The Turtle Run (16 page)

‘It must have taken someone ages to do this,' she said as they worked side by side.

‘People will do anything for money.'

When all the kites were captured, and their strings rolled into neat loops, they both stood back, catching their breath. Becky shut her eyes and listened to the day sing through the casuarina trees, the breeze gently rattling the parchment-coloured pods of the shac-shac tree. Only now did she realise how disorientating the sound of the kites had been – almost debilitating.

She opened her eyes to see Matthew looking at her with slight impatience, as if he had somewhere else to be. She picked up the knife and lifted a stack of kites.

‘Isn't it nice to talk at a normal volume?' she said.

‘Certainly is.'

Matthew took the other stack of kites in one arm and in his other hand he swung the machete. ‘Fit?' he asked.

She nodded and they headed homewards. She smiled automatically as the sound of a jubilant hymn wended its way across the land, congregational spirit coursing through the tambourines. ‘I read somewhere that Barbados has more churches per square mile than anywhere else in the world.'

‘That's probably true.' He tilted an arm to look at his watch and grimaced. ‘It's already gone nine o'clock. Poor Cook. I said I'd take her. It's a bit of a walk.'

‘Maybe Clara's given her a lift.'

‘If she's up this early. The garden's really taking its toll.'

‘She loves it.'

‘I know. But she reacts quite badly to fungal spores. It's a curse for someone who's obsessed with gardening. After a while she'll overdo it.'

Becky suspected late bridge nights were more likely to be the culprit but thought it best not to mention that. She waggled the stack of kites. ‘We did the right thing bringing them down. I don't know how high these things would go on their own but if planes can be brought down by bird strikes, then –'

‘Bat strikes,' said Matthew and almost grinned. ‘You know the little bats that you see from the veranda?'

‘Vesper bats?'

He looked surprised at her knowledge. ‘Yes. There have been reports of them hitting plane engines. And I don't think they fly that high. So I suppose a kite strike would be quite possible.' He looked at the bundle in his arm. ‘Now I've got to figure out whether to throw these away or –'

‘You could hand them out at your hotel.'

‘What? Complimentary kites?'

Becky felt a twinge of annoyance. He hadn't paid for them; he could hardly charge his guests for second-hand kites.

‘Yes, free. Unless there's an orphanage around.'

‘Actually there is a children's home not far away.'

‘That would be the perfect solution then, wouldn't it?'

‘We'd have to take off all the bits of plastic first.' Matthew looked at her. ‘But, yes, children's home it will be. Good idea.'

He strode off again and Becky was hard pressed to keep up with him.

They approached Pitcher who Becky was pleased to see now sitting up, though he looked dazed, as though the state of slumber had made more sense to him than the waking world. He shook his head several times and then his hands started swatting invisible insects.

‘All right, Pitcher?' called Matthew.

Pitcher removed his hat and looked round. His bleary eyes were both blue and blotchy red and his skin so pale it looked like it had never seen the sun. He was thin to the point of emaciation and was the unhealthiest-looking man Becky had ever seen. She couldn't guess his age. He could be anything from late thirties to sixties.

Pitcher stopped swatting imaginary insects and gave a half wave, which Becky sensed was more out of polite acknowledgement than recognition. Most people would have commented on a man and woman walking along with arms full of brightly coloured kites but he showed no interest at all. She could see why Alex thought she wouldn't have much luck asking him about the Monmouth rebels. Becky couldn't imagine Pitcher had much idea what had happened yesterday let alone over three hundred years ago.

‘What goes on in his head?' Matthew sighed as they walked on.

‘Cook says that he sees people in the garden. Or sees things anyway.'

‘He sees both. Though the things aren't real. I'm not sure about the people.'

‘I've never seen anyone,' said Becky. ‘If that helps?'

‘Good. I don't mind people walking over the land out here. It's a short cut to a little …' he paused, as if looking for the right word, ‘village – you could call it. People just step over the old wall, which I don't mind. But if anyone actually comes into the garden then I'm more concerned.'

