Camp Crackers

Chapter 1

I had imagined running my own business in a sleek designer suit and making executive decisions from behind a glossy desk. Not sharing a cheerless café with an awkward teenage couple and their three-legged dog. I sighed, eking out the mug of hot chocolate. Well, I say ‘hot’ chocolate – the murky brown liquid might once have been stirred in the same annexe as a microwave, but I wasn’t about to complain. The pockmarked girl with amber hair and lime dungarees had the sour expression of someone who had been slapped in the face. Hard. She swiped at the tables with a damp sponge, shoving each chair back into place with an irritating grating noise. Granted, this was my second mug and, okay, so I might have been hogging the prime spot in the café, but it was the only table with a view. The nodding masts of the docked yachts took me back to a time of seaside holidays and sand-filled sandwiches. Despite the gloomy grey of a Scottish summer’s evening, it was unlikely to get dark until after ten. Clinging to my window seat I passed endless minutes observing the dog-walkers and cyclists criss-crossing the harbour promenade. An impatient child lobbed handfuls of bread to the diving birds, which were expert at snatching crusts mid-air. One greedy gull - swooping too close - was thumped off course by a stale bap.

Despite the frequency of requests for me to chaperone newly introduced couples of the retired variety, evening dates tended to be uncommon. Just as well, since hanging around cafés after office hours when I could be at home doing … actually, anything else … had rapidly lost its appeal. But I’d got lazy recently with my own business, Do Me A Favour, and over-reliant on the easy money generated by love-seeking pensioners.

My phone pinged, attracting a further glare of disapproval from Happy Hannah. A text: 'help we r stuck'. I snatched up my phone and stepped outside.

‘Grace? What do you mean, stuck?’

‘Oh, Sunny, thank goodness you answered!’

‘What’s up, Grace? Where are you stuck?’

‘Well, Stanley and I were just taking a stroll along the esplanade when he offered to give me a wee tour of the old barrack ruins here, so we walked out along the pathway and now we’re sort of on an island, but the tide has come in and …’

‘What the—?’

‘Please don’t be angry.’

‘Don’t be angry? I’m furious!’ I dodged back into the café, threw a fiver on to the table – that wouldn’t have improved Happy Hannah’s spirits, as my bill, I realised later, was over six pounds – grabbed my bag and jacket and strode towards the harbour wall. I scanned the khaki water, which had lapped over the Cramond Causeway, leaving the island cut off from the mainland. An event that happened twice every day yet still caught the ignorant off-guard.

‘Sunny? Are you still there? What are we going to do?’

‘I’m thinking,’ I growled, speed-reading the instructions on the public noticeboard. ‘I’m going to have to call out the Queensferry lifeboat.’

‘Right. So what shall we do?’

‘Do? There’s nothing you can do. Just stay in one place and we’ll get to you as quickly as possible. Are you warm enough?’

‘Not really. I’ve only got my light jacket that I bought in a Debenhams sale and it’s really just meant for when I go out to the club or something and even then I always get the bus. It doesn’t even have a proper lining. What’s that, Stanley? Oh, Stanley’s just given me his blazer. Thank you, love. Now he’s in his shirtsleeves. What’s that, Stanley?’

‘Grace! I need to get off the phone so I can call out the lifeboat.’

‘Oh, rightio. Stanley’s asking if we should build a fire.’

‘No! The last thing we need is for you to set the island on fire. Hold tight. I’ll call you back.’

I too noted the drop in temperature as the wind picked up and the choppy waves slapped at the stone pillars marking the one-mile causeway. I squinted at the island, but it was too far out for me to detect any figures on the rocky bulge.

‘Right – the RNLI boat is on its way.’

‘That’s good. Will it be long? Only Stanley’s lips have gone a funny blue colour.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be as quick as they can.’

‘We’re thinking of getting married.’

‘Really, Grace? That’s nice. But this is your first date. I’m not sure you should be rushing into this.’

‘No – I mean now. We’re thinking of getting married now.’

‘Eh?’

‘Well, apparently Stanley is ordained and has married quite a few people over the years. He hasn’t done one for a while but says it’s like riding a bike.’

‘Grace – don’t be ridiculous. He can’t marry you himself.’ Can he? I was on tricky ministerial ground here.

