The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  After dinner she went through the photos from Southbury Cemetery with Joe on the computer. Even their mother wandered in to look at a couple of the pictures of the gravestone, though without comment.

  For the next few nights Becky dreamt of walking down the mahogany-lined lane towards the Darnley house but woke up before she could turn into the yard. It was a few seconds before she remembered she was back in England, in her old home, in her old bed. Sometimes she felt like a creature undergoing some sort of reverse metamorphosis, like a butterfly being squeezed into a confined chrysalis with only life as a caterpillar to look forward to. At other times she felt like a fraudulent imitation of herself, an insubstantial being who had strained conversations with her mother and Joe while her real self was sitting on a veranda, thousands of miles away.

  After Copper Mill, Becky found their house and estate stifling. She took to having long, solitary walks in Brentwood’s vast Weald and tried to figure out what she could do next. She had to find a way of shedding her recent past and starting anew. No more Matthew, no more Monmouth rebels. It was time to let go.

  Towards the end of her first week back Matthew telephoned. He had barely said a word before Becky cut him short: ‘there’s nothing I want to say to you’.

  She put down the phone with firm resolution and then spent the rest of the day wondering what he would have said if she’d let him. She had a pretty good idea: he probably knew by now it hadn’t been her who had told the Carringtons what he was bidding and he would have apologised for leaping to conclusions and assuming she was the weak link. But whatever he’d have said it wouldn’t have been enough: the hurt ran like a fault line through her whole being.

  She tried to adapt to her old Essex life and studied the magazine racks in the newsagents to bring herself up to date on which publications were still in circulation. She wrote off to three editors. She held out little hope of success but at least one of them had accepted two of her articles in the past, which she’d offered for no payment when she was trying to build up a CV.

  Despite her resolution not to think about the Redleg project Becky frequently compromised herself. She was like a gambling addict going back for one last fix – chasing the ‘big winner’ – each time telling herself it would be the last time but then urging herself to try once more to find a link she’d missed previously. She studied the online version of the book she had originally looked at in the Somerset Heritage Centre; there was nothing she had overlooked in the details of the Monmouth rebels transported, other than that Randolph Randerwick was described as a ‘plow man’. Becky hadn’t missed any references to Sarah Thomas – she simply wasn’t listed.

  Next she searched for references to Sarah Thomas generally, wading through the many Facebook hits that came up for a multitude of contemporary women with the same name. But of Sarah Thomas in the seventeenth century there was nothing.

  It wasn’t until she decided to look for the complete list of owners of Copper Mill, starting, she anticipated, with William Darnley, that her addiction was finally cured. She remembered that the house had been called ‘Copper Hall’ rather than ‘Copper Mill’ in the past so scoured online book archives for plantation houses in Barbados with the name ‘Copper’.

  She soon found what she wasn’t looking for.

  The current Darnley residence – Copper Mill in the parish of St Lucy – hadn’t been built until 1820. How could that be when William Darnley had taken on his indentured workers in January 1686? Unless he had lived in a completely different house. With a sinking feeling she googled Copper Hall and found a reference in an old book on Barbados buildings. Not only was Copper Hall a completely separate building, it had been built in St Philip – way down south. The plantation had been sold off for development in the early twentieth century and Copper Hall – by then a ruin – had been demolished to make way for a hotel complex.

  The realisation shook her in more ways than one. It wasn’t just that it exposed her lack of attention to detail in assuming there had been a single plantation house involved. She realised now how gripped she’d been with the fantasy of continuity: the idea of Pitchers working on the same land for three hundred years and the notion Matthew had bought the same plantation house his ancestors could only dream of entering. Worse she had presented this fantasy to Clara and Matthew as history and they had accepted it.

  But worst of all was the realisation that while she had been trying to solve this historical mystery she had felt alive in a way she had never felt before. Professionalism had gone out of the window while she built a fantasy world around Copper Mill, seeing only the facts that would support such a fantasy while ignoring the evidence that would have contradicted it.

  It was in this mood of heightened sensation – in this fantasy – that she had got together with Matthew and it had seemed amazing. Now, when she looked back, she realised she couldn’t trust her judgement on a single experience she’d had in Barbados: none of it had been real. Well, maybe meeting Sairah Thomson but if there wasn’t the physical evidence of Joe’s model green car even that would have seemed more like a dream.

  She was feeling at rock bottom when Matthew rang again. ‘This time please don’t hang up on me.’

  ‘Like you hung up on me from the hospital?’

  A sigh came down the phone. ‘I’m sorry. I could not have got it more wrong. Tell me how your mother is.’

  Becky decided that her mother couldn’t stay ill forever. ‘She’s much better.’

  ‘Does she still need you to be there?’

  Becky wondered if Matthew could hear the clattering in the kitchen which signified that her mother – having eschewed offers of assistance – was cooking a meal with a martyr’s zeal.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘So when do you think you’ll be able to come back here?

  ‘I’m not coming back, Matthew.’

  ‘You’re not?’ He sounded surprised. ‘What am I going to tell my mother? What about her book?’

