Thirteen
Beth had only been on an aeroplane once before, and that had been a short flight. The Campbell family had embarked on their first and only trip abroad when Beth had been in her early teens, a few years after Charlie had moved away. They’d stayed in a chalet in Spain. Don had spent the entire week frantically trying to convert pesetas into pounds sterling with his pocket calculator, and Pat had worried constantly about them all getting sunstroke.
That short flight had not prepared Beth, in any way, for the long haul to Australia.
Their flight to Australia included one stopover. It was interminably long and tediously uneventful. Thanks to Beth’s usual claustrophobia, she spent most of the flight suppressing the urge to shout, ‘I wanna get off!’
What seemed like several days after they’d left Heathrow, they arrived at Sydney Airport. Beth was, by now, a broken woman. Still in the clothes she’d been wearing when she’d sobbed her way around Duty Free in the UK, she already missed her family more than she would ever have dreamed possible. She was groggy and smelly and there was a huge spot getting ready to flare up on her chin.
Michelle had bought a guidebook at Heathrow. It stated that hostels sent mini-buses to the airport. All a traveller needed to do was to board the first one available and, within a short while, they would be sitting on their recently allocated bunk bed, chatting to their new friends. The book made it sound easy.
However, when they made their way out of the airport and emerged blinking into the strong afternoon sunlight, like moles from the ground, they were concerned to observe a selection of about four or five mini buses, all waiting to whisk them away.
A couple of reps instantly attempted to take their luggage.
‘D’you fancy Manly Beach, girls? Hop in, hop in, I’ll get your bags,’ commanded a deeply tanned, scruffy bloke with dark, cornrow hair, as he made a grab for Beth’s beautiful new backpack.
At the same time, another, equally scruffy, blond surfy looking guy took hold of the other strap. ‘Bondi, babe. You’ve gotta try it. The sea’s as warm as a bath. I’ll take that …’
Unsure what to do, Beth searched around frantically. Which bus contains the friendliest looking people? Sadly, all the buses were full of weary travellers, walking zombies like herself and Michelle.
‘Pick the surfer dude,’ Lisa advised.
As it turned out, he did, rather ironically, have the slight edge over the ‘Manly’ guy when it came to strength. With one yank, he took control of Beth’s purple Karrimor.
Within seconds, her bag was stowed away in the bowels of his mini-bus. There seemed nothing else to do but to signal to Michelle that the choice had been made. They took a seat on the bus and, once joined by several other scared, pale faced people, they set off to Bondi Beach.
Nobody spoke, they all stared miserably at the passing scenery. Even Beth and Michelle could find nothing to say to each other. Beth’s first glimpse of the Harbour Bridge and the iconic Opera House, went by unceremoniously. In her head she was calculating the shortest possible amount of time they needed to remain in Australia, before they could go home. Was a month enough? If they stayed a month could she say she’d given it a good go? Could she still hold her head up? How about two weeks, was two weeks too soon to return home to the bosom of her loving family? She desperately wanted her nanna, as ridiculous as it sounded, it was true. None of these new people seemed friendly, some were nodding off, some were staring ahead, one was tutting as he tried to take photos through the window of the bus, with his ridiculously large camera. Also, Beth wished with all her heart that she’d done some reading up on Sydney, where the heck was Bondi? Lisa was no use at all. As expected, her geography was diabolical.
As they arrived at their destination, Beth had decided two weeks would be plenty. Sod the plan to stay in Australia for Christmas and New Year, that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. She’d hide out in their room and persuade Michelle to change their return tickets as soon as possible. In just fourteen nights’ time she could be back in her own bed. She’d tell anyone who asked that she’d had a fabulous holiday, and this whole nightmare would be over. Regardless of Lisa’s name calling that she was a big, fat baby, she was determined not be swayed. Not even by Michelle. Beth just wanted to go home.
The first night they spent in the hostel was, in Michelle’s own words – flippin’ tragic. They were put in a dormitory for six, and soon discovered, to their horror, that the other four people in the room were all men. Beth wondered what Nanna would think, if she knew. Undoubtedly, her dad would have something to say. They found out who their room-mates were when they came back from the local Rugby Club. They were all pissed, and introduced themselves to the girls, by barking out their names: Sean, Conor, Liam, Neil. In their defence, they never made the girls feel vulnerable or awkward, they were perfectly lovely guys. All four men had strong Irish accents and they seemed awfully fond of the word ‘feck’. Having never met anyone like them before, Beth found the situation to be similar to that of sharing a room with four Bob Geldofs, had she ever, in reality, given any thought to that scenario.
