by Laura Elliot
Lauren replaces the photograph, carefully settling it back into the precise position she found it. Her hands are moist. Sunlight streams through the wide windows. What is she doing here? What madness has persuaded her to enter another person’s private space? She lifts a cushion, presses it to her face, then lets it fall to the floor.
In the doorway, she listens to the swooshing waves, the shriek of herring gulls. The sounds come from beyond a barrier of rock. She finds a cleft between the boulders and enters a dense tangle of bush, similar to yesterday’s terrain. A beach stretches beyond the bush. Running across the sand, she stops beside a lagoon filled with small circling fish. Alerted by her shadow, they dart out of sight. Beyond the lagoon, the sand rises then steeps sharply towards the flailing waves. Except for her own footprints, the sand remains smooth.
Clouds whip across the sun. A flurry of sand stings her eyes. Sky and sea merge, smoky grey and threatening. The song of petrels and shearwaters falls silent as the first drops of rain since Lauren’s arrival in New Zealand marl the seashore. She shivers, hugs her arms across her chest as she retraces her steps. The path she travelled is no longer visible. She faces a wall of tree trunks, tight as a palisade. Gulls and shags reel into the approaching storm, sweeping the air with the powerful beat of their wings. She plunges under the leaves, wanders in a circle before arriving back to the beach. She continues searching, the rain soaking through her T-shirt and skirt. Again, she tries to penetrate a gap between the trees, remembering how easily they lost their way the previous day.
The air is heavy, humid. Steam rises from the earth, releases the stench of things long dead. As the ground turns swampy, she forces herself to stay calm. Mud sucks at her sandals, soaks her ankles. How could she have been so stupid as to ignore the safe parameters she placed around her life?
Lightning flashes, followed by a roll of thunder. Hands over her ears, she stumbles against the trees. Their bent weathered shapes remind her of old women bowed with osteoporosis. She slips, crashes to the ground. Her sunglasses disappear into a thicket of moss. She too will disappear into the undergrowth. No one could possibly find her in this wilderness. The night in Bangkok, running from the pimp –the same terror surfaces. It was the start of everything. This will be its end.
Rain splatters through the leaves. Above her is a canopy of green, the last thing she will see before she closes her eyes. The fear when it comes is sharp as a blade. Who was this stranger who had mesmerised her with his bold black eyes? Had she really expected to sit and drink tea with him? Make small talk about the trip or the weather or share secret intimacies of their past lives? This passion that drew them together…what has it left in its place? A thought, barely conceived? Something that propels her blindly through the shivering green gloom, past the spiky yukkas, the windswept trees and monstrous ferns. Suddenly, a path opens in front of her. A bird darts from the undergrowth, its tail almost fanning her face.
In the camper she leans her head against the headrest until her breathing steadies. Her hair straggles across her forehead, drips into her eyes. Saliva fills her mouth. She swallows, shudders against the taste of bile. Unable to prevent the hot gush rising, she opens the door and stumbles towards a tussock of grass. She wipes her mouth with the end of her wet T-shirt and hunkers behind the camper until she feels strong enough to stand.
The rain stops as suddenly as it started. High in the sky, the sun forms a metallic disc and the rainforests, hunched against the glaciers, emerge from the haze, their luminous branches steaming. Everything is washed clean, raindrops glinting on each blade of grass. Back in the camper, she switches on the ignition and does a three-point turn. She emerges onto the main road and turns for Haast. From her rear-view mirror she sees a 4x4 approach and indicate to turn into the lane. She sees his arm resting on the open window, honey brown and taut. She presses her foot against the accelerator and sets her sights on the road ahead.
Chapter Forty-five
Rebecca’s Journal – 1998
Olive Moran called to the sanctuary before she left for India. I never liked her–all those rows over Lauren and Cathy when they were young, particularly Lauren, but I admire her now. She looks younger, lighter somehow, as if she has freed herself from mind games. Backpacking through India, she said. Feel the land under my feet.
She wanted a daughter, not a replacement. She refused to believe that Lauren and her husband were not having an affair–¥or, perhaps, she understood that obsession is a more dangerous enemy than infidelity.
