In an HGV park in a service-area, she risked making herself a hot meal. Cooking in such places was absolutely forbidden, but she was too strung-up with weariness to care. As service-areas went, it was a reasonably attractive. Some over-sentimental planner -- in the apparent belief that even the soul of a lorry-driver must sometimes yearn for beauty – had surrounded the parking-area with rampant flowering shrubs. Unfortunately the effect was not altogether what he had hoped for – the mingled aroma of sweet-briar, honeysuckle and hot-oil was profoundly displeasing. Sylvia closed her window to shut out the stench, noticing with amusement that most of the lorry-drivers still with their vehicles had done exactly the same.
Two more of them came strolling into the parking-ground, chatting amiably, unaware of being watched. As the peculiar aroma hit them, first one, then the other, looked up and sniffed the air. With expressions of disgust, they retreated to safety behind the closed windows of their vehicles. Laughter welled up inside her, painful unstoppable laughter that made her jaws ache and her eyes stream with tears. Laughing like this could send me unhinged, she thought in terror, fighting for control of herself. The incident had not been amusing enough to cause such unnerving mirth.
The shrubs reminded her of how much she missed her garden at the museum. Were the new occupants of the flat keen gardeners? Would they let the euphorbia spread at will, as she had done? What had they put in the hanging-baskets? Would the one single tulip push up between the flagstones of the back-yard again, an uninvited guest? Small heartaches, for which all the wild beauty at her doorstep could not entirely compensate.
Don`t be so silly, Tom said coldly from somewhere just beyond the fringes of her vision. His voice was so clear that it seemed impossible he was not really with her. If only he had spoken with similar clarity about things that mattered to their relationship, while there was still time.
Perhaps in his own way he had tried to do so. Looking back, all the signs had been there, if she`d had the wit to read them. Long silences, lack of communication, avoiding her company -- did he blame me because I made something of myself in spite of him? -- should I have guessed how he was feeling? -- perhaps I really did shut him out of my life.
To work off her bout of blues, she decided to make a real effort to tidy the caravan, aware that the conditions she was living in were contributing to her low state -- how feeble am I? -- what would Tom think of me, living in a pigsty like this?
Pleased with her outburst of initiative, she caught sight of an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city. During the day the van could stay there, conspicuously labelled "GONE FOR CAR REPAIRS – BACK IN AN HOUR", to provide an explanation to anyone who might believe it to be any of their business. It would be best to look the place over first, to see what it was like. Swiftly, so as not to lose her nerve, she signalled the left-turn and whisked the caravan into the yard and out of sight behind the buildings -- if they ask why I put it right round here, I`ll say I was frightened it would get pinched if folks could see there was nobody with it.
The yard, overlooking a backwater putrid-green with algae, was not the most salubrious of locations. Its surface of cracked concrete and gravel-covered mud was pock-marked with watery potholes too large to be puddles, too small and shallow to count as ponds. On the walls of the derelict building, graffiti blossomed in glorious colour, like obscene flowers blooming above a litter of smashed pallets, empty beer-cans and shards of concrete drainpipe. Even the stripped earth of the riverbank looked dirty. This country is a mess, she grumbled -- it didn`t used-to be like this -- when did it start to happen, and why didn`t we notice in time?
Unhitching was easy now, after so much practice. Sticking up her notice in the van`s front-window, she headed back along the main road towards a point where she remembered having seen a Sainsbury`s store, congratulating herself on her cleverness.
