The Last Road Trip

by Gareth Crocker

  As they reached the desk, the youngster slipped a stud-encrusted ear out of the headset. Although he didn’t say anything, his blank expression implied that he deigned it acceptable for them to speak.

  ‘Hey there,’ Jack said, reading the name on the desk. ‘Henry?’

  ‘Shit no,’ he sneered.

  Rosie, whose wit was rapidly returning to her, stepped forward. ‘Is Henry the name of the desk then? Is this a Henry desk?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget it. Who is Henry? Your uncle? Father?’

  ‘Stepfather,’ he said, frowning. ‘I’m Bradley.’

  ‘Right, Bradley,’ Jack continued. ‘So do you have anything available for us? We’d like four rooms if possible.’

  Bradley’s eyes travelled down to Pilot. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’ll stay with me,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘If that’s all right.’

  Bradley shrugged in the way unique to sullen teenagers. ‘Whatever.’ He then ran his tongue over the stud in his bottom lip and sniffed loudly.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ Rosie said. ‘Nice one. I think you got most of it.’

  Bradley ignored the jibe and swept an arm out in the direction of the key box. There were keys hanging from every hook. ‘There’re always rooms available here.’

  ‘That so?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  He looked around at the rest of the group as though the answer were startlingly obvious to everyone but her. ‘Because this place is a class-A shithole. In case you didn’t notice on your way in, the whole town’s a shithole.’

  Having no desire to argue the town’s merits or lack thereof, Jack waited a moment. ‘So how about those rooms?’

  Bradley murmured something to himself before reaching back and extracting four sets of keys. ‘No air con. No showers. No television. But these probably suck the least.’

  After Elizabeth had volunteered to fill out the necessary paperwork, Bradley pointed them to their rooms. As they gathered their luggage, Rosie turned to the young man. ‘Can we check out any time we like?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But we can never leave? Isn’t that right, Bradley?’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I know.’

  After a short nap, Jack decided he could do with some exercise before dinner. Heading downstairs, he was pleased to see that Bradley was no longer at the front desk. Instead, his chair was now occupied by who he assumed was the boy’s stepfather, Henry.

  Before Jack could offer a greeting, the man was on his feet and halfway around the desk. ‘Good afternoon. Welcome to The California.’

  ‘Fan of the song or band?’

  ‘Both,’ he said, holding out a hand. Almost completely bald, he was tall with bright green eyes and had a grip that was evidence of a life lived outdoors. ‘Henry Sidwell. Good to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise. Jack Everson.’

  ‘Hope my stepson gave you at least a half-decent welcome.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He was fine.’

  Reading between the lines, Henry held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry about that. His mother dragged him out here six months ago and, well, he hasn’t quite forgiven us yet. We’re a new family.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t hold your breath for too long.’

  ‘You’re probably right. I’m hoping he meets a pretty girl in town. That would get us off the hook. At least for a while. Anyway, enough of that. I see that you’re a party of four,’ he said, and then glanced down at Pilot. ‘Four and a half. Are you here to unwind or just passing through?’

  ‘Both, actually.’

  ‘Good. Good. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask. Anything at all.’

  ‘Actually, there are a couple of things,’ Jack began. ‘I read that the town has an old cinema. Is that right?’

  ‘The Galaxy,’ Henry beamed. ‘Fifty-three years old. The most charming theatre for a thousand miles in any direction. No question about it. It runs every weekend, whether there are customers or not. Unfortunately, you’ve come at a bad time. It’s closed for a couple weeks for some minor restoration work.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a real pity. My friend Elizabeth and I were really hoping to watch something tonight.’

  Henry’s eyes narrowed as he thought for a moment. ‘I tell you what. Leave it with me and let me see what I can do.’

  ‘Do you know the owner?’

  ‘Yes. Very well.’

  ‘Is he a reasonable guy?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll have a chat with him. See if maybe he’ll open up for you guys.’

  ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble. I don’t want to—’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be no trouble at all. What sort of film would you like to see?’

  ‘What do you mean? Can we choose?’

  ‘Yes, of course. There’s a storage room behind the cinema with hundreds of old reels.’

  ‘Well, I don’t really know. What about something old and classic? If, of course, the owner’s willing to accommodate us. Please tell the owner that we’re more than willing to pay for the privilege. Whatever it takes.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it,’ Jack said. He was about to leave when he remembered the reason he was standing there in the first place. ‘Sorry, Henry, is there anywhere to swim around here? A public pool maybe?’

  ‘There was one, but I’m afraid it’s fallen into disrepair. Water shortages saw to that about three years ago. However, there’s a nice dam about two kilometres outside of town. It even has its own little island. Quite a special place, you’ll find.’

  ‘And I can swim there?’

  ‘Of course. And the water’s very clean. You can drink it if you like.’

  Henry quickly offered up directions – which involved little more than one right turn at a windmill followed by two left turns – before looking down at Pilot. ‘There’s something particularly wonderful about old Labradors, isn’t there? What’s his name?’

  ‘Pilot.’

  The Labrador’s ears pricked up at the sound of his name and his tail began to sweep across the floor.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Not really sure. Probably about my age.’

  The grey hair around Pilot’s eyes all but twinkled in the bright afternoon sun.

  ‘Is he yours?’

  ‘Sort of. I’m one of the owners. The four of us … well, we kind of inherited him,’ Jack replied, and then waved a hand. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Sounds like a good one.’

  ‘Actually,’ Jack said, running his index finger along the bridge of Pilot’s nose, ‘it’s not half bad.’

  Thirty-three

  Despite the still-blistering late-afternoon sun, the dam was surprisingly cold. So cold, in fact, that Jack struggled to draw breath at first. As he waded out from the shade of an old riverine tree, large ripples emanated from his arms and fingers, fracturing the calm surface. Now with a full view of the dam, he lifted his head and tried to work out how vast it was. It was already much larger than he had anticipated. As his eyes panned across the horizon, he noticed the small island that Henry had mentioned. As islands went, there wasn’t much that was particularly noteworthy about it. A small nondescript bump of grassy mud – no larger than a tennis court – that rose up barely a yard above the water. It would hardly have been worthy of a second look, were it not for one of the most remarkable embellishments Jack had ever seen.

  In the centre of the island stood a crudely fashioned sculpture of what appeared to be an enormous stick man. Painted entirely white, the giant figure was at least five metres tall and looked as though it had been copied directly from a third-grader’s chalkboard. At first glance, it appeared rather sweet and endearing, but the longer Jack looked at it, the more bizarre it seemed.

  What the hell is it? he thought. And why is it?

  Immediately deciding that it was worthy o
f further investigation, he began to swim for the island. He was just getting into his stroke when he got the feeling he was no longer alone in the dam. Treading water, he turned around. And, sure enough, his instincts were right – he wasn’t alone. Ignoring his somewhat explicit instruction to remain on the bank, Pilot was now swimming out after him, his black head bobbing exuberantly from side to side.

  ‘Pilot! What’re you doing?’ he called back.

  The Labrador barked at him, seemingly proud of his insubordination.

  Concerned that the dog might soon run out of steam, Jack turned back and swam out to meet him. But as he closed the gap, it was obvious that Pilot was no stranger to water.

  ‘I’m guessing Albert had a pool,’ Jack called out. ‘A big one.’

  Pilot licked his chops and pulled up alongside Jack.

  ‘Think you can make it to the island?’

  Pilot snapped his teeth at the water and then began to drink, mid-swim.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. All right, let’s go,’ Jack said, kicking forward.

  Within a few minutes they were trudging through the thick and sticky silt that surrounded the island. Apart from a light smattering of veld grass, the place was empty save for the extraordinary wooden man looming over them.

