At first Kirsty did try to argue but, looking at the alien environment and exhausted physically and mentally, she soon gratefully acquiesced.
She stayed awake for another four hours. It was at Harriet’s insistence. She explained the effects of travelling through a wide time zone. The jet lag could affect a person for days. The best way to beat it was to stay awake, on arrival, as long as possible. Then flake out and sleep for hours. That way the body’s mechanism adjusted quickly.
The Godfreys’ house was in a suburb called Oyster Bay, a few miles to the north of the city; an area previously occupied by the British administrators and before them the Germans. The house was heavily built from stone with broad verandahs all around and surrounded by a garden filled with banana trees, palms and bougainvillaea. There was a panoramic view through the trees over the ocean with a cluster of small green islands on the horizon. It was surprisingly cool and Harriet explained that the walls were four feet thick, with an insulating space in the middle. When it was built by the Germans around 1910 there was no air conditioning and they understood how to build for comfort in the tropics. When the British took over in 1918 they built English-style houses with thin walls and sweltered for the next fifty years.
After unpacking and taking a cold shower Kirsty joined Harriet on the verandah for a Martini served by a white-robed servant. Kirsty sipped cautiously and asked:
“You know why I’m here?”
Harriet nodded, her cheerful face suddenly serious. “Sure . . . Howard told me.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“At first I did.”
“And now?”
Harriet put her glass on to the cane table top, reached out and squeezed Kirsty’s hand. “No way,” she said firmly. “I guess you’ve faced all kinds of scepticism . . . you’ve got to accept that.”
“But not from you?”
“No. I talked it over with Howard . . . Sure, he thinks you’re chasing a hopeless dream . . . but he’s a man . . . what in hell does he know?”
For a moment Kirsty thought that she was listening to words of polite and ritual encouragement, but she looked up into the other woman’s eyes and saw sincerity.
“Please tell me why? Why you believe me.”
Harriet picked up her glass and thoughtfully took a gulp, then she picked up the frosted jug and refilled both glasses. Then she talked in a quiet, intimate way and Kirsty sat back and, through the background hum of crickets and other insects, listened to the words and drew solace and strength from them.
Harriet had given it much thought. Had identified with Kirsty’s feelings. She talked of the proven and astonishing mental rapport between identical twins; how one could suffer the labour pains of another even though separated by thousands of miles; of the super-human strength a mother can summon to lift a truck from a trapped child; of the scientifically proven phenomenon of extra sensory perception stronger in some than in others. Of the innate ability of some mothers to sense an illness in a child before the symptoms were apparent. She would not say that Garret was alive or whether he would ever be found, but she understood Kirsty’s conviction. She had a son of her own, Lester, who was twelve years old and presently visiting a friend’s house. Howard would pick him up on the way home. She told Kirsty that when she had first learned of her disbelief at the news of Garret’s death she had tried to imagine herself in a similar situation. She just hoped that she would have the guts and dedication to give everything up and go look for her son.
Her obvious admiration and support gave Kirsty a confidence she had not felt since first making that fateful decision three weeks earlier.
But it was a confidence quickly tempered when Howard and Lester came home. After introductions they went straight in to dinner and Howard brought her up to date. He was smaller than his wife, dark and wiry. Bald on top, with quick, intelligent eyes peering through thick spectacles. He spoke in a quick, matter-of-fact way, telling her that the Jaloud had sailed that morning for the Seychelles. He had tried unofficially to get the port authorities to delay them with an excuse over documentation or something, but Lascelles had good connections and probably routinely bribed the port officials. Howard had made enquiries at the yacht club and discovered that Lascelles was hoping to get a charter to take a team of ornithologists to the bird colonies on the Seychelle Islands. The job would last a month.
Immediately Kirsty asked how quickly she could get to the Seychelles and Howard grimaced. He explained that there was no airport although one was planned. So the only way to get there was by sea from Mombasa in Kenya. There was an Indian ship The State of Haryana which called in at the Seychelles once a month on its way to Bombay. That morning he had checked the schedule. It was due to leave in ten days. The passage took four days.
Kirsty felt deflated from the expectation of an imminent confrontation with Lascelles. She would now have to wait at least three weeks. Her disappointment showed and Harriet said gently:
“You knew from the beginning that it could be a long search one way or the other. Don’t be discouraged.”
“I’m not,” Kirsty answered. “It’s just frustrating to have missed that man by a few hours. I’ll catch that ship and just hope he’s still there when I arrive.”
“On that score I can help,” Howard said. “An acquaintance of mine used to work in Zanzibar with the American satellite tracking station. Since the revolution they’ve started to build a new one on the Seychelles. He’s there now. I can get in touch with him and he’ll keep me informed on the movements of the J aloud after it arrives. At least you won’t have to leave Mombasa without knowing if he’s there.”
“The question is,” Harriet asked, “if he does leave the Seychelles where’s he likely to go?”
Howard shrugged and explained that for the past ten years Lascelles had operated around the East African coast, Madagascar, Mauritius and the Seychelles, with an occasional trip to India or Ceylon. He was a small-time smuggler and gunrunner and sometimes got charter jobs which were usually short-lived due to his habitual drunkenness. He was reputed to be a good seaman, even when drunk. The problem for Kirsty was one of communication. If he did leave while she was en route how would she go after him? Ships were very infrequent. Did she have enough money to charter a boat if one was available?
