A Woman Of Passion

But her father had only been what she had made him, she reflected sadly, remembering how devastated she’d been to learn that her father had been borrowing money on the strength of securities he no longer owned. The estate had not one, but three mortgages hanging over it, and with the interest that was owing and death duties, there’d been precious little left.

The following months had been harrowing. Coming to terms with her father’s death would have been bad enough; coming to terms with the fact of his probable suicide had been infinitely worse.

Everything had had to be sold, even her car and the little jewellery she’d owned, and because her father’s only living relative was an elderly aunt, who’d disowned him long ago, Helen had had to deal with all the awful details herself. Max Thomas had helped, but even he had had no idea how distressing it had been. People who had once professed themselves her father’s friends had cut her dead in the street. Young men who’d phoned her constantly had suddenly been out of reach.

Not that Helen had particularly cared about her sudden loss of status. The hardest thing to bear was the absence of the one person she had really loved. She didn’t blame her father for what he’d done, but she did miss him. And she wished he had confided in her before taking that final step.

She could have contacted her mother’s sister, she supposed. Aunt Iris must have read about what had happened in the newspapers, but she hadn’t been in touch. Besides, Helen had shied away from the idea of asking for charity from the Warners. She and her father had had nothing to do with them in recent years, and it would have been hypocritical to ask for help now.

Nevertheless, things had been fairly desperate when she’d run into Tricia Sheridan in Marks & Spencer’s. In the four months since her father died she hadn’t been able to find a job, and although she had only been living in a bed-sitter, the rent had still to be paid. Office managers, store managers—all wanted more than the paltry qualifications she had to offer. The only position that had been open to her was a forecourt attendant at a petrol station, and she had been seriously thinking of taking it when Tricia came along.

Tricia, whose husband worked for the Foreign Office, had been living in Singapore for the past two years. She was older than Helen; she had been a prefect when Helen was still in middle school, but because of her prowess at sports all the younger girls had admired her.

She had singled Helen out for attention because Helen’s father had presented the school with a new gymnasium. A gymnasium he couldn’t afford, Helen reflected sadly now. But at the time she’d been so proud of his generosity.

Tricia had quickly discerned Helen’s situation. And had been quick to offer assistance. Why didn’t Helen come to work for her? she’d suggested. She needed a nanny, and she was sure Helen could cope.

It had all happened so quickly that Helen hadn’t really stopped to ask herself why—if five-year-old Henry and four-year-old Sophie were such poppets—Tricia didn’t have a nanny already. The other woman’s explanation that as they had been out of the country for some time they were out of touch with current agencies, hadn’t really held water, when she’d had time to think about it. She’d simply been so relieved to be offered a job that she’d agreed to her terms without question.

She supposed she’d had some naive idea that there were still people in the world who did do things out of the kindness of their hearts. Even after all the awful experiences she’d had, she’d actually been prepared to take Tricia’s offer at face value. She needed a job; Tricia was offering one. And the salary was considerably larger than any she’d been offered thus far.

In addition to which she would not have to pay the rent on the bed-sitter. Naturally, Tricia had declared, she must live in. Nannies always lived in, she’d said. It was one of the advantages of the job.

Helen wondered now whether she would have stuck it as long as she had if she had not given up her bedsit. In a short time she’d discovered that, far from being out of touch with the agencies, Tricia had, in fact, tried several before offering the post to her. Unfortunately, her requirements did not jell with most modern-day nannies. They were either too old, or too flighty, or they couldn’t follow orders, she’d declared, when Helen had mentioned her findings. But Helen had a theory that they simply refused to be treated as servants.

In any event, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and in the three months since she’d been working for the Sheridans, Helen had discovered it wasn’t all bad. Tricia was selfish and demanding, and she did expect the younger woman to turn her hand to anything if required. But, when their mother wasn’t around to encourage them, Henry and Sophie were fun to be with, and Andrew Sheridan was really rather nice.

