The Turtle Run (20 page)

A few minutes later Becky was staring at herself in the mirror, trying to imagine what she'd look like if white bra straps weren't creeping from under the thin halters and if she wasn't wearing scuffed slingbacks. Thank heavens she'd shaved her legs.

The shop woman stuck her head between the curtains, made an appraising sound in her throat and smiled. ‘Bra size?'

‘36C'

‘Shoe size?'

‘Six.'

The curtains closed abruptly and reopened within seconds. A packaged black bra with the thinnest straps was handed to Becky, along with some black shoes, not high-heeled but very elegant.

This time Becky did not recognise herself in the mirror. When she came out the shop assistant looked very satisfied with her choice. ‘You're beautiful,' she said.

‘What do you think, Alex?' asked Becky.

He looked staggered. ‘Um, definitely. Yes, definitely.'

She left him paying for the purchases, presumably with a company credit card, while she changed back into her own clothes. When she reappeared he was clutching several bags and looking a little shell-shocked.

‘Right,' he said, hurriedly. ‘We haven't much time so I'll show you a room where you can change.'

Becky thanked the assistant and followed Alex out of the main hotel complex to a smaller building set just behind it.

‘That dress cost over three thousand dollars,' she said.

‘Prices look worse in Barbadian dollars.'

‘Do you have a wife, Alex?'

‘Three demanding children and a less-demanding wife though I'm ashamed to say I've never bought her anything that cost even half the price of this dress.'

He let her into a basic but light-filled apartment. ‘Matthew and I use this to freshen up but hopefully it will be clean. Fresh towels in the cupboards if you need them. I'll be outside in twenty minutes.'

Twenty minutes later Becky walked out to find Alex popping mints in his mouth and wiping bloodshot eyes. She suspected he'd taken some Dutch courage. He led her into a reception room where a stiff-necked group of suited men were standing with drinks and looking uncomfortable. Matthew – now dressed to kill, or at least dressed as if he were licensed to kill – looked up as Alex and Becky walked in. He nodded at her, though whether this was in greeting or approval of her appearance Becky couldn't tell. She noticed heads turning and staring at her and saw – with surprise and amusement – that men were starting to stand more upright, fiddling with their ties and checking their collars were patted down. She was not fooled: it was the dress and nothing more. She also noticed – with some discomfort – that she was the only woman in the room.

Only one head didn't turn, a plump man in his sixties who looked like he was haranguing the hotel owner, so Becky was less than thrilled to see Matthew wave her and Alex over.

‘I don't call an eight-hour flight “a hop-away from the UK” so I think you're on a sticky wicket saying –'

‘Lord Fotheringham,' Matthew interrupted. ‘I'd like you to meet Becky Thomson. Becky is in Barbados for a few months helping my mother write a history book. Becky, I'll get you a drink.'

Becky was not fooled by the gracious introduction. Matthew was clearly bored of listening to the man's bellyaching and using the excuse of getting her a drink to dump Lord Fotheringham on her and Alex.

‘Good evening, Lord Fotheringham,' said Alex. ‘I'm Alex Wilson, the manager of the hotel.'

‘Humphhh,' said Fotheringham, clearly miffed that the prime target of his complaints had got away. His eyes wandered between Alex and Becky, as if he was wondering who would be more receptive to his opinions. ‘Well, I'm not impressed with a hotel that can't even get the checking-in procedure right. That doesn't bode well for the rest of the holiday.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' said Alex.

‘The girl on reception –' Fotheringham sniffed his wine distastefully and chanced a small sip, as though it might disagree with him later, ‘couldn't even get my name right. How many times do I need to say it's Lord Fotheringham. Lord. Lord. She still couldn't get it.' He must have sensed Becky's lack of emotional engagement as he gave her a very hard stare and said, ‘Don't you think that's abysmal?'

Becky was starting to feel Matthew was treating her like an escort girl brought along as eye candy to soak up the whinges of pompous old men. She had had enough.

‘I suppose being a lord is like being a lady,' she said. ‘If you have to say you are, you aren't.'

