Free One More Time by Damien Leith Page B

children without their father, and a lifetime of insecurity and hard work. It was sobering.
    We decided on turns in the shower. I was first.
    ‘I think the shower might be little cold,’ Mani hinted as I made my way there, towel and clean clothes in hand.
    ‘I don’t care,’ I replied. ‘I’ll take anything that’ll even half wash this day from me.’
    I stood naked beneath that icy shower, the blast of water teasing already aching skin, and shrieked my arse off. If anyone heard, they would have thought that I’d lost my mind, but it seemed the natural thing to do. Bollock naked in one of the poorest countries in the world, at an altitude that was too high to support reliable electricity, in a town overrun with terrorists—and my only real concern was for a hot shower. Whenthe shrieks had subsided I imagined myself cooling down, on a hot beach somewhere in Africa.
    Harold’s Bay was the place, a small beach hidden quietly away along the garden route at the base of South Africa. With huge cliffs either side, Harold’s Bay was our family’s favourite beach when I was a kid, and we went there every week. We had moved to South Africa for my dad’s work, and I think he took to the lifestyle better than anyone else. He loved South Africa, especially Harold’s Bay. Even in winter Dad took us there. He adored the water and often spent hours out swimming, letting his working week drift away.
    With our Irish skin, the summer sun made it too hot to stay baking on the sand, and the ocean was the best retreat to cool off in. Wading contentedly in that deep blue sea, I’d think of Ireland, where it would be winter. And afterwards, on cold nights back home in Ireland, or winter’s days standing at a bus shelter hoping that the next bus wouldn’t be full already, memories of that beautiful place could always transport the senses to a different plane—just as they did today, again, in Nepal.
    ‘How was the water?’ asked Akio as I emerged from the shower.
    ‘Lovely,’ I replied without hesitation.
    When I heard the gush of shower water and Akio’s loud girlish scream, I smiled to myself.
    In the living area of the teahouse, Mani was in deep conversation with an elderly Nepalese man. They were standing together, speaking Nepali, but stopped as soon as I entered the room. The other man turned to look at me.
    ‘You from Ireland?’ he asked. ‘I have good friend from Ireland.’ He was a short, portly man, with a weathered face and a slight limp which showed as he approached me.
    ‘He from Kerry,’ he said. ‘I help him when he trek here.’ From his pocket he pulled out a wallet and, after a moment of searching through various pieces of paper, he presented me with a tear-out from an envelope. Handwritten on it was ‘William Clancy, Tralee, Co. Kerry’.
    ‘Ah, this is your friend,’ I said, trying to sound interested.
    ‘Yes, he sometime write me, he sometime send me money. We both good friends, maybe someday I go to Ireland to meet with him again.’
    ‘Ah, very nice.’ His mention of money increased my reserve. But there was nowhere to hide.
    ‘When my friend was here in Nepal, he fall very badly. It was winter. I am masseur, all types! Every evening I come around to each teahouse in Ghorepani, offer my services. That night he was here.’
    It was amazing how his English improved as the conversation progressed! Within no time at all I had heard the entire story: how William injured his leg in a dreadful fall and how the man massaged his leg back to perfect health and then guided William back down the mountain to the comfort of Pokhara.
    ‘Ever since then, we been good friends,’ he continued.
    ‘That’s brilliant,’ I said, trying to give an impression of sincerity. An awkward silence followed, during which I could sense that the man wanted me to say something—like ‘Maybe I could do with a massage!’ or ‘What would one of those marvellous massages cost?’ Instead I sat down and began to set up a