I am very keen indeed to get away from here but Melissa is staring down at the water as though this was some sort of official burial. I even wonder whether I should offer to say a few words. But I quickly decide against this. She is upset and we are both very tired. For the first time I have the thought that she might have wanted to save that man.
I do hope she isn’t going to be consumed by the guilt. I hate to see her looking like this. There is really nothing to be gained from feeling like that.
She stares down at the water and, although she isn’t crying, she seems to have aged since yesterday. No doubt I have too, but I have less to lose.
‘Melissa?’ I say gently and touch her arm. She flinches, as though she has been scalded, and regards me as though I am a stranger. ‘I really think we should go, don’t you?’
She nods dumbly and swipes her face with the sleeve of her jumper.
‘I’m still okay to drive,’ I say hurriedly.
She doesn’t even protest.
In the van, I put the heater onto its maximum setting, but at first it just blows icy air into the cabin, so I turn it down again. We can’t leave straight away because the windows are fogged and it always did take a long time for them to clear. I remember Terry used to complain about it all the time.
Oh Terry, what would you think of me now? I wonder and get rather a thrill from this thought.
It really is unpleasant in this van. I’m never going to be able to see unless these windows clear. With a huff of irritation, I wind down the side window and then emit a small shriek because the man we saw a little while ago is standing right there, inches away.
He peers in at us. All we can do is goggle, mouths agape.
His eyes are an odd gold colour, like a cat’s. A tufty beard sprouts from a long chin and a hand-rolled cigarette dangles from his lip. He sucks on it and a strange, sweetish smell drifts into the car.
I don’t think I have ever been at such a loss for words. Is it all over for us? Did he see what we did?
I force myself to act normally and try to move my resisting mouth into both words and a faint smile.
‘Morning,’ I say.
At the sound of my voice, Bertie, who had been sitting on my lap for a short cuddle, pops up and greets the man with a fierce wagging of the tail.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ the man says in a surprisingly well-spoken voice, albeit one that is a little slurred. ‘And look at this little fella! May I stroke him?’
The way he speaks simply does not match his scruffy, hippy appearance. I would be checking my purse was still in my bag if I ended up next to this young man on a bus. I nod, stiffly, and he reaches in a bony white hand, with about ten leather bracelet things around a thin wrist, to stroke Bertie’s head with surprising gentleness.
‘What’s his name?’ he says, cooing at my delighted dog, who turns onto his back in order to receive more love.
‘It’s Bertie! I think he likes you!’ I say, brightly, although I fear I may be a tiny bit shrill.
I glance at Melissa. She is focused on the man with the rictus expression of someone in pain. I feverishly search my brain for some form of explanation for why we are here. But what possible reason could there be?
‘Good to see someone else here,’ says the young man, taking the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger in a way that also ill-fits his rather plummy accent. He takes a deep drag and blows the smoke out in a pungent gust that makes me cough. ‘Some of the best fishing in Dorset here, if you know where to look.’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ I say weakly. I still can’t think of any reason why we would be sitting in this car park at 6.30 in the morning.
‘We’ve been visiting family,’ I say in a gush. ‘Thought we’d have a break and admire the river.’ I’m cringing as I say this.
To my enormous surprise, he holds out the cigarette towards me.
‘Goodness, no thank you!’ I say with a small laugh. Imagine the germs, even if I did smoke.
To my astonishment, Melissa’s thin, pale arm snakes past me and she takes the cigarette from the man, still without saying a word. She takes it to her lips and draws deeply, then does it again, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
I can’t believe it has taken me so long to understand what is happening. Really, what is Melissa thinking? Not only has this young man seen us, but her DNA is now all over that marijuana cigarette.
I clear my throat loudly.
‘Well, we had better be going,’ I say, trying to remain cheerful-sounding even though fury is coursing through me like the hot drink I have been craving for hours.
Melissa hands the nasty thing back to the young man and smiles weakly as he grins at her.
Honestly.
‘Bon voyage,’ he says. ‘Oh and one other thing …’
My breath catches. ‘Yes?’
‘Your rear light is smashed. Did you know?’
‘Yes,’ I say on a long out-breath of relief. ‘I plan to get it seen to when I’m home.’
‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘The filth’ll pull you over for that.’ And with this he slaps the roof of the van, making us both jump. Then he swaggers off, drumming out some unknown rhythm on the leg of his baggy jeans.
