Evadeen Brickwood - Singing Lizards

“I thought we could give it another go.”

“What for?” Didn’t he notice how lukewarm our feelings had become? Skip, skip, skip. Another pebble travelled across the water and sank.

“Don’t I deserve another chance?”

“David, I think we’re wasting our time with each other.”

“Gee, thanks a lot.” He squeezed his eyes together and watched the pebble skip.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Sure you did.”

We squabbled a while in this pointless, repetitive way of so many couples, who don’t fit together. In the end we at least agreed to disagree. There was nothing more to be said.

It must have been before the launch at Heffer’s book shop when Tony’s rather short letter arrived. Oh, why didn’t we have e-mails back then? He blamed himself for letting Claire go by herself, for thinking that she would be safe. I had skipped past that point long ago. He asked me to give him a call at the hotel in Palapye, the village where he had found another teaching job. How did one pronounce that? Palapye.

Tony didn’t have a phone at home and had booked a time slot for 7:00 p.m. on Friday. One had to pre-book a phone call! Apparently, nobody in Palapye had their own telephone. Luckily the letter had arrived before Friday. I couldn’t wait to speak to him. Tony would surely understand.

We spoke on Friday as planned and then I went to Heffer’s bookshop. To the launch of the novel ‘Talk to the Wind’ by Frederick Humphrey. My parents were already there. Frederick Humphrey was a famous novelist — and he was my Grandpa.

The blurb on the back cover promised: ‘A tantalizing crime thriller set in the colonial Kenya of the 1920s. Fear holds sway among the decadent expatriate society of Nairobi...’

This was usually all I read of Grandpa’s books. The back cover. What if I didn’t like the book and he asked my opinion? I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Grandpa smiled at me in the picture. He had classical features and a full head of grey hair, good-looking for 72, and right now he was sitting inside signing books.

“I’m going to find Claire in Botswana,” I announced to my parents at last, holding a glass with white wine, as we stood outside on the sidewalk. Music and laughter came from inside the shop.

“You are what?” My father was flabbergasted. I noticed how grey he was getting. “Have you gone daft?”

“I’m going to Botswana,” I repeated stubbornly and endured the pained stares. I had no choice; I had to talk to them.

“No you’re not.” Dad’s German accent always became a bit stronger when he was upset. A lonely truck rattled past us over the cobblestones. Fred’s Office Furniture.

Mom had tears in her eyes again.

“You can’t just leave us now,” she pleaded, shaking so hard that she spilled some of her white wine.

“I’m so sorry Mom. I don’t want to hurt you, but Claire is out there alone. I need to find her and I can’t do it from here,” I said firmly. “I cannot wait any longer. I just have to do something now!”

My heart sank at the mere idea of going away, but my parents didn’t have to know that. I could see Grandpa through the large shop window, chatting to adoring fans.

“Why not let the police handle it? They told us that we would be in the way… and what if something happens to you as well?” my father demanded to know. I had asked Claire pretty much the same thing.

Claire had to calm me down. Now it was my turn to calm my parents. Another car rattled past the bookshop, grinding on my nerves.

“Nothing is going to happen to me, I promise,” I insisted. “I’ve already spoken to Tony, and he said that I can stay with him at this place in Palapye for a while.”

Palapye. Paalápeea. The foreign word prickled on my tongue.

“We’ll manage to find Claire together.”

Tony hadn’t exactly said that; just that he would help me wherever he could. Whatever that meant. His surprise had carried across the shaky phone line, when I invited myself. But right now, I couldn’t talk to my parents about any doubts I might have. I needed my parents’ blessing.

“Oh child…” Mom’s eyes had a pinkish hue, but struggling for words, she bravely held back the tears. And it was my fault. I felt a tickle in my throat and had to cough a little. I hated breaking her heart even more, now that she seemed on the mend.

“I don’t like that idea at all.” Dad looked unhappy, his face crestfallen. “Not at all.”

“I’m not doing this to hurt you, but Claire is my other half and I just can’t wait anymore. I have to go there. To Africa,” I declared in desperation, close to losing my courage.

We didn’t speak for a few painful moments. Grandpa saw me through the shop window and waved, smiling. I waved back.

“If this is what you have to do child…” Mom sobbed and wiped away a tear. She looked at my father. “Mike...” He stared crossly at a carved wooden gate across the street. Were they relenting? I closed my eyes.

“We cannot keep you here, Bridget,” he began and I stared at him, “if you must go… but you will report back regularly and…” Dad took a deep breath and gave me a list of rules that grew longer during the next couple of days, although he knew that I would ignore most of them. I was 22 after all.

My parents were still free spirits after all! I knew right then that they would be okay.

Mom reluctantly promised to pass messages on to my most important clients. That I would be working overseas for a while and to please contact Diane Langer so long. The night before I left, I overheard Grandpa and my parents talk.

“What about the civil war in South Africa?” my father demanded to know. I held my breath.

“Please lower your voice, Mike,” Mom said alarmed. “She might hear you.”

“I can get in touch with the High Commission in Gaborone, if you want. They’ll keep an eye on her, to be sure.” That was Grandpa.

I knew he had still connections in Africa.

“It’s in the news all the time. Bombs are going off in shops and nightclubs and Botswana is right next door. What if Bridget is caught in a running gun battle?”

“Oh Mike, we talked to Claire about that and it didn’t make any difference,” Mom sniffled.

“Look, the last bomb blast in Gaborone was two years ago and I’ve never heard of running gun battles. The military is on the alert,” Grandpa declared. “In any case, things are changing fast in South Africa. You’ll worry yourself silly with all this talk about bombs.”

There was a brief silence, then I heard sobbing noises. “My babies!”

“There, there Sarah, it’ll be all right. You never know, Bridget might just find our Claire and bring her back home.” Had my Dad really said that?

“You never know,” Grandpa agreed.

Shuffling sounds. All three of them went into the lounge.

I cried a little and felt guilty. Then I pulled myself together and folded my last t-shirt. My trusted duffle bag that had followed me around Machu Picchu and Los Angeles was popping at the seams.

The following day I kissed my parents goodbye and went with Grandpa to London. I left my comfortable Cambridge life behind to find my sister.

The formalities in London would take at least a couple of weeks to apply for visas, get inoculated at the Institute for Tropical Diseases and all that. Two weeks to pluck up my courage. Two weeks – all of a sudden it sounded so very short.

Soon I was sitting in the stylish flat Grandpa owned in Arlington Road in Camden. I stared at the list of prescribed vaccinations. My heart sank. Cholera, typhoid, yellow fever, immunoglobulin. What on earth was immunoglobulin? According to the pamphlet, it had something to do with hepatitis. Surely necessary, but were all these injections on the list necessary? I hated needles. Would I drop dead immediately, if I didn’t have all of them? No, I had no choice; it was part of the travel requirements.