The Island (23 page)

 

Cabbages and Snails

Rufus is strangely quiet when we get back.

He doesn't look at me as he busies himself around camp, laying aside the fishing net he's been trying to mend as he starts to make dinner.

He's laid out the last of the cabbages, and the snails we collected in the Hello Kitty bag this morning and a tiny shrivelled chilli from the ones we have dried.

Without being asked, I pick a pepper and use one of his home-made knives to chop it.

I'm squatting on the ground using one of the driftwood chopping boards and it's kind of nice; this time of day, doing ordinary things, just pottering.

But I know that after dinner we'll have to collect more wood to stock up the log pile, heap green leaves back on the fire and go to check the solar stills and inspect the beds for snakes and bugs and maybe sharpen our tools and there's no rest really; you're never more than one step ahead because you never know –
never
know – when the food's going to run out or you'll get injured or you'll be too ill to forage.

‘I like to do it this way.' Rufus takes the knife out of my hand and starts chopping the pepper into tiny precise pieces.

‘Well, I like to do it this way,' I snap.

I hack at it anyhow, just to annoy him.

‘Well, I don't think –'

‘All done. There. Finished.'

I scrape the peppers into the salvaged coffee can he uses for a cooking pot.

He looks pained. ‘I wanted those for the salad.'

I place the snails upside down on the edge of the fire.

‘Saw a boat today,' I say, changing the subject. And my heart thuds as I say the words.

He freezes, billycan in hand. ‘What did you say?'

‘A boat. I saw it flash on the water, really tiny in the distance. I could see it 'cause I was leaning over and hanging on to that tree at the top of Fear Mountain.'

Rufus dumps the cabbage in the seawater and comes to stand opposite me.

‘Are you sure? It couldn't have been something else?'

‘ 'Course I'm sure. I'm not stupid. It was white, maybe a fishing boat. Rufus, this means there might be other islands nearby. We could build a raft and escape!'

He stares. ‘But why on earth didn't you tell me? We could have put more damp leaves on the fire – created more smoke!'

Shit.

‘I just thought we could make our own raft or…' I see his face, ‘maybe it saw us anyway and will come back…I didn't think –'

‘That's the problem with you. You never think. Always so stubborn, putting us both at risk by climbing that bloody mountain. And now you might have missed our only chance of rescue.'

He's shaking his head at me and I feel like I want to throw these snails at him, one by one. They're fat and bubbling in their black shells, spitting hot in the fire.

Instead I accept my dish of cabbage and pile on five snails.

‘You're always so negative,' I blurt out.

He laughs. ‘It's impossible, Fran. Surely you can see that? It's not worth killing ourselves for – we could be dashed to pieces on the rocks just for the vague chance of meeting a fishing boat from an island that might or might not be out there. And where would we head to, just supposing it was seaworthy? We have no means of navigation, no way of knowing if there are any other islands close by –'

‘Oh just shut up.' I suck out my snail, scowling.

If I was on my own again I'd have made a raft somehow, I'd have –

‘Fran?'

I look up and he's smiling at me. ‘I'm right. You know I'm right.'

‘You forgot to put chilli on these,' I tell him.

It's cold tonight, but no way am I sleeping near the fire next to him.

No way.

I huddle into my hoodie and try to attract Dog's attention without Rufus noticing. Dog thumps his tail but doesn't come to me; he's enjoying his spot by the fire. I try not to think of Dog's hot whiskery breath and how he'd sneak up just behind my knees to keep us both warm. I try not to think of me and Johnny, cuddled up tight, light still on because he'd want me to read to him, just one more time.

‘Maybe we should go spearfishing tomorrow,' says Rufus, from the other side of the fire. Dog has moved to lie at his feet.

Whatever.

 

Spears Out

Rufus is fully dressed for our fishing trip – of course.

He's wearing:

His feathered headdress

A palm skirt, the one that shows his nads

Plaited flip-flops.