Not that he was around much, Helen conceded, cupping her chin on her hand and watching the man who had started her introspection disappear into the belt of palms that fringed the far end of the beach. His work took him away a lot, which might have some bearing on Tricia’s uncertain temper. That, and the fact that he never seemed to take her seriously. As easy-going as he was, Helen could quite see how frustrating it must be to try and sustain his attention.

For herself, she imagined a lot of people would consider her position a sinecure. After all, she had her own room, she was fed and watered regularly, and the salary she was earning meant she could put a considerable amount each month into her savings account. If her hours were long, and a little erratic, she had nothing else to do. And at least Tricia didn’t feel sorry for her, even if she could be a little patronising at times.

Still, she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Tricia, she reminded herself firmly, lifting her face to the first silvery rays of sunlight that swept along the shoreline. The fine sand, which until then had had an opalescent sheen, now warmed to palest amber, and the ocean’s depths glinted with a fragile turquoise light. Colours that had been muted lightened, and a breeze brushed her calves beneath her muslin hem.

It was all incredibly beautiful, and the temptation was to linger, and enjoy the strengthening warmth of the sun. Helen felt as if she could watch the constant movement of the waves forever. There was a timelessness about them that soothed her nerves and renewed her sense of worth.

But she had spent quite long enough thinking about the past, she decided. Turning back into her bedroom, she viewed her tumbled bed with some remorse. It would have been so easy to crawl back into its comfort. Why was it she felt sleepy now, when an hour ago she couldn’t rest?

The room, like all the rooms in the villa Tricia had rented, was simply furnished: a bed, a couple of rattan chairs, a chest of drawers. There was a fitted wardrobe between this room and its adjoining bathroom, and louvred shutters on the windows to keep it cool. The bedrooms weren’t air-conditioned, even though Tricia had kicked up something of a fuss when she’d discovered this. However, the maid who looked after the villa had remained impassive. There was nothing she could do about it, she said. Perhaps the lady would prefor to stay at the hotel?

Tricia hadn’t preferred. It was far too convenient to have their own place with their own kitchen, where Henry and Sophie could take their meals without constant supervision. In addition to which, the place belonged to a business friend of Andrew’s. And he would not be amenable to them transferring to an hotel.

As she took her shower—tepid water, but refreshing—Helen remembered that Tricia’s husband was joining them today. He hadn’t accompanied them out to the Caribbean. Tricia had explained that there were meetings he had to attend, but Helen suspected Andrew had simply wanted to avoid such a long journey with two demanding children. As it was, she had had to spend most of the flight playing card games with Henry. Tricia and Sophie had fallen asleep, but Henry had refused to close his eyes.

Still, they were here now, and for the next four weeks surely she could relax and enjoy the sun. She’d already discovered that it was easier entertaining her young charges when the beach was on their doorstep. So long as Tricia didn’t get bored, and insist on giving parties every night.

The shower left her feeling refreshed and decidedly more optimistic, and after straightening the sheets on the bed she pulled on cotton shorts, which were all she wore over her bikini. It had been Tricia’s suggestion that she dress like one of the family. Any attempt to dress formally here would have seemed foolish.

It was only a little after half-past six when Helen emerged from the villa and crossed the terrace. Her feet were bare, and she took care not to stand on any of the prostrate beetles, lying on their backs on the tiles. These flying beetles mostly appeared at night, attracted by the artificial light, and, although she knew they were harmless, Helen had still to get used to their size and speed of movement. She had a horror of finding one in her bed, and she was always glad when Maria, the maid, brought out her broom and swept them away.

Beyond the terrace, a stretch of grass and a low stone wall was all that separated the grounds of the villa from the beach. Although she would have liked to go for a walk along the beach herself, Helen knew the children would be getting up soon and demanding her attention. It was no use expecting Maria to keep an eye on them when she arrived to prepare breakfast. Likeable though she was, she was also lazy, and looking after infants was not her job.

Perching on the wall, Helen drew one leg up to her chin and wrapped her arms around it. The sun was definitely gaining in strength, and she could feel its heat upon her bare shoulders. Although her skin seldom burned, she had taken to wearing a screening cream this holiday. The sun had a definite edge to it these days, and she had no wish to risk its dangers.

