‘Of course I want to, but I can’t wait till next week.’
‘You just have to.’
This type of conversation went on every time they met. Deborah grinned, recalling his insistence, the excitement, the passion, and recalling some of the risks they took: making love in the sea, in Jock’s boat and, once, dangerously, in the pool-house while the gardeners wandered about outside. Surely one day someone must guess, even if she and Alex weren’t actually caught in the act.
But to hell with everyone else. Addicted to Alex, she was flowering again after a long dormant period. As a feminist, she was reluctant to admit that this lusty passionate love – from a mere boy – had restored her faith in herself.
Though she had remained outwardly unchanged, cheerful and exuberant, her self-esteem had sunk lower and lower during the years of Johnny’s philandering. His indifference during her pregnancies, his lack of interest in the babies, had hurt her in a way she hardly acknowledged. During the earthy process of childbearing, she’d become merely a fat, fertile animal, a milk-machine, a nursemaid, hardly a woman at all. Now, miraculously, she felt desirable and feminine again.
She turned the page of her book. Yes, it was an appropriate choice of novel, she thought. The fictional student consoled and sustained his tutor who also had an unhappy marriage. Deborah smiled when the tutor/heroine confessed that though she was behaving very badly, it sure was a whole lot of fun.
Continuing to read, she looked up now and then, but the children and Pima were still out of sight.
Some time later, she heard Sam’s voice. He was running up the beach towards her as fast as his little, fat legs would carry him. Pima was hurrying after him, Jojo in her arms. Deborah smiled, wondering what new shell or cuttlefish bone Sam had found to show her.
‘Mummy, I got tell you.’ His brown eyes shone.
‘Yes, honey, what?’
‘There’s a dead man on the beach, just round there.’
Deborah felt instinctively that he was speaking the truth. ‘Oh God, let me just talk to Pima a minute.’
‘Pima’s scared. I’m not scared,’ he said excitedly. ‘Pima said not touch him, so I didn’t.’
‘Good boy. You did the right thing to come straight away to tell mommy.’ She gathered him in her arms and held him tight, but he did not seem to be in the least perturbed by his experience.
Pima’s pretty round face was grey with fear. ‘Oh, madame, very bad. Man dead. Madame no go look.’
‘OK, OK,’ said Deborah as calmly as she could. ‘We must get hold of the manager so he can call the police. Is the dead person a white man or an island man?’
‘Pima don’t know. Not white man. Maybe not Maising man. Maybe Thai, Vietnam. Very bad. Madame no look,’ she repeated as if Deborah were about to rush down and gape at the corpse.
‘Please go wake the manager, Pima. You know where Mr Kahn lives.’
‘Pima don’t know.’
The girl, usually quite sensible, seemed to have gone to pieces.
‘Well, find one of the maids or a gardener and tell them to get him,’ said Deborah.
Eventually the manager, an expatriate Pakistani, arrived on the verandah, rubbing his thin hands in an agitated manner.
‘Oh my goodness, Mrs Case, what a terrible thing! We must make sure that the club members are not disturbed by this matter. I am calling the police now and they are promising to be very quick and quiet in removing this object from our beach.’
To her surprise, a silent police ambulance appeared within fifteen minutes and left with a covered stretcher soon after. Sam had wanted to help them find the body, but she’d restrained him with the promise of food. Alerted by the drama, all three waitresses arrived on time that morning and breakfast was soon ready to be served. Deborah ordered French toast for Sam as a treat and he tackled it with his usual gusto, covering his face and fingers with honey and generally behaving as if nothing in particular had happened.
While they were eating, a police officer came to interview them. He wore a skin tight khaki uniform and a black holster containing a large revolver. Under his peaked cap, he had a haughty, withdrawn expression.
Mr Kahn acted as interpreter. ‘Mrs Case is having nothing to say and her little child is too young to be of assistance. Mrs Case is not the type of lady who would know anything about such a matter, I assure you, Sergeant. The maid of Mrs Case is a simple girl who knows nothing either.’
