As Far as You Can Go

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘How?’ He looks so serious. Four parallel lines across his forehead. Are they new?

  ‘We play along today then we’ll leave. But don’t say, don’t show any sign. OK?’ He looks so unlike himself, so focused. She stares at him. He’s serious. He’s never serious. White hairs threaded through his hair line. More surely than before? The lines round his eyes, the pores round his nose emphasised by dust. A couple of white bristles amongst the black stubble. Soon he could grow one of those badger beards. She sighs and shuts her eyes.

  Twenty-eight

  Cassie curls round herself in the bed. Is he asleep? He’s quiet, breathing softly. She squeezes her arms round herself, excitement, fear and a kind of cringe thinking of the terrible meal. The terrible fist she’d made of pretending everything was normal. Yesterday’s Bolognese burnt and served up with stale bread and a salad with too much onion. Larry had looked at her quizzically but made no comment. He’d seemed so normal she’d almost started to wonder if she had dreamed last night. Maybe it was as simple as her getting drunk and passing out? How could he be so cool otherwise?

  They’d sat on the veranda by the dull light of a smoked-up kerosene lamp with its corona of suicidal moths and bugs. The onions in the salad were wincingly strong, making their noses run. For once there was no wine. The atmosphere had been almost unbearable, contrived attempts at conversation.

  ‘Mara not well?’ she’d tried in the end. She could not bring herself to meet Larry’s eyes.

  ‘She’s recovering.’

  ‘Larry,’ she’d said, ‘you’ve got a radio, haven’t you? I heard it.’

  He gazed at her, didn’t deny it.

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  He sighed, disappointed, and spoke the way you might speak to a tiresome child. ‘It’s essential to Mara’s – peace of mind – shall we say, to believe we’re entirely isolated. But I need a radio, of course I do, to contact Kip for instance, do you think it coincidental that he arrives when he’s needed? Fred too.’

  ‘Why lie about it though?’

  ‘Mara doesn’t know. It would seem … inappropriate for visitors to know things that the lady of the house doesn’t know.’ The lady of the house. ‘It was the whitest possible lie. Now we’ve got that cleared up,’ Larry dabbed his mouth with his napkin, furled it into its ring of bone, ‘I’ve been rather expecting an announcement.’

  He looked from one of them to the other. ‘No? Correct me if I’m wrong but I’ve had the feeling that perhaps you feel that this – experiment – is over. In other words, that you would probably like to leave.’

  ‘Experiment?’ Graham said.

  ‘Cassie’s experiment, to see how you –’

  ‘Not an experiment,’ she said, face burning. The stirrer.

  A great beetly thing, big as a wren, batted itself against the lamp and tumbled on to the table, on to its back, legs waving. Graham tried to right it with his fork but the stupid thing wouldn’t turn over, rocking on the table like a boat, motor buzzing. He brushed it from the table with his hand but it came back, idiotically battering itself against the flickering globe.

  ‘And when would you like to leave?’

  ‘Soon as we can,’ she said, pressing her foot against Graham’s.

  ‘Let’s see.’ Larry put his hands together as if in prayer, placed the points of his fingers under his beard: ‘You want to give formal notice.’

  She sensed Graham practically imploding beside her but he managed to keep his mouth shut and she squeezed his leg gratefully.

  ‘Well – if that’s what we need to do.’

  ‘You realise, of course, that you’ll forgo the agreed sum of money.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You realise that you’ll also be letting me down, not to mention Mara. You have no qualms about that, apparently?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was almost a whisper. She made herself look up into his eyes. ‘We do have qualms but –’

  ‘Your minds are made up?’ He shook his head, laced his fingers together, made the knuckles snap. ‘Very well. I accept. The period of notice I require is two weeks. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ Larry got up from the table and went through the door into the house, leaving them silenced.

  ‘Two weeks,’ she said. ‘Can we stand two weeks?’

  ‘No way. No fucking way.’ Graham turned to her, frowning. ‘What experiment?’

  ‘Oh nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  She took a breath. ‘Just us, whether it could work. You know.’

  ‘Didn’t realise you confided in him.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Has it?’

  She was surprised by the harshness of his voice. ‘What?’

