The Beach

∨ The Beach ∧

31

Bugged

That night, just as the light was starting to fade, we were given our sea-shell necklaces. It wasn’t a big deal, there was no ceremony or anything. Sal and Bugs just wandered over to where we were sitting and handed them over. Still, it was quite a big deal for me. However friendly everyone was, being the only ones without necklaces drew attention to our new-arrival status. Now that we’d got them, it was like our acceptance had been made official.

‘Which is for me?’ said Françoise, carefully examining each one in turn.

‘Whichever you like, Françoise,’ Sal replied.

‘I think I will have this one. I like this colour on the big shell.’ She looked at me and Étienne, challenging us to make a rival claim.

‘Which do you want, Étienne?’ I said.

‘You.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I also do not mind.’

‘So…’

We shrugged at each other and laughed. Then Sal leant forwards and plucked the two remaining necklaces from Françoise’s hands. ‘Here,’ she said, and made the choice for us. They were both much the same, but mine had a centre-piece, the snapped arm of a red starfish.

I slipped it over my head. ‘Well, thanks a lot, Sal.’

‘Thank Bugs. He made yours.’

‘OK. Thanks, Bugs. It’s a really nice necklace.’

He nodded, accepting the compliment silently, then began walking back across the clearing to the longhouse.

♦

I couldn’t make my mind up about Bugs. It was weird, because he was exactly the kind of guy that I felt I ought to like, almost out of obligation. He was broader and more muscular than me; as head of the carpentry detail, he had obvious skills; I also suspected he was pretty intelligent. This was harder to gauge because he didn’t speak much, but when he did speak it seemed to be things worth saying. But despite all these fine characteristics, there was something about him that left me a little cold.

One example was the way he accepted my thanks for the necklace. His silent nod belonged in Clint Eastwood Land; it didn’t feel like it had a place in the real world. Another time we were going to eat some soup. Gregorio said he was going to wait until the soup cooled down – the soup was bubbling and still over the flame – then Bugs made a point of taking a spoonful straight from the saucepan. He didn’t say anything, just took a spoonful. It was such a small thing that repeating it now, I’m almost embarrassed by how petty it sounds.

Maybe this stands up to repeating. On the Monday of my second week, I saw Bugs struggling to fit a swinging door on the entrance to one of the storeroom huts. He was having trouble because he only had two hands, and he needed three: two to keep the door in place and a third to hammer a peg into the hinge. I watched him do this for a while, wondering whether to offer any help, and as I began walking over the hammer slipped from his grip. Instinctively, he moved to catch it, and the door also fell, bashing against his leg.

‘Shit,’ I said, breaking into a jog. ‘You OK?’

Bugs glanced down. Blood was rolling from a nasty graze on his shins. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, then bent to pick up his hammer.

‘Do you need a hand holding the door?’

Bugs shook his head.

So I went back to where I’d been sitting, slicing the tops off bamboo sticks to make spears for fishing, and about five minutes later I misjudged a swipe and cut open my thumb.

‘Ow!’ I shouted.

Bugs didn’t even look round, and as Françoise ran over, her face even prettier for being so alarmed, I could sense his satisfaction – stoically tapping the peg into place while blood collected in dusty pools around his feet.

‘That really hurt,’ I said, when Françoise reached me, and made sure I said it loud enough for Bugs to hear.

While I’m on a roll, I might as well add that there was one more thing that bothered me about Bugs. His name.

The way I saw it, calling himself Bugs was like, ‘I’m taciturn and stoical, but I don’t take myself too seriously! I call myself Bugs Bunny!’ As with my other gripes, it wasn’t a reason to dislike him; it was just something that grated. The whole point was that Bugs took himself extremely seriously.

Over the two weeks I was getting to know Bugs I spent some time wondering where his name had come from. If, like Sal, he’d been American, I could have imagined that Bugs Bunny was how he was christened. No disrespect to Americans – they just do come up with some odd names. But Bugs was South African, and I couldn’t see Warner Brothers having that strong an influence over Pretoria. Then again, I once met a South African called Goose, so you never know.

♦

Anyway. Back to the night I received my necklace.

’

‘Night John-Boy.’

Silence…Panic.

Had I said it loudly enough? Was there a rule of etiquette that I hadn’t picked up on? Getting the necklace had given me the courage, but maybe only group leaders were allowed to start it off, or people who’d been at the beach more than twelve months…

My heart began to pound. Sweat sprung. ‘Well, that’s it,’ I thought to myself. ‘It’s all over. I’ll leave tomorrow morning before dawn. I’ll just have to swim the twenty miles back to Ko Samui, and I’ll probably be eaten by sharks, but that’s OK. I deserve it. I…’

’

‘Night Ella,’ said a dozy voice in the darkness.

I froze.

’

‘Night Jesse,’ said another.

‘Night Sal.’

’

‘Night Moshe.’

’

‘Night Cassie.’

’

‘Night Greg.’

’

‘Night…’