They drove to Poum to celebrate being alive. That was Margery’s idea. She went with her hair dyed: that was Enid’s. Margery did not want new hair, she liked her hair the way it was, but Enid had flown into a rage when she said no—she absolutely refused to go to Poum unless Margery changed her hair—so Margery had caved in. She caved in mainly because they needed to eat something that wasn’t Spam or bananas. Enid had one last bottle of bleach left, and the transformation of Margery’s hair took thirty minutes. She’d had no idea you could do so much damage to a human head in so little time. Her hair was bright yellow. Her eyebrows, by contrast, seemed dark in an evil way. She looked like a child killer. Enid, however, was oblivious to that. She was delighted.

“No one will recognize you,” she said.

Yet another Enidism that made no sense. Even if no one had noticed Margery before, they couldn’t fail to spot her now. But it was not the time to cross Enid. It had been nearly a week since the cyclone, and she could pass from happy to preoccupied to fierce in the space of a jiffy. Also, she tried to hide it but she was unsteady on her feet. It wasn’t just her belly that had swollen, but her neck and wrists and ankles. She carried herself like a pot of water that she didn’t want to spill. It could take ages for her to get down the steps of the bungalow, and her pockets were weighed down with shiny stones and feathers for good luck. She refused to see a doctor, even though Margery said they had enough money to drive back to Nouméa.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she would say. “I’m pregnant. It’s not an illness.” In an ideal world, she’d have spent all day on the veranda, talking babies and knitting tiny clothes.

Whenever Margery suggested getting back to the expedition, Enid agreed, then came up with a good reason as to why they shouldn’t: either the mist, or Margery’s limp, or just a feeling she had that this was not the right time. But ever since the cyclone, the weather had been beautiful. The sky was a clear blue, like the inside of a shiny bowl, sunlight fanning between the trees, and the air was as clean as a knife. Margery often stood gazing at the mountain, the two prongs at the top that she knew now resembled a pair of chimneys. She watched the clouds pass overhead, their shadows crossing the land beneath, or the early-morning sun—a slice of gold rising above the horizon, taking shape and spilling light like treacle. Despite the constant pain in her calves and hip, she was impatient to get back.

Enid borrowed Margery’s best frock to go to Poum because everything she had was too tight. Her hair wasn’t so yellow anymore—it was laced with black—but she’d overdone it with the makeup. She didn’t look evil, as Margery did: more like a woman who’d been at the same party for three weeks. Now she hauled herself into the jeep. Maybe it was the purple frock but she seemed massive. She’d put on her pom-pom sandals as well. They seemed tiny.

“Are you sure you’re fit to drive, Enid?”

“I’m not an invalid, Marge.”

She asked Margery to look after her handbag and yanked the jeep into first gear. Then she drove at an incrementally slow pace down the track, traveling all the way to the left side to avoid the smallest holes on the right. They weren’t so much driving as treading water. It would have been quicker to hitch a lift with a tortoise. Even trees had more movement.

Margery had barely seen the boys from the shantytown since the cyclone. They had visited the bungalow a few times, once trying to sell her eggs—she’d bought them to feed Enid—and then trying to sell her Enid’s old battery radio. She didn’t want the radio so she gave them chewing gum and sent them packing. Now, when they appeared, shouting, “Hi-ya! Hi-ya!” they didn’t even need to trot to keep up with the jeep, though, out of politeness, they went backward just to give Enid a fair chance of getting ahead. Meanwhile she clung to the steering wheel and sat with her seat jammed forward, peering at the dirt track as if it were the middle of the night.

“You think I’m a bad driver.”

“I have never said that.”

“You think I’m not safe.”

“Enid, we couldn’t possibly hit anything, even if it lay down on the track and waved a flag.”

Enid stamped on the brakes. The shantytown boys crashed into one another, like dominoes. “That’s exactly what I mean. You’re criticizing me.” She began to cry.

“I think you’re the best driver in the world.”

“You do?”

“Yes. But I think you need to eat something. You look starved. Also, there’s something I need to speak to you about.”

“Are you saying I can’t be a mother?”

“No, Enid. You’ll be a wonderful mother.”

“Do you think my baby’s all right?”

“Of course your baby’s all right.”

“I love you, Marge.”

“Thank you, Enid.”

“I never had a friend like you.”

“Thank you.”

“You saved my life. You saved my baby’s life. You never forget a thing like that.”

“Enid, I just did my best. Can we drive to Poum now? It would be nice to get there before dark.”

Enid smiled like an angel, put the car into first gear, and on they went.

The shantytown was still strewn with palm leaves and debris, and its inhabitants were busy fixing their roofs and walls. It struck Margery how little she’d understood when they first arrived. The mud huts and sheds looked as they did because they had withstood cyclones. Poum was the same. Buildings were covered with tarps and ropes, like wrapped gifts. It was not a scattering of ramshackle sheds. It was a small town that knew how to survive. They went to the café, where the owner greeted them joyfully as if they had just returned from war, and ordered a feast: a plate of fried oysters, boiled mud crab with fire-red claws, bright yellow lemon chicken with yams, and a salad of choko and sliced pawpaw.

Margery wanted to take Enid to lunch because she had news to break to her, and she felt safer doing it in a public place. She’d been dreading saying it, but it could no longer be avoided. She’d been thinking carefully about the expedition and, from now on, Enid would have to stay behind at the bungalow. It was far too dangerous for her up the mountain. There might easily be another cyclone, and if Enid fell she could lose the baby. Clearly Enid was in conflict: she needed to find the beetle because—having lost so many pregnancies—she was trying to make this one different. But she was ignoring her physical condition. So Margery would take the decision out of her hands. She was going to dose herself up with aspirin for the pain and do the rest of the expedition on her own. She would return every few days with new specimens; Enid would rest. She’d be safe and she’d have her dog for company. No harm could come to her. Then in February they would go back to Nouméa—possibly not in the stolen jeep—and she would make one last attempt to complete her unfinished paperwork before they began the journey home.