Lord Fotheringham's jaw dropped. He glared at her and then at the ground. Becky thought he was trying to work out precisely how insulted he was. Alex turned pale and Matthew, who was on his way over holding a triangle of drinks, froze. Oh God. Where on earth had that comment come from?

Matthew quietly put the drinks he was carrying down on a table and walked very quickly through a door behind the little bar area. Seconds later there was a muffled roar from the other side of the door: a strange sound – it could have been despair or anger, Becky didn't know. She was too busy watching Fotheringham's face turn angina red. Then he gave a hoot of laughter.

‘Being a lord is like being a lady – damn, I wish my wife was alive. She'd have loved that. Now I've no one to share it with.'

Matthew returned expressionless and led them into the dining room,

Lord Fotheringham pointed at Becky. ‘Please put me next to
her
.'

Several hours later, having changed back into her old clothes, Becky relaxed into the passenger seat of Matthew's car. The evening had actually gone quite well. She was less sure how Alex had got on as she had noticed him struggling to make conversation with the men on either side of him. Matthew handled small talk with practised ease, even though she suspected his heart wasn't in it, but ironically she had fared the best. Lord Fotheringham had been a thoughtful dinner companion, interested in the book that Becky was (supposedly) co-authoring and in her views on the island.

She sensed a more relaxed Matthew beside her, handling the car lightly as though he didn't even need the headlamps that were the only light on the dark, twisting little roads.

‘Fotheringham rather took to you,' he said. ‘He was hanging on to your every word.'

‘He wasn't so bad,' said Becky. ‘I think he's lonely since his wife died. That's probably why he complains so much.'

‘I heard a few of the things you were telling him,' said Matthew, sounding slightly puzzled. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about the island.'

‘My father spent some time travelling,' said Becky. ‘He particularly loved Barbados.'

‘He must be pleased that you're over here?'

Becky searched for an answer that was true but unrevealing. ‘The last time I saw him was over twelve years ago.'

‘I'm sorry. That sounds complicated.'

‘It is but never mind. Why did you go out of the room? I mean after I made the lord and lady gaffe?'

‘For a start it wasn't a gaffe. As for why I went out –' He chuckled. ‘I don't always have the most appropriate sense of humour.'

‘You were laughing?'

‘Obviously. What did you think I was doing out there?' He chuckled again. ‘Arthur – the man behind the bar – overheard your lord and lady putdown so it will be all round the island soon. They'll probably want to stick your face on the currency.'

It did not seem to take so long to get back to Copper Mill as on the outward journey and before Becky knew it Matthew was parking in front of the house.

‘Thank you for tonight,' he said. ‘If you don't mind we'll do it again.'

‘OK,' she said, ‘unless of course Clara needs me.'

He opened his door to get out and the plaintive soundtrack of hidden little creatures filled the car. Becky got out too and looked around her.

‘It took me a while to work out why those little frogs make that forlorn sound,' she said. ‘I suppose they're calling for a companion.'

‘There you go again,' said Matthew. ‘How do you know that? Most people don't guess that sound comes from frogs.'

‘But I don't know what they look like,' said Becky.

‘One day I'll find you one and show you. If he sees you maybe his whistling will become more cheerful.'

Becky glanced across at Matthew, no more than a dark silhouette in front of the lights up on the veranda. Had he just paid her a compliment?

He looked up at a fat smudge of white in the sky. ‘Soon be a full moon –'

Was he about to say something romantic?

‘Which means Casino Nights at the hotel.'

She should have known better. ‘What are Casino Nights?' she said, wondering what gambling had to do with a full moon.

‘You'll see,' he said. ‘Fortunately, you have the perfect dress for it.'

He laughed mysteriously and let her go ahead of him up the steps to the veranda. They swapped goodnights on the doorstep and Becky headed up to her room. She heard the military drill of the bolts being drawn across the front door and the incongruous tune of the alarm being set.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Matthew told me that you were quite a hit with a lord last night,' said Clara, before popping one of Cook's amazing plantain fritters into her mouth. They were having lunch on the veranda where they could survey their work on the garden.

