The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  She hadn’t.

  ‘Good. I’ll walk you to your car.’

  Holly, from many years of experience, knew her father’s mind had shifted gear and he was anxious to get back to his office. Little things like air tickets, expenses, where to stay in Mauritius, how to locate Connor Maguire, would, no doubt, have been taken care of by his secretary. ‘Got an envelope for me?’

  He delved into a jacket pocket and passed over a fat package.

  There was no need to check it. Quinn’s secretary was the best. Everything she needed would be in it, including a full briefing.

  ‘When are you going to replace this thing?’ Quinn kicked absently at one of the MG’s wire-spoked wheels.

  ‘Careful. It’s likely to collapse on your foot.’

  He had that father’s look on his face, the one that was both full of pride and anxious at the same time. ‘You’re a funny little monkey, sweetheart. I love you very much. See you at lunch.’

  She watched him walk away, knowing he was hurting at her hurt. He was very loyal. When she told her parents of Dennis’s betrayal, when the full extent of her misery became known to them, Quinn had to be restrained from, as he put it, ‘rearranging the bastard’s features’. He’d have done it, too. Only Holly’s reassurance that it wasn’t worth the effort had prevented a more than likely assault charge.

  Sighing, Holly settled into her car. ‘Start,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not as if you’re still cold.’

  But the MG fired and died, coughed and spluttered half a dozen times before holding its burbling rhythm. ‘Quinn’s right about you,’ Holly threatened. ‘It’s time for the scrap heap.’ Thus warned, the car behaved impeccably all the way home.

  Quinn and Delia Longford-Jones lived at Castlecrag, overlooking Sugarloaf Bay. Built halfway down the sloping land, their home was virtually invisible from the road and was engulfed by lush vegetation planted many years before. It was a neat and modest-looking house from the outside, but it dropped through four levels to a deck that sat right at the water’s edge. Surprisingly large inside, the house radiated light and warmth, was furnished with exquisite antiques and glowed with a subtle blending of honey and cream tones. It had a comfortable lived-in feel and, although some of the furniture would fetch a small fortune at auction, managed to avoid pretension or showiness.

  Holly, packed and ready to fly, stuffed her one case onto the passenger seat and secured it with the seatbelt. She’d leave the MG at Castlecrag and go straight to the airport from lunch. If her parents took anything seriously, it was entertaining. A casual invitation to lunch probably meant there’d be a dozen or more other guests, all hand-picked to ensure a good working mix. The food would be beautifully presented, absolutely delicious and more often than not, quite unusual – a talking point in itself. Lunch could stretch from midday to five in the afternoon. The wines were always superb, often from little-known boutique estates. Sampling them was undertaken with dedication and enthusiasm as Quinn urged, ‘No, you must try this one, it’s still young but it’s going to be a winner.’ More than one guest would inevitably go home by taxi – in fact, those in the know usually arrived in one as well.

  Holly deliberately arrived early in case her mother needed any help.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Delia Longford-Jones was an unusual woman who managed to look both bohemian and sophisticated at the same time. Grey curly hair caught at the back in a silk scrunchy was allowed to flow around her shoulders. She wore no make-up, barring eye shadow and lipstick, both of which were skilfully applied. Earlier beauty, though faded, was still very much evident in a flawless and practically line-free complexion. Wearing a barely pink linen trouser suit, with a rich and regally purple silk tailored blouse, she was both elegant and casual.

  Holly felt positively dowdy dressed in clothes suitable for travel. ‘Hi, Mum.’ She sniffed. ‘Mmmm, something smells delish.’

  ‘Greek,’ Delia said succinctly. She usually stuck to a single theme for any gathering, formal or otherwise.

  Holly kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I won’t ask who’s coming. Might spoil the surprise.’

  But she was told anyway. About fourteen in all. Among them, two well-known actors, one television presenter, several journalists and an author. ‘Are you taking the Mauritius assignment?’ she asked, not drawing breath.

  ‘Case is in the car.’

  ‘Excellent. It will be good for you.’

