`Thanks for reminding me I`ve got nothing. Let`s hope it never comes to your door – which I don`t intend to darken any longer. I`ll take the van away right this minute.` Sylvia grabbed her handbag and strode towards the front-door, shaking with fury and oblivious to Delia`s grabbing hands that sought to hold her back.
`Mum, no! Wait! Where will you take it?`
`I don`t know. I don`t care. The Council Tip, if I have to. What`s it to you? Paul never wanted me here anyway.` She pushed her daughter aside, jerked open the front-door and almost ran across the drive to the car. In her rear-view mirror as she reversed towards the caravan, she could see Delia standing on the doorstep crying, and Paul holding her back. She wouldn`t have made me do this, Sylvia thought – it`s him that`s to blame, she should stand up to him more. But that was perhaps unfair. It`s easy for me to say – she`s the one that has to live with him – for her sake alone, I`ve got to get out of here.
As she struggled with the tow-hitch, Paul came over towards her and, for one moment, she wondered if Delia`s obvious distress had changed his mind. `Can I help you with that, Sylvia?`
`No, you bloody can`t!` She longed to hit out at him, knowing that if once she began, she would not be able to stop. Glorious images flooded her mind, of him falling before her mighty onslaught, yelling with pain, of herself stamping on him, kicking, taking out on him all the pent-up fury of loss for which civilisation and good manners provided no acceptable outlet. `Get away from me now, or I`ll not be responsible.` She hoped he would take heed – finding herself in prison for assault would do nobody any good, least of all herself.
Something in her face must have warned him things were spiralling out of control. He stepped back at once as she rammed home the stabiliser-bar with a final vicious kick, and ran round the car to the driver`s door, slamming it behind her before she drove away. Tom had always hated people to slam doors. Bugger you, Tom Brandon, she told his unseen presence, rejoicing in defying his memory -- I`m not going to think about you today, in fact I don`t want to think about you, ever again -- I don`t feel as if you were my husband at all, and I wish I`d never married you in the first place.
She had still not managed to recall his features in any detail, his thought-processes equally shrouded in mystery -- When you`ve been married to somebody for thirty years, you would think you`d know them as well as they know themselves, but apparently I didn`t know Tom at all -- how did I not realise what was in his mind?-- was I such a hopeless failure as a wife? Had he planned it just to be hurtful, like a public declaration that death was preferable to living with her? Until now she had not dwelt much on the possibility that she might have been as much to blame as Tom for what had happened, and the notion was frightening.
It was only while driving along the main-road leading north-westwards out of the city that she began to wonder what in the world to do with the caravan so unceremoniously removed from her son-in-law`s drive. It was too late at night to gain admittance to a licensed site, and in any case she did not know where to find one. Typical Me! -- I can think of a dozen in the Lake District, or Yorkshire, or Scotland, but you take no notice of the ones nearer where you live. Already she had covered the best part of thirty miles and, in the aftermath of the scene with Paul, she felt suddenly weary and disinclined to go further. She must find somewhere to park overnight, legal or otherwise.
Not for another five tedious miles did she find the answer to her need – a sign indicating that she was approaching the picnic-area at Elishaw. It would have to do, she decided. There were most likely bye-laws forbidding overnight camping in such places, but for the moment she was too exhausted to care. If anyone challenged her, she would plead illness and hope for the best. She pulled into the parking-ground, switched off the engine and headlamps, and lay back in her seat with a feeling of complete anti-climax – what the hell have I done?
The picnic area, empty at this time of night, displayed nothing of its daytime attractiveness. Screened from the road by a towering circle of conifers packed closely together, it took on an eerie and menacing aspect, full of shadows and strange rustling noises that made her uneasy about leaving the safety of the car. Was that movement of the branches only a breeze blowing, or was the Mad Axeman lying in wait? And what was that sound behind her? The bulk of the caravan made it impossible to see anything to her rear.
