He’d been back to Madagascar for a visit and would be flying on to Canada the next day from London. I could sense that the visit with our parents had not gone well, though he did not say so, and that he would not go again.
I was flattered that my big brother had taken the time to come and see me. But I was seventeen, still absorbed in my own sorrows and grievances. I didn’t know how to ask Abel about his feelings – about our parents, about Madagascar, about the future – and he didn’t know how to tell me. He could talk at length about his happiness in his vocation, and I’m sure that was real, but if there were any undercurrents, doubts or fears they remained unsaid.
Just before he left, he looked at me searchingly and asked: ‘Are you all right, Alixi?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m all right.’
And that was that.
When he left, I didn’t open his gift. Instead, I found the scarf Moe had sent me for my birthday. It had animals on it, so I hadn’t worn it – too un-English. Now I wrapped it round my head and climbed into the cupboard among my hanging clothes. I stayed crouched on the floor, my shoes sticking uncomfortably into my spine, fingering the silky fringes of the scarf, for what must have been hours. When I finally opened the parcel it contained the pocket knife I have with me now.
I haven’t really spoken to Abel since then, except . . . So much for taking my mind off things.
When I last spoke to my brother I was alone in the flat taking the opportunity to get stuck into some serious study when the phone rang. ‘Is there somebody there by the name of Verhoeven?’ It was the Australian Embassy in Manila, looking for Abel. I asked what they wanted, but they wouldn’t say. I didn’t know anyone in Manila, so I wasn’t worried. I gave them Abel’s number in Canada and rang off.
Five minutes later the phone rang again. This time it was Abel, to tell me, without any preamble, that our parents had been in a ferry accident and were feared dead. The embassy wanted him to go to the Philippines and identify two of the bodies, but he felt that didn’t make sense. I was closer. I should go. ‘Alix? Are you there?’
Abel’s reticence could make him seem blunt and insensitive. What kind of pastor he makes I don’t know, but as a purveyor of bad news he is severely lacking. I sat down, stunned and shaking, unable to speak as he bellowed down the phone. Finally, I managed to get some words out.
‘Are they sure they’re dead?’
‘Of course they’re not sure. They’ve got some European bodies and Vader and Moeder were on their way to some kind of missionary gathering so they want it to be them. Makes their job easier.’
‘They . . . they must have some reason.’
But Abel wouldn’t hear of it. I guess he didn’t want to hear. All his beliefs would be telling him he should rejoice in our parents’ glorious reunion with their Lord, when his heart told him he wanted them alive, back in Luang Prabang, behaving like their usual wrongheaded selves.
I couldn’t argue with him. I was, indubitably, closer. I had no-one dependent on me and it was university holidays. The embassy would pay the fare. I should go.
It may sound as if Abel is heartless, selfish even, but that would be unfair to him. He is simply very practical. If you look at the geography, it makes more sense to go from Melbourne to Manila than from Toronto to Manila, and as far as my brother was concerned, that was the end of the argument.
I was twenty-one years old when I identified what was left of my parents, in a tiny coastal village near where they died, and now I know the memory will haunt me forever. I’m sure if Abel had known what was in store he would have behaved differently, but he is not an imaginative person. He was probably going by his own pastoral experience of burying people neatly arranged in their coffins. He had no idea.
Neither did I.
Nearly one hundred people had been on that ferry, and the small number who managed to jump into the water were met by packs of sharks. Few survived in one piece. The rest of the passengers and crew were trapped inside and crushed or torn apart in the panic. When I got to the airport at Manila, where I was to be met by the relevant officials, I picked up an abandoned English-language newspaper while I was waiting. On the front page was a picture. ‘FERRY CARNAGE!’ screamed the headline. The accompanying article described pieces of wreckage, bits of bodies, chairs, sandals, a dead baby, all floating together in a chaotic mass. Around them, grimly visible in the photo as torpedo-shaped shadows, circling before the kill, were the sharks.
