In the Trees

by Pauline Fisk

  Cato gestured him over. A unique opportunity to make something of himself was being offered here, he said, and all because Kid was his son. Any other boy would die for a chance like this. But it was Kid’s for the taking.

  ‘Cato an’ Son,’ he said. ‘Yu an’ yur daddy – wha’ yu tink?’

  Kid thought his father was a crook. At least that’s what he said later, when he finally had the chance to talk to Renata. All this time he’d longed to find his father, he said, and had dreamt about what he’d be like. He’d hoped to find a father to be proud of, despite certain things his mother had said, but the father who’d turned up totally shamed him.

  ‘But then I feel ashamed anyway,’ Kid admitted, ‘for lying to you. I didn’t mean to do it. I’m really, really sorry.’

  Maybe that was a lie too, but Renata forgave him for it. She didn’t forgive him, though, for saying his father shamed him.

  ‘Maybe he’s not the father you imagined,’ she said. ‘But he wants the same as any father – for his son to be proud of him.’

  ‘How can I be proud of a person like that?’

  ‘By getting to know him.’

  ‘And how do I do that?’

  ‘It’s obvious. Go home with him. He’s come all the way from Belize City to find you. Now’s your chance to do something for him.’

  For the second time that day, Kid felt betrayed. This was the girl he was in love with, yet she was trying to get rid of him.

  ‘How can you say that?’ he said. ‘Everything I want is here. Renata, look at me. You know exactly what I’m talking about …’

  Renata looked at him, but her face wasn’t shining like it usually did, and her eyes were grave.

  ‘Life here’s not as easy as you might think,’ she said. ‘I know you want to stay. I see you dreaming. But we Kekchi people have hard lives. This is no Paradise, like you seem to think. So, go with your father. It means a lot to him. He’s your father, after all. Find out about his life. And think about the life for you. Then maybe one day you’ll return. But not like this. When you can see clearly, come back then. And, if you can’t, better stay away.’

  PART SIX

  CAYE CAULKER

  31

  BELIZE CITY BLUES

  Kid couldn’t sleep that night. For hours he lay awake thinking about what Renata had said. With nothing else to do, he pulled out a letter his father had given him forwarded by the Wide-World people, apparently, and read it by candlelight.

  It came from Snow and caught him up on all the news. The bunkhouse was finished now, and people were going their separate ways. Jez was heading off to Papua New Guinea where he’d be leading another Wide-World expedition. Doc Rose was backpacking round South America along with Cassie. A few people, including Sam and Benji, had taken up placements like Kid’s and were hoping to look him up. Hubert had finished his tour of duty in the forest and was on border patrol up north, between Belize and Mexico. And most of the rest, including Snow, were on the island of Caye Caulker, diving off the reef on their last few days before heading home.

  ‘I wish that you could join us,’ Snow wrote. ‘I know you’re on your placement but, just in case, this is where we are …’

  Kid folded up the letter without bothering to read the address. He didn’t want to witness the final break-up of the old team, thank you very much. If a curtain was coming down in his life, he didn’t want to know about it. The thought of the old camp being empty, its kitchen unused and saplings growing up through its dormitories was more than he could bear.

  Next morning, however, when Cato left Blue Bank Springs, taking Kid with him, another curtain came down. It was Sunday, which meant hitching a ride rather than taking the bus. Reuben accompanied them down to the road, to see them off, and Xa-an stood in the doorway with Lydia, Renaldo watching from between their legs. But there was no sign of Renata.

  Kid waited half an hour to thumb down a ride, wondering all the time why she didn’t come. After all, here he was, following her advice. Finally a truck pulled up and Cato climbed on board, followed by Kid, for what turned out to be their dream lift, heading at breakneck speed, with no stops, all the way to Belize City.

  Kid slept for part of the journey and pretended he was sleeping for the rest, because he didn’t want to talk. They arrived in the city just in time for the afternoon traffic jam at Haulover Creek when the swing bridge was opened to allow boats up and down. Even though it was Sunday, and the banks and offices were shut, there was still a buzz about the city.

