had the time and money to charter a yacht and while away the sunny hours round the islands … How she wished she had some of that time, though she could always get away for a couple of days, for there was such a trustworthy staff…
Maldwin Carr, who had by this time turned 180 degrees on his heel, had looked over the rail down towards the beach. He’d seen a man in a battered white suit make his way into the store. A girl of about eighteen ran in after him – but at first, like a child, she’d hung around on the concrete walkway . Now Maldwin saw the exodus of the man in the white suit and a woman – this time – at his side, in a floral dress. Maldwin pointed down and asked Mrs Van der Pyck who this woman could be.
‘Holly Baker,’ Mrs Van der Pyck spat out the name. ‘Now she lives in The Heights. Yes, there’s an example for you. I really wouldn’t go near the place!’
Maldwin Carr, veteran of street fighting in Beirut, massacre in Kampuchea and Kampala, as well as of thoughtful poetic treks in search of the marsh Arab or southern Afghan nomad, seemed unalarmed by this. ‘The gentleman must, of course, be Mr Allard,’ he said.
‘You’ll meet him later! He always comes to Christmas dinner here!’ Mrs Van der Pyck’s voice retained its sharpness. And she went on: ‘Sanjay’s poor daughter, bombed out of the Grenada madhouse, looked after by a local woman down at the Allard house on the lagoon … and his wife died of …’ but Mrs Van der Pyck’s voice was now trailing away. For the dance continued unexpectedly at the foot of her carefully mown and bougainvillea-planted lawn. A girl had now come out of the store. The girl was slim and bronzish in colour and she stood staring at Mr James Allard and his poor cracked daughter as they made their way back down the beach to the lagoon. Who can she be? it was Mrs Van der Pyck’s turn to wonder, and then to wonder again when the impeccable Englishman said that the girl, for the duration of the cruise, was his cook. She’d come out with him on his yacht. And she was coming up the hill at his invitation to join him for a drink.
*
‘Ford is dead,’ I said to the girl. Except I didn’t. I watched her climb out of that great brown jar with the swirls of paint thousands of years old and I thought, as she walked to the door and looked after Sanjay and his daughter, she’s a figure who could have walked from a Greek vase, a terracotta figure with slim waist and hips and breasts like a boy’s. There’s no break in the ocean as it goes round the earth from the Mediterranean to the Caribbean Sea after all.
But I said instead, ‘Who’s that man up there at the hotel? He’s off the yacht, isn’t he?’ and I stared up, irritated at the way he leaned so nonchalantly on the balustrade of the verandah, with Mrs Van der Pyck ogling at his side.
‘I cook for him,’ the girl said. Then she pointed down the beach at the retreating figure of Sanjay. ‘He’s to blame,’ she said. ‘He killed my father, didn’t he?’
I don’t know how you get out of these things. The girl had come back to the counter and was looking me straight in the eye.
‘You’re Mari,’ I said. ‘Lore told me about you. You’re making a mistake. Go home.’
*
Lore wrote me after she got back from her visit out here, that things were getting quite out of hand in London now. She’d moved into Teza’s – and already she could hardly believe she’d been here, those brief two days when she came over on the Singer and left again on one of the yachts. (It’s so easy, she can just sit in the Coconut Bar and she’ll get offered a cruise all round the world. But I like to go on my own. When I go, when my Colt .22 comes from the States, it’ll be at the helm of my own motor cruiser.)
When Lore came, she had already moved into the basement of Teza’s house and she said Teza’s daughter was hanging around asking too many questions, making trouble.
‘It’s quite nice here,’
Maldwin Carr, who had by this time turned 180 degrees on his heel, had looked over the rail down towards the beach. He’d seen a man in a battered white suit make his way into the store. A girl of about eighteen ran in after him – but at first, like a child, she’d hung around on the concrete walkway . Now Maldwin saw the exodus of the man in the white suit and a woman – this time – at his side, in a floral dress. Maldwin pointed down and asked Mrs Van der Pyck who this woman could be.
‘Holly Baker,’ Mrs Van der Pyck spat out the name. ‘Now she lives in The Heights. Yes, there’s an example for you. I really wouldn’t go near the place!’
Maldwin Carr, veteran of street fighting in Beirut, massacre in Kampuchea and Kampala, as well as of thoughtful poetic treks in search of the marsh Arab or southern Afghan nomad, seemed unalarmed by this. ‘The gentleman must, of course, be Mr Allard,’ he said.
‘You’ll meet him later! He always comes to Christmas dinner here!’ Mrs Van der Pyck’s voice retained its sharpness. And she went on: ‘Sanjay’s poor daughter, bombed out of the Grenada madhouse, looked after by a local woman down at the Allard house on the lagoon … and his wife died of …’ but Mrs Van der Pyck’s voice was now trailing away. For the dance continued unexpectedly at the foot of her carefully mown and bougainvillea-planted lawn. A girl had now come out of the store. The girl was slim and bronzish in colour and she stood staring at Mr James Allard and his poor cracked daughter as they made their way back down the beach to the lagoon. Who can she be? it was Mrs Van der Pyck’s turn to wonder, and then to wonder again when the impeccable Englishman said that the girl, for the duration of the cruise, was his cook. She’d come out with him on his yacht. And she was coming up the hill at his invitation to join him for a drink.
*
‘Ford is dead,’ I said to the girl. Except I didn’t. I watched her climb out of that great brown jar with the swirls of paint thousands of years old and I thought, as she walked to the door and looked after Sanjay and his daughter, she’s a figure who could have walked from a Greek vase, a terracotta figure with slim waist and hips and breasts like a boy’s. There’s no break in the ocean as it goes round the earth from the Mediterranean to the Caribbean Sea after all.
But I said instead, ‘Who’s that man up there at the hotel? He’s off the yacht, isn’t he?’ and I stared up, irritated at the way he leaned so nonchalantly on the balustrade of the verandah, with Mrs Van der Pyck ogling at his side.
‘I cook for him,’ the girl said. Then she pointed down the beach at the retreating figure of Sanjay. ‘He’s to blame,’ she said. ‘He killed my father, didn’t he?’
I don’t know how you get out of these things. The girl had come back to the counter and was looking me straight in the eye.
‘You’re Mari,’ I said. ‘Lore told me about you. You’re making a mistake. Go home.’
*
Lore wrote me after she got back from her visit out here, that things were getting quite out of hand in London now. She’d moved into Teza’s – and already she could hardly believe she’d been here, those brief two days when she came over on the Singer and left again on one of the yachts. (It’s so easy, she can just sit in the Coconut Bar and she’ll get offered a cruise all round the world. But I like to go on my own. When I go, when my Colt .22 comes from the States, it’ll be at the helm of my own motor cruiser.)
When Lore came, she had already moved into the basement of Teza’s house and she said Teza’s daughter was hanging around asking too many questions, making trouble.
‘It’s quite nice here,’
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