The Takamaka Tree (11 page)

Sandy curled up on an old stuffed horse-hair sofa, pulling down her brief nightie. Leon was grinning, interpreting her acquiescence as a good sign. Dust from the old shack filled her nostrils and from the patchouli leaves which had once been stored there in sacks. She could smell the strong sweat from Leon’s skin. She closed her eyes and hoped that he would go away.

She kept very still. Leon was obviously undecided now what to do with his prize, torn between his desire to stay with her and his desire to win her confidence. She began to breathe more deeply and slowly, pretending to be asleep. Leon ran his hand over his red hair and crept away, blowing out the candle as he moved.

She listened to all the noises, trying to follow what he was doing. He had secured the door and pulled some sort of mattress across the front of it to lie down on. She waited a long time until his breathing was heavy and even. Slowly she sat up, moving carefully in case the sofa creaked, then swung her legs over the side.

She moved like a zombie, weighing every floor board before she put her weight on it. Her outstretched hands searched for windows. The walls were flimsy wooden partitions. In the darkness the palms of her hands became extra sensitive. She could feel the edges of the pasted magazine pages, wood, then something different. It was cardboard. Part of the wall was actually cardboard. Sandy felt a surge of wild hope, and her pulse began to race. Now she had only to find something sharp.

Knowing that she had a chance to escape if she could remove the cardboard without waking Leon, she moved even more carefully. Her hands felt over a pile of rubbish, hoping there would be something she could use. A sharp edge nicked her skin. It was a broken bottle.

She found her way back to the strip of cardboard in the wall. It was joining a lower piece of corrugated iron to a plank of wood. Where the two sturdier pieces of building material did not meet, the piece of cardboard had been fitted, casually pasted on with pages of pictures.

The broken bottle top sawed through the cardboard easily after the initial jab. Leon still slept soundly but restlessly. Each time he moved, Sandy made use of the noise he created to cover up a more vigorous thrust through the cardboard. The stream of cool night air on her face was like the touch of a friend.

She was so thin she could easily wriggle through the gap, though she scraped her forehead on something rough. Outside, she listened for a moment to Leon, but he slept on. Now it was more difficult not to make a noise as the trodden leaves crackled like swaying timbers at sea. It was easier once she reached sand. Then she hurried, not bothering to sweep away her footsteps. She knew Leon would be able to follow any such amateurish attempts to cover her tracks. The main thing was to put as much distance between herself and Leon, and if possible find her way back to the Reef Hotel.

She knew that she could not simply follow the beaches around to Anse aux Pins, for there were many headlands and outcrops of rock. Her best plan was to strike inland somewhere and get onto the coast road, which would eventually take her to the Reef, though she had a feeling it was going to be a very long walk.

She found something which looked like a path, and took it, pushing through the undergrowth, her feet slithering on fallen leaves and branches. The moonlight shone eerily through the palms and everywhere the leaves were rustling and whispering to the wind. She pushed out all thoughts of night creatures and concentrated on following the dim line of way through the grove. Something furry scuttled across her feet,
and she almost choked on a scream. She was dripping with sweat now, chilled, aching with tiredness before she even began the long walk back.

Then she came out of the trees abruptly, and there was a road. She could have gone on her knees and kissed its dusty surface. But now, to go to the right or to the left? She went right, not knowing that if she had gone to the left she would have ended up among the swamps and lagoons of Baie Ternay Marine Reserve. Nor did she know that there was another road across the mountain which would have taken her to the hotel.

Her feet were sore and bleeding. She tore off the frill from the hem of her nightie, and bound the cotton strips around her feet. It gave her some relief. The ungainly stalks of banana trees growing closely to the road reminded her that she was hungry and thirsty. She had no second thoughts about helping herself to some ripe fruit, and its sweetness immediately revived her energy. There was nothing for her to drink. She saw no streams or mango trees, and could not get to any coconut milk without a knife, although fallen coconuts lay about in abundance.

Sometimes she saw wavering headlights coming towards her, and as a clattering taxi or car approached, she froze into the undergrowth. Sometimes it was a solitary driver; once a car full of noisy revellers on a drinking spree. She kept out of the way.

Almost imperceptibly, the sky was lightening. Sandy began to quicken her pace. She had to be somewhere safe by daylight, before Leon woke and found she had gone.

The island was stirring. She heard cockerels crowing and the birds beginning to twitter in their thousands. Dogs barked. She was so tired now that her legs were just moving automatically.

Vaguely she heard the clanking jangling of some vehicle approaching from behind, but she was too weary to do anything more than step aside off the road.

The vehicle slowed down and stopped beside her. It was a battered old lorry with
Marlena
painted in a bright pink scroll along its side. A broad-shouldered, beaming young man wearing a rakish Stetson leaned from the driver’s seat with scant care for the running engine and shouted at her.

“All aboard, lady,” he said.

It was a bus, crowded with early morning workers. Sandy remembered that Daniel had told her there were three factories in Victoria, for the production of bread, cigarettes and Seybrew, the Seychelles home brewed beer. She supposed these must be the bread workers.

“I’ve no money,” she said, shaking her head.

He shrugged his shoulders and put an old tobacco tin back on the dashboard, rattling the coins with a flourish.

“Pay me tomorrow,” he said, and waved her on.

She knew she looked a sight. The simple cotton nightie could pass for a shift-style sundress, but she had torn the hem off, and her feet were bound with filthy bandages. She climbed onto the lorry, thankful that at last she was going to sit and travel at some speed.

“Thank you,” she said wearily. Some women edged up together to make room for her on the hard wooden bench seat. Sandy could almost have gone to sleep sitting up, but for the violent bumping and jolting of the van as the bus-cowboy hurled his vehicle along the road.

