The Takamaka Tree (16 page)

She repacked the medicine box and was about to put it back into Daniel’s bag, when she noticed a thick file among his clothes. It was obviously part of his thesis on bird migration and he would want it if the work was to continue.

As she removed the bulky file, some sheets slipped out onto the floor. They were all hand-written in Daniel’s firm black script. She picked them up, sorting them into some order and was about to put them back into the file. Her eyes slid over the title page:

Assassination

by

James Gunther

and

Daniel Kane

She read the words again. How very strange. It was an odd title for a book to do with birds. She read a few lines.

“The assassination of Middle East peace could be in the hands of the Palestinian commandos, the Saudi Arabians or even the Israeli. It is a sinister allegation and no one knows whose finger is on the nuclear trigger.
”

Sandy put back the pages thoughtfully. This had absolutely nothing to do with migration and yet Daniel had written it. She knew his handwriting too well. It was about some awful war. Where had she read something else about this war? Quite recently too. She remembered reading about someone being murdered in Cairo—where had she read it? She shook her head, annoyed at her forgetfulness.

Daniel never said anything about who he was, or where he came from, or what he did for a living. He was as much a mystery as she was, thought Sandy. But at least she had some good reason.

A few days later it was as if they had never been away on Mahé. The small community of five took up their allotted roles. Leon did all the heavy work: cutting wood for the cooking fire, shinning up trees for coconuts, using all his energy like a young lion, always anxious to help Sandy. Sandy insisted on taking over the very simple housework of Daniel’s bungalow. She could not allow old Flora to do it, as well as their own small hut. It was so easy to tidy up and sweep out the sand from the floors. Sandy did her own washing, standing legs apart in the running stream, like any Seychellois washerwoman, though she drew a line at bashing her clothes with a stone. She only had two bras, and there was no knowing how long they would have to last.

Old Noah spent his time happily fishing and occasionally going on the cliffs with Daniel. He moved as silently as a cat, and Sandy thought he could probably catch a fish or a bird with his bare hands.

Daniel was absorbed once more in his work, although in the evenings when he was writing, Sandy wondered if he was really writing this other manuscript. She never asked him. Her portfolio of birds and shells grew. She wanted to draw Daniel, and sometimes when he was not looking she would make little sketches of his face. He had trimmed his dark beard, and his dark good looks were enough to make her heart melt with longing for him.

“The monsoon winds are beginning to blow,” he said one evening. “We’ve been here long enough now for the season to change. It will start to rain soon.”

It tormented her to wonder whether he would come to her, if she reached out to him. She had no idea how he felt about her as a woman. It was a wistful yearning that grew sometimes into a senseless pain.

“Rain? Does it rain here?”

“Of course. Often. How else could there be all this luxuriant growth? But it doesn’t rain for long. A torrential downpour for about twenty minutes, and then out comes the sun to dry everywhere again.”

“So I’ve been here during the dry season?”

“Not exactly. It rains on Mahé most of the year because there are Les Trois Frères mountains to attract the clouds. La Petite is so low that it is more seasonal. Do you think I should have bought you an umbrella?” he teased.

“I shan’t mind getting wet. I bet it’s warm rain!” she smiled. It seemed that she survived best when she did not think, if that was possible. If she tried too hard then her thoughts were confused and frightening; it was better to keep to rain.

The rain came sooner than they thought. They had been on Fish Beach catching huge rainbow-hued crayfish for their supper, when from nowhere a dark cloud scurried up on the horizon. It appeared dark and ominous, and Flora and Noah hurried into the trees to find shelter. Leon was less apprehensive and continued preparing the crayfish for Flora’s pot.

Sandy stood, hands on her hips, watching the cloud approach. A cool breeze flapped at her shirt and blew back her hair.

“Shall we make it to the bungalow?” she asked.

“Only if we run,” said Daniel.

“I’m going to run then,” shouted Sandy, slithering across the sand. “I’ve left all my washing out to dry.”

She sped like a gazelle across the soft white grains but she could not compete with the racing cloud. Long before she reached the curving headland, the big raindrops began to fall around her feet, spattering the sand.

She was drenched in seconds as the cloudburst reached the island. The noise was alarming as the rain drummed on the palm leaves and on the roof of the bungalow. It turned the calm sea into a thrashing torment. It freckled the white sand into a foreign landscape of brown ridges.

Sandy scooped her washing from branches and bushes and staggered up onto the veranda. But it was far too late. Everything was soaked. She tried to mop her face with a wet towel.

Daniel appeared, more leisurely, unconcerned by the deluge. He went into the other room, which he was now using as a bedroom, and returned with a dry towel.

“It’s a good thing I don’t have a mania for washing everything all on the same day,” he said.

“I haven’t a thing to wear,” Sandy wailed, sounding just like some teenager going to a dance.

Daniel grinned. “I’ll have to lend you something again.”

They stayed in the shelter of the veranda, watching the novelty of the rain. He dried her streaming face as he had done once before, many weeks ago, when she first came to La Petite. She knew he was going to kiss her, and he did, the rain on their lips tasting sweet and fresh, the coolness of their bodies making Sandy shiver. But perhaps it was the deliciousness of the kiss.

“You’d better get out of those wet things,” he said at last. “You’ll catch cold.”

She shook her head. She did not want to leave the circle of his arms. They stood, arms entwined, watching the changing scene of the island they loved, both overflowing with words they longed to speak, but neither daring to voice them. It was a silence strung with happiness.

At last, because Sandy really was shivering, Daniel gave her a little push towards her bedroom.

“Go and find something dry,” he said, “even if it’s only an old tablecloth.”

She reached up and kissed his mouth very gently, then stepped back and looked straight into his eyes.

“Daniel Kane,” she said, “you’re a very special person.”

