The Turtle Run by Marie Evelyn Page A

tall crop.
    â€˜Is that sugarcane?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yes, that’s right.’
    â€˜Wow, I’ve never seen it before.’
    â€˜And you won’t see much of it now, I’m afraid. The industry has been on its knees ever since Europe started growing sugar beet to get sugar. Even though the molasses from sugar beet is rubbish; the molasses from our sugarcane is much nicer.’
    â€˜So it’s still grown for molasses?’
    â€˜Not really.’ He sighed. ‘The sugarcane fields are being turned into golf courses. When the tourist industry moves in say goodbye to agriculture. Actually say goodbye to anything real.’
    Becky smiled inwardly. Considering that he owned two hotels, Matthew didn’t seem to recognise the irony of his words. Anyway it was all new to her. She felt on a high, as rounding each bend revealed another treasure with its roots in bygone years: a tiny church on a hill, a derelict sugar-mill, or a spreading flame-coloured flamboyant tree. The sky was probably the same blue as at home and yet she admired its cloudless purity as though she had never properly looked at it before. She also sensed Matthew was less tense now he was on home territory.
    â€˜This seems like paradise for everyone,’ she said.
    He didn’t respond; indeed he seemed to be giving her cheerful remark more consideration than it merited.
    He slowed down to drive through a village that straddled the road. ‘I don’t think it’s a paradise for them,’ he said, sounding almost impatient with her.
    She thought at first he meant the drab village itself, which not even the glittering day could make cheerful. Then she noticed he was looking at two painfully thin children: a boy and girl, aged about seven and eight respectively. They were obviously brother and sister – both were flaxen-haired and bore the same expression of pinched anxiety that wasn’t wholly accounted for by their present dilemma. Barefooted, they were struggling to lift a container of water that was clearly taxing their strength while a harassed-looking blonde woman shrilled at them from her anything but picturesque cottage to look sharp and turn off the standpipe.
    â€˜Don’t they have piped water to the house?’ Becky frowned. ‘I thought Barbados was a relatively prosperous island.’
    â€˜It is a prosperous island. But a few people have still slipped through the net.’
    The children put down their burden and stared at the passing car with listless faces. ‘Who are they?’ Becky said uncomfortably. ‘They look – I don’t know – beaten. As if they don’t quite know what they’re doing here.’
    â€˜I don’t think all the Redlegs have ever got over the fact they are here.’
    â€˜Redlegs?’
    â€˜They’re descendants of – well, if you’re going to help my mother with her book, presumably you know all about this. Somerset? The Battle of Sedgemoor?’
    â€˜Yes, of course I’m familiar with it,’ she said. In fact she now felt she could go on Mastermind specialising in the Monmouth rebels. ‘But nothing I’ve read so far mentions Redlegs.’
    â€˜In this area, here, are the descendants of the losers. If you’re interested, there’s a book at the house on Barbados’s history. If you’re interested.’ He gave her a quick sideways glance.
    Becky frowned with exasperation. ‘Of course I’m interested,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
    â€˜OK, I’ll show you the book. Most of it recounts the familiar link between sugar and slavery. All horrible and all true. The Redlegs get a mention – just about. They’re a mere footnote in history.’
    â€˜Why are they called Redlegs?’
    â€˜You’d better not mention Redlegs to anyone else. It’s a bit insensitive. Or politically incorrect if you prefer that phrase. If you think