The Prodigal Sister: An emotional drama of family secrets

by Laura Elliot

  He’s spoken on the phone to Julie and Lauren. Julie’s voice choked up, like she was trying not to cry. She sounds exactly as his mother described, crying and laughing in the same breath. She wants him to come to Ireland as soon as possible to meet his cousins. He likes the sound of Lauren’s low sexy voice but she never seems to know what to say to him, and that makes him sound just as stilted. He hasn’t spoken to Rebecca yet. Julie jokes that she’s too busy counselling dysfunctional donkeys to bother with phone calls. Conor knows it’s connected to his mother running away from home. The Unspoken Subject.

  She is busy serving breakfast when he enters the kitchen.

  ‘Good swim?’ she asks, between orders.

  He nods. ‘Any word from the aunts?’

  ‘Give them a break, Conor. They’re in the air at the moment.’ She takes a jug of milk from the fridge and closes the door with her hip.

  ‘I wish they were coming here first, instead of touring.’

  ‘It’s the way it worked out. And Rebecca needs to be home in March for some conference she’s organised. By the time they arrive, I’ll have finished working and Havenswalk will be ready for them.’

  ‘Are you scared?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’d be scared shitless but then I’d never ignore my family for fifteen years.’

  ‘Don’t start, Conor,’ she warns.

  ‘I’m not starting anything. I just said—’

  She’s gone, hurrying towards the restaurant. He watches the door swing back and forth. He still can’t believe it. A year ago, it was just the two of them. Now he has three aunts, two uncles, three cousins–and a father.

  Hannah sings and slices bread. From the window Conor watches his father’s Jeep disappear around the bend in the avenue. The kitchen is warm, yet he shivers, the chill of the lake still on his skin. The school bus will arrive soon. He lingers a moment longer, hoping his mother will return to the kitchen and he can say something, not exactly an apology, but something neutral to dispel the tension between them. She’s tense as a bent reed these days. Tense as she was on the evening Conor’s father arrived at Havenswalk to claim his rightful place in their lives.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Bangkok

  In a ladies’ restroom at Bangkok airport, Lauren slips out of the comfortable top and trousers she had worn on the flight and unpacks a sundress from her overnight bag. She wriggles her feet into a pair of matching sling-back high heels. Her discarded clothes are carefully folded into the bag. She is a seasoned traveller, used to different time zones, different climates. The shrill tone on her new mobile phone startles her. It is a loud, demanding summons. She keeps intending to change the ringtone but forgets until Steve’s next call reminds her. She smooths a streak of blusher into her cheeks before answering. Steve is rushing between meetings, anxious to know if she landed safely. He phoned when they were awaiting their connection at Heathrow and then, as now, she assures him their flight was uneventful.

  At the baggage carousel, their luggage slides into view. Rebecca claims her rucksack and Julie anxiously inspects her mandolin. Neither of her sisters make any attempt to help her remove her suitcases. The nail on her index finger breaks when she lifts them onto a trolley. The break is low down, a snapped acrylic fracture that will need immediate attention. The hotel is bound to have a nail bar and will be her first port of call.

  They head towards the arrivals terminal where a slight, middle-aged man holds aloft a sign marked ‘LAMABERT’. He shakes hands and introduces himself as Kasem. ‘May I be the first to welcome you to my wonderful City of Smiles. This is your home away from home.’ His smile washes over them like a blessing, his gaze lingering on Lauren for an instant longer than necessary. She is used to such flickering glances and, as they step into the humid breath of a Bangkok evening, it registers just long enough to be noticed and forgotten.

  Julie fans her face with a travel brochure. In her crumpled linen trouser suit, she has the wilted appearance of a long-haul traveller. Rebecca, in jeans and a denim jacket that should have been left behind in the stables, is equally unprepared for the cloying heat.

