Another Man's Poison

by J F Straker

  It was on the following morning that Karen began to show signs of flagging. So far her appetite for new sights and new experiences had been even sharper than his — he had seen and experienced many of them before — and although he was a fit man only his pleasure in seeing her apparently fully restored to health had prevented him from suggesting that they should slow down a little. That morning, however, it was Karen who wanted to give the car a rest. She had slept badly, she said, and had a headache; and when he suggested they spend the day lazing on the beach she vetoed that too. ‘I’d rather give the sun a miss,’ she said. ‘Just sit around and do nothing. I might even stay in bed.’ She pinched his leg. ‘You can take the day off, darling.’

  They were in bed now, after a late breakfast. He raised himself on an elbow and looked at her. She lay on her back, fiddling with the hem of the sheet that did not quite cover her naked breasts; even away from home they both slept nude. There were faint blue smudges under the big blue eyes, which seemed to have lost some of their sparkle. That worried him. Was she really only tired? Or had the gaiety and zest that had so delighted him over the past fortnight marked an improvement that was only temporary and was now beginning to fade?

  ‘I don’t know that I want the day off,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’ve got one. Why not go riding? Amy Benson would tell you where to hire a horse, she rides at least twice a week. And I’m sure she’d be delighted to join you.’

  The prospect of a few hours on horseback appealed to him. But not in the company of Amy Benson. To the hotel guests he was something of a celebrity, and judging by the numerous copies of his novels he had autographed he guessed that his visit to the island was proving profitable to the local booksellers. Amy Benson, a good-looking brunette in her early forties, was the most persistent of his fans. Intense and intelligent, she was forever seeking him out to discuss modern literature and his own novels in particular.

  ‘Not Amy Benson,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask the hotel.’

  Riding stables in the neighbouring parish provided him with both mount and guide, the latter a young Bajan girl. He rode only infrequently at home, where macadam and wire were much in evidence in the surrounding district; here there was the lovely countryside around Sam Lord’s and the scenic hill trails and beaches of the south east coast. The guide, for whom Robin’s name had no significance, confined her conversation to giving directions and pointing out places of interest, and he returned to the hotel mentally and physically refreshed and with a healthy appetite. Karen was still in bed and although she dressed and joined him for lunch she ate little. It seemed that even talking required an effort. Was she sickening for something? he wondered. Had something she’d eaten disagreed with her? ‘Maybe it was that stuffing yesterday,’ he said. ‘In the fish. God knows what was in it, but it was certainly spicy.’

  ‘Oh, stop worrying, darling!’ she admonished, with a hint of irritation. ‘I’m just a bit off colour, that’s all. Nature complaining, perhaps, at too much excitement and too much good living.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said doubtfully. ‘But we’re lunching with the Foleys tomorrow. Would you like me to cancel it? Or postpone it, rather. We can’t go home without visiting them.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow. You’ll see.’

  If she wasn’t fine she was certainly better. The headache had gone, she said, and she had slept well. But there was still a listlessness about her, both in her voice and in her movements, and as they drove across the island he continued to worry. For the first time he wondered whether they had been wise to try and bury the memory of those two agonising days and nights of nearly two months back. Karen had never referred to them since and, taking his cue from her, neither had he. Yet frightening as the experience had been she had emerged from it unscathed, physically if not mentally. So why not discuss it, and in so doing perhaps lessen the trauma that seemed to surround it? Why hide it away as something too obscene to be mentioned even between husband and wife?

  The Foleys lived in a bungalow north of Speightstown, overlooking the beautiful beach of Six Men’s Bay. Joseph Foley, a lean, grizzled little man verging on seventy, had been assistant curator at the Barbados Museum in Bridgetown before his retirement; now severely crippled by arthritis, an affliction happily rare on the island, his movements were stiff and obviously painful. Both he and his wife Maria, who was larger and considerably darker-skinned than her husband, spoke English with the lilting accent common to the islanders but without the familiar idioms. They made no secret of their pride in their nephew’s success, nor of their belief that Robin had contributed greatly towards it — a belief that was no doubt at least partly responsible for the warm welcome they extended to their visitors. Robin was hugged by Maria, his hand pumped vigorously by Joseph. They treated Karen more formally, reluctant to use her Christian name and perhaps slightly awed by her blonde beauty, but desperately anxious to please.

