by Ann Kelley
Jas and I keep everybody busy.
The roofing plastic goes on top of our multilayered roof. The crate becomes a seat and a table. The planks are very welcome as flooring over the mud. Carly adopts the boot as her baby. She wraps it in her red neckerchief and hums nursery rhyme tunes to it. It’s a shame we don’t have fire—the rubber glove would make a good oven glove.
There is no point in going to find fruit in this weather. The forest is very dark; deep mud makes us slip and slide. We stay on the beach or go to the pool.
Jas is becoming an expert fisherman. She has more patience than anyone I know. She catches small fish from the rocks. First they are seasoned with lime juice and hung to dry for a day or two, and then we feast on them, flies or no flies. The sea cucumbers we find at low tide are another source of protein. They taste of nothing but seawater, and the jelly texture is disgusting, but we have to eat something. Our limbs are shrinking; we look like the Holocaust survivors we’ve read about at school. Carly’s and Jody’s heads look too big for their skinny necks and bodies, and because they’ve scratched their mosquito bites they’ve become infected. I am even more of a stick insect than I used to be.
“Your ribs are like a half-built boat,” Jas teases me. Mom has always described Jas as voluptuous, but she would hardly recognize her now. She looks like another person, cheeks hollowed, hip bones sticking out. Sometimes she even looks like her poor mother.
I am wading in the shallows searching for more sea cucumbers when I look up and see Loopy Layla and the Glossies staggering toward us. They all look rough.
“There’ve been wild boars at the cave. We’re frightened. Is it all right if we move back into the encampment with you?” Mrs. Campbell’s eyes are wild, scared.
“I suppose so; it’s not up to me,” I tell her.
“We’ll ask the others, then.”
Jas and the juniors must have agreed because by the time I get back, Mrs. Campbell and her acolytes have moved back in with us, much to my disgust.
“It’s a good thing,” Jas says, trying to cheer me up. “We ought to stick together, work together to survive.”
“But are they going to help? Or just be a liability again?” I ask. She shrugs.
I have forgotten about the crate of beer.
“What’s this—beer? Where’s the opener?” May asks.
“May Taylor, you aren’t old enough to drink beer.”
“Shut up, Bonnie Madam MacDonald—mind your own stupid business. Give me the opener.”
“Oh, go on,” says Jas. “Let’s have some. It’ll make a change from water and coconut milk, and it’s not very strong. We could do with a light stimulant. It won’t hurt, Bonnie.”
I am angry—I feel let down by Jas, and isolated.
“Do what you like, I don’t care,” I tell her.
“What did the wild boars do, Mrs. Campbell?” asks Jody.
“We woke to find two of them nosing around us. One had long tusks and small red eyes, and they smelled real bad,” said Arlene.
“Not as bad as you do, Arlene. I expect they thought you were a new mate.” May hoots with laughter at her own joke and Arlene pushes her over. God, I hate them. I wish the boars had eaten them all.
In the end Jas persuades me to drink the beer. I’m reluctant at first, but she’s right; it does make a nice change from coconut milk. And I don’t want to seem like a prude. We drink it all in one night. It’s fizzy and refreshing and makes me feel sleepy and carefree. We all laugh too much.
MORNING, DAY ?
I have a sore head and feel sick and guilty. I think we sang songs, but I don’t really remember. I hope I didn’t say anything about monks or tigers. It would be awful if he was arrested or removed from the island because of me. Oh God, I hope I didn’t give him away. The trouble is, I can’t tell reality from fantasy anymore.
I drift into a sort of dream state in order to escape from what’s happening. I wonder if the others feel the same way. Jas? I can’t talk to Jas anymore. I feel totally alone.
