Chapter Seven

The sun, the glorious sun, awoke Sandy from her cramped sleep. Tentatively she moved her stiff neck and stretched out her legs. She was alone. Daniel had gone, and there were no signs that he had slept near her last night.

The peace of La Petite was all around. A smile came to her face as she thought of the day ahead with Daniel, and no more worries as to where she was going or who she was.

A scraggy black claw touched her arm. Sandy almost shrieked but choked back the cry. Surely not a monkey, not on these islands? The claw withdrew, timorously.

“Sorry to fright you Miss-Sandy. It’s only old Flora. Mr. Kane said to bring you tea and paw-paw, and see, I have made little coconut cakes for your breakfast. You like?”

It was the old woman Sandy had last seen coming ashore looking decidedly seasick. She was very old, her face a web of lines, her eyes yellowed with years, her skin crumpled like a wizened fruit. But there had once been beauty in a curiously Chinese slant to her bones. And her nostrils were not flat and flared but small and delicate.

“Tea, how nice,” said Sandy, recovering. “Thank you, Flora. And coconut cakes for breakfast.”

“I make them with little blueberries. Bella no cook. She too fat.”

“Oh?” said Sandy, detecting some rivalry.

“Bella always fat girl. More sleep than work. I am up before the sun, to work in the cool air.”

Flora put the tray on the veranda table, and Sandy felt ashamed of being waited on by such an old woman. She seemed almost too frail to lift the battered tin teapot. Flora grinned, and Sandy shuddered at the sight of jagged fragments of teeth left in the old woman’s mouth. Flora wore spotlessly clean clothes, though: a blouse over a dress and a pinafore on top of that. Her wispy hair was hidden by a large kerchief tied at the back.

“You know Bella well then?” said Sandy, knowing that she must overcome her revulsion of the old woman.

“Bella daughter number three. I have eleven children. Noah is my husband now. Two other husbands gone.”

Sandy almost spilt her tea on hearing this information, all given so casually. She cleared her throat and tried to look suitably sympathetic.

“I’m so sorry,” said Sandy. “How sad.”

“Not sad,” said Flora cheerfully. “Husbands go off. All right with me.”

Sandy took a bite of one of the little brown cakes. “You must show me how to make these, they really are delicious.”

Flora grinned again and then her face fell into an expression of commiseration. She hesitated on the steps of the veranda, but then returned to Sandy.

“Bella tell me you girl with no name. The sea wash you up on the shore,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Sandy, looking out to the distant curve that was White Sands, where Daniel had found her. “I don’t remember who I am or what my name is.”

The old woman bent forward, her hands clasped like an oriental mandarin. “Have you asked the takamaka tree?” she said curiously. “Sit beneath the tree, listen, and the leaves will talk to you.”

Then, afraid she had said too much, Flora scuttled away across the sand with an odd mixture of a hobble and a limp, as if some foot injury had never been attended to.

Sandy sat quite still. The takamaka tree.

The trees lined the shores of all the Seychelles islands, vying with the sweeping palms for their nearness to the sea. Some were old and had grown very tall before being cut down to make furniture, others were no more than saplings, with a profusion of dark glossy leaves that rustled in the sea breeze and forever seemed to be whispering.

Of course the superstitious Seychellois people would think that the trees were talking, thought Sandy as she started on a second cake. For a moment she was diverted by the new taste. This cake was subtly flavoured with cinnamon. She would certainly have to discover Flora’s culinary secrets.

Sandy unbuttoned her dress. It was very creased and she thought she would wash it herself rather than trust it to Flora, who would probably bash it with stones in the stream. She unpacked her small bundle of clothes, hung up her skirt and blouse, and then put on her old red bikini and tied the sarong around her waist. She stretched herself, feeling so much better without clothes, wondering if she dare venture in the shallows of the sea.

She sat at the water’s edge, legs straight, the baby waves washing over her. She threw back her head, letting the sun’s rays dazzle against her closed eyelids.

“Good morning, mermaid,” said Daniel. “So you have shed your clothes already. I needn’t have wasted my money.”

“I shall wear them sometimes,” said Sandy. “Perhaps in the evenings when we are having supper. They won’t be a waste, truly. They are so pretty and I am grateful to you for buying them.”

“Quite a speech,” he nodded. “We shall be having a formal conversation soon.”

Sandy looked puzzled. Daniel was in his ragged jeans, bare-chested, and had been fishing. Three fish glistened in a large banana leaf in his hands.

“I don’t understand. Am I quiet then?”

Daniel sat on his haunches beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I was being facetious quite unnecessarily. No, you’re not always quiet; sometimes you’re quite a chatterbox. What I meant was that your little speech was so polite, like a little girl reciting thanks for a present.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Forget it. It’s just a rub-off from the Reef. Would you like to help me this morning?” he asked, changing the subject. “Bird Cliff is teeming and I might as well get back to work, and I’ll need one or two of my crates unpacked. Would you like to do it for me? You are far less likely to break anything.”

“Just tell me which ones.”

“The equipment is in the crates marked ‘one’ and ‘three’. I don’t need the one marked ‘specimens’. You can leave that.”

Their conversation of the night before seemed to have been forgotten. Daniel was cheerful and friendly, but the lover of those moments on the darkened shore had disappeared.

“I’ll see if Noah is fit to carry the crates over, if not I’ll bring them myself,” he called, as he went off whistling.

 

Sandy watched his tall back and swinging walk. She would be able to pick him out of any crowd, simply by that walk and the way he carried his shoulders.

The hot sun was drying the salt droplets on her skin and she decided to move into the shade. She might still burn after her days of being more covered on Mahé. She strolled along the beach, looking for shells, picking up the odd cowrie with a differently ringed back.