  ‘There isn’t going to be a book. There isn’t enough material.’ Especially in light of what she’d just discovered. ‘There’s nothing for me in Barbados.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Matthew said. ‘I will do whatever it takes to get you back here. First-class flight and if you don’t think the book will work – I don’t know – you could run eco-tours round the island, anything you want.’

  Becky had to smile at the idea of her running eco-tours. ‘Thanks. I can tell you’re serious and that does sound good.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But it wouldn’t work. I had a great time but I realise now I was living a bit of a fantasy. I don’t think much of it was real.’

  ‘Not real?’

  ‘I can’t really explain but let’s leave it there. Thanks for trying. But really, it’s my problem, not yours.’

  She put the phone down.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Becky had been back for over a month. It was unusually cold for early October and if people had hoped for an Indian Summer it hadn’t left the shores of India. Becky had had no more than a polite acknowledgement from one editor that they would ‘keep her on their books but had no suitable position for her at the moment’; the others hadn’t even bothered replying.

  With time on her hands Becky decided to repaint the front room. Her mother had bemoaned the faded colour for many years – not in the hope of Becky or Joe doing anything about it – just because she seemed to think moaning was a valid exercise in itself. At the local DIY outlet Becky selected the colour that appeared to match what her mother had frequently described as her first choice and lugged two huge cans back in a biting wind. She really must learn to drive before she frittered away the money in her account.

  Today was as good a day as any to start painting. Her mother was at her part-time job at the pharmacy and Joe was at the garage. She only had to go round one more corner to reach home but she had to set down the paint cans for a moment to give her arms a rest. As she picked the cans up a
gain and rounded the corner, she noticed a car outside the house – nothing posh. It looked like a standard saloon with the logo of a car rental company on the rear screen. Drawing nearer she thought the profile of the man sitting in the driver’s seat looked familiar. He looked up and got out hurriedly.

  ‘Becky!’

  ‘Alex? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was sent over to the UK with a list of messages to do.’ He grinned. ‘Oh, they look heavy. Do you want a hand with them?’

  Becky nodded and they took a paint can each and went into the house.

  ‘Is your mother here?’ asked Alex in a hushed tone as they put the cans down in the hall.

  ‘No, she’s actually much better. She’s been able to go back to work.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘So Matthew still has you flying over to the UK?’

  Alex looked at her and made a glum face. ‘Never mind. One of my chores – though one of the nicer ones, I must add – is to reunite you with the things you left behind.’

  ‘Did I?’ Becky had subsequently realised she had forgotten her toothbrush but thought she had managed to grab everything else.

  ‘There were a couple of items,’ said Alex, vaguely. ‘And there were a few things Clara or Matthew meant to give you as presents, which obviously they couldn’t, um, under the circumstances.’

  ‘That’s sweet of them but not at all necessary. Are they in the car?’

  ‘No, they’re in the Magsab house. They were shipped over with some other stuff and I haven’t had a chance to sort it all out yet.’

  ‘What on earth is the Magsab house?’

  ‘It’s about, I don’t know, thirty miles from here.’ He frowned. ‘I think Matthew said you’d been there. It’s got a lake, if that helps?’

  ‘Oh yes. I only know it as Noak Hall.’

  ‘Magsab is our name for it. I’ll explain on the way.’

  ‘On the way?’

  ‘If it’s not too inconvenient it would be easier to take you there now, pick up what you want and then I’ll give you a lift back here.’

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.’

  Alex grimaced. ‘I would like to get something right for a change. And besides I need the chance to make you a proper apology.’

  She looked at him. He had his perpetual appearance of sleep deficit but he looked much better than when she had last seen him; his eyes and skin had lost their previous pink blotchiness. ‘No need to apologise. I guessed what happened.’

  ‘Right, I see. Even so, I’d like to fill you in on all the details as we drive,’ said Alex, taking a step towards the front door. ‘Matthew knows he owes you a major apology too. Now where is it?’ He patted down his pockets before retrieving an envelope from his coat and handing it to Becky.

  Becky opened it and read the note inside.

  Dear Becky,

  I’m going to leave it to Alex to explain the background to my very unfair accusation that you’d helped the Carringtons with the bid. The irony is they are now in a panic about cashflow and have already approached me to see if I’m interested so all’s well that ends well.

  I wish you would reconsider coming back to Barbados. You are being missed very much by everyone and I hate the fact we didn’t say a proper goodbye. I’ll try and remedy that when I’m next in the UK and will ring to see if you are free for a meal.

  Very best wishes,

  Matthew

  P.S. Alex will reunite you with the items you left behind and will also pass on some presents my mother and I want you to have.

  P.P.S. If you don’t accept the presents, I will fire Alex. So no pressure.

  Becky laughed. ‘Still got his sense of humour, then.’

  ‘It’s not been obvious these past few weeks,’ said Alex.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

  He breathed a sigh of relief and Becky realised he’d doubted whether she’d go with him. She picked up her rucksack, locked the front door and they went out to the car.

  ‘I apologise now if I crunch the gears,’ Alex said, letting her in. ‘This isn’t the normal model I rent.’

