The Turtle Run (7 page)

‘Thanks Alex.'

Two weeks. Becky had already decided she would not buy anything new for the trip – she couldn't really afford it and anyway she didn't want to tempt fate – so she would spend the time doing as much research as possible. Or at least she would once she had worked out what was going on with Joe. Her brother's habits had changed over the last couple of nights and instead of spending his evenings tinkering with his bike or watching a football match at the pub, he was now to be found on the old PC in the study. Becky was alarmed. Last year she had fought a constant battle trying to remove temptation by blocking one online gambling site after another until in the end she had had to tearfully beg Joe to either break his habit or say goodbye to the computer. It was her tears rather than threats that seemed to do the trick and, until a few evenings ago, he had almost ceased using it.

Now no sooner was he home from the garage and changed out of his oil-stained clothes than he was sitting in front of the monitor. While their mother was busy preparing dinner, Becky sneaked into the study to see what he was up to. She was surprised to find him studying a YouTube clip of a battle re-enactment.

‘Battle of Sedgemoor,' he said casually, as she peered over his shoulder. ‘You know, you should go to Somerset and check out the battleground.'

Becky smiled – an automatic response to her brother's suggestions – but later when they were eating realised this was probably good advice.

As soon as the meal was over she rang Clara, who sounded harassed.

‘I didn't think I'd bought that much since I've been in England but there's so many
things
lying round the house that I realise weren't here before. God knows how I've acquired them all. Furniture, plants. I swear my
objets d'art
have been breeding.'

Becky laughed. ‘Can't you just leave them for the next tenants?'

‘The agent came round today to inspect the premises; you know, to check for any damage. The stupid man bashed his head on that hanging basket in the hall and I fear it put him in a bad mood. He said that all the
clutter
had to go. He was really quite rude.'

Becky gasped. ‘What about the garden, Clara? Did they mind you making, um, a few changes?'

Clara gave a mischievous giggle. ‘Making some improvements, you mean, Becky. And no, unless I had dumped a mattress in the garden, the silly agent wouldn't have noticed what was
outside
the house. Now tell me, is it normal in England to leave a few things on the pavement with a sign saying ‘help yourself'?'

‘It would be normal in some areas but not Hutton, I'm afraid.' Becky could imagine the middle-class neighbours' horrified expressions at the sight of bric-a-brac – however expensive – on their illustrious pavement. ‘Can't Matthew find space for things in Noak Hall?'

‘What's Noak Hall?'

Having just signed a non-disclosure agreement, Becky knew Matthew was highly secretive about his business practices but was the neo-classical manor even a secret from his own mother? Hardly a family mansion, then. ‘I've probably got it wrong,' she said quickly. ‘I thought he had a place in Essex.'

‘You must mean the Monmouth Hotel,' said Clara. ‘Good idea. I'll ask him.'

‘On the subject of Monmouth,' said Becky. ‘I wondered if it was worth me spending a couple of days in Somerset. There's a Heritage Centre which would have records of the people who were sent to Barbados.'

‘Records?'

‘Yes, I thought if I started off with a list of names of the people transported, and who they were indentured to, then when we get to Barbados, I could try and trace what happened to them.'

‘Oh, don't worry, Becky. You must have enough on your plate.'

‘No, not really.'

‘You must have: I don't know – packing to do, things to cancel.'

Becky felt quite deflated. Why was Clara so reluctant for her to find out this information? ‘I don't really have anything to arrange,' she said. ‘And no clutter to dispose of – unless my mother feels the need to rent out my room for the three months I'm away, which I can guarantee she won't.'

There was a moment's silence, which seemed unusual for a woman as bubbly and voluble as Clara.

‘It's good you're so enthusiastic,' she said though Becky thought she heard a quiet sigh. ‘It shows I made the right choice. And, yes, maybe it would be good to know who was sent from this end.'

‘But I quite understand if you say no. I would need some money to travel there and back and maybe one night in a B&B. I think the Heritage Centre is free but I couldn't do the trip in a day.'

