A single gal

Three generations of family zigzagged across the south of England from their homes in London, Berkshire and Gloucestershire, heading towards the town of Melcham, Hampshire for a very special occasion.

There lived Daisy Datchet: Rachael’s great aunt, Malcolm’s auntie and Albert’s sister-in-law. Today was her 90th birthday and they were taking her out to lunch.

Daisy had spent the morning fussing around her cottage, carrying logs one by one into the house from the pile outside the back door, pulling armchairs forward from their usual wall-hugging positions into an arc in front of the fire, all the while darting to the window every few minutes to check if her guests were early.

They arrived on the dot of eleven. Daisy’s long Datchet face could be seen at the front window while Malcolm satisfied himself he couldn’t get the car any closer to the stone wall which encircled the cottage. Rachael climbed out of the car, and went to kiss her great aunt. Daisy was tiny and slender, her glasses huge, her fine white hair plentiful. Rachael towered over her.

Daisy was exclaiming over Rachael, whom she hadn’t seen in years, when she caught sight of the roses Malcolm had brought for her – and almost combusted with excitement. She bustled Rachael into the house, instantly disappearing through a door with her flowers, with Malcolm following. Rachael could hear Auntie Daisy loudly instructing Malcolm where to find the vase and the scissors to deal with the flowers, while she was going to take Rachael on a tour of her house. Rachael’s Grandad Albert came in the front door, and closed it behind him, well used to his late wife’s sister’s over-excitable nature. He calmly sat down on an armchair and smiled at Rachael.

The tour began upstairs in the back bedroom, where the cupboards reached right back and back, into the eaves of the cottage roof. Rachael glanced out of the low window, before following Auntie Daisy into her own bedroom. This room spanned the depth of the cottage with a window at each end, one looking over the road, the other over the long back lawn. At the end of her garden was an old outhouse, just before the fence met the edge of the Estate. Rolling parkland and ancient, huge trees stretched away from the end of her garden. Her narrow single bed was neatly covered in a white, flowered counterpane.

Back in the living room downstairs, Daisy drew Rachael over to the sideboard, where a host of silver frames full of photographs stood. This was not a landscape of Datchet weddings, christenings, school photos of nieces and great-nephews though, as Rachael had assumed. These photos were of the Godfrey family, who owned Marchmont Hall and its estate which she’d seen bordering the cottage garden.

Daisy had held the position of housekeeper at Marchmont Hall for many years. As custom decreed in those days – it was just after the war when she had started – this quite low-paid, live-in job meant that you were under the care and responsibility of the household and estate for the rest of your life, even after your retirement. Rachael realised that Daisy had lived a damn sight longer as a responsibility of the estate than it would have been common for people to survive back when she began her job here. Her cottage was part of the estate, despite being just beyond its boundary. She had been provided for throughout the decades of her retirement, as a reward for the hours and weeks and years of service to the Godfrey family.

The largest photo was a black and white print of a young woman giving a little boy a piggy-back, the ancient trees of the estate blurred in the background.

“This is Miss Margaret and her son Marcus,” Daisy told Rachael. “Marcus is about to take his ‘A’ levels at Eton,” she continued quite matter-of-factly, “and then he’ll be going on his gap year.” Rachael almost laughed out loud, hearing such a twenty-first century phrase coming from her ninety year old aunt.

The next photo was a colour picture of a little girl, curled cutesily at the foot of one of the vast trees in spring sunshine.

“And this is Amelia,” Daisy said. “Miss Margaret had had to race up to London at the last minute, ten years or more ago now, and burst in on her husband, Marcus’ father, in flagrante at their London flat. A divorce later, Miss Margaret remarried, a man a few years younger than her actually, and along came little Amelia. This marriage,” Daisy assured Rachael with confidence, “is very happy.”

Rachael couldn’t help but be surprised at the intimacy with which Auntie Daisy was acquainted with the relationships, infidelities, lives and loves of her former employers. She herself had never married and had her own children – the Godfrey family, Rachael concluded, had fulfilled that for her.

She felt a wave of pity for her aged aunt. Even at ninety years old, Daisy was a vibrant little woman, and yet she had only ever had siblings and nephews to call family, no daughters and grandsons. How did it come about that Daisy alone, out of her and Rachael’s Granny’s six sisters and one brother, had been the only one not to marry, have children, build a home of her own?

The warmth of the fire, the gentle hum of voices around her, the rather late night the night before and three glasses of wine at lunch lulled Rachael into a doze that afternoon. She began to consider quite how few life choices had been available to Daisy after the war, when she’d come out of the Wrens and gone back to live with her sister, Albert’s wife, and help with the three young children.

At thirty two years old when the war ended, Daisy would have had few suitors. She must have grown accustomed to working for her living, with the Wrens. The bit of independence that that had afforded her would have been quite a thrill, and yet paradoxically, it had also enclosed her in a safe, secure, almost family-like environment. Albert, when he returned to his young family across the length of Europe from north Africa, would have tried on several occasions to set her up with a co-worker, or acquaintance in the town. Daisy no doubt daintily considered the one or two young men whom Albert insisted pestered him, rather than the other way round, to grab a chance of conversation with Daisy.

With rationing still in place and Albert’s wages stretched to capacity, Daisy felt the pressure for her to stand on her own two feet soon enough, away from her sister. Applying for domestic positions, of the like that she had gained experience with in Scotland during the war as well as with her family before that, would have been the only (respectable) option for Daisy.

Today, almost sixty years later, she was still here, in her own pretty little cottage. However pretty though, it would never belong to her, never be passed on down the generations to her children or grandchildren. When Daisy’s time came, this house would become another Godfrey retainer’s residence, or perhaps if she were the end of that line, if there were no more like her, her home would become a holiday cottage to be rented out in the summer and school holidays.

The saddest part of it all for Rachael was that when Daisy was gone, it would be more than simply this wonderful woman who was no longer in the world. The name of Datchet, for Rachael’s family anyway, would die too. The only Datchet brother had died without marrying during the war.

Oh, how it was different back then, my girl.

The war was over!

Our men were coming home!

The women could now – well, were actually being forced to – give up their jobs so there would be enough for all our returning heroes.

A single woman of thirty two years like myself had to face some cold hard facts.

Before the war, when I came down to Gloucestershire to keep house for my brother George, Albert used to tease me about the lads in the dairy where he worked, asking him about me, his wife’s sister: Was I courting? Did he think I liked one or other of them? I would smile and nod at Albert, and say nothing. I had all the time in the world for that kind of thing I believed when I was in my early twenties.

That wasn’t meant to be for me though – married to a farmer or butcher in the town, bearing a child a year till I could bear no more.

The war came and I joined the Wrens. While our men were sent off to France, Italy and north Africa, I was sent off to a castle on the east coast of Scotland. In this daunting, draughty old place, it was my job to keep house for the senior Naval war strategists who were based there, right where they could see what the German navy were about to do next.

I was young and inexperienced in many ways when first I took up my war post. I had led a sheltered life, and had never had any cause to come into contact with the kind of people who were now my everyday company.

For those four years, I lived among powerful, privileged, highly intelligent men. Their smell, their skin, their vocabulary, the very timbre of their voices were all entirely new to me. Being trapped, essentially, by the war, by the harsh terrain and our isolation, so far from all I had known and loved so far in my young life, I found myself a little heady in my new surroundings. I was the housekeeper, not at all along similar professional lines with those men. And yet, all of the staff there played a crucial part in the running of the Strategy Centre. We worked together for one single aim – whether our decisions were how many potatoes to use that day, or when to attack the U-boat that was approaching.

When the war was over, I couldn’t get used to the loss of that feeling, that element of being needed. When I was back with my sister and Albert, I couldn’t bear the attentions of the young, and not-so-young men that Albert tried to line up for me, to try and sort out my single, childless state. I had other ideas.

No longer did a kind word, a sweet smile, talk of dreams of better things in the future turn my head. I would not compromise. I set in motion a plan to place myself back among the powerful, privileged, educated parts of society again, in a position where their lives would fall apart if ever they had to consider doing without me in their home.

I came to Marchmont Hall one October Thursday afternoon, to meet the old lady. She was a widow, with a house full of grown up children with their husbands and children, old retainers and a rambling estate that had been sadly neglected during the war years. She and I got along famously from the start, and I was ever so upset when she passed on in the New Year, only three months after I’d come to Marchmont. Her eldest daughter took over the running of the house, while her husband tried to do something about the estate. Other family members disappeared across the globe (Canada, South Africa) after she made it very clear that the days when families such as theirs could sit around in the country most of the time, pop up to London for a week here and there, were firmly over. Her brother packed up his wife and two children, and went off to Australia. Her youngest sister couldn’t bear to leave though, and came to her to ask what she may do around the estate to continue to live at Marchmont Hall. I felt fortunate indeed from that day on. I did not have to doubt that I was needed here, that I was able to stay and live at Marchmont Hall for the rest of my days, if that was what I chose.

And choose to I did.

She and I always saw eye to eye. We knew how Marchmont Hall should be run, how to keep it going, keep it a family home, a working estate.

Her husband, dealing with the estate side of things, had perhaps less vision. We could not, certainly not I the housekeeper, nor even she, his wife, the lady of the house, tell him what he should be doing instead. Even if we had had a clue (which we didn’t) what might work as a better system, produce a more consistent turnover, in our world, those decisions were made by clever, charismatic men, like him. That was just how it was.

I mourned him like a wife mourns her husband when he passed on. I revelled in the need to never tend again to the tiny details he and only he had insisted on that caused him so much pleasure, and myself so much strife. I sobbed at the thought I would never see those grey jowls at the breakfast table again. That I would never have to send back his large underwear, not scrubbed quite clean, to the laundry. In some ways, he was the love of my life.

His daughter, Miss Margaret, has so many of her father’s great qualities, as well as all that was wonderful about her mother, who followed him within the year. His wife and I never spoke about our individual grief for him, but one day, towards the end, when she was bedridden, I swear she whispered to me “you miss him as much as I do, I know”. The moment passed in the blink of an eye. Such a thing is hardly one that you can ask to be repeated, to make sure you heard it right.

Here I am still, decades later. I have my own cottage, all mine, with that lovely garden out there. This is what it was all for, those years of all I owned being crowded into just one room: to live out my days here, in a house all my own.

This, it seems to me, is how it was meant to be. I worked hard all my life, watching others go through higher highs, deeper lows than mine, and then, when it was all over, my youth gone, my work done, I was bestowed years and years to do and think however I please as I was never quite able to before, in my own “castle”.

Who would have thought it, out of all us Datchets: I, Daisy, would be the only one to see the third millennium, and see it from my own house, with my belongings all around me, a long and interesting life to think back over and remember, and no one to tell me what to do, where to go, what to say, what to think or wear.

I cannot think of a better way to be on my ninetieth birthday.

I'm a concept writer...

I’m a concept writer: I get an interesting idea stuck in my head, and start populating the crux of the story with a main character, then the important people in their lives, where they live, jobs they do, their age, background, current life situation…

I had an idea of a novel knocking around in my head from around late 2000 onwards, but it took until I did an MA in creative writing to impose enough discipline on myself to actually write it.

The concept which I couldn’t get out of my head revolved around that recently-passed huge historical moment: the millennium. The years leading up to the end of the 1990s and into a new century were rife with conspiracy theories, rumour-mongering, predictions of great drama and huge excitement – overlaid with a pretty big dose of fear. We thought we were unique in history, approaching this anomalous time boundary with a deep consciousness, and attributing meaning all over. But this was not the case: the turn of the previous century was shrouded in the same high emotion and heightened historical consciousness. The French translation of the phrase end of the century – ‘fin de siècle’ – refers to an art movement which was based on the idea of a clean break with the past, and a bold move into the future in a new century.

I had only ever written stories set in the present day, and yet here I was planning to write my first full length novel set just over a hundred years ago: a historical novel.

And here is the opening of the first chapter, in the first-person voice of protagonist Polly Eaton:

It was half past eleven, on New Year’s Eve 1899. I finally felt I could relax, as I looked around the drawing room, at my mother’s party in full swing.

In the quiet society of coastal Colmouth, all talk in the drawing rooms and tea-rooms centred, for most of the year, around the approaching end of century. Three themes dominated such discussion at the advent of the new, exciting, terrible century: fear, uncertainty – and celebration!

This occasion was the biggest, the best excuse for a party for generations. My mother and her group of friends discussed at length, even in steaming, sultry July, the panoply of dramatic festivities planned for this Significant Moment. The litany of balls, dinners and galas gave rise, eventually, to my mother’s plan, for the first time, to throw a New Years Eve party.

Professional Survivor

1

April: Eastern Cape

“Lay-deez and gentle-man, welcome to the Wild Coast! You have heard about my home, Storm Bay already because you are in my van, travelling to there. They told you about the rough road to get there. You know there are no restaurants and bars, shops and amusements there: and still you wanted to come. I know why, you know why: because Storm Bay is the end of the road. It’s far, far away from the modern busy world. It is quiet, it is tranquil, it is empty. It is beautiful, and you will love it!

“My name is Gift, and I am your driver today. Actually I am the driver every day, so you will see me around the Stormy Weather Hotel while you stay, and when you leave, as well. I was born in this region, the Transkei, the home of Tata, our late, great leader Nelson Mandela. Ask me questions – anything! I might not know the answers, but I will try!”

There was nowhere better than Storm Bay, Louisa had been told, to relax and recharge after ten days on the road, on the truck, on safari, and on the go at 6 every morning. Bryant mentioned that the road in was a little bumpy, but it was worth it when you got down there, she would see.

