‘What an unpleasant thought,’ said Nina, as the object of this prediction squeezed between the closely packed tables and chairs of the bar to where they were sitting. He was carrying eight hundred Marlboro and a bottle of Johnny Walker.
‘You won’t be able to take that into Algeria,’ said Guy, pointing at the whisky.
Hugo gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t worry. This won’t even get me to Naples.’
Martin returned a moment later with a copy of The Times and settled down to do the crossword, assisted by Hugo.
‘Can’t you tear that bit out and let me read the rest of the news?’ asked Nina, who found cryptic crosswords deeply threatening.
‘No,’ said Martin. ‘It has to be attached.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s an aesthetic thing. Isn’t that right, Hugo?’
Hugo nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, just show me the front page,’ she pleaded. Martin unfolded the paper. BRITAIN SWELTERS IN THE DROUGHT, announced the headline. Alongside it was a photograph of the parched, cracked bed of a reservoir. ‘Wait a minute,’ Martin said, looking at the date. ‘This is yesterday’s paper.’ He threw it across to her in disgust. ‘Here, it’s yours.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘I can’t be bothered doing a crossword if I know the answers have already been published,’ he said. ‘It just takes the edge off it.’ Hugo nodded agreement again.
Nina appealed to Guy. ‘Is this a bloke thing? Are you like them?’
‘No,’ said Guy. ‘I’m too thick. I’m just here to drive the Land Rover and dig latrines.’
There was a thunderstorm that night at Nemours, accompanied by torrential rain, so Guy’s skills with the shovel were not wasted. He spent most of the evening digging a trench and soakaway around the perimeter of the tent to prevent a flood, while Nina and Martin inspected the swollen river, which marked the boundary of the campsite. Hugo squatted under the canvas, cooking stew on the primus stove while trying not to set light to the tentflaps. It was the first rain they’d seen in weeks, but the novelty soon wore off, even so. The groundsheet was quickly smeared with muddy footprints, which would in turn be transferred to the sleeping bags. There was no bar or café on site – even the toilets were of the primitive hole-in-the-floor variety – so after supper they walked into town in search of entertainment, and fetched up at a small bar with waterlogged tables and chairs out on the pavement. Hugo had brought a travel Scrabble set, but no one could be persuaded to give him a game.
‘I’m not playing with you. You cheat,’ said Nina.
‘I don’t. I just happen to know lots of words that aren’t in the dictionary.’
Inside a group of local youths were playing a noisy game of table football. They glanced up as the four entered, then looked away again, uninterested. Behind the bar the patron, a big man in a tight paisley shirt, was smoking and watching the television which blared from a bracket on the wall.
‘You’ve got A-level French, Nina. You go and get the drinks,’ Martin suggested, unzipping his waterproof and hanging it over the back of a plastic stacking chair, of the sort to be found in church halls and cheerless municipal buildings.
‘What does that prove?’ Nina protested. ‘That I’ve read Racine. It doesn’t mean I can make myself understood.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Hugo, who spoke French with a confidence that was wholly unwarranted. Before he’d moved though, the patron tore his gaze from the television screen and said, ‘Oui?’ Presently, after Hugo had gabbled their order, and Nina had reinterpreted it for the benefit of the bemused patron, three beers in long-stemmed glasses and a pernod and cassis were secured, and Martin proposed a toast ‘to the holiday’.
‘It is not a holiday,’ Hugo corrected him.
‘It is for me,’ said Martin. ‘I’ve never been abroad before.’
The others were amazed. Impressed, even. ‘Not even for a day trip?’ asked Guy, who had spent some of his early childhood in army houses in Germany and Cyprus and had taken foreign holidays for granted.
‘Never,’ said Martin. ‘We always went to the Isle of Wight. Except for one very exciting year when we went to Swanage.’
This soon led the others to try and trump Martin’s contribution with still more shocking admissions of inexperience.
‘I’ve never been to a football match,’ said Hugo, with some pride.
‘Well, neither have I,’ said Nina. ‘So no points there.’
