My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘I can’t find the light switch,’ says Mum, feeling her way along the wall. I hadn’t thought to mention the lack of electricity. There’s a kerosene lamp on the table and a box of matches. I light a match and lift the glass and after a splutter the lamp leaps into life. By its illumination we find we’re in a rough wood room, bare except for a bench, a table and a broken chair.

  ‘Is this your father’s idea of a joke?’ demands Mum.

  ‘No, honestly, I think Dad would love it here. The guy who owns it really likes to “get away from it all”.’

  ‘Might’ve been a better idea if he’d brought some of it with him,’ commented Mum. ‘So where’s the bathroom?’

  I open a door at the back which leads to a pantry with a stone sink in it.

  ‘It must be upstairs.’

  There’s a ladder that leads to a kind of platform which seems to be the bedroom. At least there are two mattresses on the floor.

  ‘It’s not up here either,’ I report.

  ‘But it must be,’ says Mum. ‘Mustn’t it?’ she adds as the terrible truth sinks in. There is no bathroom.

  ‘I think there’s a loo outside,’ I say.

  ‘But where’s the shower?’

  ‘Dad said there’s a lake.’

  ‘Ugghh! Ugghh! Ugghh!’ says Mum, sitting herself down on the stairs. ‘I do NOT believe this.’

  12.00 midnight

  I got some water from the pump so at least we could have a wash. We have both washed. We have eaten what was left of the lunch from the coolbox and we are laid out on the mattresses, which are dry and clean and have sheets and blankets.

  We’ve even sampled the ‘facilities’ and Mum is still recovering from her encounter with the spider webs. The spiders round here must be gargantuan – you could knit argyle sweaters with their webs.

  Brandy has been tempted out of the car by a bowl of dog food and is now lying between our two mattresses, exuding a welcome kind of doggy heat.

  ‘We’re leaving soon as it’s light,’ is the last thing Mum says before she swallows a couple of sleeping pills and falls asleep.

  Friday 20th June, 7.30 a.m.

  Paradise!

  I wake and lie listening to the sounds outside: birdsong, the wind in the trees, the occasional scuffle of pine martens(?) in the roof. These are all lost on Mum, who is dead to the world with her eye mask on and her earplugs in.

  Our ‘bedroom’ has two tiny windows that go down to floor level. These are closed by little wooden shutters that I can reach from my mattress. I lever them open and find I’m looking straight out on the most breathtaking view.

  A rocky path leads down between the pines to a lake shrouded in early morning mist. There’s a jetty with a wooden canoe moored to it. The sun is already warm on my face and the air smells deliciously of fresh pine and herbs.

  I leave Mum sleeping, throw on my clothes and take Brandy for a run. Once outside he goes plunging ahead of me down the path towards the lake. I lose sight of him as he lumbers round a corner and then hear a gigantic SPLASH!

  Oh my God, he’s fallen in the lake! Dad will never forgive me if he drowns. I am trying to remember the instructions for resuscitation and wondering whether the same applies to dogs when I round the bend and see Brandy swimming strongly out into the lake. He’s after a floating branch and having secured it, he turns and swims back with a great doggy grin on his face. He climbs out and shakes himself, sending a rainbow shower of water over me, then lies on his back with his legs in the air rolling on the beach. It seems we have reached dog heaven.

  There’s a great flat rock that overhangs the water. It’s already warm from the sun. Brandy and I stretch out on it and stare down into the water. The lake is so clear we can see fish swimming through a waving forest of weed far below. I turn over on my back and stare up into a sky that is a clear forget-me-not blue. Not a cloud to be seen. The sun is rising and it’s getting hotter by the minute. It’s going to be a perfect day.

  The perfection is disturbed by the sound of footsteps. Mum appears, stumbling unevenly on platfom espadrilles. She’s holding her hand to her head. ‘Oh my God it’s bright out here! Have you seen my sunglasses?’

  ‘They’re in the car, I think.’

  ‘I could kill for a shower.’

  ‘There’s always the lake. Brandy’s already been in.’

  ‘Is that meant to be a recommendation?’

  ‘It’s cold. But it’s lovely and clear.’

