I understood now why Mrs. Danvers had packed my ski gear, although the silly cow had forgotten my ski boots so now I’d have to buy a new pair—I certainly wasn’t going to rent any. God knows what sort of sweaty feet used rented boots—it was one of the reasons I refused to go ten-pin bowling. Shudder.
It galled me that the housekeeper knew more of Dad’s plans than I did. I bet she’d enjoyed that knowledge of her power over me.
I’d never heard of a ski resort in Azerbaijan, but I suppose the former Communists had to ski somewhere other than Klosters.
I loved being on the slopes with freshly fallen snow, and the mountain air sharp and clean. Off piste was my favourite type of skiing.
Maybe this trip was looking up after all.
So the next morning, I dressed in coral pink salopettes with matching jacket, and sashayed down to the car.
“Good morning, Ivan!” I trilled to the surly Slav.
His name wasn’t Ivan but it seemed to irritate him, so I said it every time I saw him.
My mood took a dive when Dad appeared.
He glanced at my outfit then climbed into the car without a word and we started another long, silent drive.
The scenery began to close in, the hillsides thickly covered with towering fir trees that shut out the light. I saw piles of dirty snow at the sides of the road and glimpses of brilliant white on the distant peaks, until finally, we approached an ugly straggle of prison-like huts. With a sinking sensation, I knew that skiing was not going to be on the schedule for today.
Barbed wire circled the huts, making it look like a Siberian stalag. The only things missing were the machine guns.
A tall black guy wearing jeans, heavy boots and a thick jacket came striding across the muddy forecourt outside the desolate concrete block buildings. He had the look of someone ex-military and walked towards us, extending his hand to my father.
Rather incongruously, an acid yellow lollipop was sticking out of his jacket pocket.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Your generous donation will enable us to continue our work for many months to come.”
Now I understood. This must be the base for one of those landmine demining places, whatever they were called. Although this was a lot more squalid and grey than the videos I’d seen of Princess Diana wearing body armour in bright African sunshine.
As Dad soaked up the words, spoken with an American accent, I longed to tell this man that my father’s donation wasn’t selfless or altruistic—it was a down payment to the Azerbaijan government, an unspoken agreement that my father would be in pole position to exploit the coal beneath our feet.
“And this must be Miss Arabella Forsythe,” said the man with a friendly smile. “We’re honoured that you’re here—we certainly need all the volunteers we can get. I’m Clay Williams, Head of Operations.”
I smiled politely, wondering if this American was getting me confused with someone else.
“My daughter is a true humanitarian,” Dad replied with a reptilian smile.
His words were perplexing, and we shook hands in silence. It was also the first time that one of my father’s business associates had known my name in advance. An uneasy sensation trickled through me, a sense of dread that I couldn’t identify.
“The accommodation is limited,” said Clay, his smile more wry now. “But the welcome is warm. I’m sorry my wife isn’t here to welcome you. She’s in the village, helping out at the health centre. You’ll see her later. Let me take your bags.”
Panic flashed through me.
“Dad? Are we staying here?”
Clay’s smile slipped entirely, his questioning gaze flipping between us. But Dad spoke first.
“Yes, Arabella, you are staying here. Mr. Williams requested volunteers and I volunteered you. You’ll make yourself useful and work under him for the next three months.”
“Three months!” I shrieked. “No way! I won’t do it!”
My father grabbed my arm and dragged me out of earshot.
“Did you think that your punishment would be gadding about, accompanying me to a few business meetings? Do you think that makes up for the £37,000 restaurant bill you ran up? The tradesmen’s bills all over London? The shame you’ve brought on our family? Do you think I’ll put up with bailing you out of the drunk tank again? No! It’s enough, Arabella. You will volunteer here, where no one knows you or cares about you. You will do this. You will not embarrass the family ever again. Do you hear me? Do you hear me?” he hissed, shaking me until my teeth rattled.
“Daddy, please! I promise…”
“Your promises mean nothing,” he said coldly, dropping my arm abruptly.
His temper switched from fire to ice in seconds, a skill he used to throw his opponent off balance. It always worked on me.
I swallowed hard and stared at him.
“Why do you hate me so much?”
His lip rose in a sneer.
“Don’t be melodramatic, Arabella. It’s beneath you. Rehab hasn’t worked—maybe this will.”
He turned away and stalked back to the car where my Louis Vuitton luggage was already being piled in the mud.
“Williams,” he said to the man who’d greeted us, “I’ll expect your weekly reports on clearance progress.”
Clay’s warm expression had disappeared.
“And on your daughter, sir?”
Dad stared back, dismissing him with a shake of his head.
“Only if she fucks up.”
Then he drove away.
Arabella
I WILL NOT cry. I will not cry.
And I didn’t. I’d had years of appearing indifferent to my father’s volcanic rages, but it was humiliating to have it witnessed by this stranger.
Clay shouted something at two women who were standing around watching, unaffected, as sloe-eyed children played around them.
Glancing up at me briefly, they picked up my luggage and carried it towards one of the concrete blocks.