  ‘Worked?’

  She’d pressed her fingertips into her eye sockets. Feeling better but still spaced out. Distanced from him. They were just such different people. ‘Dunno,’ she’d said. ‘What do you think?’

  He’d got up and stalked off.

  There’s a thin shimmer of moonlight leaking though the curtains. Is he asleep? If they could just stick two weeks, then they could leave properly, pack everything, finish off. It seems more sensible. But he wants to go tonight. Typical Graham. Dashing off into the night when they could wait two weeks and do the thing properly. Is he asleep? Doesn’t sound like it, too quiet. More like pretending to be asleep. Two weeks, it’s not much. But he is determined. Maybe she should let him go. But then she’d be more or less alone with Larry. No, no, no. She tucks her hand protectively between her legs. Maybe nothing happened. No, something did. And she wants to go home. They might make it for Christmas. She wants Patsy. Wants home.

  ‘Gray,’ she whispers.

  ‘What?’ He’s as wide awake as she is. Lying there thinking what?

  ‘OK then.’

  He sits up abruptly. Gets off the bed. She sees the small flicker of illumination as he presses the light on his watch.

  ‘Two-twenty,’ he says. ‘Come on then.’

  ‘Were you just lying there waiting for me to say that?’

  He strikes a match and lights the candle. ‘I know where the car key is. We’ll drive.’

  ‘But you haven’t got a licence.’

  ‘You have. And I can drive. Come on.’ She stares as he starts to pull things from the drawers. ‘Come on.’

  She gets out of bed. Shivery. ‘Really? But what if he-catches us?’

  He stops. Meets her eyes with a flinch. ‘He’ll go totally fucking ballistic.’

  ‘What could he do?’

  Graham pulls his jeans on. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Maybe we should just be patient?’

  ‘Come on.’ He goes back to stuffing things into his rucksack. His shadowy face looks serious and scared. He’s never scared. It frightens her.

  ‘It can’t be that simple,’ she says, pulling on her knickers. ‘Can it?’

  ‘Won’t know till, we’ve tried.’

  They haven’t got much stuff. It’s soon packed into their rucksacks. Graham gets his paintings and art things from his studio, moving about with a sort of exaggerated tiptoe like a stage villain. She finds herself giggling, flopping back on the bed. She could get hysterical, can feel the fizziness like someone’s dropped an Alka-Seltzer in her blood. She pulls herself together, goes through the drawers, checking.

  Graham’s already got the passports, tickets, money. Amazingly organised for him. They need water – they can fill a couple of gallon water bottles from the pump. As she wraps her precious photos in a sweater and stows them in her pack her mind leaps ahead: surely they’ll be able to change the tickets at the airport and if not they’ll just have to buy more on Visa. OK, so they’re losing a few thousand pounds. They can do without. They did without before. Even if they have to sell the car and live on lentil stew for months to catch up – lentil stew by the fire in their own home. Sounds like heaven.

  ‘What if you can’t find the keys?’ she says.

  ‘I know where they are. If not I’ll
hotwire it.’

  ‘Gray! Can you do that?’

  ‘Ready?’

  She takes a deep breath, hoicks her rucksack over one shoulder and takes a last look round the room – unicorn curtains, raggy rug, some things she’ll miss – before she blows out the candle and follows him outside. This doesn’t feel real. So underhanded. Almost criminal sneaking off – but they’re not stealing anything (only borrowing the car) and they are free. There’s nothing criminal about it she tells herself, picking through the scrub. A breeze has sprung up. The sky is almost clear, bristling with stars, just a dirty smear of cloud to smudge the waning moon. The pump creaks but otherwise it’s oddly quiet, as if the night birds and creatures are holding their breaths.

  They walk round to the pump and fill the water bottles. Then they stand by the car. Waiting there like an invitation. Graham opens the back door and they put their stuff on the back seat. Cassie stands up, looks at the house for a sign of movement. Thanks God that Yella is deaf. And Mara, presumably, medicated to oblivion. She feels terrible leaving her without a word, just like the others did. She will feel so let down. Sorry, Cassie whispers to her shed door.

