Anne Mather - A Woman Of Passion

Tricia hadn’t preferred. It was far too convenient to have their own place with their own kitchen, where Henry and Sophie could take their meals without constant supervision. In addition to which, the place belonged to a business friend of Andrew’s. And he would not be amenable to them transferring to an hotel.

As she took her shower—tepid water, but refreshing—Helen remembered that Tricia’s husband was joining them today. He hadn’t accompanied them out to the Caribbean. Tricia had explained that there were meetings he had to attend, but Helen suspected Andrew had simply wanted to avoid such a long journey with two demanding children. As it was, she had had to spend most of the flight playing card games with Henry. Tricia and Sophie had fallen asleep, but Henry had refused to close his eyes.

Still, they were here now, and for the next four weeks surely she could relax and enjoy the sun. She’d already discovered that it was easier entertaining her young charges when the beach was on their doorstep. So long as Tricia didn’t get bored, and insist on giving parties every night.

The shower left her feeling refreshed and decidedly more optimistic, and after straightening the sheets on the bed she pulled on cotton shorts, which were all she wore over her bikini. It had been Tricia’s suggestion that she dress like one of the family. Any attempt to dress formally here would have seemed foolish.

It was only a little after half-past six when Helen emerged from the villa and crossed the terrace. Her feet were bare, and she took care not to stand on any of the prostrate beetles, lying on their backs on the tiles. These flying beetles mostly appeared at night, attracted by the artificial light, and, although she knew they were harmless, Helen had still to get used to their size and speed of movement. She had a horror of finding one in her bed, and she was always glad when Maria, the maid, brought out her broom and swept them away.

Beyond the terrace, a stretch of grass and a low stone wall was all that separated the grounds of the villa from the beach. Although she would have liked to go for a walk along the beach herself, Helen knew the children would be getting up soon and demanding her attention. It was no use expecting Maria to keep an eye on them when she arrived to prepare breakfast. Likeable though she was, she was also lazy, and looking after infants was not her job.

Perching on the wall, Helen drew one leg up to her chin and wrapped her arms around it. The sun was definitely gaining in strength, and she could feel its heat upon her bare shoulders. Although her skin seldom burned, she had taken to wearing a screening cream this holiday. The sun had a definite edge to it these days, and she had no wish to risk its dangers.

All the same, it was amazing to think that the temperature in England was barely above freezing. When they had left London three days ago, it had actually been snowing. But February here was one of the nicest months of the year. There was little of the humidity that built up later on.

The water beyond the beach was dazzling. It was tinged with gold now, its blue-green brilliance reflective as it surged towards the shore. Helen had already found that its power could sweep an unwary bather from her feet. Its smoothness was deceptive, and she had learned to be wary.

Fortunately, there was a shallow pool in the grounds of the villa where the youngsters could practise their strokes. They’d both learned to swim while they were living in Singapore, and although their skills were limited they could safely stay afloat. Helen had spent most of yesterday morning playing with them in the pool. Tricia had gone into Bridgetown, to look up some old friends.

‘Helen!’

Henry’s distinctive call interrupted her reverie, and, turning her head, she saw both children standing on the veranda, waving at her. They were still in their pyjamas, and she got resignedly to her feet. Until it was time for their afternoon nap, Tricia expected her to take control.

‘Have you been for a swim?’ asked Sophie resentfully, as Helen walked along the veranda to their room. She pointed at the damp braid of streaked blonde hair that lay over one shoulder. ‘You should’ve waked us. We could have come with you.’

‘Woken us,’ said Helen automatically, realising as she did so how quickly she had fallen into the role of nursemaid. ‘And, no. I haven’t been for a swim, as it happens.’ She shooed them back into their bedroom. ‘I had a shower, that’s all. That’s why my hair is wet.’

‘Why didn’t you dry it?’ began Sophie, then Henry turned on his little sister.

‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, ‘give it a rest, can’t you?’ He flushed at Helen’s reproving stare. ‘Well—she’s such a stupid girl.’

‘I’m not stupid!’

Sophie responded loudly enough, but her eyes had filled with tears. She always came off worst in any argument with her brother, and although she tried to be his equal she usually lost the battle.

‘I don’t think this conversation is getting us anywhere, do you?’ declared Helen smoothly. ‘And, Henry—if you want to make a statement, kindly do so without taking God’s name in vain.’

‘Mummy does,’ he muttered, though he’d expected Helen’s reproof. ‘In any case, I’m hungry. Has Maria started breakfast?’

‘I doubt it.’ Helen started the shower as the two children began to unbutton their pyjamas. ‘She hasn’t arrived yet, as far as I know.’

‘Not arrived?’ Henry sounded horrified. ‘But I want something to eat.’

‘Then we’ll have to see what she’s left in the fridge,’ said Helen calmly. ‘Now, come on, Sophie. You’re first.’

By the time the children were bathed and dressed, Helen had already refereed a dozen arguments. Anyone who thought having children of a similar age automatically meant they would be company for one another couldn’t be more wrong, Helen reflected drily. In some circumstances it might work, and she was prepared to accept that there must be exceptions, but Henry and Sophie were in constant competition, and it didn’t make for amiable dispositions.

To her relief, Maria had arrived and was making the morning’s batch of rolls, when they arrived in the kitchen in search of breakfast. ‘Morning, Miss Gregory,’ she greeted Helen with a smile. ‘You’re up and about very early.’

‘I guess it’s because I still haven’t got used to the fact that it’s not lunchtime already,’ replied Helen. She rubbed her flat stomach with a rueful hand. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. We’re all ravenous!’

‘Well, sit down, sit down. I’ve a batch of rolls in the oven that’ s almost ready. Why don’t you have some orange juice, while you’re waiting? Or there’s some grapefruit in the fridge, if you’d prefer it.’

‘I don’t want grapefruit,’ said Sophie, wrinkling her nose, but Henry only looked at her with contempt.

‘I do,’ he declared, though Helen knew he didn’t like it. ‘You’re just a baby. You still drink milk.’

‘I drink milk, too,’ said Helen firmly, before it could deteriorate into another argument. ‘Would you like orange juice, Sophie? That’s what I’m going to have.’

‘Mmm,’ Sophie was off-hand, until she saw her brother’s face when Helen put half a grapefruit in front of him. Then she gave him a mocking smirk, and sipped her juice with exaggerated enjoyment.

Helen was helping herself to a second cup of coffee when Tricia appeared in the kitchen doorway. She wasn’t dressed yet. She was wearing a trailing chiffon négligé, and her reddish hair hadn’t been combed and stood out around her head. A tall woman, whose adolescent athleticism hadn’t continued into adulthood, Tricia had a constant battle to remain slim. It was a fact that she resented and which caused her some irritation. She regarded the little group around the table now without liking, and when Sophie would have slid off her chair and run to greet her mother she waved her back.