‘But it is nothing to do with me. I just found them,’ she stuttered, suddenly afraid.
‘I know, Claire, but you may not be believed.’
‘But Jean-Louis will explain. He will vouch for me.’
‘It isn’t always convenient for Jean-Louis to take a different view from that of police.’
She stared at him. ‘So what shall I do?’
‘Pack them away again and when I have found out to whom they belong, I will come and collect, and restore them to their owners.’
She clutched his arm. ‘Can’t you take them now? I don’t want them here, I really don’t.’
‘No, that would not be wise. The caretaker watches everything by day. By night, he is often sleepy with whisky, so moving them one evening will be more discreet.’
She gulped. ‘But they’re just boxes. He won’t know what they are.’
‘Best to be careful,’ he repeated solemnly.
‘OK. Are you sure this is the right way?’
‘Yes, I am sure. Discuss this with nobody. You don’t have a maid yet, you said?’
‘No.’
‘Well, don’t hire one until I have moved the parcels. It will take a day or two.’
‘All right,’ said Claire, uncertain, reluctant and scared.
After he had gone, she began to go over and over the situation in her mind. She trusted Pel. Everything about him seemed totally honest, but still the situation worried and frightened her. She was tempted to search for the words ‘stolen Buddhas’ on the computer, but what if that was unwise? What if someone somewhere knew what she was looking up?
*
On Monday Claire returned to the office first thing. Jean-Louis was still away, thank God. She paced about in an agitated manner until Pel appeared.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
He smiled in a not altogether reassuring way. ‘I have found the owner, an important man. I shall collect the boxes tonight. Better if you are out to dinner.’
‘But who will let you in?’
‘Jean-Louis keeps a spare key to your apartment. I shall use that. Don’t return before eleven o’clock.’
‘OK,’ said Claire in a small voice, only half reassured. Of course Jean-Louis was bound to have kept a key, but the thought made her uneasy.
At dinner with Howard that evening she floated a general kind of idea about how the island worked. Were, for instance, the police highly regarded? Not really, he said absent-mindedly, usually best to solve your own problems. That’s what people do. Not such a bad idea, luckily they’re not a violent people, but mostly they deal with problems direct, a lot to be said for that.
Then he went on to talk of other matters.
Howard saw her to the lift of the apartment block. She knew he wished to be invited in for coffee, and no doubt coffee was all he would expect. But she was anxious to be alone, although in some ways his presence would have been reassuring.
Warily she opened her front door. The flat was calm and empty, and Grace was still sleeping on the balcony.
Claire rushed immediately to the bedroom and checked. Yes the boxes had gone. And that was that, she hoped. Thank God, the crisis was over. What a relief.
In need of comfort, she went to fetch Grace and sat for a long time on the sofa stroking the cat. The event had all been upsetting, unsettling and peculiar. The idea that she could have been held account for stolen antiques that were nothing to do with her offended her sense of right and wrong. The darker side of these paradise islands evidently. She longed to discuss the whole matter with somebody. Deb might be at home, but of course she wouldn’t be the best person in the world to confide in. Far too indiscreet. No the thing to do was just shut up and be thankful for Pel.
And Howard. He had asked her to go sailing next weekend. How normal, how reassuring. Maybe she could talk to him about the Buddhas, but, then again, maybe she had better keep quiet. As Pel said, the only way to keep a secret is to tell no one.
Eight
It was too hot, in Deborah’s view, to move from her sunbed under the beach shelter. A place in the shade under one of the four giant thatched mushrooms was much in demand among the less active members of the yacht club. Not even pretending to read, she rested her book face-down on her still too round stomach. She was observing: watching Sam drive his toy cars into the wheels of Jojo’s pram, watching her baby daughter’s quick gentle breathing, and watching Claire.
She could see that Claire, in turn, was watching Howard as he and Johnny rigged the Hobie Cat and hoisted the rainbow-coloured sail until it shivered in the faint breeze. One or two boats had taken to the calm water, but most yachtsman sat by the sea’s edge waiting for a worthier wind.
