Excess Baggage (20 page)

The dining terrace had been hastily rearranged, with the tables all pushed to the wall and rows of chairs facing the sea. There was the lingering scent of grilled bacon. Another noticeboard, easel style with a large pad of drawing paper clipped to it, faced the lines of chairs and there was a stubby blue crayon ready in an ashtray on the table beside it.

‘It’s like a bloody sales conference,’ one of the Steves called from the back row. ‘Where’s the overhead projector?’

Shirley bustled into the room and went to sit next to Lucy and Colette, a couple of rows from the front. She smiled past Lucy at her granddaughter and then half-whispered, ‘You don’t want Colette listening to all this. The poor child will get frightened to death.’

Lucy smiled and gripped the edge of her chair in an effort to keep herself quiet. Nothing changed, certainly not her mother and her ‘You don’t want’.

The possible response, ‘Oh but I
do
want’ was just too juvenile. She felt tense with frustration that she couldn’t come up with an instant something-smarter. After all these years, she should have a well-rehearsed collection of them at the ready. Ironic, really (not to mention maddening), that just at the point where she’d
decided
she didn’t mind too much giving her mother a sharp dose of the truth, Shirley’s health should start to be vulnerable.

‘She likes to know what’s going on, and anyway it might be important for her safety that she listens, that way she won’t take risks,’ Lucy replied with simple truth.

‘She doesn’t know what she wants at that age.’ Shirley leaned past Lucy again and said, ‘Colette love, why don’t you pop down to the pool? Marisa’s there with the little ones, so you won’t be on your own.’

‘No thanks Gran, I’m OK.’

‘You don’t want her being clingy like this.’ The half-whisper was back.

‘I am
not
clingy.’ Colette was leaning across Lucy now, her head so close Lucy could smell the Sainsbury’s Sun and Swim shampoo she’d been using every evening. ‘I’m just interested, OK?’

‘Hoity-toity! There’s no ice creams for little madams.’

‘Oh God, I’m not five.’ Colette sighed. Lucy nudged her arm and gave her a private calming grin.

The room was now full. Simon and Plum were the last to arrive and had to scuttle to empty seats on the front row, like embarrassed last-minute cinema-goers. Shirley looked around for the rest of her party and waved to Mark, who was sitting near the back next to the gold lady. She couldn’t see Theresa or the teenagers and concluded that very sensibly Simon had told them not to come. They’d only fidget and start chatting anyway.

The hotel manager was tall and businesslike in a smart navy suit and a tie with the hotel’s green and white leaf motif. He wore heavy-rimmed oblong glasses and his expression of grim foreboding
reminded
Lucy of Trevor McDonald on the news when he had a major disaster to announce to the nation. Using the blue crayon, he sketched a rough map of St George and the surrounding islands. Out on the pale blank right side, he then added what looked like a big Polo mint and an arrow.

‘Hurricane Susie is heading this way,’ he announced simply, pointing to the blue arrow. ‘Right now there is still a small chance it may miss the island altogether, but equally we have to prepare for the possibility that it might not.’

‘Oh well, if we don’t even know …’ Perry murmured, folding his arms and waiting to hear something that had more impact.

‘A hurricane is like a doughnut, or a flying saucer if you like. The wind forms spirals round, forming the central hole, which is the calm eye of the storm. At the moment the speed of those wind spirals is 120 mph, while the whole thing, the mass, is moving this way at eighteen mph. That is a category-three hurricane, and if it continues like this it will reach here sometime during Monday afternoon.’

‘Is category three the worst?’ the gold lady asked.

‘No. And we have to hope and pray it stays at three. Even then we’re going to have serious structural damage. It will be worse if the whole thing slows down. The slower the storm travels, the faster the wind speed will be when it hits.’

Colette took hold of Lucy’s hand. Lucy squeezed her fingers gently, trying to give a reassurance that she didn’t actually feel. The tone of the manager’s voice made her feel as if the end of the world might well be coming. Perhaps her mother had been right, perhaps Colette should be diving and swimming and carelessly having fun while she could. Perhaps they all should,
enjoying
their last couple of days on earth in happy but unwise ignorance.

‘Buildings are replaceable,’ the manager went on. ‘People are not, so it’s vitally important that you follow any instructions that we give you. After Sunday you should not go out of the hotel grounds. You should try to return any hire cars and read all the notices we put up in the lobby.’ He looked around the room and grinned for the first time. ‘And get to know each other, you might be spending a lot of hours in small rooms with strangers!’