Becky was surprised considering how security conscious Matthew was but that explained why the outer plantation wall wasn't topped by broken glass and concrete. She supposed people taking a short cut to the Redleg village Alex had mentioned wouldn't pose a threat to anyone at Copper Mill.

‘You mean if they're in the garden they might be trying to break in?'

‘Yes. No. I mean, don't be worried.' He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I suspect that the real thieves would be invited in as guests.'

By the time they reached the yard Becky's arms felt dead with fatigue.

‘Shame about later. I have to get enthusiastic about kites and right now I never want to see one again,' Matthew muttered.

Becky remembered it was Sunday and the day of the competition. Right now she didn't feel much like an afternoon out herself but, having heard so much about the festival from Maureen and Cook, she did want to see it. ‘Clara said someone is trying to revive an old tradition?'

‘Well, hopefully more than one person wants to get it going again. It used to be one of the main events of the year. But – I don't really know what happened. People stopped coming and the sponsors got nervous. Mind you they're quite happy to push every food and drink festival down the tourists' throats.'

This was possibly the longest conversation Becky had ever had with Matthew but she still could not work him out. For someone who owed his wealth to his hotel business he didn't seem that enamoured of the tourist industry. She followed him to an outhouse which held the gardening tools and dumped the kites on an old table. They put away the machete and the knife and headed back to the plantation house. Matthew watched as Becky tried to rub some life back into her arms.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘And sorry about your disturbed night.'

‘I'm sure it wasn't anything personal. Probably just kids excited about Crop Over.'

He scowled so she changed the subject, ‘I'm looking forward to seeing you hand out the prizes later.'

‘I'm handing out bribes.' He gave a half-grin and stepped back to let her into the house. ‘I think breakfast, a shower and some sleep are called for. Not necessarily in that order.'

Becky agreed and decided to aim for sleep first. She felt worn out.

Chapter Ten

Somewhat to Becky's surprise she did fall asleep soundly and awoke a couple of hours later, feeling much better. She took a quick shower and went downstairs wondering whether it was now time for breakfast or lunch. Clara clearly seemed to think the former as she was still in her dressing gown. She looked quite pale.

‘Isn't the silence a relief? Matthew says you helped him with the Mad Bulls. Thank you so much.'

‘That's OK.'

Outside on the veranda Becky found Matthew holding his hand out over the balustrade, as if to test the wind. He was looking worried. The earlier breeze had completely died down; the shrubs in the garden were barely shimmering. He withdrew his hand when he noticed Becky join him.

‘What exactly is the competition judging – skill at flying?' she asked.

‘No, skill at making. Any fool can buy a kite and get it to fly. But making a kite out of paper and sticks and string is quite a craft. It would be really good if we can keep it going. But we need a bit of breeze. Otherwise people won't bother to turn up.'

She wondered why a successful businessman was so bothered about a kite competition. ‘You're quite into traditions, aren't you?'

‘Aren't you?' he said. Becky did not answer because she could not think of a tradition in England that she really followed but he must have taken her silence as dissent because he snapped, ‘Don't expect too much in the way of entertainment today,' and went inside.

Becky was cross. Why had she even bothered? But maybe he had not been able to go to sleep like her and his disturbed night was now catching up with him. She decided she was not going to let a grumpy Matthew Darnley spoil her opportunity to see a real slice of Barbados life. Besides if he was busy handing out the prizes there was a good chance she would not have to spend much time with him anyway.

A couple of hours later they set off. Matthew had changed into a lightweight suit and Becky was wearing a dress for the first time since she had arrived in Barbados. Clara, looking her usual glamorous self, sat in the front, next to Matthew. Becky was pleased to see it was getting noticeably windier as they got nearer the coast. Eventually they pulled into the grounds of what looked like a school and Becky saw a sign saying Queens College. When Renee had mentioned Queens on the night of the cinema Becky had thought she meant a country club or something similar but this was clearly their destination.