Clay grimaced and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“So, I’m guessing it wasn’t your idea to volunteer here?”
“What makes you think that?” I said bitterly. “I’m delighted to be here. Positively ecstatic.”
He sighed.
“Look, I know this isn’t ideal, but we really could use your help. Resources are limited and every pair of hands makes the job safer and faster.” When I didn’t answer, he nodded his head in silence. “Let’s get you settled in.”
I trailed after him, my £900 Fusalp salopettes already heavy with the thick clods of mud that clung wetly. My feet dragged, as heavy as my heart.
How the hell was I going to stand being stuck here for three months?
But there was worse to come.
The room Clay showed me to was more like a cell than any cells I’d ever been in. There was a narrow cot-bed pushed up against the wall, with iron-grey blankets piled on top; a line of nails across one wall were decorated with forlorn plastic coat-hangers. And that was it.
“I know it doesn’t look much,” Clay announced with admirable restraint, “but we thought you’d be more comfortable with your own room. The other women live in the bunkhouse.”
“So, this is like the presidential suite?” I said, forcing away the tremble in my voice with an overly bright tone that bordered on hysteria.
Clay smiled, his white even teeth glinting in the twilight.
“I never thought of it like that, but from now on I sure will,” he laughed. “There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, but don’t expect too much from the showers—the water never gets really hot.” He shrugged apologetically. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here, but you might surprise yourself.”
Gratitude clogged my throat.
“Thank you,” I muttered, humbled by the kindness of this stranger.
“Great!” he said, clapping his hands, relief obvious in his voice. “Dinner is in thirty minutes. You’ve just got time to get unpacked. You’ll meet Zada
and Turul then.”
I gave him a questioning look that he understood immediately.
“Zada is my wife—she’s a trained paediatric nurse, so she volunteers at the clinic in the village, but like I said, she’ll be back soon. Turul is our local fixer and he’s the only one here right now who speaks passable English. But tomorrow you’ll meet my friend James—he’s the EOD operator here—our bomb disposal expert—and we have Yadigar, the interpreter. They’re pulling an overnighter at a remote location tonight, but they’ll be back in 24 hours,” and he smiled. “They’ll be looking forward to getting back to all this luxury.”
A startled laugh leapt out of me and Clay’s smile widened.
“See you later, Miss Arabella.”
“You can call me Harry,” I said.
“Harry? Really?”
“It’s what my friends call me,” I said, suddenly shy.
“See you later, Harry.”
After Clay left, I sat on the lumpy mattress, festering with hurt and anger. I couldn’t believe that Dad had done this to me. Rationally, I knew that I’d brought it on myself, but wasn’t the punishment supposed to fit the crime? All I’d ever wanted was to be allowed to get a job and live my own life.
I suppose I should have been careful what I wished for.
Sighing, I began to unpack my bags, but realized quickly that my designer clothes were badly out of place here.
Hot tears burned the back of my eyes, but I would not surrender to this. If my father thought this would break me, he was probably right, but I would try, try, try to prove him wrong.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but as I’d suspected, there was no signal.
I had nothing, I had no one. I was no one.
I WALLOWED IN misery for twenty minutes. I thought that was fair enough, but after that, I started to grow bored. I changed out of my designer boots with the slippery soles, and rummaged through my case until I found an old pair of Uggs that Mrs. Danvers had tossed in. They’d soon be as muddy and disgusting as anything, but ballet flats that looked divine on Kensington High Street were not going to cut it here.
Digging further, I found a cricket sweater that I’d pinched from my brother and pulled that on under my ski jacket, then ventured out into my new life.
Even though the hour wasn’t late, the sun was already setting and the air cracked with cold, the scent of wood smoke hanging in the stillness. I smelled the latrines before I saw them. I couldn’t grace them with the word ‘bathrooms’ as Clay had done. They were gross and basic and freezing. I peed quickly and rinsed my hands in water so cold, I was sure it must have been snow minutes earlier.
A woman with a colourful headscarf and caramel skin approached me, her smile careful.
“You must be Harry. I’m Zada, Clay’s wife. I came to tell you that dinner is ready.”
Like Clay, she had an American accent, but where he was warm, she was wary, and I sensed that I would have to earn her trust.
“Thanks, I’m starving. I could eat a horse.” And then I wondered if they ate horses in Azerbaijan. I had no idea. “Well, maybe not an actual horse…”
“Vegetable stew and meat stew,” she said. “We make a lot of stews, it’s the easiest thing to do for thirty people and one small kitchen. And the local Tandir flat bread.” She shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked, more out of politeness than real interest.
“Nearly nine weeks now.”
“And how long do you think you’ll be here?”
“The bosses told Clay three to four months, but James thinks it could take six across both locations.”
She shrugged as if it didn’t matter.
That was okay, I didn’t care. I’d only asked for the sake of something to say, and we descended into silence again.
The dining hall was a long concrete hut that formed the spine of the little community. Long trestle tables with benches lined the room, and the air was filled with a spicy scent of cooking.
Twenty women and as several small children were already lining up in front of steaming vats of the stew that Zada had mentioned, and my stomach growled hungrily.
