by Sarah Jasmon
Charlie watched as she fluttered up to the man, throwing her arms around him. He gave a shout of approval and dragged her with him on his progress to the other side of the boat. She’d left her sun cream on the deck. Charlie picked the bottle up and turned to call after her, but she’d already gone. After a moment, Charlie flipped open the lid and squeezed a bit out. It was light, smelling of oranges, and it absorbed into her skin with expensive speed. She’d keep hold of it in case she saw Freya again as they disembarked. She already felt this to be unlikely. Travellers came and went, leaving just a surface impression. The scent of the sun cream would last longer than most relationships out here. It wasn’t a negative any more. The weight had lifted, and even the heat seemed to be less oppressive. She would go back, take Bella, make a new start. A new life, without the disapproving voices always in her head.
TWO
Charlie stayed in her place as the boat docked. The calm sense of a clear decision made speed unnecessary, and she watched with detachment as the first wave of passengers disembarked below, crowding in a noisy flood along the concrete jetty. They all had somewhere to get to. She was the last to pass through the car deck, though the space still seemed to reverberate from the revving of truck engines and scooters, and the smell of diesel and packed bodies lingered. A couple of crew members were pulling at ropes. The heat was solid in the dim, stinking space, and the men were both shirtless, dripping with perspiration. They ignored Charlie as she made her way past.
The minibus ride was hot and cramped, and brought her nausea rolling back. As she lurched against her neighbour at every turn, trying to block out the wailing child and the smell of somebody’s bad stomach, she lost track of her new resolutions. It was mid-afternoon by the time they reached the city, and the heat seemed to have doubled down. In a daze, she walked as far as the nearest train station and stood there, hair and clothing both plastered down in the humidity, with the realization that she had no cash left, no way to buy a ticket. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Always have enough money to get back from wherever you’re going. The words, slipping into her head in her mother’s voice, made her pause. When had they been said? As she began to walk again, she sifted through memories, trying to pin the moment down. She could hear them so clearly, whispered in a furious undertone, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what had caused them to be said. She and Eleanor had been biddable children, well-behaved adolescents. Before she left for university, Charlie had pushed the odd boundary: a party in the village, or the illicit glamour of smoking behind the bus shelter after dark. A stone thrown at her sister’s window was always enough to get in, though, and Eleanor had always covered for her, tight with disapproval but knowing that not doing it would make it worse for everyone. Had her mother known about those nights? Charlie had never asked.
Her sandals slapped on the pavement, matching the beating of her head, and suddenly the moment came to her in excruciating technicolour detail, the damp chill of a Derbyshire afternoon taking over from the crowded noise of the Bangkok street. There had been some disagreement, an arbitrary line crossed, and her father had forbidden her and Eleanor to leave the house. As usual her mother had stayed in the background, a pale and insubstantial presence as their father’s shouting had wound itself down, until the house was silent, tingling slightly with the tension that only her father could bring. And Eleanor had chosen to defy him, one of the few times she ever had. Charlie had watched her slip out from the back of the house as she’d sat in her room, shaking with that mix of anger and fear and shame at being afraid.
Eleanor hadn’t been back in time for tea, nor well into the evening. The atmosphere as they’d waited to hear something had been thick, nauseating. At what point would they have called the police? She was pretty sure no steps had been taken by the time Eleanor had finally stumbled in, wet and exhausted. Now Charlie could imagine the thoughts that must surely have been building in her parents’ minds, but back then the worst thing she’d imagined was that Eleanor had run away. She’d felt a fleeting sense of envy, even, dimmed by her sister’s reappearance but remaining as a fragment of possibility. There had been explanations, of a missed bus or not enough money for the bus leading to a long walk home, Charlie couldn’t remember which now. Then there had been a prolonged lecture about obedience and thoughtlessness, and causing your parents to worry, and through it all Eleanor had somehow remained impervious, sliding away from saying why she’d gone in the first place.
