Sheer Abandon (66 page)

Helen went to the corner shop and bought some biscuits. They could have them with the coffee, she thought. As she came out, she saw Kate coming towards her; she was walking very quickly and she waved as she saw Helen. Maybe Jocasta was there already, Helen thought, maybe she had brought Her, maybe Jocasta had already introduced them, and she was coming to tell Helen about her, about this wonderful person who had come at last into her life.

“Hi, Mum. Would you mind if I got Nat round? Thing is, he’s quite interested in this contract, he made some really good points about it.”

Did she mind? Did she? Probably not. Nat had been part of the family for the past few weeks, and she was very fond of him—he was oddly gentle and thoughtful, might even help ease the emotional tension.

“No, I wouldn’t mind,” she said.

“Cool. Thanks. You all right, Mum? You look a bit tense.”

“No, I’m fine.”

Kate put her arm through Helen’s. “Mum, I’m sorry I got in such a strop about the contract. Very sorry. Nat said I shouldn’t have, he said you were only trying to do your best for me, and of course he’s right. He’s often right. He’s quite clever really, you know, under all that rubbish he talks about his dad and so on…Mum, you’re crying, whatever is it?”

“Nothing,” said Helen, smiling at her through her tears, “nothing at all. And it doesn’t matter about you being in a strop, we understood. Oh, look, there’s your father now. Go on in and put the kettle on, Kate, there’s a good girl.”

She watched her striding up the path on her long bare legs, her wild hair falling down her back, pushing the buttons on her mobile to summon Nat: and thought that this was the last time, the very last time Kate would be properly hers…

“So why didn’t she come herself?” asked Kate. She was white and very shocked, sitting close to her mother, with Nat on her other side, holding her hand.

“I—we—”

“Who’s we?”

“Me, and Clio and Martha herself, we all felt it best if I told you,” said Jocasta. “You know me, you can yell your head off at me and I won’t mind. And your mum and dad know me too. It just seemed more sensible.”

Kate nodded. “So does she want to see me?”

“Kate, of course she does,” said Jocasta, hoping devoutly this was true. “But she wants you to get used to the idea. I mean, she’s a complete stranger to you, isn’t she?”

“Yeah…Yeah, she is.” She sat in silence for a moment, then: “What’s she like, Jocasta? I mean, what sort of person is she?”

“I don’t really know her either. When we were all your age, well, a bit older, we went travelling together, and I suppose we spent a week altogether in each other’s company. Fast-forward sixteen years and I’ve met her about twice since. Very briefly.”

“But do you like her?”

“Well, yes. I think so.”

“And she’s never told anyone at all?”

“No one at all. Except this madwoman, and that was at the party.”

“But…had she seen about me in the paper?”

“Well, yes.”

“So why the fuck didn’t she come and see me then?” She was angry now, two spots of colour high on her cheeks.

“Kate, there’s no need to swear,” said Jim.

“Yes there is! She’s a cow, a stupid fucking cow. I hate her! I hate her already. I didn’t like her at the party, I thought she was right up her own arse, and now I like her a whole lot less. Seems to me the only reason she’s come clean now is because she’s got to. Because she’s scared it’ll all be in the papers. Not because she gives a toss about me, not because she wants to see me. Cow!” She pulled her hand free of Nat’s, folded her arms across her chest. “Well, you can tell her I don’t want to see her. Ever. You can tell her she’s a stupid bitch, and I hate her.”

“Kate,” said Nat gently, his face troubled, “you can’t hate someone you don’t know.”

“I don’t need to know her. I hate her! I hate what she did to me—God, why did it have to be her?” She started to cry. Nat put his arm round her; she shook it off.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” said Jocasta quietly, “so sorry. Look, why don’t I go now, give you all a chance to talk about it. You’ve got my number, if you change your mind, Kate, decide you want to talk to Martha. It might make you feel differently, you know.”

“I don’t want to talk to her. I never will. Cow. Fucking cow. God!”

She stood up, started pacing up and down the room; they all sat silent, watching her, not knowing what to do. Finally Nat stood up, took her hand.

“Come on, Kate,” he said, “let’s go for a bit of a drive. OK with you, Mrs. Tarrant? I think it’ll calm her down.”

