After breakfast on the day before her flight she asked for a hire car. ‘One of those childish cars with no roof and no doors, but automatic please’. The open-topped moke was probably more appropriate for people half her age but she felt it would help her recapture something of the optimism she had felt the year before.
“Thank you Pearson.” She said to the concierge as ten minutes later he jumped out of the car and helped her negotiate the high sill into the driving seat. She turned the key, pushed the gear lever into drive and headed towards the open road.
She took the first turning off the main highway and headed into the centre of the island and entered another world. The roads were more pothole than tarmac; the vegetation, spreading over the road sides so she could reach out her hand and touch it, was lush and exotic. The tropical air buffeted her face and tangled her hair, she wished she had escaped earlier from the wealth and privilege that dominated West Coast life. As she passed through groups of houses too small to be called villages she waved at the men working on the road side or drinking in the rum shacks. She drove up steep inclines and down even steeper ones. She felt free and relaxed, the open car enabling her to talk to the people she passed, explaining more than once that no thank you, she didn’t need directions, she wasn’t lost, she was enjoying exploring their lovely island.
As she drove up a particularly steep and rutted hill, the ocean far below here to her right, she remembered it from a site-seeing tour she had taken the previous year. She knew it would be worth the effort to reach the top because she remembered the view and a magnificent avenue of ancient mahogany trees. When she reached the top she patted the steering well, elatedly congratulating the little car. She clambered inelegantly out and walked down the mahogany avenue.
The next day she would be back in England, cold and alone, but she had this one afternoon to soak up the exoticism, the beauty and the warmth of the island. She hadn’t walked far when she saw a sign ‘Abbey Open to the Public’. She turned down the drive to find not an abbey but a Dutch looking house. She could see the remains of a windmill and buildings with chimneys. It took her a few moments to realise it must have been a sugar plantation. She paid her entrance fee and walked around the ground floor imagining the differences between the lives of the people who had lived in these well-furnished and richly ornamented rooms and those of the people who had worked to earn them the money that made that life possible. She shrugged and tried to ignore the images that streamed through her overactive imagination of the system of slavery that had made estates such as this, and the island, what it was.
She stood for several minutes looking at a large map of the island hanging on a corridor wall. It was a while before she realised her head was tilted to one side as, on this map, north was to the left not at the top and without realising it she had moved to obtain the familiar triangular shape of the island.
“Things have changed a bit since then.” An elderly gentleman was standing next to her.
“Indeed.” She answered in a noncommittal manner. She wasn’t sure she was in the mood for conversation but she gave him polite attention as he pointed out where the Abbey was on the island, the extent of the original plantation and various other landmarks.
“Let me show you this.” He moved into the room that appeared to be a library and pointed to a large diagram of a family tree. “Many interesting people have lived in this house.”
Anya felt the goose pimples rising on her arms and spreading down to her legs as she saw, many times through the generations, the name ‘Cave’.
“So many called Cave.” She commented tentatively, wondering where this conversation would lead.
“My name is Cave and that,” he pointed to a name high up on the chart, “is my great great grandfather.”
She held back from telling this old man her name, instead opting for a non-committal “It’s a big family then?” Her attention was fierce she listened to him explaining the history of the house with a well-rehearsed and obviously frequently told tale of romantic intrigue, fortunes made and lost, murder and questionable lines of inheritance.
“I’ve taken far too much of your time Mrs…?” He said as his story came to its conclusion.
“Funnily enough my name is Cave.” She said as lightly as she could.
“There are a great many of us around the world.” He replied. “Where is it you come from?”
“Merseyside, in England. My grandfather was Albert Cave.” She paused before adding tentatively “I have an uncle, Vincent Cave.”
“We originally came from Somerset so I can’t see there is a connection. But you mustn’t let our lack of family connection stop you enjoying my home. Stay as long as you like.”
She watched the old man walk back through the house, no doubt to give such a welcome to another visitor. She walked out into a courtyard and sat under a tree which seemed so old that Mr Cave’s great great grandfather must have sat underneath it canopy.
She envied Mr Cave’s sense of possession and belonging. She had never put down roots. In her mind she listed the places she had lived, counting on her fingers; Tennyson Street, Hall, the flat in Liverpool, The Beeches with Geoff, the cottage, the ghastly flat, Peter’s parents’ house and now another country cottage. She decided that she needed somewhere to call hers where she could happily live for the rest of her life.
It was some time before she walked back through the overgrown gardens and down the mahogany avenue awed by the fact that she had met the great great grandson of a man who would have walked under these trees when they were young, perhaps had even had them planted. She reached the car and sat for a long time, staring at the coast stretching into the distance far below her. She had no idea who her father was, let alone her great great grandfather. And there would never be another generation below her on any family tree.
Eventually she pulled herself together and started the car, driving back down the steep and rutted track she followed the road more or less in the direction she had come, but her mind wasn’t on the route, her head was filled with the need to find a home that could mean as much to her as the Abbey meant to that old man.
