The House on Flamingo Cay (16 page)

“I knows you don’t min’, Missy Sara, but dose chillun don’t ought to have disturbed you. An’ dat li’l ole Floribelle she spoil your clean blouse wid her sticky fingers.”

“Oh, what’s a little stickiness between friends?” Sara said easily, setting the baby down and watching her totter off.

“Youse fond of chillun, Missy Sara?” Aurora asked.

“That depends on the children. I’d certainly like to have some of my own one day. Have you a large family, Mrs. Johnson?”

Aurora gave a shriek of laughter and her triple chins quivered like chocolate blancmange. “Me ’n Mr. Johnson has eleven chillun and twenty-two gran’-chillun,” she said proudly.

At this point, Stephen came into view across the garden.

“What did you say to amuse Aurora so much?” he asked, when the old woman had bustled to her tasks.

“I asked her if she had a large family.”

He grinned. “She’s a Bahamian Mother Hubbard. You might not think it to look at her now, but when Sam first found her on Eleuthera, she had a hand-span waist and was the belle of her village.”

When Sara had changed into her swim-suit, they went down to the cove and Stephen explained the diving gear. After asking her to wet her face to ensure a really close fit, he put on her green rubber diving mask and adjusted the strap to her head. Once or twice while he was doing this, his forearms brushed against her bare shoulders, and Sara was acutely aware of his nearness.

“Now to keep the glass from
clouding
while we’re diving, we rub it over with a smear of glycerine then rinse it in the sea as we go in,” he explained.

The symmetrical rubber fins, which would enable her to swim under the water with greater speed for effort, were smaller than his own, and as she put them over her insteps, Sara wondered
what
others had come to Flamingo Cay and learnt to skin-dive the depths of this quiet lagoon. The probability she was just one of a long list of casual companions seemed to shadow the golden afternoon.

But, once in the water, she had no time to brood. The use of the breathing tube, and the master of the special ‘flutter kick’ foot strokes which gave propulsion from the fins, were not really
difficult for
an experienced swimmer, but they did require a certain amount of practice. And, when she had mastered the preliminaries, Stephen then showed her how to dive in such a way that the fish would not be scared by any violent splashing.

“You’re picking it up very well. We’ll have a few minutes’ rest and then go out to the reefs,” he said, when, after half an hour’s practice, they waded back to the beach. “By the way, there’s one more piece of equipment which is very important. You must never dive without having a knife on you, even when you re with someone.”

“Why a knife?” Sara asked, examining the sharp cork-handled blade which fitted in a bamboo shed attached to a light webbing belt.

“Because it could save your life,” Stephen said urgently. “Don’t get scared: I don’t mean you’ll have to tend to any sharks or giant squids. But, even in safe waters, a good knife is absolutely essential.”

They went out to the reefs by means of a small dinghy. It was a native boat and had no centreboard and only a very small keel to allow passage through the shallows above the coral heads.

There, on the outer side of the reef, where the coral grew fastest and most luxuriantly because the currents were rich in plankton, Sara made her first descent into the mysterious and magical world of
the silent sea-
gardens. Nothing she had read or been told,
and c
ertainly none of the black and white
underwater films
she had seen occasionally on friends’ televisions, had prepared her for the richness of color lying hidden beneath the waves.

The coral itself was a forest of safron branches, and all around it and among it, swam the myriads of brilliant fish—gentian and emerald parrots, shining yellowtails, little black angel-fish and the garnet-colored squirrels with their oddly protruding eyes. Some moved in shoals, some singly. Some drifted idly between the coral fronds, others flashed past with a shimmer of rainbow fins. And when, up above, a wave broke softly against the reef, a shower of golden bubbles would go drifting to the blue-green depths where sea fans carpeted the sand.

It was all so new and fascinating that Sara could have gone on exploring for hours. Although, had she been alone, her delight would have been tempered with caution. All the inhabitants of the reef were not as harmless and pretty as the little pop-eyed squirrel-fish.

As well as the placid grazing fish, there were predatory barracudas and sinuous moray eels. Concealed in the sandy sea bed, only their eyes exposed, lay large and dangerous sting rays, and there were many sea-urchins covered with barbed black spikes.

