As it turned out, Pony had thrown a rock at Simon’s door. He kept a collection of them in his pockets—flat skimming stones—for what reason Simon had no idea. About Pony’s person were also concealed various chains, sticks and pieces of string. He had proudly shown Simon but had declined, when pressed, to elaborate on their purpose.
Pony led Simon to the kitchen, down the stairs and along a passageway, through a set of swinging doors he opened with straight-locked arm. Ned stood at a monstrous steaming stove, his hair tied back with a black headband, a frypan in each hand. The gas hotplates ran in two rows, four at the front and four at the back. He turned around and gave Pony a confused look. ‘You’re up early,’ he said, ‘for a weekend.’
‘Yeah,’ said Pony. ‘Just felt like it.’ He swung himself up onto a chair beside a huge wooden table. It was made of dark brown wood and lacquered. Simon stayed in the doorway, unsure of what he should be doing. He coughed. Ned looked at him, Simon thought, the way you might look at a shadow, then he blinked and shook his head. ‘Simon. Oh, I completely…I’m so sorry.’ He turned and wiped his hands on a nearby tea towel. ‘How did
you sleep?’
‘Well. Thank you.’
‘Come in. Sit down. You’ve met…Pony?’
‘Yes, I have.’ Simon took a chair across the corner from where Pony sat. It was wooden, too, and heavy.
Ned took one pan off the stove. ‘Simon, there’s…been no word on your parents yet. I’m sure Madaline and everyone will be doing all they can. There’ll be search parties I suppose. That sort of thing.’
Simon nodded. All along the kitchen window herbs grew in thick green plumes.
‘I’m making breakfast,’ said Ned, ‘if you’d like some.’ Before Simon could answer, he swung his body back to the stove, just as one of the pans began to hiss frying butter. ‘Can someone pass me a few tomatoes?’ he said over his shoulder. Pony didn’t respond, so Simon looked around for where they might be. ‘Over there,’ said Ned, ‘in the crate.’ He pointed to the corner. Simon saw three large wooden crates. He hopped off his chair and peered inside one. It was filled with crackly-skinned brown onions. The next one held potatoes. The third, finally, tomatoes. He handed three to Ned, the fattest and reddest he could find.
‘Good man.’ Ned sliced the tomatoes in half with an immense shiny knife, letting the halves fall into the steaming pan. Simon watched their red skins shrink with the heat. ‘Can’t have a fry-up without good fresh tomatoes,’ said Ned, grinning. Bacon followed. Mushrooms. Beans. Mashed potato balls. In the other pan, Ned cracked six eggs. He did them two at a time, with one hand, breaking one shell against the other. The yolks fell in perfect circles.
Simon’s parents only ever ate muesli, sitting silently across an empty table.
Pony had spilt orange juice on the table, and sat staring at a squadron of ants conducting reconnaissance around it, traversing the grooves in the wood. ‘Gonna rain again today,’ he said.
‘How do you know that?’ asked Ned, moving all the food onto a large metal tray. Pony made a tyre-air noise with his mouth. ‘Winged ants. See? They’re not normally on the move unless something’s going to happen. Usually rain.’
‘Better leave the washing for tomorrow then I guess.’ Ned brought the tray over to the table and placed tongs and a spatula next to it. ‘I’ll whack some toast on and then go and raise
the dead.’ He looked at Simon quickly. ‘Audrey and Gin, I mean. You guys help yourselves while it’s hot. Pony knows where the plates are.’
Ned left through the swinging doors. Pony slid reluctantly off his stool. He opened a cupboard beside a large set of pantry doors and removed some plates. He said, ‘Of course, ants can mean any sort of change. Rain’s just one sort.’ He took a handful of cutlery from hooks on the wall. ‘Might have something to do with your mum and dad.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Animals pick up on these things.’
‘Do they know where my parents are?’
Pony sat down heavily and lanced a forkful of bacon. ‘You’d have to ask them, wouldn’t you.’
‘That’s stupid,’ said Simon.
Pony just shrugged and began to spade food from the tray to his mouth. Simon, manoeuvring at the edge of the frenzy, felt like a bird picking food from between a crocodile’s teeth.
