When the Singing Stops (12 page)

They talked while Madison ate her sandwiches and cake.

Matthew laughed heartily at her story of the money-changing and the devious way Lester had managed to get her access to the bookshelves at the library. She showed him Gwen's book and he glanced quickly at the photograph. He smiled and handed it back to her. ‘It sounds like
Annie Get Your Gun.
Should be a fun read at least.' He stood up and looked at his watch. ‘I'm going to the office in town so I'll see you later—about five. Kevin will be home tonight and a few of our new friends could drop in for
a drink before dinner. You'll meet some really fun people here.'

‘Terrific. But I'm feeling utterly exhausted at the moment.'

‘It's the climate. The humidity gets you. Have a shower and a kip and you'll be right.'

‘I might try out the hammock on the verandah off the bedroom.'

‘Great idea. Everyone gets the hammock habit here. Some, I reckon, never get out of it.' He gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Glad you made it, sis,' and bounced down the stairs.

She woke up two hours later, amazed she'd slept so soundly. She went into the kitchen and cautiously plugged in the kettle, nervous at the shredding electrics. Cords were frayed, plugs went into adaptors that sort of fitted the sockets. ‘Jiggle dem' had been Hyacinth's advice. Meatballs and what looked like crisps were set in bowls under a cloth. She tried one of the crisps, which looked like a hard banana slice dusted with chilli. It tasted spicy but tangy. No one seemed to be about, so she had a cup of tea, showered and changed. She decided to start a letter to her parents and got lost in her description of her first day in Guyana.

Then Matthew was home calling to her and introducing her to Kevin Blanchard who was staying down for a couple of days before going back to the mine. Matthew called to Singh to
bring ice and glasses and picked up a bottle of rum. ‘There's rum and coke, rum and water, rum and ginger, rum and milk, rum and ice, or rum punch made with some ghastly bottled cordial.'

‘Doesn't Hyacinth know how to make proper punch? We should keep a jug in the fridge,' said Kevin. ‘Madi, bring the hors d'oeuvres.'

They trooped through the kitchen, down the back steps and through the garden to the small gazebo where Singh was setting out the glasses and emptying ice trays into a plastic bowl.

‘Ah this is the life.' Matthew settled himself and Madison sank into an old cane chair. Kevin handed her a rum and coke.

‘I'm having just ice, so I'll have the ten-year-old,' said Matthew as Kevin picked up a different bottle of rum. ‘Smooth as silk this, Madi. Try some.'

She took a sip. ‘It's like a liqueur, an old brandy.'

‘Aged rum, can't beat it. Cheers. Welcome to Guyana, Madi.'

At that moment there was a ‘Hoy!' and Connor joined them, giving Madison a grin. ‘I see you're right into it.'

‘The rum?'

‘No, life in the fast lane. I saw you earlier today standing in a drain with some black fella. Stealing flowers by the look of it.'

Soon others arrived including Sharee and Viti from the scavenger hunt. Madison found herself thoroughly enjoying the group's company. John and Ann da Silva were neighbours down the block. John was of English and Portuguese descent, born in Guyana. His wife was English and both were sophisticated, worldly, well travelled. Madison took an instant liking to their unpretentious and bubbling personalities. Both were passionate about Guyana.

‘We love it, but we aren't blind to its problems which can drive you crazy. We have a wonderful lifestyle here. I go back to see my family in London. And all John's relatives—dozens of them—are here,' grinned Ann.

John ran the City Garage with his brother, and Madison soon realised Ann knew as much about cars as he did. ‘Is that because of the business?'

‘No, I race them,' she answered. ‘I've just come back from a rally in Belgium. Jolly good fun. Would have been more fun if I hadn't blown up and lost my leading position.'

‘Let's not run the race again,' groaned John good-naturedly. It turned out they'd met when Ann had been competing in a car rally in Guyana.

Madison leaned over to Ann. ‘Would you give me a few pointers some time? I've always had a secret ambition to race a car.'

‘You have?' Matthew raised an eyebrow. ‘As well as chase butterflies up the Amazon?'

‘You're going into the interior, of course,' said John, passing the rum.

‘I'd really like to but I'm not sure how to go about it on my own.'

‘You don't go into the interior on your own!' exclaimed Connor Bain, joining the conversation.

