‘Thank you, Liza, that was delicious…’ I lean back in my seat, stretching out to try and accommodate my swollen stomach after another enormous lunch.
‘Yes, it was wonderful,’ adds Harry, looking equally stuffed.
We’re sitting round the kitchen table with Liza and Roberto, surrounded by empty bowls and chicken bones as the only evidence of the delicious soup and homemade yucca bread we’ve just polished off, lazily watching the local news on the ancient, flickering television on the worktop opposite us.
I reach over and take Harry’s hand under the table, while surreptitiously sliding my phone out of my trouser pocket with my other hand, checking it for the hundredth time since we sat down. But still it remains disappointingly, resoundingly silent.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice Harry glance at his watch. ‘I’m going to have a few drinks with Ray this afternoon,’ he announces, just as Liza jumps to her feet excitedly and reaches to turn up the volume on the TV.
‘Oh, look! They’re talking about the prisons.’
The news report flashes to a clip of the United Nations Secretary-General hailing the Ecuadorian government’s investment in prison conditions as ‘revolutionary’. Liza and I both lean forward in our eagerness to hear more. The reporter concludes that the opening of the new prisons will represent a time of significant change in Latin America, and position Ecuador as a global example. I feel another flash of something – pride? – at being a small part of something so monumental. I think of the brown envelope inside my handbag upstairs, containing Naomi’s good conduct certificates, just waiting for me to render them into English, and feel a growing impatience to get started.
‘A few of the other guys are going, too. I won’t be back late,’ Harry continues, having received no reply to his first announcement. ‘Is that okay, babe?’
‘Of course.’ I smile at him, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go of it to get up and take my dirty plates over to the sink, glancing over at Liza, still engrossed in the television. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
Even as I say this, I realise that, until very recently, an announcement like this from Harry might have annoyed me… upset me, even. I remember with a pang of embarrassment how only a few days ago I had practically begged him to go out with me for the evening. Now, however, the overriding feeling is of relief as I realise I have several uninterrupted hours ahead of me in which to make a start on Naomi’s translations.
‘While you’re out I’m going to make a start on those papers I told you about – to help the prisoner I met today,’ I tell him.
In spite of my outburst less than an hour ago, when I had laid everything out to Harry in no uncertain terms, my heart still pounds with a strange feeling of rebelliousness. As if, by looking him in the eye and telling him what I’m going to do, I am breaking some sort of unspoken rule or doing something wrong.
Ridiculous, I think. It’s not like you need his permission to do this. My conviction grows as I march up the stairs to the apartment. You can do whatever you want! HE certainly does, after all…
Upstairs, I open Naomi’s folder to make a start. Shortly afterwards Harry comes to say goodbye on his way out to see Ray. I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, papers splayed out around me, as he leans down to give me a long kiss on the lips.
‘I’ll be back soon… okay?’
‘Sure!’ I watch the door close behind him, surprised by the flash of relief I feel as I hear his footsteps receding down the stairs towards the street. This will give me at least two or three hours of uninterrupted time and space to read through Naomi’s documents.
I turn back to the papers and try to arrange them in some sort of order. There are various certificates issued by the prison, confirming Naomi’s participation in a range of activities – dance, singing, woodwork, Spanish class. Even this small selection is impressive. And they don’t look very difficult to translate – just a summary of her achievements. Like school, she had joked.
Then I notice, shuffled in among the certificates, a few sheets of crumpled paper ripped straight out of a notepad and filled with a tight, almost illegible scrawl in blue ink. I carefully pull one out and hold it up to the light, reading the signature at the bottom – All my love, Dad. P.S. Mum sends kisses. I stare at it for a moment, a confusing range of emotions passing through me, then slide it very carefully back inside the folder.
In spite of myself, I pull out my phone and check it one last time. Dad didn’t answer my call earlier. He must already be in bed, I’d reasoned then, as it went straight to voicemail. OR he’s deliberately ignoring your number, a more insecure voice tormented me. The voice message I left may not have made the most sense, but once I’d started there was no going back.
Looking at my insistently blank phone screen now, I feel a flash of embarrassment. What had I even been thinking, anyway? Dad doesn’t want to come to Ecuador. He probably doesn’t even remember that jokey comment he made just as I left his house, the last time we saw each other, about maybe coming out to visit us. The only communication we’ve had since then has been a very brief, polite email exchange the day after I arrived in Quito, in which I’d told him I was still alive and he acknowledged receipt of that information.
He definitely won’t have expected a slightly rambling, hesitant voicemail nearly two weeks later, asking if he would consider doing it for real, even going as far as to say I would like his company here. He’ll think I’ve gone mad… even so, a spark of hope remains at the back of my mind. He hasn’t replied either way yet… and the last few days and weeks have proven to me that anything can happen, especially here in Ecuador.
