What Have I Done? by Amanda Prowse Page B

in small groups; they reminded Kate of characters from
Chicken Licken
out for a stroll or off to buy groceries. She did a double-take to check if any were carrying little baskets or brollies and wearing headscarves.
    The heat was a warm blanket, soothing her joints and easing the knots from her muscles. In her stomach she felt a swell ofexcitement and anticipation at what her trip might hold. Banana trees and coconut palms fought for space in the dense roadside jungle. Each turn in the winding road revealed another stunning vista of mountains or tropical forest. This was exactly what Kate had hoped St Lucia would be like. She felt happy.
     
    The thrill of the journey from the airport was not to last. One hour after hurling her bag into the bus’s cubby-hole, Kate stepped into the huge, marble-floored reception of the Landings Hotel and instantly wanted to go home. But she didn’t have a home to go to.
    The place was beautiful. Marble pillars and floors shone. The great cathedral-like ceiling of arched wood reminded her of a tall ship. It was graceful, cool and expensive. These were only three of the reasons why she felt like a fish out of water. The women, mainly American, who congregated on the over-stuffed sofas appeared to be waiting for nothing in particular. They all had with them the one accessory that instantly alienated Kate. A man.
    As a group they were elegantly dressed, clutching Louis Vuitton bags and with sparkling diamonds around their wrists and twinkling from their lobes. Collectively they seemed to have decided that the appropriate attire for this green island was sheer, hot pinks, heeled sandals that clicked and clacked on the hard floors and a face full of filler. Sadly for Kate, no one had notified her of the dress code. She smoothed her palms against her thighs in an effort to remove the creases from her ditsy print frock and re-hitched her Sainsbury’s raffia beach bag up onto her shoulder. She felt more school fete than Caribbean chic. West Indian men in navy Bermudas and pristine white polo shirts hovered with hands clasped behind their backs, waiting for a hand to beckon them, either to refresh their drink or offer advice on where to dine.
    Kate quickly decided the best means of survival was to hide. She couldn’t bear the thought of idling at one of the bars, bumping into these women or having to converse across a sun lounger:
    ‘
I’m Debbie. We’re from New York, upstate. My husband? Oh he’s in banking. Yes, two boys – one at military academy, he wants to fly, and the other a business major at Harvard. Our first time? No, our sixteenth. We just love the islands. You?
’
    ‘
I’m Kate. From the UK. My first trip; I usually favour Padstow. My husband – he’s deceased. Oh no, please don’t be sorry, it was me that killed him. In fact I’ve only just got out of prison. My kids? Oh, not speaking to me because of the whole murdering their dad thing… Ooh, I love your bikini!
’
    She could see that this exchange would not result in the swapping of addresses and the issuing of Christmas cards. Instead, Kate sought out places other tourists shunned. Most wanted to be within a short, leg-stretching stroll of a paper-umbrella-adorned pina colada or an air-conditioned restaurant, but not her.
    Kate spent the first two days venturing down to the beach, wandering the shoreline and then returning to the solace of her room. She lay on her vast bed and marvelled at the luxury that surrounded her. At night the chirp and peep of wildlife would serenade her to sleep. On day three she struck gold when she discovered Pigeon Island. It was the haven she had dreamed of: a quiet oasis with the ancient ruins of a British hill fort set among the junglescape.
    The winding trail to the fort meandered upwards, allowing Kate to gaze in wonder at varieties of trees she had never seen before, trees with names like ‘flamboyant’ and ‘lady’s tongue’. She continued on to Signal Point without difficulty;