Border Crossing

by Rosie Thomas

  Only a handful of drivers, surely.

  The marshal on duty was motherly Betty, half of a rally-enthusiast couple who had joined the officials at Kathmandu. She was surrounded by a mass of navigators, vintage and classic, all shouting and exclaiming, and she looked hot and bothered in her cover-up clothes. I set my book in front of her and she stamped us in.

  I added my voice to the clamour. 'How's everyone else doing?'

  'A lot worse than you,' she sighed.

  I ran back to the car. Phil had my door open, the engine revving.

  'We're going up today,' I sang to him.

  The next stage was longer and the road surface was better, which meant that it was more of a dirt track and less of a dry riverbed, but the time allowance was absurdly short again. Phil drove on the very edge of control all the way, whirling through the traffic and bounding over the ruts and rocks, but when we sweated up to the control at the top of the pass we were still 29 minutes down on the section allowance. John Vipond was the solitary marshal.

  He checked the rally clock and stamped the book.

  'Well done, Rosie,' he said kindly.

  I looked down at the palm of my left hand, the one I didn't use to hold the pen or zero the trip. There were four red fingernail marks in the flesh.

  'Half an hour? And Phil drove up here like a maniac . . .'

  'Don't worry. They're all down today.'

  We drove on. It was nearly 300 kilometres to Quetta, and we were crossing the desert now. There was no shade, no relief from the sun and the dust, certainly no chance of a rest or any proper food. We drank bottled water and ate biscuits.

  In 1907, the Contal tricycle car ran out of petrol in the desert. The other four cars passed by, assuming that Pons and Foucault, the crew, had stopped to allow the tiny engine to cool down before continuing. The two men waited all day without water in the burning sun, but no one came back to see what had happened to them.

  The logic of our big red OK sign seemed suddenly impeccable.

  At last Pons decided that they would have to walk to find help. They trudged for 20 miles without seeing a soul, drinking water from puddles along the way. At last they knew they had no option but to turn round and make their way back to the car. Thirty-six hours after that they were found, exhausted and delirious, pushing their little car towards a nomad encampment. The two men recovered but their challenge was over: they had to travel slowly back to Peking. The other four cars reached Paris, but the crews had to live with the uncomfortable knowledge that their companions had almost died in the desert.

  As the heat intensified I checked our supplies of bottled water and monitored the fuel levels in our two tanks.

  We passed the Dangerfields and Kermit, the green Dutch PV544. The roadside began to be dotted with broken-down rally cars. We came to Jennifer and Francesca, pulled up yet again with suspension problems. Anthony Buckingham and Simon Mann had stopped in the DB5, and Jon and Adam were there too.

  'Plenty of men in attendance,' Phil muttered, but he drew up anyway to see if we could help. They needed a new spring, but our spares were the wrong size. We drove on, and came to David and Sheila Morris's Austin A90. They were being helped out by their Austineers teammate Fred Multon, and they waved us past. We could only hope that Dan and JD were keeping going. We had passed them back in the second section, and hadn't seen them since.

  The kilometres unfolded in a blur of heat-haze and sun that scorched our eyes. There was nothing to see, only grey dirt that was sometimes unrelievedly flat and sometimes scraped into random hillocks, occasional camels, little dirt-brown settlements, thorn bushes, and the sabre-toothed traffic. I was too conscious of the strain that driving in these conditions put on Phil, but I knew I couldn't have matched the speed and the concentration and the split-second decision-making that he managed, let alone kept it up hour after hour. The cassette player had finally given up altogether so he didn't even have the music to wake him up or calm him down. I concentrated on plying him with water, or snacks, or cigarettes or whatever else I thought he needed, and talked when conversation seemed welcome and kept quiet when it did not. Groups of children made as if to wave at us, and then fusillades of hostile stones rattled against the bodywork.