But with Stephen to guide and protect her, Sara could ignore all these hazards and she was disappointed when, after about an hour, he made her return to the boat. They spent the rest of the afternoon sailing among the smaller cays and rocks until Stephen said it was tea-time. But this did not mean a return to Flamingo, apparently. Leaving Sara on an islet, he put on his diving gear and a pair of thick string gloves. Then, amused by her puzzled face, he disappeared into the water again. Half an hour later, a large blue-grey lobster was cooking in an iron pot of sea-water and Stephen was unpacking a wicker picnic basket which had been stowed away in the boat.

There was no one about when they returned to the house, and Stephen showed Sara to a bathroom.

“I expect you’d like a shower, but don’t take too long about it. I want to get back before dark,” he explained.

When she had rinsed off the salt-water stickiness, Sara dried herself on a bright red bathsheet. She was vigorously towelling her hair when she heard voices in the garden—a great many voices and all of them loud and excited.

Wondering what was happening, she quickly pulled on her clothes, tugged a comb through the tangles and applied a lipstick. Reaching the hall, she met Stephen coming in from the courtyard.

“Is something wrong?” she asked anxiously.

“There’s been an accident,” he said tersely. “One of the boys caught his arm in an electric saw and they’ve rushed him off to hospital in the launch. Sam thinks there may be a storm later and I can’t risk taking you back to Nassau in one of the dinghies. I’m afraid it means that you’ll have to spend the night here.”

“But I can’t!” she exclaimed, thinking of Angela’s anxiety if she failed to return by bedtime.

His mouth was suddenly grim. “You have no choice,” he said flatly. Then, with cold derision: “There’s no need to look so appalled. Aurora is a perfectly adequate chaperone, and, if it will allay your evident qualms, I’ll sleep in the beach hut.” And, striding past her, he went into his study and closed the door.

Stung by the harshness of his tone and at a loss to understand how she had provoked his anger, Sara stared blankly after him.

CHAPTER SIX

IT was Aurora who gave Sara the full story. Still panting with agitation, her voice more high-pitched than ever, she explained that the accident had occurred because someone had left the safety guard off the saw.

Fortunately her husband had been near the sawing shed, and deciding there was no time to fetch Stephen, had quickly applied a tourniquet and rushed the child off in the launch.

“It’s de good Lawd’s blessing dat yo’ came to Flamingo today, Missy Sara,” the old woman said distressfully. “If’n it hadn’t been for dat boat bein’ lyin’ handy, I don’ reckon li’l Joe would be alive now. He was bleedin’ jus’ terrible.”

“Oh, Aurora, how dreadful. I’m so sorry,” Sara said compassionately. “Where will they take him? To Nassau?”

The negress wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron and explained that, in a case of such emergency, the Rock Sound Cottage Hospital on Eleuthera provided the nearest medical attention.

“Dere ain’t nuffin we can do ’cept pray,” she added, with a gusty sigh. “But if’n dat boy get took by de Lawd, poor Massa Steve’ll go crazy. He bring dat chile from de city when Joe ain’t no more dan one month ol’, and he’s always had a special takin’ for him. I reckon he’ll sit at dat of radio machine till he gets a message from de hospital.”

Sara’s spirits lifted a little. Perhaps that was why Stephen had spoken so brutally to her—because he was worried sick about the extent of the child’s injury and, if the boy died, would blame himself for not being on hand to deal with it. But she did not dare to follow him into the study to share his vigil.

Nearly two hours had passed, and she was sitting forlornly in the courtyard, when she heard the study door open and Stephen’s voice calling to Aurora. A few minutes later he came out into the courtyard, and Sara was shocked by the worn look on his face. Without glancing at her, he dropped into a lounger and leaned his head against the back-rest.

For a moment, Sara didn’t know what to do. He looked so grey and haggard that she was afraid to speak for fear he might blaze at her again. Yet she couldn’t disappear as if the news didn’t matter to her.

Timidly, her voice a little husky, she said, “I’m dreadfully sorry, Stephen.”

He turned his head, and it was obvious that he had completely forgotten her existence. “Oh ... Sara,” he said tonelessly. “Have they been looking after you?”

