You Must Be Sisters

by Deborah Moggach

  ‘Stop! Stop! No entry.’

  Mac flexed himself in the doorway; he was gripping the lintel, the lighted room behind him. She hesitated and peered through the angle of his limbs barring her; she could see nothing but the unmade bed.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ God, everything was unreal today. Wasn’t he going to ask where she’d been all afternoon?

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he said. ‘Go on. No cheating, my sonner.’

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘Now I’ll lead you in. Promise not to look. You must see him from the right angle.’

  Cringing behind him, she let him lead her into the room.

  ‘It’s a surprise, you see,’ he explained. She felt his hands on her shoulders as he stopped her, then a dramatic pause. ‘You can open them now, my sonner.’

  He had actually lit the fire. The flames cast a flickering light on to the place where the hearthrug would have been if they’d ever bothered to get one. Also on to a large cardboard box that stood there.

  ‘Go on. Don’t be shy.’

  She hesitated. To add yet another shock to the day suddenly seemed too much of an effort. By now, had she any reactions left?

  ‘Go on. Open it.’ Mac was watching her expectantly, so she knelt down and pulled open the flaps of the box. Her heart turned over.

  Crouched down in the box, it stared up at her with bulging eyes. Horror (what were they going to do with it?) fought with a surge of love. Her very own rabbit! And a black and white one, too. She hadn’t had one since she was a child.

  She picked it out of the box; it was deliciously heavy. Her heart melted as she felt the softness of its belly and the fragile elbows of its front legs. It didn’t struggle but allowed itself to be held in her arms, simply.

  She lowered it on to the ground where it sat for a moment, quite calm, sniffing the floor and then lifting its head with its beautiful enquiring ears; the firelight glowed through them and she could see their tracery of veins, the miracle of them. Round its face sparkled its busy whiskers.

  ‘How about him, Laura?’ Mac was watching her nervously. ‘Like him?’

  ‘I think he’s the most beautiful rabbit I’ve ever seen,’ she said truthfully. ‘When did you buy him?’

  ‘After – sort of lunchtime today. I had a drink with – you know – some of the lads, and when we came out we were going past this, like, petshop, and I started talking about you liking animals and all, you know. Especially rabbits, I said. So they said let’s just look at them inside, and we saw him and they said why not buy him; for you. As a nice surprise, like.’

  Mac, mellow, a few pints inside him, blinking in the sunlight as he shambled out of the pub. A bit maudlin, boasting about her to his mates as they wandered down the street trying to focus on the shop windows that kept dancing before their eyes. Straining with vague good intentions towards her; also a bit soppy about a nice rabbit sitting all lonely in its cage. She could just imagine it. Booze, or dope, or even neither of them; he need be under no influence but his own. How infuriating, how endearing, how typical!

  ‘So I thought, why not?’ he said. ‘We can take him for walks. I can fix up a cage. Just like a baby, he is, without the hassles.’

  She froze. Just for a moment she’d forgotten about that. How could she possibly tell him now, while he was watching the rabbit as a fond parent would, a pretend parent, as it lolloped round the floor exploring the place with bright eyes and busy whiskers? Damn and blast, why did he always have to do such nice things at the wrong time. Such very nice things; and yet such hopeless ones.

  She sat down weakly. Claire. Yes, Claire was the one. Claire could help her; she would go there, for how she needed her!

  A few minutes later Mac went out. He was going to Hal and Min’s old house to get some wood for a cage. As soon as the door closed behind him, Laura darted to the chest of drawers and filled a case with clothes. She rummaged in her bag; £3. Hardly enough even to get to London, but somehow she felt hesitant, even repelled, by the thought of using her cheque book, for wasn’t it her father’s money that she would be drawing? Today for once she felt compelled to act independently. She would hitch.

  The rabbit had been put back and she heard rustling noises in the cardboard box. The softest of noses, black and whiskery, poked out between the cardboard flaps. Amongst the fur she saw its nostrils breathing. She didn’t like to look at that soft face, nor those nostrils, for she was leaving and she would be having an abortion.

