The House on Flamingo Cay (2 page)

* * *

The plane left London Airport at one minute to midnight—a strange hour to be setting out on holiday. Most of the other passengers were middle-aged couples, the men paunchy and balding—probably wealthy stock-brokers or the ulcer-ridden chairmen of company boards, Sara thought—and the women expensively dressed with mink stoles and lilac-tinted hair.

Quite soon after take-off people began to switch out their seat-lamps and compose themselves for sleep. But, long after Angela had adjusted her seat to the reclining position and was breathing deeply and evenly, Sara lay wakeful and restive.

The long forward section of the great aircraft was now almost in darkness, a few weak blue-toned bulbs giving just enough light for anyone to find their way to the cloakroom. In spite of the little adjustable air vents over each seat, it was very warm, and she was glad that she had a sleeveless shantung blouse under her jacket.

The stewardess, passing quietly along the aisle, leaned over Angela and said softly, “Is there anything I can get you, Miss Gordon? A cup of cocoa or a glass of warm milk perhaps?”

Sara shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m just not very sleepy.”

“Well, if you do feel like a nightcap presently, do ring for me. The bell won’t wake anyone in here and I’m on duty all night.” The stewardess smiled and moved on.

It was almost two o’clock before Sara finally began to feel drowsy, and then she slept so heavily that Angela had to shake her arm for some minutes before she roused. It was broad daylight again and, thousands of feet below them, an expanse of grey-green ocean, was the sunlit North Atlantic.

“Everyone’s rushing to the powder room to put on fresh faces. I went early, but you’ll have to wait a while now,” Angela explained, as Sara blinked at the activity in the cabin.

After breakfast, Angela chatted to the woman across the aisle and Sara studied the information folder provided by the airline. There was a map of the whole of the Bahamas and, as she studied the pattern of islands and some of the strange and intriguing names—Palmetto Point, Man-of-War Cay and Matanilla Reef—she could not help thinking that it would have been more fun to hire a small launch and explore the uninhabited islands than to spend their time in the rarefied atmosphere of the main tourist centre.

The aircraft was due to land in New Providence at noon, and as they drew close to their destination, Sara saw that the sea was no longer a cloudy lichen color, but had become brilliantly aquamarine. And presently, craning forward, she saw her first coral island and its guardian reef, a dark shadow beneath the blue water.

“Oh, Angela—look!” she said eagerly. But Angela was busy retouching her mouth and gave it only a cursory glance before returning her attention to her mirror.

Half an hour later, stepping out of the aircraft into brilliant sunshine and a gusty salt-scented breeze. Sara felt as if they had landed in another world. It seemed incredible that, in the space of one night, they had been transported from the chill grey gloom of London to this midsummer world of vivid azure skies and tall tossing palms.

The hotel at which Angela had booked their room ran a transport service to and from the airfield. Coming out of the Customs, they were intercepted by a beaming coffee-colored Bahamian in a smart white uniform and conducted to a spanking white-painted carriage with a shady rose-pink canopy.

“Why, Angela, don’t you see—it’s a surrey with a fringe on the top,” Sara exclaimed delightedly, as the driver handed her sister into the cushioned seat and attended to their luggage.

Her sister shrugged. “It’s an amusing gimmick, I suppose, but I think I’d prefer a car. I hope it isn’t as windy as this all the time,” she added, smoothing her ruffled hair.

The driver must have overheard her.

“Dere’s always a fine sailin’ wind in de islands, ma’am,” he announced cheerfully.

Sara’s first impression of Nassau was of a city embowered in gardens. There were flowers everywhere: scarlet hibiscus, crimson and pink bougainvillea, golden poincianas and masses of white oleanders. Apparently their surrey was not merely the ‘gimmick’ Angela had thought. There were any number of similar carriages in the main streets as well as a great many gleaming American limousines and smaller British cars.

