picked at the brown leathery seat, wondering how she could make the best of Brenton Lumsden. And Honza.
‘Poor Skip! It isn’t too awful, is it?’
‘School? It’s great.’
‘Mission accomplished! Here, hold the provisions.’ Pavel, returning to the Land Rover, thrust into Skip’s hands a family-size bottle of Coca-Cola and a hot, heavy plastic bag. Inside were three foil cartons with white cardboard lids, white plastic knives and forks, plastic beakers, and a large damp-looking parcel wrapped in white paper. Steam rose deliciously. All at once she was ravenous.
They slid off down Volcano Street. Marlo made polite offers to pay Pavel back, but he shook his head. Her first day at Puce’s! This was a celebration. ‘Sun’s coming out again,’ he said. ‘We can sit in Crater Gardens.’
The gardens flanking the town hall were laid out immaculately, if somewhat fussily, with neat plantings of roses, bluebells and begonias edging the inside of the low stone wall, and cool arbours of non-native trees.
Skip kept up and Marlo hung back as Pavel led them down an asphalt path. A metal fountain with cavorting dolphins and mermaids looked admirably ancient under streaks of verdigris. Further on was a wishing well, with a cupola raised above it on twin painted struts; around the hatlike dome ran the words LIONS CLUB OF CRATER LAKES .
The gardens were bigger than they looked from Volcano Street, bending in an L-shape behind the town hall and the two buildings beside it, the institute and the theatre. Marking off a large area was a picket fence surmounted by a thick, almost tropical, wall of foliage. A gate led into a shadowy path; from below came a watery, insistent thrumming.
They sat on a park bench, Skip between Marlo and Pavel. With growing eagerness she passed around the foil containers, the beakers,the plastic cutlery; she ripped open the damp parcel and stuffed a handful of chips into her mouth. Soft crumbly salty vinegary warmth slid down her throat, and she said with her mouth full, ‘I’ll keep these on my lap, shall I? Then you can both reach.’ She tore off the cardboard from her foil box. A prodigious chicken thigh swam in dark gravy; peas glistened, green as grass. Good old Pav!
She asked him if he had always lived in the Lakes.
‘Born and bred. Mum, too. Years ago, her dad was mayor.’
‘And you’re working in Puce Hardware,’ said Marlo – her first words since they had left the Land Rover. Her sister, Skip decided, didn’t much like good old Pav.
If he noticed, he didn’t let it show. Coca-Cola foamed like champagne as he bit off the bottle cap. He licked the neck of the bottle, laughed, and glugged the black liquid into the beakers. As they ate, he listed the attractions of Crater Lakes. Skip, to her mild surprise, realised that Pavel Novak wasn’t ashamed of the town where he had been born, and felt no need to apologise for it, ridicule it, or claim that he would soon leave. They must see the lakes, of course: the blue, the green, the brown. The blue one was grey all through winter but changed in spring to brilliant blue, and no one knew why. He spoke of swamps, sinkholes, underground tunnels. The climb to the top of Mount Crater – what a view! You could see the coast thirty miles away.
First, though, the cave. After they had eaten, he led them through the gate in the picket fence. Palms and ferns lined a tarred path that curved downwards in a spiral. The roar Skip had heard from above grew louder as they descended. The temperature seemed to rise; mist danced on the air. Skip strode ahead, arms swinging, enjoying the sound of her shoes on the path as the gradient propelled her on. Walls of rock, moist and primeval-looking, shelved above a deep depression in the earth; a narrow but intense rivulet cascaded down them resoundingly, sending steamy curlicues into the air.
She turned back to Pavel. ‘But where’s the cave?’
They were still just halfway down. The spiral tightened; the
‘Poor Skip! It isn’t too awful, is it?’
‘School? It’s great.’
‘Mission accomplished! Here, hold the provisions.’ Pavel, returning to the Land Rover, thrust into Skip’s hands a family-size bottle of Coca-Cola and a hot, heavy plastic bag. Inside were three foil cartons with white cardboard lids, white plastic knives and forks, plastic beakers, and a large damp-looking parcel wrapped in white paper. Steam rose deliciously. All at once she was ravenous.
They slid off down Volcano Street. Marlo made polite offers to pay Pavel back, but he shook his head. Her first day at Puce’s! This was a celebration. ‘Sun’s coming out again,’ he said. ‘We can sit in Crater Gardens.’
The gardens flanking the town hall were laid out immaculately, if somewhat fussily, with neat plantings of roses, bluebells and begonias edging the inside of the low stone wall, and cool arbours of non-native trees.
Skip kept up and Marlo hung back as Pavel led them down an asphalt path. A metal fountain with cavorting dolphins and mermaids looked admirably ancient under streaks of verdigris. Further on was a wishing well, with a cupola raised above it on twin painted struts; around the hatlike dome ran the words LIONS CLUB OF CRATER LAKES .
The gardens were bigger than they looked from Volcano Street, bending in an L-shape behind the town hall and the two buildings beside it, the institute and the theatre. Marking off a large area was a picket fence surmounted by a thick, almost tropical, wall of foliage. A gate led into a shadowy path; from below came a watery, insistent thrumming.
They sat on a park bench, Skip between Marlo and Pavel. With growing eagerness she passed around the foil containers, the beakers,the plastic cutlery; she ripped open the damp parcel and stuffed a handful of chips into her mouth. Soft crumbly salty vinegary warmth slid down her throat, and she said with her mouth full, ‘I’ll keep these on my lap, shall I? Then you can both reach.’ She tore off the cardboard from her foil box. A prodigious chicken thigh swam in dark gravy; peas glistened, green as grass. Good old Pav!
She asked him if he had always lived in the Lakes.
‘Born and bred. Mum, too. Years ago, her dad was mayor.’
‘And you’re working in Puce Hardware,’ said Marlo – her first words since they had left the Land Rover. Her sister, Skip decided, didn’t much like good old Pav.
If he noticed, he didn’t let it show. Coca-Cola foamed like champagne as he bit off the bottle cap. He licked the neck of the bottle, laughed, and glugged the black liquid into the beakers. As they ate, he listed the attractions of Crater Lakes. Skip, to her mild surprise, realised that Pavel Novak wasn’t ashamed of the town where he had been born, and felt no need to apologise for it, ridicule it, or claim that he would soon leave. They must see the lakes, of course: the blue, the green, the brown. The blue one was grey all through winter but changed in spring to brilliant blue, and no one knew why. He spoke of swamps, sinkholes, underground tunnels. The climb to the top of Mount Crater – what a view! You could see the coast thirty miles away.
First, though, the cave. After they had eaten, he led them through the gate in the picket fence. Palms and ferns lined a tarred path that curved downwards in a spiral. The roar Skip had heard from above grew louder as they descended. The temperature seemed to rise; mist danced on the air. Skip strode ahead, arms swinging, enjoying the sound of her shoes on the path as the gradient propelled her on. Walls of rock, moist and primeval-looking, shelved above a deep depression in the earth; a narrow but intense rivulet cascaded down them resoundingly, sending steamy curlicues into the air.
She turned back to Pavel. ‘But where’s the cave?’
They were still just halfway down. The spiral tightened; the
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