With a squawk, the swinging doors opened. Simon turned around to see the little boy—Julian, Gin—rush in wearing a blue and red costume, arms outstretched, hair slicked into a Superman curl. He stopped when he saw Simon, his flight hovering in mid-air. Ned came in behind him.
‘Gin, this is Simon. He’ll be staying with us for a little while.’
‘Why?’
Ned smiled weakly. ‘Remember? We talked about Simon. He’s visiting.’
Gin regarded Simon with X-ray eyes. ‘Do you know who Clark Kent is?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘He’s Superman when he’s not Superman.’
Gin nodded. He looked around before resuming his flight, landing at a seat on the other side of the table. His red socks were so long that the ends folded back under his feet.
Ned went back to the stove and the girl, Audrey, came in. She wore a blue mesh basketball singlet over a yellow skivvy. The layered skirt remained.
‘Good morning Simon. I hope you slept well.’ She took the seat beside him. ‘Would you like some juice?’ She looked at him with her head tilted, like someone watching goldfish. ‘Seeing as Pony didn’t get you any.’
‘Simon and me wear the same trousers,’ said Pony matter-of-factly. ‘Simon Sawyer and me.’
Audrey rolled her eyes. She went to the fridge and came back with a container of orange juice and two glasses. ‘I’m sorry about your parents,’ she said. ‘Do you think they’ll come back?’
Ned cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps we should just eat, Audrey. Would you like some banana?’
‘Yum. Simon will have some too, won’t you Simon?’
‘Maybe after I finish this,’ he said, pointing to his plate.
Audrey quickly wiped orange juice from her lips. ‘No, Simon, you have to have it with this! Banana and bacon.’
‘Banana and bacon?’
‘It’s weird,’ said Gin.
‘She’s weird,’ said Pony.
Audrey drum-rolled the table. ‘They’re stupid. You’ll love it.’
‘Maybe Simon can try a small bit,’ said Ned. He peeled two bananas, cut them lengthways and placed them in the pan. Simon had to admit it smelled pretty good.
Gin squelched mushrooms under his fork. ‘How long are you visiting for?’ he asked.
Simon rotated his glass of juice. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know.’
‘People visit the hotel,’ said Gin. ‘But they all have to leave sometime.’
‘I suppose they do,’ said Simon.
‘It’s my birthday tomorrow, are you coming?’
Ned said, ‘That’ll do, Gin,’ and brought the pan over to the table.
Simon thought the banana looked mushy and delicious. It had crispy brown strips down its edge. Audrey showed Simon how to wrap the bacon around it. The first forkful made him murmur. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
They finished breakfast and Ned washed up while Gin rinsed and Audrey and Simon dried. Pony wiped the kitchen table distractedly, absorbed in his own middle-distance.
Ned’s hands were immersed in angry steaming water. ‘So,’ he said to Simon, ‘what did you think of breakfast?’
‘It was great,’ Simon replied.
‘Dad used to be a chef,’ said Gin. His Superman sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. ‘Everyone likes his food.’
‘Well,’ said Ned, ‘I used to be a caterer. Slightly different to a chef in a restaurant. I cook for the guests here now sometimes, but only breakfasts. Mainly it’s just us.’
Simon rubbed a fork through his tea towel. ‘Am I your only guest?’
Ned’s hands stopped moving under the water. ‘Well,’ he said,
‘not really. There are a few…permanent guests, I suppose. It’s always less busy in winter, anyway.’
‘Megan stays with us,’ said Pony, ‘In summer. When she has work.’
‘Who’s Megan?’ said Simon.
‘She works at the Ottoman,’ said Ned. ‘She waitresses. And helps out here when it gets busier.’
‘She stays in the next room over from me,’ added Pony.
Audrey snorted out a laugh. ‘Pony’s in love with her,’ she said. ‘And he never leaves.’
Pony rolled his eyes. ‘Whatever.’
Ned shook his hands dry in the air, cutting off Pony’s inevitable response. ‘Pony’s more family now, really, than a guest.’ He pulled the plug from the basin.
‘And Iris.’ Pony’s voice mixed perfectly with the sink-water curdling in the plughole. ‘Don’t forget Iris.’