It makes my SpongeBob bikini look tame.

‘So what's that you're doing?' I ask.

Try to be nice.

He's smearing himself all over with gloopy stuff from a peanut-butter tub.

‘It's mud from the mangrove swamp. I need it for protection from the sun. Want some?'

‘No, thanks.'

It's hardening on his face like clay. Makes him look like the Tin Man when he's gone rusty.

‘You really ought to, you know. The UV's very powerful in this climate. You may feel your tan offers some protection, but underneath the sun's doing untold damage; the UVA rays penetrate deep into the skin, damaging the dermis –'

‘I told you I'm fine. So shall we go then?'

I pick up a spear and make towards the path that looks like it goes to the beach.

‘Not that way – over here. And that spear might be a little heavy for you. Try this one.'

Jesus.

This beach is nowhere near as nice as mine, but it's still good to be close to the sea again.

‘I call it One Tree Beach, because of that palm over there,' Rufus says, smiling.

I stare at him.

‘What is it?' asks Rufus.

‘Nothing, it's just that –'

But I don't tell him.

Instead I pull my grass skirt off and run into the waves, whooping.

There's a curve of shallows and some tall rocks, close enough to swim to.

Rufus is shouting something to me but I ignore him; I'm floating on my back and closing my eyes, feeling the sun invade every cell of my body.

I love, love, love its UV rays. Dermis or no dermis.

Something's moving the water.

I open my eyes and it's Rufus, wading his way over.

‘You really ought to move quietly,' he's saying in a stage whisper. ‘What I've found is that the fish in these parts respond to the tiniest movement. It could take hours to get them to come back if they've been frightened away.'

What he means is: if
I've
frightened them away.

I raise my eyebrows.

He's stepping towards me with exaggerated slowness.

We'll be here all day at this rate.

‘I'll get started then, shall I?' I say.

I stand up and wade well away from him. I have my spear and it's not even true that there's no fish. I can see one now, a fat yellow one, flitting over the white sand past my feet.

I hold my breath and wait. Grip my spear.

 

Madder than Melons

‘Of course, you do know that you need to take account of the refraction from the water's surface, don't you?'

‘Chrissake,' I explode. I turn to him, glaring. ‘I nearly got that one.'

He looks hurt and wades off, raising his spear high over his head like he's George of the frickin Jungle.

What does he mean, refraction?

The water shimmers as I wait. It's hard to be angry when the sand's silting between your toes and the sea's warm as milk.

The spear's a good one, I'll give him that. He's found a way to secure it tight and firm round that awkward join where the metal meets the sharpened wood. Idly, I wonder what he used to cut the metal with. Where does he forage?

A movement, swift as light.

Stab.

And when I bring my spear up, there's the fish, pinned to its tip, squirming and ready for the pan.

Yesss.

I look around to check that Rufus has noticed and he's looking all red and sweaty. Ha. He hasn't caught anything.

He's nodding at me.

‘Well done. Great effort. Did you make allowance for refraction like I said?'

I smile sweetly.

Just imagined it was you, you prat.

‘Well, put the fish in the tub over there. Probably best if I check it to make sure it's not poisonous –'

‘It's not poisonous,' I scowl. ‘I've eaten these before.'

Rufus always thinks he knows everything. I chuck the fish into the tub which he's lined up carefully next to a flat rock for filleting and wade back into the water, deliberately splashing to annoy him.

It's difficult to know if he's blushing or not because he's covered in so much clay.

We start to have a secret spearing contest, me and Rufus. Neither of us will admit it to the other but inside we're trying desperately hard to get the most fish.

I know it and he knows it.

Rufus stabs the next one: it's a beauty, blue and fat as a cushion.

I pretend not to notice.

I'm watching near the rocks. I think the seaweed over here must be teeming with fish, and it turns out I'm right 'cause I go and bag two silver ones just like that. They're only small, more like sprats, but I've decided that it's quantity, not quality.