Irritated with her own spinelessness, Sylvia sat upright to give herself a good scolding. I can`t stop in the car all night – if I don`t get some sleep, I`ll be fit for nothing in the morning, and I`ll need my wits about me then, to decide what to do next. She groped in the glove-box, closing her fingers round the torch always carried there, to help her locate the key to the caravan. If she had it ready in her hand, she could open the door and be inside before anybody had the chance to jump out of the trees at her.
Pushing aside the remaining keys on the ring, she isolated the one she would need first, glanced round quickly and scrambled out of the car before she had time to lose her nerve. The few seconds it took to turn the lock seemed like an eternity. As it finally clicked, she scurried round the caravan towards its door, scrabbling frantically to push its key into place. Over-hasty and nervous, she dropped it, and stood for a moment in frozen horror – I`ve got to pick it up.
In her shaking hands the light of the torch wavered wildly about before highlighting the glint of the fallen key. Scooping it up,. Sylvia rammed it into the lock, and leapt inside, crashing the door shut behind her with an overpowering sense of relief undimmed even by a painful crack on the shin from the portable step lying in the middle of the floor. I`ve slammed another door, Tom Brandon, she sneered -- I know you hate that, but tough! -- it`s my life I have to live now, not yours. She reached above her head to feel for the push-switch and pressed it, filling the caravan with light that raised her spirits at once, in spite of the welter of possessions dumped around her.
Safe at last, she was aware that she was hungry, but a quick search of the van disclosed no supplies except a half-consumed packet of wafer-biscuits gone soft with age, and a couple of cans of lemonade – certainly no feast, but there would be no shops open at such an hour, and in any case she dared not leave the van. It might be towed away in her absence or (far more likely) she would forget how to get back to where she had parked it. Tom had often joked about the fact that she had no sense of direction. For the moment, she must manage with what was available.
Consuming the makeshift meal with a heartiness that surprised herself, she wriggled her way into a sleeping-bag on one of the long seat-cushions without undressing, lay back and closed her eyes. Though supper had been no gourmet affair, she was at least relaxed, no longer conscious of being in anyone`s way.
The light of morning seeping round the edges of the curtain woke her eventually, after the best night`s sleep she remembered having since Tom`s death. Eight-o`clock already! Time she was up. There was a lot to do today – look for a bank and get money from the cashpoint, buy supplies, find somewhere to park up properly, tidy the caravan – the list expanded worryingly.
The sound of another vehicle arriving in the picnic-area sent her scurrying over to the nearest window, to push aside the curtains and reveal an alarming sight. RANGER, the painted warning on the Land-Rover stated. He would be wanting to know what a caravan was doing in this place so early in the day. Hastily smoothing her hair into a semblance of order, she stuffed the sleeping-bag out of sight in the under-bed locker and began pushing cardboard boxes around with as much nonchalance as she could muster. Making a move straight away would look suspicious – if she kept her head, she had more chance of getting away with her unauthorised overnight-stay.
Within moments a sharp knocking at the door of the van betrayed that her fears were well-founded. `Good morning,` the man said, without smiling. `I`m the Forest Ranger.` The Lone Ranger? she wondered, deciding not to test his patience with a joke he had probably heard too often. `Have you by any chance been parked here for the night?`
`No.` Deliberate lying
was new to her, and she hoped she did not look as guilty as she felt.
`Because it`s not allowed,` he persisted.
Sylvia stood aside to let him look inside the van, improvising the first excuse that came into her head. `I`ve just come. I pulled in because I thought I heard something fall over in here. If I was living in the van, would it be in this mess?` With the bed not made-up, no signs of a meal having been eaten, and the untidy jumble of boxes and bags piled up on floor and seats, he had no means of knowing for certain that her story was a lie, although – judging by his frosty attitude – she felt certain he did not believe her.