Life is uncomfortable inside the enclosure, and more cramped now that the others are here. We are all bad-tempered with one another this morning. Especially me. I’m still very angry with our so-called leader. I blame her for everything that’s gone wrong, and I don’t trust her. I don’t know what triggered this memory—I had been trying to take my mind away from our predicament by thinking about happier times with Gran and Grandpa—but I had a sudden recollection of Gran telling me that the Campbells and MacDonalds are born to be enemies. The feud between us dates back to 1500. The Campbells were rich and the MacDonalds notorious cow thieves. In 1692 the Clan Campbell massacred thirty-eight of the Clan MacDonald at Glencoe. We’ve been sworn enemies ever since. I remember Gran telling me stories about a man called Mad Colin Campbell; I expect Loopy Layla is descended from him. I feel better once I’ve pulled all those bits and pieces of stories and history from my head. I know that Gran would be pleased that I remember.
Layla disappears each day, no doubt to make and drink her coconut hooch. May and Arlene do nothing but complain about everything—the heat, the cold, the rain, the wind; our diet of coconut, figs, and raw fish; the mosquito bites, the sand-flea bites; their dry lips and skin; their itching heads. Thank goodness none of us has had a period since Hope—we have no tampons or towels. It would be gross if we were bleeding all over the place. Jas thinks the trauma we’ve suffered and our limited diet have stopped our bodies from functioning normally.
Now I am the one giving out orders, not Mrs. Campbell. She tries, but I won’t stand for it.
“Bonnie, I think you and Jas should go back to the bananas and get us some,” she says to me. “They’re nutritious. You know where they are.”
“So? No way. I’m not going into the forest again. If you want some, you go. You get eaten by wild boars. You get bitten by snakes.”
She turns away from me, sighing loudly. I smell the stink of her unshaved armpits, the salt smell of her sticky hair, the stale drunk smell of her breath. She walks away along the beach in her underwear, petticoat, and shredded blouse, her lean tanned body hunched and angry, her arms folded over her breasts, and into the sea, wading out until the waves tumble over her as she hurls herself into the surf.
“Isn’t that where the rip current is?” says Jas.
“So what? Stupid woman knows that, doesn’t she?”
“Bonnie! What’s happening to you? You used to be so caring. Now you sound so callous and angry.”
I walk away from Jas. My scowl is a permanent fixture these days.
Stubbing a toe, I swear and look back and see an arm disappear into the waves. Stupid cow—she’s caught in the rip. She’s trying to swim straight back in toward the shore but the rip is dragging her out. She deserves to die; it’s not my problem. She killed Natalie. Dispassionately, I watch as she’s swept out by the sullen sea.
“Bonnie, Bonnie!” Jas runs into the sea and starts swimming. She’s not the world’s best swimmer.
“No, Jas, come back!” I run straight into the water and throw myself after her. “Go back. I’ll get her.”
“Oh, please, Bonnie, save her.” But Jas is caught in the rip, too, and I shout to her to swim sideways in order to get out of it. I swim with her until she’s obviously safe and heading in to shore. Then I power out with my best crawl and as I reach Layla Campbell I see she’s in a bad state; she has swallowed water and is disoriented. I catch hold of her, but she struggles, and I’m in danger of being pulled under by her. So I punch her hard in the face, enjoying her look of surprise as she slumps in my arms. I let the rip sweep us out, going with it, holding on to her all the time, limp now in my arms. She’s heavier than she looks, she’s bigger than I am, and my arms are tired. I let my legs do the pumping, moving us gradually at right angles to the current. After about forty feet we are out of the frightening invisible rip. It’s at this point that I have an overwhelming desire to let go of her, to let her sink. I hate this woman. It would be so easy
to allow her to drown. Everyone would think I had tried and failed to save her. I would be a hero for trying. She’s limp in my arms, like someone dead. So I let go of her and she sinks like a rock. And I dive to reach her. Shit, she’s heavy. I put my arm under her arm and chest and hold her head above water, swimming strongly on my back with her to the shallow water, where Jas waits to take her. Only then do I remember the shark in the lagoon.
“I wish Layla Campbell had been eaten by the shark, and not Hope,” I tell Jas, panting. “I wish it was Hope I had saved from drowning.”