Kirsty told him frankly how much she had and he grimaced again. Fortunately, passage on The State of Haryana was cheap, but her budget would not allow for chartering a boat big enough for ocean passages.
Kirsty shrugged. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.
Howard then said that he didn’t want to discourage her but she had to face reality. Assuming that Garret was alive he must have been kidnapped by Lascelles and his crew. Where could he be – and why? Lascelles reported the drowning twelve days after leaving the Seychelles. During that twelve days he had covered a minimum of one thousand miles to Dar es Salaam. A journey he would normally make in six to ten days depending on the weather. Hence theoretically he could have diverted by up to a thousand more miles. That covered a vast area from Somalia in the north to Mozambique in the south and scores of islands including Madagascar. After finding Lascelles she would have to persuade him or his crew to talk, and thereby incriminate themselves in a crime. How would she do that?
Again she shrugged. First she would find him.
As Howard started to talk again Harriet interjected. “Enough, Howard. She’s exhausted. Let’s talk again tomorrow . . . after all, she’s got ten days before that ship sails.”
Howard nodded and said quietly, “Kirsty, I admire your determination. But it’s only right that I tell you what I think. To me it’s a wild goose chase. I think your son is dead. Everything – everything points to it. Also I’ve talked to Lascelles and he’s one hard and mean character. You have to know what you’re up against. I’ll help you any way I can officially or otherwise, but once you leave here to get that ship you’re on your own and believe me, there’s some rough people in this part of the
world.”
Kirsty’s eyes were almost closed in weariness but now they opened wide and she leaned forward and said:
“There was a stray cat living in a back yard near to my apartment. I used to throw it food. Well, it had kittens once and I saw a dog . . . a big, mean dog go for those kittens. That cat just about clawed it to shreds . . . I don’t have claws but I’m not afraid of any man who’s harmed my son.” She turned to Harriet. “I can’t tell you both how grateful I am for letting me stay in your home and giving me such support.” She looked at Lester across the table. Short, like his father, but with a round face and serious eyes. “Maybe I’m crazy and maybe my boy is dead, and maybe there’s no God, and maybe that man Lascelles is the devil himself . . . but I’m gonna talk to him.”
Her eyes narrowed, but not from tiredness, and Lester grinned and said, “In Swahili they would call you ‘Memsahib Kali’.”
Howard laughed and explained. “It means ‘fierce’. It’s a word used to describe certain cats . . . like leopards. Now you’d better get some sleep. First thing in the morning we book your passage to the Seychelles.”
Chapter 6
Lani Sutowo was lifting cans of peas on to a high shelf when she heard the discreet cough. She turned to see a man in the doorway dressed in khaki shorts, a blue singlet and Jesus sandals. He was tall, with short black hair greying at the temples. She moved to the counter.
“Yes?”
He walked forward and held out his hand.
“I am Ramesh Patel from Bombay.”
Lani was a bit confused by this formality. She murmured, “Lani Sutowo from Sumatra.”
They shook hands and then stood looking at each other in a slightly embarrassed silence. He had a piece of folded paper in his hand.
“You want something?”
“Yes, supplies.” He smiled and unfolded the paper. “I’m told you have most things here and not too expensive.” He held out the paper and she took it and read the neatly written list.
“Yes, we have all this. It will take a little time to get together.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
She started moving around the store collecting various tins of food and vegetables. Over her shoulder she said “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“No, I’m just passing through.”
“Oh . . . but there is no boat in.”
“I have my own, a yacht.”
She turned, surprised. He did not look like the other occasional yachtsmen who passed through.
“Where are you going?” she asked, putting tins on the counter.
“To the Seychelles, then East Africa, then the Mediterranean . . . and so on and so forth.” He said it diffidently, as if unsure.
“You must have a big yacht.”
“No, she is very small – just under forty feet.”
She turned back to the shelves asking “You have a big crew?
“No. Only myself.”
Again she turned in surprise. “Only you! All that way?”
He smiled again and shrugged and then moved to help her lift packets of spaghetti from a high shelf.
It took about fifteen minutes to fill his order and they talked all the while, the conversation becoming easier with each passing minute. She elicited the fact that it was his first voyage and how in the opening days he had been terrified to be in the open sea and how he would have turned back if the wind had not been so strong and driving him always forward. About the moments of panic when a forestay had parted and an hour after repairing it, the roller reefing had jammed while he tried to take in sail. He told her of sleepless nights until he learned how to use the self-steering gear properly and the constant worry that his navigation might be wrong and he would hit the notorious reefs to the west of the Nicobar Islands. Finally he described the easing of tension when the weather improved and the sea calmed and he had four days of quiet sailing and the utter relief when he sighted Male Atoll and knew that his navigation had been correct.
A big carton was on the counter filled with supplies. She asked “When will you leave?”
“Tomorrow at first light,” he answered with a wry smile. “The forecast is good, force two to three from the north-east. Besides . . . I’m scared that if I don’t leave soon I’ll get cold feet.”
