Upside Down Inside Out

by Monica McInerney

  Here we all are on the Willoughby tour

  Through Devon and Cornwall, across several moors

  I hope you’ll all have a wonderful time

  And quickly forget this very bad rhyme!

  She cringed inside even as they rewarded her with a burst of laughter and applause. “She’s definitely James’s sister,” she heard one of them whisper. She was saved from attempting an even worse second verse by the sound of the conveyor belt starting up with a metallic groan. Everyone sprang to attention, their eyes fixed on the emerging luggage.

  As the first bags trundled past, Harriet felt a tug at her sleeve. She looked down. It was Miss Talbot. At seventy-three, she was the oldest member of the tour party. At four foot eleven, she was also the tiniest.

  Her soft, wrinkled face was all smiles. “That was a lovely poem, Harriet. You hit the nail right on the head.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Talbot,” Harriet said, smiling back. She had known Miss Talbot for as long as she could remember and was very fond of her. The little white-haired woman not only ran the Country Women’s Association craft shop in Harriet’s hometown of Merryn Bay but also knitted most of the contents. She specialized in yellow matinee jackets and small knitted penguins with crocheted orange beaks. She was also well known in the town for buying her clothes from children’s-wear shops. Harriet glanced again at Miss Talbot’s traveling outfit of pink tracksuit and matching shoes, trying not to look too obviously at the Groovy Chick logo embroidered on the front. “How are you feeling? Not too tired, I hope?”

  “Oh no, Harriet. I snoozed like a bug in a rug the whole flight. And those little meals on trays were just delicious, thank you so much.”

  “You’re very welcome, I’m glad you liked them.” No matter how many times she’d tried to explain, Miss Talbot remained convinced that Harriet was responsible for every single thing that happened on the trip, meals included.

  Miss Talbot gave another happy sigh. “I just can’t believe we’re here at last. All these years of seeing Willoughby on TV, and tomorrow we’re actually going to meet him. I know I’m old enough to be his grandmother, but it really is so exciting. He’s such a dreamboat.”

  Harriet grinned at the old-fashioned term, fighting an urge to pick up Miss Talbot and give her a cuddle. She wasn’t actually sure whether Willoughby was a dreamboat or not. She could never admit it to Miss Talbot—or any of the others in the group—but she had only a dim recollection of the Willoughby TV series on which their entire trip of a lifetime was based. All she knew was that it featured a dark-haired detective disguised as a postman solving crimes in beautiful seaside villages in Cornwall.

  Her brother James, lying in his hospital bed, had tried to assure her it wouldn’t matter.

  “You’ll never know the series as well as the tour group, anyway. You know where the word fan comes from, don’t you? Short for fanatics. And that’s what the Willoughby fan club members are.” He’d lowered his voice. “More Willoughby weirdos than fans, some of them, if you ask me.”

  A bright blue suitcase decorated with a gaudy yellow ribbon came trundling past. “That’s mine, that’s mine,” one of the tour group called. Harriet leaned across and retrieved it. In the pretravel information pack, each member of the group had been advised to attach a distinctive ribbon as well as the Turner Travel label to their suitcases so they would be easy to spot on the carousel. They had certainly taken up the challenge, Harriet saw, as more of their bags appeared. They were decorated with everything from tartan bows to shiny red ribbons and chiffon scarves. It looked like they’d been on holiday in a haberdashery.

  Another suitcase came toward them, decorated with the Turner Travel label and a bright pink pom-pom. It belonged to Mrs. Dorothy Lamerton, official president of the Willoughby fan club. English born, wealthy, polished, a widow, she thought of herself as the social Queen Bee of Merryn Bay. Harriet thought of her as the High Queen of the Willoughby weirdos. She had a matching pom-pom around her wrist. Harriet leaned forward and lifted her suitcase off the carousel, too.

  Mrs. Lamerton gave an imperious wave. “Thank you, Harriet. Those conveyor belts go by far too quickly, if you ask me.”