The bodies I was asked to identify had been fairly ineffectually surrounded by ice. They were not complete, but I had no doubt that they were the bodies of my father and mother.
I never got to tell Abel what a horrific experience this was for me. Now, I make a decision. If I get out of here, I’ll visit my brother in Canada. And this time I will tell him what I saw.
It was a little before the death of my parents that Dave Grogan moved in next door to the flat where Jonathan and I were living and over the next few weeks he always seemed to be at the door, returning an oven dish or wanting to borrow some flour. And he always seemed to have time for a cup of tea or coffee.
While I was in the Philippines Jonathan had been called away to resolve a work problem interstate, so I was not expecting to be met when I and my backpack were flung through the exit doors. But there was neighbour Dave, grinning and waving. He’d written the flight down from the note above the phone and come out to meet me. At the time I was charmed. He was all affable, just-your-friendly neighbour good humour, and in that mode he was sort of appealing. He drove me home, made me a cup of tea and sat me down.
‘So. Tell me all about it.’ And, unusually for me, I did. It seemed better somehow to unload to a virtual stranger than to poor Jonathan, who would probably be arriving home drained and exhausted. I told Dave how I’d had to stay a few days after the identification to settle my parents’ effects; how the embassy would have flown me to Luang Prabang to sort their things. But where could I have put them? How in the end I arranged for their effects to be packed and shipped to Canada.
‘Without even knowing what they were?’
‘They didn’t have much stuff.’ They were itinerants, my parents, wandering preachers who scorned worldly goods. Although my mother wasn’t so scornful of the share market. It later turned out she had made some canny European investments before embarking on their voyage of folly. I wonder if my father knew. I didn’t tell Dave this, though. One thing I had noticed from our neighbourly exchanges was that he was rather obsessed with money, always asking how much things had cost and how much people earned. It was slightly creepy.
And he knew all about my horror of boats.
CHAPTER FOUR
Southern Boobialla (Myoporum insulare)
Often known as Tucker Bush or Native Juniper, it is a salt-tolerant plant that can grow as a tree up to six metres high or take a prostrate form, particularly on cliffs and rocky headlands. It flourishes on sand-dunes and in coastal regions. In summer the small white flowers can have quite a long blooming season, which is then followed by a crop of smooth round purple fruits about six millimetres in diameter. The fruits are inclined to be sourish in taste but are not unpleasant. Although the fruits of the M. insulare are safe to eat in small quantities, those of some Myoporum species have been found to be toxic to humans, so identification needs to be precise.
Atkinson’s Guide
FIELD DIARY – Monday 16 April
* * *
Daybreak: Go outside for exercise and toilet.
Giving myself permission to think about my parents’ deaths seems to have freed me in some way, and I spent a night without nightmares, just a strange series of dreams about rock-climbing across water-filled abysses. I even found myself thinking what an interesting place this island would be for climbing, which made me laugh out loud. You’re a prisoner here, for God’s sake, Alix! Get a grip. It’s the daymares that really get to me now, my mind constantly filled with images of Dave and Matt, determined to find me before their ti
me is up.
Today’s the day when the four of us were booked to return to the mainland on the Dodgy brothers’ boat. I can’t believe we only arrived last Thursday. Four days. It feels more like four weeks. I don’t know what I’ll do if they don’t get on the boat, and I don’t yet know what chances there are of escape from the island if they do. What their departure would give me is an opportunity to seek out all possible ways of attracting attention and do a thorough exploration of what this isolated landmass has to offer.
I’m going to make my toilet break very brief this morning in case they make one last thorough search before they leave. If they leave. Then my usual timetable will be completely disrupted because I have a dangerous plan.
6.00–8.00 a.m.: Housekeeping.
