The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  They drank tentatively. Becky couldn’t remember having ever tasted alcohol this early in the day. She looked over to Alex, who didn’t appear to have any qualms about drinking this early. Maybe this was hair of the dog for him.

  Matthew raised his glass again. ‘And now you’re allowed a larger gulp. For here’s to, “tomorrow is another day”.’

  ‘Tomorrow is another day,’ they chorused more happily.

  A car Becky recognised pulled in and came to an abrupt stop. Zena’s mother got out and unbuckled Zena from her child seat. Her movements were hurried, slightly panicked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rushing over, so that Zena – tethered by her hand – had to toddle along at a fair rate. ‘My childminder’s just been taken ill. I’ve got to leave Zena with her grandmother.’

  ‘I’ll take her,’ said Becky, holding out her arms, which Zena ran into with a happy ‘Weeeeeeee’ cry.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Zena’s mother gratefully. She ran back to her car and drove off. Zena sat on Becky’s lap looking around at the less familiar adults at the table.

  ‘Aren’t you gorgeous?’ said Clara with a mixture of delight and unmistakeable longing. Becky wondered if Matthew was aware of his mother’s quiet grief at the absence of grandchildren. Zena, recognising another source of adult admiration, wriggled from Becky’s lap to Clara’s and started exploring Clara’s small bouquets of earrings.

  ‘You don’t have pierced ears, do you, Clara?’ said Becky, wincing at Zena’s rather urgent tugs.

  ‘No, fortunately.’ Clara anxiously checked the jewellery was still clasped to her ears. It was – but only because Zena had turned her attention to a half-eaten pancake on Clara’s plate and decided that her mouth was the best destination for it.

  ‘You didn’t want that did you, Mother?’ said Matthew, clearly amused.

  ‘No, I think that pancake went to a good home.’ Clara found a tissue and rubbed Zena’s hands and face clean of butter and maple syrup – another process the little girl seemed to find interesting.

  When Clara had finished, Zena looked at the men at the table and wriggled down from Clara’s lap to investigate Matthew and Alex. She chose Matthew, who hurriedly pushed his glass of rum punch out of her reach.

  ‘You wouldn’t choose Alex who at least has some experience of children,’ he sighed, leaning over to study the little girl then pulling a fierce expression that sent her scuttling towards Becky. But curiosity got the better of her. She ran back to Matthew, reaching out to run her hand up his cheek and feel the rough texture of his hair then pulling back – her squeals a mixture of fear and delight – when he repeated his gargoyle-look.

  They all laughed and Zena looked questioningly at them while happily grabbing handfuls of Matthew’s plaid shirt and examining the pattern. Then her attention was caught by a roofless jeep pulling up confidently onto the gravel. Matthew just managed to grab her before she leapt into the yard to welcome the arrival of this wonderful beast.

  ‘It’s Francesca,’ said Clara, surprised. She asked Matthew something in French and he simply replied, ‘non’.

  Francesca got out and beamed. ‘What a fabulous idea! Brunch on the lawn.’

  In a cheerful rum punch glow the adults all called out ‘hi’ or ‘hello’ and Zena waved manically. Francesca stared at her, confused, then looked at Matthew.

  ‘Pull up a pew,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’re toasting the Carringtons’ good fortune.’

  Francesca smiled in a puzzled way. She doesn’t remember about the bid, thought Becky, or maybe Matthew had never bothered to tell her. Alex gallantly went up to the veranda and fetched another cane chair for Francesca but she automatically moved into his vacated chair (next to Matthew).

  ‘Come and sit with me, Alex,’ said Becky, trying to suppress a giggle. He gave her a rueful grin and put the chair next to her.

  ‘I apologise for gatecrashing,’ said Francesca, with a tinkly laugh. ‘I’m afraid I just had to get away. My parents are over for a few more days and driving me quite mad. My father is convinced Barbados has gone to the dogs since they emigrated but then he thinks anywhere outside Philadelphia is a third-world country.’ She gave another tinkly laugh.

  Zena stared up at her in fascination. ‘Hee-huh-huh-huhh.’

  ‘What did you say, Zena?’ said Matthew.

  ‘Hee-huh-huh-huhh.’