Matthew parked in the designated area and helped his mother out of the car. There was a stack of folding chairs nearby. Matthew picked up one for each of them and led Clara and Becky towards a grassed area beyond the main school buildings.

‘The competition is held on the school playing fields now,' he said to Becky. ‘Probably not what you expected.'

Becky thought there was something accusing about his tone. ‘Actually I was expecting a cocktail bar and a string quartet,' she said. ‘We always have those at kite competitions in Essex.'

Matthew looked a little surprised. ‘I just meant that it's a shadow of what it used to be.'

‘It used to be the highlight of Easter,' said Clara, seemingly oblivious to the tension between her son and Becky. ‘It was held at the Garrison Savannah.'

‘Where the horse racing happens?' asked Becky. Her father had mentioned it.

‘Yes,' said Matthew. ‘It was a major event. You should have seen it before.'

The school playing fields were edged with spectators and although the atmosphere was sober – compared to the Crop Over festivities Maureen and Cook had described – it still had a pleasant and expectant buzz. Matthew opened up the folding chairs for Clara and Becky and, murmuring something about needing to talk to some people, walked off.

Becky was glad to see him go and hoped when he came back he'd be less moody. He headed off towards a clump of men and women clustered around a table bedecked with silver cups of various sizes. Near them stood a reporter with a camera bouncing on his stomach. Becky felt a pang of deprivation: Ian was still happily ensconced in his job at the
Essex Gleaner
but who knew if she was going to have a career in journalism when she returned to England? At the moment she didn't even know if she had an alternative career as a researcher and co-author – although Clara had promised they would discuss the book once today's event was out of the way.

‘Good heavens,' said Clara. ‘Is that Richard Carrington?'

Becky looked at the group of people who were now hailing Matthew. Although they were all dressed smartly, like Matthew, most of the men were wearing short-sleeved shirts with no ties. However, one of them, a fair-haired man standing a little apart from the welcoming committee, was dressed in a full suit with jacket and tie, which must have been stifling under the midday sun.

‘It can't be,' said Becky. ‘He always looks so scruffy.'

‘You know, I think it is. I've never seen him wear a tie before.'

‘Why would he come to a kite flying competition?' asked Becky. She didn't know anything about Richard Carrington but from what she'd seen he wouldn't be a natural attendee at an event that involved wearing a suit and drinking no alcohol. Looking around she could see several respectable hawkers selling soft drinks but no stalls for beer or rum.

‘All the Carrington brothers are members of the Rotaract Club,' said Clara. ‘Though I don't think Richard is very active. Whereas you can see that Matthew does quite a bit for them. I wonder what Richard's up to.'

Becky didn't care what he was up to. She just hoped she might be able to have a cheerful and straightforward conversation with him later as opposed to putting up with Matthew's resentful reminisces and Clara's unwillingness to discuss the Monmouth rebels.

Not that Richard was looking too cheerful at the moment. He was stomping away from the Rotaract Club group.

Becky saw Matthew point her and Clara out to a plump Bajan. The man gave Matthew a slap on the back and then headed their way to greet Clara – obviously an old acquaintance.

‘And this is Becky from England,' said Clara. ‘She's helping me to write a book.'

If only, thought Becky, wincing inside.

‘Wow,' said the middle-aged man, whose face was a study in wrinkled cheerfulness. ‘Do you live in London?'

‘No, but not too far away.'

‘So,' said Clara, with a mischievous face. ‘Why is young Richard wearing a tie for the first time in his life?'

The man laughed so much he had to put his hands on his knees to stay upright. ‘Oh Lord,' he cried. ‘Young Carrington wanted to hand out the big prize. He pretended he didn't know Matthew had bought all the prizes and was lined up to present them.'

‘Oh dear,' said Clara. ‘I do hope the Club isn't going to listen to him.'

‘Don't you worry. Matthew offered Richard the chance to hand out the prize for the youngest kite-maker.' The plump Bajan held up a hand with his thumb and forefinger a few inches apart. ‘It's a little, bitty silver cup.' He laughed some more. ‘I think the man is insulted. He go storming off.'