by Safari,B. C
The twins powered through breakfast, chattering over current affairs. As Peter passed the newspaper around the table, each person discovered a new article to discuss. On closing the paper, Junior caught the eyes of a man whose face was too familiar to ignore. Allan Roterbee’s face shot out from the paper:
‘It is with great sadness that Mr Allan Roterbee, the entrepreneur of The Roterbee exchange firm, is finally laid to rest. The Prime Minister and several members of cabinet graced the funeral. Roterbee, who was an avid philanthropist, leaves behind his children: Allan Roterbee Junior (17) and Charlotte Grace Roterbee (17)’
Junior closed the paper and tossed it at the centre of the table.
‘Avid Philanthropist’ Junior could not name one philanthropic act his father had ever performed. If Allan was ever a generous soul, it was at the expense of spending time with his own kids. He had never once attended any of Junior’s football matches, nor any of Charlotte’s Olympiad contests. Naturally, after Allan’s unexpected death became public knowledge, such extracurricular activities were halted. The teachers at Ridgewood high school urged the Roterbee twins to take a season of leave (as a mandatory grieving period). Charlotte, who was head girl, strongly opposed the idea. Many suspected that having to hand over her badge to Eliza Greggle, Charlotte’s long-time frenemy, was the underpinning source of her contempt. On the other hand, dodging school was Junior’s favourite part of the whole ordeal. The death of his father fell under a list of mitigating circumstances which granted Junior a pass in all exams (something he may not have been able to achieve otherwise). This was the only good news that Junior had heard all fall. Charlotte, however, opted out of exclusion from exams. She was a straight-A student and did not want to achieve her grades by default. Hard work was one trait her father taught by example. Allan Roterbee spearheaded the Roterbee exchange firm for many years before his untimely end. Charlotte’s aspirations were no less impressive than her father’s. She planned to one-day head the firm, but accepted that Allan’s infamous suicide may have tarnished the Roterbee brand irredeemably. The future of the Roterbee exchange firm was now indefinite. Charlotte pondered over it intently in the weeks following Allan’s death. Many of Allan’s old acquaintances speculated that the death of his wife, who was rumoured to have died during childbirth, marked the onset of his chronic depression. Perhaps this was the reason Allan Roterbee found it difficult to relate with his children…they looked and acted too much like their mother, whom he’d never stopped loving. These were a few of the gossips for Allan Roterbee’s alleged suicide. Junior was grateful that these gossips had not been mentioned in the article; he was thankful that the intricacies of his father’s death had been excluded from the press. The less information people knew, the less they would ask and the less he would have to explain.
The morning passed quickly and Charlotte spent most of it by the telephone, receiving goodbye messages from her friends. Junior assured his schoolmates that he’d likely return by the new year…certainly by his 18th birthday. He was sure that his trip to Shorebridge would be no more than a lengthy vacation. For now, the primary objective was finding a way to squeeze his necessities into the modest-sized suitcase Peter had allotted him. When everything was ready to go, Peter began transporting the cargo. The twins glanced over their home, especially at the large, hand-painted portrait of their father. It dangled, as it always had, on the wall above the fireplace. The portrait had an outlandish guise; it often moved Junior a great deal. Mr. Roterbee was smiling…anybody who ever crossed paths with Mr. Roterbee knew that he seldom smiled. The gifted artist, who handcrafted the painting, may have captured Mr. Roterbee at a rare, invaluable moment. The source of his merriment in the portrait would be an ever-present mystery to Junior. At best, he could speculate that Allan, wherever he was now, was as happy as he appeared in the portrait. His father’s face was transiently blocked by Sonia’s pink duster. Sonia had been polishing the Manor all morning. She wished to leave Allan Roterbee’s home (aside from a few golden spoons) exactly as she met it. When she was pleased with the spotlessness, Sonia loaded her rucksack onto her back and quitted the Manor reluctantly. Charlotte glanced away from her father’s portrait, batting between deep sighs and sobs.
‘There, there,’ teased Junior, ‘and I thought I was the one who didn’t want to leave.’
‘Oh stop it!’ Charlotte snapped, ‘I’m fine, it’s my hay fever…that’s all.’
‘It’s autumn,’ retorted Junior, smirking.