  Kasem stows their luggage into a compartment at the side of the coach and begs leave to be excused. He must collect another traveller whose plane has just landed. Their driver lounges against the coach, smoking and chatting to another driver. People surge past, preoccupied with their own internal journeys. A couple hurry towards the terminal building. Their two children, riding a trolley on top of the luggage, shriek with excitement. They remind Lauren of the once-familiar anticipation of family holidays, their father at the wheel of his Ford Anglia, Julie leading off the singsong. ‘Ten Green Bottles’, ‘Two Little Boys’, ‘Lily the Pink’, ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Do’…

  The courier and his passenger emerge from the airport. The passenger inclines his head towards the women and smiles as he enters the coach. Dressed casually in a navy linen suit with a white open-neck cotton shirt, his black hair cut short and flecked with grey, he is already working on his laptop when the coach moves off. Unlike Julie, he wears his creases elegantly.

  ‘Tomorrow I will be honoured to show you the sights of my bewitching City of Smiles.’ Kasem’s tourist patter increases in persuasiveness as they journey towards their hotel.

  ‘No getting away from the ’ucking traffic.’ Julie gestures towards the slow-moving lines of taxis, buses and cars stretched along the dual carriageway. ‘Taxi-speak,’ she adds, and giggles. She still giggles like a teenager and is the only woman Lauren knows who can get away with it.

  Rebecca glowers at the familiar yellow double arches set into a block of shops. ‘I didn’t expect to be that close to a Big Mac in the City of Smiles.’

  ‘Globalisation.’ Kasem shrugs apologetically and assures her that beyond the trappings of modernity, Bangkok is a city of magnificent temples, universities, palaces, museums, galleries and religious festivals. As for food…he kisses his fingers in an elaborate salute to Thai cuisine. ‘Let me recommend the perfect restaurant for tonight.’

  An elephant lumbers past in a parallel traffic lane, the animal’s enormous bulk reducing the cars to toy size. When the traffic lights turn red, it stops obediently and waits for them to change.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Horrified, Rebecca stares at Kasem. ‘What’s an elephant doing on a dual carriageway?’

  ‘Ah, yes, indeed.’ Kasem nods in the direction of the animal, who appears remarkably composed amidst the chaotic honking of horns and squealing brakes. ‘Our Thai elephant is a most intelligent—’

  ‘It’s the most outrageous sight I’ve ever seen. Are you telling me it’s allowed?’

  ‘With regret, madam, this is an unfortunate example of our changing times.’ Kasem accepts her indignation with a patient smile. ‘This elephant would once have worked in the logging camps and came with its owners to the city in search of employment. I agree with your sentiments. It’s sad to see them reduced to such menial tasks.’

  ‘Menial! It’s cruel and degrading.’ She glares at Julie, who is taking a photograph with her mobile phone. ‘Stop that, Julie. You’re only encouraging this appalling animal abuse.’

  ‘But I want to send it to the boys.’ Julie, ignoring her sister’s command, leans precariously out the window for a better shot.

  ‘Our mahouts are riders of great skill.’ Kasem raises his voice against the roar of traffic. ‘Once they led our great elephants into battle—’

  ‘They’re still leading them into battle.’ Rebecca looks as if she wants to lunge from the coach and escort the elephant to the nearest animal sanctuary. Lauren sighs and examines her broken nail. How could she have forgotten Rebecca’s obsession with animal rights? The man sitting opposite them opens his briefcase and plugs a pair of earphones into his ears. A sensible idea. Lauren catches his eye and smiles, but he seems too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice her. The lights change and the traffic eases forward. Suddenly, the coach driver shouts somethi
ng in Thai. From the vehemence of his tone, Lauren figures it has to be a curse, especially as the elephant shows signs of veering into their traffic lane. The driver brakes abruptly and she lurches forward, almost sliding from her seat. The man opposite her tries to steady himself but his briefcase slips to the floor before he can catch it. With a muttered exclamation, not unlike the word used by the driver, he pulls out his earphones and bends to pick up the contents that have fluttered free. As far as Lauren can see, they are mainly handwritten sheets of music, except for a photograph that lands near her feet. She picks it up but has only time for a quick glimpse before he reaches forward to take it from her. It has the glossy sheen of a publicity shot and features an orchestra grouped around a female violinist, who is dressed in an elaborate Thai ceremonial costume.

  ‘A beautiful woman.’ Their fingers touch for an instant as she hands it back to him.