  Mum came and joined us on the rock and stared down into the water.

  ‘But there’s plants and things living in there!’

  ‘I know, but they’re way down. We can swim over them.’

  ‘What if there are crabs or octopuses or something in those weeds?’

  ‘You don’t get crabs or octopuses in lakes. Only fish.’

  ‘They might bite.’

  ‘Mum, fish don’t bite people. They’re too busy swimming away.’

  Mum bends down and fills her hands with water and dips her face in.

  ‘Oh, that’s better,’ she says. Then she walks to the edge of the rock and stares out over the lake with her arms crossed.

  ‘It’s so quiet here,’ she says. ‘I can’t remember when I’ve heard quiet like this. It’s kind of eerie.’

  ‘No cars, no phones, no people hassling us,’ I add.

  ‘I think there’s an island out there,’ says Mum, screwing up her eyes.

  ‘We could go in the canoe and have a picnic.’

  ‘But we haven’t any food left,’ says Mum dreamily. ‘We’d have to buy some.’

  ‘Mum? I thought we were leaving?’

  Mum turned and gave me a smile. ‘Maybe we could stay just one day.’

  ‘Oh thank you!’

  ‘I guess they must have a supermarket somewhere round here.’

  ‘OK, I’ll make a list,’ I say.

  ‘I do hope they have fresh blueberries. I don’t like to go a day without. They’re anti-carcinogenic.’

  11.30 a.m., Pookhamsee General Store

  We have to drive thirty miles before we find a town. At the entrance I note signs directing us to two drive-thru fast-food restaurants.

  My tummy rumbles despondently as the first one hoves into sight. Naturally, we’re not drivin’ thru, we’re drivin’ past. I catch tantalising glimpses of people happily dipping into packs of hot french fries and squidgy burgers and yummy, thick milk shakes . . .

  ‘Mu-um?’

  But Mum has a set expression on her face. We are NOT going to ‘ruin’ our ‘authentic log cabin experience’ by consuming processed foods.

  Instead, after searching through countless sad little streets of single-storey dwellings, we come across Pookhamsee General Store.

  The woman behind the counter is wearing size twenty Levi’s and an outsize T-shirt with ‘The Simpsons’ printed on it. She looks as if she spends most of her life happily drivin’ thru and tuckin’ in. She eyes Mum and me with the wary look of someone not used to ‘furriners’ in her store.

  ‘And what can I do for you today?’ she asks, leaning on the counter chewing gum.

  ‘Oh hi!’ says Mum, brandishing our list. ‘We’ve got all the stuff we need written down. It’s mostly fruit and vegetables.’ She hands the list over.

  The woman reads down it, sucking her breath past her gum. She turns slowly and casts a knowing glance along her shelves.

  I’ve been having a look round. I haven’t seen much in the way of fresh fruit or veg – apart from a couple of grapefruit dimpled with age and some blackened bananas. But I guess she keeps the fresh stuff out back in a chiller cabinet or something.

  ‘Veg-e-tables,’ says the woman, spelling out the syllables as if this is some strange new word. ‘Well, I can do beans . . .’ She reaches down a can of baked beans and slams it on the counter.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ says Mum. ‘It’s fresh vegetables I want, not cooked in tomatoey ketchuppy stuff.’

  ‘Fresh beans?’
says the woman, as if we’re asking for caviar or something. (That’s further down the list.)

  ‘Everything fresh. I’m on this diet, you see . . .’

  This is not exactly tactful in the circumstances. The woman eyes Mum’s body up and down, vainly searching for a stray bit of surplus flesh.

  ‘And what kind of diet would that be?’ she asks suspiciously.

  ‘Well, as diets go, it’s really simple,’ says Mum, launching into her ‘Diet according to Saint Kandhi’ sermon. (If Mum thinks she has a convert on her hands, she is SO-OO wrong.) ‘You just keep to raw foods, you see . . .’

  The woman shifts her gum over to the other side of her mouth.

  ‘Raw?’ she asks uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Raw . . . fresh . . . food . . .’ says Mum, as if she’s trying to communicate with someone hard of hearing. She’s fast losing her cool.