Deborah gazed at Howard too. He was a pleasant-looking man to observe as he competently went about his business. Though she had often fantasized about him in the past, now that she suspected Claire was the centre of his attention, Deborah thought it better to find a new hero for her dream world. A candidate had not sprung to mind, except sometimes, as now, she thought of the boy, Alex. When this happened, she quickly pushed the thought away.
She closed her eyes and opened them again to see three-year-old Sam moving purposefully towards a small girl digging a sandcastle under the next mushroom. He picked up a large plastic spade and looked as if he were about to bring it down on the other child’s head. Deborah leapt to her feet, but before she could reach her son he sat down suddenly and began to help with the digging.
‘Did you see that, Claire? That’s the first socially positive thing Sam has done in his entire life. He actually changed his mind about hitting Lisa. I’m so happy.’
Claire laughed absent-mindedly. Deborah sensed that she was not paying attention. The point about women friends is that they should be willing to listen to inconsequential remarks and take part in trivial conversation.
Deborah tried again. ‘Claire, how do you like my new swimsuit – do you think this cut makes my thighs look any slimmer?’
‘Oh, yes, much,’ said Claire vaguely, looking round. ‘Not that there was anything wrong with your thighs in the first place.’
Deborah smiled. ‘What’s on your mind, honey?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘How’s the cat?’
‘She’s fine, in complete charge, both of the flat and me.’
‘And is your job going OK? I always thought that Jean-Louis guy was kind of creepy.’
‘Oh, he’s all right to work for.’
‘You never told me what you actually do.’
‘I’m sure I did. I’m just numbering and cataloguing all his antiques, where they’re from, how old they are, you know. For instance, I measure the height of the Buddha statues, basic things like that.’
‘Interesting, but I’m sure it’s more tricky than you make out. Sure you can describe a Buddha by size and whether he’s standing, sitting, reclining, whatever, but how do you judge his age?’
‘Either I know or I guess – it’s to do with things like the shape of the head, the eyes and the finial – that’s the topknot. Then I check with Jean-Louis or in the reference books.’ Claire waved her arm. ‘Um, what else do I do? I feel I ought to work out a better way of keeping track of all the deals he does. You know, buying stuff from Thailand, Laos and Indonesia, and all around here, and then selling it on to dealers in London and America. His records and accounts are a bit of a muddle. I’m trying to sort them out, but there are certain records that Jean-Louis prefers to keep to himself.’
‘Mm. I wonder why he lives here rather than in one of those bigger countries, if that’s where his stuff comes from. Maybe he likes the casual way this place is run: no taxes, no rules. Johnny’s heard some dubious things about him.’
‘I don’t suppose he is Johnny’s type.’
‘Not exactly. So how do you get on with the toy boy?’
Claire appeared to hesitate for a second. ‘Pel? He’s great, rather sweet and so handsome. Pity he’s gay, really.’
‘M
aybe he likes girls too. But, seriously, Claire, I’d be kind of careful around Jean-Louis – business-wise.’
‘As I said, he’s OK. And he’s got plenty of friends in high places. They’re always coming to dinner, the police chiefs and other bigwigs, so he can’t be that dubious.’ Claire stretched her arms again. ‘Look, my love, it’s too hot to talk about work. I mean, I need to concentrate on my suntan. Will you put some cream on my back?’
Deborah paused to rub in the lotion and then, returning to the shade, she broached the subject that was uppermost in her mind. She summoned up a carefully casual tone and asked, ‘How are you making out with Howard, Claire?’
‘Fine.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘Yes, of course. Unusually considerate and reliable for a man. And very kind.’
Deborah ran some sand through her fingers. Then she plunged on. ‘How about passion? You don’t sound too passionate about it.’
‘Howard is just a friend. Anyway, I’m not into passion at the moment,’ said Claire lightly. ‘Causes too many problems.’
‘Like with that guy in England – the one you told me about?’