Then Ann, who gave the immediate impression of being a strong, organised and no-nonsense woman, turned to Madison. ‘We will fix a trip, don't worry. If you haven't gone up the river and out into real country, you don't know Guyana.'

Madison raised her glass. ‘Thanks, Ann.' And she had no doubts Ann would fix something.

Madison was feeling very relaxed, maybe it was the rum, but she decided she wasn't going to get hassled about Connor Bain's abrupt comments or anything else. She had the distinct impression things would simply ‘happen'.

‘Six o'clock,' came an exuberant and united chorus and everyone laughed. Madison stared around the group, looking for the joke. No one had looked at a watch. She picked up Matthew's arm and glanced at his watch. ‘All right, I give up. What was all that about?'

‘The six o'clock bee! Listen. Quiet everyone,' ordered John.

And there, buzzing loudly around the lush garden, flew a large fat beetle-like bee.

‘It appears at six on the dot,' he continued. ‘It's sort of an alarm clock to start the evening. All the other noises will start now, frogs, night jars and so on as they wake to the night. And others are singing good night as they head home to bed.'

Madi stared at John but realised he was stating fact.

‘This country is amazing,' Madi laughed.

‘I'll drink to that. Pass the rum,' said Connor.

The six o'clock bee continued on its rounds in the garden, its buzz now drowned by the clink of ice and laughter. The sun began to sink behind the huge bougainvillea-covered fence and the breeze from the sea cooled the garden at last.

A
s Madison piled her golden hair on top of her head, small tendrils, blown by the overhead fan, flew around her forehead and high cheekbones. She dabbed at her damp upper lip and checked herself again in the mirror, pleased with the crisp white sundress she'd chosen to wear. The overall effect was cool and classy even if she did feel warm. The temperature was in the mid-thirties and very humid.

She was looking forward to this lunch with Connor. She'd surprised herself by impulsively saying yes to his invitation when he casually suggested they lunch at the Georgetown Club. He had annoyed her on a couple of occasions with his patronising attitude yet she had to admit there was also something about him she
liked. Somehow she felt safe in the company of this strong West Australian who always said what he thought.

But there was also a slight feeling of deja vu, which wasn't so different from the first feelings she'd had when Geoff had swept her off her feet in the early days of their relationship.

Now in her thoughts she wondered, when did a relationship change? And how did one know what would last? But she had no intention of stumbling into that trap again unless she was very, very sure.

Madi and Connor had been paired at several dinner parties they'd gone to with Matthew and Sharee, Kevin and Viti. But this lunch would be the first time they'd been alone together since the trip from the airport. Well, she reasoned, this would test whether she liked him or not.

Singh held open the gate for them with a smart flourish and a cheerful salute. ‘The shorts, barefeet and singlet spoil the effect a bit,' grinned Madi. ‘Singh seems pleased with himself. Some days he's only half awake.'

‘Depends on the rum intake, I guess.'

On the way to lunch she asked Connor if he was going to attend the American Ambassador's reception which she had been invited to as Matthew's partner.

‘Yes, I'll be there working the room. All in the course of duty.'

‘Working over cocktails is a nice way to work.'

‘In Guyana, it's absolutely essential. The usual rule book doesn't apply in countries like this one.'

‘Banana republic rules, eh?'

‘That's right, Madi. You're catching on fast. But it makes the job interesting.'

‘What exactly is your job? I've only really got a vague idea that it's something to do with the International Funding Organisation, a bank that specialises in Third World country projects in conjunction with the United Nations. You work out of New York and you're subsidising Matthew's company to prepare the mine for sale.'

Connor sighed. ‘Heavy stuff for midday traffic in Georgetown, but in a nutshell I'm a supervisor on projects designed to kick-start development in countries like Guyana. Through the banking network I can get the backing of big companies and big money if the project warrants it.'

‘Sounds a bit risky. What if you get it wrong?'

Connor leaned back and raised his hands in a gesture of mock horror. ‘Get it wrong? Don't even suggest the possibility.' He became serious again. ‘No, so far no major disasters. We have built-in checks and balances, but yes, there are mistakes sometimes because we're dealing with places like Guyminco and also a gold mine here
called Columbus, that usually don't have enough skilled workers and administrators. And there's been a lot of power plays—mostly crooked. These countries are vulnerable to a lot of very shonky wheelers and dealers in business circles.'

