Excess Baggage (23 page)

‘It’s only for a couple of days,’ Lucy tried but didn’t feel convincingly comforting. None of these buildings looked particularly substantial, though this wouldn’t be the first hurricane they’d endured. She thought about the TV programmes she’d seen about extreme weather conditions, and for the first time felt mildly nervous. This storm might, remotely possibly, be something that none of them survived. But if they did … Lucy felt a surge of unusual immense determination that was almost like a tidal wave in itself. She wasn’t, she decided, going to waste any more of her life or Colette’s making do with dull compromise. It would be like being given a chance to have another go, get things right this time.

‘How much do you miss the cat?’ Lucy asked Colette as they stopped at a shop. It was an estate agent, and she slowed down to glance idly over the selection of places to rent.

‘The cat?’ Colette looked at her as if she was crazed. ‘
Hadn’t
you noticed? The cat’s practically moved in with Sandy downstairs.’ She looked at the apartment details in the one window left that hadn’t yet been boarded up. ‘I don’t suppose she’d notice if we never went back.’

Lucy smiled and read the details of a flat with a small garden, just on the edge of the town. It was nice to dream, she thought, as she translated the price of the rent into quite an affordable amount of sterling, but the building might not be standing this time next week.

IT WASN’T ANYTHING
like the Devon holidays. Shirley could hardly believe she’d ever thought it would be, and that wasn’t anything to do with the heat, or the distance from home, nothing as obvious as that. The past was like a used stamp; you couldn’t go scraping it up and try to force it to stick to the here and now. There were too many people involved, for a start. It wasn’t just Simon, Lucy and Theresa any more: they’d all grown these attachments – their children, their partners (though not Lucy, would it ever be Lucy?) and Shirley never saw all three of them without at least a few of the extras tacked on somewhere. It would have been nice, she thought, just for one evening maybe, to have been able to reassemble just the original family once again, see if they all slotted together in the same old way. They could have reminisced about all the things that the others wouldn’t want to hear about, like long-gone relatives, Christmases and birthdays when they were little, old dogs and cats and that vicious ferret Simon had brought home from the boy at school. These were things she wouldn’t mind going over a bit, just to reassure herself that it did all happen, that she didn’t only spend what now felt like a mere ten minutes raising this family.

Sometimes, in quiet moments alone at home, she wondered if it had happened at all, if there’d been anything between being a teenager dancing with American GIs up at the air base and the
now
, just herself and Perry rattling around in the house that had grown much too big. She had to go to the old photo albums to reassure herself. Most of the earliest pictures were black and white, giving even more of a sense of unreality. Grey photos, grey skies, grey Devon sea. But her children had been full of colour and life and she needed to check that what she’d always felt were landmark moments in her life, were also – well, at least some of them – landmarks in her children’s. It wouldn’t work, though. They were busy making their own memories now with their own families, which was how it should be. And suppose she did persuade them to reassemble, just the five of them. What would they say to the others? Sorry, but you’re only along for the ride so make yourselves scarce for a bit while we do a spot of recapturing the past?

Shirley watched Theresa carrying little Sebastian along the edge of the sea and wondered how someone who seemed to have everything going for her in life could look so troubled. With grown-up children you couldn’t give them a prod and tell them they’d got a face like a wet Wigan Wednesday, nor could you get them on their own and ask them straight out what was wrong and then expect a full and honest answer. Whatever it was, and with Theresa it was certainly something, it wouldn’t be put right with an extra secret ice cream.

