street bore numbers, a big enamelled metal sign announced "3-1/2" in white on dark blue. Of the two broad windows that bracketed the door, the left-hand one was shuttered, but the right-hand one was a single broad sheet of rather dusty glass through which tables and chairs and a serving counter could be seen. Over the door a swinging sign said DREAMLAND CAFE in sun-bleached letters, and round this window were advertisements for Red Stripe beer, Royal Blend, Four Aces cigarettes, and Coca-Cola. A hand-painted sign said SNAX and, underneath, HOT COCK SOUP FRESH DAILY.
Bond walked across the street and up the steps and parted the bead curtain that hung over the entrance. He walked over to the counter and was inspecting its contents —a plate of dry-looking ginger cakes, a pile of packeted banana crisps, and some jars—when he heard quick steps outside. The girl from the garden came in. The beads clashed softly behind her. She was an octoroon, pretty, as in Bond's imagination the word octoroon suggested. She had bold, brown eyes, slightly uptilted at the corners, beneath a fringe of silken black hair. (Bond reflected that there would be Chinese blood somewhere in her heredity.) She was dressed in a short frock of shocking pink which went well with the coffee and cream of her skin. Her wrists and ankles were tiny. She smiled politely. The eyes flirted. "Evenin'."
"Good evening. Could I have a Red Stripe?"
"Sure." She went behind the counter. She gave him a quick glimpse of fine bosoms as she bent to the door of the icebox—a glimpse not dictated by the geography of the place. She nudged the door shut with a knee, deftly uncapped the bottle, and put it on the counter beside an almost clean glass. "That'll be one and six."
Bond paid. She rang the money into the cash register. Bond drew up a stool to the counter and sat down. She rested her arms on the wooden top and looked across at him. "Passing through?"
"More or less. I saw this place was for sale in yesterday's Gleaner. I thought I'd take a look at it. Nice big house. Does it belong to you?"
She laughed. It was a pity, because she was a pretty girl, but the teeth had been sharpened by munching raw sugar cane. "What a hope! I'm sort of, well sort of manager. There's the cafe"—she pronounced it caif—"and mebbe you heard we got other attractions."
Bond looked puzzled. "What sort?"
"Girls. Six bedrooms upstairs. Very clean. It only cost a pound. There's Sarah up there now. Care to meet up with her?"
"Not today, thanks. It's too hot. But do you only have one at a time?"
"There's Lindy, but she's engaged. She's a big girl. If you like them big, she'll be free in half an hour." She glanced at a kitchen clock on the wall behind her. "Around six o'clock. It'll be cooler then."
"I prefer girls like you. What's your name?"
She giggled. "I only do it for love. I told you I just manage the place. They call me Tiffy."
"That's an unusual name. How did you come by it?"
"My momma had six girls. Called them all after flowers. Violet, Rose, Cherry, Pansy, and Lily. Then when I came, she couldn't think of any more flower names so she called me Artificial." Tiffy waited for him to laugh. When he didn't, she went on. "When I went to school they all said it was a wrong name and laughed at me and shortened it to Tiffy and that's how I've stayed."
"Well, I think it's a very pretty name. My name's Mark."
She flirted. "You a saint too?"
"No one's ever accused me of it. I've been up at Frome doing a job. I like this part of the island and it crossed my mind to find some place to rent. But I want to be closer to the sea than this. I'll have to look around a bit more. Do you rent rooms by the night?"
She reflected. "Sure. Why not. But you may find it a bit noisy. There's sometime a customer who's taken some drinks too many. And there's not too much plumbing." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "But I wouldn't have advised you to rent the place. The shingles are in bad shape.
Bond walked across the street and up the steps and parted the bead curtain that hung over the entrance. He walked over to the counter and was inspecting its contents —a plate of dry-looking ginger cakes, a pile of packeted banana crisps, and some jars—when he heard quick steps outside. The girl from the garden came in. The beads clashed softly behind her. She was an octoroon, pretty, as in Bond's imagination the word octoroon suggested. She had bold, brown eyes, slightly uptilted at the corners, beneath a fringe of silken black hair. (Bond reflected that there would be Chinese blood somewhere in her heredity.) She was dressed in a short frock of shocking pink which went well with the coffee and cream of her skin. Her wrists and ankles were tiny. She smiled politely. The eyes flirted. "Evenin'."
"Good evening. Could I have a Red Stripe?"
"Sure." She went behind the counter. She gave him a quick glimpse of fine bosoms as she bent to the door of the icebox—a glimpse not dictated by the geography of the place. She nudged the door shut with a knee, deftly uncapped the bottle, and put it on the counter beside an almost clean glass. "That'll be one and six."
Bond paid. She rang the money into the cash register. Bond drew up a stool to the counter and sat down. She rested her arms on the wooden top and looked across at him. "Passing through?"
"More or less. I saw this place was for sale in yesterday's Gleaner. I thought I'd take a look at it. Nice big house. Does it belong to you?"
She laughed. It was a pity, because she was a pretty girl, but the teeth had been sharpened by munching raw sugar cane. "What a hope! I'm sort of, well sort of manager. There's the cafe"—she pronounced it caif—"and mebbe you heard we got other attractions."
Bond looked puzzled. "What sort?"
"Girls. Six bedrooms upstairs. Very clean. It only cost a pound. There's Sarah up there now. Care to meet up with her?"
"Not today, thanks. It's too hot. But do you only have one at a time?"
"There's Lindy, but she's engaged. She's a big girl. If you like them big, she'll be free in half an hour." She glanced at a kitchen clock on the wall behind her. "Around six o'clock. It'll be cooler then."
"I prefer girls like you. What's your name?"
She giggled. "I only do it for love. I told you I just manage the place. They call me Tiffy."
"That's an unusual name. How did you come by it?"
"My momma had six girls. Called them all after flowers. Violet, Rose, Cherry, Pansy, and Lily. Then when I came, she couldn't think of any more flower names so she called me Artificial." Tiffy waited for him to laugh. When he didn't, she went on. "When I went to school they all said it was a wrong name and laughed at me and shortened it to Tiffy and that's how I've stayed."
"Well, I think it's a very pretty name. My name's Mark."
She flirted. "You a saint too?"
"No one's ever accused me of it. I've been up at Frome doing a job. I like this part of the island and it crossed my mind to find some place to rent. But I want to be closer to the sea than this. I'll have to look around a bit more. Do you rent rooms by the night?"
She reflected. "Sure. Why not. But you may find it a bit noisy. There's sometime a customer who's taken some drinks too many. And there's not too much plumbing." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "But I wouldn't have advised you to rent the place. The shingles are in bad shape.
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