The Girl from Lace Island Page 9

  ‘Was it?’ Jess said. It had all been a blur. Angel had disappeared through the red curtain to Mariah Carey, which is what she would have wanted, Jess hoped, although that decision along with all the others had been exhausting.

  ‘Come on. It’s not your fault,’ Tony said, putting his arm round Jess. ‘Stop blaming yourself. You have to carry on. That’s the best thing you can do now. That’s what she would have wanted.’

  As Jess packed up Angel’s clothes in the flat later, though, she had no idea what Angel would have wanted, or what she wanted herself. How could she carry on now, when Angel was dead? Everything seemed pointless.

  Exhausted, she went to her room, feeling the cold silence all around her, feeling the chill of Angel’s absence. Outside, there was the faint sound of buses, sirens and a plane going overhead. People travelling, living, eating, loving, sleeping. The world was carrying on and yet hers had stopped.

  She’d tried so hard to get ahead. She’d tried to follow her dream, but she’d blown it. Because she didn’t belong. Angel had been right. There was no point in trying to be something she wasn’t. It was all such a big joke.

  No wonder Angel had thought Jess was a fool. People like Jess and Angel had been thrown away as babies. Nobody wanted them then, and nobody wanted them now. All her dreams had been just that: stupid fantasies. She’d never walk on a desert island beach, let alone with her ideal man. She’d never get out of this horrible estate. She’d never amount to anything.

  She slumped to the floor, putting her head in her hands. She wasn’t prone to this kind of self-pity, but for the first time in her life, she felt so tired and alone she grabbed a pillow and curled up on her side on the floor. Which is when she looked under her bed and saw that her shoebox had its lid off.

  Her heart lurching, she pulled it towards her, thinking of the picture of her and Angel, but even as the box came closer, she knew something was wrong. She sat up, hardly able to breathe. Her savings book wasn’t there, the photo of Angel and her wasn’t there, and the jewellery box that had always housed her necklace was empty.

  ‘No,’ she gasped, tipping out the box, spreading out over the floor the few things that remained. But she knew that Angel or, more likely, Weasel had robbed her.

  ‘You bastard,’ she shouted, rage overtaking her.

  She stood and picked up the box and hurled it at the wall. ‘No, no, no,’ she screamed. Not her necklace. Not that.

  Crying, she tore down the poster of the desert island, ripping it into pieces, screaming with fury.

  It was only after she’d torn it several times that she finally broke down. She wept herself to sleep. Everything was gone. Everything. All the dreams. All her hope.

  The morning light was creeping round the blind when Jess became aware of her phone buzzing. Blearily, she sat up and pulled it from her pocket. She looked at the number and saw it was Andrew Browning. Desperately wiping her face with her cardigan, she blew out a breath and pressed the green button.

  ‘Well, hello, Jess,’ he said. ‘I’ve left a few messages.’

  Jess heard the enquiring tone in his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice nothing more than a croak. It hadn’t occurred to her to check her messages or emails. ‘I had a family crisis. I mean, my friend . . . she . . . passed away.’ She swallowed the big lump in her throat, remembering yesterday’s sad funeral and the fact that Angel was dead.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Is this a bad time? I can call back . . .’

  ‘No. Please. I’m OK,’ she said, trying to steady herself. But she wasn’t OK. She’d never be OK again.

  ‘I have an opportunity for you. I’ve got an interview for you with the airline I mentioned. Do you think you’d be able to get to Heathrow this afternoon?’

  This afternoon? Jess stared at her reflection in the mirror of her wardrobe. She looked like shit.

  She was about to refuse when she saw the ripped-up poster and remembered her misery last night and discovering that her necklace had been taken.

  What was the point in mourning Angel now? In wallowing here? She had nothing holding her back now. Nothing. The past was over.

  Bring it on, she thought. She would grab whatever life threw at her. Whatever tiny scrap. Today was a new day. The start of the rest of her life.

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ she gulped. ‘Sure. I’ll be there.’

