The Far Side of the Sun (19 page)

But he mistook her intention. He thought she was leaving to enter the hotel and his hand grasped her wrist. ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘Not yet, Miss Wyatt.’

‘Please call me Dodie. Anyone who brings me breakfast is allowed to call me Dodie.’

She stared at his fingers. Not the big strong knuckles of the other man who had laid hands on her today. These were finely boned, threads of blue vein under the skin, as pale as the rest of him, with well-shaped fingernails and a sense of purpose in their grip. It could mean so many different things when a man’s hand was fastened like a shackle around your wrist. The image of Mr Morrell clinging on to her for dear life rose unbidden to her mind and she shook her head to dislodge it. Immediately Flynn released his grip.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean…⁠’

A clock somewhere struck four. Dodie’s hour-long break was over. Today her work shift was eleven in the morning till three, then four till eleven at night, and she had taken enough liberties with Miss Olive’s patience recently. It was time to walk away from him. But her feet wouldn’t move.

‘Flynn,’ she started.

She meant to say:
Tomorrow bring me breakfast and I will eat papaya and crab with you with pleasure. Bring me your smile to banish the dreams that stalk my sleep each night. Bring me your certainty that lies in everything you do – in the way you hold your head while you’re listening to me or in your long pale fingers when you roll one of your cigarettes. Bring me all those things tomorrow, Flynn Hudson, when the sun comes up.

But the wrong words slipped out instead.

‘Flynn, when you were on the beach the night before last, did you see anyone else? Anyone who might have started the fire that burnt down my house?’

The memory of laughter that still hung on the edges of his mouth faded completely. Dodie was tempted to go down on her knees and snatch her words off the ground and cram them back into her throat.

‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘I’d have told you if I did. I was drawn there by the flames, like everyone else. I didn’t set fire to your house.’

‘Of course not.’

But the laughter had vanished. The damage was done.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She reached out and lightly touched his hand. ‘For the breakfast.’

He nodded and his dark eyes watched her every step as she entered the hotel.

‘Dodie, take care of table twenty, will you?’

Dodie looked up from the tray of teacups she was arranging, surprised. ‘But that’s one of Angela’s tables.’

Olive Quinn waved a dismissive hand. ‘He has asked for you to serve him. Don’t keep him waiting. It’s Harold Christie.’

Dodie glanced across. She knew the name. Everyone on the island knew the name. She was standing on the colonnaded terrace of the hotel overlooking the fragrant garden and manicured lawn. Harold Christie was seated at one of the bamboo tables, and Dodie took note of a short but muscular man of about fifty. Bald as a turtle and with the air of one who is pleased with his life, he was jotting something down in a small notebook while he inhaled thoughtfully on a cigarette. His fingers bore the egg-yolk stain of a dedicated smoker. As she approached his table, he looked up and smiled, an affable lined face with a bulbous unshapely nose.

‘May I help you, sir?’ Dodie asked politely.

‘Ah, excellent, my dear.’ He folded away his notebook and fountain pen, and his alert green eyes inspected her at his leisure. ‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘I rather think you can. A pot of Assam tea.’ He tapped his waistline and chuckled. ‘And a plate of Miss Quinn’s irresistible cakes as well, if you please.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Dodie did as he asked. It didn’t take her long. Customers were scarce this afternoon. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was just the latest mood-swing in the city. The atmosphere was very dependent upon the war news from home. When it was good – like the recent successful air-raids on more German factories in the Ruhr – the inhabitants of Nassau were buoyant and eager to celebrate. But some days when the wireless reported severe loss of life, especially among the heavy bombers, the mood grew sombre and fewer people were willing to fritter away their time aimlessly. Nevertheless Dodie had noticed this summer that more and more American servicemen were turning up on Miss Quinn’s terrace, adopting the British ritual of afternoon tea.

She could hear them now at the other end of the terrace as she brought Harold Christie his tray of tea and fancy cakes, which she laid out before him. As she poured his tea she wanted to demand
Why did you ask me to serve you
? She saw the pleasure he took in his first mouthful of dainty éclair. This was a man who knew what he liked.

‘Sit down, my dear.’ His manner was avuncular, as he gestured to the chair opposite him.

Dodie was startled. ‘Thank you, but no. It’s not allowed. I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.’

‘Miss Quinn will make an exception in this case, I am quite certain. Please do sit down. You’re giving me a crick in my neck.’ He chuckled again to show he meant it kindly.

She glanced around awkwardly and then sat on the chair opposite him.

‘Well now,’ he said and lit himself another cigarette, ‘you are Miss Dodie Wyatt, I believe.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Excellent. That’s a good start.’ He took another bite out of his éclair. Cream spilled over his lips.

‘A start to what?’ Dodie asked quietly. She was uncomfortable and wary of what this man wanted from her.

‘To getting to know each other.’

‘Is that what we’re doing? I think you probably just want to ask me something.’

There was a silence between them, the kind of silence that made her hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She noticed that his jacket was creased, as if he’d taken a nap in it, and she wanted to ask how such a crumpled person could become one of the most important men on New Providence Island. Because that’s what he was. His name was on sale-boards all over the island, the main real-estate agent in Nassau and the boss of the Bay Street Boys, the wealthy traders who ran the city.

‘I like that, Miss Wyatt,’ he said. ‘A young woman who gets right to the point.’

But she didn’t think he did like it. Not much.

‘What is it you need to know, Mr Christie?’

‘I need to know whether you like living on this island paradise.’

‘Of course I do. It’s beautiful.’

‘So do I. That’s my point. I was born and bred here.’ He spread his arms theatrically to encompass the whole of New Providence Island. ‘It’s my home.’

‘It’s mine too now,’ she pointed out.

