He recalled the affairs he had had since they were married, none of which he let her know about, mouth shut for ever on that score, for her sake, though she would never know it, and for his own sake because silence was more dignified, and also for the sake of any girl friend who, if she wasn’t married, would be sooner or later. Not that it was such a long list, but by the time he had come to the end he found himself back at the car.
Laying his rucksack in the boot, he noted a feather of cloud, distant banks marshalled by a smart northeasterly. Perhaps she had always wished him dead when he went on such expeditions, abominating the stomach gripes he complained of if he didn’t go. She couldn’t understand the uncontrollable panic to escape the City, his work, even himself — not only her.
At the edge of the lake his boots sank into the sedge, and he did not know how long he stared, but looked at his watch on feeling hungry. The mottled water turned green, rags of cloud edging in, humidity weighty with the promised snow that he could smell in the half-gone afternoon.
The wind chewed his tousled, already greying hair, snapping at his ears that had always been too big, as if to make up in power for what his other senses lacked. The weather would be foul for days, all roads blocked if snow came down, which it surely would. A hole in the cloud was so fiercely ragged it seemed to have been made by an exploding shell. He wanted to reach home as quickly as it took to zip himself up, but the inside of the car was the nearest he could get, snug enough as he stared at a dashboard more complicated, he supposed, than that of a Spitfire. He could never go home again, anyway, and the chances of fixing up a tent in such a wind were zilch. Pegs into holes always went, square or round, you hammered them in regardless, trouble only if they wouldn’t go in far enough.
He cruised the motorway on the middle lane, nothing at the moment to overtake, four o’clock and dark already, mint cake gluing to his palate. Below Stoke he might cut southeast through Burton and Leicester, then toss a pound for the Broads or the New Forest. A secretary he’d had fun with after office hours was married and lived near Bournemouth. ‘If you’re ever in the area,’ she had said, ‘here’s my number,’ which he thought only right after the Mappin & Webb gewgaw he had handed over at the wedding, the husband as dim as they came in thinking what a generous boss she had.
Two years had gone by, and he saw himself in a phone box that yobbos hadn’t paralysed with boot and fist, rain as horizontal as in one of those Japanese prints framed in the hall at home, and hearing her say she didn’t remember him or, hubby hovering, that they already had enough insurance. Or, on the other hand, that she was so happy he had thought of her, and would love to see him, but he would hear a baby screaming from some cosy alcove and say: ‘I’m too far away, otherwise I would pop in for old times’ sake. I just wanted to know how things stood.’
He veered off the motorway towards Macclesfield, and then beyond on one of England’s high-up arterial lanes, lights twitching from farms away to left and right. The road to himself, he couldn’t see the sky but felt it moiling overhead; killed the radio because unable to tolerate the senseless yacker of the disc jockey; better the silence his own brain concocted, which these days was more likely to surprise him than chitchat from the ether.
Blips of snow came into the zone of the headlamps, stuff already fallen shouldering the roadside. Speed made bends and crookbacks, but he took care, oh yes, care not to die or get mangled. He wondered how long he would survive if he holed himself up in the huge forest to the south, a wild man of the woods lost to the world, all ropes cut and nevermore for home.
In his seat of familiar calm, hands lightly at the wheel, he bombed up to seventy on straight bits while brakes shuddered at bends and corners, more bash than on the motorway, a ballet of manoeuvring but always within the forward throw of main beams. Other cars were visible for miles, dip-flash-dip-flash, a corps of signals passing to the west but no one overtaking.
A grey piece detached itself from the snowy verge and hobbled into his track. The car swerved, bumper glancing the bank. Treadling the brakes he went bang, hit a sheep, left it dying behind, and what was worse there was maybe a scratch on his precious car. He fucking-helled, crunching over whitened gravel into a lay-by.
The beam of his heavy-duty Maglite went up and down the paintwork: a feather of wool stuck on the fender turned out not to be when he rubbed back to green with a rag. The cigarette shook at his lips, but it was hunger that unnerved, not fear, as he set a box on the bonnet, pulled out a stove, a pan, a packet of bacon and some bread.
The smell of a common fry-up dispelled the icy cold and, door open, sitting on the step, he looked for stars but saw none, overcast complete, heaven’s roof poised to unleash its burden: I should have continued south on the M6, but here I am, instead of heading for Hampshire, set to steer across the ominous High Peak towards milder pastures in Norfolk.
A car some way behind stopped, turned on a descent to the left. The kettle steamed. Never at a loss for a brew, he looked for a teabag. Another car passed, then one from the opposite direction: the Peak District rush hour. What would he find at those mythical fields of ease, supposing they existed? Not knowing seemed the ultimate comfort, a state he had deserted home and London to attain. On the other hand, snowbound in Buxton or Bakewell on Saturday night was not his idea of adventure, and hellfire scalded his wrist as the kettle fell. A panic button of warning said he wouldn’t be able to drive, but he filled his mug, regretting he couldn’t hold his injured skin under a cold tap, and while the tea cooled walked ten yards to bury the hand under snow till the whole arm ached.
‘Where are you going?’
He stayed calm at the disembodied voice.
‘I’m only asking where you’re going.’
‘Why do you want to know?’
A girl came into the light. ‘That old cow dropped me off in the middle of nowhere after she told me she was going all the way to Buxton. I got frightened when she put a hand up my skirt. I told her what I thought of her, though, and now I’m stranded, unless I walk my bleeding feet off.’
TWO
The dubious gift of confetti across the windscreen did not promise a happy marriage to the weather, but rather reminded Aaron Jones that being caught driving in it must prove that earning a living was the most important activity of life. He spun the roundabout of London’s Orbital and steered northerly, twigs from black branches standing out in sulphurous light. The elements had been anybody’s guess, but such behaviour proved that guessing was, even at the best of times, a no-win game.
Solid trunks spaced along patches of January grass stood behind a mourning verge of mud splashed up by passing traffic. Toothache had gnawed since breakfast, top-left on a bed of infection making the rest feel rotten as well. He would have to endure till he got to the dentist, meanwhile recollecting that according to Napoleon the only two things certain in life were death and taxes, though Aaron could add a third which was toothache.
Similar pangs six months ago had receded when his cold got better, and he had gambled on it not coming back, hoping that mortality would cease its inch-like advance yet knowing that it could not. Life was hope, and hope nothing but ignorant optimism, though without hope existence would be untenable.
Last night a floorcloth around the moon prophesied rain, but he hoped to beat the two hundred miles home before wet or worse descended. Plastic rags in a tree waved white and purple to the east: the remains of daylight would clear him of London, and from then on he would set the compass, put the mind into overdrive, and let deca-miles pass while he dreamed of better climates.