of times on the way he shook his head and made some reference to the fact that ‘Alex would choose this day of all others to be ill’.

  ‘But you’re probably made of stronger stuff than most,’ said Becky, trying to lessen the possible flare-up when Matthew came face to face with his right-hand man. ‘No doubt you’d have made it to the solicitors even if you were attached to a drip.’

  ‘Too damn right,’ said Matthew. ‘If I’d had a notifiable disease I’d have rolled along in a huge isolation bubble.’

  Before long they had reached the hotel. They found Alex leaning on the reception counter, beside himself with contriteness. Becky thought he appeared to be in a dreadful state; with his bleached face and red-streaked eyes he looked as if he’d been poisoned. She suspected too much alcohol was to blame rather than just tiredness.

  ‘Sorry, Matthew,’ Alex said. ‘I wasn’t feeling that well last night. I meant to lie down for half an hour before driving back home but I was out of it. Did you get the bid in?’

  ‘Yes, just been,’ said Matthew, failing to disguise the note of impatience in his voice. ‘Have you rung Deborah? She assumed you had come straight to the office after sleeping at the hotel. She was really worried when I said I hadn’t seen you.’

  ‘I have.’ Alex’s grimace suggested it had been a difficult conversation.

  ‘Everything OK here? Anything I need to know?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘No. It’s fairly quiet now.’

  ‘Great. Well we’re off to lunch. Oh, remember, it’s Casino Night tonight. I assume the would-be Bond is booked?’

  ‘All sorted.’ Alex turned to Becky ‘Sorry to hear about Saturday. That must have been terrifying.’

  ‘It was,’ said Becky. ‘Though of course Richard was much worse off. But his brothers say he’ll be out of hospital tomorrow.’

  Matthew and Clara headed for the restaurant and Becky was about to follow them when Alex stopped her. ‘When did you meet Richard’s brothers?’

  ‘They put their bid in just before Matthew got there so Clara and I had a few words with them while we waited outside.’

  Alex frowned. ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes, just before we came here.’ She waved a goodbye (which Alex seemed too preoccupied to return) and rushed to catch up with Matthew and Clara.

  It was a rare occasion when Matthew, Clara, Cook and Becky shared an evening meal but having checked everything was all right at the hotel earlier Matthew decided he did not need to go in again and suggested a barbecue in the yard. It was
a group effort: Matthew and Becky in charge of the marinating and barbecuing, Clara and Cook in charge of frying plantains and fritters. They ate up on the veranda and eschewed cutlery for fingers. Halfway through the meal Clara noticed that a branch of her avocado tree was hanging down, possibly displaced by the previous day’s rain.

  ‘Oh look at that,’ she said, crossly. ‘If I’d seen that earlier today I would have chopped it.’

  ‘It’s just one little floppy branch,’ protested Matthew.

  ‘Your father had to chop off all the top branches,’ said Cook. ‘Mr Carrington told him to because the boys kept falling out of the tree.’

  ‘What? The Carrington boys?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Yes, if it wasn’t Bobby or Derek falling out they would climb up and holler for Richard to follow. And then he’d fall out. And the tears –’

  ‘Wimp,’ said Matthew.

  ‘It would almost make your father cry too,’ said Clara. ‘He hated hacking away at healthy trees unnecessarily.’

  As they looked at the tree it was as though someone had turned a huge celestial dimmer switch to low: within minutes the branches were almost in silhouette and, after a brief period of tuning up, the whistling frogs’ orchestra was in full swing. The moon looked as though it was coming in to land. Maybe to put an end to the melancholy that now tinged their mood Matthew changed the subject.

  ‘Now, Mother, we’re not going to have your bridge ladies turn up suddenly, are we?’

  ‘And see me like this?’ (She was using both hands to gnaw on a pork chop). ‘Certainly not. Though I must admit I’m getting a little bored of bridge.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Matthew in faux horror. ‘I thought that was impossible. I assumed it was like golf. People discover the game, play it obsessively and then drop dead having done nothing else with their lives.’

  ‘So negative, Matthew. Though what you’ve said is true about people who play golf.’

  ‘Do you play for money?’ asked Becky. She couldn’t remember any gambling on the one occasion she’d tried her hand at bridge.