‘There are more ways of sinning than in the flesh,’ she said to me when she finally decided to end her marriage. ‘She runs like a fever through his blood and what am I to do…what am I to do?’ She stepped back from the edge of insanity and took to the open road.
I wanted to tell her that I too am adrift in suspicion. Phone calls that have no voice at the other end, only someone breathing softly, hoping a different hand had lifted the receiver. But there is always an excuse to explain it away, and it could be a wrong number. The woman from his office who got drunk at the annual Christmas party and slapped his face when she knew I was looking…but she was drunk and, later, I watched her friends support her from the hotel. The faint hint of perfume on his shirt…but it could be aftershave. Nowadays, men are peacocks, they groom and moisturise. The receipt for drinks in the Horseshoe Bar, Guinness and Margaritas, on a night when he was working late–that one is difficult to explain but I could easily have mixed up my dates. There are always ways to ease my suspicion and I have no idea why I cling so tenaciously, so fiercely, to them.
Steve Moran is playing with the big boys now. Serious property development. A Celtic tiger on the prowl. He sold Meadow Lark and lives on Howth Head, right at the very top. Exactly where Lauren wants to be. Different horses for different courses. She insists she played no part in the break-up of their marriage. Is she pretending or simply delusional?
My sanctuary is everything to me. Lulu was glad to hand over the responsibility and stay on as my manager. The horses that come to us are victims. There’s nothing proud and highbred about them. They come with broken limbs and missing eyes. We give them shelter. There’s so many of them, adrift on waste ground, in cramped sheds, tied to stakes in barren fields, wandering blindly into oncoming cars. We give them shelter and healing. At the end of the day, isn’t that what we all crave?
Chapter Forty-six
Fox Glacier Village
Ancient Maori history is buried in the roots of Te Wahipounamu, their guide explains as they travel through the Haast River Valley. Translated it means ‘the place of greenstone’. Rebecca leans forward as they pass ancient rainforests, hoping to catch a glimpse of dolphins and seals. Julie takes photographs and wonders what her sons would think if she became a biker.
They sprawl opposite her, the Ringwraiths, escapees like herself, families and mortgages, tidy front gardens; their swagger caused by too-tight leathers rather than menace. She imagines herself on a Harley, the wind in her hair. Easy rider on Route 66.
When the rain falls, they shelter under the canopy. The bikers’ plans are similar to their own. They will spend the night in Fox Glacier Village and explore the glaciers in the morning. They invite the sisters to their cabin for a barbecue in the evening.
‘Come around seven,’ says Edge. ‘We’ll provide the steaks.’
‘I’m a vegetarian,’ says Rebecca.
‘Veggie burgers,’ he says. ‘No problem.’
‘Where’s your sister?’ asks Dave, the lock-picker.
‘She vants to vee alone,’ Julie replies. She leans into Rebecca’s ear and whispers, ‘I think he wants to pick the lock on Lauren’s chastity belt.’
‘He’s too late.’ Rebecca trains her binoculars on a colony of penguins strutting like short, fat waiters along the shoreline.
‘Do you think she’s with him?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Rebecca replies. ‘I know so.’
‘Have you tried talking to her?’
; Rebecca shrugs. ‘She’s not my concern, not any more. If she wants to play with fire, that’s her business.’
‘I’m worried about her.’
‘Then you talk to her.’
Julie tries to concentrate on the guide but she finds it impossible to follow the history of earthquakes and glacial meltdown. What is Lauren doing? Staring at trees, climbing rocks, admiring a river? Hard to imagine–in fact, quite impossible. She is not waiting for them at the disembarkation point. The bikers lounge against their bikes, smoking and joking about mounting a search party. Julie, holding his helmet like a decapitated head under her arm, poses on Kenny’s bike and demands to be photographed. He calls her his ‘pillion bitch’ as he revs the engine and orders her to hold on tight. The wind whips her breath away as he increases speed. The trees blur and the sun dazzles the handlebars. She recognises the camper. Lauren is driving so fast she does not notice Julie waving.
‘Better go back,’ she screams at Kenny. ‘Cinderella has returned from the ball.’