She soon realised she had missed the turning back to the west coast and she had no idea where she was. She stopped the car and looked at the map. None of it made sense, none of the roads seemed to be where they ought to be. She drove off eventually reaching a small town which, in contrast to the tiny hamlets in the middle of the island, was deserted. She could recognise no names on the signpost at a junction so chose the wider of the roads. She was following the coast with steep, wooded hills to her right and the Atlantic to her left. It was rugged, wild and beautiful.
She parked under a clump of pine trees at a place where she could access the beach. It stretched north and south as far as she could see, and it was completely deserted. She understood why these beautiful sands were deserted when every scrap of sand on the west coast was covered in sun loungers as she watched the waves rolling in from the thousands of miles of Atlantic Ocean and relentlessly crashing over the low rocks at tide level. No one could swim in this sea so there would be no tourists, no hotels or resort developments. This wildness would remain. She loved it.
She watched the breakers crashing onto the rocks just off-shore, aware that the only noise was of wind and sea. Her optimism began to return; she would find somewhere to call home, something would happen to change her life and she would, one day, be settled and content. She walked slowly up the beach, she had no idea for how long or how far, she just knew that she was happy for the first time since she had boarded the flight three weeks before. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the luxury that her money allowed it was just that she knew it could never be enough.
She turned back towards where she had parked the car and felt a moment’s panic as she saw everything wreathed in a mist of spray. She had no idea where the car was, she had no idea how long it would take her to get back to it. The sun was sinking behind the hills and she knew it would be dark very q
uickly. For an instant she wished she was safely sitting in the bar at the hotel watching the sun going down, being served a second rum punch by the perfectly trained waiters and listening to the far gentler waves that lapped the sandy beaches of the Caribbean coast.
She was walking into the wind, shivering, not from cold for it was never cold on the island, but from anxiety. She followed her footsteps in the sand as the visibility grew worse in the gathering gloom of evening. Eventually she saw, with relief, her footprints leading from the road. Her knees folded and she found herself on the ground, sobbing.
‘Stupid woman,’ she eventually told herself, ‘pull yourself together.’ She stood up, dusted the sand from her legs and walked up the slight cliff to the car.
She swung herself over the rigid bodywork of the moke and settled into the driving seat trying to turn the headlights on. She fiddled with knobs and pressed switches up and down until light burst from the front of the car. “Stupid woman.” She repeated, out loud. She couldn’t drive back across the island, in the dark she would soon get lost in the maze of unlit roads with so many junctions and so few useful signposts. She would have to find somewhere to stay without having to drive too far.
She edged the car forward, driving carefully southwards. There was no other traffic, no cars, no vans, not even the pedestrians that crowded the roads of the other coast at dusk. Visibility was limited even with the headlights on full beam and she only just saw the sharp right turn in time. She felt as though she was driving in a tunnel, she had no sense of the angle at which she was climbing, only that the engine struggled. She was travelling so slowly she saw another bend in good time, “Lucky.” She said to herself as it was a sharp bend and there appeared to be a steep drop to her left. She was still climbing. She was concentrating so hard on keeping to the road and avoiding the worst of the potholes that she let out an involuntary scream when what looked like two small children ran across the road in front of her. The car stalled as it skidded to a halt.
“Monkeys you stupid woman. Monkeys.” She started the car again, offering a silent thank you to no one in particular when the engine caught.
‘’Stop it. Get a grip.’ She realised she was talking aloud.
She followed the road as it turned to the left and climbed. She had no idea where she was heading but she finally saw lights ahead. It had seemed like an hour since she had climbed into the car but it could have been no more than five minutes.
She stopped by a roadside rum shack, ridiculously relieved to see signs of civilisation.
“You lost madam?” It was a polite enquiry from the man sipping beer from a brown bottle.
“I’m afraid so.”
“It’s a bit late to be on the road.” His companion joined in the conversation.
“I think I need to find a hotel. Is there one nearby?”
“Lucky you find yourself here madam, very good places to stay in Bathsheba.” Anya was just able to make out his words spoken in broad Bajun.
“Can you direct me?”
The first man stood up and gave what seemed to be complex directions and, since he spoke quickly, she caught barely half of them. She didn’t even hear the name of the hotel. It was obvious, though, that she should turn off the road and head downhill again.
It was the steepest slope she had driven all day, steeper even than the one down from the mahogany avenue, she only just made the right turn at the bottom. She turned left at a T junction and the road then turned sharply to the right again. It was pitch black, her headlights barely showed her the road let alone what that road was passing through, she had no idea whether it was a town, a village or open country. Shapes loomed in the darkness, everything eerily out of focus in the spray mist. The road turned upwards again and then to the right. She could hear waves and surf crashing against rocks but she had no idea whether the noise was to her right, her left, behind her or ahead. She felt as though she had been driving round in a circle and wondered whether she would be pleased or embarrassed to come across the two men outside the rum shack.