Melissa scrunches sideways in the seat, her back almost facing me. It feels as though she is trying to get away from the interior of the van, but maybe that is just the tiredness showing again.
Wordlessly, we drive out of the car park and onto the narrow road that runs past the big house. I think she is trying to sleep but when we reach the main road, I crane my neck to look and see that her eyes are open. She stares glassily ahead like a very tired, beautiful doll. Her pale skin is shadowed under the eyes and I get the odd notion that I would like to press my fingers there to cool and soothe her. This flusters me because it’s such a strange thing to think. I give myself a little shake and try to concentrate on the road.
It is difficult though, as sunlight spears through the windscreen and jabs my eyeballs. I pull down the sun visor but it only helps a little bit.
The traffic is much thicker now, of course. I find that I can just about cope if I stretch my eyes wide and blink as much as possible. But the truth is that any exhaustion I felt before is nothing to what I’m experiencing now. The thought of reaching the M3 makes all the adrenaline that has sloshed around my poor body all night curdle like stale milk. I’m really not sure that I can go any further without a nap.
But how will I break this news to Melissa? She might insist on driving and that frightens me even more. I clear my throat and decide to brave it.
‘I really am very tired, I’m afraid,’ I venture. ‘I’m not sure either of us should be driving unless we can have a small rest first.’
‘Yes,’ she says, to my astonishment. ‘I think we should stop at the next services and see if there is one of those Travelodge Inns or whatever they’re called. Even if it’s for a few hours. I want a shower.’
It’s all I can do not to exclaim. I never expected her to agree. But I’m not sure it will be that easy.
‘The only thing is, I’m sure we’ll need some sort of identification to check in. And that’s not a good idea. And also, what about Bertie? I can’t leave him in the van.’
I’m mulling over this conundrum as the first sign for the dreaded M3 appears ahead. Melissa yawns noisily before replying in a strangled voice.
‘Look it’s not the bloody Ritz,’ she says. ‘It’s the sort of place salesmen go for a quick afternoon shag, so I’m sure it will be fine. And you can sneak the dog in under your coat or something.’
Wincing at her terminology once again, I say nothing and Melissa speaks again.
‘I am so desperate to wash. I feel so—’
She doesn’t finish but starts to scratch both her arms at the same time, surely hard enough to be sore. It’s as though she has insects crawling on her, the way she’s doing it, and my badly behaved imagination immediately throws a horrible image of maggots into my mind. Then I see that man, Jamie, with maggots coming out of his hollowed, sightless eye sockets and my mouth fills with saliva.
Oh dear, I must not be sick. I breathe slowly, in and out, in and out, until I have to focus on getting us onto that motorway again. Bertie is whining a bit now, which is very out of character for him. He must need to go again, and he isn’t the only one. Melissa may have been happy doing that in the woods but it’s not something I would ever contemplate.
I indicate right and turn down the slip road to the motorway. The traffic is quite heavy, even though it is so early, and I blink hard, forcing myself to be awake and be alert.
Thankfully, the services are only about half an hour away but I do feel every second of the journey. I cling to the slow lane as cars thunder by. At one point a lorry comes so close to our bumper in the side mirror that I am sure we will crash. But with a flash of lights and a rude blare of the horn, the lorry passes, and I can breathe again.
When the sign for the services appears it feels like a beacon of light on a dark night, even though it is, of course, a sunny morning now. But it is as if I have been holding my breath the entire time I have been on this road. I’m a little nervous about whether we are going to get away with booking a room as we pull into the car park of the Travelodge and I’m still fretting about the Bertie issue. But I don’t mind admitting that it’s just a tiny bit exciting too. I know it’s not, as Melissa put it, ‘the bloody Ritz’, but it’s still a hotel.
I must say, there is something pleasing about hotels. It’s the sensation of everything laid out specially just for your use, from the tiny soaps, to the chocolate on the pillows at the better establishments. I have quite a collection of shower caps and sewing kits at home.
And yes, if someone had said to me just thirty-six hours ago, ‘You and your old friend are going to book into a hotel together after having the most extraordinary day and night of your life,’ I probably would have told them they needed to lie down in a darkened room for a while.
I can add this one to the very long list of new experiences I have had since yesterday.
When we have parked, I realize I had better try to tidy myself up a little.