To her chagrin, she felt her mouth beginning to tremble. She wanted so much to be of some help, some comfort. Instead, she felt like a stranger whose mere presence was an intrusion.

Stephen got to his feet again. “I must get a message through to Nassau or your sister will wonder what’s happened,” he said.

“No ... please, it doesn’t matter. Later perhaps ...” Her voice trailed off and she blinked and swallowed.

“You’re crying,” Stephen said, in an odd tone.

“No, I’m not,” she said fiercely. “It’s just that ... that Aurora told me how fond you were of him. I—I feel I’ve brought you bad luck. I shouldn’t have come here.”

Stephen leaned forward. “On the contrary, if we hadn’t been here today, it might have been very much worse. Without a blood transfusion—”

“You mean ... he isn’t ... dead?” she stammered.

“Good heaven’s, no! What on earth made you think such a thing?”

“But Aurora said that it was touch and go.”

“Aurora gets into a flap at the sight of a gashed finger,” Stephen said drily. “From the message I got on the radio, it was a pretty nasty wound, but certainly not fatal, given expert attention.”

Sara let out a long breath of relief, then fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

“If I’d known you’d been thinking the worst, I’d have told you at once,” Stephen said gently. “Were you really so upset because you thought one small unknown boy was critically injured?”

She fiddled with the strap of her wristwatch. It was on the tip of her tongue to admit that her concern had been mainly for him. Instead, she said quietly, “One
always feels more distressed by accidents to children, I suppose. How old is the boy?”

Stephen lit a cigarette and relaxed again. “He’s ten.”

“Aurora said you’d brought him from Nassau when he was a baby. Was he an orphan?”

“Just about. His mother had T.B. before he was born and died about six months later. His father is in Fox Hill prison on New Providence—a habitual criminal. Joe would have had to have been dragged up by his grandmother in a shanty that already housed about fourteen people. He’d probably have been in the industrial school for juvenile delinquents by now, but I thought it better to bring him over here.”

“I see,” Sara said softly. She wondered how many men in Stephen’s position would have cared about the future of one unwanted West Indian baby whose father was a jail-bird.

“I have an idea I was pretty rough with you when I came in,” Stephen said suddenly. “Sorry if I snarled at you.”

“That’s all right. You were worried about Joe ... and I expect you thought I was being horribly self-centred. But I didn’t know then that you had a radio and I thought my sister would be alarmed.”

“No, I didn’t think that exactly,” Stephen replied, on rather an odd note. There was a pause before he added, “Is your sister returning to England with you, or going straight to the States?”

“I—I’m not sure yet. It’s all been rather sudden, and our plans are still indefinite.”

“Very sudden.”

“You don’t approve of rapid engagements?” she asked cautiously.

“It depends on the people involved and how mature they are. I imagine your sister’s head is screwed on fairly firmly.”

Sara shot a quick glance at him. Had there been an edge of cynicism in that remark? Knowing they were skirting dangerous ground and that it would be wiser to change the subject, she said, “Do you think one’s head should always rule one’s heart, then?”

“Not necessarily. The ideal, I imagine, is to wait until there’s a suitable balance between one’s emotional urges and rational common sense.”

Sara thought of Angela’s admitted attraction to Peter. “You don’t think that people should sometimes give way to their emotions and forget about common sense?” she asked uncertainly.

“That sort of recklessness is usually the hallmark of an infatuation,” he said drily. “It tends to pass off with somewhat disastrous results. Now I’d better attend to that message to your sister.”

It was dark before they had supper, a savory chicken gumbo and fruit salad. There was no moon, and rain was beginning to fall. There was a high wind blowing, but it was not sufficiently strong to have the storm shutters closed and was a mere zephyr compared with the destructive gales of the hurricane season, Stephen said carelessly.

They spent the evening listening to long-playing records, and by bedtime the storm had blown over.

Apparently Stephen had told Aurora to stay the night, because a little after ten he pressed a bell and asked the housekeeper to show Sara to her room.

The bed had a foam rubber mattress and the pale blue linen sheets were immaculately laundered and invitingly smooth, but Aurora must have had doubts about its comfort, as when Sara had undressed and was enveloped in a pair of Stephen’s pyjamas, she reappeared with a glass of some dark hot liquid.

