The Last Road Trip Read online

  Gareth Crocker

  * * *

  THE LAST ROAD TRIP

  Contents

  Preface

  Part 1: LOST TIME, AND OTHER SONGS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part 2: AND SO, TO A BIRD

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part 3: ICE, IN THE SUN

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  PART 4: A KISS TO THE SKY

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  PART 5: TIDES AND PROMISES

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note I

  Author’s Note II

  Acknowledgements

  Read More

  Follow Penguin

  For Edna.

  Thank you for the magic of Harbour View. It never left me.

  The ships still come to me in my dreams.

  PRAISE FOR GARETH CROCKER

  In his debut novel, Finding Jack, author Gareth Crocker brings his readers a story that will surprise, amaze, and uplift them in ways that few first novelists are able to do.– Sharon Galligar Chance in Fresh Fiction

  The reader is taken on a chilling roller-coaster ride … showcasing the heroism and the amazing bond that was formed between man and dog during those brutal, terrible days of the senseless Vietnam War.– Glynne Anderson on Finding Jack in The Witness

  Journey from Darkness is written with verve and insight. It reads like a thriller and if you are as crazy about elephants as I am, you’ll thoroughly enjoy this tale.– Sue Grant-Marshall in Business Day

  I thoroughly enjoyed this read and can highly recommend it.– Kate Collins on Journey from Darkness in Wild

  Gareth Crocker is that rare writer who regards many of the conventions of writing. He has such a convincing style that he gets away with it and leaves his fans clamoring for more.– Liesl Jobson on Never Let Go in Business Day

  This book offers an unconventional story which should be enjoyed by all those who like something a little different in their reading matter.– Keith Millar on Never Let Go in Artsmart

  Gareth Crocker has a way of pulling you into his world, interweaving themes and making connections that turn the bizarre into the believable. From the first pages you are caught up with his characters – his style is terse and compact.– Jenny de Klerk on King in Saturday Star

  Gareth Crocker is all heart … he makes you care deeply about his characters, raises the emotional stakes into the stratosphere and plays cat’s cradle with your heartstrings.– Jacqui L’Ange on King in Sunday Times

  Preface

  While you may well recognise many of the routes and towns ahead, certain of the streets, buildings and landmarks sadly do not exist. In some cases I have stood on the grass banks, waded out into the water and sat on the very benches you are about to visit. In others, the places endure only in my imagination.

  Which, as you will hopefully soon discover, seems a pity.

  Part 1

  * * *

  LOST TIME, AND OTHER SONGS

  One

  Jack Everson buttoned up his thirty-year-old suit jacket and slowly made his way up to the front of the church. Reaching the pulpit, he straightened his tie before turning to face the funeral congregation. Every seat appeared to be taken. Which, in its own way, surprised him. He cleared his throat and leaned in towards the microphone.

  ‘I’m sure you’re expecting me to tell you that Paul was a good man, maybe even a great man. To hear some stories from his life. Memories from our school days together, perhaps. But I’m afraid I can’t do any of that. The truth is I hardly knew Paul at all. In fact, I rarely saw him around the estate and even when I did, we seldom spoke for any real length of time. As many of you know, Paul was an intensely private man who seemed to prefer his own company to others’. This being the case then, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m standing up here today.’

  As Jack surveyed the room, half a dozen heads nodded faintly.

  ‘A few weeks ago, Paul asked me over to his house. As you might imagine, I was a little surprised by the invite. In any event, I accepted. It was late afternoon when I arrived. We sat out on his porch and enjoyed a few drinks. Watched the sun go down over that enormous loquat tree of his. He was surprisingly talkative and, after a while, asked if I would perhaps consider doing something important for him. A favour. Before I could ask what it was, he announced that he was dying. Just like that. Like he was telling me the time. He didn’t share the details of his illness, only that the battle was lost.’

  Jack looked up and caught sight of his three friends sitting together near the back of the church – Samuel, Elizabeth and Rosie. His gaze remained fixed on them as he continued.

  ‘It turns out that Paul had heard about my plans to leave the estate next month and wanted to know why I was going. I won’t trouble you with the details, but my answer appeared to strike a chord of some sort. He then asked if I’d be willing to stand up for him here today. You see, this isn’t a eulogy. Paul wanted me to read out a letter he had written.’

  With that, Jack reached into his pocket and withdrew two neatly folded pages. He then fished out his glasses and slipped them on.