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lace Island, 1990

  Leila stood on the metal steps that were pushed against the door of the small aeroplane, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun and breathing in the tropical heat. It was late May and the weather was getting hotter, and soon, the monsoon season would be kicking in, but right now, it was glorious. She spread out her arms, looking over the tops of the palm trees and seeing the glint of the green fields beyond, wanting to shout with joy. Home. She was home.

  But even as the heat warmed her, thawing her out for the first time in weeks, she couldn’t quite feel the level of euphoria she’d hoped she might. She’d assumed that England would be washed away the second she touched down, but standing looking out at the shimmering heat haze on the dusty road and the scruffy wooden hut, she knew everything was different and that her experience had changed her in a way she couldn’t put her finger on.

  Perhaps it was just because she was older, she thought. Or maybe it was because when she’d left here, she’d thought that England would be full of the same lovely kind of people who came here to Lace Island. But she’d learnt the hard way that it wasn’t. Christopher Barber had proved that, by pretending he’d never seen her before. And now, returning home, she knew that part of her faith in the goodness of people had died forever.

  She wondered whether Bibi would be here to greet her or whether she’d be smarting over Leila’s hurried return from school. Goodness only knew what slander Mrs Grayson-Smith had sent in her letter. After Leila had tearfully reported Miss Sussman’s shower attack, leaving no detail out, the headmistress had been furious. Despite Leila’s obvious upset, she hadn’t believed a word Leila had told her. Instead, she’d railed at Leila, telling her she was impossible to educate, that she’d failed all her mock exams, that it had been a mistake agreeing to bring her into the fold at Hillmain and that she was a liar who would amount to nothing in life.

  It had all been so shocking and hurtful, but just as Judith had said it had happened to the last pupil who’d complained about Sussman, arrangements had been made to send Leila home immediately to ‘contemplate her behaviour’. Mrs Grayson-Smith had obviously wanted to see the back of her, and fast. The feeling had been entirely mutual on Leila’s part. On the bleak, rainy morning she’d caught the taxi to the station, nobody had waved her goodbye or wished her well.

  But now – thank God – Leila could start to put the whole ordeal behind her. She would stay here and resume her studies with Timothy. She’d help out Bibi and Chan with the guests and, with a bit of luck, never have to leave Lace Island again.

  Grabbing on to the rail, she bounded down the rickety metal steps from the plane. Safely on the cracked tarmac of the small landing strip, she turned, watching the plane propellers slow down. She waved happily at Marc, the captain, and he winked back. He’d made the half-hour flight from Cochin especially for her, after her plane from London to Bombay had been delayed and she’d missed the scheduled flight that was bringing out the new batch of guests here yesterday evening.

  She’d been lucky that she’d bumped into him at the airport and he’d agreed to bring her home. Otherwise, she’d have been stuck on the ferry from Cochin, which she knew from grim experience only came once a week and took six hours. She’d always had terrible seasickness on it.

  Now the captain would be getting a free stay on Lace Island as a result of the favour, and his girlfriend, Monique, had been on the flight too. Leila had tried to make conversation with her, but she was French and very glamorous and more interested in reading her novel than talking to a child. Now, Leila
saw her at the top of the steps, standing arms akimbo in her green wrap-over dress, which hugged her curves, and a large matching floppy sun hat. She was carrying a leather zip-up bag over her wrist, which Leila suspected was full of expensive creams and make-up. She wondered if she’d be on the receiving end of any posh freebies when she left.

  Leila stared at her own shabby suitcase by her feet, thinking of her hurriedly packed belongings inside. It was ridiculous to have brought her thick school uniform to the other side of the world when she had no intention of ever wearing it again. She would ceremoniously cut it up, she decided. And then burn it.

  ‘Miss Leila,’ she heard, and turned to see Vijay, Rasa’s father and Lace Island’s self-appointed policeman, waddling out from the small, rush-covered hut. He was wearing a short-sleeved brown shirt and swatting flies with his stick as she approached. She’d never noticed before how stained his teeth were from chewing the red betel nuts, or how large his paunch had become. She heard him speaking in Malayalam, the local language, to a small boy Leila didn’t recognize, who ran off.

