Written in the Stars (41 page)

‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing at the moped parked outside.

‘Our wheels for the day!’ she exclaims. Then she hitches up her kaftan and throws her leg across the moped as if it is some kind of Harley-Davidson. She looks so funny, her generous frame swamped by swathes of pink material which almost hide the moped entirely. She starts the ignition and revs the tinny engine and winks wickedly at me. ‘Come on, my girl, are you ready to burn some rubber with your mama?’

I fold my arms and shake my head. ‘I’m not getting on that thing with you. No way.’

‘I’ll take it slow, I promise,’ Loni says. ‘It’ll be an adventure! And remember, I used to ride one of these here all the time so I’m not exactly a novice. Let’s live a little, Bea, or should I say
Thelma
,’ she drawls in a Texan accent. It was one of the films we watched over and over again the year after Kieran left. It was Loni’s very unsubtle way of wanting to empower me with stories of women going it alone. I’m not sure she’d thought through the driving off the cliff climax though, bless her.

‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ I sigh as I go and sit behind her. I cling on to her waist tightly and squeeze my eyes shut as she revs the engine and then we both squeal as we jerk forward with three little jolts. Loni presses her foot down really hard and we set off . . . at about 10 mph.

I burst out laughing as we pootle along the dusty road. ‘Wohoooo, this is craaazy, Loni!’ I yell. ‘You’re so WILD I can’t deal with the speed!’

We jump and jolt along the road with me laughing hysterically as Loni desperately tries to control the moped.

‘I can get some speed in this thing, just you watch!’ She revs the engine and then promptly stalls our moped in the middle of the road.

I burst into fresh peals of laughter. I lean my head on her back, crying now with laughter as she tries the ignition again. I turn my head just as a cow pauses next to us, watching us as if we are a little passing road show.

‘Mooo!’ it says encouragingly which makes Loni jump. The engine starts again suddenly and we skid around in a circle as the cow scampers out of the way with another, more indignant, moo.

We set off again, the moped spluttering and phut-phutting its way along the road, red dust flying up alongside us as Loni whoops and punches the air. I yell words of encouragement as we reach speeds of at least 15 mph.

‘Are you sure we should be driving like this?’ I shout in my best Geena Davis impersonation. ‘I mean in broad daylight and everything.’

‘No we shouldn’t but I want to put some distance between us and the scene of our last GODDAMN CRIME!’ Loni stands up as she shouts Louise’s line, she whips her scarf off her head and hands it to me and I hold it aloft as she pushes her foot down and we drive down the road, screaming and laughing our way to Anjuna.

I’m not sure if I can ever remember a time when I was happier.

Chapter 66

Anjuna market is in full swing when we arrive half an hour later and I’m fervently wishing that I hadn’t encouraged Loni to try and get here faster. I wish we were back on that moped, going in the opposite direction. As if sensing this, Loni links my arm as we enter the market on the beach and I feel that familiar sensation of being pulled forward and back. I need to see my dad but right now I just want to run away. Again.

The Goan sun is beating a relentlessly intense heat down on our backs as we find the relative shade provided by the canopies of the market stalls. But the heat, coupled with the smell of incense and spices, the noise of drums and music and chatter is still utterly overwhelming. There are rugs spread out over the sand with palm trees as shelter, their sellers sitting cross-legged in front of their wealth of goods: rows upon rows of necklaces, beads, opaque stones, plaited bracelets, trays of silver and gold jewellery. I have never seen such colour, so much merchandise, so much
life
in one place. Women in bright billowing saris, displays of traditional Indian puppets, canvas bowls of colourful spices, row upon row of moccasins, T-shirts, rugs, lanterns, vases and hand-crafted statues. There’s a moment when I stop and close my eyes for a second and apart from the heat, with the hustle and bustle and delicious smells and noise, I feel like I could be in Greenwich market.

Loni and I weave our way through the market for a while, browsing the stalls and pretending to be having some sort of leisurely mother–daughter experience, buying beads and a beautiful shawl each, when we are just trying to delay the moment as long as possible. And the stall-holders are so excited by what seems to be our obvious Western riches that we feel guilty not buying something before enquiring if they know Len Bishop.

We draw a blank from the first few we ask. They just gaze at us and shrug. I’m not sure if it’s because they don’t speak English, they don’t know Len – or they just don’t want to tell us where he is.