I find myself staring at the door Harry disappeared through only a short while ago, and feel a twinge of frustration that he just doesn’t understand what the last two weeks in Quito have meant to me, how much this trip has already changed me. He might have apologised for getting angry after the prison visit, but that’s a long shot from joining in my excitement about it. In the same way I didn’t share any of my research about volunteering with Harry before the trip, I now feel I can’t really talk to him about Naomi or the translations.
But that doesn’t really matter… does it? Harry and I have enough other things in common. We don’t have to understand each other perfectly in every area of our lives.
For the first time in ages, I find myself casting my mind back to when we met. From our very first few dates, the things that drew me to Harry weren’t necessarily being able to confide all my secrets to him or staying up late, having long, heartfelt conversations about our innermost feelings. I had my girlfriends for that. No, my attraction to Harry was more centred on things like his stability and our shared life goals. Well, that and the obvious floppy blond hair and bright-blue eyes and cheeky smile. During the years I spent quietly observing him (okay, lusting after him) from the back of the Spanish class, I’d realised Harry was not one of the typical university lads who went out and got wasted and brought home a different girl each night.
Then, when we did start dating, we both knew right from the start that it was going to be something serious. Most of my friends didn’t understand that. But then, none of them had ever come home halfway through their first week at primary school and found their dad’s car gone from the driveway, or seen their mum break down and sob hysterically in front of all the other mothers and half of the teacher-parents committee. Trust me, once that has happened to you, long-term reliability becomes a much more important quality in a boyfriend than being able to pontificate about your deepest emotions.
So I’d never actually told Harry about Joel, or my time at the solicitor’s office all those years ago. Well, he knew I spent my work experience shadowing a paralegal and that it shaped my decision to study law. But I never elaborated on the emotional impact it had had on me. And I’d never told him I still thought about Joel sometimes, or that the memory of his court hearing was enough to make me want to help more people like him, people at a disadvantage or those who needed a helping hand to get their lives back on track. Harry had always known I wanted to do the Law Practice Course and go on to be a solicitor, but he wouldn’t have understood my deeper reasons for this ambition. Even if I’d told him. Perhaps especially if I’d told him. So it had remained something private and personal to me, a dream I’d nurtured and held on to from within the secrecy of my own heart.
The only people I did talk to about my experience at the solicitor’s office were my parents. Mum didn’t see much past the joy and relief of hearing I wanted to study law and would therefore go on to have a Proper Career and Stable Job, giving her – in her own words – ‘one less thing to worry about’. But Dad, I remember with a fresh pang of emotion, had actually been pretty excited about it. That was back when he still made an effort to see me a couple of times a month, either taking me out for a meal or inviting me over to his place for Chinese on the pretext of helping me with my homework. He never really did help much, and my principal memories of those days are of sitting across the dining table from him making stilted, awkward conversation over the crispy duck pancakes and chicken chow mein, as I counted down the minutes until it was time for Mum to come and pick me up.
But on this one occasion, straight after my work experience finished, something made me open up to him. Maybe I was just so fired up with excitement and ambition that I forgot who I was talking to; maybe my seventeen-year-old naivety got the better of me. I ended up telling him all about the client interviews I was allowed to sit in on, the different sorry characters who passed through Bourne & Bond’s offices, and how thoughts of each new case would stay with me as I went to sleep every night, as I wondered what would become of them. I even told him about Joel and his court hearing, how I had watched in admiration as Tracey argued his case with such passion, as if she were fighting for her own son. How Joel had cried when the judge decreed he should be moved to the front of the queue for council housing and allowed to begin his life again.
That night I told my father I wanted to become a solicitor, and defend people’s rights the way I had seen in the courtroom that day. It makes me cringe a little now to remember the undiluted, youthful enthusiasm with which I raved to my father about my big plans for the future. But instead of reacting like the distant, rather bored person I had become used to, he responded with enthusiasm and even suggested we draw up a plan of action to help me work towards my chosen career. We spent the evening googling law qualifications, reading through careers advice websites and noting down the names of universities offering my chosen course. I never admitted it to him, but it was actually really helpful.
Dad wouldn’t remember any of this now, of course. Not long afterwards I went off to uni at the other side of the country and the Chinese takeaway nights stopped. By the time Harry and I finished our studies and moved down to Fenbridge, my contact with Dad was limited to birthday and Christmas phone calls and the very occasional meal out.