The bitumen lasted no more than ten minutes after they drove out of the petrol station which functioned as the terminus in the big town on the main road. The van turned south off the hard-top and onto a dusty white hard-packed surface. The town with its scruffy township fringes were gone in the blink of an eye as luminous green fields swept all the way around the electric blue horizon.

There was life on this road: dogs skipped between the scoops and dips the van swerved between, two cows munched on the verge, the rest of their herd happy behind the unbroken fence. A line of starched and spotless school children walked single file, proud in their uniforms, along the road edge as the minibus spat puffs of dust and showers of small stones in its wake.

The road grew steadily slower, bumpier as the kilometres racked up. Pot-holes peppered the crumbling chalky trail, sending Gift onto the narrow grass banks and weaving left and right all over to try and avoid them. The worst were vast pits which swallowed the van wheels whole, and just as Louisa was sure they were stuck, the frame of the van screamed against the edge of the hole, and they were thrown out the other side with a jolt by momentum from the steady speed Gift kept the van moving at.

Louisa and the other passengers, two braid-haired Aussie travellers, clung to the seat backs, trying to stay upright and in their own seat as they were thrown around like dice in a cup.

The valley dropped deep and sudden through the rolling green, down to the golden sand and wide arch of sky. The end of the road at last: this was Storm Bay. The white dust and gravel-strewn track led into a cluster of narrow dark trees and low metallic scraps of roof, driving towards the river running to the sea.

For all its select fame among those in the know, Louisa now saw why this place could not be described as a town, or even really a village. The road came down from the hilltop, crossed the river over a stone bridge, nosed between a scattering of low buildings, then climbed back up onto a cliff, onwards until soon it could surely no longer be called a road.

After all his chattiness during the drive, Gift was gone before Louisa had climbed out of the van. His job was done: he drove the van, he had delivered them to their destination. She swung her big bag over one shoulder, and headed for the entrance to the grandly named Stormy Weather Hotel. She shoved a sliding door aside, and dropped her bag beside one of a pair of sagging faux-leather sofas inside. Two computer terminals were set up in a corner, and piles of corner-tattered old guide books and novels slid over in the window sills.

“Welcome to Stormies,” a pretty white tanned girl said from behind a narrow desk in the corner. She was on the phone, and held up a hand apologetically to Louisa to finish the forceful conversation about a delivery unreceived.

The Aussie girl from the van came in and stood beside Louisa as the phone went down.

“Now!” Was this girl English or local? Louisa couldn’t quite work out if the accent was genuine and mild, or picked up and put on. “I have good news for you,” she said, looking over Louisa’s shoulder and including the Aussie girl in this announcement. “I have a cottage available: two private bedrooms, with a sitting room, kitchen and bathroom to share. It’s up on the hill, looking down across the bay. Same price as a normal room here in the building, but it gets so noisy in here when the bar is full. You’ll love it!” She handed 2 keys tied with frayed string onto cloud-shaped wooden plaques. “Go and take a look, see what you think. Come back and pay me then.” The phone was ringing again already.

Louisa’s heart sank. Her first impression of the Australian couple was that they weren’t her cup of tea as company, and didn’t relish sharing close quarters with them for the next few days. But the girl – was she Darcy or Kim? Louisa hadn’t quite worked out who owned which of the two names – was sliding the door back open already. Louisa left her big bag where it was, and followed her. They passed the boyfriend outside, leaning against a fence post smoking a roll-up, their heap of bags at his feet. He grinned at Louisa as she passed.

“It’s starting to rain,” Louisa said.

“Better hurry, Kim’ll be spitting if I leave him and all that out in the wet.” Aha! She was Darcy then.

The path leading up the hill was muddy already, and there were also a few goat-pats here and there to avoid.

Louisa thrust the big key into the lock as she reached the door, irritated how breathless she was from the climb.

“Take a look at this,” Darcy said, touching her shoulder to turn her around.

They were standing, king of the castle, at the top of a gentle bluff. The sun was diving for the surface of the sea, and on its way down it threw golden bolts out through the black rolling clouds, lighting up the treetops and rooftops like they were on fire.

They ducked into the cottage, and looked quickly into the rooms as they heard the rain tip over from light drizzle into a bucketing torrent. Louisa and Darcy slammed the door behind them and made a run for it, leaping between stepping stones on their way down as best as they could see in the cloud-dark, and back to reception. Kim was inside, their bags piled next to Louisa’s.

“Was it all right?” he asked.

“All right?!” Darcy tried to catch her breath. “It’s a little oasis up there. It’s fantastic,” she said to the receptionist who grinned and nodded back.

“Good-oh, I think we all need a beer. I’m not lugging this lot anywhere for now. Might as well get pissed!”

Louisa decided she liked her new room-mates.

2

May: London

Louisa finally arrived back at Heathrow early on a chilly grey Wednesday morning. Instead of swinging her heavy bag off the carousel and onto her back again, heading for the tube and the journey homeward, she pointed out her luggage to the porter who insisted, as she was pushed in a wheelchair through customs and out into arrivals.

It was quite the welcoming committee, she really hadn’t expected so many people: her Mum and Dad yes, her sister was a surprise, and she knew she couldn’t have stopped Kate and Bryant once they’d heard. Sorcha was there too, looking worried.

Louisa knew she looked awful. But the looks on their faces when they saw her told her it was worse than she thought.

She had a long bandage from ear to chin, and a large plaster above it across her cheek. Her right foot was swollen and shoeless. She was pale, her skin dry and flaky, her hair lank and hanging limply around her injured face. Her family and friends were shocked: they had wanted to see her for themselves, check she was definitely OK as she’d assured them on the phone and via text, and they had mostly believed her. But seeing her now, this was something else.

She tried to stand when she reached her little group, but they all pushed her back down, leaning over her to gently hug and kiss her in the wheelchair. She had been OK at the other end: she’d limped her way through the airport, and taken good care not to touch her still-healing face. This was all too alarmist.

She had got a bit dizzy on the plane when she was leaning over to undo her shoes, and the long cut on her face had broken open and started to bleed again, prompting the kind staff to bandage it all up again and to call for assistance for her when she landed.

“I’m not an invalid, I’m just a bit bashed up,” she said.

“Actually, love, you are an invalid. You’ve got a bad foot, and your face is bleeding. Just let us all help will you, and get you settled and safe at home,” her Dad said.

She sighed, and did as he asked. She let them fuss around her, mortified that she was still in the wheelchair all the way out to the car park, while her sister and Bryant fought to carry her scruffy rucksack, and Sorcha looked at her with tortured concern.

“Do you want to come home with us?” her Mum asked.

“No, no of course not,” she said. “Please just take me home, back to Hammersmith.” Sorcha could catch a ride with them then; her sister must have come on the tube, Kate and Bryant driven over from their new place near Croydon.

Once she was in the car they all stood around looking at her like a specimen in a jar through the open door, not sure what to do next.

“Thank you all for coming. I would invite you over, but I’m pretty exhausted…”

“Yes, you will be.”

“Totally understand, don’t worry about us.”

“Will you call the doctor today?”

“It was a long flight,” she said, “and I didn’t sleep much.” Because her jaw was throbbing, and even though she’d been given a bulk head seat, her ankle had ached the entire overnight journey. “I’ll check in with you all later, and see you – maybe at the weekend.”

“Why don’t you all come to ours,” Kate said. “Come for lunch on Saturday, see our new place.”

Louisa vaguely wondered how she would fare on public transport to get over there, but pushed this thought away for now. She was OK, the ankle wasn’t that bad. By the weekend she would be up and around and perfectly able to go to a friend’s place for lunch.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” her Mum was already accepting.

“Sounds good,” her sister said.

The looks of worry and her loved ones staying close to her were here to stay for a bit, Louisa realised, now she was back at home.

All she wanted to do was go home to bed, get up tomorrow and go to work, get back to normal.

The twisting unknown track, the sudden swallowing darkness, the hurtling cliff edge as the van rolled then slid – this was all over now, and she was safe: she was home.

3

October: Marseille

Louisa leant her head back, and tipped it to the right: there it was. In the mirror she could clearly see the meandering scar running along her jaw, like a wobbly drawn line.

The crunch of shattered glass had mixed with the waves as she’d regained consciousness after the crash, her cheek scraping and slicing as she moved her head, trying to release the awful pressure.

Now the scar was barely visible: healed and mostly tucked beneath her chin.

But the last time she’d stood at the front of a class to teach, there had been no scar.

Lots of things had changed since then, not least the group in her class room.

She looked out over the sea of faces, the cliché she wasn’t supposed to think. The teacher wasn’t supposed to lose concentration, she should see individuals with their own educational requirements. And she did, she does when she clicks herself back into the room. She doesn’t find it difficult to bring herself back, but when she’s distracted, or tired, or – God forbid – when she is bored, then a glaze slides over her eyes, and the swaying bobbing heads look like a gently rippling field of tall grass.

Eighteen names on the list; seventeen faces turned towards her.

Ah – now it was eighteen. There he is, ducking his head in apology, muttering sorry-sorry-sorry, pocketing the phone.

“Good morning. My name is Louisa Chard. And you – you will have two questions in your mind right now: who am I, and what are you guys doing here for the next three days.”

No one contradicted her; one or two of the less indignant even had the grace to smile at her accurate reading of the situation.

“I will give you a short presentation next to answer the first question, and afterwards I will share the rest of the programme with you to answer the second. You were told this course – all of it – is mandatory, and that any business-critical, or personal-critical calls could be scheduled from 4.30pm onwards, although it’s preferable if you don’t. Today’s session with me will finish at 4.20pm to allow those of you who need to honour this appointment. Those who don’t will be invited to join George at the rooftop bar for smoothies and cocktails.”

Impatience at the time this course was taking had slid into self-importance at the mention of ‘business-critical’ calls – all to be wiped away by the promise of an 18-to-1 session with the boss, their guru, the CEO of their parent company and the man who had dragged her here – not exactly kicking and screaming, but certainly highly reluctant: George Kalim.

“It’s education,” he said. “Designing a training course is an adapted form of lesson plans, modules of learning, all of that. Isn’t it?”

She felt out of her depth removed from the structure, rigour and framework of school to guide and protect her. She had never dreamt of going to the dark side: she’d barely even considered going private, let alone corporate. Where was the motivation to teach these know-it-alls, I’m-too-importants, do-you-know-how-much-I-earners, because it was a million miles away from seeing teenagers gradually grasping, and coming to love Shakespeare.

Money.

The challenge of a new work environment.

A lot of money; far more than private school, head of department or even deputy head ranges of salary.

A one-course contract: no lock-in, not even for a long as a standard school term.

“Turning these sceptics around, knowing that those you get through to will effect change for 10s of people in their business units – that’s ‘reach’ for you,” George said.

All wrapped up in a pay packet far beyond any in teaching.

A roof secured, a car to be relied on, food filling the fridge – not just lurking in cupboard and freezer corners.

Self-respect.

And forgiveness… which was what she was searching for along this terrifying and precipitous path.

Who am I?

I’m a school teacher, a secondary English teacher to be specific.

S ince my A levels I never really doubted that this was what I wanted to do. I loved that feeling: knowing what I wanted to do, having an aim, a destiny if you will. Not many of my friends leaving school or even uni had that. I’ll admit it: I felt a bit smug. I confidently took a year between finishing my degree – in English – and my teacher training qualification, did a bit of travelling and a bit of volunteer work in schools. Then I got to work on my career – and it was exciting.

Louisa looked out at the high-flyers in front of her: this kind of message spoke to them. They were real go-getters, people who were certain about what they wanted, and how they were going to get there. These were the friends she hadn’t had at university, because these were the ones doing business management and other such professional courses, instead of the arts-y and humanities subjects she and her friends studied. She was surprised now to realise that she actually had something in common with people like this.

I lived and taught in west London, a pretty affluent area. I had a great group of friends, a mix of those from uni and people I met travelling. I hadn’t lost the travel bug either, and regular school holidays meant I could do as many trips as I could afford.

I’m not going to lie: I thought I was doing well. I fully expected to be made head of department at the end of my fourth year teaching, and it was a huge blow to my self-esteem when this didn’t happen. I had to hide it, tell my good friend and colleague who got it instead how happy I was for him, show my support and swallow my pride. I looked elsewhere, feeling unappreciated. I took a couple of interviews, looked around a few different schools. There was no reason, after all, to feel like I needed to stay in one place: four years was a good basis, and perhaps the right time to move on, keep my experience diversified.

Looking around the room she noted a few nods, and most people were actually listening. She was telling a good story at least, keeping their interest. This experience was speaking to them, to those times they had also felt passed over.

Nothing came of it though; no dream offer, no head of department elsewhere. I liked one of the other places I visited, but two others made me realise how good I had it at my school: I knew it, and it knew me.

My boss, the head teacher, made a comment in passing that made me realise she knew I’d been looking elsewhere. She didn’t patronise me with “it wasn’t your time this time, hold on it’s coming”, it was more along the lines of “you were a contender this time, but I’m happy you didn’t jump ship when it didn’t happen”. I had this feeling that she got me. I felt like I belonged, and that is powerful stuff when it comes to professional loyalty.

There were more nods, and she realised they probably thought this was her story: Look at how someone in the public sector, with academic rather than commercial objectives, can actually speak to you and inspire empathy in you and your own career path.

They were wrong if they thought that.

It turned out that George had been right though: she did have a place in this room, with this group.

4

October: Marseille

Nothing stays the same – you all know this. Work was a steady constant, but all around it was moving forwards and frankly, we were all getting older.

My best friend and I took a trip to Argentina for her thirtieth birthday, and there she met someone I can only describe as the Love of Her Life. Seeing how those two reacted to one another made me realise what was missing in my own easy and companionable three-year relationship – I envied what they had. I ended it with my boyfriend when we got home.