The other passengers looked at her curiously. They did not know her, although she supposed she could pass for a local with her deep tan and freaky hair. And she looked poor enough to be one of the Seychellois unemployed.

At one point they picked up a bundle hanging from a tree; at another the driver put some freshly caught fish neatly wrapped in banana leaves on the grass verge. The bus obviously acted as a kind of unofficial go-between for various transactions.

Rounding a curve, Sandy suddenly recognised the long low white buildings of the Reef Hotel. “Could you put me down here?” she called out hesitantly.

The driver summed up her rags. “Looking for a job?” he asked.

“You could say so,” said Sandy, stepping off the bus.

“Good luck,” he grinned back, and drove off.

She ran into the hotel, well aware of her appearance. But she was just so thankful to be back within its civilised walls that she cared little for the curious stares of the staff. She ran up the stairs towards Room 27, and straight into Daniel in the corridor.

He had not slept all night, and looked it. There had been no starting point. Anything could have happened to Sandy. The strange compelling magnet of the sea could have called her again; perhaps she had gone to see the good doctor; perhaps her memory had returned, and the independent Miss Webster had taken herself off to separate accommodation. He had made discreet enquiries and several abortive trips into Port Victoria. He had searched the shore line for miles.

But one look at her distraught appearance, and any irritation vanished. She looked as though she had been through another terrible experience. There was dried blood on her forehead and her clothes were torn.

“All right. It’s all right now,” he said, as she fell against him. She was sobbing with relief, and he leaned back against the wall, just glad to have her there, alive and well.

He touched her hair absent-mindedly, thinking how many strange things had happened in the last few months. He was not returning to England the same man. He let her weep, then when she seemed steadier, he steered her towards their room. She was spilling out her story, confused and incoherent, but he let her get it out of her system.

It did not surprise him. All those questions had unnerved her. It was lucky that Leon had found her. Leon had shown signs of a fierce protectiveness towards Sandy on La Petite. But from now on, Daniel would not let her out of his sight till they were safely on that plane to London.

She drank and drank so much water that Daniel was afraid she would make herself ill. He took the glass away from her, and rang down for some coffee and juice to be sent up to their room.

Sandy tore off the filthy bandages from her feet and stepped into the bath. She just wanted to lie in the water and soak all her aches away. Then she wanted to sleep.

Daniel insisted that she drank some hot milky coffee before she curled up under the sheet to sleep. She was beginning to shake, and he thought the warmth inside might calm her.

“If only I knew who I was,” she moaned, “perhaps I could be more definite about everything. I could say what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go.”

“Well, that’s a nice change,” Daniel remarked. “For weeks you’ve been saying you did not want to know. Why this sudden interest?”

Her hands curled around the hot cup. She was bone-weary but she had to talk to Daniel.

“It was while I was with Leon. I realised that if no one looked for me, then I might be there for days, weeks, forever. You were the only person who would be concerned, but then you had no real reason to be. I’m not your responsibility. I suddenly wondered if I had any family, anyone who might be wondering where I was.”

Daniel did not answer at first. There might well be other members of the family at Windelshawe Court anxious for news. But one thing was certain, her father and her fiancé had not been found.

“Are you quite sure that you can’t remember anything at all? Surely back here on Mahé…no bells ringing?”

“Oh, Daniel. You sound as if you don’t believe me. Have I been here before? I don’t know, I don’t know anything.” She began to tremble, and Daniel hastily drew the sheet up around her shoulders.

“Try to get some sleep,” he said, making up his mind. “I know a way to give you an identity and get you back to England. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It can’t be too difficult to arrange.”

“What do you mean?” Sandy asked sleepily.

“You’re getting married. Just as well you bought a new dress.”

“What? Sandy sat up, clutching the slippery sheet. Daniel was standing by the window, tall, dark, utterly familiar. She looked at him with dismay. “Who? Me?”

“Of course, silly. There will be no passport difficulties if you enter the country as Mrs. Daniel Kane.”

“You mean really marry me? Not just this pretence?” She flushed suddenly angry at his matter-of-fact voice. “You don’t have to marry me out of charity, you know. I can get a job here at the hotel as a waitress, I’m sure!”

“Stop being so uppity. This is simply a way out. We’ll get married here, and once you are safely in London, then the marriage can be annulled.”

“Oh!” Sandy’s voice was harsh with shock. “How awful. Marriage is special, not just a game. You’re making it all sound so commercial.”

Daniel thrust his hands into his pockets. “What do you expect me to do? Go down on my knees and propose properly? Vow undying love? As you said only a few moments ago, you are not my responsibility. I am merely protecting my own interests by making sure that I don’t break any laws taking you into the country without a passport.”

“Oh!” she shrieked, pulling the sheet up over her head like an outraged little girl. Daniel’s stern expression relaxed.

“Sleep on it,” he chuckled. “See you in church.”

He did not linger over starting to make the arrangements, although he took the precaution of locking both the door and the windows before leaving Sandy. And he had asked one of the maids to sit outside the door of Room 27 in case Sandy awoke and was frightened. He explained that his wife had been ill, and he did not like to leave her for long.

He bought a gold ring as casually as a curtain ring. He was looking forward to the bridal night. That divan would be bliss after so long sleeping on boards; such comfort was a half-forgotten luxury, almost worth getting married for. Then Daniel dismissed his own cynicism. God only knew why, but he was doing it for his sea waif.

Government House stood in beautiful gardens overlooking the new Long Pier, the shrubbery well kept and overflowing with blossoms. On the front lawn was the tomb of Chevalier Jean Baptiste Queau de Quincy, the most famous of the French administrators. When de Quincy first became Commandant of the Seychelles in 1794, there were less than 600 inhabitants, two-thirds of whom were slaves.