Ginger Memories

‘HERE WE ARE; I hope you’re happy,’ said Edgar.

‘Do I take it that you are unhappy?’ asked Arthur.

The “Blue” bus chugged to a halt behind the market. The morning rush had ended, and shoppers laden with fresh goods had trekked to restaurants, hotels and homes. Tuk-Tuks queued for fares. The two tourists battled to get more room and squeezed in. The driver worried about the weight, but speaking no English he was lumbered with the pair. Scared he would need to pedal uphill, he was relieved that he could run at least part way downhill towards the beach. His tip didn’t cover the packets of tissues to dry the sweat from his brow.

‘This way, gentlemen, your rooms.’

‘Quick shower, then a few beers at the beach. What do you say?’ 

‘I like the air-con in here,’ said Edgar.

‘Don’t be such a misery. Come one, I must cheer up now that Agnes has passed.’

The pair walked the short distance to the deck chairs in the shade.

‘Beer? Singha, they say, is the best.’ Arthur signalled two. Menus came with their beer.

‘Can I eat that foreign stuff?’

‘Come on, live it up a bit. Whatever, it won’t kill you.’

‘Very funny. You are not allergic to peanuts. How the hell are we to know what is in each dish?’

‘Oh, Christ, what is the problem? I’ll ask.’

Asking didn’t help, and the pictures were pointed at, which was no help.

‘Can you see any nuts?’ asked Edgar. Two plates of Pad Thai were ordered to go with more beer.

‘Fancy a swim?’ asked Arthur.

‘Too hot, I’ll burn.’

‘Come on Ginge, a few minutes won’t hurt.’ Edgar’s ginger hair was now white; it had been for years, but his old friend remembered the school days. By the time Edgar reached the sea, his skin was colouring. He hurried back to the shade and another cold bottle.

The relentless Thai sun beat down on Arthur and Edgar, two Englishmen whose pasty skin screamed of their homeland. Hua Hin's pristine beach offered little solace; the turquoise water mocked their lobster-red faces. Arthur, the elder with a perpetual frown etched on his brow, squinted at the horizon. 'Bloody heat,' he muttered, his voice thick with years of pipe smoke.

Edgar, a year younger and restless, kicked at the sand. 'Wish we'd gone north as we planned. Chiang Mai's supposed to be cooler.'

Arthur scoffed. ‘The air is filthy, and too many backpackers are up there. Here, at least, there's some peace.' A hollow echo hung in the air after his words.

Silence descended again, broken only by the rhythmic crash of waves. Arthur, uncharacteristically quiet, fiddled with a worn photograph tucked in his shirt pocket. Edgar noticed the tremor in his hand. 'What's that, old man?'

Arthur hesitated, then pulled out the photo. It depicted a younger version of themselves, arms around a woman with dazzling eyes, all smiles on a sun-drenched beach. 'Agnes,' Arthur rasped, his voice raw. 'Our honeymoon.' He pointed at the younger Edgar, a flicker of anger replacing the sadness. 'Said Thailand would be a nightmare. Said it was too hot, too foreign.'

Edgar swallowed, the memory sharp. 'We were young then,' he mumbled, guilt gnawing at him. Arthur tucked the photo away, his face hardening. 'She always wanted to come back. See the elephants again.'

Silence stretched, thick and heavy. The rhythmic waves now sounded like a dirge. Edgar, unable to bear the weight of the past, blurted, ‘Let's have another beer, shall we?' His voice sounded thin.

Arthur stared at him, a flicker of something dark in his eyes. 'No, Edgar.' He stood up, his silhouette stark against the setting sun. 'We're not here for a beer or a swim.' He turned, his voice low and menacing, 'We're here to finish what we started.'

Edgar's blood ran cold. He failed to understand the reason for this trip, the reason for the sudden glint of a knife in Arthur's hand reflecting the dying sun. Once a shared dream, the paradise beach twisted into a macabre stage for a vengeance as old as the relentless waves.

‘Eat up,’ said Arthur.

‘What, why?’

‘Because Pad Thai is packed with nuts. Eat it. Or you get this,’ he flashed the blade behind his menu. ‘Eat up and drink up.’

Two more Singhas were delivered as Arthur hid his weapon and signalled for more cold ones.

‘Why? What are you doing to me?’ Edgar’s breath was stilted. A bottle was rammed into his mouth.

‘I never thought about it until I read Agnes’s letter. My son has red hair, like you.’

‘So?’

‘Because he is your son. Not mine.’

‘Of course he’s not. We were mates; I wouldn’t dream of touching your misses.’

‘And my wife’s lover!’ Arthur babbled but started coughing and choking before Edgar could get his words out. Arthur forced the neck of the bottle deep into Edgar’s throat.

Arthur asked for the loo. He walked in the direction of the pointed finger and then carried on towards the hotel. His phone bleeped.

‘Dad, are you there?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I found two sheets of paper on Mum’s bed when I cleared up. One crunched up and one flat sheet.’

‘So?’

‘The crunched-up one was Mum’s goodbye letter to us all. The second one continued with the message, but it looked like it had never been read.’

‘Yes, I read one and threw it away. The first few paragraphs said about how much she loved us all, blah, blah. But then ended with, “I love Ginge…” That was when I chucked it.’

‘But Dad, the second sheet started, “ginger and the scent of ginger, please make sure they cover my body with sliced ginger, so when they cremate me, all will smell great.” We didn’t do that; I feel so guilty; we didn’t comply with her final wish.’

‘Son, why have you got red hair?’

‘What are you talking about? You know Mum’s relatives had ginger hair.’

‘No, they were dead before I met them. And we only had black and white photos.’

‘Well, now, we can colour them on our computer. What is this all about?’

‘Son, I want to say goodbye. I won’t be coming home.’

‘Dad, why?’

‘Because I killed your mum and our oldest friend.’

The END