She set out the only two photographs she had brought with her. Heavily framed, they might withstand the gusty trade winds.
'Dad' and 'Mama' she had always called them, and that was how she would always think of them—always.
Looking at her mother's pretty face, with its gay smile, she felt, not for the first time, considerable remorse at the way she had reacted on that day of her twenty-first birthday when she had learned that she was an adopted daughter. She would have had to know some time or other. What right had she to reproach this woman who had mothered her so tenderly for keeping her in the dark so long? How could she tell for certain that she would have been happier had she grown up, almost from babyhood, knowing the truth?
But of course she didn't know the truth, and never would.
Her real parents were in the world somewhere, and there were times when she longed fiercely to trace them. But mostly she didn't. There was usually a slur on the birth of a child handed over by an intermediary, with no name, no clue to the parentage. But this could have been borne.
After all, plenty of so-called love-children had made good. Leonardo da Vinci, the great painter, for one ——
No, it was the sense of rejection that was so embittering—the feeling of coming into the world unwanted, unloved.
She tried to push the matter out of her mind, but still it haunted her, though she was no longer absorbed in self-pity; rather, indeed, ashamed now for her selfish behaviour.
How hurt her mother had been when she had tried stubbornly to refuse the money she was settling on her, how distressed and bewildered by her apparent inability to return the love she had always been given, in just the same way.
'How thinkful I am she's married dear old Patrick,' she thought. 'If anyone deserves happiness she does.' And with that came the further reflection: 'I was right to come so far away. It will teach me a bit of sense. When I see her again the soreness will have gone. Please, God, I shan't be such an egotist. I shall have grown up.'
She was still busy when Anne-Marie and Sally turned up, to take her on a tour of the house.
Their own bedrooms were very much like the one she had been given—uncluttered, with pastel-coloured walls and built-in cupboards, reaching to the ceiling. She had to see the others, too—Aunt Isabel's, full of beautifully carved wooden furniture which some ancestress had brought over from Europe two centuries ago—Peregrine's and Christopher's, resolutely masculine.
The hall from which several of these rooms radiated was the communal sitting-room, and behind it, separated from it by one of those lovely wrought-iron screens, was the dining-room, which in its turn gave on to a loggia where, the girls explained, most of their meals were taken.
A visit to the kitchen came next, with an introduction to a massive woman called Tina, and two small girls who were putting up a show of helping her.
She gave Bryony a wide grin.
'My, are you really going to do the housekeeping?' she observed. 'You so young and all, with them rosy cheeks!'
Bryony smiled back at her.
'I've helped with the catering at a hotel in England,' she said, 'but of course I don't know a thing about food out here. You'll have to put me wise—at first.'
'Sure! I'll be your guardian angel, missy.' And when the little girls hovering round her burst into fits of laughter, making rude gestures which emphasised her embonpoint, she pretended to threaten them with her wooden spoon, declaring that the new young lady would be ashamed of children who behaved so to their grandma—that angels could be all shapes and sizes, and so could young devils, too!
'What's for dinner tonight, Tina?' Sally put in coaxingly. 'Any chance of scampi?'
'Now, Miss Anne and Miss Sally, you be off,' was the only response to the question. 'And you two, Gloria and Pearl'—addressing the little girls—'go and take your grandad his clean suit. He'll want it to wait at dinner tonight.'
When she and Bryony were left alone in the white- tiled kitchen she said: 'Them two imps, they're my grandchildren, sure 'nough. By rights they should be with their mam, of course, but she's in trouble again over pinching, and Dr. Gray says Solomon and me can have them here with us till things get straight again.'
'Couldn't their father have them?' Bryony asked hesitantly, wondering how Tina could ever get any cooking done with two children around.
'Oh, she's been unlucky, my daughter has. Wouldn't listen to Solomon and me and get married. Them kids have different fathers—and where they are now, goodness knows. Pay a dollar or two for a few weeks and then disappear.' And then she added lugubriously: 'You'll find things here very different from England. Know how to behave, they do, over there. Get prop'ly married before they start making babies.'
