The White Pearl (19 page)

On the edge of the gulley, Pippin saw her and barked with delight.

‘Mummy!’ Teddy called, released one hand and waved, grinning wildly. ‘Mummy, look, I’m …’ he swung so close she reached
out to seize him, but the rope snatched him away at the last second and swept him back to the other side. ‘… I’m flying.’

Sweat froze on Connie’s cheeks as she stared across the gulley straight into the eyes of Maya and Razak Jumat. Their brown
hands were holding onto Teddy’s white shirt, preventing him from swinging back to her.

I curse you, white lady.
The words lay unspoken between them, crawling in the gulley, rustling in the dead undergrowth.

‘Give me my son,’ Connie ordered.

Beside her, she was aware of sudden movement. She caught sight of Fitzpayne’s khaki shirt disappearing down into the gulley.
Previously he had struck her as bullish in his movements, solid and heavy, but now he streaked forward with the smooth speed
of a leopard. The twins’ hands instantly released their grip on Teddy’s shirt.

As her son swung towards her, she snatched him off the rope and landed him firmly at her side. His face was dirty, his shirt
was covered in green smears, his feet were thick with mud almost up to his knees, but his eyes were shining and out of his
mouth tumbled a torrent of excitement. He pointed to the spot where the rope was tied to the tree high above.

‘Razak climbed all the way up there.’

Connie didn’t hear any of his words. Her eyes fed on him, drank him in, imprinted again into her head the soft texture of
his skin, the curl of his eyelashes, the tilt of his chin. Her hand clasped his small fingers tightly against her side as
if she could sew him to her, the way Chala sewed bright strips of beads around her ankles. Dimly she became aware of other
things. That the ache had stopped. That Razak and Maya were standing right in front of her, Fitzpayne behind them. That Teddy
wanted his hand back.

‘Right,’ she said firmly, ‘back to the house.’

Teddy opened his mouth to moan, but before he could begin to object Fitzpayne swept him up under his arm like a roll of old
tarpaulin and strode back the way they had come. Teddy kicked and squealed with delight, his muddy legs flailing against leaves
and branches. It occurred to Connie that Nigel would never treat him so roughly – but then, neither would she.

Maybe that was the problem.

She sent the Jumat twins home.

‘Teddy is not allowed to leave the garden,’ she told them. She frowned sternly at her son. ‘He knows that’s the rule.’

‘But I was with Maya and Razak, I wasn’t on my own,’ he grumbled. His brown eyes were darker now, cross with her.

‘You know the rule,’ she insisted. ‘Whose idea was it?’

‘It my idea,’ Razak admitted. ‘Good play for boy.’

‘Yes,’ Teddy added. ‘Good play.’

‘Not without asking me first. You should have asked my permission.’

‘You gone,’ Maya said softly.

‘I cannot employ you if I can’t trust you. Come back tomorrow morning and I will let you know my decision about your jobs.
Go now.’

They didn’t argue, but turned and walked away down the drive. She was conscious of Fitzpayne on the front step, smoking a
cigarette and watching them with close attention. It irritated her. She whisked Teddy’s hand into hers and marched him into
the house. As she passed Fitzpayne she said a final, ‘Thank you for your help.’

In the hall, Chala fussed over Teddy, kissing his dirty cheeks and scolding him for worrying his mother.

‘Bath time,’ Connie said.

‘One moment, please.’ It was Fitzpayne, still at the open front door. ‘I would like a word with you, Mrs Hadley.’

‘Not now, I’m sorry, Mr Fitzpayne. I’m grateful for the help you’ve given me but …’ She stopped. He had walked across
the hall and entered the drawing room, as though she had suggested it. She strode after him quickly. ‘Excuse me, I don’t recall
inviting you into my house.’

‘Just sit a minute.’

‘No, thank you. I have a son to bathe.’

‘Just sit.’

He came over to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and sat her down on one of the sofas. Her knees just buckled under
her. No resistance, nothing in them. It shocked her. Then her whole body started to shake.

‘Mrs Hadley, you look pale. You’ve had an unpleasant shock. Just sit for a moment.’

He moved over to the cocktail cabinet, opened it, poured out a stiff brandy and brought it to her. She shook her head. He
crouched down in front of her, regarding her carefully.