Housekeeping today was all about weapons. After an uneventful toilet run, I dressed with considerable difficulty in clean underpants, jeans, clean socks, boots, and a used but not too dirty shirt, giving my trusty Amnesty T-shirt a well-earned airing. Then I filled my anorak pockets with necessities: the morning water ration decanted into a specimen bag and tied securely; eight boobialla fruits likewise; knife in the easy-to-reach top pocket; rock and hammer in the wide front pocket. After a bit of thought, I added matches and a pen. A pen in the eye always takes them by surprise. Sometimes Kathryn’s maxims have a lot of sense to them.
8.00–9.00 a.m.: First meal.
Going without water so I could carry some with me seemed like a good idea in the planning, but I’d forgotten how dry my throat gets in the early morning. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to last until midday, but couldn’t afford to increase my water ration. In fact, I’ll have to start reducing it from now on. At any rate, no matter how frugal I am, the water will run out before the food.
Of course I know from Atkinson’s Guide the famous ‘rule of three’, that a person can survive only three days without water and that the daily requirement is two litres per person. I have been dangerously below that limit, but there are other factors to be taken into account, such as exposure. Living in the cave should enable me to survive for longer with less, especially as I am only going out in the cool of the evening and early morning. Food helps too, providing fluid and also salts and minerals. I don’t know how safe my regime is, but I can’t see any alternative with the resources I have available.
I excused myself from the need to eat my breakfast slowly, on the premise that if they don’t leave any supplies in the cabin I would soon run out of food anyway. I grabbed handfuls of nuts and sultanas in succession and stuffed them into my mouth. Despite the fact that it was my own rules I was breaking, I felt wicked and energised. Then I sat like a big fat boa constrictor digesting its prey and paid for my excess by feeling full and uncomfortable.
10.00 a.m.–12.00 p.m.: Write up diary.
I didn’t bother to change position, since I’d be going out quite soon, but I did my exercises diligently, and brought my diary up to date. When I ran out of things to do, nervousness hit me and I had to try some yoga breathing, but it didn’t help much. And then came the sounds I’d been dreading – the heavy tread of two pairs of boots and Dave’s voice yelling: ‘Alix! Where are you? The boat’s coming today!’, and then Matt’s voice, not yelling but conversational, addressing Dave but perhaps hoping I’d be able to hear. ‘Don’t work yourself up, mate. She’ll be there when the boat comes.’
‘Think so? She’s really stubborn.’
‘I know so, Dave, because your little friend didn’t steal any of our food. She’ll be starving by now, so she’ll come crawling and grovelling back. I’m looking forward to that.’
He laughed, a jolly little laugh.
‘Then what?’
And Matt laughed again. Then suddenly his tone changed. ‘Then we’ll see.’
One set of footsteps receded and then Dave’s voice came again. ‘Alix, don’t be scared. I won’t let him hurt you. I’m your friend.’ Now his voice, still calling ‘Alix!’ also began to recede and I managed with great effort to recover from the shock of their presence, finish my writing, and prepare for what had to be done.
4.00–5.00 p.m.: Meal and water.
It’s now four o’clock and I’ve been out of the cave for what seems like hours. The boat was booked for noon, and I worked on the assumption that no matter what their plans, they’d go to the jetty to meet it, but I still set out with considerable trepidation.
My main problem was that I needed to be able to see the boat arrive and leave without being seen myself. I also needed to reassure myself that they were not still scouting my side of the island. The only way to do that was to go to the edge of the valley and take a look. So, knife in hand, heart in mouth, that’s what I did. The food and weapons slowed me down, but I couldn’t risk leaving them along the way for searchers to find. The need to wipe out every footprint made the journey even more nerve-wracking. After each step I had to turn my back on my destination in order to ensure that my tea-tree branch scuffed out every tell-tale mark of passage.
The only sign of life was a flock of birds that rose from the underbrush, disturbed by my careful footsteps. I took that as a heartening indication that the area had been undisturbed since Matt and Dave had passed through, but continued to proceed cautiously. Nothing else stirred, and I began gradually to relax a bit and think about where I could find a viewing point.
