The Turtle Run (17 page)

‘Oh, Mr R is naughty,' said Clara with indulgent pride.

The man went back to join the committee and, as the competition got under way, various other people came up to Clara to exchange greetings and gossip and find out who Becky was.

A woman from the Rotaract Club announced each category over a PA system and then children in school uniforms took to the field with wonderful home-made kites. Becky could only imagine the children in the youngest category were being taught kite-flying in primary school as they just about managed to totter out holding beautiful home-made creations. The sight of them trying to launch their glued together sticks and coloured paper was both funny and moving. She was surprised to see that Clara was in tears.

‘Excuse me,' Clara said, dabbing her eyes. ‘They are so sweet.'

‘Yes,' said Becky remembering Zena's fierce determination when she was trying to launch the little kite a few days earlier. ‘They are gorgeous.'

‘Oh heavens,' said Clara. ‘And the little boy over there is from the children's home. Let's hope his kite just soars.'

The lad was one of only a couple of boys not in school uniform and was doggedly trying to keep his kite airborne. Every time it fluttered to the ground there was a collective sigh from the crowd. The boy would work out which way the breeze was blowing then lay out the line again and try to lift his kite by running along with his arms raised a few feet in the air. He was the smallest on the field and must have been no more than five or six.

‘Remember the kites must be in the air for one whole minute,' said the lady over the loudspeaker.

Other children's kites had been flying for a good ten minutes but this little boy was presumably the only one still in contention in his age category. At last his kite took flight. The crowd cheered and started counting. When the collective voices shouted out ‘sixty!' and the little boy's kite was still in the air there were more huge cheers and for the first time his expression changed from worried concentration into a sparkling grin.

He came forward proudly to collect his prize and Matthew bent down to say a few words to him, making the boy giggle, before taking the microphone to announce him as the winner of the youngest kite-flyer category. The boy seemed delighted with his little cup.

Becky looked around for Richard and saw him chatting with a group of men. She wondered if he regretted not taking Matthew up on his offer.

She was enjoying herself. The venue may only be a school playing field but she drank in the colourful kites and bright Bajan outfits and loved the easy-going nature of the crowd. The Sno-Cone man occasionally advertised his wares with the tinkle of a bell and, in the afternoon sun, crowds quickly grew by his handcart. Becky watched him dispense cones of shaved ice saturated with syrups the colours of ruby and topaz and decided she would buy one when the queue had gone down.

Matthew had presented several cups, in ascending order of size, and now there was just one trophy left. It dazzled on the table, drinking in the sun. Already impressed by the home-made kites and the skills of the schoolchildren in their neat uniforms, Becky wondered what the last category would be. The Rotaract lady announced the Large Kites section.

‘Let's hope it lives up to tradition,' said Clara, fanning herself with a hand.

There was an expectant hush as everyone stared at the empty playing field. Becky looked over to the presentation table. The Rotaract group was looking slightly jittery and the female announcer held her hand out as Matthew had done earlier that morning, testing the breeze. Matthew just stared ahead, expressionless.

Five teams of schoolchildren, either all male or all female, started trooping on to the field. Resplendent in their uniforms they were carrying kites the size of several dinner tables lashed together.

‘Do these things ever get off the ground?' said Becky to Clara.

‘We're occasionally lucky.' Clara laughed. ‘Let's just say this is usually when the gambling starts.'

The teams laid down their masterpieces and cast sideways looks at their rivals' creations, all of which looked rather vulnerable set on the turf.

The Rotaract lady declared the ‘skies open' and immediately the atmosphere changed from sedate charm to naked competitiveness. Knots of malicious youths cranked up the aggro from the sidelines with helpful comments such as ‘All you gon need helicopter to get dat one up'. Presumably this was aimed at teams from other schools.

‘Some of these will never have been in the air before,' said Clara.

‘What? No test run?' said Becky.

‘They don't often have enough room where they live.'

There were a few near-disasters, though from the reaction of the spectators this was what they wanted to see; had all five kites flown immediately there would have been little humorous tension.