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Six years.’

‘Well, Miss Wyatt, I’ve got a good forty years on that.’

‘So you trump me, Mr Christie. Where does that get us?’

‘Ah, back to the point again. Yes, I like that.’ But his eyes narrowed and grew careful. ‘Most of New Providence Island is covered in just wild uncultivated bush and pine trees. The city of Nassau is all we’ve got on this island of ours. And our beaches, of course.’

Dodie glanced away, uncertain of the path this conversation was taking. There were five other couples taking tea on the terrace but they were all at the far end where the trickling of a fountain gave the illusion of coolness. Harold Christie had chosen his table well, tucked against a wall and fringed with potted palms for seclusion. She fanned herself with her order-pad.

‘Why are you telling me this, Mr Christie?’

‘When this wretched war is over, the world is going to change. The ordinary man in the street has had a taste of travel and he’s going to want more. So where do you think would be a good place for them to come?’

‘The Bahamas?’

‘Exactly.’

The excitement in his face worried her. She wanted to know where it was coming from.

‘So after the war, I assume your land-sales business will boom, Mr Christie. That’s very nice for you, but why are you telling me?’

He sat back in his chair, stubbed out his cigarette, lit another and sipped his tea. He took his time composing his face.

‘Because, Miss Wyatt, I want you to understand how important it is that this island remains a paradise in the full heat of the sun. No dark sides.’

‘That’s how you refer to Mr Morrell, is it? A dark side?’

He hung on to his smile, but only just. He ran a hand over the tanned surface of his bald head, massaging its mottled skin before taking another cake between his fingers.

‘Now,’ he announced, ‘we get to the point. The Duke of Windsor is our Governor.’

Dodie nodded.

‘Because of this,’ he continued, ‘we have the world’s media keeping a watchful eye on our every move, despite the fact that we are a tiny insignificant island.’

Ah. So that was the point. She felt a dull throb of anger.

‘Mr Morrell’s death is being investigated by the police,’ he said in a low undertone. ‘What they do not need is
you
getting in their way.’

‘Who was Mr Morrell?’ she asked flatly.

‘I thought you were the one with the answers to that. Nobody else seems to know.’

He jabbed his cigarette into the ashtray and seemed about to say something more, but stopped himself by taking a bite out of a creamy meringue. As Dodie stood up, he was tapping a finger impatiently on his silver cigarette case, making it rattle on the table. The conversation clearly had not gone as he’d expected.

‘Mr Christie, you are friends with Sir Harry Oakes, aren’t you?’

The smile returned with full force. ‘Indeed I am.’

Dodie could see in him the self-belief that invades a man who has made his fortune himself and could sense the arrogance that fails to recognise where the boundaries lie.

‘I thought so,’ she murmured.

A flicker of a frown crossed his brow without dislodging the smile. ‘Don’t get involved, that’s my strong advice to you.’

‘Mr Christie, why on earth should you care enough to come down here today and have me sit at a table with you?’

The smile widened and nearly reached his eyes this time. ‘I care about everyone in the Bahamas,’ he said kindly. ‘Even you, Miss Wyatt.’

Dodie turned away and returned to her work. But as she continued to jot down orders on her notepad, to carry trays and to offer her best servant-smiles to her customers, one thought kept beating a path inside her head. Why were these powerful men so nervous of what Mr Morrell knew? What was it that they feared he’d said to her in her shack?

‘I want to give you something, Ella. Something special.’

‘Reggie, how lovely of you.’

‘It’s our anniversary next week.’

‘Clever of you to remember, darling.’

‘Of course I remember. I always remember.’

It was true. He was better at remembering it than she was, but this time she had already booked them a table for two at the Greycliff and had told Reggie’s secretary to keep that evening free in his diary.

‘Twenty years,’ he said.

‘Twenty good years, Reggie.’

His round cheeks flushed with pleasure and Ella wished she said it more often. They were taking a stroll through the garden, a moment of calm that she knew Reggie needed. His work was demanding and some days she spotted tiny burst blood vessels in the whites of his eyes that worried her.

‘What would you like? As an anniversary gift, I mean,’ he asked.

She was drawn as usual towards the vibrant colours of the abundant heliconias and put out a hand to polish one of their big glossy banana-leaves. She loved the sensuous feel of them. The bright scarlet flowers were bold and flashy, always attention-seeking.

‘I think, Reggie, that just a cake with twenty candles would be lovely.’

He gave a snort of disgust. ‘It’s china, you know.’

‘What’s china?’

‘A twentieth anniversary. The gift is supposed to be china – like a dinner service or something of porcelain.’

‘Really? Reggie, what a lot you know.’

He laughed and steered her away from the brash heliconias to a more delicate white oleander bush. The fact that every part of the plant was toxic had always made her wary of it and she moved off to inspect a flash of a black-and-white bird in the buttonwood tree.

‘I really don’t think we need any more china,’ she said, but turned and smiled at him to show she appreciated the offer. ‘We have so much already.’

‘Something special, Ella. To mark the occasion. What about something gold, then? Because that’s what you are, my darling, pure gold.’

Ella had to keep watching the mangrove cuckoo or she would have cried.

Ella was quiet in the car. Dan Calder made no attempt to disturb her but respectfully left her to her own thoughts as he drove her to the Belmont Hotel. It was where a number of the American servicemen were billeted and both Allied flags fluttered their patriotic colours over the entrance. The building was painted a rather unpleasant shade of green and had a wide verandah that ran along its frontage, where pilots and aircrew in khaki lazed in the shade on bamboo chairs, their big brown shoes propped up against the wooden railing as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

Ella entered the hotel and headed straight for what used to be the old billiard room, but was now the office of Major Leigh.