  Yes, she was sure of it. Despite the ache for Mac that, now she knew she was going, tore her insides, pulled at them as if a strong hand was inside twisting and tugging. She went into the bathroom to fetch her things. She looked at the bath which she and Mac had often shared, natural as children; oddly sexless they’d been, scrubbing each other with scarcely a linger. She gathered up her things and picked up her copy of ‘Sons and Lovers’ that Mac had pinched to read on the lavatory. He’d got to page 23. She closed it; she felt a pang that he couldn’t finish it; silly, but she did.

  Back in the room the fire had died down. She snapped her case shut. The rabbit was restless, she could hear it moving about in its box, bulkily turning in the small space; she didn’t look, though, in case she saw that nose. Nor did she look at the room. Nor did she even write a note, for how could she explain it in a note? She just picked up her stuff and left.

  The university clock chimed five as she hurried down the hill. It must have been nearer six before she had walked through the centre and had seen, between the buildings, the big blue signs for the motorway. It was a long walk, and past her, blowing fumes and dust into her face, swept the cars of the rush hour commuters. Her suitcase weighed her down and as she walked she kept her eyes on the piece of ground the next step ahead. Sometimes it was pavement, sometimes sooty grass, damaged grass littered with rubbish.

  As she drew nearer the motorway it reduced in width, edging her further and further into the road. This was not a place where people walked; the rubbish was the sort that is thrown from passing cars. The edge narrowed down until finally it was just a rim of concrete lining the motorway approach road. A stretch of non-space between town and motorway, a no-man’s-land where no human foot is presumed to tread. A windy frightening place. Ahead, separated from her by a flyover and glinting traffic, she could see the blue sign for EASTBOUND: M4 LONDON. But how could she get to it?

  She trudged along the verge, her case – oh so heavy! – bumping against the steel barrier at every step. The cars were crowding her; the verge was too narrow. It was difficult to keep her balance.

  ‘Coo-ee!’ She jumped. A belch of exhaust fumes. ‘Fancy a bung-up, then?’

  A car swept by, blowing her skirt up. She choked in its dust. The words drowned in the roar of the traffic. Waving arms, staring eyes; she could see the people turning round and laughing at her; then the car was swallowed up into the mass of others.

  She felt trapped on her concrete strip. Sliding streams of cars … how could she possibly get on the right bit of road for London? Some of the cars slowed down and she could feel people staring at her, but she kept her eyes on the ground. She felt sick, as she felt every evening now that she was pregnant, and the exhaust fumes nauseated her. Those slowing-down cars – she felt humiliated by them and knew they were inspecting her laddered tights and her thighs that kept being revealed as her dress blew about in the wind. Especially they were inspecting her thighs. She couldn’t hold her dress down; the wind from the cars kept blowing it up again. She could conceal nothing. Oh her little room, her rabbit, her Mac!

  ‘Cunt!’

  A horn blared. Exhaust belched at her. She regained her bit of verge.

  It seemed to take an hour to walk from one gigantic sign, towering above her, to the roundabout that it indicated. Miles of no-man’s-land stretched in between, miles of her narrow rim with its odd blackened and buffeted plant clinging to it. They made her feel sad, those plants. She got to the roundabout. She edged her way to what seemed the right exi
t, walked down it and found herself at last on the wider edge of the proper approach road. She put her case down and stood there, thumb out.

  Minutes passed. Hours, it seemed, passed. The sun had gone down and it was getting chilly. She shivered. Hundreds of cars passed; many of them slowed down to look at her but none of them stopped. On the ground beside her lay the contents of an ashtray, like spilled sick. She looked down at the stubs. Who had smoked them and where was he now – Wolverhampton? Crewe? She couldn’t keep her eyes off the stubs spilled by this passing male – she was sure it was a male – forgotten by him as he speeded off, but lying scattered here on the grass to nauseate her.

  Yes, her pregnancy was like that, wasn’t it? No miracle, nothing to do with Mac or with passion. Just spilled seed. That’s how she would think of it. Hardly connected with him at all, for didn’t aching miles of concrete separate them now?