One group of young boys charged along the grass pulling their kite, accompanied by confused shouts and conflicting instructions, while their stouter companions tugged desperately at the other end of the nylon line. For a moment the great structure seemed to hover on the edge of rising airborne but the brave endeavour ended as a sad jigsaw of balsa and bamboo.

Three of the kites did eventually make it into the air and the winning team, whose kite was almost twenty feet long, drew the largest applause of the day when Matthew presented them with the giant trophy.

It was all huge fun.

Becky wondered what happened now as she watched the photographer attempt the near-impossible task of getting the winning team and their kite all in one picture.

‘Can I get you a drink?'

Becky started. She hadn't heard Matthew approach and was surprised he wasn't still needed for official photographs.

‘I'd love a coke,' said Clara. ‘And I'm sure Becky would like something too.'

‘I'll give you a hand,' said Becky. It would be good to stretch her legs even if it did mean a few minutes in Matthew's company. Despite being all smiles when handing out the trophies he was looking serious now.

‘Were you bored?' he asked, as they walked towards a drinks stall.

‘Not at all. And as far as I could see it was very successful. I can't imagine most children in Britain being this well turned out. I've never seen so many school uniforms.'

‘But that's the problem,' said Matthew. ‘It's just children. You can always tell when a tradition is declining because all that's left is the children.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You have Maypole Dancing in England, right?'

‘I suppose so. Our school never went in for it but –'

‘Exactly. I mention Maypole Dancing and you immediately think in terms of schools and children.'

‘What's wrong with that?'

He looked at her. ‘It's a fertility rite, isn't it? So it wouldn't have been children doing it, at least not in the days when it meant something.'

Becky had no idea what to say to that – and felt slightly awkward discussing fertility rites with Matthew – but she was saved from having to reply by a chorus of wolf whistles. They came from the group of men Richard was with, who sprawled on their seats looking good-naturedly tight though no beer was evident.

‘Hey Becky, ecky-Becky,' called Richard, cheerfully.

Becky smiled and gave a wave. The men waved back, grinning. ‘Ecky-Becky,' they chorused.

‘Hey Matthew,' one of them called out. ‘I hear you're living the high life. Sitting in the front row now.'

Matthew either didn't hear or chose to ignore the comment.

He carried on walking and the group retreated into angry whispers, their previously cheerful dispositions turning sullen.

Matthew forged ahead and Becky had a job catching up with him. ‘That was a bit unfriendly,' she said, as she joined him at the stall.

‘Yes, they were.'

‘I meant you.'

Matthew ordered three cokes and didn't respond until he had completed the transaction and they were headed back to Clara. ‘You don't know what they were saying.'

‘They were just playing with my name and I'm not worried about it.'

‘No, you don't understand,' snapped Matthew although he obviously had no intention of giving her an explanation.

Becky sipped her drink and mentally counted to ten. It had been such a pleasant afternoon. Why did Matthew have to spoil everything?

Chapter Eleven

Becky slept late on Monday morning and when she came down Matthew and Alex had already left for the day. Clara was not down yet either. The sleepless night on Saturday and the afternoon out yesterday had probably caught up with her too. Becky took her breakfast into the dining room and found Maureen there, polishing the table.

‘Hi,' said Maureen. ‘I'll have a look for the laptop as soon as I've done my chores.'

‘That's fine.' Becky felt a bit guilty about adding to Maureen's workload. ‘You know I'm happy to help you search.'

Maureen shook her head. ‘Matthew's quite particular about who goes into certain parts of the house.' Becky could believe that.

Maureen stopped polishing. ‘Cook told me about the Mad Bulls.'

‘Oh, yes it was horrible,' said Becky. ‘We got no sleep at all until Matthew and I pulled them down.'

‘Who would do such a thing?'

‘Kids presumably,' said Becky. ‘They probably didn't intend to disturb our sleep. Maybe just some boys having a competition. You know, whose kite could stay up overnight.'

