‘Was I OK?’ she asked.
‘Lulubelle.’ He patted her bottom. ‘You’re always very much OK.’
‘I don’t mean cuddles in bed,’ she said crossly. ‘I mean the party. Was it all right? I was absolutely terrified. I’m sure I was the most hopeless hostess. I didn’t introduce a single person, not one. I could hardly remember the names of the people I knew perfectly well. And that dress was a disaster. I looked like a dead cabbage.’
‘Now, we’ve been through all this once already. You looked fine, not a cabbage in sight. People had enough to drink. The food was OK and it was served as efficiently as one can expect in this country. Everything worked well.’
‘That’s because I didn’t make any of the arrangements, you and Somjit did.’
‘But you were the hostess. The agricultural chaps were very pleased with the party and the Ambassador said something polite about you when he left.’
‘Did he? I don’t believe you. He hardly bothered to speak to me, and Helena looked bored and fed up the whole evening. There must have been something wrong.’
‘Nonsense. Everything was absolutely OK. Stop fussing about nothing, silly girl. Now, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Goodnight, darling.’ He turned his back on her and, quite soon, began to breathe deeply. Oh goodness, he’d sounded annoyed. It was almost a quarrel.
She loved Martin, but again and again she reflected that he did not take her seriously. No one did. She was just Martin’s wife and everyone saw her in that role, except for people like Johnny Case who saw her as the girl with the big bust. At least Martin protected her from lechers, just as mother had done at home.
For years Lucy had hated her breasts. She would have given anything for them not to have been part of her. They were always in the way and attracted the wrong people. But she had learnt to hunch her shoulders and dress in smocks. And avoid men. Mother had helped her avoid men.
Mother had obviously thought Martin too old to be a threat, and when she had finally noticed something in the air, it was too late. Her daughter had fallen in love. She had tried to warn Lucy that marriage to a much older man, to a stranger, was an enormous risk, but Lucy had, for once, ignored her advice.
Maybe I should have listened to her, thought Lucy in her darker moments. People had such old-fashioned attitudes here. In England she had mattered as a person in her own right. To all the professionals involved with her mother’s health, Lucy was a carer, someone who was in charge of another. In Maising she was not even in charge of her own house.
If only she had a baby, she could have something of her own to cherish.
Keeping as far from Martin as possible, she tried to get comfortable in the hard official bed. She would like to have gone downstairs for a drink of milk, but she had read in Woman’s Way that to encourage conception one should lie still after love-making. She had also read that it was difficult for older couples to conceive. At 28, she might not be old in child-conceiving terms, but Martin certainly was. She had used the Pill during their honeymoon, but it made her feel strange and puffy, so, without telling Martin, she had abandoned it.
She couldn’t talk about such a delicate matter with him. He had once said that he didn’t want any more children now his sons were grown up, but she was sure he’d be pleased if she became pregnant. She wanted to present him with a child to love, particularly as he didn’t seem to get on with his sons very well and never saw them.
But why hadn’t she conceived? Four months had gone by and each month brought disappointment, and an increasing unease that something might be wrong. She would have liked to share her worries. Consulting a strange foreign doctor was out of the question, too embarrassing. She had no close female friends she could confide in. Claire, being unmarried, was presumably more concerned about avoiding pregnancy. And Deborah was surely too talkative to be discreet. If only, Lucy sighed, she could talk it all over with Mother.
*
Some weeks later, as part of her official duties, Lucy visited an Embassy wife who had just had a baby. She was enchanted by the miniature creature and touched by the expression on the new mother’s face. She described the scene to Martin at lunchtime, but his mind was clearly on the conference he was about to attend on the other side of the island.
‘Well done, Lulu. Must’ve been a bit of a bore for you having to go over to the hospital. Glad you did your stuff,’ he said absently.
‘No, I loved it. The baby was so gorgeous. You should have seen its sweet little nails.’
‘Not my cup of tea. Thank God I’m over that stage. Ghastly business, all that screaming in the night and endless nappies.’
‘But we might have a baby ourselves one day.’
