The Turtle Run (11 page)

They seemed to be about to drive into a scrubby, tree-studded field but, just before the lane ended, Matthew swung the car left into a large gravel yard and parked.

‘Welcome to Copper Mill,' he said.

‘Interesting name.'

‘It would be something to do with sugar production,' said Matthew. ‘They used huge copper vats.'

She got out of the car and surveyed what would be her new home for the next few months. It was a white stone building with a massive veranda at the front overlooking the gravel yard, which lay between the house and a large garden that had no obvious boundary. Beyond the patch of cultivated plants it seemed to transition into an area of verdant wilderness. Thick green foliage lay to either side of the house like a large green tunnel.

‘Wow,' she said, appreciatively. ‘This place looks like it's been here for ever.'

‘It's just an old plantation house,' said Matthew but his careless tone could not disguise his love of his home.

He fetched her rucksack from the boot and led her up the steps to the front door.

Clara, already changed into a comfortable and cool-looking caftan, was sitting on the veranda with a glass in one hand. She hailed them exuberantly, ‘Come and have a drink. Isn't this wonderful, Mr R?'

Matthew set down Becky's rucksack out of the way beside one of a line of white jalousie doors that opened out on to the veranda. Becky, peering through a window beyond the jut of his shoulder, glimpsed an imposing high-ceilinged living room that wouldn't have disgraced a palazzo.

‘Isn't what wonderful?' he asked Clara.

‘See for yourself inside. Maureen's kept the furniture polished and she's put flowers absolutely everywhere. Isn't it nice to see her again?'

A young woman, dark and pretty, came out on the veranda. Becky guessed from the grin Clara's statement elicited this must be Maureen – presumably someone who helped round the house.

‘You're working late,' said Matthew.

‘I haven't seen Clara for a long, long time,' said Maureen.

‘This is Becky Thomson. She's here to help my mother with a book.'

Maureen shook Becky's hand. ‘I think maybe rum punch?' she suggested.

‘Definitely,' said Clara.

It was clear Becky wasn't going to be asked for her preference but she was happy to avoid making decisions about anything just then.

Matthew disappeared into the house after Maureen and Clara questioned Becky about the drive, obviously anxious to know how she and Matthew had got on. Becky exclaimed enthusiastically about the nicer sights she'd seen but omitted any mention of the Redleg village.

‘Oh thank you,' she said appreciatively when Maureen reappeared and handed her a drink with a tower of ice in it.

Maureen nodded and leaned towards Clara. ‘I didn't tell you. That Francesca woman –'

Clara instantly sat up.

‘She's got divorced.'

Becky knew this was bad news because Clara swore in French and put a hand to her face.

‘She turned up last week looking for Matthew but I told her I didn't know when he was coming back. Should I let him know?' asked Maureen.

Clara thought for a bit. ‘No. She'll be round here again soon enough. Let's give Matthew a bit of a break.'

At some point during this conversation night fell with the speed of a theatre curtain. What had been a sunny evening minutes before turned dark and cool and a chorus of unseen nocturnal creatures started whistling and clicking from the bushes. Clara seemed to have forgotten Becky's presence as she stared out at the garden with an unmistakeably heavy heart.

Chapter Six

With her body clock still on London time, Becky woke at 5 a.m. – her initial confusion about where she was quickly displaced by waves of different emotions. Firstly excitement as she listened to the tantalising sound of unfamiliar birdsong through the open window and then anxiety as she contemplated sharing a house with Matthew's less-than-friendly presence.

She tried to get back to sleep, but eventually gave up. She kicked off her covering sheet, showered in the en-suite bathroom and, dithering a bit between dress and shorts, reasoned she could do her job for Clara as well in shorts and a T-shirt as in a dress. It took a bit of fishing around in her still-not-fy-unpacked suitcase but sandals were eventually located and she ventured on to the landing outside her bedroom. All was quiet. Clara hadn't actually said what time she wanted their working day to start but it obviously wasn't this early.