Her journey there was not accomplished as easily as expected. Ahead of her, the traffic had come to a halt in horn-blowing chaos. More patient, Sylvia waited patiently for several minutes, until curiosity overcame her. Winding down the car window, she beckoned to a passing pedestrian. `Has there been an accident, or something?`
The elderly man grunted sourly. `No. It`s the demonstration.`
`Demonstration?` Sylvia got out of the car to look past the obstructed vehicles. Strung out across the road, a group consisting mainly of women, young and old, armed with push-chairs and toddlers on reins, blocked the passage of the traffic in both directions, shouting at the tops of their voices and brandishing banners. What was it all in aid of? Given her need for stimulating companionship, this was too good to miss. Leaving her car in the line growing longer by the minute, she set out on foot to investigate further. As she approached, the slogans that had been mere red and black daubs became readable. HOW MANY MORE? - RE-ROUTE BUSES NOW! - PROTECT OUR KIDS. At the edge of the crowd, she attracted the attention of the nearest group of women. `What`s the demo about?`
`A little lad eight-year-old was killed here last Wednesday.`
Sylvia felt a constriction of the heart. `Oh, poor little soul! What happened?`
`It`s these bloody buses,` a grandmotherly-looking demonstrator explained, gesticulating rudely at a horn-blowing van-driver. `Hold your water, you! Kiddies` lives`s more important than wherever you`re going.`
`He was crossing the road to get to school,` another of the women explained, `and one of them damned buses pulled straight out of its stop, right in front of a builder`s van. The driver swerved to miss it, and didn`t see the poor lad crossing the road till it was too late.`
`Of course the bus driver sayed it wasn`t his fault. They always do,` the first woman butted in, unwilling to be deprived of her story. `They get away with murder, so we`ve started this campaign to try and stop them coming down here altogether.`
The thought of that little child who now shared with Tom the answers to the great questions of eternity filled Sylvia with a surge of anger at such waste, bringing her to a sudden decision to help them. In the cosy flat behind the museum, she would never have contemplated doing such a thing – Tom`s staunchly-Tory soul would have found demonstrating in the street completely unacceptable. But the quiet well-ordered world of the museum was no more, and nowadays she belonged in quite another.
The driver of the leading bus, losing patience, took matters into his own hands, beginning to push slowly forward, amid a chorus of boos and catcalls. Almost without thinking, Sylvia found herself standing among the demonstrators, shouting their slogans, singing their songs, filled with overpowering determination that the bus must not pass through their lines -- there`s been more than enough death -- I cannot do anything for the little lad, or for Tom, but perhaps we can stop this happening again.
The bus continued inching forward until she could see nothing but that great square red front beneath the windscreen. If his foot slips, Tom and me`ll be back together sooner than he expected, she thought, wondering why she felt so utterly calm. "We Shall Not Be Moved", she sang, arms linked with these complete strangers. The feeling of being with so many like-minded people united in a common cause was uplifting, almost like a religious experience. For the first time since Tom died, she did not feel alone.
Eventually the police appeared to order the demonstrators off the road. Deeming it best to comply, Sylvia drifted away with the less-dedicated members of the crowd and made her way back to the car. Within minutes they were on their way again.
At Sainsbury`s, she bought supplies, and returned to the caravan struck by a brilliant idea. She could pitch here for the night, which would save driving round in giddy circles all day, using petrol unnecessarily. If anybody came, she could trot-out the usual excuse about hearing a funny noise from the caravan and stopping to investigate. That lie had served in dealing with the Lone Ranger at Elishaw, and might well do duty again.
Although the yard was secluded enough to spend a day in, the area surrounding it was by no means beautiful. A backdrop of mountainous grey flats surrounded it on thr
ee sides. After dark, their streets and landings were deserted, like a City of the Dead. The silence was broken briefly as glass shattered somewhere, and a woman screamed. There was no visible sign that anyone had taken the slightest notice. They most likely daren`t come out at night, round here, Sylvia thought -- this place is horrible -- whoever designed these tower-blocks should be made to live in them.
As she sat dozing, the crazy litany of the demonstration boomeranged around endlessly in her head: "What do we want? No more buses! When do we want it? NOW!" The thought that she had been part of it seemed barely credible. What was I thinking of?-- what`s happened to me? -- did I really stand in the middle of the road with a load of council-house mums, holding up the traffic and singing "Solidarity Forever?" -- something must`ve snapped inside me when Tom died. Sylvia remembered the awful oily-sweet smell in the lorry-park, and her reaction to the drivers who fled from it -- I was scared of not being able to stop laughing in case it sent me unhinged -- perhaps it did – I`m acting as if I was.