But, as far as Deborah could gather, the policeman seemed mainly concerned that the matter should be kept as quiet as possible, as dead bodies were bad for tourism.
Mr Kahn bowed up and down. ‘I am agreeing with you there, Sergeant. But I am sure that Mrs Case is not the sort of lady who wants to discuss such indelicate matters at breakfast time. And I am sure she will not consider it a suitable topic to mention to the other ladies and gentlemen members of our club.’
Deborah asked, ‘Does the sergeant know who the dead man was?’
‘The sergeant is of the opinion that the deceased was an Asian foreigner having no connection with Maising. A Thai pirate, no doubt.’
‘How does he know? I mean, he could have come from one of the beach houses round the bay or a yacht or something. Pima said he was sort of well-dressed.’
‘The sergeant has advised your maid not indulge in speculations. He wishes to tell you he is leaving now and thanks you for your cooperation. Pray continue with your breakfast. On this occasion, I should be most delighted if you would accept the meal with my compliments.’
*
Deborah was concerned that Sam might be adversely affected by this traumatic morning, but he seemed to have taken it in his stride, whereas Pima was unusually nervous for days afterwards. Eventually, however, she recovered her composure and seemed to forget the whole incident as completely as Sam had done.
A few weeks later, however, something jogged her memory. As had happened many times in the past, Poppy telephoned to ask if Pima could kindly come and be an extra party waitress that evening. Before she left for Poppy’s, Pima suddenly said that she remembered seeing someone resembling the dead man once before, maybe when she had been hired previously to serve drinks at the Embassy or the bank compound. She was not sure if the man had been another waiter or a guest.
‘Perhaps you’d better tell the police,’ said Deborah.
The maid looked worried. ‘Pima not remember well. Police say Pima a stupid peasant woman.’
Recalling the contemptuous way the sergeant had spoken to the girl, Deborah thought it likely that the police would say exactly that, so she let the matter rest, though, of course, she knew that Pima was far from stupid.
Fifteen
As the days passed, there was no mention of Pel and no sign of his return. Afraid that she had been the cause of their quarrel, Claire wanted to reassure Jean-Louis about the innocence of the scene he had witnessed, but, even when he was at his most affable, she had never dared to discuss personal matters. Now his manner towards her seemed to have chilled, she could not bring herself to raise such a subject.
Jean-Louis began to spend less and less time at his house, leaving her to work alone, proof-reading the catalogue. He told her that other affairs required his attention and he would be operating from his company offices in central Maising. She was careful to appear incurious about his business interests. These days, even when she asked him the most innocent of questions, he would gaze at her coldly for some time before answering. The skin around his small eyes was pale and dry, and when he was angry his nose appeared sharper and longer. Increasingly he reminded her of a fat bird of prey about to pounce on its victim.
She became convinced that he would dismiss her as soon as the catalogue had been printed. She wondered what she would do then. She would probably have to return to England as it would be difficult to find another suitable job in Maising.
An alternative would be to marry Howard. She was in her thirties, after all. It was unlikely she’d meet anyone else as nice as Howa
rd. Yes, it seemed a sensible, even attractive, idea, but much as she liked him, she could not persuade herself that she was madly in love. In some moods, she felt that that didn’t matter. As she had told herself before, at her age, mutual affection was more important than lust – she liked Howard, he loved her and there was no reason to suggest they wouldn’t be more or less happy ever after. Judging by her own recent experience, true mutual romance was an illusion that didn’t last, or even if it did exist, it was a rare luxury she herself could never possess for long. Even in her youthful marriage, she’d worried she loved her husband more than he loved her. Maybe that wouldn’t have lasted either. After he’d been killed, she’d converted him into a saint in her mind. But he was no saint. How could he be? Let’s face it, nobody was perfect, but some men had fewer drawbacks than others.
Talking about men with drawbacks, there’d been a while, only a very short while, when she’d thought Drew might be the man for her, but of course that had been just lust, yet another illusion.