  Holly pulled a face.

  ‘Oh come on, darling. Just think. Mauritius. Tropical paradise. At least you’ll be away from this horrid weather.’ The wind had eased somewhat but rain still poured down. ‘Wish I could come with you.’

  ‘Uh huh!’ Holly smiled. ‘Perhaps sending me was your idea.’

  ‘Not at all. Your father thought . . . Anyway, how are you darling?’

  ‘Fine,’ Holly said shortly.

  ‘You’re not fine. Oh, my darling, look at you. I could kill that bloody man for what he did to you.’

  Holly felt the telltale flush of tears, never far from the surface. ‘It’s taking time, Mum, that’s all. I’ll get there.’

  Her mother’s eyes were soft with love and concern. ‘Don’t let this influence the way you think about all men. Look at Daddy.’

  ‘Mum, did you ever like Dennis?’

  ‘No.’ One of Delia’s greatest attributes was that she tended to be devastatingly honest.

  ‘Would you have told me that if he hadn’t . . .’

  ‘No.’

  Holly hugged her. ‘I love you, Mum. Don’t ever change.’

  Delia scrutinised her daughter’s face, hating the fine lines of bitterness and the haunted look of betrayal which had appeared overnight and now refused to go away. ‘I wish I could say the same for you. You used to find joy in everything. It was one of your most precious gifts. It will come back you know.’

  Holly couldn’t see that happening.

  They were in the entrance hall, moving towards a set of six steps that led down to the next level, a floor comprising a cottage-cosy kitchen, the family lounge and a more formal dining room. Wanting to shift the conversation away from herself, Holly asked, ‘Can I help?’

  ‘All done. We’re using the bottom room today. Drinks are set up. Come on, let’s get a head start before the others arrive.’

  Holly smiled. Her mother only ever drank mineral water, into which she occasionally squeezed the juice of a lemon or lime. The reason, Delia had once admitted to Holly, was a never to be forgotten encounter with champagne when she was an innocent eighteen. The ensuing hangover the next day had been made worse by her father’s refusal to allow her any water to slake the raging thirst. ‘Suffer, young lady,’ he’d told her. ‘You’ve earned the right.’ She hadn’t touched alcohol since.

  Guests began arriving half-an-hour later. They were outgoing characters in the main and, with very little effort, made the lunch an instant party, filling the room with laughter and conversation. Holly allowed herself to go with the flow, avoiding personal questions with practised ease and fobbing off two requests for her telephone number. Quinn was late as usual but everyone forgave him. He breezed in, apologised, kissed Delia and then became the life and soul of the party. As a Longford-Jones lunchtime bash went, this was a good one.

  At six-fifteen Holly called a cab to take her to the airport. Quinn walked with her to the taxi. ‘Take as much time as you need. Have a bit of fun. The magazine can afford it.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be working,’ she reminded him.

  ‘That’s okay. I can do a great Lord Nelson when I have to.’

  ‘Thanks, Daddy.’ She very rarely called him that. ‘But if you turn a blind eye for me you’ll have to do it for everyone.’

  He ignored that. ‘Are you doing the usual with your mail?’

  ‘Taken care of.’ When she was away a neighbour collected her mail and held it until Delia picked it up to attend to it.

  Quinn kissed her cheek. ‘Love you, sweetheart. See you in a couple of weeks or so.
’

  She climbed into the taxi.

  ‘And don’t forget the fun part,’ he said, before shutting the door.

  Fun! Holly thought a few minutes later, staring at the smeared lights of the city through the rain running down the taxi’s windows. What’s that?

  TWO

  The Air Mauritius flight offered genuine, friendly service, excellent cuisine, a timetable that was adhered to and the hardest seats of any airline with which Holly had ever flown. Air travel was something she neither enjoyed nor disliked, it was simply a means to an end and a chance to catch up on some escapist reading. There was one stop in Perth, where joining passengers took up every spare seat on the plane, then it was on into a never-ending night. Dawn came slowly, and almost thirteen hours after leaving Melbourne they were dropping towards a lush green island which had materialised out of the Indian Ocean. Holly was convinced that her rear end would never be the same again.