‘I’ve never been in a fight,’ said Guy. ‘Though I’ve had to get people out of them occasionally,’ he added, looking at Hugo.
Martin admitted that he had been beaten up outside a youth club in south London as a teenager, and that he’d thumped a few people in the playground in his time. They already knew about Hugo’s record.
‘I’ve never stolen anything,’ Nina said.
‘Are you including petty pilfering?’ asked Hugo.
‘Yes, of course!’
‘Oh,’ said Hugo.
‘You must have lifted the odd sweet from Woolworths when no one was looking,’ said Guy.
‘No. Really. I’ve never taken anything that didn’t belong to me.’
‘Yes you have. Me,’ said Martin.
Nina laughed, and even looked a little embarrassed. ‘That doesn’t count.’
‘I’ve never seen a dead body,’ said Hugo, as if this was a matter of some regret.
‘For God’s sake, Hugo. Who has?’ said Nina, nonplussed by the turn his thoughts had taken.
‘I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me see my mother, because I was too young and she was such a mess. And then my father died in Johannesburg so I was too late to see him as well.’
This remark was followed by an uncomfortable silence. Finally, to steer conversation back on to firmer ground, Guy said, ‘I’ve never had a one-night stand.’
‘Is that on moral grounds, or for lack of opportunity?’ Nina inquired.
Guy just laughed, non-committally, enjoying her curiosity.
Hugo, who had been staring at the floor, looked up suddenly. ‘Oh, I can beat that. Yes, I think I’ve got the winning ticket.’ The others looked at him expectantly. ‘I’ve never kissed a girl,’ he said, allowing the emphasis to fall ambiguously. This was greeted with even more embarrassment than his previous outburst about his parents’ bodies. Hugo, who liked to disconcert people, even at his own expense, looked suitably gratified.
It was Nina who came to the rescue. ‘Well, neither have I,’ she said, and then leant across the table and kissed Hugo firmly but not passionately on the lips.
‘Have you noticed,’ said Martin, keeping the tone light, ‘that Nina hasn’t admitted to having done anything interesting.’
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve led a very sheltered life.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ said Guy, who was starting not to enjoy the game. He had never been able to work up much excitement over other people’s secrets. ‘Shelters have a lot to recommend them.’
Later, back in the tent, Guy found himself alone with Nina again for a moment, while Hugo and Martin were still performing their ablutions in the shower block. He had hurried with this in mind. A torch had been suspended from the overhead pole providing a narrow cone of light, in which Nina sat, brushing knots out of her hair.
‘That was a nice thing you did, kissing Hugo,’ said Guy, sitting half in and half out of the tent to remove his boots.
‘Martin didn’t think so,’ she replied, tugging her brush viciously through the tangles. ‘He said it was patronizing.’
‘Oh, he was probably just jealous,’ said Guy.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Is he the jealous type, then?’ Guy asked, in as conversational a tone as possible.
Nina put her head forward and started to brush her hair upside down so that Guy could no longer see her face. ‘It’s hard to say,’ she said. ‘I haven’t put him to the test. Yet.’
23
Guy’s diary: Annecy, 2nd July 1976
Thunderstorms seem to be following us across Europe. I can’t help taking it personally. According to the map we are camped at the foot of the Alps, though it might as well be Clapham Common: outside all is grey. Hugo is in a bad mood because Martin has just admitted he’s claustrophobic and doesn’t want to go through the Mont Blanc tunnel, which means an unplanned detour over the St Bernard pass. Nina is trying to give Martin a pep talk. Hugo is swearing. ‘You should have declared any disabilities at the outset,’ I think he said at one point. Perhaps I’ll stick my oar in and pretend to be afraid of heights.
