Kitabı oku: «The Perfect Escape: Romantic short stories to relax with», sayfa 3

‘Magic tricks are all about dissembling. Distract the punter with your voice, or a bit of stage business, and they miss the actual trick itself. It’s easy when you know how.’

Freddie Puck; The Art of Illusion

Chapter One

‘Is that the lot?’ said Harry as he paused to take a breather. Though early in the morning, the June sun was already hot and he was already working up a sweat. He looked on in horror as Josie, still somehow looking cool and collected in a strappy summer dress and sandals, came down the flat steps, with the second large holdall she had apparently packed for a simple weekend away. ‘How long are we planning to be away again?’

‘This one isn’t mine, it’s Di’s,’ said Josie. Di had come to stay the night before, terrified of oversleeping on her own. ‘And before you start bitching about how Diana always takes advantage of me, she’s bringing her bigger one.’

‘She’s got a bigger bag than this?’ Harry said as he took the bag from Josie, and tried to squeeze a space for it in the not-too-huge boot of his Honda Civic. A car that, not unnaturally, Ant had sneered at very loudly, as being ‘a girl’s car.’ Sometimes Harry wished Ant would keep his opinions to himself. But there was no chance of that. Ant, back from his travels, was louder and more opinionated than ever since his time away. It hadn’t taken him long to be employed by a flash advertising company (‘Recession, what recession?’ he’d queried) with more cash than sense and was driving down alone in his brand new top of the range Merc. He was planning to meet them at a motorway service station en route, as hilariously for Ant who was always overconfident, he appeared to have had an attack of nerves at the thought of arriving before them and meeting Josie’s parents on his own.

‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to fit this all in,’ said Harry, looking despairing as Diana, her ginger curls escaping from a straggly bun, tottered down the steps in high wedges, skinny jeans which accentuated every curve and a skimpy top which left nothing to the imagination, dragging an even bigger and more cumbersome bag behind her.

‘Di, you’re going to have to have your bag in the back with you,’ said Josie when she realised that there really was no more room in the boot. ‘Either that, or we’ll ring Ant up to see if he can take you in his car.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ said Diana as she squashed herself into the back, complete with the offending bag. ‘Ant’s an unusual name.’

‘It’s short for Anthony,’ said Harry, ‘though sometimes he goes by the name of Tony.’

‘I knew a Tony once, he was a total wanker. What’s yours like?’

‘A total wanker,’ said Josie, and Harry dug her in the ribs. ‘Well, he is,’ she protested, ‘as far as women are concerned. He’s charming and witty and funny of course, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.’

‘He’s not that bad,’ protested Harry half-heartedly as he started up the car.

‘He so is,’ said Josie, ‘Don’t you remember Suzie at uni? Poor cow was so in love with Ant, and I lost count of the number of girls he cheated on her with. And still she came back for more.’

‘I’d forgotten about her,’ said Harry.

‘Then there was the time we were out for my birthday and he started the evening with one girl and went home with another.’

‘Oh God, and the time we met him at the cinema and he pretended not to see us because he was with the wife of the local landlord,’ said Harry. ‘I’d forgotten all that. But you never know. Maybe he’s changed since he’s been away.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Josie. ‘He hasn’t stopped sulking since you asked him to be best man. Anyone would think you were committing suicide the way he goes on about the fact you’re getting married.’

‘Well to Ant, marriage is a form of suicide,’ said Harry, as he turned left out of their road and headed for the main road which led to the motorway. ‘I can’t see him ever getting hitched. He’ll be trying to pull birds when he’s old and grey.’

‘Birds,’ groaned Diana. ‘Does he really use the word birds?’

‘Afraid so,’ said Josie. ‘but it’s all right, he doesn’t bite, honest.’

‘To be fair to him,’ said Harry, ‘I think there was someone after uni he was quite serious about, and she ditched him. He’s always been really cagey about it, but I think she really hurt him.’

‘Well then, maybe it’s time he got over it,’ said Diana.

‘Perhaps you can help,’ said Josie slyly.

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Di firmly, ‘he really doesn’t sound like my type.’

