The Turtle Run (8 page)

‘No,' said Becky. ‘Spooky.'

‘Apparently some people still see them today, especially on the anniversary of the battle. This is it.'

The battleground looked like a peaceful meadow to Becky. She gazed at the sunlit field but couldn't conjure up the image of a pitched battle here in the dark.

Joe was looking at a map and turning round at various angles, as if trying to orient himself. ‘Right. Got it,' he said. ‘You've heard of the rhines?'

Becky shook her head. Her book on
The Stuarts
did not contain many details about the battle itself.

‘The drainage ditches. An ancient means of trying to control flooding that were key to the outcome.'

For the next twenty minutes Joe pointed out where the respective armies would have probably stood, where the rhine Monmouth failed to cross would have lain three hundred years before and where Monmouth's commander, Lord Grey, had ‘ballsed up' so that instead of crossing the rhine and attacking the Royalist army, he had led his cavalry straight back into his own side.

Becky listened to Joe with amazement and pride. He seemed to have suddenly discovered history, albeit a rather morbid brand. He had certainly devoured facts about artillery, describing the different fire power of the trained soldiers and the badly equipped Monmouth rebels, who bravely yelled at the Royal Army to cross the rhine and fight like men instead of firing over the water at them. He was rather over-fascinated by the idea of men being turned into corpses by musket shot and cannon ball and the injured trying to crawl away.

‘In an age without antibiotics,' said Becky.

‘Nice.'

Her phone vibrated again and she answered it, while Joe continued studying his map and comparing it with the land around them.

It was Alex Wilson. ‘Becky? Bad news I'm afraid. Matthew insisted on a background check. You can't really blame him. If you're going to be living in the house and his office is there too. It was just meant to be a formality …'

Becky knew what was coming next.

‘I didn't expect to find anything. Especially not drugs.'

‘It was a caution.'

‘I know. But Matthew's not taken it too well.'

‘OK,' said Becky, walking away from Joe so he wouldn't be able to overhear her. ‘I've got a younger brother who's not bad but who got into a bit of trouble. He was caught with dope in his pocket and I said it was mine. I've never tried it and I don't even smoke.'

There was a sigh down the phone. ‘Why did you take the rap for him?'

Because he'd only started selling soft drugs to fund his online gambling habit. Because, after a slightly wild youth, he had expressed an interest in joining the police and Becky was so hopeful this could be the answer to his problems she would have done anything to get him sorted out. If she'd known the ‘police' idea was no more serious than his other vaguely expressed desires to join the army or the French Foreign Legion she would never have put herself at risk.

‘Because he's my younger brother,' she said.

There was another sigh. ‘I'll have a word with Matthew.'

‘Thanks.' She could hear a conversation in the background and recognised other Bajan accents. ‘Where are you?'

‘I'm at the Monmouth.'

‘The hotel? So you're in Essex?'

‘No, I'm not flying over until next week. I'm in the Monmouth in Barbados. Matthew's got two hotels, didn't you know?'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘Look, I'll ring you tomorrow after I've spoken to Matthew.'

Becky said goodbye and realised Joe had wandered over and was looking quizzical.

‘OK?' he said.

‘Everything's fine,' she assured him.

Alex had seemed to accept her explanation of the drugs caution but Becky thought Matthew was bound to use it as an excuse to prevent her going to Barbados. Still no need to bother Joe, who was making such an effort to help her out.

He looked over the battlefield one more time. ‘I think that's probably as much as I can tell you.'

‘You found out loads of stuff I didn't know,' said Becky. ‘I hadn't thought about the battle at all to be honest. I was just reading about what happened afterwards.'

‘Shall we go pick up the bike, then?'

They headed back to the main road.

‘So why doesn't pillock man want you to write the book?' Joe asked when they were part-way there.

‘I'll have to tell you a bit about what happened after the battle to explain why,' said Becky. ‘As you know, the rebels lost. Many of them were hanged but King James II had others transported to work as indentured labourers in the colonies. Really he was just donating them to his friends who owned the plantations but he did it under the guise of being the merciful Christian.'