Unable to find a reason for continuing to question her, the Ranger fell back on recital of the official rules. `These area are meant for cars only. Trailers of any sort aren`t allowed, so I don`t expect to find you still here when I come round again later.`
`You won`t,` she reassured him, with her most charming smile. `And I`ll be able to get out of your hair all the quicker if you can give me some advice. Where`s the nearest place with a Barclay`s Bank in it? Or the nearest petrol-station?` It was lucky she had her cheque-book and a few pounds in her purse, for she would not get much further without fuel.
The Lone Ranger directed her helpfully at once, probably not motivated solely by altruism – the sooner she had the information she wanted, the sooner she would be back on the road, all evidence of her illicit overnight stay gone. With no reason to remain any longer, she drove away, following the directions he had given.
Now what do I do? she thought. It had been all very well to leap into the car and blast-off into the Wide-Blue-Yonder in a fit of temper, but ahead loomed an uncertain future with only one matter settled -- I`m damned if I`m going back tail-between-legs for Paul to patronise me anymore, but what else is there? -- I can`t keep driving around with this thing for ever.
On the other hand, perhaps she could. Thinking of Paul reminded her of his remark about his home looking like a gypsy encampment -- gypsies spend their entire lives driving round in caravans, not being beholden to anybody – why can`t I do the same?
Because you`re not a gypsy, retorted an inner voice sounding so remarkably like Tom`s that she felt compelled to ignore it on principle -- so what, gypsies are human beings too, aren`t they, and what about New Age Travellers?-- they`re not real gypsies either, but if they can get used to this sort of life, so can I. It was not as if she came unprepared, for most of her boxes and clothes were still in the van, thanks to her having been unable to store them inside Delia`s home, and for the first time she blessed that fact.
Yes! she thought with satisfaction -- that`s what I`ll do, for the time being -- I know how to manage on caravan-sites, and if I can stay on one for a week or two while I get my bearings, I`ll have time to organise the van properly and get rid of all this junk. She felt able to view her possessions in that dispassionate light, since Tom had treated both her and their life together as disposable.
A few miles from the Border she found what she was looking for – RedeFields, a small caravan-park set well back from the road, with a splendid backdrop of trees and views of the hills beyond. Perhaps she might go walking in those hills. Tom had liked only the valleys and riverbanks, always refusing the climb to higher ground. Sylvia`s poetic soul stirred at the sight of the fells where, in olden days, the Border Reivers of England and Scotland had made a murderous living at each others` expense, before the Union of the Crowns brought an end to official tolerance of their feuding that had endured through centuries.
Of course it would not do to make the site-owners aware that she was travelling alone. Most of them were inclined to look askance at anything but conventional couples. `My husband`s had to go to Edinburgh on business,` she told the proprietors, marvelling at how adept she was becoming at thinking up good cover-stories, `but he thought, if I could bring the caravan up here, he can come and join me in a couple of days` time. Is that okay?` Fortunately inclined to be friendly, the receptionist accepted her story, and even sent one of the farmer`s sons to see if she was managing to set-up all right.
`Yes, I think so,` she responded, wondering why he could not have arrived five minutes earlier, when she was struggling to release the stabiliser-bar and wishing she had been wearing strong boots with which to kick it free. After a friendly word or two more, he would have moved off until she called him back. `If you wouldn`t mind checking that the gas-bottle`s screwed tight enough to the regulator. Tom generally does that, and I`m not sure I`ve got enough grip in my fingers.`
Obligingly the young man tried the connections and nodded with satisfaction. `Aye, that`s all right. I`ve left it On, so you`ll be able to make yoursel` a cup o`tea once you`re settled.`
`I cannot wait!` Waving him goodbye, Sylvia dragged out the portable step and set about tidying the interior of her new home while the kettle boiled. Boxes containing Tom`s personal papers found a resting-pace in one of the bed-lockers, along with what seemed incredible amounts of linen and kitchenware. I`ll have to find a car-boot-sale and get rid of half of this stuff, she decided -- God knows when, or even if, I`ll ever need it again. Her weatherproof jacket and wellingtons could go in the washroom for the time-being.
