Laura Elliot - The Lost Sister

Stung by Cathy’s assumption, Lauren decided to take the trip on her own. Rebecca, then later, Julie, agreed to accompany her. Instead of travelling in luxury, they will do so in a camper van. Rebecca calls it ‘a motor home’, which makes it sound spacious, almost luxurious. Lauren suspects Steve was closer to the truth when he referred to it as a sardine can.

He used this comparison one night when he invited her sisters out for a meal and offered to pay their hotel costs, car hire and sightseeing trips.

‘You girls could do with a little pampering in your lives,’ he said, a remark that immediately raised her sisters’ hackles. Steve has acquired many skills in his life but handling the Lambert sisters is not among them.

‘We girls are quite capable of doing our own pampering,’ Rebecca replied, while Julie, whose idea of a manicure was a few strokes with an emery board and a cocktail stick for the cuticles, nodded vigorously in agreement.

‘There’s nothing wrong with a little luxury now and again,’ Steve retorted. ‘Wait till you’re cooped up like sardines in a tin can, especially in that heat. I’ve told Lauren to call me immediately if conditions become unbearable.’ Even if he had not made the comment, their answer would have been the same. They always resisted his generosity, claimed it it patronised them. They had never understood Lauren’s reasons for marrying him and those reasons were no longer relevant.

Lauren watches him in the dressing table mirror as he slips on his shirt. Recently, he has gained weight but he is a tall, blocky man and it adds an extra layer of authority to his appearance. He stands behind her and fixes his tie, his hands automatically forming a Windsor knot, his eyes watching.

‘You’re relieved I can’t go with you.’ His abrupt tone startles her.

‘Stop talking nonsense, Steve. We planned this trip together, remember? I’d no intention of travelling in a camper van. We’ll probably end up bored out of our minds and not speaking to each other for most of the trip. I can’t think of anything I have in common with my sisters any more.’

‘Thankfully, you never had anything in common with them, princess.’ His tie is knotted, his suit buttoned. He has a business meeting to attend after he leaves her at the airport. He bends down until his gaze is level with her own. ‘What’s going on behind those lovely green eyes? Some day I’ll figure it out. Then, perhaps, I’ll begin to know you.’

‘You’re such a foolish man.’ She turns her head towards him. Her laughter is light and easily silenced with a kiss. He opens his briefcase and removes a small gift-wrapped package.

‘A farewell present.’

Jewellery, she thinks, and wonders what has stretched his imagination on this occasion.

‘State of the art,’ he adds when she lifts out a silver, slim-line mobile phone from the wrappings.

‘But I already have one—’

‘State of the art,’ he repeats. ‘It will work from anywhere in the world.’ He demonstrates its various applications. She smiles as he shows off this latest toy and promises to ring him every day they are apart.

After he leaves the room, she switches on the bath taps and pulls on an exfoliation glove. She sinks into the scented water and scrubs her skin until she tingles all over. On her neck there is an angry weal, a bruise on her breast, red and tender. When does a love bite become a wound, she wonders. A caress become a pain so sharp that she had gasped at his touch? Could what took place between them just now be called ‘making love’? She will not sleep by his side for a month yet she went through the familiar choreography of passion without once losing herself in him or responding to his desire, which, she suspects, is fuelled by resentment that she is leaving without him. A month on her own without a safety net to catch her if she falls. She shivers and rises from the bath. The last dress she packed was the wrong one. Too heavy for the summer that is taking place in New Zealand.

Steve is wrong when he says he does not know her. He knows her better than she knows herself. Perhaps that was why he bit so deeply into her neck. Keeping a part of her behind.

The house waits for her to leave. Julie Chambers senses its impatience. Perfection is a fine balance and she insists on disturbing it. She buffs the already gleaming kitchen counters, straightens the canisters, clangs her index fingernail off the hanging mugs. Homemade soup and apple crumble have been prepared for her sons’ return from school and the hot press is stacked with their freshly ironed clothes. Everything she can do to ensure the smooth running of her home, family and business has been done, and she is anxious to leave before she remembers that she is indispensable.

The taxi is already twenty minutes late and panic is setting in. On a weekend morning the drive from her house to the airport is less than fifteen minutes. On a weekday, it is impossible to calculate. She checks the road. Rain clouds hover over the rooftops and the crows, perched like exclamation marks on the telegraph wires, have a damp, bedraggled appearance. The daffodils will be out when she returns, the cherry blossom coming into bloom.

The taxi driver, arriving ten minutes later, is in no mood for tolerance. ‘Make no mistake about it, missus, this ’ucking city is a bottleneck to hell.’ His omission of the letter F is an obvious contribution to the clean-up-language campaign being imposed on taxi drivers, and Julie smiles to show she appreciates his restraint. As she settles into the back seat, he stows her suitcase and her mandolin in the boot. She is cheating slightly by bringing along her mandolin but life without music, as far as Julie is concerned, is not worth living.

The driver grumbles loudly as he bumps over the speed control ramps leading from Baymark Estate. He is a stubby, red-faced man with a tight mouth made for complaining. His querulous voice hardly registers with Julie. Every mile that separates her from home, her demons shout louder for attention. What if Jonathan has another asthmatic attack and the ambulance doesn’t make it through the traffic on time? What if Philip is carried from the rugby pitch with a fractured neck? What if Aidan raids the cocktail cabinet and takes to the fields with his friends? Where will she be while all this horror is going on? In a camper van in the Antipodes, playing at being a bush woman.

‘Going far?’ The driver glances at her through the rear-view mirror.

‘Far enough,’ she replies, hoping to end their conversation and, for a few minutes, he drives in silence through Swords village. The back of his neck turns red as the early morning traffic shudders forward inch by inch.

‘’Ucking traffic,’ he mutters. ‘They build one ’ucking motorway after another and what do we get? Ulsters! Nothing but ’ucking stomach ulsters. Where’d you say you’re going, missus?’

‘New Zealand,’ Julie replies. ‘To my sister’s wedding.’

‘That’s a long way to go for a wedding. You planning on taking in the sights while you’re there?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘Stopping off on the way?’

‘Two nights in Bangkok.’

‘Sex capital of the world, so I’m told.’ He brakes at traffic lights and leans despairingly over the steering wheel. ‘If you ask my opinion, this ’ucking country’s heading the same way, what with lap-dancing clubs and sex shops springing up like ’ucking mushrooms. The sights I see in this taxi…Things have changed for the worst since my young days, I’ll tell you that for nothing. As for the ’ucking recession…’

She texts Rebecca: ‘Hold that plane! I’m at the mercy of a taxi driver in the advanced stages of Tourettes…the abbreviated version,’ and hopes her sisters will appreciate her attempt at humour.