Suppressing some ironic reflections, Bryony turned to go. Tina was obviously busy. It wasn't fair to keep her talking.
But Tina hadn't finished yet.
'It's not everybody who'd let us have the children here, eating their heads off and all. Some would be for putting them in the orphanage, and the Sisters are good to the children, I must say. Bring them up respectable, and dress them ever so nice. But Dr. Gray, he's got a heart, for all he snaps people's heads off sometimes, without much rhyme or reason. "As long as you keep the number down to two," he says, "and have your eye on them all the time, so they don't get up to no pranks, they can stay here as long as you like."'
'That sounds generous,' Bryony ventured, her mind flying back to the very different impression of Peregrine Gray which Hugh Woods had given her.
'He sure is,' Tina affirmed stoutly. 'But mind, he's very strict about some things. Not a foot must those kids put inside the dispensary. He don't want them eating no poisonous drugs in the notion they're sweeties. Nor I don't, neither. Not that they'd ever have much chance of getting in. Always kept locked up, it is, when there's nobody there—with burglar- proof bolts, ever since someone did break in, a few months ago, and tried to thief something.'
Her tour of the house finished, Bryony made her way out into the garden, bright with unfamiliar tropical flowers and shrubs—scarlet poinsettias, hibiscus of many colours and massed bougainvillaea, in every shade of purple and red and pink.
Even as she wandered alone down the wide paths, the sky changed almost imperceptibly from blue to soft golden, the thud of tennis balls ceased and soon there were light-hearted good-byes, followed by the sound of cars being driven away.
'Here you are! I was wondering where you had got to.'
It was Peregrine Gray who came strolling across the lawn to the bench where she had taken her perch.
In the fading light he looked younger and less severe. And when he dropped down on the seat beside her, she did not at all resent the intrusion.
'Our guests have all gone,' he told her. 'Usually they stay on for drinks, but I told the girls this morning that your first evening here must give you a chance to get your bearings with us—a chance to feel at home in a way you could hardly do with a set of outsiders around.'
'That was thoughtful of you,' she returned quietly.
'Anne-Marie and Sally didn't think so. They tried to insist that you'd be bored with only the family here. However, as I decreed that neither of their special boyfriends were to be invited, they piped down.' And then he went on, with a glance at the sky, from which every moment the light was going: 'Before it gets dark, I'll show you where I work—when I'm not on my rounds. It's hardly on our way back to the house, but it won't take long.'
Relieved that he seemed to be putting that unfortunate episode on board ship behind him, she went across the garden with him, skirting the swimming- pool which lay just beyond the now deserted tennis court and came to a small, plain little building of white-painted wood, from a window of which, as they approached, a light suddenly shone out.
'That's where Tina and Solomon live,' Peregrine said. 'And just how many friends and relatives of theirs squeeze in from time to time is nobody's business. You can hardly see now, but they've got quite a flourishing little garden of
their own at the side there. They grow yams and cassava and bananas and quite a few things there. A good thing, too. We'd be ruined if we had to feed all their guests.'
'I've met two of them,' Bryony remarked, smiling. 'Gloria and Pearl.'
'Oh, they're on the strength—have to be tied to Tina's apron string. Just because the dispensary is kept very carefully locked, and is out of sight from the house, they've a fancy to get in. And I can't have that. Apart from what they might get hold of, there's the question of making it possible for less innocent people to "effect an entry", as the police say.'
'You mean people out after drugs?'
'Exactly. Both my partners and I prescribe from here, so we have to keep a fairly big stock.'
They were now outside an annexe to the house, linked to it by a colonnade, and unlocking a side door he took her in, switching on a series of lights and fastening the door again with great care.
The building they were now in consisted of two surgeries with very modern equipment, a waiting- room and the dispensary about which she had heard so much.
'Our present dispenser, Miss Wicker, has made herself responsible for keeping all these rooms clean and tidy,' he told her now. 'Brings a girl in from the village whom she knows very well, and who works under her immediate supervision and clears off as soon as she's finished.'