  Lunch was abundant and typically Bajan: crab-in-the-back (devilled and served in its shell), a mélange of pig parts pickled with onions, peppers and cucumbers which Maria called ‘souse’; jug jug, a side dish of peas and corn; and the delicious and almost inevitable soursop ice cream. Karen ate sparingly; but Robin had whetted his appetite with a swim before the meal and, although wary of the souse, did full justice to the rest.

  The Foleys were teetotallers and offered only fruit juices with the meal. Later, after the coffee, they produced a non-alcoholic drink they called Mauby. ‘Very popular here,’ Joseph told them. ‘Many people brew it at home, like us. You remember, Robin?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Robin said. ‘It’s excellent. Try it, Karen.’

  She sipped and tasted. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is good. Sort of spicy. We must take some home.’

  Robin grinned. ‘Along with the rum, eh?’

  ‘Have you bought many things, Mrs Granger?’ Maria asked.

  ‘Karen, please!’ She nodded. ‘Yes, we have. I love the coral souvenirs. Particularly the black coral. That’s really beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful yes,’ Joseph agreed. ‘Although collecting it is harmful.’

  ‘To the divers?’

  To the island, Joseph said. The coral reefs provided a bulwark against the violence of the ocean; hence the damage that could accrue from their piecemeal demolition, and particularly in the case of the black coral, which was found furthest from the shore. ‘Besides, fish feed on the coral, and we Bajans live largely on fish. But remove the coral and you remove the fish.’

  After lunch Maria showed Karen round the colourful garden while the two men sat on the verandah and talked. Childless himself, Joseph was eager for news of his relatives in England. Robin’s acquaintance with Lucy Profit, a hypnotherapist practising in North London and the old man’s niece, was limited; but he did his best to supply as detailed an account of Derek’s work and life-style as memory and a little imagination could provide. That topic exhausted, they discussed the island, and here the old man was pessimistic. Tourism might be good for the economy, he said, but it had its drawbacks. The ecology was suffering. Young men no longer wanted to work in the cane-fields, they could get greater profit diving for coral and selling it to the tourists on the beaches. More hotels and more villas resulted in more effluence being poured into the sea, smothering the coral and killing off the fish. ‘It’s not the island I knew as a boy,’ he said sadly. ‘There are too many people trying to make what the Americans call a fast buck.’

  ‘It’s a universal disease, I’m afraid,’ Robin said.

  Perhaps because Karen had shown little appetite for the food so carefully prepared, over lunch there had been a certain stiffness between the two women. When they returned to the verandah, however, Robin was relieved to see that the stiffness had gone. They chatted easily together and both protested when Robin announced that it was time to leave. And then, at the very moment of departure, the harmony was lost. Stepping forward to kiss Maria goodbye, as Robin had done, Karen stopped,
averted her head and turned away. Embarrassed, Maria moved to her husband’s side and clutched his arm. She managed a wave as they drove away, but Robin knew she had been deeply hurt by what she must have seen as a deliberate snub.

  They were through Speightstown before either of them spoke. Then Karen said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, darling.’

  He did not have to ask why. ‘What came over you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I like her. I do, honestly. I think she’s sweet. But somehow —’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not a racist. I mean, I don’t shudder or anything when Derek kisses me.’

  ‘So why Maria?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. Unless it was her lips.’

  ‘What about her lips?’

  ‘Well, they’re thick, aren’t they? Thick and sort of blubbery. I suppose I just couldn’t bear to have them touch me.’ Partly from gravity, partly from repentance, she leaned against him as he swung the Moke round a bend. ‘Was she terribly hurt, do you think?’

