Free The White Pearl by Kate Furnivall Page A

billiards, to drown the Hadley silences in gin slings. But after the advent of Teddy into their lives, a giggling,
     snub-nosed little wriggler, everything changed. Not just because he was the Hadley Estate son and heir, though that definitely
     counted for something, but because he hooked his father’s heart from his chest the first moment that the tiny tadpole fingers
     curled around Nigel’s big thumbs.
    ‘He clings like a damn monkey,’ Nigel had said gruffly.
    But she wasn’t fooled. This was a new Nigel, one whose brown eyes suddenly revealed layer after layer within him, parts of
     him she’d never seen before, never knew existed. It happened each time she placed Teddy in his arms. At last she could give
     her husband something he wanted, not just a new rifle or a stupid pair of cufflinks; wanted deepdown in his soul. Because as sure as hell he didn’t want her, despite having dragged her out to this country of his. Their
     love for their son built a fragile bridge between them, and she had carefully added more struts and railings to it each Sunday
     ever since, until now it had turned into a solid ritual.
    For a start, Chala, Teddy’s
amah
, was given the day off. Connie insisted that Nigel sleep late, at least until nine o’clock, as it was the only day he didn’t
     have to get up at five a.m. to oversee the muster of the plantation’s workforce. Teddy would help Connie saddle up for her
     morning horse ride around the estate, then on the stroke of nine by the hall clock he would bounce into the master bedroom
     with Pippin yapping a wake-up call in his arms. On his heels followed Masur, one of the silent-footed house boys in his white
     tunic, bearing a tray of scrambled eggs, a mountain of toast and plum jam, two peeled mangoes and a huge pot of Earl Grey
     tea, all of which Nigel and Teddy would have demolished between them by the time Connie returned for her shower.
    The rest of the day was spent amusing themselves, which usually meant cricket on the lawn. ‘Only girls are allowed to bowl
     underarm,’ Nigel would whisper to his son when it was Connie’s turn to bowl. Or sometimes croquet. Pippin, the scruffy little
     terrier, adored to sink his teeth into the wooden croquet balls and scamper into the shrubbery with one, almost dislocating
     his jaws, to shouts of glee from Teddy.
    The laughter. That’s what made the difference. It undid the tight laces that seemed to bind around her lungs the rest of the
     week. Nigel felt it too. She could see his limbs grow looser and his shirt abandon its crispness as the collar became damp
     around his neck. In the heat of the afternoon they would retreat to the delicious shade on the veranda and stretch out on
     the old bamboo chairs that had taken the shape of their bodies over the years.
    Masur would bring them freshly squeezed lemonade and, when Teddy was younger, Connie would read Biggles stories to him, tales
     of derringdo by a pilot flying a Sopwith Camel in the Great War, till he dozed off. Sometimes Nigel would take what he called
     ‘forty winks’ at the same time, and she would observe them both closely in the dappled light while their faces lay unguarded.
     The same shape face, long from jaw to cheekbone, the same wide mouth, but whereas her son’s was curved in a loose half-smile,
     her husband’s was set tight even in sleep.
    But now, at seven years old, Teddy had no interest in wasting anafternoon on something as boring as sleep. He possessed a fearsome energy that at times left Connie trailing in his wake.
     If she ever suggested slowing down he would look at her, aghast.
    ‘No, Mummy,’ he’d pipe up with his freckled nose scrunched in dismay, ‘you’re getting old.’
    Old? Was it true? Maybe Nigel was right when he called her
old thing.
Thirty-four, but already knee-deep in a trench that led straight to the grave. She blinked hard and realised Nigel had just
     spoken to her.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was miles away. What