At this point Henry Jones came up with a message and Dickie Jethro went off with him to the part of the cabin they were evidently using as an improvised office.
Keith bent towards her. “Fascinating story,” he said. “What about this Ben? Where did he go?”
“Last heard of in Miami. That’s the rumour,” Fleur told him.
“Has there been anyone in your life since then?” Val enquired.
“That’s my business,” Fleur told him firmly.
He was about to say something else when Diana came up and told him one of the children had been sick.
Pre-lunch drinks were offered, then lunch and later, Fleur, beginning to feel oppressed in the overcrowded cabin, went to the rear and got out her book. Although the flight was a hundred times more comfortable than the average tourist flight, the strain here came from being with a group of people she barely knew and where, she sensed, currents were always moving. She fell asleep, waking to find the two children to her right, the girl asleep, the boy absorbed with an electronic game. In front of her were Zoe and Sophia, two well-coiffed heads bent together, speaking in low voices.
“I dropped every hint I could they should take a commercial flight,” Sophia was telling her mother. “They were all ignored. Finally Diana rang up and told me the flights were all booked, though I know they weren’t because Judy Arnott got one later.”
“Dickie’s very annoyed.”
“I know. They were trying to get me to pay for first-class tickets for them.”
Fleur made grunting noises and shifted about in her seat and the conversation halted, then continued again smoothly as Zoe asked her daughter about a picture she was thinking of buying.
They landed at Grantley Adams Airport in brilliant light, though a great sun was setting over a flat, green landscape. The temperature was in the eighties, without humidity. They drove slowly from the airstrip in three cars which had been waiting for them. After ten minutes they were on a narrow road bordered with fields of sugar cane stretching away on both sides. They turned between pillars and started up the drive of Braganza House.
Hugh Cotter, who was sitting next to Fleur in the third car, along with the Keiths’ nanny and the two children, told her, “It’s an eighteenth-century plantation house. Not very big. There’s an extension at the back, bigger than the original house. And a terrace with a view over the golf course and the sea. It’s quite fantastic.”
“You’ve been here before, then?” Fleur asked.
The car stopped and the two children, relieved to have room to run, bolted out, their nanny in pursuit.
“Ghastly sprogs,” Hugh muttered. It was true the Keith children had shown few signs of being likeable, but, Fleur thought, in the spirit of Grace and Robin, they probably weren’t to blame for it. Just the parents.
A tall, slender black woman stood on the steps of the house. Zoe Andriades advanced. “Marie,” she greeted her.
“Welcome. Welcome, madam,” she replied.
They all clustered into a high, marble-floored hall where stood, in a corner, the bust of a bewigged man in marble, with a shining brass plaque beneath. The children and the nanny retreated upstairs, the children protesting, Sue upbraiding. The rest of them followed Zoe down a short passageway on to the long terrace outside the house. To their right was the lower part of the house, as described by Hugh Cotter; beyond, a mile off, a silver line where the sea and horizon met.
Fleur was in a daze as drinks were served and the long table which had been set up in advance was covered with a cloth and cutlery. Food was ferried rapidly from the house. A man stood by to deflect insects and other predators from the table. She stood at the parapet of the terrace, gazing out. Behind her Valentine Keith and Sophia discussed various activities with which they might entertain themselves during the holiday. “If we can get my father off the golf course we might get him to take the boat to St Lucia,” Sophia was saying.
“How many will it take?” Valentine asked.
“Nine or ten,” she said. “The children might have to sleep on deck. Fun for them.”
“Hm,” he replied. “Hope so.” Then they all sat down. Zoe and Sophia began to discuss the virtues of the various Caribbean islands as dwelling places – Jamaica, too violent; Antigua, difficulties with residence qualifications; St Lucia, very hilly. Dickie Jethro and George Andriades were mostly silent. This was how it worked with such alpha males, Fleur noticed. They left the others to carry the burden of the conversation, but when they did speak, everybody listened.
Soon enough Zoe stood up, saying, “Fleur – let me show you where you’ll be.”
