The Turtle Run (18 page)

‘Pitcher.'

‘No, that's your second name. What's your first name?'

‘Pitcher.'

‘Give me
your
name,' said the receptionist.

‘Becky Thomson.'

‘Another Thomson,' the receptionist said as she wrote it down. ‘Quite a few of you around.'

‘It's a common enough name,' said Becky, wondering if the process would still be this slow if Pitcher was screaming blue murder instead of standing mute behind her.

‘Your address?'

‘I'm from England. But I'm staying …' Becky realised with some embarrassment she didn't know the exact address, let alone where Pitcher lived. ‘It's a house called Copper Mill in St Lucy.'

This must have been sufficient information because the receptionist nodded and wrote that down.

‘We're not sure what he's done to himself,' said Becky. ‘He's a gardener and it looks like he's caught his shin with a hoe or maybe even a machete. He was bleeding quite badly. We've managed to stop it.'

‘OK,' said the receptionist. ‘Why are you here?'

‘I'm just helping him get some attention.' Becky emphasised the word ‘attention' as Pitcher seemed to be receiving so little of it.

‘No, but why are you here?'

Becky sensed nothing was going to happen until she was more forthcoming about why she was in Barbados. ‘I'm researching family history. I'm staying with the Darnleys at Copper Mill where this gentleman works as a gardener.'

The receptionist looked confused. ‘I mean why are you here today? Are you a relation of his?'

‘Oh.' Becky realised what she meant. ‘Let's just say I'm a friend of the family. Look, his wound is really serious.'

‘Wait there,' said the receptionist, pointing at some plastic chairs. ‘He'll be seen next.' She picked up a phone and Becky overheard her and Pitcher's names being mentioned; hopefully the urgency of the situation was being conveyed to a doctor or nurse.

Becky helped Pitcher to a seat and looked around the room, relieved that it seemed less crowded than the average A&E at home. A few Bajans regarded her with curiosity and an elderly lady came quite close to have a look at Pitcher's leg. She winced, sucked air and returned to her seat.

Pitcher looked at his shin but made no fuss about the terrible wound. His slightly agitated gestures of looking around and tugging at his clothes seemed more to do with being in unfamiliar surroundings than the appalling pain he must be feeling. Becky realised she was holding the blood-soaked tea towel. She couldn't remember when it had fallen off Pitcher's leg and she'd had to pick it up; presumably it was too dirty now to reapply to the gash.

A door off the waiting room opened and an Indian-looking nurse came out. ‘Pitcher,' she called, so quietly Becky could barely hear her.

‘Come on,' said Becky to Pitcher, wincing as the effort of levering himself up reopened the wound and blood started running down his leg. He limped beside her into a bright room where the forty-something nurse took one look at them and put her hand to her mouth.

‘I'm hoping it looks worse than it is,' said Becky, trying not to be put off by the nurse's unfriendly expression. ‘He's a gardener and he's probably caught his leg with a rusty hoe or something.' She emphasised the ‘rusty hoe' in case the nurse thought she was some wild tourist who had mown him down in a car.

The nurse led Pitcher to a stretcher bed and Becky sat on a chair in the corner and watched her fuss around him. The immediate treatment seemed to consist of scolding Pitcher for being careless. The Indian nurse felt his arm through his flayed sleeve and made an irritated sound. ‘You're too thin, man. You drink too much, right?'

Pitcher nodded.

‘And you don't eat enough. Am I right?'

Pitcher shook his head then nodded.

The nurse made another irritated sound and walked out.

Becky was a little nonplussed by this behaviour. She wondered where the nurse actually came from; her accent was not Bajan but it had a West Indian sing-song lilt despite her appearance. Her name badge said ‘Sairah', which also sounded more Indian than Caribbean.

The nurse came back in carrying a Tupperware box. She opened it, extracted something in pastry – a samosa or a patty – and handed it to Pitcher.

‘Eat.'

Pitcher obediently took it and started munching. Becky suddenly felt a ridiculous desire to cry; the nurse had just given Pitcher some of her own lunch. Whether she thought food was urgently required or that it would distract Pitcher from the pain of having his wound cleaned it was a wonderful gesture of compassion.

