When the Singing Stops (13 page)

Over coffee Connor talked more about the assignments he had supervised in recent years and Madison had to acknowledge to herself that he was right. He really was passionate about his work. He really believed it was helping the people of Third World countries. That, in his own way, he was having a beneficial impact on social justice in the world.

Yet at the same time she found it all a little disturbing, despite the admiration she was beginning to feel for the handsome, suave, capable
man across the table. There was something wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was just something about all that unqualified devotion to work that made her feel uncomfortable. Well, maybe it was just that old paranoia raising its head again.

The bill arrived on a little tray in front of a garish plastic and rhinestone brooch on an extraordinarily large bosom. At least that was what Connor first saw, before his eyes rose to meet those of the beaming Guyanese woman who was the luncheon maitre d'.

As he signed the chit, Connor stole a quick glance towards Madi and he caught the smile in her eyes. He'd enjoyed Madi's company over lunch and hoped he'd see more of her during her visit. He would plan places to take her—dates with interesting women had been his pattern when opportunity presented itself in these outposts.

Madi intrigued him more than most and he couldn't help wondering about where she might end up. Would she be a tough hotel executive working long hours, going home to a lonely apartment? Or would she throw that over if she met the right man and settle down and raise a family? It suddenly struck him she would make a fine wife and mother—good-humoured, easygoing, and warm was how Matthew had painted his sister. He and Madi appeared to
come from a secure and loving middle-class background.

Connor gave little weight or attention to Madi's comment that she might have both career and family. Women he'd seen do that ended up exhausted and frustrated because they never seemed to have enough time to do either job properly. And it certainly wasn't possible for the wives of men who had to move from country to country like him.

As they left the club Madison noticed Antonio Destra was now sitting with a group of expensively dressed women of several races, all chatting and laughing. ‘There's Antonio,' she whispered, nudging Connor.

‘Working the room, as always. He's indefatigable that man. All the women are the wives of big players in this town, so you can bet your life he's not just making social chit chat. Their gossip will be of some advantage to him. God knows what, though.'

‘Maybe he just likes women, although he seemed happily married.'

‘Practically every male in South America likes women. Now there's a popular passion for you.'

‘That's stereotyping.' She gave him a sharp dig in the ribs.

Connor sent her home in a taxi because he had an appointment in the city and Madi decided to rest during the afternoon to be fresh for the evening reception. She found the humidity of the country quite exhausting and usually
looked forward to her afternoon siesta. However, today she felt exhilarated after the lunch and decided to take her library book with her to the hammock on the verandah, happy to have some idle time to start reading the story of pistol-packing Gwen Richardson.

She flicked open the book and looked at some of the pictures. Gwen and her pistol featured in the frontispiece. Then for most of the time she'd stayed out of the pictures, acting as photographer to record the book's scenes of Georgetown, the river, and the boatmen and crew who dragged her small boat around the rapids. Madi was entranced to read that Gwen had hired a maid from Georgetown to travel with her. Gwen described Leonora as ‘. . .
a young girl from the Demerara River . . . her mother is pure Indian but she could speak English . . . but was so wooden and stolid that I thought at first she would prove to be stupid but she was far from that . . . her unresponsive demeanour was a mask she often adopted to hide her jolly nature'.

Then a shot of a handsome man in a uniform caught Madi's eye. Despite his stern expression, he was a real Errol Flynn type with moustache and all. Major Maurice B. Blake was all the caption said. I wonder if Gwen took him with her into the jungle, Madi thought. God, on looks alone I'd follow him to the source of the Amazon. I think there's more to Gwen's little adventure than the title suggests.

She flicked to another photograph, this time of a camp in the jungle with Gwen looking totally at home in her solitary setting. The description on the opposite page caught Madi's eye:

‘Now that I had my own landing and such good material to work on I was ambitious to make my camp as beautiful as possible. None of the trees or underbrush along the bank was cut, and they looked very decorative against the dark, gleaming water. From my tent door on the crest of the hill I could see over the tree-tops to the opposite bank, where there was a little creek cutting inland; sometimes before dawn, a long wraith-like wisp of white mist, following its curves, lay on the soft tree-tops, like a great spirit so weary of the night's revels that it was caught still sleeping, when it should have vanished before the first grey hint of dawn . . .

