Chapter Seventeen: Crabs: the Ultimate Passion Killer
“A bicycle is the perfect way to see the island.”
• • •
The incline was long and shallow and the road curved away around the corner of the cliff side and out of sight. Jenny was slightly ahead of him somewhere, just around the next bend. Stuart was glad the slope was downwards this time, he was beginning to get fed up with having to dismount his bicycle and push it up every hill. He had not realised how up-and-down the island was when he had not had to rely on his own power to get himself around. Now he could just free-wheel. He lifted his feet off the pedals and let gravity do its stuff.
He had been surprised to see Jenny. Only twenty four hours before she had been remote and quiet, now her humour was restored and she was looking the wild, carefree spirit that he had first encountered. Stuart could not really account for the change. The facts of the situation had not altered, perhaps she had just reassessed her reaction towards them? It was a distinct improvement, that was all that Stuart cared. As the bike ride had progressed - they had decided to attempt a complete circuit of the island - he had found his own spirits lifting, and for the first time in three days, he realised that several hours had gone past and he had not given Stefan, car accidents, or sandy internments a single thought. It almost seemed too easy. There was a life after Stefan, that much was clear. He had just not expected to obtain it without some sort of penalty; weeks of grief perhaps, or months of continually looking over his shoulder anticipating retribution. Norbert was right, though, there was no one to know he was missing. Initially he had felt a sense of sadness that someone could vanish off the face of the planet, leaving no one to even know, let alone care; he had found himself pitying the amiable German, but wondering about him also. What sort of a life had he led to have left no mark of passing? It just did not seem credible. If it had been Ian he could have believed it more, the man was practically invisible. But Stefan? A bit of a dork maybe, but hey! Stuart was not so unself-critical to realise that they could all be accused of that at some time or other. Surely there must be someone back in Germany - Hamburg was it, where he said he lived? Perhaps that would be worse, though, given the circumstances. Missing must sometimes be worse than dead for an anxious relative. At least death is final. Missing always allows for a lingering doubt, like a weeping sore that will never completely heal and go away. Yes, that must be far worse. He owed it to Stefan to make sure there was no one left hanging on like that. It was a small thing that he could do, a modest penance for his modest involvement. An act of self-cleansing, Stuart would admit, but a useful one nevertheless. After his journey, when he was back home, he would make some discrete enquiries, it should not be too difficult. But what then if he discovered someone, a relative, a friend that was looking for him? What then? An anonymous note. Would that be sufficient? Would that be enough to stop someone searching for someone they loved? Probably not. Proof is the only truth, and even sometimes then proof is not enough to make a mind accept a fact which it is determined to refute. It was all hypothetical in any case. He would mount no such investigation, he would not know where to start, it was a nice idea, but not very practical. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. He had intended to track down the cheese-thief and he had not even made a start on that, so why speculate about this other business? The long incline was coming to an end and he was going to have to pedal again soon and thoughts like these were just distracting, when he should be enjoying the moment. It is what Stefan would have wanted.
Jenny was waiting for him at the bottom of the hill. She had wheeled her bike off the road and had left it sprawled in an ungainly heap on the verge, while she, herself, was crouching down, inexplicably prodding a large stick into a muddy hollow in the bank. Stuart came to a halt beside her, pushed down the bike-rest with his foot and dismounted his own machine, grateful to be momentarily out of the saddle. “What have you got?” he asked, interested.
“Crabs,” said Jenny, not turning around.
Was it worthy of a joke? Stuart thought probably not.
“Have you seen those crabs on Christmas Island?” Stuart asked.
Jenny pivoted about, her face animated, “What! Have you been there?”
“No,” Stuart was forced to admit, “I meant on the TV.”
“Oh.”
“It must be an incredible spectacle,” continued Stuart, trying to reignite her interest.
Jenny’s attention had returned to the hollow. She ignored Stuart’s statement, saying, more to herself than to her companion, “I startled one of them and it darted in there. It’s bound to come out again soon. Let’s wait and see,” she added as an acknowledgement of Stuart’s presence.
Squatting next to each other, Stuart was reminded of a photograph he had seen of two Eskimos sitting beside an ice-hole, fishing lines hung tentatively in the water, waiting for something to bite in the icy depths beneath. It had looked like an exercise in patience. Who would crack and give up first: the fishermen or the potential catch below? And in that bitter cold too. At least Jenny’s and his own vain pursuit was taking place in glorious sunshine. Stuart found his attention beginning to wander from the task of observing the murky hole for any signs of crustacean life, and instead he cast an appraising eye over his absorbed companion. Chunky and perky. They were two good adjectives in his book.
“What does your tattoo mean?”
The midday sun was high in the sky and Jenny had peeled off her tee-shirt revealing a crop top that exposed her stomach and also a circular tattoo on the back of her right shoulder.