Charlotte gave her brother a despondent smile and absorbed the Manor one last time. Soon after, the Roterbee’s departed their home altogether.
*
The drive to Victoria coach station is not long; the roads are unusually clear, and today, traffic is absurdly low. Peter skips through radio stations more frequently than usual. All stations are playing depressive ballads, so Peter quits the radio completely. Sonia fills the silence for the rest of the drive and somehow, Charlotte is not vexed by Sonia’s relentless chatters. Charlotte can tell when they have arrived at the coach station, because the squeaks of suitcase wheels revolving along a tiled floor reverberate about the air. A freckled red-head girl is stationed at the booking desk by the entrance of the station. She is the first person to take the Roterbee’s details and, on learning their family name, expresses her deepest sympathy.
‘You’re booked for the 11 o clock coach to Shorebridge, is that right?’ says the redhead.
Junior offers the tickets and nods. The redhead’s hand touches Junior’s as she accepts. Her childish giggle tells that she is readily anticipating the moment she’ll tell all her colleagues ‘Allan Roterbee Jr glided his soft fingers over mine’. Junior’s cheeks flush and Charlotte gags between amusement and revulsion. Once inside the station, their cargo is alleviated from them; Sonia and Peter begin their goodbyes.
‘Be good,’ says Sonia, winking. To Junior especially, she says, ‘look after your sister, dear.’
Digging into his pocket, Peter exclaims, ‘I nearly forgot, your father wanted you to have these!’
He collects two golden rimmed cases, and Charlotte snatches her own automatically. Junior frowns, it’s only the Roterbee ring and necklace of Allan’s will. He flicks his own golden-rimmed-case into his rucksack whilst Charlotte weaves the necklace around her wrist, upcycling it to a trendier bracelet.
‘These trinkets meant a lot to your father,’ Peter’s tone is accusatory, and he glares at Junior directly.
‘Okay, Okay,’ groans Junior, fetching the ring and sliding it onto his finger, ‘happy now?’
Sonia hugs Charlotte once more before she and Peter turn to leave, waving until they can no longer be seen. The coach is tight and overcrowded. Once inside, Junior flicks the sapphire ring to bury at the bottom of his bag. He wonders how many times the automated voice will repeat ‘This is a National Express coach from Victoria to Shorebridge’. To his annoyance, the voice replays every twenty seconds, until he plugs in his earphones. The music drowns out all other distractions. After a short time, the growl of a warm, vibrating engine, coupled with the world outside the coach window speeding behind him, tells Junior that the coach has departed.
‘Seven more hours of this,’ he yawns.
He closes his eyes…sleep is always the best way to kill time.
Chapter three
‘Welcome to Shorebridge’
‘Wake up!’ snapped Charlotte. She nudged the snoozing boy beside her irately. Junior could make out a light dot which, after rubbing his eyes, became the familiar face of his sister. She nudged him once more and nagged, ‘sound asleep with your neck curved all along the window, you’re lucky it isn’t sprained!’
Junior peeled his face from the hot glass, he suspected that dried dribble and sweat had sealed him there for most of the journey. The young man wiped a layer of perspiration from his forehead and groaned. He twisted his arms behind his head, attempting to disperse the pounding aches. Junior had slept like a baby, in a most bizarre
position, for the entire length of the journey.
‘We’ve arrived?’ shot Junior, extricating the knots in his neck.
‘Evidently,’ muttered Charlotte, ‘there wasn’t one coach stop and I’ve been awfully peckish…the sandwiches Sonia packed weren’t at all filling.’
Junior rummaged an empty container from his sister’s rucksack, ‘you had my sandwiches too!’ he cried.
‘You snooze, you lose,’ chuckled Charlotte, dragging the remaining rucksack from the overhead baggage compartment. The Roterbee’s squeezed along the narrow isle, embarking on a tight trek to the coach exit. After being clouted with a number of rucksacks, which were being recklessly pelted onto their owner’s backs, they departed the coach. Baggage retrieval was the next task, and as they had little cargo to collect, the Roterbee twins completed this speedily. They came to the information desk, which had no information giver in sight, but contained a measly pile of information leaflets. Charlotte snatched one, pressed it to her nose and squinted intently. The leaflet detailed a collection of small villages in relation to the route of the town’s only bus.
