My Next Great Adventure

A new life begins in this inspiring short story by Nicola Martin.

I’d travelled the world and experienced so much, and it was time I tried something different . . .

THE letting agent handed me the keys ceremoniously, so I could be the one to unlock the door. “Welcome home!” she said, as we clattered inside the flat. She was a petite woman with a bouffant and a big smile.

Home?

I swept the hair out of my face and pasted on a smile. I was ready for her to leave, but there was still the paperwork to sign.

A six-month lease. I hadn’t lived anywhere for six months since I was eighteen.

The woman tucked the paperwork in her bag. The room filled with the scent of watermelon, chased by an alcohol tang, as she vigorously sanitised her hands.

She offered me a dollop and I went through the motions, too.

After she was gone, the watermelon-chemical smell lingered.

My footsteps echoed as I wandered from room to room. There were only three of them – all painted white, with wood-effect lino on the floor – but the flat felt huge.

I dumped my shabby blue backpack on the bare mattress. It contained all my worldly possessions.

During my years of travelling, going from hostel to hostel, I’d fantasised about sleeping in a double bed, taking a bath and making pancakes.

Now that I could actually do all those things, it didn’t feel exciting. It felt overwhelming.

I didn’t have any bedding for my double bed. I didn’t have bubble bath. I didn’t even own a spatula.

I leaned against the kitchen worktop and pulled my phone from my pocket. Georgina answered on the third ring.

“Where are you this time?” she asked, and I could hear her manicured nails tapping against her desk.

It was our usual routine. I’d call at funny hours, lying in a hammock or sitting on the edge of a mountain, and tell her I was in Antigua or Mongolia or Zimbabwe.

“I’ve just moved into my flat,” I told her. “Fancy going to the Windmill? I’ll buy you a slice of lemon drizzle cake and a coffee.”

“That place shut down yonks ago, Zoe,” Georgina told me. “Anyway, I’m not drinking coffee just now. No sugar, either. It’s bad for the baby.”

The Windmill had been our favourite place to hang out as teenagers. It had big red squashy chairs and twinkle lights draped along the walls.

I felt a pang.

“I could come round to yours after work?”

“I’m not having people round,” Georgina replied. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Right. A walk, then.” I left off the question mark.

Georgie had been my best friend since we were five. If I had to stand at one end of a football pitch and shout at her through a megaphone, so that she felt safe from COVID, I would do it.

“Things are so busy at work. I might be able to do tomorrow. I’ll check my calendar.”

I said goodbye to

Georgina and immediately dialled another number. It rang and rang.

That was weird. My dad always answered his phone.

I dashed off a text message.

Want me to come over? I could make spag bol.

I had ulterior motives. I was hoping to borrow some bedding and kitchen utensils.

It would also be nice to see him, do the crossword together, and hear all about the shenanigans at the cricket club (more twists than “Corrie”, that place).

He texted back a few minutes later, as I was hanging up all 10 items of clothing I owned, where they were swallowed by the size of the wardrobe.

No, sorry. Diane’s coming over. I’m cooking.

Dad? Cooking? Was this a practical joke? Dad ate ready meals and takeaways. He didn’t cook.

OK. Have fun, I texted back.

I didn’t know what to make of Dad’s new girlfriend, Diane. I’d returned from South Korea and she was just . . . there.

Her toothbrush was in the bathroom, her colourful blouses were mixed up with his T-shirts in the washing basket.

She had feathery grey hair and watery blue eyes. I didn’t like the way she looked at me.

Maybe I was being stubborn. Dad hadn’t dated anyone since the divorce 13 years ago. I’d got used to the idea of being the most important person in his life.

I did a few yoga breaths and sat down, cross-legged, on the bare mattress. With my laptop balanced on my knees, I checked my e-mails, looking for distraction.

There was a new assignment in my inbox.

I was a freelance writer, crafting deathless prose about wallpaper styles, energy-saving boilers, edible insects you have to try.

