Sowing Secrets (27 page)

I noticed the washing-up from his breakfast was still sitting in the sink, presumably awaiting my attentions, but since I’d also found the dishwasher I shoved it all in there and closed the door.

Mal was running late and simply dumped me at the car rental place and drove off, just remembering to kiss me at the last minute. There had been last night’s phone call too: they must be working him very hard.

The car was small and also – oh, happy, happy day! – air-conditioned, but my legs trembled with tiredness as I sat there in the driver’s seat feeling totally disorientated.

The lady behind the desk kindly came out and explained the workings in the most soothing accent in the world. ‘And just tuck your left foot back out of the way and pretend you haven’t got one,’ she added as a parting piece of advice. This was easier said than done, but after making a few circuits round the car park, I gingerly set off back to Paradise Falls.

Remembering the twenty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit in built-up areas I crawled along and a small string of cars appeared behind me like an entourage. It seemed very slow, and when I peered at the dial again I realised that the speedometer was in kilometres. I was doing twenty-five
kilometres
an hour instead of twenty-five
miles
. Was that good or bad? I clenched the wheel hard in both hands as if the car might make a bolt for it at any moment, but we seemed to be practically at a standstill.

‘Past the airport, turn left,’ I muttered to myself, trying to remember the way. There was the big supermarket … so this morning we’d come out of a turning nearly opposite …

‘My God, but I’m brilliant!’ With a triumphant rendition of ‘Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves’, I pulled up outside Paradise Falls.

Inside, all was quiet, so I cautiously popped my head into Mrs M.’s room to see if she’d died; but she hadn’t, just sleeping the sleep of the righteous. She looked about three hundred and ninety and as frail as a bundle of dry twigs wrapped in thin leather.

I found a bottle of a soft drink called Ting in the fridge, added plenty of ice from the crusher and then retrieved Mal’s instructions from under the lump of coral. The bumper bundle included helpful hints like directions for using the washing machine, a shopping list, what he thought we should have for dinner that night … well, you get the picture. He might as well have hung a banner out front saying: ‘Welcome, new housekeeper/dogsbody’, and so far there hadn’t been any hint of ‘Welcome, lover!’ to sweeten it.

I was starting to feel angry; and if I’m expected to work all through my supposed holiday, then I’m going to use Mal’s guilt card to get some cool, pretty clothes, and some big clips to get my hot hair up off my neck too.

I took my drink and a bundle of tourist brochures, and went and lay on a recliner in the shade, remembering Tanya’s parting gift and anointing myself with expensive unguent first.

I dozed for an hour or so, then woke to find a tall, handsome young gardener swiping at the vegetation with the most enormous blade, which he called his cutlass – and I wasn’t about to argue with him. He engaged me in soft-voiced conversation as he languidly tidied and removed fallen coconuts.

‘Don’t you go sitting under the trees,’ he warned me. ‘Coconuts drop on your head, you know about it.’

He was right: every so often you do hear crashes and dull thuds as they hit the decking or sand, which makes you wonder about all those holiday brochures where bronzed women are lying in hammocks strung between palm trees. There’s probably a special hospital department for concussed tourists.

Between the decking and the beach lay a strip of white sand, edged with conch shells and large, brain-like lumps of coral, which the gardener raked into a neat pattern. It seemed so much easier than lawn-mowing.

Mrs M. finally emerged in time to eat a cold lunch of last night’s leftovers washed down with copious amounts of hot tea, but I am now a Ting-driven thing – I love its refreshing, grapefruit taste.

After that I left her sitting bolt upright on a wooden chair in the shade with a virgin Booker winner while I explored the beach. I just couldn’t resist it, though I had sense enough to borrow Mrs M.’s umbrella against the hot sun. I must get one; it’s a good idea even if I look ridiculous.

The sea inside the reef was as warm and salty as fish soup, with sea grass lining the bottom, but dotted with rather sharp coral. I had a swim in the pool instead, which was surprisingly cold, then lay in the shade again lethargically, still feeling horribly hot but relaxed. Limp as a Dali clock, even.

Mentally I was still functioning at about fifty per cent below normal, and although I hoped I might be semi-human by next morning I wasn’t holding my breath: it was so hot my brains just seemed to be running right out of my ears, and my temper was on a much shorter fuse than usual.

