Excess Baggage

by Judy Astley

  ‘Hurricane Susie is heading this way,’ he announced simply, pointing to the blue arrow. ‘Right now there is still a small chance it may miss the island altogether, but equally we have to prepare for the possibility that it might not.’

  ‘Oh well, if we don’t even know …’ Perry murmured, folding his arms and waiting to hear something that had more impact.

  ‘A hurricane is like a doughnut, or a flying saucer if you like. The wind forms spirals round, forming the central hole, which is the calm eye of the storm. At the moment the speed of those wind spirals is 120 mph, while the whole thing, the mass, is moving this way at eighteen mph. That is a category-three hurricane, and if it continues like this it will reach here sometime during Monday afternoon.’

  ‘Is category three the worst?’ the gold lady asked.

  ‘No. And we have to hope and pray it stays at three. Even then we’re going to have serious structural damage. It will be worse if the whole thing slows down. The slower the storm travels, the faster the wind speed will be when it hits.’

  Colette took hold of Lucy’s hand. Lucy squeezed her fingers gently, trying to give a reassurance that she didn’t actually feel. The tone of the manager’s voice made her feel as if the end of the world might well be coming. Perhaps her mother had been right, perhaps Colette should be diving and swimming and carelessly having fun while she could. Perhaps they all should, enjoying their last couple of days on earth in happy but unwise ignorance.

  ‘Buildings are replaceable,’ the manager went on. ‘People are not, so it’s vitally important that you follow any instructions that we give you. After Sunday you should not go out of the hotel grounds. You should try to return any hire cars and read all the notices we put up in the lobby.’ He looked around the room and grinned for the first time. ‘And get to know each other, you might be spending a lot of hours in small rooms with strangers!’

  ‘Just what I’ve been trying to do all week,’ quipped a voice from the back. There was a burst of nervous laughter and then the sound of sobbing. Cathy got up and rushed from the room, dripping tears on all she passed.

  ‘What about my wedding!’ she wailed as she ran. Paul, looking embarrassed, shuffled out after her.

  ‘Well there you are, you see,’ Shirley said to Lucy. ‘That’s what happens when you mess about getting married abroad.’

  ‘It’s all a bit serious, isn’t it?’ The gold lady was on the pontoon waiting for the boat to take her across the bay to Teignmouth. Lucy and Mark were waiting for the dive boat to pick them up.

  ‘It’s like those programmes about holidays from hell that you see on television,’ Mark said. ‘I bet there’ll be dozens of people craning out of windows with camcorders, hoping to flog a video of flying coconuts to some crap TV company.’

  The gold lady moved closer to Lucy and lowered her voice so Lucy could barely hear. ‘What do you think we should wear?’

  ‘Wear? What for?’

  ‘Well, for the storm of course. It might be life or death—’

  ‘Clean knickers then, obviously,’ Lucy interrupted, giggling.

  ‘No, seriously. I mean it would probably be a good idea to wear something you can run fast in, and of course it would have to be something that doesn’t matter getting wet. And will it get cold? And suppose you end up swept away into the sea, you wouldn’t want to be wearing something bulky that would pull you under.’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask, next time the manager calls a meeting.’

  ‘Do you know, I might do that.’

  The dive boat pulled up to the pontoon and Lucy clambered down into the seat next to Henry. ‘This has to be the last dive,’ he said. ‘Sorry but the sea’s starting to cut up too much. Visibility down there is getting worse all the time and it’s too risky. I need to take the boat round to a safe place too.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. The ways of the weather aren’t your fault.’ She thought for a moment, watching the herons preening on the headland, then went on, ‘Henry, the people at the hotel seem to think the storm is going to be completely catastrophic. Are they right or are they covering themselves?’

  Henry frowned. ‘They’re right, or at least they could be. We might not be at the centre of the actual hurricane, but whichever way, the island’s going to take a beating. If anyone tells you to hide under the bed, just do it and stay there till they tell you to come out. Don’t ask why.’

  ‘OK, I won’t.’ She looked back at the shore, then asked, ‘Where are all those boats going?’ Behind them a long line of fishing boats was making its way across the bay. They lacked only strings of flags to make them look like the beginning of a seaside regatta on the Devon coast in August.