I planned another trip: newly single and desperately trying to recreate the magic of Argentina, I squeezed a two week jaunt into the Easter holidays. On the last day of term, as I left school and headed directly to the airport to fly that evening, I found out I was getting a promotion in September: I was going to be head of year. I was floating on air as I headed off on safari, with a few days of rest at the end, at the dramatically named – but in fact rural and remote – Wild Coast of South Africa.

There was some fidgeting now.

All this talk of travel and holidays didn’t speak to these corporate types. Louisa assumed they were all Caribbean resort name-droppers, and looked at taking annual leave as a weakness. But this was where her story really began.

The very hardest part of the course preparation had turned out to be putting into clear, unemotive, concise language what had happened to her during those 5 days back in the spring. When she tried to write it down, endless explanations and tangents spiralled her away from the straight and narrow, all of which seemed necessary to really explain what went on, and why it happened. She had to cut and cut, rewrite and redo over and over again.

The process of reliving it this way made her angry all over again: the hollowing feeling of abandonment returned, along with grief for a man she barely knew, who’d died in front of her. The residual ache in her right ankle throbbed alongside deep shame that really there was no one to blame for all that followed but herself.

This was the storm of emotion she had been successfully suppressing since the day she limped back into Storm Bay.

It was the emotional rollercoaster that friends and colleagues – and most mortifyingly of all, her boss – had suggested with varying degrees of forcefulness, that she must accept, interrogate, and – in general – go to therapy over.

She had resisted most of the well-meaning advice, and convinced herself – although no one else it seemed – that she was just fine. What was the point? She was home safe; her part of the story at least had a happy ending. Right?

And it was George Kalim and his offer of much-needed paid work which forced her to face these demons, and relive the horror. Every time, she picked herself back up and pushed away the emotions which threatened to overwhelm her and drag her down, so that she could get through the days without the dramas of the Wild Coast overwhelming her.

She had tried so many times to find the words to roll it all into a straightforward, relatable narrative in order to share her experience and emotions with the outside world.

And here she was, in front of an unforgiving audience, tasked with delivering it today.

Deep breath, everyone.

5

October: Marseille

I was involved in a car crash.

The sun sank like a stone out of Gift’s open window. The town traffic was light when they finally left the terminus as evening hit, and they were turning left onto the bumpy dirt road in no time. The chalky white glowed luminous in the twilight, rumbling under the wheels of the van.

Louisa was annoyed, and a little bit worried: she had come back up the road with Danny and a couple of Norwegians as they headed for airports and flights home, in order to get some more cash, and also some snack food for herself and the Aussies. There was quite literally nowhere to get or buy anything in Storm Bay, nowhere to eat except at the hotel bar, and with another couple of days in Storm Bay to go she’d volunteered to go on that long uncomfortable drive to get in a few more supplies including bottles of water and nibbles.

She hadn’t anticipated hanging around for over two hours after dropping the guys off though. Gift told her he was waiting for a late guest arrival, but when they finally left it was just getting dark, and it was still just the two of them. She didn’t get it.

The driver had taken an unusual route from the town back down to the guest house at the coast I was staying in.

The bright white ribbon leading ahead was soon dampened by a rich blanketing darkness as the kilometres clocked up. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but Louisa had a feeling this wasn’t the same route Gift had taken when she’d arrived. She dismissed it though, as the deep dark disorientating her; surely that’s all it was.

The discomfort of the northbound journey had passed in a blur with company, but now it was only her, Gift and the road, every bump and judder seemed worse – almost painful.

When the van’s front wheels plummeted into a gully, body-metal screeching against the rubble rock edge of the crater pot-hole, panic bolted through her like she’d been electrocuted. The jump out the other side threw her forward into the grazing cradle of the safety belt like they’d hit a brick wall.

“It’s OK! It’s OK, Louis-aah,” Gift shouted over the rushing air from the open window beside him.

She realised she’d screamed, that not all the noise in her ears was coming from the van, the bump, the road.

“That was HUGE! But don’t worry, it’s really OK,” he said, flashing her a big grin, his teeth and eyes burning through the gloom. “I know all these roads so well.”

The gravel track narrowed and started to crumble away, no longer under the wheels on one side as the van flew through air for seconds at a time, hitting home again with a squeal and lurch. Gift wrestled with the steering wheel, jerking and jumping in the seat as his feet danced across the pedals, trying to maintain control of the vehicle.

BAM! The van made an impact which threw it, and rolled it onto its left side.

The seat belt cut into Louisa’s belly, and scraped at her neck as the momentum bounced her around before the van came to a silent stop and she slid into unconsciousness.

When she came round it was to a stinging sensation on her face, which was resting on a bed of broken glass from the window which had been beside her. In the new silence and stillness she looked over at the driver’s seat, and windscreen of the van.

There was nothing there: no reflection back, no glass at all, and no Gift in the driver’s seat. She scrabbled at the seat belt lock which had held her in place, kept her safe – saved her life. She crawled forward over more nuggets of shattered safety glass beneath her knees, pulling herself along on the seat backs until she could see through the space where the windscreen should have been.

The driver was killed outright.

Gift was lying two metres in front of the van, his body slightly curved like someone had tried to put him into the recovery position but given up trying half way through: his head was thrown right back, chin tipped up. Thrown too far back; the angle was not right, not of his neck, his twisted torso, or his left arm either. Nothing would ever be right for Gift again.

I was alone, with no idea where I was. There was no light out there, no houses or people, no other vehicles. Just the sound of the sea, a ruined van and a man’s dead body.

Now they were starting to get it: this wasn’t some holiday tale of exoticism and pushing our own boundaries. Louisa’s story was something else…

6

April: Eastern Cape

I spent the night huddled down in the toppled van.

We were a long way from the last sign of life, and I couldn’t see the track we must have come along, to try and follow it back. I told myself to wait until first light, and try to rest.

Even when she closed her eyes she saw his body, bathed in the glare of the van’s headlights. The relentless roll of the waves beyond the cliff edge they’d come so close to was restless and frantic all night. The skin of Gift’s wrist, his neck, his chest from when she’d searched and tried in vain to find a pulse, to find hope that he wasn’t dead, was burned onto her fingertips.

I’d left my mobile phone behind by accident, charging in my room.

If I’d had it with me, I might have been able to summon help right after the crash – if there was any phone service out here at all, if I could provide any useful location information – and if it had survived the crash. Gift’s phone was smashed to pieces; literally, it was in pieces mixed in with the windscreen glass, shattered all over the grass in front of the fallen van.

Louisa was surprised that the sun was high in the sky when she woke the next morning. She hadn’t realised she’d even finally fallen fully asleep after hours in the darkness shifting uncomfortably, the wave rush lifting her constantly out of light dozes that just wouldn’t take hold.

Human beings are altruistic, and will often instinctively help another, even a complete stranger, who is in need. Society teaches us that we are interlinked, and when two people and a big silver van are missing from a guest house for 12 hours or more, it’s natural to assume that help will arrive soon.

I certainly did: I believed without doubt that rescue was on its way, probably just waiting for first light, like me. All I had to do was stay safe, stay put, and I would surely be found.

She stayed with the van, with Gift all day.

Louisa walked back over the bank they’d skidded across, digging a huge gash in the spongey moss-topped cliff, to find their tyre marks, work out where they had come from and to find her way back to the road.

What she found was that it wasn’t a road or even track they’d skidded off. It was just some rough ground, denuded of grass and gone to rubble. Looking back landwards, towards a horizon, clumps of moss turned into tufty grass then rolled up and over, into a gentle undulation till it reached the sky and cut off any more vista.

In a case study exercise, I would now be telling you that we are approaching the first key decision point. This would be the time when you and your team would debate – as I did alone, in my head – what your next action should be.

Remember: not only had any form of rescue failed to make an appearance in over 24 hours, but also not a single human being or sign of life was evident in this unknown location.

The sense of nothing, the emptiness, the solitude felt like a physical pressure on her chest. She felt drawn back to the van, and to the water below the cliffs, whose movement and sound was something of a comforting constant in this alien territory.

Why didn’t I just start walking inland then, away from the scene of death and destruction?

It felt natural to stay where I was, to not make a decision. I assumed rescue was on its way. I felt certain in a hazy kind of way that there were concerns being raised, search parties and phone calls flying around. Our absence, the loss of us – and the van too – would be felt, noticed, and acted upon.

Waiting it out, relying on others those who knew the land, knew the country and all its roads, tracks and reasons why Gift would have driven us to this point would prevail. And all she had to do was stay put.

Gift was the single connection she had. It was only his body, only a corpse that was with her. When you have no other connection to the world, even just this is a powerful motivator. She felt protective of him, she didn’t want to abandon him here, alone, his life cut short in tragedy. They were in this together, and here she would stay.

The day passed in numbness. The blind panic of her situation still hit her with a bolt of shivers every few hours, despite the warm sun. Looking back, looking in from outside she could see she had been in shock. At the time, she hadn’t even really noticed the numbness. In the hypersensitivity of the panic, the only way she could believe it was OK was to focus on the rescue which was surely coming. All other actions and decisions were pushed aside by this behemoth crouching heavily, painfully in her mind.

Louisa didn’t move Gift. Some people, afterwards, called this irresponsible, disrespectful: to leave his body out there, as he’d landed – and died. To her, it felt like the only way to honour him. She couldn’t save him, she couldn’t make him comfortable or warm again. To drag his body over to the van seemed like the ultimate in final humiliation for this man she’d barely known, and yet whose final moments – and after – she’d shared.

With heavy weariness she lay down to sleep a second night in the shell of the fallen van. The weight of the day, the solitude had exhausted her. She fell asleep easily, quickly, but only for a few short hours.

Like a switch had been flipped in her brain, suddenly it was firing on all cylinders, swarming with images and thoughts: in the half-sleep state they raced and spiked, and kept her from any more rest.

In the grey light of pre-dawn she gave up the fight: she opened her eyes and sat up, rubbing her arms in the light sweater she’d pulled on to drive away the early dew chill, and took back control of her own thoughts. Cradled awkwardly by the toppled seat screwed to the van’s now vertical floor, she slowly put together a simple plan for herself.

Staying with the van any longer, waiting for another day, alone here on a cliff top was not an option.

She needed to get away from death, and inertia.

The decision I made was to be active, to take charge of what happened to me now, in the wake of the trauma of the crash.

The first part of this process was acknowledging that, although Gift had lost his life, had been impacted in the most terrible way by the crash, I too had been affected by it. I had grazes and bruises, aches from the jolts of impact. And recognising that a fog of numbness was rising from my mind now showed me that it had affected me mentally.

Now was the time to remove myself from this situation.

In the days before the crash, Louisa and a couple of others she and the Aussie’s met at the hotel had hiked and explored the coast both north and south of Storm Bay, walking with little notice across wide golden sand bays punctuated by rocky green headlands, the scenery unnoticed as they focussed on their destinations.

She knew, therefore, that you could walk for a couple of kilometres at least without seeing a roof, or another soul. Suddenly, a herd of cattle would creep out of a gorge hidden in the cliffs ahead, with two or three locals chatting at top volume – how their voices hadn’t carried to alert you beforehand was a mystery. Another few kilometres across the next headland, and the pointed hats of rondavel huts would push above the cliff top, a glimpse of deep bright turquoise painted walls sometimes peaking over. A white sprawl of a coastal hotel had crouched in the lee of a headland and cliff top on one of the walks, a scattering of small cottages sprayed out in a fan from the main building, all looking over the edge of Africa as the Indian Ocean jealously guarded it.

Those hikes had felt deliciously tranquil, the untouched coastline epic as it stretched on uninterrupted, unpeopled. And yet, there was a lot of life on the coast – they’d encountered it in the quietest corners, the most untouched wide bay. All of this information was stacked like printed photos in a pile in her mind, and informed her decision to turn left, to walk north – the direction she thought Storm Bay lay, and to stick to the coast.

I was no explorer, I had no particular ‘outdoors’ skills – I hadn’t even done a Duke of Edinburgh award. I wouldn’t let myself consider what would happen if I didn’t find people, and a bit of civilisation before nightfall.

I still had water and food left from my shopping trip all those few days before, and I put these and the sweatshirt I’d found in the van in my shoulder bag as I left.

She walked to the edge of the cliff, and tried not to look back at Gift as she stepped down, stumbling a little, sliding a bit on the sun-shadowed cliff face, down to the wet rocks and packed sand below. She’d made this climb down a couple of times now, to wash. She’d always been conscious of her route, careful to make sure she could retrace her steps and get back up. This time, she didn’t need to worry about a return journey.

The search party found the van just a couple of hours after Louisa left the crash site.

They found the ruined, toppled van, they found Gift thrown out through the windscreen towards the cliff edge – and they didn’t find Louisa. They looked over the edge and all the way down to the rocks below, and feared the worst: that she’d been thrown even further than Gift, and swept away to sea.

This was the message which went back to the Stormy Weather Hotel and beyond, via the British Consulate, homewards to her family.

7

May: London

Back to school. Back to reality.

It felt strangely normal, getting up and ready for work. The routine which had defined Louisa’s working week days for a decade was like a well-known comfortable dress: it soothed her on this strange day, newly returned and undeniably a little worse for wear.

There was no denying though that every little thing took her longer than usual that morning. Luckily Sorcha hadn’t surfaced from her bed yet, so Louisa had all the space she needed to get in and out of the bathroom and around the kitchen; she certainly hadn’t needed any more obstacles this morning.