  Kid watched water-taxis full of tourists heading out to the cayes on the reef. Beyond them a couple of cruise ships sat in the bay, waiting for their passengers to return from shore. The area around the swing-bridge was heaving with stalls selling trinkets to tourists with white faces and even whiter T-shirts.

  Kid watched them dodging hustlers, clutching their money-belts and plainly terrified of being ripped off. I was one of those, he thought. When I first arrived, that same scared expression was written all over my face as well.

  Finally the bridge opened and the traffic started moving again. On the far side of Haulover Creek, Cato called for the driver to drop them off. He ambled off, leaving Kid to thank the driver, then follow him into a mesh of tightly connected back streets lined with what Cato casually referred to as ‘upstayz houses’. If he’d been alone, Kid would have immediately been lost. But Cato could have made this journey with his eyes shut. He knew every last broken sidewalk, and everyone he met seemed to be his friend.

  ‘Hey, maan. Hey, Cato. How’s tings?’ people called. And Cato called back that tings were great. This was his son. They’d be out tonight. See you later, everyone.

  Finally they reached Cato’s house. Kid had known his father wasn’t really a top director in some land agency, and that it wouldn’t be the white house of his dreams, but he hadn’t expected anything quite so dilapidated. A wooden staircase led to a littered balcony with rotting boards. Slatted wooden shutters hung at the windows, plainly in need of a coat of paint. A door hung on its hinges as if someone had smashed into it. Even the hammock strung across the balcony had holes in it.

  ‘Come on up, son,’ Cato said.

  Kid followed him upstairs, missing out the broken risers. Together they picked their way across a debris of empty cans and bottles, entering a single room smelling of bottled gas and alcohol. A stove stood in one corner and a bed in the other. Unwashed dishes were stacked in the sink attracting flies in and out through a broken mosquito screen. Cato’s clothes were thrown about everywhere and his bed looked as if it was rarely slept in. The hammock on the balcony appeared to be the place where he spent most of his time.

  Cato headed for the fridge, grabbed a couple of beers, then headed back outside, saying, ‘Mek yu at home.’ He flung himself into the hammock, pulling out his mobile phone, and said he had a couple of business calls to make.

  Kid was left to his own devices. He leant over the balcony, wondering what exactly he was doing here. It was getting dark now. Cars were out there in the gathering night, squealing on their tyres, music was in the air and there was a police siren wailing somewhere. Blue Bank Springs felt a million miles away.

  Cato came off the phone and said he had to go out. He wouldn’t be long, he said and, in the meantime, Kid should get dressed. ‘We goin’ fo big night out. Fader an’ son. On de town. We goin’ somewhere nice, so dress up smart,’ he said.

  Kid rummaged through his rucksack and did his best with what he’d got, which wasn’t much. Then he went outside and leant over the balcony again. Dogs mooched past the house and people called out. A couple of Cato’s friends even came upstairs to make Kid’s acquaintance. It didn’t need him to be there to say dis mi son. They said that they could see it for themselves.

  Finally Cato returned, though not in the best of moods. He washed, shaved, ironed a shirt, slapped on some aftershave and then the two of them headed off together. Kid wondered what he was in for. Part of him was filled with trepidation but a small co
re of excitement was in there somewhere too.

  As they walked the streets, Kid heard televisions blaring, music playing, people laughing to each other and calling out from house to house. They reached an area where strings of lights hung between the trees and he could hear the ocean slapping over the sea wall. They were on the edge of the commercial district now, close to the Ocean Hotel. Briefly Kid savoured what it felt like to be a local and not a tourist any more. But being a local didn’t feel good when suddenly, without warning, his father turned in to the entrance of an open-air tourist restaurant and started working his way from table to table.

  What was he up to? Kid quickly found out. He hung back in embarrassment, but his father pulled him over. He was talking to the tourists at the tables as if they were old friends, cracking jokes, slapping them on the back, trying to persuade someone, anyone, that he and his younger brother here – his younger brother – should join them for supper at their expense.

  Kid was mortified. His father offered the two of them as some sort of dynamic duo to inject local colour into the tourists’ night out. Kid was introduced as the clever one, English-educated, home to join the family firm.