  Matthew looked quizzical. Clara and Alex both bowed their heads and Becky too was struggling not to laugh. It was so obvious Zena was trying to emulate Francesca’s tinkly laugh. On her third attempt Francesca scowled at her and Zena looked anxiously at Matthew. He pulled her on to his lap from where she evidently felt brave enough to stare at the strange tinkly woman.

  ‘She has quite an intense gaze,’ said Francesca. ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘She must think you’re interesting,’ said Matthew, diplomatically, and he tried to distract Zena by walking his fingers up her tummy. The child’s unrestrained laughter was infectious. Becky was surprised at how easy he was with the toddler, considering he had neither nieces nor nephews. By contrast Francesca looked like she wished Zena would go to some specially designated Child Space, far away.

  ‘Granny,’ said Zena, firmly, paddling furiously in Matthew’s arms.

  ‘Ah,’ said Matthew. ‘You’re bored with me already.’ He set her down and she made her way across the yard and up the veranda steps, hugging each stone spindle on the way and using it to pull herself up the next step.

  ‘I wouldn’t take it too personally,’ said Becky. ‘Zena really means, “Granny’s often in the kitchen where there’s lots of nice things to eat”.’

  Zena made it on to the veranda and went inside.

  ‘Whatever childminders get paid it’s not enough,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m exhausted.’

  ‘Poor Matthew,’ said Francesca. ‘I have to say I can’t really imagine you with children of your own.’

  ‘Rubbish. He’d be very good with them,’ said Clara.

  ‘I’d better just check Zena’s found Cook OK,’ said Becky, getting up and going indoors.

  There was no sign of Zena in the hall. Hopefully she’d gone straight through to the kitchen. But when Becky looked in there, Cook was sitting down looking at a newspaper spread out over the table.

  ‘Has Zena not made it in here?’

  ‘Zena, no, she’s not due –’

  ‘Your daughter-in-law dropped her off. The childminder’s ill.’

  Cook pushed herself to her feet. Becky did not wait for her but ran out to continue searching. Zena wasn’t in the small bathroom next door, nor was she in the morning room or the dining room. Surely she could not have made it up the stairs?

  ‘Maureen,’ Becky called up to the landing. There was no answer. Maybe Maureen was right at the back of the house.

  Becky heard Cook utter a cry from the lounge and ran in to see Zena rolling on the floor, her eyes wide, acutely distressed. Cook had her fists clenched to her breast wailing in horror. Becky knelt beside Zena and tried to make sense of her discomfort: there was no obvious blood, she didn’t appear to be choking on anything and she was clearly breathing, albeit rapidly. Just as Matthew and the others ran in she spotted a can of furniture polish under a chair.

  ‘I think we need an ambulance,’ she said. ‘Zena must have sprayed polish into her mouth.’ Matthew headed for the phone in the hall while Alex, Francesca and Clara crowded in.

  ‘Make her sick,’ said Francesca.

  ‘No,’ said Becky, closing her eyes. She knew this, she was sure. She’d done a piece – one of several page fillers in the Essex Gleaner that masqueraded as first aid articles. For poison you should never make the victim sick but when to give nothing and when to give –

  ‘Milk,’ said Becky. ‘I’ll get some milk.’ She ran to the kitchen. Matthew was still talking urgently on the phone.

  Becky took a glass of milk back to the living room and propped Zena up while Francesca poured little sips into her mouth. Much of the mi
lk streamed over Zena’s face but Becky and Francesca managed to get her to swallow some.

  Matthew came back in. ‘It’s going to take too long,’ he said. ‘There’s no ambulance north of St Thomas.’

  ‘Take the car,’ said Clara, who was standing with her arm around Cook.

  ‘I wouldn’t trust myself. I’ve drunk too much. Alex?’

  Alex was standing quietly in the background. He shook his head.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ said Francesca. ‘I think she’s had as much milk as she can handle.’

  She put down the glass and headed out to her car. Matthew picked up Zena and followed. ‘Come on, Cook,’ he said urgently. ‘She’ll want you.’ Cook was clasping Clara’s hand so Clara went too: with Francesca, Matthew and Zena in the front, Clara and Cook in the back, the jeep screamed away.

  Alex and Becky looked at each other, emotionally drained.