  It was typical of him to put himself down; once they set off he drove quite competently. Anyway it was nice to see Alex again even if it was funny hearing a Bajan accent in Essex. She realised how much she’d missed the sing-song lilt. And despite wanting this ‘over and done with’ she also wanted to know how everyone was at Copper Mill.

  ‘How’s Zena?’

  ‘Absolutely fine except she keeps asking where Becky is. We don’t think she had more than a spray of that furniture stuff. It was just the initial burning in her mouth that made her so upset.’ Alex glanced at her. ‘I put Matthew right about the milk business. Francesca was acting like God’s gift to first aid. I’m afraid it got on my nerves.’

  ‘I’m sure she loves children,’ said Becky, sweetly.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Alex. ‘I’m sure she would love Matthew to think she loves children. But then if she thought Matthew was interested in, I don’t know, bee-keeping she’d appear with a beehive on her head.’

  Becky laughed.

  ‘I also put him right about the party. You remember – the birthday party was Francesca’s idea until she realised that Matthew was shattered and not enjoying it at all. Then suddenly it became your idea. Apparently she only went along with it because she felt sorry you hadn’t had a chance to meet anyone in Barbados.’

  ‘How sweet of her.’

  Becky looked out of the window. In just fifteen minutes the urban sprawl of her dormitory town had petered out into Essex fields – like a lumpy patchwork quilt dotted with the odd farmhouse. The golden wheat fields that had been evident when she left England for Barbados had been replaced by acres of ploughed brown earth. It was only a gentle ache but she missed the little Barbados roads winding through verdant meadows.

  ‘I don’t think Matthew was ever fooled by Francesca,’ said Alex. ‘Not since he was a teenager, anyway. But I’m afraid he was fooled by Richard Carrington.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You know it was my fault? About the bid?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Becky.

  ‘I didn’t tell deliberately of course. Derek Carrington was very devious. It was the end of an extremely trying day – a few problems with some difficult guests. Derek was complimentary about the food and insisted we have a drink in the bar later. We had quite a few drinks in fact. He said they’d already put in their bid and named a price ridiculously low. It became a game testing my reactions as he mentioned different bid prices. I don’t know exactly what happened to be honest but I know that at some point I as good as came out with the actual figure.’

  ‘Why did Matthew just assume it was me? Apart from his inability to trust anyone he didn’t go to school with, obviously.’

  ‘After what happened with Chris he’s had to relax that rule. Anyhow Richard knew which buttons to press. From what Matthew told me, when they were waiting at the hospital for news on Zena, he bumped into Richard and congratulated him on the Carringtons’ successful bid. Then Richard said he had had inside help and Matthew should be careful about the people he shared information with. All true of course but there was something in Richard’s manner; he managed to make it sound like pillow talk.’

  ‘What?’ cried Becky.

  Alex looked at her shyly. ‘Apparently he implied you two got it on before his friendly visitors arrived.’

  ‘I knew he was a spoilt brat but I didn’t realise he was dishonest.’

  ‘You have no idea of the rivalry between the two of them – I suppose between Matthew and all the Carrington brothers, though it seems most personal with Richard. He’s very jealous of Matthew because he knows he would be useless without his family fortune or his older brothers whereas Matthew …’ Alex didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Are you still overworked?’ asked Becky. ‘I mean that was the real problem, wasn’t it? You always looked s
o tired.’

  Alex looked at her. ‘And I was silly about the alcohol. I was drinking just to try and get to sleep at night. It wasn’t great. Especially for my wife.’

  ‘So have things got better?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Definitely. I already had an assistant manager, a man called Clarence, who is more than capable but rather under-used. Matthew has finally accepted that I can’t be the manager and his right-hand man; it was like having two jobs sometimes. So Clarence gets promoted and I can concentrate on being Robin to Matthew’s Batman.’

  Becky laughed. ‘And how’s Clara?’

  Alex sighed. ‘She really is missing you. You know I probably shouldn’t say it, but …’ His voice drifted away.

  They had left the A12 and were winding along the B-roads.

  ‘You’ve got to say it now,’ said Becky.

  ‘I’m sure she was very sincere about writing a book but I can’t help wondering if it was actually you she wanted.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘She’s really fond of you. I think she genuinely believed that the history of the Redlegs should be told but I also suspect she had a bit of a fantasy that you and Matthew would get together.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have guessed that.’ Though now Becky thought about Clara’s reluctance to focus on the book it would make sense.

  ‘Francesca turned up every day after you left, even when Matthew wasn’t there. I think she was hoping to get in with Clara. Anyway she made the mistake of criticising you and according to Maureen Clara got quite indignant. Apparently she told Francesca: “Becky’s the only daughter-in-law I would welcome.” Francesca didn’t take that so well.’

  ‘And – if you don’t mind me asking – you explained about the bid to Matthew?’

  ‘Of course. It was uncomfortable, shall we say. But he didn’t shout; didn’t even get angry. He just looked, I don’t know, beaten.’

  Becky felt a pang of sympathy for Matthew. She couldn’t imagine him looking beaten. Exasperated, tired, even haggard, yes – but never beaten. But she did remember his irritation when he thought people weren’t acting efficiently.