It’s nearly lunchtime and I’m feeling faint with heat, tiredness, disappointment and dehydration. Loni points to the shade of a palm tree, just beyond the market, and we buy some water and some fruit and head towards it.

‘It was a bit of a long shot, I suppose,’ Loni says as we walk sipping periodically from our water bottles. ‘I mean, I guess he could be anywhere. We could try again tomorrow . . .’

‘Or we could just give up,’ I say wearily, leaning my head back against the tree and closing my eyes. ‘I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I mean, I’m pretty sure he won’t want to be found. We could just spend the rest of the week relaxing, spending time together – right, Loni?’

I open my eyes and see that Loni is now standing in front of me. One hand is resting on her hips and the other is resting on the top of the straw hat she bought from a stall. ‘Loni?’ I repeat. ‘Did you hear me? I said it doesn’t matter . . .’

She doesn’t reply at first. Then she points into the distance. ‘He’s over there,’ she says softly. ‘Len is over there . . .’

I scramble to my feet and stand next to her. I lift onto my tiptoes and shield my eyes from the sun to see if I can see what she is looking at. I feel like a kid who has lost her dad at the beach but as my eyes search desperately for him I realise I don’t really know what I’m looking for. It’s been almost twenty-five years. He could have changed beyond recognition.

Loni grabs my hand and starts walking quickly towards him. I have no choice but to go with her. I’m hopping over the burning hot sand, pausing to try to put my flip-flops back on. She weaves through some market stalls then stops suddenly so I almost bump into her. When I follow her gaze I see a man: correction – an
old
man sitting in front of some paintings. It’s a shock, even though I have always worked out exactly what age he would be as every year of my own life passed. He is a seventy-one-year-old man now and he looks it. His face is thinner and longer than I remember, like it has been stretched with sadness over time. He has a deep nutty tan and long pigeon-grey hair that’s parted in the middle and pulled back into a ponytail. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a linen shirt open halfway down his chest. I can see that despite his age, he has strong athletic calves just like me. He has expressive hands too – artist’s hands. He is talking to someone, laughing and gesturing. I feel I can understand what he is saying without hearing a word.

It’s my dad. My dad. I stare at him, studying him like I might study myself in a mirror. Do I look like him? We have the same hands, and his eyes are dark like mine. I look more like him than Loni and Cal, I note.

I
am
more like him than Loni or Cal.

‘It’s him.’ These words are in my head and come out like a sigh, so softly that for a moment I think I uttered them. Then I realise it was Loni.

She grasps my hand suddenly as if we’re standing on the edge of a cliff and she’s scared of letting go; not because I might fall, this time. But because she might.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she murmurs. I let her make the first move. Suddenly this feels as much her moment as mine. She walks towards him. With every step we are going back . . .

‘Len?’ She stands in front of the stall like a bright sunset. I can see her hands are shaking. He freezes, then turns slowly and looks directly at her. Instinctively I step back and then dip to the side of the stand so I can observe.

‘Loni?’ he replies. His voice is an echo of my lost memories.

I stare at him, looking not just at him, but this life he is living. The life he chose over us. I notice he is sitting at an easel and a half-painted landscape picture is on it. There is a photograph clipped to the top of the easel; his subject, I presume. Loni always said Dad was very creative. He taught History of Art, he painted, he enjoyed sculpture, gardening. ‘Anything that involved his hands and his heart,’ she once said. His stall is full of canvases, paintings of the English countryside and coast. My eye settles on one in particular, a painting of a horseshoe-shaped garden. A soft golden autumn sunlight is filtering through the willow tree. Under the tree, there is a figure, kneeling, her hands in the earth, her face looking up to the sky. It looks familiar, like the drawing in the front of my diary.

I put my hand over my mouth as I recognise the figure; the little girl is me.

Loni and Len are still standing opposite each other. It’s like there is an invisible line between them that neither dares cross.

Len speaks first. ‘You found me.’

‘I didn’t,’ Loni replies. A flash of confusion flickers over his face and I suddenly see myself in his distant expression and uncertain gaze. ‘Bea did. She has been waiting for you to come back for years. She was the one who decided it was time.’

‘Bea.’ He moves his head quickly, his eyes combing the market for me. ‘She’s here?’ He looks back at Loni and I can’t tell if it’s hope or fear in his eyes.

I step forward slowly out of the shadows, one foot in front of the other towards him.