On the first morning on the island I had tried climbing the height above the sandblow that traverses the island, without success. Thickets of tea-tree and sheoak were so knotted and tangled by the wind that there seemed no way through, so then I turned my attention to a rocky point that jutted out of the western side of the island. This little promontory was well out of view of both jetty and cabin, but I didn’t want to be visible to the men on the boat as it arrived. Keeping as much cover as possible in the low-growing scrub, I scouted among the rocks for a possible hiding place. My first foray was unsuccessful, but on the second time round I ventured out towards the edge of the rocks where they formed a finger out over the sea. Feeling very exposed and looking nervously behind me every moment I found, under a ledge of rock, what looked like some kind of burrow.
One of the reasons I chose the north-western end, where my cave is, was what I found on the morning of the first day when I went to explore the south-eastern end, which looked, with its sand dunes and low scrub, far more accessible than the west. It was also closest to the cabin, and I strolled along the flat open sandy area that joined the cabin and the jetty, turned into the sandhills and began a gentle climb. As I wandered further into the dunes I began to notice burrows, and from their size I guessed that this was a mutton-bird rookery. As I realised this I also remembered other creatures that were attracted to rookeries, and went cold. Among the dunes were slender dark objects I had subliminally taken to be washed-up sticks, or ropes. Lots of slender dark objects, one of which then began to move.
So did I. There is a tradition that geologists are unfazed by snakes, but this is definitely not true in my case. I fear them with a dread that goes way beyond the rational. How I got out of there without putting my feet down on the ground I don’t know, but I swear I managed it.
The odd thing is that I have only ever once been threatened with this particular danger, and that was not in Australia at all, but in good old safe-as-houses England. I’d been swimming with a group of climbers at the end of a hard day’s climb in one of those legendary crystal-clear pools I’d found so hard to discover, when suddenly a moving object brushed my leg underwater. I scrambled out quick-smart and yelled for the others to do the same, and we all watched in fascinated horror as what must have been an adder slid out of the other side of the pool, probably trying to get as far away as possible from us, and disappeared into the undergrowth. I don’t know about my companions, but even though it was quite a small and unassuming little creature, and probably far more scared of me than I was of it, I never entered any kind of wild waterway in the UK again.
To be on the safe side, I carefully memorised
Professor Atkinson’s advice on dealing with snakes and I believe it has helped to prevent any further incidents of this kind. In the bush I always wear above-ankle boots, thick socks and long pants, which is precisely how I am dressed today. I normally wear gloves when collecting firewood and try to keep to marked paths whenever possible. I am also meticulous about stepping over logs the Atkinson way, which involves climbing to the top of the log, looking carefully down and only then stepping off on the other side. And of course I never, ever, put my hand into any kind of hole or crevice.
Faced with entering a burrow and perhaps sheltering in it for hours on end, all my fears returned. It didn’t look like the home of either bird or serpent, and it appeared undisturbed as if it had been empty for some time. It was only just large enough to fit one scrunched-up human, and it took some deep breathing and mustering of courage before I could bring myself to crawl in.
Once I did my fears subsided. There were no signs of habitation and, like my own cave, it seemed to be the result of natural forces, and not the work of animal or human. Unlike my cave, it had filled with debris, but apart from this it was fairly clean and well ventilated and afforded a panoramic view of the ocean. No boat could arrive from the mainland without being in full view from this eyrie and I immediately set about making it as invisible as possible to anybody approaching by boat.
Again keeping a wary eye out, I backtracked and found two small tea-tree bushes, about the height of the entrance. I pulled them out by the roots as gently as I could, mentally apologising to them for my necessary vandalism, then spent some time filling in the ground and covering the area with leaf litter. Next, with considerable difficulty because I still had to cover my tracks with the smaller branches I was carrying, I hefted them onto my back and made my way, keeping to the rocks where possible, back to my new hiding place.
Beware of Dogs Page 5
