by Ruby Soames
‘Course.’ I don’t know who he is, this Peter Lyle, but right now, he’s all I’ve got.
‘When are you going to tell him?’
A large swell of water lifts us up in the air for a second, as we drop down and heave up again, the crowd cheers.
‘Soon,’ I say after steadying myself against the side-rail.
‘We’re almost there, look,’ he points in the direction of the island.
It’s just like a screensaver I used to have on my PC at work. An island placed like a big, white, isolated jigsaw piece in the middle of pale turquoise waters. The sides are sheer, dropping down to a deserted cove made from sand the colour of farmhouse butter – no cars, people, houses, just tall, vivid green palm trees and gigantic flowers sitting in oversized leaves. The boat slows down as the crew drop the dinghies to row us from the boat to the island.
I scan the landscape, taking in the cove, a wall of big square rocks and then the cave, which looks like a black hole until we get closer and I see a line of men in white uniforms waving to us from the shore. A red-faced man in a black suit peers at the boat, gesticulating to the waiters.
‘You’re gonna love this Sarah – inside the cave is a lagoon, that’s where we’re having lunch,’ says Peter.
After a few minutes we paddle to the shore where the sand is so hot that Ottilie and I have to skip to get to the cool floor of the cave. I walk in, awed by the vast ceilings and the luminescent pools of water. The walls are covered in burning candles. A quartet in blacktie play Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Further in, a waterfall is lined with shards of light coming from lanterns. The air is close, warm. One person calls out and listens. After that, no one can resist the urge to shout and hear their echoe. One woman sings an aria from Turandot.
‘What a place!’ says Henry, dwarfed by overhanging rocks. He leans against a gigantic boulder to catch his breath. Yuleka begins the lengthy exercise of unstrapping her heels.
A man wearing a pink one-piece bathing suit stands next to us taking photographs of long crystals drooping down from the cave’s vault-like ceiling. Peering over his hornrimmed glasses, he springs into a lecture in sedimentary petrology, ‘People don’t appreciate that Barbados has one of the most impressive underground worlds. They come here on holiday and leave without any idea that the island’s geological composition is eighty-five per cent sedimentary rock.’ I follow his finger pointing over the rocks. ‘Coral reef limestone. See? You see, there? Unlike many other Caribbean islands, there is no volcanic rock on Barbados, making it ideal for cave formation. Places just like these flourish beneath the surface where water can create cavities in sedimentary rock and exposed coral reef. Not only are they geologically fascinating but many were used as refuges for runaway slaves escaping from the sugar plantations. This is a particularly splendid example, I’m very grateful to Mr Mansard for permitting me to see it.’
‘So it’s all natural?’ asks Henry.
‘Well, yes. That’s what I’ve been saying,’ he answers irritably. ‘Do watch out for the bats.’ He walks off, his feet slapping over the wet sand.
‘Dickhead,’ said Yuleka after him. ‘You know what, guys, it reminds me of that Italian architect who makes the buildings that look like ice-cream cones. What’s his name?’
‘Gaudi,’ says Henry weakly. We stand watching the pools of lime green water flicker in the light. ‘And he’s Spanish,’ he adds.
‘Catalan,’ I say.
‘Whatever,’ Yuleka shrugs.
Peter’s hands brush down my back, ‘Wanna swim, look for hidden treasure?’
‘Suspect you might find a few skeletons of runaway slaves,’ says Henry.
‘Do you have any skeletons we could find, Henry?’ asks Peter.
‘No, no, no flies on me,’ laughs Henry, bashfully.
‘We’ll see about that,’ Peter retorts. ‘Come on Sarah.’
Peter and I strip down to our swimsuits and rush into the warm, limey water.
Peter catches my toe. ‘Kiss me,’ he whispers urgently.
‘I warned you about him!’ says Ottilie who suddenly appears at my shoulder. She leans into us holding her wraparound skirt into her legs.
‘Ottilie, gimme a break,’ Peter says, threatening to splash her.
‘I hope Sarah’s got a life-saving pack fully equipped with oxygen mask, I warned you, girlfriend! He’s one of those beasts who swallow little girls whole.’
‘Only if they taste good enough –’ he says without the cheeky smile that should accompany it.
