Free The Takamaka Tree by Alexandra Thomas Page A

thing to prefabricate the situation on a remote coral island, and even on Mahé it did not present too many problems. But returning to England was a different matter. Two people living together openly could travel anywhere because they had two passports in their own right. Perhaps he should just declare that she had lost everything and apply for some new accreditation. Perhaps he would have to find a judge and swear an affidavit.
    “You will have to buy me a ring,” said Sandy.
    “No,” said Daniel.
     
    It was not simply a picnic lunch on Beau Vallon that Daniel had arranged. Sandy had an appointment with a doctor. Daniel had discovered through his enquiries at the hospital at Port Victoria that an eminent doctor had retired to Mahé, and occasionally took a private patient. Sandy was to see him that afternoon at his home high up in the hills, overlooking the Morne Seychellois National Park.
    The beach buggy was fun. Sandy enjoyed the drive into Port Victoria and then the steep climbing road twisting over the neck of the island to the fabulous show beach on the northwest coast. Even the shabby tin-roofed and thatched wooden shanties looked picturesque in their lazy palm settings, the hens and goats picking among the fallen flowers and coconuts. The cheerful Seychellois children smiled and waved at the car as it passed, still a novelty, although Daniel noticed that the older people retained a dignified passivity. Perhaps they did not relish the invasion of their island paradise by well-heeled tourists.
    Daniel took the curves of the road carefully, easing the vehicle up the slopes and praying that nothing was coming in the opposite direction. He particularly did not like the idea of meeting one of the swaying old lorries which served as buses on this mountainous route. Ravines fell away at the side of the road, massive boulders obscured oncoming traffic, roots and granite and wooden houses clung precariously to the side of the mountain. And a profusion of richly laden trees—banana, jackfruit, pawpaw—leaned over the road, so sometimes there were children scrambling for fruit in the roadway.
    Sandy hung on to the side of the open buggy, her hair streaming, her heart in her mouth as Daniel took the twists and bends. But it was exhilarating; sun dappling through the leaves, the warmth and sea breeze blowing through the heady scent of flowers and wild cinnamon. If only they could just continue driving forever. She glanced sideways at Daniel. His dark hair and beard were still curly and unruly, but in shirt and slacks he looked different. His nose reminded her of statues she had seen of Greek gods with arrogant profiles.
    Gradually the road dropped down to the other side and nearer Beau Vallon. It was easy to see why the Seychellois claimed that it was the most beautiful beach in the world. It stretched for miles in a perfect curve of wide pale golden sand, fringed with palms and outcrops of granite, the bay sparkling aquamarine shading from pale turquoise to indigo blue. A few hotels were hidden among the takamaka trees, and holiday-makers swam in the cool depths.
    Sandy took off her gold sandals and they walked companionably along the sand. There was so much empty space that they could sit anywhere and be quite alone. Some children were fishing, laughing as their nets came back full of fish. The sea was always generous. Sandy felt her heart warming to the children, wanting to run with them along the sand, to share their laughter. She smiled up at Daniel and was amazed to find a look of desolation on his face.
    “Whatever’s the matter? Daniel, why are you looking like that?” she exclaimed.
    “Memories,” he said briefly.
    “Are they so terrible?”
    He did not answer at first. He stared at the sea, wondering how much to tell her. Then he thought of the ordeal ahead of her that afternoon and decided that she really did not need to know.
    “The rest of the world is not quite as beautiful as Beau Vallon,” he