The Far Side of the Sun

by Kate Furnivall

Genres: Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Discover a brilliant story of love, danger, courage and betrayal, from the internationally best-selling author of The Betrayal.

With beautiful blue skies, sandy beaches and glorious sunshine, the Bahamas is a slice of heaven. But in 1943, the world is at war and even paradise isn't safe....

Twenty-three-year-old Dodie Wyatt thought she had escaped her turbulent past—but one night her peace is shattered when she chooses to help a man she finds stabbed in an alleyway.

On the other side of Nassau, wealthy diplomat's wife Ella Stanford plays the role she has been born into, throwing herself into charitable work and charming her husband's powerful friends. But she has secrets to keep—and those secrets could put her life in danger.

Release date: October 7, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 400

Sample

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Chapter 1

NASSAU, THE BAHAMAS, 1943

Dodie

“Help me . . .”

The words slipped out of the darkness, thin and weightless, barely denting the sultry warmth of the night air. In the unlit street at the wrong end of Nassau, Dodie Wyatt halted, nerves tight.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

A soft groan. A stifled curse. A rustle of movement. Then stillness settled down in the shadows once more.

“Who’s there?” she called again, sharper this time.

Silence. It was the stark kind of silence that only exists after midnight. The smell of the ocean was rolling in over the Bahamas, leaving its salty breath to linger on the beaches and in the humid corners of the city. Dodie knew that if she had a scrap of sense she would march straight to the far end of the street without stopping, but his words—that fragile “Help me”—had snared her. She moved toward the spot from which the groan had risen.

“Say something,” Dodie urged, as her eyes scoured the ink-black spaces. Her voice sounded ridiculously calm. “It’s too dark for me to see you. Where are you?”

There was no response. Her pulse kicked uneasily.

She was on her way home from her late shift at the Arcadia Hotel, where she worked as a waitress. Her feet ached, the kind of ache that she couldn’t ignore anymore because she had been standing for twelve hours straight and the only thing she wanted was to climb into bed and sleep. But now a stranger was asking for her help.

“I’ll help you,” she said, not sounding quite as calm as before as she moved closer to the wall. “Just show me where you are.”

A hand seized her ankle.

*   *   *

The wind drifted up the street in fits and starts, making a shutter rattle and a dog bark in a nearby yard, and even at this hour of the night the gust of air was warm and scented with tropical flowers. It was just enough to persuade the clouds to shift, so that moonlight spilled into the narrow space between the houses, and for the first time Dodie could make out the figure at her feet.

A big man was slumped against the wall like a rag doll, his chin sunk on his chest, his legs stretched out in front of him in the dirt. Dodie could see a head of bushy brown hair and a pale gray suit that was crumpled and stained. One of his hands scrabbled jerkily on the ground, trying to reconnect with the ankle she had snatched away, but his other hand lay clamped to the front of his white shirt. It didn’t look so white anymore because a black stain was spreading rapidly from under his palm. For a moment Dodie hesitated. She knew that if she knelt down beside this man, trouble would enter her life. She had grown up with trouble and could smell it at fifty paces, which was why she had avoided it ever since she first came to the Bahamas six years ago, when she was only sixteen and had no more sense than a hummingbird.

“Please . . . ?” he whispered.

She dropped to her knees. “You’re hurt.”

“Help me . . . to stand up.”

Dodie’s hand wrapped itself around his free hand and his fingers clung to hers.

“You’re hurt, you must stay still. Don’t move. You need an ambulance.”

He lifted his chin and looked up at her, his skin silvery and bloodless in the moonlight. His eyes were deep sunken holes in his head and made her uneasy, and though he moved his mouth, no sound was coming out. She couldn’t tell how old he was—in his forties perhaps, although there were too many shadows to be sure.

“Don’t try to speak,” she said gently. “There is a telephone box back up on the main road, so I’ll just—”

“Don’t.”

“But you need a doctor.”

“No ambulance.” The word came out in bits. “No doctors.”

“But you need help.”