Ottilie looks away, bored by this line of flirtation. ‘Cool place, huh?’ She raises her sunglasses above reddened eyes and drags a hand through the warm water. ‘Johnny plans to build a hotel here one day. I love it but it’s really too dangerous to be open to the public. Once the tide’s in, there’s no way out except by boat. I can’t say I feel all that safe. Johnny’s captain wouldn’t join us, said there’s a storm coming.’
‘Peter!’ shouts Bunny, ‘Get over here, help me open this Pol Roger!’
Peter squeezes my hand, ‘Be right back.’
He wades over to Bunny and the rather drunken gathering of older men surrounding her.
Ottilie says, ‘Looks like you’ve got competition. Do you notice she never takes her eyes off him? There’s history in them there hills.’
We both watch as Bunny giggles and touches Peter’s arm.
‘She’s welcome to him,’ I say, pushing off.
After bobbing around in the natural hot spring, I dry off and make my way to the feast laid out on a long flat-topped rock. Oysters, crayfish, lobster claws and mussels are lit up by opulent candelabras. Johnny sits at the head of the table, dismantling a lobster, with his new love on his right and her predecessor, Ottilie, to the left.
Peter’s settled on the other side of the rock next to Bunny, while I’m between a property developer and plastic surgeon to the stars. As we dig into the platters of seafood, the air changes from fresh sea breeze to breathy stillness. Looking down to the entrance of the cave, I can see the sky has turned slate grey. The air feels hostile.
I watch Henry through the crowd: the way he listens to people, anticipating their punch-lines, how his foot will surreptitiously scratch at a mosquito bite on the calf of his other leg while he pretends to be really interested in what’s being said, how when he inhales from his cigar he crosses his eyes like a comic-book character.
Was it just a father I wanted, or was it him, that father, that man, Henry Hardwick?
I must have sighed out loud because Yuleka taps me on the arm and says, ‘You’re in love. I can see it.’ She leans across a man wearing nothing but a thong to impart her diagnosis. He moves back to allow her in.
‘Oh really?’ I ask.
‘Oh really, yes, oh yes, darling.’ Her painted fingers grip mine as she draws me to eye-level. ‘I’ve been watching you and I’ll tell you something, I studied psychology, it’s one of my degrees, so I can say for sure.’ She tightens her clutch on my wrist, ‘He loves you too.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ I answer.
‘I got an idea. When the sun comes out again, let’s use my sun oil on him, shoulders, back and then, you accidentally spill some on his crotch, whoopsie! We’ll both put our hands down there to make sure he gets an even colour … yeah? You’ll see how much he cares.’
‘Really?’
‘I did it with Henry … and look at us.’
‘Yes, look at you.’
‘You know he was married before?’ she says cracking down on a claw. ‘These are the first happy days he has ever lived in his life. Imagine!’
I look over at Henry, who’s opening his mouth wide for a fork-load of potato salad.
‘She was a bitch! She just used him.’ She sucks the juice from the lobster’s claws one by one.
‘What are his children like?’
‘Those two? Children?’ she swings her index finger from side to side in front of my face like a pendulum and tuts, ‘Not children, they are mut
ants.’ She stabs at her salad before adding, ‘They are just like her. Grabbing, selfish … they don’t love their father … they just want a human bank. They do nothing but sit around moaning that he wasn’t a good father to them. Oh! That man, that brilliant, kind, wise man.’ She points a tentacle at Henry and then pauses. ‘Hey!’ she rattles my wrist. ‘You and Peter should do it, get married in Barbados. Oi, Peter – get married here! You could do it in one of the grottos, or skydiving or on a cliff top. Don’t do it on the beach like we did, too many people hanging around. Oh, and get them to release fifty white doves. Henry didn’t wanna do it because he said it was too expensive – cheapskate!’
A voice from the next table rises above the hum. ‘Did you hear about some old man marrying a lap dancer on the beach? Everyone was saying it was quite hil-ar-ious! Really tacky, apparently.’
Yuleka cries out, ‘Hey! That was us! Henry and I! It was our Marriage of a Thousand Dreams!’
Henry, having picked up on the mocking tone of his ceremony’s description, was not so keen to be identified as the old man.