  The sun was sinking and we were driving due west. It was hard to keep looking ahead into the glare. We stopped beside Harm and Tonnie in the dark grey Amazon. They had had a blowout and were changing the wheel, but they assured us that otherwise they were fine. A little further on Phil drew in to the side of the road beside a scrubby band of eucalyptus that made a narrow ribbon of shade. He checked the car over, looking for leaks or signs of overheating, but there was nothing untoward. An ambulance truck saw us and pulled in to make sure we were in no trouble. The friendly driver accepted a cigarette and a small group of locals gathered to stare. The next painted wagon also hauled to a stop, the brakes hissing and grinding, and Phil and I took photographs of each other standing dwarfed by the massive barque front. We had been stationary for perhaps 10 minutes. As soon as we were moving again I looked at the clock against the distance we still had to travel, about 100 kilometres, and realised we weren't going to make it within the time on this leg either.

  'Let's just get there,' I said. If I was tired Phil must have been exhausted.

  A truck was flying towards us, glued to the middle of the road. Phil jammed his thumb on the horn.

  'Pull over. Pull over, you arsehole . . .'

  The truck didn't waver, Phil wrenched the wheel, we swerved and bounced into a deep ditch. There was a clang and a new, hideous noise.

  'Something's happened.'

  We leapt out and ran round to look at the front. Phil kicked the nearside wheel, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve.

  'It's okay. Just a blowout and a bent rim. The wheel's had it, though.'

  I ran to stick the OK sign in the rear window. We changed the wheel and left the damaged one in the ditch. Another 10 minutes had gone.

  Dusk was creeping up behind us. Ahead was yet another rally car at the side of the road and we slowed to see who it was. It was Josef Feit and his son René, with the yak's-horn VW cabriolet, discreetly standing with their backs to the traffic. Phil hooted and Josef looked over his shoulder and gave us the thumbs-up.

  The sun set, hollowing fierce black shadows out of the hills. Then, almost immediately, it was fully dark. The traffic was heavier because we were approaching Quetta, and half of the oncoming vehicles drove fast without lights. Every bend was a gamble on what might be coming the other way. It was a terrifying drive. I stopped watching the time and stared at the trip instead, willing the tenths to add up into kilometres and the kilometres to reach the day's total. It was too far for one day, under such pressure.

  'They told us we wouldn't have to rally in the dark. They told us,' Phil said. His thumb was permanently on the horn. 'This is dangerous,' We were both thinking of the hill climb to Nainital, and the plunging Land Rover. Nigel Challis and his co-driver had had to fly home from India, their rally over.

  'Don't worry about the time, let's just get there,' I repeated. We were already over our allowance. In the distance was a smear of dirty orange light. Quetta.

  At last, 22 minutes over our time, we reached the hotel. The car park was full of local media crews with cameras and lights, but almost empty of rally cars. I went in with the book and saw RO standing in the middle of the lobby. He was ticking off somebody who had had the temerity to object to the day's timings.

  Outside in the car park again I found that Phil had already flung himself into a flurry of mechanical adjustments. He already had the car jacked and both rear wheels off.

  'Come inside and have a drink and something to eat before you do that.'

  'No point in getting clean and then dirty again.'

  'Phil, you are exhausted. Don't push yourself so hard.'

  I was impressed by his determination, as I always was, but I was also worried about him. He seemed to have to demonstrate that he was un
breakable; I already knew his strength so I hoped it was for his own satisfaction that he forced himself to do more.

  'Look, I want to make sure the car is all right before I go in. Okay?' He was perfectly equable but quite resolved.

  I sighed. Now I would have to stay out here and try to help him while every fibre of me cried out for soap and water and cold drinks and hot food, I went inside for cans of Coke, and came back and sat in the dirt beside the car. Phil's feet protruded from under the body. One of the intrusive camera crews came and shone their lights in my eyes.

  'What is the prize for Paris?' the reporter asked.

  'Nothing. There's no prize. Or maybe a silver cup, something like that. We do it for fun.'

  The man's eyes reflected my own incredulity straight back at me.

  Fun, was that the definition of today?