‘He says he doesn’t want to die a bachelor.’

‘No one’s dying,’ I reassured her. Not until I get my hands on you both, at any rate.

‘What’s that, Stanley? Oh, yes, sorry, I will.’

‘Will what?’

‘Take him to be my lawful wedded husband.’

‘Grace! Stop this charade right now. The boat will be here any minute and you’ll both be back on dry land before you can toss your bouquet.’

‘Hang on a minute, Sunny – my husband wants a word with you.’

‘Grace, I— Oh, hello, Stanley, how are you doing?’

‘If you’re worried about my intentions, they are entirely honourable, I can assure you.’

‘No, it’s not that.’ I groaned. ‘I’m just really tired and cold and want to get home. This evening hasn’t exactly gone to plan.’

‘You’re spot on! But isn’t that what’s so marvellous? You go out for a summer’s stroll and you come back a married man!’

‘I’m not sure if— Boat! There’s a boat! Got to go – over and out.’

As the RNLI dinghy bounced over the waves into the harbour I could see Grace and Stanley huddled together on the bench, wrapped in Bacofoil like a couple of doomed turkeys. The two crew members helped the shiny couple to negotiate the stone harbour steps. I thanked them profusely, making a mental note to donate more generously in future. They shook their heads in bemusement as Stanley asked for their blessing, launching into his groom’s speech about him and his wife. The boat sped off, leaving a wide foam wake.

‘Right, you pair, the taxi’s waiting and we’re getting you home.’

‘Oh, but we’ve got our bus passes,’ Stanley protested. ‘And the night is young – we should be out celebrating!’

‘I don’t care if you’ve got backstage passes to Holyrood Palace, we’re going home – now!’

I bustled them into the idling taxi, relieved it would be the last I’d see of this mad pair. As I fastened Grace’s seatbelt, she whispered in my ear. ‘I don’t think I’m going to like being married.’

I patted her knee. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think that counts.’

‘Really? I hope not. I only came out because there’s nothing on the telly on a Tuesday.’

Chapter 2

After last night’s stress of Two Get Stranded on Cramond Island I allowed myself a lie-in. There’s nothing like eleven hours of sleep to make me feel perky. Or not. I drifted through to the kitchen, stuck the kettle on and selected my favourite mug. I reached into the fridge for the milk, reading Gil’s accusatory note: ‘Much as I support all life, spore-formers play havoc with coffee’. Gil’s polite way of informing me I’d let the housekeeping side down. Again.

The sun felt surprisingly warm on my freckled face as I returned from the corner shop with a pint of milk. I opened the door to the building’s communal hall and browsed the small pile of post and circulars. I had my key poised when, from nowhere, out sprang an anxious-faced youth dressed in a faded grey hoodie and torn jeans. His glasses looked like they’d been cleaned with a discarded chip wrapper.

‘You’re Gil’s sister, right?’

I sighed, my key halfway to the door. So close!

‘Look, I’ve told you and your buddies that I’m not passing him any numbers, notes or fan mail.’

‘I just think if he could give us five minutes …’ He hopped in agitation.

‘Anyway, who let you in here?’

He blushed and mumbled something about the postie. ‘It’s really important,’ he urged.

‘I’ve told you lot before – he’s not interested.’

‘But it’s not just me – the whole world is waiting to hear his account.’ Tears sprang to his eyes.

‘And the world sent you?’

He placed his hands together as though praying and I caught a whiff of garlic mixed with petrol. ‘Please? Here.’ He held out a torn scrap of paper with a mobile number scrawled on it. I let him hold it out.

‘Go,’ I ordered.

‘But—’

‘Leave now or I’ll call the police.’ I tried to look as menacing as possible for a five-foot troll with ginger hair. He sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve and sloped off towards the door, which I slammed behind him. Wait till I get hold of the postman. If I ever give a Christmas tip, his is being withheld.