They both stared down at the hand clamped to his white shirt, just above his waistband, at the black stain that had grown to the size of a dinner plate, feathery streaks reaching out like tentacles across his chest. He raised his eyes to her face and his mouth dragged in a labored breath. Silently he shook his head.

Dodie didn’t delay further, she rose quickly. “Don’t move. You need to be in hospital, so I’m going to call a—”

His hand seized her ankle again. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

The word stopped her. She crouched down beside him once more and lifted his hand into hers. It was as cold and clammy as one of the toads that burrowed under her shack at night. “I’m Dodie,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Morrell.”

“Well, Mr. Morrell, we both know you need to be in hospital. You’re bleeding badly. Why shouldn’t I call an ambulance or at least a doctor?”

He sighed, the life seeming to ebb from him with each of his slow measured breaths. “They will kill me,” he murmured.

“What?”

His voice sounded dry and exhausted and she noticed it had an American drawl from the deep south, perhaps from Alabama or Tennessee. “The person who stuck a knife in me”—she saw his eyes roll in his head so that their whites caught the moonlight—“will be at the hospital. Looking for me.”

“Why will they be doing that?”

“To finish what they started.” He exhaled heavily and she smelled rum on his breath.

“Were you in a fight?”

“Of sorts.”

“We have to get you bandaged quickly.”

He grunted agreement, but slowly his chin started to descend toward his chest. It was at that point that Dodie thought about walking away. Back to her quiet routine where nothing disturbed the monotony of her work at the hotel and her walks on the smooth white beach. She knew she should leave this Mr. Morrell to rest here on his own. They will kill me, he’d said. And her? Would they kill her too? A lone young female would be nothing to them. Her hand unconsciously sought out the tender section on her own body, the soft spot just below her ribs, and sat here, fingers splayed in protection. But the wounded man started to slip sideways down the wall and Dodie quickly pushed her hands under his armpits to hold him upright, but the weight was more than she’d anticipated.

“Come on now, Mr. Morrell. Time to stand up.”

His head lifted.

“I’ll help you,” she promised.

The empty shadows of his eyes fixed on hers for an age and she could feel his distrust crawl onto her skin, but he nodded. “Yes.”

It was going to hurt, they both knew that. She leaned over him, easing his feet toward him, so that his knees were bent. She fixed her arms around his chest, clenching her fingers together behind his back, and inch by inch she dragged him to his feet. He didn’t cry out. Didn’t moan. But his breathing grew loud, almost a growl, and when he was standing upright, swaying on his feet despite her support, she thought it was the end of him.

*   *   *

Progress was agonizingly slow. Sometimes the pauses were so long that Dodie feared the man’s heart had paused too, but no, just when she thought he was giving up, he would start up again—left foot, right foot. His arm across her shoulders was muscular, an arm that did things, unaccustomed to lying helpless, and the grip of his fingers was tight, snarled up in her cardigan.

Neither spoke. Their steps were slow and labored. Fears were racing through Dodie’s head and every sound in the darkness, every movement in the shadows, sent a chill through her. She struggled to work out what to do, where to take him, how best to get him away from here. So when they reached the end of the road she steered him left, ducking down a dim and scruffy street. It was flanked by warehouses where the smell of the ocean was so strong it ousted the smell of blood in Dodie’s nostrils, but there would be no one around at this hour.

Why, Mr. Morrell? Why does someone hate you enough to stick a knife in your gut?

She shuddered, her heart racing as she listened for footsteps behind them, but when she glanced nervously over her shoulder, the shadows were empty. As they walked, Morrell muttered sometimes, small incoherent noises that pinned him to her and they drew soothing sounds from her in response, a brief wordless conversation. Her arm tightened its hold around his thick waist and she watched carefully where he put his feet. He was wearing neat white loafers that stood out in the darkness.

“Not far now,” she told him.