  ‘My name is Paul James Edwards. Like most of us here, I was fortunate enough to live a life in which I managed to accumulate a certain amount of wealth. Enough, at least, to allow me the privilege of living in a place like this. There’s no question that in almost every respect, Stone Well Estate is an Eden for people who have worked hard and now wish to live out the remainder of their lives in peace and comfort. If not downright luxury. For those of you who don’t know, I came out here many years ago following the death of my wife. The truth is her passing hit me harder than seemed possible. So hard, in fact, that I was convinced I would follow after her in no time at all. The way I saw it, there was simply no way I could carry on without her. Writing these words now, I realise how feeble that makes me sound. Like an old and sentimental fool. But it’s still the truth. And I figure it’s to
o late in the day to start lying now.

  ‘And so I waited to die. But the days soon blurred into weeks. And the weeks came and went like autumn leaves being swept away by the wind. One Christmas became another. And then another. For eighteen long years I waited. When I finally fell ill a few months ago and discovered the nature of my diagnosis, I felt only one thing: Relief. My long wait was finally over. You see, the thing is, I stopped living the day I came here. I made this place my prison.

  ‘Of course, I know what some of you are thinking. How can a retirement estate as beautiful as this one ever be considered a jail? But others among you will know what I mean. Trust me when I tell you that prisons can be made out of just about anything. Even a designer golf course, as it turns out. It was only once I started to get really sick that I began to see things differently. I started to notice things that hadn’t occurred to me before. When I was young, retirement estates – or retirement homes, as they were more commonly called – were reserved for the authentically elderly. For the frail and lonely. Folk who, for the most part, had become surplus to either their family or society’s requirements and could no longer care for themselves. But looking around at the people of Stone Well, a very different picture became clear to me. So much so that I began to question what I was seeing. I even decided to do a little research. Do you know that the average age of folk in our estate is sixty-three? The waiting list – and I know because I’ve seen it – has people listed in their late forties. A few weeks ago my condition forced me into our frail-care unit for an evening. The nurse told me that I was her tenth patient. I was a little confused by her statement, so I asked her to clarify. Was I her tenth patient of the day? The week? No. It turns out she had been working in the unit for four months already and I was only the tenth patient she had ever seen.

  ‘So what, I’m sure you’re wondering, is my point? Well, firstly I’d like you to know how sorry I am for never really participating here. For not taking the time to get to know more of you. It’s no excuse, but you see, I was always waiting to leave. One doesn’t bother making friends at a train station. Of course, now that it’s too late to do anything about it, I realise how wrong I was and what a waste I have made of my time here. I’d like to believe that I’m a better person than the one you barely knew. That the quiet man you saw sitting in his garden day after day was just a poor facsimile of someone who once had a great deal more to offer the world. But I guess you’ll have to take me at my word on that.’

  Jack turned to the second page. The church was so silent now he could hear his fingers sliding on the paper.

  ‘So why have I written this letter? Well, now that I’ve finally lifted my head, I can see that some of you aren’t so different to me. Maybe you think you’re hiding it well, but I see you. After all, I know the signs well enough. You’re waiting, just like I’ve been. Maybe not for the reasons that I was, but some of you have stopped living. There’s no question about it. And I’m asking you not to make the same mistake that I did. Sixty-three – hell, eighty-three – is too young to be waiting for the clock to stop if you still have health on your side. I can’t tell you how much I regret these past years. It burns me so badly now that I can barely sleep any more.

  ‘Of course, maybe you’re genuinely happy here. Maybe you enjoy your daily routines and have made close friends. Perhaps you have peace in your life. If that’s the case, I’m pleased for you and I wish you well. But, if you’re anything like me and you’ve come here for the wrong reasons, then I urge you to do something about it. If you’re living with regrets – with things that you’ve put away in a box but that maybe keep you awake at night – I want to tell you that you still have time enough to make things right. I was given eighteen years – it’s a damn lifetime – and I spent most of those days staring up at the sky. I can only imagine how it must have broken my wife’s heart to see me out on that porch, just waiting.’

  Jack held up the page and moved on to the last two paragraphs.

  ‘Thank you, Jack, for agreeing to do this for me. I was so pleased to learn of your upcoming trip. I sense you have some unfinished business of your own. I hope and pray that you find the peace you’re searching for, if that’s what your journey’s about. I also really enjoyed our brief time together and, of course, I’m sorry that we never spoke more or shared a drink occasionally. I have a feeling that I missed out on a friendship that could’ve really meant something. Just one more thing to add to my list of regrets.’

