Free Liberty Silk by Kate Beaufoy Page B

two friends amused each other by painting word pictures of their childhoods. Sabu conjured India for Baba by describing smells and tastes and colours, and he sang the praises of the elephants he’d cared for, telling her how much wiser and kinder they were than many of the humans he’d known. When she asked him what the defining moment of his boyhood had been, he was unequivocal. ‘It was when Robert O’Flaherty cast me in
Elephant Boy
,’ he told her. ‘I loved that man. He was like a father to me after my own had died. And he was one of the greatest storytellers I have ever met.’
    They had reached the end of the companionway. Baba automatically turned to retrace their steps, but Sabu laid a hand on her arm. ‘Why not take a breather? It’s your turn now, Baba. Tell me how you ended up living with your grandparents.’
    ‘It’s a long story.’
    ‘Since we are on a seemingly endless voyage,’ he replied, nodding towards the charcoal line of the horizon, ‘you have all the time in the world.’
    She shrugged. ‘I guess.’
    ‘So – “Once upon a time . . .”’ prompted Sabu.
    ‘Once upon a time,’ she began, ‘when I was very little, I lived in France with a couple I called Maman and Papa. They were very kind. They were . . . normal. But they weren’t my real parents – I just lived on their farm. I only ever spent a couple of months a year with my real mother, in a villa there.’ Baba found herself smiling. ‘They were golden – those summers. Really golden. It was a kind of Garden of Eden, everything shimmering in a haze of heat, and the villa seemed like the centre of the world.’ She could see it now, as if through the lens of a child’s kaleidoscope. ‘It was on a hillside, and the garden was always bright with great splotches of colour – mimosa and peonies and lavender – and there were tangerines to eat straight off the trees, and at night it was lit up with lanterns, and if you went down to the sea wall you could hear the wash of the waves below, and there seemed always to be the smell of burning eucalyptus because there were wildfires in summer. And up on the top terrace you’d see where my mother and her friends would congregate around a big table with wicker chairs and an enormous beach parasol – a vivid blue parasol against the pink façade of the house. There seemed always to be people sitting round that table, as if life was one continuous mealtime – a bit like the Mad Hatter’s tea party. And sometimes I was allowed wine, and it tasted of sweet meadows so I guess it must have been a Muscat. And everyone smelt of coconut oil, which I shall always associate with sand and sun and sea. It was a sea that was a kind of aching empty blue – nothing like this wretched dull grey ocean.’ Baba looked down over the taffrail at the beaten pewter of the Atlantic, and then said, ‘I remember one day in particular. Mama was wearing a white tuberose in her hair, and her skin was nearly as brown as yours, Sabu, from all the sunbathing, and she seemed so brimming over with life. They were drinking champagne to celebrate someone’s birthday and I remember – I remember going to the bathroom and finding two girls there half naked and giggling, and they told me that they’d spilled wine on their clothes but I know now that they must have been making love. Oh, Sabu – I haven’t shocked you, have I?’
    He shook his head and gave a wry smile. ‘Nothing can shock me after seeing the antics that some of the crew got up to at the wrap party in Denham.’
    ‘Yes. That wasn’t elegant. But these girls
were
elegant, somehow.’ Baba looked speculative. ‘I guess a lot of sex went on in that villa. People were always flirting and dancing, and there was always music playing – the same tune was on the Victrola from morning until night – it was Noël Coward’s “Poor Little Rich Girl.”’
    Sabu gave her his great smile. ‘Was she pretty? Your mother.’
    ‘Pretty’s the wrong