These spods were getting crazy. Ever since Gil’s testimony in court he had been badgered relentlessly (I know that sounds like a good thing) by super-geeks who believed he’d had a genuine alien encounter. They seemed to miss the actual point that Gil didn’t have an alien encounter. TD34 was proven to be nothing more than a fraudulent criminal who is now being detained in Winchester prison. However, a small but persistent group has gradually grown and now there’s an entire website dedicated to Gil – as if he needed any more disciples. What began as the odd phone call or letter has escalated into full-blown mob mentality. Initially Gil savoured the attention – who wouldn’t want to be pursued for an interview by Clarkesworld Magazine? – but even he acknowledges it’s got out of control. Much to his mortification, he came home last week to find a huddle of identical suited nerds waiting on the pavement. As he pushed past them, he spotted Edith from upstairs asking one of them if he’d mind putting her bucket out. She whirled around in confusion when six Gils sprang forward to help.

‘What are you going to do about it?’ I quizzed Gil as we tackled our evening meal.

‘Eat it, I suppose,’ he muttered with his mouth full.

‘I mean about these idiot fans.’

‘Oh – them. Sorry, what are these?’

‘Fish fingers.’ I feigned hurt but secretly wondered whether they might make better space shuttle heat shields. ‘And butter beans.’

‘Anyway, they’ll soon get fed up.’

‘You think? It seems to be getting worse. Have you seen the ridiculous posts on the website?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I never go on it,’ he lied. I knew full well that he checked out the Planet Gil site every ten minutes.

‘You know they’re planning a convention next month?’

‘Hmm, I think I might have seen something about that.’

‘I mean it, Gil – you need to get them to shut it down. I can’t keep having strangers jumping out at me like that.’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Gil, last week I was followed all round Lidl by an astronaut. We’re living our lives in a goldfish bowl. In fact, I think that’s what he had on his head.’

‘Okay,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll tell them to remove the site.’

‘Good.’ I nodded, dishing out the dessert.

‘Why does this cream taste weird on the apple pie?’

‘Oh, sorry about that. I think it might be goat’s cheese.’

Chapter 3

I had finally given in to Berta’s incessant nagging about getting fit – not that she was exactly a fundraising triathlete, but she at least participated in dance classes twice a week. I hadn’t owned a pair of training shoes since high school. I couldn’t understand what we were in training for. Still, I was conscious that although Mathew said he loved me for my personality (which was just as well), I couldn’t assume his unconditional acceptance of my less-than-beach-ready body. My low point came last week when I climbed Clermiston Hill to reach one of my clients, who lived in a bungalow affording panoramic views of the city. She answered the door to find me bent double and puffing like Thomas the Tank Engine. As I sucked gratefully on her inhaler I knew I needed to get into better shape. Or at least a shape resembling a twenty-three-year-old female. It was with a heavy, cholesterol-rippled heart that I stuck a zumba DVD into the player and flicked on the TV.

With sweat dripping off my chin, my legs like jelly and my breath rasping, I pressed the pause button. I’d been zumba-dancing for eight and a half minutes. The landline rang, which I took as God’s way of telling me I’d done enough for day one.

‘Sunny?’ accused my mother. Who else would be answering the phone on a Wednesday afternoon? ‘Are you alright? You sound like you’ve got a chest infection. Have you been to the doctor?’

‘It’s just zumba, Mum.’

‘Zoomber? You probably caught it off one of those old people you insist on visiting.’

‘It’s my job, Mum.’

‘You sound dreadful.’

‘You’re right. I better go and lie down.’

‘Hang on, Sunny, I need to talk to you about something.’

I flopped on the floor, pressed speakerphone and spread my legs and arms like a starfish, gazing at the ceiling. Why is there a tea bag stuck to the cornice?

‘What?’

‘It’s about your uncle Clyde.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s really in a pretty bad way. He hardly manages to look after himself and he says the house is falling into disrepair. I think the roof has a hole in it.’

‘And?’

‘Well, you know how much we all enjoyed spending our family holidays at his cottage. You and Gil loved whiling away the summers down there. He just needs a wee hand to get the place a bit more habitable.’

‘Why don’t you go?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m in plaster.’

‘How convenient.’

‘Don’t be smart, Sunny – it doesn’t suit you.’ That’s right – Gil’s the smart one. I sighed.

‘What do you suggest?’

‘I thought perhaps you and your little friend Roberta might like to stay for a couple of weeks and give the place a lick of paint or something.’