‘So that's where Barbados comes in?'

‘Exactly. Clara wants to write a book about the fate of the rebels who were sent there as exiles.'

‘That sounds good. What's the problem?'

‘The problem is that, although in theory they were only sentenced to four years, none of them came back. They became, well, white slaves pretty much and the plantation owners wouldn't release them.'

‘Bastards. But what's that got to do with pillock man?'

‘I learnt today at the Heritage Centre that it was Clara's family – or I think her husband's family – who owned one of the plantations on Barbados that were given many of the men.'

‘Ah. Maybe she feels guilty and wants to – what's the word when you want to put something right?'

‘Atone,' said Becky. ‘But she wouldn't have anything to be guilty about. She's black, or certainly of colour.'

Joe frowned. ‘So a black woman wants to write about white slaves. Her husband must be white. What does he think of it?'

‘She's a widow.'

‘Ah right,' said Joe. ‘So she felt bad that she married into one of the old plantation families but she had to wait for her husband to peg it before she could write the book. But, of course, her son wouldn't want the book written because basically it exposes his ancestors as slave owners.'

‘Er, I think something like that,' said Becky, though Joe's thought processes had jumped much further ahead than hers.

‘But you're working for her not her son so you can tell him to sling his hook, can't you?'

‘I'm not sure I can. We'll all be sharing a house for a start.'

Joe made a face. They had almost reached his bike but Becky realised the church back along the road was the one the Heritage Centre receptionist had mentioned.

‘I want a quick look in there,' she said. Joe looked pained and she laughed. ‘You don't have to come in. Just loiter round the graveyard.'

They had both endured weekly church visits to a service their mother must have chosen for its complete lack of joy and vitality. On his fourteenth birthday Joe had said he would never set foot in a church again and had stuck firm, despite their mother's tantrums, punishing silences and dropped dishes. Becky – either out of loyalty to her mother or maybe because she couldn't face the emotional consequences – endured the services until, at eighteen, she decided facing her mother's disappointment was more palatable than hearing about God's wrath.

Joe followed her reluctantly into the churchyard. Some of the older gravestones looked as weathered as sucked grey lozenges.

‘Do you think we might find rebels buried here?' he said, becoming interested again.

‘Doubt it,' said Becky. ‘Anyway the executed men would have been left hanging on gibbets rather than given a decent burial. But their descendants might be here.'

And it was possible some of the men imprisoned in the church had died of their wounds overnight and been buried in the churchyard. She shivered at the thought and was quite relieved to see a sign saying the information centre inside the church was now closed for the day. ‘If a gravestone's that old you probably wouldn't be able to read the inscription anyway.'

But Joe was pointing at some grey chunks of stone off the main path, which could only be reached by walking over other graves. ‘What about over there?'

The sun was dipping towards the horizon and, while the church tower basked in the remnants of the evening sun, shadows stalked the gravestones. The area Joe was heading for looked quite gloomy.

She followed him gingerly over the tussocked grass, surprised to find herself inwardly apologising to the inhabitants over whom they trod.

‘These look ancient,' said Joe, squatting in front of one of the old slabs.

Becky bent down and examined another, which was stubbled with moss and lichens. She rubbed her finger over it but couldn't tell if the indentations were memories of letters carved or simply natural indentations in the rock.

‘I can see a date on this one,' said Joe, ‘1721 or '31.' He sighed. ‘Too late to be a Monmouth rebel.'

‘He may have been, said Becky. ‘A few managed to escape.'

Joe peered at the stone again. ‘T – H – may be an O?' he read. ‘And something about “god”.'

Becky joined him. ‘Thomas.' She scratched off some moss, stared and then scratched some more. ‘That is strange.'

‘What?'

‘I think it says “Thomas Gehalgod”.'

‘Weird name,' said Joe.

‘Exactly,' said Becky. ‘It was the name of one of the men who was transported to Barbados. Or at least he was meant to be. He died on the ship and was thrown overboard.'