Everyone and everything has melted away and it’s just me, on my path, walking towards my dad. I feel like I’m walking a line, a tightrope between the past and the present. I can’t believe this is actually happening. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, the last one being my wedding day. I had pictured him reaching out to me as I ran into his arms, but also him seeing me and then just walking away. One moment: two equally possible outcomes.

He’s squinting at me now as if he’s struggling to make me out. Then I see him gasp and put his hand in front of his mouth.

Finally I’m standing before him but I don’t run into his arms like I always thought I would. Instead I take Loni’s hand and stare directly into my dad’s eyes. I can see myself reflected in his irises, not just my silhouette but my soul. It’s like we are one. There’s a sadness, a loneliness deeper than any garden well in them and I can’t bear it. I can’t bear to see it in him because I know it’s in me too.

There are tears, but it is he who is crying, not me. I want to comfort him but I can’t. He’s a stranger, a man I don’t know. He holds his tanned, liver-spotted hand up and I notice it is shaking. ‘I’m sorry. I’m OK. I’m OK.’ He repeats this as if he’s trying to convince himself. He pulls a bottle of water out of his pocket and tips a couple of tablets into his hand then shakily swallows them.

He smiles at me weakly. His eyes are watery, not with age or regret, but disconnected somehow. Like they know no great waves of happiness or sorrow, just the peaceful lapping at the shore of emotional equilibrium.

‘Dear Bea,’ he says softly, as if practising how the words sound on his lips. As he does I can imagine him saying them aloud all those years ago when he wrote my garden diary. ‘Dear Bea,’ he repeats. ‘You’re here.’

Chapter 67

We leave the market and go to a beach bar and find a quiet spot in a corner. I’m glad we’re on neutral territory; it was strange enough to see Dad’s humble little stall, I don’t know how I would cope seeing where he lives.

The fact that the three of us are sitting around a table is almost too surreal to deal with. This is not helped by the fact that there appears to be a cow lying feet away from us, sunbathing next to a group of tourists.

‘So, you’re a painter,’ I say as three beers are placed in front of us by a man with a bright white smile. My question plants itself awkwardly between us. It is small talk and yet it comes out punchy, confrontational: sitting opposite him it feels like I’m interrogating him. I take a sip of beer to relax me, the cool but sharp taste piercing my throat and hopefully allowing my conversation to flow more freely.

‘It’s a little hobby,’ Len says, twirling his bottle on the table. ‘I paint the places I love. It makes me feel at home when I am far away; I find it therapeutic.’ He squints at the label and deep chasms appear around his eyes.

‘Do you work?’ I ask briskly. I bite my lip immediately. I don’t want to challenge him, I want to understand him.

‘Bits and bobs, Bea. Bits and bobs. Other than my stall I have my pension, I do some volunteering, I teach English to foreign students.’

‘Do you live here permanently?’ Loni asks. Her voice comes out as a squeak. She clears her throat and takes a swig of beer. I’m glad it’s not just me who’s nervous.

His eyes settle on her; they seem to come in and out of focus as if he is in turn seeing her now and remembering her back then: before the time ball dropped, and after.

‘Permanent isn’t a word I have ever got along particularly well with.’

‘Me neither,’ I butt in and he looks at me, nodding as if understanding exactly what I’m saying. I look down at the table, buoyed by an acknowledgement of the connection I’ve always thought we would have. ‘I ran away from my marriage too,’ I blurt out suddenly. ‘On my wedding day. I ran away because I’m just like you, Dad . . .’ The sentiment slips from my mouth but falls into a void. ‘I’m just like you,’ I add quietly when he doesn’t say anything.

It’s like he hasn’t heard me. Or doesn’t want to.

‘So I’m here for a few months of the year,’ he says conversationally as if I haven’t spoken. ‘Well, until monsoon season anyway.’ I feel like my heart has been thrown at some rocks. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to accept that I’m like him. ‘I can live a simple lifestyle here for very little money – the silver rupee is strong, you know!’ He pauses as if waiting for us to acknowledge this little joke but then continues quickly as if scared of the possibility of silence. ‘Most of the expats here are in our sixties and seventies. It’s all very
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
really!’ He laughs hoarsely and Loni and I force one out too; I notice how his eyes don’t twinkle like Loni’s naturally do. They are still; not quite tranquil, more . . . inert.