by Olivia Levez
‘Bugger. When I saw the smoke signal I thought that there would be more. That’s why I sent the coordinates. I already knew, more or less, the position of the island we were heading for – I’m interested in that sort of thing – and I thought maybe you were with the pilot or someone.’ He pauses. ‘So it’s just you and me then?’
Yes, I think, you’ve got a raw deal there. Thought there might be a whole party of us, did you? Hoping for both the pilots or Trish or even Joker? Instead you’ve ended up with me.
Broken, filthy, burnt out. The girl who destroys all that she touches.
Lucky you.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m not used to speaking to people; it’s been so long. Eighty-one days, in fact.’
I don’t ask him how he knows. Probably keeps a tally on a tree somewhere. I wonder why I didn’t think of doing that, and then I’m drowsy.
Close my eyes. Just close them now.
When I awake, he’s still hovering.
I curl up on my side again.
He sighs. He does that a lot.
He melts away.
Skin
When I think Rufus can’t see me, I study him.
I think he does that to me too. Sometimes his eyes dart away and he flushes. He flushes easily, even through all those nasty sandfly bites and his sunburn.
He’s got the worst skin for being marooned on a desert island. It’s skin that would be happiest in a darkened room with all the blinds down. Cassie’s lounge, in fact. His skin would love all that cardboard.
There are bites on his face and neck and on the back of his hands. There are bites on bites on bites.
‘You’re Frances, right? You sat behind me on the plane. And I remember you at TeamSkill.’
I sabotaged your team games. That’s me.
‘I mean, you were right actually, to not like planes. After what happened. I was lucky enough to have held on to some flotsam – a couple of plastic containers – and I had on my life jacket of course. I estimated that I drifted approximately two hundred kilometres from the SOA, seeing as my raft had no anchor. And I had to guess, really, about the wind, weather, the direction of swells, times of sunrise and sunset and whatnot. I even tried to use celestial navigation to determine my position, but it’s practically impossible without a sextant and almanac. Of course, the EPIRB would have transmitted on an emergency frequency the minute the plane went down, so there would have been searchers or a rescue mission. But with the number of islands in these parts, and the distance of the drift, well…I suppose our chances of being found are pretty much non-existent.’
‘SOA? EPIRB?’ I say dully.
‘Scene of Accident and Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon. I’m surprised you didn’t have one of those in your life raft. I’m sure they come as standard.’
I decide not to mention the radio thing that I chucked into the sea in a rage.
Rufus scratches his head and coughs. ‘Well, I’m pleased you’re here, Frances. I was wondering if I’d ever speak to another human again.’
‘So you knew I was here then?’ I manage to say. Like his, my voice is rusty as old tin.
‘Well, I guessed there was someone. Like I said, I saw your smoke signal. Jolly clever of you to keep it going with wet leaves like that.’
‘Well, I didn’t actually. It wasn’t…’ I nearly tell him that whatever smoke signal I made was definitely not deliberate, but change my mind.
I think of all the times I tried to keep the fire going with damp logs and wet leaves. And of the coughing smoke that would come billowing out and choke Dog and me in our little den.
Dog. I think of his liquid eyes and use my T-shirt to wipe my eyes.
Oh oh oh.
You’re the Girl Who...
‘Here, don’t get upset,’ says Rufus awkwardly.
He looks funny, still standing there in his feathered headdress holding that enormous melon, and I begin to laugh helplessly.
Once I start, I can’t seem to stop. I snort and snot into my polo shirt, shoulders heaving. And I’m aware of the boy putting down his melon and patting my shoulder like I’m a little kid.
‘Don’t cry.’
That does it.
I push my soggy hair out of my eyes. ‘I’m not frickin crying. I never cry.’
I wipe my face with the polo and glare at him. ‘If you must know, I was laughing.’
‘Laughing?’
‘At you. At your stupid headdress.’
See the little stab of hurt. There. I’m glad.
Rufus shrugs. ‘The sun and I aren’t friends,’ he says.
