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Stuffed into the car. My face pressed against Margaret’s plastic bag of sliced white bread and mouldy raisin scones, Natasha my Afghan hound curled up on my lap, Christina my red setter trying not to be at my feet but there was no other space for her. Michael was next to me, with a box of cutlery on his lap and a bag of clothes pressed up against his knees. They smelled a bit because we hadn’t managed to wash them before we left our house in Somerset. The trunk was so full of boxes and suitcases my mother had to tie it down with a piece of rope and it kept bouncing up. I worried that my suitcase would fall out. The roof rack was also piled high with boxes and suitcases, covered with a big piece of painters plastic, also tied down with rope. I felt ill with the lack of air that Christina seemed to gulp down in one panting dog smelly breath. The back of Margaret’s head stared at me. Her perm had squished badly and I could see the bare skin of her scalp. It made me feel even more queasy. My mother said nothing, she had her eyes hard on the road, on the rain beating down furiously against the windscreen. We had to get to Stranraer for the ferry to Belfast in 4 hours and we already left two hours late because Margaret couldn’t find her pink shoes. They were now crunched between me and Michael. I looked at them, wondering if I could pull off a buckle.
- I need to go to the toilet, Margaret said.
- We just stopped, said my mother.
- Well I need to go again, Berrell Elizabeth.
My mother sighed. I wanted her to shout, I wanted to shout, you stupid woman you just peed but my mother didn’t say anything. She pulled over at a garage and waited.
- I can’t go here.
- There’s a toilet at the side, look, my mother mouthed at her.
- I can’t hear you.
My mother pointed.
- It’s a garage, Margaret said.
- I know it’s a garage, they have a toilet, my mother said again.
- You know I can’t hear you.
My mother sighed, picked up the pad of paper behind the gear stick and wrote: They have a toilet, over there, on the right. She handed the pad to Margaret, who took it but didn’t look at it. She handed it back to my mother.
- It will be disgusting. Germs. I won’t go there. I refuse.
I don’t know when there will be another one, wrote my mother, handing her the pad, and putting her hands on the steering wheel.
- Fuck, said Michael under his breath and pulled out a book from the box of cutlery. ‘The Biology of single celled organisms.’
- I need to go to the toilet now, Margaret screeched.
- Well, there it is, mouthed my mother. Her knuckles were beginning to go white.
Margaret sat like a big piece of stone. I could feel her thoughts, they settled on me as like a dirty face cloth. She thought my mother was punishing her for the shoes. That’s what she thought and she was going to punish my mother for punishing her. My chin felt itchy and I wondered if I was getting another spot. I touched it and yes I was.
Christina whined and squirmed by my feet and Natasha put her dry nose into the crook of my elbow. I opened the door and Christina rushed out like a mad thing and ran across the motorway, cars honking and swerving.
- Get that bloody dog, said my mother. She was shouting now, but at me not at Margaret who was stomping her way to the garage toilet clutching her enormous silver patent leather bag to her equally enormous bosom.
- Christina, I yelled but she had found something interesting on the side of the road and was worrying at it. It looked like a dead pigeon. There was a gap in the traffic and my mother ran across and picked her up and ran back. She pushed her into the car on top of me and Natasha and slammed the door but the door wouldn’t close, it just bounced open again.
- Jesus Christ, my mother said and Margaret stomped back towards us with a disgusted look on her face, all the wrinkles pulling up like a scrunched tissue towards her large hanging nose.
- If I get a horrible disease it will be your fault she said and climbed into her seat, slamming the door but it shut nicely. I could smell her face powder. It smelled old, musty, covered up.
My door would not close.
- You’ll have to hold it shut, my mother said.
- What with?
- Your hands, what do you think?
But I’m holding Natasha and Christina. My mother stood there staring at the door and then kneeled down and fiddled with the lock. She got up, went to the boot and pulled out a tool box. She found a spanner and a screwdriver and poked about until the lock snapped back and the door shut. I couldn’t open it again but at least I didn’t have to hold it closed with my hands. My mother got back into the car and drove faster than before, Margaret snoring. Michael nudged me.
- Play I spy?
- Okay, I said.
- I spy with my little eye something beginning with B.
I looked around. Nothing. Dead bodies smeared against the wet windscreen,
- Bugs?
- No.
- Boulder?
- No.
- Bag?
- No.
- Box?
- No.
- Berries?
- Where do you see berries?
- I don’t.
- You aren’t trying hard enough.
- Bucket?
- What bucket? Think harder.
- I give up.
- You can’t give up.
- Well I do.
- Bitch, he whispered, his blue eyes scrunched up with trying not to laugh.
I started to giggle, I couldn’t help myself, and then I was heaving, doubled up over Natasha who looked at me as if I was an idiot and Christina huddled against the back of Margaret’s seat as if I was about to hit her which I only ever did once and never forgave myself for.
- What are you laughing about? Asked Margaret.
She was stone deaf. That’s the words she used, ‘stone deaf’. She insisted we write down everything we wanted to say to her. She refused to learn to lip read. I knew for certain that she could hear certain noises as I experimented on her with my ability for high pitched screeching and she would always look up. She also seemed to know anything that was said to her or about her that she wanted to hear.
- Oh nothing, Michael mouthed at her.
I forgot to say she also heard anything Michael said to her. He was her darling grandson.
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