The Turtle Run (39 page)

‘Oh my God,' she cried, delighted. ‘A baby turtle. Isn't it gorgeous?'

‘There'll be more,' said Matthew, happily.

The solitary fellow paused, as if waiting for a round of applause, then used its flippers some more and made it out on to the beach. Behind him the sand gradually caved in to reveal a hole filled with his sand-encrusted, squirming siblings. Clambering over each other, desperately trying to find a way out, each would have bouts of paddling up the sandy sides of the hole before resting, seemingly exhausted by the effort of freeing themselves.

‘These are hawksbill turtles,' said Matthew, softly. ‘And it is almost impossible not to intervene. I try and resist unless they get really stuck or head the wrong way.'

Becky could see exactly what he meant. She had to stop herself from giving the baby turtles a helping hand, as their escape seemed to take so much out of them. She was surprised how emotional she felt and surreptitiously brushed away a tear, though she suspected Matthew had noticed. Once out the baby turtles scrambled in fits and starts towards the sea, looking like ridiculous wind-up toys that needed their batteries constantly changing. But at least their path to the sea seemed unerring, the moonlit water drawing them onwards as naturally as the moon pulls the tides. They seemed to know that the sooner they got into their true element, the better.

The ones at the bottom of the heap had it the hardest, as by now the hole was quite deep and a couple were floundering on their backs, desperately trying to right themselves.

‘They look so vulnerable,' said Becky in an embarrassingly choked-up voice.

‘And they are, poor little sods. That's why we run the Casino Nights when the turtles come up to lay their eggs and later, like now, when they hatch. Keeps people off the beach when they might otherwise want a romantic stroll under a full moon.'

‘But none of your guests would want to harm them, would they?'

‘Probably not. But it's this obsession with recording everything. It's as though nothing in this world counts for anything unless you can catch it digitally and post it on Facebook or YouTube or whatever.' He sighed then spoke more calmly. ‘The flashes on their cameras can be fatal. The hatchlings get disorientated and head up the beach instead of towards the sea. If they haven't found the sea by dawn, then it's game over.'

‘You could make it a special eco-thing. If people were told why they couldn't have flashes.'

‘Other hotels do just that. They have special turtle nights. But I'm worried a couple of prats will take photos and then say innocently, “I didn't know that my flash went off automatically”. I'd be so annoyed I'd probably deck them. So safer all round to dissuade people from coming onto the beach.'

Becky remembered Francesca's father complaining turtle was no longer on the menu. ‘I can't bear to think of anyone eating them,' she said.

‘Don't worry,' said Matthew cheerfully. ‘Their flesh is quite toxic to humans, particularly that of the hawksbills. People can die.'

‘Oh good,' said Becky, adding quickly, ‘I mean if that puts people off eating them.'

She could tell Matthew was smirking. There was just one little turtle left, which had been flailing around on its back for a couple of minutes.

‘I can't bear it,' she said.

‘Go on, then.'

Becky reached forward to scoop it out of the hole and onto the beach, gently righting it at the same time. The turtle flopped where she'd laid it, exhausted.

Becky got up, scooped it up again in her cupped hands and set it down a few yards nearer the sea. This seemed to galvanise the turtle into action – it started its ungainly paddling over the sand to join its sea-bound siblings, some of whom had already reached the water.

Matthew joined her and they watched its slow journey down.

Becky felt a ridiculous sense of triumph. ‘You know that feels like one of the most useful things I've ever done. Isn't that stupid?'

‘Not stupid at all,' said Matthew. ‘Especially from the turtle's point of view. Maybe that'll be the lucky one that will still be alive twenty-five years from now.'

‘Wow.'

He was standing very close to her now. ‘I knew you'd like Casino Nights.'

‘I love Casino Nights.' She smiled at him. ‘I'm only sorry it's taken me this long to know what they're about.'

‘That's my fault. Sorry.'

They kept watching until Becky's turtle splashed into the water. Matthew gave a quiet cheer.

‘God, I'm feeling quite emotional,' said Becky. ‘Thank you for showing me that. This is one of the best nights I've ever had.'