Zoe led Fleur to a suite of three rooms. In the white-painted sitting-room a large vase of flowers sat on a low table. Her hostess threw open the bedroom door, which contained a four-poster bed surrounded by light, white curtains. “The curtains are for those phobic about insect attacks at night,” she said. “And darling, don’t open the shutters. It lets them all in. Also there are bars on the windows, which is rather depressing. Not that there is anything to worry about. It’s very peaceful here and Arthur is in the hall all night. Ask him if you want anything.”
Fleur sat down on the white sofa for a short while, then had a shower in the luxurious bathroom and, early as it was, went to bed. In her room a pile of new books stood on a table, with water in a cooler and a basket of fruit. Her luggage had already been unpacked and put away.
She woke early next morning, fuzzy-headed, and went out on to the terrace, already cleared of last night’s table and with the dampness of a recent hosing just beginning to evaporate. She plunged into the pool. When she emerged Zoe had been there.
One of the servants brought coffee and croissants and little pats of cool butter.
Zoe told Fleur, “There’s a party tonight. Have you anything to wear or would you like to borrow something?”
Fleur, tired of offers to kit her out, said, “No, I have a dress, thanks. This is quick, this party.”
“I sent some invitations out before we left,” Zoe said. “Marie did the rest.”
Her portable phone rang and the Keith children burst noisily from the house with Valentine, who looked as if they’d woken him up. He sat at a table dealing with questions of water-skiing, snorkelling and sharks. Then he wearily delegated the rest to the nanny and drifted over to where Zoe and Fleur were sitting. Zoe was saying into the phone, “At least two weeks. George is here for a big rest and we do hope Dickie will try to take some time to relax.”
Valentine draped a casual arm over Fleur’s shoulders and asked, “How do you like it so far?”
“It’s wonderful,” Fleur said, standing up and going over to dive into the pool again. Valentine dived in after her. A third splash was Hugh Cotter, who came up under Valentine and somehow hoisted him out of the water and then dropped him back in with a splash. Fleur saw spindly Hugh as the wimpy schoolboy, his only skill swimming, confounding the class thug.
Valentine began to race up and down the pool. When Hugh surfaced he said, “Race?” but Hugh went into a convincing imitation of a dolphin, leaping out of the water, squeaking and squealing, and Fleur laughed so much she nearly drowned.
Hugh fell back in the water and turned up near Fleur. “I’ll take you sightseeing this morning,” he said. “Do you want to go?”
Fleur said, “Yes,” pleased she would have a plan ready when Valentine came up with some proposal such as a walk round a dark cave together or a car tour of the island destined to end up in a motel bedroom.
Others arrived – Fiona Jones, heavily swathed and wearing a large hat, predictably allergic to strong sunshine; Dickie, in a white shirt and trousers, his arm round Henry Jones, who wore a panama hat and held a bunch of faxes in his hand; Diana Keith, a honed and shapely figure in her swimsuit.
Fleur and Hugh explained their plan to Zoe and soon left. Hugh had told Zoe they were going to look round Bridgetown and promised they would be back by lunchtime. But in fact he got the chauffeur to ferry them down
hill past the golf course to the beach, where he hired a boat from an old man in a straw hat. While they were waiting for it he sank a glass of white rum at a beach bar while Fleur stood, stunned under the unimaginably blue sky, gazing over the blue, blue sea.
When she turned round Hugh was chatting with a tall, handsome, bare-chested man in a pair of white trousers. Something prompted her to turn back and continue to contemplate the view.
She was not particularly surprised to find out, when a small, ramshackle boat with an outboard motor turned up, that the handsome Bajan was coming with them.
“Don’t worry, Fleur,” Hugh said easily, interpreting her doubtful glance at the boat, “I spent half my holidays here as a boy. That right, Chris?”
“That’s right,” said Chris. He had brown skin, brown hair, a straight nose and broad lips.
Fleur lay back in the boat, listening to the water lapping at its side, not thinking about the sharks which might be no further away than the end of the boat. A water-skier passed with a happy cry. Water slopped into the boat. Huge white birds flew overhead.