‘I was in a red bikini top and G-string, red, suspenders and a see-through dress – everyone said, “Oh Yuleka – you are the sexiest bride ever!” But he wore shorts and white socks!’
A few people laugh.
‘Long socks too!’ She leans back in her chair, adjusts her breasts and speaks loudly while holding up a champagne flute, ‘I said, get this, I said, “Henry darling, pe-leeeeze. It’s your wedding!” But he goes, “I don’t like sandals – they’re so common!”’ She impersonates him in an exaggerated pompous voice, ‘They’re so common! Ha! And he had –’ she stops to laugh at the memory, ‘– his stomach – my dears – stomach out here!’ she puts her hands over her belly and blows out her cheeks, ‘his huge stomach out like this, like he was pregnant with twins!’ She collapses laughing, her head nearly falling into her plate of lobster exoskeletons.
Henry winces. ‘Darling, I think they’ve heard enough about our big day.’
But Yuleka’s on a roll, ‘This French bird next to me, she goes –’ Yuleka’s laughter takes her breath away, we wait until she regains control, ‘– she said, “Yuley, I dunno ‘ow you gonna find his zi-zi on yourrrr wedding night!”’ Yuleka and a girl next to her fall into each other from laughter. ‘His zi-zi!’
I lean over to the people on my other side who are gossiping about celebrities. It doesn’t take long for one of them to mention the other wedding.
‘I heard that Joseph West – you know, The Replacement one, that young, good-looking British star, he’s getting married on the island to Sylvia Amery.’
‘No way! She’s a dyke,’ says someone.
‘You know, I heard that too! But … Oh Hi, Kimberly.’
Johnny’s new girlfriend joins us and starts to talk about some of her model friends. Suddenly, the candles flicker and there’s a chill in the air. A man in the black suit claps his hands authoritatively and announces that we must leave immediately – there’s a storm coming.
It’s been a while since I saw Peter, and someone says they saw him head towards Johnny’s boat. I jump on a dingy as other people clamber on to restart the party away from the island.
On board the yacht, disco lights are being set up for the evening. I go below deck, through the long narrow corridor and hear Peter’s voice behind a door.
I knock. No answer.
‘Peter?’ I call.
Behind the door I hear a glass fall, then a giggle.
‘It’s Sarah. Peter?’ I don’t move but eventually hear a lock turn. The door opens and Peter stands in a dressing gown, his hair wet and ruffled.
‘Sarah,’ he whispers. His voice is tepid, afraid. Behind him there’s a divan strewn with pillows and a fur throw. I step forward, but Peter puts his arm out to hold me back. From the divan, a body slides out from under the fur. Bunny is naked, a smirk on her face, her expression distinctly post-coital.
Peter puts his hand out towards me. ‘Sarah!’
I take a deep breath. ‘Bunny, Peter, the storm’s going to be a bad one – we’re all leaving now.’
Bunny hangs off Peter’s shoulder. She brings her face to mine, ‘So thoughtful of you to give us a little weather update.’ And then she laughs, throwing her hair back. ‘Better run along now,’ she says, as if I were some insolent maidservant hanging around for a tip. ‘Oh, and Sarah, say hello to Daddy Henry for me, won’t you!’
Peter reaches for my fingers as I turn to leave. ‘Sarah, look, come back!’
‘Leave her!’ Bunny says sternly.
Peter jolts forward, reaching this time for my shoulder.
‘Peter, stay here!’ commands Bunny.
I hurry down the length of the boat, up the stairs and jump onto a dingy bringing people in from Johnny’s island. Seeing that Henry isn’t on board, I go back to the cave, to finish what I came here to do.
8
Back on the beach, people climb into boats of every kind. The sky is growing black and, inside the cave, it’s even darker. Food has been whisked away and candles are burning out. There’s only Henry, Yuleka and a smattering of others left.
Yuleka is trying to pull Henry out from a large rock that has been carved into a stone armchair. ‘Sarah, can you help me get Henry up. He’s had too much to drink. We need to leave right now.’
Henry is smoking a cigar. Yuleka slumps down at his feet, telling him he has to stand up or be swept away by the storm.
He picks up a half-empty Magnum of champagne and pours himself another drink. ‘Look, she’s nagging already,’ he chuckles to a straggler.