‘His son?' said Joe. He sounded disappointed.

‘Maybe. I wish I could read the rest of it.'

To her surprise, Joe kneeled on the grass and produced a key to cut the lichen away. After a few minutes he stopped. ‘I feel like I'm rubbing away actual stone.'

‘The first word is “my”, I think,' said Becky. ‘The second word begins with “f”. That could be an “e” and an “r” at the end. And the last word looks like “keeper”.

‘There could be a “t” in there,' said Joe, pointing, ‘but the second letter – after “f” – nope, that's gone.'

‘My father is my keeper'?'

Joe ran his fingers over the stone. ‘Not “is”. I think that's “was”.'

‘My father was my keeper?'

‘Could be.' Joe stood up. ‘It's not very religious, is it?'

‘No,' said Becky. ‘It's a small “f”, which seems a bit disrespectful if it meant God the Father. Plus it sounds a bit limited, doesn't it? God was my keeper, instead of God is my keeper through eternity.'

He sniggered. ‘Maybe Thomas got disillusioned.'

‘Maybe,' said Becky. ‘Or it could be a simple statement about his real father. Perhaps this is Thomas Gehalgod Junior referring to Thomas Gehalgod Senior who was thrown overboard.'

Joe gave a grin. ‘Or it could be that Thomas Ge – whatever his name was –'

‘Gehalgod.'

‘… wasn't injured but had a deal with someone on the ship to say he died before the ship got too far and he swam back and lived out his natural life.'

Becky laughed. ‘OK, let's assume that happened. Thomas Gehalgod survived.'

Thanks to Joe she felt far more positive than she had at the start of the day. They headed back into Taunton for something to eat and then found Becky's hotel. When she realised Joe was going to get back on his bike and return to Essex she tried to persuade him to stay overnight. But Joe was adamant he needed to go back so he could get to work on time the next day.

As she saw him off Becky wondered at how much he seemed to have grown up in the past few days.

Chapter Five

Two days had passed and Becky had had no contact from Alex. She rang Clara to give her an update following her visit to the Heritage Centre and to point out she still had some money left over but Clara seemed in no hurry for her change.

‘Did you find out anything interesting?' asked Clara.

‘You mentioned someone called “Pitcher”. I found a Daniel Pitcher was sent to Barbados.'

Clara did show some interest in that. ‘Ah, that could be the ancestor of our Pitcher.'

‘Our Pitcher?'

‘You'll meet him soon enough. That is when Alex sorts out the tickets. He and Mr R have gone very quiet on me.'

That meant so as far as Clara was concerned Becky was still going to Barbados but Becky thought Alex and Matthew's lack of communication didn't bode well.

She mentioned her worry to Joe when he came in that night, feeling a little guilty at offloading her concern.

‘Why didn't you tell me that was what the phone call was about?' he said, following her into the living room.

‘I didn't want to spoil the day.'

‘You've got to go to Barbados. One of us has to go. It's closure on Dad.'

Becky smiled. The word ‘closure' sounded as incongruous coming from Joe's mouth as would ‘embroidery'.

‘Why are you laughing at me?'

‘I'm not,' said Becky. ‘Do we need closure?'

‘I still have dreams – even now – that he comes back. He walks through the house but he doesn't look at us; he just walks right through and disappears into the garden.'

Joe said this without any trace of self-pity, which gave Becky an even more acute stab of sympathy. ‘Look, I'm probably worrying for nothing,' she said. ‘I expect I'll get a phone call later.'

‘If what's-his-face says you can't go to Barbados, tell him you know the real reason is he doesn't want you to write the book.'

The landline rang and brother and sister looked at each other.

‘Quick,' said Joe. ‘Before Mum gets it.'

Becky reached the phone just before their grim-faced mother but did not pick it up until her mother returned to the kitchen.

‘Miss Thomson?' It was Matthew.

‘Mr Darnley.'

‘I'm sure you know why I'm ringing. Alex told you about the results of the background check?'