  Every two or three minutes headlamps raked along the boundary hedge and another rally car followed the beam into the parking area. Bone-weary crews stumbled out, blinking in the lights, the navigator's head rotating in search of the control desk. Harm and Tonnie's Amazon appeared and stopped next to ours. They were white-faced.

  'Did you hear?'

  'What?' Phil looked up from the tool-box.

  'The Germans. In the VW. Totalled their car.'

  I thought they had hit a ditch and maybe smashed the differential, or even blown the engine. Josef was known to drive hard and fast.

  'Oh, what bad luck.'

  'No, no. Dead, I think.'

  The Dutch Amazon had been one of the first cars on the scene after the accident. In the dark the Feits had crashed head-on into a tour bus, and neither of them survived the impact. René was seventeen, the youngest competitor.

  The news spread, and a numb silence followed it. The television crews circulated with their lights and mikes, and competitors shook their heads and turned away from them. The slow procession of arrivals continued, each one rolling into a pool of quiet.

  I saw Geoff and Jennie Dorey come in, late and weary. Jennie went off with the book and Geoff rolled up his sleeves at once, like Phil, to check over the Morris Minor. A minute later Jennie was back.

  She said, 'Geoff?'

  He straightened up and took one look at her face. Immediately he put his arms around her and held her against him. I turned away.

  It was late when the car was finally adjusted and checked out to Phil's satisfaction. He had retreated into himself as he always did when he was shocked or unhappy.

  Our room at Quetta had another double bed. I was grateful. It wasn't anything to do with sex, nor did I think it would wipe out any of the night's fearful images, but there would be warmth and a measure of comfort in it, and we could offer each other the much-needed security of closeness. In the corner of the room there was a mattress on the floor and a thin, folded blanket. I took the blanket and smoothed it on top of the bed, as if I was preparing a nest with an extra layer, and then crawled under the covers to wait for Phil. We had travelled a long way together.

  I woke up in the middle of the night alone in the big bed. I sat up, and saw that he was fast asleep on the mattress, fully dressed and with no covers. I put my hand out and felt the cold expanse of the sheets beyond where I had been lying. If Caradoc had been there I would have huddled myself against him and he would have shifted his position to accommodate me, the instinctive move of long familiarity. I remembered how Geoff Dorey had unthinkingly put his arms around Jennie. Only Caradoc was at home, a long way away.

  I lay back again and shut my eyes, waiting for the spectres of the subconscious to steal out and surround me. I felt as lonely as the nights when I was a girl, waiting for my father to come back from wherever he had been, so I could go to sleep reassured that he was alive for another day.

  I thought about the accident. I wanted to block it out, but dread of the random viciousness of fate stalked every recess inside my head. I could imagine too clearly the Shockwaves that were spreading from a collision beside a desert road, and all the weight of consequences that would follow. Juxtaposed with tragedy, my own fears swelled out of reason. Today this family. Tomorrow, maybe another one. It could have been any of us today. Or any day.

  I wondered if Chris Taylor was asleep, like Phil, in some identical boxy room down some adjacent corridor. Maybe his hard-won equanimity would have deflected my panic. As it was, I hunched up under the bedclothes and waited for the next day to come.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was no competition the next day, as a tribute to the Feits, but the rally moved inexorably onwards.

  The daily information bulletin that was faxed to competitors' relatives announced that, 'Having talked to many of the competitors, the ‹organisers› decided that the event should leave Quetta this morning, and make for Iran, as scheduled.'

  This may indeed have been the case, but no one spoke to Phil and me, or to anyone else we knew. At least as far as our little group was concerned, there was no proper acknowledgement of what had happened, nor any official account of the events of the night before for us to focus on, either personal or general. Neither RO nor any one of the organisers was in evidence in the morning; presumably they were busy with the police, the Pakistani authorities and the world's press. The people actually competing in their event were, as always, the last to hear anything concrete. All we had was a brief note on the information board, advising us that in view of last night's tragedy we should make for the border in our own time, and proceed from there to Zāhedān.

