Page 29 of The Summer Island Swap
I mustn’t cry.
I’d stopped doing that a long time ago.
When Mum died I needed to be there for Amy. She’d wanted to pass away at home but Dad said hospital was best. It was less work for him. I may have only been eleven but saw how Mum had been too tired to argue. I’d felt angry about that for such a long time but even managed to keep those tears of rage in. Hard as it was, I stopped them at the funeral as well. I’d sat in the church, sucking in my cheeks, trying not to think about Mum, lying cold, in the wooden box, all alone. Holding Amy’s hand as her sobs burst out during the hymns. Braving relatives’ piteous stares. Ignoring the whispers talking about ‘those poor girls’.
Oh, I had shed tears, but alone at night, my head under my pillow so that there was no way Amy would hear.
Getting through all of that made it easier to deal with anything afterwards. Dad’s cruel jibes could no longer hurt. I didn’t cry my first night alone in that terrible bed and breakfast. And I only had one sobbing fit after my last boyfriend dumped me for being too independent.
So I’d do my best not to weep over blisters and bites and having to clean out a prehistoric toilet. I went back to the shack but only for a rest and to reluctantly swap my hat for the practical cap. Well, sort of rested. I’d come out in another rash – prickly heat. I’d stopped smearing on Helga’s cream because I didn’t want to use it all up. Amy had brought anti-histamine tablets but they hadn’t kicked in yet.
‘Come on, let’s get it over with,’ I said to Jonas, after we’d picked at rice for lunch. ‘At least you don’t have to go on the turtle trip tonight.’
Jonas glanced at me. ‘Me and Benedikt get on really well. I was actually hoping to be part of it. Honestly, he takes the stupidest selfies for his Instagram feed. Last night he managed to attract the biggest moth onto his head and snap it before it flew away.’ Jonas looked the most cheerful I’d ever seen him. Noses wrinkling, he and I stood in front of the toilet cubicles. The sawdust covered the waste but the smell still stole through because of the humidity.
‘You first,’ I said.
‘No chance,’ he replied.
‘Okay. Both together.’
We moved forwards and after counting to three, each lifted out a bucket. The contents shifted from side to side. I gagged.
‘Quick as we can,’ I spluttered. Without looking down I led the way to the compost bays, praying that neither of us would trip and fall over. As if they’d been waiting, flies ambushed the slop. We set down our buckets. Jonas picked up the fork and dug into the hay.
Over the years I’d had to do many dirty tasks on my own, at home and at work, so I braced myself and poured the buckets’ contents into the left-hand side. Jonas lifted up the hay, let it drop and forked it over. My throat contracted and for a second I almost vomited. But the feeling passed. The smell dissipated. We picked up our empty buckets and returned them to the cubicles.
When I got back to the shack I noticed a splash of waste on my T-shirt. My limbs felt heavy after the early start and lack of sleep, but I trekked as fast as I could over to the laundry area. Vigorously I hand-washed the top, pounding out my frustration.
Surely the day couldn’t get any worse?
14
We left for the turtle nesting site at five to set up camp as the sun went down at seven. Before arriving in the British Virgin Islands I’d imagined long sunny, summer evenings with very late sunsets. In so many ways I’d been unprepared for this trip.
We packed large rucksacks and carried plastic buckets to bring the turtle eggs back in. Malik had provided individual plastic boxes generously filled with rice and chicken. Rick gave us each an extra water bottle. He carried one of the two-man tents and Amy offered to take the other. So I insisted we’d swap rucksacks halfway there. Benedikt said the same to Rick. We waved goodbye to the others.
Jonas gave Benedikt one of his treasured chocolate bars he’d brought over from Germany. He lent me one of his long-sleeve shirts. For once comfort took precedence over appearance. Amy hadn’t managed to pack me enough sensible clothing, hidden under my other clothes, and my curves didn’t fit into hers. We climbed uphill at first, past the animal enclosures. As twilight sneaked in the humidity increased. For the only time in my life I wished I had a thigh gap as my legs rubbed together at the top.
‘The flame trees have almost finished flowering,’ he said and pointed to the right.
I admired the clusters of bright red, leaf-like petals. I didn’t know much about nature. I could recognise a sparrow. Could name daisies and dandelions and the flowers Dad used to give Mum after an argument. However I was more familiar with brands of clothes than wildlife species.
‘What are those? They are so delicate,’ I said and pointed to a tree bearing delicate, fluffy pink blooms, trying my best to look enthusiastic for Amy; to make her holiday memorable. The last time she’d been abroad was with Dad and Anabelle in Spain, just before she’d come to stay with me. Her A level results had come through whilst she was there. She’d got three As. I couldn’t have been more proud but Dad said the lack of A*s just proved she wasn’t clever enough to do veterinary science. He’d been going to take her out for paella and sangria but cancelled the celebration. I’d never felt so angry when she told me. His ego couldn’t cope with the notion that one of his daughters was brighter than him.
Apparently, Anabelle had done her best to change his mind with the usual compliments and platitudes.
They never worked. So instead, over the years, she’d try to make things good by doing the things with us Dad should have. She hugged. Asked questions about our school day. Watched television with us. Attempted to get to know our friends. But it wasn’t the same as with Mum. Anabelle was too worried about her figure to have cake out and I could tell her interest was just ticking boxes. I didn’t blame her. She’d never wanted kids.
‘Powder puff trees,’ he said. ‘They are all over the Virgin Islands. Nothing to do with thePowerpuff Girls, so don’t go thinking eating them will give you superhuman powers.’
I couldn’t help smiling. An extra power boost would have come in handy as the trail became more overgrown.
‘They look difficult to eat,’ I said as we passed small lime, nobbled fruits hanging from a group of trees.
‘Their outside is deceptive,’ he said. ‘Fleshy and white inside, those sugar apples taste like custard.’
It was a relief to hit the top of the hill. For a moment we stopped and stared, pointed at other islands and admired the crisp cleanliness of the greens of the forest and turquoise of the sea. Then we make our way down the other side. We descended for a few minutes before Rick stopped abruptly and pointed to a low-hanging branch of a tree.