He’s older than he seemed at TeamSkill, maybe nineteen or twenty. Freckles so big the sun’s blended them all together, brown blobby islands making a map of the world. The pink skin between them is trying very hard to get brown.
There’s an awkward silence.
‘So did you see my markers?’ he asks at last.
I think of the balanced stone towers and nod.
‘I left them in case whoever was on the north side of the island managed to find a way through. Every day, I was hoping…’
He doesn’t speak for a moment; scratches at the bites on his hands.
‘Anyway, jolly clever of you –’
Jolly??
‘– I explored every creek and crevice and the only way through seemed to be a tunnel that of course would be lethal at high tide. I never thought to look behind the waterfall.’
I think of Dog on the rock, trusting eyes watching me, tail wagging, and dig my fingernails into my legs, so as not to feel.
The boy shakes his head. ‘So you must have come that way? Crikey. How did you do it?’
I try not to think of the dripping caves, the swallowing darkness. I struggle to sit up; realise that I’m half-dressed – my SpongeBob bikini bottoms wink mockingly from under Rufus’s polo shirt.
‘Oh, I almost forgot – here.’
He reaches under my bed and pulls something out. ‘I made you this – thought it might be a bit more…comfortable.’
It’s a skirt like the one he’s wearing. Grass tightly strung around a long strip of some sort of plant stem. Precisely and expertly done.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
It feels strange, talking to someone. Different from when I talked to Dog ’cause with him I never needed to worry about what I was saying. Or what he’d say back. He was always polite and interested. And it’s not like I talked to many people anyway, not after the fire.
The skirt ties up at the side and reaches down to my knees. It gapes a bit when I move – as I notice his does – but at least it covers me up a little.
Rufus looks pleased. ‘See, it fits well. You were out for ages. Shame all the medicine’s back in the hold. You could have done with some doxepin to help you sleep because you seemed to be having the most terrific nightmares. It would’ve given your body a chance to recover from what it’s been through.’
‘What are you – some sort of doctor?’ I say.
‘Well, kind of. I’m a medic. Or I will be. Just got accepted at St Bart’s and I’m currently on my gap year.’
He’s shaking his head. ‘’Course, I never planned quite such an adventurous year. Was thinking more about doing conservation work in Borneo, or perhaps some work experience in Belize – they have the most amazing jungles and I’ve always fancied doing Tropical Medicine. And then I heard about the TeamSkill project and it sounded like such a marvellous idea and a real chance to give something back and so I…’ His voice trails off as he sees me staring.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been here on my own for rather a long time and it gets a bit lonely just talking to one’s melons and Virgil.’
I gape at him.
Borneo? Belize? Virgil?
‘And you?’ he asks. ‘What’s your story?’
What, apart from burning my school down and nearly burning alive my teacher and a boy who I don’t even know, who was probably just trying to get some advice fr
om his form tutor…?
I scowl at him.
‘What the frick’s it got to do with you? Anyway, you lot all read my notes, didn’t you?’
A little pause as the penny drops. He flushes again, all the way up till he’s redder than crab claws.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘You’re the girl who…’
I scowl harder and harder; fix him with my Medusa stare. Haven’t used it for so long but it’ll still work, I’m sure of it.
‘Sorry,’ he says at last. ‘Didn’t mean to rub it in.’ He laughs and it’s not a nasty laugh. ‘I guess we’ve both kind of changed a lot, right?’
My stare must have weakened in its powers.
‘At least it’s a good skill though?’
‘You what?’
‘Lighting fires. Best skill for being marooned, I’d say.’
Is Hi I’m Rufus! making a joke?
I glare at him till his flush comes back.
New Camp
Rufus has gone to get more wood, even though there’s plenty as far as I can see, so I’m left alone at his camp.
It’s nothing like mine and Dog’s.
I totter round, weak on my wobbly legs, and poke about a bit, trying to explore.
It’s like Through the frickin Keyhole.
What would Keith Lemon say to this?
Ha.