Just at the limit of her vision, something had moved. Sylvia sat bolt-upright, cringing as she realised what had caught her attention. On the edge of the back-cushion opposite her, an enormous spider, fat-bodied and ugly, ambled placidly towards her. Apparently startled by her sudden movement, it made a dash down the seat-back and disappeared from view under a cushion where she dared not reach to look for it.
This was tragedy. All her life she had hated spiders, even the most minute of the species, and this one was huge, growing ever bigger in her imagination as she stared fixedly at the joint between the cushions where it had vanished. How long has that been in here? she wondered, panicking - it most likely came in on the rug - it could`ve been walking on me in my sleep, and I never knew - what am I going to do now, because I daren`t sleep in here tonight - what if I catch hold of it by accident when I`m making the bed, or it crawls inside the sleeping-bag in the night?
There was only one solution. Too nervous to sleep inside the caravan until her unwelcome visitor was found and ejected, she would have to spend the night in the car. Debating whether to unhitch or not, she decided against it - it`ll be safer to stay hooked-up in case I have to make a quick escape. She dared not sleep in the back of the car, afraid she would be more vulnerable to attack than when inside the caravan. Slumped in the front seat, it was almost impossible to find a comfortable position, her fitful slumbers disturbed by dreams varying from the alarming to the downright ridiculous.
The most frightening had her springing awake to drive away an army of giant rats chewing at her tyres – there were, of course, no rats anywhere outside her overheated imagination. The spider played its part too, always larger than life, spinning glutinous webs over everything in sight. In the silliest dream, she was inside the caravan, ludicrously engaged in defending herself against an attacker by holding Thomas in front of her and using him to parry phantom knife-thrusts.
Awakening in the grip of the hysterical laughter that so alarmed her, she fought for control -- I wish to God it was daylight, and I could get away from here -- if I don`t get a decent night`s sleep soon, I`ll crack-up, I can feel it coming.
Roused yet again by sounds in the darkness, she could not tell at first whether she was still dreaming or not. But it was soon apparent that whatever had broken her sleep was entirely real. There were voices close at hand, somewhere round the back of the caravan.
`Wonder who put this here.` It was a man`s voice, she thought, trying to squint through the wing-mirror without moving. Man was rather too grandiose a word – the two figures than came into view by the faint glow of a torch were young lads, probably about fourteen or fifteen years old. Tom would soon have seen them off, she thought, overwhelmed by the need of his comforting presence.
`Get a brick and put the window through,` one of the young vandals suggested. `There might be summick in it worth nicking.`
`Ner!` his companion snorted. `It`ll make too much noise. Gimme the screwdriver. You can bust these locks dead-easy.`
Oh, can you now! Sylvia thought, gripped by an upsurge of anger – we`ll see about that. Taking the ignition key from her pocket, she pushed it into the lock and turned the key. As the engine fired into life, the lads leapt back as if they had been stung. `Leg-it, there`s somebody there!` Running footsteps were interrupted by a clattering sound and a loud yell, before fading into the distance. They must`ve fallen over all that rubbish, Sylvia thought -- serves them right!
Although the inept burglars had apparently gone, she dared stay there no longer. Tired as she was, she must take to the roads again in search of somewhere safer.
EIGHT
As dawn broke, she pulled once more into a lay-by and sat back, exhausted. What now? One thing she had no intention of doing was sleeping in the car again. Her most urgent - task must be to turn the caravan inside-out to find and dispose of that spider. No time like the present, she decided, rummaging in the boot of the car to find suitable equipment – Right, I`ll have you, Incey-Wincey!-- I`m really up for it this morning.