‘We are here,’ said Charlotte, circling the station icon with her finger, ‘right in the middle of Shorebridge…apparently.’
Junior scanned the station in one slow twist of his neck, ‘when are we expecting Dr. Willow?’ he muttered.
‘It would be helpful to know what he looks like,’ said Charlotte, shrugging.
A small crowd were gathered at the station entrance, but none matched Peter’s description of Dr. Willow. Based only on their uncanny resemblance to Mr. Roterbee, Charlotte was convinced that Dr. Willow would recognise them. But, when none of the crowd stepped forward, she was forced to believe that either the doctor was not amongst them, or was, and could not elucidate a blatant family resemblance. Suddenly, two young children, from the same coach, bolted to the station entrance and cried, ‘Grandpapa!’ They leaped into their grandfather’s embrace. Soon enough, other eager passengers followed, each meeting and embracing their acquaintances. Dr. Willow was nowhere in sight. Starved and annoyed, Junior shuffled his cargo to the nearest free seats.
‘You’d think that after we’d travelled half a day, he’d at least have the decency to show up on time.’
Flittering pulses of red worked across Junior’s tanned face. When he was angry, Junior appeared remarkably handsome. Somehow, the colour in his cheeks brought out, beautifully, his piercing green eyes. They decorated his sculpted face, making hard features appear soft in synergy. Charlotte was just as handsome, but often preferred Junior’s full green eyes over her heavy, buried ones. Though she would never admit it to him, Charlotte would often stare into her brother’s eyes, appreciating each aesthetic stroke of colour.
‘Your coach waz early,’ a gawky, foreign voice rang from behind.
Charlotte and Junior flinched in surprise. They turned, automatically, to the direction of the mysterious voice.
‘You are ze Roterbeez, I presume?’ the woman probed, her accent thick and European. She had beady blue eyes and thin dark hair, which had been neatly packaged into a tight miss-trunchbull-bun. Charlotte inspected the woman from feet upwards, ‘Dr. Willow is a man, not a woman,’ she declared.
‘You are quite right Miz Roterbee, Dr. Willow iz a man,’ replied the woman, somewhat amused, ‘but I am his housekeeper, my name iz Luchia.’
Luchia modelled a dark, moth-eaten dress, similar to the kind Allan Roterbee’s maids would wear at the Manor. She had no apron but bore sensible shoes, which told that she frequently engaged in hands-on work. If she was, indeed, who she said she was, Junior was so far unimpressed with the doctor’s proprieties (or more so lack of). Protocol and etiquette should’ve obliged him to personally collect his guests on their arrival to Shorebridge. Junior’s curiosity burned. Did Dr. Willow know that they were arriving today? Did he care at all? Was he too busy? Doctors are always busy.
Speaking aloud his thoughts, Junior asked, ‘so Dr. Willow’s a busy man, is he?’
‘He iz,’ replied Luchia, ‘but he looks forward to meeting you.’
Extending her hand to Luchia, Charlotte said politely, ‘you can call me Charley.’
‘And you?’ asked Luchia, eyeing Junior.
‘Allan Junior…but Junior is fine.’
Luchia bowed her head cordially and greeted the Roterbee twins. ‘I can take zat,’ she demanded, snatching the suitcase handle from Charlotte’s grip. Out of courtesy Charlotte refused, but Luchia had already heaved Charlotte’s baggage along a steep flight of steps. Surprised by the housekeeper’s brute strength, Charlotte followed, leaving Junior to wheel his own baggage. Outside the station, someone had parked, rather callously, a bright purple Volkswagen. It may have been the most ridiculous car that Junior had ever seen. So when Luchia rolled Charlotte’s suitcase toward the vehicle, Junior’s dread was confirmed…this was Luchia’s car.
‘What – is – that?’ spat Junior, glancing at the bubble-gum coloured car with disgust. Luchia switched it open and began loading the trunk.
‘Zat is our ride,’ said Luchia, her amused tone attenuating a deep eastern European accent. ‘I understand that you both are from ze wealthy pedigree, but things in Shorebridge are different.’
Gulping visibly, Charlotte replied, ‘how so?’