So there was Howard. They were happy together in a quiet sort of way and her first impressions of him proved to be correct. He continued to be kind, reliable and generous, both in and out of bed, where she found herself appreciating his worshipful love-making.
Though he did not share her intellectual interests, he didn’t complain or feel excluded when she sat working with her reference books strewn about, and he didn’t seem to mind her untidiness or other domestic shortcomings. Instead, he pronounced himself gratified to have a career woman as a girlfriend, and he hoped that she would always keep up her art, as he put it. Claire was pleased to be regarded as a career woman, though she guessed that his experience of the species was limited.
Howard himself still displayed no doubts that their future lay together. As her past life had been full of heartache, she appreciated his steadfastness. She knew there was a danger in undervaluing love that was offered so freely and unconditionally. Sometimes, however, she felt a sense of suffocation, almost as if, like a Jane Austen heroine, she was being forced into a situation by the pressures of society. In London, her private life had been private, but on a small island she and Howard were a couple, invited to parties together and spoken of together.
Extraordinarily anxious about old-fashioned proprieties, he didn’t press her to move into his house, but he assumed they would spend most evenings together and that she would act as his hostess when he entertained his business clients. His house was seductively comfortable: modern but with attractive verandahs and a small tropical garden, all tended by efficient staff. The sort of place one could sink into and just exist without too much effort. As he often pointed out, the expat lifestyle here was good, sea, sun, and sand, with complete freedom from domestic chores, so much better than the chilly, damp old UK.
‘Just as long as I don’t have to play bridge,’ said Claire, not always totally convinced about the wonders of expathood.
*
Tonight Howard had told her he was obliged to take some visiting Australians to the red-light district as they had insisted on a full-frontal tour.
Claire laughed. ‘I hope you know all the seamiest places then.’
Howard looked worried. ‘Well, I tried ringing Johnny Case to get some advice, but he’s out of town, so we’ll just have to plunge in and find our own way around.’
*
Howard’s bland face was illuminated alternately green and pink as he stood under a flashing neon sign promising ‘Girls! Girls! Girls!’ Claire felt oppressed by the atmosphere.
The narrow streets were crowded with night people – slim, bejewelled boys, flashily dressed older men and gaggles of garish women with silicone bosoms and short, tight skirts. Loud music blared from competing speakers, assaulting their ears with a mixture of European pop music and wailing Maising ballads.
‘I’m rather at a loss in this area,’ said Howard, looking around in a bewildered manner.
‘I don’t believe a word of it. You must be an expert nightclubber, Howie,’ said Sharon with a grin.
‘Yes, you’ve lived here for years, mate. Must know where to go,’ agreed her husband. They were a good-looking young couple who evidently enjoyed the seedy surroundings.
A white-suited youth approached them. ‘You like li’ show? I give you li’ show at Go-Go Club. Velly good, velly nice, sexy.’
‘How much?’ asked Howard. The youth named an exorbitant sum.
‘No, far too expensive. They must be offering massage as well as a Live Show, whatever that is.’
‘Massage extra. You like massage? I show you.’
‘No, no,’ said Howard. ‘No, we don’t want anything like that. Please go away.’
‘You like ping pong?’ persisted the tout.
‘Ping pong?’ said Claire, laughing. ‘What can he mean?’
‘Ping pong ball, cigarette, velly cheap, sexy. You like. I show you.’
‘How much?’ asked Howard again.
The tout mentioned a lower amount.
‘Let’s go for it,’ said Brian. ‘Sounds fun.’
Pocketing the notes proffered by Howard, the tout led them into a narrow side street. They passed two clinics offering to cure all forms of venereal disease. Very handy, as Brian remarked.
Claire held on tight to Howard’s arm as the tout opened an inconspicuous door and led them up some evil-smelling stairs into a small bare room. Red walls and flashing lights were the only attempt at decor. A girl wearing an extremely inadequate sequin bikini showed them to one of the eight tables. Two mournful-looking customers were sitting next to them, but otherwise the place was empty. Howard bought everyone a Tiger beer, at four times the normal price.