Dodie’s instinct was to hide him, to find somewhere he would be safe. So she chose a little-used path that headed in the direction of the beach, leaving behind the houses and the hazy neon lights of an occasional late-night bar where people might be searching for him. It seemed to take forever but finally they reached the point she was aiming for—a sandy track that branched off and twisted away through a dense fringe of coconut palms edging the shoreline. She breathed in the warm humid air with relief.

“All right, Mr. Morrell?”

“All right,” he grunted.

She was killing him. He didn’t say it, but she knew it was true. She was killing him. She couldn’t go on.

“Enough of this,” she announced.

With her heart thumping she edged him over to one of the palm trees that looped drunkenly over the track, its trunk a slender black streak against the velvet of the night sky.

“Sit down.”

He needed no second bidding. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground in an untidy sprawl. With care she sat him so that his back was propped against the slope of the trunk, checked that he was still breathing, and hoped that he wouldn’t fall over.

“You’ll be safe here,” she assured him.

There was a silence, a moment when neither breathed, both wanting to believe her words, before he murmured with elaborate southern courtesy, “Thank you kindly for your help, ma’am.”

“I’m leaving you now.”

He managed a nod. “Good-bye.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

She removed her cardigan and tied it tightly around his middle. There was a smell to him now, not just the blood or the rum, a smell of something bad. It was the sour stench of terror. She recognized it because she had smelled it on herself the day her father had waded into the wide turquoise waters of a Bahamian beach and announced, “Wait here, poppet. I’m going to swim back to England.”

In the lonely darkness under the palm trees, Dodie felt a rush of sorrow for this wounded stranger and wrapped her arms around him, while above their heads palm fronds shuffled in the salty breeze that came exploring off the ocean.

“Trust me,” she whispered in his ear.

“There’s no need to lie. You’ve helped me this far and I’m grateful.”

She shook her head. “I’m only going to find you some transport, Mr. Morrell. You can’t walk anymore.” She sat back on her heels and patted his shoulder awkwardly, aware that he didn’t believe her. “Just sit tight. I’ll be as quick as I can.” She even managed a smile of sorts. “Don’t go running off anywhere, will you?”

His hand clutched her bare arm.

“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I promise I’ll come back.”

A tremor ran through his fingers before he let his hand fall to his side. “Thank you, ma’am. You have been kind.” He exhaled a long breath as if he expected it to be his last.

*   *   *

Dodie ran. She zigzagged through the trees, sprinting along the sandy track. The route was familiar to her feet even in darkness— she took it every day—but panic made her feet clumsy. Twice she crashed into a tree, skinning an elbow and thumping the air from her lungs, while the nightly chorus of cicadas reverberated through the undergrowth. She made herself slow down and concentrate as she headed for old Bob Coster’s place. Off to her right beyond the trees came the rumble of the waves as they raced up the narrow beach and the familiar sound of it calmed her.

Oh, Mr. Morrell, what is going on?

She thought of him sitting alone in the dark, believing she had abandoned him. The poor man should be in a hospital, but she had no right to make that decision for him if there really were people lying in wait for him there. To finish what they started. The way he’d said it sent a shiver through her because he’d said it as if it were normal. As if any of this were normal.

The moonlight allowed her to quicken her pace and she had no problem locating Bob Coster’s house. It was set back in a small clearing, a wooden building with a roof of corrugated iron that rattled in the wind, and a small wooden porch where old Bob liked to laze in his rocking chair and spin a yarn with anyone who cared to split a beer with him.

The windows were dark, no sign of life. Dodie hurried down the side of the house to the back, where Bob boasted a good-size plot of land, cleared and planted up with sweet potato. He had built himself a toolshed. In these parts nobody locked doors—it was regarded as unneighborly—so Dodie lifted the shed latch. She reached in, found what she was searching for, grasped its handles, and backed out. She had her transport.

*   *   *

The wheelbarrow creaked with each turn of its wheel. The noise of it sounded raucous among the softly spoken trees and startled a yellow-crowned night heron into spreading its great wings in flight, silent and ghostly as it skimmed the silvery treetops. There was a brief spatter of rain, big bloated drops that drummed in the well of the barrow, but the clouds passed overhead, allowing Dodie to see more clearly.