  ‘The keys are in the pantry,’ Graham says. ‘Shelf above the door.’ He goes towards the steps.

  ‘No I’ll get them,’ she says, knowing she’ll be the quieter.

  ‘But what if –’

  ‘I’ll say I need a cup of tea – couldn’t sleep or something.’

  ‘But you’re dressed.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  She goes up the steps quiet as she can. Yella is asleep by the door and groans as she pushes him out of the way. Very dark. The fridge hums. She feels around the wall and the table’s edge towards the pantry door. Her fingers meet the fruit bowl – would love to take it but just puts a couple of oranges into her bag. The darkness is absolute, can’t find the door – ridiculous – her hand touches something made of cloth and she jumps, thinks it’s a sleeve, what if Larry – but it’s only a tea towel on the back of a chair. Outside an owl cries and she has to smother a shriek. She steadies herself on the table. Takes a deep breath. Pictures herself going from the table to the pantry, to get some flour say. About three steps and she finds the latch, fumbles, hand sweaty, how would she explain if Larry came in, sleep walking?

  She opens the pantry door. Steps inside, the door swings towards her, creak of hinges, she sticks her foot out to stop it closing. Her heart hammers in her ears. Familiar smell of flour and damp and flypapers. She reaches her hand up, locates the shelf. It’s greasy, dusty, things on it, she can’t see what, feel like dead things, something like a mouse falls down. She yelps, presses the back of her hand against her mouth. Pull yourself together.

  Eventually her fingers meet the keys and she can breathe. Now just get back out. She feels her way, carefully, mustn’t trip now, make a noise. She goes though the door, quietly, quietly with the flyscreen and out. Seems bright out there. Graham silhouetted against the stars.

  ‘Here we go,’ she says, holding up the keys.

  ‘I’ll drive till we get to the road,’ he says. ‘Remember the way from yesterday.’

  They both hesitate a moment, looking at each other’s shadowy outlines over the car’s roof, and get in, gently shutting the doors. A very long time since she’s been in a vehicle. The pine nip of air-freshener. They sit there a moment.

  ‘Go on then,’ she says.

  ‘You realise, if it doesn’t start first time we’re totally fucked?’

  ‘I know.’ She stretches open her mouth, jaw aching with tension. ‘Go on.’

  He looks sideways at her as he turns the key. The engine surges, he moves the gear-lever to Drive and the car slides off. Cassie breathes out. Not too noisy. Though surely noisy enough. With no lights, Graham steers unsteadily out across the land towards the track, cricking, cracking sounds of things driven over, the scrabbling of bushes, a harsher crack as he hits a stump. But is is OK. Behind them, the kitchen light comes on, the door opens, a figure appears. But they are off. Cassie feels a sudden thrill.

  ‘You may as well put the lights on,’ she says. ‘We’re off!’

  Graham puts on the lights and yellow floods the grey-looking pocked land, the dark bushes ahead.

  At least it’s an automatic, easy to drive. Hasn’t driven for ages – never did pass his test but when he was younger he didn’t let that bit of red tape stop him. He frowns at the land in front, not the track, a patch of scrubby bushes; go much further like this and they’ll blow a tyre. The scrub tugs and hisses against the underside of the chassis. Surely it wasn’t this far to the track? Must get this right. But there are no pointers, no landmarks – though there are the ghosty gums glowing palely to his right as they should be, must be nearly on the track. Won’t breathe properly till they are on that track. Talk about responsibility.

  Cassie shrieks, ‘Look out!’ as a kangaroo leaps from nowhere through the lights, white haunches a sudden shock.

  Graham squints ahead. A stand of bigger trees. Does he recognise them? Everything different in the dark. He negotiates some looming things, rocks, knows where he is then, just about, and then at last, the car lurches up over a lip on to the track. He stops the car a minute, wipes the cold sweat from his forehead.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘We should be OK now.’

  ‘I never do stuff like this!’ Cassie says and grins at him. He sighs and rubs his stiff neck before driving off, easier now, down the track and on to the dirt road. Remembers Fred turned right here, so does the same.