Ned cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Iris has been with us a while, too. She’s like family as well, I suppose. Well…have you finished the drying yet Audrey?’
Audrey had the large breakfast tray in her hands. It dripped water at her feet. ‘Nearly,’ she said. Simon stood ready with his tea towel. He sensed a need for duty and calm.
‘Just leave the tray if you like,’ said Ned. ‘I’ve got a few things to do, but Madaline—Senior Constable McKinley—is coming by soon, Simon. She can let us know how everything’s going. I’ll get some clothes for you, and maybe Audrey can show you around a bit more.’
Simon nodded. Before mention of his grandma, he had forgotten she was here, under the same roof. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to see her, not without his parents. What he wanted, more than anything else, was to see Madaline coming up the driveway in a proper police car, his parents in the back seat, smiling, running towards the house to see him.
‘Can I go and fly?’ asked Gin. ‘In the garden?’
Ned checked his watch, which, Simon noticed, still wasn’t there. ‘That’s fine,’ said Ned, ‘but clean yourself up before you come inside.’
Gin shot off back through the swinging doors. Ned followed him, smiling.
Pony sniggered. He stretched his tree-stick arms behind him.
‘What’s so funny?’ Audrey dropped the breakfast tray upside down in the sink.
Pony pointed at the table in front of him. In the pool of his spilt orange juice, the flying ants were floating. He flicked them with his finger and their suspended bodies spun, wings broken, slowing to a stop in their amber ocean.
Audrey never stopped spinning. She jumped around Simon like a humming top.
‘This is so exciting,’ she said. ‘No one ever comes here in winter.’
Simon followed her down the hall from the kitchen. Her hair was strange; it seemed to wisp and dance with its own life.
They walked back past the front door. Simon noticed a small raised desk in a recess by the doorway he hadn’t seen the night before. An old looking silver bell, a town crier’s bell, sat on the desk next to a discreet sign that said Reception. The blue tiles at the entrance seemed even bluer in the daylight.
Audrey pointed down a corridor to their left. ‘That’s where we sleep,’ she said. ‘I mean, Dad and Gin and I each have a room.’ She led him into a large dark room with two giant bookcases flanking the entrance. Big brown leather couches were scattered everywhere. It felt to Simon like he was walking through a giant chocolate box. A small television nestled nearly out of sight in a corner.
‘This is the living room,’ said Audrey. ‘It’s for the guests, really, but we use it all the time. Also, we’re not allowed to watch TV after seven at night.’ There was a hint of pride in Audrey’s voice. ‘Are you allowed to watch TV, Simon?’
‘I suppose so,’ he said.
‘And your parents don’t mind?’
‘I don’t think so.’ The truth was, his parents never really forbade anything. Mainly because they weren’t around to forbid it.
‘TV’s bad for you,’ said Audrey. ‘I prefer music.’ She walked over to a tall window that looked out onto the front garden. Next to the window was a small wooden phone table and an old-fashioned black telephone. Audrey spent a few moments staring at it. She lifted her shoulders back. Without warning, she quickly hoisted the receiver from its cradle and slammed it back down.
Simon jumped. A sharp ping tumbled-turned in his ears.
Audrey sniffed. ‘What sort of music do you like, Simon?’
Simon righted his breathing, which had skewed sideways with the shock of the phone.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I don’t really listen to music much.’
‘That’s strange. I thought everyone listened to music. I like Rossini.’ Audrey hummed a staccato tune, and mimed a bow and arrow at Simon’s head. ‘I’ve got lots of records,’ she said. ‘They’re so much better than CDs.’ Her feet shuffled light, easy patterns as she talked: more a boxer than a ballerina.
Simon studied the bookshelves, which were lined neatly with sombre spines. ‘Have all these books been read?’
Audrey shrugged. ‘I’m not sure how I’d know that,’ she said, knotting her brow. ‘Sometimes the guests read them. Dad doesn’t really read. Besides, they look better all in a row, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose.’ Simon’s parents didn’t own any books, except boring ones about changing your life or getting rich. No stories. Back at home, he had twelve different library cards. He had never seen so many books outside a library. ‘Do you think I’d be able to read one?’ he asked.