‘Yes, he was a problem. Plenty of passion but not much else good. Bit of a bastard, really, the kind of charming bastard that women go for. Anyway, it’s over. I’ve made a resolution to avoid newly divorced men, far too many hang-ups and worries with their ex. The ex always seems to hover over the relationship like a murky mist, even if she was the one who wanted the divorce in the first place.’
‘Yeah, stick with a nice, easy-going, uncomplicated guy like Howard,’ said Deborah. ‘He’s so sensible. What you see is what you get.’
Claire opened her beach bag and as she did so, two chunky key rings fell on to the sand.
Deborah picked them up. ‘Why do you have two sets of hotel keys?’
‘Oh, I’m looking after Howard’s while he’s sailing.’
Deborah stared at her. ‘Well, well, well. Two keys.’
‘Subject’s closed. Back off, Deb,’ said Claire with a grin.
‘OK, OK, sorry. But you seem kind of made for each other.’
‘You think so?’ Claire leant back in her chair and grinned. ‘Well, who knows what may happen? You’ll just have to contain your curiosity, Deb.’
*
Claire put on her beach shoes and walked across the hot sand towards Howard and Johnny.
Howard was sitting glumly on the edge of his boat in the shade. ‘Not enough wind for a sail,’ he said.
Claire smiled at him. ‘Shall we go for a walk then?’
‘A walk? In this heat?’
‘Well, why not?’
‘Rabid dogs, dead cats, voracious insects, snakes, open sewage and slightly strange people not too far from this area. You name it why not. It’s not all beautiful paradise beaches here, you know.’
‘We could stick to the path. I like the palm trees and the bougainvillea and we might see some unusual birds or something. What are those intense blue ones, or how about the amazing yellow ones? Then I’m told there’s a bird who behaves like a mini peacock, so cute – what’s that one called?’
‘Claire, I have to disappoint you, but I’m not well-informed about nature, sadly. I’ll take you to a bird-spotting place another time. Let’s just go for a swim. I’ll buy you a book about wildlife as soon as we get back to Maising. God knows, sometimes I think there’s too much bloody wildlife in this place.’
He took her hand and led her towards the quiet sea.
*
Deborah watched them and thought, why am I pushing her at him, when I’d rather be there myself? I must be some kind of crazy post-natal masochist. Or maybe it’s just a way of telling me that I should stick to my husband however big a shit he is.
She looked towards Johnny. His attention was directed elsewhere, as usual. He was staring hard at two newcomers. In particular he was staring at the girl, pale, thin and plain. It was Lucy, the Embassy bride with the astonishing bosom which now loomed out of a thin multicoloured T-shirt. Johnny’s eyes were fixed on the fish motif swimming across the front of this T-shirt.
Deborah took Sam by the hand and went over to welcome the new arrivals.
Johnny had ushered them all over to the bar where he was giving advice as usual. ‘Mustn’t stand in the sun if you’ve just come from the UK, and keep your shirt on even in the shade. Terribly burning sun, gets reflected off the sea and the beach.’ He droned on about the numerous cases of sunburn he had seen.
Deborah greeted Lucy and her husband. Poor Lucy, thought Deborah, as Martin brayed about what kind of boat he might want to buy. A widower approaching fifty with a long sad horse-face, he must be twenty years older than his new wife, and was said to have grown-up children whom he never saw. Why did Lucy marry the guy, grey-haired and dull? The poor girl was pretty silent herself, but what did they have in common?
For the rest of the day, when Deborah was not watching Claire and Howard, she studied the newcomers. They were an undemonstrative couple who sat side by side in the clubhouse; Martin reading a serious-looking paperback and Lucy absorbed in an old Maeve Binchy. Neither seemed interested in watching or participating in any sailing. Maybe they were afraid of sunburn, but they didn’t seem to be having any kind of fun.
Pushing the pram, Deborah walked with Lucy and Martin back to the hotel in the late afternoon. She noted that even in the quiet lane, they did not hold hands or even touch. Quite strange for newly-weds.