“You happy, Fleur?” asked Chris.
“It’s heaven,” she said. She dozed, half listening to Chris and Hugh talking. What she heard confirmed her idea that their meeting had not been entirely accidental. Chris and Hugh had known each other for years and Chris was proposing to come to London to study law, which his parents did not want and could not pay for. Hugh and Chris were working on a scheme.
Down the coast they beached the boat and had fried chicken and beer on the beach. Hugh said, “Hope you don’t mind missing out on the old fort in Bridgetown, Fleur.”
“You could have told me,” she said.
“I’m in a position—” he began.
“I’m not the kind of person those kind of people like,” Chris told her. “You know – I’m an ordinary fellow – I’m Bajan – I work in a garage, drive a taxi. If I came round they’d think I came to rob the house.”
“I’m a poor relation myself,” Fleur said. “I keep wondering when they’re going to produce a big pile of mending or a sick relative for me to look after.”
“I didn’t like to ask,” said Hugh. “How does all that work?”
Fleur explained about her mother and Dickie Jethro, adding, “I still don’t know much about my father’s family.”
“Will you be changing your name to Jethro?” Hugh asked.
The idea surprised Fleur. “No. What for?”
“It’s an overdraft at the bank,” Hugh said bluntly. “So – what do you think, Chris?”
“Let’s get a bus up to St Joseph.”
They boarded a crowded bus and went up narrow roads bordered by rolling canefields and green fields of agile, skinny sheep. They passed a donkey cart driven by a man in jeans and a big straw hat and two goats being driven by a little girl. A boy darted from nowhere to chase a chicken which ran across the road into a field. Outside a wooden house stood a girl holding a huge tortoiseshell cat. It became hotter and hotter in the bus; everyone was talking and laughing.
At a stop where there were a couple of houses, one with chairs outside, they got off and bought some drinks. “We’ll go to the haunted house,” Chris declared. A narrow road, big enough for only one car at a time, led them to a gateway with pillars on either side. They walked up a wide, overgrown path bordered with trees, arriving at a vast colonnaded plantation house. They sat down on leaf-strewn steps outside a large, studded, locked front door and here they drank their cans of drinks. Then Fleur found herself alone. Chris and Hugh had drifted off. No need to ask why, Fleur thought, a little nervous, for she did not know who or what might be near her in the trees, or round a corner of the huge house which, she decided, was very likely to be haunted. However, thinking Hugh and Chris, no matter how urgent their private business, were not very likely to leave her in danger, she got out her book and began, philosophically, to read, looking up often to watch the birds flying up and down the drive between the bordering trees.
About half an hour later, and feeling lonely, she had read two chapters and Chris and Hugh emerged from the trees. No explanations were demanded by Fleur, or provided by them.
On the way back in the bus she felt disgruntled. At first she thought she resented being used by Hugh as a cover for his reunion with Chris, then recognised it was, as much as anything, her own feeling of not having anyone of her own with her. She had been offered luxury, sunshine, white sands, blue sea – all the ingredients of a fabulous holiday – but she really wanted someone to share it with. She thought of Dominic, no doubt walking some muddy Irish lane, and then of Ben – ah, Ben.
She must have sighed because Chris, sitting next to her, asked, “Something on your mind?”
“Lost love,” she replied.
“Ah – that old thing,” he said. “Don’t worry – lost love comes back.”
“Sometimes,” she said.
“And sometimes when it does you don’t want it any more,” he told her. And, though it was so hot, she felt a chill run down her back.
They came back gently in the boat. Hugh and Chris parted on the beach and as they sweated up the hill beside the golf course under hot sun, Hugh asked, “Do you mind not mentioning Chris?”
“I wasn’t going to,” she said.
“It’s difficult for Chris, living here. Not all that easy for me.”
“I won’t say anything,” said Fleur.
They sneaked past two people drinking at the far side of the terrace and dived into the annexe to wash and change for lunch, emerging to find the terrace full of people, all the resident guests and at least ten others Fleur had never met.
“Do come and look,” said Sophia coming up to her and taking her by the arm.