Over the intervening years since that evening, I’ve deliberately blocked out its memory, as a form of self-preservation. Only now, feeling so refreshed and emboldened, and – being honest with myself here – humbled, after meeting Naomi, do I feel able to see things differently. Perhaps it’s not too late for Dad and me, perhaps it is possible to have more…
Telling myself to stay positive and wait for his reply, I consciously push aside thoughts of both my father and Harry, turning my attention to Naomi’s papers.
An inexplicable shiver passes through me as I realise that, if I’m really going to do this, I’ll have to ring that Sebastian person we met outside the prison. Now, hours later, with the thrill of excitement from the prison visit gradually fading, it is beginning to feel like a crazy idea ever to have volunteered for this. What if he realises my Spanish really isn’t at professional level and politely tells me my services won’t be required? I’m not a lawyer or translator… just a girl who studied law and taught herself Spanish, a very long time ago…
‘What were you thinking?’ I ask out loud to the apartment, suddenly filled with insecurity. My own voice echoes slightly off the walls in the spacious, empty living room, but provides no answer. I open the folder again and stare at the crumpled letter to Naomi from her father, feeling something bordering on horror. This is someone’s life, a real human being with parents and family who miss her… what if I let her down?
Suddenly, Marion’s voice pops into my head: At least in Naomi’s cell no one has to sleep on the floor. I remember the tiny, cramped bedroom – it still feels wrong to call it a ‘cell’ – its memory providing a stark contrast to my comfortable surroundings. That room would fit inside this apartment nine or ten times. I stretch my legs out on the bed, resting my head back on the pillow, feeling ludicrously grateful and lucky that I am able to do such a simple thing.
Perhaps for the first time ever, I realise how fortunate my life has been – okay, so we might not have had much money at all in my early childhood, after Dad left and in the years when it was just Mum and me. Before Steve, and then later Chloe, came along. Mum had worked long hours in her job as secretary at the local council offices, often taking extra temp jobs in the evenings or at weekends. I sometimes barely saw her and it was normal for me to get up and make my own breakfast, then let myself in and get started on dinner, too. For such a long time it had felt like a disadvantage… I had seen all my friends and their normal families with two parents, two cars and holidays abroad every year, and felt hard done by. But I had never been hungry. I’d never been uncomfortable or unsafe. I’d never been so desperate to escape or change my life that I was willing to break the law.
I think of Naomi’s cramped little room again and feel an unexpected wash of shame. What must she think of me? Swanning out here to spend a few months exploring South America, leaving my family behind, with no commitments except making sure I get home in time to sit back down at my desk three months later, no questions asked. Despite all my angst and doubt about this trip, it hasn’t occurred to me before now that the simple fact of going travelling, of being able to put your life on hold and take off to explore the world, is in itself an incredible privilege.
Even as these thoughts march through my mind, I think back to Naomi’s warm smile and tight hug as I left, and I know in my heart she was not judging me. No more than I was judging her. I realise what I told Marion in the car on the way home was true – I genuinely did like her. It had just felt like I was chatting to another woman of my age, our different backgrounds and circumstances fading into insignificance.
I wonder what she’s doing, right at this moment?
Naomi had told us that ‘lockdown’ was at six every evening. After that, they weren’t allowed out of the corridor until six a.m. the following morning, for breakfast and roll call. Was she enjoying the last few moments of relative freedom, walking around the prison grounds? Or was she already preparing for the night ahead, trying to get comfortable in that terribly small space, squashed into bed next to someone else, thinking of her children?
Right, that’s it. I’m going to give these translations my best shot.
And I’m going to phone now and confirm I’ll do this, leaving myself no room to back out or change my mind, even if they do prove to be more difficult than expected.
‘I can do this,’ I tell myself out loud as I jump up from the bed and fumble for the jeans I was wearing this morning, shamefully still in a heap on the bathroom floor where I threw them earlier, after the rainstorm. I had been so fired up about phoning Dad, and telling Liza about the prison visit, that I’d not given my soggy clothes a second’s thought since I got back.
Holding up the jeans, I carefully pull out the damp, crumpled business card from the back pocket. It is on the brink of disintegration, but the phone number and neat capital letters saying Sebastian North, Consul are still faintly visible.
I sit down on the floor right there and dial the number before I have chance to bottle out.
It rings four, five, six times, and just as I’m realising in dismay that it is half past nine and I should probably just call back tomorrow, a gruff, tired-sounding voice answers ‘Buenas noches, Sebastian North?’
‘Hi! It’s Kirsty,’ I practically shout. ‘From the prison? I mean, the prison visit… today, with Marion.’
Oh God. Great start.
‘Kirsty! Hi!’ The voice warms instantly, and I hear a faint shuffling sound, as if he’s repositioning himself on the sofa. ‘How are you? Hope you found the visit okay today?’