He frowned. ‘No, darling, I remember being rather specific about that. I thought we’d come to an agreement in the beginning. I really don’t want any more children. Quite enough trouble with the first two.’
She stared at him. ‘I hope you’re just teasing me as usual.’ Tears came into her eyes. ‘If we have a baby, I’ll look after it all by myself. I promise it wouldn’t be a nuisance to you.’
‘With the best will in the world, babies always disrupt the whole damn household.’
‘But the baby and I could go and sleep down the other end of the house. You wouldn’t hear a word. The air-conditioning is so loud – it drowns out all other noises and . . .’
‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No.’
‘That’s a relief. Seriously, Lucy, if we had a baby I’d been over sixty by the time he was due to go to Marlborough, and the FO pension wouldn’t pay for that sort of education.’
‘Don’t you see I wouldn’t want to send my child away,’ she said passionately. ‘He – or she for that matter – could go to a local school. If we were short of money, I could get a job or something.’
‘What as? Be realistic, Lucy, you’re not really qualified to earn much – unless you sell your beautiful body,’ he said, laughing at his own joke. ‘Now I must go, darling. The car will be waiting. Is my suitcase ready? I’ll be back for lunch tomorrow. Bye now.’ He kissed her quickly and left.
Lucy ran upstairs so that Somjit would not see the tears cascading down her face.
*
After lecturing herself all night about the need for full and frank marriage, Lucy promised herself that she would discuss the matter with Martin when he returned. She knew he loved her, he really did, so he was bound to change his mind. Today she would go out and forget the whole problem. That would be what the self-help gurus would advise.
Rather than spend too much time in her own house getting in the servants’ way, Lucy had taken to sightseeing with the Women’s International Club tours. She was not especially interested in archaeology, but Martin approved of her ‘joining in’. As the club was mostly run by Americans, it was enterprising and efficient.
The Excursions Chairwoman, as she called herself, was a handsome but frightening New Yorker named Bethany. This morning the decrepit coach hired from the Maising Bus Company was unusually punctual and Beth ticked off the members one by one on a list attached to a leather clipboard. It was always a relief if the ladies all turned up and if they all paid their dues promptly. Then Beth would be in a good mood and the excursion would be a success.
The ruined temple was found in its correct position several miles east of Maising’s only major highway and the site was considered by all to be suitably beautiful, interesting and photogenic. Souvenirs and refreshments were available – rather too available – but Beth soon dealt with the importunate small boys hawking trays of pottery shards supposedly excavated from the ruins, but probably manufactured and antiqued yesterday.
All went well until the group leader became dissatisfied with the barely intelligible version of English spoken by the local guide. A one-sided argument ensued, with Beth talking loudly and the guide looking embarrassed and puzzled. Finally he was dismissed and she gave permission for members to wander around the ruins o
n their own provided that they took their official club tourist handbook with them, and that they returned to the coach punctually at noon.
‘Oh God, I’ve forgotten my handbook,’ said Deborah to Lucy. ‘Please let me share yours or Beth will make me walk around with her and study every significant stone in the site. I’d prefer to wander quietly with you.’
After an hour of clambering among the crumbling terracotta pinnacles and admiring the rows of Buddhas, Lucy and Deborah were exhausted. They sat down in a small patch of shade beneath the tallest of the stupa and watched a young man who was taking measurements on the edge of the site and then photographing the ground.
Deborah grinned. ‘Cute, isn’t he? I usually find the island guys either too delicate-looking or too bucolic, but that one is something else,’ she whispered. ‘He’s kind of like a young bull-god among all these stone phallic symbols.’
‘A pretty human god, if you ask me. I thought we were here to study old stones rather than young men,’ said Lucy primly, but she continued to watch him.
Eventually he looked up and wiped his brow. Then he sauntered towards them. ‘Good morning, ladies. Awfully warm, isn’t it?’ he said in faultless English.
They smiled back and agreed that it was indeed hot. In reply to their questions, he explained that he was an archaeologist and was planning a new dig.
‘Wow, maybe you’ll discover some hidden treasures,’ said Deborah.