She was limping, there was no two ways about it. The thought of walking to the end of the road, down the walkways and up into the bus station to start the journey to work was unbearable. She called a taxi, and cast around for a shoe she fit on her swollen foot, and could get away with wearing to work. Summer was on its way, but it was still a touch fresh for sandals, however needs must today.

She stopped dead when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror by the front door: the gash running down her face was bright and livid. It was no longer bleeding like it had on the flight, prompting the staff to patch her up and give her that terrifying invalid look for her arrival, but still it might actually be better to cover it up again.

She was determined to get to work on time, as usual – to start getting her life back to normal. It was only two days till the weekend, and then she could sleep as long as she wanted, rest her ankle to reduce the limp, and the cut on her face would start to calm down.

She wished she could have started with a quick coffee and catch-up with her friends and colleagues in the staff room, but that wasn’t the way it was going to be. She was expected at the Head’s office.

Catherine Gold had arrived at the school a year before Louisa, Scott and Sophie. As a young new crop joining a big established staff, the three of them had naturally stuck together and welcomed other new arrivals in the next couple of years, and they were aware that their status as a clique was both on thin ice at times, and also one of the reasons for their individual successes early in their teaching careers. They were sure they had a nickname among especially the more established staff, but they were equally sure it wasn’t the same they had given themselves that first year, with heavy irony: New Kids on the Block.

Mrs Gold was quietly supportive of their little clan. She was careful not to show favouritism overtly, but there were occasions that indiscretions or frankly mistakes had been swept under the carpet, deftly sidestepped rather than highlighted and lambasted for all to crow over, and they knew it. The little knot of them did not take this treatment for granted, nor take advantage. The power balance meant it was for Mrs Gold to take advantage on her side, when an extra volunteer was required, a small favour done. She had their loyalty, and willing. Louisa, for one, would go to the ends of the earth for Catherine Gold if ever it was required.

It didn’t make this any easier though. Teachers felt barely less cowed being summoned to the headteacher’s office than the kids, and today she was nervous.

The fact of the matter was: Louisa was late for work. Not just skidding in the door as registration began kind of late, but three full days, more than half the school week late. With no notice, or call in sick in a timely manner for cover to be arranged.

The news of her delayed return home had found its way to school, from Sorcha to her brother Scott, as well as Louisa’s Mum phoning in after she’d received the Foreign Office call. But Louisa had let Mrs Gold down, and her classes. The reasons didn’t really matter when it came to this sort of thing.

The door to the Head’s office was half open, so Louisa put a foot over the threshold and tapped lightly.

Catherine Gold turned her smoothly coiffed head forty five degrees from the carefully angled screen to face Louisa. She summoned her into the room with an almost imperceptible nod. “Close the door.”

Oh the dread those words instilled. It did, however, also give permission for the visitor to sit down, and not just hover in no-mans-land between open door and line of 3 chairs. There was clearly a psychological reason for Mrs Gold keeping 3 chairs before her desk as she did, despite her reasoning being it was simply practical, rather than moving them in and out to accommodate differing sizes of attendees to her audience. The NKOTB didn’t accept this for a minute, but despite the multiple sessions of conjecture and theorising over it, they’d never agreed on a final and convincing reason why.

Doing her best to walk in without showing the limp, Louisa took the seat on her right. She was too worried about knocking her bad foot to try and slide along to the middle, as she would have liked to. Middle ground, confident in the reason for being here, not hovering on the edge and looking for the first exit opportunity. Yes, she was totally overthinking it, as she did every time she found herself here.

Catherine Gold leaned forward to rest her hands lightly clasped on the desk before her, and tipped her chin down to look at Louisa from the tops of her eyes. She didn’t wear glasses, but it had the same effect of being looked at hard and directly.

“Louisa, welcome home. It’s good to see that you are safe, and back where you belong.”

Louisa bobbed her head with an accepting smile.

“I only wish I was able to say ‘safe and well’, but it’s obvious that you are not currently at full fitness, and able to work.”

“I’m fine, really it’s just a scratch–”

Louisa was silenced by the expression on Mrs Gold’s face. This was not a woman you argued with. Not if you had any expectation of winning.

“As with everyone here at the school, my primary concern is for your health and wellbeing above all else. You have had a setback, and you need to recover from it. The fact that your injured ankle won’t support you walking even as far as the English department at the bottom of the drive, let alone rushing from third period to your lunch duty this morning is peripheral. In addition, that long cut running down your face will terrify some of the students. Those, at least, that wouldn’t use it as an excuse to disrupt lessons by constantly questioning you about it, and why you weren’t here for the start of this term.”

Louisa wanted to insist, to assure Mrs Gold that she was absolutely OK. But she couldn’t argue with either of these observations. She was hiding her limp from no one, and the laceration running down her face was too much. She was annoyed that she couldn’t do anything about either of them, because she felt ready and strong inside.

“I only want to get back to normal, to resume lessons and catch up on what I’ve missed,” she said.

“I can understand that. But Ms Chard, it is more than a handful of meetings and a series of lessons you need to catch up on. You need to take a good look at yourself and what you went through, which caused this late return to school.”

What did Catherine Gold think had happened to her? She made it sound like Louisa had been kidnapped, held hostage, terrorised and tortured, starved and beaten.

It wasn’t like that, but Louisa didn’t have the words to tell her this.

And in that case, what would she have told the kids? There was no way “I missed my flight, had to wait a few days for a seat to open up” would cut it with teenagers. And then there were the other teachers; if Mrs Gold had concluded such drama, so would they would.

“Ms Chard, I will not allow you near my students while you are in this state. You need to go home and heal, rest that ankle till you can move around properly, and ensure that cut is fully healed and no longer prone to opening up and bleeding anymore.”

No, no, no – it wasn’t bleeding again was it?!

Yes. Of course it was. Right now, here with Catherine Gold.

Louisa ran her thumb along the damp spot, and wiped away the blood.

“I would strongly recommend getting some counselling. You have been through a tough experience, and your body is showing it. Your mind is not so easy to diagnose, nor heal in a short time. You should talk to someone, a professional, about what happened in South Africa, and start to work on coming to terms with it.”

Louisa was shaking her head, even as Mrs Gold was still talking.

The decision had been made, and there was no negotiating. Louisa must do what she’d been told, and no discussion or reconsideration would be entered into until then. This was the way Catherine Gold worked, and Louisa knew it as well as those students who came into regular contact with the headteacher.

She handed Louisa a business card. It was for a counsellor.

“We have arranged cover for your work for two weeks at the moment with one supply teacher, and Mrs Ace and I will review his performance next week before we extend. Claire has called a taxi for you, it will arrive at ten past nine when everyone is in lessons. You are welcome to go to the staff room and say hello, and wait there before going home. And Louisa,” her face softened with worry now the orders were issued, “please keep in touch with your head of department and myself. We care deeply about you, and only want to have you back with us as soon as is practical. It certainly won’t be this side of half term. I hope you prove my suspicion wrong, which is that you won’t be back this term at all, not until next year. I want to see you happy, strong and healthy, because right now you are none of these and I am very worried about you.”

That was it: being told she was a worry was the tear trigger. They slid down her cheek like they were in a race to reach the cut on her jaw before their salty stinging progress could be halted.

It was not a relief, she told herself, she was not in the slightest pleased to have this decision taken away from her bruised, tired self. She was furious, and in no need of this kind of support, or indeed therapy.

She would admit, to herself at least, that she did need a bit of rest, and some exercises to strengthen her ankle as well.

But then she would be up and running again – well before their assumption of a couple of months’ time.

8

April: Eastern Cape

The golden curve of bay sprawled ahead to the distant headland, which looked like a rearing moss-covered land monster coming up for air after a subterranean dash for the coast.

Louisa felt hyper-alive, making steady progress across the sand. Now that the numbness had lifted, everything felt vivid and sharp.

The watery warming sun energised her, like it was powering her up with solar energy to take control, and put her fate back into her own hands.

It was hard leaving Gift, harder than she’d expected. She had let the tears run down her face she walked away. Waiting around, expecting help, relying on others to deliver her back to safety: this was in the past now. She was going to do this on her own – Louisa would rescue herself.

The long wide beach before her looked just like the bays she’d crossed out hiking and exploring in those first days in Storm Bay, with Darcy and Kim, Danny and Javier, and Antoinette. The only difference here was the unbroken, high wall of cliffs on her left that kept her cut off from the land.

The headland ahead sank into a dip on its landward side, as though leaning down to touch the beach: she would have to climb up onto it when she reached the end of the bay. The elevated position was bound to give a view onto the land and all around, to give her some bearings – and direction.

The water rolled in and crept forward and around, the movement rhythmic and gentle; then a loud strong sweep would remind her of its power. She felt hemmed in, almost captured by the sea. It was changeable, sometimes gurgling and playful, other times violent and powerful. Like predator.

This bay was flat and deep, offering plenty of space to stay away from the encroaching tide, but it was a constant reminder that this place wasn’t safe. She wouldn’t be able to sleep below the cliffs, even if she found shelter beneath an overhang, or in a cave. It all belonged ultimately to the ocean, and she was only a temporary visitor.

She began to realise with a sinking heart that she had underestimated the span of this bay: she’d assumed in half an hour or so she’d be clambering up that headland, having a good look around, back towards land and down onto the next bay beyond, but it had been more than an hour already, and looking back now she was less than half way to the headland. The unspoilt sheen of golden sand belied its vastness. The beach was flat and smooth, making the walking easy enough, but the sand surface would take its toll on her calf muscles in a few hours, and she could feel it starting already.

In her head, she started to try and puzzle out what to say when she finally encountered people. It wasn’t easy working out how to explain where she had just walked from, how long she’d been going, and why she was alone and in need of help. Then there was Gift and the van, the crash and waiting for rescue, leaving him behind and starting to walk.

By now her friends back at home must be worried sick. No doubt her family would hear from the authorities that she was missing – lost. What would they have been told, she wondered, that she would be found soon, or that the worst was feared? How terrible for her Mum and Dad, for Kate her best friend and other friends too, to be on the receiving end of such news.

She worried about her Mum and Kate in particular.

Her Mum would be in a right state, her Dad holding it together for the both of them. He’d get onto her sister at some point, while her Mum phoned and texted around her friends and work to find out if they had any news.

Kate really didn’t need this kind of worry while she was pregnant. Bryant would be able to calm her down, tell her that even though Louisa was stranded out here, he was sure she’d be OK in this place he loved so well and had recommended to her so highly.

Today was the day Louisa should have left Storm Bay and headed home. Now she wouldn’t get back in time for the start of term, and even from the dire situation she was in right now this realisation brought a shock of dismay to her. The thought of letting down the Head, the staff, the kids was devastating.

Still lost in her thoughts of home, it took her few moments to realise she was seeing a silvery trail crossing the beach a few hundred metres ahead of her. It appeared then disappeared as the glinting sun flickered through puffs of cloud. It was a stream, a freshwater rivulet pushing out to see. As she grew closer to it, a crack in the wall of cliffs appeared, sinking back from the bay in a narrow ravine. They called it a ‘kloof’ here, she remembered.

She jogged over to the cliffs, and squeezed herself into the opening. She had expected it to open out into a sheltered space, but no – it only sank deeper and darker, wet-walled and dank into the cliff face. She slid back out onto the beach, and filled the water bottle she’d emptied that morning with the fresh water. With another bottle of bought water still almost full, she didn’t need to worry about whether or not she could or should drink this water yet, and she could certainly use it to wash. She rinsed her hands and face in the trickling water, getting rid of the salt stickiness which had lightly coated her skin through the morning.

She settled into a sandy trudge as she resumed her path towards the rocks at the foot of the headland, her earlier optimistic pace dulled by the distance and hours. She swapped her shoulder bag onto the opposite diagonal across her body.

The sun was taking a rest behind a cluster of clouds when she reached the headland. The sand ran into smaller rocks, stepping up to small boulders, which merged into the crumbling exposed side of the promontory that closed off the bay. She lost her footing once or twice, sliding back a little, ending up crouched over almost on all fours to pull herself forwards, and up onto the spongey carpet-like surface of the headland.

On the rise ahead, small scrub bushes grew and spread around little scoops and dips. She wasn’t ready to accept she would need to spend another night out here, but she was relieved to have at least an idea of where she could rest and shelter, if need be. The growling, scraping water couldn’t touch her up here.

The view from up there though was disappointing. Despite all the scrambling and heaving herself up, she was still far below the cliff edge, which blocked her from seeing any nearby homes, huts, hotels, houses – any humans that might just be over that rise, waiting to smile and at the very least kindly tell her where she was, and how she could get back to where she’d started, all those days ago in Storm Bay.

Ahead of her over the headland was another shallow wide bay, shorter this time before the next steeper headland closed it in. With a sigh, she started to make her way down onto the sand again, to resume her trek northwards, in the direction she was now committed to, with little memory now of why she’d chosen this way over the others.

9

April: Eastern Cape

When Louisa arrived in Storm Bay, she had noticed how gentle the landscape felt: it was verdant and undulating. Walking to Black Rock Arch that blinding hot morning, she and Danny had rolled their eyes at the dramatic naming of this rippling stretch of sandy coast as ‘Wild’. It reminded them both of home, of England.

This particular headland she found herself upon had been an easy climb up rocks to scale, and the mossy green carpet of foliage was a welcome place to sit after the damp, pervasive sand she’d been walking on all day. She pulled out one of her bottles of water, and took a few swigs.

As she reached down for the bottle cap on the springy surface beside her, her fingers somehow flicked the plastic lid rather than gripping it. The bottle top rolled away, heading for the rocky drop down onto the beach. She stuck her foot out to stomp it down, catch it before it was gone forever, and in the process slopped half the remaining water all over her shorts, and the spongey moss beneath her. She swore, reaching her hand down to her foot, taking care to grasp the lid this time, and squeeze it back on the bottle before anything else could be lost.