The camper vibrates with tension. Bedraggled and pale, her legs scratched and covered in bites, Lauren endures her sisters’ complaints with uncharacteristic humility. Their mood has not improved by the time they reach the camper park. The brief spell of rain had added to, rather than dispelled, the heat. Rebecca’s shoulders radiate from sunburn.
‘I’m going to cry off the barbecue,’ she declares when Julie begins preparing a platter of seafood to take with them. ‘I’ve a splitting headache. It’s probably sunstroke.’
‘Take something for it,’ Lauren suggests. ‘I’ll rub in after-sun to cool you down. You’ll be fine once you get a glass of wine inside you.’
But Rebecca refuses to be coaxed from the camper. ‘I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of smelling roasted animal flesh.’ She shudders and winces when Lauren rubs after-sun into her shoulders.
‘Give us a break.’ Lauren snaps the lid on the lotion and flings it on the table. ‘I’ve had it up to here with your fucking animals.’
‘Don’t start a row.’ Julie slices lemons, mixes a salad dressing.
‘Why not?’ Rebecca demands. ‘I’m suffering from sunstroke because she left us out in the scorching sunshine for hours on end.’
‘She was only thirty minutes late. Perhaps we should stay with you—’
Tiny blisters glisten on Rebecca’s shoulders. ‘Just go, Julie. And try to be quiet when you return. I don’t want a repeat of your Bindwood experience.’
Julie’s sympathy disappears in an instant. ‘I bet she doesn’t speak like that to her horses,’ she fumes as she walks with Lauren towards the bikers’ cabin. ‘I can’t imagine why a nice guy like Tim Dawson keeps texting her.’
‘We should congratulate him on overcoming the disadvantage of having only two legs,’ agrees Lauren.
‘Did you know she’s asked him to Cathy’s wedding?’
‘He’s not just a one-night stand then?’
‘Apart from looking at his takahē Rebecca doesn’t do one-night stands.’ Julie flicks a prawn back into position between the slices of lemon. ‘Which begs the delicate question…where were you this morning?’
‘Communing with nature.’ Lauren grabs her arm. ‘Come on, girl. Let’s go bag ourselves a Ringwraith.’
With their bikes lined like steeds outside a cabin, the bikers are easy to find. Beer and wine sit in a sink of crushed ice. Tina Turner blares from the stereo on the windowledge. The barbecue pit is flaming and Edge is in charge of the steaks. Lauren adds wine to the fridge and Julie hands over the seafood platter, which the bikers devour in an instant.
Darkness links the campers and cabins in a ring of light. When the first sighting of a sandfly is reported, chairs are gathered up and carried inside. More wine is uncorked, beer cans snapped. Kenny talks about Wellington. Julie talks about Dublin. They compare photographs of their families. He slaps his head when he realises he was drinking beer with Rebecca while she and Lauren were hiding topless behind the camper. His gaze admires what he missed and sends a pleasant tingle along her spine. He rolls a joint and passes it to her. She inhales deeply. Lauren rejects it with a slight hand gesture.
Edge cranks up the music and accompanies Lynyrd Skynyrd on air guitar. At home, Julie would have yelled at her sons to turn down the volume. If they could see her now. The thought makes her laugh so loudly that Lauren leans over and asks, ‘What’s with the spliff, sis?’
‘Old times.’
‘Mamma Mia, what’s happening to you? Are you becoming a bold girl again?’
Julie inhales, closes her eyes. ‘Absolutely.’
Edge abandons his air guitar and dances with Lauren. She glides like a moth, her white dress flaring when he twirls her under the light. Her brittle laughter adds to Julie’s uneasiness. Her sister is walking a tightrope. A step either way, a tautening, a slackening, and Lauren will fall.
The music is so loud it takes a moment to realise someone is banging on the door. Dave opens it and is brushed aside by a small, sturdy woman in knee-length tartan shorts. ‘Turn that noise off immediately.’ Her English accent is clipped and authoritative. ‘I don’t mean turned down, do you understand? I mean off. If you fail to do so there will be immediate repercussions.’
She surveys the empty cans and bottles, the plates and bowls littering the room. ‘If I hear another squeak from your cabin, I’m going straight to management to report this appalling breach of regulations. My husband and I booked into a holiday park, not a drunken nightclub.’
