One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [25]
It seemed to me his hair had grown to his shoulders and he wore white flowing robes; a halo round his head. He was saviour, no doubt about it. I was working for a saviour, who’d come down to earth in the body of Johnny Depp.
He was swinging the wheel about expertly now, negotiating some winding country lanes, the sun on his face. It occurred to me I had my own vocational family member to draw on.
‘My brother, Kit, feels like that. Giving something back and all that. He’s in Bosnia.’
‘Really?’ He turned, surprised.
‘Working for the International Red Cross. He’s eighteen.’
‘Good grief, that’s brave. Even though they’re diplomatically protected that’s bloody dangerous.’
‘I know.’ I felt myself clench inside instantly. I didn’t want to be told Kit was brave. To have his danger confirmed by one who knew. In fact, I wished I’d kept quiet. But Kit had rung last night, and was therefore on my mind. I turned to stare out of the window to ward off further conversation; tried not to think about my little brother, whose gap year adventure had turned into a nightmare.
A month in Florence had been the plan, plus a couple of weeks travelling round Italy, with a boy from school. But this boy’s cousin worked for the UN, and he’d announced, when the six weeks was up, that he was going to cross the border, to help his cousin in Croatia. The ICRC needed volunteers, he said, and he couldn’t look at any more Botticellis or knock back any more Bellinis while fifty miles away – fewer, even – a war was going on. I remembered the boy: very bright, focused, heading for Oxford; knew he’d be shot through with conviction. Kit, conversely, was a blithe, handsome, possibly even frivolous soul, certainly unencumbered by any social conscience, but he’d gone along for the ride; for the craic as they say in Ireland.
‘Can you imagine how this will look on my CV? How many other fledgeling ad execs with have “Aid worker in Sarajevo” he’d said down the line to Dad from Florence. ‘Looks a bit grittier than work experience in Harrods, don’t you think?’ He’d got an awful lot more on his CV than he’d bargained for.
Most of the time we heard nothing, but when he did ring, he sounded strained, far away. Last night he’d got me on my mobile and we’d made a show of chatting about incidentals, Laura’s new flat, his sunburn.
But then he’d said, apropos of nothing, ‘Did you know that there are concentration camps out here?’ his voice attempting to be airily matter-of-fact. ‘That’s what they say, anyway. The stories you hear, the ones that come out…’ he’d faltered and I’d sat up very straight. ‘And us lot, the Red Cross. God, it sounds great, doesn’t it? Red Cross – like the Seventh Cavalry or something, roaring in with ambulances. But it’s tiny, minuscule. And… and anyway, what can you do?’ My little brother. Sounding terribly lost and far away.
I gave myself a little inward shake as I sped down the lanes in Dominic’s Alpha Romeo, brambles brushing the sides of the car. Tried to dispel all gloomy thoughts of camps and ambulances. I didn’t want to go there. Where Kit was: a dusty, war-torn country, awash with despair. I wanted to be here, now, beside my attractive new boss in his sexy convertible, on the way to his sumptuous country pad: I wanted life to be optimistic and glowing with possibility.
After a bit the lanes got narrower. One, I noticed, even had grass growing down the middle. We were well off the beaten track.
‘Here we are,’ he announced, as we turned off through an open five-barred gate.
A pink house, long and low, thatched and creeper-strewn, with roses crawling round the two bay windows either side of the front door sat centrally in a gravel sweep. It was beautiful but modest. Not a sod-off house, but a comfortable family one, the sort of thing Laura and I would have given our eyeteeth to grow