I decided to ignore Mal’s instructions: there was enough food and drink to see any normal crowd of sixty or so people through a couple of days, and I would live to shop another day.

‘I need a cool dress, and there are some great-sounding shops in the malls off Seven Mile Beach,’ I murmured, studying the brochures again.

Mrs M., who to all intents and purposes had appeared dead, opened one beady eye. ‘
And
a fancy needlework shop,’ she contributed, so clearly she wouldn’t be entirely averse to a bit of retail therapy.

‘Hadn’t you better start dinner, Frances? I expect Maldwyn will be home soon.’

Last night it became clear to me that Mr Hyde has gained the upper hand since Mal came out here.

When he arrived home to discover that I hadn’t done the supermarket shopping, cooked a wonderful dinner, sorted the laundry, passed on some instructions to the gardener, or any of the other things he left on his list … well, he wasn’t pleased, let’s put it like that. I’m not sure he remembers the difference between the status of a wife and an unsatisfactory employee any more. Is his love conditional on how I look and behave? I’m beginning to wonder. And he may still appear to be the Mal I fell in love with, but a stranger is looking out of his eyes.

When he also found he had run out of rum (a new drinking habit, this one) he threw a minor tantrum, though there was enough alcohol in the house already to satisfy even a hardened drinker, even leaving aside his mother’s enormous bottle of duty-free tipple. (Mrs M. has signed the pledge, but it had an exclusion clause in regard to sherry.)

When I pointed out that I had been too tired and hot to run around after him the very first day I got here, he said that
he
had had to work in that heat right from the moment he arrived on Grand Cayman.

‘Yes, but you
came
here to work, and I supposedly came for a holiday!’ I snapped, and Mrs M. said acidly that she hoped her presence hadn’t increased my heavy burden, and personally
she
had always found her wifely duties to be a joy.

‘Some of them are more joyful than others,’ I said tartly, and started slapping out the cold meats and salad, but Mrs M. barely picked at hers.

Mal finally asked her if she wasn’t hungry.

‘I can’t seem to face cold cuts again, Maldwyn. But it’s all right, I don’t expect Frances to produce a hot meal just for
me
,’ she said, martyred.

‘You said earlier you never had any appetite in the heat,’ I pointed out, ‘but if you want something hot there’s a pizza in the freezer I could cook for you.’

She shuddered. ‘Oh, no, thank you – I think that’s teenage food. I’ll just have a cup of tea and a biscuit later.’

Mal cast me a look of deep reproach, as though I were trying to starve his mother to death, though presumably they managed to survive before my arrival. I mean, someone bought the pizzas and the other fast food in the freezer; they didn’t grow in there on their own like some strange fungus.

‘If I’ve got to cook every day in this heat I’ll probably expire!’ I protested. ‘It’s ridiculous!’

‘I’m sure I can manage to do all the cooking,’ Mrs M. said nobly. ‘Perhaps if Fran wouldn’t mind just taking me to the supermarket tomorrow and helping me carry out the heavier bags?’

‘I won’t hear of it, Mother! You know the doctor said you should have a complete rest. No strain or exertion at all.’

Of course, then I had to say
I’d
do it: if her wonky heart conks out just as she’s hefting a casserole out of the oven, or she drops a pan of scalding custard on her foot because of her rheumaticy little paws, it would all be my fault. But I most definitely am not a happy bunny. What’s more, the skin round my eyes has gone prickly, the first sign of my sun allergy, though only a bit. I’ve taken an antihistamine pill, so hopefully between that and Tanya’s cream I will not turn into a complete Elephant Woman like the time we went to the south of France.

After I’d cleared up dinner and put the dishwasher on, I retired outside on to the dark patio with the sound of waves on the coral beach and the odd thud of a coconut, and called Ma on the mobile.

‘Hi, Ma, it’s me!’

‘Frannie? Did you have a good trip?’

‘No, it was horrible, but it’s lovely here, only very, very hot.’

‘I hope Mal is looking after you.’

‘Of course, Ma,’ I lied. ‘He’s hired a little car for me so we can go and look at all the sights.’

I didn’t add that the first one seemed destined to be the supermarket.

She grunted. ‘And his mother?
I
wouldn’t have thrust myself in between a husband and wife when they’ve been apart as long as you and Mal have!’

‘No … but she is going home in a week, and then we’ll be alone.’

‘Apart from his ex-wife, you mean!’