“Dis make you sleep good, Missy Sara,” she said kindly.

Whatever the concoction was, it had a most unappetizing aroma and an even worse taste. But Sara managed to swallow it without a grimace. In spite of its bitterness, it was certainly a most effective nightcap, because within a few minutes of drinking it, her eyelids began to feel heavy. With the heady fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine on the air, and a brilliant green
firefly hovering in the creeper outside her window, she climbed into bed. In the last moments of deepening drowsiness, she was vaguely aware of touching some hard object beneath the pillow. Then she slept.

* * *

When Sara woke, the sun was streaming into the room and the sky was as blue as Bristol glass. Stretching and yawning, she felt something under her shoulder. It was a small leather bag about the size of a walnut, with cord twined tightly round the opening. It seemed to contain a pebble or some other hard substance. Having no idea what it was, or how it had come into the bed, she put it in the pocket of her skirt to give to Aurora at breakfast.

Going to the window, she was surprised and enchanted to see a tiny humming-bird feeding from some blossoms on a bush. The earth smelt fresh from the rain, the sea was brilliantly sapphire.

Stephen was already at the breakfast table when she went out to the courtyard.

“How did you sleep?” he enquired, pouring coffee for her.

“Marvellously, Aurora gave me a glass of some syrupy stuff and I went out like a light. Is something funny?”

“Not really. But most of Aurora’s brews have a pretty foul taste.”

“It was rather vile,” Sara admitted. “She doesn’t make them from anything peculiar, does she?” she asked anxiously.

“You mean crushed toad’s liver and octopus blood? Not as far as I know. I think most of her ingredients are roots and leaves. Anyway, I’ve drunk a good many of her potions since I was a kid, so I’m sure they aren’t fatal. The launch is back, by the way, and Sam says that the boy is getting on well. As soon as you’ve had your breakfast, we’ll start back to Nassau.”

It wasn’t until they were nearing New Providence that Sara discovered the leather bag was still in her pocket. She gave it to Stephen.

“What is it?” she asked.

He looked amused. “One of Aurora’s charms. She’s an enthusiastic Christian and has tremendous faith in the powers of ‘de good Lawd’, but she’s not above practising the odd bit of
obeah
when necessary.”

“I suppose she must have dropped it when she was making up my bed.”

“I should think she put it there for your benefit.”

“What is it supposed to do for me?”

“You’ll have to ask Aurora,” he said, smiling. Sara’s heart lifted. Surely he must mean that he would take her to Flamingo again.

To her relief, her sister made very little comment about her absence, and Mrs. Stuyvesant only asked what Stephen’s house had been like. The reason for their cursory interest was that Conrad had been informed of a simmering labor dispute in one of his plants and had decided to fly home at the end of the week.

The evening before his departure was the night of the fancy-dress barbecue. Most people dined early and then hurried to their rooms to put on their costumes. Sara was ready before Angela had even started to change. Her costume was intended to be that of a pirate’s cabin boy, and although she did not expect to take any prizes for originality, she was at least comfortable.

White cotton beach pants cut into ragged edges above her ankles—after the party they could be hemmed to jeans length—were bound at the waist by a cummerbund of gaudy silk. The bracelet-length sleeves of her yellow cotton shirt had also been cut into tatters above the elbow and a spotted kerchief was bound round her head and knotted behind one ear. Rope-soled sand shoes and an ornamental paper-knife which had cost only a few shillings and was now thrust into her sash completed the outfit.

“Will I do?” she asked, when she was ready.

Angela removed the lotion-soaked pads from her eyelids and looked her over. “You look very nice,” she said kindly. “As you’re ready so early, why not run along and see if Emily needs any help with zipps and things?”

“Meaning that you want to get rid of me, I suppose,” Sara said, with a faint smile. Her sister had refused to reveal her choice of costume.

“I would rather be alone,” Angela admitted. “But Emily probably does need a hand. That costume she hired is a size too small for her.”

“Well, don’t be too long or Conrad will start flapping.”

Half an hour later, when Sara had assisted his mother to squeeze herself into a tight
-
waisted crinoline, Conrad put his head round the door.

