The Turtle Run (10 page)

‘I was expecting to collect three of you,' Mr St John protested.

‘Ah,' said Alex, grimacing. ‘Sorry, that was my fault. I forgot to tell you that we were one extra.'

Matthew glared at him.

Becky hoped she could travel with Clara in the estate car but by the time Clara had been installed in the front passenger seat, and the suitcases loaded, there was just an uncomfortable-looking little space left.

‘Can you fit in there, Alex?' asked Matthew.

Alex's face was expressionless as he wedged himself next to the suitcases on the back seat.

Clara sitting in splendour in the front seat gave Becky and her son a teasing, regal, little wave and the weighted car departed.

Matthew turned to Becky. ‘I'm afraid you're stuck with me. I had to let Alex go with my mother to unload at the house.'

They returned to the terminal building. She left him at the counter displaying a ‘drive yourself' notice while she kept out of the way by looking at a carousel of postcards.

The rack she was twirling stopped abruptly. Becky looked up quickly. Who could be so rude, so impatient?

The white man grinning at her had sea-blue eyes and was about Matthew's age, maybe a few years over thirty. He was almost as tall as Matthew, too, but fair. Quite good-looking, she supposed but, wearing the scruffiest shorts and shirt, he looked like he should be on the beach selling bad jewellery made from shells.

‘You'll get a far better selection in town,' he told her. ‘You've got hardly any choice with these.'

It sounded like a bad chat-up line. Becky started twirling the rack again. ‘Thanks for the advice,' she said, coldly polite, ‘but I'm just looking.'

‘Oh, so am I,' Blue-Eyes said feelingly, ‘and very nice too. Just off the London flight, are we?'

‘Yes.'

‘Staying here long?'

Becky didn't answer.

‘Would you stop bothering my mother's secretary, Richard?' snapped Matthew, who had materialised silently beside her and the scruffy man.

‘Matthew. You're back; what bad luck. I thought I had the field clear, both businesswise and – well, introduce me to this gorgeous creature, for heaven's sake,' Blue-Eyes said in a voice of injured reproach.

‘Becky Thomson. Richard Carrington.' Matthew sounded so unenthusiastic he could have been reading the football results.

Richard made a comically sad face at Becky. ‘Poor you. So you're staying with the Darnleys?'

Becky nodded. She realised that the two, if not exactly friends, certainly knew each other from a long way back. She turned to look at the rack of postcards again, doubting either even noticed now they were so busy measuring up to each other.

She heard her cheeky accoster ask Matthew if there was any particular reason for this visit to Barbados and saw the latter's sardonic smile.

‘I do live here.'

‘Do you?' drawled Richard. ‘I heard you'd set up home in England.'

‘I'm afraid that you were misinformed.'

‘Pity. But I'm not surprised. Someone told me you're interested in that little chunk of land near Shermans.'

Matthew said nothing.

Richard laughed. ‘I'll take that as a “Yes”. I hear it's going to be obscenely overpriced. Actually, I was thinking I just might surprise you and snap it up myself.'

Becky was amazed: Richard looked like he had all the purchasing power of a beach bum.

‘I wouldn't be surprised if you tried,' said Matthew, sounding bored.

Becky pretended to study a picture of a beach, which looked similar to every other postcard featuring a beach. It would have been intriguing to know why a bit of land was such a sought-after prize. What trophy could have the pair circling each other like a couple of wary prizefighters? But she was hardly on terms friendly enough with either to ask.

The girl from the car-rental agency waved at Matthew and, as soon as he went over to see her, Richard Carrington sidled next to Becky. ‘Well, Miss Thomson, if you find the company too dull, I'll be happy to take you out and show you the sights.'

She smiled a non-committal smile.

‘And don't let that slave driver take advantage of you. Bajan laws are strict about employers giving time off to their employees.' He giggled. ‘Well, nowadays, anyway. If he gives you a hard time, tell me – and I'll come round and trash his office or something.' He looked round quickly but Matthew was still confirming details with the car agency woman.