  ‘Ai’s de Top Director of one of de country’s major land agency development tings,’ Cato said. ‘Ai’s a big maan in Bileez City. Ai can show you a good time.’

  Kid blushed and tried to get away. The tourists were distinctly unimpressed. And so was the restaurant manager, who threw them out.

  The manager of the next restaurant was equally unsympathetic. Cato tried another tack this time, saying that Kid was his son, home from England for the first time and the honour of the country depended on this, his first night, giving a good impression.

  But it made no difference and, after this, the word went round all the other restaurants, which meant that their managers were waiting for them when Cato bowled up. Kid tried to pull his father away, but still Cato kept trying to talk his way in. He was totally unabashed.

  Only when somebody threatened to call the police did Cato finally give up. The night ended in a take-away shack, buying a boil-up of sweet potatoes and pigtail, flavoured with coconut oil. Some big night out, Kid thought, ignoring his father’s apologies. If he hadn’t misplaced his wallet, Cato said, none of this would have happened. But that didn’t stop him finding enough money, before they trailed back through the streets, to buy a bottle of white rum.

  Back home in his hammock, it didn’t take Cato long either to drop off to sleep. He’d hardly started on the bottle and he was gone. The last thing he said before his eyes closed was, ‘Yur mudder was a pretty gyal. That Mary-Jane – a real pretty gyal.’

  What Mary-Jane? Kid thought. My mother’s name was Kath. But he kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t worth the bother. Cato wouldn’t hear him. He was already snoring.

  Kid leant over the balcony. Out there in the night he could hear the throbbing drums of punta rock, which reminded him of Night Falls Lodge. He’d been in the wrong place then, following the wrong trail, and he was in the wrong place now. His father couldn’t even figure out which of the women in his life had been Kid’s mother. He’d got them in a muddle. Didn’t know one from the other. So much for a wedding certificate. So much even for a feather hat! How many wives had Cato had? How many mothers had fathered his children? And how many other children were there, looking just like him?

  Next morning, Cato wanted Kid to go to the bank to draw out money to buy some food. He’d do it himself, he said, but since the disappearance of his wallet he had a temporary cash-flow problem.

  ‘Ai pay yu back later,’ he said, ‘when Ai got tings sorted out.’

  Kid drew out some money, but he knew there’d be no later. It came as no surprise to him that, as soon as he had cash in his pocket, his father was off. He had calls to make, Cato said. Business deals to attend to. He’d be back in an hour. He’d see Kid at the house.

  Kid walked back on his own. He hadn’t even been here for one day, but he knew he’d had enough. He climbed the stairs, kicked last night’s rum bottle – which was empty now – out of the way and flung himself into the hammock. After an hour his father hadn’t returned. Kid fetched his rucksack, packed it and returned to the hammock. When, after another hour, his father still hadn’t returned, he left.

  Kid didn’t even write a note. He was too angry for anything like that. Instead he left behind his parents’ photograph on their wedding day – which he didn’t care if he never saw again – to remind Cato which woman was his mother.

  ‘You win,’ he said, taking a last look at the two of them together side by side.’ You said my father was a man I wouldn’t want to know. And you were right.’

  32

  GO SLOW

  The water terminal building on Haulover Creek was heaving with a throng of people wanting to get out to the cayes. Kid bought a ticket and boarded the first water-taxi leaving. The sky was full of clouds as the boat nosed its way past the old warehouses, and a squally wind came up, shaking palms along the waterfront. Kid watched the shoreline in case his father came looking for him. He’d chosen a seat at the front, looking forwards, not back, because he couldn’t get away fast enough.

  The quays and warehouses fell behind as the boat eased out into open waters, bucking and bobbing like a swimmer in a storm. The pilot, seated above the covered cabin like a soldier at his look-out post, opened out the throttle. Immediately the boat began to slice a path through the choppy waves, sending spray flying right down the deck. People were thrown about and Kid was soaked.