‘It's not over yet. Unless you want it to be?'

Was that a romantic proposal or a straightforward question? All Becky knew was she didn't want the evening to be over. She had never felt so alive in herself, so in tune with another person. Impulsively, she gave him a hug, wondering if he would return it politely then lead her back to the hotel, to the lights, to people, to a restaurant, to a world less alive. He hugged her back and when her hands slid from his shoulders he did not let go. Instead, he kissed her and she kissed him back like they had on the veranda a couple of nights ago. As his tongue explored her mouth Becky realised he was fighting an internal battle to control himself and take things slowly. They both paused for breath and he searched her face in the moonlight, as if unsure this was what she wanted, then picked her up and gently laid her on the sand.

He lay down beside her. 'I'm sorry,' said Matthew. ‘I don't think I'm going to be able to stop. You'll have to scream “no” and throw sand in my eyes.'

Before she came to Barbados Becky might have done just that. Feeling Matthew's eyes on her she scooped up a handful of sand, held it as though weighing it and then opened her fingers, letting the sand grains drift away. Immediately he was unbuttoning her shirt, her trousers and tugging all her clothes off. She felt warm sea air gently exploring her nakedness as she watched him pull his own shirt off. Then he was leaning over her, kissing her again and she heard the metallic clink of his belt buckle being released.

Chapter Twenty-three

The house was hushed on Tuesday morning with an air of anxious expectancy. Even Clara was up much earlier than usual and unusually sombre. Today was the day they'd find out about the bid.

Becky found Matthew on the veranda and noted that he had donned a shirt for the special occasion, though evidently he still didn't think long trousers were warranted. When he saw her he got up and gave her a hug, only breaking off when Alex's car drove into the yard.

‘Today he can manage to be on time,' muttered Matthew. He sat down and patted the cane chair next to him. ‘Do you want to join us? Then the three of us can sit here in tense silence waiting for my lawyer to ring.'

‘An irresistible offer,' laughed Becky. ‘But I am going to resist it all the same. Sorry, but I must get to the computer – my rebels are calling me.'

‘This rebel's calling you.'

She laughed at Matthew's rueful smile. ‘You'll have Alex for company.'

She smiled at Alex as he came up the stairs, noting that he looked very strained and she didn't think it was due to a hangover. Maybe he had problems at home.

Becky went to the morning room and fired up the laptop. She'd decided to try and approach the Redleg story from a different angle by finding out what happened to those transportees who made it home. She had read somewhere that the merchants in England had complained that the loss of skilled labour had wrecked the weaving industry: they wanted the rebels brought back. Which was perfectly possible three years after the Battle of Sedgemoor as James II had been hounded off the throne and, within months, the rebels had been pardoned.

All she needed to do was to find testimonies from men who had been sent to Barbados but come back to England. They were bound to have given information on their lives as Redlegs and might even mention fellow rebels such as Randerwick or Pitcher.

But Becky found out something peculiar about Barbados. Although many of those exiled to islands such as Jamaica were freed and offered transport back to England, the plantation owners of Barbados seemed to have a special influence that allowed them to ignore the edict and hang on to their indentured labourers. Of the English, Scottish and Irish Redlegs in Barbados, it seemed none of them ever made it back to their homelands.

‘You OK?'

Becky looked up to see Maureen staring at her quizzically. Only now did she smell the wood polish and realise that the table (apart from the patch occupied by her laptop) was shining; she hadn't even noticed Maureen come in.

‘Yes, I'm fine, thanks. Miles away.'

She moved the laptop to one side so Maureen could finish polishing the table.

The phone rang and Becky and Maureen exchanged looks as they heard Matthew run in from the veranda to pick it up. Becky went into the hall to find Clara and Cook already standing there, waiting to hear the outcome. She noticed with slight surprise that Alex had stayed out on the veranda.

Matthew listened to the caller, poker-faced.

‘Thanks for telling me,' he said and put down the phone. He turned round and looked surprised to find a female audience.

‘The Carringtons got it.'

Everyone groaned. Clara put her hands to her face.

‘How much did they bid?' Alex appeared in the doorway.