The removal of the boxes made the van homelier at once, more like she remembered it from previous holidays. This might be good after all, she thought, feeling brighter by the moment.
With the coming of September, the school holidays ended, and the site was consequently almost deserted. Sylvia used the communal wash-block in preference to the more limited facilities in the van. With no TV to watch, indulgence in a leisurely shower every night before supper filled in time and provided an unexpected bonus. For the first time in weeks, she felt relaxed enough to sleep soundly night after night. The on-site laundry too was useful, though it was strange to watch the washing-machine churning to the accompaniment of birdsong rather than traffic – the site, though so close to the busy A.68, hardly suffered at all from road-noise.
Living in the van was not quite like being in a house. Space was at a premium and entertainment limited. She wondered how she would cope when it came to fitting the next gas-bottle. Also, there was a downside to the quietness – constant contact with her family since Tom`s death had shielded her from the realisation that from now on she would be alone. How would she fill the empty days? Living the free-spending life of a tourist was not an option, all her available money needed for living-expenses. The forest-paths behind the site, though peaceful and beautiful, were desolate when walked alone. It was possible to trek for miles and never meet a soul.
Reflecting on that, she pulled herself together briskly -- why would I want to meet a soul? – if I did, it would probably be Tom, scolding me about how daft I am for doing this -- perhaps I could get a dog for company. On consideration she decided against that. Dogs needed to be walked late at night, and when the countryside was pitch-black, she would feel safer inside the van with the doors locked. But there was a positive side to site-life. With no-one but herself to please, she did as she liked. Tom had never wanted to lie late in bed, but Sylvia lounged until after nine every morning. Telling herself that it would do no harm to pamper herself for a while, she fought against the more uncomfortable reality that she had nothing in particular to get up for.
In the van, housework was minimal. While the weather continued warm, Sylvia sat out in the sun before ten each morning, her few chores done, thoroughly enjoying the laziness of it all. What`ve I been doing, all these years, she thought in amazement -- half of my life spent dusting and scrubbing and polishing, and wiping paintwork – what an absolute waste of time! -- It`s all rubbish!
Why had she done it for so long? Because Tom liked to see things nice? -- if he was so particular, why did he never pitch-in and help? -- then I might have had a career, and a life of my own, a lot sooner than I did -- I`ve wasted enough time on housework already, and I`m doing no more of it unless I feel like it.
The days drifted by, sometimes sunny, sometimes overcast, always tranquil. Everyth
ing would have been wonderful, had it not been for the questions nagging at the back of her mind. Who the hell was Daniel Franks? And why had Tom left so much money to him?
Her thought-processes, slowed down by the shock of bereavement, took several days to home-in on the possibility that the answer might lie somewhere among Tom`s papers at present stuffed into the bed-locker. She brought out the smallest box and began to wade through it, finding nothing but long-settled bills. Trying to lift the second box was more of an undertaking, and she let out a howl of pain as her foot slipped on a loose sheet of paper, banging her shin on a projecting corner, and spilling half the contents of the box on to the floor inside the locker. In springing back, she caught the box against a groundsheet balanced precariously on the front window-sill, decanting it into the locker on top of the stray papers. The resultant mess roused her to fury -- damn you, Tom Brandon, and all this blasted rubbish of yours!
She grabbed as many of the fallen documents as she could reach, and stuffed them back into the box in order to lift them clear for examination. Leaflets advertising exhibitions at the Museum, research notes for "Fresh Aspects of Egyptology" – a book he had dabbled with the idea of writing – and a sheaf of acrimonious correspondence with a reading-club that had regularly plagued him with unwanted volumes until threatened with legal action.
Nothing very informative there. The box and its contents, including the research-notes, came squarely under the heading of Rubbish, and she felt no qualms about disposing of it in one of the site`s litter-bins. Bored with investigating the papers, she abandoned the task for another time when she might feel more willing.
Into the third week of her stay, the site-owners made their first tentative enquiry. `Hasn`t your man been able to get here yet?`
A Long Road Through The Night Page 6