Rapallo, 3rd July
In spite of gentle hints from me, Martin drove us over the Grand St Bernard pass in top gear with his foot on the brake, to the smell of burning rubber. About half way down, when I could see we were going to be doing the rest of the journey without brake blocks – if we didn’t plunge over an Alp first – I begged to be allowed to drive. Martin got a bit shirty, but I’d weighed things up carefully and decided I’d rather be unpopular than dead. Anyway he let me take over, and just as we reached Rapallo the sun came out so everyone cheered up and the tense atmosphere was forgotten. I didn’t want to humiliate him: I just wanted to live. He and Nina sat in the back playing cards for most of the journey, or talking – too quietly for me to overhear – while Hugo sat next to me reading the map and giving directions. He’s a good navigator, to give credit where it’s due, and he’s planned this itinerary to the last detail. You can hardly stop for a shit without booking it in advance. The compilation tapes provided by Martin have been played end to end since we left London and we are all now heartily sick of every track. If I hear Albatross one more time I won’t be responsible for my actions.
We reached the campsite late in the afternoon. There was a market on the quayside, so Nina bought some fresh mackerel which we had, fried, for dinner with salty bread and some warm beer from the back of the Land Rover. Hugo was right about the Johnny Walker.
Naples, 4th July
Hugo was cracking the whip as usual, wanting to be on the road all day, but the rest of us mutinied, and just before lunchtime we turned off the road, through some conifers and scrubby grass, to the beach for a swim. Martin brought the football and the two of us headed it to each other for a while, watched by Nina. Hugo, who doesn’t like to be caught enjoying any tourist activity, dragged all the maps out and pretended to be studying the route, squatting in the sun like a great, sweaty Buddha. I drank a whole bottle of Coke at lunchtime and then stupidly went for a swim and got the most lethal attack of cramp. If Martin hadn’t realized that I wasn’t just waving at them all for fun, and swum out to rescue me when he did I’m pretty sure I’d have drowned.
‘Thanks, mate,’ I said, as soon as we were back in shallow water and I’d caught my breath, and he just gave me a crooked smile. ‘I nearly died,’ I explained to Nina and Hugo, who were still sitting on their towels, reading, where we’d left them, and didn’t seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation.
Hugo was unmoved. ‘I wonder if we’d have been allowed to claim your duty-free allowance on the way home?’ he said.
Then Martin said, very nonchalantly, that he was going for a walk, and did Nina want to go with him. She said, ‘Not really’, so he shrugged and strode off into the trees, and then Hugo raised his eyebrows at Nina, and she said, ‘Oh, all right’ – but not to Martin, who was out of earshot by this time – and ran after him. I thought this was pretty weird but I didn’t want to ask Hugo what it was all about, so I started bouncing the ball on one foot. I’d got up to sixty-six – a new personal best – when Hugo suddenly said, ‘She’s going to dump him when we get home,’ and the ball just about went into orbit.
‘What makes you say that?’ I asked.
‘She told me. She wanted to do it the week before we left. Can you believe that? I practically had to beg her to wait.’
‘So now we all know, except Martin. That’s nice,’ I said. But sarcasm just glances off Hugo. It’s like throwing paper darts at a rhinoceros.
In the afternoon we carried on to Naples – Nina wanted to drive into the city to have a look, but without a street plan we got hopelessly lost and ended up in the seediest quarter imaginable: shabby, crumbling hovels, and narrow streets strewn with litter, and patrolled by gangs of grubby children, and emaciated dogs with distended udders dragging in the dirt. At one point we got stuck trying to execute a 23-point turn in a tight spot between hovels, and found ourselves surrounded by a gaggle of these urchins, all holding their mucky hands up to the window for money. They seemed very taken with our tiger mascot, and would have prised it off the front bumper if we’d been stationary long enough. In the end Hugo passed them a tin of golden syrup, but they didn’t seem over-impressed with this gesture, and as we drove off one of them lobbed it at the back of the Land Rover, smashing a rear light. Hugo surprised us by sticking his head out of the window and delivering a torrent of obscenities in their native tongue.
‘I didn’t know you spoke Italian, Hugo,’ said Nina, when we were on our way again.
‘I don’t,’ said Hugo. ‘But I took the precaution of learning to swear in all the necessary languages before we left. I’ve got some really offensive Arabic up my sleeve if it’s needed. You wait.’
‘Ever the diplomat,’ said Nina.
It’s evening now, and I’m writing this in the campsite, which is perched on the cliff overlooking rows of Aleppo pines and the bay beyond. I can just see the skirts of Vesuvius in the distance; the rest is in clouds. Tomorrow a new continent.
