"Why?"
"Because it does."
Giles pushed aside the tangled branches and she caught a glimpse of a one-storey building, mostly white stone and a flash of floor-to-ceiling window glass. A white table and cushioned chairs stood on a patio. Then the branches closed behind him and she lost her view of his breakfast on a beach paradise.
She was consumed with envy. She thought of the cheerless grey mornings in London, her small but compact kitchen, wet and steaming raincoats on the Underground, the crush of backpackers; waiting for crowded buses that arrived in conveys, always having to stand.
This life was a million miles away from reality. Like Giles, not real. He, too, was part of an island culture, a different world from hers, and the sooner she dismissed him from her thoughts the better.
After breakfast, Kira changed into a parrot red sundress and took a silk scarf to drape over her bare shoulders. She did not want to break any local bylaws by wearing the wrong gear in their capital. She waited outside Sandy Lane and boarded the first rickety bus to arrive, much to the amazement of the taxi drivers touting the hotel guests.
The bus was highly mechanised, despite being an ancient vehicle. Passengers had to drop their money down a plastic chute under the eagle eye of the woman conductor in a military-style uniform. Kira was handed a ticket. She moved along the crowded bus and took a seat next to a buxom matron whose lap was piled high with empty shopping baskets. The other passengers looked at Kira with interest, their faces friendly. She smiled back.
It was a scare-a-minute drive into Bridgetown. The driver took corners on two wheels, emergency braked for stray hens and dogs, made numerous unscheduled stops for people whose homes were on the route, stopped mid-road to exchange ribald comments with a mate driving a bus out of Bridgetown.
Kira even enjoyed the confrontation between the stern conductress and a long-haired, bleary-eyed beach wino who climbed unsteadily aboard and then refused to pay his fare.
"We ain’t starting until you paid your fare," she said.
"We all paid our fare, man," said the indignant matron beside Kira, the abundant flowers on her brimmed hat bobbing. "We all gotta get to Bridgetown. You making us late."
"You drink all your money. That’s your business," bristled another old man, his faced wrinkled and veined like a map.
There was no sympathy from the busload of passengers held up in the soaring temperature. The leatherette seats were hot and sticky. Kira felt like paying the wino’s fare so that they could get moving, but decided not to interfere. The conductress was on top form, quoting rules and regulations.
Eventually the wino climbed down and tottered off to find some shade, trailing rags and a gnarled walking stick. They opened the windows wider to clear the air of alcoholic fumes.
Kira stepped off the bus in the bus station into a swirling throng of people and cars and bikes and buses. The hot air was pulsing with the smell of sweetmeats and spices from pavement stallholders, crushed ice vendors mingling with the fruit sellers and pungent motor exhausts. Kira was glad she didn’t have asthma.
She wandered about, drinking in the sights like any another tourist. The Harbour Police Force in the Nelson-era sailor uniforms; schooners in the Careenage harbour and the preserved warehouses; great ocean-going ships anchored out in the bay; the sugar bulk stores and loading towers, cargo ships and the gleaming white cruise liners calling at Bridgetown for a couple of hours of intensive shopping.
Six international banks were neighbours to old wooden houses with overhanging balconies. Many of the side streets were in poor shape and awaiting demolition, though Kira thought these quaint old ramshackle buildings gave Bridgetown its unique character. Swan Street, Mahogany Lane, Sobers Lane with their deep gullies to take torrential rain, the un-mended narrow pavements were a hazard of pot holes and broken stones. Rows of shabby pink and brown shacks sold a few vegetables or peddled some repair service.
The air-conditioned police headquarters in Coleridge Lane was full of smartly-uniformed officers, spruce and welcoming.
"Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?" said the officer behind the counter.
"I’d like a visitor’s driving permit, please."
In no time Kira had a local driving permit and a registered licence.
"Take care, ma’am. It’s getting really hot now."
