She wasn’t thinking unless she was talking, so it would be unjust to condemn her to silence. As long as you encouraged her to speak you would know what was on her mind, such as it was, and in any case her patter could be quite amusing. The road forked without his noticing, or he went as if in a dream thinking it didn’t matter. He could only go on, regardless of which blue-white sock of the land he went into, as long as the car kept its mobility. Navigating unknown country in darkness was like being at sea: the nose of the vehicle had to go with winds and currents, and you hoped it would sooner or later get you somewhere.
At a wide bend and steep hill three cars at different slants had been scattered by a black pantechnicon. Or, with lights on and exhaust steaming, they had failed to get up the skid-patch of the hill. He thought she was asleep, till she said: ‘What’s happened here, then?’
‘You’d better start praying.’ The sight of the sombre enormous van chilled him more than the snow, but he grinned it out of his psyche and winkled through a gap to begin a lone cavalry charge up the slope, bottom-gearing as he got higher, anxious to put distance between him and the enormous van, though not knowing particularly why, just a fear still lingering over the heart. There were more twists than had been apparent from below, a straight run to start with, but a sharp turning at the top.
She put her palms together. ‘I’m good at praying, but only to myself.’
The car slid off course when he released the accelerator before a bend, a drift building up in the cutting, the top of a hill elusive and ever far away. ‘If we get stuck it’ll be for a long time.’
She looked at the perilous world unworrying. The car would lie banked up in silence, but they would have shelter from the icy wind, be warm in fact, eat from the yummy stocks somebody like him would have in the car. They would only have to wait until rescue came, sleeping or telling stories about their different lives (maybe he had a few funny jokes she hadn’t come across) and hearing the radio now and again. A chap like him might not even bother her with sex. Trevor said that such blokes couldn’t get it up, though most of the time Trevor hadn’t been able to, and even when he had it was just bang-bang-bang and off to his pubs and car sales in Dreamland. You might as well sleep with the cat for what good it did.
The steering fought back as he played the circumference with his palms, wheels a slow zigzag. ‘It’s like a ballet,’ she cried. ‘I hope we don’t have to get out and push.’
He pleaded with the car to keep moving, sure they would die if forced to a stop. He wondered what might be wrong with that, but called out: ‘Come on, get going!’
She threw her arm forward as if whipping a team of huskies: ‘Mush! Mush!’
He pulled out of the swerve, iron-willing each roll of wheels to grip, but nothing would help if the powdery softness robbed them of bite and drifts built over them. The technically perfect car could balk at its chosen moment: brakes fail, power collapse, engine pack in, a tyre burst. Machinery was a god but you could never figure God’s mind, only fight off stupid fears and let Him do the thinking, it made no difference anyway.
She locked into his system of alarm, but hope didn’t die on seeing another bend in the headlights. To park would be sensible, before he was forced to. He was afraid of skidding back or being whammed by a farmer’s Range Rover coming blithely up at top speed. He would take a chance, and not surrender to the snowstorm, maintaining twenty-odd miles an hour, too intent at the wash of snow to register the dashboard.
Going on into the bend he again felt the familiar swing at the back and the slewing in front. A relaxation of feet and hands went with it, treadling at the right points, wipers on fast, all systems in full option, engine sewing a line of calico. He moved out of the swing and around a wider bend, sweat crawling over the backs and knuckles of his hands. The road ran straight, faint tracks not yet filled.
He wanted to stop, make tea on the stove, put biscuits into the munching machine, but he didn’t fancy the fight with spade and sacking to dig wheels out of the ruts. Hands shook as he passed the cigarettes. ‘Light me one.’
‘Can I smoke as well?’
No one else would have asked. He didn’t need her any more, but if he stopped, and strangled her, and was then unable to get the car out of the lay-by, what a laugh that would be. He wondered where such notions came from. ‘Please do. We’ve both earned it.’
She laughed like a child. He was thanking her, oh so fucking politely. Oh no, thank you. Who did he think he was? ‘Lovely fags. Thanks.’
‘That was a close call. Let’s hope there won’t be any more.’
Hot water burned her bladder, cold always making her want to piss pints, but it wasn’t the time to speak. With Trevor she wouldn’t wait for anything, why should she, though that mean beer-belly would never give way to anything she wanted no matter how next to nothing her request might be. This bloke was sweating blood to keep the car going, so she would cross her legs and keep her trap shut, otherwise he might chuck her out.
The road went fairly level, easy enough to take, but flakes thickened, falling as if someone was gleefully splitting eiderdowns above. How could that be, but it was. Maybe it wasn’t his car, belonged to who he worked for, yet it seemed too good for that, though some firms did give such motors to their reps.
Globules on the warm windscreen were swept aside, like people, she thought, asking for money on the streets to buy a cob and a cup of tea. As for him, each turn of the wheels meant more time that would never come back, and he couldn’t think that was anything but good.
SEVEN
Bowlegged fire irons supported a basket of logs warming the lounge of The White Cavalier Hotel. A huge copper bucket of wood stood in reserve, while a chimney hood big enough to suck up an ordinary room drew out the smoke. The fireplace was backed by a wall of small bricks that had once been red, Aaron surmised, spreading his large hands towards the heat. Most were now fairly blackened, but the pattern of mortar was plain.
Beryl had given him top marks for common sense when he had telephoned that he was stranded for the night, but the news she had passed on in return was not good, suggesting that his career as a bookdealer and manuscript merchant might be over. He didn’t care to think about it, after escaping the peril of being iglooed up for as long as nobody could tell.
A man whom he supposed to be the proprietor came down the stairs. He was short, with a solid girth, the jacket of his pinstriped suit showing a waistcoat half undone. He had a healthy spherical face with narrow eyes, large ears, and a grin that most of the time he didn’t know how to turn off, though the expression may have been more from nervousness than humour, showing teeth so even they could hardly have been his own. Thick ginger hair was swept back over a broad head, and after buttoning his waistcoat with deft fingers he picked the cellophane off a small cigar and began to smoke.
Ivy plants and aspidistras grew from plain terracotta pots along the corridor, and Aaron felt like a snowman standing at the reception desk to ask for a room. He knew the place wouldn’t be cheap, but on a night like this there was no alternative to the bed-and-breakfast rate of twenty-five pounds, as he signed the ledger, and wrote his address in perfect block capitals, so slow about it that the landlord impatiently shook a small length of ash from his cigar.