  Vijay checked the people going in and out of the island, but despite his uniform, he had very little actual authority. As Lace Island was privately owned, there was no need to check anyone’s passports or paperwork, although Bibi did like to have an idea of who came in and when they left, and she trusted Vijay completely. Leila was so pleased to see him she flung herself into his arms. She tried not to gag at the stale sweat coming from his uniform.

  ‘We welcome you back,’ he told Leila, holding her away at arm’s length, chuckling with an amused embarrassment. ‘Goodness, you have grown, Miss Leila. You must make a point to go and see Maliba. She asks after you every day.’

  ‘I will,’ Leila grinned. Just hearing his voice and seeing the respect in his eyes filled her with comfort. She couldn’t wait to go and see Maliba and hear all the gossip. She might even have her hands and feet painted with henna. From now on, life would be blissfully simple and easy.

  ‘And Rasa will be pleased you are home. Bibi has been kind enough to keep the tutor on for him. He has been sitting his examinations,’ Vijay said proudly.

  That probably meant that Rasa was streaks ahead of her by now, she thought. How would she ever catch up? She had never considered how academically complicated her departure from Lace Island and sudden return might make things. But she’d work it out, she told herself. Besides, she couldn’t wait to tell Rasa and Timothy about all the lessons she’d done in England. How she’d been totally out of her depth in RE, geography, history and Latin. Rasa might think that Timothy knew everything, but she’d discovered that education in England was a very different matter.

  She heard a beep now and saw that the Mini Moke had arrived.

  ‘Ah. Here he is now,’ Vijay said.

  ‘Rasa!’ Leila dropped her bag and ran towards him.

  As his scrawny arms went round her, there was a shyness to him that she’d never known. She stared up at him, wanting to touch his face. He had new hair on his jawline, and she noticed that he’d started shaving above the perfect bow of his lips, but his wide hazel eyes, with their impossibly long lashes, were just the same. They beamed out at her from behind his floppy fringe.

  ‘Your parents are up at the house. They’ve got some new guests. Some American businessman. Adam something. And a couple from Rio.’

  She could hear from Rasa’s tone that he didn’t approve, and she imagined that he’d witnessed the staff having to fawn over the new guests.

  She watched now as Rasa hauled her suitcase into the back of the white Mini Moke. They set off and Vijay waved them off. Rasa stopped briefly to talk to Marc and his girlfriend, promising to be back shortly to take them to their bungalow by the beach. When had Rasa become so assertive? Leila wondered, impressed by his confidence. Was he this cool with all the guests?

  Then Rasa swung the wheel round and Leila laughed and clung on to the bar as they bumped out onto the road along the coast that would cut up through the grove to the house. Leila stared ahead at the cracked tarmac, seeing a scrawny dog further up the road. Had there always been this many potholes? She jolted as Rasa negotiated the Mini Moke round them.

  ‘It’s very unusual for you to be home so early from the school term, Aunty Parva says. Nobody has been expecting you.’ There was both a question and an accusation in Rasa’s voice. ‘Is everything OK with that new school?’

  How typical that he would assume that there was something wrong with the school rather than with her.

  ‘I was homesick,’ she said. At least that part of her excuse was true.

  ‘But why? Nothing ever happens here,’ Rasa said. ‘Don’t tell me you have given up on your education?’

  She could see the concern in his eyes, but she resented it. If she could stay and do Rasa’s job and let him go to school in England, she’d do it in a heartbeat, but she sensed that this wasn’t the time to tell him.

  She sighed, not answering, and hung on to the metal bar beside her, breathing in the delicious tropical air and staring through the palm trees at the side of the road. She felt wretched. Filled up with secrets that she didn’t want either in or out.

  ‘Leila?’

  She turned to see Rasa glancing between the road and her, his eyebrows drawn together with concern.

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later,’ she said, but she knew right then that she couldn’t and wouldn’t. She didn’t want Rasa’s view of her to be ruined forever – which it would be, if he knew the truth.