Please, be alive.

She hurried through the warm night, bats darting on leathery wings above her head, and as she approached the spot where she’d left him she called out, “Mr. Morrell?”

Shadows stubbornly cloaked the tree where he’d been sitting.

“Mr. Morrell!”

He was gone.

She peered into the black blur of tree trunks. “It’s me, Dodie.”

Only then did she catch a whisper that drifted to her from farther back among the trees. She abandoned the barrow and, nervous of every rustle, trawled through the prickly undergrowth until she found him. He had buried himself under a carapace of slick wet leaves, and at the sight of him still alive, the depth of her relief took her by surprise. He’d dragged himself here and camouflaged his body—so he wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. Slowly he raised his head from the foliage.

“You came back.”

“I said I would.”

“I didn’t believe you.”

“I’ve brought a barrow for you to ride in.”

A strange hiccuping sound escaped him and Dodie realized it was a laugh.

“So that’s what the noise was,” he muttered.

“Yes, your chariot awaits.”

His hand grasped hers and didn’t let go until she had lowered him into the wheelbarrow, but as she tightened her cardigan around his waist, she could hear an odd rumbling vibration at the back of his throat that scared her.

“Off we go,” she said brightly, and took the strain of the handles. It was heavier than she expected.

She gripped the handles tighter but the weight of it was making her shoulder sockets burn. She blinked away sweat from her eyes as mosquitoes honed in for their midnight feast. What frightened her was that when she shook her head to try to clear it, nothing changed. Only her heart thumped harder and the wheelbarrow tilted, as though it wanted to rid itself of Mr. Morrell.

Chapter 2

Ella

“Help me.”

The words drifted out of the bedroom. Ella Sanford flicked away the cigarette she was smoking on the balcony, watching the lights of Nassau spring into life one by one as the sky grew dark and the city prepared for another night of partying. Since the war had come to the Bahamas, the city had changed. The military had moved into the island of New Providence like a force of nature with its airfields and its uniforms and its loud laughter. These men knew how to work hard and how to play hard, and the petty colonial atmosphere of idle inbred gossip had been swept aside. With a little smile of anticipation Ella returned to the bedroom.

“What’s the matter, Reggie?” she asked.

“Help me do these bally things, will you?” Her husband was holding out a pair of gold cuff links. “They’re little bastards.”

She laughed and slipped them into his starched white cuffs with ease. She always thought Reggie looked at his best in evening dress. She knew he liked her to do things for him, especially things that meant he could touch her, and as soon as she had finished the small task he rested both hands on her naked upper arms.

“You look lovely tonight,” he said.

“Thank you. So do you.”

Reginald Sanford had worked for His Majesty’s government in the diplomatic service most of his life and the stamp of it was all over his face. From the polite set of his full features to the cautious expression in his gray eyes and the slightly secretive mouth. He liked order. He liked hierarchy. And he never raised his voice. He was skilled at calming others down and he possessed a remarkable ability to persuade them to see reason. His reason, of course.

It was why he now had the honor of representing His Majesty in the Bahamas as right-hand man to the governor. It was why he lived in a magnificent house and drove around the island in a silver-gray Bentley. And Ella suspected it was why he sometimes tossed and turned at night or wrapped an arm tight around her in bed, nuzzled her neck, and murmured, “Do you ever wonder what our life would have been like if I’d taken my father’s advice and become a quiet country solicitor?”

“No. You’d have hated it.”

But it wasn’t true. Sometimes Ella did wonder. She smiled at him now and tried to smooth away a slight crease at the side of his mouth, but he held her arms firmly.

“You’ll be good tonight, won’t you?” he said.

“Reggie, I’m not a child. I’m your forty-one-year-old wife.”

“You know what I mean. Dance with him if he asks.”

“He may not ask this time.”

Her husband’s gaze traveled from her golden hair which hung in heavy glossy waves over her naked shoulders to her evening gown of chartreuse silk which cast new lights into her blue eyes and seemed to glide like a second skin over her slender hips.