  I am starting to squirm with embarrassment.

  ‘Mum,’ I pull at her sleeve. ‘I don’t think they stock fresh food apart from . . .’ I point out the fruit.

  ‘What is that fruit?’ demands Mum.

  ‘Why, that’s grapefruit, ma-am.’

  ‘Is it?’ (I don’t think Mum’s recently seen grapefruit that isn’t all cut round and perfectly segmented by Thierry.) ‘I’ll take them,’ says Mum. ‘And you must at least have some salad or something.’

  The lady calls out the back: ‘Hal!’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Lady here wants some salad.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hal!’

  ‘What is it, Ma?’

  ‘You get out here and take the lady round to Barney’s patch – she wants salad.’

  There’s a sound of creaking bedsprings and Hal comes out. He’s as gaunt and spare as his ma is large. He eyes my mum thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, howdy!’ he says.

  ‘Salad,’ says Mum, still in her ‘I’m-trying-to-communicate-with-deaf-imbeciles’ tone of voice. ‘And anything else you might have that doesn’t have additives or preservatives or anything else toxic in it.’

  ‘You’ll be meaning organic?’ says Hal, who’s starting to get her drift.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, ma-am, you don’t get more organic than Barney’s patch.’ He’s leading us round the back of the shop.

  Mum and I follow. Out at the back, between the rusting hulk of a Cadillac and a pile of tyres, there’s a patch of soil with some vegetables growing in it. There’s an old boy sitting on an oil drum under a tree. He’s pointed out to us as Barney. He looks like he dates back to a time when if you needed food, you grew it.

  Mum stares at the patch with a creased brow. This is nature in the raw, attached to the soil – nothing like the stuff you get on assorted salad platters.

  Hal takes out a pocket knife and opens it. As a mark of respect to Mum he wipes it on his jeans, then bends down and chops off a lettuce. He passes it to Mum.

  ‘That’s as fresh as you’ll get round here,’ he says.

  ‘And how about some of that parsley . . .’ says Mum, indicating towards some fluffy leaves wiffling in the breeze.

  ‘That ain’t parsley, that’s carrots,’ calls out Barney.

  ‘How clever of you. We’ll have some of those too. What else have you got?’

  ‘I got beets . . .’ says Barney.

  ‘No, Mum . . . we don’t need . . .’ (Beetroot!)

  ‘Fine. Good. We’ll take some of those too.’

  Back in the shop Mum also buys some salad oil and vinegar and tinned dog food for Brandy.

  While we were out the back the woman has warmed to Mum’s raw food idea and has started to think laterally. She’s found some packs of nuts and sunflower seeds, and Mum adds a great big tub of yogurt and a couple of litres of milk. I’m wondering if I can sneak in some Lucky Charms or potato chips or Snickers while she isn’t looking, but I’m feeling faint with hunger by now and in no fit state to be devious.

  Back at the cabin we stagger into the kitchen with our produce. I think Mum’s hungry too. She’s gone rather quiet.

  I’m sent to pump water while Mum dismembers the lettuce.

  As I’m filling the bucket there’s a muffled scream from the house. I find Mum with a knife in her hand, backing off from the salad.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s like squirmy things in it.’

  I look. There are three eelworms and a minuscule slug.

  ‘Why don’t I do the lettuce and you do the grapefruit?’ I suggest. ‘You know, segment it, like Thierry does.’

  ‘OK, if you’re sure you know what you’re doing.’

  I repatriate the eelworms and the slug to the great outdoors and wash the lettuce.

  Mum, meanwhile, is standing over the chopping board looking confused.

  ‘There’s something wrong with this grapefruit,’ she says.

  ‘It’s probably just old.’

  ‘No, it’s all different inside. It doesn’t have those little triangles like it’s meant to.’

  I peer over her shoulder and identify the cause of the problem. Instead of cutting the grapefruit round its equator, Mum’s taken a North/South axis and encountered the segments sideways on.

  2.00 p.m., on the island

  We’d rowed out to the island with our ‘meal’, complete with fishing rods and swimming costumes.

