Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
first call I felt something peculiar in my pocket. As the money began to run out on
the phone, I felt for more change only to realise that someone had stolen my elec-
tronic address organiser. I had no other records and couldn't ring my friend back to
finish the call. Three years of accumulated contacts and friends disappeared. I had
AU$100 left, no credit card, and no phone numbers. I spent the evening in a police
station filing a report. At 12 a.m. I boarded a bus for the twelve-hour journey to
northern Scotland.
An eternity later, the bus wound and jerked its way through the Highlands. I
crouched over the toilet bowl in the tiny cubicle at the back of the bus, being
thrown from side to side against the flimsy plastic walls. My body felt limp and
battered. I hadn't eaten in fifteen hours or so, and watched without expression as
the bile dribbled out my nose, down my hairy chin and into the discoloured bowl.
At 10.30 a.m. the bus pulled into the small town of Aviemore. Neil, Bruce's twin
brother, had come to meet me. 'Bruce!' I almost cried out.
Later, as we sat in a café, he broke the uneasy silence. 'Last Thursday evening,'
he said, 'Bruce and I planned a trip for this coming weekend. We told each other
that, yes, we have to get out and spend more time in the mountains and stay away
from the pubs. The mountains, that's where he really enjoyed life.'
From Aviemore we drove across the empty wind-beaten moors to Elgin, Bruce's
hometown. Peering out at the bleak landscape, I recalled battling along this road
with Bruce. We'd been cycling and the rains had come, drenching us to the skin.
When the car came to a halt in Duff Avenue, I approached the house feeling
numb and tired. In the past I had savoured every moment spent with the Coopers.
My arrivals had always been greeted with warm hugs and a celebratory shot of
whiskey. Being around Bruce, no matter what was happening in life, was an uplift-
ing experience.
Bruce's father Sandy greeted us at the door. Almost instantly he broke down and
I went pale.
Inside, Bruce's three-year-old niece, Alexa, giggled and played about in the
lounge room.
Bruce's room stood empty. I walked in and read the famous words of Martin
Luther King stuck to the wall. A pen sat idly next to a notepad with the lid off, still
waiting for Bruce.
'Bruce had fought such a long battle … and he lost,' Neil said softly. It was a
relief to finally give in to tears.
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