  Landing at Plaisance was a treat. The airport was on the south-east coast. Holly had a window seat, and, as they flew over the island in order to come around and land from the west, she was able to have a good look at the country beneath them. Craggy, jagged mountains partly covered by thick vegetation with spectacular outcrops of rock standing in stark relief – a relic of the island’s volcanic past – dominated the scenery. At their base, where the land flattened and gentled, the grass-like green of field upon field of sugar cane. A thin band of white sand separated the island’s predominant agriculture from an aquamarine lagoon. Surrounding the island, containing it in an almost unbroken ring of coral, was the reef. Incessant waves pounding against this age-old protective circle formed what looked like a second beach. Beyond the reef the ocean became a deep blue, disappearing to the horizon. It was picture book, tropical island perfect.

  The airport building – a long, two-storeyed rectangle, painted white – seemed to have an identity crisis. Two signs gave conflicting names – Welcome to Mauritius was flanked by Plaisance Airport on one side, and Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International Airport on the other. The location of the building had a sad but interesting connection. Reading up on Mauritius during the flight, Holly had learned that an English school teacher had found dodo bones on this very site.

  Inside the building was light, bright and pleasant which was just as well since both the ceiling fans and the wheels of immigration ground slowly. Finally, it was Holly’s turn.

  ‘May I see your ticket.’ The man looked at her indifferently.

  An inveterate traveller, Holly knew better than to ask why.

  ‘You have not booked an onward flight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know when I’ll be going back. It’s an open ticket.’

  ‘That is highly irregular.’ He frowned at her.

  ‘Really?’ Holly found that a breathy ‘please help me’ ignorance worked well with most forms of officialdom. But this man was having none of it.

  ‘You are not intending to reside here indefinitely?’

  ‘No. A few weeks, maybe a month.’

  ‘You are with a tour group?’ His ability to turn a statement into a question was an art form in itself.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Now he was frowning at her ticket. The word OPEN in the date section was definitely not to his liking. ‘You do not wish to make a return reservation now?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  It was on the immigration form but she told him anyway. ‘The Merville Beach Hotel.’

  ‘You do not have any other contacts in Mauritius?’

  ‘Fraid not.’

  He pursed his lips, clearly vexed. ‘And you will not outstay your visa?’

  ‘I don’t have a visa. I was told I didn’t need one.’

  ‘I will issue one.’ He handed back the ticket. ‘Passport and arrival card please.’

  They were already in front of him. She tapped them.

  He studied the documents carefully. ‘You are a journalist, Miss Longford-Jones.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you come here?’ An open-ended ticket and a journalist. Very suspicious. ‘What is it you will write about us?’

  ‘Australians like the idea of Mauritius but few know much about it. My magazine wants an informative piece . . . something that might encourage tourists to come here.’ Holly looked the man directly in the eye as she lied. ‘Your tourist board has been most helpful to date,’ she added, hoping that, as in most holiday destinations, mention of the body responsible for satisfied customers would short-circuit what was likely to take some considerable time. It worked.

  ‘How long do you wish to stay?’

  ‘Would thirty days be possible?’ She smiled sweetly.

  ‘Ah!’ Her passport was stamped. ‘If you require a longer period you must go to the immigration department. You will find them at police headquarters in Port Louis.’ He handed back her passport. ‘Be sure to book your return flight as soon as possible. And you must confirm the reservation at least three days before your flight. Enjoy your stay.’

  Holly thanked him and went to move away.

  ‘One more thing.’ He was smiling at her now.

  She turned back.

  ‘When you write about Mauritius, be sure to mention our friendly service.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’ She gave him her best seriously genuine look.

  ‘Ah! C’est bon.’ He dismissed her with an important nod of his head and turned to the next victim waiting in line.