  ‘An hour or so and we’ll hit the highway I reckon,’ he says. His heart sinks as he notices the petrol gauge. Empty it says, but they are going along, aren’t they? It could be shot. If there’s just enough to get them to the road then they can stick their thumbs out.

  They drive in silence for a while. He searches his memory for details of the drive. Why didn’t he pay more attention? But he does remember before the turning on to the road a wind-pump surrounded by trees. Won’t be visible till they reach it, not in the dark but when he sees that looming shape he’ll know they’re right. Longs for that sensation of smooth metalled road beneath the tyres – then even if something went wrong they’d be OK. Got thumbs, can hitch. His eyes scour the dark, the splay of scrub lit by the headlights, for clues.

  ‘What did you do?’ Cassie says.

  He frowns at her.

  ‘When you went off.’

  He tells her about Ziggy, the bus, the lake. She laughs when he describes Ziggy’s dress sense. ‘I really wanted to get back, Cass,’ he says. ‘I had no control.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she says and then goes so quiet he wonders if she’s fallen asleep. He glances at her, pale hair, smooth cheek, in the darkness. Will not ask about Larry, not now, he grits his teeth, his jaw aches with it. Will not ask now, maybe not ever. He forces his mind away from that. Tries to calculate how many days, if all goes well, till they’ll be home. Maybe three? And what will he do then? The painting he started, that idea. It comes to him that it is crap. Couldn’t show that to Jas or to anyone. Come all this bleeding way for nothing then. Pissing away his talent, Jas would say. Knob. And even Cassie – maybe he’s not up to it. Up to the responsibility. That word. Maybe he would always let her down. Let everyone down. He thinks with a pang of his mum and dad. That old aunt, whatever her name was, she’ll be dead by now, for sure. The car slides – loose surface.

  Cassie leans over and squints at the clock on the dashboard. He keeps his eyes away, doesn’t want to know – but surely they should have hit the junction on to the road by now? Time does play tricks though. He concentrates on driving slowly and as smoothly as possible on the rutted track.

  ‘When we get to the road, how long?’ Cassie asks.

  ‘Told you, a couple of hours.’

  ‘We’ll be there by five. Hope they’re open.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘There’s no way he could catch up with us, is there?’ Cassie says. ‘I mean, he hasn’t g
ot a car now and even if he has got a radio they wouldn’t get us before we got to the roadhouse and even if they did they couldn’t force us to go back.’

  ‘No.’ Another kangaroo appears in the headlights, this time trailed by a joey. Graham decelerates almost to a stop, watching their fantastic elastic bounce.

  ‘Don’t you feel like we’re in a film or something?’ Cassie says. ‘You were right. About leaving.’ She puts her hand lightly on his thigh. ‘Wait till we tell everyone –’

  ‘Wait,’ Graham says, feeling she might jinx them with this premature crowing, ‘wait till we’re at the roadhouse. Till we hit civilisation.’

  ‘Civilisation! I’m going to have bacon, eggs, hash browns and iced coffee.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s the first thing you’ll do when we get home?’

  ‘Go down the pub and have a pint.’

  ‘You’ll go out?’

  ‘Why, what will you do?’

  ‘Go round the house I think, just touching everything. Then I’ll get my hair cut.’

  They drive on in silence for a while. No stand of trees, no wind-pump, no junction. Feels like he’s driving down a tunnel, just can’t see. It just goes on and on.

  ‘Do you really know how to hotwire a car?’ she asks.

  ‘Reckon so.’

  She gives him a look that’s almost admiring: ‘England’s going to feel so small and safe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ They go quiet. Thinking. The track is going downhill. He doesn’t remember any downhill. Wonders whether to switch off the engine to save fuel. But surely there was no downhill? There was more a sense of rising he remembers. And it’s looping to the right, is that it? Doesn’t remember any looping to the right. A patch of ghost gums floats above the ground, strange lit-up hieroglyphic shapes. The bush getting denser. Must be a watercourse somewhere near. And the track is deteriorating. Two deep channels and looser sand. It’s hard not to get bogged, the loose sand slewing the steering. Hard graft just keeping it straight. A tight ache starts between his shoulders.

  ‘Or maybe a milkshake,’ Cassie says, suddenly. ‘Want me to drive for a bit?’