Poor Hope. Did she realize? Was she aware of what was happening when the shark struck? Did she smell its fishy death-filled breath, feel its teeth tearing at her flesh? Was she terrified? How long did it take for her to die? They say you don’t feel a horrible trauma injury at first, that the pain comes later. She didn’t have a later.
Mrs. Campbell is facedown on the sand; May and Arlene are on their knees, sobbing.
“Is she dead?” May asks.
“I hope so,” I say.
Jas is wrestling Mrs. Campbell into the recovery position and pumping her back. After a few moments water spews from her white lips and snot flows from her blue, flared nostrils.
“Thank God,” says Jas.
Jody gently wraps a sandy sweatshirt around my shoulders and rubs them.
“You are very brave,” she says solemnly.
“Crazy, you mean.” I rub my hair and wipe my eyes. I’m crying again. Don’t know why.
twenty-nine
Bonnie, I want to talk.” Mrs. Campbell has appeared at my shoulder, as if from nowhere.
“What?” I bark.
“I want us to start again.”
“Why?”
“Bonnie, don’t be like this.”
“Like what?”
“Angry all the time.”
“Say what you have to say.” I walk away from her along the beach and she has to run to keep up with me. Tiny transparent crabs flee from under my feet.
She grabs at my arm and I yank it away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Bonnie, you saved my life.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t deserve to have your life saved.”
“Bonnie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please stop and listen. I want you to understand.”
I look over my shoulder at her. She has tears on her cheeks; they could be real, or maybe it’s the wind. Her left eye is closed and bruised where I punched her. She looks ugly. I’m glad.
“What do you want me to understand? That you’re an alcoholic and a drug addict? You’re selfish and a liar? You’re a corrupter of minors? I know all that already.”
She slumps to the sand. I walk on.
She shouts after me, “And you, Bonnie, what are you? You’ve condemned me without a hearing.”
I stop, sit down, and look out at the dark gray sea, the white peaks and black troughs hiding the shark that killed Hope. I get up and walk back slowly to where she lies, a crumpled heap on the sand, her scarlet skirt like a dying rose, the petals brown-edged and ragged, spread out around her. Her face is in her hands, her chipped red nails pressed against her brow. She’s sobbing.
I sit nearby, waiting and watching seabirds skim the waves, listening to their mournful cries. She eventually looks up and sees me, rubs her eyes and nose on her arm and sniffs loudly.
“I want you to understand, Bonnie. I want you to understand why I… why I’m… why I’ve been so… hopeless. My husband… my husband, Blaise… when he died…” She sobs and moans, then contains her sorrow in a slow breath in and out. “When Blaise died, I didn’t want to live. I still don’t want to live. At least I thought I didn’t, until you saved me.”
“That’s no excuse for your behavior here.”
“No, I know. I know, I’m sorry,” she says.
“I’m sorry, too.” I don’t sound sorry; I sound angry. I walk away from her, unable to comfort her, not knowing what I feel. She remains where I left her, collapsed on the sand, her head in her hands.
I find a rock and hide behind it to write in my journal. It’s my only comfort, writing.
Why did I save her life? Because I knew Jas wouldn’t manage to and she might have drowned? No, that’s not it. I did it because it was the right thing to do. And I have been brought up to do the right thing. It would have been criminal not to save her life. I would have been just like her—not saving Natalie’s life. Saving her was the Quality decision. Phaedrus knows what I mean; I hear his voice in my head: “You have to do the right thing, no matter what.” I know forgiving her would also be the right thing to do. But can I do that? I can’t even look at her.
thirty
After tasting the green liquid we found with the other flotsam delivered by the sea, we guess it’s some kind of detergent. Mixed with water, it foams. Terrific! We have soap and shampoo and take the opportunity to wash our hair in the stream, but we’re careful not to use it all—we ration it, no longer taking anything for granted. This might be our only chance of being clean for a long time. The sudden cleanliness gives us a boost. We look more like our old selves. I even swill out my mouth with it. It’s probably carpet cleaner or something, but who cares? It would be marvelous to have clean clothes, but we don’t waste the detergent on them, only our underwear.