“Oh, I don’t know. Nothing particular.” She could not help but strain her neck around to try to look at the faded adornment.
“It’s a Polynesian tradition, you know,” ventured Stuart, attempting to sound knowledgeable.
“I know.”
“Joseph Banks discovered them.”
Jenny looked amused, “Isn’t that a rather Anglo-centric view?”
“How do you mean?”
“I think you’ll find the Polynesians had been practising the art of tattooing long before either Banks or Cook arrived.”
“I just meant…”
“Each tattoo has some significance relating to an ancestor or a symbol of a specific tribe. Things exist, you know, without necessarily having to be discovered.”
“I know...”
“There it is ... oh, bollocks!” Jenny interrupted, excited.
Stuart had turned just in time to see the briefest glimpse of shell and eye stalk before the terrified crab, upon hearing Jenny’s exclamation, had scuttled back into the safety of its burrow.
“Perhaps we can entice it out with something to eat,” suggested Jenny, “What have you got in your pack?”
“Nothing edible. I was only just beginning to think it was time for lunch. Come on,” said Stuart, making moves to climb on his bike again, “Let’s give this up. There’ll be other land crabs. I’ve seen their holes everywhere. Let’s see if we can find somewhere to get a bite to eat.”
Jenny was reluctant to leave, but had to admit to feeling hungry herself. “OK, any suggestions?”
They were about as far away from Matira Point and Chez Pauline as it was possible to travel to on the island. “I’ve no idea,” admitted Stuart, “I haven’t been this far before. Shall we just keep cycling and see if anything turns up?”
Luck was on their side, they had only pedalled another half a mile before seeing a small shack by the side of the road. The corrugated roof and smashed window did not look particularly prepossessing, but the Coca Cola sign and gaggle of local youth outside on the forecourt suggested that it had some aspirations towards serving refreshments. With one suspicious eye on the youngsters, Stuart, once again, climbed off his bicycle and, joined by Jenny, pushed open the wire-mesh door and entered the establishment. They were followed in, one after the other, by the teenage ‘hood, who watched their every move with amused curiosity.
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Three red Hibiscus flowers, limp and exhausted, had been stuck in a glass jar on the table in front of them by way of decoration. A haze of small, black flies, buzzed noisily around the bright blooms, as though they were the last plants left on the island. Stuart wondered what sort of a frenzy the sight of a cheese toasted sandwich was likely to throw them into. Tinier insects still, stuck to the long, protruding stamens, fastened hard by the sticky embrace of the yellow pollen; little, black dots looking like the first visible symptoms of an infectious disease on a previously unblemished complexion. Stuart waved his hand in front of his face and the flies momentarily dispersed to a safe distance, before once again returning to their previous noisy orbits with renewed gusto. In the end, he removed the flowers and their makeshift vase to a neighbouring table and, en masse, their irritating attendants duly followed.
“Nice place,” he commented, wryly.
Jenny smiled. “Did you hear about the first American to discover irony?”
“No,” said Stuart, his brow screwed up, unsure if Jenny was talking seriously or about to tell a joke.
“I heard it happened like this,” continued Jenny, still not giving anything away by the inflection in her voice, “This American tourist had come to London in April, seeing the sights, like you do. He’d done the Tower, been to Madame Tussaud’s, stood by the gates of Buckingham Palace, and now he really wanted to see Trafalgar Square.”
“Naturally.”
“So he gets on the tube to Charing Cross.”
“You know your geography,” interrupted Stuart.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Jenny, “Just because I’m from the North, doesn’t mean I’ve never been south of the Watford Gap. Anyway, he’s standing in Trafalgar Square, fountains, pigeons, lions, Nelson’s column, the lot, when it starts to rain. And it’s not your normal English, light shower, but a really serious, kick-arse, downpour. Teaming down. An absolute soaker.”
“I can picture it,” said Stuart, catching on that this was a shaggy-dog story, and preparing himself to settle in for the ride.
“OK, so the American - shall we call him Hank, for want of anything more factually accurate? - has to take shelter. Right?”
“I guess so.” This American idiom can be catching.
“He dashes across the Square, across one lane of traffic, across another lane of traffic, finally manages to find cover underneath a bus shelter. It’s cold. The rain is still pouring down.” It isn’t true, that women cannot remember jokes; Jenny was in her stride. “Underneath the shelter beside him is a little, old man, drenched to the skin, shaking the water off his umbrella, teeth shattering, thin hair damped down, sticking to his head.”
“You’re big on detail.”
“If a job’s worth doing ... So this little, old man turns to Hank, says, ‘Nice weather’.”
“Ironic.”
“Quite. But, this gets Hank thinking. He’s thinking, ‘I don’t think so. No way is this nice weather. It’s raining. It’s cold. Nice weather, now that would be sun, perhaps a light, cool breeze, but never this’. Now, Hank is just about to correct the old man, tell him, ‘Hey dude! You’re talking nonsense’, when he remembers what he has heard about the English sense of humour. This must be an example of it. Cool. Just wait till he tells the guys back home.”