Now that he’d got the painting back to the hotel and propped it up on the chest of drawers, Mark wasn’t at all sure this was the right kind of present for Theresa.
Usually
he was quite good at choosing. A little silver something from Tiffany always made her smile (and so it should) and, for a man, he was pretty good at underwear. The last success had been just before the holiday: lavender lace knickers and bra from La Perla. She’d probably never wear them for him now, assuming (rightly – that time it was the little Thai massage girl) that he’d only bought them out of guilt. She’d probably give them to Mrs Thing (OK,
Gwen
) to use for scrubbing awkward corners of the lavatory. Still, the painting was something for them both. When he’d seen it he’d had this idea of hanging it in the sitting room where its vibrant colours could remind them of … well, that was the big problem. It was by Frané Lessac, an original, not a print, so it would make a fair-sized dent in next month’s Visa bill. It was a scene of an island market, complete with steel band, laughing children, stalls of mangos and bananas and fish and chickens and spices. It could only remind them of being
here
, which could be a problem. Reminding Theresa of being
here
would forever remind her of his cheap, shoddy bits of betrayal. All the same, the picture made him smile. (He adjusted the painting against the wall so that it was straight, and walked back across the room to get a good look at it. In spite of all the awfulness of this trip, the scene made him think of being warm and relaxed and reminded him that there were other worlds beyond bloody Surrey and the even bloodier 7.43 to Waterloo. If only Theresa could look at things the same way, maybe she’d work out that there was room for a bit more flexibility. He’d done a bad thing (three bad things) and he was sorry. He’d said so. He wouldn’t do anything so stupid again, not ever. All Theresa had to do was believe him and trust him. If she couldn’t do that, well, what was marriage all about?

After lunch the various tour reps rounded up their charges and told them to assemble on the terrace for another meeting. The new arrivals from the hotel on Coranna, who had no-one to herd and chivvy them, ignored the summons and lay back on their loungers to let the business of sorting the storm pass them by as if it was an inconvenient beach trader. Simon glared at them, feeling they were shirking from responsibility, and Perry quietly suggested to a man of about his age with a tan the colour of nicotine stains that it might be a good idea to put himself in the picture so he could at least tell the rest of them what was going on.

‘This is the big one. The yes or no,’ Simon said as they walked up the steps from the pool area.

‘Heavens, Simon, don’t sound so
portentous
,’ Plum teased him, prodding him in the ribs, which hurt more than he hoped she’d meant it to. He felt mildly offended. No-one seemed to be taking things seriously enough. Ahead of him, he could hear the gold lady chatting away to the frightful barrel-shaped woman with ‘Star’ emblazoned across her jacked-up breasts about a selection of duty-free sapphires she’d seen down near the port. How were these two intending to while away the storm, he wondered. He could just picture them sharing a bottle of gin, a couple of hundred cigarettes and a game or six of contract whist while comparing the various merits of Bloomingdale’s and Harvey Nichols. All around them, a few hundred years’ worth of nature’s precious trees and shrubs, along with possibly the entire housing stock of the island, could be wiped out while they nattered and chattered.

The manager looked even more serious than he had at the previous meeting. For the first time, Lucy
realized
that this storm wasn’t something the island residents experienced annually and could feel blasé about. It was almost as much of a terrifying one-off event for them as for the tourists. This hurricane was going to happen, it was going to hit them hard, could rip the hotel and everything in it to splinters. She put her arm round Colette and the two of them went and sat near the back of the room with Becky and Luke. There was no flippancy this time, no-one trying to make light of anything.

‘We now have a category-four hurricane,’ the manager announced. ‘I can confirm that it is on course to hit this island sometime tomorrow, probably during the early part of the evening.’

‘Is category four worse?’ Luke whispered to Lucy.

‘’Fraid so,’ she told him. She squeezed his arm and smiled. He grinned back, confident that being fourteen and fit would guarantee his survival – it simply wasn’t time for him to go yet. Lucy felt almost tearful. These kids had no real idea about weather. The only thing they understood to be really dangerous was standing under a tree when there was lightning about, anything worse just happened to other people on TV.

‘The sea level is likely to rise by up to eight feet, so rooms on the ground floor may be in some danger of flooding or at least of having sand carried into them from the tide and the wind …’

‘Shit, that’s us,’ Theresa whispered to Plum. ‘That’s all of us, except Mum and Dad.’

‘… So we are going to reallocate those guests to sharing with others on the higher floor.’

‘Do we take all our baggage too?’ a rather frail-looking elderly lady asked.