“Come on in, honey. How do I look?” Mrs. Stuyvesant asked, with a giggle. She was as excited as any teenager, although Sara couldn’t help feeling that her decision to go to the party as a furbelowed Southern belle was not the happiest choice.

“You look just fine, Momma,” Conrad said appreciatively.

Like Sara, he had put comfort first and was going as a South Seas beachcomber.

“I always did think these very full skirts and picture hats were the most becoming fashion ever,” said Emily, happily prinking. “I wonder if Angela’s ready yet? I’m just longing to see her costume. Do run over and see how she’s going on, honey.”

But when Conrad returned, it was to tell them that Angela was still dressing and would join them presently in the bar. So, when his mother had finished titivating, the three of them went downstairs.

The bar was already crowded with other guests in a motley assortment of outfits. There was a Brigitte Bardot, a grass-skirted hula dancer, several. Roman emperors in laurels and draped bath-sheets and a couple of Persian houris in two-piece bathing-suits with diaphanous trousers, a great deal of tinkling jewellery and chiffon yashmaks.

It was another half-hour before Angela appeared, by which time Conrad had begun to fidget and worry that she would miss the launch. But when she did make her entrance he could only gape at her with rapt admiration.

Even Sara was slightly taken aback when she turned her head and saw her sister poised in the doorway. She had never seen the elder girl looking so beautiful and, from the sudden hush of chatter, it was evident that a great many people were equally impressed. Angela was dressed as Cleopatra. A long white chiffon robe was clasped at the shoulders with two glittering brooches and bound high under the bosom by a band of gold ribbon, and gold-painted toe-nails matched the golden thongs of her sari sandals. Her luxuriant auburn hair was dressed in an elaborate chignon at the back of her head and bound with pearls and gold beads, and her eyelids were touched with gold shadow and skilfully outlined with kohl. Gold slave bracelets emphasized the slenderness of her upper arms and she wore long gold filigree ear-rings. A single gold sequin marked the smoothness of her ivory forehead. Except for her glistening crimson lips and the coppery sheen of her hair, she was all white and gold.

“Why, Angie, honey, you’re stunning—just
stunning
!” exclaimed Mrs. Stuyvesant, as she glided over to join them.

Conrad was still looking dazzled.

“Thank you, Emily. You look very elegant yourself,” Angela said smoothly. “May I have a drink, please, Conrad?”

“A drink? Oh, sorry, honey—like Momma said, that’s a pretty spectacular get-up. You had me knocked out for a moment.” He signalled the waiter. “I guess it’s a good thing we’re getting married right away, or someone might rush you off to Hollywood,” he said, grinning.

But to Sara, watching them, the incongruity of their costumes seemed to emphasize the total incompatibility of their characters.
It was not until they were on board the launch that she saw Valerie Langdon-Owen with Guy Castell in tow. Valerie was dressed as a Spanish flamenco dancer, and the tight-fitting red dress flaring into a double tier of flounces suited her gypsy looks. She had a black lace mantilla draped over a high tortoise-shell comb and a red flower above one ear. Guy was in a khaki bush shirt with a broad-brimmed slouch hat banded with leopard-skin, but he wasn’t the type to fit the role of an intrepid white hunter and looked more like a youthful Scoutmaster. As yet, there was no sign of Stephen.

When the launch reached the beach where the barbecue was to be held, Sara saw that a large canvas-roofed pavilion had been erected, and there was also a fair-sized dance floor built on concrete stanchions above the sand. Strings of Chinese lanterns and fairy lights lit the whole area and two colored men in tall chef’s hats were spit-roasting a side of beef over a driftwood fire. From high in a palm tree near the dance floor, the lilting rhythm of ‘Begin the Beguine’ was coming over an amplifier.

Mrs. Stuyvesant clasped her plump mittened hands. “Now isn’t this just the most romantic atmosphere!” she exclaimed delightedly to Sara, when they were settled in a group of chairs outside the pavilion.

Conrad and Angela had gone off to try the dance floor.

“You know, it reminds me of a movie I saw some time back,” she continued. “It was all about this lovely young girl who ...” She began to explain the plot.