  ‘Thank you.’ He returns the contents to his briefcase and snaps the locks. No lingering, flickering, telltale glance, but Lauren knows he is aware of her. His nationality is difficult to define. Lauren is usually good at recognising features and attributing them to a particular country. His skin reminds her of a dark, rich honey but his face lacks the refinement she associates with the Thai population. His nose has been broken and badly reset, the crude bend on its high bridge disturbing the symmetry of his features.

  She wants to ask him about the photograph but he begins to work again. Is he part of the orchestra, she wonders, watching his slim fingers race rhythmically over the keyboard. Unlike Rebecca, he is unfazed by the antics of the elephant as it comes to a halt under a flyover and is immediately surrounded by tourists with cameras.

  They reach the hotel shortly afterwards and register; walk together to the elevator. Anxious to shower off the effects of long-haul travel, Lauren is conscious of his nearness when they move closer to make space for more guests. She steals a discreet glance at her reflection in the elevator mirror and is satisfied with what she sees. The cool peppermint shade of her dress enhances her cat-green eyes and hugs her teenage skinniness like a second skin.

  ‘How long are you staying in Bangkok?’ he asks as the elevator glides upwards.

  ‘Two nights,’ Julie replies.

  ‘Like myself. A short stopover. Bangkok is an enchanting city. I hope you have a pleasant trip, ladies.’

  ‘Isn’t he divine?’ Julie sighs as they walk towards their room. ‘His eyes remind me of dark melting chocolate.’

  ‘Steady on, Mamma Mia,’ Lauren warns. ‘You may have escaped from your husband’s reins but you’re still a respectable married woman.’

  ‘So what? All I’m doing is looking at the menu. As long as I don’t order…’

  Julie never orders. No time in her busy schedule to follow up on the aftermath of a lingering glance.

  The suite they will share during their two-day stopover is spacious and airy, booked courtesy of Steve, who had argued that his original bookings for Bangkok and the first night in Christchurch remain in place. The suite contains three double beds, a plasma television screen, luxurious sofas and a black massage chair that looks, Julie declares, like an electric chair, but promises gently to soothe all traces of long-haul stress from the body. She is equally impressed by the mini bar and ice-making machine, the bowl of fruit and ice bucket of champagne in the centre of the table. Her phone camera clicks busily as she wanders from the bathroom to the bedroom to the balcony. Ignoring her sisters’ laughter, she photographs the contents of the mini bar and asks Lauren to photograph her in the massage chair where she sticks out her tongue and pretends she is being executed.

  ‘I could get used to this lifestyle very quickly.’ She flings herself onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. ‘It sure as hell beats nursing a parcel of brats through measles and mouth ulcers in a caravan when it’s raining.’ With this statement she dissolves into tears. ‘It’s my trouser suit,’ she sobs. ‘Look at the creases. Four hundred euros for a rag that I’ll use for cleaning windows when I go home.’

  ‘Withdrawal symptoms.’ Rebecca opens the bathroom door. ‘There’s only one antidote.’

  Julie sobs passionately into the pillows while Rebecca runs a bubble bath for her and Lauren searches in her cosmetic bag for a tube of eye gel that promises almost as much relief as the massage chair.

  An hour later, showered and refreshed, they leave the hotel. The street noise hits them like an avalanche, sweeps them past ice-cream barrows and mounds of glazed sweets, past stalls fluttering with silk paintings and T-shirts. In a quiet side street, they locate the restaurant Kasem recommended. Seated on the rooftop, they sample each other’s dishes and allow the waiter to replenish their wine glasses. The food is as wonderful as Kasem promised, and the view over Bangkok dazzles with neon. Bars and internet cafés are still open when they leave the restaurant. The exuberance of the earlier traders has quietened. Most of them are packing up for the night and it is easier to move through the streets. A different trade is now being plied. They pass massage parlours with heavily curtained windows and discreet doorways. Others show an open face, scrubbed clean with large ‘No Sex’ signs at the entrance. Young women in short skirts and glittering stretch tops lounge indolently against shop fronts and call out to passing tourists. Incense seeps from a shop where a teenage girl sleeps, her head resting on a counter lit with flickering Buddha shrines.

  ‘They’re so young,’ Julie mutters. ‘I can’t believe they’re all on the game.’