However, when Margery had carefully planned this conversation, she hadn’t carefully planned it with Enid on the receiving end. It was so much easier to have difficult conversations with Enid when she wasn’t there. Now that they were sitting at the table, Margery couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Enid talked nonstop. A crowd of old men gathered, setting up chairs just to watch. For every mouthful of food, she said about fifty words. Margery found herself taking deep breaths on Enid’s behalf.

“Marge, I never had someone like you. I never even had my own family. I wish I’d known my mother.” Gulp. “I think a mother would have told me what to do. She would have loved me. That’s what mothers do.” Slurp. “I was just passed around other families. But the men always got ideas. You know what I’m saying?” Swallow. “And the women didn’t believe me. They treated me like I was trouble and got rid of me.” Slurp. Enid cracked open a crab claw, scattered more salt on her fried oysters, and crammed them into her mouth, one after another. “Perce was the only person who was kind. We had such fun. I know he liked the lads an’ that, but it wasn’t about sex for us. We were pals. He said being a mother was my vocation. I wish you could have met him. Don’t you want your chicken?”

“No, Enid. You have it.”

Enid took Margery’s plate and tucked in to a drumstick, then went on to the subject of the beetle. She couldn’t stop saying what a great team they were. She couldn’t wait to get back on the mountain. She knew this time they would find it. She had her free hand on her belly, and she patted it like a kitten on her lap. Even in the time they’d been eating, she seemed to have got more pregnant. Then she said, “What was the thing you wanted to speak to me about?”

Margery reached for her glass. There was nothing in it, but she drank it anyway.

Enid started talking again. “No one else would’ve stuck by me. But you’re my friend, Marge. The thing about friends is that they don’t give up on one another. We’re a team. We’re stronger together than we are on our own. We are going to find the beetle, and then I will have my baby.”

The inside of Margery’s head bent, like a spoon. She thought she had learned things since meeting Enid, but once again she had that feeling of being in something that was too big. “Enid, the beetle has nothing to do with your baby. Don’t you see?”

Enid reached for Margery’s hand. Her grip was a vise. She might be an expectant mother, but she could still really hurt a person. “I know it is. My baby won’t be safe until we find the beetle.” Even when she let go, her hand still seemed to be round Margery’s. “We have to find it, Marge. We still have time.”

There was nothing Margery could say. In the absence of anything holy, and probably also in the absence of much that was kind, Enid had built her entire world around superstition. It would be as hard to knock it down as flatten a cathedral.

Enid finished the chicken and soaked up the sauce with an entire basket of bread. Then she laughed as if she’d just thought of something funny. “When you said we should come to Poum, I thought you were going to tell me you wanted to do the rest of the expedition on your own. I know I’ve been holding you up these last few days. I know I’ve been difficult. And up and down, too. I know I’ve been up and down. The truth is, that cyclone put the wind up me, Marge. But I’m ready. Now that we’ve had this lovely feast, I’m ready again. I’m sorry I doubted you. It’s because I’ve had too many bad people in my life. But you’re different. You and Perce. You’re the only good things. We came out here together, Marge, and we’re going to finish this together, too.” At this point, Enid pulled out her handkerchief and burst into tears.

Margery couldn’t take any more. She trudged inside to pay the café owner. Seeing her, he did a double take, as if something terrible had landed on her head and he didn’t like to alarm her. In all the tension, she had forgotten about her hair. Her eye drifted to the window and found Enid, caught in a bright slant of sunlight as if she were lit up on a stage. Enid had picked up a newspaper and was leafing through it in a hurry. She read with a strange, terrified look on her face, holding it at arm’s length like something she could not bear to look at too closely.

But the café owner was still talking in French to Margery. He seemed to be asking her a question. He kept doing a mime of someone searching for something. Then his hands shaped the silhouette of a very thin person, and he did another gesture, pointing at his own thick hair and then shaking his head, as if he was trying to say he had lost it. Or maybe he was referring to hair dye again. She had no idea. Besides, she was trying to work out what was going on with Enid. She had two people who made no sense, one inside the café and the other out.

By the time Margery made it back to their table, the newspaper was gone. Enid scrambled to her feet, closing her handbag.

“Did you find a British newspaper, Enid?”

“No.” She didn’t even flinch. Instead she made a salute. “Enid Pretty reporting for duty!”

Mr. Rawlings turned and began to bark at nothing. This should not have been odd: he was a dog after all. But Margery had never seen him do anything in his life that was even vaguely doglike, except trot after Enid with his tongue hanging out. Enid picked him up and covered him with kisses. “What’s all that fuss?” She laughed. “What’s all that fuss, you silly dog?”

Margery watched Enid, dressed in the purple frock that was so big on her it trailed the ground, and her tiny sandals. Behind: the ramshackle sheds and buildings, the old men, the tall pines, the odd goat. The sky was a pure spangled blue, with the outline of the peak firm against it. It was one of those moments when you see a person you know as if you’ve never seen them before. Maybe it was just the way she was caught in the sunlight or the brilliance of the sky. Whatever it was, the sight of Enid gathered up Margery’s breath and hit her like a graze or a rip in the air. Once again, she had changed. Enid was not the woman who had leaped off the jetty on that first morning in Poum. She had entrusted Margery with her life. She had followed her to the other side of the world, then up and down a mountain. And seeing her now, in the terrible old frock, Margery felt a rush of tenderness. So even though she knew in her heart it was the maddest thing she had done yet, she gave in. Of course, she would take Enid with her.

Mountain: here we come.