I would have expected Melissa to want to put some make-up on because she is usually immaculately turned out. But she doesn’t seem to have any interest in this until I point out that we ought to make the effort to look respectable.
Using the mirror in the sun visor, I try to tidy my hair. After a short pause, Melissa gets out her make-up bag and applies some foundation and eyeliner, listlessly gazing into a small mirror.
‘Want some of this?’ she says, offering the bag towards me, and I shake my head. I’ve never really known how to apply it, is the truth of the matter.
‘C’mere,’ she says and leans over to cup my chin in her hand, to my great surprise.
She starts to smudge foundation under my eyes. ‘Keep your eyes closed,’ she orders, and I obey as she slicks on some mascara.
When I’m allowed to open them, she regards me closely. ‘You should wear make-up, Hester,’ she says. ‘It suits you.’ Her admiration warms me like sunshine. ‘Let me sort your hair now.’
I close my eyes as she teases and smooths my hair. It’s all I can do not to sigh with pleasure. It reminds me of my mother’s touch, in some ways, but it’s different in ways I can’t explain. I feel a little bit tingly when she says, ‘There, you’ll do,’ in a tone of satisfaction and sits back in her seat.
I feel quite chipper as I get Bertie out for a quick widdle and then pop him back inside the van. He protests and barks, which is quite out of character, so I do hope he isn’t going to make this even more difficult. We walk slowly over to the entrance of the Travelodge.
It’s a low cream-coloured building with the distinctive black, white, and blue flag hanging over double doors. There are a couple of cars in the car park and, as we approach, a family come bustling out.
The mother is grossly overweight and has one of those faces that could mean she is anywhere between twenty and late fifty. She has a clinging vest top in bright pink with the words ‘Too Hot to Handle’; a football-like bust wobbles beneath.
The man is equally overweight – a great bull of a man – and yet two beautiful children of about four and six bounce along behind them. A boy and a girl, they both have blonde curls, cherubic faces with wide blue eyes, and skinny arms and legs.
They are perfect.
It never ceases to amaze me that human gargoyles can produce delightful offspring. It’s so terribly unfair. I start to wonder what would have happened if Terry and I had mixed our gene pools.
A terrible picture comes into my mind then: the waxy look of his skin as he lay in the water, eyes open and sightless.
Typical of him to try and make me feel guilty when I am feeling so tired and vulnerable. Sometimes my subconscious likes to play tricks.
I must get a grip of myself.
The woman catches my look as we pass. She stares at me in a vaguely belligerent way through unattractive red-framed glasses.
We walk over to the reception desk, where a girl of about twenty sits, quite obviously texting on her phone.
She has a small pinched face that is almost orange with thick pancake make-up. Her eyelashes are clogged with gloopy mascara and her eyes are slightly bloodshot. Coming to the end of the night shift, I imagine, which hopefully should mean she is more pliable. Her name badge says her name is Leanna.
Melissa had insisted that she ‘do the talking’ as she put it, so I simply smile at this Leanna as she casts her eyes over us both in a desultory fashion.
‘Hi,’ says Melissa in a low, friendly voice. ‘We need to book a twin room, please.’
Leanna taps a screen.
‘How long will you be staying with us,’ she says. There’s no question mark in this monotone voice.
We had already agreed that we would book for a day, as it was unlikely there would be a rate offered for anything less.
‘Just for one day, but we’ll be gone in a few hours,’ says Melissa, her voice warm treacle. ‘My friend and I just need a shower and a nap.’
She really does speak so nicely. And it feels good to be called her friend again.
Hearing her say these words, I really have no regrets about any of this either. None of it.
‘If I can take a credit card,’ says Leanna, who hasn’t made eye contact the entire time we have been here. If I were her boss, I would be sending her on a customer care course toute suite.
Melissa leans on the counter and bends toward Leanna in a conspiratorial way.
‘We’ll be paying in cash.’
‘Fine,’ says Leanna, stifling a yawn. ‘But I’ll need ID. If I can get something like a driving licence then I can book you in.’
We exchange brief glances. This is exactly what I feared would happen. It is a little typical of Melissa to be clueless about this sort of situation. She, no doubt, stays in such lovely hotels usually that she expects an establishment like this not to care. But it’s a chain, isn’t it? A successful one too, which will have its own practices.