  A simple thing like collecting their clients’ luggage off the carousel was just part of the Turner Travel personalized service, but Harriet still got a little glow inside at the thanks. Harriet’s late parents, Neil and Penny Turner, had prided themselves on delivering personal touches. They had started the business thirty years previously in the small coastal town of Merryn Bay, two hours from Melbourne, after emigrating from England as part of the “ten-pound pom” assisted-passage scheme. The business had started slowly but grown successfully, with its emphasis on tailored tours and, latterly, themed tours like this one for the Willoughby fan club members. Harriet didn’t have to try hard to be able to picture the handwritten list of Turner Travel official rules her father had pinned to the wall of the staff room:

  • Always be punctual.

  • Help our clients in any way you can.

  • Check passports and tickets twice.

  • Confirm everything and then confirm it again.

  • Be sure to memorize everyone’s name.

  Neil Turner had once drawn up an unofficial list, too, only half in jest, one Friday night when they were all sharing a bottle of wine after work.

  • Remember, the quietest ones are often the most trouble.

  • Beware the domino effect—repair all problems as quickly as possible before they cause more.

  • All bus drivers are peculiar, the only difference will be in what way.

  • Drink and jet lag never mix—for guides or clients.

  The most important rule, her father had always insisted, was the simplest one to remember.

  • Expect the unexpected.

  Even as it came to mind, the conveyor belt gave a jerk and came to a halt. A voice over the PA announced a slight delay with the rest of the luggage. Harriet took the opportunity to check the itinerary one more time. She flicked over the cover page showing the new, brightly colored logo of a suitcase with wings and their slogan—TURNER TRAVEL: TOURS TAILORED JUST FOR YOU. She turned past page 2: Welcome Aboard the Willoughby Tour. Follow in the footsteps of one of TV’s best-loved detectives in this special Turner Travel tailored tour of Devon and Cornwall! She stopped at page 3, where the real business of the tour began. Day 1. Arrive at Bristol Airport. We’ll be greeted by Lara Robinson, our on-site guide, and then travel by bus to our hotel for the night!

  There it was in black and white. We’ll be greeted by Lara Robinson. James had hastily had it added to the revised itinerary. That’s what was supposed to happen. They were supposed to walk out into the arrivals area any minute now and be greeted by Lara, who would then lead them to a waiting bus and get them to their hotel, so they could all be tucked in asleep in their beds before eleven o’clock.

  So if Lara was waiting for them just meters away on the other side of the baggage area wall, why wasn’t she answering her mobile phone? Why hadn’t she been answering it for the past four hours, in fact?

  Harriet had rung her first from the airport in Paris, when she’d heard there’d been a delay with their connecting flight to Bristol. She’d got her voice mail and left a brief message. “Lara, it’s Harriet. Just to say if you’re not already at the airport, there’s no rush. Fog in Paris, so we’ll be a bit late.” Businesslike. To the point. The only way they spoke to each other these days.

  She had overheard several members of the group talking about Lara during the flight from Paris. Some of them were Merryn Bay locals and had taken Turner Travel theme tours before. They were cheerfully filling in the details for the others. Harriet heard every word. It was one of the advantages of traveling with people with hearing problems. What they thought were whispers were often almost shouts.

  Mrs. Lamerton in particular was holding court. As well as being the head of the Willoughby fan club, she had also appointed herself the Turner Travel and Lara e
xpert. Harriet tried not to listen as her family’s private business was shouted across the cabin. “… Yes, it’s one of the last family-owned travel companies in the state. Started by the children’s parents, Penny and Neil Turner, may their souls rest in peace. Marvelous people, emigrated to Australia to start a new life and just took the bull by the horns and started their own business.… Actually, the Willoughby tour was my idea, well, mine and Lara Robinson’s.… Yes, she’s meeting us at Bristol, she’s at the end of a three-month study program at a tourism college in Bath.… Yes, part of an international travel industry exchange program, she told me all about it.… ”

  One of the other women managed to interrupt her. “Is Lara married?”