‘Uh huh,' said Maureen. ‘So these kites were home-made?'

‘No, they were shop bought. Though they'd been – customised.'

‘Uh huh,' said Maureen, again and resumed her polishing.

‘You think it was intentional,' said Becky. That might explain why Matthew had been in such a bad mood yesterday. ‘Can I ask you something else?'

‘Sure.'

‘Is “ecky” a bad word?'

Maureen frowned. ‘Ecky? No, I don't think so.'

‘It doesn't mean anything, I don't know, sexual?'

‘Not that I know of. Why?'

‘When we were at the kite competition yesterday some men called out “Ecky-Becky” to me. I thought they were just being friendly but Matthew got quite annoyed. I thought maybe they'd insulted me.'

Maureen looked at her unsmilingly. ‘They weren't insulting you.'

‘So if someone shouted “Ecky-Becky” at you, you wouldn't be insulted?'

‘If someone was so stupid to say that to me I'd ask him why God bothered putting eyes in his head,' said Maureen, picking up the duster and polish and heading for the door. She paused on her way out. ‘They weren't insulting you.'

Becky took her coffee on to the cool veranda feeling even more confused than before. It was like she had been given a puzzle to put together by people who had deliberately removed the key pieces. Exasperated she looked out over the yard towards the now-very-well-tended garden.

There was a strange discolouration on the gravel – a little patch of red or brown. And another, and another – each one nearer the house. Becky leaned over the balustrade. There on the bottom step sat Pitcher, minus his floppy Fedora. His feet were bare and he was clutching his right leg. As she headed down the steps to see if he was all right he turned and Becky could see his shin through his torn trousers. She stifled a desire to scream and forced herself to speak quietly.

‘That looks a bit nasty, Pitcher. No, no, sit down –' He was starting to lever himself up. ‘Stay right there. I'll get some help.'

Becky ran into the house and shouted for Maureen who came running from the kitchen, closely followed by Cook. Clara appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘It's Pitcher,' said Becky. ‘He's put a hoe or something through his shin. It looks pretty bad.'

‘I'll go check,' said Maureen heading out the front door. Becky waited at the foot of the stairs for Clara to come down. ‘We need antiseptic,' she said. ‘And something we can use as a bandage.'

‘I'll fetch the witch hazel, said Cook, heading back to the kitchen.

A minute later Pitcher was surrounded by four clucking and concerned women.

‘Why you don't take more care?' grumbled Cook, handing Becky a bottle of witch hazel and a tea towel. Becky gingerly placed the makeshift bandage over the massive gash on Pitcher's leg. She still thought a proper antiseptic would be better but Cook had resolutely held forth the witch hazel.

‘Oh Pitcher,' said Clara. ‘How did you do that?'

Pitcher made a hacking or chopping gesture with his right hand.

‘He needs stitches,' said Maureen.

‘And a tetanus injection,' said Clara.

‘He needs to go to hospital,' said Becky.

Pitcher started to fidget, craning his head to look at Clara and shaking it.

‘It's all right Pitcher,' said Clara. To Becky she said more quietly, ‘The hospital is miles from here. He's not happy being away that long.'

‘How about the clinic in Speightstown?' said Maureen.

Ten minutes later Clara was driving Becky and Pitcher along the little roads to the clinic, Pitcher half-lying across the backseat and repeatedly having to be reminded to keep the tea towel over the wound.

The clinic was a small, white one-storey building with a negligible car park, the few marked spaces already being occupied.

‘I'm going to have to park down the hill,' said Clara. ‘Can you take Pitcher in? I don't want to make him walk more than he has to.'

Pitcher needed some persuading to get out of the car and looked bereft when Clara drove away. Still, at Becky's urging, he limped beside her into the building, his bare feet seemingly impervious to the baking ground.

‘Your name,' said the Bajan receptionist.

‘It's not me that needs attention,' said Becky. ‘It's this gentleman whose name is Pitcher.' She looked at him. ‘I don't know your first name. What is it?'