It was good for fitting in work around scuba-diving or wilderness trekking.

These days, though, my calendar was completely empty.

A yawning loneliness filled me.

A month ago, I’d been living under lockdown in a one-room Airbnb in Seoul. All I’d wanted was to be back in my hometown, within walking distance of my friends and family.

Now that I was actually back, they seemed further away than ever.

I deliberately didn’t call first, because I didn’t want them to fob me off.

I rapped on the front door, with its peeling red paint, and Baz answered.

He was wearing his supermarket uniform, his thinning grey hair gelled into place. He did not look happy to help.

“All right, Zoe? Your mum’s not back yet.”

“Ah.” I rocked back on my heels. He hadn’t invited me in yet. “What about Finn?”

“Doing his maths homework.”

“I can help him.”

Baz looked at me uncertainly, which was fair enough, because he’d been there during my school days. I’d been more interested in bunking off than attending school.

I produced a winning smile and he stepped back to let me inside.

“Do you mind sanitising?” he asked.

While my dad’s flat was spick and span, my mum’s house reflected the cheerful chaos of her personality. Every room was painted a different colour.

I felt like I was back in the Amazon as I pushed through the overgrown houseplants in the hallway.

I hung my jacket on what I presumed to be the coat rack, but which also might have been a salvage sculpture of Medusa.

I made a mental note to borrow some household essentials while I was here. No-one would miss a spatula, surely.

My ten-year-old brother, Finn, was seated at the dining-room table, surrounded by books. I ruffled his hair and he stared up at me, his eyes overlarge behind thick glasses.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Finn shrugged.

Without the glasses, he actually resembled me closely. That was where the similarities ended.

When Finn was born, I was fifteen and angry at the world.

“Why does he cry so much?” I’d asked Baz.

He’d shrugged and swung the baby back and forth like he was about to pitch him down a bowling lane.

I felt an echo of those old feelings as I pulled up a chair beside Finn.

Up until the moment he’d been born, I’d harboured a secret hope that Mum and Dad might get back together.

Finn was confirmation that they never would.

When he was a baby, I’d been flummoxed by him. The fact that I’d missed most of his life to date made it even harder for me to understand him now.

“Maths, eh?” I said. “Enjoying it?”

I expected him to make a snorting noise, as I would have done at his age.

“Algebra,” he said instead, his cheeks glowing. “It’s like a puzzle.”

“OK.” I picked up one of his textbooks. “Want me to help you?”

I could hear Baz in the other room, whistling. Finn gave me the same uncertain look as his father, eyes clouding over. “If you want.”

When I was in school, I’d experienced such profound temporal instability during maths lessons that someone should have studied it.

In the dining-room, its purple walls closing in, I experienced the same sense that time was slowing down and perhaps even going backwards.

I tried to read the textbook, but it appeared to be written in Egyptian.

Mostly I sat and watched Finn.

He was happy as a clam, working through problem after problem.

I was dying inside. I checked my watch. It felt like I had been here for an hour.

It had been 12 minutes. “Why don’t we take a break?” I suggested.

Finn hesitated and folded his hands over his worksheet.

“OK.”

“Any crisps in the kitchen?”

“I’m not supposed to

Finn seemed excited, but I felt like crying

have them before dinner.”

Blimey, he was well behaved.

“Can you balance an eraser on your nose?” I picked one up and threw it at him.

“You’re silly,” he said solemnly.

“Look, I can do it.” I grabbed another eraser and tipped my head back.

The pink eraser wobbled on the bridge of my nose and then fell.

Finn’s eraser was still in his hand.

“If you could be an animal, what kind of animal would you be?” I asked.

“I’d be an elephant.” I mimed a trunk using my arm. “Or maybe a bear.”

“I’d be a mouse or something small like that,” Finn said.

“A mouse?” I repeated, scrunching up my face.

I regretted my tone immediately, because Finn flashed scarlet.

“Bears are big and mean and aggressive.”

