The Takamaka Tree by Alexandra Thomas

herself. She was afraid of the spirits and believed that some kind of spell had been put on the girl. She was going straight to see the Anglican Archdeacon and the Roman Catholic Vicar-General when they reached Mahé. If she saw both worthy men, she felt she would be safe.
    A European clambered out of the boat and waded ashore through the shallows. He had thin legs like a stork. His neck was slung with cameras and other equipment. Sandy hid in the shadows of the bungalow.
    He did not help the Seychellois couple, but left them to struggle out as best they could. The woman’s face was dark brown and lined like old parchment, her hair tied up in a ragged handkerchief. She was not a good sailor and the sea trip had been agony. She almost fell out of the boat in her eagerness to reach solid land. Her husband had a grizzled shock of white hair and a straggly moustache.
    “Hello there,” called the man, spotting Daniel on the veranda. “Anybody at home?”
    Daniel straightened up and went down the steps. Sandy shrank back out of sight, but not out of hearing.
    “Nice to see you,” said Daniel, holding out his hand. “I’m Daniel Kane.”
    “George Webb.” He pumped Daniel’s hand vigorously. “Marvellous place. Knock out. How are the birds?”
    “Flying,” said Daniel patiently.
    “What a pad.” George Webb was obviously intoxicated by everything he saw. He spun around, a little off-balance, dazzled by the sunlight and the glare from the white beach.
    “Perhaps you’d like to have a look at what I’ve done so far,” said Daniel. “It’s very simple to take over.”
    “Done it before, old boy. No trouble. Not here, of course. Nothing like this.” He never strung more than three or four words together. He spoke like a machine-gun.
    Sandy saw the two men coming towards the bungalow, and suddenly darted into the palm grove behind. But George Webb’s sharp eyes caught sight of her.
    “Hello, what’s that? One of the natives? What a girl! Are they all like that? Is she—you know? Friendly?”
    Sandy was wearing her sarong, casually knotted over one hip, showing a flash of long brown legs.
    “I have no idea,” said Daniel dryly. “I’ll show you around the island. It won’t take long, besides Leon will need an hour or more to ferry all our luggage and equipment.”
    “I’ve brought tinned stuff. Bully beef. Plenty of tinned fruit. I like to eat well. Don’t trust their cooking. Curry and things.”
    “There’s plenty of fresh food and the Seychellois know how to cook. There’s nothing more delicious than fresh fish straight from the sea.”
    George Webb shook his head. “Got my own stuff.”
    As soon as they were out of the bungalow and heading for the southeast plateau, Sandy darted back into her room. She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, trembling despite the heat. They were awful. All three of them. She had suspected that anyone outside La Petite would be unbearable and now she knew they were. She could not stay here with them either.
    She clung to the thought of Daniel, of Daniel taking care of her. Surely if she was very careful and said nothing to annoy him, he would keep her beside him. He was the only person she wanted to be with. And if that meant she had to leave La Petite and go to Mahé, then she would have to do it. Even to London. She could not let Daniel go without her.
    She gathered her few belongings. She packed her shells carefully into the box, using coconut fibres to protect the special ones. Daniel had already taken her drawings. For a moment she was annoyed, then she remembered her new compliance.
    She changed into a shirt and jeans, then wrapped her few possessions in the skirt. She waited on the veranda, her heart aching with the hurt of leaving the island. She looked down the beautiful wind-swept beach, knowing that she would never see it again. It would always be here though, a white, sparkling, isolated paradise, when she would be many thousands of miles away.
    Daniel came