Daniel stood for a long time by himself on the veranda, watching the turbulent sea. He knew he must not kiss Sandy again. It was becoming too dangerous. Next time he might not be able to stop.

The tension between them was almost visible. He had prided himself on his iron control, but it was weakening fast. It was like a steel band around his chest that would snap with one more breath. It was like an orchestra in his head that any minute would rupture into shattering discords.

At first he thought the shadow was simply a rain smudge on the horizon, but as he narrowed his eyes he realised that it was a twin-masted schooner. It seemed to be heading for the island. Daniel fetched his binoculars and scanned the ship. The sails seemed to be down in some disarray, as if they had been caught unawares by the storm. They were using the auxiliary engine to come towards the island. He hoped they had a good map of the reefs, or they would be in trouble very quickly.

Judging by the course they were taking, they seemed unaware of the treacherous coral and were making for it at an alarming rate. There was only one safe way to beach on La Petite and that was through the narrow opening off White Sands.

Daniel ran down to the shore, calling for Leon. Leon had also been watching the approaching ship. Together they pulled Leon’s boat out of the undergrowth and tipped out the water. They splashed into the shallows, pulling the craft with them. It rode the waves, bobbing like a cork, till a few strong paddle strokes took it into deeper water.

“Make for the gap and perhaps they will follow our direction,” said Daniel.

It seemed that the skipper understood, for the ship stopped its onwards direction and waited to see where the smaller boat was making for. Slowly, the schooner turned its bows and headed eastwards, sailing a parallel course to Leon’s boat.

“Thank goodness somebody’s got some sense on board,” said Daniel. “We couldn’t cope with a shipwreck.”

Sandy felt another shiver go down her spine, and it was not from just slipping out of her wet shirt. She stood on the bedroom floor hugging the towel around her, nipping a corner of it with her teeth, pulling at the looped cotton. Suddenly she was quite afraid but she did not know why. She had not been to the takamaka tree again and she had heard no more voices, but she was afraid.

As they neared the ship, Daniel rested his paddle and trained his binoculars on her. She was a lovely twin-masted schooner, dazzling white, but for all her spit and polish she looked as though she had travelled a long way. She had none of the “out for a day” look that was typical of the tourists’ charter boats. Her polished decks had lost some of their veneer, and there were plenty of algae clinging to her white hull. There were rust streaks from the rivets as if she had been in the water a long time.

Daniel’s eyes swept along her from stern to bows.
Sun Flyer—
the name hit him like a hammer blow. He felt a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach. The
Sun Flyer,
here, almost anchored off La Petite. But he thought the ship had been lost, wrecked somewhere. By some miracle, it had survived. Had they somehow traced Gabrielle to the island, and were now coming to fetch her?

He felt cold and wet all over again. He did not know if it was stray raindrops, or splashes from the paddles as they lifted out of the water. It was a narrowing of life, as if it were closing in on him. Supposing they were going to take Sandy away, or Gabrielle, whoever she was; how could he bear it without her? Her sunny person had become such a part of life, he could not imagine being without her.

But of course they would take her back. Her father would want her to resume her life, and her fiancé would claim her. Ralph Fellows. Daniel felt sicker than ever. He had forgotten about the fiancé. For a moment he was tempted to pretend he had not found Sandy, to deny all knowledge of her. Then he knew he could not. It would not be fair to his sweet Sandy, if there was a chance for her to regain her identity. The chance was here now, and he must grasp it for her. Because he loved her.

Sun Flyer
had slowed down and was dropping an anchor. The skipper had obviously spotted the frothing reefs and decided not to risk coming any nearer the island without expert piloting.

Daniel and Leon skimmed through the narrow gap in the reef. They could now distinguish people on the deck, two hands trying to furl the flapping sails, and a young man at the tiller. It was this young man who caught Daniel’s attention. He was slim, fair-haired and wearing brief shorts. As they drew nearer, the young man waved cheerily.

“Hello there,” he called out.

The
Sun Flyer
had stopped moving and was swinging on the anchor. As their boat came alongside, the young man came and leaned over the rail.

“Hello,” he called again. “Do you speak English?”

The face was unmistakable. The open, boyish look despite a deep tan, the lick of fair hair falling across his forehead. It was the face in Sandy’s drawing. The odd face that had appeared so strangely among the foliage in her drawing of Bella, the washerwoman. So this must be Ralph Fellows. And who more naturally should be on her mind than her fiancé? Daniel swallowed hard. He was taking a battering.

“My name’s Daniel Kane,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“Good, you’re English! You don’t look it, old chap. You look as black as…well, nice to meet you. I’m Ralph Fellows. We’re in a spot of trouble, actually. Well, quite a lot of trouble. Whole trip’s been nothing but trouble from beginning to end. Still the main thing at the moment is fresh water. Have you any fresh water on the island? We’re down to our last drop.”

“Yes, we’ve plenty of fresh water, especially now that it’s rained. Sling us down some containers and we’ll fill them for you.”

No mention of looking for Gabrielle, thought Daniel. How strange.

“We’re almost out of food, too,” Ralph Fellows said apologetically. “We got really done by some Arab trader. We bought all this stuff off him and then found that half of it was rotten. Still, we can’t be more than a day’s sail from Mahé now, so food is not that important.” He threw a line down so that Daniel could steady the smaller boat.

“We can give you all the fresh food you need—bananas, coconuts, paw-paw, melon, breadfruit.”

“So long as it’s not fish,” said Ralph. “We’ve been living on fish, biscuits and gin. Not exactly the fare we planned.”

The deck hands began passing down plastic water containers into Leon’s boat. Leon exchanged greetings with the two Seychellois sailors. As usual they seemed to know each other, and their conversation, in a French patois, was animated.