‘Why would Berta want to do that?’

‘He says he can pay you. It could be like a working holiday.’

‘Clyde’s never got any money.’

‘He assures me he will pay you.’

‘Then why doesn’t he just pay a proper DIY person?’

‘He doesn’t have that kind of money!’ She tutted.

‘The kind of money that might actually pay for things?’

‘Look, Sunny, I promised him you’d go and help.’

‘What? You had no right! Anyway, what about Gil? How come he gets away with it?’

‘He’s working, as well you know.’

‘I’m only going if he goes.’

Silence. Is that fifteen–love to Sunny?

‘I don’t doubt for a minute that Gilbert will offer to assist. He’s such a gentleman and cares about people. If you feel you need to take advantage of his kindness, then …’

‘I do feel the need, actually.’

‘I’m sure I—’

‘Gotta go, Mum – need to start making Gil’s dinner.’

Berta needed no persuasion whatsoever. Granted, I did suggest it was a holiday in the country with free board and lodgings. She was halfway to biting my arm off when I let slip about our proposed painting and decorating services, but by then it was too late. She knew she was chewing on my hand and couldn’t spit it out. I had shattered her dream of lying out in the garden topping up her tan while browsing the gossip mags, but she’d get over it.

I wasn’t sure what approach to take with Gil. He and I would never contemplate spending leisure time together so I couldn’t dress it up as a holiday. Nope, I had to go in with all guilt-guns blazing. This was about repaying a debt to dear old Uncle Clyde, about thanking him for the years of sun-kissed summer holidays, about doing something good and rewarding for a kind relative going through a rough patch. And about getting Mum off my back.

I took my time planning a sumptuous supper that would woo Gil over to my side. Last month he had hopefully informed me that his current favourite was pork belly – couldn’t get enough of it, apparently. I didn’t really know which part of the pig a chop came from but surely some of it must come from the fat tummy part? We only owned one steak knife, which I gave to Gil while I hacked away at my chop with a sawing motion that would flare up the average professional’s tennis elbow.

‘Mum called today,’ I dropped into the conversation.

‘Mmm?’ he murmured, browsing his iPhone. I couldn’t really be snippy about his antisocial obsession with world affairs – after all, I found the latest celebrity having a part of their body removed and sewn on elsewhere equally fascinating.

I repeated, ‘Mum called today.’

‘And?’ he answered, not even glancing up.

‘Uncle Clyde has a hole.’

‘Oh?’ He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘You mean like an ulcer?’

‘Eh?’

‘A hole in his stomach or something?’

‘Oh, no! Nothing like that. A hole in his roof. It’s leaking. And you know how much rain we’ve had this summer. Seemingly the most rainfall since records began.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Absolutely. Looks like the Scottish reservoirs are good to go for the next five years.’

‘So why doesn’t he fix it?’

‘Good question! Give that man a coconut.’

‘Well?’

‘Oh, you know Uncle Clyde. He’s never got any money. And he’s not very well. High blood pressure and low energy.’

‘Really?’ Even Gil’s serrated implement wasn’t exactly carving through the tender meat like a butter knife. In fact, his forehead had developed a light sheen as he wrestled the fat off the meat.

‘Yep. A worrying combination. So I said to Mum, If there’s anything I can do, nothing’s too much trouble. I even offered to go and help him. You know, as a gesture of goodwill.’

‘Like Comic Relief?’ He was chewing like a cow on leather grass.

‘Yes!’ I nodded. ‘Just like Comic Relief. Except I’m not giving my services for free and there’s nothing remotely amusing about Uncle Clyde.’

‘How much do you need?’

‘Gil!’ I chastised in mock offence. ‘It’s not about the money.’

He raised one eyebrow. I so wished I could do that. I sighed. ‘Look, Berta and I are going down for two weeks to give him a hand. I know it’s not what you’d plan for your annual leave, but we would really appreciate your help. Apart from which, I don’t know one end of a paintbrush from the other.’

‘Well, one end has bristles that are covered in paint,’ Gil said smugly.

‘You see! I bow to your expertise.’

‘And this is …?’ He frowned.

‘I opened what I thought was a tin of Black Forest cherries, but it turned out they were olives.’

