Her Sweet Surrender. Nina Harrington

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      Sam Richards slid his rucksack off his shoulder and mopped the sweat from his brow and neck with one of his dad’s pocket handkerchiefs as he strolled up the few steps to the single storey white building. If it was this hot at dusk he was dreading the midday temperature. But he would find out soon enough.

      Great! Not.

      The school janitor, who had picked him up at the airport, had pointed him towards the main entrance to the girls’ home but Sam had barely been able to hear what he said since he kept the wreck of a car engine going just in case it broke down before he made it home.

      The last hour had been spent in a bone-shaking car from the nineteen-sixties driven by a friendly janitor who seemed oblivious to the fact that he was hitting every pothole on the dirt road between the local airport and the girls’ home in a car with bald tyres and no suspension.

      Sam was amazed that the patched up, barely intact motor had lasted the journey without breaking down in a coconut grove or rice paddy. But it had got him here and for that he was grateful.

      Slipping his sunglasses into his shirt breast pocket, Sam stretched his arms tall and tried to take in the sensory overload that was the Kerala coastline at sunset.

      And failed.

      The sea breeze from the shockingly beautiful crescent shaped bay was blocked by the low brick wall which formed the boundary of the property, creating a breathless oasis of fruit trees, a vegetable garden and exotic flowering plants which spilled out in an explosion of startlingly bright colours from wooden tubs and planters.

      The immaculately kept gardens stretched down to the ocean and a wide strip of stunning white sand which glowed in the reflected shades of deep rich apricot, scarlet and gold from the setting sun. His view of the lapping waves was broken only by the thin trunks of tall coconut palms, banana plants and fruit trees.

      It was like a poster of a dream beach from the cover of a holiday brochure. Complete with a long wooden fishing boat on the shore and umbrellas made from coconut palm fronds to protect the fishermen and occasional tourists who were out on the beach this late in the evening.

      Coconuts. He was looking at real coconut palm trees. Compared to the grey, drizzly London Sam had left the previous afternoon the warm breeze was luxuriously dry and scented with the salty tang from the sea blended with spice and a tropical sweet floral scent.

      A great garland of bougainvillea with stunning bright purple and hot pink flowers wound its way up the side of the school entrance and onto the coconut fibre roof, intertwined with a wonderful frangipani which spilled out from a blue ceramic pot, attracting bees and other nectar-seeking insects to the intensely fragrant blossoms. The perfume almost balanced out the heavy red dust from the dirt road and the bio odours from the cows and chickens who roamed freely on the other side of a low coconut matting fence.

      He loved writing and his life as a journalist. He always had, but it was only when he came to villages like this one that it really struck home how much of his life was spent in open plan offices under fluorescent light tubes.

      Even the air tasted different on his tongue. Traffic from the coast road roared past. Trucks in all colours, painted auto rickshaws and bright yellow buses competed with birdsong and the chatter of people and motor scooters. Everywhere he looked his eyes and ears were assaulted by a cacophony of life.

      But as he relaxed into the scene, hands on his hips, the sound of piano music drifted out through the partly open door of what looked like a school building to his left and Sam smiled and wandered over, his shirt sticking to his back in the oppressive heat and humidity.

      Amber was sitting on a very frail looking low wooden bench in front of an upright piano which had definitely seen better days. The polish was flaking off, the lid was warped and, from where he was standing, it looked as if some of the black keys were missing at the bottom of the scale.

      But it didn’t matter. Because Amber DuBois was running the fingers of her left hand across the keyboard and suddenly the old neglected instrument was singing like a nightingale.

      She was dressed in a blue and pink long-sleeved cotton tunic and what looked like pyjama bottoms, her hair was held back by a covered elastic band and, as her feet moved across the pedals, he caught a glimpse of a plastic flip-flop.

      And, for the first time in his professional life, Sam Richards did not know what to say.

      Amber DuBois had never looked more beautiful in her life.

      Exotic. Enchanting. But at that moment there was something else—she was totally and completely relaxed and content. Her eyes were closed and, as she played, she was humming along gently to the music as it soared into flights of soft and then dramatic sections of what sounded to Sam’s uneducated ears as some great romantic composer’s finest work.

      Her shoulders lifted and СКАЧАТЬ