  The baggage carousel was broken and luggage had to be manhandled into the hall by sweating airport officials. By the time Holly emerged unscathed from the Customs ‘nothing to declare’ green channel, she’d been on the ground for just over an hour. She braced herself for the usual throng of eager young hopefuls wanting to carry her bag or find a taxi but was pleasantly surprised to find that, though they were there in their hundreds, they were orderly and confined to one area just outside automatic glass doors.

  Holly cashed a traveller’s cheque and then made her way to the car rental counters. She managed to keep smiling through the unexpected complexities of a matter as simple as hiring a car. It was a further half-hour before she found herself behind the wheel of a Mini Moke, the only vehicle available. Open to the elements, with a spare tyre she suspected belonged to a different vehicle, Holly was pleasantly surprised when it started first go.

  The briefing from Audrey Hammond, Quinn’s secretary, had said that she’d most likely find Connor Maguire somewhere in the north, near Grand Baie. She located it on a road map she’d picked up with other background brochures while waiting for her suitcase. ‘Nothing like starting at the top,’ she told herself. ‘That would be the Royal Palm no doubt.’ The redoubtable Mrs Hammond had provided useful information about where to stay on Mauritius and Holly had familiarised herself with it during the flight. The Royal Palm was apparently the choice of kings and queens, the jet set and those on bottomless expense accounts. Maguire would be attracted to such a place as a moth is to flame. It was beyond the budget of Out of Focus, however, and she had been booked into a medium tariff tourist resort which was almost next door.

  Concentrating on driving an unfamiliar vehicle on foreign soil, Holly’s first impressions of Mauritius were pretty much as she had seen from the air. Jagged mountains in the distance were both dramatic and beautiful. Field after field of sugar cane, growing right up to the road. Dotted in these fields were stone pyramids, some quite large and all perfectly symmetrical. They had a kind of shrine appearance. Holly made a mental note to ask about them. The recently constructed dual carriageway ran north/west from the airport, climbing up through the Central Highland towns of Curepipe and Quatre Bornes before dropping down to the capital of Port Louis. It was well signposted and, in the main, in good condition. Beyond Port Louis, the sparkling blue sea was never far away and the land flattened and became even more tropical in appearance. In the open Mini Moke, t
he air had felt almost too cool in the centre of the island, but as soon as the last of the mountain passes had been crossed, the temperature rose and Holly enjoyed the balmy rush of air around her. She almost felt she was on holiday.

  The Merville Beach Hotel was set in spacious palm-shaded gardens off the coast road just north of Grand Baie. Accommodation ranged from deluxe to the very ordinary but all guests shared the resort facilities. Privately owned bungalows still fanned the hotel but many others had disappeared as the developers scrambled for tourist dollars. Right in the middle of the Merville Beach resort one old cottage still remained. Slightly run-down but not in the least daunted by the three-sided invasion, it appeared totally unconcerned by its commercial neighbour.

  Holly’s room – the wonderful Mrs Hammond had booked a deluxe as opposed to a bog standard – had a balcony which looked over the solitary cottage and to a wide lagoon beyond. Despite a sadly out-of-place appearance, Holly could not help but admire the tenacity of the owner of the bungalow. After all, the dwelling had been there first. She unpacked, set her watch back six hours and realised she was hungry.

  The spicy aromas of traditional Creole cooking led Holly to The Badamier, a large, thatch-covered bar overlooking the pool and opening onto a terrace scattered with tables and bright sun umbrellas. Set directly above the beach, there was no escaping the sensation that this was one tiny corner of a tropical paradise which had but one aim – to ensure that its guests relaxed. Everywhere she looked, people were doing just that – lazing around the pool talking and laughing or on the beach, some windsurfing, while the more adventurous souls opted to paraglide. Great place for lovers, Holly thought, feeling a sudden rush of loneliness.

  She chose a table in the sun with a view towards the open sea. The time-zone change meant she was in no-man’s land food-wise – somewhere between breakfast and lunch – so she ordered a toasted sandwich. The waiter departed and Holly, sparing no sympathy for those poor cold and wet souls in Sydney, sat back to enjoy the warm sun and stunning view.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a male voice said.