The faded sign with an arrow pointing to the left and the single word ‘Hotel’ would have been very easy to miss. She turned the steering wheel and headed down an even narrower road, avoiding vast potholes wondering whether the place could still be in business. She pulled into the car park relieved that there were lights on and the hotel appeared to be open. She grabbed her handbag and climbed out of the car.
“I’m afraid I’ve got into a bit of a problem.” Anya spoke to the woman behind the bar with as much dignity as she could muster, aware that she wore only shorts and a t-shirt and had no luggage.
The woman said something which Anya thought must be “You’re lost.” It didn’t sound like a question.
“Not really. I think I know where I am it’s just that I can’t get back to my hotel tonight.” She was determined not to admit how stupid she had been.
“Where are you staying?” Anya named the resort, aware that its name probably meant that her bill here would be doubled.
“You could get a cab if there was one. But there isn’t one this side. I could phone your resort and they could send a car over but the phone not working.”
“There must be a phone nearby.”
“Mr Henderson, he got a phone. You could ask him. But he away.”
Anya was wondering if the woman was being deliberately unhelpful when she added “Mr Henderson’s man. He could drive you back.”
Anya knew that that would have been the sensible thing to do, if allowing oneself to be driven by a stranger across the pitch dark island was in any way sensible. “How would he get back?”
“He’d manage.”
If she allowed Mr Henderson’s man to drive her back she could be back in her room in less than an hour, she could shower, dress for dinner, be back in her known world. It would have been the sensible thing to do. Anya looked around at the run down hotel and a thought was planted in her mind. Why would she want to do the sensible thing?
“Thank you for your suggestions but I just need to stay here tonight, if I may?”
The woman nodded. “You may.” Then her tone softened. “You’re lucky you found your way to Edna’s Place.”
“It certainly was more by luck than judgement.” Anya responded to the woman’s change of tone. “There were two men up on the main road, they tried to direct me here but I’m afraid I couldn’t really understand what they said.”
“It takes a few years to get used to the Bajan way of talking. I still have difficulty and I’ve been on the island for years.”
“Are you Edna? You said this is called Edna’s Place.”
“Oh no dear, Edna died before the war but this was her hotel for so many years it will never be anything but ‘Edna’s Place’. It’s officially ‘Fishermen Rock’ but no one local calls it that. You can call me Miriam.”
The way she phrased it made Anya think that her name wasn’t really Miriam she just liked to be called that.
“Anya Cave.” She formally shook hands with the older woman.
“How do you do Anya Cave? Cave, that’s a good Barbados name. Have you family on the island?”
She could have said ‘I’ve never looked into it.’ Or ‘Maybe, do you happen to know a 57 year old man called Vincent Albert Cave?’ But if she said that she would have so much more explaining to do. “Not that I know of.” It seemed the simplest answer to give.
“Are you here with anyone?”
Anya was relieved the conversation had moved on.
“No. There’s just me.”
“I’ll show you up to your room then.”
Anya followed Miriam up a flight of dimly lit but wide stairs which would once have been elegant. The feeling that she was on 1930s film set was reinforced by the black and white prints of film stars that lined the walls of the corridor on the first floor. She recognised Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. They seemed absolutely at home.
“The best room in the house.” Miriam opened a door and sw
itched on a light.
“It’s beautiful.” Anya looked around the room taking in the quality of the furnishings, the generously sized bed, the large window covered by a mosquito screen. She could see out across a narrow balcony to the sea where the moon was just rising above the horizon to be reflected in the waves. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”
“Come down when you’re ready.”
“I’ve no other clothes.”
“No problem. No other guests.” Miriam’s laugh was gentle as she closed the door behind her.
Anya stared out into the dark and watched the moon grow smaller as it climbed in the sky. Apart from its reflection on the wave tips everything was black. She listened to the surf, the waves alone broke the silence. There was no piped music, no falsetto laughter from a bar, no chattering of frogs, nothing. Pure, natural, peaceful, the contrast with where she had spent the past three weeks could not have been starker. She sat for more than an hour staring out at the dark sea, watching the moon’s reflection move across the waves. England seemed a very long way away.
The dinner Miriam cooked was simple but excellent. A dish of the best soup she had tasted, ‘spicy coconut’ was the answer when she asked what it was, was followed by a simple plate of grilled fish with chips. But the fish was so fresh it must have been swimming in the ocean a few hours before and the chips tasted of potato.
“Thank you Miriam, that’s the best meal I’ve had on the island.”
“I should think so. You get fancy food over there but it won’t be fresh and won’t be cooked honestly.”
Anya was relaxed after a whole bottle of wine and the excellent food.
“I don’t mean to pry but why aren’t you full? It’s Christmas. Every hotel is packed.”
“We were full last Christmas. But this year I didn’t want guests.” Anya, sensing a tragedy, waited for the woman to speak, or not, as she wished. Eventually Miriam began to talk. She told Anya how she and her husband Gary had moved from the north of England to the island in the 60s, how they had made a good living with a bar in the city.
Highly Unsuitable Girl Page 26