  ‘They’re heading for the mangrove swamps round the other side of the island. That way they’ll be protected from the worst of the battering. That’s where I’m taking this later.’ He looked at her and grinned. ‘And after that, how about ditching the family and you and Colette coming out to eat with Oliver and me tomorrow night? There’s a great little restaurant that might not be standing this time next week. It’s called my place, I’m not a bad chef.’

  ‘It’s all right, you don’t need to do the hard sell! I’d love to. If we’re on a forced lock-in after tomorrow, the family will have plenty of time to get sick of my face.’ Even so, she would have to put up with the wrath of Simon, the raised eyebrows and pursed lips of her mother, the scowl of Theresa (envy, she wondered?) and probably a leery suggestive wink from Luke, but it would be worth it. After all, with the apocalypse booked in for Monday, it was time to cram in the fun.

  Simon was watching the girl who watered the plants. Her intricate hair fascinated him. It shone so much; in fact her skin, everything about her glowed. Her large mouth, slick with a deep grape lipgloss, seemed to have a perpetual smile.

  ‘There’s a nest up there,’ he commented, as she caught him watching her.

  ‘Yes sir, it’s a hummingbird.’ Her smile widened and was just for him. He knew it was a hummingbird. He’d seen the tiny bird, its wings beating faster than he could focus, flying from the nest in the twining creeper that spread under the roof of the lobby all the way from the reception desk to the edge of the verandah roof by the pool area. The nest was the size of a golf ball, woven from grass and stems of dried leaf. It must have been one hell of a building job for such a little bird.

  ‘There are three baby birds,’ the girl said. Her name was Tula, her badge told him.

  ‘There’s another nest on the terrace just outside my room, but I don’t know what kind of bird it is. It’s a bit like one of our English sparrows, but more green. Do you know what it is?’

  Tula smiled. ‘I might. You’ll have to show me.’ Simon’s heart started to speed up. Did she mean now? Alone in his room with him? Why would she want to do that unless …

  ‘Er, it’s this way, if you’d like to … Are you sure?’

  ‘All part of the service, sir.’ Tula left the watering can on a ledge by the reception desk and followed him along the cool corridor. Simon didn’t feel at all cool. He felt as if he’d caught a prize-winning fish but wasn’t sure how to land it, or, with his hands, body and the back of his neck sodden with nervous sweat, if he’d be able to. At least there really was a nest to show her; if the stuff of fantasy failed him, and that was more than halfway likely, he’d come out of it knowing a bit more about the island’s bird life.

  ‘Here we are.’ It sounded so stupid, because of course they were there, though it didn’t really matter, as his voice no longer felt as if it was his. Simon fumbled with the key and flung the door open, half expecting to see Plum inside, collecting some suntan lotion or her umpteenth bloody book. There was no-one there. The maid had been and the room was immaculately tidy and clean. He went to shut the door, but then left it slightly ajar, in case Tula got nervous and fled.

  ‘So where’s this nest?’ She turned and smiled at him as she walked to the terrace window and slid it open. So many straight white teeth, he thought, such a
lush wide glistening mouth.

  ‘It’s just up there.’ He pointed to the creeper that hung below the terrace verandah. There was the nest, and, disturbed by human presence, a small greeny-brown bird flew away fast.

  Tula laughed. ‘That’s just a common old finch! We got thousands, man! Doncha get those back home?’

  It was the worst thing. She was laughing at him. He could see right into the stretched pink mouth. Perfect: no fillings, no overbite, all molars present, the orthodontist in him couldn’t help noticing.

  ‘Yes, yes we do. I suppose I just hadn’t looked at it too closely.’ He felt as if, without so much as brushing against Tula, he’d managed to strip himself of all dignity. She was no fool, but he was. She turned to leave, still giggling, and gave his arm a squeeze as the door suddenly flew wide open. Carol, the room maid, stood firm and square in the doorway, her arms folded and no smile on her face.

  ‘OK. Now I warned you before,’ she accused him, stepping inside the room and closing the door. Simon backed onto the balcony, terrified of Carol’s angrily waving finger and advancing bulk.

  ‘Actually, we were looking at the bird’s nest.’ Simon tried his best to sound outraged. ‘Tula has been very helpful.’

  ‘It ain’t her job to be helpful, not that way.’

  ‘It’s fine, Carol, no problem.’ Tula tried to placate her colleague. ‘He didn’t take any advantage.’