She took a few breaths, getting hold of herself and the flash of adrenaline pumping in her veins, and pushed a flying bit of hair back behind her ear. Stowing the water bottle in her shoulder bag, she slid the strap around so the bag rested in the middle of her lower back, and went over to the edge to go down onto the next stretch of beach.

It was late afternoon now, and she’d lost count of the headlands and bays. Was it four, or six?

She stepped down onto the first large boulder, then forward to put her foot on the next rock. The next was lower again, and slippery. She was getting a bit of technique for handling these rocks, this type of terrain she needed to cover: standing up straight, she wobbled and almost lost balance, and this didn’t happen if she crouched down low. But then she couldn’t stretch as far to choose her next rock.

In a half measure, she bent over at the waist, holding her bag still with a hand, its precious cargo of the 2 water bottles, a pack of biscuits and the jumper in it. Despite the slimy surface, she maintained a good footing on the next couple of rocks, then leapt in relief down onto the shale, as it headed back to the sand.

“AAAAGGGHHHHH!”

Landing her full weight on her left foot, the edge of her trainer tipped and she went over on her ankle as her foot slid beneath her. She landed hard on her left knee and right foot. She hopped immediately back up, her knee burning from the slashes the shale had dug, and stepped out onto the sand. Pulling the bag over her head, it thudded beside her as she threw herself down to inspect the damage.

Her left ankle ached but she didn’t think there was any real damage there. She picked a few bits of grit out of the grazes on her stinging knee, and rinsed it with some of the spring water. The smarting calmed to a light tingle in minutes, as she felt the dampness from the sand seep through her shorts.

She slowly eased herself to her feet, straightening out the injured knee and putting full her weight on the foot which had turned. As she’d thought the ankle was fine, nothing to worry about. She swung the bag over her head and started walking again.

How much longer did she have to keep going?

When would she find a welcoming building, a sign of life – another person?

It really couldn’t be much further, could it?

But she had been thinking the same thoughts for hours and hours now, making these assumptions kilometre upon kilometre, bay after bay.

This wasn’t a desert, but all this sand and loneliness made her wonder fleetingly if she had a sort of sand blindness: walking for so long now she’d stopped even looking for an escape route.

She was walking in borrowed territory, and it would be reclaimed by the ocean as the sun went down. She needed to climb up high, onto a headland again very soon: the path she was treading between the cliffs and the water’s edge was closing up fast.

She stopped for a moment, had a sip of water, and took stock of her current location. She was almost half way across this long bay, the headland she’d started from still closer to her than the next one. Weariness hit her like wave. It was not so much tiredness from walking, more that it was a struggle to keep hope, stay positive.

She tipped her head back, her face up to the sky.

For so long there had been nothing to see, no sign of life, no shape of any kind showing itself above the high edge of the cliffs that she’d stopped looking up from down on the beach.

Now she could see something. She took off her trainers and socks, threw them onto the sand and splashed out into the shallows turning back to look the cliff face every few paces. It was over her knees, the water tickling and lapping at her thighs before she saw any more than that first hint of something above the edge. It looked like a tall reed or dry tree branch, and the further she moved into the water the more distant and indistinct it became in the gloaming light.

It really could just be a bit of stuck vegetation, or a thorny bush clinging onto that rocky surface for dear life. But something about it made her believe it wasn’t either: that it was a loose piece of roof thatch, like she’d seen all across the rolling landscape between the coast and the main sealed road, atop the Xhosa rondavels. The round huts, neatly painted in white and cream as well as local favourites fuchsia pink and bright turquoise, scattered in clusters visible from the rocky road she had travelled up and down on, and she had seen no sign of even one since the sun had gone down on her and Gift during that fateful, fatal drive two long nights ago.

How could she get up there?

She thought again about the headland she’d left behind her. It had dipped down into a tangle of mangrove blackened trees which seemed to reach all the way to the foot of the cliffs.

Hadn’t they?

Had she really looked, or just assumed that, as with the last 3 or 4 headlands, there was no path or way up the cliffs?

She cursed herself and her lack of observation. What had she been thinking? She’d dropped the ball, kept on trudging, stopped thinking of ways to change her situation, focussing only on stumbling upon an easy obvious path – literally – out of the bay, or to let herself be discovered by so-far absent friendly and helpful locals by crossing their path.

Should she turn around and go back, find out once and for all if she’d missed a way up that hadn’t been obvious less than half an hour before? Or should she keep going on, keeping the faith that moving forwards was the way to deliver what she had been looking for: a way out.

It went against all her instincts, against the decisions she’d made over and over today, but decided she had to walk back to the last headland. She tied her trainer laces together and slung them over the bag, feeling them bump occasionally against her thighs, and turned around to retract the last twenty minutes or so of progress.

There was no guarantee of anything this way, yet somehow it felt like the better decision, instead of following the blind hope that simply moving forwards was the answer.

After all, blind hope had got her nowhere these last few days.

Time to try something else.

10

October: southern France

This is your scenario: a car crash leaves you bruised and with a corpse, no means of transport or contact, and no idea where you are. You waited and waited for rescue to come, for you and the late driver to be missed – and for the crashed vehicle to be retrieved. But nothing came, and your hope waned…

Next step: effect rescue of yourself. It wasn’t easy to leave the dead body, the perceived safety and shelter of the vehicle, and the belief that rescue was imminent. But it wasn’t enough anymore, after 36 hours, to keep you there, in one place, passive – and potentially vulnerable.

You’ve decided to take action, and to move. Now what? Which direction, which way should you start investigating? Is there any hint at all nestled right back there in your unconscious that could lead you in the right direction, towards people, assistance, a phone, and the living pulsing world?

Apparently no, so you had to just take a punt. Left it was, and down there rather than up here. Decisions made. Why those choices, you couldn’t have argued or explained, but there they are. That’s how you left, and started moving.

You walked and walked, then walked some more. You were strong, and swift. You covered some kilometres, sure they would deliver you somewhere of use soon, and still you had energy, and belief enough to keep going for hours and hours more. In fact, you became a bit sand-blind: without realising it, you weren’t even looking for clues, signs, ways to divert your route and amend your decisions, to cause a change – not just in your walk, but most desperately to your situation.

By the time you find yourself backtracking, frustrated, and see a path leading to a source of hope and escape, you are questioning when you had stopped looking for an escape route, somewhere along the line that endless sun-bleached day.

11

April: Eastern Cape

By the time she returned to the headland, the light of the day was dimming by the moment, and Louisa was limping as the ache in her ankle intensified into a low throbbing pain. Getting out of here today, the idea of getting herself out of this stupid situation was disappearing as fast as the sun.

As she reached the end of the beach, she noticed a small heap of sand between the blackened mangrove trees and the cliff wall. When she got closer the sand turned out to be a narrow track between the trees and the hard face of rock, at a constant width of about half a metre along its length. It led back all the way to the foot of the cliffs alongside the trees. It led to nowhere.

Or did it? It was clearly a path, and not tide-dumped sand, and branches on the trees had been clipped to maintain the distance from the rock face. Someone used this path, and needed access to – or from – wherever it led. She walked along it all, right to the rock of the cliffs enclosing the mangrove trees, and in the dank half-light her expanding pupils took in the view of an almost 45-degree crack in the cliff face, camouflaged by the black trees. The breach in the rock created a natural staircase up the cliff, all the way to the top: pushing her feet into the breach, the rubber soles of her trainers bit to gain traction as she pulled up with her hands too. With a bit of practice and good balance, this could become an easy climb up.

She couldn’t believe it: she was finally escaping the prison of the beach, and getting back to green and wide land, where she might just find salvation.

A low rumbling noise pushed its way above the sea’s constant suck and roll as she climbed away from the beach.

“Wooooooo heeeeeeeee!”

The view that inspired the whooping also inspired a tiny jig of joy on the spot: there was a hut right near the cliff edge, just as she’d thought. In fact, there were two huts, sitting close as though nestled together.

They were traditional rondavels: circular walls topped by a conical thatch of dried reeds. These huts weren’t painted in the bright bold hues which glowed on horizons in this region, these walls were a greyish colour about the same colour as the faded dried roof. The land rose behind them, meaning they sat in a dip towards the cliff edge and were out of sight from all other directions.

The thwump of closing car doors cut through the still clifftop air, and the low rumble sound turned into a crack of wheels over rocks, and the surge of a engine driving a vehicle away.

She couldn’t believe it. Her legs were moving before her mind fully registered what she was hearing, running around the huts to see the truck’s tail gate as it tipped over the ridge, and disappeared from view once again. She ran down the rough track the wheels had left smoking in dust, her arms flailing above her head as she screamed till she was hoarse for the driver to see her, to stop, to help – to rescue her. But the truck was gone, long out of sight and soon out of her hearing too.

She threw herself onto the grass beside the wheel marks, thudding her head down on her raised knees.

So close, she’d been in almost touching distance of a route out of here. And now it was gone, and she was stuck in another no mans land.

The sky above her clung onto the day’s light, but down on the ground it was darkening by the moment.

She had found shelter, she had escaped the beach and the encroaching, claiming water. She would start walking this track in the new light of next morning.

Pushing herself to her feet to return back to the huts, she gasped as pain shot out of her right ankle in all directions.

She’d pushed it today, and now she needed to rest.

She told herself to get a grip: these were smugglers huts, of course the doors weren’t simply left open for visitors, like bothys and hiking refuges. This wasn’t that kind of place.

Louisa had never broken into a building before. Where to start, she wondered, pushing against the firmly locked solid door of one and then the other hut. These weren’t bothys or hiking refuges, left accessible for passing visitors in need of accommodation. In fact, she realised, this whole set-up was ideal for smuggling or some other illicit storage requirement.

She circled the first hut slowly, looking for any breach or way to gain entry. The hut had no window, and the thatch was sharp as it met the top of the wall snugly, slicing her skin when she tried to push her hand between the two.

She did the same with the second hut: circling it slowly, looking at the darkening ground as well as the roof overhand, and there she found a window.

It was small and high, tucked right under the thatch with 4 small thick panes of glass between a cross of metal framework. What could she use to try and break the glass? And what good would a shardy small aperture be if she somehow cracked one pane anyway?

The window was just above eye level for Louisa, but when she stood on tiptoes, her fingers braced against the bottom of the frame where it sat in the wall, she could hopefully just see inside.

“Ow!” Somehow she’d managed to knock her nose against the frame and graze her chin on the window sill. She rocked back on her toes, rubbing her grazed skin. Was it her imagination or was the window actually a few millimetres further into the wall than before? Had the entire frame actually shifted under her nosey pressure?

She gave the metal frame another push, on purpose this time. It definitely moved. It shifted a few more millimetres away from her.

She had found a way in, and now she just had to find a way to haul herself up to the height of the window frame now, and twist and squeeze her way through. One step at a time.

The floor of the hut was packed earth, and the walls had locked boxes and trunks pushed up against them creating a pentagonal central space. There were no signs of habitation here, this wasn’t a home.

But it was good enough for tonight.

She didn’t want to jump to conclusions about this place, or the driver of the truck she’d seen leaving here earlier, but she couldn’t help thinking that until now, the dangers she had faced out here were the forces of nature, and being stranded alone with no shelter and little sustenance.

There was every chance that if the owners of this place returned and found her here, having broken in, she may well find herself facing a threat of an altogether different kind.

12

May: London

“Come for lunch on Saturday,” Kate had said to Louisa’s parents on Wednesday morning when they’d all been together at Heathrow.

Now it was some sort of party: Kate and Bryant hosting Louisa’s Mum and Dad, plus her sister too, as well as Shona and even Scott. Maybe she wasn’t the only one worried what too few people might end up like.

Louisa really didn’t want to be picked up and taken by her parents, like she was a teenager to be ferried around to her friend’s house. But she was the least ambulant of all, and something of a guest of honour too, so there was no avoiding it. Her sister got to find her own way to the deepest south London location Kate and Bryant had found a little house they could afford: there was no tube station, and even the train station was a brisk 25 minute walk away. Scott and Shona got packed in the back seat of her Dad’s VW estate, with her Mum.

Louisa’s mother had valiantly climbed out of the front passenger seat, stumbling in the process, her arm still caught in the seat belt, insisting her injured first-born must take the seat, so she could stretch out her swollen, painful ankle. Louisa shrugged, gave up the fight to be treated as normal, and accepted this small perk of the situation.

“You OK?” her Dad asked as he reached for the ignition.

“Fine,” she said.

And off they went, stop-starting over the river, along leafy avenues, across 5-way traffic light intersections and through the full gamut of the city’s residential landscapes.

The tiny house Kate and Bryant had moved into a few months back was clearly an extension of the standard-sized house it was shoved up alongside. The front door brought them all into the hall-cum-kitchen, which quickly melded into the dining-living room that ended in French windows thrown open to a tiny lush walled garden. It worked in that oft-murmured way of extending the house into the outside space. It was certainly the only way the small house was going to accommodate this number of people at one time.

Louisa hadn’t actually been here before. They’d moved in a month before Easter, and with crazy end of term work demands plus getting ready to go away, she hadn’t managed the trek down here. Now she felt guilty for not having made a bit more effort for these two, her best friends. Bryant had become such by extension of Kate; he was a good guy.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all, she thought, settling into the guest of honour armchair that was positioned right by the open doors, the best position in both worlds.

The fly in the ointment she could already see though was getting up those stairs when she needed a wee, which would likely be soon at her friends’ usual rate of drinks pouring. It was a tight spiral staircase with a banister on only one side. That was going to be tough: putting all her weight on the bad ankle to step up, and with a full audience to see her struggle.