Stuart was aware that Jenny’s story had attracted the attention of the local youngsters. Initially, nervous to be seen to be ear-wigging, they had adopted a position, clustered together around a neighbouring table, pretending to be interested in their own discussions, but little by little they had migrated over, until now, they stood in an unabashed silent audience, standing around the table of the prospective diners. In other environments their presence would have been construed as intimidating: in an English cafe under similar circumstances, Stuart would have correctly assessed that he was being lined up for a beating, but here, in a far flung corner, on a distant speck, in the middle of a mighty ocean, the hushed assembly of curious teenagers was merely amusing. That wasn’t to say, the beating might not come later.
Jenny, oblivious, was continuing her tale, “OK, so a few months pass by and Hank has not had a chance to use his new-found sense of irony. A couple of times he has come close, but the perfect opportunity has just not occurred.”
“Too bad.”
“Until one day, he’s back home in ...”
“Philadelphia?”
“No, Des Moines, Iowa, as it happens. You can’t preempt this story,” said Jenny, laughing, “So, he’s in Des Moines, it’s a beautiful sunny, summer’s day, so naturally enough he invites a few of his mates around for a barbecue and to watch the ball game on the TV.”
“As you do.”
Jenny ignored him, “Everything is just great, the sky is blue, the picket fence is white, the Red Sox or whatever they’re called are winning, the burgers are cooking ... the burgers are cooking!”
“Hank’s forgotten the burgers.”
“You’re right. Everyone rushes outside, but it’s too late. The barbecue is on fire, all the food is charred and burnt. Disaster, except... Except Hank realises, there is a silver lining to every dark cloud. Here, after months of waiting, is his opportunity to use his recently-discovered English wit. He spears one particularly badly singed burger with a long-pronged fork and holding it up for everyone to see, says ...”
“Nice weather.”
It was one of the local teenagers who stole Jenny’s punchline. Stuart was secretly relieved; it had been on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘Nice burger’.
There was general merriment all around. The youngsters were delighted with their coup. The arrival of the food was almost lost among the chatter of excited voices. Stuart found himself eased to his feet by ‘the wit’, who pointed to a table-football game, close to the door of the establishment. The boy mimicked twiddling the handles of the game, at the same time saying in near-perfect English, “You play?”
The focus of interest quickly gravitated away from the dining table and moved to the football game. Jenny joined in the eager throng willing on their combatant. It soon became clear that the game was hopelessly one-sided. Stuart would have never previously credited that a game so seemingly lacking in finesse could actually be so skilful. “First to ten” was reached in a matter of mere minutes - with only a solitary, lucky reply on his own part - his mop-haired opponent knocking in the final goal, with a dexterous interplay of passing and shooting, and an unsympathetic, killer instinct which would have had most international team coaches reaching for their cheque-books. Thirty years of hurt: he knew how the English football team must feel. A new blood replaced Stuart at his position at the table, and Stuart was secretly rather disappointed to discover how quickly the two travellers’ star was diminished and how he and Jenny became ‘old news’. The game of football continued noisily as Stuart rejoined Jenny, who had already resumed her seat, and was halfway through eating her lunch.
The mood at the table had changed too. They ate in silence for some moments, both hungry, both glad of the energy boost. They were halfway around the island, whichever way they chose to cycle, it was still a long journey back. Stuart tried to assess if the tension was in any way sexual. Sadly, he had to concede that he did not think it was. He knew what was the matter.
“Thinking about Stefan?”
“It’s hard not to,” said Jenny.
“You seemed to be managing before.”
It was a clumsy statement. Ugly. Jenny scowled at him, “We all have to deal with it somehow.” It was not what she wanted to say.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound ...”
“I know.” She smiled.
Stuart leant closer, his voice a whisper, “Do you think that anyone will say anything?”
“In the group?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. Norbert and Corrie are very tight, I’m sure they won’t.”
“Mike?”
; “I don’t know. You know him better than me.”
Really? thought Stuart.
“Ian?”
“He might be the weak link.”
“But he’s gone?”
“You’re not sure?”
“I didn’t see him go. I only have Norbert and Corrie’s word for it.”
“But why should you doubt them?” asked Jenny.
“Oh, I don’t,” said Stuart, “It’s just ...”
“I know,” empathised Jenny, “it’s easy to get suspicious of shadows at times like this. You don’t know who to trust.”
“Something like that.”
“Take it from me,” said Jenny, a new sense of resilience in her voice, “Norbert and Corrie are sound. You can trust them.” She quickly resumed her normal light, easy tone, changing the subject, “By the way, can you pick up the bill for the meal? I seem to have run out of money. I’ll pay you back later. Promise.”