tackle on her return. How unready she still was to tackle them. ‘I decided I couldn’t, not on my own.’
He was silent as they drove past fields of banana palms and more jungle. Charlotte watched blurred walls of creeping green vegetation skim by, corrugated iron structures and primitive thatched roofs.
Finally he said, ‘You could turn your designs into a business if you wanted to; they’re unique enough.’
‘No.’ Her designs were her private indulgence and a solitary pursuit. She’d given it a lot of thought since Flynn had left and decided she needed work that involved social interaction if she wanted to avoid becoming a total recluse. ‘Something’ll turn up.’ The charities her mother and she supported could keep her busy in the meanwhile.
The school was part of a village, quaint and old and basic—a single louvred building painted bright blue witha maroon roof and a wide porch. The playground’s grass surface was patchy and devoid of shade or equipment and adjoined the ubiquitous village rugby field.
But it didn’t lack vitality because the moment they pulled up at the door the children spilled outside, Kas following, and suddenly the car was surrounded with friendly faces.
‘Bula! Bula!’
The kids swarmed around them, hands on the car’s windows, their laughs loud and happy.
She and Nic climbed out into humidity and hot sun, crushingly different from the car’s air conditioning. A couple of chooks scratched at the ground and unfamiliar bird calls echoed in the trees.
Kasanita welcomed them. ‘
Bula
, Charlotte, Nic.’
After being presented with garlands of kid-made paper flowers, shells and bits of silver paper, they followed the noisy class inside like a couple of royal visitors. Children’s colourful artwork more than made up for the room’s sparse aspect, with one exception—the six computers along one wall.
Kas offered them fresh coconut milk, then quietened the children with her guitar. Charlotte and Nic sat on rush matting amongst the children and joined in. An interactive time followed, the children free to choose activities and show off their learning to their special visitors. There was an encore of the previous night’s dance.
The visit gave Charlotte a further insight into Nic. He interacted with the children naturally and knew how to reach them on their level, whether it was explaining how to use a computer program or sharing a joke or peeling a tiny girl’s banana.
‘What do you say to fresh grilled fish for lunch?’ Nic asked as they drove away, heading towards the coast once more. ‘I know this little place.’
‘Yes, please. I’m starving.’
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘I loved it. Thanks for inviting me along.’ So much sharing and caring and learning in such basic conditions was a contrast to her own privileged upbringing. ‘The playground could do with some climbing equipment. Maybe some shade sails.’ She turned to Nic. ‘I’d like to help.’
He glanced her way. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Funding. One thing I do know is how to raise money.’
He looked at her a moment, eyes unreadable, then back at the road. ‘You’re not what I expected, Charlotte Dumont.’
She stiffened, staring back. ‘Reverse snobbery, Nic? You think because I was born into a privileged family that I don’t see what goes on around me? That I don’t care? You’re a self-made man,’ she said slowly. ‘What happened in your past that makes you think I’m less because my wealth came to me naturally?’
He shook his head, clearly unwilling or unable to talk about that past. ‘You’re being overly sensitive, Charlotte. I don’t think that at all.’
She remembered the darkness in his eyes when she’d asked why he’d rescued her from that reporter. He had a deep-seated animosity towards bullies. Had someone treated him as less because he came from an impoverished background? He gave her nothing with which to draw any conclusions.
She didn’t ask. Some
He was silent as they drove past fields of banana palms and more jungle. Charlotte watched blurred walls of creeping green vegetation skim by, corrugated iron structures and primitive thatched roofs.
Finally he said, ‘You could turn your designs into a business if you wanted to; they’re unique enough.’
‘No.’ Her designs were her private indulgence and a solitary pursuit. She’d given it a lot of thought since Flynn had left and decided she needed work that involved social interaction if she wanted to avoid becoming a total recluse. ‘Something’ll turn up.’ The charities her mother and she supported could keep her busy in the meanwhile.
The school was part of a village, quaint and old and basic—a single louvred building painted bright blue witha maroon roof and a wide porch. The playground’s grass surface was patchy and devoid of shade or equipment and adjoined the ubiquitous village rugby field.
But it didn’t lack vitality because the moment they pulled up at the door the children spilled outside, Kas following, and suddenly the car was surrounded with friendly faces.
‘Bula! Bula!’
The kids swarmed around them, hands on the car’s windows, their laughs loud and happy.
She and Nic climbed out into humidity and hot sun, crushingly different from the car’s air conditioning. A couple of chooks scratched at the ground and unfamiliar bird calls echoed in the trees.
Kasanita welcomed them. ‘
Bula
, Charlotte, Nic.’
After being presented with garlands of kid-made paper flowers, shells and bits of silver paper, they followed the noisy class inside like a couple of royal visitors. Children’s colourful artwork more than made up for the room’s sparse aspect, with one exception—the six computers along one wall.
Kas offered them fresh coconut milk, then quietened the children with her guitar. Charlotte and Nic sat on rush matting amongst the children and joined in. An interactive time followed, the children free to choose activities and show off their learning to their special visitors. There was an encore of the previous night’s dance.
The visit gave Charlotte a further insight into Nic. He interacted with the children naturally and knew how to reach them on their level, whether it was explaining how to use a computer program or sharing a joke or peeling a tiny girl’s banana.
‘What do you say to fresh grilled fish for lunch?’ Nic asked as they drove away, heading towards the coast once more. ‘I know this little place.’
‘Yes, please. I’m starving.’
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘I loved it. Thanks for inviting me along.’ So much sharing and caring and learning in such basic conditions was a contrast to her own privileged upbringing. ‘The playground could do with some climbing equipment. Maybe some shade sails.’ She turned to Nic. ‘I’d like to help.’
He glanced her way. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Funding. One thing I do know is how to raise money.’
He looked at her a moment, eyes unreadable, then back at the road. ‘You’re not what I expected, Charlotte Dumont.’
She stiffened, staring back. ‘Reverse snobbery, Nic? You think because I was born into a privileged family that I don’t see what goes on around me? That I don’t care? You’re a self-made man,’ she said slowly. ‘What happened in your past that makes you think I’m less because my wealth came to me naturally?’
He shook his head, clearly unwilling or unable to talk about that past. ‘You’re being overly sensitive, Charlotte. I don’t think that at all.’
She remembered the darkness in his eyes when she’d asked why he’d rescued her from that reporter. He had a deep-seated animosity towards bullies. Had someone treated him as less because he came from an impoverished background? He gave her nothing with which to draw any conclusions.
She didn’t ask. Some
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