‘An honest mistake.’ He scowled. ‘But did you need to smother them in Dream Topping?’

So Gil was in. Those in formal employment (Berta and Gil) were required to submit their annual leave requests while I let Mrs Marshall know I was on a summer break. I sensed an element of relief, as she had booked a Mediterranean cruise and probably felt bad passing me a mere handful of clients searching for romance. And as for any of my private ‘cleaning’ jobs…well – surely nothing that’s dirty after two weeks?

Chapter 4

Mathew and I pressed our noses against the grubby glass enclosure as the common squirrel monkey nibbled on grapes and held our gaze with black soulful eyes. Its pal leapt up onto the bench next to him and also stared with no shame. It chattered something and both shrieked in hysterics.

‘It’s saying, That ginger one looks tasty,’ I commented.

‘Nah!’ said Mathew. ‘Probably wondering why all our hair has dropped off.’

The first monkey selected a slice of orange and rammed it into the mouth of its companion. In response, monkey two angrily plucked a grape and shoved it into his chum’s ear. Furious, monkey one snatched a peanut from the shelf and poked it up the nose of its friend, who recoiled in shock.

‘Oh, what was that game we used to play?’ Mathew laughed. ‘Remember – when you had to fit the right shape into the right hole?’

‘Uh …’ I frowned. ‘You mean like snooker?’

‘No – oh, that’s annoying me now. I’ll google it.’

Monkey two wailed, reaching for a banana and thrusting it into his pal’s—

‘Perfection!’ shouted Mathew triumphantly. ‘If you didn’t get all the pieces in in time the whole board popped up.’

‘Well, that one looks like he’s about to explode!’ The monkeys chased each other around the compound.

Mathew took my hand and we wandered back outside. Struggling up the steep zigzag path, we finally summited at the crest of the zoo. We could see for miles across Edinburgh’s rooftops and beyond to the Pentland Hills (might have been the Himalayas). I was sure the air had thinned. We perched on a wall overlooking the rhinos as our oxygen levels stabilised. I waved goodbye to demure composure.

To our left, a face-painting stand attracted a line of expectant children pulling at their parents. A chubby jester was kneeling in front of a toddler, studiously turning the youngster’s face into that of a butterfly. I was reminded of my recent visit to the Latvian beauty therapist who had blanched at my self-tanning attempts and corralled me into looking like a cramped tiger.

‘So you’re okay about me being away for a couple of weeks?’ I asked, not trusting myself to look into Mathew’s eyes. Unfortunately I couldn’t bring myself to be as impassive as our monkey friends.

‘Course I am.’ He nodded, putting his arm round my shoulders.

‘And you won’t go off with anyone else?’

‘Course I will.’ He grinned. I flinched, not quite believing we were still together after four months.

‘Besides, we’ve got a lucrative contract coming up. I’ll be putting in some long hours and no doubt I’ll be like a bear with a sore head anyway.’

‘What are you working on?’

He snorted. ‘Och, it’s some ridiculous toy for kids, like a trampoline for indoors. They bounce on this mat and it makes a doing! sound. It must drive their families nuts. Anyway, it’s to be a TV advert too.’

‘Sounds like I might be better out in the country.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘You can always come visit me.’

‘Hmm,’ he answered without conviction.

‘So you will still be here when I get back?’ God, even I was getting fed up with my clinging whine.

‘Well, maybe not quite here – but somewhere where my buttocks won’t go numb.’

‘Point taken. Cup of tea?’

‘Why not?’ We ambled back down the hill, me still reluctant to let go of his hand as we entered the café.

Chapter 5

So on the last Saturday in June, Gil, Berta and I were shivering in Edinburgh’s draughty bus station waiting for the X95 bus to Hawick. Berta and I were creasing up as she replayed her favourite clips of dogs performing acrobatics. Who knew that corgis were so bouncy? Or stretchy?

Gil hovered several feet away and seemed rather on edge. I put this down to his displeasure at having to spend a fortnight sharing DIY duties with his sister, coupled with a germ-associated phobia of public transport. Then, five minutes before our bus was due, his shoulders relaxed and his smile broadened. He jogged towards a mousy-brown-haired girl, her rimless glasses balanced