‘No, of course, you must stay over. And in a proper hotel. I don't know – would £500 be enough?'

Becky laughed. ‘Far too much. Halve that and hopefully I'll have change to give you.'

‘I'll get some money out. Come round tomorrow. Anything else you need?'

‘Names,' said Becky. ‘I don't know how many people were sent out there but I thought there might be some particular surnames you'd want me to look out for.'

‘Let me think about that.'

Two days later, Becky was sitting on a train, watching through the window as it limped out of Paddington before gaining speed and charging through green fields like a wild animal released into its natural element. She should be happy. It was a summer's day, she had a job in Barbados to look forward to, working for a woman she liked, and right now she was on a mission – a paid mission no less. But every time Becky told herself she deserved a break, and this was it, she was aware of something mocking her from the shadows.

Maybe she was picking up on her mother's discontent that she was going to Barbados, although, unusually, her mum had not said anything discouraging about it. She wasn't worried about the trip herself. She was sure she and Clara would get on. The older lady certainly trusted her – when Becky had turned up to collect the funds for her trip, Clara had just handed over her purse with a careless ‘take what you need' and seemed bemused when Becky insisted on counting out £250 in front of her.

No, her doubts were more to do with the project itself, following her employer's apparent ambivalence when she had proposed researching in Somerset. Maybe Clara was just stressed about moving house? Or maybe Matthew was putting pressure on her as he was not sure about the book and did not want Becky to go to Barbados?

Becky tried to banish her forebodings by studying a chapter on the fate of the Monmouth rebels. James II had appointed Judge Jeffreys to dispense swift justice and it sounded like he had savoured the barbaric sentences he handed out, pronouncing death sentences with relish and taking pleasure in outlining the appalling fates that awaited the convicted.

By the time the train terminated at Taunton Becky's dark mood had intensified. Clara had told her to ‘take taxis whenever she could' but Becky's natural distrust of extravagance, combined with a determination to counter Matthew's impression of her as a gold-digging opportunist, made her ignore the cabs waiting hopefully outside the station. She caught a bus and walked the remaining fifteen minutes to the Heritage Centre, where she checked in and stowed her rucksack in a locker.

‘What are you interested in?' asked the woman on reception.

‘Monmouth rebels,' said Becky. ‘In particular the names of anyone transported to Barbados.'

She was directed to the Search Room and, within there, a series of volumes, which included lists of the men transported, their occupations and their new ‘masters', who were presumably plantation owners or overseers. She discovered rebels had been sent to Jamaica, St Kitts and Nevis as well as Barbados but all were sentenced to four years' indentured labour. Becky concentrated on the men shipped to Barbados. Surnames that were still familiar today (Parker, Dodds, Foot) were listed along with names rendered more exotic with the passage of time, such as the wonderfully titled Randolph Randerwick. Clara had only given her one surname to look out for – Pitcher – and Becky soon found a Daniel Pitcher listed as being dispatched in December 1685 on the ship
Betty
from Weymouth. She soon realised why Clara, or more likely Matthew, had been reluctant for her to carry out this research: Daniel Pitcher's new ‘Master' on the island was a William Darnley.

So Ian's tiresome ‘slave' prank hadn't been so far off the mark after all. Becky sat back in her chair and tried to think how the Barbados venture would work. If the plan was to follow the fates of certain rebels on the island, it would be ridiculous to omit the names of the plantations they were assigned to and the men they were indentured to. But would Clara feel compromised by what they discovered? Surely she couldn't expect an account of the rebels' new lives to sweep over such details?

Becky ran her finger down the rest of the list of the men transported with Pitcher on the
Betty
. One unusual surname leapt out: Thomas Gehalgod. At the bottom of the list was a paragraph:

The Bille of mortallity of the said Rebells that dyed since they were reced on Board and were thrown overboard out of the said Ship were
…

There followed three names, one of which was Thomas Gehalgod. Becky shivered. Would it have been better to be hanged than left in a ship's hold with untreated wounds and then thrown overboard with, presumably, little ceremony?