‘I built a babricot table and benches of straight, fragrant saplings that gave out a delicious scent as I peeled off their outer dark cover and revealed the real cream and gold of their wood. No ancient Gothic banqueting hall was ever made more dignified nor more lovely than mine . . .

‘At night the full moon gave the camp an air of deep mystery, and the pillars and arches, fading away in the gloom, seemed to lead on forever. Through the trees the Kurupung caught the moonlight and broke into a million glittering pieces. In my dining-hall the solitary,
narrow moonbeams that turned the leaves to virgin silver were slanting ways for fairies to climb to the leafy tree-tops.

‘Never can I love any place more than I did my kingdom on Terry Hill. I hope to return there some day and have the Indians build me a house of forest timber and roof it with palm leaves. I shall gather orchids and strange flowering creepers and hang them from that fragrant roof. On a nearby hill I shall have a garden of vegetables and fruit trees. I shall have an Indian hunter and a lot of hens and chickens, and there I shall live in perfect contentment and peacefulness.'

‘Go, Gwen!' thought Madi, already swept up by her description. ‘I wonder if she ever went back and fulfilled her dream.'

Spellbound, Madi turned back to the beginning of the book and started to read, occasionally reaching out for an iced lemon squash on the table beside the hammock.

She was putting the glass back on the table, while reading the book, when she got her first big surprise. Indeed, it was such a surprise that Madi dropped the glass and the squash spilt over the table so she had to scramble to stop the glass rolling off and breaking on the floor.

‘Well, I'll be dammed,' said Madi out aloud and she ran inside to the telephone and dialled Matthew's office number.

‘Matthew Wright.'

‘Matt, Madi. Guess what?'

‘The Sea Eagles have won the Grand Final.'

‘Rubbish, Matt. No, I've discovered Gwen is Australian!'

‘Gwen who?'

‘Gwen Richardson. Pistol-packing Gwen, the Guyana diamond hunter.'

‘Really.'

‘Yep. From Ballarat. Because her book had an English publisher I'd assumed she was English. Her father was Scottish and he'd migrated to the goldfields in Victoria. How about that?'

There was silence at the other end of the line.

‘Matt . . . ?'

‘Yeah. I was trying to think of something to say.'

‘Oh.' Madi was clearly disappointed. ‘Matt, you know that I have been reading about women adventurers all my life. Now here is one from close to home who did some extraordinary things right here in Guyana. It has really inspired me, Matt.'

‘To do what?' he asked cautiously.

‘Well, explore a bit of Guyana. Everyone keeps saying I must go to the interior.'

‘Yeah, well, they meant on a tour or something, Madi. Not with a pith helmet and a pistol.'

‘Matt, stop being a turn off. I find it very exciting, and I'm going to bore you with lots of Gwen's adventures from the book. Bye.'

‘Don't pack a rucksack until I get home. But
keep reading. Maybe she comes to a sticky end. And stay out of the sun. Bye, sis.' He hung up.

At the American Ambassador's reception she covered the essential small talk with her American hosts and, observing custom, she circulated and found herself in a group that included Antonio Destra and his wife, Celine, who was talking to another woman. Antonio turned to Madi and kissed her hand.

‘Dear Madison, how lovely to see you again. Enjoy your lunch with Connor Bain? He is such a talented man in his field. I think he is going to help this country quite a bit.'

‘Yes, it was nice. First chance I've had to talk to him properly. How about you? You were clearly outnumbered at the club.'

Antonio roared with laughter. ‘All part of the rich tapestry of life, Madison. Look I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. He's in your line of business.'

He steered her across the room to a very distinguished-looking, impeccably dressed man in his mid-forties. Madi smiled to herself. Hotel management type to a ‘T'.