Within half an hour they were on the motorway and heading down to Cornwall, to Josie’s parents, where Josie’s mum was indulging in a spot of pre-wedding hysteria. After much dithering, Harry and Josie had only recently fixed the date for next June. They’d talked vaguely about September when they first got engaged, but it turned out getting married was like planning a military operation and no one in their right minds would attempt to organise a wedding in such a short space of time. Harry, who’d been hoping for something small and quiet, was beginning to realise his wishes were unlikely to be met. Josie’s mum, Nicola, had firmly taken charge since Christmas, when Harry had moved in with Josie, and now most of their spare time seemed to be taken up with wedding plans. Harry was beginning to find it a little wearing.

Nicola had insisted on having a long weekend with Josie, Harry, the best man (Ant, naturally) and bridesmaid (Diana, of course), to plan things. Quite why he and Ant were needed was a mystery to Harry. So far his input into preparations was to have been told things, like what he had to wear (morning suit, top hat, and pink ties – Josie was very insistent on the pink) – who he was inviting (‘we get twenty-five friends each and twenty-five family, or in my case, forty family and twenty friends, as I have more family’), and where the event was going to take place (‘St Cuthbert’s of course,’ Josie’s mum opined, ‘it’s where we got married, and Josie was christened, and Reverend Paul has known her since she was little, so it’s perfect’).

Just recently, the tone of the long phone conversations Josie was having with her mum seemed to have ratcheted up a notch. Having read in a magazine that it was all the rage to have live entertainment in the evening, Josie had got a bee in her bonnet about having not only fireworks, but possibly hiring jugglers and magicians for the night. Harry’s protests about the money had been ignored – he was beginning to appreciate his fiancée had a steely side of which he’d been hitherto unaware – ‘Dad won’t mind,’ Josie had assured him, which was true. Josie’s dad Peter doted on his daughter and would spend any amount of money to keep her happy.

But Harry minded. Peter was always polite to him, but he had the distinct impression that his future father-in-law was disappointed that his daughter had come home not with a city magnate, but a lowly paid journalist without much ambition. Harry would much rather have had a smaller affair, to which he and Josie could contribute financially, without him feeling so indebted to Josie’s parents. Harry still felt his career had time to get going. He’d always wanted to get into travel journalism, and had been planning to join Ant out in Australia when he met up with Josie again. Since then, everything had happened so fast that Harry had laid aside his ambitions to see something of the world. And when he’d tried to talk about it to Josie, she’d laughed and said, ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’ But the further the wedding preparations went on, the more he could feel that particular ambition receding, particularly as he had the sneaking suspicion that Nicola was already laying plans for them to move down to the neighbouring village as soon as they were able. She was a very forceful woman, and sometimes, he worried what Josie might be like in middle age – whether behind that mild-mannered image was a female tiger, just waiting to pounce on him. Harry sighed; he was beginning to wonder if he’d rushed into this marriage thing. He felt he was on a rollercoaster and couldn’t get off.

‘Why the heavy sigh?’ said Josie, ‘Is anything wrong’

The lightness of her touch on his arm, and her quick and ready sympathy were enough to bring him to his senses. He was marrying Josie, who was gorgeous, and everything he wanted in a woman. Of course it would be all right.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. In fact, nothing could be more right.’

Diana was regretting the amount of packing she’d done for a weekend away. But she was nervous. She’d only met Josie’s parents once or twice when they’d come up to London to see Josie and they were so posh, they’d turned her into a gibbering wreck. She wasn’t often ashamed of her council house upbringing, but a few days with Josie’s mum and dad had managed to make her feel inadequate. Josie hid her privileged upbringing well, and because she was so kind, went out of her way to put people at ease, so most people who met her in London would have had no idea of the luxury awaiting her at home. Of course, she took that for granted too, and was often puzzled when Diana mentioned that she couldn’t afford something, giving a delicate little frown and a perplexed smile. With anyone else, Diana might have felt envious, particularly since she’d bagged such a great prize in Harry, but Josie was such a joy to be around, envy just seemed like the wrong emotion.

Harry was the kind of man any girl would be happy to have. Lovely, solid dependable Harry – a bit dull maybe for her tastes, but Diana had a soft spot for him. He was always kind and welcoming to her; she could do worse than have a Harry of her own. But men like Harry never came Diana’s way, which was partly her own fault of course. Diana had had to fight to get where she was – opposing her parents’ plans for her to go into law, to take advantage of the opportunities they never had,and choosing travel as a career instead (and the way that was going at the moment, she was going to have to admit to her dad soon it might have been a big mistake) – and learning the hard way that people let you down, especially in love. Josie had never had those kinds of experiences. Things had a habit of going her way, and sometimes that was an annoying trait in a best friend. But Josie was the kind of person it was impossible not to love, so Diana put such thoughts behind her as unworthy. She was the unkind one, Josie was not, and didn’t deserve anyone to be bitter and nasty about her.