Neat piles – everywhere. Neat logs, neat tools, neat beds. I had my could-be pile but the things I foraged were all thrown on the heap any old how. Here, everything is ranked in order of size, in order of material. Rufus doesn’t have half-finished projects like mine; everything is finished and definite and solid.
His palm shelter is like something straight out of a survival manual.
He has an array of knives. Array isn’t a word I’d normally think of using, but it’s definitely the word to describe those knives.
I poke about his cooking range, his fire.
Stare into the dancing flames; sigh, and chuck on another log.
Inspect his water system.
As well as tin cans with wire handles nestling in the fire –
billycans. They’re called billycans –
which I vaguely remember Steve showing us how to make at TeamSkill, he’s set up solar stills all around the camp, made from plastic bags.
I take out his chopping boards in different sizes, beautiful pieces of driftwood; it’s like he’s Jamie Oliver or something.
Wish I’d had that idea.
There’s a line strung up with dried fish, just like mine – at least I did something right – and a plastic bucket full of what looks like edible seaweed. Next to it, my Hello Kitty washbag. I move it under my bed.
Rufus has several styles of shoe, ranging from foraged flip-flops (I’m liking the mismatched pair in baby pink best, especially the one with the Tinkerbell logo) to beautifully plaited sandals. These are all arranged neatly under his bed.
While I’ve been sleeping on a raised platform made from bottles, Rufus has been sleeping in his day hammock, which is head and shoulders above mine on One Tree Beach. It’s a complicated structure of bamboo poles and grasses and palm leaves, and there’s no way I’m jealous.
He’s made a pillow out of palm leaves and coconut fibre, and there’s something poking out from underneath. I pull it out and it’s my own bark message, neatly rolled.
Ha!
It’s when I’m tucking it back underneath that something rushes at me, hot and wet and twisting.
And then my heart starts jittering and pounding like it’s going to flip out of my mouth and lie gasping on the ground like a fish.
It kills me, over and over.
’Cause it’s Dog.
He’s come back to me.
His Master’s Voice
I squeeze him like I will never, ever let go.
‘Oh my God, Dog! You came back. You came back.’
He’s real and he’s solid and he’s overjoyed to see me, I can tell. He’s wriggling in my arms as we sink together on the sand and I’m laughing and –
not crying, I’m not crying –
laughing so much.
He’s got my ear now, and my neck.
‘Ouch, ouch, Dog. Mind my shoulder, you mentalist.’
A whistle.
Dog stops as if shot.
Leaves his hotbreathlicking and
shoots off
somewhere behind me.
When I turn round, Dog is sitting very nicely, very still but tail flicking, gazing up at his master with adoring eyes.
Good as gold. Trained like Crufts. Comes to a whistle.
Rufus bends down to pet him and Dog’s tail spins like it’s going to fly off.
Rufus laughs when he sees my face. ‘I see you’ve met Virgil.’
Virgil
I hate.
I hate his stupid camp and his stupid headdress and his stupid melon patch.
Hate his poncy voice.
Rufus crouches down.
‘Here, Virgil, come and say hello to Frances.’
Dog stays by his feet, grinning and panting at me.
‘Raise a paw, Virgil.’
Rufus makes Dog shakes hands and his little paw is hot and sandy. In all the days we were together, Dog never raised a paw at me.
Rufus whistles and Dog cocks his head instantly.
‘I always wonder where he vanishes to, when he goes walkabout. It keeps me occupied, training him up. He’s a bright little thing, isn’t he?’
I don’t know if Dog is bright or not. All I know is that he’s the perfect fit behind my knees at night and when he’s hot, the bottoms of his feet smell like biscuits.
I decide not to tell Rufus that I knew him first.
‘So why d’you call him Virgil?’ I say.
‘Well, he’s obviously named after the ancient Roman poet.’
Obviously.
‘We did him in Classics. Of course, Virgil famously guided Dante through the seven circles of hell, and that’s what this little chap’s been like to me: my guide.’
‘Stupid name,’ I say. ‘I’ll call him Dog.’