All the same, it was amazing to think that the temperature in England was barely above freezing. When they had left London three days ago, it had actually been snowing. But February here was one of the nicest months of the year. There was little of the humidity that built up later on.

The water beyond the beach was dazzling. It was tinged with gold now, its blue-green brilliance reflective as it surged towards the shore. Helen had already found that its power could sweep an unwary bather from her feet. Its smoothness was deceptive, and she had learned to be wary.

Fortunately, there was a shallow pool in the grounds of the villa where the youngsters could practise their strokes. They’d both learned to swim while they were living in Singapore, and although their skills were limited they could safely stay afloat. Helen had spent most of yesterday morning playing with them in the pool. Tricia had gone into Bridgetown, to look up some old friends.

‘Helen!’

Henry’s distinctive call interrupted her reverie, and, turning her head, she saw both children standing on the veranda, waving at her. They were still in their pyjamas, and she got resignedly to her feet. Until it was time for their afternoon nap, Tricia expected her to take control.

‘Have you been for a swim?’ asked Sophie resentfully, as Helen walked along the veranda to their room. She pointed at the damp braid of streaked blonde hair that lay over one shoulder. ‘You should’ve waked us. We could have come with you.’

‘Woken us,’ said Helen automatically, realising as she did so how quickly she had fallen into the role of nursemaid. ‘And, no. I haven’t been for a swim, as it happens.’ She shooed them back into their bedroom. ‘I had a shower, that’s all. That’s why my hair is wet.’

‘Why didn’t you dry it?’ began Sophie, then Henry turned on his little sister.

‘For God’s sake,’ he exclaimed, ‘give it a rest, can’t you?’ He flushed at Helen’s reproving stare. ‘Well—she’s such a stupid girl.’

‘I’m not stupid!’

Sophie responded loudly enough, but her eyes had filled with tears. She always came off worst in any argument with her brother, and although she tried to be his equal she usually lost the battle.

‘I don’t think this conversation is getting us anywhere, do you?’ declared Helen smoothly. ‘And, Henry—if you want to make a statement, kindly do so without taking God’s name in vain.’

‘Mummy does,’ he muttered, though he’d expected Helen’s reproof. ‘In any case, I’m hungry. Has Maria started breakfast?’

‘I doubt it.’ Helen started the shower as the two children began to unbutton their pyjamas. ‘She hasn’t arrived yet, as far as I know.’

‘Not arrived?’ Henry sounded horrified. ‘But I want something to eat.’

‘Then we’ll have to see what she’s left in the fridge,’ said Helen calmly. ‘Now, come on, Sophie. You’re first.’

By the time the children were bathed and dressed, Helen had already refereed a dozen arguments. Anyone who thought having children of a similar age automatically meant they would be company for one another couldn’t be more wrong, Helen reflected drily. In some circumstances it might work, and she was prepared to accept that there must be exceptions, but Henry and Sophie were in constant competition, and it didn’t make for amiable dispositions.

To her relief, Maria had arrived and was making the morning’s batch of rolls, when they arrived in the kitchen in search of breakfast. ‘Morning, Miss Gregory,’ she greeted Helen with a smile. ‘You’re up and about very early.’

‘I guess it’s because I still haven’t got used to the fact that it’s not lunchtime already,’ replied Helen. She rubbed her flat stomach with a rueful hand. ‘It’s the hunger that does it. We’re all ravenous!’

‘Well, sit down, sit down. I’ve a batch of rolls in the oven that’ s almost ready. Why don’t you have some orange juice, while you’re waiting? Or there’s some grapefruit in the fridge, if you’d prefer it.’

‘I don’t want grapefruit,’ said Sophie, wrinkling her nose, but Henry only looked at her with contempt.

‘I do,’ he declared, though Helen knew he didn’t like it. ‘You’re just a baby. You still drink milk.’

‘I drink milk, too,’ said Helen firmly, before it could deteriorate into another argument. ‘Would you like orange juice, Sophie? That’s what I’m going to have.’