‘You mean some businessmen are criminals? Why is it like this?

‘Well, in the case of Guyana there were too many cooks for the broth. The educational infrastructure just hasn't been there to cope with the development of mineral resources that's now heading the agenda here. The real action in Guyana is just beginning. If they don't get the right help now, and learn to handle their finances properly, corruption and greed will ensure that all this bauxite and gold mining will make a few rich people richer and leave the poor wondering what the hell it was all about.'

‘And that's where you are making your contribution?'

‘Yes, but it's hard to get across sometimes that the income from natural wealth needs to be invested in essential infrastructure to make the economy attractive to foreign investment. You may have noticed a certain laissez-faire attitude about the place.'

‘Yes, it's quaint the way they can complicate the simplest task and find extraordinary ways of going around in circles.'

‘Nicely put,' said Connor as he did a U-turn in Main Street. ‘Here's the club, and let's change
the subject to something a little more digestible for lunch. Right?'

‘Your turn to pick the subject then.'

Connor gave her a quick approving glance. ‘I have a splendid subject. Details later. By the way I'm glad you're wearing a skirt. Ladies in trousers, even smart silk ones, are not welcome.'

‘You're joking.'

‘This is the Georgetown Club, a bastion of conservative attitudes, class snobbery and discrimination.'

They drove into the members' carpark to be greeted by a uniformed guard. At the top of a small staircase leading into the club, a plump, dark woman welcomed them in fruity English tones. ‘Will you be taking a drink before luncheon, Mr Bain?'

‘Yes, we will, thank you.'

‘You shall be called when luncheon is served.'

Madison lifted an amused eyebrow as they walked through onto a spacious airy verandah with deep cane lounges and chairs grouped on highly polished timber floors. The sloping wooden shutters stood angled open, channelling the breeze and screening guests from the gaze of passers-by in Main Street.

They drank Banks beer and chatted easily about people they now knew in common and the coming long weekend trip to the Essequibo River where they'd all been invited by Colonel Bede Olivera—a former politician, now turned political commentator.

‘I've heard some wild stories about the Essequibo resort area where the high flyers have their holiday places,' said Connor. ‘It's called New Spirit but some call it “Happy Valley” like the place in Kenya where the Brits had their escapades in the 1930s.'

‘White Mischief,
the murder of Lord whatshisname,' said Madi. ‘Wasn't that a movie starring Greta Scacchi? Good grief, are we going into that sort of colonial scene?'

Connor laughed. ‘I doubt it. Most of the colonial trappings in Guyana have been replaced by the fashion called Miami high life, it seems to me.'

The waiter informed them lunch was served and on the way downstairs to the dining room they paused to study the old framed photographs from the early days of the club; cricket teams, past presidents and committees, all male, white, British and socially elite. Women appeared in photos at balls and social functions. ‘Looks like something out of the Raj,' said Madison.

‘Those days are gone,' came a pleasant voice behind them. Madison swung around to find Antonio Destra standing there. She realised she'd been too busy to call him.

‘Hello there. How have you been?' she asked.

‘Busy. And you? Discovering all the attractions that make up this interesting city, eh?'

‘Yes indeed. In fact, didn't I see you down at the Amerindian hostel?'

Antonio's expression didn't change. ‘No, I don't believe so. What were you doing there?'

‘Just buying a hammock,' said Madi lightly. ‘Do you remember Connor Bain?' The men nodded and Connor touched her elbow, ‘Our lunch is ready. Excuse us, Antonio.'

‘Enjoy your lunch. I shall see you tonight.'

‘Of course,' said Connor over his shoulder. ‘Always the same mob, only the gossip changes.'

‘Right on, pal,' called Antonio with an endorsing guffaw.

‘He's a charming character, isn't he?' said Madi softly. ‘Latin charm, I suppose. What does he do really?'

‘Turns up everywhere,' said Connor with a grin. ‘No seriously, he is the largest supplier of heavy machinery to the mines. And spare parts. Seems to be very well connected in politics too, with people like our weekend host, the colonel. But then if you aren't, you're dead in business in countries like this.'

