back the other way, surprising her. She steeled herself to look into his eyes.
“I’m ready to leave,” she said in a low voice. “May I take these things? Are they mine to take?”
She indicated her small parcel. There was no expression in his deep eyes. She did not know whether he was still annoyed or amused.
“By jove, it’s the native girl.” George Webb quickened his pace across the sand. He was hampered by his laced walking shoes.
“This is Sandy,” said Daniel, hoping the simplest introduction would be sufficient. But George Webb was sniffing out something irregular, and Sandy knew what he was thinking. She hated him for it. His eyes were devouring her quite differently to Leon’s open admiration.
“Live here? Does she? In the bungalow…?”
He was pumping her hand, holding on to it far too long. “Very pleased to meet you indeed, my dear,” he said, producing a sentence of extraordinary length for him. He was captivated by her honey skin, her blowing tawny hair, the golden flecks in her eyes. “Ah…Sandy. Very nice.”
Sandy withdrew her hand with difficulty. There were red marks where he had crushed her fingers. Would Mahé be populated with hundreds of George Webbs? It made her feel sick. She turned instinctively towards Daniel, to reassure herself that he was still tall and clean with deep, candid eyes and hands that were gentle.
Leon was coming across the beach laden with heavy khaki rucksacks. He humped them off his shoulders and they rolled over the veranda floor. Leon looked sullen. Sandy had never seen such an expression on his face before. Perhaps Bella’s relations had been telling him something about George Webb.
The skinny newcomer went down on his knees and started to struggle with the straps on one of his haversacks. He was already perspiring a lot from his walk in the sun. It was running off him, dripping onto the bare boards which Bella had polished so lovingly with coconut husks under her feet. Sandy was mesmerised by the droplets. They were like fat running off cooking meat.
“Sandy like sweeties,” George was saying eagerly. “Sugar sweeties. Nice fruit gums. Candy. Turkish delight.” He fished out a crumpled box of fruit pastilles, his face flushed with victory. He shuffled forward on his knees, hopefully offering the box, and overbalanced, his hand grabbing Sandy’s leg in an attempt to save himself from falling.
In an instant, a big black hand clamped down on George’s wrist and wrenched his grip off Sandy. Leon’s yellowed eyes glinted with hatred.
“Miss-Sandy belong Mr. Kane,” he snapped. Then he flung off the captured hand as if it were a discarded banana skin, and walked away. His bare black skin glistened in the sunlight, and the muscles in the boy’s shoulders decided George against making a fuss.
“Er, well, I never.” He scrambled to his feet, pulling up his socks. Now he did not know what to do with the sweets and they were an embarrassment.
Sandy still said nothing. Leon’s announcement hung in the air. She could see George did not know what to make of it, although his mind was working on it.
“Sandy is my wife,” said Daniel coldly, “and she does not like sweets.”
“Sorry, old boy. Just thought…you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” said Daniel. “And you’d better take some salt tablets. You look dehydrated. You’re not used to the heat yet.”
Daniel deliberately hurried things now. He did not want Sandy changing her mind. It was better that she did not have time to think.
Leon would not let her wade through the shallows to the boat. He picked her up with a kind of fierce protectiveness and carried her out. He was very strong and she was feather-light in his arms. He wanted to look after her. He dreamed of taking her to his grandfather’s thatched house on the beach of Anse Boileau, and catching fish from the sea for her, and putting fresh flowers in her hair.
Sandy climbed unsteadily over the wooden planks that served
“I’m ready to leave,” she said in a low voice. “May I take these things? Are they mine to take?”
She indicated her small parcel. There was no expression in his deep eyes. She did not know whether he was still annoyed or amused.
“By jove, it’s the native girl.” George Webb quickened his pace across the sand. He was hampered by his laced walking shoes.
“This is Sandy,” said Daniel, hoping the simplest introduction would be sufficient. But George Webb was sniffing out something irregular, and Sandy knew what he was thinking. She hated him for it. His eyes were devouring her quite differently to Leon’s open admiration.
“Live here? Does she? In the bungalow…?”
He was pumping her hand, holding on to it far too long. “Very pleased to meet you indeed, my dear,” he said, producing a sentence of extraordinary length for him. He was captivated by her honey skin, her blowing tawny hair, the golden flecks in her eyes. “Ah…Sandy. Very nice.”
Sandy withdrew her hand with difficulty. There were red marks where he had crushed her fingers. Would Mahé be populated with hundreds of George Webbs? It made her feel sick. She turned instinctively towards Daniel, to reassure herself that he was still tall and clean with deep, candid eyes and hands that were gentle.
Leon was coming across the beach laden with heavy khaki rucksacks. He humped them off his shoulders and they rolled over the veranda floor. Leon looked sullen. Sandy had never seen such an expression on his face before. Perhaps Bella’s relations had been telling him something about George Webb.
The skinny newcomer went down on his knees and started to struggle with the straps on one of his haversacks. He was already perspiring a lot from his walk in the sun. It was running off him, dripping onto the bare boards which Bella had polished so lovingly with coconut husks under her feet. Sandy was mesmerised by the droplets. They were like fat running off cooking meat.
“Sandy like sweeties,” George was saying eagerly. “Sugar sweeties. Nice fruit gums. Candy. Turkish delight.” He fished out a crumpled box of fruit pastilles, his face flushed with victory. He shuffled forward on his knees, hopefully offering the box, and overbalanced, his hand grabbing Sandy’s leg in an attempt to save himself from falling.
In an instant, a big black hand clamped down on George’s wrist and wrenched his grip off Sandy. Leon’s yellowed eyes glinted with hatred.
“Miss-Sandy belong Mr. Kane,” he snapped. Then he flung off the captured hand as if it were a discarded banana skin, and walked away. His bare black skin glistened in the sunlight, and the muscles in the boy’s shoulders decided George against making a fuss.
“Er, well, I never.” He scrambled to his feet, pulling up his socks. Now he did not know what to do with the sweets and they were an embarrassment.
Sandy still said nothing. Leon’s announcement hung in the air. She could see George did not know what to make of it, although his mind was working on it.
“Sandy is my wife,” said Daniel coldly, “and she does not like sweets.”
“Sorry, old boy. Just thought…you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” said Daniel. “And you’d better take some salt tablets. You look dehydrated. You’re not used to the heat yet.”
Daniel deliberately hurried things now. He did not want Sandy changing her mind. It was better that she did not have time to think.
Leon would not let her wade through the shallows to the boat. He picked her up with a kind of fierce protectiveness and carried her out. He was very strong and she was feather-light in his arms. He wanted to look after her. He dreamed of taking her to his grandfather’s thatched house on the beach of Anse Boileau, and catching fish from the sea for her, and putting fresh flowers in her hair.
Sandy climbed unsteadily over the wooden planks that served
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