‘You zee, Dr. Willow is a prudent, reserved man. I’d better warn you now, before you get your hopes up, your stay here will not include private limouzines and butlers.’
‘Luchia…’ Junior breathed, faintly, ‘you can’t seriously expect me to enter that thing.’
Junior glanced at the bold vehicle again and realised that it now radiated shades of pink underneath the sunlight.
‘Zat thing haz a name!’ retorted Luchia, ‘she’s called Sylvia and you’re going to love her.’
‘Well, I love Sylvia already,’ said Charlotte, grinning impishly. Junior was unsure as to whether his sister truly meant it. However, the zeal with which Charlotte shot into the front seat of the car told that she did. Junior questioned his sister’s sanity as he lumbered into the unoccupied seat at the rear of the bubble-gum wagon.
‘You can wear ze seatbelts if you want to,’ said Luchia, ‘it’z only a five-minute-drive from here.’
Peter could never have given such an ultimatum; seat-belts were always mandatory. But then, Peter would never be caught driving a Barbie-themed automobile. It took Luchia three attempts to start the iffy engine; on the third attempt, the car growled loudly, discharging a cloud of dirty soot as it propelled into the road…the-Sylvia-mobile had a mind of her own. Charlotte dwelled on Luchia’s portrayal of Dr. Willow’s character, and more, his financial status. Though she never expected Dr. Willow to be a filthy rich man, like her father had been, she always supposed that he was somewhere between comfortable and wealthy. Many of Allan’s acquaintances in the city had been of equal wealth to himself. Naturally, Charlotte assumed Willow was also of measurable financial standing. Why else would Allan appoint the doctor as guardian of his children? It’s what Allan wanted. Charlotte was certain the doctor was not broke, just not nearly as wealthy as she had expected. I can live with that.
Shorebridge was a hilly town; one did not have to drive three meters before encountering a large bump in the road, or a steep ridge. Luchia, who was accustomed to the town’s topography, was smooth in her seat, as Charlotte and Junior jolted up and down and side to side at each bump and ridge. Luchia appeared to enjoy watching them jolt, and Charlotte looked like she was ready to puke any moment. The roads were outlandishly clear, most people walked around in small groups or cycled singly. The town was old, perhaps ancient. Nearly all of Shorbridge’s buildings were formed of greyed bricks, which over the years, had corroded. Greenery added little life to the small town. Shorebridge had a strange dormancy which must’ve been mystifying to visitors. However, a single vacation to the town told that it did not attract many outsiders. Shorebridge was not at all what Junior had imagined. But then, he had not imagined S
horebridge at all, for he never foresaw that he would surrender to Peter’s plea. Squinting into the car window, Junior spotted a child. The little girl was dancing in the road, swinging a tight rope over her head. As he peeked closer, Junior realised that the child was skipping, leaping in a rhythmic hop-scotched pattern. In London, children never played in the road, in fact, children were hardly ever seen at all. Engaged in a seemingly animated phone conversation, the young girl’s father had his back turned to her. It was almost as if the child was neglected. A sinister dark shadow rapidly encroached the young child, with it, an ominous cloud of white smoke. Without removing his eyes from the young girl, Junior edged closer, until his nose prodded the glass window. He gasped in realisation that this was no ordinary road. The child was skipping in the middle of a railroad junction. The dark figure that was hastily encroaching the child was a train. Danger was imminent. The child’s piercing scream forced Luchia to stall the car, and onlookers to clasp their mouths in horror. The young girl’s father rotated suddenly and caught sight of the speedy load that would surely crush his daughter’s head any second. It was too late. Junior clasped his eyes shut, unwilling to witness the young girl meet her untimely end, but something strange happened when he did. It was as if time stood still. The train, which was once an encroaching panther, awaiting its pounce, was now unhurried. Almost, but not entirely, frozen. The train was less a panther, and now more like a slow giant bug. It was not just the train, but everything else in comparison was suddenly Junior’s personal freeze frame. For this lucid hallucination, Junior could only blame Sonia’s dodgy mushrooms. Whatever it was, this was his chance to save the young girl. Junior bolted into the railroad and scooped the child from her dangerous path. As quickly as it had blundered, time re-corrected itself.