‘Apparently Alison is off the island on business for a couple of weeks – Mrs M. told me.’

In the band of light from the window I saw one of the shells on the deck get up and start walking sideways. As if this was a signal, suddenly all round my feet there seemed to be soft dragging noises, and the air was filled with clicks, taps and rattles …

‘I – I’ll have to go, Ma,’ I said nervously. ‘I need another early night to try and get back on an even keel. My body doesn’t know whether it’s day or night yet.’

‘Well, you take care of yourself, and relax. Don’t try to do too much in that heat.’

Some chance, I thought, switching the phone off, and I ran back inside.

Mrs M. was sitting in front of the TV knitting something sweaty while she watched an old British sitcom. Mal was at the dining table tapping away at his laptop in a concentrated sort of way, and hardly noticed when I said I was going to bed.

It seems to me that if I want any kind of happy hols then I had better take steps to encourage the return of Dr Jekyll. Maybe Appleton premium rum is the antidote.

This morning I woke before Mal, feeling nearly normal, and decided to try to reprise my former role as part-time Stepford Wife – the one who boils his egg and makes his toast and tea while he showers – even though I am now out of the habit.

I actually got the smile of approval when he came in, fragrant and freshly shaved, and we breakfasted together quite pleasantly since his egg, by some fluke, was just right and I hadn’t burned the toast. I told him I was off to the supermarket this morning.

‘And the liquor store,’ he reminded me. ‘It’s in the same building. You can use your credit card for the shopping. What are you going to do this afternoon?’

‘I haven’t decided yet, though possibly the turtle farm,’ I said off the top of my head. It was one of the few attractions on the shopping mall side of George Town, but I didn’t mention my intention of hitting the dress shops in search of something cooler to wear.

‘I don’t think Mother will want to see the turtles,’ he said dubiously. ‘She’d prefer the botanic park.’

‘So would I, but I thought it would be better to do it on a day when we don’t have to go shopping too. I wonder if they’ve got any roses.’

‘You and your roses!’ he said fairly affectionately, then kissed me goodbye and left, looking ten times cooler than I felt. I settled down with coffee and the map of the island.

Even I couldn’t miss the supermarket, it was so close, but the turtle farm was right the other side of George Town. There was a road to it around the coast that would take me past Seven Mile Beach, where all the malls were.

I would see how wilted I felt after the shopping. Although Mal had opened all the doors and windows the second he got up, letting the cool air out and the warm in, it wasn’t yet unbearably hot.

Mrs M. loved the supermarket, and we were in there all morning. I got most of the things on Mal’s list, plus fresh fruit and vegetables, but I kept adding stuff to the trolley, like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, strangely flavoured ice creams, a packet of sugar cane pieces and loads of Ting.

After all, there was no point in dieting now Mal had
seen
me, so I might as well enjoy my holiday as much as I could in the circumstances.

Mrs M.’s purchases were more in the tea-towel-and-household-fragrances line, though she collected armfuls of American magazines from a stand near the checkout.

Just as well Mal had told me to pay for everything with the guilt card – the total was horrendous. Still, most of it was stuff on his list or for his mother, so he can’t complain.

I loaded the shopping and Mrs M. into the car and then popped into that den of iniquity, the liquor store. It was blessedly cool, but I couldn’t linger since I was conscious of my melting frozen goods and Ma-in-law in the hot car outside.

Quickly I collected the expensive French wines and the premium rum on Mal’s requisition order and took them to the till, passing an attractive display of boxed rum cakes, apparently a local speciality, in various flavours.

On the counter was a plate of pieces for tasting … melt-in-the-mouth nuggets of deliciousness. (Maybe I should be writing advertising slogans?) I came out with a chocolate one, though had they not been hideously expensive I’d have had one of each flavour. It was quite a small cake – I hadn’t gone
quite
mad – but maybe I could get one of the bigger ones later?

I managed to jam the bottles into the car around Mrs M., seated regally in the back, and set out for home, the taste of heaven on my tongue … which for some reason made me think of Gabe.

But that rum cake is really something, even better than chocolate – and we all know what
that’s
better than … and there I went, thinking of Gabe again. Why
him
? Why not my husband?