‘So where are we meeting this friend of yours?’ Diana said, from her uncomfortable position in the back of the car, squashed up as she was against her big suitcase. She knew taking it had been a mistake, but she’d wanted to make sure she had something to wear for any occasion.

‘There’s a service station not far from Honiton,’ said Josie, ‘we thought we’d catch up with him there.’

‘And how soon will we be there?’ said Diana, looking at her watch. They seemed to have been in the car for hours, and she felt hot, cramped and awkward. Diana didn’t drive herself. Although she’d miraculously passed her test, after having a car in the first few months she’d lived in London she’d decided the stress of driving the mean city streets was far too much to be going along with. Besides, after three prangs in as many weeks, she couldn’t afford the insurance any more. As a result, most of her travelling was done by train, and she really hadn’t a clue how long this journey would take.

‘Not for another half an hour at least,’ said Josie, ‘honestly, it’s like having a small child in the back. That’s the fourth time you’ve asked since you set off.’

‘Well you two are like my surrogate mum and dad,’ grinned Diana. ‘Okay, I’m going to have a kip. Wake me when we get there.’

Josie was a bundle of nerves. It was only the second time she and Harry had visited her parents since their engagement, and this time she was bringing Diana and Ant. Her mother could be a terrible snob, and Josie knew that while she was too polite to say so, she thoroughly disapproved of Diana, whom she thought rather common. What she was going to make of Ant, the lord only knew. Josie just hoped he could manage to keep his mouth shut and behave himself. Knowing Ant, that was highly unlikely.

She was also nervous about how Harry was going to get on with her parents too. They seemed to like him, but she suspected they were slightly disappointed in her choice. They’d wanted her to marry someone in the city, not an impoverished journalist – her dad’s clumsy jokes about them starving in garrets making it clear what he really thought. It didn’t matter either that Josie had a good career in marketing and was earning enough for both of them, and that more importantly she loved Harry to pieces and had never been happier then the last few months when they’d been living together; her parents were desperately old fashioned about life. As soon as Josie was married, she would be expected to stay at home and raise a family, which was why marrying someone rich was so important.

They couldn’t see that that was what appealed to Josie about Harry. That he wasn’t rich, didn’t take much store by all of that. He was kind and compassionate, and the loveliest person Josie knew. They’d originally met and had a brief fling on their English course at university years before, but the physical distance between them afterwards had meant they’d drifted away from one another. Meeting Harry again at Amy’s wedding, and seeing how straightforward and uncomplicated he was after years of dating unsuitable and complicated men had made him instantly attractive. The fact he didn’t earn much money didn’t matter. She earned enough for the pair of them.

It was a pity Mum and Dad didn’t see it like that. No doubt Dad at least, would be more impressed with Ant. He had the flash job and car, and was annoyingly good at charming the birds off the trees. Josie hoped Dad wouldn’t compare Harry unfavourably to his friend.

‘You all right, hon?’ she said to Harry, squeezing his knee hard. He was very quiet, and she had a feeling he was even more nervous than she was. It was going to be a long weekend.

‘Yeah, fine,’ he said. ‘Just hope I can get through the weekend without making too much of an idiot of myself.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Josie assured him, ‘Mum and Dad love you.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back while she said this. Perhaps if she wanted it to be true enough, it would be …

She looked at her watch, they’d been on the road for nearly three hours and they weren’t too far from Honiton now. Josie turned back to Diana who was snoring in the back.

‘Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead. We’re nearly there. Time to meet up with the man of your dreams.’

‘Wha-a?’ Diana jerked herself awake.

‘Just saying, we’re nearly at Honiton. And finally you get to meet Ant. It could be a match made in heaven.’

‘From everything you’ve said, I doubt it,’ snorted Diana.

‘You never know,’ said Josie, ‘he might surprise you.’