‘I don't know. Let's hope it was five times what I was bidding.' Matthew smiled. ‘Right. Come on everyone. That's it. It's over. We move on.'

Although he was smiling Becky knew how disappointed he must be; she had seen how much emotion as well as time and money he'd invested in the project. He really had thought the land was already his.

He noticed her looking at him. ‘Really,' he murmured. ‘It's fine.' He grinned. ‘Of course I might need cheering up later.'

Becky blushed, which made him grin even more.

Alex seemed more affected by the news than Matthew. He looked ashen-faced. ‘I'd better get back to the hotel,' he said.

‘No, have the day off,' said Matthew. ‘I'll ring Clarence; he can hold the fort for a day. Both of us deserve a break.'

Alex nodded.

By eleven o'clock, a strange party-like atmosphere had descended. Matthew had inveigled Alex into helping carry the cane furniture from the veranda to the garden, (so he could ‘sit in the sunshine with my toes in the grass') and they'd enjoyed a tower of Cook's pancakes – her panacea for all troubles. Now Matthew had gone indoors and Clara and Becky were watching Alex clear a space on the table. Matthew reappeared and plonked down a jug of rum punch; it rattled with ice.

‘Oh, Matthew. I'm not sure I should,' said Clara.

‘Nor should I,' he grinned and poured four glasses. ‘But I'm going to get hopelessly drunk and write off the rest of today. After all, “tomorrow is another day”.'

Becky frowned. ‘I would never have expected you to quote from
Gone with the Wind
. But I can't remember if Rhett Butler or Scarlett O'Hara said that.'

‘It was Scarlett O'Hara,' said Matthew. ‘She has all these voices swirling around her head. “The red earth of Tara.” “Why land's the only thing that matters”.'

Alex gave a bitter chuckle. ‘I think she got to keep the land, didn't she?'

‘I'll think of some way to get him back,' said Matthew, more grimly.

‘Ah,' said Becky. ‘You're not talking about Rhett Butler now.'

Matthew raised his glass. ‘No. But it was a fair fight and they won. Here's to the Carringtons. Just a small sip, everyone.'

They drank tentatively. Becky couldn't remember having ever tasted alcohol this early in the day. She looked over to Alex, who didn't appear to have any qualms about drinking this early. Maybe this was hair of the dog for him.

Matthew raised his glass again. ‘And now you're allowed a larger gulp. For here's to, “tomorrow is another day”.'

‘Tomorrow is another day,' they chorused more happily.

A car Becky recognised pulled in and came to an abrupt stop. Zena's mother got out and unbuckled Zena from her child seat. Her movements were hurried, slightly panicked.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, rushing over, so that Zena – tethered by her hand – had to toddle along at a fair rate. ‘My childminder's just been taken ill. I've got to leave Zena with her grandmother.'

‘I'll take her,' said Becky, holding out her arms, which Zena ran into with a happy ‘Weeeeeeee' cry.

‘Thanks,' said Zena's mother gratefully. She ran back to her car and drove off. Zena sat on Becky's lap looking around at the less familiar adults at the table.

‘Aren't you gorgeous?' said Clara with a mixture of delight and unmistakeable longing. Becky wondered if Matthew was aware of his mother's quiet grief at the absence of grandchildren. Zena, recognising another source of adult admiration, wriggled from Becky's lap to Clara's and started exploring Clara's small bouquets of earrings.

‘You don't have pierced ears, do you, Clara?' said Becky, wincing at Zena's rather urgent tugs.

‘No, fortunately.' Clara anxiously checked the jewellery was still clasped to her ears. It was – but only because Zena had turned her attention to a half-eaten pancake on Clara's plate and decided that her mouth was the best destination for it.

‘You didn't want that did you, Mother?' said Matthew, clearly amused.

‘No, I think that pancake went to a good home.' Clara found a tissue and rubbed Zena's hands and face clean of butter and maple syrup – another process the little girl seemed to find interesting.

When Clara had finished, Zena looked at the men at the table and wriggled down from Clara's lap to investigate Matthew and Alex. She chose Matthew, who hurriedly pushed his glass of rum punch out of her reach.