  She looked up. A car had stopped and a man was leaning across the passenger seat towards her. Before she could gather her thoughts he had stretched out his arm and swung open the back door for her suitcase. Then he swung open the passenger door and she got inside.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ she said with a little laugh. Her voice startled her; she’d said nothing for hours. She glanced at him. An unmemorable sort of face; an anonymous man, another spiller of seed.

  ‘Going far?’ he asked.

  ‘Just to London.’

  A silence. ‘But this is the road to Birmingham,’ he said.

  Laura swung round and stared out of the window where the EASTBOUND: M4 LONDON sign was passing underneath. Their car was taking them up over another flyover.

  ‘You’ve got on to the wrong road,’ he said. ‘This is the M5. Would you like to be put down?’

  ‘No, no.’ The clear road stretched ahead. What did it matter? ‘No, I don’t mind, I’ll go to Birmingham.’

  The man’s face, she felt it, turned round and looked at her. She turned away; she looked out of the window and gave her little laugh. ‘Er, it’s just as easy to get home from there, you see.’

  ‘Ah. Where do you live then?’

  ‘Somewhere between the two.’ She might as well be a dweller in no-man’s-land, an inhabitant of nowhere, for wasn’t she on her own now? Truly alone. She might feel like running home, back to sympathy and a place defined on the map, but fate and the motorway had declared otherwise. She would have to forget those little nests.

  ‘Er, you’re a student then, I take it.’

  ‘Sort of.’ She was a nothing person, in limbo.

  ‘Ah. Part-time, perhaps.’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘And it’s home for the holidays, I expect.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Yes. Well.’

  The air was tense. He was thinking of something to say. She wished he would shut up and leave her alone. She wanted to think. She had a lot to think about.

  ‘Yes. I expect funds get a little low at this time of year.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I have the same trouble myself sometimes.’ He laughed. ‘Funds, I mean. Don’t we all? You know, inflation and all that.’

  She gave her little laugh and stared out at the landscape, willing him to stop asking these silly questions. It was almost dark by now. Headlights were being switched on, blacking out the surrounding countryside.

  ‘Yes. Well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And you have some brothers and sisters?’

  Honestly! ‘Two.’

  ‘Brothers or sisters, or perhaps one of each?’

  ‘Sisters.’

  ‘Yes. Well, that must be very nice.’

  A pause. ‘Er, younger or older?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Ah, I see. So you’re the middle one. Best of both worlds, perhaps!’ His enquiring little laugh.

  She didn’t reply. Good God, they had miles to go. Was he going to keep this up all the way? This was the last thing she needed, this awful invasion of her privacy just when she had so much thinking to do. How could she get him to shut up?

  ‘Yes, well it must be very pleasant to come from a large family. Three of you, all sisters together, it must be really very nice.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Very nice. And do they all have such beautiful legs?’

  She froze.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with an apologetic little cough. ‘I’m afraid I can’t keep my eyes off them.’

  She didn’t move. Frozen, she stared into the blackness. There was a long, long silence in the car, broken only by the rhythmic moan of the windscreen-wipers, for it had begun to rain.

  He cleared his throat. ‘It’s all right, dear. I won’t touch you. Not unless you want me to, that is.’

  A pause.

  ‘Er, but there’s no need to sit right over there like that, you know.’

  She couldn’t turn and look at him. She couldn’t move. Was she going to be sick?

  ‘Really, dear, it’s quite all right. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.’

  She couldn’t speak, her mouth was too dry. And her hands – she kept pulling her skirt down over her knees – her hands were trembling. Her jumble sale dress was so thin, of such silky stuff, the shape of her thighs was obvious but she had nothing to cover herself with.

  ‘Come along, dear.’ He patted the empty space between them. ‘Do sit a little nearer.’

  ‘Er. No thank you,’ she managed to say at last.

  ‘All right. I won’t force you, you know. Of course I won’t.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to hold my hand?’

  She wasn’t looking at him. She kept her eyes fixed on the blackness outside the window. The cold metal of the door handle was pressed against her thigh and she could press herself no further.

  ‘It would be nice,’ he said.