‘Hmm, we’ll see,’ said Diana, but Josie was amused to see she’d got out her compact and was anxiously checking to see if her make up hadn’t smudged.

‘The best man and bridesmaid have to get together,’ declared Josie. ‘It’s the law.’

‘In your dreams, pal,’ said Diana, chucking an empty packet of crisps at her friend. ‘I’m happily single, and however good looking the best man is, that’s how I plan to stay.’

Ant sat leaning on his convertible, sipping a coffee, and smoking a cigarette. The sun was very bright and the sky a clear blue, so the sunglasses he had put on, part affectation, part a means of deflecting the hangover from the night before, had turned out useful. His head was pounding and he could have done with a couple of hours more kip. God he wished he hadn’t been persuaded to go to Cornwall for the weekend to meet Harry’s new in-laws. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d even agreed to do it, but Harry was his best mate. And despite being certain that he was making a huge mistake, Ant felt duty bound to support him, and even he had to concede, certain as he was that it would all go pear shaped, Josie was pretty gorgeous and a lovely person to boot. If Harry hadn’t got in there first … In fact, thinking about it, how had Harry got in there first? From memory it was Ant who had introduced them at some party or other. And then she’d invited them all down to her place one summer. Ant felt sure he’d gone down with the express intention of nabbing Josie, but it hadn’t happened. Unbelievable that Josie could have possibly chosen dull old Harry over him.

He looked at his watch. Harry had thought they’d be arriving around midday, but there was no sign of them, yet. Ant had been at a sales conference in Salisbury (hence the hangover) and come straight on from there. He checked his BlackBerry and dealt with a few outstanding work issues, before ringing up Harry to see where he’d got to.

‘Harry, where are you mate? I’m feeling like a right idiot standing here in this car park on my own.’

‘It’s Josie,’ said a crisp clear voice on the other end. Josie’s voice sparkled like a babbling brook, he’d forgotten what a lovely sound it was. ‘And we’ll be with you in about five minutes. Don’t be so impatient.’

Delicious. Josie even sounded lovely when she was telling him off. Harry was a lucky man. No doubt about that.

Five minutes later, true to Josie’s word, Harry’s poxy little Honda Civic drove into the car park. It really was a girl’s car.

Putting out his cigarette, Ant unrolled himself from his position and strode over to say hello.

‘Harry, great to see you, mate!’ he said giving him a thump on the back and feeling absurdly affectionate towards his oldest friend.

‘You, too!’ said Harry punching him in the ribs.

‘Josie, you look lovely as ever,’ he said, giving her a hug and huge kiss on the lips.

‘Flatterer,’ said Josie, neatly escaping from his grasp.

‘And who have we here?’ Ant noted with pleasure a very fetching pair of legs encased in a pair of skinny jeans, emerging from the back of the Civic.

‘Ant, meet my friend, Diana,’ said Josie with a smile. ‘Diana, this is Ant.’

Ant nearly dropped his coffee in shock, as he followed the legs up (via a very and the jeans and busty top) to a ginger (she said auburn) head of hair and pretty face, with those emerald green eyes he remembered with clarity even though they’d last met eight years ago.

‘You!’ they said simultaneously.

On a balmy summer evening, anything can happen … the new enchanting and entertaining novel from the Sunday Times bestselling author.

Enjoy this extract? Buy the rest of the book here:

MIDSUMMER MAGIC: 9780007464487

Four for Home
Miranda Dickinson

‘Ladies and Gentlemen – the Maynard Sisters Theatre Company proudly presents … The Three Beautiful Princesses!’

Jim Maynard’s chest swelled with pride as his eldest daughter introduced her latest theatrical extravaganza. Looking down at the handwritten programme, painstakingly decorated with wax crayoned flowers and unicorn stickers, he smiled.

The Three Beautiful Princesses

a musical play by

Daisy Heartsease Maynard

Starring

Daisy Maynard age 9

with

Guin Maynard age 7

and

Elsie Maynard age 5 and a bit

Enjoy the play xx

‘I am Princess Jewel, and I am a beautiful princess!’ exclaimed Daisy, already tall for her age, her hair messily plaited under a crown of silver Christmas tinsel. ‘I come from a faraway kingdom and I have two beautiful sisters …’ She glared, stage right, towards the wriggling and giggling long Indian silk curtain over the patio doors leading to the garden. ‘Come on…’

The curtain gave one final squirm and two blonde-haired girls emerged, their wonky tinsel crowns and too-long bedsheet cloaks causing great annoyance to their playwright sibling.