‘Madi, meet Sasha St Herve, manager of the Pessaro Hotel. Madison Wright, Sasha. She's one of your tribe.' He laughed loudly again. ‘Excuse me if I leave you to compare notes on room service. I have to talk business with your brother. Catch you later, Madi.'

‘Thanks, Antonio.'

‘One of our city's characters is Antonio,' said Sasha, his accent immediately identifying him as Swiss. ‘I was speaking to your brother a few moments ago and he told me you have been working in the hotel industry. Promotions, I believe.'

‘Yes. Marketing and promotions. I'm hoping to move on and work in London.'

‘You wouldn't like to do a little freelance work while you're here?'

Madi laughed, ‘Well . . . it would be different, I guess.' Her expression changed. ‘Are you serious?'

‘Indeed yes. Expertise such as yours is not readily available here. I have a very bright young man from Barbados as marketing manager but he lacks entrepreneurial skills. And especially the ability to target women. I'd like to get the local women into the hotel for lunches and cocktail parties. After all, they are the social organisers in this town. Perhaps we could discuss this further. Would you consider it inappropriate to sit on the terrace for a moment and talk more? This is the Guyanese style of doing business. Naturally if you would prefer to meet at the hotel . . .'

‘There's no harm in talking. I'd be very interested in the logistics of running a hotel here.'

They settled themselves in smart white patio furniture covered in bold flower prints and took
an hors d'oeuvre and a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘As you can imagine, being the only international hotel in the country we have to maintain certain standards, which can be a bit of a challenge. Things have improved dramatically here since the old socialist days, but there is still a stigma that our hotel is just for foreigners. I'd like to break down that barrier and attract more of the local population. Once they cross the threshold and feel comfortable, I hope they'll become regulars.'

‘Are your prices a factor in keeping people away?'

‘Possibly, but a lot of people here have money now. Some surprising types have a surprising amount of money,' he said, glancing at Madi to see if she'd caught his meaning.

‘Are they the, er, types, you want in your hotel?'

‘Naturally we don't want the rowdy element from down the rougher parts of town. But we have a good band playing by the pool, a dance area, outdoor dining, as well as the formal restaurant and a coffee shop.'

‘I'd have to look at the hotel and get a more detailed briefing, do some research, and look at the timing because I hadn't planned to be here all that long. But I can say now that it could be interesting as a one-off project. And rather fun.'

Sasha St Herve leaned over and clinked his glass gently against Madi's. ‘Come and join me
for lunch at your convenience. You can make up your mind after that.'

Madi returned to the party and seeing Matthew in deep conversation with a well-dressed Guyanese man, headed towards him. Then catching the slight frown and negative look that crossed Matthew's face, she realised he didn't want to be interrupted. Business undoubtedly.

Matthew was relieved Madi had caught his signal. His conversation with Ernesto St Kitt was disturbing him and he wished Stewart Johns would materialise. Across the room, the CEO had been aware for some time of the intense conversation taking place between his marketing director and the government official who was proving to be a valuable link between the intricate workings of the political powerbrokers and AusGeo's task of saving the mine. St Kitt had emerged as an honest official who showed integrity and a sincere desire to see Guyana back on its feet.

But Ernesto St Kitt was a troubled man. ‘My predecessors in the mines department were notorious for not keeping records, it appears,' he told Matthew with a wry smile. ‘But one name keeps cropping up. That of a company called El Dorado. I thought you might like to know that a lot of missing funds from the Guyminco mine were apparently channelled through this company.'

‘What sort of funds, what sort of money are we talking about? The mine has very little cash flow. It's been operating for some time by paying its bills with bauxite or holding them against future sales.'

‘It's big money, and over a long period of time, starting during the Burnham regime. Looks quite systematic, really.' Ernesto was very English in his use of the language, a legacy of his years at the London School of Economics. ‘Some of it relates to equipment purchases, spare parts, things like that. But the paperwork is very suspect, very inadequate by any commercial standard.'