‘I don't suppose you know if you've been fully vaccinated against tetanus?' the nurse asked him.

‘Don't know,' said Pitcher, not taking his eyes off her.

‘Clara, his employer, said he would need a booster,' said Becky.

‘Right, I'll give you an injection in a minute. Don't stop eating.'

The nurse looked at Becky and then quickly away. ‘I hear you're over from England.'

‘Yes.'

‘Researching family history, I'm told.'

Becky nodded.

‘Any family in particular?'

‘People who originally came from England.' Becky did not want to be more specific, knowing that the Redlegs were a potentially touchy subject, though she was hoping this would be her chance to find out a bit more from Pitcher.

‘Any sisters or brothers?'

‘I'm afraid I don't know anything about Pitcher's family.'

‘I meant you.'

‘Oh,' said Becky, surprised. ‘I have a younger brother.'

‘And he is over here?'

‘No, just me.'

The nurse nodded then kneeled down to clean Pitcher's wound, occasionally muttering to herself. A few minutes later she stood up, threw the bloodied wipes and her gloves into a plastic container and looked at Becky.

‘I'm going to have to give this man an injection and some stitches. You'd better wait outside.'

Becky wasn't particularly squeamish but she was relieved to have an excuse to leave. Something about the nurse was making her feel uncomfortable.

She was pleased to see Clara sitting in the waiting room.

‘Is Pitcher OK?' Clara asked. ‘I expected more fuss from him.'

‘Actually, he's very brave. I'd have been screaming my head off but he's just sitting there quietly. The nurse has given him some of her lunch.'

‘Oh,' said Clara. ‘If she's managed to get him to eat something she's done better than me and Cook all these years.'

‘They seemed more interested in my details than his when we came in,' said Becky. ‘Which was just as well because I realised I didn't know his first name nor his address nor whether he has any family.'

Clara looked at her. ‘How could you know?
We
don't even know his first name. He lives about half a mile from our house. I guess he's in his forties.'

‘Married?'

‘No.'

‘So that's the end of the Pitcher line?' Becky realised she sounded disappointed.

Clara looked surprised but smiled. ‘I've no idea if he has children. But he has brothers and sisters with family so, no, it's not the end of the Pitcher line.'

Becky was pleased to hear that. ‘I'm curious as to where the nurse comes from. Her name badge says S-A-I-R-A-H. Is that Indian? I can't place her accent. Not Bajan.'

‘I'll have a listen when they come out.'

Another twenty minutes passed before the door to the treatment room opened again. Pitcher seemed reluctant to leave so in the end the nurse walked out ahead of him and he followed.

‘You need to come back in three days to have your bandage changed,' she told him. ‘And then you'll come back again next week.'

‘She's from Trinidad,' whispered Clara to Becky.

Pitcher was nodding at the nurse's words.

‘And you need to rest for a few days. No walking around,' – the nurse banged two fists together to demonstrate – ‘causes too much impact.'

Pitcher looked down at his feet and nodded.

‘And make sure you don't drink too much and that you eat properly.'

Becky couldn't imagine Pitcher was taking any of this in, though he seemed to be listening intently. The nurse handed him a packet of pills and a note. ‘Antibiotics. Take one pill every day. You understand me?'

Pitcher nodded.

‘You have to come back. I've written down the dates I need to see you.' With that she gave Becky another unfriendly look and walked back through the treatment room door.

‘Oh dear,' murmured Clara to Becky. ‘I don't think she understands. I'll try and get that note off him later. Heaven knows if he'll remember to take his antibiotics.'

Becky waited with Pitcher outside while Clara went to retrieve her car. Now his leg had been treated, and he was hopefully in less pain, this was the perfect opportunity to talk to him about his history but Becky was not optimistic.

‘Pitcher,' she said. ‘Do you know where I come from?'

‘England,' he said after a moment.

So far, so good. ‘Do you know where your ancestors came from?'

Pitcher swayed.

‘I mean your original family. Do you know where they came from?'

