Authors: Kate Langdon
But there wasn’t even a supermarket, I soon discovered. And besides, I was the first to admit I really couldn’t cook to save myself.
That’s it, I told myself, you’re going to have to survive on toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner, seven days a week.
This was a disaster. I was going to turn into one of those gingham-wearing farmers’ wives who stocked up with months’ worth of groceries at a time and then came home and made piles of wholesome soup, which she then labeled with her own homemade labels and stacked neatly into the chest freezer. Making soup was not one of the ways I had intended to spend my leisure time as an adult. Drinking fine wine, going out for dinner, and casually sipping bubbles at a waterfront café was more my style.
I drove through the village centre, which took a criminal twenty-two seconds, passing only six other vehicles, eight humans and two dogs.
I guess it is after business hours, I consoled myself, glancing at my watch.
All eight humans I passed turned and stared at my car as though it were in fact a spaceship and not a vehicle. You’d think they’d never seen a Mini Cooper before, I thought in horror. Even the dogs stopped and gawped.
I headed out of town towards the cabin, or at least where I thought the cabin was. Suddenly there were no buildings or houses in sight, just the odd dirt driveway and lots of bush, and sheep. And no road signs. After driving along a very windy and deserted road for what felt like half an hour I decided I’d better pull over and have a look at the map. Some people are good with maps. Some people instinctively know how to hold them the right way up, how to pinpoint exactly where they need to get to, and how to interpret the cryptic scale at the bottom of the page. I was not one of these people. As soon as my eyes came in contact with a map of any description (on the very few occasions they had) they instantly glazed over and were unable to see anything clearly. Even hearing the word ‘map’ made them go all hazy.
I forced myself to concentrate on the page through sheer will, and by telling myself I wouldn’t be having a glass of wine unless I found the bloody cabin. My eyes suddenly became clear. Not crystal, but enough to see I was currently travelling in completely the wrong direction.
After two more U-turns, twenty minutes of backtracking and as the daylight faded, I finally stumbled upon the driveway. Fortunately this wasn’t hard to pinpoint with the name
Williams
plastered across the letterbox. Every letterbox I’d passed had a surname written on it, presumably so burglars knew whose house they were ripping off. I drove along the dirt driveway, flanked by thick native bush on either side. After a couple of minutes the bush gave way and I pulled into a small grassy clearing. And just so you are aware, it was at this precise moment in time that my life did officially hit rock bottom. The real rock bottom. With nowhere left to fall.
What lay before me, on the other side of the grassy clearing, was nothing more than a very decrepit old red wooden shed.
Mother of God, I thought to myself, staring at it in disbelief. What on earth is this? Surely this is just the garden shed and the cabin is safely tucked away somewhere behind it?
Desperate, I bolted for a look behind the shed. But all I came upon was an even smaller, even more decrepit, red shed. And lots of bush. As hard as I looked, I could not see any other buildings anywhere.
Deflated, I walked back around to the front of what had to be, as heart-shattering a revelation as it was, the cabin. It was glaringly evident that someone, somewhere, was enjoying a big hearty laugh at my expense. The wooden shelter before me was one step away from camping. And I was not, nor would I ever be, a camper.
After taking several minutes to overcome my shock, I walked onto the small wooden porch and peered inside the window. I couldn’t see much due to the dirt caked all over it, and the large crack in the glass. I walked back around to the smaller red shed and found the keys sitting under an old paint tin, as instructed. I tried to open the ramshackle front door. The key turned but the door wouldn’t budge. I barged it with my shoulder, but all this did was hurt.
Oh, this is just great, I thought. I finally get here nearly twelve hours later only to be stuck outside.
In a state of desperation and pissed-off-ness I lifted my right leg up to waist height and karate-kicked the door. It swung open and I walked through, searching the walls for a light switch. Thankfully Mands had the foresight to have the power connected before my arrival. In retrospect, the fact the power had to be connected should have been enough of a warning to me.