  The salad wasn’t bad. I put lots of nuts and sunflower seeds in it. The carrots were sweet but kind of gritty. I think maybe we should’ve peeled them. To my relief, I was let off the beetroot – even Mum couldn’t chomp her way through that raw.

  Once we’d finished eating we stretched out on the beach sunbathing.

  ‘Honestly, Mum,’ I said as I rubbed suntan lotion into her back. ‘What did you and Dad do for food before you got famous?’

  ‘Eggs,’ said Mum after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We lived on eggs. There was this poultry farm near the trailer park. They sold the eggs that were odd shapes off cheap. I could do eggs every which way. Never been able to touch them since.’

  ‘Was that before I was born?’

  ‘Yeah. I was only a kid myself. Sixteen when I met your dad.’

  ‘You were only three years older than me.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Wasn’t very bright of me, was it?’

  ‘Who cares – if you really loved him.’

  Mum stretched out with a sigh.

  ‘I worshipped him. I thought he was a god. The greatest genius that ever lived.’

  ‘So what changed?’

  Mum turned over and stared up into the sky. ‘I grew up, I guess. I found out he was only an ordinary human being like everyone else. And I couldn’t take the disappointment.’

  ‘But he was a genius, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was holding me back,’ said Mum with a frown. ‘I could see the way forward. I was going to dig my way out of that mobile home if it killed me. You’ve no idea what it was like. People rowing next door sounding like they were in the trailer, you screaming, no money – you don’t want to know about it.’

  She turned on to her front and closed her eyes.

  I did want to know about it, but I could tell that Mum didn’t want to talk any longer. She fell asleep after that.

  I contented myself with playing with Brandy, throwing sticks for him as far as I could into the lake.

  After half an hour or so Mum must’ve woken up. She came over to me fiddling with her mobile.

  ‘What’s happened? I can’t seem to make it work,’ she said.

  I looked over her shoulder. ‘You’re not getting a signal, that’s why. It must be because of the mountains.’

  Mum looked at me with big horrified eyes. ‘You mean we’re out of contact?’

  ‘Mum, what do you think people did before they had phones?’

  ‘But what if someone’s trying to get hold of me? To make a decision or something?’

  ‘Vix can deal with it. You’re supposed to be on vacation. Whatever it is can wait.’

&
nbsp; She stared at me. ‘You know something? You’re right.’

  ‘No phones, no people, no decisions. Think about it.’

  A slow grin spread over her face. ‘Jeez, you’re right!’

  ‘You up for a swim?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I guess since there isn’t a gym, I’d better do something . . .’

  ‘OK, last one in the water is a –’

  I didn’t have time to finish the sentence as Mum was already plunging in ahead of me.

  Ten minutes later Mum, Brandy and I were swimming way out in the lake. After the first shock of the plunge in, the water was heavenly. I have to say this for her – all those workouts Mum does keep her pretty fit. She easily outpaced Brandy and me. When we reached her she was floating on her back staring up into the sky.

  ‘Heaven!’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘Mmm, it is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe we should stay another night.’

  We spent the rest of the afternoon fishing from the shore. Now you’d think fishing would be against my principles, but I revised my principles as the day wore on due to hunger. By evening my principles had subtly switched from ‘no killing innocent animals’ to ‘no killing innocent animals unless to eat in times of real need’.

  Just as we were about to give up and paddle back, Mum’s fishing line went taut.

  ‘Oh my God! I’ve caught something!’ she squealed. ‘What do I do now?’

  I hadn’t seen her this excited since she got her first platinum disc.

  We could see the fish thrashing around. It was a big one. Back and forth it went, dragging the line with it. We both stood on the beach feeling helpless. I’d always thought of fishing as a nice peaceful outdoor activity. The reality of actually having to haul out a live fish and kill it was something else.

  This dilemma was solved by Brandy, who swam out and brought the fish back in his jaws. He dropped it at my feet. It was dead. And it was a salmon.

  Mum came and joined me. ‘Do you think if we sliced it thin, we could make sushi?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t you have to smoke salmon for sushi?’

  Mum shrugged. ‘I guess we could build a fire.’