In order to find a new beetle, Professor Smith had told her once, you needed three things. The first was knowledge. You needed all the knowledge you could get your hands on. Second, you needed to be where you thought the beetle was. Last, you needed courage.
Staring at the bungalow, Margery felt every drop of it evaporate.
“Oh, Enid,” she said.
“Fuckadoodledoo,” said Enid.
The clue was in the name: the Last Place wasn’t just the last bungalow on the track. It was the last place in the world anyone would want to live. They had collected the key from the café in Poum—the owner was possibly the biggest man Margery had ever met, and also the hairiest. He had clasped Enid and Margery in his arms as if they were long-lost daughters and roared something in pidgin French that had made no sense to either of them but turned out to be an insistence that they must eat. He’d brought them a giant plate of cooked prawns and lobster, then pointed the way. After that they had followed a dirt track past a shantytown where a gang of small boys raced alongside the jeep, dressed in scraps, waving madly, shouting madly, and holding up a selection of domestic animals—mainly flapping ones—that they appeared to want to sell. After another few miles, the track had petered out completely, and there was nothing but the bungalow. It was surrounded by thick, high elephant grass and kauri trees as tall as towers. The two-pronged mountain loomed just behind.
Enid cut the engine. No sound other than a million trillion insects.
This was no bungalow, or at least not the lovely British kind. It was a wooden hut standing on stilts six feet off the ground, with broken steps that led to a broken wraparound veranda. The roof was a mishmash of tiles, tarp, and banana leaves, while the door was held in place with a broken padlock; the key in Margery’s handbag was a red herring.
Enid leaped out of the jeep and went ahead, clinging to the rail with one hand and holding Mr. Rawlings with the other. Margery trudged behind.
Inside, the bungalow was in better structural condition, though it was piled with rubbish and the smell was foul. From the veranda, they entered a long room with a cupboard-sized room next to it, and behind that they found three smaller rooms that opened off a narrow passage, each with a moldy bed and a window. The running water was mainly what it said: gaps in the roof that let in rain, and some wonky pipes; the bathroom facilities were a lavatory attached to another pipe that went straight to a hole in the garden.
“I’ve seen worse,” said Enid. “Yes. I’ve seen worse.”
“When, Enid? When have you seen worse?”
“During the war, Marge. I saw a lot worse. At least it’s nice and private. At least it’s out of the way.”
“Out of the way? Even hermits would avoid this. Nothing’s lived here for years.”
Untrue. Clearly a lot of things had lived there. It was just that none of them were human. Margery tripped over a tin can, and a flood of cockroaches came out. Dead insects were collected everywhere in powdery piles, and paper curled off the walls, half chewed. A thick web filled an entire corner, loaded with flies, like a serial-killer spider’s pantry. There was even the bottom half of a bird.
“It doesn’t matter, Marge. We’re not living here. We’ll be up the mountain in our tent.”
“But this is our base camp. It’s where we store our collection. It’s where we come every week to clean up and refresh supplies.”
In time, Margery would love this place, just as she would love the view as she sat on the veranda with Enid after another week of hard toil. Sunsets like a sky of geraniums. A mosaic of light and shadow on the trees. The sky snowing butterflies. She’d make Enid some eggs and fetch a bucket of water for Enid’s feet, and they’d sit together watching the sky turn purple. Later, as threads of cloud laced the moon, Enid would shout, “Look, Marge! That’s a beetle-shaped one! Make a wish!”
But right now Margery hated it. She was furious with herself for getting it wrong, furious with this filthy hovel for not being a well-appointed bungalow. She even kicked it, which was silly, really, because her foot went through the floor, causing a hole with a six-foot drop beneath it, and that was just another thing to deal with.
Outside, a bird gave a squawk, like a person being slowly strangled.
Enid became a different woman. Literally. She pulled off her frock and, in no time, was in a leopard-print bikini with an apron round her middle, running backward and forward. She was like Miss Lovely Legs on turbocharge. (“Don’t you think you should put some clothes on?” said Margery. “Marge,” said Enid. “Relax. No one’s looking.”) Followed by Mr. Rawlings, she lugged water in pots from a freshwater creek beyond the bungalow. She pulled from the jeep anything that vaguely resembled a cleaning object, and by the afternoon she had scrubbed every inch of the bungalow with water and pink soap, not stopping once to lie down, or even say very much. She hauled out the pieces of scrap iron and pushed an old mangle over the veranda. She collected a load of cigar butts and porn magazines, and made a fire of them in the garden, then scrubbed the bungalow a second time until it smelled almost entirely of pink soap. She caught an assortment of lizards in a net and took them to the other side of the track, where she set them free, convinced that lizards were either too obedient or frightened to cross roads. (They followed her straight back.)
In the garden, she found two old cane chairs that she hoicked up to the veranda. There, she said, it would be possible to rock gently and admire the view, not because they were rocking chairs but because they had dodgy legs. She dragged two mattresses out to the balcony and whacked them free of dust and mildew, then made up the beds with sheets from the jeep and mosquito nets. Now that it was semi-clean, the bungalow seemed much less frightening. She said a table could go here, the hurricane lamp there, perhaps some shelves. It was as if Enid, with all her bashing and scrubbing, had jolted it back to life. And Margery, who had for most of the day followed Enid in a completely useless way with a broom, and attempted to make something edible out of yams—which was so awful that even insects steered clear of it—now carried heavy items up from the jeep. Somehow in all of this she had become Enid’s assistant. She had become her assistant’s assistant.