“We help ourselves,” said Zada, throwing me a challenging look as if I was expecting to be served on a silver platter.
I smiled tightly and lined up with the other women. I wondered where Clay was and why this seemed to be a community of women and no men.
I was relieved when I saw him enter the room, his large personality making the place seem less gloomy.
“Hey, baby,” he said, planting a kiss on Zada’s lips, his affection far louder than his quiet words. “You found Harry, that’s good,” and he grinned at me as if we’d pledged ourselves to be best friends forever. “How’d it go today?” he asked, turning to his wife.
Her lips thinned.
“Better, I think. But it’s hard—they have so little.”
Clay glanced at me, his face shining with pride.
“I told you that Zada’s a paediatric nurse—well, she’s volunteering at the local health centre and also running a class in school twice a week teaching the kids English. Is that something you’d be interested in helping with?”
I restrained a shudder.
“Not really within my skill set,” I said honestly.
To me, children had the charm of serial killers.
“What is your skill set?” asked Zada crisply.
“Oh, I’m rubbish at everything,” I laughed. “Can’t boil water without burning it.”
“We’ll figure something out,” said Clay kindly.
“What sort of jobs have you done before?” Zada persisted.
Shame infused my reply.
“I’ve never worked,” I said, but I spoke airily.
Never let them see your pain.
She exchanged a look with Clay. I didn’t need a degree in communications to work out what she thought of me.
“Maybe I could help in the office?” I offered tentatively, wondering if they had an office.
Clay grinned.
“Now you’re talking! Paperwork is my least favourite thing, and James is worse at it than I am.” He smiled at me. “Ever seen the movie The Hurt Locker?”
“Oh wow, yes, I have! That was incredible!”
“Well, what we do is nothing like that. That’s just Hollywood blowing smoke—literally. What we do is slow and careful, dangerous at times, and then there’s a ton of paperwork that comes after. To make the land safe again, we need to keep accurate records of exactly which areas are mined and which have been cleared. Mess that up, and it’s another child killed, a friend whose lost a foot or both legs.” His friendly smile faded and his dark eyes turned hard. “Paperwork is a pain, but it’s a necessary pain.”
I wondered what on earth I’d just volunteered for.
We reached the front of the queue and were handed a plastic bowl and a hunk of hard bread.
“The stew on the left is meat, probably goat,” said Clay. “The one on the right is vegetables.”
“You’re vegetarian?”
“No, just getting tired of an all-meat diet, even though it’s halal.”
“Oh,” I said stupidly. “Right. Are you Muslim?”
“Zada and I are Sunnis,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “Armenia is a broadly Christian country, as is Nagorno, but our team was recruited in Azerbaijan—they’re mostly Shia Muslims—we’re respectful to all faiths.”
I blinked, trying to remember anything I knew about the different branches of Islam, but coming up blank.
“I don’t think Arabella understands the difference,” Zada said.
Her voice was polite, but her sharp eyes told a different story.
Obviously, I knew that there’d been fighting in Afghanistan and Syria recently, but I hadn’t paid attention to the politics. I’d never worried about it before, but Zada’s scathing comment left me feeling ignorant and inadequate.
Oh well. I was used to that
.
Following their lead, I opted for the vegetarian stew rather than the doubtful-looking meat of indeterminate origin. But it was surprisingly tasty and I made quick work of it, mopping up what was left with bread.
“Hungry?” asked Clay, lifting one eyebrow.
I laughed lightly.
“I skipped breakfast and we didn’t stop for lunch.”
“People don’t skip meals here,” said Zada.
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I stayed silent. I definitely had the impression that she didn’t like me. I was used to that—other women rarely did. But here, I’d be reliant on her, as one of the few people who spoke English.
We were joined by a giant of a man who carried two bowls of stew, although they looked like teacups in his beefy hands. I was mesmerized by his enormous moustache, the ends curling like a pantomime villain.
“Is this the English princess?” he asked in a heavy accent, a twinkle softening his eyes.
“Nope, ‘fraid not,” I answered. “And now Meghan Markle has taken Prince Harry off the market, I never will be.”
He laughed a huge belly laugh, and even Zada cracked a smile.
This was Turul, the fixer, which probably meant he knew who needed to be bribed. Yes, I’d actually listened at some of Dad’s meetings.
“What language do the locals speak?” I asked, not bothering to hide my ignorance.
There was no point pretending I knew anything. At least here, I could wallow in stupidity without being yelled at by my father.
“Most speak Armenian or Azeri,” explained Turul. “English is beginning to be taught in some schools now, but few speak it. None as well as I.”
His voice was stern but proud as he said that. I could order a glass of champagne in French and German, but not much more. Once again, I felt inadequate.
It was clear that Clay and Zada were making efforts to learn, and over dinner, they had an impromptu lesson with Turul.
Hello was Barev, and Goodbye was Hajoghutyun. Enjoy your meal was Bari akh.orzh.ak.
I tried to pick up a few words but I was tired, and depression was weighing on me again.
Bombshell - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 4