  “No, nor is Harriet, for that matter.” Mrs. Lamerton lowered her voice, but only slightly. “They’re both in their early thirties, too. One of the drawbacks of living and working in a small town like Merryn Bay, I suppose. Not a big catchment area for eligible males. They’d want to start getting a move on.”

  Harriet had to force herself not to lean over the seat and explain that in fact she had been living with a man until quite recently and that Lara had also had several serious relationships over the years.

  The other woman hadn’t pursued that subject anyway. “So why is Lara’s surname Robinson, not Turner? I thought you said all the Turner Travel tour guides were family members.”

  Mrs. Lamerton sounded almost triumphant with her knowledge. “Lara grew up with them, and she’s always worked with them, but she’s not a real Turner. The Turners took her in when her own parents were killed in a car crash. She was only eight years old.”

  “Oh, how tragic. So she’s not related to them at all?”

  “No, I understand both families emigrated from England to Australia at the same time. They all met on the ship, I believe.”

  “So what do we call her? Harriet’s foster-sister or stepsister or—?”

  A PA announcement from the captain had drowned out their voices after that. Harriet wondered what Mrs. Lamerton’s answer would have been. Lara’s title had always been a bit confusing, for all of them. Not a stepsister, or foster sister, or even half sister. An almost-sister, perhaps? Harriet remembered her brother Austin asking Lara once what she wanted them to call her. The four of them had been down on the Merryn Bay beach together, trying to sail a homemade raft Austin and James had built. It was about five months after Lara had come to live with them permanently. James was seventeen, Austin was fifteen, Harriet and Lara had recently turned nine. It had been a hot day. They were all dressed in shorts and T-shirts, sweating under their sun hats.

  Austin had brought the subject out into the open. “It’s up to you, Lara. If you want me to call you my sister, I will.”

  “I don’t mind.” She’d said the same thing to Harriet when she’d asked.

  “In that case, I’ll choose a name for you myself.” Austin thought about it. “Got it. I’m going to call you my blister, rather than my sister.”

  “Blister?”

  “Blister. Because you arrived suddenly but you’ve grown on me.”

  Lara had given her sudden sweet smile. “In that case, I’ll call you my bother, instead of brother. Because you’re almost my brother but you drive me a bit mad, so you’re a bother.”

  Harriet had always wished she’d thought of that. She’d often felt a few steps behind Austin and Lara, especially once the two of them started firing off each other.

  She thought about phoning her brothers now, just in case Lara had been in touch with them to say she’d been delayed. No, the timing was bad. It was too early in the morning for James in Australia. Austin was at least in the same hemisphere, but he was probably onstage right at this moment. A percussionist with an opera company, he was currently in Germany midway through a European tour. She wondered if he had been told she’d taken over the Willoughby tour. It had all happened so quickly, so possibly not. She was still finding it difficult to believe herself.

  It had started with a panicked phone call just four days before from James. He’d been calling on his mobile phone from an ambulance on the way to hospital, with a suspected broken leg. He’d fallen off a ladder while cleaning gutters at home. He got straight to the point. “Harriet, I’m in trouble. I need you to take over my Willoughby tour.”

  “The fan club tour? The one to England? The one that’s leaving tomorrow?” Her voice rose in pitch with each question.

  “I know it’s short notice. And I know you haven’t toured for ages. But please, Harriet, you know how important it is. And how much they’ve been looking forward to it. I’m begging you.”

  Her heart started beating faster. Was she up to it? After nearly a year of saying no to even the smallest of the company tours? After everything that had happened the last time she led a group? She opened her mouth to automatically say no, of course she couldn’t do it, when something stopped her. A split-screen image appeared in her mind—one side showing the old her, out on the road, getting to know all the group members, loving the excitement of traveling; the other side showing herself recently: deskbound, suffocated by paperwork and unspoken pity, feeling more trapped each day. It was like being at a crossroads. The longing to be her old self again was overwhelming. There was a moment’s pause, and then she heard herself answer decisively, strongly.

