Pierre through the lush Negrito Valley, bordered with banana, pineapple and sugar plantations and overlooked by the frowning heights of the Massif des Saints. ‘It seems that last night’s disturbance was a false alarm,’ said Wyatt. ‘In spite of what Causton said this morning.’
‘I don’t know if I really like Causton, after all,’ said Julie pensively. ‘Newspaper reporters remind me of vultures, somehow.’
‘I have a fellow feeling for him,’ said Wyatt. ‘He makes a living out of disaster – so do I.’
She was shocked. ‘It’s not the same at all. At least you are trying to minimize disaster.’
‘So is he, according to his lights. I’ve read some of his stuff and it’s very good; full of compassion at the damn’ silliness of the human race. I think he was truly sorry to find out he was right about the situation here – if he is right, of course. I hope to God he isn’t.’
She made an impatient movement with her shoulders. ‘Let’s forget about him, shall we? Let’s forget about him and Serrurier and – what’s-his-name – Favel.’
He slowed to avoid a wandering bullock cart loaded with rocks and jerked his head back at the armed soldier by the road. ‘It’s not so easy to forget Serrurier with that sort of thing going on.’
Julie looked back. ‘What is it?’
‘The corvé – forced labour on the roads. All the peasants must do it. It’s a hangover from pre-revolutionary France which Serrurier makes pay most handsomely. It has never stopped on San Fernandez.’ He nodded to the side of the road. ‘It’s the same with these plantations; they were once owned by foreign companies – American and French mostly. Serrurier nationalized the lot by expropriation when he came to power. He runs them as his own private preserve with convict labour – and it doesn’t take much to become a convict on this island, so he’s never short of workers. They’re becoming run down now.’
She said in a low voice, ‘How can you bear to live here – in the middle of all this unhappiness?’
‘My work is here, Julie. What I do here helps to save lives all over the Caribbean and in America, and this is the best place to do it. I can’t do anything about Serrurier; if I tried I’d be killed, gaoled or deported and that would do no one any good. So, like Hansen and everyone else, I stick close to the Base and concentrate on my own job.’
He paused to negotiate a bad bend. ‘Not that I like it, of course.’
‘So you wouldn’t consider moving out – say, to a research job in the States?’
‘I’m doing my best work here,’ said Wyatt. ‘Besides, I’m a West Indian – this is my home, poor as it is.’
He drove for several miles and at last pulled off the road on to the verge. ‘Remember this?’
‘I couldn’t forget it,’ she said, and left the car to look at the panorama spread before her. In the distance was the sea, a gleaming plate of beaten silver. Immediately below were the winding loops of the dusty road they had just ascended and between the road and the sea was the magnificent Negrito Valley leading down to Santego Bay with Cap Sarrat on the far side and St Pierre, a miniature city, nestling in the curve of the bay.
Wyatt did not look at the view – he found Julie a more satisfying sight as she stood on the edge of the precipitous drop with the trade wind blowing her skirt and moulding the dress to her body. She pointed across the valley to where the sun reflected from falling water. ‘What’s that?’
‘La Cascade de l’Argent – it’s on the P’tit Negrito.’ He walked across and joined her. ‘The P’tit Negrito joins the Gran’ Negrito down in the valley. You can’t see the confluence from here.’
She took a deep breath. ‘It’s one of the most wonderful sights I’ve ever seen. I wondered if you’d show it to me again.’
‘Always willing to oblige,’ he said. ‘Is this why you came back to San Fernandez?’
She laughed uncertainly. ‘One of the reasons.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a good reason. I hope the others are as good.’
Her voice was muffled because she had dropped her head. ‘I hope so, too.’
‘Aren’t you sure?’
She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. ‘No, Dave, I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.’
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him. ‘A pity,’ he said, and kissed her. She came, unresisting, into his arms and her lips parted under his. He felt her arms go about him closer, until at last she broke away.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘I’m still not sure – but I’m not sure about being not sure.’
He said, ‘How would you like to live here – on San Fernandez?’
Julie looked at him warily. ‘Is that a proposition?’
‘I suppose you could call it a proposal,’ Wyatt said, rubbing the side of his jaw. ‘I couldn’t go on living at the Base, not with you giving up the exotic life of an air hostess, so we’d have to find a house. How would you like to live somewhere up here?’
‘Oh, Dave, I’d like that very much,’ she cried, and they were both incoherent for a considerable time.
After a while Wyatt said, ‘I don’t understand why you were so standoffish; you clung on to Causton like a blood brother last night.’
‘Damn you, Dave Wyatt,’ Julie retorted. ‘I was scared. I was chasing a man and women aren’t supposed to do that. I got cold feet at the last minute and was frightened of making a fool of myself.’
‘So you did come here to see me?’
She ruffled his hair. ‘You don’t see much in people, do you, Dave? You’re so wrapped up in your hurricanes and formulas. Of course I came to see you.’ She picked up his hand and examined the fingers one by one. ‘I’ve been out with lots of guys and sometimes I’ve wondered if this time it was the one – women do think that way, you know. And every time you got in the way of my thinking, so I knew I had to come back to straighten it out. I had to have you in my heart altogether or I had to get you out of my system completely – if I could. And you kept writing those deadpan letters of yours which made me want to scream.’
He grinned. ‘I was never very good at writing passion. But I see I’ve been properly caught by a designing woman, so let’s celebrate.’ He walked over to the car. ‘I filled a Thermos with your favourite tipple – Planter’s Punch. I departed from the strict formula in the interests of sobriety and the time of day – this has less rum and more lime. It’s quite refreshing.’
They sat overlooking the Negrito and sampled the punch. Julie said, ‘I don’t know much about you, Dave. You said last night that you were born in St Kitts – where’s that?’
Wyatt waved. ‘An island over to the south-east. It’s really St Christopher, but it’s been called St Kitts for the last four hundred years. Christophe, the Black Emperor of Haiti, took his