Helen nodded, and they watched him lead her out of the room, smiling at her encouragingly, saying, “That’s right, come on, it’ll be all right,” as if she were a small child being led into school for the first time, or to the dentist. Finally Helen said, “That boy is an absolute treasure.”

“He is indeed,” said Jocasta. “Are you all right, Helen?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Absolutely fine.”

“One thing,” said Ed, as they walked along the street, “does the—the—well, does he know?”

“No,” said Martha. “No, he has no idea.”

“Did he then?”

“No. I never told him—anything.”

“But you know who he was?”

“Ed—”

“Look,” he said, and for the first time there was irritation, something raw in his attitude, “I’ve been OK so far. Totally on your side. I think I have a right to ask a few questions, don’t you?”

“Of course you do. But I can’t answer that one. I’m sorry.”

“What, you don’t know who it was?”

“I do know who it was. Yes. But I don’t intend to talk about…about him. Ever.”

There was a long silence. “Seems to me it means you don’t trust me. Unless you’re still in love with him, that is.”

“I am not still in love with him. I never was in love with him. It was just—just something that happened. By the time I knew I was pregnant, I had no idea where he was.”

“But now you do?”

She was silent.

“You do! For Christ’s sake, Martha, don’t you think you should tell him? Don’t you think she’ll want to know?”

“Who?”

“Who? The girl. Kate. Your daughter. God! This is beginning to get to me, Martha. Don’t you think the poor little cow has a right to know who her dad is?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Does she?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he said. “Look, I need to be on my own for a bit. Suddenly I can’t cope with this. I’ll see you later. I’ll call you, OK?”

She watched him go, her eyes blurred with tears.

And wishing she could tell him.

She had been half asleep on the boat, coming back from Koh Tao to Koh Samui. She had gone there for a couple of days, having been told it was the most beautiful of all the islands, that she must see it. She had been told that about most of them, but had been half inclined this time to agree; a white-rimmed jewel in the dazzling sea, electricity which only ran in the evenings, and huts so basic they made the ones on Samui seem quite luxurious. The girl she had gone over with had stayed to do some scuba diving; Martha’s money didn’t extend to that, and ravishing as the island was, it didn’t take hold of her heart as Koh Samui had.

The boat seemed unusually rickety, even by Thai standards—very basic, with no toilet on board. She slung her rucksack onto the huge pile with all the others, found a quiet corner, and settled down with her book. She had found it on the secondhand shelf, at the dock at Mae Hat, the first half of
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
; it was the custom to rip books in two, to save rucksack space, and leave behind what you’d read. It could sometimes be months before you could find the second half.

The trip was quite long, over three hours, and a wind had come up. Martha, who was a good sailor, had drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rise and fall of the boat; she woke once to see her rucksack tumble onto the mailbags on the lower deck. She reached over and tried to haul it back up, but she couldn’t reach it, and went back to her corner. They were about thirty minutes from the jetty at Hat Bophut, when she heard his voice.

“Hi, Martha! I only just realised it was you. Your hair’s different.”

She struggled to sit up, slightly dazed, and saw him, smiling down at her. “Hi! Oh, the braids? Yes, I had it done on the beach. Were you on Koh Tao?”

She wasn’t remotely surprised to see him; that was the whole thing about travelling. People came into your life, you became involved with them, and then you parted, to meet up with them again months later, in an entirely different place.

“Yeah. Been diving. You?”

“No, just snorkelling. Lovely though. Then back to Big Buddha for a few days and then I’ve got a vague arrangement with some girl to move over to Phuket.”

“It’s lovely there. And Krabi. And green sea, rather than blue. You been north yet?”

“Yes, it was amazing.”

“Isn’t it? Can I sit here?”

She nodded; he smiled, slung his rucksack down on top of Martha’s and the mail pile, and offered her a cigarette. Martha shook her head.

“So, where are you going now?” she asked.

“Up to Bangkok for a few days. Girl I knew quite well was in a scooter accident on Koh Phangan, pretty badly hurt, she was taken up there. Here, Martha, can you smell burning?”