  ‘Bewildered, more like,’ he said, not wishing to double the hurt.

  When he woke the next morning he was alone in the bed. He got up and padded across to the bathroom. From beyond the closed door there came the sound of retching. Alarmed, he tried the handle. The door was locked.

  ‘Karen!’ he called. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  There was a pause before she answered. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  Her voice sounded muffled. He put on a dressing-gown and waited by the window, gazing out over the trees to the sea. When finally she joined him she looked pale, her eyes bloodshot. She put her arms round him and rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘You were sick, weren’t you?’ he said, stroking her blonde hair.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Probably the souse. I went easy on that myself.’

  ‘Not the souse. Not anything I ate.’

  ‘What, then?’

  She lifted her head and smiled wanly. ‘I’m pregnant, darling. That’s what.’

  ‘Good Lord! Really? You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve missed twice. Once meant nothing, it’s happened before. But twice —’ She reached up to kiss him. ‘Are you glad? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course I’m glad.’ Filled with a mixture of pride and wonder, he held her close. ‘It’s marvellous news. Me a daddy, eh?’ He swept her off her feet and carried her to the bed. ‘Well, how do we celebrate? Champagne for breakfast? A shopping spree? Anything you say.’

  ‘Champagne will do for starters,’ she said. ‘But I think I’d like to go home.’

  Nine

  Spring was in the air when they returned. Wild daffodils coloured the fields around the Hall, snowdrops and grape hyacinths bloomed in the rockery, the forsythia and the Christmas roses were out; as they drove up to the house the sun shone on the banks of rhododendrons and azaleas that lined the drive and had already started to bud. Nature, it seemed, was welcoming them home, heralding an auspicious start to what Robin saw as a new era. Parenthood. In the days preceding their departure from Barbados it was a topic that had seldom been absent from their conversation. Robin was nervous as well as excited. As a teacher he had had experience of children, mostly with those in their early teens; but how would he measure up to the role of father? Well, I like kids, Karen said, but I’ve never had much to do with them. So how will I measure up to being a mother? That’s even more important. Mother love is instinctive in a woman, Robin said. Sort of like a fish doesn’t have to be taught how to swim. Karen had doubted the truth of that; cases of child-battering and neglect were constantly being reported by the media. Did that suggest that mother love was instinctive? Maybe not, Robin said; but adverse conditions of one sort or another were responsible in the majority of such cases. ‘That won’t apply to young Martin,’ he said, with justifiable pride. ‘He’s going to have everything that money and love can provide.’

  ‘Young Martin?’ she queried.

  ‘Of course.’

  Karen smiled. ‘Of course. Stupid of me to ask. And if it’s a girl?’

  ‘Martina, I suppose. We can’t let him down.’

  ‘How about twins?’

  ‘Ah! In that case it’ll be Derek’s turn.’ He frowned. ‘What’s the feminine of Derek?’

  ‘I don’t think there is one. I’ll have to concentrate on producing boys. Although there’s always Polly.’

  ‘I’ve got Polly down as a godmother. Her and your sister. And there’s Kate, of course.’

  They had spent the night of their arrival at Heathrow with his parents in Sussex. Overjoyed at the news that she was to be a grandmother, his mother had spent almost the entire evening instructing Karen in the preparations essential to the birth. Bored with what he dismissed as women’s talk, Mr Granger had taken Robin off to the pub. It’s not going to be all sentiment and wonder, he warned. It’s also dirty, smelly nappies, and washing drying all over the house and garden, and cold sleepless nights with the little blighter bawling its head off or wanting to be fed. ‘You were particularly fractious at nights,’ he said. ‘If ever a baby deserved to be battered it was you.’

  Sucking foam from around his mouth, Robin grinned. ‘That bad, was I? Well, thanks for showing restraint, Dad.’