He smiled. ‘I doubt it. Most items of value have been looted over the years and sold abroad. But of course one always dreams of a significant find.’
Deborah insisted on taking a photograph and then, in turn, he insisted on photographing the two girls, rather to Lucy’s surprise. Afterwards he offered to show them over the ruins, but they declined politely, saying that they could not bear to spend another moment in the sun.
‘Well, maybe you’d like to see a peasant village instead. I’m just about to go and try to get hold of some coolies to help dig the first layer or two. It’s only fifteen minutes’ walk – mostly a shady path.’
Before Lucy could express any doubts about the wisdom of going off into the jungle with a strange man, Deborah sprang up and said she’d just adore visiting an unspoilt local community.
As they walked along under the palm trees, Lucy comforted herself with the thought that the jungle was really just a tropical wood and that both she and Deborah were bigger than Meng, their new friend. He informed them that he had studied at London University. He had even been a guest at the Maising Oxbridge Dinner, and claimed to have met Deborah’s husband. Lucy was reassured by this information, though she still distrusted his flashing smile and handsome good looks.
They soon arrived at a clearing where a dozen or so bamboo-thatched houses stood on stilts. A fat grandmotherly woman was sitting at the bottom of a ladder, pounding something on a stone, and a group of older men were lying in the shade chewing rhythmically, their teeth red with betel nut. A couple of goats were enclosed within bamboo palings and bedraggled chickens foraged amongst them.
As soon as she saw Deborah and Lucy, the old woman cried out. Then several more women and children appeared. Laughing and exclaiming, they ran forward to pinch Lucy’s pale skin and finger the skirt of Deborah’s dress.
‘They are interested in you,’ said Meng unnecessarily. He spent some time talking to the grandmother while Lucy and Deborah stood awkwardly, surrounded by chatter and curiosity.
‘They say your visit is most auspicious. They want to show you their prize possession,’ said Meng.
The women pulled them towards a life-size black statue on the edge of the clearing. Lucy could see that the figure was covered in garlands of flowers, and sticks of incense burned at its feet. As they drew near she was astonished to recognize not an eastern god, but a plump, elderly Queen Victoria seated on an ornate throne. In full regalia, including crown and long flowing robes, she was a magnificent sight.
Beside the statue squatted a thin old woman, dressed in a white blouse and black sarong. As if to compensate for her plainness she wore a great deal of silver jewellery, and an elaborate headdress covered most of her scrawny hair. The villagers bowed to her and she inclined her head, smiling a little and displaying the discoloured stumps of two lonely teeth.
‘She is Girah, the Spirit Woman, she looks after the statue,’ said Meng. ‘These people found it fifty years ago. It must have been looted from Singapore by the Japanese. It’s been here ever since.’
‘But shouldn’t they give it back?’ asked Lucy. ‘Surely it should be at some Embassy somewhere.’
‘I believe there was an official British investigation into the matter and the decision was to leave it here. You see, the village women regard the Queen as a fertility symbol – they make her offerings when they want to become pregnant. She’s very efficacious, I’m told, particularly if taken with one of the Spirit Woman’s potions. In fact, they have a whole secret fertility ceremony which takes place at night involving Queen Victoria and numerous other dead spirits.’
‘Fascinating!’ breathed Deborah. ‘But it doesn’t sound very Buddhist.’
‘No, these people are animists. They like to invoke the good spirits to help them in their everyday life, and then there are other malevolent spirits who have to be placated. For them Queen Victoria has become an honorary good spirit.’
Deborah laughed heartily, but Lucy stared at the statue. Apart from the incense and flowers, offerings had been made in the form of money and food placed in a dozen or so small copper bowls which sat around the queen’s feet. As the others returned to the centre of the village, Lucy reached quickly in her purse and dropped some coins into an empty bowl. The Spirit Woman gazed at her without moving. Something about her eyes made Lucy shiver.
Then she heard Deborah shouting, ‘Quick, it’s nearly noon. We must hurry back. Beth will get mad if we’re late.’
