You Must Be Sisters (31 page)

‘
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 exit, 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.

‘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.

‘Looking for something?’ he asked politely, waiting for her.

There was a pause. ‘I was just thinking,’ she said.

‘Well, I shouldn’t bother. Thinking, I mean. It’ll be all right, you see.’ He smiled a bright smile in her direction, not meeting her eyes. In the neon light she could see his face clearly, an unmemorable face trying to keep its dignity. It wouldn’t happen again. Whatever it was, whatever he had been feeling, was over.

‘I’d like some coffee,’ she said.

The café was blindingly bright. Her relief was soon replaced by a helpless feeling of exposure. Behind the counter stood a pimply youth. He was staring at her chest; she could see him working out, with his eyes, exactly where her nipples were. She looked down at the rows of plastic packets of food. She couldn’t move.

‘Do you take milk?’ the man asked. He was waiting at the urn.

Yes, she’d like milk. On her tray she placed a roll, some butter and some honey, for she should be hungry. With an effort she could remember her day and recall that she hadn’t eaten.

The man, still nameless, paid for it and they went over to a table. ‘You’ll get back all right, will you, once we get to Birmingham?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I expect so.’

‘When we arrive you can tell me where to drop you. What station and so on.’

‘That would be very kind.’ How odd for them to sit here so politely when her face must still be blotchy with tears!

‘On my calculation, averaging about sixty we should make it in half an hour. No one will be expecting you?’

‘No, no one.’ She fumbled with the honey, trying to open it. Being such a sealed little sachet it was difficult. 100%
Pure
, she read.
Grade 1 Honey. Granada Catering Ltd
. But it was sealed, laminated, hygienically and hermetically soldered. Precious honey, labour of bees. Patient bees, their secret toil had been sucked up into the
Catering Ltd
division of
Granada
. Priceless honey entombed in plastic.

Her eyes blurred with tears and she put the little packet back on the table. Tears of pity ran down her cheeks, tears for the bees, for the embryo inside her, for things she couldn’t put a name to. With her sleeve she wiped her eyes.

The man must be noticing but he pretended he wasn’t. Instead he unwrapped his sandwich, unwrapped the sugar for his coffee and began to eat. Mindlessly Musak played; beyond the windows the motorway traffic hummed; at the next table someone pushed aside his refuse of packets. Laura tried to sip her coffee but her mouth was bleary with tears and it tasted glutinous. She put down her cup, more desolate than she imagined possible. She was helplessly alone. But then so were those countless millions being swept along the motorways just as she was, swept through the windy corridors of high-rise cities and round wastelands of flyovers. Everyone was alone; silly to pretend all these years that they weren’t. Alone but just occasionally one of them would reach out and touch a human thigh.

‘Er, have you finished?’

The man was looking not at her but at her uneaten roll. He never looked at her. ‘It’s just that we ought to be pushing along, I think. Don’t want to hurry you, of course.’

‘I don’t want anything to eat, actually. Sorry.’

‘Don’t mention it. Perhaps you don’t feel well.’

The pimply youth watched her as she crossed the café. She wanted to put her hands over her stomach, hiding her womb. Nothing was safe.

They were outside now. He opened the door for her, polite to the last. They drove across to some petrol pumps where they
were
served by a muffled shape to whom they were but an empty tank and a proferred note. The shape was in a Texaco uniform;
Marlboro
, declared two patches, one on each side, dead over the lung. Laura shivered.