  As they moved towards it, Jack realised it was even taller than he had initially thought. The top of the figure was at least seven or even eight metres off the ground, and it was built entirely of wooden gum poles, lashed together with rope. The legs were each four gum poles thick, eight for the torso, while the arms – drooping down like old tree branches – were single poles bolted together. The fingers were made of bamboo shafts. The neck was a sawn-off gum pole, on top of which sat an old beer keg. Although the paint had faded, Jack could just about make out the markings of a pair of eyes and a smiling mouth. On the whole, it looked as if it had been thrown together in double-quick time. Yet, and despite its odd appearance, Jack could now sense a certain warmth about it. Whoever had painted its face had done so to convey an expression of benevolence. Of kindness, even.

  But why, Jack wondered, had someone gone to the great trouble of building something as peculiar as this? On an island? Halfway from the middle of nowhere?

  He was suddenly desperate to know the story behind the unlikely monument and would, he decided, interrogate Henry about it the minute he got back to town. He was surprised that the hotel owner hadn’t mentioned it to him in the first place.

  Walking under and between the stick man’s legs, Jack searched the area for clues – a small plaque perhaps – that would shine a light on the mystery. But there was nothing around him but mud, grass and wet Labrador.

  While Jack rubbed his fingers against the flaking wood, he thought about the town. The quaint hotel with its quirky name. The fifty-year-old cinema that would apparently run its films regardless of whether or not anyone was watching. And now this, a childlike rendering made real.

  It all felt too unreal to be true. Like the plot of an embellished fireside tale, it seemed beyond the realms of possibility.

  Which served only to intrigue Jack all the more.

  Thirty-four

  An hour later, Jack was standing outside the hotel. Reaching down with his towel, he did his best to mop up the mud from Pilot’s legs and paws. When he felt the Labrador was clean enough, he straightened up and headed for the entrance.

  ‘Good swim?’ Henry asked, looking up from his newspaper. ‘Were you surprised by how cold the water was?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’d say that was easily the second most surprising part of the afternoon.’

  Henry smiled at that. Then he closed his newspaper and got to his feet. ‘Sorry about that, Jack. I don’t know why, but I thought it better that you discover it for yourself.’

  He made his way around the counter and gestured for Jack to join him on the couch that looked out over the front of the hotel. As they sat down, Henry considered how to begin. ‘It’s a remarkable story, Jack. But it’s not exactly light listening. I need to be upfront with you about that.’

  ‘OK,’ Jack replied. ‘That’s all right. I still want to hear it, if it’s all the same to you.’

  While Pilot settled down between the two men, Henry leaned over, patted the dog and began. ‘His name was Klaus Drescher. German, obviously. In his early forties. He owned a farm outside town where he lived with his young daughter. Nobody really knows what happened to his wife. Some people believe she died some years before, but I don’t have any real idea. Anyway, Klaus was a shy man and spoke very little English. As a consequence, few people in town ever really spent much time with him. But, in spite of that, he had a general sort of warmth about him that people responded well to. Over the years I hardly said more than a few words to him myself and yet I found myself liking him very much.’

  Jack nodded and waited for Henry to continue.

  ‘I can still see his little girl. Daniela,’ he said. ‘Klaus used to call her Danny. Beautiful little thing. Six years old. All blonde hair and big eyes. She never just walked anywhere, she was always running or skipping at her father’s side. Such a happy little girl.’

  Henry’s gaze narrowed as he pictured the child.