Drinks were poured, chill out tunes wafted out from invisible speakers in a few locations. Small bowls of small savoury nibbles were placed with reach for everyone as they settled on paint-peeling wooden garden chairs. Louisa had already heard the cutesy story of how Kate and Bryant had discovered them going free during a romantic evening amble around their new neighbourhood, and she heard it again now.

“A good sand down and new lick, and they’ll be great,” her Dad said.

Kate made agreeing noises, but Louisa could tell she had no such intentions. They were fine as they were to her: flaky and chipped maybe, but they were fine.

Scott wandered over to the barbecue, a bottle of beer in his hand. Bryant walked over to light it, get the proceedings going, and the two of them dropped into easy grill and guys talk, which Shona was happy to chip into occasionally from the spot she’d slide her chair into, to catch the sun.

Louisa’s Mum was ‘helping’ Kate with the food in the kitchen, while her Dad kept himself out of the way on the little sofa wedged between the staircase and the back wall of the bijou living area, with her sister Emma. Despite its tiny size, Louisa could see how well this place worked for entertaining.

Leaving Sandra happily chopping in the kitchen area, Kate came over to Louisa’s chair, and clinked her wine glass filled with fizzy water against Louisa’s.

“We finally got you here,” she said. “And only just in one piece.”

Was Louisa imagining it or did everyone stop for a moment – chopping knife hanging mid-air, barbecue heat talk on pause, Dad and Em’s chat in a little lull.

Louisa took a gulp of her wine. The slicing of hot dog onions resumed, and her sister pointed out the huge picture hanging near the front door to her Dad.

“How are you?” Kate asked.

Louisa only just managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Deep breath, placid smile, frustration – mostly at having no fucking clue what the answer was, let alone how to articulate it to this crowd of caring faces – suppressed.

“I’m OK,” she said finally. Her tone was not defensive, it was not ‘fuck off’ or topic closing. But it was firm.

“Thing is Leezy,” Kate said. “We don’t know what, uh, well – you know. We don’t actually know…”

Louisa wondered what she meant for a moment.

Then it hit her.

Her breath stopped, as though all air had been sucked from her lungs.

“Halloumi’s ready!” Bryant started scooping soft pieces of the squeaky Greek cheese onto the plate Scott was holding.

Kate moved away from her to pour dipping sauce into small bowls.

Louisa’s heart was pounding loud and fast in her ears.

“Burgers and sausages are going on now,” Bryant said.

Kate and Sandra piled plates and napkins on the end of the kitchen peninsula for everyone to help themselves, along with rolls, sauces and salad.

“I’ll do yours love,” Louisa’s Dad said with a pat on her shoulder.

Tears pricked at her eyes. Crying was not how she chose to react to this piece of information.

She took another mouthful of wine as Kate’s words seeped in, then looked around for the bottle to top herself up; Kate was heading back to her with it in her hand.

The realisation went round and round in Louisa’s mind, as the food was served.

None of them knew what had happened to her. Their sympathy and care came from the external, visible injuries, with no idea what the cause of them – and so much more – actually had been.

“It’s so good to have you home, and safe,” her Mum said, as she bustled around piling up empty, sauce smeared plates. “I mean, back from… um…”

Kate tried to take over. “We don’t really know what…”

Five days.

Death, destruction and disorientation.

Four long nights.

Totally alone.

Endless walking.

Sand blindness.

Lost.

None of her closest friends or her family had noticed she was even missing.

She had been over eight thousand miles away – but in these constantly connected days, was that even relevant?

“What happened to you over there?”

A week ago, not even that…

Louisa shook her head, as if that would clear the constant loop of images from her mind.

“Last weekend,” she said. “Mum – what were you and Dad up to last weekend?”

Sandra was back in the kitchen again, running hot water into the sink. She wiped her hands on a cloth, and rested them on the countertop in front of her.

“We were – oh, it was Sheila’s birthday, wasn’t it Bob,” she said. “We went out for lunch on Saturday, then to the theatre that evening. We went for a few drinks after that didn’t we…” She chuckled.

Louisa nodded numbly. She turned to her sister.

“How about you Em?”

“Well, I was working on Saturday. Then a few of us went for drinks, then a pizza, and more drinks. Next day I only just made it to brunch with Mel. Bloody Mary hair of the dog and lashings of sourdough toast!” She grinned.

Louisa looked out into the garden, where Scott caught her eye. He smiled sadly at her.

“Well while you were all out living it up, we were painting the back bedroom,” Kate said into the silence. “Three coats, he made me do. Two just wasn’t enough, apparently.” She smiled over at Bryant as he shrugged.

Louisa stared at the floor in front of her feet, her vision zooming in closer and closer.

What was this, where was she? She didn’t know this place. It wasn’t her and Shona’s flat, it wasn’t her parent’s house, it wasn’t her sister or Scott’s place.

Vertigo washed through her, left to right like a wave of energy rushing from the house to escape into the air outside. She felt herself sway with it, fighting not to slump to the right over the arm of the chair, or pitch forward onto the floor.

“We got a call on Monday morning,” her Mum said, moving towards her from the kitchen. “It was just before 9, about 8.30 perhaps, Bob? The man had a very deep voice, and he said that they thought – they weren’t sure, mind – they had been told you might be missing, in South Africa. He asked me if we’d heard from you lately – of course we hadn’t, you were away on holiday. He told me they were doing further checks, and he’d call me again in a couple of hours when they had some more information. I was thrown into such a dither, wasn’t I Bob? I didn’t know what to think.”

“It was very worrying,” her Dad said, reaching a hand out to his wife, as she moved over towards him.

“The young man, David I think his name was, he phoned back within the hour, and told us you were OK. He was most apologetic, for scaring us. I was so relieved, I can’t tell you. But it was all OK, and you were on your way home, albeit a few days late.”

Louisa took a big breath in through her mouth, and then another.

“I’d been missing for four nights by then,” she said.

The room erupted around her. Everyone was talking, some were shouting, they were all up on their feet, Kate was leaning back against the wall beside the armchair.

“What do you mean, four nights?!”

“Are you sure it was that long?”

“You were missing? What does that mean?”

“But how –”

“What—”

“Where—”

“How—”

“My God Lou—”

She pushed herself up from the chair, limped over to the staircase, and hauled herself – two hands on the narrow hand rail, all the way up those damn steps, into the bathroom.

She slumped onto the toilet seat, her eyes immediately returning to the bolt she’d slide across, to make sure. She leant back against the cistern, and bit back the scream of frustration which was fighting to get out.

Then the pain hit.

Her foot throbbed, throb, hrob, rob, bob, bom…

The hits of pain slowed as her slowed down her breathing, calming her pounding heart.

A knock came at the bathroom door, and her name was called.

She stayed silent, concentrating on getting on top of the pain. She heard the steps going back down the staircase as they left her alone again; for now.

It wasn’t their fault. They’d had no way of knowing that while they’d all be out having fun and going about their lives, she had been terrified, and in need.

She knew it wasn’t their fault, but right now it was too hard to hear.

Louisa needed to get out of here, and not in her parents’ car with four pairs of pitying eyes on her. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, and called a cab.

All she wanted right now was to forget: the situation she’d been in only the previous weekend, and how none of the people she loved most in the world had had a clue about it.

13

May: London

Darcy and Kim’s visit to London was a surprise. Although, that said, Louisa couldn’t for the life of her remember where they’d said was next on their itinerary. South Africa was the end of the continent they’d been meandering down. Had she just assumed they were heading home, like her?

It was good to see them.

Really good.

She hadn’t felt so pleased to see two people since… well, since the last time she’d seen them in fact.

“Have you heard from him?” Kim asked.

Louisa nodded.

“You’re the only ones who know what happened, you know,” Louisa said.

“What?” Darcy said

“I don’t understand,” Kim said.

“Your sister called us,” Darcy said, “and told us you’d been in a bad way since you’d been back. When we said ‘well yeah, we’re not surprised’, she agreed.”

“She called you?”

“Yes, she called.”

“I think she was too embarrassed to admit I’ve told them all nothing. Nothing at all…”

“Why not?”

“I’ve tried. I’ve gone over it in my head a hundred times…”

“Have you tried saying it out loud, to someone else?”

“I don’t know where to start. I don’t know how to explain…”

“What’s to explain? You were in a car crash. Well, a van. And then…”

“And then what? I was, I don’t know, ‘out of contact’ for a few days?” she said, adding in the finger quotes for herself.

“You were missing. At some points, presumed dead.”

“It was terrifying. And I’m only talking about for us,” Kim said. “For you – I – uh-”

“For me… I just don’t have the words.”

“You told us. You told the police in Storm Bay. You had the words then.”

“I can’t remember what I said. What did I say to you? How did I describe it? Can you tell me, remind me, so I can tell my parents, my friends, my colleagues – my boss?”

“They were your words. Your experience, and emotions. They’re still in there, somewhere.”

“Have you tried writing it down?” Darcy asked.

“Over and over and over again. I have pages of starts.”

“Have you tried talking about this to someone, you know, professional?”

“I can barely even articulate this to you guys, and you know what happened, and you were there as well. How can I talk to a stranger about this when I can’t even get the words out to the people I love? When I can’t even discuss it with any level of sense with you guys?”

“You’re safe now,” Darcy said.

“I’m stuck – again, and I don’t know how to get out of this.”

“You’re not alone now,” Kim said.

“I’m lost, and I don’t know how to find my way back. I have got myself into the same situation again: I’m lost.”

“Have you talked to Danny?” Darcy asked.

She shook her head.

“But you–” Kim said.

“He’s texted, and messaged, and left a voicemail or two.”

“You haven’t answered.”

“I’m not ready.”

“He’s trying to be a friend to you, by the sounds of it.”

“We barely know each other.”

“He lives pretty close to London, right? I’d love to see him while we’re here.”

“Go for it, it’s only a couple of hours by train.”

“What’s it called?”

“Bournemouth. It’s at the coast.”

“Oh, I see. Is that a problem?”

“I don’t know. I don’t love the idea of a walk along a sandy beach, a wander across cliff tops though.”

“No I guess you wouldn’t…”

14

April: Eastern Cape

She slept from sundown for a solid few hours, till around midnight. Then the pain in Louisa’s ankle and general discomfort of sleeping on a packed earth floor on a piece of tarpaulin woke her up. She drifted in and out after this, light snatches of sleep and deep involving dreams.

In one of the dreams she was walking somewhere with Gift, with a feeling that something wasn’t quite right. She tried to tell him something was wrong but he wouldn’t listen. He kept talking and coaxing her along when she tried to stop, telling her they had to keep going. His distinct way of saying “Lou-eeeeee-sah” echoed in her mind when she woke up from the dream.

Shelter. She had a roof over her head.

The sound of light rain dropping like a light touch on the thatch was almost soothing at first light. She felt vindicated at breaking into this place, getting herself out of the wilds.

Her eyes picked up outlines of waist height trunks that looked like chest freezers, pushed against the curved sides of the rondavel hut.

When the rain grew into a torrent that filled the hut with a thunder all its own, she hugged her knees and rubbed her arms to warm herself.

She couldn’t unlock the door, so her only way out was back through the high window. At least this side the trunk provided a step up – and back in, if she needed to return.

She took the rock stair-ladder back down to the beach, the sky studded with thick dark clouds, their threat and burden blown away before it could fall in this spot any more.

She was right back where she’d started, yesterday.

With the light and sun gone, the bay ahead looked far less like the path out of this.

Her ankle wouldn’t take her very far, very fast today. She’d found a fabulous Gandalf-esque branch in the trees at the foot of the cliff which was providing more support than she liked to admit. It dug into the hard wet sand, returning to her hobbling gait a bit of its missing stability.

Her instincts told her she should keep moving, yet she felt so tired.

It felt lazy to just stay back at the hut and wait, see if the car returned – and with help.

And what if help was not what arrived in the car though? Then what? She couldn’t run, that much was obvious.

She needed rest. It was hard to slow her mind, the ever spiralling ‘what-ifs’, the fear – and also the hope. But however tough it was to quiet inside her head, she accepted that her outer self, her body, just couldn’t keep going.

She resigned herself to another stage of waiting.

Relying on other people, people who didn’t know she was here – didn’t so much as know her.

What started the morning as a difficult decision became the only option she had left to her.

She wasn’t just lost now, she was stranded. Stuck in this spot, with only hope – and half a pack of chocolate chip cookies – to get her through another night.

15

May: London

Sorcha was at home.

Typical: she had barely seen or even heard her flatmate in the 3 weeks since she’d been back, and now when she wanted some time to herself, to work out what she felt and thought, now she was here.

“I went to see a counsellor today.”

“Really? Well, that’s good… isn’t it?”

“Catherine Gold gave me the name. Turns out, when I finally called this guy, that he trained with Mrs Gold’s husband, who is a psychotherapist, and that she’d paid him up front for some sessions with me. I don’t even know how many.”

“Wow. She didn’t have to do that. She didn’t tell you she had paid did she, she just gave you the name?”

“Only the name.”

“So how was it? I’m not asking for details, you understand. Tell me how it made you feel, not what you said, or what he said… you know what I mean.”

“I know. It was intense.”

“OK...”

“I didn’t know where to start.”

Sorcha nodded.

Like now, Louisa thought.

“But that was OK. I just kind of stumbled about a bit, started at one point, then backtracked, went round in a circle, cried a bit too. And felt exhausted at the end of it. I wondered what I’d actually achieved, but he told me I’d made a step forward.”

“You made another appointment?”