The man laughs, pats him on the back, says, ‘See you on the other side,’ and makes his way out of the cave.
Yuleka hisses, ‘Henry, I am going. You stay here and drown, OK?’ Yuleka stamps over to the cave’s mouth and waits.
Henry attempts to stand a few times but falls back down again.
‘Henry, come on! Please! You are embarrassing me.’ Yuleka calls out.
‘You embarrassed me today.’
‘Ugh! What are you talking about?’
‘You – you made fun of me.’
‘Henry, there’s a speed boat going straight back to the hotel. Please, I wanna take it. Now. It’s going to rain. Come on.’
‘Let’s just wait for Johnny’s boat.’
‘What are you talking about? Henry! That’s it there! Look! It’s leaving!’
True. Johnny’s boat appears much further away than it had been before.
‘Henry. I’m going. OK? You stay and die.’
‘Yuley, I’m still enjoying my drink and cigar. Sarah, you’re not scarpering off just yet are you?’
This will probably be my only chance to tell Henry who I really am. ‘No, I’ll join you, one more for the road.’
‘Good girl.’ He pours me a glass of champagne.
Yuleka glares at me: ‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Chill out, as they say,’ Henry chuckles. He pulls a face at her and sings, ‘When a Ma-an Loves a Wo-oman, What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you with a drunken sailor, Can’t keep his mind on nothing –’
‘You go on, we’ll catch you up,’ I suggest, trying to sound relaxed.
She turns to me at first in defiance but then she seems relieved. ‘Thanks, Sarah but … Henry! You’re crazy if you think you can stay here.’
‘Clouds! Big deal! See, Sarah’s here. Us Brits don’t panic – maybe we do wear socks on the beach, but at least we don’t start simpering at the first drop of rain. Ay oh, and up he rises, Ay oh, and up he rise –’ He hums, too drunk to see the grey plumes of wind gathering over the horizon.
‘See you at your funeral!’ laughs the last party goer as he pulls his cap tight over his scalp and heads towards the last speed boat.
‘Henry … for the last time!’
‘Early in the morning!’ He listens to his echo throughout the grotto.
‘We’ll catch you up in a few minutes,’ I say. �
�Don’t let those Blahniks get wet.’
Yuleka stomps off, her heels sinking into the sand. We watch her climb into the boat as the driver turns the engine.
‘She buggered off then,’ he says, looking around the cave.
The speedboat darts through the sea which is coming alive with a maliciousness. Soon we’ll have to make our way over the rocks to wait for someone to come for us. We only have a little time or we won’t be able to get out of the cave to dry land. I turn to Henry who’s checking to see if his cigar is still lit.
‘They’ve all gone. It’s just us now,’ I say.
Henry settles back into his rock as if it was an armchair in some Mayfair gentlemen’s club. He grunts and takes another gulp of champagne. One of the candles slumps to the ground and soon, all the other candles will follow.
Henry downs more of the bottle while singing, ‘When a Ma-an loves a … bloody woman. She’s turned me into a laughing stock. Y’hear what she said, about me? Think I showed her, didn’t I?’
I pick up my bag and settle it on my shoulder. ‘Henry, we really should get going. The water’s nearly ankle high already.’
‘I’m –’
He clamps both hands down beside his buttocks and pushes himself out of the chair. I watch him lumbering over the rocks to collect his belongings. He returns to his seat and slowly brings a sock up to his foot. After a few failed attempts, he searches for his shoes. One is sinking in a small rock pool and the other bobbing out to sea. Spray is covering his glasses. He stands up, looks around the cave for the rest of the party.
‘You sure they’ve all gone?’ he squints at the heavy sky. ‘All of ‘em? Even your friend Peter?’ He takes his glasses off, cleans them with the ends of his shirt. ‘I didn’t appreciate that … what she said, about me … I’ve put on a bit, but … still … and, what’s wrong with socks?’ He puts his hands on his hips, jutting out his paunch to the winds and grimaces, ‘It’s too bloody dark in here. Hot too.’
Waves begin to crash hard against the cave’s mouth.
‘Quite a lunch, quite a lunch,’ he mumbles. ‘Must have cost a fortune, all that drink, that boat! Not hard up is he?’ He wipes his brow from where the sea flicks water at him.