The takamaka tree was of medium size. It was about fourteen feet tall, and its branches fell all around it like the skirts of a dancer. The trailing branches swayed too as the breeze chased the petals of floating blossom in the air.

Sandy pushed aside the branches. It was cool and dark inside, like a chapel. The sand was cold and prickly with the husks of coconut shells and dried fallen leaves. She spread out her sarong and sat on it, cross-legged. She did not really believe what Flora had told her.

The leaves rustled and whispered like voices from a long, long way away. Through the dappled foliage the brilliance of the sea twinkled like cut glass. The voices were children’s voices, clear and sweet, as if in a meadow that was full of the fresh awakening of spring.

“Miss…Miss…” they seemed to be calling. There was a church with a squat Norman tower, and close by the stonework of the tower were two graves. Very old graves, side by side, with no headstones or slabs of stone to give names and dates. They were just two slight mounds covered in lichen and moss, hardly seeming long enough for men’s bodies to lie beneath.

“And these are the graves of two crusaders,” Sandy heard herself saying, a long way away.

“But Miss…Miss…”

“Miss-Sandy! What you do there? Are you all right?”

A wet, black face appeared between the branches, full of concern, breathing heavily.

“Leon! Heavens, wherever have you come from?”

Sandy scrambled to her feet, twisting her sarong around her waist as she stumbled out into the sunshine. Leon was standing with his long arms hanging beside him, water dripping off his face and running down his glistening black skin.

“Have you swum all the way here?” she asked incredulously.

Leon laughed, showing all his fine white teeth. “No, Miss-Sandy. Only from the fishing boat.” He pointed out to sea, where a fishing boat was disappearing in the distance.

“But that’s marvellous,” said Sandy. “We could do with you here. Your grandparents are very old people. But you’ve scratched yourself on the reef, Leon.” She saw that blood was oozing from the front of his legs. “I must put some antiseptic on those cuts.”

“No. It’s nothing.”

“I insist. Coral cuts can be very dangerous. You get a little bit of coral stuck in there and you’ll be in trouble. Come back to the bungalow and I’ll look for Mr. Kane’s medicine box.”

Leon looked sheepish, but pleased just the same. At that moment Sandy must have seemed like a ministering angel to him. He began to follow her as she trampled over the sand.

“How did you find me under the tree?” she asked.

“Like now,” he said. “I saw your footprints in the sand. I thought perhaps you were ill again.”

Sandy wondered whether to tell him of Flora’s advice, but decided that she had had enough of the islanders’ quaint old tales.

“I was just thinking,” she explained. “In a nice quiet place.”

She had to smile to herself, for the whole island was a quiet place, except for the birds. And even the bird calls were mainly on Bird Cliff. From here they were no more than a background of faint music.

The mercurochrome was in Daniel’s supply of medical aids. She found the black tin box in one of his leather bags and began to dab the red liquid onto Leon’s scratches with some cottonwool. It looked bizarre on his black skin, and he sat on the steps of the veranda, grinning. She managed to get more on her fingers than on his wounds.

“I’m not a very good nurse,” she said. “Does it sting?”

“Yes, it stings, Miss-Sandy.”

“Good. That means it’s killing off all the nasty germs,” she said with more hopefulness than accuracy.

Leon ambled away, hugely pleased by Sandy’s attention and his own initiative in returning to the island.

Sandy looked at her red-stained fingers. She was a mess. No amount of washing in the sea would remove the antiseptic. It would have to wear off.

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.

“Would it be safe to bring the ship in closer?” Ralph Fellows asked. La Petite obviously looked very inviting, with its long stretches of white sand and dipping palm trees.

“It would be safer to stay anchored out here,” said Daniel. “The gap in the reef is very narrow.”

“We’ve a dinghy. We could come ashore to fetch some fruit. Wouldn’t mind stretching my legs on dry land for a change. I can tell you this is the last cruising holiday I’ll have for many a long year.”

Daniel steeled his emotions. If Ralph came ashore, then he would meet Sandy and it would be all over. He was a likeable person, there was no doubt about that. He was just the right kind of young man for Sandy, open and honest and pleasant.

“You are welcome to come ashore on La Petite and to stay for supper. It will be a simple meal, but I can assure you no biscuits or gin. By the time we’ve filled the water containers and ferried them back to Sun Flyer, it will be getting dark, so you’ll not be wanting to sail on to Mahé tonight.”

“That’s very kind of you indeed,” said Ralph, jumping at the invitation. “Will we be able to return to the ship once it gets dark?”

“Leon will be able to guide you. He knows every inch of these reefs.”

Leon grinned and nodded. He was all for an evening with some pals to talk to. It would be like the many evenings they had spent telling tales by the old jetties in Port Victoria.

“Hey! And what about me? Don’t I get invited out to supper? It’s very rude of you to ignore a lady.”

The voice was followed by the face and then the body. A slim, willowy, long-legged woman with a mane of raven black hair held back with a bright pink bandeau appeared from below deck. She was wearing the smallest white bikini Daniel had ever seen, the bra cups joined with gold links, the same gold links joining the brief material over her hips. Her skin was tanned the deepest of browns, oiled and shining, gold bracelets on her arms, gold earrings in her ears. And her face was beautiful—oval shaped, with large violet eyes and the blackest of lashes that swept her cheeks like little wings.

She smiled openly at Daniel, obviously relishing his arrival at Sun Flyer and his invitation. Her mouth was wide and curvaceous, her teeth perfect and creamy.

“Will it be formal?” she laughed. “Shall I dress for dinner?”

Ralph looked momentarily disconcerted. “Is that all right, old chap? There’s two of us, you see. Meant to tell you.”

“Of course,” said Daniel. “But…”

“Sorry. Forgot. May I introduce Miss Webster? Miss Gabrielle Webster, my fiancée.”