Heat blistered the pavements. She had not felt it so much yesterday, wandering in and out of the sea. She was feeling quite sick by the time she found the printer’s shop in a dusty back street.
"Come in, Mizz Reed," said a wiry Barbadian, pulling up a chair. "Can I get you a Coke or a coffee?"
Kira accepted an iced can of Coke, savouring the cool wet feel of the can before the icy drink.
The printer had a fairly old printing machine, but a very modern computer and photocopying machine. He had made a good job of her business cards; the gold print on brown card looked smart. The price was a bit steep but Kira realised she was a sitting target. Still, the Coke saved her sanity.
That had been worth its weight in currency.
Fourteen
Kira bought a thin buttercup cotton nightdress with shoestring straps at a clothing store. She had to smile at the outrageous colours and huge sizes of the bras and knickers in stock. There were also masses of household goods, bright and cheap, with a strong American influence.
She knew she was flagging. The tourist office in Harbour Road gave her a map and a sheaf of leaflets on places to visit.
"Where do you suggest I have lunch? I’d like to try some real Bajan dishes."
"The Brown Sugar at Aquatic Gap is good. You could also go to some of the wonderful old houses that have become eating places in order to survive."
"Like Sam Lord’s?"
"No, Sam’s is commercialised. There are real country houses where you are made to feel like a family guest. Brown Sugar is near the Hilton Hotel. Any taxi driver will take you."
Kira fell into a taxi. She was feeling dizzy and dehydrated. Her breakfast had been fruit. She was glad when the taxi stopped outside an old single-storey house, with white latticed windows and a riot of plants climbing the walls. An all-round veranda was full pots of ferns and small palms, and Kira sat in the shade with a cold drink while they found her a table.
"I’m afraid you may have to wait a while. We’re very busy. Everyone makes reservations."
"I don’t mind," said Kira, thankful for the shade. She slipped off her sandals under the chair.
Local girls in ankle-length flowered skirts and turbans waited on the tables. A long trestle offered a hot and cold buffet of local dishes and the spicy smell was tantalising.
"Madam, a gentleman has offered to share his table with you. Is that acceptable?"
Was Giles following her? She peered into the garden, knowing she would be able to spot his classy presence and height. "What sort of gentleman?"
"An elderly gentleman," the waitress tried to conceal a smile. "One of the island’s most respected citizens."
"That’s all right then," Kira said demurely, putting on her sandals.
Slanting sunshine came through the raffia shades as the waitress led her to a table in the garden. The restaurant was full of wealthy Barbadians – dark, handsome and mostly bearded – and visitors in smart summer clothes. Kira recognised a couple from Sandy Lane. A tall, exotic Caribbean woman with a pronounced American accent and assured manner was laughing with them. Kira wondered if the new Miss Reed would ever gain that kind of assurance.
She turned a smile towards her host, half expecting a large, dark Barbadian. But the respected citizen had tanned skin, was thin and wiry, going bald, casually dressed in creased white slacks and a short-sleeved white tennis shirt. His scrawny arms were covered in scratches and she knew where she had seen him before.
"Have you tried breadfruit yet?" he asked.
"No."
"Then this is your chance. It’s over there on the buffet table, cooked a dozen different ways. Let me show y
ou and describe the dishes."
"I saw you yesterday, didn’t I? You were gardening, up a ladder and pruning a tree. What are you doing here?"
His faded blue eyes twinkled in his brown face. "Having lunch. Same as you. Even gardeners have to eat."
"Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound patronising. I’m surprised to find you here."
"No offence. I’m delighted to have a young lady’s company. A pleasure frequently denied to men of my age. Did you find your way back to your hotel all right?"
"I took the road down to the beach and then headed north along the shore."
"Let me get you another drink," he said, waving over to one of the girls. "You look as if you could do with it. It’s always hotter in town than one expects."
"Is this your day off?" Kira asked.