‘Maybe.’ Audrey had turned around to face the window. She appeared not to stare at the view, but up at the pane itself. She said, ‘Do you know what’s going to happen to you, Simon?’
Simon ran his fingers down a row of books. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you know how your life is going to turn out?’
Simon turned around. ‘How would I know that?’
‘Well, some people think it’s all mapped out for you already, and you just follow along, like a join-the-dots.’
‘I don’t think my life’s a join-the-dots.’
Audrey made a vague noise of agreement and placed all eight fingers against the window’s glass. The morning light shone through, evenly and calmly, tricking Simon’s eye so it looked like Audrey’s fingers were the only thing holding the outside world together.
A hazy despair rose in Simon’s mind. The weight of isolation grew heavy about his head. He didn’t know anyone now. He didn’t know anything. There were no points of reference left, just him. His lungs filled with a thick, irrational fear.
‘I want to see my grandma,’ he said. ‘I want to see Iris.’
Audrey sighed. She turned her head to Simon, her eyes vexed with some hidden question. She looked a lot like Gin, Simon thought: somehow, in whatever way it was that resemblance shimmers through a family. He wondered if anyone ever saw the features of his parents appearing in his face. He certainly didn’t see his face in theirs.
‘I guess you can,’ she said. ‘If you want. She gets up late, but we can knock on her door.’
‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘Please.’ He knew he had offended Audrey somehow. ‘You can show me the rest of the house later, though.’
Audrey’s face brightened. ‘Yes I can, can’t I. Come on then.’ She skidded out of the room on pretend skis, and Simon followed. She walked right up the centre of the staircase, arms outstretched, so her arms brushed each banister. The light was brighter at the top of the stairs. Through a porthole window, the sun chewed thoughtfully on fat clouds. Simon peered closer and saw Gin running past in the garden below.
‘This floor is where the guests stay,’ said Audrey. ‘Pony and Iris stay here too.’
In daylight, Simon saw the walls were covered in white and green wallpaper, striped thick and thin like a humbug. He asked, ‘How many people can stay here?’
‘There are six rooms. Seven, if we need to. When we kick Pony out.’
‘Isn’t it weird, having strangers in your house?’
�
��Not really,’ said Audrey. ‘I’m used to it, and it’s how Dad makes his money. Besides, everyone has strangers in their house.’
‘No they don’t. I don’t.’
‘They don’t have to be people you can see,’ said Audrey, as if explaining the deadly obvious. ‘No matter where you are though, there are other people.’
‘You mean…ghosts? I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Some people don’t want to see them. And, sometimes, they don’t want to see you.’
Simon made a dismissive noise. ‘Our house is brand new. No one else lives there.’ Simon remembered the cold flat smell of fresh paint, the dead sound of all the empty rooms.
He walked over to a cabinet. The light reflected off the glass so he couldn’t see what was inside. Audrey was strange—this was the conclusion he had reached. How could there be ghosts everywhere? He surely would have seen one by now if there were.
Audrey came up behind him. ‘So what is it you believe in, then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well if you don’t believe in ghosts, what do you think is out here—’ she swept her arm theatrically above her head, ‘apart from you and me?’
Simon thought of ghosts riding the air currents that swooped from Audrey’s arm. They all had improbable howling faces. Simon knew he believed a little bit in God, but this was something he had confessed to no one. He certainly wasn’t going to tell Audrey. Thoughts of God were only for late-night ceiling stares and moments when silent spaces scared him. And definitely not for people he’d just met. ‘I don’t know if anything’s out there,’ he said, ‘except for maybe molecules or atoms or something.’
Audrey’s lips fizzed. ‘There’s too many of them to count,’ she said. ‘So why bother?’ She walked away from Simon, plunging her hands into hidden pockets in her skirt. ‘I thought you were smart, Simon. Apparently not.’
Simon’s scars began to buzz. ‘Where does your mum sleep?’ he said, immediately regretting it. He had already guessed Audrey’s parents had divorced. His stupid words, coming out, as usual, at the worst possible time.
The Ottoman Motel Page 7