Dear God! I thought to myself, when I finally located the light switch. The pokey living area I stood in was like a cross between a prison cell and Little House on the Prairie. I half expected to see Huckleberry Finn himself crouching in the corner. I glanced around at the rickety wooden floor, decrepit furniture and paint-peeled walls.
‘Aarrgh!’ I screamed, jumping back against the wall.
There, on the opposite side of the room, four eyes were staring back at me. Mounted on the wall above the fireplace, were two large deer heads, complete with enormous antlers.
Oh Lord! I thought to myself. I’ve two dead animals for roommates.
The only deer I’d ever seen this close up was on a movie screen, and it went by the name of Bambi. Off the side of the tiny living area was an even tinier kitchen, complete with requisite old dripping tap. I took stock of the furniture. One shabby sofa circa 1910, one large wooden armchair (same era, although mismatched) and one tiny square kitchen table with four classroom-style wooden chairs.
How could someone as fashion-savvy as Mands have a relative with such appalling decorating taste? I wondered. It just didn’t make sense.
The whole scene was a bit like Antiques Road Show, but without the road-show part. Or the woman named Mary thinking the hideous floral vase she’d inherited from her grandmother and had kept locked up in her glass-fronted china cabinet for the past fifty years was going to be sending her on a cruise ship to the Bahamas, and not just down to the bowling club for a Sunday roast.
I moved on to the bedrooms, of which there were two. One double (in the very loosest possible sense of the word) and one bunk room, complete with two stuffed rabbits mounted on the wall.
This place is a bloody morgue, I thought to myself.
Both beds appeared to be circa 1950, including the mattresses. I peered into the tiny bathroom (if that’s what you could call it) in which sat one very old bath, with an archaic shower over the top, one hand basin, and one mirror, complete with large crack.
Where’s the loo? I wondered, peering behind the door. What an oversight! He forgot the bloody toilet!
Perhaps it’s outside the kitchen? I thought, walking back through the kitchen and opening the back door. But it wasn’t.
All that was outside the door was a slab of broken concrete, grass, and more bush. I looked across at what appeared to be another tiny tool shed standing by itself on the edge of the bush.
Oh no! I silently prayed. Please God no!
I tentatively walked across the grass, fear resounding in each step. Then I stood outside the old wooden door, holding my breath, and prayed for mercy one last time before very gingerly pushing it open.
It was evident our Lord had very selective hearing. I looked through the door and there, before my sad eyes, was a long drop. A very old long drop, judging by the rolls of yellow toilet paper sitting on the ledge. I had only used a long drop once in my life, at school camp when I was twelve years old. The process of sitting on what was essentially a large hole in the ground, with God only knew what inside that hole, while a very large black spider wound its way down from the roof above onto my bare thigh had scarred me for life. The thought of walking out here in the pitch black and cold middle of the night and sitting on this prehistoric filthy contraption did nothing for my flagging morale.
There’s only one thing for it, I decided. You’re not to eat, ever again.
Dejected, I walked back inside. The entire cabin was smaller than my living room. It was also as dusty as all hell, and cold. And there were literally piles of dead insects residing in each corner.
Had the man not heard of a cleaner? I wondered.
I had no choice but to set about cleaning the place straight away. There was no way I was bringing my possessions into this dusty hovel. I helplessly rummaged through the cupboards for the vacuum. Eventually my rummaging turned up what could only be described as a collector’s item. It was a monster! I initially mistook it for the hot-water cylinder.
Here’s hoping it bloody works, I thought to myself, plugging it in.
It did. I vigorously pulled it about the place, being sure to poke it into every single morgue of a corner. Perhaps a bit too vigorously.
E-oww! I yelped, my head suddenly and viciously grabbed by something on the wall above.
My God! I realised with horror. It’s the bloody antlers.
My head was stuck firmly in the middle of a pair of dead deer antlers. It was a vegetarian’s worst nightmare.
I dropped the vacuum and attempted to prize the antlers apart and wriggle my head out. Finally they let me go, but not without leaving two large red welts down either side of my face.
Bugger this! I thought, walking into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. Or I would have if there was a kettle or a coffee plunger. After once again opening and closing every pokey cupboard in the vicinity it was evident there was no plunger or kettle to speak of.