‘I am Princess Snowflake and I can talk to unicorns,’ said the older of the two, her russet red cheeks and baby blue eyes shining as she held her youngest sister’s hand.

‘And I am …’ the smallest Maynard sister’s cherub-like face crumpled in consternation, ‘… I am …’

‘Princess Poppy …’ Guin prompted in a loud stage whisper.

Elsie’s smile beamed back into life. ‘I am Princess Poppy and I have a puppy called Spot.’

‘No you don’t,’ Daisy hissed. ‘You have a magical talking bird called Cassandra.’

Elsie’s lip jutted out. ‘But I don’t want a bird. I want a puppy.’

‘It’s only pretend,’ Guin interjected, ever the practical peacemaker.

‘Then I can have a pretend puppy,’ Elsie replied, her stubborn streak as bold as ever.

Jim held up his hands. ‘Girls, it doesn’t matter whether Elsie has a puppy or a bird.’

‘But it’s my play,’ Daisy moaned. ‘And I’m the oldest, so they should do what I tell them.’

‘You’re a bossyboots, Daisy!’

‘No I’m not!’

Rolling her eyes, Guin stepped between her sisters. ‘Let’s do the song now.’

Pacified, the eldest and youngest Maynard sisters obediently fell into line, singing Tomorrow from Annie with breathless enthusiasm.

Jim relaxed back in his old striped deckchair, sipped a cup of chai and listened to his daughters’ voices mingling with the summer hum of bees from the flowerbeds surrounding the garden. This is what Sunday afternoons were made for, he mused to himself: fun and laughter and music and family. The warm July sun glinted in the windows of the three-storey family home, sparkling on the three tinsel crowns and golden blonde heads of his daughters. Like sunshine personified, his mother always said of the three little girls when they visited her cottage in Hove. You have a little cluster of sunbeams dancing round you, Jim. Never forget how blessed you are.

Grandma Flo was right, but then she had a knack of being right about most things. She had been right when he first brought nineteen-year-old Moira O’Shaughnessy to meet her, himself barely twenty and smitten with the blonde haired beauty he had met on his travels.

‘She’s a storm waiting to happen,’ his mother had warned, her sudden change in demeanour catching him off-guard when Moira had gone. ‘You watch that one, Jim, or else she’ll break your heart.’

But Moira Abigail O’Shaughnessy had stolen Jim Maynard’s heart and nothing – not even the warning words of his beloved mother – could dissuade him from his chosen path.

While Guin was the spitting image of him, Jim often caught glimpses of Moira in Elsie and Daisy – and even now it tore at his heart to see their mother’s likeness: a bittersweet, constant reminder of the only woman he had ever truly loved. Despite everything – despite the lies and the barrage of words hurled in anger, despite the sleepless nights and silent days – he knew he still loved her. The emptiness he had felt for so long in her company was now echoed in the emptiness of his life without her in it and, to his shame, he suspected that if she were to relent even now he would run back into her arms and forget it all.

‘Daddy, you’re not listening!’ Daisy’s voice by his ear made him start.

‘I’m sorry, my darling. What were you saying?’

Her sigh was laden with more exasperation than her years could contain. ‘I said that you have to be the King and grant us each a wish.’

‘Ah. Righto.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am King James the fourth of Brightonshire and I will grant you each a wish.’

‘Daddy. Not like that.’

‘Oh.’

‘You have to say, “I am King Wishalot. What are your wishes?” Do you want me to write it down for you?’

Jim suppressed a grin. ‘No, I think I’ll manage, Daisy. I am King Wishalot. What are your wishes?’

‘Well done, Daddy!’ Elsie applauded him, the suddenness of it bringing unexpected tears to Jim’s eyes. He was glad he had decided to wear his sunglasses this afternoon. He gave a little bow, revelling in the beaming smiles of the three most precious people in his life.

*

Once, his daughters had brought joy to Moria, too. When Daisy was born, Moira’s every waking hour had been filled with the thrill of caring for her new baby. Even though they agreed to take turns for night feeds, Moira almost always appeared at her husband’s side in the small hours of the morning, her hand resting on his shoulder as they gazed at their firstborn child.

