telephoning from another island?' she added. 'Oughtn't we to keep this call short?'
'Perhaps you're right. I can't say yet when I'll be back, but I'll be there as soon as I can. Goodnight, Christiana. If you do wake up in the small hours, go for a stroll on the beach. It may be cooler, but I'm sure your new nightdress is very little less decorous than those pyjamas.'
On this mocking note he rang off, leaving her farewell unspoken and her hand clenched on the receiver more tightly than it had been before his derisive parting shot.
THREE
Christie did wake in the small hours, but even if she had felt inclined to go for a solitary walk on the now moonlit beach, she would not have done so in case John, too, should wake and be frightened at finding himself alone in a strange place.
However when, at half past six, it was light outside and the child was still soundly asleep, she crept out of bed and went to retrieve her swimsuit from the line in the small screened patio outside the kitchen door.
Apart from two men, one of whom was raking the sand while the other arranged the sun-beds in orderly groups, she had the beach to herself.
The sun was gilding the clouds—not the low grey unbroken clouds of a European winter, but scattered white cottonwool clouds—but had not yet risen above the low hills of the hinterland when she walked into the sea.
At waist-depth, she flung herself forward, the water momentarily cool to her sleep-warmed body, but only for a moment. She began to swim a vigorous breast-stroke, moving parallel to the shore, counting the strokes until, at a hundred, she let her feet sink to the sand and stood up, her breathing quickened by the unaccustomed exercise.
The beach was in full sunshine when she emerged from the sea to walk to the end and then back again. Half way back to Frangipani Cottage, she said, 'Good morning' to an elderly couple who, judging by the pallor of their skin, were also new arrivals whose bodies had yet to adjust to the change of time zone.
She found her nephew awake, but untroubled by her disappearance.
He was sitting on the verandah in his pyjamas, watching and being watched by a black bird smaller than an English blackbird and much less nervous of humans.
Later, when they had breakfast, they had an audience of these birds, and they also found out the purpose of a wickerwork globe which hung from a bracket on the wall. It was not, as Christie had first thought, an outdoor light fitting. Inside was a dish of sugar, and through the gaps in the wicker flew little birds with bright yellow breasts.
At lunchtime, from a waiter in the restaurant, she learned that the impudent black birds were greckels, and the smaller birds were bananaquits, known in Antigua as yellowbirds.
At lunch they were joined by Bettina, who asked if she might share their table. Christie had the distinct impression that until she entered the restaurant and saw them sitting there, Bettina had forgotten their existence and was not too pleased to be reminded of it.
But she made some effort to be affable, although from time to time, after asking Christie a question, her pale eyes would slide away to one of the other tables, making it clear she was not greatly interested in the answers to her enquiries.
Not wishing to bore her, Christie changed the subject to clothes, asking Bettina if the ones she was wearing were locally made.
'No, these are imported from Singapore,' said the other girl, glancing down at her wraparound skirt and cotton top. Both were bright sky blue, wax-printed with white flower motifs round the hem of the skirt and on the sleeves of the top.
'This shaggy bag is local—and rather fun, don't you think?' she asked, indicating the shoulder bag she had put on the empty fourth chair.
It was made from scraps of bright cotton in many colours and patterns. As Bettina ruffled them with her long, red-lacquered fingertips, Christie could see that each scrap was a narrow rectangle about four times the
'Perhaps you're right. I can't say yet when I'll be back, but I'll be there as soon as I can. Goodnight, Christiana. If you do wake up in the small hours, go for a stroll on the beach. It may be cooler, but I'm sure your new nightdress is very little less decorous than those pyjamas.'
On this mocking note he rang off, leaving her farewell unspoken and her hand clenched on the receiver more tightly than it had been before his derisive parting shot.
THREE
Christie did wake in the small hours, but even if she had felt inclined to go for a solitary walk on the now moonlit beach, she would not have done so in case John, too, should wake and be frightened at finding himself alone in a strange place.
However when, at half past six, it was light outside and the child was still soundly asleep, she crept out of bed and went to retrieve her swimsuit from the line in the small screened patio outside the kitchen door.
Apart from two men, one of whom was raking the sand while the other arranged the sun-beds in orderly groups, she had the beach to herself.
The sun was gilding the clouds—not the low grey unbroken clouds of a European winter, but scattered white cottonwool clouds—but had not yet risen above the low hills of the hinterland when she walked into the sea.
At waist-depth, she flung herself forward, the water momentarily cool to her sleep-warmed body, but only for a moment. She began to swim a vigorous breast-stroke, moving parallel to the shore, counting the strokes until, at a hundred, she let her feet sink to the sand and stood up, her breathing quickened by the unaccustomed exercise.
The beach was in full sunshine when she emerged from the sea to walk to the end and then back again. Half way back to Frangipani Cottage, she said, 'Good morning' to an elderly couple who, judging by the pallor of their skin, were also new arrivals whose bodies had yet to adjust to the change of time zone.
She found her nephew awake, but untroubled by her disappearance.
He was sitting on the verandah in his pyjamas, watching and being watched by a black bird smaller than an English blackbird and much less nervous of humans.
Later, when they had breakfast, they had an audience of these birds, and they also found out the purpose of a wickerwork globe which hung from a bracket on the wall. It was not, as Christie had first thought, an outdoor light fitting. Inside was a dish of sugar, and through the gaps in the wicker flew little birds with bright yellow breasts.
At lunchtime, from a waiter in the restaurant, she learned that the impudent black birds were greckels, and the smaller birds were bananaquits, known in Antigua as yellowbirds.
At lunch they were joined by Bettina, who asked if she might share their table. Christie had the distinct impression that until she entered the restaurant and saw them sitting there, Bettina had forgotten their existence and was not too pleased to be reminded of it.
But she made some effort to be affable, although from time to time, after asking Christie a question, her pale eyes would slide away to one of the other tables, making it clear she was not greatly interested in the answers to her enquiries.
Not wishing to bore her, Christie changed the subject to clothes, asking Bettina if the ones she was wearing were locally made.
'No, these are imported from Singapore,' said the other girl, glancing down at her wraparound skirt and cotton top. Both were bright sky blue, wax-printed with white flower motifs round the hem of the skirt and on the sleeves of the top.
'This shaggy bag is local—and rather fun, don't you think?' she asked, indicating the shoulder bag she had put on the empty fourth chair.
It was made from scraps of bright cotton in many colours and patterns. As Bettina ruffled them with her long, red-lacquered fingertips, Christie could see that each scrap was a narrow rectangle about four times the
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