‘Just what I’ve been trying to do all week,’ quipped a voice from the back. There was a burst of nervous laughter and then the sound of sobbing. Cathy got up and rushed from the room, dripping tears on all she passed.

‘What about my
wedding
!’ she wailed as she ran. Paul, looking embarrassed, shuffled out after her.

‘Well there you are, you see,’ Shirley said to Lucy. ‘That’s what happens when you mess about getting married abroad.’

‘It’s all a bit serious, isn’t it?’ The gold lady was on the pontoon waiting for the boat to take her across the bay to Teignmouth. Lucy and Mark were waiting for the dive boat to pick them up.

‘It’s like those programmes about holidays from hell that you see on television,’ Mark said. ‘I bet there’ll be dozens of people craning out of windows with camcorders, hoping to flog a video of flying coconuts to some crap TV company.’

The gold lady moved closer to Lucy and lowered her voice so Lucy could barely hear. ‘What do you think we should wear?’

‘Wear? What for?’

‘Well, for the storm of course. It might be life or death—’

‘Clean knickers then, obviously,’ Lucy interrupted, giggling.

‘No, seriously. I mean it would probably be a good idea to wear something you can run fast in, and of course it would have to be something that doesn’t matter getting wet. And will it get cold? And suppose you end up swept away into the sea, you wouldn’t want to be wearing something bulky that would pull you under.’

‘Perhaps you should ask, next time the manager calls a meeting.’

‘Do you know, I might do that.’

The dive boat pulled up to the pontoon and Lucy clambered down into the seat next to Henry. ‘This has to be the last dive,’ he said. ‘Sorry but the sea’s starting to cut up too much. Visibility down there is getting worse all the time and it’s too risky. I need to take the boat round to a safe place too.’

‘Don’t apologize. The ways of the weather aren’t your fault.’ She thought for a moment, watching the herons preening on the headland, then went on, ‘Henry, the people at the hotel seem to think the storm is going to be completely catastrophic. Are they right or are they covering themselves?’

Henry frowned. ‘They’re right, or at least they could be. We might not be at the centre of the actual hurricane, but whichever way, the island’s going to take a beating. If anyone tells you to hide under the bed, just do it and stay there till they tell you to come out. Don’t ask why.’

‘OK, I won’t.’ She looked back at the shore, then asked, ‘Where are all those boats going?’ Behind them a long line of fishing boats was making its way across
the
bay. They lacked only strings of flags to make them look like the beginning of a seaside regatta on the Devon coast in August.

‘They’re heading for the mangrove swamps round the other side of the island. That way they’ll be protected from the worst of the battering. That’s where I’m taking this later.’ He looked at her and grinned. ‘And after that, how about ditching the family and you and Colette coming out to eat with Oliver and me tomorrow night? There’s a great little restaurant that might not be standing this time next week. It’s called my place, I’m not a bad chef.’

‘It’s all right, you don’t need to do the hard sell! I’d love to. If we’re on a forced lock-in after tomorrow, the family will have plenty of time to get sick of my face.’ Even so, she would have to put up with the wrath of Simon, the raised eyebrows and pursed lips of her mother, the scowl of Theresa (envy, she wondered?) and probably a leery suggestive wink from Luke, but it would be worth it. After all, with the apocalypse booked in for Monday, it was time to cram in the fun.

Simon was watching the girl who watered the plants. Her intricate hair fascinated him. It shone so much; in fact her skin, everything about her glowed. Her large mouth, slick with a deep grape lipgloss, seemed to have a perpetual smile.

‘There’s a nest up there,’ he commented, as she caught him watching her.

‘Yes sir, it’s a hummingbird.’ Her smile widened and was just for him. He knew it was a hummingbird. He’d seen the tiny bird, its wings beating faster than he could focus, flying from the nest in the twining creeper that spread under the roof of the lobby all the way from the reception desk to the edge of the verandah roof by
the
pool area. The nest was the size of a golf ball, woven from grass and stems of dried leaf. It must have been one hell of a building job for such a little bird.

‘There are three baby birds,’ the girl said. Her name was Tula, her badge told him.