‘I can’t believe we made her,’ she would whisper, her breath warm as a summer zephyr setting his pulse racing despite the gnawing ache of tiredness in his body. This was all Jim had ever wanted from the first day he set eyes on the woman he would one day call his wife. In that moment, he had known without doubt that anything was possible when this woman was by his side.

Growing up with an absent father and a fiercely independent mother, Jim had promised himself that when his opportunity for fatherhood came, he would be the most committed, loving father he could be. All the things he had yearned so much for during his childhood he pursued as a father, first for Daisy, then Guin and, finally, Elsie. His initial fear that he may have inherited his own father’s lack of paternal instinct vanished the second he laid eyes on the tiny pink form of his first daughter; from then on, fatherhood fitted him perfectly.

‘You’re a natural,’ his mother marvelled, watching her son cradling his daughter on their first visit to her home. ‘Oh Jim, it makes me so proud to see it!’

Flo had been right about that, too. Being a father was what Jim Maynard was created for – of that he was convinced. He never once questioned the commitment, the long hours, the trials of teething and terrible twos. Nappies and snot and vomit were never insurmountable challenges; neither were long-running squabbles as three growing, headstrong girls vied for supremacy in the seaside townhouse. Because for each messy, headache-inducing negative there were a hundred positives: long weekend afternoons spent on Brighton beach, throwing stones into the sea and consuming ice creams with sticky enthusiasm; magical bedtime stories shared under makeshift Bedouin bedspread tents; feeding the ducks with bullet-hard chunks of bread made the day before by three pairs of little hands in the family kitchen; and the constant surprise of childlike creativity bursting out across the house – paintings and drawings pinned to the walls and stuck on the fridge, epic drama productions in the dining room and back garden, and snippets of song floating down the wooden staircases. Jim loved it all; but most of all he loved the free spirit of his girls – unfettered by convention, or expectation. He hoped they would always maintain this, always be free to be their own person in a world ruled by labels and boxes.

He understood the importance of their freedom because it was part of who he was. From an early age, Jim had dreamed of travelling the world – a dream encouraged by his mother despite the disapproving remarks of his maternal grandparents, who hailed from an era when every man knew his place and accepted it without question. Growing up in the brave new world of the early fifties, with a convention-defying mother who refused to remarry when her good-for-nothing first husband abandoned his family, Jim knew that his life would be lived differently – that anything was possible. His uncle Sidney, an officer in the merchant navy, presented him with an illuminated globe from one of his distant travels and Jim would lay awake late at night plotting imaginary expeditions to exotic locations. India was a favourite destination even then – and as he entered his teens and Britain entered the Swinging Sixties, he became increasingly drawn to the culture, music and mysticism of that great country.

Several of his friends were already there, and the brightly coloured postcards they sent back to him urged the young Jim to make haste and join them. They spoke of a land filled with colour and spectacle: where every shade was a hundred times brighter and every flavour magnified. While Jim worked extra hours in his father’s furniture store and gardened for older people in his street, he dreamed of walking India’s streets, taking in every experience the country could offer him. For as long as he could remember, India had signified adventure, promise and freedom: but more than that, he sensed that he would become a different person for having been there. India was to be the making of him. As soon as he had saved enough money, he had headed for Goa, staying for a month in Vasco da Gama before venturing further afield.

It was while travelling in Râjasthân that he first met Moira. He had arranged to meet an old school friend in Udaipur – a beautiful city surrounded by water, known as ‘the Venice of India’ – but his train from Jaipur was delayed for five hours, so that the sun was already beginning to set when he arrived in the city. Walking through streets bathed in the rose-gold glow of early evening sunlight, Jim made his way towards the small hostel where his friend was staying. The city was a multisensory assault of noise, heat, colour and scent, at once exotic and familiar, and Jim was swept away by the raw beauty of it all.

When he reached his destination he was surprised to discover not a backstreet apartment block but an imposing dusky pink palace, its carved balustrades and gothic arched windows a faded reminder of its former British Empire days. Hibiscus-framed stone steps led up to the main entrance, through a crumbling archway towards a small courtyard garden with a bubbling stone fountain at the building’s centre. And there, dressed in a long white shirt, jeans and sandals, her head swathed in a cool white scarf, was Moira O’Shaughnessy.