  ‘Not with you maybe,’ Carol told her, ‘but with some.’

  ‘He did? With you?’ Tula switched sides, literally, and went to line up next to Carol. The two of them glared at him and he could see them figuring out what to do next.

  ‘Way I see it,’ Carol said to Tula, ‘kind of woman he’s after, he should be out paying for on the street, not mishandling the likes of us.’

  ‘You’re right, for sure.’ Tula nodded.

  Simon now was outraged. ‘Now wait a minute, I didn’t … I wasn’t …’

  ‘No?’ Carol came up close and, to his amazement, slid her hand down to his crotch. There was a waft of sweat, not unpleasant. She grinned. ‘Like to try black pussy, would you? The idea make you horny?’ The strong firm hand fondled his balls. Simon was frankly terrified and nothing in her grip was daring to stir. Behind Carol, he could hear Tula starting to giggle.

  ‘Well, before we island girls buy the goods, we like to check over the stock,’ Carol said. ‘So come on, let’s see what you old white guys got in your pants.’

  Before he could work out what was going on, Simon was upended on the bed. Tula and Carol, shrieking with laughter, easily pinned down his feebly thrashing limbs and stripped off his shorts and swimming trunks in what seemed like less time than it took to peel a banana. He feared for the stripe of tender pallid flesh where the sun hadn’t been, for his penis, craven and lifeless, that they stared at, pointed at, howled and hollered with laughter at. Carol was even wiping away tears. He couldn’t recall such humiliation since the diarrhoea day at his infants school, and the even worse day after the following fortnight when Miss Jenkins had compounded the awfulness by telling the assembled class that they must not call him Shit-leg Simon.

  ‘Sorry man, but it’s no competition with homegrown!’ Carol called as she opened the door and hauled Tula out after her. Just for good measure, she left the door wide open. Simon could hear voices in the corridor: Carol and Tula saying polite, professional good mornings to a group of guests as they passed his room. He closed his eyes, as if that made him invisible, and so missed seeing Colette and the gold lady’s son Tom passing by his open doorway. With his hands now over his mortified eyes, he also missed Colette looking in and taking in the sight of his rumpled bed and sad, exposed penis. It was a good thing he missed this because, instead of delicately pretending she’d seen nothing and averting her shocked young gaze, she ran off down the corridor, convulsed with laughter that was even louder than Carol’s.

  Out by the pool at lunchtime everyone was talking about the hurricane. Plum tried to read her book but the sound of all this chatty semi-panic was making it hard to concentrate. There wasn’t anything any of them could do about it, and it was still a couple of days away so they might just as well all carry on enjoying their holiday. That daft girl Cathy wouldn’t stop crying about her wedding, an event that could surely go ahead as planned, so long as any fallen leaves and coconuts and bits of branch could be kept out of the photos.

  Lucy, back from diving, had some news for everyone. ‘Henry says that a hotel on one of the other islands is closing till after the storm and transferring some of its guests over here. One of them is a major celebrity apparently.’

  ‘Ooh, Henry says. We are getting pally,’ Theresa commented. Lucy ignored her.

  ‘Leave it, Tess, he’s a very nice young man,’ Shirley said.

  ‘I hope he or she won’t expect celebrity treatment,’ Perry grunted. ‘Who is it anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But it’s someone who travels with their own staff, cook and driver and stuff, so they won’t be in the restaurant bagging the best table and having us all pretending not to stare.’

  ‘It’ll be Madonna,’ one of the Steves suggested, from a nearby lounger. ‘I’d put a tenner on it. Dollars that is.’

  ‘Shall we run a sweep?’ Lucy suggested. ‘I’ll make a list.’ She reached into her basket for a notebook.

  ‘OK, go on then, I’ll go for Barbra Streisand,’ Plum said.

  ‘I’ll have Elton John,’ Mark decided.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Luke quipped. ‘Not for a million quid.’

  ‘I bet you would,’ Becky said. ‘I would.’

  ‘He wouldn’t want you.’

  ‘So who do you think it’ll be then?’ Shirley challenged him.

  Luke thought for a moment. ‘A sportsman, someone with picky food needs. Gotta be a rich one, so I’ll go for Pete Sampras.’

  ‘And put me down for Shirley Bassey,’ Shirley said. ‘Then I won’t forget who I’ve picked.’