What could she use to catch it with? A worn-out seat cover kept for cleaning purposes? - (too dark in colour – the spider could blend with its background and leap out on her) - The wheel-brace? – (good for hitting with, but messy to clean up afterwards). She pulled on a pair of gardening-gloves, carried to protect hands when changing a wheel, and tucked the wide tops into the wristbands of her sweatshirt -- I`m not having the ruddy thing running under the cuffs and up my arms.
Equipped with a snow-shovel Tom had insisted on carrying in case it ever came in useful, she crumpled a few sheets of paper-towel into it -- if I corner the spider with the shovel, it`ll take fright and hide under the paper, and not come charging up the handle, straight at me. The sight of so many useful things ready to hand filled her with a surge of affection for Tom`s memory -- trust him to know best what sort of stuff we needed to carry. He had always been practical and well-organised. His carefully-planned death fitted the pattern exactly.
She completed the search of the van with a sense of anti-climax – no sign of the spider -- it`s in here somewhere, I know it is -- I`ll have to pull the whole place to bits again -- I`m not spending another night in here with it crawling about while I`m sleeping, horrible thing! About to resume her quest, she found she need not bother – the spider, perched on top of Thomas`s head, sat regarding her with what she thought looked like a smirk on its face.
`That does it!` Never taking her eyes off the enemy, Sylvia grabbed Thomas at arms-length and rushed to the open doorway, flung him to the ground and whacked him on the back with the shovel to make him roll over. Understandably startled, the spider dropped off Thomas`s head and raced for cover in the nearby grass-verge, leaving her to retrieve her mistreated companion and brush him down, feeling absurdly guilty. `Sorry, Thomas. Nothing personal, but three`s a crowd.`
The successful conclusion of the Great Spider Hunt had done wonders for Sylvia`s morale. Sitting Thomas in the front seat of the car, she took her place at the wheel and turned the ignition key. The starter churned with a dull flat sound, then gave up the effort `Damn!` she exclaimed in disappointed surprise, trying again two or three times with the same result. In view of all the miles she had covered recently, a breakdown was perhaps to be expected sooner or later, but nevertheless maddening and worrying, obliterating the euphoria of a few moments ago.
She got out of the car again and lifted the bonnet purposelessly, for she knew nothing about cars. That had always been Tom`s province, a field in which he had neither asked for nor needed help. Without that expertise she found herself at a complete loss, the words of the old pop-song vibrating in her head again: "Don`t you know, it seems to go, you don`t know what you got till it`s gone..."
As she stood perplexed, a giant lorry rumbled into the lay-by behind her. The bright-faced young driver had apparently noticed her dilemma. `You need a hand there, lady?`
As a woman travelling alone, she normally never sought the company of lorry-drivers, aware of
their slightly risque reputation. This one, however, had apparently no ulterior motive for offering assistance. He did not even comment on her peculiar front-seat companion, simply focused on fixing her car. He tried various adjustments, cheerful in spite of every setback, but Sylvia could not help worrying about him. `Won`t you get into trouble, spending all this time helping me?`
He smiled, eyes calm and untroubled. `Not to worry, missus, it`s all right.`
`You must have a very understanding boss. My son-in-law`s got to account for every minute of his day.`
The man looked interested at once. `He`s on the road as well, is he? What line`s he in?`
Creating a mental picture of Edgar`s lorry, she read the signwriting on its side. `Contract and General Haulage to London, the South-West and Scotland.`
The driver pulled a face. `That`ll mean a long time away from home.`
`It is. My daughter would be very lonely, if it wasn`t for the kids.`
`He`s a family-man, then. I pray I`ll be so blessed one day.` The turn of phrase struck her as slightly peculiar, but he seemed harmless enough.
Once more he signalled to Sylvia to try starting the car. This time, as she turned the ignition-key, the engine sprang to life and she smiled with relief. `Bless you! You`re a genius.`
`Glad I could help. I`ll be off now, to the caff – time for my morning break. I could murder a cuppa.`
`Let me make you one.` As soon as the words were out, Sylvia knew it had probably been a mistake. Though he seemed friendly enough, there was something unsettling about him.
A Long Road Through The Night Page 9
