by the wave as she skimmed the surface of the ocean, white water rushing at the edges, like a pro. She sped on and on, the board slicing through the ocean, white water on either side of her as she burst out laughing. As the wave lost its power beneath her, she skidded towards the shallow waters of the shore, grinning.
She stood up and looked for Johnny. He was further out to sea, waving crazily at her with both arms, astride his surfboard, clapping and whooping at her. She smiled and started to paddle on her board, back out to do the whole thrilling thing over again. It was such a tonic. Being in Bali was giving her a glimpse of the girl she used to be.
17
Olive
They were on a bus. An outing. When was the last time she’d gone on an outing? Well, the last Maybank View outing, obviously, her brain scolded her. She let out a giggle at the ridiculousness of her own thought.
‘All right, Olive?’
It was Kind Clare.
‘I’m fine, pet. Now, where are we going today? To the beach?’
‘We’ve already been through this Olive.’ Clare smiled, putting her hand on Olive’s arm. ‘I’m just doing the roll call to see if everyone who should be here is here. Shout out if you’re here!’
‘And what if you’re not here?’ Olive asked. Clare was looking at her strangely now. She might just be reviewing the ‘Kind’ bit she put on the beginning of her name in her head.
‘Olive, you’re here all right, don’t you worry.’ And then Clare was shouting out lots of other jumbled-up names. Olive couldn’t make out some of them. Lots of names were coming out of Clare’s mouth, only Olive didn’t recognise them.
Where were they going? It was quite fun, really, not knowing where the bloody hell you were off to this time. That part of the disease was a hoot. She caught Claire’s arm as she walked along the tiny passageway of the minibus. ‘Clare, where are we going? I haven’t got my towel.’
Clare sat down beside Olive and patted her knee. Olive pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, wondering as she did so what colour they were. She was determined to remember. Blue or black? She looked at Clare. She had a kind face, soft, apple-round cheeks and a short fringe, which made her look younger than she actually was. Mid-forties? wondered Olive. ‘We’re off to the Ash Art Centre – look, here’s a brochure,’ she said handing her a glossy full-colour brochure showing grey-haired pensioners positioned behind easels.
‘You don’t get carsick, do you?’
‘No. But I might get minibus-sick.’ Olive thought it was a perfectly straightforward thing to say, but both Beryl and George burst out laughing behind her.
She turned around sharply. ‘What are you laughing at? What’s funny?’ She caught Beryl and George exchanging raised looks at each other.
Olive turned towards the window and looked out just as Clare’s warm hand squeezed her arm. ‘Now, Olive, you look at that brochure, will you? We need someone who knows the way when we get there! Did everyone remember an apron?’
Apron? What on earth had she signed up for? She couldn’t cook, and she bloody well didn’t want to learn at her age. What was the point of that? Who would she cook for? Oh yes, Stan. Now, where was he? Dear God, they’d left him behind!
‘Clare! We’ve left Stan! And I don’t want to learn to cook!’ said Olive and something seemed to change with Clare, who tilted her head to one side to look at Olive. ‘But maybe I could cook for Stan,’ she said hopefully.
Clare opened her mouth and then hesitated. ‘Olive, you’re all going to an artists’ studio, where there will be an easel and some still life set up, and all you have to do is paint them – that’s what the apron is for. The artist will be there to give a hand, show you a few tips along the way – and then we’re having afternoon tea in the café. Scones with jam and cream – yum.’
Why did they talk to her as if she were in primary school? Olive sighed and looked out the window.
‘And Olive?’
‘Yes?’
Clare’s brows were furrowed. They were often furrowed, noticed Olive. She would be much prettier if she didn’t frown all the time. ‘Stan passed away five years ago. You do know that, don’t you?’ She squeezed Olive’s arm again. Stan? It was all a muddle, it really was.