She smiled at that, impressed by his honesty, then she picked up an abacus and, with flicking fingers, calculated the bill. He paid it, then shook hands with her again, said goodbye, picked up the heavy carton and staggered to the door.
“Good luck,” she called out, and he turned and gave another of his wry smiles.
In the evening after the store closed she walked down to the port. There were two inter-island schooners moored alongside the Customs jetty and beyond them a white hulled yacht with a flat transom and the name Manasa picked out in blue letters. There was no one on deck and she sat on a bollard and inspected the boat. She knew little of boats as such, but despite her age was practical and observant. She quickly saw through the new paintwork and varnishing to the old wood beneath. She decided that it was very ancient but it squatted confidently in the clear water like an old dowager in pancake make-up.
She heard footsteps and turned to see Ramesh coming down the quay carrying two large jerry cans. He smiled at her and she jumped and helped him swing them onto the deck.
“Spare diesel,” he said as he started to lash them to stanchions. “Have you finished for the day?”
She nodded. “I came to see your boat. Is it very old?”
“Yes. Older even than me.” He straightened up. “Would you like to see around her?”
“Yes, please.”
He showed her around with obvious pride and she noticed the neatness. Everything in its place except for a thick book with a tattered black cover which lay on the saloon table. She asked several questions, showing an obvious and intelligent curiosity. After the little tour they sat at the saloon table and, while he opened two beers, she read the title of the book: The Boatman’s Manual.
“How long,” she asked, “will it take you to get to the Seychelles?”‘
He put two glasses of cold beer on to the table and said “If the monsoon holds steady . . . about two weeks.”
It was nine o’clock in the morning twenty days later that Jack Nelson, sitting on the verandah of his bungalow high on Mahé peak, saw the white sail for the third morning running. At that time of day he always took his breakfast on the verandah, always listened to the BBC world news on his Grundig radio and afterwards always scanned the broad vista of sea through his ex-Navy binoculars. For two minutes he studied the tiny scrap of white, then he finished the last piece of toast and. with a grunt, pushed himself to his feet. He was a fat man with short grey hair and pendulous jowls. He was shirtless and the loose flab around his waist showed that he had once been even fatter. He moved ponderously into the lounge, sweating slightly, for even at an elevation of 1,200 feet the hot air was motionless.
He picked up the phone and called his friend Dave Thomas, secretary of the Seychelles Yacht Club.
“Hello you old sod. How’s the head this morning? . . . Serves you bloody well right . . . listen, it’s still there. About two points further to the east . . . yeah, the current would have moved it a couple of miles . . . no, not a bloody breath, even up here. Listen, the Lady Esme does her Praslin ferry trip today, maybe she ought to divert and take a look. This lull could last for days . . . well tell ’em old cock, you are the Secretary and all that . . . yeah, she’s about fifteen miles out . . . right, see you at lunch for a snort . . . cheers.”
He cradled the phone and moved towards the kitchen. Half way across the room he abruptly stopped, his brown, sagged face contorted in pain. He stood still for over a minute and then his expression slowly relaxed and he exhaled slowly in relief.
At six in the evening the Government launch Lady Esme towed the yacht into Victoria Harbour. Jack Nelson and Dave Thomas walked round from the Yacht Club to the Customs quay and watched her being w
arped alongside. Dave was short, bald and fat, but not flabby. He sported an astonishingly long handlebar moustache. When he saw the lissom young Oriental girl standing on the deck next to the middle-aged man with the embarrassed expression he whistled through his teeth and said to Jack, “I wonder where he got a lovely little bint like that?”
Jack grinned. “An old boat and a young female crew. What more could a yachting man want?”
“By the look of things an engine that works,” Dave answered.
They soon heard the story. The girl was driven off in a Land-Rover and a Customs man went on to the yacht for an inspection. Meanwhile, Philip Mondon, the harbour master, strolled over and told them all about it. The yacht was Bombay registered and being sailed around the world by a retired Anglo-Indian babu, who knew just about nothing of the sea. The girl had stowed away in the Maldives, or that was the babu’s story and she confirmed it. At any rate she had no passport or papers except an Indonesian ID card. She would be detained pending a decision whether to send her back. The boat’s engine was about forty years old and had broken down about fifty miles out. They had been drifting for five days and were down to their last gallon of water.
“Bloody fool,” Jack grunted. “But what do you expect? Those Anglo-Indians are all useless.”
“Give over, Jack,” Dave said, embarrassed because all Seychellois including Philip Mondon were racially mixed to one extent or another. “You’re not in Africa now.”
“You know what I mean,” Jack said unrepentant; and to Philip Mondon, “You lot are OK, Phil; come and have a drink at the Club.”
Mondon shook his head and winked. “Can’t Jack. Got a date in an hour – and she’s better looking than you two.”
They turned and walked towards the Yacht Club and he watched them and shook his head resignedly, but in good nature. A lot of ex-Government officials had retired to the Seychelles following independence of the East African possessions. They were not bad people but they often retained their colonial attitudes and prejudices.
Blood Ties Page 6
