Free Island-in-Waiting by Anthea Fraser Page B

exercise, in slamming the ball and concentrating on it to the exclusion of all else. When our time was up Neil slipped a casual arm round my shoulders as we walked from the court.
    â€œWell done! I enjoyed that – we must do it again.”
    It was only then that some movement on the shadowed balcony overlooking the court made me glance up with an instinctive fear of finding Ray looking down on me. But it was Pam Beecham who dodged back out of sight and I released my indrawn breath. I don’t think Neil saw her; in any event he made no comment and nor did I.
    â€œI could of course offer you an exotic cup of cocoa at Staff House,” he said as I joined him again outside the changing-rooms, “but personally I feel a glass of something at the King Orry might be more acceptable.”
    I hesitated. “Does Ray ever go there?”
    â€œNot as far as I know. I’ve never seen him. Has he been bothering you in some way, because I can soon –”
    â€œNo,” I said hastily, “it’s nothing like that.”
    â€œI gather Hugo’s not too happy about your seeing him,” he remarked as he opened the car door.
    â€œWhy, what did he say?”
    â€œOh, nothing specific, it was just an impression I had. I can’t say I blame him though. You looked really shaken at lunch time. What is it between you two?”
    â€œI can’t explain,” I said helplessly, “at least, not at the moment. If I tried to you wouldn’t believe me.”
    â€œApparently I’m not to be given the chance. Still, if you prefer not to talk about it, fair enough. I just thought it might help.”
    The King Orry was quieter than it had been on Sunday and we found a corner settle near the huge old fireplace. Several times I caught Neil’s eyes consideringly on my face, but he didn’t question me any further and our conversation was light and general. I was tired after the physical exertion and the mental traumas of the day and soon after ten he said, “I think I’d better take you home, young lady, before you fall asleep in your chair.”
    We didn’t speak much on the way back and at the cottage he got out and opened the gate for me. “Thanks for the game and the drink,” I said dutifully.
    â€œMy pleasure. And Chloe –”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œTake care.” For a moment his eyes held mine. Then I nodded, attempted a not very successful smile, and turned to walk up the path to the house.

Seven
    It was bitterly cold. A thin icy wind was blowing straight in from the sea, lancing through my threadbare skirt and the shawl I wrapped tightly about my shoulders. Around me, people stamped their feet and rubbed their raw red hands together for warmth, but the despair in their eyes was not for their own discomfort.
    â€œThe King’ll not let it happen,” the woman beside me said suddenly. “’Tis old history now and Her Ladyship came to no harm. Wasn’t it the Island he was thinking of, and no wrong in that?”
    â€œMaster George’ll explain,” a man answered reassuringly. “There may still be time.”
    But even as he spoke a shudder ran through the crowd, and straining over the heads in front of me I could make out a figure escorted by guards being helped up on to the little mound. The woman beside me fell to her knees keening in a high-pitched whine which, together with the strong wind, made it exceedingly difficult to hear the prisoner’s final speech. But he was standing straight and true and through my streaming tears I saw that white blankets covered the hillock so that not a drop of his blood should soak away into the ground.
    As the shots rang out the scene wavered and starred like a shattered mirror, but down the long years its lament still reached me: “Dty vaaish, Illiam Dhone, te brishney nyn gree – Thy death, Illiam Dhone, is breaking our heart.”
    With a sigh, I spooned out the last