When Rufus brings over two huge flatfish and slides them carefully off his spear into the tub, I decide I've had enough.

‘I'm going into the deeper water,' I say. ‘Going to do some underwater diving.'

He frowns. ‘Are you sure? I mean, there's the risk we'll lose our spears and there's a dangerous rip round here.'

I scowl. ‘What's a rip?'

He's washing his hands in the sea now, checking there's no fishy bits left. Finicky like always. ‘It's a rip tide. An underwater current. It can pull you far out to sea if you're not careful.'

‘So that's what it was,' I say.

‘What's that?'

‘I've been caught in one. It was when I saw your smoke signal. I was being chased by a shark,' I say casually. I stab my spear in the sand.

He looks disbelieving. ‘Are you sure? I mean, I've seen one or two lemon sharks around, but none that would actually chase you. They're probably a menace to the smaller fish though,' he adds kindly.

‘There was a frickin man-eating shark and I killed it and me and Dog
ate
it. And it was a lot bigger than the poxy fish in there.'

I kick the tub.

The tub tips over and our fish slop into the sand.

Rufus looks appalled. ‘Hey,' he says. ‘Hey, look here!'

I watch him as he scoops the fish back inside. His hands are covered in slime
and
sand. He won't like that.

Rufus stands up and takes a deep breath. He seems to have come to a decision about something.

‘Look. I know that you don't like me. You seem very angry about something. But we've got to get on, to survive this island. It was one of the first things they taught us at school when we went on expeditions: the importance of teamwork.' He's squinting at me with his very blue eyes.

My fingers curl.

‘I know we've both been alone for an awfully long time. So I get that it's hard. Honestly. But you don't have to be so confrontational about everything. The rip-tide thing – well, crikey. Well done, you. For getting back, I mean…' His voice trails away.

‘I don't need you to patronise me!' I shout. ‘I've managed fine so far on my own, haven't I? You can't even climb rocks – you're scared of heights!'

I un-stab my spear. Hold it high and aim at the horizon.

We both watch it sail in an arc till it lands on the tallest of the rocks jutting out of the sea.

Rufus speaks first.

‘What the bloody hell did you do that for?' he says.

His feathers are looking a bit wilty.

I dive into the sea and start swimming away with long slow strokes.

‘As I said, I'm going deep-sea fishing,' I call over my shoulder.

Before I absolutely kill him.

 

I Am a Rock

So, Rufus is swimming out to me, clay-faced above the water.

He's decided to leave his headdress back on the beach.

‘Look, I'm sorry,' he calls.

I turn back to face the horizon.

I'm sitting cross-legged on the tallest of the rocks and the spear's still where it landed, wedged in a crevice. I imagine that I'm Medusa, all alone, hideous and feared, on her rocky island, howling at ships, trapping those who come to kill her. Daring them to find her.

She was beautiful, once.

Once, she wasn't a monster.

Once, she loved and was loved. I know 'cause we had to do her in one of the poems for our English exam. It's the only frickin poem I remember.

The sea's lovely from here, blue as heaven and endlessly shimmering. Shame about the boy swimming in it.

I let the sun finish drying me and listen to Rufus thrashing about below.

It took me ages to climb up on to those slippery rocks but I won't tell him that.

I close my eyes.

He'll be a while yet.

‘I did see a boat and I know there are other islands,' I say, when he's finally clambered up.

‘I believe you. Honestly.' He's trying to be nice – probably worried for his spear.

‘So how about we build that raft I was talking about? We can go on an expedition for materials.'

Expedition. He'll like that.

He flames up. Whoops – the clay's washed off and that neck will burn quick as thinking.

‘So what about it?' I say.

I'll need his help. Don't know anything about boats and he's got his
seaman
skills.

‘We-ell,' he says.

I grit my teeth. I know he's only pretending to consider. He leans forward earnestly. ‘Look, Fran –'

‘Frances.'

‘Look, Frances. It's just that it's impossible to get to –'