‘No. Leave it stowed high on the wardrobe shelves like it says on your instructions and we’ll sort
everything
out after the storm.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘After all, chances are you’ll be able to go back to your original rooms the very next morning. These are precautions we have to take, not a guarantee of mass destruction.’ The laughter was polite but nervous. Further along the row of seats Lucy could see Cathy clutching Paul’s hand tightly. She looked as if she might burst into a new set of tears. Paul put his arm round her and cuddled her into his shoulder.

‘Hey, have I got this right?’ The ‘Star’ woman’s New Jersey drawl hollered out from the back of the room. ‘Like we have to
double up with strangers
? I mean, like I paid for
de luxe
. Sharing ain’t de luxe.’

‘Depends who you get,’ one of the Steves called out.

‘Not you, honey, you’re strictly budget class,’ she flashed back.

There was a mocking chorus of ‘ooooh!’ from his companions and then the sound of sudden fierce rain pattering hard on the roof brought them all back to sober reality. The meeting dispersed slowly, with small groups lingering under shelter on the terrace to chat, trying surreptitiously to find out who would make good storm-companions if they all had to share room space. It would be a cramped way to spend a night, even though many of the rooms had a pair of king-size double beds. The hotel was almost full, thanks to the offloading of the hotel on Coranna, and some of the guests were feeling angry that the rush to evacuate those extra people had been a miscalculation: it now looked as if that island was likely to fare far better than St George. In addition, the mysterious celebrity, who had not yet been seen or identified, had an entourage of at least ten and no-one was taking bets that any of them would be asked to move from their rooms and spend a night holed up with strangers.

Simon was worried. He felt as if somehow he should be in control of things and there was nothing he could think of to do. He felt it was something to do with being A Man, and moreover A Man who was taking over from his father as Senior Family Member. The manager was by the reception desk, engulfed by guests who had each managed to think of just one more question. Simon approached and lingered at the back of the crush, hovering on the edge of the crowd with his hands in his pockets, gazing at the updated hurricane chart and waiting his turn as if it didn’t really matter. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Carol walking down the corridor towards the main door. He felt himself beginning to blush and his hands went sweaty and when the manager asked him if there was a problem he was appalled to hear himself stammering.

‘Er, er, th— th— there are a lot in our party,’ he began. ‘Is there any, er, sort of chance we could all be together for this, er storm thing?’

The manager frowned and studied his computer.

‘Ah. Right. You have two over in Villa Hibiscus.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I think, between you and me, you should congregate over there for the duration,’ he said. ‘The reason being that the louvres in the villa’s windows are wood, not glass as they are over here in the main block. You’ll be safer there, especially as you have small children.’

The rain had stopped again and Simon returned to the beach, wondering if he felt reassured or not. On the whole he felt
not
. He was going to die. He would be sliced through the skull by a tumbling roof-tile. A flying louvre would skewer him to the wall. They were all going to die. He would never see his nice tall Wimbledon house, his patients, or his dog again and at
the
thought of this he was confused to find that his spirits felt very much lighter.

‘Look what some sod’s done,’ were the words from Luke that greeted Simon as he reached the bottom of the beach steps and made for his lounger. Simon looked at the space next to them where guests had sat and sprawled comfortably before the meeting, but which now consisted of six empty loungers spread far out in a long and greedy row, guarded at each end by big men sweating in suits and ties and carrying what looked like mobile phones.

‘It’s the best spot on the beach. Whoever it is must be scared of sharing the air. People were asked to move,’ Theresa complained.

‘And did they?’ Lucy, joining them, asked.

‘Well, yes. They were told it was for a “special purpose” and thought there was going to be a barbecue set up for tonight, so off they went.’

‘I wouldn’t have moved,’ Lucy said, wiping the raindrops off her own lounger and settling herself down with a book.

‘No, well, you never did anything that didn’t involve completely suiting yourself, did you?’

‘Tessie …” Shirley warned.

Lucy said nothing, refusing to reward Theresa with so much as a scowl. It was childishly satisfying.