At least Thomas Gehalgod hadn't had to work for William Darnley, whom Becky instinctively felt would have been as mercenary as his descendent. Maybe that was the only positive aspect to dying at sea.

She had paid five pounds for a photograph licence but found the camera on her new phone wasn't really up to capturing the information. She sorely missed the smartphone she had had at the
Essex Gleaner
. She took the book to the helpdesk to find out if they could photograph the pages for her.

‘We could,' said the woman on the desk. ‘But you know this book is online, don't you? You could access it anywhere.'

Becky groaned. She could have done the research at home after all. It had been a wasted trip and a waste of Clara's money. God knows what Matthew would have to say if he found out.

‘Since you're here you should visit the key places,' said the woman, ‘the battlefield itself and the church at Westonzoyland.'

‘The church?'

‘St Mary's. It's where King James's men locked up the injured rebels – left them there with festering wounds overnight. The church had to be fumigated with frankincense afterwards.'

‘Oh,' said Becky, unsure how to react to this generously dispensed information. ‘Thank you. I might do that.'

But she knew she wouldn't. It would mean finding a taxi and spending even more of Clara's money being driven round the sights. If only she could drive; if only she had a car.

She went back to where she had been sitting to pick up her things and realised her phone was vibrating. It was Joe's number.

‘Just a second,' she said. She retrieved her rucksack, nodded thanks to the woman on the helpdesk, and walked out.

‘Is everything all right?' she asked once outside the centre. Joe never rang her when he was at work.

‘Fine. Just wondered how you were getting on.'

‘So-so,' said Becky, touched he would bother to ring but unsure how much of her disappointment to share.

‘That doesn't sound good. What's wrong?'

‘You remember I said Clara's son doesn't want me to write the book?'

‘No, you said he didn't think you were serious about it.'

‘OK, I think it's more than that. I'll explain tomorrow when I'm back.'

‘Explain now,' he said and hung up.

Becky stared at her phone, baffled, then turned as she heard the roar of a motorbike pulling up alongside her. Joe raised his visor and gave a big grin.

She didn't know whether to laugh or express astonishment his bike had got him this far. Now she thought about it, he had left much earlier than usual this morning; she had assumed he had a busy day at work planned. ‘You haven't thrown a sickie, have you?'

Joe made a face. ‘No, I haven't. I do get days off, you know, and I thought you'd like to see the actual locations as well as just visit the Centre.'

‘I'm rather touched, to be honest,' she said. ‘Actually, it's really nice to see you.'

He shrugged off her affection. ‘Come on. Let's go to the battlefield and then you can tell me why pillock son doesn't want you to write the book.'

‘You know where it is?'

‘Yup, I went by on my way here. I've even borrowed a fine hat for you to wear.' He opened the bike's top box and took out a helmet. Becky hesitated. She was nervous of bikes and could never have made the journey here as a pillion passenger, but she didn't want to be churlish. She put on the helmet, secured her rucksack on her back and held on to her little brother.

The journey took about half an hour during which Becky only occasionally opened her eyes. She kept them open when she realised Joe had slowed down and they were passing a church. A bit further on he pulled up in a space on a quiet main road and they got off.

‘It's a fairly short walk,' said Joe and Becky followed him, impressed (and surprised) that he was so organised.

‘I've read up on it a bit,' he said, casually, once they were some way along the path. ‘Monmouth didn't want to fight in the end, as he knew he would lose, but one of his commanders persuaded him he had no choice. So he decided to launch a surprise night attack on the Royalist troops camped at Westonzoyland. He led five thousand men – most hadn't even had any training – and horseback cavalry for miles in the rain – in pitch black and in silence. I mean: respect.'

Becky laughed. ‘Sounds impossible. Surely with horses you'd hear them.'

‘Monmouth had the horses' hooves bound with cloth to muffle their steps,' said Joe. ‘Can you imagine that? Seeing thousands of men and horses marching through the fields with no noise?'