  ‘Oh, it’s so good to be home,’ she said, trying to ignore the babble in her mind and stretching both hands up as they bumped over the track. She looked at the blue sky, only broken by a few high, wispy clouds. To her left, she could see the vast expanse of green paddy fields stretching out, a line of workers hunched over, harvesting the rice, each one like a colourful dot. Above the noise of the engine, she could hear the very faint sound of singing. An ox was in the field, stoically bearing the swarm of flies that buzzed round its nose.

  Bamu and Victor and Rasa’s other cousins worked in the fields, but now Leila wondered if they ever got bored. Maybe they wanted to study like Rasa did. She’d always assumed that they were happy picking rice and fishing and living a simple life. She’d thought the tiny village had a charm and simplicity that people envied, but after being in England, seeing the workers made Leila feel like Lace Island was just the same as the Middle Ages they’d all studied in their history class. The realization made her sit up straight.

  ‘So . . . tell me everything. What’s been happening?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘The usual,’ Rasa said, but she knew he was confused that she’d changed the subject. ‘It’s been busy. More guests, so there’s been a lot of work on.’

  Leila frowned, aware that there was something Rasa wasn’t telling her. She wondered why it had been so busy. Bibi was very careful to keep things manageable for the staff, but it sounded as if everyone had been stressed out in Leila’s absence. She hadn’t considered the dramas that had been going on here, with guests coming and going. Perhaps Bibi hadn’t given her a second thought, but now that she was back, Leila was determined to help as much as possible.

  Coming towards the coconut grove, Leila felt jittery nerves rising up in her. She wished there weren’t guests at the house. She needed to see Bibi alone and to explain herself. And she needed to find out exactly what it was that Rasa wasn’t telling her.

  As the road wound round and up towards the house, they stopped, and Leila smiled as Rasa talked to the guys who were fixing the drainage system that led to one of the boreholes from which the island got all its water and which irrigated the paddy fields.

  It was impossible to imagine that soon they would be ankle-deep in rainwater, and Bibi would insist that they collect every drop possible. Watching the men bantering with Rasa, Leila realized that she hadn’t even considered where the water she’d taken for granted in England came from. No one did. It just appeared by magic from
the taps. Hot and cold. On demand. And now she remembered the clunky shower in the bathroom along the corridor from her bedroom in the house here and how the spiders crawled up the drainpipe into the ancient bath.

  Soon, the house came into view and Leila felt nerves and excitement competing inside her as Rasa stopped the Mini Moke.

  ‘Thank you for the lift. We’ll catch up later, if you like,’ she said, hauling out her suitcase from the back.

  ‘Leila.’ Rasa leant across and touched her arm. ‘I’m glad you’re home.’

  Leila felt her heart lift a little and she smiled at him. He’d missed her, then. After all.

  ‘I hope everyone else is pleased to see me,’ she said with a nervous grimace.

  ‘Bibi will be,’ Rasa said, with the familiar grin she loved so much. ‘Go in there and front it out. You’re her girl. You know that.’

  Leila bit her lip, hoping he was right; then she waved him off and, leaving her bag by the bush, ran two at a time up the stone steps and into the house.

  She raced through the hallway towards the screen door. Out on the back terrace, Leila could hear voices. A man was talking in a deep American accent.

  ‘I have been to the Maldives, but the development there is already starting. In twenty years’ time, the whole place will be overrun with hotels. You mark my words.’

  Leila held her breath and pushed open the mesh door. Bibi turned at the familiar creak as Leila stepped onto the terrace, but as Bibi’s eyes met hers, Leila saw dark circles beneath them. She started towards her mother, longing for the embrace that she’d missed so much, but Bibi’s voice stopped her.

  ‘We have a guest,’ Bibi said, her voice laden with meaning. Leila was to behave herself. There would be no emotional greeting, or any attempt to talk about herself. That was the message and Leila received it loud and clear. She bowed her head, feeling a lump in her throat. Bibi was cross with her, then. Despite what Rasa may think, Bibi wasn’t pleased to see her only daughter – she was furious.