The main problem was the snoring. Within ten minutes of them all crashing, drunk as skunks, into their respective bunks (sounds more poetic than it was), the first began to make a noise not dissimilar to a Formula One car being revved repeatedly. Before Beth knew it, the second joined him. This time it was a low rumble which somehow hit just the right note to cause her head to vibrate. And then, God help her, they were all in unison. She had no previous experience to fall back on. Don may have made a few gentle grunts if he ever fell asleep whilst watching TV. Even Nanna occasionally snored if she had a bad cold. But this was the bloody frog chorus. Not realising snoring was going to be an issue, she hadn’t thought to pack ear plugs, there was absolutely no way of drowning out the disturbance. Looking over at Michelle she noted that she seemed to be having the same struggle. The entire night was spent with pillows over their heads, attempting to grab at an elusive sleep that occasionally offered itself to them, only to be snatched away by a ridiculously thunderous grunt.
By the morning, Beth was exhausted. Sleep deprivation is not used as a form of torture for nothing. Already confused by the time difference, by 9 a.m. she was the walking dead.
The Irish lads mercifully checked out in the morning. The rule was, if you were leaving, you left by 10 a.m. and you handed your sheets back to Reception to collect your deposit. The girls knew this, they’d been told it the night before when they’d checked in. Oh, the delight when Beth saw the first of the lads begin to strip his bed, rapidly followed by the other three. She wanted to sing and dance around the room. With a quick, ‘Enjoy the rest of your trip, girls,’ they were gone, and the room was Beth and Michelle’s.
They looked at each other, exhausted. Taking a moment to enjoy the silence, they both fell into a deep sleep.
As soon as they woke up, they headed off to Reception to ask to be moved to a room for two. It cost a bit more, but just knowing there would be no more sleepless nights, filled with the sounds of snoring, was absolutely worth it.
Once unpacked, they set off to the shop near the hostel. They’d spotted it on the way in, the day before. They bought themselves some bread, milk, teabags and butter. Then, they headed to the communal kitchen to make tea and toast.
Beth was surprised to discover people had written such things as, ‘I’ve spat in this!’ on their milk.
‘What the hell?’ She held it up for Michelle’s inspection.
‘Yeah, right. I’ll bet they all put that. Want to taste it?’ Michelle laughed, pushing the carton towards Beth’s face.
‘No thanks.’ She shoved it back in the fridge. ‘Why would anyone write that?’
‘I suppose it’s to stop people stealing their stuff.’
‘Why would you nick other people’s milk?’
‘I guess everyone’s a thief at midnight, when the shops are shut, and you’ve got the munchies. I’ll bet even you will nick someone’s precious cereal and pour on their “spat in” milk.’
The kitchen at the hostel was an amazing place. It was busy, and people were coming and going constantly. Beth and Michelle seemed to meet a new person every few minutes, guys, girls, couples. People were friendly, they just automatically asked the girls where they’d been (nowhere yet!). The main question seemed to be ‒ when are you heading home? But it was viewed as a bad thing. The return journey was something to be put off for as long as possible. When someone uttered the immortal words, ‘I only have a week left in Australia,’ everyone looked at them with genuine sympathy. And so, right there, in that grubby kitchen with its mismatched, dirty cupboards and the words ‘Nuke it ‒ then puke it’ graffitied on the side of the microwave, Beth came to realise she and Michelle were the lucky ones. They had it all ahead of them. All thoughts of returning home with her tail between her legs vanished.
‘I’m going to try to live for the moment.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Lisa seemed pleased with Beth’s decision.
‘And,’ Beth ignored Lisa and continued giving herself a good talking to, ‘whilst I’m here, I’m going to relax and just be myself.’
‘Good grief,’ Lisa sighed. ‘Please be anyone but her!’
Beth and Michelle decided to head to the beach. It was, after all, the reason they were there.
‘We’ll spend a couple of hours here, relaxing. Then, perhaps we could try that Rugby Club for a drink tonight?’ Michelle handed her sunscreen to Beth, adding, ‘Put lots of this on. My book says the sun’s brutal here.’
Beth began covering herself in the creamy lotion.
‘Don’t put any on your face.’
‘Lisa, what are you on about. Of course I need it on my face.’
‘Have you not seen Mount Vesuvius waiting to erupt out of your chin?’
‘Well … yeah … but?’
‘Seriously, a bit of sun will dry that right up.’
‘But Michelle said …’
‘She’s really pale. Look at her, she’s like a ghost. Sure, she needs sunscreen, but you’ll be fine. Just leave it off your face and get rid of that spot. No one’s going to want to make friends with you in this place if you have a bloody great zit on your face.’
Regrettably, Beth took Lisa’s advice.