Mother of God! I thought to myself, cursing Uncle Sten. Does the man not even boil water?
I wrote both items onto the list I had taken to carrying around with me and assessed my prehistoric options. I was going to have to turn the stove on and boil some water in a saucepan for my instant coffee. Easier said than done, I thought, looking at the primeval oven. It was like no oven I had ever laid eyes on before, although admittedly my eyes had not come in contact with a great number of ovens in their lifetime.
Half an hour after thinking how nice it would be to have a cup of coffee I was blessed with boiling water. Horrible concoction in hand I collapsed onto the sofa, which was the equivalent of a bowl of oatmeal porridge, all lumps and dips.
At that moment my mobile rang. It was Mands.
‘Hi dolls,’ she said, or at least I thought that’s what she said. All I could hear was crackling and broken bits of words.
Christ! I thought. There’s no goddamn reception either! This place really was the arse-end of the earth. And I was sure even the arse-end of the earth had better coverage.
‘I can’t hear you! I wailed. ‘No bloody reception!’
But all I got in reply was another crackle and half a word. I walked outside and climbed up onto the porch railing, which seemed to ease the crackling, and I even managed to make out one or two words. Something about ‘safe’ and ‘hot water.’ And then my phone cut out.
Just brilliant, I thought to myself. Stuck in the wops and devoid of communication.
I searched inside for a landline. I found the connection (a very old one), but no phone, as Mands had said. Well at least there’s a plug, I thought, in an attempt to console myself. If there was no mobile reception then I would have to buy a phone tomorrow and get it connected. It was one thing ensuring no reporters could ring you, but it was quite another having no contact with your two best friends.
After finishing the vacuuming, while keeping one eye out for dead animals, and wiping every single surface I could find, I brought my bags inside.
Where the hell was I supposed to hang my clothes? I wondered.
The only wardrobe I could find was in the bunkroom and it was the size of a bread bin. And to top it off there were only two hangers, along with one dwarf-sized chest of drawers.
I decided to leave my clothes in my suitcase and worry about it tomorrow. Instead I gave the bathroom a thorough once-over, including picking dead insects’ carcasses from the plughole. While I was in there I suddenly remembered I was supposed to be dying my hair. I found the bottle of dye in the suitcase and set about reading the instructions. It looked as though I was going to be a redhead.
Red?
With my slightly olive complexion I did not have a redhead’s features. Plus, I liked my hair. It was shoulder-length, perfectly straight and parted down the middle, with soft layers framing the sides of my face. And it was a lovely highlighted light brown colour.
Brown.
Ah well, it’s only for a while I guess, I consoled myself.
But when I try and grow it out I’ll look like a licorice allsort, myself complained.
You don’t have a choice, I told myself. You have to be unrecognisable.
I took a moment to consider my options, which didn’t take long due to the fact they were incredibly limited, and then I took the bottle of dye out of the packet and set about dying my hair. I had never dyed my own hair before. Highlights were something I happily paid someone else to do. A hairdresser. Somebody who knew things about hair.
Surely it can’t be that hard, I thought to myself.
One hour, one T-shirt, one sink and two hands covered in red dye later (unfortunately I had overlooked the pair of latex gloves) I was done. I looked into the tiny, cracked mirror. And there I was, for all intense and purposes, a bright redhead. A gingernut.
I tried my hardest not to cry. But it didn’t work. I looked at my reflection and tears streamed down my face. I knew it wasn’t permanent. I knew that soon I would be able to dye it back to brown and grow it out. I knew I had to dye my hair if I had any hope in hell of staying anonymous in this town. But still, it just didn’t suit me. I looked like a stripper who’d been told she had to go red if she wanted to keep working at The Club. It was all just so very wrong.
I stopped crying, turned on the shower and stepped in to rinse out the dye, but then jumped back out in shock. The water was cold. Stone cold.
Bloody fantastic! I guessed Mands’ two words ‘hot’ and ‘water’ had something to do with this.