Jody and Carly have found their own way out of chaos—they hold civilized tea parties, with shells as cups and plates, and blossoms as cakes. Jody is Dad and Carly is Mommy. Two soggy teddies and Booty are being told to sit up straight and mind their manners. The girls walk their toys to school at the other end of the beach and give them lessons.
“Can I have some of your pages, please, Bonnie?” Jody asks me.
“No.”
“Oh, please?”
“Pretend you’ve got paper,” I tell her, and she wanders off. Later I hear her again, shouting angrily at the teddies.
“Shall I get San—the other teddy bear to join you?” I ask, trying to be nice.
Carly looks horrified and shakes her head violently.
“We can’t take Sandy’s bear,” Jody says, looking at me as if I’m a criminal. “It’s waiting for her spirit in the cave. On our shrine.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
Mrs. Campbell is trying to make up for her previous lack of interest. She makes sure we all have plenty of freshwater, bullying the Glossies to gather it from the stream that rises in the fringe of the trees behind the beach. It’s no big deal, no hardship, but she’s doing it as a gesture that she cares. Jas is falling over herself to be pleasant to her. Brownnosing, some might call it.
Oh thank you, Mrs. Campbell, that’s so kind of you, Mrs. Campbell, let me kiss your feet, Mrs. Campbell. Well, she might as well.
Mrs. Campbell’s even attempting to mother the juniors. Jody has a healthy suspicion of her, but they’ve all been shell-hunting together, stringing orange coral beads onto silky strands of black seaweed. But I notice that Carly isn’t wearing her necklace. She has placed it on the shelf with the other spirit offerings.
Jody’s a funny little thing. Every morning she stands to attention and sings the national anthem, solo—a real United States Air Force kid.
“Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light…” What we can see, and smell, by the day’s morning light is that the latrine is in a horrible state. We need to dig another, but we lost the shovel along with the raft.
“Jas, perhaps your Mrs. Campbell would like to take over latrine-digging duty?” I say.
“My Mrs. Campbell? Bonnie, don’t be horrible. She’s trying her best. We all make mistakes.”
“Some mistake! Allowing Natalie to die because she kept the whiskey to herself!”
“Give her a chance, Bonnie.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking you.”
I can’t quarrel with that.
thirty-one
MAY OR EARLY JUNE 1974, KOH TABU
The stench from our original latrine is unbearable.
Miracul
ously, the rain has stopped and the waves look less like mountain peaks than usual. The sun shines bravely through the dawn mist, and the gibbons sing a cheerful operetta. A blue sky blesses us. After a communal breakfast of coconut milk and figs we creep away separately to crap wherever we can find spots in the forest and to bathe in the stream. We’ve abandoned the overflowing latrine.
“I think it might be my birthday today,” says Jody.
“Your birthday? How old are you, dear?” Mrs. Campbell asks. She’s trying much too hard.
“Ten, but I’m going to be eleven.”
“Eleven!”
“What date is your birthday?” I ask.
“The sixth of June.”
“Oh my God, have we been here that long?” I say.
“Happy birthday, Jody!” Jas grabs and hugs her and Carly jumps up and down and starts singing very loudly, “Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you…” and we all join in, even me.
“Carly’s talking again,” Jas whispers to me.
“We must celebrate,” says Mrs. Campbell.
“How? With water and coconut?”
“No, with a dance, a party.”
“Yeah, yeah, a party!” The juniors bounce like Masai warriors.
So we all go out looking for fresh fruit, fresh fish, fresh coconut. Jas uses seaweed to write in the sand:
JODY ELEVEN
“I wish Sandy and Natalie could be here for the party.” Carly begins to moan and cry softly, hugging herself and rocking as she sits on the sand. Jas hugs her. “Hope, too.”