“He’ll ask.” He nodded.

“Do I have to?”

Reggie gave her one of his serious smiles. “It goes with the job, I’m afraid, my dear. Talk to him about that ghastly music he’s so keen on.”

“Jazz?”

“Yes. I don’t know what on earth he sees in that noisy caterwauling. But he’s always so eager to be regarded as modern.” He said the last word as if it tasted dirty in his mouth.

Ella laughed. “Maybe its rhythms make him feel young again. We all like to feel young at times.”

Reggie frowned. “He’s only two years older than I am. Forty-nine’s not old.”

Unconsciously he touched the spot at his temple where his thinning brown hair had begun to sprout badger-gray tufts. She had one morning caught him dabbing cold tea straight from the teapot onto the telltale patches. He had been acutely embarrassed but she had been tactful, never mentioning the brief moment of vanity.

“He looks older than you,” she told her husband truthfully.

To be honest, Reggie ran slightly to fat. Not excessive, but definitely well cushioned despite the hours spent on the golf course. His cheeks were round and smooth as billiard balls and showed no sign of aging. The years of hard toil had manifested themselves only in the two tension furrows across his brow and in the soft sadness that bloomed around his eyes when he was tired.

Ella gave a throaty chuckle. “I could talk to him about something else, I suppose.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Like what?”

“A donation to my auction.”

He abruptly released his hold on her arms and headed straight for the whiskey glass on the bedside table. It was still half full. He lifted it to his lips and studied her face with a neutral diplomatic gaze.

“Don’t pester him tonight, Ella.”

“No?”

“Please don’t discuss donations—or any other kind of work—with His Royal Highness, the Duke of Windsor, when he’s off duty.” Annoyance flickered in the corner of his eyes. She said nothing while he knocked back the scotch in one swig. “Come along, my dear.” He picked up her velvet wrap from the bed and draped it over her shoulders. “Best foot forward.”

*   *   *

Ella was fond of her house here in Nassau. It wasn’t that she hadn’t had splendid houses before on other postings. She had. There was the one in Alexandria with the tapering tower that caught the cooling breezes off the sea, and there was the one in Malaya with the lewd mosaics and peculiar drainage system. Both were provided by courtesy of His Majesty, of course.

But this house—Bradenham House—with its long colonial verandas and elegant white pillars where bougainvillea cascaded in abundance, was more than just her house; it was her home. Her first real home. She and Reggie had lived here longer than in any other house, eleven years. Where had all that time vanished, all those wasted hours? But she had been young then, just thirty years old when she arrived and still clinging to the hope that they would have a child one day soon. But it didn’t happen. The set of lead soldiers that she had bought from Stanhope’s Toyshop on Bay Street had been thrown in the bin. Those days were long gone.

Tonight Ella intended to enjoy herself. It was a fund-raising party over at the British Colonial Hotel for the Spitfire Fund and all the usual crowd would be there, but she was quick-footed. She knew how to sidestep the old dullards and make for the young bucks in uniform with their laughter and cocktails and tales of manhandling one of the heavy Liberator bombers up into the air, roaring up into the endless blue skies. But as she descended the wide sweep of the stairs, she saw her black maid, Emerald, hovering by the front door. Reggie’s gloves were folded neatly across the palm of her plump hand.

Ella saw the maid’s bright gaze fix on Reggie as she lay in wait like a spider, but one in a frilly white cap and with hips as broad as a barn door and a laugh that could crack a brick. Her thumb was slowly stroking the calf-leather fingers of the gloves.

“My oh my, Mr. Sanford, you lookin’ mighty fine here this evening.”

“Why, thank you, Emerald.” Reggie beamed.

“I ironed you the dress shirt real careful. All special.”

“I appreciate that. Don’t think I don’t notice your good handiwork around the place.”

“That’s real nice to know, sir. Real nice.”

Emerald had started shimmying her hips from side to side. Always a bad sign. Ella hurried down the last steps and headed for the door.