Before I could backtrack, Baz bustled into the room, holding a tablet.

“Coding club’s starting,” he said to Finn.

On the screen, I could see children appearing in rectangles. A couple of them waved.

When Baz set the tablet down in front of Finn, he waved back. He seemed excited, but I felt like crying.

I couldn’t imagine

what it was like to be a kid right now, with everything virtual. My childhood had been filled with street football, Chinese whispers, games of kiss-chase in the woods. None of it was COVID-safe.

While Finn logged in to coding club, I chatted with Baz, which lasted all of 30 seconds.

I’d resented Baz for a long time, for the crime of marrying my mum, and he matched my resentment.

These were feelings we should have outgrown, but it was hard to change.

I didn’t understand Baz any more than I understood my brother.

I left soon after. I didn’t even remember to steal a spatula.

If I were an animal, I’d be a bear, climbing trees and scaring campers. Or a tiger, streaking across the plains. Or a kestrel, wheeling overhead.

The thing I miss about travelling is the sense of adventure, always pushing forward into unexplored territory.

If I ever got bored – if my roommate shouted at me, if my restaurant shift was a drag, if a boy dumped me – I knew I could go to the airport and hop on the next plane.

Over the seven years I’d spent roaming the globe, I’d developed a superiority complex about life in the UK – that grey little island where nothing ever changed.

Whenever I went home for Christmas, everything seemed the same as ever.

Dad with his crosswords and cricket club; Mum with her salvage sculptures; Georgina climbing the corporate ladder and never getting anywhere.

I’d been wrong. While I wasn’t looking, everything had changed.

Maybe I was the one who’d stagnated. Always running, but never really getting anywhere.

The next morning, I went to the park to meet Georgina.

That was one thing COVID couldn’t take away. Parks were lovely: birdsong, sunshine dappling the ground, and that rich green scent everywhere.

A small girl ran past me, holding a gigantic red kite.

I took a lungful of air, stretching my arms above my head.

I sat on a bench, two paper coffee cups resting beside me. Georgina eyed them as she perched on the far end of the bench.

“I’m not doing caffeine any more,” she reminded me.

“Decaf.” I held out a cup and she hesitated. “I sanitised my hands at least seven times, so no need to worry.”

She nodded and balanced the cup on top of her bump.

Georgina was an ashblonde, her hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun. She was chic even in a floral maternity tent.

It seemed like yesterday we’d sat on this very bench, huddling close, pretending not to notice the boys who were fighting for our attention.

Now Georgina was married, living in a grand red-brick house with her husband, Steve. She worked as a buyer for a big clothes chain and her Instagram was full of selfies of her drinking herbal tea and having salads for lunch.

In between sips of her coffee, she chattered on and on. So that, at least, hadn’t changed.

The house wasn’t baby-proofed, the cot was in bits, and Steve hadn’t painted the nursery yet.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

I tried to remain cheery, though her comment stung.

“I don’t even own a spatula.”

“Why do you need a spatula?”

“Pancakes,” I mumbled. She snorted.

“There’s a month to go till my maternity leave and there’s so much to do.”

Her shoulders were up around her ears. “I spend all my time in Zoom meetings.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll –” “What if I go into labour early and we don’t have a chance to do the handover?” Georgina interrupted.

“You’ll definitely be able –”

Georgina swung her body around to face me.

“No offence, but what would you know about having a real job? Real responsibilities?”

I felt like I’d been slapped.

Georgina must have seen my expression, because a second later her face had crumpled and she was crying.

“I’m sorry.” She covered her face. “I’m in the worst mood, sniping at everyone. I’m just so stressed about everything!”

Georgina was the stoical type. I hadn’t seen her cry since Angela McCarthy beat her in the 100-metre sprint in Year 11.

I went to put an arm around her, but she flinched.

I pulled back and stood up, leaving my backpack and half-finished coffee on the bench.

“Come on,” I said, beckoning. “Let’s get grounded.”