Nothing. Becky began to worry that Clara would be back with the car before she had learnt anything.

‘England?' tried Pitcher, eventually.

‘Yes, your ancestors came from England.'

Pitcher greeted the news without interest but just unfolded and refolded the note the nurse had given him and shook the packet of antibiotics as if to see what sound they'd make. Becky decided not to push it. Poor Pitcher had probably had enough strangeness today.

‘I have to come back here,' he said, looking at the clinic. It was the longest sentence Becky had heard him say and she noted his heavy Bajan accent was on a par with Cook's.

‘Yes, in a couple of days,' said Becky.

‘T'ree days,' corrected Pitcher. ‘T'ree days.'

Clara pulled up and Becky got Pitcher settled with his legs extended across the backseat again before getting in herself.

‘All right, Pitcher?' asked Clara. ‘Soon be back home. You've been away for a while, haven't you?'

‘Yes,' he murmured and looked out of the window. As Clara drove away his lips carried on moving and Becky craned her neck to hear what he was saying.

‘We backed the wrong King.'

She felt a spike of adrenaline. Pitcher might be able to help her after all.

Chapter Twelve

Clara was tired after their trip to the clinic in Speightstown and went up to her room straight after lunch for a lie-down so Becky joined Cook and Maureen in the kitchen.

‘I can't find that laptop,' said Maureen.

‘Thanks for looking,' said Becky, disappointed but not surprised. She would have to go back to Matthew.

Maureen and Cook wanted to know how Pitcher had got on at the clinic. Becky tried to give a full description, including the nurse's evident compassion towards Pitcher, while leaving out her less-than-friendly attitude towards herself.

Cook nodded sagely. ‘She right. Pitcher don't eat enough.'

Before long Zena arrived with her childminder and must have expended some energy in the morning for the three year old seemed sleepy today and was content to sit on Becky's lap while the adults continued talking. The conversation turned to Francesca.

‘Why did her husband leave her?' asked Cook.

‘Well –' whispered Maureen and Cook and Becky leaned forward.

At that moment Matthew walked into the kitchen. It was earlier than he usually came home to shower before going out for the evening and he had changed back into his habitual black shorts. He looked surprised to see the three women huddled together like a coven. They straightened up guiltily.

‘I was looking for –' He noticed Zena asleep in Becky's arms. ‘Are you a childminder as well as a part-time gardener now?'

Becky half-nodded, trying not to look at him in his half-naked state.

Matthew turned to Cook. ‘Am I allowed to make coffee or is this women-only space? I should add that it's an emergency as Alex has fallen asleep and I need him awake.'

Becky laughed. ‘Poor Alex. I'll bring some out.'

‘Thank you,' said Matthew and left.

Becky handed Zena to Maureen and made the coffee.

She found Matthew and Alex in their usual spot on the veranda.

‘That's great,' said Matthew as she set the cafetière and cups down on the table. He shot an impatient look at Alex, who was dozing soundly in his seat, then turned the same impatient glare on Becky.

‘Just when are you and my mother going to start working on her Monmouth rebels project?' he said.

Becky picked up the accusing tone. She was well aware that money was being paid into her bank account in the UK and at a very good rate considering her daily tasks amounted to a little gardening and some unofficial childminding.

‘What can I do, Matthew?' she said. ‘I'm happy to start the book whenever Clara wants. It's not like I'm trying to put her off. Quite the reverse in fact.'

She was confused. It was Clara who had wanted Becky to come over and write the book that Matthew didn't seem to want written, but now that she was here Matthew wanted her to start the book and Clara didn't seem interested. Baffling.

‘I wasn't implying you were trying to get out of it,' he said. ‘And I know how obsessed she is with gardening. I'm just not sure she should be spending hours in the sun. She's not as robust as she looks.'

If he'd just stay home a few evenings, Becky thought acidly, instead of cavorting with a newly divorced woman, he could speak to Clara about it himself. But his concern was justified. Becky had noticed that Clara's siestas were getting longer.

‘On the subject of the project,' she said. ‘Maureen can't find the laptop. I really could do with one.'