Becky tiptoed downstairs and through the hall to the front door, realising worriedly that she had just walked past an alarm sensor. Nothing sounded so hopefully it was either switched off or on some sort of timer. The main door itself was securely fastened. What a business it was getting out of an old sugar plantation house. But eventually the door yielded its bolts and the latches obediently slid away. She stepped on to the veranda, saw a sky of never-ending blue and hurried down the stone steps.

Having crossed the gravel yard to the garden beyond, she took off her sandals. The grass felt wonderful under her bare feet. She sniffed at the flowers. Hibiscus, she discovered, disappointingly had no smell at all but made up for that deficiency by the gorgeous array of colours they came in – lemon, pink, a stunning salmon, and mauve. And as for the bougainvillea that tumbled like waterfalls over the walls, it was as though she were seeing colours she had never seen before: pinks and purples which were searing new memories rather than tickling old ones. Becky stood on the grass and spun round like a child with her arms outstretched. She felt high.

She heard a rich chuckle from the veranda and looked up sharply to see Matthew Darnley, still in his pyjamas, studying her antics with undisguised amusement. ‘You'll get dizzy,' he called out to her.

Becky froze and let her arms fall by her sides, regretting her childish action.

He nodded at her bare feet. ‘A word of advice – if this is how you like starting your day, I'd resist the temptation to go native just yet. You might be unlucky enough to get jiggers.'

Becky sighed. The man was certainly determined she wasn't going to enjoy paradise. ‘So go ahead, tell me,' she said resignedly. ‘Jiggers are obviously bad news.'

‘They
are
bad news – and a real pain to get rid of once they take up residence. Jiggers are a disgusting kind of flea that burrows under the skin, especially under the soft-soled skin of new arrivals.'

If he was expecting a reaction he would be disappointed. Becky wordlessly put on her sandals, crossed the gravel yard and came up the steps. She could see that at any sign of enjoyment he would appear behind her with another dark warning.

‘We'll have to take you to the beach,' said Matthew. ‘Walking on the sand will toughen your feet up then you won't have to bother.'

‘No doubt the beach is also fraught with danger,' Becky said and went inside.

Feeling a sudden bout of homesickness she took out her mobile to text Joe. But her phone simply said
No service
. She cursed her stupidity. It had not occurred to her to check which regions her provider covered. There would be no easy communication with her brother.

A couple of hours later Clara appeared and to Becky's amazement announced that the book was going to have to wait.

‘I've just been looking down at the garden from my bedroom window.
Quelle horreur!
It needs a bit of attention.' Clara looked at Becky with a hopeful glint in her eyes. So Alex had been spot on.

Becky took the hint. ‘Clara, if you'd prefer to work on your garden first that's fine by me. But you'll have to tell me what to do. I'm no gardener.'

Clara beamed. ‘Thank you, dear. I know I never mentioned gardening to you back in England but now that I've seen the state it's in I'd really like to get it straight before we do justice to our poor Monmouth exiles.'

‘The Redlegs?' Becky immediately regretted saying the word because she could see Clara was taken aback. Matthew had warned her it was politically incorrect. But then again she wanted to know exactly whom they were writing about.

‘Yes,' said Clara, frowning. ‘Though that's not a word I use to be honest.'

They had breakfast in the dining room and then, armed with shears and protected by a shady hat, Clara led the way to the garden.

‘Hi Alex,' said Becky, as they passed Matthew and Alex on the veranda. The two men were obviously having a business meeting though in rather unconventional dress: Matthew wore nothing but a pair of dark shorts; Alex, also in shorts and a ruffled, creased shirt, was spreading papers over a cane table. He seemed genuinely happy to see Becky though the fleeting happiness on his face could not hide his bloodshot eyes. Presumably whatever shut-eye he'd had on his first night back in Barbados wasn't enough to repay his sleep deficit.

Becky waved a pair of secateurs at him and he grinned.

‘Told you.'

‘You did,' said Becky.

‘Anyway,' said Matthew impatiently and Alex's attention was pulled back towards the papers.

‘We're going to have to be totally ruthless,' Clara said, when they reached the garden. ‘The trouble is neither Matthew nor I have the heart to get a new gardener but really all Pitcher can manage these days is the watering and taking out the more obvious weeds.'

