Lost Girls (9 page)

We look at each other. Has there been an air strike?

Or was the storm so bad the base was flooded or destroyed?

“What’s that tree? Is it a mango?” I ask.

“Yes, look, fresh fruit!” Jas responds.

We gather the fallen fruit, braving the wasps and flies, and eat. Sweetness explodes in my mouth. I suddenly start crying; I don’t know why. Jas puts her arm around me and we sob together.

I’ve found out why Mrs. Campbell has given up any pretense of being responsible. For a start, she had two bottles of whiskey with her, not one, and she’s nearly finished the second one. I add this information to the list in my journal. I don’t know what made me look in her backpack. Well, that’s not true. I was suspicious because she’s been acting so strangely—staggering around and laughing too much, and then skinny-dipping with the Glossies as if she’s one of us instead of an adult who is supposed to be looking after us. It’s not right. Not natural. There’s something wrapped in silver foil—marijuana, I think.

I have poured most of the remains of the whiskey into
the peanut tin and hidden it near Natalie’s sleeping bag. I’ve diluted the rest with water. I should have peed in it.

“Why don’t we send a message in a bottle?” Jas knows that I need to keep busy.

“Brilliant, Jas. Why didn’t we think of it before?”

The sea’s still running like a tap—a bottle might be thrown onto the beach at home in a matter of hours.

On a page from my journal I draw a map of the island and show the other islands we floated past, including Koh Chang, the inhabited one, and the mainland, and I write a short message:

SOS. HELP. MAROONED ON THIS ISLAND. 1 DEAD 8 SURVIVORS. BOATMAN DEAD.

I add our names, the dead and the survivors.

Jas, Hope, and I sign it, roll it up in a plastic bag, and push it into an empty Mekong bottle. Hope thumps the stopper in with the palm of her hand, and as the tide is still on the ebb she throws it as far as she can out to sea from Dragon Point.

DAY 8, I THINK.

I am confused about what day it is. We seem to have been here forever

I want to be on my own. I have become simply part of a doomed tribe on a desert island, trying to survive. I’m frightened. What am I frightened of? Death, of course. Though I don’t think I will die, not just yet anyway. I’m fit and strong and we can’t die of thirst on an island with freshwater. I might lose a bit of weight, that’s all. Be more of a skinny
malinkum
(don’t know how
to spell that but it’s what Dad calls me) than I am already. I am more scared of the fact that Mrs. Campbell has given up looking after us. Given up being responsible.

In
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
Phaedrus says, “The act of writing sorts out the problem.” I’ll carry on writing, though I can’t see how it’s going to help. But writing and reading give me a sense of normality, help to keep me sane. And this journal may be the only way our parents find out what happened.

Mrs. Campbell has let us down badly. I used to think she was wonderful—because she seemed to understand me.

But she lied about the whiskey, when it might have helped Natalie. She’s a liar and a cheat. She tricked us all. I despise her.

I’ve decided to name this island Koh Tabu. It’s the name the boatman shouted before he set off home again. It means Forbidden Island, I think.

Jas and I are looking after Natalie now. When I offer to change the old dressings Mrs. Campbell looks really relieved.

“Nurse Bonnie,” she says, but her smile isn’t kind. “Yes, you’ll make an excellent chief nurse.”

The little girl is unconscious. She looks gray. I try to remember details from my first-aid badge that might help her. I have taken off her stained bandage—strips of Mrs. Campbell’s skirt—and poured some of the hidden whiskey over the injured leg, which is almost black. I’ve wet my T-shirt and placed it on her forehead and other pulse points in an attempt to cool her. She was far too hot so we took her out of the sleeping bag and moved her so she is in total shade. She’s so weak that she can’t even hold her cuddly blanket.

I sit with her for a while and fan her with a large leaf, but I can’t take the stench for very long. I don’t know whether to cover the injury or leave it open to the air; the first-aid course didn’t cover gangrene. In the end I use strips of towels as a bandage, just to help keep the smell in and the flies away. I hate flies.

“Jas, take over for a while, will you?”

“Okay. How is she?”

“Not good. We should take turns keeping her cool and giving her water.”

“Sure. You better sort it. Mrs. Campbell has gone to sleep.”

The juniors look hot and bothered, and have caught the sun.

“Where are your hats?” I ask them. On our first day after the hurricane Jas wove us palm-leaf hats. They are a bit scratchy, but they work, when they stay on.

Arlene looks daggers at me. “Who do you think you are, Bonnie MacDonald? You’re not in charge.”

“We are all going to be sick or dead by the time we’re rescued if we don’t act sensibly. Don’t you understand? Heatstroke is not funny.” The juniors look dehydrated. “Get some salt and water into them, straight away. And we should trade off looking after Natalie.” Someone’s got to be in charge.

The Glossies stare hard at me. “If Layla didn’t tell us, we don’t have to do it.”

“Layla? Don’t you mean Mrs. Campbell?”

“She said to call her Layla. Do it yourself, bossy boots.” They flounce off together up the beach, May with her hair still in curlers.

“I’ll help,” says Hope.

She takes the juniors into the shade at the top of the beach and pours salt into the palms of their hands.

“Now lick it all up, and then drink lots of water,” I hear her tell them, not unkindly. They are red-faced and tearful. They lie down under the trees, whimpering and restless.