It was this that Charlie had been thinking about, in the aftermath of the recriminations and the weight of spent anger. She could remember it so clearly, lying in her bed unable to sleep and wondering what had happened to her sister to give her that sense of distance. She didn’t think she’d imagined that it was a boy, though over the following summer Jon would become part of the household in such minimal stages that he was a fixture before anyone really noticed. And she’d pictured herself running away, the first in a progression of fantasy enactments which would last until she left home for university. In the middle of it, way after midnight, her mother had come in, without explanation, to whisper those words. Always have enough money to get back from wherever you’re going. She hadn’t responded, hadn’t paused to wonder why her mother had felt the need to share that piece of wisdom at that time. And it was an interesting choice of words. Why not enough money to get home, Charlie thought now, coming back to the noise of people and traffic, the hot grease of the street food stalls and the fumes of the scooters and tuk tuks. Had she seen what Charlie was thinking, known how little she wanted to be where she was? Maybe she, Charlie, should have listened more carefully.
Mrs Yee was sitting by the door as usual, either asleep or feigning it, Charlie could never be quite sure. Her plastic chair had been positioned an hour or so before to be in the shade, but the sun was far enough around now to be catching her face. Soon she would give up and go inside to bang things around in the tiny kitchen. Charlie paused a couple of metres short, trying to judge her chances of getting past without being noticed. She couldn’t face awkward questions just now, and she especially didn’t want to get into a conversation about rent. With extreme caution, she edged her way past. She was nearly inside when the tiny head snapped round.
‘Hey, you!’ Charlie stopped, waiting for one of her two standard phrases: You eat now? Where money? Instead, the little figure struggled up and limped over. ‘You phone home, OK? You phone quick.’ She carried on past, muttering to herself, before stopping again, darting another quick look around. ‘This not answering service. You tell!’
Charlie followed her inside, feeling a faint stirring of worry in the pit of her stomach, like an early twinge of period pain. Maybe that was all it was. Automatically she began to calculate dates, her mind using the action to distract itself from the issue at hand. She knew, of course, that a call couldn’t be for anything less than a genuine emergency. Her own mobile was dead, its screen smashed from a pavement drop some weeks ago. She’d never given anyone the number to the boarding house, had not, in fact, even known there was a number to call. Which meant that whoever wanted her would have had to go through the language school for her address, and then convince them to look up the number. That amount of effort wouldn’t be for good news. The kitchen door was about to swing shut, and nobody had ever been able to get Mrs Yee to come out once she was in there. ‘Mrs Yee, can I use the phone here?’ Her voice was a croak.
The closing door paused. Then, ‘You pay rent, I give phone.’
She went to an internet café in the end. She had a voucher, something that had been sitting in her bag for days, offering a free twenty minutes of computer time with a complimentary drink. Her sister – and it had to be Eleanor – was practical and would have tried every way possible to contact her. There would be an email, with a rebuke about keeping in touch. A reminder about a birthday, or the passing on of something that she thought might be important. That inbuilt habit of keeping her little sister out of trouble, however annoying she might be. As she
stood in the crowded café, waiting to catch the attendant’s eye, Charlie tried to remember the last time she’d checked her emails. She realized with a pang of guilt that it had been a couple of weeks. She could feel her justifications crowding in for space. There’d been nothing to talk about, no news to pass on. And they could go for weeks not being in contact back in normal life, in England. She’d had no reason to suppose there was anything going on. It would be nothing, a false alarm. Underneath, her thoughts were of Bella. Run away, run over, lost, dying. Please, not that.
The computer was slow, the keys still slightly slippery from the previous user’s touch. Charlie fidgeted as it churned through its process, almost spilling the over-brewed coffee that came with the booking. She was thirsty, probably dehydrated, but drinking that would make things worse, not better. There was no air-con, the stuffiness increased by the throng of users. Around her, the noise of a dozen languages swelled, the sound an almost physical mass. It was hard to tell if any of the seemingly intimate groupings had been friends for years, or if they’d only just met. In a swirl of good-humoured activity, they drank their coffee, updated their blogs, booked their next flights. The information-swapping, bragging and planning was relentless. Charlie remembered, as if from a great distance, how it had seemed so invigorating at the start of everything. Now she wanted to yell at them all to shut up, to give her some space. Then the email site finished loading, and she forgot that they were there at all.