‘Pitcher?' said Becky. ‘As in the man you thought might be a descendant of Daniel Pitcher?'

‘Yes,' said Clara, apparently too distracted by the garden's shortcomings to take the bait. ‘I'm not sure he's that steady on his feet. He probably shouldn't climb up ladders.'

‘I can,' Becky assured her. ‘What would you like done?'

‘Well, for a start, just look at that poor bougainvillea.'

The ‘poor' bougainvillea looked glorious to Becky but she bowed to Clara's superior knowledge that the growth around the inner stems needed ‘lightening up' if it was to continue flourishing. ‘And all those long shoots thrashing about wildly need to be cut right back.'

For the next few days, under Clara's direction, Becky weeded, pruned and fastened, revelling in the outdoor work. She would love to meet Pitcher – presumably a genuine descendant of a Monmouth rebel – but she was starting to wonder if he really existed. She had seen no sign of him and the weeds seemed to be luxuriating in his absence.

Matthew's work schedule did seem relentless but, as his main office appeared to be the veranda, they were bumping into each other every morning. Though Becky hadn't previously thought of herself as a prude she wondered, rather glumly, if she had inherited a little of her mother's sense of propriety. She was finding it increasingly difficult to walk past Matthew in his natural state: studying papers over the cane table he was always unshaven, bare-chested and barefooted (the jiggers were obviously no match for his calloused feet). A pair of black shorts were his only condescension to decency. He seemed to be oblivious to the same morning sun that had Alex constantly shifting his own chair into the ever-drifting shady patch.

Late each morning Matthew and Alex would drive off in their respective cars, presumably to the hotel, and then Matthew might come back in the afternoon to shower and change into a light suit before heading out again. He always returned after Clara and Becky had gone to bed. Becky got used to hearing the hum of his Nissan Sedan's engine pulling into the drive above the plaintive sounds of the nocturnal wildlife. It was closely followed by the sound of drawing bolts and turning keys, as he shut the house up for the night, and the musical beeping of the code he typed into the keypad to set the house alarm.

On her second day Matthew had warned everyone he was about to test this, which involved some readjustment of timings on a console, followed by a request – to a poker-faced Maureen – to ‘break in' by walking through the front door. She then had to repeat the exercise via the back door. Matthew hovered over the console controls ready to silence the alarm the instant it went off as the sound was so piercing it virtually disabled mind and body. Apparently Matthew insisted on this drill once a week. Apart from this, the house routine was peaceful. The alarm, Becky learnt, automatically switched itself off at 5 a.m.; even Matthew and Alex's working day didn't start that early.

The only other live-in resident was the seemingly ancient Cook – which really was her second name and seemed to serve as her first as well. Despite her advanced years she produced wonderful meals three times a day. Maureen drove over on weekdays to keep the house tidy and take care of the shopping. Becky suspected Clara or Matthew had employed her to ensure Cook's tasks were kept to a minimum.

Becky loved the mornings most, working in the garden with Clara. They would share a leisurely lunch after which Clara – often tired from the morning's exertions – would disappear for a rest. It was in the afternoons that Becky most felt a pang of loneliness. With Clara asleep, and Maureen and Cook largely sequestered in the kitchen, she used the time to sit on the veranda and study the
History of Barbados
which Matthew had mentioned. However sometimes she longed for some human interaction.

At about three o'clock on weekdays Cook's little granddaughter Zena would be brought over by her childminder for Cook to look after until her daughter-in-law finished work. The childminder never had time to say more than ‘Hello' and deliver Zena safely to the door before she drove off again. Little Zena was a sparkling and engaging little girl but Becky, assuming this was special ‘Grandmother' quality time, would immediately take her to Cook and then return to the veranda.

One morning, late joining Clara, Becky rushed on to the veranda just as Matthew was coming indoors to fetch something. She almost bounced off his wall of a chest.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘You OK?'

‘Don't you ever wear proper clothes when you're working?' she snapped and hurried off to the garden, embarrassed.