He chuckled. "No, I never get a day off. Too much to do." The good-humour faded from his face and was momentarily displaced by a cloud. "But I’m in town today on some business. Even gardeners sometimes have financial transactions to complete. But I try to avoid coming in. These days are much too hot for me. When I was a young man, I could work and ride all day in the sun, from dawn to dusk, but not now. I have to take it easy when it’s this hot."
"You look very fit," said Kira quickly.
"Fit enough," he said with a quirky grin. "But getting old and I don’t like it. What’s the matter with your foot? Surely not that little stumble yesterday? I noticed you were still limping when you came over."
Kira found herself telling him about the accident again, the time in hospital and the abrupt dismissal from her job.
"What appalling behaviour from a man in authority," he said. "Can’t you take him to court for wrongful dismissal? It wasn’t your fault, after all."
"I suppose I could but I can’t be bothered," said Kira. "Besides, I might want my old job back sometime, when I return to London. I’d like to keep my options open."
"Wise girl. But I’m sure an attractive and intelligent young woman like you could walk into any job she liked. Why don’t you look around and find something quite different?"
"I may well do that."
The girl arrived with two long iced lime drinks. The man seemed to know her and thanked her by name. She flashed her dark eyes at him and Kira smiled to herself. Perhaps he was a respected citizen after all.
"Let’s eat," he said. "I get tired of my own cooking, which is pretty basic."
Kira allowed herself to be guided along the buffet table, taking the old man’s advice on the dishes to try. There was simple steamed and fried flying fish; baked dolphin and swordfish, with spice sauces and dips; suckling pig, chicken, turkey and a big black pot of meat pieces called jug-jug.
"It’s been cooking for months," he said. "Traditional food."
She put one small unrecognisable piece of blackened meat on her plate just to show willing but found it too hot and peppery to eat.
There was cornmeal, breadfruit, yams, sweet potatoes, rice, white eddoes, kidney and lima beans, pigeon peas, blackeyes, runcival peas, beet tops, spinach, Swiss chard, avocado pears, christophenes, egg-plant, okras, pumpkins, squashes, cucumber, tomatoes and sweet peppers.
"I’ve never seen such a choice," said Kira.
"Have a little taste of everything."
He was an easy table companion, never prying, and it was a relief to talk naturally after the confused conversations and charged atmosphere that surrounded Giles and herself. When it was time for Kira to go, the man insisted on taking care of her bill.
"No, please, it’s too much," she protested. "This is an accidental meeting. I’m not your guest or anything."
"A charming accident. And I’ve had the pleasure of a lovely woman’s company; rare these days, my dear. Allow me the privilege of paying for you. I appreciate your concern but it won’t break me."
"My treat next time," said Kira, meaning it.
"What a delightful idea," he said, rising with old world courtesy. "I shall take you up on that."
Kira thanked him again and hurried out of Brown Sugar, aware that she was late for her appointment with Giles. It was going to be a prickly meeting from the word go and she was not looking forward to it.
"Your bill, Mr Reed," the sassy waitress said. Kira was already out of hearing, heading for the ladies room to tidy up.
"What a beautiful young woman," said Benjamin Reed. "But a little sad, wouldn’t you agree? I quite forgot to ask her name."
"You’ll see her again. Barbados is a small island."
"She said she headed north from the beach," he mused.
"Then she’s staying at a hotel in St James’s."
"I’m too old for sleuthing."
"Nonsense, Mr Reed. It would only take a few phone calls," the girl grinned. Her smile broadened when she saw the tip he had left.
The heat was bouncing off the pavements as Kira left the shady garden of the Brown Sugar. She had been told to go to another bus station where she could catch a service that would drop her near the Reed & Earl Sugar Processors. Kira fell into a seat, thankful to sit down. The heat was draining all her energy.
The southern part of the island was much flatter and less picturesque than the West Coast. The road went through flat plains and treeless fields where only the pale sugar grew in plantation after plantation. It was wave after wave of pale green and golden cane. It was also a slow, bumpy ride and Kira stopped looking at her watch. The driver yelled out "Reed and Earl" and jolted Kira awake.