Connor and Madi took their seats in what looked like a set for a film depicting India in the days of the British Raj, circa 1920s; heavy mahogany chairs, silver cutlery, bone china dinner service, starched linen serviettes. Soup was served immediately.

‘Set menu?' queried Madison with a professionally raised eyebrow.

‘'Fraid so. Part of the charm of the place.'

The ‘charm' extended to a main course of roast beef and three vegetables with gravy, accompanied by cut crystal holding black sauce, mustard and pepper and salt.

‘So what is the interesting conversational subject you promised for lunch?' prompted Madi as they settled into the main course.

‘You.'

‘Boring.'

‘Can't be as boring as my economics lecture in the car.'

‘Well, you know the basics. Hospitality industry. Married young, divorced, sadder and wiser, now having a wonderful holiday, and hoping to make the big time in London, or equivalent.'

‘Now a dedicated career woman.'

Madison sipped her boiled ice water to consider that one. ‘Well, yes and no. I can't see why one can't be organised enough to have the best of both worlds. I suppose it depends on getting the right man and the right job. That's a big ask these days.'

‘And what is your definition of the right man?'

‘Someone very different from the last one. He's got to be straight up, honest, communicative, and above all respect me for who I am and what I aspire to.'

‘Where do they make them like that?' quipped Connor.

‘I'm not sure, but I'll keep my eyes open this time.' She put down her knife and fork, leaving much of the course as a comment on the overcooked food. A waitress quickly removed her plate and Madison put her elbows on the table and leaned towards Connor. ‘Tell me about your love life.'

Connor choked on the baked potato he had just taken and there was a flustered grasp for a serviette and glass of water. He regained his composure. ‘I see what you mean about communicating and being straight up, as you put it. Do I have time to compose the right answer?'

‘Right answer for you, or for me? And . . . do we know each other that well?' grinned Madi.

‘The downside to my job is the travel—which I love—but it isn't conducive to permanent relationships. I guess I've chosen career—'

‘Men always do,' interjected Madi but Connor ignored the barb.

‘So like you I'm keeping my eyes and options open. Anyway, that's not the sort of personal question a professional career woman should ask. Why are you interested in my love life?' he countered with a grin.

‘Human nature interests me. Priorities are changing. It's hard to know where one fits these days . . . if one cares to know, that is. My mother grew up in the age of the superwoman who went for it all. She gave up her visions, dreams and expectations to raise a family and
has felt resentful that she missed out in some way. That's just surmising, she's never actually said so. But she and Dad are starting a business together and they're very happy.'

‘But hence your desire to make good?'

‘Is that how I strike you?'

‘No, actually you don't. I'm only going on what you say, not what you present. You seem somewhat vulnerable, understandable after a divorce, I imagine. But despite your plans to run the Pierre or Georges Cinq, you come across as a bit unfocused about your future. What's your real passion in life?'

Fortunately for Madi the dessert arrived. ‘Steamed pudding and custard,' she exclaimed with delight and dismay. ‘I don't believe it.'

‘Obviously you'll be able to dine out forever on the story of the menu,' said Connor, clearly disappointed that she'd changed the subject. ‘As I said, it's all charm. I'm absolutely delighted that the lunch is such a roaring success.' Madi noticed a touch of sarcasm in his voice. So what had she said wrong this time, she wondered.

Sampling the dessert gave Madi some moments to consider the conversation and whether she wanted to discuss with this man what he called the passion in her life. Her work, she realised, evoked enthusiasm and challenge and satisfaction, but never passion.

And there was no passion in her private life. Her marriage had been a disaster. For the first time Madi was forced to acknowledge she wasn't
passionate about anything. She owned up. ‘A good question, that one about passion, Connor. I've got to admit that I really haven't got a driving passion, if you exclude an enthusiasm for doing well at my work.'

‘No causes to follow?'

‘Nothing you'd call passionate. I'm for the environment, though. How about you? What cause are you championing?'

‘I'm lucky. I'm absolutely passionate about my work. I really feel that I'm in a position to do some good for a lot of people like the Guyanese. New York is an exciting place to be based in, and the rest of the world is full of new challenges. Being on the move so much is a bit of a drag, but there is a constant intellectual challenge as well as the adrenalin charge of making sure I never lose a cent of the organisation's money.'