Removing my shoes and socks, I breezed across the grass and brought my arms up into a tree pose. Georgina looked horrified.

“The grass is wet!” she exclaimed.

“It feels good.” I wiggled my toes. “Come on.”

It was the same wheedling tone I’d used to persuade her to kiss Declan Sullivan at a party in Year 10. It had worked then and it worked now.

Georgina slipped out of her patent-leather ballet flats and tip-toed across the grass. She made a face. “It’s muddy.”

“It’s the earth. You have to feel its power. Now, inhale deeply through your nose. Bring the breath up, right from your belly.”

“I have a baby in there. It doesn’t leave much room for breath.”

I caught her eye and she was smiling. Even if the yoga didn’t work, that was a victory.

I talked her through a simple routine I’d learned at an ashram in India.

Georgina drew the line at doing sun salutations, but after 10 minutes I noticed her breathing was steadier and her shoulders had dropped.

She checked her watch. “I have to go.” She slipped her feet back into her shoes. “You know, I always thought yoga was for people with too much time on their hands.” I laughed.

“I know.”

“Maybe I’ll watch a few YouTube videos. In my house, though, not on wet grass.”

I shrugged.

“Sure.”

Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she met my gaze.

“Thanks, Zoe. Socially distanced hug.”

She spread her arms wide. From four metres away, I did the same.

We must have looked like a right pair, but I felt the same warmth in my chest as if we’d hugged for real.

“Hey, Georgie,” I said as she turned to leave. “Do you still have that big coat? The fuzzy brown one?”

Georgina looked perplexed, but nodded.

“Can I borrow it?”

Responsibilities.

I knew Georgina had only said it in a moment of anger, but I turned the word over in my mind anyway.

It was true I’d spent the last few years avoiding responsibilities. Why be an adult when you could be Peter Pan, flying off to an exotic locale?

I stopped by the supermarket on the way back to my flat and bought armfuls of home essentials.

Responsibilities didn’t feel so bad when they were fluffy-soft sheets that smelled like baby powder.

At home, I had a long soak in the bathtub, just because I could.

Afterwards, I made

myself pancakes, in my brand-new pan, using my brand-new spatula.

Peter Pan or pancakes? In that moment, I’d have chosen pancakes every day of the week.

Dad rang as I was eating the last bite.

“Hello,” I answered with my mouth full.

“What’s a shallot?” he asked.

“A fancy kind of onion,” I said, swallowing.

There was a clatter of dishes at his end.

“Why doesn’t the recipe just say onion?” Dad let out an exasperated breath. “This cooking malarkey . . .”

“What’s the matter?” I was grinning, but I tried to sound serious.

“The recipe’s listed as ‘easy’, but it has seventeen steps and wants me to use shallots. What’s so easy about that?”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No, no. I don’t want to take up your time.”

Something inside me constricted. I swapped the phone to my other ear.

“Another romantic meal for Diane?” I asked.

“Yeah. Yesterday didn’t go so well. I burned the fish cakes. Ended up splattering the sauce halfway across the kitchen.”

The concern in his voice was heartening. He wanted so badly to impress Diane.

I imagined him putting on his best shirt and placing a red rose in a vase on the table, only to have the cooking go awry.

It was selfish of me to want to keep my dad all for myself. He deserved all the happiness he could get.

“Let me help,” I urged him. “I learned to make arancini while I was in Sicily. Crunchy, cheesy rice balls. They taste great.

“I’ll show you how to make them. They’ll blow Diane’s socks off.”

Dad harrumphed for the requisite 30 seconds, even though we both knew he was going to say yes.

I told him I’d come over late afternoon. I had something I wanted to do first.

A bear hunt.

Finn was trailing behind me, shooting glances right and left, as if convinced I was dragging him into real danger.

He hadn’t been happy to leave his tablet, his games console and his precious maths homework.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

I could hear his trainers dragging against the grass.

We were walking through the park where I’d done yoga with Georgina.

At the far end, there was a patch of woodland, popular with mountainbikers and dog-walkers.