24
Nina sat in the back of the Land Rover, which was parked outside the douane in Souk Ahras, counting her insect bites and waiting for Hugo to return. They had been camped just inside the Algerian border for three days now, unable to advance any further, apparently because of a problem with their papers. Every morning Martin or Guy would drive Hugo the fifteen miles up the track to this customs office for another fruitless collision with local bureaucracy, while the other two stayed behind to guard the tent and its meagre contents. They had been warned by the man from the Royal Geographical Society that nothing – however trifling – was beneath the attention of thieves.
The crossing from Naples to Tunis had passed off without a hitch, and had, in fact, been very pleasant for the first few hours when the boat was almost empty and they had been able to sunbathe and even swim in the open air pool. At Palermo they had docked to pick up more passengers and within minutes the deck was swarming with homecoming Tunisians. Men, women and children – along with goats, chickens and mountains of luggage – poured across the gangplank until every chair, table and available inch of floor space was occupied and the boat was listing steeply to port, a position it maintained for the rest of the journey. At one point Nina ventured to find a toilet, but having picked her way over the prone bodies on the stairs and corridors, apologizing in English and then French as she went, she found three people already wedged tightly in the cubicle. There was no possibility of displacing them without someone at the other end of the boat going overboard, so she gave up and fought her way back to the deck unrelieved.
The customs officials at Tunis had waved them through with only the most cursory look at their papers, and without letting Hugo get more than two sentences into his carefully worded speech of explanation. And now here they were, stuck on the Algerian border in this infernal heat, with nothing to do but shift the tent from one ants’ nest to another and wait for some official from ENEMA – Entreprise Nationale Écologique et Météorologique d’Algérie – to confirm their story.
A door opened, and through the film of dust and mashed mosquitoes on the windscreen Nina saw Hugo emerge and stride towards the Land Rover, scowling. He was wearing a pair of baggy safari shorts and a crushed khaki shirt, like an overgrown Boy Scout. He flung himself into the passenger seat. ‘They want ENEMA to fork out £3,000 surety for our equipment – as if we’re bail bandits or something. It’s
fucking highway robbery. They’ll never pay it.’
‘And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?’
‘Just sit on our arses, I suppose. When they’ve finally established beyond any doubt that they’re not going to be able to extort any money out of this situation they’ll give up and let us through. God, it’s such a waste of time.’ Hugo’s knuckles bulged white in his clenched fists. He looked as though he’d like to punch someone.
‘Did you ask if we could at least camp outside to save driving back and forth each day?’
‘Oh yes. You’ll love this. We can park outside the customs office, but we aren’t allowed to camp there. We can camp on that bit of waste ground opposite the gendarmerie, but we can’t park there. Brilliant. Where’s Martin?’
‘Answering nature’s call. He’s been gone ages. Do you think they’ve kidnapped him?’ As she said this Martin appeared from behind the douane, looking ashen. ‘Well, I won’t be awarding that the full three stars,’ he said, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘Any luck?’
Hugo shook his head. ‘We can go and fetch the tent. I suppose that’s an advance on yesterday.’ They had left Guy at the border, guarding the camp and killing ants. ‘Anyway, I’ll be back in there at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, don’t you worry. You can come and try out some of your French, Nina. I think my tact might have been getting lost in translation. But I’m starting to build up a sort of captor/captive rapport with the douanier. He actually made eye-contact today.’
That night they slept on the forecourt of the gendarmerie, in the open air. This compromise had been reached after the Land Rover was placed under arrest to prevent any attempt on their part to abscond. They arranged the tubular framed camp-beds in a square, and lay, listening to the rustle of cicadas, and looking up at the sky, low over their heads and strewn with a million stars. The sun had set suddenly, taking them by surprise. ‘To think, they’re always there, and we never see them at home,’ said Nina, transfixed. Everywhere she looked shooting stars were leaving their glitter trails across the darkness, as if the heavens were disintegrating, piece by piece, before her eyes.
A Dry Spell Page 20