The entrance to their hotel was on Bay Street, the central thoroughfare, and as the surrey drew up under the portico of what had once been a rich trader’s mansion, Angela said quietly. “Now do try not to look overawed, Sara. There are bound to be people in the foyer and first impressions are important.”

So, trying her best to look as if she had never stayed at any but the best hotels, but not feeling very confident about the effect, Sara followed her sister to the reception desk, and they were presently shown to their room.

Evidently Bay Street ran parallel to the sea-front as, when she stepped out on to the balcony, she found herself looking out on the harbor. In fact this side of the hotel had a Venetian aspect as the water came right up to the edge of the terrace on the ground floor where people were having their lunches. And, as she watched, a motor-boat came purring alongside the terrace steps and its passengers climbed out and took their places at a reserved table.

“We’ll have lunch in our room and spend the afternoon resting,” Angela said, joining her on the balcony and looking down. “I didn’t sleep all that well, and you look a bit jaded.”

“But I’m not tired now. I want to start exploring,” Sara objected.

“There’s no rush. We’ll make our entrance at cocktail time. Ring down and ask for something light, will you? I need a shower.”

Sara bit her lip. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that
she
wasn’t looking for a rich husband so it didn’t particularly matter what people thought of her, but she kept silent.

By half-past two, Angela, a peach-colored toning mask smoothed over her face and neck, was sleeping on her twin bed. She had closed the glass doors of the balcony and drawn the blinds to shut out the light and sounds of the afternoon, but Sara could hear the muted laughter of a party of late lunchers drifting up from the terrace.

It seemed to her that they must be the only people on the island who were not out enjoying themselves and that, since every hour was costing them a small fortune, it was madness to waste even a moment.

Finally, after sitting in the dusky room for half an hour and becoming increasingly restive, she decided to risk Angela’s displeasure and slip quietly out. Wearing the least conspicuous of her clothes—white sailcloth pants and a mimosa shirt—she passed through the empty foyer and went eagerly out into the sun. After strolling along Bay Street for some way and admiring the Colonial style buildings and the traceries of white-painted lattice work which gave the shop fronts a rather Oriental appearance, she found her way round to the harbor.

Every kind of sea craft was moored along the wharves, from charter launches advertising trips to the Out Islands, to native sloops bringing in cargoes of produce. Wishing she had the talent to paint the scene, Sara sat down on a bollard at the end of a small pier and watched the people and the boats coming and going. The breeze tugged at her hair, the sun was warm on her shoulders, and somewhere a carefree Bahamian was singing a lilting calypso. And then, while she was swivelling to watch a motor boat cutting across towards Hog Island, a voice called up “Hey there—make fast for me, will you?” and something fell across her lap.

It was a coil of rope and it had been tossed up by the man in the launch which had just slid alongside the pier.

By the time she had collected her wits, all she could see of him was a muscular back bent over something in the well of the boat.

Not at all sure what making fast meant, but presuming that the rope was intended to go round the bollard, Sara did the best she could.

“That won’t do: a strong wash could pull her loose.” The man had swung himself up on to the pier and was standing over her, a dark-haired, long-legged giant with amused grey eyes and a tan the color of teak.

“I’m sorry. I don’t really know—” Sara began apologetically.

“I’ll show you. Look, like this.” He demonstrated the correct technique, then straightened again and said, “Never done any messing about in boats?”

Sara shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve never even been in a rowing-boat,” she admitted.

He laughed, buttoning on the faded blue cotton shirt which had been hitched through the belt of his equally salt-stained levis. “That’s a pretty shameful admission in this part of the world. The islanders are some of the finest seamen afloat. On land, they’re scared of their own shadows, but at sea, nothing frightens them. A man who’ll run a mile if he thinks a haunt is after him will beat through a storm and thoroughly enjoy it.”

“What’s a haunt?” Sara asked curiously.

“A ghost. They’re riddled with superstitions.” He produced an American pack of cigarettes and offered it to her.