“The Rockies!” I exclaimed. “Or maybe the Appalachian trail.”

“I don’t have my face mask . . .”

“A face mask can’t protect you from bears.” I whipped around and put my hands up like claws.

Finn didn’t look scared. Of course, he didn’t look impressed, either. Well, I hadn’t put on the coat yet.

As grass gave way to soft earth and the snap of twigs, I bundled off my backpack and withdrew the enormous faux-fur coat that belonged to Georgina.

I held it up for Finn to see.

“Do you want to be the bear first or should I?”

Finn made a face.

“I’m not playing dress-up.” “It’s not dress-up! We’re learning wilderness skills.”

I wrapped the coat around me and bent to pick up a handful of mud. I drew war paint on my cheeks.

When I leaned forward and tried to do the same for Finn, he darted backwards.

“Good reflexes,” I told him. “Essential for survival.”

I brushed the mud off my hands and stalked into the woods.

I was a bit hot in the coat, but its streaks of brown and gold fuzz were magnificent.

“What should you do when faced with a bear?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Run away?” Finn looked tempted to put this into practice immediately.

“Never show fear! You’re the warrior, so make yourself known.”

“I’m not a warrior,” Finn said in a small voice.

Had I ever been so timid? Probably, yes.

My first month overseas – working in a restaurant in Valencia – I was scared of everyone and everything.

I thought people were laughing at me when I couldn’t say more than “gracias” and “bueno”. I didn’t understand the buses. I didn’t know what I was ordering to eat.

It was only because I was stubborn that I didn’t run home with my tail between my legs.

I was prepared to bet that Finn, from the same gene pool, would become just as hardy when put through fire.

“What if a bear was chasing you?”

I bared my teeth and lunged at him. He stumbled backward and began running through the trees.

I gave him 10 seconds head start and set off after him.

The breeze rippled through my hair and whipped my coat as I ran.

Above, the chatter and whistles of birds built to an all-out clamour. When my foot cracked a fallen tree branch, it sounded loud as a gunshot.

Finn gave a screaming laugh as he saw me gaining on him.

He swung on a low tree branch. Within seconds, he was over my head, climbing up among the leaves.

“Can’t get me!” he yelled. “Some bears –” I was panting, but I grabbed the same branch that he had “– can climb trees.”

Some bears could climb trees, but grown women wearing heavy faux-fur coats tended to struggle.

I tried to shin up the trunk, but my coat got caught and I fell on to my behind.

Finn’s laughter rang out amid the bird calls.

He was halfway up the tree now, leaning against a

V-shaped cradle.

After the adrenaline of the chase, he seemed to realise where he was.

“I’ve never climbed this high before,” he said, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“You’re a natural.” I dusted myself off and aimed a smile upwards.

For a moment, I worried he might be stuck up the tree, but by making careful, measured movements – like the mathematician he was – he navigated his way to the ground.

Excitement seemed to have overtaken fear.

“Can I be the bear this time?” he asked.

I flung the coat over his shoulders and his cheeks glowed pink.

In between bear chases, I taught Finn everything I’d learned about survival while I was in the Rockies.

Growing up as an only child, I’d always thought siblings were overrated.

The more time I spent with Finn, the more I was changing my mind.

I was already planning more things for us to do together.

I’d lost a lot of things in the last year – my travel plans were on hold indefinitely, and there were friends around the world I might never see again – but at least I’d gained a brother.

The two of us walked back to Mum and Baz’s house, sweaty, tired and mud-smeared. The coat was looking a little worse for wear.

I hoped Georgina would be too busy to notice.

Baz asked if I wanted to stay for dinner, but I had a cooking masterclass to give to Dad.

When I’d first returned home from overseas, my life had felt as empty as my new flat.

Now it felt full.

Not with scuba diving or mountain climbing, but those weren’t the only types of adventures.

I’ll get on a plane again one day, but maybe building a home can be my next great adventure.

The End.