As usual Johnny had remained behind drinking at the Club with the Germans, who always began early with the beer. Summoning up all her reserves of patience, Deborah went through the ritual of putting the hot, tired children to bed. It was always an exhausting performance at home with Pima’s help, but, single-handed, after a day at the sea when the kids were always extra grouchy, Deborah found it an effort to keep from becoming grouchy herself. Jojo never even sat in the sand, but she seemed to have it in every crevice. And Sam was a little sunburnt on the back and shoulders which made him yell when she poured water on his hair.
She washed through the beach clothes and then had a shower herself, luxuriating in the feel of the cool fresh water on her skin. Once the children were at last asleep, she summoned the hotel babysitter and went down to the garden longing for her evening drink.
It would have been nice to have a husband to drink with, but of course Johnny was still at the Club. To cheer herself up, she ordered the most expensive cocktail on the card and sat down. Then she saw the new couple walking down the steps to the garden. They did not see her. Lucy’s pale face was flushed and Martin was gazing down at her smiling, a certain expression on his face. They both looked extremely pleased with themselves.
Deborah sensed immediately that they had just come downstairs after making love. She was both reassured by and jealous of their mutual happiness.
Nine
Lucy’s happiness was not unclouded. The intimate side of her marriage was indeed a success, as Deborah had perceived. Lucy had been an amateur in this field, as in many others, but sex was a great deal nicer and easier to cope with than anything else, she thought.
Quite apart from the culture shock of suddenly finding herself a married woman, she was now living on the other side of the world where the complications of her new, elevated status seemed almost overwhelming. Nothing in her previous quiet existence had prepared her for her role as the wife of a senior official – nor the enormous house with its vast unfriendly rooms and the ubiquitous patrolling servants. She was bewildered by the dull and formal parties, and the making of diplomatic conversation. And nothing had prepared her for the Ambassador’s wife.
She had been summoned to Mrs Blackerstaff’s drawing room on her first day in Maising. ‘Do call me Helena,’ had been the first command, as difficult to obey as the many that followed. Helena was tall and thin with dyed black hair cut in a straight fringe, a style obviously unchanged since her days at Girton.
She said, ‘We’re pleased that Martin
has married again. It’s so important for a Counsellor to have a wife, particularly when he’s Deputy Head of Mission. Of course, no one will expect you to do everything that Belinda did.’
‘Belinda?’
‘Belinda Crew, the wife of your husband’s predecessor. She was terribly active in the Embassy, such a tireless worker. We were a little disappointed when Martin arrived without a wife, so it’s a good thing he rectified matters during his home leave, though, I must say, my dear, you do seem a little young. But perhaps you are used to helping your parents entertain? I was just saying to the Ambassador that these days rather few new entrants or their wives come from families used to formal entertaining at home.’
‘No, er, we led a quiet life, my mother and I. She, my mother, was ill. I looked after her.’
‘Very commendable, my dear,’ said Helena in a dismissive tone. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘unfortunately, hardly good experience for diplomatic life. Still, I expect you went on a Going-Abroad course. The Foreign Office does so much to help people like you these days.’
‘No, I didn’t go on any courses,’ said Lucy. Then she added shyly, ‘There wasn’t time.’
Helena raised her bushy eyebrows. ‘My dear, I feel you should have made time. Never mind, I expect you’ll make up for your lack of experience by trying frightfully hard, won’t you? But I advise you not to take on too many tasks at once.’ She smiled in a manner intended to be kind.
Her teeth were rather yellow, Lucy noted.
Helena continued in full flow. ‘For instance, no one will expect you to be in charge of the Wives’ Group during the first month or two, as you’ll be too busy organizing your staff and giving a few parties to meet people. It’s terribly important to get to know the locals – their names and faces may seem a little similar at first, but you’ll soon learn not to mistake Mrs Ong for Mrs Ong-Li. Mrs Ong-Li is the one who’s terribly good about helping – we’ve had lots of fun organizing bazaars. You will run a stall at my bazaar next month, won’t you? I’m giving you an easy one, the cake stall. All you’ve got to do is telephone a few awfully nice people and ask them to make cakes.’
Tropical Connections Page 6