“Good night, Emerald,” she said pointedly.

“Mr. Sanford, sir,” Emerald cooed sweetly as Reggie reached for his gloves, “I been thinkin’.”

Reggie took root in front of her, puffing out his rotund stomach, happy to pass the time of day with the one person in the house who thought he could do no wrong.

“What have you been thinking about, Emerald?”

“About you, sir.”

“Oh?” He looked pleased as he slid the gloves on with a graceful movement, easing the leather down between his fingers.

“You know I got an aunt up in Bain Town and she got a niece by marriage livin’ over in Grant’s Town, Mr. Reggie?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, seein’ as how all them folks from the Out Islands has come flockin’ to Nassau to get themselves jobs with the military and all, there ain’t much chance for a girl—even a real smart one—to find herself a job round these parts anymore, and I was wonderin’, Mr. Reggie, if you could find her somethin’ in your office.”

“Ah, well, Emerald.” He frowned. “Not sure about that.”

“Nothin’ much. Just a bitty job?”

Ella paused at the door to see what Reggie would say.

He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, Emerald. But I warn you, there is a strict order to these things.”

What he meant was a hierarchy. White men at the top, black men below, white women somewhere in the middle, and young black girls kicking around at the bottom.

“Thank you, Mr. Reggie. You is a good and kind man.”

Ella studied her flushed husband for a minute with fresh eyes. Yes, Emerald, you’re right. Reggie is a good and kind man.

*   *   *

Ella entered the magnificent British Colonial Hotel on Reggie’s arm and knew at once the evening was going to be a success. She had worked hard to set up this fundraiser event and was relieved to see it so well attended. There was a bright energy in the room that rebounded off the shimmering marble pillars and the gold crystals of the chandeliers, the kind of energy that sweeps through the blood.

It rose in waves from the crowd of young servicemen, flooding the room with a kind of urgency. Once you were up in one of those big silver crates in the sky, God only knew whether tomorrow would ever come, so there was a sense of taking everything today with both hands. The mood was infectious and it made Ella laugh out loud, though she wasn’t sure why. Even the stolid inhabitants of Nassau could feel it in the air. The noise level was rising steadily as a band played “By the Light of the Silvery Moon” and all along one wall the row of tall windows stood open on to the terrace, to let the heady scents of a sultry tropical night mingle with the cigar smoke and Dior perfume.

It was obvious that New Providence Island was the paradise these young men had always dreamed of. Rich blue skies, warm turquoise seas to bathe in, and white tropical beaches that dazzled the mind as well as the eye. And its capital, Nassau, was offering the kind of delights a boy from Bermondsey or Brooklyn had never thought within his grasp. Society was changing because of this war and something in Ella wanted to change with it. The old order was passing. She didn’t want to be left behind with just a rocking chair and a rum cocktail for company.

“Hello, Reggie, old chap, how are things up in the hallowed halls of Government House? Have you heard the latest?”

Ella turned to find a sunburned man with a vast ginger handlebar moustache greeting her husband.

“Ella, this is Wing Commander Knightley. He’s been keeping the duke up-to-date on the new intake at the Operational Training Unit at Oakes Field. They’re a group from Czechoslovakia, I hear.”

“Good evening, Wing Commander,” Ella said.

Beside him stood two men. One was extremely tall and dark, a stylish figure with a pointed little beard, acutely aware of his own attraction. This was Freddie de Marigny, who possessed a swarthy complexion and all the confidence of a man who has recently married the teenage daughter of one of the world’s richest men, Sir Harry Oakes. Terms like “fortune hunter” and “cradle snatcher” always trailed in Freddie’s wake.

“Hello, Hector,” Ella said to the second man, and he kissed her cheek warmly.

“Good evening, Ella. A great turnout. Congratulations.”

“We must thank Tilly for that.”

Hector Latcham was the husband of Ella’s good friend Tilly. She was the one who had persuaded Ella to march into the air base at Oakes Field and suggest that all the men should buy tickets for a chance to dance with the duchess