  ‘The milk must have been a good idea,’ said Alex, soothingly. ‘I thought she seemed in less pain after she had some.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘What happened?’ said a bemused Maureen, coming in to find out what the commotion was about.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Becky. ‘We think Zena somehow swallowed some furniture polish.’

  ‘Zena?’

  ‘Her mother had to drop her off early.’ Worried Maureen might blame herself, she added: ‘the trouble is we weren’t prepared for her. At least they’re getting her straight to hospital.’

  Maureen closed her eyes and looked pained. ‘The hospital is all the way in Bridgetown. It will take them an hour.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Becky. ‘I should have suggested the clinic.’

  Maureen shook her head. ‘If it was an emergency they would have sent her to the hospital anyway.’

  Unable to settle at the computer again, Becky went out to the garden to bring in the rum punch. What a strange morning: from deflation about the failed bid to a sort of euphoric acceptance and then panic.

  She turned to go back in and saw Pitcher standing in the yard looking up at the house and carrying that infernal piece of paper.

  ‘Hello Pitcher,’ she said wearily, traipsing past him up the steps, jug and glasses in hand.

  ‘I have to go to the clinic.’

  ‘Not today. Your appointment can’t be today.’

  He unfolded the paper and held it out. ‘Look.’ His finger was confidently (though randomly) jabbing the printed name of the clinic. ‘That says, “Tuesday”.’

  Becky snatched the paper from him. Sure enough, he had an appointment today. There was no time given – perhaps the nurse realised that a fixed appointment would be pushing it – but to be fair Pitcher was getting the days spot on.

  Becky sighed and went in to break the news to Maureen then found Alex in the office and told him they had to take Pitcher to the clinic and would be back as soon as possible. He nodded miserably.

  Pitcher sat in the back of Maureen’s car looking out at the passing fields. It was impossible to tell whether he picked up on the tense atmosphere: Maureen driving, stony-faced, Becky silent. Becky tried to feel more sympathetic towards him: it was hardly his fault he had an appointment on the same day as Zena had had to be rushed to hospital. She noticed that he had once more made an effort in the sartorial department in that he was wearing shoes and a clean shirt with all its buttons – or, more accurately, with an assortment of buttons filling the requisite number of buttonholes. At least Alex was still back at the house if there were any phone calls about Zena.

  Maureen looked at her. ‘Is this the last check-up?’

  Becky unfolded the paper again and read it. ‘Yes, it’s the last time he sees the nurse. He’s going to be gutted.’ She looked at the handwritten note again. All she had taken in when she read it earlier was that the appointment was today. Only now did she spot the nurse’s surname: Mr Pitcher to see Nurse S. Thomson for final check-up. Maybe that’s what the receptionist had meant originally when she had heard Becky’s surname and commented ‘another Thomson’.

  Becky tried to remember what the nurse’s first name was – something beginning with ‘S’ of course. No doubt Pitcher knew it but he looked so serene it seemed a shame to disturb him. Becky searched her mind. The nurse had worn a name badge and she remembered noticing the name looked Indian. Sairah. It was Sairah. Sairah Thomson.

  Becky shut her eyes and sighed inwardly: how could she have been so stupid?

  They were soon at the clinic and Maureen dropped them off and went to find a parking space. As soon as he was out of the car, Pitcher was hurrying ahead like a dog straining at the leash.

  ‘Hang on, Pitcher,’ Becky called. He reluctantly slowed his pace. ‘What’s the name of your nurse?’

  A shy beam lit up his face. ‘Sarah.’

  ‘Sarah what?’

  ‘Sarah –’ He looked confused. ‘Thomas?’

  Close enough.

  ‘And what does she say to you?’

  Pitcher gave a sheepish smile. ‘Mustn’t drink so much rum; women don’t like men who carry on.’

  ‘You said she was in that other place. Where is that other place?’

  Pitcher beamed and pointed to the clinic. ‘Right here.’

  Becky nodded and picked up her pace to the main entrance.

  ‘She want nothing from the Will, she get nothing from the Will.’

  God knows what that was about. Maybe with his strong Bajan accent he was saying ‘well’ as in water rather than anything to do with a legal will. Maybe it was some Trinidadian nursery rhyme that the nurse had muttered to distract him from his painful treatment; Sairah Thomson could have realised Pitcher was a sponge – soaking up words and rhythms to the exclusion of other sensations.