‘You need it,’ he said.

‘No. Thank you.’

He didn’t insist, but shrugged and drank it down himself. ‘Shall I call a servant for you?’

‘No. Thank you.’ Her teeth chattered. She closed her eyes.

He remained there in front of her, not patting her knee or holding her hand. He just left her to deal with whatever she had
to deal with alone. But he didn’t leave. Minutes ticked past and the nausea in her stomach began to lessen, the beat of her
heart which had slowed to a sluggish murmur picked up and a pulse tapped impatiently at her temple. When she opened her eyes,
Fitzpayne was gazing out through the window. She saw that the wide jaw was tense and his large nostrils flared with annoyance.
He reminded her of a grumpy horse she’d once owned who hated being cooped up in a horse box. She sat up straight and immediately
he returned his attention to her, offering her a cigarette. She accepted. He lit hers and one for himself, inhaled deeply,
then stood up and walked to the door.

‘Better?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Your cheeks have more colour, your lips are no longer blue.’

His words embarrassed her. ‘Thank you.’

‘Do you want to tell me what that was all about?’

‘No.’

He nodded. ‘I said last time I was in this house that we all have our secrets.’ With a tip of his head to her, Fitzpayne was
gone.

‘I mean it, Teddy. You must never leave our garden without permission from me or Daddy. Even if someone you know invites you
to. This is important.’

‘Why?’ He made the bow of his boat bump against the white porcelain of the bath, and the corner of his mouth drooped down.
‘It’s boring in the garden.’

‘Because something bad might happen. You might have an accident or …’

‘Like you had in the car?’

She swallowed. ‘Yes, exactly like that. Or you might fall over. And we wouldn’t know where you were to help you. We would
be worried, like I was worried today.’ She caught hold of a strand of his wet hair. ‘Do you understand?’

He ducked his head away, sulkily. ‘Yes, Mummy.’

‘Good. Because I have an idea.’

Instantly his eyes flashed to hers. ‘What kind of idea?’

‘I’ve decided,’ she continued, ‘that we all need a bit of adventure – you, Daddy and me.’

‘Yes.’ He abandoned his boat.

‘I think we need to live rough for a day. Out in the plantation.’

He beamed at her. ‘Can we light a fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘And cook food?’

‘Yes. And we’ll build a hut.’

He splashed his hand down on the water with excitement, spraying bubbles over them both and laughing, but after a moment he
looked back at her cautiously.

‘Us?’ he said. ‘Just us?’

‘That’s right. You can invite Jack if you want.’

‘No servants?’

She realised what he was trying to say. Because servants did all the work at home, he thought she wouldn’t let him have a
go on their day out
in the wild. It dawned on her that Teddy was a seven-year-old desperate to get his hands dirty. Well, in the plantation he
could get dirty without the dangers of the jungle.

‘No servants,’ she promised him. ‘We’ll do everything ourselves. Unless we want someone to come along to show us how to light
a fire without matches, and how to make a waterproof roof. It’s up to you.’

Her son thought for a moment, his young face solemn as he considered the options. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘We must take Razak
with us.’

Her heart sank. ‘Not necessarily Razak, sweetheart. We could take one of our gardeners instead – how about Ajib? He knows
about …’

‘Please let’s take Razak!’ His voice was full of yearning.

‘I’ll have to think about it.’

‘You won’t sack them, will you, Mummy? Because I got them into trouble.’

She heard the guilt. She recognised it in his voice instantly, that dull, dragging sensation that tightens the throat.

‘Teddy, what they did was wrong.’

He placed his small hand over hers on the edge of the bath. ‘I’m sorry I broke the rules, Mummy. I won’t leave the garden
again, I promise.’

She kissed his wet skin and accepted his peace offering.

Razak was blank-eyed and far away, though his shoulder was against Maya’s as they sat in the back of the ancient truck that
had stopped to give them a lift. The sun directly overhead beat down on the top of her head but the wind had risen, moaning
through the rubber trees. She knew a storm was on its way. She could see the clouds marching over the hills in the distance,
and she wanted to get home quickly.

‘Razak,’ she said crossly, ‘you have the heart of a bleating goat.’