'And what happens when Miss Wicker is away?'
'I'm afraid you and the girls will have to cope. Mrs. Forrest does the dispensing then, but has no time to bother with anything else. She has her own house to look after.'
Another door, unlocked and locked with equal care, took them into the colonnade and so into the house— through the dining-room into the big sitting-room where the family seemed to be awaiting them. And not only the family. Mrs. Forrest, however short of leisure she might be, could find time, it seemed, to linger for a long cool glass of rum and ginger ale with these neighbours of hers. What was more, she needed very little pressure to stay on to dinner.
Maybe the girls were right. Maybe—again without too much encouragement—she was visualising herself as one of the family.
She was older than Peregrine, it was true. But perhaps when the younger sisters and brother were settled he might turn his eyes in her direction, if he wasn't doing so already.
And very suitable, too, no doubt!
Dinner was served out on the loggia. The table silver gleamed brightly in the lights suspended from the creeper-covered roof: and Bryony had never seen such beautiful crystal glasses and porcelain.
She remarked on it to Christopher, who was sitting next her, and Sally, sitting opposite, piped up at once: 'It's in honour of your arrival, Bryony. Anne-Marie and I decided to get it all out.'
Mrs. Forrest, seated at Peregrine's right hand, didn't look very pleased at this remark, and Christopher, with more tact than his sisters, swept the conversation into another channel, and started talking about Carnival. It was an excellent choice, everyone having something to say.
Listening, Bryony was moved to remark that she felt surprised at such excitement over it. She had heard about the splendour which accompanied the great pre- Lent festival in Trinidad—the gorgeous and fantastic spectacles—but after all, it was fully two months ahead to Shrove Tuesday.
Peregrine gave her an amused look.
'The island's excitement lasts far longer than that,' he told her. 'The moment one Carnival is over, leaving most people who take part in it pretty well broke, plans begin for next year's event—and the scraping and saving starts all over again. It's a social phenomenon no psychologist has ever yet been able to explain.'
'But, Perry,' Chris protested, 'you used to be just as mad about it when you were younger—even after you qualified. I remember the year before Dad died you played an Aztec warrior. Acted the part jolly well, too.'
'I'm not saying I escaped the craze—though the cost of costumes wasn't astronomical then, as it is now. And of course Carnival does pull in the tourists. All the same,' and Peregrine eyed his sisters quizzically, 'I'm glad you two will be in your school band, with the teachers frowning on extravagance. As for you,
Chris,' and there was affection in his look, 'considering you'll be in Canada doing your medical training very soon, and unable even to watch the fun, one can't begrudge you the flings you've had.'
'Goodness knows when we'll have ours,' Sally moaned. 'Though,' and she brightened up with sudden recollection, 'we aren't obliged to stick to the school band, even if we're still at St. Monica's. If we joined an older lot, Anne-Marie could design our costumes, and that would save dollars and dollars.'
'I'd love to do that.' Anne-Marie's hazel eyes were sparkling. 'In fact, when I'm older I could make a living at it, I'm sure—if I charged the current fees.' And looking across at Bryony, she said eagerly: 'I'm like Yvonne, you know. I want to go for painting and all that. I'm dying to leave St. Monica's and go to art school.'
'Aren't you going to try for some A levels first?' Laura Forrest spoke just a little too sweetly. And then she added: 'It doesn't do to rely on making a reasonable living as an artist, even in Trinidad—unless you're the tops.'
And then Aunt Isabel, regal in black lace, put in her spoke, in a way which made Laura Forrest colour with annoyance.
'I trust neither of my nieces will have to join in what is termed now, I believe, the rat race,' she said in a dignified tone. 'Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I would greatly prefer them to follow the example of their elder sister and make suitable and happy marriages.'
Solomon, who was waiting on them, smart in immaculate white linen, called Peregrine then to the telephone, and Sally, following an earlier train of thought, observed brightly: 'Perhaps Bryony could play in Carnival, too, next year.' And she asked Bryony hopefully: 'Are you good at dressmaking? Because if Anne-Marie did the designing and you the actual making—with us helping, of course—the costumes would cost hardly anything.'