I search the far end of the beach for coconut husks and dry twigs and relight our fire. The matches are damp and I waste several trying to get a light. I lay them out on a fallen tree to
dry. There aren’t many left, and they’re Thai matches, which bend and split if you put pressure on them.

Mrs. Campbell has woken and staggers after May and Arlene.

I wander back to the edge of the sea, stand on a rock, and look down into the still water of a small tidal rock pool. My vision is blurred by tears. These are not tears of grief or sorrow, or of longing for home and my parents. They are tears of anger, a deep dark rage at Layla Campbell that frightens me, terrifies me. This isn’t me, this furious girl staring back at me from the surface of the water. My features tremble, alter. I do not recognize myself: the grim mouth and hard eyes—a stranger.

Hope has dug a shallow trench around our campsite to take rain water away down the beach. I should have thought of that. But she doesn’t stop there.

“I’m going to split some b-bamboos and make a m-more waterp-p-proof roof.”

I help her carry large bamboo poles onto the beach and watch as she splits them lengthways with my penknife. Then we carry them to the camp. Hope pushes six tall poles into the sand to make three corner supports. For the roofing she arranges the split bamboo across several straight branches, overlaid alternately to interlock with one another to make it waterproof. It looks very practical. I’m impressed.

All this takes until the early evening, and after we’ve
eaten we’re all tired and subdued and go to our sleeping bags early. I read by the light of my flashlight, trying to lift my mind away from our troubles. I can’t think about our predicament all the time; it’s too upsetting. But I can’t block out the sounds of the other girls crying. We’re all on our own, really, thinking about our homes and parents and wondering why they haven’t come looking for us.

There was no rain in the night so Hope’s roofing material wasn’t tested. There were more weird noises—moaning and wheezing and crashing—and Jas and I clung to each other, silent and terrified. Luckily the juniors slept through it. I’m exhausted; I’ve never felt more tired. The sky is overcast: purple and yellow, like an old bruise. I hate this place. I hate everything about it—the damp, the sand in our sleeping bags, the jungle, the insects, the sea, the sky.

There’s nothing to eat except coconut, but we have water. I try to gather enough energy to go back to where we found the mangoes, but I can’t lift myself. Jas is still dozing.

Dad once told me you can live for ages with only clean water. He would be all right here. He did a lot of survival training exercises when he joined the SAS. I remember asking him about things he ate when he was dropped from a helicopter into a jungle somewhere. He said they had nothing with them—no emergency rations or anything. They were dropped two at a time and told to find
their way to the coast as quickly as possible. They had no compass, no water, no matches, no sleeping bags. None of the luxuries that we have—freshwater practically on tap, sleeping bags, coconuts all over the beach, fishing gear. He and the other soldier dug up roots with their bare hands, and tried different leaves and fruit. We’re lucky, I suppose, compared to them.

He told me about an edibility test you have to follow if you don’t recognize a plant, and I suddenly remember that I wrote it up in my journal, inside the back cover. I suppose I was trying to prove to him that I listen to what he says. I dive into my sleeping bag and pull the notebook out as if I’ve discovered some priceless treasure. I’m grinning like a mad person. The others look almost irritated by my sudden burst of activity, so I head over to where Natalie’s lying and read the list to her, as if it’s a bedtime story. I’m glad I have the list. If I die the survivors can follow the instructions:

Edibility Test

1. Always choose young shoots or leaves, not old or withered plants.
   
2. Crush and smell the plant/leaf. If its smells of peaches or bitter almonds, discard it.
   
3. If it’s a strange fruit or unidentifiable root, squeeze juice or rub gently on tender skin—like your armpit. If you break out in a rash or it itches, don’t eat it.
   
4. If there’s no irritation you can go to the next stage, which is to place a small bit on your lips. Wait a few seconds to see if there is any reaction.
   
5. If not, try a little on the corner of your mouth.
   
6. Then on the tip of the tongue.
   
7. Then under the tongue.
   
8. Chew a small portion. If you don’t get a sore throat, irritation, stinging, or burning, swallow some.
   
9. Wait five hours without eating anything else, and if you aren’t sick or dying, it’s edible.
   

The experiment should be tried by only one person.

Natalie’s face is calm, and I wonder if she can hear what I’m telling her.

“I seem to remember he said roots always have to be cooked,” I say to her.

Her expression doesn’t alter.

“You wouldn’t eat a raw potato, would you?”

Still nothing, but I’m sure she’s listening to me.

“I should have paid more attention,” I tell her. “He always wants me to listen to him, but I always want to go and do things. It drives him crazy.”

I return to the list.

Plants to be avoided:

1. Avoid any plant with a milky sap (except dandelion).
   
2. Avoid red plants.
   
3. Avoid fruit with tiny barbs on stems and leaves, as they will irritate the mouth and digestive tract.
   
4. Avoid old, withered leaves. Some develop deadly toxins when they wilt.
   
5. Avoid mature bracken.
   

“Haven’t seen any here anyhow,” I reassure Natalie.

6. Only eat fungi if you can positively identify them.

After I’ve finished, I suddenly remember a story Dad told me. He and his men were desperate for meat, so when
they found a wild boar trail they followed it, and ended up being hunted themselves. They had to climb into trees to escape. Dad said that the wild boars were very smart and attacked from the rear. Apparently, the tuskers gore you to the ground and eat you alive. I shudder and decide that this is a story Natalie doesn’t need to hear.