When we got back, Mrs M. went to freshen up while I carried everything in and stowed it away, the doors and windows firmly shut and the ceiling fans on. I hoped Mrs M. wouldn’t rat on me to Mal, but when she came back she didn’t seem to notice, just sat gloating over her new tea towel, home fragrance and magazine collection, which she spread all over the coffee table. At least she was happy. Let’s hope she stays that way when I present her with a sandwich and fresh fruit for lunch.

‘This satellite television
sounds
all right, all those channels,’ I said, flicking from one to another, looking for something to listen to while I finished making lunch, which is one advantage of having an open-plan living area, ‘only they seem to repeat the same things over and over again until everyone in the universe must have seen them millions of times.’

‘Then they shouldn’t watch so much television,’ Mrs M. said severely, diverting her gaze from
Stitch-Up Monthly
, or whatever exciting periodical had been her choice. Then she added suddenly, ‘Stop!’

I stared at her in surprise, my finger hovering over the remote.

‘It’s
Restoration Gardener
, my favourite programme!’ she said reverently as the familiar title came up.

‘Is it? Did Mal tell you that he’s doing the gardens at Plas Gwyn, Rhodri Gwyn-Whatmire’s house?’ I said, hastily slapping a plate of sandwiches on the corner of the table and sitting down in a wicker armchair. ‘They’re doing it now – I’m going to miss most of it.’

‘I’ll look out for that one. Gabriel Weston’s
such
a nice man,’ she said as that familiar face appeared on the screen, smiling warmly.

Clearly she never reads any gossip magazines.

‘Did Mal tell you he’s also bought Fairy Glen from Ma?’

‘So ridiculous, keeping two houses on at her age!’ she said disapprovingly. ‘I hope she got a good price for it.’

‘Yes, she’s using it to go on a round-the-world cruise.’

‘Ridiculous!’ she said again, but absently, for her attention was now riveted on the screen … as was mine.

Suddenly I felt
overwhelmingly
homesick, which was silly – I haven’t been here five minutes.

Mrs M. declined to visit the turtle farm, but seemed happy to be left on the sofa with her magazines and TV, so I boldly went where I hadn’t been before.

It was a pleasant drive round the coast past pretty, brightly painted houses and the tourist bustle of George Town harbour, before joining the Seven Mile Beach road. It was edged with shopping plazas and there was much more traffic – including an open-topped Jeep full of young men in shades verging from pinky-tan to hot chocolate, like a delectable selection box. Every one a winner.

The air conditioning cooled me to a comfortable temperature, but getting out at the turtle farm was like opening an oven door, and I’d have got back in except that I wanted to be able to tell Mal where I’d been.

But the huge turtles desolately circling their tanks, or trying clumsily to climb out, were strangely fascinating, though terribly sad. I thought how stale the water must taste to them after the open sea and how boring their captive lives. I know they have a huge turtle release programme at the farm, but even so …

I remained sombre until I stopped at my chosen shopping plaza on the way back and indulged in some retail therapy. I found a little dress shop called The Mermaid’s Cave and went
berserk
.

Three light, cool dresses, a batik sarong and an umbrella shaped like a giant pink water lily later (let’s hope there are no matching giant frogs on the island), I emerged, blinking, into the strong sunshine. The guilt card had taken another beating, and my spending had acquired an unreal Monopoly-money feel to it. It was just numbers.

My skin was still a bit tight and itchy round my eyes with the rash, but it didn’t seem to be getting worse. I bought aloe vera gel in a pharmacy to cool it down, and butterfly clips to get my hot, heavy hair off my neck.

Back home Mrs M. was asleep on a lounger in the shade, my copy of
Skint Old Northern Woman
magazine on the deck next to her. Bet that made a change from knitting patterns! I just hope she doesn’t realise the comic strip and some of the cartoons are mine.

I had a cooling swim in the pool, and then began preparing one of Mal’s favourite meals, laying the table and opening a bottle of wine, even though I wasn’t sure if it would breathe, or just pant in the heat.

Right before he got back I went and put on one of my new dresses and let my hair loose again, and I didn’t look half bad, if I said it myself! The soft, sugared-almond shades of the silk dress were flattering, and my face hadn’t swollen or gone red to any great extent – just a bit round the eyes. And aloe vera’s wonderfully soothing, the pharmacist was right.

I applied a little perfume and make-up, because it’s amazing the difference a bit of slap can make, especially when your eyebrows and eyelashes seem to have bleached themselves out of existence overnight, though at least my eyelash tint didn’t turn green in the pool, which was one of my biggest fears.