In the drawing-room Fleur saw through the doors, under bright lights on stands, a tall, thin young man and a very pretty, slender young woman with long, glossy hair sitting on a sofa together. His arm was over her shoulders, her head turned up towards him, in traditional wifely adoration. By the fireplace stood a photographer taking pictures of them, while on a padded stool at the couple’s knees sat a well made-up, immaculately coiffed woman, her face turned to them, her legs neatly crossed at the ankle to one side. She had a notebook on her knee and a tape recorder stood on the floor beside her. The photographer kept moving about taking pictures; the woman with the notebook looked up, enquiringly, listening.
Outside a very tall man in a white suit, his trousers held up with a striped tie, wandered up to Fleur and Sophia. “They don’t hurry, do they? Incredible attention to detail.”
“We’ve had to put lunch back,” Sophia told him. “I’m so sorry, Joe. Can you bear it? This is Dickie’s new daughter, Fleur. Fleur – Joe Cunningham-Roe, a true Bajan. How long have you been here for, Joe?”
“Don’t ask me – it’s timeless,” he said. “How do you do, Miss Jethro?”
“I think we can steal in,” Sophia said to Fleur. “Not you, though, Joe. You’re too big.”
“That’s all right. I’ve got a deal with Arthur to keep the drinks flowing in my direction.”
They stepped inside the drawing-room and stood to one side of the window, keeping out of the way, while outside on the terrace a small crowd assembled, looking in. It seemed surreal to Fleur, the people outside in bright sunshine looking in to see two others being photographed being in love.
The situation went, for her, from surreal to shattering when Sophia said, “So – what do you think of your brother in the flesh?”
She was speechless for a moment. “That’s my brother? That’s my brother in there?”
She peered at him, seeing the back of a dark-haired head and part of a long, pale face.
“I can’t believe it,” Sophia said. “Zoe didn’t tell you?” She looked to one side and saw her mother in the doorway of the drawing-room. “Fleur didn’t know,” she said.
“I know – I felt dreadful when I remembered. It’s all been arranged for so long I took it for granted we all knew. Do
you want to come and have a drink, Fleur? It’ll still be happening when you get back.”
As Fleur went off with Zoe she saw her father coming into the room through the doorway at the back, smartly dressed in a white suit, shirt and tie.
She took some wine and found Hugh Cotter at her side. “It’s Hello!, isn’t it?” she asked him.
“Looks like it,” he said. “I saw the interviewer at a chateau in France where I was trying to buy a picture. The host and hostess were an old rock star and his fourth wife, showing off their new baby. You know that’s your half-brother in there, don’t you?”
“They tell me so,” Fleur said. “I suppose the woman’s his wife or girlfriend.”
“His wife, the former Lady Annie Saxby, former supermodel. I think the super is a bit of an exaggeration. You obviously don’t read the right magazines.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, here you are now,” Hugh said. “Part of it all. ‘Mr Bobby Jethro and his wife Annie Saxby put their troubles behind them and look forward to a radiant future together.’”
Zoe overheard this and gave him a sharp look. “Bobby looked for you when he and Annie first arrived, but you were off scouring the countryside with Hugh,” she said to Fleur. “He was disappointed. So was Dickie.” She peered at Fleur. “I do hope you haven’t got sunburned. Where did you go, Hugh? I sent Charlie off to find you, but he couldn’t see you anywhere.”
“We took a boat, beached it and went up to Sugar Hill – that route,” he told her.
“What a strange choice,” she said. “It’s absolutely primitive. How did you get there?”
“We took a local bus,” he said.
“I don’t believe it. Really, Hugh, that’s almost irresponsible.”
There was nothing Fleur could do to take the heat off Hugh, who was in any case being punished for his indiscreet remarks about Hello! magazine. She wandered back to the drawing-room window where people were still assembled, now gazing at the sight of Dickie Jethro standing by the marble fireplace near a huge arrangement of flowers on a side table, his arm round his son’s shoulders. As they looked at each other the photographer moved around them with his camera, while the interviewer remained with the young woman, Bobby’s wife.
Connections Page 15