Dave bows with exaggerated courtesy. ‘Have a drink, lady, and join the party. Ice? Lemon? We’re all mates here.’
‘We certainly are not mates.’ Silhouetted against the light from the open door, her body vibrates with indignation. ‘As you are obviously incapable of telling the time, let me remind you. It’s now after ten o’clock and this holiday park is supposed to be silent. People expect peace and quiet, and the opportunity to sleep without having to endure an infernal racket. You have been warned.’ She turns on her heel and slams the door behind her.
‘We’d better turn down the volume.’ Julie moves towards the stereo but Dave reaches it before her.
‘No Pom with a tartan arse is going to spoil my fun.’ His eyes glint with anger as he lurches towards Lauren and swings her roughly in a circle. She laughs, struggles to free herself. He spins her again, almost lifting her off her feet. A chair crashes to the ground. He loses his balance and brings her down with him in a sprawl of arms and legs.
‘Stupid fuck.’ Edge pushes him to one side and helps Lauren to her feet.
‘Who’re you calling a stupid fuck?’ Hauling himself upright, Dave leans against the table. It tilts to one side. Bottles and glasses crash to the floor.
Without knocking, the manager enters the cabin, closely followed by the Englishwoman.
‘You know the rules.’ He points to a notice pinned on the door. ‘No noise after ten p.m. We expect our residents to have consideration for their neighbours.’ He pauses, sniffs, his expression hardening. ‘If you’re not off my property within the next ten minutes, I’ll call the police and have you arrested for bringing drugs onto the premises.’ He points to Julie, who signed them in at Reception. ‘The same rule applies to those of you staying in a motor home bay.’
‘But there’s no noise coming from our bay,’ Julie protests. ‘The camper is rented in our sister’s name, Rebecca Lambert. She wasn’t at the party. Why should she be evicted?’
‘Vehicles don’t make noise. It’s people who cause problems. Don’t ask me to repeat my warning or you’ll discover I don’t make idle threats.’
‘Rebecca’s going to murder us.’ Lauren leans heavily on Julie’s arm as they make their way back to the camper.
‘Murder’s too easy,’ Julie whispers. ‘She’ll hang, draw and quarter us, then dance on our bones. God! Did you ever see anything like those tartan shorts?’
‘Scotland the brave,’ whispers Lauren.
‘Brave arse,’ Julie gig
gles.
‘Tartan Pom.’ Lauren, forgetting her injury, raises her arms above her head and mimics a Highland fling.
‘Be serious.’ Julie stops outside the camper. ‘You’ve danced enough for one night. Where are we going to go?’
‘To hell or to Connaught,’ says Lauren.
Julie splutters, laughter erupting inside her. The same hysterical laughter that gripped her at the Bra Fence, gripped her throughout her teen years, gripped her hardest when Rebecca ordered her to behave, and she, recognising the signs–nerves, guilt and something indefinable, perhaps the desire not to cry–clutches her stomach in a vain effort to control it.
‘How considerate of you to return.’ Rebecca raises herself from her bunk. Her shoulders flare angrily under the light.
‘You told us to go,’ Julie protests. ‘You insisted we leave you alone.’
Lauren limps towards the nearest chair and bends to examine her ankle.
‘I took a bad fall, Rebecca. I think I’ve a broken ankle. Julie had to support me all the way back to the camper.’
‘What do you expect when you’re obviously incapable of walking in a straight line?’
Julie removes a frozen packet of peas from the freezer and applies it to Lauren’s ankle. ‘Actually, Becks—’
‘Stop calling—’
‘Actually, Rebecca…’ Julie coughs loudly before continuing, ‘we’ve been ordered to leave the site. I told the manager you weren’t responsible. He wouldn’t listen. I’m really sorry but he’s insisting we leave this instant.’
‘I’m not in the mood for jokes, Julie. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m suffering severe sunstroke.’
‘It’s true.’ Lauren grimaces as the icy peas bite into her skin. ‘This is really sore, Rebecca.’
‘Then limp out of here to the nearest hotel and take your sister with you. You’re supposed to be adults, for goodness’ sake, not a bunch of drunken teenagers. For your information, I’ve no intention of moving anywhere so no one had better make me.’