a point of taking a spoonful straight from the saucepan. He didn’t say anything, just took a spoonful. It was such a small thing that repeating it now, I’m almost embarrassed by how petty it sounds.
Maybe this stands up to repeating. On the Monday of my second week, I saw Bugs struggling to fit a swinging door on the entrance to one of the storeroom huts. He was having trouble because he only had two hands, and he needed three: two to keep the door in place and a third to hammer a peg into the hinge. I watched him do this for a while, wondering whether to offer any help, and as I began walking over the hammer slipped from his grip. Instinctively, he moved to catch it, and the door also fell, bashing against his leg.
‘Shit,’ I said, breaking into a jog. ‘You OK?’
Bugs glanced down. Blood was rolling from a nasty graze on his shins. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, then bent to pick up his hammer.
‘Do you need a hand holding the door?’
Bugs shook his head.
So I went back to where I’d been sitting, slicing the tops off bamboo sticks to make spears for fishing, and about five minutes later I misjudged a swipe and cut open my thumb.
‘Ow!’ I shouted.
Bugs didn’t even look round, and as Francoise ran over, her face even prettier for being so alarmed, I could sense his satisfaction – stoically tapping the peg into place while blood collected in dusty pools around his feet.
‘That really hurt,’ I said, when Francoise reached me, and made sure I said it loud enough for Bugs to hear.
While I’m on a roll, I might as well add that there was one more thing that bothered me about Bugs. His name.
The way I saw it, calling himself Bugs was like, ‘I’m taciturn and stoical, but I don’t take myself too seriously! I call myself Bugs Bunny!’ As with my other gripes, it wasn’t a reason to dislike him; it was just something that grated. The whole point was that Bugs took himself extremely seriously.
Over the two weeks I was getting to know Bugs I spent some time wondering where his name had come from. If, like Sal, he’d been American, I could have imagined that Bugs Bunny was how he was christened. No disrespect to Americans – they just do come up with some odd names. But Bugs was South African, and I couldn’t see Warner Brothers having that strong an influence over Pretoria. Then again, I once met a South African called Goose, so you never know.
¦
Anyway. Back to the night I received my necklace.
’
‘Night John-Boy.’
Silence…Panic.
Had I said it loudly enough? Was there a rule of etiquette that I hadn’t picked up on? Getting the necklace had given me the courage, but maybe only group leaders were allowed to start it off, or people who’d been at the beach more than twelve months…
My heart began to pound. Sweat sprung. ‘Well, that’s it,’ I thought to myself. ‘It’s all over. I’ll leave tomorrow morning before dawn. I’ll just have to swim the twenty miles back to Ko Samui, and I’ll probably be eaten by sharks, but that’s OK. I deserve it. I…’
’
‘Night Ella,’ said a dozy voice in the darkness.
I froze.
’
‘Night Jesse,’ said another.
‘Night Sal.’
’
‘Night Moshe.’
’
‘Night Cassie.’
’
‘Night Greg.’
’
‘Night…’
? The Beach ?
32
Zero
Colour-wise, progress was good. The sky had been mainly cloudy over the first few days, and by the time the sky had cleared I had enough of a base tan to avoid burning. Now I was getting close to my darkest shade. I peeked under the waistband of my shorts to check I was as dark as I hoped.
‘Wow,’ I said, seeing the creamy skin beneath.
Etienne looked round. He was sitting by the edge of the boulder, cooling his legs in the water. His tan was rich and golden, I noticed enviously. I never went golden. At best I went the colour of a recently ploughed field. Walnut brown, I would sometimes describe it, but it was much more like earth.
‘What is it?’
‘Just my tan. I’m getting dark.’
Etienne nodded, tugging absently at his necklace. ‘I thought maybe you were thinking of this place.’
‘The beach?’
‘You said ‘wow’, so I thought you were thinking how good it is here.’
‘Oh, well, I often think that…I mean, it was worth the trouble, wasn’t it? That swim, and the dope fields.’
‘Worth the trouble.’
‘You fish, swim, eat, laze around, and everyone’s so friendly. It’s such simple stuff, but…If I could stop the world and restart life, put the clock back, I think I’d restart it like this. For everyone.’ I shook my head to stop myself rambling. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘All these thoughts are the same as mine.’
‘They are?’
‘Of course. The same as everybody’s.’
I stood up and gazed around me. Gregorio and Francoise were climbing out of the water a few boulders over, and past them, near the sea-locked cliffs, three dots of colour described Moshe and the two Yugoslavians. From the land I could hear a steady tapping – Bugs and the carpenters working on some new project – and walking along the beach I could see a single figure. Ella, I thought, until I squinted against the bright white sands, and recognized Sal.
I remembered the way Sal had teased me to realign my expectations. ‘You’ll see that this is a wonderful place, as long as you appreciate it for what it is,’ she’d said. I pushed my shoulders back and closed my eyes against the hot sun, and thought how right she was.
I was broken out of my reverie by a sudden cold splash of water against my legs. I opened my eyes and looked down. It was the fish in the bucket, getting close to the split second before Game Over. I watched them for a while, impressed by their tenacity. It often surprised me how long it took for fish to die. Even speared right through their bodies, they still flapped about for as long as an hour, working up a bloody lather in the water around them.
‘How many do we have?’ said Etienne.
‘Seven. A couple are big ones. That’s enough, isn’t it?’
Etienne shrugged. ‘If Gregorio and Francoise also have seven, it is enough.’
‘They’ll have seven at least.’ I checked my watch. It was exactly midday. ‘I think I might go back early today.