The bus left her on the road by the side of a tree. A lorry slewed off the road and thundered up a lane, dust flying from under its wheels. It was full of cut sugar cane, the sweet smell following its track. In the distance Kira could see the shimmering silver outline of a collection of buildings and chimney stacks, corrugated iron roof tops, rusty and silver in the shooting sunshine. She was almost there.
She trudged along the dusty lane, a blister forming under the strap of her sandal, sweat running down her neck. Giles would have a stack of caustic remarks to make on her lateness.
She could already smell the heady sweetness of sugar in the air. Her head was beginning to ache with the sun and the pungent odour, and she was regretting her generous lunch.
Even out here on the flat plain there were riots of flowers, more dusty and stunted and wind-blown than on the West coast. She remembered about the wild monkeys and looked around nervously. Nothing stirred except the breeze through the waving cane.
The buildings loomed larger, busy and noisy, and she could see lorries unloading piles of cut cane in the yard; a huge conveyer belt taking the crop up and into the factory.
A man was striding towards her out of the heat haze, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, khaki shirt open at the neck, long boots, dusty jeans.
"You’re nearly an hour late," he said.
"I know," she croaked, too dry to speak.
"Why didn’t you drive down?"
"In what?"
"I sent a Moke to Sandy for you this morning. Why didn’t you use it? Heavens, surely you haven’t walked?"
"I came on the bus from Bridgetown," she said defiantly. “I’ve been in Bridgetown all morning as I had some errands to do, including getting a licence."
"And you’re not wearing a hat, you idiot woman. Do you want to get sunstroke? Come into my office and have a cold drink."
Giles had spotted her from his office window on the first floor; a lone figure trudging wearily along the road. She had been limping badly, far more than he had noticed before. A long day on her feet had not improved the condition of her leg.
He wanted to lift her up in his arms and carry her into the shade of the veranda which ran round the upper floor of the administration block. But he fought against the desire. She would protest, fight like the tiger she was, and he had no wish to provide his workmen with a juicy item of gossip.
"Thank you," she said, following him. She hardly made the iron stairs to the first floor. His air-conditioned office was an oasis of cool. She sank into a cane chair
, her leg outstretched. He restrained himself from rubbing her clearly aching muscles. He poured a glass of orange juice from a silver thermos jug, added chunks of ice.
"Drink this."
She did as she was told. Giles gave her a few moments in which to recover. She looked dusty and dishevelled, her burnished hair coming loose from its clip and sticking to her forehead. Her shoulders looked a patchy red despite the draped scarf.
He took off his hat and tossed it aside, unaware of the demarcation line flattening his hair. Kira was already regretting coming. It had been a foolish idea to think she could work with Giles Earl. She would finish her drink and catch the next bus back to Bridgetown. She could endure a dozen bumpy rides in order to be miles away from the disturbing sight of this bold, aggressive man.
"Thank you for the drink," she said, draining the glass. "I’ve come to tell you that I can’t do the research work for you after all. You’ll have to find someone else."
"Can’t or won’t?"
His words were clipped, blunt. He looked as if he was about to break the ruler he was tapping in his hands. His eyes narrowed, sweeping over her.
"I don’t believe you," he added. "What’s made you change your mind? You’d better come up with something good."
Fifteen
Kira was trapped. There was no way she could tell him that it was his masculine presence she could not stand. That this fascination needed stamping on. Nor was she prepared to say that the project was too difficult for her when she knew she was quite capable of the work.
"I doubt if I shall have time after all," she said, off-hand. "I’ve discovered a million more interesting things to do."
"I don’t believe you. You mean like swimming and sunbathing and taking rides on buses? You’ve burnt your shoulders this morning."
She ignored his last comment although her skin was beginning to tingle. "Something like that," she flipped.
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