Sweating and exhausted, they reached their rendezvous to find the bus with doors closed and engine running. Beth was standing beside the driver. Looking extremely displeased, she opened the door for them.
Lucy had hoped to avoid any further contact with Meng, but, during the furore created by their late departure, he pressed a card into her hand.
‘Telephone me if you want to return and consult the Spirit Woman,’ he said quietly.
Lucy jumped quickly on to the bus without saying goodbye, but she put the card into her pocket.
Twelve
When Deborah took the children to swim at Poppy’s the next day, she regaled her hostess with an account of the sightseeing trip and the encounter with the handsome archaeologist.
Poppy showed small interest in antiquities, but she was delighted to talk about Meng. ‘Sweetie, you’re so right. Some of the islanders are simply divine.’
She was wearing such a glamorous poolside ensemble – one could hardly call it a swimsuit – that Deborah felt a pang of envy. It really was unfair that a fifty-year-old managed to be so damn thin.
‘Mind you, I never had a Maising fling,’ continued Poppy. ‘Although I was tempted by a member of the Royal Family – a long time ago.’
‘Tell me more,’ urged Deborah, hoping for juicy revelations. Poppy often hinted about past lovers but seldom delivered.
Poppy pursed her red lips. ‘One just doesn’t talk about these matters. It’d be fearfully indiscreet. I will tell you that Jock got very jealous. But he needn’t have been. I showed enormous restraint in the face of great temptation – the princeling was ten years younger than me. I’ve always fancied younger men, and a title does add that extra frisson,’ she chortled. ‘Talking of men, how’s that husband of yours?’
‘Much as usual,’ said Deborah shortly.
Poppy raised her eyebrows. ‘Still playing around?’
‘Reckon so.’
‘Oh dear. Perhaps you should consider taking a lover yourself, sweetie,’ she said seriously. ‘How about that young chap, that archaeologist you just told me about? He sounds most appetizin
g.’
‘Not my type – he was strange, too smooth and sophisticated,’ said Deborah, with a smile. ‘Anyway, I think he preferred Lucy. He kept gazing at her bosom, like everyone does.’
‘Poor child, yes. She is rather top-heavy. Trouble is, her shape’s so amazing that one can’t help staring. But you are much prettier, and wasted on that tiresome Johnny, spoilt by his mother. I always thought Muriel was a fool. Question is, I’ve often wondered, dear, why did you marry Johnny? I suppose because he’s rather good-looking. So many women marry for looks and it’s such a mistake. Far better to marry for money as I did, both times.’
Deborah laughed. ‘I think I married Johnny because he was kind of different, my first older man. I met him when he came to work for Selby’s Bank in Geneva. I had a dull, respectful Swiss boyfriend at the time. Johnny was exciting. Well, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was plump even then, but he really seemed to like me. It was flattering, you know. And my parents didn’t approve – that made him all the more desirable.’
‘Oh dear, how often that happens.’
‘But he’s not that bad, Poppy. I guess our marriage is no worse than a lot of others,’ said Deborah, feeling she had confessed too much.
When they had first met, it was Johnny’s all-demanding sensuality that had attracted her. He had taken her to bed on their second date and kept her in sexual thrall until they had been married two years, when she had discovered that he liked to spread his talents around other bedrooms. She should perhaps have left him then, but youthful pride had made her cling on to her marriage. She was sure that he loved her, that he would change, reform, quieten down, but he had not.
Poppy, who considered herself an expert on the male sex, was still giving advice on the subject. ‘Nevertheless, you need to bring Johnny to heel or find a better husband. As I said, I’d suggest an affair. It would give you a lift. In some regards, having a baby seems to be rather a lowering experience. All that animal earthiness – my friends say it makes one feel like a great fat cow rather than a desirable woman. To raise your feminine self-confidence, what you need is a sugar daddy. Someone who’d really appreciate you. I’ll put my mind to it.’ She waved her fingers again. ‘Look, I’ll have to go now, my sweet, another bridge tournament. If there is a pause between hands, I’ll try to jot down the names of a few prospective lovers for you.’
Tropical Connections Page 8