The message, when she opened it, was short and to the point. Tried to call, Mum in hospital. You need to get back.
Her first reaction was irritation. The email made it sound as if Charlie was just down the road, that she could get on a bus and be there in no time, that she was being unreasonable not being there already. Charlie felt the din around her recede, as if she was somehow in a bubble. Her hands, way down in front of her, one set of fingers still wrapped around the mouse, seemed to belong to someone else entirely. She wasn’t being fair, she knew that. Eleanor would never leave a message so lacking in detail unless something was really wrong. She was scrupulous about information, about accuracy. And this message needed to be acknowledged.
Charlie tried to concentrate on breathing, taking a minute for long, slow inhales and exhales. What exactly is wrong? she typed. Maybe whatever had happened had resolved itself. And if it was serious, she needed to hold out here for a couple more days, put her pride aside to go and find Dan, make him pay her back. That would just about cover a flight. If she didn’t pay her rent before she left.
Eleanor must have been waiting, because her answer came almost immediately. They’re doing tests, but it doesn’t look good. You really should get back.
A voice came from behind. ‘You OK, mate?’
The sound made her jump, her arm catching again at the coffee cup, this time spilling the whole lot over her leg. She concentrated for a moment on mopping it up, trying to remember the man’s name. She knew him by sight, in the background at parties, but he wasn’t someone she’d ever particularly spoken to. Like her, he was older than the average traveller, maybe even late thirties. It was why she’d kind of avoided him. She hadn’t wanted to be stuck in some kind of age ghetto. She remembered being at a party soon after she’d arrived, overhearing an argument about who was in a band from the eighties. Someone, Kelly now she came to think of it, had giggled that they should ask that new one, you know, the oldie. Or Kitsch. It’s their time, after all. The name had stuck in her mind because of its unlikeliness. Why Kitsch? Something to do with his tattoos? Whatever, she really didn’t want to be dealing with anyone else right now. She spoke in a hurry, not quite looking far enough back to actually make eye contact. ‘No, I’m good.’ The computer screen had dropped into its screensaver mode, and she jabbed at the keyboard to keep it open but was too late. She’d have to put the password in again. Where had it gone? Her hands were shaking and she couldn’t think where to look. What was wrong with her?
Kitsch’s hand came over her shoulder, reaching for the puddle where the coffee had spilled. ‘Are you looking for this?’
She could make out the last few numbers, written in felt-tip in the counter girl’s round handwriting. The first couple were almost illegible, the ink spreading through the brown stain. Was that an H or an A? She tried them both. Nothing happened, and she banged at the table in frustration. Kitsch put a hand on her shoulder. She knew what would come next. Calm down. Not the end of the world. The air in the café was suffocating, the voices even more shrill than before. She pushed her chair back with a shove and ran for the door.
THREE
It wasn’t until she was down the street and stumbling past the first umbrella-shaded stalls of the market that she realized her bag was still in the café. Not that there was much in it: her empty purse, her room key. There wasn’t anything in her room that she’d miss anyway. The thought hit her, a depressing summary of her big adventure. All that money and time, and what did she have to show for it? She couldn’t really skip without paying, though as things stood, she couldn’t afford to either settle up or pay for a flight. She’d have to message Eleanor back, ask her for a loan. That would go down well. Though how was she going to do that, now that her free twenty minutes had run out? Damn Dan, damn Kelly, damn her stupid dream of a luxury beach resort. She pushed away the little voice that wished she was still there, ignorant of anything but the sun and the waves and lying around with no idea of dramas happening elsewhere. And then she remembered something worse. Her passport. In her bag. With a sob, she turned to go back, only for the street to swim in front of her as the route slipped and wobbled in her mind. It wouldn’t still be there anyway. Someone would have it, would probably be selling it on already. She felt a hand on her arm and twisted round, ready to belt whoever it was touching her up, or trying to steal whatever they thought she had. But it was Kitsch, holding her bag out with a grin.