  The German crews had planned to remain behind in Quetta for 24 hours, out of respect for their fellow nationals, but they were advised by the marshals that there would be police assistance along the road and at the border for one day only, and after that they would be on their own. Thomas and Maria and Mick Flick and the others decided that their staying in Quetta would not make any material difference to anyone and in the end they travelled on with the rest of us. Thomas and Maria had already made many of the necessary arrangements following the accident, and they had also been to see the bus driver. He was in prison, in chains. There had to be a scapegoat.

  Phil and I sat sadly around the breakfast table at Quetta with Dan and JD and Melissa and Colin. Phil brought me orange juice, and a plate of bread and fruit. It was his way of demonstrating concern and affection. Nobody said much at all, but we agreed sombrely that our three cars would travel to Zāhedān in convoy, supporting each other. Dan's differential seal had gone and oil was pouring out of the diff: they would have to keep stopping to top it up until they could effect a repair.

  We were the last to leave. John Vipond and Mike Summerfield were sitting at a nearby table, and John came over and quietly advised us that we shouldn't linger too long in case we were prevented from reaching the border before it closed.

  The pressures were always the same, I thought, both relentless and – so it seemed now – disturbingly trivial. We were in a rally. That was our sole reason for being here. There was a distance to cover and if we were going to continue we would have to drive it, leaving the unacknowledged as well as the unseen and unexplored in our dusty wake.

  We trailed outside with our overnight bags, into the hard sunshine, and as we drove away the blue Amazon and the Porsche tucked in behind us. Phil and I sat in silence except for the minimal exchange of route information. I looked out of the window. There were women walking with their backs to us, dressed in shalwar kameez patterned in diamond-shapes of red and orange and purple, each of them balancing two or three earthenware pots on their heads. There were clusters of straw and canvas shanties, a camel dragging a cartload of bricks, and two uniformed policemen nodding us by with a smart salute. We passed a huge brickyard with two conical brick chimneys belching out smoke and then a mosque with green minarets. The road was lined with eucalyptus trees and brown mud-block walls with children playing at the foot of them. A group of tribesmen in elaborate blue turbans shaded their eyes to look at us. There were bicycles and buses and more of the overloaded gaudy wagons, a h
ay-wagon almost submerged under the mass of its load, and a tethered donkey trying to reach a patch of shadow. In the ditch was the wreck of a smashed car, and in the distance a ring of sepia-coloured mountains.

  I didn't have to name or enumerate any of this in an effort to fix it in my memory. I knew I would always remember it all, and the weight of sadness and guilt that dimmed the colours of the scenery. Simple grief was, as ever, overshadowed in my mind by the spectre of responsibility as well as dread of what might come next. It was self-absorbed as well as grotesque to imagine that any of the events of the night before were anything to do with me, or that I could have done anything to prevent them even if we had stopped at the roadside when we passed the Feits, but the association was too strong to dismantle. If we had only pulled in, I thought, and exchanged a few words. Even 10 seconds delay would have made the difference. The jerky videotape of imagined near-misses kept on running in my head until I felt sick.

  We left Quetta behind and entered an empty landscape. The flat, gritty ground was broken only by clumps of pampas grass, and grey mounds of dirt that reminded me of old Harmon's dust heaps in my abandoned Our Mutual Friend.

  Phil jerked his chin as he looked in the rear-view mirror.

  'Why is she driving so slowly?'

  Melissa had fallen further and further behind and was now out of sight. Phil couldn't bear the slow pace, even today. Convoy driving went against all his instincts. He accelerated and soon we had left Dan and JD behind us as well as the Porsche. There was nothing except the desert and our own separate, silent ruminations.

  The drive from Multan to Quetta had taken a heavy toll.

  Bart Rietbergen broke Kermit's right-hand front wheel in the short stage, and half an hour after he had had it welded the left-hand one also broke. The delay meant that he came into Quetta outside the maximum permitted lateness, and he lost his gold medal. The Catts' Cortina dropped out of the lead with broken rear shock absorbers, the Brodericks snapped two throttle cables in their Eco-Flow Anglia – and they were among the luckier ones.