  Jack swallowed and was surprised by a sudden surge of emotion that tugged at his voice.

  ‘I know that life isn’t a storybook. I also know that some of our mistakes are too far gone to be hauled back in. That maybe you’ve lost things that will remain beyond your grasp. But I also know that my life would’ve been so much better spent if I had just been trying for something. And that, really, is the point of this letter. My final wish for all of you is that you realise, while you still have time, that it’s the trying that matters. Maybe it’s all that matters.’

  Jack stared at the last line and then removed his glasses. ‘Here’s to life. And here’s to you. Thank you for listening.’

  Two

  Within hours of the funeral, Jack was back in the water. As usual, he had lost count of how many laps he had done. Given how long he had been in the pool, he knew it had to be a reasonable number. At the age of seventy-one, it surprised him that he was still capable of swimming prodigious distances – more so than he ever imagined possible at this stage of his life. Not that feats of endurance mattered much to him these days.

  However, intrigued to see just what he was capable of, he had recently decided to test himself and had embarked on a swim with no end goal in mind. When boredom, rather than muscle fatigue, had brought a premature end to the experiment, he was astounded to learn from his friend, Sam – who was sitting poolside and counting diligently – that he had managed a rather remarkable 238 lengths. The equivalent, almost, of six kilometres. Still, it meant little to him. He was no longer obsessed with fitness the way he once was. The competitive urge that used to gush through his veins – that drove him to swim internationally for a time – had long since left him. He swam now because it was a form of escape and he still savoured the sensation of cutting through the crisp blue water, the comforting rhythm and solitude of it all. It was also the one place where he allowed himself to think about those things that, outside of the water, he knew were better left alone. More than anything, swimming was his way of connecting back to Grace.

  He had met her a little over ten years ago. In a public swimming pool of all places. He was stepping into the water just as she was climbing out. Without thinking – and he still had no idea what had made him do it – he offered her his hand. To his surprise she accepted it and, as she ascended the last few steps, favoured him with a smile, which, as it proved, irrevocably changed his life. Able to think of little else, he returned to the pool twice a day for the next three weeks in the hope of seeing her again. When he eventually spotted her swimming on the far side of the pool late one Sunday afternoon, he waited patiently for her to finish. And, when she finally emerged from the water, he was once again standing there with his hand outstretched.

  Within a week they were dining together. Within three months he had proposed. Ahead of a honeymoon in Cape Town six weeks later, they had married beside an old stone bench on Robben Island. With no family left to call on, their only guest had been the young minister who presided over the service. Etched against a deep-blue sky and the backdrop of Table Mountain, it had been a cool and windless day. A day beyond a postcard. A day of dreams.

  In the years that followed, they continued to swim together. The pools changed with the seasons, but their routine seldom wavered. After almost eight years of a gentle and cherished marriage, they had even spent some time in the hotel pool the day before Grace’s operation. It was, as it turned out, their last swim together. Some days Jack wondered what hurt the most: that Grace had been taken so soon from h
im or that they had met so late in life. After all, eight years wasn’t a life together. It was a glimpse of one. And some days that weighed more heavily than anything else. She had been gone for almost two years already, but sometimes when he swam it felt as though she were still in the pool with him. On those days he could stay in the water for hours.

  ‘What lap’s he on?’ Rosie called out from across the pool.

  Samuel Lightfoot sat back in his chair and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  ‘Thirty-seven at my count.’

  As Rosie laboured around the top of the pool, she shrugged and shot him an unimpressed look. ‘Thirty-seven? Why bother even getting in the water?’

  Sam felt a wry smile tug at his mouth. Rosie Banks traded in sarcasm and irony the same way that lungs traded in air – almost constantly and with little respite. Standing five foot five and weighing north of 260 pounds, Rosie waddled from place to place with all the elegance of someone whose legs had been denied the benefit of knees. She was often rendered breathless by the slightest exertion and it seemed a wonder to everyone – Sam included – that her heart continued to serve her. While some of the others on the estate badgered her about her weight, Sam let her be. He was very fond of her just the way she was. Besides, he knew that Rosie had long since given up on her battle with obesity. It had triumphed over her years ago and, knowing she had been well and truly beaten, she had done the only thing that made sense to her: she had turned it into the running joke of her life.