He took her down a side street, leading her with enviable knowledge to a tiny square, sheltered from the sun and almost giving the impression of a cool breeze. There were spindly chairs lined up outside a small bar, and the space was filled with the sound of birdsong. He left her in a chair, her recovered bag held tightly on her knees, to return with two beers. Condensation ran down the sides of the bottle in front of her, hypnotic and unreal.
‘We’ve not been properly introduced. It’s Charlie, isn’t it?’ Kitsch held a hand out. ‘Kitch, short for Kitchener.’ Charlie shook the hand, trying to work out what he meant, and he clearly picked up on her expression. ‘Like the recruitment guy, you know, pointing finger, big moustache?’ He pointed at her, a stern look on his face. ‘Your country needs you!’
‘I did know your name.’ Charlie gave a slightly manic laugh. ‘I just thought it was because you were kitschy.’ She heard herself at the same time as he chuckled.
‘Cheers!’ He lifted his bottle in salute. ‘I’ll have to remember my plastic palm trees next time.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ She gave a wobbly laugh, feeling the tension leave her, if only for a moment. Her hand felt lightweight and insubstantial as she picked up the beer. ‘Thank you so much.’ She gave her bag a shake. ‘Losing this would have been a disaster.’ The other impossibilities in between her and home were still there, of course. She tried to put them in some sort of order, but they refused to settle down. One thought kept poking through. Phone Eleanor, ask for the money. She heard her father’s voice this time. Don’t go expecting us to bail you out. She was thirty, a responsible adult. How had she managed to get into this mess?
Kitch was taking a swallow of his own beer. ‘And so, Charlie,’ he said, the bottle back on the table, both of his hands loosely clasped around it. ‘What was bothering you in the café?’
He took over everything, leaving her in the square whilst he somehow managed to contact Dan and get him to talk a friend at the school into paying back what she was owed for the bungalow. And not just his share, but everyone’s, including Kelly’s. Then he went with her
to Mrs Yee’s, keeping the landlady occupied as Charlie went up to shove her belongings into her rucksack. The expression on the old lady’s face was positively playful as she gave Kitch an admonitory tap on the arm before taking Charlie’s payment with almost a smile. And then they’d gone to a hole-in-the-wall ticket shop where somehow she’d had almost the exact amount needed for the flight home, with enough cash left for food on the way. The last thing she saw of Bangkok was Kitch waving as the doors to the airport slid shut.
She managed to phone Eleanor during the stopover in Abu Dhabi. The flight reps were sympathetic, clucking around her in a flock of sympathy. None of it felt real. The news wasn’t too bad, though: the tests had been inconclusive but their mother was stable for now. The relief in Eleanor’s voice when she heard that Charlie was on her way shook Charlie more than she would have liked. This was different, serious. She was to go straight to Sheffield, to the hospital. Anything could happen.
The final hours of the flight went no faster even though she was sitting forwards, willing the plane to speed up. She couldn’t relax. Instead of sleeping, she stared out of the window at the dark sky, at the collage of countries, continents, below, their borders blurring into one vague mass. She tried to recall the journey out, the places she’d stopped at on the way, the people she’d met. Then, it had all been gilded with newness, with the sense of adventure. Now, she was finding it hard to picture one specific face, any one setting. Instead, her mind threw up random scenes: summer holiday boredom in her shared room with Eleanor, a school trip to some museum, a rained-out Guide camp. This was how it must be to get old, she thought. Too many memories to hold on to, the brain rationing out its available space to allow for only what was important. But that was the wrong way round. Age remembered the negligible. Would her mother last until memory became muddled, her youth appearing in perfect clarity whilst she forgot who Charlie was? If only there was a way of choosing what went, and what was retained.