At seven in the evening, I scampered down to the kitchen and attempted to scrounge some scraps from the kitchen hand; some weedy adolescent wearing a hooded windcheater. What was he hiding? Pimples? He kept mumbling, ‘You’re too late, Miss’.
In the end, I mumbled in reply, ‘This retreat is not a retreat, it’s more like a boarding school or even a concentration camp’.
The former Captain of the Sister Ship, Commander Driver, appearing more foreboding in a habit, glared at us. ‘What, do you think you are doing?’
Günter and I jumped apart and stared at our boots as if we were naughty school children who had been sprung.
I had an idea and slipped behind some thick curtains while Günter poured over some huge leather-bound book. I did not know if my plan would work, but it was worth a try.
Günter turned around. His eyebrows knitted together in a searching look. He glanced around the room, darting his eyes in every corner, like a cat hunting prey.
I tried not to laugh, but a snort escaped. I would have to move to keep one step ahead.
We walked the path from the beach. The Convent emerged over the dune before us, reminding me of Le Mont St. Michel in Brittany; beautiful, yet imposing.
Already the incoming tide consumed the sand on the shore.
‘Do you think Trigger will be alright?’
Günter gazed over to the Convent and for some time remained silent.
Günter stared down at the plain and sea below, his mouth agape.
‘Could you navigate?’ I had been waiting to ask that question for weeks. ‘I’ll let you do the return trip, promise.’
As we rumbled and tumbled out of the valley and over the savannah, Günter flicked through the diminished and faded tape collection. On this state-of-the-art flying-space car, how quaint to have cassette tapes!
‘What is Billy Connolly?’ he asked.
Günter ejected Dire Straits and inserted Billy Connolly.
A flood of swear words filled the cabin.
Günter stood back and watched. ‘So, where’s the key?’
‘Erm, I remember John, Minna’s brother…’
I groped under the rim of the front left tyre.
Gunter rolled his eyes. ‘I know who John is.’
‘Well, he…’ I ran my fingers over the rough and greasy underside edge of the car body.