  “Of course I can do it, James. No problem.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He’d given a loud whoop. The painkillers had obviously just kicked in. “Harriet, you’re a bloody savior.”

  She’d driven up to the Geelong hospital from Merryn Bay that night, feeling the excitement rise throughout the hour-long trip, almost canceling out the doubts and fear. She was going back on the road. And not next month, or next year, but the next day!

  James had been pale but pain-free, tucked into a bed, his red hair and freckled skin vivid against the white of the sheets and the pillows. He was nearly forty years old, eight years older than her, but he still looked boyish. Harriet had heard her other brother, Austin, once describe James as looking like a ventriloquist’s dummy, and the awful thing was, she had been able to see the likeness for herself. She loved both her brothers but was the first to admit that James had missed out in the looks department. Austin had got the good looks in the family. His height, fine features, and glossy black hair gave him a dashing appearance, like a pirate, Harriet had always thought.

  She was neither pirate queen nor ventriloquist’s dummy, but something in between the two. Her short black hair was a less dramatic version of Austin’s dark locks—her hairdresser had breathlessly called his latest cut “my own twist on the Audrey Hepburn elfin look.” Her skin was pale but without James’s freckles. She was taller than average for a woman, nearly five foot seven, but still small beside her brothers. Their taste in clothes was different, too. When he wasn’t wearing his Turner Travel corporate suit, James unfortunately favored checked shirts and baggy jeans, adding to the ventriloquist-dummy look. Harriet preferred simple, unfussy clothes—jeans or cotton skirts; colored T-shirts, usually in bright shades of reds, blues, and greens, worn with one or two pieces of jewelry: the opal bracelet she always wore and perhaps a striking necklace or eye-catching earrings. Austin was the real follower of fashion, his lean frame the perfect clotheshorse for linen shirts and designer suits. He liked handmade leather shoes, too, when he could afford them. The only thing all three really had in common was their large, dark brown eyes. Their mother’s eyes.

  Harriet kissed James on the forehead. She gave him a large supply of cricket magazines, grapes, crossword puzzles, and chocolates, adding them to the pile his wife Melissa and daughter Molly had delivered earlier that day. At his invitation, she lifted the cotton sheet and peeked in at the large wire cage protecting his plaster-covered leg.

  “Wow, look at all that room. You could keep a few rabbits in there.”

  “If they give me any more morphine, I’ll be seeing rabbits.” He got down to business, w
incing as he leaned across the bed to pass her the itinerary and information folder. She could see extra handwritten notes on some of the pages. He’d been busy since he rang her. “Harriet, you’re a lifesaver, you know that? These international theme tours are going to be the future of the company. It would have been a disaster if we’d had to call this one off.”

  She knew how deeply James cared about the family business. Since their parents had died and he and Melissa had taken over, he had thrown himself completely into making it as big a success as possible, working long hours, extending their range of tours into themed trips like this Willoughby one. The work was paying off. Turner Travel had nearly doubled its profits in the past year. Melissa hadn’t let any of them forget it.

  The Willoughby tour would be very straightforward, he assured her. Melbourne to Malaysia to Paris, then on to Bristol. They’d have one night in a hotel and then drive the next day to their base in St. Ives, where they’d meet up with their special guest, the English actor who had played Willoughby in the program. They’d spend the next five days visiting locations from the TV program. After that, she was to escort the group to Bath for a handover to another company for two of their themed tours, an All Creatures Great and Small–flavored visit to Yorkshire, followed by a Monarch of the Glen tour of Scotland.

  “No need to completely reinvent the wheel,” James explained. “We’ve set up a good working relationship with some of the UK companies. We link in with some of their tours, and they’ll send people over for our Neighbours and Thorn Birds tours down the track. And that’s it. You collect the group in Bath on their return and then bring them home safely. You’ll be away two weeks all up.”