  Two of the Steves argued over Madeleine Albright and settled it with the toss of a coin, the loser getting Leonardo DiCaprio. Cathy and Paul wasted twenty dollars putting themselves down for Lord Lucan and Elvis, the gold lady chose Luciano Pavarotti. Plum quietly opted for Julia Roberts on behalf of Simon, who seemed to have gone off for a wander. Thank goodness, she thought, as she handed over her twenty dollars to Lucy, they’d now all got something else to think about.

  Eleven

  THERE WAS AN oppressive sense of waiting. The atmosphere in the hotel complex veered between apprehension and overexcitement, reminding Lucy of those dreadful weeks of pre-Christmas inertia when the whole of life seems to be on hold till the dreaded event is over. Hotel guests, in a pointless panic far too soon, cancelled excursions they’d planned, as if while they were out across the island, looking round a batik workshop or sugar plantation, or birdwatching in the rainforest, the hurricane would swoop down from nowhere and slam mercilessly into action, destroying everything in its path. As rooms were cleaned that morning, staff had left large black bin liners on everyone’s pillows, along with instructions to seal their packed suitcases inside them to keep them waterproof during the storm. Guests picked the bags up, opened their doors and wandered into the corridors with them, looking for someone to share comment and speculation with. Some grumbled that the bags weren’t big enough, others that they needed at least six. Plum said nothing, for she was privately amazed that fully grown humans could make such a fuss about a bit of black plastic, as if they’d never seen anything like it before.

  ‘Do we get tidal waves then? Because if we do, it’ll be such a comfort to know that Theresa’s frocks are bin-bag safe,’ Mark said to Simon. Simon didn’t trust Mark’s sardonic amusement. He wanted to haul him into line, tell him he should take all this more seriously, but there wasn’t much chance that Mark would listen to him. He would just shrug and grin, and wander off with his hands in his pockets to spread himself out on a sunlounger with his eyes closed. It was something Simo
n had noticed about him, that he was very much on the edge of them all, as if they could reasonably expect no more input than his mere presence. Simon hoped he would be more use during the storm. After all, who knew what might need to be done: it could be anything from bailing seawater out of rooms to keeping a game of cards going to distract the children (and here Simon’s brain sneakily extended the phrase to women-and-children, as in first) through the worst of the wind. The way Mark was being just now, he’d probably just huddle in a corner under a damp towel, reading his Len Deighton as if things were no worse than a wet weekend in Torquay.

  ‘We should get the Jeeps back to the town today,’ Simon said to Lucy as soon as they’d finished breakfast, two days before the storm was due. ‘After all, you never know.’

  Lucy had planned to drive herself and Colette to the eastern, wilder side of the island to see the pelicans that Henry had told her lived on the high jagged rocks below which the fish were big and plentiful. She did not intend to have her day spoiled by Simon’s overcaution. ‘But we do know, don’t we Simon? Meteorology isn’t just a matter of hanging a bit of seaweed out of the window.’ She led him to the noticeboard by the reception desk where the manager had placed a map of the surrounding islands with the course of the hurricane clearly marked by a blue line. Every few hours another cross would be added and the blue line extended as information was updated from the local radio news station.

  ‘See? There’s a hurricane report every fifteen minutes and it’s still forty-eight hours away, and might even miss us if it goes a bit to the north. Unless you know better.’

  She could see him flinch from her sarcasm, which made her feel bad. Simon was still too easy to tease. When she’d been small she’d been horrid enough to take advantage of his sheer niceness to her, secure as she was in her role as his cute and much-indulged little sister. It was as if she was practising bits of joky spite in case she needed the skill later. It was certainly useful for defence against the sniping girls at school who jibed at her for being driven to school each day in a series of her father’s showroom cars, gleaming vehicles so upmarket that their parents disguised their envy with sneering remarks, which never failed to be passed on to her. With Simon, she’d specialized in blurting out statements guaranteed to embarrass him in front of his friends. She felt ashamed now to recall what a little monster she’d been at the age of eight, asking his gawky adolescent friends, in a tone of calculated faux innocence, if they had stinky feet like Simon’s and sprayed Body Mist in their shoes every day like he did, and if they did, had they, like him, ever got it wrong and accidentally used oven cleaner? Their laughter and his blushes had been such a horribly satisfying reward.