Richard gave Becky a cheerful smile. ‘Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have a great time and we will bump into each other soon.'

‘Will we?' said Becky, amused at his conviction.

‘It's a small island.' He laughed and breezed off in his shorts and flip-flops.

His hair, Becky noticed, was almost as long as hers and someone ought to tell him to shave and tidy himself up a bit. But he seemed nice enough – harmless, at any rate.

‘Well,' said Matthew, appearing behind her. ‘I suppose I ought to congratulate you.'

She stared at him, mystified. ‘Congratulate me – what for?'

‘For attracting the scion of one of the richest families in the West Indies – not just in Barbados; they own real estate in many islands. And you did it within an hour of your arrival. That's got to be a record. How did you manage it?'

Becky heard the sarcasm in his voice, the unpleasant insinuation that she, barely off the plane, and with this talent he was convinced she possessed for self-advancement, had assessed that the guy who looked like a tramp wasn't really a tramp at all.

‘How did I manage it?' she repeated. ‘Easily. I thought because he was dressed like a beach bum, and sounded like a beach bum, he must be heir to the largest chunk of real estate in the whole West Indies so I gave him the come-on, as you could hear.' She looked at him, defiantly. ‘Can we go now?'

He held up his hands. ‘Sorry, you're right; he does look like the beach bum he is. And, yes we can go.'

He relieved her of her rucksack and when they reached the car held the door open for her. She got in, put on her seatbelt and looked stonily ahead.

He put her rucksack in the boot, got in the driver's side and spent a minute studying the dashboard.

‘How far away is the house?' said Becky, really meaning how long did they have to share the car journey.

‘Quite a way, I'm afraid. The parishes are almost at opposite ends of the island.'

‘Parishes?' Her father hadn't mentioned those.

‘The island is divided into parishes. We're in Christ Church at the moment, right on the south coast, whereas we have to drive up north to the parish of St Lucy. That's where the house is.'

‘OK,' said Becky. ‘Let's get going.'

They left the airport in silence. As they picked up speed a pleasant breeze was drawn into the car and she relaxed a little. She was finally getting to see her father's favourite island.

The lanes – shortcuts she supposed – they were bowling along were hedged by emerald fields of a tall crop.

‘Is that sugarcane?' she asked.

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘Wow, I've never seen it before.'

‘And you won't see much of it now, I'm afraid. The industry has been on its knees ever since Europe started growing sugar beet to get sugar. Even though the molasses from sugar beet is rubbish; the molasses from our sugarcane is much nicer.'

‘So it's still grown for molasses?'

‘Not really.' He sighed. ‘The sugarcane fields are being turned into golf courses. When the tourist industry moves in say goodbye to agriculture. Actually say goodbye to anything real.'

Becky smiled inwardly. Considering that he owned two hotels, Matthew didn't seem to recognise the irony of his words. Anyway it was all new to her. She felt on a high, as rounding each bend revealed another treasure with its roots in bygone years: a tiny church on a hill, a derelict sugar-mill, or a spreading flame-coloured flamboyant tree. The sky was probably the same blue as at home and yet she admired its cloudless purity as though she had never properly looked at it before. She also sensed Matthew was less tense now he was on home territory.

‘This seems like paradise for everyone,' she said.

He didn't respond; indeed he seemed to be giving her cheerful remark more consideration than it merited.

He slowed down to drive through a village that straddled the road. ‘I don't think it's a paradise for them,' he said, sounding almost impatient with her.

She thought at first he meant the drab village itself, which not even the glittering day could make cheerful. Then she noticed he was looking at two painfully thin children: a boy and girl, aged about seven and eight respectively. They were obviously brother and sister – both were flaxen-haired and bore the same expression of pinched anxiety that wasn't wholly accounted for by their present dilemma. Barefooted, they were struggling to lift a container of water that was clearly taxing their strength while a harassed-looking blonde woman shrilled at them from her anything but picturesque cottage to look sharp and turn off the standpipe.