  ‘So one day Danny gets sick. Very sick. Klaus calls out a doctor and is told she has the flu. She’s ordered to stay in bed. Drink lots of fluids, that sort of thing. But after a week she isn’t getting any better. The doctor is called for again and, once more, Klaus is told that it’s just persistent flu and that he need not be overly concerned. Over the next few days, Klaus stays at her bedside, checking her temperature, making sure that she’s eating and drinking enough. Sleeping only when she sleeps. You get the picture. Then, one evening, while Danny’s fighting another fever, Klaus reads her a story about a magical white tree man who lives on an island. Apparently, it’s an old German folk story that’s been told to children for generations. Anyway, this tree man is some sort of natural healer and a protector of children – a patron of a kind, I suppose. The story goes that any child who sees the white tree man will be kept safe from harm and cured from whatever illness is plaguing them. Of course, when little Danny hears the story, she begs her father to take her to see the tree man so that she can get better.’

  Henry shook his head and Jack could see the emotion pressing on his lips. ‘Poor Klaus. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t real. So he did the only thing he felt he could. He made it real. He went out and built the tree man for her.’

  Jack felt an ache in his chest.

  ‘He got his neighbour’s wife to watch over Danny for a few hours at a time. It took him about four or five days, I think. When it was complete, he drove her out to the dam to show it to her.’

  Henry’s voice faltered slightly and he wiped a hand across his face.

  ‘The neighbour found Klaus at the dam some hours later. He was sitting on the bank holding little Danny in his arms. But she was gone. Nobody knows if she ever got to see what her father had made for her. I really hope she did. You know? I really do.’

  Henry took a moment before finishing the story.

  ‘It wasn’t flu. It was meningitis. The doctor who misdiagnosed her left town soon afterwards. We never heard from him again.’

  ‘What happened to Klaus?’ Jack said, in something close to a whisper.

  ‘He took his own life the week after Danny’s funeral. Left a note behind. Just one word: Zuhause.’

  Jack stared back at him.

  ‘Home.’

  For a long while neither man said anything.

  ‘Once we knew the story, nobody in town had the heart to take down Klaus’s creation. In fact, every year a few of us head out to the island to paint it. We light a candle. Say a prayer. I don’t know … it just seems like the right thing to do. It’s become something special to a lot of us. Almost sacred. Part of the town’s history. Even the youngsters seem to respect it. It’s never been vandalised or marked with any graffiti. Which, in itself, is quite something.’<
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  There was a further silence and Jack could feel his pulse beating in the side of his neck.

  ‘You see, Jack, that’s the difference between the big cities and places like this. What Klaus did here, he could never have done in a city. And even if he did, some official would see that it was pulled down in a matter of days. Here, we do more than just stop it from being destroyed. We lift it up. We honour it.’

  Thirty-five

  ‘It’s almost time for your big date,’ Rosie announced, lying stretched out on Elizabeth’s bed. Even though the sun was only just setting, Rosie had already showered and was in her nightgown.

  ‘You’re hysterical. You know that?’

  ‘You’d make a lovely couple.’

  ‘We’re just friends, Rosie. End of story.’

  Rosie slipped her hands under her head and stared up at the ceiling. She watched as the ancient fan wheezed and wobbled uncertainly, doing its best to cut through the last of the day’s heat. ‘You’re in that sort of twilight between friendship and a relationship. Even if you don’t mean it to be that way. That’s just how it is. Nothing you can do about it. Not a thing. After all, one can’t control what the heart wants.’

  Elizabeth was unpacking her bag. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Oh, take it easy. I’m just saying there’s something bigger than friendship between the pair of you. Even if you’re too scared to admit it to yourself.’

  As Elizabeth knelt down on the carpet, she gathered her words. ‘I’ve never met any man more in love with his wife than Jack. What they had was obviously very rare.’

  ‘I don’t mean to sound callous here,’ Rosie began, ‘but Grace is gone. She’s been gone for a long time.’

  ‘Not to Jack she isn’t. She’s still very much with him.’

  ‘And if Grace had never been in Jack’s life? What then?’

  ‘Rosie, please. This is a ridiculous conversation. Let’s change the subject, shall we?’

  ‘OK, fine,’ Rosie replied, holding up her hands in mock surrender. ‘Do you at least know what’s waiting for Jack in Cape Town?’