  If the voyage out to Caye Caulker was going to be a rough one, he decided, it was a small price to pay. Rain started beating down, but he didn’t care. Tarpaulins were handed out for those passengers who hadn’t found seats in the cabin area, and Kid huddled under one, listening to drops as big as pebbles beating out a rhythm like a tune on a steel drum.

  For a while, all Kid could see was the edge of the boat and the sea pitted with rain. But when the downpour stopped, he emerged from the tarpaulin to find that the brown waters of Belize City had been replaced by clear, deep blue waters. In the distance he could see two tiny islands that seemed to be floating, one just big enough for a house, the other for a single palm. He wondered what it was like living on those dots of islands with nothing but ocean for company.

  It rained a couple more times, and the tarpaulin had to come out again. But it never lasted long and finally the tarpaulin became a shelter from the hot sun. All around Kid, people were in holiday mode. But not him. He could feel his father’s presence reaching out for him. Even when he couldn’t see Belize City anymore, he could feel him trying to draw him back.

  Finally Caye Caulker came into view – a long, flat island covered with palms and mangroves, surrounded by an astonishingly bright turquoise sea. A bustling waterfront appeared, along with wooden beach-front shacks, docks, boats and flocks of pelicans. A smell of beach barbecues was in the air, and Kid heard snatches of music and laughter.

  People stood up in the boat to get a better view as the pilot steered towards the water-taxi dock and moored for them to disembark. Kid was first off the boat, pushing past the others as if he still couldn’t put enough distance between himself and his father. A throng of people waited to offer him golf-cart rides, rooms for the night, help with luggage and cheap meals out. But he pushed past them too, hit the sandy shoreline and started along it, heading away from the water-taxi terminal.

  Somewhere on this island, according to Snow’s letter, were Kid’s friends. But he wasn’t ready for them yet. He passed a row of thatched cabanas, followed by a waterfront restaurant, a collection of beach bars and a hotel garden full of palm trees and exotic flowers. The sun was high and bright, the island picture-postcard perfect. It was a place for rest. A place for fun. A place for chilling out. But something drove Kid on, unable to stop.

  ‘Wha’ de hurry?’ a voice called out as Kid charged past. ‘On de Caulker, wi go slow.’

  Kid didn’t even bother to look round at th
e man, who’d stopped raking the sand to watch him, shaking his head in disbelief. He pressed on, telling himself that he couldn’t hang about. He had to put the past behind him. It was the way he’d always lived his life, sofa after sofa and flat after flat, and now he had to do it again.

  Finally Kid left the built-up part of the island and entered a deep green area of mangroves. The path he’d been following disappeared and he didn’t know which way to go. For a while he forced himself on. But his reasons for hurrying began to fade. The sun was hot. He was running with sweat. His rucksack dug into his shoulders. Why was he doing this? After all, as he well knew, no distance between himself and Cato could ever be enough.

  Kid stopped at last, dug down in his rucksack, pulled out his mother’s hat and nursed it in his arms as if it was a teddy-bear. He could feel her hurt. It was his hurt too. She’d hoped for a husband here in Belize, just as Kid had been hoping to find a father. They’d both hoped to find love – but Marcus Aurelius Cato was what they’d found instead.

  The day was almost over by the time Kid returned to the village part of the island, ready to dig out Snow’s letter and track down his friends. He bought a burger, smothered it in Marie Sharpe’s sauce and was just walking away with it when a voice said, ‘They’re good, aren’t they?’

  Kid turned round. Hal stood behind him, grinning. At least, the voice was Hal’s, but the hair had grown, the skin was brown and the stocky body had lost a tonne of weight.

  ‘What you doing, creeping up on me?’ Kid said.

  ‘And what are you doing, buying burgers from Pirates’ without including us?’ parried Hal.

  They both laughed. Hal said that Pirates’ Burger Joint was the best in the world and Kid, as an expert on burgers, said he had to agree. They walked together along the waterfront, and Kid asked where Hal was staying, and if any beds were going. Hal said there’d always be a hammock in the garden if there weren’t any beds in the house, but that people came and went all the time, so there were bound to be free ones tomorrow if there weren’t tonight.