“Yes I did. As confused as I was, as round-the-houses as my explanations were, at least I tried. And maybe next week I’ll be a little less confused, and it will untangle a bit.”

“That does sound like a step forward.”

“It felt easier, trying to talk to him…”

“… rather than me, or any of us. That’s OK.”

“It felt like a blank canvas. No preconceptions, or relationships to navigate, just an empty space to fill with the craziness in my head. He was like a guide, or an observer or something. Not involved, not connected to me or anyone else around me. It was a freeing sensation…”

“I’m glad. This is good for you. I’m proud of you.”

“Ha. You sound like Catherine Gold now. Or my Mum.”

“Whatever. I am… I’m going to give you a hug now.”

“OK… you don’t usually give me warning.”

Sorcha wriggled into the half-gap between Louisa and the sofa arm after her messy, warm, bony hug. She took Louisa’s hand for a moment.

“You were so fragile when you first got home. You looked like you would break if anyone touched you.”

16

April: Eastern Cape

She was dreaming again, about a car accident. Louisa wasn’t in the vehicle this time, in fact she couldn’t even see what was going on. She felt panicky and could only hear squealing brakes and crunching wheels. She shouted to be careful – likely on deaf ears as the volume increased. A nearby ‘thud’ woke her with a start, her heart pounding, breathing hard.

Grey shades of pre-dawn light were beginning to creep through the window, where she’d propped the glass and frames back in place to keep some of the drafts out in the night.

With a high-pitched squeal worthy of a haunted house, the door of the hut swung open. A silhouette of a tall broad man blocked any view out the door.

Louisa pushed herself up into a seated position, staring at the new arrival who was only shadows and contrast to her adapting eyes.

This was the moment she’d been hoping and waiting and desperate for, for so many days now: contact with another, living human being. Someone who knew where they – and she – were, and had a means of transport to get her back to somewhere she knew.

But the reality of where she was, and who he must be meant she was terrified, not elated. She was shivering, sucking in air noisily through her mouth.

She had broken into a remote hut, clearly in regular use for storage of something to be kept out of sight, and far away from populated areas. She was alone, no one knew where she was, and had an injured ankle which made walking – let alone running - difficult.

The man stopped, his head in profile dipped as she imagined his eyes adjusted to the interior gloom, and took in the sight of her there on the floor between the storage chests. The glisten of his eyes, the line of his nose started to appear through the gloom as he looked up to the window at the new, unusual angle of the panes and frame.

He clicked on a torch, and his outline and face sank back into darkness while the floor in front of Louisa lit up, splashing on the sides of the chests around her.

Her mind was racing. The engine noise, the wheels crunching in her dream – it had been him arriving here at the huts. The ‘thud’ which woke her was no more than a vehicle door closing in the pre-dawn silence.

She could dart around him, get out the door – if necessary.

She would head for the cliff, get down among the trees. There were hollows, shadows in full sunlight around the headland. He might know them too, but it would be a better chance than running out ahead of a truck she could never hope to outrun.

He looked strong enough to be able to drag one of these huge trunks out the door and onto the flat bed of a truck without breaking much of a sweat. The more light which seeped in and crept around from his torch, the more they looked like chest freezers. Images of corpses from gruesome TV shows flashed into her mind.

Her instinct was to start talking, and tell him everything that had happened to her lately: all about Storm Bay, Gift and the van, being lost and so much further away than she’d ever thought, that she was hungry and injured, and needed some help to get to a phone or the nearest settlement. Perhaps this would give her a gauge on his reaction, get a handle on what he might do.

But she stopped herself, and held her silence.

With nothing else to inform her decisions, she had gone with her instincts each time in the last few days: waiting two long nights for rescue which didn’t come; moving off, so sure the coastline was the best route because it could lead her to places she’d hiked the week before, only to encounter huge sharp cliffs that cut her off from the land and threatened drowning at rising tide. The decision to backtrack, finding the path and route to this hut, had gone against her instincts – and it had in fact seemed to be the only good choice she’d made, when she lay down to sleep that first night.

Now, this too was in doubt. She was in pain, at the mercy of a likely drugs smuggler, with no idea what to do next.

I am a teacher: I’d always taught my students to take in all the evidence in front of them, consider how it made them feel and analyse all aspects in order to make a defined and certain decision. This was the way to form a decent argument, and to achieve high marks in school work. And I had applied this method to my whole life, every single day.

I was alone and isolated: vulnerable, lost, out of my depth and with very little food or water.

Some of the decisions I made during this time ended up putting me at even more risk than I already was. I have struggled to understand why I took certain actions, how my usual reasoned analysis of the information available led me into a dire and dangerous situation.

I totally lost faith in myself. I had no one to blame for my situation other than myself, and I got it all wrong.

I didn’t know how to start trusting my own instincts and arguments again. I found myself fearful of making even the simplest of decisions because I couldn’t get past the crippling fear of ending up in another exposed and helpless situation due to nothing but my own actions, all over again.

How do you start to forgive and trust yourself again?

Instincts weren’t helping her at all now. She needed to try a different angle.

This was negotiation for her life, and she couldn’t afford to get it wrong.

She needed to make all the right moves, and say the right words.

Otherwise she just might end up as dead as Gift.

17

October: Marseille

Let’s take a look at my decisions:

At first I was entirely reactive, not thinking much at all, not running scenarios or coming up with options to consider. If I thought about it at all, it was only that surely nothing but getting found and rescued was going to happen in the next few hours – the next morning, latest – so I didn’t need to ‘do’ or decide anything.

But that didn’t happen, and I had to change my strategy. I needed to think through my options, and to act. First basic choice: stay or go. Once that one was in the mix, it was pretty much decided by the next direction of my thought process: landward or coastline. Immediately followed by: left or right.

The certainty that continuing on that path, to walk and not seek shelter or some way up and over the cliffs carried me on. The numbness of having a direction, having a ‘plan’ of sorts, and telling myself that sticking to a plan and seeing it through was how my thoughts went during that day.

External events shocked me out of this stupor, and made me face the consequences of my actions and decisions so far: frankly, things had not gone well. The decisions I’d taken, avoided, fallen into had brought me to a place of further danger, and my life – not just my safety – was shortly to be under threat.

It was time to change the game, not just the strategy. I had to consider and behave with care and deliberation. I’d let circumstances, shock, fear and disorientation take control and drive me till this. Now it was time to take control – of myself at least, because the situation was still far from under control, and the outcome of this confrontation hung in the balance.

I had spent a long time, all the time out here alone, going with actions which didn’t feel like decisions. And to change that initially felt strange, and disorientating in itself.

But by taking an action, making such a strong and defined decision – to try to take myself away from what came straight into my head, to repress my first instincts, felt powerful. I didn’t recognise myself; I was a different person inside my head during the days from the van crash to waking up on the floor of the hut. And now there was more change, which when you’re in shock is a highly stressful and difficult thing to assimilate. But it also gives the brain a focus, and sharpens the thought processes.

Was I truly going against my instincts though, I later wondered. Or was it instead that I reacted to him, rather than only to myself; I formed a strategy aimed at ensuring this person could – and would – help me. In fact, were my words and actions, what I shared and what I hid, a result of a number of tells and clues, which called variously also be called a hunch, intuition, a happy accident?

What do those words – and emotions – actually mean? They are mostly attributed as random and ‘luck’. But we humans have very sophisticated brains, and pick up so many hints without our brain ever saying them out loud even to us.

It’s a bit like driving through a narrow space: you’ve made the decision ahead of encountering the narrow passage, the sides you have to clear without a scratch or impact. But as you go in, your eyes run across the view in front, corner to diagonal corner, up down, left right left right left – bouncing around the field like a pinball. I’ve heard footballers say the same as they approach goal, the angles their eyes and bodies are running at every millisecond.

18

April: Eastern Cape

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the flare of a lighter showing her thick eyebrows and deeply wrinkled green eyes as he lit a cigarette.

“I got separated from my hiking group. I stepped off the path in the woods to look at something, walked a bit further in, and then I was lost. When I found my way back to the beach, they were long gone. I don’t know how, or where… I just don’t know.”

He exhaled a plume of smoke back through the open door beside him. “When was this? How long have you been here?”

She needed him to think people were looking for her, likely out searching already this morning. It was first light, and she had to to create the illusion that she was being missed right now.

Otherwise she was only a threat to his hiding place, and he to her safety if he decided protecting this place was worth more than helping her…

“It was yesterday, we started early. It was after lunch that got split up from the group. Then I walked and walked till after it was dark…” She had no idea how far she was from anywhere he would believe she and friends could have hiked to.

For all she knew, she might be only one bay away from a town, cluster of holiday homes, people in general and he would be confused – and then angry – about how she got so lost. Or had she gone too short, and he knew she would never have been able to walk here without many more miles under her belt?

He tutted, shook his head. Was he sympathising, wondering why her fictional friends had disappeared off so fast without her, or trying to work out why she was lying to him? She had no way of knowing… He was literally in the shadows, she couldn’t see let alone try and read his facial expressions. And with her recent failures with her instincts, maybe it was better that way.

“Where are you staying?”

This was the gamble. She had to tell the truth this time. Anywhere else was simply out of her understanding of the geography of this area. But this could truly betray her, and show up all she’d said as lies.

“Storm Bay.” She strained her eyes to try and see if his mouth moved, if the eyes creased more – trying to read his body language to see how this information had landed. “Storm Bay.” He said it like the Dutch girl in the bar did: Sh-tor-um. In his mouth, it was a word with so much drama. He tipped his head back, as though looking up into the rafters of the circular cone of the hut roof. “Storm Bay,” he repeated.

What did that mean? She had no idea what he was thinking, what he might do now.

He stood up, took a long drag on his smoke then threw it out the door.

“Come on chickie,” he said. “You can’t stay here. We need to leave this place.” He didn’t say the words “because it’s not safe” but Louisa was sure this was his inference.

Getting into a vehicle with an unfamiliar man: for lily-livered soft-living European women like her, this raised more red flags even than breaking into a drug warehouse to get some sleep. He didn’t want her to stay here, and he intended to remove her himself. She froze, none of the racing contradicting thoughts in her head offering a good solution for her.

He took a step towards her; she pulled her good ankle beneath her.

She needed to stand up on her own. She couldn’t afford to show him weakness, that her foot was injured. She pushed up from the floor with both hands, putting her weight onto her good foot. She swung her bag up and over her head, and narrowly missed hitting him with it in the movement that she hoped he read as both defensive and yet not actually aggressive towards him.

Now she was standing, he turned and walked out of the hut, waiting for her outside the door so he could lock it behind her.

Stepping over the threshold felt like she was leaving safety behind inside. She was putting all trust, and her severely battered hope in this man – who had no reason to help her, and every reason to make sure she kept silent about the place she’d found, and he’d found her.

A hulking dark grey truck sat in front of the other hut, looking distinctly wolf-like in the burgeoning dawn. Like her last cliff top bed, there was no road or track visible leading to this place. The deep-tread tyres had easily tackled the gravel and scrub on the ground, all round as far as the inland ridge.

She walked slowly past him, the only way to hide her limp, trying her best not to show the pain her ankle was shooting up her leg. Climbing into the passenger seat of the double cab, she felt weak enough in this situation.

Every sense screamed silently to her that she was putting herself in – yet more – danger. She had no choice here though, this was her only option now she’d been discovered by someone.

Through all the scenarios she’d built, and ways she had imagined she would find rescue, it had never occurred to her that once she’d been found, she might find herself in even graver danger. She’d assumed blindly that anyone she managed to encounter would offer her help. But her knowledge of this man’s secret had turned this on its head, and now she knew something she shouldn’t, and she didn’t know what he would do.

As he walked around the bonnet to the driver’s door, she felt the plunge of powerlessness again – even deeper than the desolation she’d thought it was before.

The truck lumbered over the uneven terrain with a lean and roll motion which brought back the last moments in the van before it tipped and slid into the crash to her, leading her to grip the door handle in open fear. The driver didn’t seem to notice though.

When they joined a track some long minutes later, she loosened her fingers and found herself breathing easier. With a sharp right turn, they turned onto the closest thing to a road Louisa had seen in a very long time. The sun was washing the sky with pastel colours as the road drew them onwards.

A feeling of calm settled over her once they were gliding along the mostly sealed road. This felt like civilisation, this road was going somewhere. She had been missing for so long, this in itself made her low reserves of surge at least a little.

Emboldened by this, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t even glance her way, he only lit another smoke, shifting his window down an inch to exhale towards.

“How d’you find that place?” he asked.

This was a test. The decision, it seemed, was not made. There was both danger here, and also reason to hope – or negotiate, perhaps.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I had no idea it was there, I didn’t know where I was going to sleep. It felt like blind luck that I’d found a hut or two, but they weren’t exactly welcoming.”

He grunted, then nodded. He believed her.

“No one told you about it? You weren’t out looking for it, then?”

“No! I had – I mean, I still have absolutely no idea where I am! I just – I – I’m out of my depth – I don’t know, I really…” Tears flowed from her eyes, feeling like a betrayal as she tried so hard to hold herself together.

He felt threatened, his huts targeted, yet he couldn’t have been further from the truth. It must have been the lie about the hiking group – he hadn’t believed her. He was testing her, asking different angles. She was telling the truth now, and he had to believe her.

Would he let her go? This truck was one of the new type where the doors locked when it was in motion – or even just when the engine was running for all she knew, for the safety of the passengers. But it meant action movie-like rolls out of a door onto a soft grassy bank if she needed to get away from this man were out of the question.

The truck was travelling at speed now. She glanced at the speedometer between his hands, and saw the needle hovering over 80km/h. Wherever he was driving, he knew where he was going, and they were travelling with purpose – and speed.

