Antigua Kiss by Anne Weale Read Free Book Online

of Antiguans who wore some kind of headgear—shady straws, old-fashioned felt trilbys, or gaily coloured cotton headties knotted at the back of the head, not under the chin as in England—was among Christie's first-impressions of the island.
    'I expected you to be much older . . . middle-aged in fact,' was Bettina's first remark, during the drive.
    'Is that how Ash described me?'

    'No, just my impression . . . from the fact that he said you were a widow, maybe.'
    'You say he's not here. Where is he?' Christie was not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed at having their next confrontation postponed for a few days.
    'In Montserrat. A friend of his there is in some kind of trouble—he didn't go into details when he rang up to ask me to meet you. He sent a message that you were to be particularly careful not to sunbathe except before nine and after four. You'd be amazed how many visitors don't take the warnings seriously and end up looking like lobsters and feeling like hell. Even ten minutes of midday sun here can fry anyone with a skin as white as yours,' said Bettina. 'If you haven't brought a beach cover-up and a tee-shirt for swimming and snorkelling, you'd better buy some from me. Ash won't be pleased if he comes back to find you with burns. It's something he's very strict about with his passengers.'
    'What happens to them while he's away? Or has he none at the moment?'
    'Oh, yes—it's the height of the season. But he doesn't sail Sunbird single-handed, and his crew can cope for a short time.'
    They had left the airport behind and were motoring through open country which reminded Christie of films of the African bush. In places the dry grass was shaded by small, flat-topped trees which later she learned were acacias. An unfamiliar breed of cattle, some of them severely emaciated, were grazing the roadsides, trailing long chains behind them. Many of the beasts had a white egret for a companion.
    'In general the roads here are terrible,' said Bettina, avoiding a rut in the much-patched macadam.

    But the poor condition of the surface didn't cause her to reduce her speed. Turning to smile over her shoulder at John who was perched between the two up-ended suitcases, Christie wondered if Bettina always drove as fast, or only because she was in a hurry to re-open her boutique.
    Was she Ash's girl-friend? she wondered.
    Aloud, she asked, 'Do you live at the Cottage Colony?'
    'Yes, it suits me. I'm not domesticated. Cooking bores me.
    Housework—no, thanks! Living in a hotel is ideal. Apart from fixing breakfast, which is only black coffee and fruit juice, I don't have to lift a finger. The maids clean the cottage, and I have lunch by the pool and dinner in the restaurant. That's if I don't have a date to dine in St John's or at one of the other hotels.'
    They were approaching a village. Most of the houses close to the road were built of wood, gaily painted in colours such as sky blue, bright pink and turquoise which would have looked garish in England but here had a gay, fresh appearance.
    The houses were all single-storey, and few were much larger than a good-sized European garage while many were tiny, like garden sheds. But on the outskirts of the village and farther away from the main road there were new, more spacious block-built bungalows with white wrought iron grilles across the windowslind fenced gardens.
    The gardens of the small habitations merged with each other and were full of tropical trees and shrubs ablaze with bright flowers. The only ones Christie knew by name were the purple and red bougainvillea, and the long-stemmed scarlet hibiscus.
    People sitting on porches or grouped in the doorways of small shops watched the white car go past, and some waved. Christie and John returned these greetings, but Bettina ignored them and caused the elder of her passengers more than one anxious moment by not slowing where children were playing or hens were crossing the road.
    Beyond the village the sound of the