The island of Popayan came into view, and soon they were descending over a crystalline turquoise sea towards white coral beaches and greenery. The little plane landed with a horrifying bounce, then veered off the unpaved airstrip and turned right over a rickety wooden bridge, quite as if it thought it was a bicycle, before coming to an abrupt halt next to a rusty red pickup truck and a wooden sign which said WELCOMETOPOPAYAN:DANIELDEFOE’S ORIGINALROBINSONCRUSOEISLAND.
There was a problem opening the door. The pilot was tugging at it from the outside, and inside a hippie backpacker was staring at the handle with unhurried fascination, poking at it from time to time as if it were a caterpillar. The blond guy got up, moved the hippie, gripped the handle, put his forearm against the door and opened it.
“Thanks, man,” muttered the backpacker sheepishly.
Someone had left a British newspaper on a seat. Olivia grabbed it eagerly. Outside, as they loaded themselves into the back of the pickup, she sniffed the clear air appreciatively and looked around.
It was fun sitting in the back of the truck with all the backpackers. They bounced along a sandy track, then hit the main street of West End. It was like a cross between a Western movie and the Deep South. The houses were clapboard, with porches. Some of them had swing seats, some of them had battered, comfy-looking sofas. An elderly lady with white permed hair and pale skin, wearing a yellow tea dress, was walking along with a parasol, a tall, extremely good-looking black guy a few paces behind.
Olivia turned back to the truck and found the blond man looking straight at her.
“Where are you staying?” he said.
“Miss Ruthie’s Guest House.”
“You’re here,” he said, leaning over and banging on the driver’s door. She saw the muscles beneath his shirt. He jumped out to help her down, unloaded her bag and carried it up the steps to the green wooden porch. “There you go,” he said and held out his hand. “Morton C.”
“Thanks. Rachel.”
“You’ll be all right here,” he said, shouting over his shoulder as he jumped into the back of the truck. “See you at the Bucket of Blood.”
Spots of rain were starting to fall as Olivia knocked on the yellow door. A warm smell of baking wafted out. The door opened and a very tiny old lady stood before her. She had fair skin and red-gold hair in curls and was wearing an apron. Olivia suddenly felt as if she were in a fairy story and she would go inside to find a wolf in a red-hooded sweatshirt, several dwarfs and a beanstalk.
“What can I be doing for you then?” The old lady’s accent had a strong Irish lilt. Maybe it was true about the Irish pirates.
“I was wondering if you had a room for a few nights.”
“To be sure,” said Miss Ruthie. “Come in and sit yourself down. I’ll get you some breakfast.”
Olivia half-expected a leprechaun to hop out and offer to help with her case.
The kitchen was constructed entirely of wood and painted in a fifties mixture of primrose yellow and pixie green. Olivia sat at the kitchen table as the rain hammered down on the roof and thought how making a home is nothing to do with a building and everything to do with how different people make it feel. She was sure Miss Ruthie could have moved into Feramo’s minimalist Miami penthouse and still managed to turn it into Snow White’s cottage or the Little House on the Prairie.
She ate a breakfast of refried beans and corn bread from a plate with two blue stripes, which reminded her of her childhood. Miss Ruthie said there were two rooms available, both looking out over the water. One was on the first floor and the other—which was a suite!—was on the top floor. The first room was the equivalent of five dollars a night, and the suite fifteen. She chose the suite. It had sloping ceilings, a covered deck and a view on three sides. It was like being in a little wooden house on the end of a pier. The walls were painted pink, green and blue. There was an iron bedstead and, in the bathroom, wallpaper which sported a repeat motif saying I love you I love you I love you. Most importantly, the toilet paper was folded to a faultless point.
Miss Ruthie brought her up a cup of instant coffee and a piece of ginger cake.
“You’ll be diving later, will you?” said Miss Ruthie.
“I’m going straightaway,” said Olivia. “As soon as I’ve unpacked.”
“Get yourself down to Rod’s shack. He’ll take care of you.”
“Where is it?”
Miss Ruthie just looked at her as if she was mad.
Olivia took the coffee and cake on to the deck with the newspaper and lay down on a faded flowery daybed. There was a story headed AL-QAEDALINKINALGECIRASBLAST. She started to read, but fell asleep to the sound of the rain bouncing down on the calm waters of the bay.