It had been a morning of fairly light pruning. There really was not much left to be done, which was just as well as Clara's energy had faded after the first hour, leaving her to direct Becky's activities from the veranda steps.

‘Oh, Lord Fotheringham. We just chatted,' said Becky, embarrassed. ‘In fact he was asking me about the book. Your book.'

‘Was he?'

‘Yes he was very interested in the subject. Clara,' Becky hesitated, ‘if you don't mind me saying, are you scared of starting this – project?'

Clara put her fork down and looked thoughtfully at her plate. ‘Whatever makes you say that?'

‘Well, it's just that when you've planned for years to do something, when it becomes a quest –' Becky shrugged. ‘People can get scared of actually following it through. Maybe we've become defined by our quest and think we'll lose something of ourselves when we start or maybe we're scared it won't turn out like we hoped.'

‘Sounds like you have a quest of your own,' Matthew said behind her.

Becky turned to see him standing right by her chair though at least wearing more clothes than usual: shorts
and
a T-shirt. She hadn't even realised he was in the house but he must have done his infuriating panther-like creeping to appear on the veranda unnoticed.

‘Mr R!' snapped Clara. ‘I do wish you wouldn't do that. Becky has just said something very insightful and I need to consider it without being startled by you appearing like a ghost.'

‘Sorry.' Matthew grinned. ‘You know I hate shoes.'

‘I shall insist you wear them,' said Clara, imperiously. ‘Tap-dancing shoes in fact.' She closed her eyes, presumably to consider Becky's question.

Matthew pulled up a cane chair and sat down next to Becky. He watched his mother intensely with a look of impatience and hope.

Clara opened her eyes. ‘Do you know, you're right. I am scared of starting. I've been planning it for so long.'

She leaned forward in her chair. ‘The trouble is I don't know where to begin. I have a file with years of notes in, snippets on different characters, many scraps of paper. They'll be all over the place, I'm afraid. I know I've written the first chapter so that'll be in there too, though it will probably need rewriting.'

‘I can collate all your material with my notes,' said Becky. ‘I've discovered a few interesting characters associated with this estate. In fact do you remember coming across someone called Sarah Thomas?'

Clara shook her head.

‘Who was she?' asked Matthew.

‘A servant girl who came off the ship with the exiled rebels. I'm intrigued because she's the only woman mentioned.'

‘I want to hear more,' said Matthew.

‘Why don't we find your notes and then I can type everything up on the computer,' said Becky, looking at Clara. ‘That will make it easier to arrange all the information into some order.'

‘Computer?'

‘Your laptop, mother,' said Matthew, with mock weariness. ‘I bought it for you ages ago but I'm guessing you left it in England. Alex is buying another one right now.'

‘Oh, yes, I suppose that would be a good idea.' Clara looked doubtful. She took a deep breath and winced. ‘Oh dear, I'm suddenly so tired. I don't think I'm going to be able to do justice to Cook's fritters.'

Matthew was instantly on his feet. ‘Do you want to go and lie down?'

‘Yes, I think an early siesta. That's all I need. Thank you, Matthew.'

He stood alongside ready to help her.

‘No I can go by myself.' Clara scraped back her chair and stood up then placed a hand on her side and grimaced.

Matthew took her arm and this time she did not protest.

‘Becky,' she said, trying to smile though she was clearly in pain. ‘I'll have Matthew give you what you need.'

‘Yes, I'll certainly do that,' said Matthew ushering his mother indoors.

He did not reappear so Becky finished lunch by herself and took the plates back to the kitchen. She put her empty one and Clara's barely touched one next to the sink.

‘Was something wrong?' Cook asked immediately from her seat by the table.

‘Not with the food. It was delicious as always,' Becky reassured her. ‘But I'm afraid Clara's not feeling very well. Matthew has taken her up to bed.'

‘I hope it's nothing serious,' said Maureen, scraping the leftovers into the bin.

‘I think she's just tired, that's all,' said Becky.