  She felt fingers touching hers. ‘Stop it please!’ she whispered. ‘Could you stop it.’ Silly words, refined.

  ‘I would like it so much.’

  His fingers were lightly touching hers; his, too, were trembling, just slightly.

  ‘It’s just a little thing,’ he said. ‘It won’t do you any harm.’

  His fingers curled round hers, holding them tightly, squeezing them. His hand was hot and moist; trembling too.

  ‘I must get out!’ she whispered, but no sound came out. His fingers started rhythmically squeezing hers. Harder and harder he squeezed. It started to hurt.

  ‘Let me out please! I must get out please!’ she whispered, just audibly. She couldn’t stop being polite. But oh God he was so polite!

  ‘Really, don’t be frightened. Wouldn’t you like us to hold hands, dear, just like this? It is so nice. I do so enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick. Let me out please! Now!’ Her voice broke. ‘Now!’ she shouted.

  His hand stopped; he let go. The car was slowing up.

  ‘I’m not well, you see,’ she said, suddenly apologetic now he’d stopped. She stumbled out on to the verge and bent over. The rain trickled icily down her neck; she could hear the soft moan of the windscreen-wipers and the murmur of the engine ticking over. Lights flashed by, spraying her legs with water.

  He had not got out of the car. It was too dark to see him, but he must be sitting in there waiting for her to finish. She couldn’t vomit. She wanted to, it was surging up, but she couldn’t. It rose and then sank. She could only stand there, bending and humiliated. Was this being independent, this utter and terrifying vulnerability? He could do what he liked with her. Beside this flashing, roaring motorway nobody would see. They were both but another pair of headlights in the night, stationary headlights perhaps, but who was to notice? Anything could happen and nobody, absolutely nobody, would know. She was somewhere in the nameless Midlands and not a living soul knew where she was. Except him, of course.

  ‘You all right, dear?’ From his voice he must be leaning out of the car looking at her.

  ‘I’m just not well.’ The tears came, chokingly.

&nb
sp; ‘Get in, dear. Don’t be worried. Come along.’ She could hear him patting the seat.

  And slowly she climbed back in. What else could she do? Start running?

  He let out the clutch. ‘I think you need a nice cup of coffee, don’t you? You’re soaked.’ He patted her thigh. ‘Yes, really soaked.’

  His hand remained there a moment while she sobbed. She fumbled for a handkerchief.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and took his hand away. He opened the cubbyhole, took out a box of tissues and gave them to her. His hand returned not to her thigh but to the wheel. He indicated and drew out into the traffic.

  She blew her nose; he cleared his throat. ‘Feeling better, are we?’ His voice was bright. ‘I hope so. We’ll pull in at the next service station. That should do the trick.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Really dreadful weather, isn’t it,’ he went on. ‘So chilly. When I saw you beside the road I thought – she really must be freezing in those clothes. Just a slip of a girl, I thought.’

  She blew her nose.

  ‘Looks so lost, I thought.’

  The hand remained on the wheel, she could see it out of the corner of her eye. But she stayed pressed up against the door.

  ‘I do hope you’re not too wet.’ His voice was staying bright and enquiring. ‘We don’t want you catching a chill.’

  Could he possibly be pretending that nothing had happened?

  ‘No, I’m all right, thank you.’

  ‘That wouldn’t do at all, would it.’ So polite, he was!

  ‘No, I feel much better, thank you.’ So she was.

  Soon lights loomed up through the rainwashed windscreen. He indicated to the left and slowed down into the service station.

  If it had been a film, she reflected later, he would of course have ravaged her in the back seat and then strangled her with her own laddered tights. Then she would have been dumped behind a clump of landscaped motorway conifers. But it wasn’t a film; it was too humdrum and too real for that. She was just an ordinary girl like a million others who, that night, were participating in some tepid pick-up; some lonely, sad, unlikely little scene not too different from this one.

  They stopped in the car park. She hesitated before getting out. Should she get her suitcase? If she did, she could leave the man here, but then what? She’d only have to chance it with another one, another pair of headlights in the darkness.