I click my fingers to get Dog’s attention, but he just ignores me.
Traitor.
‘Why was your writing so small in your note?’ I say suddenly. ‘And why did you write in all that code stuff?’
He looks pained. ‘I didn’t want to waste paper. And I already knew the location we were heading to in the plane, so the rest was just an estimate really. I would have thought that anyone would realise what coordinates were…’
He trails off, blushing.
So he thinks I’m thick, then?
If I had the message with me I’d make a paper aeroplane out of it and sail it across camp, but then I remember I’m not in a classroom now. Even though Rufus treats me like I’m a particularly stupid pupil.
I wish I could fuss Dog, but he’s still sitting at his master’s feet.
Rufus is hovering, looking at me. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Now you’ve seen around camp, would you like to admire my melons?’
I stare at him. Is he joking again?
But his face is deadpan as he waits for my answer.
I shrug, which makes my shoulder hurt, but follow him anyway.
Dog –
Virgil??? –
trots beside him with barely a glance at me.
Melon City
‘Welcome to Melon City,’ says Rufus. ‘The melons were already growing here half-wild, so I suppose this island must have been inhabited before, but I grew everything else myself.’
I snort, but can’t help feeling a bit impressed.
As well as watermelons, Rufus has grown:
Tomatoes
Peppers
Chinese cabbages
Coriander (which tastes of soap).
‘The coriander’s gone to seed, I’m afraid, but I’m drying it, and you can still use the stems in cooking, although they’re kind of woody.’
&
nbsp; ‘What are you – Bear Grylls or something?’ I say. I’m thinking that, during all this time on the island, all I’ve found are a few tiny mangoes and a lime tree but Hi I’m Rufus! has grown a whole frickin garden.
‘Well, not exactly, although they taught us a lot of survival skills at Gordonstoun. They believe in a holistic curriculum, based on the four pillars of Challenge, Responsibility, Service and Internationalism.’ He flushes. ‘Sorry, is this boring?’
I smile sweetly. ‘No, you carry on. It’s, like, really interesting.’
I really want to hear about your stupid posh school with its stupid posh curriculum.
He looks at me warily, but it doesn’t stop him going on.
‘I was going to grow onions but there’s no point really because I’ve found them growing wild, over by Mosquito Alley, and they’re great; small, but strong and sweet.’
It’s strange and swimmy here. I wonder if I’ll wake up in my own hammock later and this boy with his strange garden will all be a dream.
The insects and dragonflies buzz and chirrup and the green leaves shimmer in the humming sun. Strong stems force themselves over the earth and there are Rufus’s tools, all lined up neatly: his home-made spade and hoe, made from sharpened metal and lashed around sturdy sticks; his watering can made from a plastic peanut-butter container with a lid spiked with holes; his leaning scarecrows with their carved watermelon heads and grass skirts. And all the time, there’s the ting ting of tin cans on bamboo sticks stuck in the ground.
Rufus is droning on again.
I try to catch Dog’s attention but he’s ignoring me. I want to bury my face in his fur and kiss his warm head.
‘I use seaweed fertiliser,’ Rufus is saying. ‘Brought the seeds with me, of course. I was particularly interested in how Defoe based his character’s adventures on Selkirk. Although I thought tomatoes, peppers and chillies more useful to grow than the barley and rice he recommends.’
I blink. ‘Defoe? Selkirk?’ I say.
Rufus nods patiently. ‘As in Robinson Crusoe. Defoe based him on Selkirk, a real-life castaway.’
‘I’ve heard of Crusoe, I’m not stupid,’ I snap.
Hi I’m Rufus! flushes. ‘Of course, when you’re planning an expedition like this, you make mistakes. The cauliflowers and lettuce were a complete disaster – hated the tropical climate. And most of the seeds I’d ordered from specialist catalogues were in my bag in the hold.’ He shakes his head. ‘But the rest are doing well, as you can see. And as long as I water them three times a day, Bob’s your uncle.’