“How would you go about describing how you got to that place, to someone say in Storm Bay?”

“I couldn’t. I have no idea where to even start.”

“You know, they could get up Google maps, point out the place where you started walking from, look at the satellite footage, show you how far you could have walked in – however long it is you were, uh, walking for.” There it was again: he didn’t believe her hiking story. Damn!

She should have just told the truth. Trying to second guess this guy was another mistake to add to her long, long list.

She shook her head, over and over again. “No, no chance. I don’t know, and I never want to see that area again.” She turned her head and looked directly at his profile: “It almost killed me.” Please don’t hurt me now I survived that, she silently added.

He glanced at her for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the road ahead.

“Why were you there?” he asked, a pleading note in his voice, wishing to be convinced.

“I had nowhere else to go, to sleep. I was lost, I didn’t know how to get to a settlement – and I’ve hurt my foot.” There, honesty. Now at least. “I couldn’t keep walking.”

He raised his eyebrows a little; he hadn’t noticed her limp then. At least he knew she was telling him the truth now.

He started slowing the truck down, gear by gear, like he didn’t want to waste the brakes. They rolled to a stop at a crossroads in the rough roads, with no road signs in any direction. His left hand tapped a measured rhythm as though a tune were playing. He sighed, and without a word turned left.

She didn’t dare ask the question again. She sat up straighter, let out a long breath she hadn’t known she was holding, and reached down to rub her ankle.

The silence in the truck stretched on until they slowed at the top of a hill, the road dropping steeply below them, and the sea on the eye level horizon. In the dip below, a clutch of one storey buildings scattered around the road and between clumps of lush green trees.

She was finally returning to Storm Bay.

He clicked off the ignition, slipped the gear lever into neutral, and the truck rolled down the hill on its own momentum, coming to a natural stop after the little stone bridge, right beside the Stormy Weather hotel.

“You don’t know my name, you don’t know what I look like, you don’t recall the make or colour of my truck, let alone the plate. Nothing… right?”

He puffed on another smoke.

“Nothing,” she echoed.

Now they were here, she felt overwhelmed with gratitude. He had saved her, and despite the credible threat he could have been, she had no idea what would have happened next if he hadn’t found her, and driven her back here.

He pushed the truck into gear, looking directly ahead. She took the hint, and shut the passenger door so he could leave.

There wasn’t a soul around the hotel, the bar, on the road, moving around the other buildings in this half-town yet.

She didn’t care how long it took for someone to wake up, and unlock the door. She was just going to sit on the bench outside, and wait a bit longer.

It was OK now.

She was back; she was found.

19

October: Marseille

List of questions from the meeting attendees, after day 2 and an hour of tray-passed mojitos and mockitos:

1. How had she managed the panic she must have felt at XXXX* point?

* Insert questioner’s worst fear eg seeing a dead body, washing in salt water, having no phone or means of contact with the world, sleeping ‘rough’ etc.

1. Why South Africa? Why would you go there on holiday, and to somewhere so remote as well?

2. Why were you in the van with Gift, going up to the town on the main road?

3. How did you ‘forget’ your phone?

4. Bit of a coincidence you had 2 big bottles of drinking water and a handful of bags of snacks wasn’t it?

5. Where were you? Have you looked it up on Google earth?

6. How far from a settlement were you, if you’d only turned right and not left?

7. What did he really look like? What was the make of his truck? You could have found him, and thanked this guy you know…?

8. The staff really should have raised the alarm that first night – you must really resent them for not coming to rescue you earlier?

9. Your family must have been beside themselves – how did they cope?

10. Your students must have thought this was awesome / terrifying: how did you describe this to them?

11. How long were you actually missing for then?

12. Do you now want to do a Ray Mears style outdoor survival course, so you know what to do next time?

13. Where’s your next holiday: Majorca or Patagonia?

14. How is this relevant, again, to us?

Some of the questions people said when they thought she couldn’t hear – but also sometimes to her face:

1. How did the van just ‘roll’? Did he try something on, and when she hit back she caused the crash, conveniently killing him?

2. You must feel so guilty about the crash: you’re here, and he’s not. His wife and family have no income now…

3. She really could have just waited with the van, what the hell…

4. It was like 3 or 4 days… that’s nothing! What is all the fuss about?

5. She obviously thought she was some kind of expeditioner, trekking out alone and with scant rations… what an idiot. She has no idea she could have died…

6. She took the beach, and not the land: I don’t get it… it makes no sense.

7. What really happened out there? Was it the driver, or someone else along the way who got to her…?

8. Fucking tourists… they know nothing about this country, about being out here.

9. And if she wasn’t British / a woman / white / a tourist, would there be any of this drama?

20

April: Eastern Cape

She could have slept for a week.

But Louisa wasn’t permitted to do this: there were formalities and authorities to address.

The guest house, Stormy Weather, had reported their van, the driver Gift and Louisa as guest and passenger missing to the police around midday after the night of the crash.

The delay was understandable: they had investigated all the usual routes and reasons for a delay: had Gift seduced Louisa, or rather Louisa beguiled Gift and led him – literally and geographically – astray? He wasn’t at home, a few kilometres from Storm Bay, and no one there had heard from him since a text late afternoon. That would have been when they were still in town, about to head back off the sealed roads and south to the coast, along the bump and roll roads.

While the police did their procedural thing, miles away up on the sealed road, the Stormies’ staff and other Storm Bay people were organising a more concerted search. By 24 hours in, they were really concerned about the wellbeing of the two missing people. And how did a big silver highly recognisable, well-known van with “Stormy Weather”, puffy rain clouds and a huge bright sun painted on the sides just disappear?

They worried a bit more when they found Louisa’s mobile fully charged and silent in her room.

It was only after they found the van, and Gift’s body – and no Louisa – that the police tried to contact the British Consulate. They called just after 5pm, so didn’t get hold of anyone that day. They left a message and emailed too. The next day they got back to Stormies’, checked in with the police, and called Louisa’s parents.

The next day, they called to say they were on their way to be told she was back, and sipping coffee as the staff and some of the guests of Stormies’ continued to fuss around her, in an atmosphere of semi-celebration.

There was much relief that she was OK, if not fully fit, as well as a feeling of being able now to mourn – and remember and celebrate – Gift, safe in the knowledge that she hadn’t, in fact, been thrown even further from the van than he was, and over those cliffs to the rocks below.

Louisa’s flight home had gone two nights before. She was supposed to have been home yesterday, and going back to work today.

Monday morning: the start of the summer term, her GCSE class and A level students straight into revision sessions, with her guiding them through those choppy, stressful weeks and months to come.

As she sipped more of her coffee – half-listening in to the phoned-in British Consulate instructions to get her up the road to Durban or Port Elizabeth airport as soon as possible, where a seat on a flight would be made available to Johannesburg, and thence home – she realised for the first time, let those thoughts in, that life wasn’t going to just bounce back to normal. Everyone would find out something bad had happened to her.

These thoughts trickled in, and over her, and piled up one on another, and pushed down and squeezed her back further and further – and she suddenly felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She felt claustrophobic: like she was being overwhelmed by reactions and emotions and demands all around her, which would stop her doing what she needed to do. She just wanted to get back to normal, with a bit of space, and time too actually, to get her head around what happened. Gift was dead! She’d stayed, and slept, with his dead body for a long time. And then she had walked, and walked, and walked, and hoped, and believed – and it still didn’t become OK.

She fell forwards, her chest on her knees, her head dropped on her neck, gasping for breath, the tears falling from her eyes onto her feet and the floor. The gasps become sobs and more nameless noises. Gift was dead. She was alive, and safe. She wanted to be at home right now – but the journey to get there, to get back to her students, her own bed, her best friend and her family, was a very long way.

The hands were soft, and comforting, and strong. There was humming, a few songs which wound around each other, and became one. The arms and the song, they held her up, and pulled her back. Back to now, and here, where she was alive, and well, and safe, and looked after. She’d been missed here, they’d come looking and they didn’t stop when they thought she’d probably disappeared into the sea. These people were not her family, they had no obligation to her, but they cared, and searched, and delighted in her return. And they looked after her, they patched her up and took her to the airport, and pushed other strangers away who tried to take her on alone to the plane.

She was enveloped in their care, their pure and open joy that she had not joined Gift in death. She took strength from them, even as she left them thousands of miles below, behind…

21

October: Marseille

Four days: she was done.

Some of those pumped up execs weren’t even that bad, by the end. There were one or two who were still saying “remind me, how is this all relevant to our business…?” but they were careful who else heard them say this. George Kalim himself had sat in on the Grand Finale, the follow-up decisions session, and had been not only very grateful and complimentary, but vocal in his belief that this course had been extremely beneficial to his team members. However, there were still some of them who just didn’t get it.

While Louisa wondered if they were really going to last with George, she also realised that business at the level they operated at needed all sorts. And that meant people with literal minds, as well as those who could see the use of analogies and adapt new decision-making models to benefit their progression.

The group really wasn’t that different to her GCSE English classes, in so many ways: the empathetic dreamers who took on and owned shared experiences and stories as if they were living them; the analysts who were looking for a way to use this story, this ruse to their own advantage; the bright but baffled, who muddled through and said or wrote the right words from research and observation, but never because they got it; and those who were just downright against it all, treating the material as though it was an unknown foreign language, and the teacher surplus to their requirements.

Louisa said goodbye to the group as if pushing students out into the world, or bidding guests good night at the end of a party at her house. She had owned this course, these few days. There were exercises which had really not worked, but the adaptations had, just about, and she had made pages of notes about how to improve or modify sessions and topics to be better next time. And surprised herself by even thinking the words ‘next time’.

What next. That was the question which had not left her since the van rolled over. Despite a successful few days, a feeling of achievement and a decent amount of money in her bank account, there remained so many things unresolved in her life, and she still didn’t know how to make them right.

The last few days here in a 5-star hotel, enjoying the grand breakfast buffet, endless coffee and sparkling water, a fast shower and a vast bed had felt like living in another world. She kind of felt like a different person while she was there too, and almost convinced herself that all that other stuff going on in Louisa-world was on hold, or simply sorting itself out while she was here being this person.

She didn’t feel like she used to.

It had been a few months now, and even though this had just been a huge success she still wondered to herself how long it would be until she stopped mentally padding herself down, to see if she was OK. It was emotionally exhausting…

A few days on the Wild Coast had changed all that, and it had changed Louisa. She could feel the looseness within her now, letting go of things which had seemed so very important a few months ago. There was no denying that it had changed her perspective – for good. This, at least, was a positive she could take away from Gift’s death: a man she knew for a few hours only really, but whose final hours she had shared with him.

Life was going on.

Louisa had survived.

He died, and she lived. And live she must, to honour that roll of the dice.

22

April: Eastern Cape

The beauty of the coastline lay in its simplicity.

No buildings in sight, no people of any impact, no ships out to sea, no land for thousands of miles beyond the horizon. Contrails fluffed and drifted to look like the neighbouring clouds, their aviation spewers long gone into the haze. The air was filled with the movement of the water, and nothing else.

There were 6 of them, heading out to Black Rock Arch that day: Darcy and Kim, the dreadlocked Aussie couple who were sharing the hill top cottage with Louisa; a skinny blonde English guy Danny and his Spanish mate Javier, plus Antoinette: tough, wiry, sun-bleached hair peppered with grey, sun-darkened skin soft over sharp bones and a sharp face. She was a dermatologist from the French Indian Ocean island of Reunion, who had taken a leave of absence from her patients and her research to explore other parts of the southern hemisphere.

“I ‘ave a French passport, I speak their longuage, the only countries I ever travelled to were in Europe: mostly for work. But I was born and leeve in the southern ‘emisphere: Austral. This is what the airline of Reunion is called! So I got on a plane to Madagascar, and after a couple of weeks I got on another plane to Joburg. Next, I will cross the Atlantic, and go to South America, then New Zealand and Australia. After this, if I want to come home or visit more southern ‘emisphere countries en route, I will ‘ave to go north into Asia to change planes. Apparently there are no flights across the Indian Ocean – except from Australia to here, South Africa. I can go via Singapore, but this is 1.5 degrees north of the equator. It’s annoying…”

Antoinette was funny. She was smart, impatient, knowledgeable, opinionated, curious, open-minded, outrageous and all-round great company. Louisa liked her a lot: she thought she would like to be like Antoinette when she was 20 years older.

She really wasn’t sure she had the vocation and dedication Antoinette had clearly had though.

Yet when she talked to her, Antoinette told Louisa that although her passion had burned for decades for her patients, for medicine, for research and finding better ways to treat – and one day to cure – debilitating skin conditions, she now looked back and wondered about her decisions, and relationships. She knew she’d pushed lovers and potential partners away with her work, and although she’d never really felt maternal it was now a lack in her family life that she now observed and questioned – a little at least.

“Make your own mistakes, don’t copy mine,” Antoinette said, her gaze not really on Louisa’s face when she said the words.

Antoinette’s introspection and interrogation of her own successful life took on a life of its own in Louisa’s mind, a week or so later…

But neither of them had any inkling of that during that day, walking a couple of kilometres along golden sand arc bays, picking delicately over the low landward edge of wedge headlands chopping them up. They were heading for a slab of volcanic rock which looked like a God had thrown a few pieces, like dice, along the shore line, just to see the waves crash up against them, and make them glossy and shiny in the sunshine. That pounding ocean had, over centuries, knocked a hole through one such slab, creating a dark semi-circle viewing tunnel across the calm water, only a few minutes swim off the beach: Black Rock Arch.

For that afternoon, there was only swimming, and climbing up onto the slanting shelves in the rock, and stretching out on the sand in the sun.

THE END