‘Don't they have piped water to the house?' Becky frowned. ‘I thought Barbados was a relatively prosperous island.'

‘It is a prosperous island. But a few people have still slipped through the net.'

The children put down their burden and stared at the passing car with listless faces. ‘Who are they?' Becky said uncomfortably. ‘They look – I don't know – beaten. As if they don't quite know what they're doing here.'

‘I don't think all the Redlegs have ever got over the fact they
are
here.'

‘Redlegs?'

‘They're descendants of – well, if you're going to help my mother with her book, presumably you know all about this. Somerset? The Battle of Sedgemoor?'

‘Yes, of course I'm familiar with it,' she said. In fact she now felt she could go on
Mastermind
specialising in the Monmouth rebels. ‘But nothing I've read so far mentions Redlegs.'

‘In this area, here, are the descendants of the losers. If you're interested, there's a book at the house on Barbados's history. If you're interested.' He gave her a quick sideways glance.

Becky frowned with exasperation. ‘Of course I'm interested,' she said. ‘That's why I'm here.'

‘OK, I'll show you the book. Most of it recounts the familiar link between sugar and slavery. All horrible and all true. The Redlegs get a mention – just about. They're a mere footnote in history.'

‘Why are they called Redlegs?'

‘You'd better not mention Redlegs to anyone else. It's a bit insensitive. Or politically incorrect if you prefer that phrase. If you think about where these people came from and where they ended up – they couldn't cope with the sun but they were out working in the fields. You can imagine where the term came from. Actually there's a whole bunch of names for them.' He turned his attention back to the twists in the road, which danced its own route with little respect for straight lines.

‘So why didn't the Redlegs just get absorbed with the other people on the island?'

‘Some did. But others: the blacks looked down on them, the other whites looked down on them, so –' He stopped.

‘Limited gene pool?'

‘Quite. It used to be a bit of a joke. I mean it's changed now but it's still a joke to a pathetic minority.'

‘So would Alex be a Redleg?'

‘No, no,' said Matthew, quickly. ‘Really, there aren't many. Don't go thinking that every white Bajan is a Redleg. What you've just seen back there is a very rare sight.'

He lapsed into silence. Becky couldn't make him out at all. He must be pretty well off and yet the sight had clearly disturbed him. She wondered if he did have a conscience after all. But he obviously didn't intend to share his thoughts with her so she returned her attention to the scenery and wondered if the journey would take much longer.

‘Were you really sacked?' he asked suddenly.

Becky had to mentally drag her mind back to what had happened in England. ‘Yes, your phone call to the editor did it.'

‘And what about that – man?'

‘Ian is the editor's nephew and has worked for the paper for years. I was on probation so it was easier to get rid of me.'

‘Oh. What about reparation?'

Strange word to choose. It was also used to refer to atonement for slavery in former colonies.

‘I didn't get a pay-off, if that's what you mean.'

He didn't respond but Becky glanced at him sideways and saw he was frowning.

His expression only lightened when they finally turned off the road and on to a long lane flanked by some splendid but unfamiliar trees. She ducked her head the better to see their crowns through the windscreen. Unlike the stately but aloof plane trees that lined the driveway to Noak Hall, these trees bent towards each other, as if the branches at the top were trying to embrace their neighbours on the other side.

‘Mahogany trees,' Matthew said. ‘Are you interested in trees, plants?'

‘I wouldn't say I'm knowledgeable but, yes, I'm interested in them.'

‘We lost two mahoganies at the end of the avenue nearest the house in a hurricane two years ago,' he lamented. ‘I was abroad at the time so I was gutted when my mother told me they'd gone. Originally my grandfather planted sixteen pairs.' He scanned the tree-lined avenue as if counting to see that none had succumbed to other disasters in his more recent absence.

So this had been his grandfather's house. She wondered if his grandfather had bought it or if the house had been in the family in earlier generations, stretching back to – well, William Darnley in the seventeenth century. Whatever one thought about the rights or wrongs of inheritance based on slavery, it was an amazing line of continuity.