Someone else has come into the reception area now. It’s a tall man in his forties, with a mop of reddish curly hair and a neat, pointed beard. He has a wheeled case and keeps yawning and rubbing his face.
Melissa clears her throat.
‘The thing is, Leanna, we both had our purses robbed last night in a pub. It’s lucky that I had some spare cash hidden in my bag. We’ve reported it and everything … the police said there’d been a spate of thefts like this in, er, where we were staying.’
Leanna looks up and meets Melissa’s eye directly for the first time. Her cheeks flush, and she blinks furiously.
‘I’m really sorry, but I will need some sort of guarantee if you’re to book a room. It’s the rules. My boss will kick off if I make a booking without a registered card of some kind. And anyway, the computer won’t even allow me to book the room without that. It can’t actually be done on our system.’
I am quite aghast. This really is a problem. I hear a very large sigh gusting from the man waiting behind us then and embarrassment prickles over my skin.
Melissa’s eyes are filled with storm clouds now and electricity seems to spark around her. I fear she has finally reached her limit. But she must not lose her temper now, not when we have got so far.
‘Are you sure there is absolutely nothing you can do to help us, dear?’ I interject, smiling hopefully at the young girl, whose jaw is set mutinously. I sense her toes digging in under the desk. This person is not going to budge.
‘Can’t be done,’ she says and then, ‘Sorry.’
Never has that word been less meant than now. She pretends to tidy her desk, which quite clearly contains almost nothing but a magazine and a few plastic coffee cups. Her eyes remain cast down, her cheeks now crimson.
‘For God’s sake, love,’ says the man behind, suddenly, in a northern accent that pronounces the endearment as ‘loov’. ‘Let them book a room on my bloody card. I’ve been driving all night and I just want to get my head down.’
Leanna looks uncertainly from the man to Melissa and then to me as he comes to the counter, noisily clattering his small case, which has a resisting, squeaking wheel.
‘Well,’ she says uncertainly, ‘I suppose there’s no reason why I can’t do that if you are happy to do it.’
He glances at us and nods. He’s quite handsome, if you like the big ginger type of man. Sort of like Henry the Eighth in his slimmer days.
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘You don’t look like you’ll cause too much trouble.’ He winks at Melissa, who laughs and thanks him profusely.
I hope it’s only me who notices how unnatural and high that laugh sounds as I add my own thank you.
A few minutes later, our knight in shining armour disappears into the lift, while Melissa is given the key to our room: a credit-card sized piece of plastic.
Loudly calling out that I will just go and get something from the car, for the Unlovely Leanna’s benefit, I make my way back out into the violent daylight for the next, difficult, part of our plan: getting Bertie past that young martinet.
I open the van and a heinous smell greets my nostrils.
‘Oh Bertie!’
He lays his head on his paws, ears flattened. His tail thumps slowly but his eyes beam shame and fear of rebuke. I put my hand on his head, fighting back my disgust.
He’s a very sensitive boy and all this travelling must have gone to his tummy.
I realize now how very quiet he had been since we left the riverbank. The poor animal must have been feeling quite poorly.
I hunt in my bag for antibacterial wipes and do my best to clear up the wet offering on the seat. Thank goodness there isn’t very much of it. I manage to get it all cleaned up, while Bertie watches me gratefully. I toss the soiled cloths in a bin and then clean my hands.
I have a very strong stomach. It is one of the very unfair ironies of life that dirty nappies and sickness would not have bothered me one iota. The way some mothers complain about their children’s natural bodily processes, you would think they were nurses in a field hospital at the Somme, rather than people who have been privileged enough to become parents.
Still, no point thinking that way now. I must get to Melissa.
‘Right, boy,’ I say to Bertie, wrapping him up in my cagoule. He wriggles and kicks and tries to get free. ‘Bertie!’ I have to speak very sharply to him then. ‘Mummy needs you to be very good and very still!’ I have no alternative but to tap him hard on the nose, which hurts me much more than it hurts him. With a pitiful whine, he rests his head on my arm and I flap one of the sleeves over to cover his head.
I peer nervously at the desk as I walk in but Miss Leanna isn’t there and the desk is empty. Another piece of much-deserved luck.
No one is in the lift either. Things are really starting to look up.
We will rest and then begin the day with clear heads.
I allow myself a little smile as I make my way to our room.