‘There’s another nest on the terrace just outside my room, but I don’t know what kind of bird it is. It’s a bit like one of our English sparrows, but more green. Do you know what it is?’

Tula smiled. ‘I might. You’ll have to show me.’ Simon’s heart started to speed up. Did she mean now? Alone in his room with him? Why would she want to do that unless …

‘Er, it’s this way, if you’d like to … Are you sure?’

‘All part of the service, sir.’ Tula left the watering can on a ledge by the reception desk and followed him along the cool corridor. Simon didn’t feel at all cool. He felt as if he’d caught a prize-winning fish but wasn’t sure how to land it, or, with his hands, body and the back of his neck sodden with nervous sweat, if he’d be able to. At least there really was a nest to show her; if the stuff of fantasy failed him, and that was more than halfway likely, he’d come out of it knowing a bit more about the island’s bird life.

‘Here we are.’ It sounded so stupid, because of course they were
there
, though it didn’t really matter, as his voice no longer felt as if it was his. Simon fumbled with the key and flung the door open, half expecting to see Plum inside, collecting some suntan lotion or her umpteenth bloody book. There was no-one there. The maid had been and the room was immaculately tidy and clean. He went to shut the door, but then left it slightly ajar, in case Tula got nervous and fled.

‘So where’s this nest?’ She turned and smiled at him
as
she walked to the terrace window and slid it open. So many straight white teeth, he thought, such a lush wide glistening mouth.

‘It’s just up there.’ He pointed to the creeper that hung below the terrace verandah. There was the nest, and, disturbed by human presence, a small greeny-brown bird flew away fast.

Tula laughed. ‘That’s just a common old finch! We got thousands, man! Doncha get those back home?’

It was the worst thing. She was laughing at him. He could see right into the stretched pink mouth. Perfect: no fillings, no overbite, all molars present, the orthodontist in him couldn’t help noticing.

‘Yes, yes we do. I suppose I just hadn’t looked at it too closely.’ He felt as if, without so much as brushing against Tula, he’d managed to strip himself of all dignity. She was no fool, but he was. She turned to leave, still giggling, and gave his arm a squeeze as the door suddenly flew wide open. Carol, the room maid, stood firm and square in the doorway, her arms folded and no smile on her face.

‘OK. Now I warned you before,’ she accused him, stepping inside the room and closing the door. Simon backed onto the balcony, terrified of Carol’s angrily waving finger and advancing bulk.

‘Actually, we were looking at the bird’s nest.’ Simon tried his best to sound outraged. ‘Tula has been very helpful.’

‘It ain’t her job to be helpful, not that way.’

‘It’s fine, Carol, no problem.’ Tula tried to placate her colleague. ‘He didn’t take any advantage.’

‘Not with you maybe,’ Carol told her, ‘but with some.’

‘He did? With you?’ Tula switched sides, literally, and went to line up next to Carol. The two of them
glared
at him and he could see them figuring out what to do next.

‘Way I see it,’ Carol said to Tula, ‘kind of woman he’s after, he should be out paying for on the street, not mishandling the likes of us.’

‘You’re right, for sure.’ Tula nodded.

Simon now
was
outraged. ‘Now wait a minute, I didn’t … I wasn’t …’

‘No?’ Carol came up close and, to his amazement, slid her hand down to his crotch. There was a waft of sweat, not unpleasant. She grinned. ‘Like to try black pussy, would you? The idea make you horny?’ The strong firm hand fondled his balls. Simon was frankly terrified and nothing in her grip was daring to stir. Behind Carol, he could hear Tula starting to giggle.

‘Well, before we island girls buy the goods, we like to check over the stock,’ Carol said. ‘So come on, let’s see what you old white guys got in your pants.’

Before he could work out what was going on, Simon was upended on the bed. Tula and Carol, shrieking with laughter, easily pinned down his feebly thrashing limbs and stripped off his shorts and swimming trunks in what seemed like less time than it took to peel a banana. He feared for the stripe of tender pallid flesh where the sun hadn’t been, for his penis, craven and lifeless, that they stared at, pointed at, howled and hollered with laughter at. Carol was even wiping away tears. He couldn’t recall such humiliation since the diarrhoea day at his infants school, and the even worse day after the following fortnight when Miss Jenkins had compounded the awfulness by telling the assembled class that they must
not
call him Shit-leg Simon.