The pop music was then interrupted by a half-hearted fanfare. One of the waitresses ambled into the middle of the room with a bored expression on her face. Without ceremony or lascivious gesture, she removed her bra top and dropped it on to the floor. Then, retaining her air of drugged indifference, she unfastened the strings on one side of her bikini pants, leaving the garment to dangle lopsidedly from one hip. Claire thought the performance extraordinarily unerotic, but she noticed that all the men were fascinated. She did not care for the look on Howard’s face.
After a few desultory wiggles, the girl took a couple of table tennis balls from a basket and began to stuff them up between her legs and thrust them out again as if she were laying eggs. Claire was nauseated.
The same listless performance was repeated with different girls and different items. Rotating her pelvis, one smoked a cigarette in her vagina and another inserted razor blades, apparently coming to no harm.
‘I don’t think I can take any more of this. It’s disgusting,’ announced Claire suddenly.
Brian slapped her on the back. ‘Where’s your sense of humour, girl? Let’s have another beer.’
‘Actually, if I stay any longer I may throw up,’ she said.
Howard hurriedly asked for the bill.
*
For some days after the nightclub evening, Claire remained in a bad temper. This was partly because she could not dismiss the degrading scene from her mind and partly due to the depressing prospect of having to entertain Howard’s clients for the rest of her life if she married him. But mostly her gloom was due to the fact that she thought she had caught a glimpse of Drew in the crowded streets and he had seemed to be avoiding her. She had almost convinced herself that he meant nothing to her. Seeing him, however, brought back the heart-thumping longings she thought she had conquered. She reminded herself that she was a mature woman, no longer prepared to hanker after untrustworthy unsuitable men. But daily she thought about Drew and these thoughts gave her no peace of mind.
Howard, cheerful as ever, ascribed her black mood to lack of fresh air, inevitable in a tropical climate. What she needed was a weekend away.
He suggested a trip to the National Nature Reserve in the highlands and, with his usual efficient enthusiasm, made all the arrangements. Deborah and Johnny Case were invited, along with Luc
y and Martin. Howard hired one guest house for the Case family and one for the rest.
As they drove up into the mountainous region through lush tropical forests, Claire did begin to feel more light-hearted, particularly when they had successfully negotiated a tortuous unsurfaced road and emerged on to a high plateau. The trees seemed even greener and more luxuriant than in Maising and the air cooler and fresher, as promised. However, the chipped wooden gates marking the entrance to the National Park were unpromising and when they finally stopped outside a pair of dismal bungalows Claire’s heart sank again.
Inside, the paint was peeling from the grey walls and a squadron of flies buzzed angrily around the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Though the floors had obviously been swept fairly recently, it was not the kind of sweeping a Maising maid would think adequate. Claire peered dubiously into the bedrooms and was relieved to see no visible signs of animal life on the damp mattresses. With some trepidation, she pushed open the bathroom door. The lavatory, the Asian squat variety – a white china hole in the ground with ridges for feet on either side – was yuk but passable (she’d seen and smelt worse), as were the washing facilities, a huge earthenware jar of water with a small green plastic pouring bowl and a drain in the floor. Moving on to the kitchen, she saw an enormous red cockroach scuttling underneath the greasy cooker. The elderly refrigerator had been turned on and a small jar of coffee stood on one of the shelves. These were the only sign that their arrival had been expected.
Having earlier pronounced that it would be fun to dispense with maids for a weekend, Howard looked crushed. ‘Probably a bit short of staff up here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get hold of the game warden, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to send a cleaner at this hour.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll do it,’ said Lucy briskly.
In no time at all and with the minimum of fuss, she had made the place bearable, if not immaculate. Deborah was busy with the children, so Claire tried to help in the kitchen, but she merely got in the way. The three men sat outside drinking gin until Lucy announced that the meal was ready.
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