  ‘OK, Pitcher. Let’s go in.’

  But he was on a roll. ‘Leave them stitches well alone if you want strong skin and bones.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Come on.’ Becky led him into the clinic.

  The receptionist recognised them and directed them straight to the chairs, where Pitcher continued to mutter to himself. Becky tried to block him out and figure out what she felt. Disappointment definitely. Of course she had never really believed Pitcher was a spiritualist conduit to a woman who had been dead for over three hundred years but she had to admit she had loved the mystery of Sarah Thomas while it had lasted. Or maybe it had been a tinge of madness.

  She should be satisfied that a silly little puzzle had been resolved. What else were you meant to do with mysteries but solve them? At the very least she should be laughing at herself for her gullible reaction to the collection of factors which had conjured up the ghost of Sarah Thomas in her mind. And yet she felt quite a sense of loss.

  ‘I came on a boat, and I was all alone, then I met a man and we mek a home. Then the man died, and I’m back alone,’ Pitcher told the floor.

  A sad rhyme from Trinidad, possibly. Or a literal description of how the nurse had travelled from Trinidad to Barbados, maybe to take up this nursing post. Becky shut her eyes and tried to work out if Matthew and the others would have reached the hospital yet. No, they were probably still on the road. Not even a full hour had passed since Francesca’s car had torn away from Copper Mill. She had to admit Francesca was the ideal driver for a mercy dash; she wouldn’t let minor obstacles like speed restrictions or unhurried pedestrians slow her down.

  ‘What does this Becky want from me? Why is she looking for me?’ said Pitcher.

  Becky’s eyes snapped open. She’d forgotten Pitcher saying that. How could that be linked to the Trinidadian nurse? She looked at Pitcher’s appointment note again as if it might hold a clue and realised she’d seen that backward-sloping handwriting somewhere else.

  The door to the treatment room opened and the Indian nurse came out and called for Pitcher, who was out of his chair almost before she’d finished speaking. Becky rose too and saw the nurse semi-retreat into her room, poised to shut the door the minute Pitcher entered, but halfway there he developed a left limping gait,
which he then corrected to a right-legged limp. Becky caught him up at the doorway.

  ‘You don’t have to come in, Miss Thomson,’ said the nurse.

  Becky put her hand on the door to keep it open. ‘I’m afraid I do, Mrs Thomson.’ The nurse reluctantly stepped aside to let them both in then shut the door behind them.

  ‘Or can I call you Sarah?’ said Becky, ‘Is that how you pronounce it?’

  Sairah nodded. ‘Most people pronounce it that way. I don’t mind.’

  Pitcher looked dismayed to see Becky in the room too but was too placid to make a fuss. He sat down and put his right leg forward. Sairah bent over and began undoing his bandage. Becky sat on the chair in the corner.

  ‘Does your mother know?’ Sairah muttered.

  ‘I don’t know to be honest. I think she must have suspected but she never mentioned you. She didn’t even mention my father much.’

  ‘I meant about getting married to Philip. She knew about me.’ Sairah unfurled the bandage and automatically started re-rolling it neatly round her fingers. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t even realise they’d got divorced.’ Sairah gave her a frightened glance and the penny dropped. ‘Ah, I see. They hadn’t.’

  ‘There was no time. My family had got to hear of Philip. They were sending one of my brothers over to Barbados to make sure we were –’ She searched for the right word, ‘correct. We had to marry very quickly. I thought that’s why you were looking for me.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I saw your card on his grave just a few days ago but I decided not to try and trace you. Before that I had no idea you existed, let alone were married to Dad.’

  Sairah looked at her, obviously surprised. ‘You really didn’t know?’ She looked down at the rolled-up bandage in her hand and said softly, ‘We’d been married for just a year when he died. He talked a lot about you and Joe. I thought maybe you had found out and were looking for me.’

  ‘Not at all. I really was just looking after Pitcher.’

  ‘Will you tell them? About Philip’s other wife?’

  Who did Sairah mean by them? The authorities in Barbados? ‘No. And even if I did I don’t think you’d be in trouble. You could have married him in good faith, after all. But I won’t tell anyone.’