  ‘Well, they’re certainly not saying their prayers,’ Lauren replies.

  Julie stops and stares into a shop window, amazed at the price of bespoke tailored suits on display. She photographs the row of mannequins. She will order two suits for Paul and text to find out his exact leg measurements.

  ‘Tut-tut,’ says Lauren. ‘Twenty years married and she doesn’t know the length of her husband’s legs.’

  ‘Nineteen,’ says Julie. ‘But who’s counting? I wonder if Paul’s awake? What’s the time difference again, Becks?’

  Rebecca presses her hand to her forehead and yawns. ‘Seven hours ahead. They’re still sleeping, Julie. Let them go. Make up your mind about the suits tomorrow.’

  The street they enter is wider, more traffic. Another elephant, or maybe the same one, poses for photographs under a flyover. They watch as a group of Japanese tourists stand before the elephant. Cameras flash like fireworks and the passing traffic adds to the illuminated chaos. Before her sisters can restrain her, Rebecca rushes forward and forces her way through the photographers towards the elephant.

  ‘Excuse me!’ she shouts up at the mahout with all the authority gained from her years in the sanctuary. ‘Do you realise the damage you’re doing to this unfortunate elephant?’

  The mahout grins and yells down at her. ‘Ah, lady, tell me now? You want to ride or feed elephant?’

  ‘No! No! Not feed…save from pain. It’s cruel…very cruel.’ She clutches her throat, makes gasping noises. ‘Carbon monoxide.’

  ‘Ah, you feed…you feed! You buy food.’ He rummages in a satchel and flings down a bunch of bananas, which are caught by another man, who appears suddenly from behind her.

  ‘Seventy baht! You pay me. Seventy baht. No? Tell me what you pay?’ The second man pushes the bananas towards her, speaking rapidly in English. ‘You give me dollars, lady? Right now, you give me dollars. Two, three dollars? Yes?’

  The elephant, noticing the bananas, swings its trunk from side to side and forces Rebecca to duck in case she is caught in mid-swipe.

  ‘Oh! For heaven’s sake! When will she ever get sense.’ Julie runs towards Rebecca, who is pinned between the flyover and the animal. Before the second man can recover, she pushes Rebecca away from the tourists, who have turned their cameras in her direction.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ she shouts. ‘She doesn’t want to feed the elephant. Bad mistake…she’s a crazy woman. Crazy, crazy woman!’ She grabs Rebecca’s arm and pulls her back to the pavement.

  ‘Are
you mad or just totally insane?’ Julie gestures towards a one-legged beggar propped against a wall. His dog lies patiently in front of him, a tin can balanced between its paws. ‘If you want to protest about something, look around you. Human beings also exist on this planet. Even St Francis took a breather now and again.’ Julie sounds as if she is ticking off one of her sons. When she drops coins into the can, the dog barks but the beggar, his eyes half-moon slits, ignores the gesture.

  ‘Well done, Becks.’ Lauren pats Rebecca’s shoulder when her sisters return to the pavement. ‘The elephant population will be relieved to know it has such an excellent trade union representative.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Rebecca’s expression veers between rebellion and mortification. ‘If you saw the sights—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we know. Man’s inhumanity to animals.’ Julie casts a last glance at the bespoke suits and walks on. A group of women, dressed in long black skirts, their shawls and hats glittering with silver discs, flounce towards them. Their trays of jewellery attract Lauren’s attention. She picks up a tortoiseshell comb from one of the trays. The woman, sensing a sale, moves closer and produces a mirror from a pocket of her voluminous skirt. Another woman jangles earrings at her.

  Rebecca shakes her head and follows Julie. ‘Are you coming?’ She gestures at Lauren to follow. She is recovering her composure and, with it, her authority. ‘I’m seen enough of this city for one night. We’ve an early start in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll see you back at the hotel.’ Lauren, studying her reflection, allows the woman to twist her hair in an upwards knot and stab the comb into position. Her mobile phone rings. Steve again. She lifts it from her handbag and switches it off. This is his fourth attempt to ring her since she left, and she has lost count of the number of texts. Her sisters, moving ahead, are lost from sight when they turn the corner.