Journey to the River Sea

When the Carters first came from England, their servants had cooked all the best dishes that were eaten in Brazil: freshly caught fish served in a saffron sauce, sweet peppers stuffed with raisins and rice, roasted sweetcorn and chunky soups. They had picked fresh fruit for the Carters: mangoes and guavas and pomegranates, and had gone out at night to search for turtle eggs.

But not for long.

‘Only British food will be served at my table,’ Mrs Carter had said.

So the servants had given up. They opened the tins that came from England; they poured boiling water onto whatever pudding powder Mrs Carter had put out for them, not caring if it was rock hard or running off the plate – and went back to their huts to make themselves decent food at night.

‘Shall I call Miss Minton?’ Maia had asked as they sat down. ‘Perhaps she didn’t hear the gong?’

‘Miss Minton will have supper in her room,’ said Mrs Carter. ‘Governesses join us at breakfast and lunch, but never at dinner.’

‘Miss Porterhouse never had dinner with us,’ said Beatrice.

‘Nor did Miss Chisholm.’

Maia was silent. She had had a governess before she went to the Academy. She’d been part of the family, sharing all meals except formal dinner parties, when she and Maia ate together in the schoolroom, and to her dismay Maia felt a lump come to her throat as she remembered the warmth and laughter of her old home.

After supper the girls worked on their embroidery and Mr Carter went to his study. He had said almost nothing during the meal, only complaining once because the servants had moved some papers on his desk. ‘You can’t trust anyone out here,’ he grumbled, and told Maia to beware because all the Indians were out to cheat you.

‘I expect you must be tired after your journey,’ said Mrs Carter, and Maia said, yes she was, and went back to her room.

Presently there was a knock at the door, and Miss Minton came in. She looked at Maia’s room in silence. ‘I’m next door,’ she said, ‘so you can always knock on the wall. Do you need any help with your hair?’

Maia shook her head but Miss Minton took the silver-backed hairbrush and started to brush the long thick hair. She said nothing for a while, letting Maia gather herself together.

‘It’s not quite like I thought it would be, is it?’ said Maia ruefully. ‘I don’t think the twins like me.’

‘They will do when they get to know you. Remember, twins are used to living in their own world.’ She put down the brush and began to re-plait Maia’s hair. ‘Give them time.’

‘Yes. It’s just ... I don’t really understand why the Carters offered to have me.’

Miss Minton opened her mouth and closed it again. She knew exactly why they had offered to have Maia. Her interview with Mrs Carter had made that absolutely clear, but she would not tell Maia. The child had been hurt enough by her parents’ death.

‘You’ll see, it will all look different in the morning. Have courage. Courage is the most important thing.’

‘Yes.’ Left alone, Maia climbed into bed. There was no fan, it was incredibly hot and stuffy. But she would have courage. She stretched out her hand and looked at the tiny bruise in the skin. It was silly to think that Gwendolyn had dug her fingernail into her palm. Why should she want to hurt someone she had never met? She must have had something caught under her nail and not realized it; a tiny piece of wire or a thorn.

But not a thorn from a rose, in this house without flowers.

Maia turned out the lamp, but still she could not sleep. After a while she got up and pulled a chair up to the window.

Out there in the forest were the huts of the Indians who worked for the Carters – not cool, native huts with thatched roofs, but wooden shacks built to house servants. She lifted a corner of the mosquito net and saw fireflies – a hundred points of dancing light – and heard the croaking of frogs. How alive it was out there, and how dead inside the house!

As she watched she saw a girl in a bright frock, carrying a baby on her hip, go into the middle hut. As she opened the door there was the jabber of a tame parrot, the brief yapping of a little dog. Then came the sound of singing – a slow crooning song. A lullaby for the baby perhaps.

Then silence again ... But just before she left the window, she heard somebody whistling. The sound came from behind the end hut, set a little way back in the forest, where the rubber-gatherers slept – but the strange thing was that she knew the tune. It was a North Country air – Blow The Wind Southerly. Her mother had sung it often.

She listened till it died away and went back to bed. Hearing the familiar tune so far away from home had comforted her, and almost at once she slept.

Mr and Mrs Carter had come to the Amazon from Littleford-on-Sea, a small town in the south of England.