“Only your cigarette.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m sure I—Christ! Look, look at that smoke!”

She looked; there was a thick grey cloud pouring out of the engine room. Nobody seemed terribly concerned; the guy who was driving the boat smiled and there was a complete absence of anyone else who might have been considered crew. The smoke grew thicker.

“Shit!” he said. “I don’t like this. Jesus, I’m right too, bloody flames now!”

Martha was suddenly very frightened. These boats, old and battered, usually had one lifebelt, at the most.

She looked towards land, at the comforting white curve of the beach, and the stern towering figure of Big Buddha, and felt better. They were surely near enough to swim to shore if necessary. She said so.

“No way, Martha, that’s at least a mile and this is shark territory. Shit, shit, shit!”

Everyone was beginning to panic now, pointing at the flames, shouting at the captain, who was continuing to steer his boat doggedly towards the land, grinning determinedly.

“What do we do?” asked someone.

“Jump!” said someone else.

“No, it’s much too far,” said another.

“Sharks!” said someone else, voice trembling.

The fire was quite obviously out of control now. One girl started to scream, and then another. An old Thai woman started muttering what was obviously a prayer.

“Dunkirk,” said Martha pointing. “Look!”

A small armada of longtail boats, their deafening diesel engines at full throttle, was setting out from the shore. One pilot per boat with two small boys perched at the stern of each.

They must have noticed the fire, Martha thought, almost as soon as it began, and simply set off. No official rescue could have been better.

One after another the longtails pulled up alongside the burning boat and people scrambled over the side and down into them. The flames were increasing all the time and there was still a slight swell; some people were clearly terrified, screaming and crying, but the boatmen remained not only calm but cheerful, urging and coaxing them along.

The backpackers left the boat last; being inherently courteous (and English, she said), Martha, hiding her terror, was in the very last one; her last desperate thought as she slithered down the ladder was that she should somehow rescue her rucksack. Only it was at the other end of the boat, near the flames.

As the longtails made in convoy for Hat Bophut, the captain and a boy were struggling to rescue some of the luggage, while the flames began to consume the boat in earnest. Martha gazed at them trustingly; they would surely get her rucksack, they surely, surely would. And then, knowing that even just five minutes later they would have been in very real danger, she found herself crying.

They stood on the shore watching as the ship went up like a fireball. Martha felt sick; she had stopped crying but she was shivering violently, even in the hot sun.

“Hey,” he said, coming over to her, putting his arm round her shoulders, “you’re cold. Here, have my sweater.” He put it round her.

“I think I’m a bit shocked,” she said. “I mean, if it had happened even half an hour earlier we’d be dead. We couldn’t have swum it, and there were definitely sharks out there.”

“I know. But it didn’t happen half an hour earlier, and we’re not dead. Think of it as an adventure. At last, something worth writing home about. On second thoughts, perhaps not. Hey now, here’s baggage reclaim. And Martha—who are the lucky ones? I see both our rucksacks, nobody else’s. And you know why? They came in on the mail coach. Look!”

It was true; four mail sacks and two rucksacks had been brought safely in to land. The rest of the luggage was clearly at the bottom of the sea.

Everyone was dreadfully shaken. The tourists left in taxis, the backpackers all went into the café by the jetty that doubled as a ticket office, bought Cokes, swapped cigarettes, fretted over their rucksacks. For many of them it was extremely serious; your rucksack was your life, your home, you never left it without padlocking every pocket separately. Most of them did have their day packs, the small bum bags containing such vital things as tickets, passports, and money, but a few had lost everything. Several girls were hysterical.

Martha looked at them and felt upset herself. “What can we do to help?”

“Nothing,” he said, “really nothing. How could we? They’ll be all right. They’ll go into town, go to the poste restante and cable home, and there are phones there too, and then they’ll try the tourist police, who’ll probably find them huts to stay in free of charge for a day or two until things begin to get sorted out, and they’ll all sit on Big Buddha beach, smoking grass and telling everyone who comes along how exciting it was and what heroes they are.”

“You’re so cynical,” she said laughing. “I feel guilty. It seems so unfair.”

“Not unfair. But we were lucky. Right. What shall we do?”