  It wouldn’t be like that with young Martin, he thought. His mother had had to manage without such aids as washing-machines and spin-driers and central heating and disposable nappies. Karen would have them all. And how about a nanny?

  ‘How about engaging a nanny, darling?’ he asked, on their return from the pub.

  Karen shook her head. ‘I may need some extra help in the house,’ she said, ‘but not with young Martin. I intend looking after him myself.’

  It was an arrangement that met with Mrs Granger’s full approval.

  Polly was glad to have them home. Robin had kept in touch with her by telephone from Barbados, sorting out the few problems she could not handle herself; and when he had rung to tell her they were coming home he had also told her about Karen’s pregnancy. Polly received the news calmly; she wasn’t a baby person herself, she said, but she was happy for them. Mrs Huntsman was more enthusiastic when she was told the news on her arrival for work the next morning. ‘I’ve always said it’s children what makes a home,’ she said. ‘Our Edith will be tickled pink, she adores babies. Any time you want someone to help out, Madam, she’ll be happy to oblige. She’s been made redundant at the factory, you see, so she’ll be around like.’

  Karen said she would bear that in mind. ‘I think she was angling for a regular job for Edith,’ she told Robin later.

  ‘Might be a good idea at that,’ Robin said. ‘She’s a bit of a frump, but we don’t want her for her looks.’

  ‘She suffers from B.O.,’ Karen said.

  Martin was given the news when he came to dinner on their second evening home. Seldom emotionally demonstrative, he offered his congratulations and accepted the role of godfather-to-be, although he claimed to have only a vague idea of the duties entailed. ‘Presents at Christmas and birthdays, eh? Well, that’s no problem,’ he said. ‘But — religious instruction? I’m not so hot on that. Never have been. Still, I could give him a Bible and tell him to swot it up.’ His elderly Humber had finally given up the ghost and he had replaced it with a Vauxhall Cavalier. ‘First new car I’ve ever owned. Bought it on the never-never.’ He had kept a watchful eye on the Hall during their absence and had once taken Polly out to dinner. Karen pricked up her ears at that; was romance in the air? Definitely not, Polly said when Karen asked her. ‘Martin Beck is the last man I’d fall for and he’s certainly not interested in me. And it wasn’t my idea of a dinner. Steak and chips and beer at the long bar of the Golden Ball. I doubt if I’d have got that if he hadn’t wanted me to witness his signature.’

  ‘Signature on what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t read the document.’

  Any one of Martin’s colleagues would have been willing to
witness his signature, Karen reflected. So had it been an excuse rather than the reason for inviting Polly to a meal? Was Polly wrong? After all these months of apparent indifference, was Martin finally showing an interest in her?

  Once accustomed to the weighty prospect of fatherhood, Robin spread the news proudly and widely. Congratulations arrived by mail and telephone. ‘Delighted to learn you are increasing your output,’ Derek Foley had wired. ‘Am prepared to waive my commission.’ There were congratulations too from the Malletts, although in Simon’s case, Robin suspected, there were secret reservations which were likely to become less secret as Karen’s belly started to swell. Henry Mallett’s immediate reaction was to suggest a celebration party, a suggestion Karen was quick to veto. Conception wasn’t really a valid reason for a party, she said. Better to wait until after young Martin had arrived.

  Having settled back into the familiar routine of running a home, Karen devoted much of her time and energy to preparations for the baby’s arrival. Decorators, carpenters, plumbers, electricians were constant visitors, transforming one of the bedrooms into Karen’s concept of the ideal nursery. A new carpet was laid, cupboards built in. With Kate Mallett as a willing companion, weeks were spent shopping for cot and playpen, pram and carrycot, nursery furniture, bedding and layette and all the essentials and non-essentials that the two women could think of. Satisfied that all was in readiness, Karen then started knitting. It was a task in which she was unskilled, and Robin’s suggestion that it would be simpler, perhaps even more satisfactory, to buy the articles she was making was scornfully rejected. All mothers knitted for their babies, she said, and she did not intend to be an exception.