He blinked, his long black lashes moving slowly as he came back from wherever he had gone. ‘The woman must suffer,’ he said
solemnly. ‘Not the child.’

‘But we agreed we would make her suffer by stealing the boy.’ Maya didn’t mention demanding dollars. She didn’t want another
lecture on the need to respect her mother’s spirit. Piss on her mother’s spirit!

‘We did steal the boy, Maya. She did suffer.’ He turned to her, and she glimpsed the satisfaction in his eyes. ‘You saw her
face.’

Maya could not resist a smile. ‘Yes, I saw her face.’

‘The agony.’

‘And the fury.’

He made a soft, contented noise in his chest. ‘She will die before she forgets that day.’

‘You made us waste time with your stupid game with the boy.’ She slapped her brother’s thigh, and he caught her wrist and
pinned it down.

‘The boy is a pup, Maya. He needs to play. Not in a bed of goose down. He needs …’

‘Razak, I don’t care what the boy needs. He is a tool for us, nothing more.’

He sighed beside her, his breath mingling with the hot wind and the dust. ‘Sometimes, Maya, it weighs on my heart, the fear
that you have no soul.’

His words hurt her, but she kept it hidden. She trod carefully. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘you must go back to the white lady
alone. She will keep you working there, but not me. It’s up to you now to squeeze the blood from her veins.’ She watched the
black clouds swarming together like bees. ‘But my time will come with her, I know.’

‘Why? We must go to Hadley House together in the morning.’

She heard the alarm in his voice, and it pleased her to know that he wanted her there. She shook her head, sweeping flies
from her lips. ‘He will never allow it.’

‘Who?’

‘Her husband.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I know him.’

He swivelled round to face her, curious. ‘You know him?’

‘Yes. He is the man with the sad eyes and the whisky who comes and sits against the wall in The Purple Pussy.’

Nigel was late home that evening. He arrived out of the rain just when Connie was in the middle of dancing a snappy quickstep
on her own across the drawing-room floor. She had pushed back the furniture, kicked away the rug, turned down the lights and
put one of her dance-band records on the gramophone, a Glenn Miller. She let her eyes fall almost closed as she danced, her
steps complicated and fast, her blood pounding in rhythm to the beat. Nigel stood in the doorway and stared. She stopped as
soon as she saw him but she had no idea how long he had
been there, watching her with astonished eyes. She came to a halt in front of him, and on impulse held out her arms to him.

‘Dance with me,’ she whispered, swaying her hips.

To her surprise he slipped off his jacket, took her in his arms and twirled her around the room in a series of quick turns.
She tilted her head backwards, stretching her neck and letting her hair swing free, feeling the pleasure of being held for
once by her husband, his palm warm on her back, his grip light on her fingers. He rarely took to the floor even on social
occasions, which was a shame because he was a damn good dancer.

When the music ended he immediately released his hold on her, walked over to the gramophone and lifted the needle from the
record. She remained where she was, standing with her arms loose at her sides, tendrils of hair clinging to the moist skin
of her neck. In the dim light with the rain lashing down outside, the room felt intimate despite the expanse of polished floor
between them. It struck Connie that Nigel’s face looked tired, the set of it older than his thirty-eight years, especially
along the jawline where shadows gathered.

She gave him an affectionate smile. ‘Would you like a drink? A stengah?’

But neither of them moved.

‘Do you often dance?’ he asked.

‘Sometimes. When I’m lonely. Or restless.’

‘Are you restless now?’

She shrugged. ‘Colonial wives are restless most of the time. There’s not much for us to do.’

He made no comment, but walked over to her till he was so close that for one stupid moment she thought he intended to kiss
her. Instead, his eyes fixed on her face so intently that she felt he was trying to strip away the layers that made up the
gossamer armour that guarded her, protected her from his prying gaze.

‘Don’t ever kiss Johnnie again. Promise me.’

His words were the last she had expected. He spoke in such a low voice she barely heard them. Hesitantly she raised her hand,
cupping his cheek in it, but for once he didn’t back away.

‘I promise.’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

‘Have you heard from him?’

‘No, not yet.’

He was lying, she could tell, but she let it sit there between them as if it were the truth. ‘You’ll tell me when you do?’

‘Of course.’

She removed her hand, but he remained where he was and she could smell whisky on his breath.