“Thank you, but I don’t smoke.”

As he lit his cigarette, she was able to study him more closely. He seemed to be about thirty and sounded like an Englishman. But he looked as if he had spent his whole life in the sun, and there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes which probably came from years of sailing these brilliant waters.

“Your first day here?” he asked.

“Yes—how did you know?”

“I knew there was a plane in from London this morning, and this gives you away.”

He touched her forearm and she realized the pallor of her skin against his own deep tan. “You should be wearing glasses or a shady hat. This strong light can give people headaches until they’re used to it.”

Sara nodded. “I forgot to bring my sun-glasses with me. There is rather a glare,” she agreed. Then, on impulse, she asked: “Have you ever been to Green Turtle Cay?”

He nodded. “It’s up north of Abaco. What makes you interested? Has somebody given you a clue to the buccaneers’ treasure?” His eyes were amused again.

“I just saw the name on the map and wondered about it.
Is
there supposed to be treasure there?”

“Who knows? There could be chests of gold on any of the cays. When I was a kid, I spent half my time digging in likely spots. A lot of the territory has never been explored really thoroughly. For instance, they say that in the forests of Andros, there are descendants of the original Lucayans. Nobody’s ever seen them, but in sixteen hundred miles of bush country, you might find anything.”

“It must be a wonderful place for a boy to grow up,” Sara said, thinking aloud. “I wish we had time to see the wild islands.”

“Playing at Robinson Crusoe may sound amusing, but it soon palls when you’re used to comfort,” he said drily. “A few of the tourists do try roughing it for a day or so, but they’re usually glad to get back to the shops and night-clubs.”

He spoke quite tolerantly, but Sara had a feeling that he didn’t have much time for the majority of Nassau’s visitors. She wondered if he took her for a spoiled society girl and found herself resenting the idea.

“That’s probably because they’re mostly middle-aged,” she said evenly.

He grinned.

“Which, from the vantage of seventeen, includes anyone over thirty, I suppose?”

“I’m not seventeen,” she said quickly. “I’m twenty-two.”

Then she flushed slightly because she had suddenly remembered that he was a complete stranger and that, even on a holiday in Nassau, it wasn’t very circumspect to give such personal information to a man she didn’t know.

“I’d better get back to the hotel now,” she said hurriedly. “Goodbye.”

“I’m going up to Bay Street myself,” he said, falling into step with her. “Where are you staying?”

Without being rude, she could hardly avoid telling him.

“Like it?” he asked casually.

“Yes, very much. We have a wonderful view of the harbor.”

“If you want a really fine view, go up to Fort Fincastle. Twenty-two is getting on in years, but I expect you’ll be able to manage the Queen’s Staircase,” he said teasingly. “There are sixty-seven steps, all cut from solid coral rock,” he explained, as she looked enquiring.

A small woolly-headed negro boy came pelting round the corner of an alley and almost cannoned into her. Jumping back, Sara lost her balance and might have fallen, but her companion caught her round the waist and held her steady. In the momentary interval before she recovered herself, she was oddly conscious of the lean hard body supporting her and the warmth of his hand at her waist.

“Thanks. I almost fell flat,” she said, with an uncertain smile.

When they reached the main street, she said goodbye again and turned towards the hotel. A few yards on, she glanced over her shoulder and was embarrassed that he was still standing at the corner, watching her. Hastily facing forward again, her cheeks hot, she quickened her pace.

“Where on earth have you been?” her sister demanded angrily, as soon as she reached their room.

“Only down on the wharves. I’m sorry, Angela, but I couldn’t sleep—and what harm could it do?”

“That depends. You didn’t speak to anyone, I hope?”

Sara hesitated. “Only to a man from the Out Islands who moored his boat where I was sitting. Not to anyone we’d be likely to meet in the hotel.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” her sister said shortly. “All the same, it was too bad of you to sneak out when I’d particularly said that we wouldn’t go down until this evening.”