Contents ( 71)
- THE
- DAUGHTER
- MICHELLE FRANCES
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘Are you OK?’ asked Iris.
‘Fine,’ grimaced Kate, hitting her sternum with a closed fist.
‘It’ll be lovely, they all have these colourful boats, apparently. Handmade.’
‘OK.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ said Iris.
‘What?’
‘I get seasick.’
‘You do?’ Kate thought about Iris’s previous lack of travel. ‘How do you know?’
‘When I was a child, my mother took me to the Isle of Wight. On the ferry.’
‘Maybe you’ve changed. It was a long time ago.’
‘It was. But I don’t think so.’
Kate stared. ‘So why . . . You agreed?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘So we could still talk to him. Bend him to our will.’
Kate looked at her and started to laugh. ‘You’d get seasick just to do that?’
‘There’s no just about it. It’s very important.’
Kate smiled. ‘So . . . a bit of sightseeing today?’
They decided to explore some of the island’s history and took a taxi to the Heritage Museum, painstakingly curated by a local man, who took great pride in his work. The tiny museum was full of old photographs and artefacts that traced the island’s history over the last four centuries, covering everything from the Anguilla Revolution to a visit by the Queen in the 1960s.
As they drove across the island, Kate was struck by how relaxed it was. No casinos – none of the massive cruise ships stopped in Anguilla. It was totally unspoilt.
The next afternoon, Errol drove them out to Island Harbour, where numerous brightly coloured, hand-crafted fishing boats lined the quay. They were helped aboard Errol’s blue-and-yellow boat and once they’d motored out of the small harbour, he hoisted the huge white sail. It thwacked in the breeze, driving the little boat along the flat turquoise sea.
‘Are you OK?’ Kate asked Iris, quietly.
‘Fine!’ said Iris. She gazed around. ‘There are no waves, well, none to really speak of. That must be the difference between here and the Isle of Wight!’
‘I thought we wouldn’t go far today,’ said Errol. ‘Just half a mile north-west to a good spot I know. Take it nice and easy.’
Kate looked behind her at the shrinking island as they sailed away. A few chilled-out fishermen at the harbour waved to her and it was impossible not to smile and wave back. She brought her gaze back to the water, watching the boat cut through the clear blue. Then, to her amazement, she spotted something smooth and flat swim rapidly past. Two – three! – stingrays.
‘Look!’ she exclaimed and, smiling, Iris leaned over to see.
It wasn’t long before Errol was slackening the sail and they were slowing down. Anguilla was now a small green jewel in the distance. Errol dropped the anchor and the little yellow-and-blue boat rocked gently on the water.
Kate listened: nothing.
The peace had its own beauty, had the power to move her as much as the aquamarine water or the warm sunshine. She closed her eyes for a moment, let it wash over her.