‘I’m great!’ I reply, wondering too late why my voice seems to have become an octave shriller. ‘I’m calling because I’ve decided – I definitely want to help Naomi. With the translations. If you’ll have me… er, haha.’
There’s a brief pause where the only sound is the echo of my own craziness ringing in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut in horror. But if I am coming across as a psychopath, Sebastian is too nice to say so.
‘That’s wonderful,’ he says warmly. ‘There are certain processes we need to go through to get you on the books as a translator. It’s very simple – it just means coming to the embassy and bringing some papers – is that okay? Let me take your email and I’ll send you the details and our address.’
I recite my email address with the same feeling of childish embarrassment from this morning.
‘Great – can you come along this Friday morning? We’re closed to the public then, so I’ll have more time to see you.’ There’s a tiny pause. ‘To talk about the translations. And get all the papers signed.’
‘Friday is great!’ I say, feeling exuberant.
‘Okay, perfect.’ Sebastian’s voice feels very close to my ear. The silence on the line draws out between us and I realise I’m pressing the phone against my head so hard my ear is aching.
‘Er… so, you seemed to enjoy our typical Quito rainstorm this morning?’ He breaks the silence, and I hear a smile in his voice. Oh NO. So he definitely did see me spinning about in the rain like a loon. I desperately cast around my mind for a logical explanation, but find none, so opt for the truth.
‘I just suddenly felt so… free. And grateful… you know, after the prison.’ I close my eyes again and rest my head on my palm in embarrassment, thinking how Harry would probably snort with amusement at that.
‘Oh, I get it,’ Sebastian replies sincerely. ‘The first time I went in, years ago when I was new to the job, I got home and stuck on Metallica at full volume the whole afternoon. I think I even had a bit of a dance.’ Another pause, and what I think he intends to be a chuckle. ‘Prisons do funny things to you.’
Fervently grateful for his understanding, I manage to say goodbye and agree to attend the embassy at nine a.m. on Friday without causing myself any further embarrassment.
I lean back against the wall in relief and let my phone drop to the pillow beside me. Almost immediately it lights up again and buzzes furiously.
One new message.
I stare at it, hardly daring to breathe. Could this be…?
Sender: Dad.
As I click open the message I realise my hand is actually trembling a little, my heart filled with trepidation at the vast potential for pain and rejection contained within one tiny digital envelope. I can’t read it fast enough once it opens.
Dad: Hi K. Got your voicemail – good to hear from you. Were you serious about us coming to visit you?
I let out a long sigh. See? A perfectly innocuous message. No rejection. Actually, it seems quite positive…
I fire off a reply immediately.
I’m serious if you are.
Then, feeling I should elaborate a little, I send another one:
It’s great out here. Beautiful country. We’ll be in Quito about two more weeks. Then want to see jungle and Galápagos. You’re seriously welcome.
My finger hesitates over the button for a few seconds before pressing ‘send’.
I think back again to Dad’s casual comment the night we visited him. That he’d been thinking about a holiday, that he might come and visit us here. At the time I’d been filled with cynicism, thinking that if he rarely even came to visit us in the next county, what likelihood would there be of him travelling halfway around the world? But then, today, hearing Naomi’s anxiety about her father and desperate sorrow at not being able to see him again, something gave way inside me. Something made my perspective shift. When did I last actually invite my father to visit us? What would happen if I did?
For the first time ever, a feeling of privilege overrode any other feelings. Privilege, sheer good luck that we are both alive, and well, and free to see each other whenever we want. For the first time, it felt like a crime not to be making the most of that. Or trying to, at least.
Dad takes longer to reply this time. I realise I’m staring at the phone, incapable of doing anything else except will it to light up again. After what feels like hours, it does.
Dad: I’ll talk to Dorice tomorrow then phone you to discuss. Thanks for the idea. Best wishes, Dad x
Oh my God, he’s actually taken me seriously… this might actually happen. What have I just done? A swirl of emotions surges through me. Panic, excitement, hope… I haven’t spent more than a few hours at a time with my father since I was five years old. What on earth will I do with him for a possibly extended visit in a foreign country? What will we talk about? And have I really just done this without even mentioning it first to Harry?
I read the message again. Dorice. Of course. In my excitement and sudden motivation to contact Dad, I’d forgotten about her. And that the only reason Dad even mentioned visiting, however jokily, that night was that Dorice is a wildlife photographer and wants to visit the rainforest. My heart starts to sink a little. And who signs off a message to their only daughter ‘best wishes’?
But then, isn’t that why I’m doing this? To try and bridge the distance, the coldness between my father and me, which until today had seemed insurmountable?
As I stare down at my phone and think of everything that has happened today, of the prison and Naomi, Sebastian, and my father, I am overcome by the feeling I have just set in motion an irreversible chain of events.