Enid drove to Poum for nails and matches, and returned with a selection of boys from the shantytown—“They wanted a ride”—as well as an old rug. The boys came into the bungalow and made a thorough inspection of all their camping gear. They touched the tent, the hammocks, the Primus stove, the pots and pans. Enid handed out chewing gum and sent the boys packing, though they came back later, trying to sell her a goat. Enid said no to the goat, but did her expert mime of the gold beetle, which the boys enjoyed so much they returned yet again with lots of friends and a selection of clown beetles, as well as a giant coconut grasshopper that was the size of her hand. It took more chewing gum to get rid of them. She put her Miss Lovely Legs trophy on display, and nailed up her picture of the Baby Jesus, with his fat legs and fat feet, a look of sweet pleasure on His face, as if He was full of milk.
So it was that Enid, who had been wildly sloppy on the RMS Orion, became passionate about this hovel she now shared with Margery. By the end of the day, there were two semi-habitable bedrooms at the back, a makeshift kitchen, and a washing line in the garden. She even found a sheet of old hardboard under the bungalow and repaired the damage Margery had done to the floor, though it would always be a weak spot. To avoid a fatal accident she put the rug over it as a reminder.
“Look!” she said. She was covered with insect bites, like spots, all over her back. “Look, what I made you! A study!” She bounced to the little room at the front, swatting things as she went.
For the first time in her life, Margery stood in her own study. Through the window, ferns the size of trees bowed as if welcoming her, and the air was laced with pine. Enid had already unpacked the naphthalene and the wooden trays for storing specimens, as well as Margery’s books. She’d even donated some of her empty bottles and jars.
“Do you love it?” she said.
Margery was overcome. It was possibly the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her. She had no idea how she deserved it. And she didn’t know if it was because she was dressed in shorts, like a man, but Margery took in that view and got the strangest sense that everything she wanted was ahead and available, so long as she was brave enough to claim it. Then she thought, No. It’s not because I am dressed as a man. It’s because I am a woman who is ready for adventure. I’m not here because I am someone’s wife or sister. I am here because this is what I want, and now I have a place for my work.
She said, “I love it. Thank you, Enid. I love it.”
It took ages to get to sleep. She was nervous about the next day and in the dark the room felt even more alien, and then she had to move the mattress because something was chewing the roof directly above her head. Clearly it wasn’t enough to worry: she also had to lie awake worrying because she was worrying. But she must have drifted off in the end because she was woken by Enid asking if she was asleep.
“I had a nightmare, Marge.”
Margery struggled to switch on her flashlight. Moths with wings like paisley shawls flapped out of nowhere and banged uselessly against the walls. Blue moonlight poured through the window and lit Enid as if she were a ghost. The night was quiet.
“What was your nightmare, Enid?”
“I dreamed I only had a year left to live. It was terrifying.”
“But that was a dream. It wasn’t real.”
“Supposing it wasn’t? Supposing it was one of them things?”
“A premonition?”
“Yeah. Suppose my head knows something, and I don’t.” Enid plumped herself on the end of the mattress and drew her knees up to her chin, but her foot kept jigging. Even in stillness she was full of movement.
“I don’t see how a dream could be a premonition, Enid. I don’t see how your head would know a thing like that.”
“Well, it put the wind up me, Marge. How could I have a baby if I only have a year left to live?”
“But you don’t have a year left, Enid. You’re young.” Enid was the most alive thing Margery had ever met. Like grabbing hold of an electric current.
“I’m twenty-six, Marge.”
“Exactly, Enid.”
“My time’s running out. What were you doing when you were twenty-six?”
“Nothing, really. Research.”
“Exactly. You were fulfilling your vocation.”
“Your dream wasn’t a premonition, Enid. You’re just nervous because we’re going to start searching tomorrow. I’m nervous, too. It’s natural.”
“What would you do, if you only had a year left? Would you keep looking for the beetle?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you want to be a mother?”
“But how could I look after her if I only had a year left? Who would love her when I was gone?” Enid flexed her toes. She stared as if she hadn’t seen them before. “What about if you had a month? You’d still look?”
“Yes.”
“One day?”
“What about it?”
“If you only had one day, wouldn’t you want to give up?”
Margery shook her head. She didn’t even think. But Enid sighed. “If I had one day left, I’d give up on my dreams. I’d just want to hold another human hand.”
Margery stared. Enid was telling the complete truth. She remained lit by the moon, jigging her toes, her hair almost white, her arms slick with sweat. Faraway thunder rumbled; a flash of lightning struck the room. And despite the closeness of the air, sharp pimples stood out over Margery’s skin because she saw that Enid knew herself far better than Margery did. The fact was that she had no idea what she’d do if this was her last day on earth. Probably dig a hole and wait for the end, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much. And it hadn’t really been true to say she was fulfilling her vocation when she was twenty-six.
She said, “We should sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.”
“Can I stay with you? I hate being alone.”
“If you like.”
“Will you tell me about them beetles? Like you did on the ship?” So Margery told her about the African Goliath beetle, as big as a hand. The flightless bess beetle; the blue Lepicerus inaequalis, so tiny it could pass through the eye of a needle. Enid was snoring in minutes.
But Margery couldn’t sleep now. She sat, head bowed. All she could think of was Professor Smith.