Judging by the length and complexity of Mrs. Stuyvesant’s description, the film must have been a cinematic marathon. Sara did her best to attend, but as the telling wore on and became more and more involved she could not help letting her glance stray past the American woman’s face to where a second launch was disgorging its load of merry-makers. But nowhere among the crowd of clowns and cowboys, shingled vamps and bearded King Neptunes could she catch a glimpse of Stephen.

And then, suddenly, just as Mrs. Stuyvesant had finally come to the closing sequence of the picture, someone touched Sara’s shoulder and she looked up to see a tall rakish buccaneer at her side. The black eye-patch, the bristling black moustache and the gold earring in his left ear lobe were such an effective disguise that, for a moment, she didn’t recognize him.

Then, bowing to the startled Mrs. Stuyvesant, he said, “Edward Teach—at your service, ma’am,” and she realized that it was Stephen.

“Why it’s Mr. Rand, Sara. Gracious, how you startled me, Mr. Rand. You look so fierce in those whiskers.”

Stephen grinned, and under the false moustachios, his teeth seemed even whiter. “Would you care to dance?” he asked Sara.

At the steps to the floor, he halted for a moment to unbuckle the broad leather cutlass belt and toss it on the sand. A few moments later she was in his arms.

“You look like a stout-hearted lad. I might find a place for you in my crew,” he said, looking down at her as they began to circle the floor.

Sara’s heart lurched, but she managed to smile before retorting, “I only work on respectable merchant ships, Captain Teach.”

“In that case you may find yourself in my power without any choice about it.”

Sara laughed, but she wondered if he had any idea that his banter was painfully true. Loving him, she
was
in his power—and there had never been any choice for her.

“This damned patch is making me squint,” he said, freeing her hand for a moment to push the patch up on his forehead. Then his fingers locked with hers again and he drew her closer against him.

For Sara, the hours that followed were fraught with a mounting excitement. Every time the music ended or people stopped to talk to them, she expected Stephen to excuse himself or be drawn away from her. That he remained at her side and that, even when they were part of a group, he would glance across at her with a little quirk at the corner of his firm mouth, filled her with secret delight. Surely, oh,
surely
he wouldn’t behave like this unless ...

Beyond the flickering glow of the barbecue fire, she caught sight of Valerie Langdon-Owen. She had managed to shelve Guy and was talking to a man in a matador costume. But her eyes were on Stephen, and as Sara watched her, she murmured something to her companion and skirted the fire to come to him.

“Stephen, you wretch,” Sara heard her say laughingly. And then something else which was too low to catch.

“Would you care to dance?” An elderly man in hobo’s tatters with a dented bowler hat was extending his arm to her.

“Oh, thank you, but—” Before Sara could make some polite excuse, he had ducked her hand through his arm and was leading her off to the platform. “Rather a jolly idea all this, don’t you think?” he said cheerfully.

“Yes, very jolly,” Sara said flatly, willing herself not to look back.

Fortunately, at the end of the dance when her unknown partner was suggesting a snack at the buffet, Angela appeared to extricate her.

“Do you want to powder your nose, Sara? There’s a cloakroom up there in the trees, apparently.”

Then, as they moved away from the party, “Who in the world was that old boy?”

“I’ve no idea. He suddenly swooped on me.”

“I thought you were with Stephen Rand.”

“I was—earlier on,” Sara said briefly.

The cloakroom was a small brick building behind a screen of shrubs. There were two lavatories and washbasins and a Formica-topped make-up bench under a well-lit mirror. A plump West Indian woman was sitting just outside the entrance with a saucer full of small silver on a table beside her. She came inside to provide them with slivers of soap and American paper towels in plastic wrappers.
Sara was content to wash her hands and touch tip her lipstick, but Angela evidently intended to renovate her whole make-up.

“I think I’ll go back and find Emily. I haven’t seen her for a long time,” Sara said quickly.

“Tell Conrad where I am if you spot him, will you? He was talking politics to that ghastly man dressed up as Marilyn Monroe, so I drifted away,” her sister said, over her shoulders.

As Sara walked back down the path to the beach, a firefly darted in front of her and she was reminded of her night on Flamingo Cay. Two middle-aged women in ordinary evening dress came up from the sand, and their high drawling voices grated her nerves. Her enjoyment of the party suddenly gave place to an intense longing to be back on Stephen’s island.