'You're a shade optimistic, I think!' Again that too- sweet voice. 'In any case, I shouldn't count on joining a grown-up band next year. As for Miss Moore, she'll surely be cosily settled in England again by then.'
Peregrine came back at that moment, but if he heard Laura Forrest's last remark he found comment unnecessary.
'I'm afraid I'll have to rush off directly after dinner,' he announced. 'It's a baby case, and I may be late back. But don't worry, Laura. You walked over, I know, but Chris will run you home in the Fiat.'
'Oh, it would suit me fine if you'd drop me, Perry,' Mrs. Forrest exclaimed. 'I particularly want an early night. In fact I ought not to have stayed to dinner at all.'
'O.K.' Peregrine was hurrying a little now over his meal. He seemed oblivious of her barely hidden eagerness. But Bryony caught Anne-Marie winking at Christopher, and thought: 'Oh, dear't' If Peregrine had noticed he would undoubtedly have been furious over such a breach of good manners. She would certainly have to do something about behaviour of this sort—make these youngsters see the necessity of treating their guests, however trying, with nothing less than perfect courtesy.
Presently, Peregrine and Mrs. Forrest having departed, the rest of the party moved into the big drawing-room for coffee. And now Bryony began to find out a little more about this household in which she was to spend the next twelve months.
Anne-Marie hadn't chosen to say so in front of Mrs. Forrest, but Sister Patricia, who taught drawing and painting at St. Monica's, had told her that if she worked hard she could probably take an A level in Art, next year.
'And you bet I'm going to work hard,' she declared. 'All the same, I don't see why I shouldn't go out with
Frank sometimes. It was mean of his parents to hint to Perry that he'd do better at school if he didn't hang after me so much—and quite untrue.'
'Didn't Reverend Mother say that you and Sally weren't taking some of your subjects seriously enough? That dating, as you call it, should wait until you left school?' Aunt Isabel spoke with gentle reproof, as she looked up from her Patience board. 'I know Perry is o
n the strict side, but I do believe you'll be grateful to him some day. Neither Frank Dawson nor Sally's friend Bernard Glynn will appeal to you two girls in a year or so's time, I truly believe.'
'Older people are always thinking about boy-friends as future husbands,' Sally complained, tossing back her hair in a characteristic gesture. 'I don't want to marry Bernard or anyone else. In fact I'm all for having a career before I give up my freedom, once I've got it.'
'What do you want to do in the way of work?' Bryony asked her good-humouredly.
Sally shrugged her shoulders.
'I haven't really thought yet. I'm not clever, like Anne-Marie, I know. But I guess I could make a go at something practical—like running a hospital, or a hotel, or maybe a theatre club.'
The others kept perfectly straight faces at this display of optimism, and Anne-Marie put in: 'I'm dead set on being a really fine portrait painter. But that doesn't mean I'm never to have any fun. And I happen to enjoy being with Frank more than anyone.'
'Does your brother forbid you to see these boys altogether?' Bryony enquired.
'Oh, he doesn't go quite so far as that,' Anne-Marie conceded. 'But he says he doesn't like the set they're in. And if we must see them, it's only to be very occasionally, in the holidays, either at their homes or here. Which is pretty ridiculous for these days.'
'Absolutely daft!' Sally echoed.
Aunt Isabel's white slender hand, ringed with an emerald, hovered for a moment over the board. Then, with quiet satisfaction, she put a red nine on a black ten, leaving a space.
'Miss Moore is bound to follow his line,' she said calmly, and moved up a king.
Neither girl made any reply to this. But Chris turned over a page of his book, and looking across at Bryony, observed with real sympathy: 'You've taken on the devil of a job here.' Then, looking across at his sisters, he added: 'If Bryony can't cope and goes back to England, you'll have our dear Laura running your lives. She's got one foot in the door, and she'll eject Bryony at the first opportunity.'
Juliet Armstrong - Isle of the Hummingbird Page 4